 | CHAPTER XXII.
MR. FYLER CLOSE INVOKES THE AID OF MR. MEAGRIM AND
THE LAW. The career of Puffer Hopkins |  |
22. CHAPTER XXII.
MR. FYLER CLOSE INVOKES THE AID OF MR. MEAGRIM AND
THE LAW.
Pursuant to his engagement with the broker, Ishmael
at the proper hour, having first laid aside his cap, and
substituted in its place a round-rimmed hat, embellished
with a strip of crape—set forth to carry the wishes of Mr.
Fyler Close into effect. Getting by an easy road into
Chatham-street, which was his favorite promenade, he
pursued his course, not quite so gaily as usual, but with
sportive sally, as he pushed his way along the crowded
street. Once feigning to be taking a leisurely walk, a mere
after-breakfast stroll, with his hands crossed quietly behind
him, he suddenly brought one of them forth, and letting it
drop gently on the crown of an errand-boy, fresh from the
country, and who was gaping and staring at the various
street sights—he left the young gentleman staggering about
as if under the influence of a sturdy morning draught.
This, and a few others like it, were, however, mere prefaces
and flourishes of his humor; but when he got to the
declivity of the street, where it forms a cheerful perspective
of mouldy garments and black-whiskered Jews, Mr. Small
knew that he was in a province that his genius had made
his own. He slackened his pace a little, as he began to
climb the street; and keeping his eye fixed on its other
extremity, waited a moment till he espied certain figures
turning into it out of another thoroughfare; his eye kindled,
and smiling, and touching his hat gracefully to the young
gentlemen, who stood in the shop-doors, many of whom
were his particular friends, he strolled on. It was Almshouse
morning, Wednesday, when the public charities
are distributed at the Park office to the poor; and as
Ishmael rambled on, he met the various creatures of the
city bounty hobbling forward in every variety of gait,
aspect, and apparel; and bearing their alms in every kind
of characteristic utensil and implement; poor women
bringing theirs in broken baskets, concealed with woman's
shrinking care, under old, tattered cloaks; and the men
bearing theirs openly on their backs, or tied in soiled cotton
handkerchiefs.
As he approached these parties, Ishmael assumed a benevolent
aspect, and proceeded to put in practice the philanthropic
purpose with which he was inspired. The first
that he encountered was a glazier carrying his alms in an
old glazier's box; drawing near, Mr. Small accosted him
with “Stop a moment, my friend—don't trouble yourself to
set it down;” lifting the lid and depositing within what
seemed a liberal donation in money, “There; go home as
fast as you can, and invest that little deposit in a couple of
tender steaks and two twisted rolls: you're hungry and
they'll do you good!” Ishmael passed on to another, (amid
the smiles of his acquaintance in the shops, who seemed
to admit it was well done) who might have been a great
carpet-bag, slung from his shoulder at the end of a walking-staff.
Ishmael begged to know what was his favorite dish,
which the beggar modestly declining to answer, Mr. Small
said, “I know what it is—it's turkey done brown, with
sauce of oysters; here's a couple of quarters,” placing in
his hand the apparent coin, “and there's a extra twenty-five
center to treat yourself to the pit o' the the-a-tre after
dinner.” And Ishmael drew another from a pocket, the
issues of which seemed to be as free and unlimited as those
of any modern bank.
Mr. Small claimed to be no banker or financier, but he
had certainly managed to create a currency which diffused
a pleasure and satisfaction wherever it flowed. Was it any
fault of his, if his pensioners should afterwards chance to
waken from a delusion, and find that what they took for a
legal mintage, was nothing more than a fictitious currency
of electioneering silver, bearing on one side the device of an
attractive donkey with his mouth full of political labels, and
on the reverse that of a man in a cage, starving in consequence
of the times brought upon the country by the party
against whom it was aimed? The silver was a purchase
of Ishmael's from one of the churches—to whose plate it
had been contributed by certain liberal-minded politicians,
who were pew-holders therein.
