 | CHAPTER XXXIV.
HE DINES WITH THE MAGISTRATES. The career of Puffer Hopkins |  |
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
HE DINES WITH THE MAGISTRATES.
In the very midst of these silent labors of Hobbleshank,
Puffer was at his desk meditating a letter from an imaginary
constituent to himself, and had got as far as “To
the Honorable Puffer Hopkins, M. C.,” when there filed
into his chamber three gentlemen, who, looking about
for a moment and discovering that there were not chairs
enough to hold them all, drew themselves up in a line
and stood before him. Puffer, quite equal to the emergency,
rose from his desk and faced his platoon of
visiters. One of them, the head of the line, was a tall
gentleman in a cigar-ash complexion, and a rough frock-coat,
in the pockets of which he deposited his hands; the
centre, a stout, rosy personage, whose head was propped
up by a shirt-collar of alabaster purity and stiffness under
his ears; and the other, a little black-haired man, with
a large mouth, and arms of an extraordinary length.
Mr. Hopkins inquired, delicately, into the object of their
mission.
“We have come, sir,” said the long-armed gentleman,
reaching forth convulsively to the chair from which Puffer
had risen, drawing it before him and fastening both
hands firmly on its top; “We have come, sir, to express
of the unflinching fortitude with which you have adhered
to objects”—
“Yes, sir—to objects,” interposed the stout gentleman,
cutting in as if he thought the long-armed man was getting
more than his share; “Yes, sir—to objects of a profoundly
patriotic character; and, sir, we feel the honor of being
delegated to wait upon you for the purpose of testifying
the interest with which your course has been watched,
not only, sir,” he pursued, thrusting his left hand into his
coat and spreading it upon a ruffled bosom; “not only,
sir, by the friends of good order and correct principles—
of advanced age—but also”—
“By the rising generation;” continued the tall gentleman,
groping earnestly in the bottom of his frock-coat pockets,
and drawing himself up to his full height. “You will not be
surprised, therefore, sir, to learn that we are authorized to
ask you, in the name of the Common Council of New-York,
to partake of a dinner with the magistrates of this city”—
“At the almshouse,” said the long-armed gentleman,
“this afternoon”—
“At five o'clock,” said the stout speaker.
The three orators had put Puffer in possession of their
errand, and he had a shrewd guess—as one of them was
an alderman, and the others assistants—that this was one
of those cases where a committee had been unable to
agree upon a mouth-piece, and had compromised the difficulty
by distributing the speech, as fairly as they could,
in three parts.
The invitation was not to be slighted; and, having appointed
to call for him at four, they filed out of the apartment
in the same order in which they had entered. At
four o'clock they re-appeared, coming up in a body to
wait upon him to the carriage, as if determined that no
one should enjoy a crumb of honor more than the other.
The vehicle into which the party mounted was an old
corporation hack, and the horses, having traveled this
road any time for ten years past, jogged along at an easy
gait, knowing well enough that an alderman does not like
to be disturbed in his agreeable reveries on the way to
dinner. Leaving the streets, in less than half an hour
they were out upon the avenue, where, as they glided
in rough coats, just like the tall assistant's, who,
bending over in light wagons, gave the rein to long-legged,
dock-tailed horses, and emulated the speed of
other gentlemen with long-legged nags and rough coats.
Sometimes one passed, perched in the air upon an invisible
axle resting between two huge wheels, and who held
himself suspended, it seemed, by a constant miracle. Not
more than fifty of these gentry had whirled by, tearing up
the avenue, and losing themselves in clouds of dust in
the distance, when the three aldermen, looking unanimously
out of the coach-window, exclaimed in a breath,
“Here we are!”
Puffer looked out too. A great gate opened silently
from within; their carriage glided through, and rolling gently
down a broad way, they found themselves at the East
river's brink, shut out by thick walls from all the city
world. The buildings that stood behind them, and with
which they were fellow-prisoners in this silent realm,
were dark and grey.
