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Updated: May 9, 2025
A curious silence follows this effusion. Corlaer Van Boozenberg is slightly flown with wine. Hal Battlebury, who sits near him, looks troubled. Herbert Octoyne and Mellish Whitloe exchange meaning glances. The young ladies Mrs. Plumer is the only matron, except Mrs. Dagon, who sits below smile pleasantly. Sligo Moultrie eats grapes.
Now there's old Jacob Van Boozenberg. I say to you in strict confidence, my son, that there was never a greater fool than that man. He absolutely knows nothing at all. When he dies he will be no more missed in this world than an old dead stage-horse who is made into a manure heap. He is coarse, and vulgar, and mean.
What can you expect, Sir, with Fanny Wright disseminating her infidel sentiments, and the work-people buying The Friend of Equal Human Rights? Equal human fiddle-sticks, Mr. Van Boozenberg! To which remarks from the mouths of many Directors that eminent officer nodded his head, and looked so wise that it was very remarkable so many foolish transactions took place under his administration.
It was well known that she was in town. The beautiful Boston heiress was often enough the theme of discourse among the youth at Abel's rooms. "Is she really going to marry that Dinks? Why, the man's a donkey!" said Corlaer Van Boozenberg. "And are there no donkeys among your married friends?" inquired Abel, with the air of a naturalist pursuing his researches.
So she staid. Well, 'tis dreadful hot, Mrs. Newt. I'm all in a muck. As I was a-puttin' on my coat, I sez, Now, ma, sez I, I hate to wear that coat, sez I. A man does git so nasty sweaty in a great, thick coat, sez I. Whew! I'm all sticky." And Mr. Van Boozenberg worked himself in his garments and stretched his arms to refresh himself. Mrs.
Grace Plumer waits to hear what Abel says, or to observe what he does. Mrs. Dagon regards the whole affair with an approving smile, nodding almost imperceptibly a kind of Freemason's sign to Mrs. Plumer, who thinks that the worthy young Van Boozenberg has probably taken too much wine. Abel Newt quietly turns to Grace Plumer, saying, "Poor Corlaer!
Newt call and see us? 'Law, pa, sez she, 'Mrs. Newt can't call and see such folks as we be! sez she. 'We ain't fine enough for Mrs. Newt," said the great man of Wall Street, and he laughed aloud at the excellent joke. "Mrs. Van Boozenberg is very much mistaken," replied Mrs. Newt, anxiously. "I am afraid she did not get my card. I am very sorry. But I hope you will tell her."
Perhaps it is some kind of exasperation arising from what he has heard Moultrie say privately and Van Boozenberg publicly, as it were, that pushes him further than he means to go. There is a dangerous look of craft; an air of sarcastic cunning in his eyes and on his face. He turns the current of talk with his neighbors, without any other indication of disturbance than the unpleasant look.
But the familiar style of the old gentleman's conversation begot a corresponding familiarity upon the part of Mr. Newt. Mr. Van Boozenberg learned incidentally that Abel had never been in business before. He observed the fresh odor of cigars in the counting-room he remarked the extreme elegance of Abel's attire, and the inferential tailor's bills. He learned that Mrs.
It was not Herbert Octoyne, nor Corlaer Van Boozenberg, nor Bowdoin Beacon, nor Sligo Moultrie, nor any other of his set, who especially remarked his expression; it was, oddly enough, Miss Grace Plumer, of New Orleans. She sat there in the pretty, luxurious rooms, prettier and more luxurious than they. For, at the special solicitation of Mr. Abel Newt, Mrs.
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