Spreading his largesses in this way on every side, with
the unqualified approbation of his Jewish friends, and maintaining
for the time at least the character of a large-souled
philanthropist, Ishmael reached the Court, with more sincere
good wishes and blessings sent after him, than ever, in all probability,
accompanied a traveller in that direction before.
A rarer or more curious gathering of mortal creatures than
compose the posse of officers, marshals and litigants that
haunt the Small Court—the Twenty Pound Jurisdiction, it
has been no man's fortune to see. In the first place, the
Small Court is held in a square room, of very limited dimensions—where
the Court itself in triple majesty sits—with its
purlieus, in the rear of the city Park: the purlieus consisting
in part of another square-room where a very red-nosed man
roams about inside of a railed cage, opening great ledgers and
closing them; and holding no other intercourse with the barbarous
world without, than to accept from time to time small
tributes of coin, which he carefully deposits in a yawning
drawer, wide and deep enough to swallow all that may be cast
in.
A further purlieu of the small court adjoins this sacred
precinct, and consists of two small dens to which the
worshipful judges withdraw, at certain seasons of the day,
and brood over the wickedness and corruption of mankind:
which they avenge by giving wrong-headed verdicts
against parties who venture to molest them in their
retirement. Through these various purlieus and avenues,
there circulates from ten, morning, till three, afternoon, a
constant tide of unclean, unwashed, and wrathful humanity;
in at one door, out at another, making noisy friths
and creeks, as it were, all over the place, and whirling
round and round in a perpetual vortex. The tide was not
quite at its height when Ishmael entered, and the retainers
of the Court who had assembled were therefore not too many
to be observed apart. It was the Clerk's room that Ishmael
entered—where the officers and others are in waiting
till they are called—or transacting such business as may
be put in their charge.
There was one man sitting in a corner, stout-built and heavy,
with a great red nose—even much larger and fierier than
the clerk's—that seemed to throw a glow over the newspaper
he held before him, and which he was reading
through a pair of coarse horn spectacles: while a spare
man of a pale aspect was hobbling across the court-room
on unequal legs, bearing a process to the clerk's desk
within the rail. Another ruby-nosed officer, much
taller, but not as stout as the other, was sitting in the
door-way, looking out steadily, and with as much keenness
as his brandy-stained face would permit, for the approach
of one of their High Mightinesses and Supreme Disposers
of Twenty Pound Cases—the Justice himself. There
was a constable with one eye gone, but concentrating in the
other sufficient spite and small malice to light up the
organs of four and twenty rattle snakes or more: and
another, a huge, over-grown man, in a dirty grey coat,
with a great wen on his forehead, who sate upon a stool
at a high desk, leaning over a paper and painfully casting
up the interest on a very small sum for a very short time,
and due and accruing from a retail grocer, both stout and
small; and, furthermore, at this time, sadly invalid from
want of funds.
Presently there was a bustle at the door; a great rapping
on a desk in front of the bench, on the part of an
toward the door as he knocked; a tumultuous shout of
“hats off” from all quarters of the room, a rush from the
side-rooms to the door of that where the chief court was
held, and along came a little weazen-faced, crop-haired
gentleman, shuffling through the press, and making his
way towards the Judge's seat, into which he presently
dropped; and after wriggling about uncomfortably for a
few minutes as if he had got into the prisoner's dock by
mistake, and was on trial for non-compos or something corresponding,
he called to the crier, over the desk-rail, for
the day's calendar.
Recovering a little, as he became better accustomed to
his station, he began shortly to call order, and in very
doubtful English, required people to “make less noise”
in the outskirts of the court-room, where a great hubbub
was rapidly engendering; to which the offenders listened
with the most profound respect, while it was uttering, but
as soon as his voice had fairly ceased, proceeded with renewed
animation, and as if it had been the purpose of his
Honor to cheer them on and encourage them in what
they were about.
