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
The long and short of it was, I couldn't set still, and I couldn't think
of anything on arth but that gal, so I jumped up all tu once and sez I
to myself--"Wal, one way or t'other, by hook or by crook, I'll see her
agin--I will, by hokey! it's of no use to git down in the mouth about
it, she can't do more than give me the mittin, any how, and it will be
the first gal I ever got it from, if she does, I can tell her that."
I was so anxious that it seemed forever afore I got on my dandy coat and
trousers agin. My hankercher smelt purty strong yit of the essence of
peppermint, so I fixed it right in my pocket, put on my yaller gloves,
and stuck the sprig of myrtle in my bosom afore I gin the last peak into
the leetle looking-glass that hangs in a corner of my office. I don't
think there could be much said agin my looks, as I went down Cherry
street with my head flung back, sort of independent, and the tip eend of
my yaller gloves stuck in my pocket. Consarn that Broadway tailor! he
made the trousers so tight that I couldn't get a hull hand in no more
than I could fly.
Miss Miles lives clear up to the further eend of Broadway, so I took a
short cut across the Park, and went along by the Astor House. A lot of
dandyfied looking chaps stood on the steps a staring at the harnsome
gals as they went by, all furbelowed and finefied out like a stream of
garden flowers all in full blow.
They may talk about England and France and Garmany, as well as all the
other big places that a feller can pint out on the map; but, for my
part, I don't believe there is a place on the arth where the wimmen
dress so allfired costly as they du here in York. It raly is enough to
make a feller grit his teeth to see the harnsome critters sideling and
curchying along the stun walks, wrapped up in silks and satins and
velvets, and all sorts of feathers, as long as them that Captain Jones
wore in his training cap, as if it only wanted a fiddler to set them all
a dancing, when their husbands are out a shinning and working themselves
to death to keep their notes from being sued by the lawyers. It don't
seem right, but yit they do look tarnal killing in their furbelows--it's
of no use denying that.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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