MEENA DIMITY;
OR, WHY MR. BROWN CRASH TOOK THE TOUR.
Fashion is arbitrary, we all know. What it was
that originally gave Sassafras street the right to despise
Pepperidge street, the oldest inhabitant of the
village of Slimford could not positively say. The
courthouse and jail were in Sassafras street; but the
orthodox church and female seminary were in Pepperidge
street. Two directors of the Slimford bank
lived in Sassafras street—two in Pepperidge street.
The Dyaper family lived in Sassafras street—the
Dimity family in Pepperidge street; and the fathers
of the Dyaper girls and the Dimity girls were worth
about the same money, and had both made it in the
lumber line. There was no difference to speak of in
their respective mode of living—none in the education
of the girls—none in the family gravestones or
church-pews. Yet, deny it who liked, the Dyapers
were the aristocracy of Slimford.
It may be a prejudice, but I am inclined to think
there is always something in a nose. (I am about to
mention a trifle, but trifles are the beginning of most
things, and I would account for the pride paramount
of the Dyapers, if it is any way possible.) The most
stylish of the Miss Dyapers—Harriet Dyaper—had a
nose like his grace the Duke of Wellington. Neither
her father nor mother had such a feature; but
there was a foreign umbrella in the family with exactly
the same shaped nose on the ivory handle. Old
Dyaper had once kept a tavern, and he had taken this
umbrella from a stranger for a night's lodging. But
that is neither here nor there. To the nose of Harriet
Dyaper, resistlessly and instinctively, the Dimity
girls had knocked under at school. There was authority
in it; for the American eagle had such a nose,
and the Duke of Wellington had such a nose; and
when, to these two warlike instances, was added the
nose of Harriet Dyaper, the tripod stood firm. Am
I visionary in believing that the authority introduced
into that village by a foreigner's umbrella (so unaccountable
is fate) gave the dynasty to the Dyapers?
I have mentioned but two families—one in each of
the two principal streets of Slimford. Having a little
story to tell, I can not afford to distract my narrative
with unnecessary “asides;” and I must not only
omit all description of the other Sassafrasers and
Pepperidgers, but I must leave to your imagination
several Miss Dyapers and several Miss Dimitys—Harriet
Dyaper and Meena Dimity being the two exclusive
objects of my hero's Sunday and evening attentions.
For eleven months in the year, the loves of the
ladies of Slimford were presided over by indigenous
Cupids. Brown Crash and the other boys of the village
had the Dyapers and the Dimitys for that respective
period to themselves. The remaining month,
when their sun of favor was eclipsed, was during the
falling of the leaf, when the “drummers” came up to
dun. The townish clerks of the drygoods merchants
were too much for the provincials. Brown Crash
knocked under and sulked, owing, as he said, to the
melancholy depression accompanying the fall of the
deciduous vegetation. But I have not yet introduced
you to my hero.
Brown Crash was the Slimford stage-agent. He
was the son of a retired watch-maker, and had been
laughed at in his boyhood for what they called his
“airs.” He loved, even as a lad, to be at the tavern
when the stage came in, and help out the ladies.
With instinctive leisureliness he pulled off his cap
as soon after the “whoa-hup” as was necessary (and
no sooner), and asked the ladies if they would “alight
and take dinner,” with a seductive smile which began,
as the landlord said, “to pay.” Hence his promotion.
At sixteen he was nominated stage-agent, and thence-forward
was the most conspicuous man in the village;
for “man” he was, if speech and gait go for anything.
But we must minister a moment to the reader's
inner sense; for we do not write altogether for Slimford
comprehension. Brown Crash had something
in his composition “above the vulgar” If men's
qualities were mixed like salads, and I were giving a
“recipe for Brown Crashes,” in Mrs. Glass's style, I
should say his two principal ingredients were a dictionary
and a dunghill cock—for his language was as
ornate as his style of ambulation was deliberate
and imposing. What Brown Crash would have been,
born Right Honorable, I leave (with the smaller Dyapers
and Dimitys) to the reader's fancy. My object
is to show what he was, minus patrician nurture and
valuation. Words, with Brown Crash, were susceptible
of being dirtied by use. He liked a clean towel—he
preferred an unused phrase. But here stopped
his peculiarities. Below the epidermis he was like
other men, subject to like tastes and passions. And
if he expressed his loves and hates with grandiloquent
imagery, they were the honest loves and hates of a
week-day world—no finer nor flimsier for their bedecked
plumage.
To use his own phrase, Brown frequented but two
ladies in Slimford—Miss Harriet Dyaper and Miss
Meena Dimity. The first we have described in
describing her nose, for her remainder was comparatively
inconsiderable. The latter was “a love,” and
of course had nothing peculiar about her. She was
a lamp—nothing till lighted. She was a mantle—
nothing, except as worn by the owner. She was a
mirror—blank and unconscious till something came
to be reflected. She was anything, loved—unloved,
nothing! And this (it is our opinion after half a
life) is the most delicious and adorable variety of
woman that has been spared to us from the museum
of specimen angels. (A remark of Brown Crash's,
by the way, of which he may as well have the credit.)