Immediately in the heels of the Judge—he had walked
down with that functionary, that he might enjoy an opportunity
to color his mind to the right complexion for a
case that was coming on that morning—a marble-faced
man came in, dressed in clean black from crown to toe,
with a pair of vicious black eyes, and a chattering smile
as he entered. This was Mr. Meagrim, the marshal; and
glancing about to recognize his customers and acquaintance,
he glided out of the court-room into the clerk's
purlieu, where Ishmael waited his coming.
“Ah! Mr. Small,” he said, recognizing that gentleman
where he stood, in a corner, talking with one of the
brandy-painted constables, “what is it, now?” And he
drew Ishmael aside, and dropping his voice to a stealthy
whisper inquired what he needed. They whispered apart
for a short time; and Mr. Meagrim, gliding away again,
promised to return in a minute, as soon as he had seen
the oath sworn against a brass-founder defendant, that
he might levy on his cart and harness as they passed
along.
When Mr. Meagrim had left, the brandy-stained gentleman
had interrupted.
“What did you say this crape was for, Ish.?” asked
the constable, glancing at Mr. Small's round-rimmed
beaver.
“That crape,” answered Ishmael, “is a sign o'mournin'
and lamentation, for the juryman that was killed
in the box, last week, by Counsellor Boerum's speech,
which was slow in its operations, you know, but sure.
Where's your weeper and Crany's and Jimmerson's?
Why han't all the officers got their weepers on?”
“There's no occasion that I can see,” answered the constable,
“nobody's lost any relations here that I know on,
this week: has there?”
“Hallo!—what are you dreamin' about,” cried
Ishmael, in well-feigned surprize, “I thought your
judges was all dead. I understood this court, and
who'll deny it I wonder? was under the jurisdiction of
Judges' ghosts—not live Judges—but Judges in a state of
semi-anymation and imperfect witality!”
By the time the subdued laughter which prevailed
among the officers on the occasion of the ingenious observations
of Mr. Small had subsided, Mr. Meagrim returned,
quietly interchanged a word or two with the clerk;
ordered Messrs. Crany and Jimmerson to follow, and set
forth in company with Ishmael.
When they got into the street, Ishmael and the marshal
led the way, and Messrs. Crany and Jimmerson, who were
a pair of ill-matched constables, greatly dilapidated by use
and age, trotted after. Presently Mr. Small, suggesting
to Mr. Meagrim, that he had a slight commission to execute
by the way, dropped behind, with a promise to
overtake them in the course of a block or two.
Soon after, and when his companions were well out of
sight, he began to cast about, with an impatient and
ominous look; and in a moment, hastening to a spot on
which his eye had rested with unbounded satisfaction, he
stood at a baker's window: a minute after he was in the
baker's shop—and, allowing him a minute more, and he
was strolling forth, holding in his hand a delicate amalgam,
formed of a slice of fresh bread and a slice of pound-cake
laid close together.
“The wickedness and desperation of the world is
it exhausts one's ingenuity and wits to make it go down.
It's not bad, however,” and he cut again, “if one could
only wet it with a drink of pure gin; without being put
to the vulgarity of payin' for it!”
Now it is pretty generally known that there is a body
of thirty-four gentlemen, recognized and described as the
Corporation of the City and County of New York, whose
sole business it is, according to popular belief, to sit as a
board of Brewers, and whose constant employment it likewise
is, for which they are chosen by the people at large
and held in great honor therefor, to brew and distil a
well-known popular beverage, which has gone into extensive
use. Ishmael, faithful to the promise he had
made to himself, paused at one of the public stills, where
this drink is distributed, and lifting a long wooden arm in
the air, bending his head forward and drawing the wooden
arm after him, with a good deal of dexterity and
manual skill, took a large, copious, and exhilirating
draught of the beverage in question. He then gracefully
wiped his mouth; and restoring his handkerchief to his
pocket, leaving a small segment only exposed for the
public admiration, he followed on.
Hurrying along, now that he was thoroughly refreshed,
Ishmael reached Mr. Meagrim at the Square, where he
was busy bargaining for the services of a cartman, who
being at last retained, galloped forward up the street,
while Mr. Meagrim and his followers, keeping him in
view, swept on.
