 | THE LORGNETTE. The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town |  |
MAY MOVINGS.
`If there be any such thing as destiny in the world, I know nothing
man is so predestinated to as to be eternally turning round.'
—De Foe.
I have looked in vain, my dear Fritz, through the
chronicles of the city, from that of the venerable
Diedrich, to those of Mr. Dogget, Jr., to find any
historical account of the origin of the May festivities
of this town. Almost every people has its way
of welcoming this most cheerful of months; and
you will remember how, in the remote districts of
England, the children, in their best dresses and
with happy faces, will crowd about one, with pleasantly
The festivities of our town are of a different order;
they do not smack at all of the old dance and
garlands. The population of children, in virtue,
as I am told, of an old custom, are upon May-day
—homeless, and are wandering in a state of sad
vagabondage, up and down our streets, earnestly
petitioning the charitable passers-by—not for a
penny, but for a house.
The public roads are filled with a long procession
of spring vans, carrying immense piles of shabby
furniture; the walks are encumbered with nursery-maids
in very dusty bonnets, carrying thin-plated
mirrors tied up in a scurvy counterpane;
small boys groan along under the weight of enormous
China vases, or Griffins; and family portraits,
never intended, surely, for any but the indulgent
eyes of kindred, are carried modestly and
discreetly along the side streets. The parlors of
reception are given over to the possession of burly
and capless carmen, who spit tobacco juice upon
the polished grate, and whose heads are adorned,
in place of May garlands, with scattered flecks of
down. The hall-doors are flung hospitably open,
into which walk very distressed-looking women,
who are on that day anything but Queens of May.
cabinet-maker, in green baize jacket, passing
in at the hall door and gliding swiftly up the stairway
to his May festivity, with a small tin pail of
varnish, or haply, an iron bed-key!
As for the town-lady, a month ago so courtly,
her empire is now divided—not alone with extortionate
porters and tasteless upholsterers, but, what
is worse—with some new incoming mistress. You
have been rocked long enough, my dear Fritz, in
this rickety cradle of a world, to know what a delightful
provocative to the festivities of the season
must be this joint lady-rule under a single roof!
Character, as you may well suppose, develops
very swiftly under this May ordeal; one poor woman,
in a frenzy of fear, may be seen hunting after
some dear little vase which has escaped notice in
the general onset, and which will, by-and-by, perhaps
(to humor her good-nature), be found crushed
under some ponderous armoire. Another, with
cap-strings flying wide, and with faded shawl pinned
in very dirk-like fashion, will general the whole
May movement with an air and gesture very strongly
calculated to keep aloof any nervous husband,
or weak-limbed sons-in-law. A third will go into
husterics at the crash of some cherished bowl and
ewer, and between vexation and fatigue, will persist
of the chamber-maid to the contrary, that
the world is near destruction, and that all terrestrial
things are then and there, on that May-day,
rapidly passing into oblivion.
Out of respect to the season, meals at home, are
for the most part taken standing. A few Boston
crackers, with a delicate cut from a cold ham, and
a small bottle of London stout, are recommended.
At a late hour in the afternoon it is discovered
that the carmen have left something they should
have borne off in procession, and that they have taken
away still more that they should have left. Meantime
the scant, cool dinner humors the fatigue of being
much a-foot, and more provoked; and the evening
closes upon our blooming May queen, installed with
May festivity, in a May palace. This last is curiously
set off with beds huddled into corners; and
the stewpans, and tea-kettles, are unfortunately, if
not irreparably lost, in the depths of some subterrancan
vault.
Such, my dear Fritz, are a few hints thrown out,
to serve you as coloring matter, with which you
can work up at your leisure an imaginative painting
of our town May-day. I think you will agree
that it is an odd way of celebration, and will scarce
its origin.
If it would not be immodest, I would respectfully
suggest the topic to the New York Historical
Society, confident that it is one that will afford full
scope to those abilities for thorough and profound
investigation, which are possessed in so ample a
degree by nearly all the regular—not to mention
the honorary and corresponding—members of that
distinguished Society. I might safely predict, indeed,
I think it could be affirmed with the utmost
confidence, that a paper upon the topic alluded to,
prepared in the usual form of the Historical Society
papers, and read with characteristic enunciation,
could not fail to keep at least one-half of the
members of that association awake up to the end
of the recitation. And with an equal degree of
certitude it might be affirmed, that the author,
whoever he might be, would be unanimously thanked
for his `very able paper,' and a copy be placed
in the archives of the association: and furthermore,
a report of the resolutions might be reasonably expected
in the Express of the next morning, provided
no `extraordinary disclosures' supervened.
