[G3] "The Butcher's and Drover's Ball," Spirit of the Times, March 3, 1842

The Butcher's and Drover's Ball.

The National Theatre on Monday last was crowded on the occasion of the Grand Butcher's and Drover's Ball for the Benefit of the Poor. We should judge that there were from 1800 to 2000 persons present, about one half of whom were ladies.

We approached the Theatre about ten o'clock, with a friend hanging on our arm.

"Hang it!" exclaimed our companion, as we paused within a half square of the grand entrance, "what a crowd there is around the front of the Theatre. Only look at the carriages. See how the people fill the pavement. I doubt if we shall be able to get within a stone's throw of the door."

We passed on and by dint of a little struggling, approached little by little the Theatre. Just as we were about to step into the open space in front, a carriage drove up, a gentleman handed out a closely muffled figure, and both hastened into the building.

"That's her, by Jove!" we involuntarily murmured.

"Who?" inquired our companion, with a nudge that told painfully among our sinister ribs.

"Oh! why the very lady I wanted to see here. She knows everybody and anybody. She is a dear, sweet, delightful, vivacious, mischievous little creature, and is familiar with all the tittle tattle of the town."

"Phew! In love, by all that's extraordinary. But no, I don't believe that. You have been to Parkinson's, I suspect, and drunk too much black tea."

We laughed at both ideas, and giving our tickets to the doorkeeper, entered the theatre.

We soon found ourself in the gentleman's dressing room. Very good arrangements had been made to secure our clothing, so we handed the waiter our hat, cane, &c., and a levy, and received a ticket in return.

"Brush your coat, sir, rather dusty, sir—ball room full of fine ladies, sir—phut—whist—click—shew!" and we stood pretty well brushed in our outward man.

"Harry, let's liquor."

"Well"—and we stopped at one of the bars as we passed, and put a glass of sherry beneath our waistcoats.

"Guthrie is doing things nicely here. Good wine, that, and usual prices."

"Yes—and both are somewhat rare on these occasions."

We approached the stage through the centre box, the front of which had been removed for the purpose. We took a good, long look at the assembled multitude before us. The floor was covered with a crowd of heads, with bodies attached to them, and every variety of color, as far as dresses were concerned, seemed here to have met together. Some of the ladies we could see even at that distance were very handsome—many were agreeable looking, and no small number were decidedly so-soish.

As we stood looking on, a number of our acquaintances recognized and accosted us. "How long have you been here?" we inquired.

Some had been there over an hour already.

"The dancing commenced about eight—splendid house—capital arrangements—devilish fine women."

"Yes. These butchers can do the thing and no mistake" chimed in another.

"They certainly have excelled themselves" added a third. "I have been all over the house, and the admirable order and arrangements that pervade the whole scene, do them infinite credit." Here our eye caught a glimpse of the lady we were seeking.

"Good bye Harry! there she is. I must speak to her."

"What that tiny creature, with the laughing blue eyes, the round rosy cheeks, splendid bust, and Hebe-like figure. She lives in Spruce street, don't she?"

"Exactly. She is dressed in white. Look what a pretty foot she has. And then what a hearty, healthy, 'jolie' appearance she exhibits."

"You must introduce."

"I will. But you must be patient. Here she comes."

"Ah! Miss S—l I'm rejoiced to meet you—Your bright eyes are such a relief to the dull observations of the crowd. Bless us! They even make the theatre look dim—at least this part of it."

"You extravagant flatterer! In truth there should be a chandelier in front of the stage. Let me take your arm. There, that is comfortable. You can keep step delightfully, and so you suit me on a promenade."

"Thank you, that is some comfort. Those gas fixtures in the rear look well. Just mark those huge letters of fire, B. & D. How brilliantly they glitter!"

"Beautiful. There's Burton. Do you see him? What mischievous eyes he has. He is walking with that lady in the pale silk. She appears to be fascinated with him, and he is doubtless whispering something very amusing in her ear, for she laughs"—

"And shews a very pretty set of teeth."