The air and place were tranquil as midnight, and in
strange contrast with the incessant motions and shoutings
of the busy road they had left. The old Alms-House,
resting on the very water's edge, sate as silent as a stone;
the water, calm and smooth, seemed to stretch away before
its dark old front, to furnish a glass in which it might
view itself and learn how it bore its age. The sun poured
a full afternoon into the yard—and, sitting in its very
centre, his face against the river, in the porch of the building
as they entered, was an old beggar, who, with a
countenance of marble firmness, and locks white as the
unhetcheled flax, seemed to be the image and god of the
stillness that reigned about.
The moment they ascended a few steps and opened a
door, a peal of laughter burst, like a cloud, upon the silence,
in their very faces, and passing through the hall,
they were in a room where the chief guests were assembled.
In the centre of the group stood Mr. Gallipot, the
mayor, in an entire new outfit, so ill-adjusted and disproportioned
to his person, that there could not be a doubt
but that it had seen Chatham-street in its infancy, and
while it was growing into the dress of an adult mayor.
“How are you, Hopkins?” cried his honor from the
midst of his guests; “Let's have you this way! Open the
ring, Jenkins—stand back there, Tom Smith;” and, falling
away as they were bidden, Mr. Gallipot came forward
and seized Puffer cordially by the hand. Messrs.
Jenkins and Tom Smith—two noted bottle-holders of the
mayor's—offered him as hearty a welcome, with others, the
chief politicians of the city, who were there; and a short
fellow, in a poor-house grey roundabout and poor-house
cut hair, coming in and giving the summons, they marched
across the hall to dinner. The table was spread in a large
square room, with delicious windows upon the river, and
under the auspices of a stout gentleman, who hung in a great
frame upon the wall, and gave warrant—having been a
noted haunter of the room in his life-time—of the good
cheer that there abounded.
There was no quarrel for precedence; the mayor, with
Puffer at his right hand, seized the head of the table; the
others fell into chairs, whose locality they seemed to have
pitched upon long before, and, seated once, they filled
them so happily, one might have sworn they were born,
each man, for the particular windsor or rush-bottom he occupied.
The three stickling committee-men, even, had
adjusted matters, the stout one sitting at the foot of the
table, in its centre, and each of the other two at his wings.
And when, speedily and in solemn order, the dishes began
to appear, as one after the other came in at the head
of the apartment, a whole galaxy of eyes rolled that way
and fixed upon them with a lingering fondness that would
have moved the soul of a pagan.
And now that the table was full, Puffer was not a little
surprised—but quite as well pleased—to see his old
friend Hobbleshank handsomely laid between a couple of
aldermen, with whom he seemed to have a good understanding,
at the other end.
Imperfect and obscure is the experience of any one
who has not eaten a poor-house dinner. The highest happiness
allotted to man—at least in his imperfect and sinful
state of existence as a New-Yorker—it would seem, is
to dine at the old Alms-House. Jupiter, restored to
earth, would make his first call there; and there Bacchus,
if allowed, would undoubtedly bespeak lodgings for the
rest of his immortality.
For two weeks, in anticipation of the present banquet,
the garden had been hoed and harrowed and forced; the
neighboring river had been anxiously searched for certain
delicate fish that were known to lurk in the rocks,
holding themselves in reserve for an alderman, for an
equal fortnight; and two sharp-eyed paupers had been
off on an excursion up the Sound, in watch for duck and
pigeon. Nothing could be more perfect, more delicious
and grateful, than the dinner spread upon the board; and
nothing more artful and ingenious than the arrangement of
the diners. The cooks and servants of the establishment,
moved by a sure instinct—most of the guests were habitual
frequenters of the place—seasoned each dish to a turn,
and each gentleman was now found seated directly opposite
whatever a well-practised appetite most earnestly
coveted. For better than an hour, a silence profound as
death reigned through the hall. The waiters, in their
poor-house livery, and licking their chaps, moved about
on tip-toe; it would have cost them their standing as paupers
to have broken the charm by a word. Dishes were
brought in and removed, in a mysterious stealth, which
lent a piquancy to the proceeding; and the very feeders
themselves, absorbed in the sacred rites of the place, only
ventured now and then to look off, for a minute, and smile
to each other, and then started afresh.
