Volume 4 — MR. POTTS’S NEW YEAR’S.

Mr. T. Pemberton Potts—thus he always wrote his name, though the “Family Record,” which sets forth the genesis of the house of Potts, does not contain the sonorous trisyllable which follows the modest initial T., which is all that he ever acknowledges of his baptismal appellation of Timothy—Mr. Potts had been in great tribulation all day, in the apprehension that hatter, or tailor, or bootmaker would fail to send home the articles of their craft in which he proposed to make a sensation in his to-morrow’s “New-Year’s Calls.” But his apprehensions were groundless. For a wonder, all these artists kept their word; and the last installment arrived fully two hours before the Old Year had taken its place in the silent and irrevocable Past. As one by one came in the brilliant beaver, the exquisite paletot, the unimpeachable swallow-tail, the snowy vest, the delicate, pearl-gray “continuations,” and the resplendent boots, which Cinderella might have assumed, had she lived in the days of “Bloomerism,” Mr. Potts displayed them scientifically over a chair, and gazed upon the picture they presented, as fondly as painter ever gazed upon the canvas upon which he had flung his whole burning soul.

MR. POTTS MAKES HIS TOILET.

When Mr. Potts awoke on the following morning, he was half afraid to open his eyes, for fear that the whole should prove a dream, too blissful to be true. After he had mustered courage to look, and found it to be all real, he lay for a while in lazy rapture, feeding his eyes upon the picture, which seemed more beautiful by daylight than it had appeared by the midnight camphene, of the preceding night.

Having performed the initial rites of the toilet, Mr. Potts attempted to assume the admired boots; but found to his cost that the disciple of St. Crispin had too literally obeyed his injunctions to give him a “snug fit.” In vain he tugged and pulled, excoriating his fingers against the unyielding straps—his dressing apparatus did not comprise a pair of boot-hooks—his foot would no more in than Lady Macbeth’s blood-fleck would out. At last, by dispensing with his “lambs-wools,” diligently lubricating the leather, and introducing a handkerchief into one strap, and a towel into the other, so as to gain a firmer hold, he succeeded in insinuating his naked feet into their places. “It is the first step that costs,” says the French proverb, and Mr. Potts’s first step in his new boots cost him an agonizing thrill in his toes, which threatened to put a veto upon his hopes of wearing them that day. Having fully arrayed himself, Mr. Potts mounted a chair, so as to bring the lower part of his figure within the range of his somewhat diminutive dressing-glass, and finding that the image which met his view fully equaled his anticipations, he bestowed upon it a farewell smile of approbation and set off upon his rounds.

MR. POTTS SUFFERS—INEXPRESSIBLY.

He was soon at the door of the up-town mansion whither Mr. Briggs had retired from the “dry-salted,” “roans,” and “skivers” of the “Swamp,” with a plum in his pocket, and one fair daughter whom Mr. Potts loved well if not wisely. Just as he was about to ascend the marble steps, an omnibus dashed by, and to the infinite horror of the wearer, deposited several large mud-blotches upon the delicate pearl-gray inexpressibles, in which were encased the nether limbs of the unfortunate Mr. Potts. With a muttered malediction between his teeth, he rang the bell, and was ushered into the hall. As he had come somewhat early, with the hope of finding the fair Mary Briggs alone, in which case he determined to make more than a passing call, he was in the act of laying aside his paletot, when a shrill cry and a simultaneous pang, made him aware that the tail of a monstrous cat was crushed under his boot, while the claws of the agonized animal were firmly fixed in his leg. Mr. Potts could not at once free himself from the hold of the enraged beast, for his arms were pinioned behind him by his upper garment, of which he was disencumbering himself. This circumstance nowise tended to restore his mental equilibrium, which had been disturbed by the previous occurrences.

MR. POTTS IS DISCOMPOSED.

Bewildered and confused, instead of passing through the door of the drawing-room, which was held open for him by the sable attendant, Mr. Potts rushed up the broad staircase, and burst into the first door he saw. Here he encountered a spectacle which sent the perspiration to his forehead faster than the most vigorous application of his handkerchief could remove it. He found himself in the presence of a matronly dame, robed in the loosest possible of dressing-gowns, her hair hanging down her neck, while a heap of articles which had fallen from her lap as she hastily rose, and lay at her feet, showed that, mindful of the economics of her “below Bleecker-street” days, the stately Mrs. Briggs had been engaged in repairing certain portions of her husband’s wardrobe. A rustling sound, which met his ears, though at first he could not tell whence it came, was explained, when the eyes of Mr. Potts fell upon a glass so placed as to reflect objects behind a screen. There he saw the rubicund visage of the worthy ex-leather-dealer peeping out from the folds of a cloak, which hung against the wall, while the portion of his figure appearing below its bottom, showed that he was in a state as remote as could well be conceived from full dress.

