From The Knicker­bocker, or New-​​York Monthly Mag­a­zine, Jan­u­ary 1844, which I own, scanned, sub­mit­ted to the Dis­trib­uted Proof­read­ers work­flow, and which my wife has just started edit­ing back into shape a year later.

As I’ve men­tioned before, The Knicker­bocker is an Amer­i­can lit­er­ary mag­a­zine of the early part of the 19^th Cen­tury, and con­tains some of the most amaz­ing prose selec­tions. It’s sadly under­rep­re­sented online, in the lit­er­ary canon, and in schol­arly work on humor­ous writ­ing. It’s the direct spir­i­tual pre­de­ces­sor to the most amus­ing mod­ern lit­er­ary mag­a­zines McSweeney’s and The Believer.

I look for­ward, not least because of the shelf-​​full of moul­der­ing vol­umes in my base­ment, to shar­ing the rest of the magazine’s run with the world in the com­ing months. Go reg­is­ter for Dis­trib­uted Proof­read­ers (free! sim­ple!), and read five or ten pages of the cur­rent vol­ume we’re work­ing on (Vol. 10, as I recall).

I’ve tried to main­tain some of the won­der­ful typog­ra­phy the HTML ver­sion pre­serves, but you should really go look at the full issue at Project Guten­berg to see the full glory. And read about a vaca­tion in Florida in the 1840s. And other things.

LETTER FROM JAMES JESSAMINE.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir: It has not been until after much reflec­tion on my own part, and I must say, very civil encour­age­ment on that of my friend Mr. John Waters, whose acquain­tance I have chanced upon some months back, that I have deter­mined to ven­ture, either in the form of an advér­tise­ment extra, or pos­si­bly by your very polite admis­sion of this self-​​introductory let­ter into your fash­ion­able pages, to sub­mit to the view of the more refined and intel­lec­tual part of the soci­ety of the Atlantic cities and par­tic­u­larly to that of New York, the pecu­liar claim that I con­ceive myself to pos­sess upon their con­sid­er­a­tion and regard.

I have been hith­erto deterred from tak­ing this deci­sive step, as well by the very dis­turbed and almost tur­bu­lent state, which, since my arrival in this coun­try, appears to have char­ac­ter­ized its mon­e­tary concerns—alas! my dear Sir, those hor­rid yet nec­es­sary evils and griev­ances of life!—as by some expec­ta­tions I had cause to enter­tain soon after I set foot upon your hos­pitable shores, of the imme­di­ate death of a maiden aunt in Corn­wall, upon which inci­dent, and her con­tin­ued celibacy, depend very much all my present rever­sion­ary hopes.

The health of the old lady being how­ever at my lat­est intel­li­gence unex­pect­edly rein­stated; the cot­ton crops com­ing for­ward as I under­stand to good mar­kets, and the won­der­ful dis­cov­ery hav­ing been made of con­vert­ing west­ern pork into sal­lad oil; the Tories being put down, and the banks hav­ing entered into what some time ago seemed the paulo post futu­rum of specie pay­ments; I desire to share in the gen­eral tide of pros­per­ity; I launch myself upon it at its flood, dis­card all reserve, and shall descend at once with­out far­ther pref­ace into the midst of what I have to say.

I came out then some time ago osten­si­bly to kill a trout or two in some of your deli­cious streams; and indeed I may with­out pre­sump­tion say en pas­sant that few pro­fes­sors of the Rod excel me either in the niceties of my throw, the cool self-​​possession with which I take my fish, or the indomitable per­se­ver­ance and per­fect tact with which I drown and then land him with a sin­gle hair. I say osten­si­bly, for I have now no desire to con­ceal from you the ulte­rior objects that I had in view of either mak­ing a book to replen­ish my purse, or of estab­lish­ing myself for life in this your ris­ing land of free­dom and big crops.

I have had ‘good luck to your fish­ing’ sung to me more than once by most sweet voices, and have real­ized it to my heart’s con­tent in the way of trout; but this is all. Since I arrived in Amer­ica there have been no less than three trav­el­ling his­to­ri­ans upon the ground, with whose energy of con­cep­tion, art of fab­ri­ca­tion, facil­ity of com­bi­na­tion, capac­ity of bit­ter­ness and estab­lished name, I could not enter the lists. And as for mat­ri­mo­nial projects, for­eign­ers seem to me to have no longer any hope of suc­cess in con­se­quence of the entire pre-​​occupation of this walk of life by a reg­u­larly drilled and edu­cated corps of young Amer­i­cans, bred up avowedly with no other pur­suit; who talk, think, dream of noth­ing else than for­tune by mar­riage; and with a shrewd­ness and intel­li­gence of cal­cu­la­tion that entirely dis­tance the for­eigner, (but which seem won­der­fully after the nup­tials to for­sake them in stocks of another descrip­tion,) know at a glance the value, expec­ta­tions, hopes, and depen­den­cies of each young mar­riage­able lady even before she comes out; so that instead of being able to accom­plish a pur­pose of this kind, I find it quite as much as I can do to avoid falling in love beyond repeal with the refine­ment, gen­tle­ness, grace, and untold sweet­ness that dis­tin­guish the por­tion­less beau­ties of New-​​York.

