FullReads

Few domiciles–of civilian, “above Bleecker st.,”–were better illuminated, set off and detailed than that of Jipson, on the evening of the ever-memorable dinner. Smith had volunteered to “engage” a whole set of silver from Tinplate & Co., who generously offer our ambitious citizens such opportunities to splurge, for a fair consideration; while china, porcelain, a dozen colored waiters in white aprons, with six plethoric fiddlers and tooters, were also in Smith’s programme. Jipson at first was puzzled to know where he could find volunteers to fill two dozen chairs, but when night came, Mr. Theophilus Smith, by force of tactics truly wonderful, drummed in a force to face a gross of plates, napkins and wine glasses.

Mrs. Jipson was evidently astonished, the Misses J. not a little vexed at the “raft” of elegant ladies present, and the independent manner in which they monopolized attention and made themselves at home.

Jipson swore inwardly, and looked like “a sorry man.” Smith was at home, in his element; he was head and foot of the party. Himself and friends soon led and ruled the feast. The band struck up; the corks flew, the wine fizzed, the ceilings were spattered, and the walls tattooed with Burgundy, Claret and Champagne!

“To our host!” cries Smith.

“Yes–ah! ‘ere’s–ah! to our a–our host!” echoes another swell, already insolently “corned.”

“Where the–a–where is our worthy host?” says another specimen of “above Bleecker street” genteel society. “I–a say, trot out your host, and let’s give the old fellow a toast!”

“Ha! ha! b-wavo! b-wavo!” exclaimed a dozen shot-in-the-neck bloods, spilling their wine over the carpets, one another, and table covers.

“This is intolerable!” gasps poor Jipson, who was in the act of being kept cool by his wife, in the drawing-room.

“Never mind, Jipson—-“

“Ah! there’s the old fellaw!” cries one of the swells.

“I-ah–say, Mister—-“

“Old roostaw, I say—-“

“Gentlemen!” roars Jipson, rushing forward, elevating his voice and fists.

“For heaven’s sake! Jipson,” cries the wife.

“Gentlemen, or bla’guards, as you are.”

“Oh! oh! Jipson, will you hear me?” imploringly cries Mrs. Jipson.

“What–ah–are you at? Does he–ah—-“

“Yes, what–ah–does old Jip say?”

“Who the deuce, old What’s-your-name, do you call gentlemen?” chimes in a third.

“Bla’guards!” roars Jipson.

“Oh, veri well, veri well, old fellow, we–ah–are–ah–to blame for–ah–patronizing a snob,” continues a swell.

“A what?” shouts Jipson.

“A plebeian!”

“A codfish–ah—-“

“Villains! scoundrels! bla’guards!” shouts the outraged Jipson, rushing at the intoxicated swells, and hitting right and left, upsetting chairs, tables, and lamps.

“Murder!” cries a knocked down guest.

“E-e-e-e-e-e!” scream the ladies.

“Don’t! E-e-e-e! don’t kill my father!” screams the daughter.

Chairs and hats flew; the negro servants and Dutch fiddlers, only engaged for the occasion, taking no interest in a free fight, and not caring two cents who whipped, laid back and–

“Yaw! ha! ha! De lor’! Yaw! ha! ha!”

Mrs. Jipson fainted; ditto two others of the family; the men folks (!) began to travel; the ladies (!) screamed; called for their hats, shawls, and chaperones,–the most of the latter, however, were non est, or too well “set up,” to heed the common state of affairs.

Jipson finally cleared the house. Silence reigned within the walls for a week. In the interim, Mrs. Jipson and the daughters not only got over their hysterics, but ideas of gentility, as practised “above Bleecker street.” It took poor Jipson an entire year to recuperate his financial “outs,” while it took the whole family quite as long to get over their grand debut as followers of fashion in the great metropolis.