Now Mr. Crash had an ambitious weakness for the
best society, and he liked to appear intimate with the
Dyapers. But in Meena Dimity there was a secret
charm which made him wish she was an ever-to-be-handed-out
lady-stage-passenger. He could have
given her a hand, and brought in her umbrella and
bandbox, all day long. In his hours of pride he
thought of the Dyapers—in his hours of affection of
Meena Dimity. But the Dyapers looked down upon
the Dimitys; and to play his card delicately between
Harriet and Meena, took all the diplomacy of Brown
Crash. The unconscious Meena would walk up
Sassafras street when she had his arm, and the scornful
Harriet would be there with her nose over the
front gate to sneer at them. He managed as well as
he could. He went on light evenings to the Dyapers—on
dark evenings to the Dimitys. He took
town-walks with the Dyapers—country-walks with
the Dimitys. But his acquaintance with the Dyapers
hung by the eyelids. Harriet liked him; for he was
the only beau in Slimford whose manners were not
belittled beside her nose. But her acquaintance with
him was a condescension, and he well knew that he
could not “hold her by the nose” if she were offended.
Oh no! Though their respective progenitors
were of no very unequal rank—though a horologist
and a “boss lumberman” might abstractly be equals—
the Dyapers had the power!
Yes—they could lift
him to themselves, or dash him down to the Dimitys;
and all Slimford would agree in the latter case that
he was a “slab” and a “small potato!”
But a change came o'er the spirit of Brown Crash's
dream! The drummers were lording it in Slimford,
and Brown, reduced to Meena Dimity (for he was too
proud to play second fiddle to a town dandy), was
walking with her on a dark night past the Dyapers.
The Dyapers were hanging over the gate unluckily,
and their Pearl-street admirers sitting on the top rail
of the fence.
“Who is it?” said a strange voice.
The reply, sent upward from a scornfully projecting
under lip, rebounded in echoes from the tense
nose of Miss Dyaper.
“A Mr. Crash, and a girl from the back street!”
It was enough. A hot spot on his cheek, a warm
rim round his eyes, a pimply pricking in his skin,
and it was all over! His vow was made. He coldly
bid Meena good night at her father's door, and went
home and counted his money. And from that hour,
without regard to sex, he secretly accepted shillings
from gratified travellers, and “stood treat” no more.
Saratoga was crowded with the dispersed nuclei of
the metropolises. Fashion, wealth, and beauty, were
there. Brown Crash was there, on his return from a
tour to Niagara and the lakes.
“Brown Crash, Esq.,” was one of the notabilities
of Congress Hall. Here and there a dandy “could
not quite make him out;” but there was evidently
something uncommon about him. The ladies thought
him “of the old school of politeness,” and the politicians
thought he had the air of one used to influence
in his county. His language was certainly very
choice and peculiar, and his gait was conscious dignity
itself. He must have been carefully educated;
yet his manners were popular, and he was particularly
courteous on a first introduction. The elegance and
ease with which he helped the ladies out of their
carriages were particularly remarked, and a shrewd
observer said of him, that “that point of high breeding
was only acquired by daily habit. He must have
been brought up where there were carriages and ladies.”
A member of congress, who expected to run
for governor, inquired his county, and took wine
with him. His name was mentioned by the letter-writers
from the springs. Brown Crash was in his
perihelion!
The season leaned to its close, and the following
paragraph appeared in the New York American:—
“Fashionable Intelligence.—The company at the
Springs is breaking up. We understand that the
Vice-President and Brown Crash, Esq., have already
left for their respective residences. The latter gentleman,
it is understood, has formed a matrimonial
engagement with a family of wealth and distinction
from the south. We trust that these interesting
bonds, binding together the leading families of the
far-divided extremities of our country, may tend to
strengthen the tenacity of the great American Union!”
It was not surprising that the class in Slimford who
knew everything—the milliners, to-wit—moralized
somewhat bitterly on Mr. Crash's devotion to the
Dyapers after his return, and his consequent slight to
Meena Dimity. “If that was the effect of fashion
and distinction on the heart, Mr. Crash was welcome
to his honors! Let him marry Miss Dyaper, and
they wished him much joy of her nose; but they
would never believe that he had not ruthlessly broken
the heart of Meena Dimity, and he ought to be
ashamed of himself, if there was any shame in such
a dandy.”
But the milliners, though powerful people in their
way, could little affect the momentum of Brown
Crash's glories. The paragraph from the “American”
had been copied into the “Slimford Advertiser,”
and the eyes of Sassafras street and Pepperidge street
were alike opened. They had undervalued their indigenous
“prophet.” They had misinterpreted and
misread the stamp of his superiority. He had been
obliged to go from them to be recognised. But he
was returned. He was there to have reparation
made—justice done. And now, what office would he
like, from Assessor to Pathmaster, and would he be
good enough to name it before the next town-meeting.