This at an end—wine was brought in, a basket at a
time, and being placed near his honor the mayor, he proceeded
to uncork, but so unskilfully, it seems, that the
corks took a blank range down the table, and, what was
singular, they always fell into a line that caused them to
strike, dead-point, the sconce of a little quid-nunc, who was
said to be a butt of the mayor's. Then the bottles were
distributed down the table, one to each man—which, being
planted upon the board, stood there, a sort of tipsy nine-pin,
to be bowled down by the evening's mirth. When it
was known that every glass was loaded to the brim,
Mr. Gallipot sprang to his feet; every eye was fixed upon
him with intense anxiety, and when he announced, “Our
Country,” they started in like manner to their feet and fell
upon their wine with such patriotic ardor, that no one
could have in the least suspected that country or its institutions
of being in any way the bottom and main supply
this with “The Public Charities,” a faint surmise might
have dawned on the beholder's mind, that the enthusiasm
was real, and that they meant all they did when they
drank a bumper to these excellent corporate contrivances
for such as are an hungered and athirst. And when,
further on, his honor, allowing scarce a breath between,
followed this up with, “Our distinguished guest and next
member—Puffer Hopkins”—a fearful tempest swept the
table from end to end; and one or two of the lighter quid-nuncs
were even lifted from their feet, and landing upon
the table, shook the glasses and bottles till they danced
with them with joy.
They felt grateful to Puffer for furnishing them so plausible
an opportunity to investigate the economy of so excellent
a city charity. Puffer was bound, of course, to
respond to these admirable sentiments.
Really, (this was the train of his observations) he never
felt so oppressed in his life in rising to speak; he was surrounded
by kind and generous friends. He was their
creature—they had taken him a poor friendless youth and
made him what he was. Little had he dreamed when making
his first humble effort at Fogfire Hall of attaining an honor
like this. If any one had told him the time would arrive
when he should partake of canvass-back and champagne
with his honor, the mayor, and the common council of
New-York, at the almshouse, he would have laughed at
their folly. Canvass-back and champagne!—they might
as well have talked to him of a steam carriage to Chimborazo,
or a balloon-ride to the first fixed-star!
While Puffer was speaking, one or two of the inmates
of the place were drawn to the door, and as he advanced
in his speech, and looked off in that direction by way of
illustration or gesture, he observed that two of them had
fixed their attention keenly upon him himself. One
of them was a woman, of a stout person, into whose
face some color was creeping through easy living and
good fare, and the other a man, thin and sorrowful of look.
By the time he was done speaking, one of the poor-house
attendants had touched Hobbleshank upon the
shoulder, and he now helped to make the group that
gathered in the door-way.
When Hobbleshank and the woman met, it was, as
their looks told, as those who have been parted for years—
between whom some mighty secret is kept, and who have
some great trouble in common. They talked earnestly
together—the woman and the forlorn-looking pauper asserting
something over and over again, it seemed, to which
the old man would not yield, nor would he altogether
withhold, belief.
The diners were meanwhile fairly embarked—the
stream of mirth was full: as it flowed up and down the
board it sometimes attained a rapid head, carrying all
before it, in a general glee; or paused in little eddies and
islets of drinkers, where it tarried and circled round and
round within itself. There was one, a roaring whirlpool
of jockeys from the Avenue, who with loud jokes and
broad gusts of anecdote, kept up a constant pother where
they sat; then, farther on, there was a more quiet fry of
ex-sheriffs—fine, rosy fellows—hanging and jumping of
the rope are your healthiest exercises, it would seem—
and then, in a stormier latitude, a shoal of aldermen, who
kept up in their drink windy discussions without end.