Since, however, the Society above referred to has
failed thus far to throw light on this important subject,
I must even venture myself, Fritz, to try and
May. Why they should occur at this particular
epoch of the year, is a matter of minor importance,
and may be safely left in the hands of the Historical
gossips; why such movements should occur at
all is a more interesting inquiry, and one which in
my view, can only be settled by a reference to the
condition and character of our social progress.
In our town, the house, in common with the
coach and the coat, is a type, and a bold type, of
social position. As position is gained, or hoped to
be gained, the types must correspond. People
must not only get on in reputation, wealth, and in
society, but they must give ocular proof of their
progress, made palpable by houses, and publicly demonstrated
at the fête of May. Furniture good
enough for a quiet housewife who cooks a small
grocer's dinner, and who, with the aid of a stout
Irish wench, is her own laundress, will never do,
when her grocer husband, by dint of shrewdness
and industry, is making a stir on 'Change; and if
new furniture is to be had, then there must be a
new house; and if a new house, then there must
be a move; and if a move, why then—a May-day
fête!
Some small mechanic comes in to fill up the place
of the promoted grocer; and the grocer, perhaps,
wave upon wave is rolling along the drift-wood that
floats upon the sea of the town; and on May-day
the tide is at the flood. And it is a remarkable
fact, and one well worthy of the attention of public
economists, that the movement is almost invariably
from small quarters to large ones. This is
certainly most flattering to the enterprise of the
town; perhaps more flattering to our enterprise
than to our honesty. For I have observed that even
bankruptcies, or defalcations, do by no means create
exceptions to our general rule of progress, but on
the contrary, seem to have a manifest tendency to
aceclerate the advance. Indeed, from a careful
series of observations, I am almost persuaded to believe
that a brilliant bankruptcy, well fastened, and
clipper-built, is one of the best craft on which to
scud over our waves of progress, into such elegant
harborage as Union Place, or Grammercy Park.
It does not yet appear to be settled upon any
Malthusian basis, what space is exigent to the
necessities of a family of a given size, or even of
given states: let the social rank be given, and the
calculation is easier. Though even here, the inquiry
is beset with difficulties; swift progress, contrary
to the law in mechanics, being understood to require
more space than the slow, old-fashioned advance.
principle of progression which is not very patent,
he must needs have a big house; if he rise slowly,
and by healthful stages, a small one is quite adequate
to his wants.
No plan, that I can learn of, has yet been laid
down—not even by the architect of the late Bowling
Green fountain,—as the ne plus ultra of a
town house. Vistas of constantly extending parlors,
and multiplying suites of rooms, mock the
judgment, and leave the inquirer, in this part of
the subject, in a state of sad perplexity. No limit,
indeed, can be safely predicated of our town houses,
except the length of a city square; and it would
not be very surprising, if some new aspirant after
position, with the requisite California credentials,
should presently build a modest mansion for himself
and a small family, reaching from street to
street. The middle rooms (though my architectural
observations are reserved for another paper),
might be lighted with wells sunk through the roof at
convenient distances, which would make pleasing
mementoes of the gold-pits, and would furthermore
serve the younger members of the family for telescopic
purposes, and for prosecuting, in a domestic
way, sidereal observations.
In most other parts of the civilized world, a certain
are reckoned essential, and complete. A well-defined
supply satisfies; and the social character is
based, not on such supply, but upon certain trivial
contingencies of private character,—such as worth,
family, or even wealth. Many a man of fortune,
as you know, Fritz, who can command respect in
various ways, is at this very time occupying a suite
of rooms upon a single floor in the Rue de Bac,
who would disdain the dashing palaces of the
Chaussée d'Antin, or the Place St. George. A cultivated
dignity is satisfied; a refined taste finds
space enough for its wants; and the home is complete.
You will recall, too, in this connection, (or
your memory misgives you) the rough brick walls
of many a modest mansion of London, not to be
named beside our free-stone palaces, and yet these
walls cover the gatherings of a delicate and accomplished
judgment; they embrace the solution of
the most difficult of social problems—that of content;
and they make the quadrature of the whole
circle of the home-pleasures complete.
