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
Wal, I sold out the lading to purty good advantage, considering the
times. Then I went down to the sloop, and slicked up in my Sunday
clothes and started off full chisel to go and see cousin John Beebe.
They told me that he kept store away down Pearl street, eenamost to the
Battery; so I went on, as fast as I could git along through the boxes
and barrels that lay in the street, till I come to a great high brick
store that had cousin John's name over the door. It seems that John has
gone into partnership with a Mr. Co, for that feller's name is on the
sign arter his'n as large as life. I knew that he and John Wheeler went
into company together, but I suppose they wanted more chink than either
on 'em could raise, and so engaged this Mr. Co to help 'em along.
I swan if it warn't enough to make a feller dry to see the hogsheads of
rum and molasses, and the heaps of tea boxes and sugar barrels, piled up
inside the store; it looked like living, I can tell you. I went through
clear to the other eend of the store, for they told me that cousin John
was in the counting-room, away back there.
Wal, I got into the counting-room at last, and a harnsome little room it
was, all carpeted and fixed out like some of our best rooms in
Connecticut. I hain't seen so purty a store scarce ever. John wasn't
there, but I could see that he hadn't got over all his old tricks, for a
lot of chestnut shells were trod down round the stove, and there wasn't
a few empty bottles standing round under the table and back of the
desks. It was enough to turn one's stomach to look at the spit box; it
was more than half filled up with pieces of segars, and ends of tobacco,
that looked as if they had been chawed over a dozen times or more. I
don't see where cousin John got that trick of smoking and chawing; I
defy any body to say he larned it in old Connecticut. They needn't talk
to us about the Yankees, for these Yorkers beat us all holler in them
things; I hain't forgot the time when John would a turned up his nose at
a long nine, as if it had a been pison, but now he's sot himself up for
a gentleman there is no knowing what he hain't taken tu.
There was a chap standing by one of the desks, with the edge of his
dickey turned over his stock--like an old-fashioned baby's bib, put on
wrong side afore--and with his hair curled and frizzled up like a gal's.
I knew in a minit that this feller couldn't be cousin John, so I went up
to him, and sez I:--
"Friend, can you tell me when Mr. Beebe 'ill be in?" The chap took a
watch out of his vest pocket about as big as a ninepence, and sez he--
"I don't know positively, but I s'pose in the course of half an hour or
so. It's about time for the banks to close."
"Wal," sez I, "I s'pose I may as well wait for him, as I ain't in much
of a hurry jest now." So I sot down in a chair, and arter histing my
sole leather onto the top of the stove, I begun to scrape acquaintance
with the chap, as I went along.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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