When they reached the neighborhood of Close's Row,
Mr. Meagrim ordered the cart to halt without, and entering
slyly with his train, took but a moment's glance at
the building, and fell to business.
Ishmael was despatched to the roof, with a handful
of nails and an upholsterer's hammer, produced from the
marshal's pocket; Mr. Jimmerson to the lightning-maker's
garret; and Mr. Meagrim himself, with the cartman and
Mr. Crany in his train, proceeded to the recusant cobbler's.
Such was the nimbleness and dexterity with which Mr.
Small executed his portion of the business, that by the
time Meagrim and his followers reached the garret, they
found the cobbler knocking his head and fists, like a
madman, against the closed scuttle, and threatening to
When he found himself hemmed in by other tormentors,
in the person of the officers and posse, his rage was
greatly increased, and he danced about the apartment in
an extempore hornpipe, more like a Huron chief than a
franchise citizen. Notwithstanding he saw that he was
overpowered,—when the officers seized one end of his
corded bale of valuables, he fastened on the other, and
tugged at it, until they had fairly dragged it down stairs,
the cobbler asseverating that marshals and all such cattle
were a nuisance in a civilized community; demanding to
know what right they had to touch his property, and
pointedly aspersing the Legislature for presuming to pass
such laws.
Sweeping everything in in their progress—chairs, tables,
stair-rods, Dutch oven—they descended into the precinct
of the bereaved mother; the cobbler shouting lustily after
them, all the way.
Here their proceedings were quite as summary—although
they were impeded not a little by the levity of
Mr. Crany, who clapped his hands upon his knees, and,
bending almost double, burst into a horse-laugh, every
time his eye fell on the wooden quadruped and crapedressed
vase on the mantel; for which extravagance he
was sharply rebuked by Mr. Meagrim, who told him he'd
better stick to business; while the cartman, who seemed
to have a woman's soul under his cart-frock, privily
thrust, what was equivalent to his whole day's wages, in
the mother's hand.
In the mean time, Mr. Jimmerson, pursuant to order, had
proceeded to the lightning-maker's quarters, but coming
in at an unlucky moment, when the artist was in one of
his absent moods, he had scarcely had time to disclose his
business, when, by some cursed mischance, a large bottle
slipped off, and striking him in a most sensitive part of
his person, he was unceremoniously thrown on his back.
There he lay, agitating his hands and feet, like a great
green turtle in a spasm, until the lightning-maker, who
was up to his elbows in a vile yellow mixture, rushed
towards him, and, expressing a profound regret for what
had occurred, began chafing his temples, beating his
head and punching his body.
The lightning-maker was bending over Mr. Jimmerson,
a market sloop that was sailing down the river—came
down, and adding his own endeavors to the artist's, the
constable was soon put upon his legs, and they proceeded
in their business. Acting in the self-same spirit with the
others, Ishmael and his aid cleared the house, down to
the very cellar-floor, of all that came, by the most liberal
construction, under their warrant. Two wide gates that
led into the yard were thrown open; the cart driven in;
the goods piled on in a threatening pyramid; and perching
on the very top, whither he had climbed, with saucepans,
broken candle-stands, and rugged tables, for the steps of
his arduous ascent, sate Mr. Ishmael Small, presiding
over the whole, like the very genius of Distress-warrants
and chaotic chattels. Men, women, and children—the
tenants of the Row—gathered in the windows, looking
upon the wreck, pale-cheeked and hollow-eyed; the
cobbler, alone, holding his station in a door-way, and
manfully vociferating against the iniquity of the whole
proceeding.
The cart was driven off; Messrs, Crany and Jimmerson
—the last with a dolefully bilious complexion—trotting
along, and keeping watch on either side; and Mr. Meagrim,
smooth-browed and unruffled, following, with a
hawk's eye, in the rear.
| CHAPTER XXII.
MR. FYLER CLOSE INVOKES THE AID OF MR. MEAGRIM AND
THE LAW. The career of Puffer Hopkins | |