But with the scions of our social nursing there
is no brick and mortar terminus, except superiority
to one's neighbor. And at the end, perhaps, our
discomfited aspirant, mortified with being overshadowed
by some new house-builder, must fly
on houses and display would very naturally
create. In Europe, however, there is relief; the
harasses of change are no longer felt. His palaces
will not make for him position, and lack of them
will not make its forfeit. A quiet suite in the Rue
Lavoisier will be enough: and enough, even in the
city of fashion and of form, has its meaning. Good
sense has assigned to it limits, and prudence has
given it a reception. The man is relieved from
strife; and any vulgar show, whatever crowds it
may bring to his dinners, or whatever jewels it may
scatter over his evening receptions, will not magnify
his repute with those who guage his character
with a knowing eye. For even French politesse,
though it may allow itself to drink applaudingly of
his Volney and Latour, cannot so far forget its sense
of truth, as to suppress a chuckle, and a murmured
—`quelle sottise!'
The sad conclusion which I am led to from this,
my dear Fritz, is the fact, that in our town, even
the comforts of a home are thoroughly conventional.
The acme of display may have been reached; but
what house-owner, or housewife, in ignorance of what
their neighbors may build, or an impending, brilliant
bankruptcy may bestow, will say that they
have arrived at true comfort?
The man who holds, or has ever held fair social
position, and yet contents himself with a modest
house, must either be possessed of great moral
courage, or he must wear a conscience in his bankruptcy;
and these are two qualities, which in the
given connection, must be sought for in our town
—as Diogénes hunted for a man—with a lantern.
It would be pleasant, Fritz, to take you to the
auctions that belong to our May festival, and which
may be met with at every half dozen steps,—
showing the last trace of the old May-pole, decorated
with a little banner of red bunting. But the
girls who throng to this part of our festival are
mostly old girls, of a buxom race, who may be
found either seated about the apartments, or diligently
feeling of the plush; and they are the most
indefatigable `snappers up' of shabby furniture
that can possibly be imagined. In what quarter
of the city they live, has never been satisfactorily
ascertained; it is conjectured, however, from the
style of their purchases, that they must be the occupants
of some of the old Dutch houses with lofty
gables. They eye you very sharply if you bid
against them; they know to a dime the value of a
broken-legged table; and they are on very familiar
terms with chatty cabinet-makers. They wear
dingy bombazine, and faded shawls, and judging
their husbands, who are too good subjects of
pity for anybody's sneers) probably `rule the
roast' at home.
There are some few meek ones, who are no
match for the habituées, and are restlessly nervous.
They are extremely anxious lest some particular
article should escape them; they are very sure to
show their anxiety to the penetrating auctioneer;
and astonishingly apt to raise their own bids.
Here and there, among the crowd of furniture
dealers, you will catch sight of some poor fellow,
who by his hang-dog walk, has evidently been driven
to the auction by his wife's command, and who
is very fearful lest some of her strolling neighbors
should report his delinquencies at the bidding.
I have reported thus, Fritz, in very homely style
the peculiar show which we make of our May festivities.
Brush up now your recollections, and
compare these new-world sketches, these creaking
furniture vans, this change, bustle, and brooms,
with the sunny May-day that you have passed on
the bank of the Obye, under the gray ruin of Chepstow;—or
with that luxuriousness of air and action,
which wrapped you round like a garment, as
you floated on a May-day, in your gleaming caïque,
along the plashing waters of the Brazen Horn.
From all this, my dear Fritz, you will fish out
the moral, that change belongs eminently to our
American life;—that the settled quietude of a ripe
civilization has not yet been reached;—that we
have not yet learned well enough how to live, to
be sure when we are contented with the modes of
living; and that even the comforts of a home are
measured by space, material, and talk. And the
whole drift of these observations will go to confirm
the remark of that sage historian, Diedrich
Knickerbocker, who says, in the third chapter of
that renowned work, which by German suffrage
has been put upon the same plane with that of
Thucydides, — `Our ancestors, like their descendants,
were very much given to outward show, and
noted for putting the best leg foremost.'
| THE LORGNETTE. The lorgnette, or, Studies of the town | |