"For which, perhaps, she has not paid the dentist!"

"Fie! Miss Jo�" she put her hand on our mouth.

"You need not mention my name, Mr. Impertinence. It is bad enough to be seen in your company. All the women will call me the widow.—Whatever nonsense you choose to publish will be attributed to me, and I shall be murdered at the next partie."

"Egad! I'm glad of it."

"Oh! you wretch, why?"

"Ask your victims, you cruel one! But there's the Doctor. What a lively fellow he is. He is all spirit, all life, and his heart is as open as his hand."

"That is his wife leaning upon his arm, dressed in white. Don't you think she has an intelligent face and a bright eye?"

"Very; and she is a capital companion. Lively, sociable, and agreeable."

"Do you know the couple just before us? The gentleman has light curly hair, thin eye-brows, buff vest, dark pants, fashionable black coat, and is swinging his perfumed handkerchief about, as if disposed to

"Waste its sweetness on the desert air."

"Ah! I see. The lady is less in size—has a pale face, high cheek bones, a singular eye, pretty auburn hair, and has on a brown poult de soie, made low in the neck to display her ivory shoulders."

"Yes; do you know her? She is a great coquette. Her present beau had his arm broken by a pistol ball about a twelvemonth ago, for remarking to a former beau, that the lady was—I don't like to mention it."

"Nonsense! Out with it. I'm all anxiety to hear it."

"That she was parrot-toed! ha! ha! ha!"

"Ha! ha! You are jesting!"

"No. She afterwards "sacked" her defender, and is now, you see, terribly affectionate with his opponent."

"She is heartless."

"Perhaps so, but she has a couple of thousand dollars from her grandmother, which everybody calls twenty-thousand, and so—"

"I understand. But there goes a magnificent creature. That tall one in white satin, with the pink rose, and the tiny feather by the side of her head. By Jove! What a grace. What a voluptuous figure. Cupid lies hidden amid her wavy ringlets, and the silken lashes of her eye conceal orbs blacker than the wing of night."

"That is Miss Sarah W—n, of Callowhill street. She is to be married soon to that effeminate looking fellow, who is just now adding a witching curl to his left whisker. Do you see him?"

"Yes. Is that her sister to whom he is addressing himself?"

"No, a sort of cousin. Her name is Agnes L—d of Third street. She is pretty, and suspected of a desire to own the possessor of those sandy cheek-bristles, who is now making his engagement upon her programme card."

"She is not so young. Is she rich?"

"No. She is a 'grass' widow. Her late husband quarrelled with her on account of her philanthropy. She appears to love the whole human race—at least all man-kind."

"Ha! ha! you cynic. There is a clever party in that stage box. Let me see. The good-looking gentleman, with dark curly hair, bright eyes, neat whiskers and beau-ish is Colonel F—e. Of course you know him. All the girls do."

"I don't. (Snappish.) "You mustn't suppose I notice every handsome man in the room. He is talking to that lady with large features. Mrs. P. B—d, I think. And look-that bright-eyed, lively lady, with a lip like that of Psyche, concealing herself in a corner is Mrs. M—e. I can't see her dress. I know she has a pretty figure though; and that is her husband."

"Where? That sprightly gentleman who seems all animation, and whose countenance is the very embodiment of good nature?"

"The same. By-the-bye what is that stout gentleman's name, who is making such particularly fierce love to the lady in the blue bodice and white skirt?"

"Why, George H—r. Don't you admire him? He is a fine looking man, and has captivated many a heart. Did you see him dancing the Cachuca at Becket's ball. He did it gloriously all over the benches. He is wild and frolicksome, but a clever-hearted fellow as ever drank a—"

"Teddy, of course," interrupted she. "Ah! here come the refreshments. Let me have an ice. I'm fond of ices."

"I know that; or else you would not favor that piece of frigidity Mr. L—w."

"Pshaw! I don't know him, and wouldn't for a sixpence. How do you like that style of beauty opposite us?"

