High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of ConnecticutStephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
General
High Life in New York: A series of letters to Mr. Zephariah Slick, Justice of the Peace, and Deacon of the church over to Weathersfield in the state of Connecticut
Stephens, Ann S. (Ann Sophia)
New York (N.Y.) -- Social life and customs -- 19th century
Jest as all was put tu rights agin, the brass cannon at the eend of our
boat, let off a blast of young thunder. We gin the ship a fust rate
hurra, and the minit we were a done, Captin Doolittle and the nigger,
they got up a small chance of a cheer, and let off the old gun agin
right under our starn. Arter that, we made a curlecue round both the
ships with our music a rolling out and our flags a flying, and Captin
Doolittle he chased right arter with the red shirts a cutting capers
from the bean-poles; and the leetle nigger, he stood on the bows a
rolling his eyes and a blowing away at Yankee Doodle on a crooked fife
like all natur. I swan tu man, it was enough tu set a feller's
patriotism to working like a beer barrel. We gin the ship another hurra
and cut for the Battery, with Captin Doolittle and the sloop a streaking
it right arter; the guns on the little island they bellowed away at us
as we cut by, and the folks on the Battery, they flung up their hats and
hollered eenamost as loud as the guns that kept a roaring every minit,
till by-am-by in we went ca-smash, right amongst the trees and a hull
gineral training of sogers. The President and us we walked ashore and
went right into Castle Garden. It was chuck full of feller citizens and
sogers, and the mayor was a waitin for us to cum up; he measured off a
hull bilin of soft soap to the captin, and then the captin he stuck out
his right arm and gin the mayor back as good as he sent, with a pint cup
full over. Then we went out amongst the trees, the captin he got on tu a
horse all finefied off with gold and shiny leather, and then the leetle
boys that hung on the trees as thick as acorns in the fall, they gin us
a cheer, and jest that minit I see the newsboy a leading my mare right
towards me. I forked over a fourpence-ha'penny and got on tu the
critter, tickled eenamost tu death tu git a chance tu sit down agin.
That mare is clear grit, par, and no mistake; the music, and the guns,
and the shoutin, had sot her blood a bilin, and she danced about like a
two year old colt jest off grass.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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