University of Virginia Library

LOVE OF CHANGE—HOUSE HUNTING.

— Pope.

There must be a great quantity of Dutch blood in
this city, for the euphonious names of Vanbenschoten,
Vanvredenburgh, Vanvoorhis, Vanoutersturp,
Vanschaick, Vanbokkelin, Vanmeerbeekie, Vogelsang,
Vonck, Volk, Vogt, &c. are to be met with in
every street, and at every corner; but in what street
or at what corner are to be found the still and tranquil
virtues, the sedate and circumspect demeanor, the
profound love of ease and phlegmatic temperament
of the ancient denizens of Manahatta? In the good
old times that have for ever passed away from this
island, a man might be born, reared, married, and
buried within a circuit of three miles; and a true
Dutchman would as soon have thought of going to
bed without his night-cap, as of chopping and
changing about from one house to another. Wherever
he first inhaled the breath of life, there he
exhaled it. It was quite clear to his mind that

Providence had cast his lot in a certain street, and
a certain house, and for him to think of emigrating
to another, would not only be presumptuously setting
up his judgment against high authority, but a
great waste of bodily exertion. Indeed, when he
looked around, and saw all the furniture firmly
fixed—the ponderous dresser—the solemn clock—
the substantial table—just as his great-grandfather
had placed them when the first ship first drifted
from Holland to this coast, the idea of pulling them
from their places, carrying them out into the open
air, and setting them up in another domicile, seemed
not only a sacrilegious disturbance of the household
gods, but an enterprise requiring so much toil
and trouble, as to make it scarcely worth the while
attempting, considering the short time that is allotted
for man to sojourn in this world. So lived the
forefathers of a goodly portion of the present quicksilver
generation. They worked when there was
no help for it, and sat still whenever they could;
they counted over their bright silver dollars (the
only kind of change a Dutchman loves) and put
them carefully away in their old stockings—they
took their glass of genuine Schedam, they smoked
their pipes in peace—
And even so passed away the mortal existence of
the forefathers of the identical Master Cicero Vanderscholten,
that goes to masquerades and executes
pigeon-wings and pirouettes with such grace and
agility; and so lived the progenitors of Miss Cecilia
Amelia Anna Maria Vanwaggenen, that makes a
noise on the piano, and keeps an album! O tempora,
O mores!

Of all the civilized nations on the face of the
earth, the Americans seem to attach the least value
to a “local habitation;” and of all the parts of
America, New-York is the most restless. Its citizens
seem to be born with a feverish love of change
and excitement, which pervades, more or less, every
action of their lives, and to this they sacrifice
friends, interest, and convenience. They put no
faith in the proverb—“let well enough alone”—but
are always ready to give up “well enough” in the
desperate hope of getting something better. They
must be in motion, and that motion is about as
different from that of their Dutch ancestors as the
motion of a duck pond on a calm day is from that of
the rapids of Niagara. In business they are fickle to
a degree that appears, and really is, heartless and
unfeeling. They will give up a tradesman that
has served them well and faithfully, and in whom
they can place confidence, to run after some fresh

adventurer, of whom they know nothing. But
this is the way all over the country; and a tradesman
has in reality just as little consideration for
his customers as his customers have for him. A
man commences business in a small city; in the
course of time forms acquaintance and connexions,
and finds himself getting along, as he says, “as
comfortably as he can wish,” when suddenly he
hears of some new town that has sprung up in the
wilderness, where they “are doing considerable of
a business;” and, without more to do, he sells off
his stock, takes leave, without regret, of kind friends
and familiar faces, and sets off to the land of promise
to run a similar career. This is a national
trait, and does not attach, with any peculiar force,
to this city; but, for the love of change in their
places of residence, the New-Yorkers are particularly
famous. They never regard a house as a
kind of inanimate friend—one who has protected
them from cold, and rain, and tempest, and by
whose hearth they have spent many happy hours,
and enjoyed many comforts; but merely as a temporary
covering, under whose roof it would be a
sin, shame, and a folly to live two years in succession.
Accordingly, on the first of May, when people
all over the world are enjoying that charming
season among fields and flowers, the sagacious
citizens of New-York think they have lived quite
long enough in one place, and prepare to pitch
their tents elsewhere. Those that live up town
come down, and those that live down town go up;
and amidst disjointed furniture, broken crockery,
dust, dirt, and vermin, they hail the genial approach
of smiling May. After spending their money, losing
their regular dinners, and suffocating themselves
for three or four days, they squat down in their
new domicile for another twelvemonth.

