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- 11141
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.843Z
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- 11068
- text
- you have hit it, you have,” and then he went on to mention, that in
some places in England, it was customary for two or three young men of
highly respectable families, of undoubted antiquity, but unfortunately
in lamentably decayed circumstances, and thread-bare coats—it was
customary for two or three young gentlemen, so situated, to obtain
their livelihood by their voices: coining their silvery songs into
silvery shillings.
They wandered from door to door, and rang the bell—Are _the ladies and
gentlemen in?_ Seeing them at least gentlemanly looking, if not
sumptuously appareled, the servant generally admitted them at once; and
when the people entered to greet them, their spokesman would rise with
a gentle bow, and a smile, and say, _We come, ladies and gentlemen, to
sing you a song: we are singers, at your service._ And so, without
waiting reply, forth they burst into song; and having most mellifluous
voices, enchanted and transported all auditors; so much so, that at the
conclusion of the entertainment, they very seldom failed to be well
recompensed, and departed with an invitation to return again, and make
the occupants of that dwelling once more delighted and happy.
“Could not something of this kind now, be done in New York?” said
Harry, “or are there no parlors with ladies in them, there?” he
anxiously added.
Again I assured him, as I had often done before, that New York was a
civilized and enlightened town; with a large population, fine streets,
fine houses, nay, plenty of omnibuses; and that for the most part, he
would almost think himself in England; so similar to England, in
essentials, was this outlandish America that haunted him.
I could not but be struck—and had I not been, from my birth, as it
were, a cosmopolite—I had been amazed at his skepticism with regard to
the civilization of my native land. A greater patriot than myself might
have resented his insinuations. He seemed to think that we Yankees
lived in wigwams, and wore bear-skins. After all, Harry was a spice of
a Cockney, and had shut up his Christendom in London.
Having then assured him, that I could see no reason, why he should not
play the troubadour in New York, as well as elsewhere; he suddenly
popped upon me the question, whether I would not join him in the
enterprise; as it would be quite out of the question to go alone on
such a business.
Said I, “My dear Bury, I have no more voice for a ditty, than a dumb
man has for an oration. Sing? Such Macadamized lungs have I, that I
think myself well off, that I can talk; let alone nightingaling.”
So that plan was quashed; and by-and-by Harry began to give up the idea
of singing himself into a livelihood.
“No, I won’t sing for my mutton,” said he—“what would Lady Georgiana
say?”
“If I could see her ladyship once, I might tell you, Harry,” returned
I, who did not exactly doubt him, but felt ill at ease for my bosom
friend’s conscience, when he alluded to his various noble and right
honorable friends and relations.
“But surely, Bury, my friend, you must write a clerkly hand, among your
other accomplishments; and _that_ at least, will be sure to help you.”
“I _do_ write a hand,” he gladly rejoined—“there, look at the
implement!—do you not think, that such a hand as _that_ might dot an
_i,_ or cross a _t,_ with a touching grace and tenderness?”
Indeed, but it did betoken a most excellent penmanship. It was small;
and the fingers were long and thin; the knuckles softly rounded; the
nails hemispherical at the base; and the smooth palm furnishing few
characters for an Egyptian fortune-teller to read. It was not as the
sturdy farmer’s hand of Cincinnatus, who followed the plough and guided
the state; but it was as the perfumed hand of Petronius Arbiter, that
elegant young buck of a Roman, who once cut great Seneca dead in the
forum.
- title
- Chunk 3