Fifth Avenue | Page 5

eight years old; now communicated,
at great expense, by his own nurse. Here's the Sewer! Here's the New
York Sewer in its twelfth thousand, with a whole column of New
Yorkers to be shown up, and all their names printed. Here's the Sewer's
article upon the judge that tried him, day afore yesterday, for libel, and
the Sewer's tribute to the independent jury that didn't convict him, and
the Sewer's account of what might have happened if they had! Here's
the Sewer, always on the lookout; the leading journal of the United
States!"
Such were the cries, according to the veracious account of Charles
Dickens, who had paid his first visit to us a short time before, that
greeted the ears of Martin Chuzzlewit upon his arrival in the gate city
of the western world. That amiable caricature reflects what the English
novelist thought or pretended to think, of the New York journalism of
the day. Exaggeration, of course: the bad manners of a young genius of
the British lower middle classes. But quite good-naturedly today we
concede that beneath bad manners and exaggeration there was a
foundation of truth. Into the making of Colonel Diver, the editor of the
"Rowdy Journal," may have gone a little of old Noah, of the "Star," or
James Watson Webb, of the "Courier and Enquirer," or Colonel Stone,
of the "Commercial." Can't you see those grim figures of an old world
strutting down Broadway, glaring about belligerently and suspiciously?
Almost every editor of that period had a theatre feud at one day or
another. On the luckless mummer who had incurred his displeasure he
poured out the vials of his wrath. He incited audiences to riot. Against
his brother editors he hurled such epithets as "loathsome and leprous
slanderer and libeller," "pestilential scoundrel," "polluted wretch," "foul
jaws," "common bandit," "prince of darkness," "turkey buzzard,"
"ghoul." Somehow, in thinking of the old days, I find it hard to
reconcile those men and women who lived under the Knickerbocker
sway with their newspapers. It is pleasanter to dwell upon the old
customs, to picture Mr. Manhattan leaving the scurrilous sheet behind
him when he departed from his store or counting house, and repairing
with clean hands to the wife of his bosom and his family, somewhere in
Greenwich Village, or Richmond Hill, or Bond Street, or the

beginnings of Fifth Avenue.
But to revert to the manners of the old town. First of all there was the
business of getting married. It was with an idea of permanency then,
and the Knickerbocker wedding was, in consequence, a ceremony. To it,
the groom, his best-man, and the ushers went attired in blue coats, brass
buttons, high white satin stocks, ruffled-bosomed shirts, figured satin
waistcoats, silk stockings, and pumps. The New Yorker's tailor, if his
pretensions to fashion were well-founded, was Elmendorf, or Brundage,
or Wheeler, or Tryon and Derby; his hatter, St. John, and his
bootmakers, Kimball and Rogers. For the wedding ceremony, the man's
hair was tightly frizzed by Maniort, the leading hair-dresser of the day.
He was the proprietor of the Knickerbocker Barber-Shop at Broadway
and Wall Street, and the town gossip. Years later he was to enjoy the
patronage of the Third Napoleon in Paris as a reward for favours
extended to the Prince when the latter was an exile here. There is little
record of elaborate pre-nuptial bachelor dinners in the style of modern
New York. What would have been the use? The gardens of the city's
fashionable homes boasted no extensive circular fountains or artificial
fishponds into which the best-man or the father of the bride-to-be could
be flung as an artistic diversion. As has been said, it was something of a
slow old world, lacking in many of the modern comforts.
The robe of the bride was of white satin, tinged with yellow, the bodice
cut low in the neck and shoulders, and ornamented with lace. Over her
hair, built up by Martell, was flung the coronet of artificial orange
blossoms held by the blonde lace veil. Then the satin boots and the
six-button gloves. At the wedding-supper the bride's cake, rich, and of
formidable proportions, was the _pièce de resistance_. Also there was
substantial fare; hams, turkeys, chicken, and game; besides fruits,
candies, and creams. In place of the champagne of later days there were
Madeira, Port, and Sherry. Round the table, illuminated by wax candles
and astral lamps, young and old gathered; the women of a past
generation in stiff brocades, powdered puffs, and tortoise-shell combs.
From the first to last the Fifth Avenue wedding of those days reflected
the patriarchal system that had not yet passed.

It was not a matter of denomination, but when the world was young,
the pioneers of the Avenue did not smile on the