But it is not only the miseries attending the committal
of the act itself, but also the preliminary
ones which bespeak its approach, that are to be
taken into account. There is a great and crying
evil at present existent in this city, entitled, “house
hunting,” which disturbs the peace of families, and
is productive of much scandal and other ill consequences.
It appears that on the first day of February
the householders notify their several landlords
that they have only one more quarter's rent
to expect from them, and immediately after such
notification, nearly all the tenements in the city
are labelled “this house to let,” inquire so and so.
A stranger would naturally suppose that the plague,
the yellow fever, or some tremendous evil was momentarily
expected, and that the inhabitants were
about to seek safety, en masse, in flight. No such

thing; but from that time the proud boast, that “a
man's house is his castle,” no longer belongs to the
citizens of New-York. A Spaniard's doors are not
more open to the holy fathers of the inquisition, or
a place-hunter's to a man in office, than are his to
all the impertinent people who please to demand
admittance. They march through his rooms, peep
under his bed and into his closets, and not unfrequently
surprise him and his family in very equivocal
situations; after which, they express a hope
that they have not disturbed them, to which they
receive a lying answer in the affirmative—beg
leave to trouble them “for a glass of cold water”
—say they don't think the house will answer—
and go about their business; and the only satisfaction
the poor people have, is to go unto their neighbor
and do likewise. But this is not all. There
is a nest of old maids in the city, who, having given
up all hopes of ever being obliged to look after a
house on their own account, kindly volunteer to do
so for their friends, in order to indulge their penchant
for inspecting their neighbor's affairs, and
discuss the interesting tittle-tattle arising therefrom.
Under various pretexts they pop their noses into
every hole and corner of pantries, parlors, kitchens,
and cupboards, and spy into the barrenness of the
house; and all this is noted down in a sort of diary,
to be used afterwards at visits and card parties, as
occasion may require. I am slightly in the good
graces of the niece of one of these ancient women,
who favored me with a peep at her aunt's land log-book,
from which I made the following extracts.
For obvious reasons, the names of the people and
numbers of the houses are omitted.

February 5.—No. — Greenwich-street. Called
at the house of Mrs. D—. Rooms small—no
garrets—wonder where the goodness all the children
sleep. Carpets very shabby—remains of a turkey
carefully put by in the pantry, and black woman
making her dinner off cold mutton. Eldest Miss
D. has a new silk pelisse—wonder where the money
came from. Mem. The D.'s may be honest
enough, but can't imagine how some people make
a living!

Same day.—No. — Broadway—looked in upon
my dear friend Mrs. W—the house to let, going to
take a larger one. Cut a great dash—hope it may
last. Mr. W. is, to be sure, cashier of the — bank,
but his salary cannot be much. Some how or
other, people in banks never want money. Mem.
If Mr. W. should be back in his accounts and commit
suicide, which is not unlikely, what would become
of poor dear Mrs. W.?

February 17.—No. — Hudson-square. Fine
looking house—great deal larger than what I wanted,
but went in to see it. Mrs. M. not at home;
was shown through the house by Miss M. a poor
white-faced creature, with her hair out of curl, who
looked as if she had just got up. Recollected meeting
a prettyish sort of girl by that name at Mrs.
K.'s party last night. Found out it was the same—
should never have known her! Not quite so much
color as she had when dancing last night—suppose
she can get more when she wants it. Good
gracious! how the poor men are deceived!

Same day.—Went through the sausage manufacturer's
premises in the Bowery. Mem. Eat no
more sausages, &c. &c.

It would be tedious to give more of these precious
records; suffice it to say, that there was scarcely a
house from the East river to the North, or from
the Battery to the regions about Fourth-street, which
had not been inspected by one or more of these
scandalous old women, who meet at night and compare
notes; and not a single kind remark or
charitable supposition was ventured upon by any
one of them. They went altogether on Sir Peter
Teazle's principle, “that it was a bad world, and
the fewer that speak well of it the better.”

But this is by no means the only evil to which
the citizens subject themselves by this love of
change. They are innumerable; and, perhaps,
one of the heaviest is the injury done to the periodical
literature of the country. A man will subscribe
for a paper or a magazine, with which he professes
to be agreeably entertained and well satisfied;
but if any new adventurer spring up, and promise
impossibilities in a flaming prospectus, he straightway
relinquishes that which he knows to be good,
for the chance of getting something better; and
this, in its turn, is thrown aside for fresh experiments.
In no country are there so many and such
abortive attempts to get up fresh publications, and
this, in a great degree, accounts for it. Of the majority
it cannot be said, that

They do not good and much harm; for by diverting
public patronage into so many channels, all are
inadequately rewarded, and hence the poor state of
the public press generally, compared with other
countries. In all sorts of business it is precisely
the same. If a man finds that past endeavors are
no security for future favors, he naturally relaxes
in those endeavors, and will as soon sell a bad article
as a good one, when there is an equal chance of
his customer returning; thus, the evils which the
buyers inflict upon the sellers in the first instance,
eventually return upon themselves, and no one
gains by those proceedings but those who, under a
better state of things, would be neglected entirely.

But what avails talking? What can be expected
from the inhabitants, when the “fathers of the city”
set them such examples? The people move themselves,
but the corporation move the houses. Their
committee come and squint along a street, and then
say unto a man, “Sir, you must shift your house
sixteen feet back!” Shade of Wouter Von Twiller!
shift a house! What would a genuine Dutchman
think of such a proceeding; or, indeed, any European?
A little Frenchman, fresh from Paris, who
thought every thing on earth was to be seen there,
lately witnessed a performance of this kind. He
was met by a friend soon after, in a high state of
excitation. “Oh, mon dieu!” said he, “I have
see what in Paris I nevare have see—nevare! I
have see one house taking one leetle valk!—Mon
dieu!” But the evil may not stop here. In time
streets and squares may be found traveling about
the city, and it is not impossible that a man may
be run over by a church.