Among these, Puffer, as the jollity grew apace, was called
down from his station near Mr. Gallipot; and it brought
him within ear-shot of the group in the passage, who had
watched him so strangely in his speech. They were still
there—their heads close together, Hobbleshank's central
and busiest of all—and they still turned from time to time
in their talk, and regarded Puffer with the same strange
gaze. Whatever Puffer, with an ear sharpened by a curiosity
he could not control, caught, was so straggling and
disjointed, that it conveyed to his mind no distinct impression
of their purpose. Their conference seemed at length,
at an end.
“I think as you do;” he heard Hobbleshank whispering
to the others, looking from the woman to the stranger,
and then towards himself; “I thought so from the first;
but I have been too often mistaken—I could not bear
to be wrong again—it would kill me, Hetty; let us be
cautious.”
He muttered something in a broken and earnest tone—
Puffer could see his lips grow pale and quiver as he
took the place at the table among the friends he had left.
There was no pause in the mirth of the magistrates and
their guests; fresh baskets were broached every minute—
a tipsy song roared out—and the adults there present attached
themselves to the long-necked flasks, as if they
had been brought there to be nursed on claret and champagne
at the city charge. It was a relief to Puffer to hear
what passed among the nurslings in their probation. Obliquely
from him up the table, an arm's-length or two,
there were a couple whose nursing seemed to try the constitution
to an alarming pitch; and instead of being benefitted
in any degree by the dark spirit with whom they
held so many close and earnest conferences, they always
got back from the interview less robust in person
and demeanor than ever.
“You know well enough, Bill—that I o'rt to have that—
place if any—chap has it,” said one of them, a fine, large,
sturdy-looking fellow for a nursling, speaking slowly, out
of respect to the understanding of his friend. “D—n it,
Bill, dep'ty street inspector—its chalk for cheese—for one
what's done what—what—what”
His chin knocked upon his breast, and he kept asking
himself for five minutes or more, what it was.
“I'm the man that's got up twelve public meetings in
the course of a humble life,” said the other at the top of
his voice, and looking around to call the attention of the
company: “Carried banners in five processions; pallbearer
to the late devoted alderman Smith; you know
me, Mr. Gallipot? Did you ever know a more ardent
friend of his country than William Scraggs?—Who'll sign
this 'ere roll for Billy Scraggs?” and Mr. Scraggs produced
from his breast-pocket a soiled scroll, which he unfurled
across the table, and holding an end in his hand, he tumbled
into the same slumber that had already engulphed his rival.
After an interval of half an hour they wakened, one
getting the advantage of the other by not more than a
minute, and renewed the dispute for the inspectorship;
and after a brief and slightly confused statement of their
claims, they lapsed back again into their dreams. There
was no abatement in the spirit of the alms-house dinner.
Even till midnight, speeches were made by aldermen and
sometimes a broadside of the table against broadside—were
drained, and Puffer, finding that a sadness
had crept upon him, out of all harmony with their mirth,
quietly withdrew, leaving his three committee-men on
their feet together, and at an advanced stage of champagne,
delivering speeches against each other; and his
honor, the mayor, with his bottle-holders squeezing lemons
vehemently at each side of him, brewing a drink for which
he was famous.
In the open air, he found the door-way and high steps
thronged with paupers, who had kept themselves from
bed that they might listen to the uproar and jollification of
their masters. “It was such precious fun,” one of them
said, “to see the copporation feeding its copporation—and
getting high on taxes and brown bread.” Puffer thought
he had escaped unobserved, but as he entered the carriage
he found Hobbleshank at his side, asking to bear
him company.
“To be sure,” answered Puffer, “I would rather ride
back with one like you than the three I came up with.”
The old man smiled, but was silent, and this silence he
maintained till they were half down the city; and when
he began to speak, Puffer observed that his discourse was
not of that in which either had an interest, but of remote
and indifferent things; like one unwilling to speak of that
which is nearest his heart, and who trifles in this way
lest he betray himself.
| CHAPTER XXXIV.
HE DINES WITH THE MAGISTRATES. The career of Puffer Hopkins | |