- end_line
- 8312
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:48:16.153Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 8242
- text
- peacocks or room of roses (I call it by both names), on account of its
long association in my mind with one of the original proprietors of the
mansion--the gentle Jimmy Rose.
Poor Jimmy Rose!
He was among my earliest acquaintances. It is not many years since he
died; and I and two other tottering old fellows took hack, and in sole
procession followed him to his grave.
Jimmy was born a man of moderate fortune. In his prime he had an
uncommonly handsome person; large and manly, with bright eyes of blue,
brown curling hair, and cheeks that seemed painted with carmine; but it
was health’s genuine bloom, deepened by the joy of life. He was by
nature a great ladies’ man, and like most deep adorers of the sex, never
tied up his freedom of general worship by making one wilful sacrifice of
himself at the altar.
Adding to his fortune by a large and princely business, something like
that of the great Florentine trader, Cosmo the Magnificent, he was
enabled to entertain on a grand scale. For a long time his dinners,
suppers, and balls were not to be surpassed by any given in the
party-giving city of New York. His uncommon cheeriness, the splendour of
his dress, his sparkling wit, radiant chandeliers, infinite fund of
small talk, French furniture, glowing welcomes to his guests, his
bounteous heart and board, his noble graces and his glorious wine, what
wonder if all these drew crowds to Jimmy’s hospitable abode? In the
winter assemblies he figured first on the manager’s list. James Rose,
Esq., too, was the man to be found foremost in all presentations of
plate to highly successful actors at the Park, or of swords and guns to
highly successful generals in the field. Often, also, was he chosen to
present the gift on account of his fine gift of finely saying fine
things.
‘Sir,’ said he, in a great drawing-room in Broadway, as he extended
toward General G---- a brace of pistols set with turquoise. ‘Sir,’ said
Jimmy, with a Castilian flourish and a rosy smile, ‘there would have
been more turquoise here set, had the names of your glorious victories
left room.’
Ah, Jimmy, Jimmy! Thou didst excel in compliments. But it was inwrought
with thy inmost texture to be affluent in all things which give
pleasure. And who shall reproach thee with borrowed wit on this
occasion, though borrowed indeed it was? Plagiarise otherwise as they
may, not often are the men of this world plagiarists in praise.
But times changed. Time, true plagiarist of the seasons.
Sudden and terrible reverses in business were made mortal by mad
prodigality on all hands. When his affairs came to be scrutinised, it
was found that Jimmy could not pay more than fifteen shillings in the
pound. And yet in time the deficiency might have been made up--of
course, leaving Jimmy penniless--had it not been that in one winter gale
two vessels of his from China perished off Sandy Hook; perished at the
threshold of their port.
Jimmy was a ruined man.
It was years ago. At that period I resided in the country, but happened
to be in the city on one of my annual visits. It was but four or five
days since seeing Jimmy at his house the centre of all eyes, and hearing
him at the close of the entertainment toasted by a brocaded lady, in
these well-remembered words: ‘Our noble host; the bloom on his cheek,
may it last long as the bloom in his heart!’ And they, the sweet ladies
and gentlemen there, they drank that toast so gaily and frankly off; and
Jimmy, such a kind, proud, grateful tear stood in his honest eye,
angelically glancing round at the sparkling faces, and equally
sparkling, and equally feeling, decanters.
Ah! poor, poor Jimmy--God guard us all--poor Jimmy Rose!
- title
- Chunk 3