Brown Crash was king of Slimford!
And Harriet Dyaper! The scorn from her lip had
gone, like the blue from a radish! Notes for “B.
Crash,Esq.,” showered from Sassafras street—bouquets
from old Dyaper's front yard glided to him, per black
boy—no end to the endearing attentions, undisguised
and unequivocal. Brown Crash and Harriet Dyaper
were engaged, if having the front parlor entirely given
up to them of an evening meant anything—if his
being expected every night to tea meant anything—
if his devoted (though she thought rather cold) attentions
meant anything.
They did n't mean anything! They all did n't
mean anything! What does the orthodox minister
do, the third Sunday after Brown Crash's return, but
read the banns of matrimony between that faithless
man and Meena Dimity!
But this was not to be endured. Harriet Dyaper
had a cousin who was a “strapper.” He was boss of
a sawmill in the next county, and he must be sent for.
He was sent for.
The fight was over. Boss Dyaper had undertaken
to flog Brown Crash, but it was a drawn battle—for
the combatants had been pulled apart by their coattails.
They stepped into the barroom and stood recovering
their breath. The people of Slimford
crowded in, and wanted to have the matter talked
over. Boss Dyaper bolted out his grievance.
“Gentlemen!” said Brown Crash, with one of his
irresistible come-to-dinner smiles, “I am culpable,
perhaps, in the minutiæ of this business—justifiable,
I trust you will say, in the general scope and tendency.
You, all of you, probably, had mothers, and some of
you have wives and sisters; and your `silver cord'
naturally sympathizes with a worsted woman. But,
gentlemen, you are republicans! You, all of you,
are the rulers of a country very large indeed; and
you are not limited in your views to one woman, nor
to a thousand women—to one mile, nor to a thousand
miles. You generalize! you go for magnificent principles,
gentlemen! You scorn high-and-mightiness,
and supercilious aristocracy!”
“Hurra for Mr. Crash!” cried a stagedriver from
the outside.
“Well, gentleman! In what I have done, I have
deserved well of a republican country! True—it has
been my misfortune to roll my Juggernaut of principle
over the sensibilities of that gentleman's respectable
female relative. But, gentlemen, she offended,
remedilessly and grossly, one of the sovereign
people! She scorned one of earth's fairest daughters,
who lives in a back street! Gentlemen, you know
that pride tripped up Lucifer! Shall a tiptop angel fall
for it, and a young woman who is nothing particular
be left scornfully standing? Shall Miss Dyaper have
more privileges than Lucifer? I appreciate your indignant
negative!
“But, gentlemen, I am free to confess, I had also
my republican private end. You know my early history.
You have witnessed my struggles to be respected
by my honorable contemporaries. If it be my
weakness to be sensitive to the finger of scorn, be it
so. You will know how to pardon me. But I will
be brief. At a particular crisis of my acquaintance
with Miss Dyaper, I found it expedient to transfer my
untrammelled tendernesses to Pepperidge street. My
heart had long been in Pepperidge street. But,
gentlemen, to have done it without removing from
before my eyes the contumelious finger of the scorn
of Sassafras street, was beyond my capabilities of endurance.
In justice to my present `future,' gentlemen,
I felt that I must remove `sour grapes' from my
escutcheon—that I must soar to a point, whence,
swooping proudly to Meena Dimity, I should pass
the Dyapers in descending!
(Cheers and murmurs.)
“Gentlemen and friends! This world is all a fleeting
show. The bell has rung, and I keep you from
your suppers. Briefly. I found the means to travel
and test the ring of my metal among unprejudiced
strangers. I wished to achieve distinction and return
to my birthplace; but for what? Do me justice,
gentlemen. Not to lord it in Sassafras street. Not
to carry off a Dyaper with triumphant elation!
Not to pounce on your aristocratic No. 1, and
link my destiny with the disdainful Dyapers! No!
But to choose where I liked, and have the credit
of liking it! To have Slimford believe that if I
preferred their No. 2, it was because I liked it better
than No. 1. Gentlemen, I am a republican! I
may find my congenial spirit among the wealthy—I
may find it among the humble. But I want the libcrty
to choose. And I have achieved it, I trust you
will permit me to say. Having been honored by the
dignitaries of a metropolis—having consorted with a
candidate for gubernatorial distinction—having been
recorded in a public journal as a companion of the
Vice-President of this free and happy country—you
will believe me when I declare that I prefer Pepperidge
street to Sassafras—you will credit my sincerity,
when, having been approved by the Dyapers' betters,
I give them the go-by for the Dimitys! Gentlemen,
I have done.”
The reader will not be surprised to learn that Mr.
Brown Crash is now a prominent member of the
legislature, and an excessive aristocrat—Pepperidge
street and very democratic speeches to the contrary
notwithstanding.