"Too sleepy. I can't bear to see a lady with her eyes closed. And Oh! horrid, how she eats. I hate spoons put into a lady's mouth lengthwise. Besides the hole in her countenance is large enough already."

"Ha! ha! that is Miss Mary N—r of Race street. She is called a beauty. Well, I am tired. What a crowd there is."

There is not much room for a promenade. How delightful it is to see everybody walking through everybody else. What a variety of gadding about—what a quantity of talking—what a heap of "pressing of hands."

"Nonsense!" replied our companion, "Do tell me who is that young man with the light hair and ruddy complexion. He is walking with one of the beauties of the room. She is called Miss W—n." "Yes—I have seen her at nearly all the balls this season, and I think in all of them, she was one of the most beautiful. She is a perfect Dudu! The young man on whose arm she is leaning, you may call Mr. W. C—d."

"There are two beautiful girls."

"The one on the right, dressed in a rich chene silk—hasn't she beautiful eyes! It is Miss H—r of Franklin Place. The beauty on the right has the sweetest countenance in the room. She is Miss R—l, and the lady and gentleman with these beautiful girls, are Mr. and Mrs. H—r. But tell me, who is that middle-aged gentleman, with such a good humored physiognomy? He is dressed in a very handsome suit of black."

"That is our Mr. C—x, of Third and Chesnut. A clever fellow, as the empty champaigne bottles in our sanctum may witness."

"That young lady with the rich auburn tresses, dark hazel eyes, wide expansive forehead, relieved by a string of pearls—who is she?"

"The pretty Miss G—r, of Second street. That good looking fellow with her is Mr. Y—r, hatter, also of Second street."

"There is one of those dreamy countenances that cling around the memory for years! What lovely dark eyes, filled with thought and feeling. Her cheek—so full and glowing—her chin with its fascinating dimple, and that sweet expression of her lips, form just such a face as Raphael loved to picture—"

"Now that description does you a great deal of credit. Have you been reading Tom Moore lately?"

"Now you know the girl is beautiful, exceedingly—"

"What, more poetry? I shall have to look out for some place to hide myself. I hate to hear a beautiful woman quoting poetry—she is a full bound volume of poetry herself, and one can't study more than one selection of poems at a time."

"Now you're complimentary. There goes Mr. C—r, the teacher of dancing. Do you know those pretty girls with him?"

"O yes!—The tallest one, dressed in the rich crimson silk is the Miss W—r, one of the sweetest dancers I ever beheld, and the other is Miss H—t, her sister. She is a very nice girl. Miss W—r has the prettiest pair of black eyes in the room."

"What's all this running about? Oh, they are going to waltz. Let's see what is going on."

We hurried over the floor, and taking our stand amid the throng of spectators beheld one of the most graceful waltzes that either Mr. C. or his amiable pupils ever danced. We then took the arm of the pretty Miss H. C—n, of Fourth street, and secured a seat in the boxes.

"Do you know that young lady dressed in black. She is dancing with that handsome young man—Mr. G—e G—z, of Sixth street."

"The young lady with the cherry lips and dark eyes is Miss B—r, of Tammany St. I admire her dancing."

"Do you know who those young ladies are?" asked our friend the handsome W—n H—s, who seemed an especial favorite with the ladies. The one with the brown ringlets and blue eyes is Miss D—m of Eighth street. The brown striped silk covered by a blonde lace tunic which she wears is one of the richest dresses in the room. The pretty girl by her side is Miss Y—r, of S—r street."

"There's a pair of rosy cheeks for you!" exclaimed our lady companion. "They are owned by a very pretty figure too. Who is the beauty?"

"Don't you know her? Why, not to know the beautiful Miss T—r, argues yourself unknown. She is very much admired."

Here our partner was carried off to dance, and we concluded to dance ourself. We espied our first companion sitting alone near the proscenium.

"Ah! Miss Jo, voulez vous me faire d'honneur," offering our arm.

"Oh yes! I suppose so. Here is a place. Dear me, but it is very warm."