Indeed this class to which I have adverted of licensed fortune-​​hunters is so numer­ous; the for­tunes them­selves except to the ini­ti­ated are so uncer­tain; and the entire want of that most use­ful pro­fes­sion, les courtiers de mariage, is so griev­ous to all inci­den­tal vis­i­tors, that I have often thought how admirable the arrange­ment would be, if the young ladies were at once to adopt as a fash­ion­able dec­o­ra­tion some taste­ful head orna­ment, on which should be inscribed, in dis­tinct but grace­ful char­ac­ters, some one of such leg­ends as the fol­low­ing, which should indi­cate the incon­testible pos­ses­sions of the wearer:

• $30,000 State of New-​​York Fives.
• My face is my fortune.
• $200,000 Indi­ana State Bonds.
• 2 lots on Broad­way, 4 in the Bow­ery and 1 on Union-​​Square.
• Noth­ing but truth, dis­cre­tion, intel­li­gence and grace.
• $60,000 Alabama Ster­ling Bonds.
• The Tongues, and what you see.
• $27,000 on inde­fea­si­ble Bond and Mortgage.
• A House and Shop in Maiden-​​Lane with fix­tures, and a care­ful ten­ant at 1400 a year on lease three years unexpired.
• Musick—four pianos done up since this time last year.
• 30,000 Pine trees and three saw-​​mills in Saint Lawrence county: N. B., well situated!
• A large Man­u­fac­tur­ing Estab­lish­ment with unbounded Water-​​privileges, in Ulster.
• Life and Trust—40 shares daily recovering.

The young gen­tle­men might wear appended to the third button-​​hole of the left breast, epi­gram­mat­i­cal notices of ‘THE EXPECTATIONS’ in which they so gen­er­ally abound, as follows:

• Uncle Asa has the phthisick, I am his heir.
• As I STAND, less my tailor’s bill of $1800.
• Plenty of Lots, cov­ered partly with water, partly with parchment.
• In full and suc­cess­ful busi­ness, owing only four times our cap­i­tal, due us five times, chiefly in Mis­sis­sippi. Expect to retire in two years and enjoy life.
• Two-​​and-​​six-​​pence in my pocket, with great but inde­fin­able hopes.
• A promis­ing young mem­ber of the Bar. Three suits;—☛ one of them in court. Grant me my fourth!

A young lady, whose nice tact and dis­crim­i­nat­ing judg­ment are only rivalled by her sweet­ness of dis­po­si­tion and exquis­ite per­sonal attrac­tions, has divided the world of beaux into three gen­er­ick classes:

1. The Rich who are afraid of us;
2. The Poor whom we are afraid of;
3. The Detri­men­tal­ists.

The plan I pro­pose would aid man­i­festly in the due clas­si­fi­ca­tion of all assis­tants at a ball. It is not to be thought that the sex is gov­erned by any mer­ce­nary motive; but in the present orga­ni­za­tion of soci­ety a cer­tain degree of atten­tion to the mode in which mat­ri­mo­nial estab­lish­ments are to be sus­tained is absolutely imperative.

Con­ceive then Mr. Edi­tor how this explicit course would remove the ordi­nary imped­i­ments on both sides. One sin­gle tour de Valse and the whole affair might be adjusted! The gen­tle­man for­sakes the lady’s eyes and fixes his own upon her tiara; she hers upon his elo­quent button-​​hole. Dur­ing the slow move­ment they have deci­phered the mot­toes, have ascer­tained, (no small desider­a­tum in a crowded ball-​​room!) each the exact value of his or her part­ner; they have arrived in thought, as far as mere expe­di­ency goes, each at a deci­sion; and are ready for ques­tion and answer at the close of the accel­er­ated step.

By the way, as the waltz is now con­ducted, the employ­ment of the eyes dur­ing the slow sen­ti­men­tal move­ment seems fre­quently to the lady a mat­ter of some degree of embar­rass­ment; and the method I pro­pose would effec­tu­ally remove any thing of the sort. There could be no want of an object on which to rest them; no look­ing with a fixed gaze over the partner’s shoul­der; no con­sult­ing of the cor­nice; no care-​​fraught expres­sion; no reluc­tant or dis­pleased look, as if the lady would have fain declined; no inde­ter­mi­nate thoughts, no indef­i­nite sen­sa­tions; no lan­guish­ment; and above all never more the por­ten­tous, the omi­nous look which often in that entranc­ing dance exhibits to us the mys­ti­cism of the Sybil, with­out one ray of her inspiration.

No; then would the lady look, read, decide, and dance the while. ‘This might do!’—then would she sparkle. ‘Ah this would never do!’—then would she become placid, tran­quil, and com­plete her tour with con­tent­ment; for as I think some one else has before me wisely observed, the end of doubt is the begin­ning of repose. Then would the faces of the ladies gen­er­ally become vastly more attrac­tive than at present dur­ing the enjoy­ment of the waltz; for sin­gu­lar as may seem the remark, although I have assisted at sev­eral New-​​York balls, I have met two coun­te­nances only through­out the whole galaxy of beauty that, in danc­ing the Waltz, have indi­cated either joy or undis­turbed grat­i­fi­ca­tion: the one, is that of a lit­tle sylph-​​like beam of plea­sure, who might well carry upon her beau­ti­ful hair, ‘unin­cum­bered lots,’ as her wedding-​​portion; who gains our hearts while she laughs at us; and who, because I chance to be within half a score of her father’s years, threat­ens to call me her vieux chéri—while the name of the other, if I dared write it, would recall the most taste­ful and fash­ion­able cos­tumes of France, with the sweet­est poetry of Scotland.

But alas my mas­ter! I have gone prat­tling on with­out say­ing a word of my own pre­ten­sions until my let­ter has gained such a length that I am forced to defer them to another num­ber, while I sub­scribe myself, dear Mr. Edi­tor of the Knicker­bocker,

Your most faith­ful servant,

James Jes­samine.