"Quite. I assure you I saw a lady melt in the lobby a few minutes ago, and was carried out on a soup dish."

"Oh! gracious. What a fib, you—"

Ta-ra-la—forward—cross—chassez hands—turn—ballances, &c. &c., and we had time to pause again.

"Do you think her pretty?" asked our pretty little companion.

"Who? The lady I was looking at? Yes, there is a softness about the expression of her countenance that is alluring. There is a positive witchcraft about her lips—eloquence in her deep hazel eye."

"Her life has been a romantic one. She was born of very indigent parents—adopted by a rich family—left a fortune—had it stolen from her by a wicked guardian—has been three times almost married—drew a heavy prize in a lottery—put it in Girard Bank stock—was engaged to a wealthy young gentleman-woke up one morning to find herself penniless—and read in the newspapers that her betrothed had run off with a theatrical supernumerary."

Dance again.

"Mr. D— why don't you dance with some animation. You pay no attention to the step. Is it the heat, or your natural indolence?"

"Neither. I was admiring that dark-haired, Haidee-looking girl, in the next quadrille."

"Miss B—r. Yes, you naughty rascal, she was at the State Fencible's, and you noticed her tartly. You may recollect she was there with Mr. K—g, the gentleman in black, with long dark hair."

"I recollect now. N'importe, she is a charming creature, and he is"—

"What God made him, I suppose."

"Precisely."

Dance again and promenade all round.

"I detest these jig cotillions."

"So do I, as much as I do a trotting horse. Let us walk. Here are the oysters. Les aimez vous?"

"Why yes. Confound it, I wish the old Harry had him!"

"Who? What's the matter?"

"Oh! my corns. Oh! dear, some person has almost crushed my foot."

"Let me recommend Wheeler's Pine Extract."

"Of course. He advertises with you, don't he? Ha! ha! Oh! my foot."

"Josey! That young lady with the clear blue eyes and dark hair—who is she?"

"One of the Misses S—r, of Julianna street.—They are both dressed very neatly in white. Miss Sarah is very pretty. Do you know the gentlemen with them?"

"The young man on the right is Mr. E—n, and the other is Mr. G—r; both young, well-made, and good-looking."

"Now there is one of the nicest, prettiest, sweetest little things in the room. She has a round figure, a delicious smile, and a pair of the liveliest, glancing, beaming vixenish eyes in the whole theatre."

"Who is she?"

"Miss M—ll. Her dress is as rich as she is beautiful. Can you tell me who that gentlemanly looking Manager is?"

"What that stout, portly, well proportioned gentleman dressed in a handsome black suit? That is Mr. C. W—r, and among the many courteous managers he is one of the most amiable."

"There is a pretty group. The handsome Miss C—n of John street; the blue-eyed Miss Mary Ann H—ss of Second street; the rosy cheeked Miss S—ns of Pine street; the lovely Miss M—h—r of Twelfth street; the pretty Miss C—mn with her auburn ringlets; the—"

"There's a good looking young fellow; dressed in black, with a very handsome face shaded by dark brown locks and "finished off" by an imperial around the chin, which is relieved in its turn by his ample Byronic collar? Who is he? Do tell?"

"Don't you know? That is G. W. B—n of Front street. He is dancing with a very handsome young lady."

"The good-looking fellow near him is Mr. K. S—r, of Mount Pleasant. Mark that young lady with her full and rounded figure shown to every advantage in a deep black silk—her countenance full and pale, her dark eyebrows and hair, combined with this dark dress would seem to intimate that she wears the weeds of widowhood."

"Yes—her history is a melancholy one. Twelve months since her husband was wrecked on Key West while on a business voyage to New Orleans. She was so much affected by the intelligence of this calamity, that her health suffered and she became paler every day—they say she is in a consumption."

"Do you know her?"

"I never was introduced to her, but I remember seeing her at a party a year or more ago, just after her husband sailed for the south. She was then one of the more cheerful, light-hearted girls I ever beheld. She is called Mrs. W—, of Spruce st."

"Who is the gentleman with her?"

"Her cousin Mr. C. M—r, of Market street."

"There is a beautiful group. Do you know those four young ladies?"

"Those are the Misses B—s. They look very well, and are dressed with exceeding good taste. That tall floor manager is their brother, Martin B. There is a beautiful girl with darkish hair, rich rosy cheeks, and spicy, pouting lips—"

"Her name is Miss N—l. That black dress becomes her very well. There is the signal for the next cotillion. I am engaged for the set. Will you excuse me?"

"Certainly. Ah! how are you, G—n."

We took the arm of a friend, and strolled around the refreshment rooms.

A party of five or six were bobbing glasses together in the Garrick Rooms,—which, by-the-bye, were well provided with refreshments by Mr. Sutton. We went up stairs.

"Do you see that dapper slim fellow, with great masses of dark hair, sweeping the collar of his green coat, and with a scratchy mustachio covering his upper lip? See how pale and shrivelled the skin of his face seems. How thin his lips; his eyes are quick, but expressive in their glance. How politely he bows. How nimbly he flourishes his arms, and into what a number of contortions he wrinkles his features. Do you know this rare bird?"

"No—what is his name?"

"That is the celebrated beau H—n, now known by the name of the genteel sponger, or the ruined spendthrift, but once called—'That dashing young fellow—that rich young blade—that genteel young man, Mr. H—n.' He has spent a large fortune, and now he 'loafs' around town, using his countenance as he once used his money—as a means of livelihood—he runs his face for the very bread he eats and for the clothes he wears."

"Let us hear what he has got to say."

"Will you drink, 'Count'," inquired one of the "Beau's" companions.

"Drink?" said the excited Beau; "Drink! Yes, I'll drink, by G—. Gentlemen, (by G—) you might as well try to drown a rat hole by pou-pouring rum into it as to out drink me. I'm a sucker—a regular built whirlpool—hand along a Mississippi of brandy and water this way, and I'm the Gulf of Mexico that'll suck it in! Who-rah! I'm a snag, gentlemen—a thunderbolt—a young streak of buttered lightning, rocked in a cradle, and just learning to kick, by—gentlemen. Fill your glasses, by —. Hooray! By —. Will you fight? I'm a regular game rooster, that's at you. Will ye sing? I'm a regular cherub at the business-cherub with wings, by—. Will ye dance? Fanny Elssler learnt all she knows from me. Will you drink?—hooray—by—. Let's drink. Let's d-rin-k-k! When I was at the University of Virginia, the champagne for one night come to five—let's drink—five thousand—come bob your glasses—five thousand dollars, gentlemen, by G—d!"

"Come let's go after that. Let us take a peep at the various out-of-the-way places of the building." We ascended into the second tier and took a view of the scene below. The general effect was grand.—The light of the gas chandeliers falling upon the flitting forms below—the banners that hung from the sides of the Theatre—the scenery which one side represented the interior of an ancient castelated hall, and on the other sloped away amid the fairy scenes of an oriental garden—all these individual points combined together formed a picture at once finished and magnificent.

As we looked we saw our late chatty companion, sitting alone, and we hastened down to greet her.

"You seem tired."

"I am. Il faut bien chaud, and I think I'll go home. What time is it?"

"About four. But you can't go now?"

"I must. Will you escort me to the dressing-room."

"Certainly. And I believe I will follow your example. Adieu."

"Adieu."

We lounged about the theatre for perhaps half an hour longer—just long enough to feel how impossible it would be to get down one half the pretty features we had become acquainted with,—when we withdrew—took our hat and cane—pulled on our gloves—threw ourself into a cab, and as we were driven homeward, fell asleep—dreamed that we were in love with an angel—that we had stolen an innocent kiss—got from her hand a box of the ear in return—and woke up by being "dumped" upon the pavement opposite our domicile, like a load of half-frozen potatoes. The Ball, we learn broke up about 5 o'clock, A. M.