MR. POTTS FINDS HIMSELF IN THE WRONG APARTMENT.

Had Mr. Potts been writing his own biography, the next few minutes must have been a blank, so far as any definite reminiscences on his own part were concerned. He has a dim recollection of stammering out something about “mistaking the room,” the “industry of Penelope,” and “begging pardon;” then he remembers somebody, he hardly knows whether himself or not, rushing down-stairs, and passing through a door held open before him. Then he said, or heard somebody say something about “compliments of the season,” “many returns,” “fine day,” “the gentlemen are favored,” “make many calls?” At last, when he fully came to himself, he found that he was sitting in a drawing-room, his hat between his knees, and a cup of coffee in his hand. Near him was a table upon which, instead of a vulgar eating-house display of all the “delicacies of the season,” was simply a massive coffee-urn, and two or three articles of plate. Before the table stood a lovely figure dressed in the purest white, her countenance lit up with the most enchanting smile in the world.

Mr. Potts found himself in the very situation in which he had hoped to be. He had been the first to make his appearance that morning, and he thought himself sure of a long tête-à-tête with the fair Mary Briggs. In anticipation of this he had conned over in his own mind a variety of brilliant remarks, with which he purposed to enliven the conversation, and which he fully intended should impress upon her mind the conviction that he was an extremely agreeable young man. But things never turn out in such cases precisely as one has arranged them. The gentleman himself was not over-gifted with extempore conversational powers, and the adventures of the morning had not tended to remedy the deficiency. He quite forgot the criticisms which—à propos of the Opera—he had intended to make upon Truffi and Parodi, Benedetti and Beneventano, for the getting-up of which he had almost learned by heart the cant of the musical critics. Even his raptures about Jenny Lind came coldly off. But the liveliness of the lady made amends for his deficiencies: the more silent and embarrassed he became, the more brilliant and charming she grew, and the more earnestly were his eyes fixed upon the charming countenance that beamed down upon him.

MR. POTTS ENCHANTED.

“How she did talk!” said Mr. Potts to us, one day, not long after the occurrence. He had invited us to dine with him at Delmonico’s, when he would tell us how we could “do him a great favor—that’s a good fellow.” As we were sure of a good dinner and a capital Regalia afterward; and knew, moreover, that Mr. Potts never wanted to borrow money, we of course accepted the invitation. He wanted us to go and “put things right with old Briggs about that confounded New Year’s scrape,” and so unburdened his whole soul to us.—“How she did talk!” said Mr. Potts; “she knows every thing! Had I heard this Opera, and that? and didn’t I admire this passage and that? and then she would go off into her Italian lingo, which I couldn’t understand a word of. I didn’t know she understood Italian. However, I’m glad I found it out—I know what to make of that handsome, dark-complexioned fellow, with black eyes and hair, and such a mustache, that I used to see coming out of old Briggs’s every day or two—he was her Italian teacher. And then about Jenny Lind, and there was more Italian, and I don’t know what. And then had I visited the Düsseldorff Gallery? and wasn’t I in love with those little Fairies? and didn’t the tears start to my eyes when I saw the Silesian Weavers? and what did I think of the Nativity? and did I ever see any thing so comical as the Student? and wasn’t the Wine-Tasters admirable? and wasn’t it wonderful that a man could put so much soul upon a bit of canvas, not larger than one’s nail, with no materials except a few red, and yellow, and blue, and brown colors, and a few bristles fastened into the end of a stick? and—” But we forbear: Mr. Potts’s confidences are sacred. We inferred, from his embarrassment and her volubility, that he was in love, and she wasn’t—with him.

MR. POTTS ASSUMES A STRIKING ATTITUDE.

Mr. Potts gazed up into her face with his heart in his mouth:—it had been better for him, just then to have had his coffee there. A scalding sensation made him look down, when to his horror he found that he had been quietly emptying his cup into his hat, and had finished by depositing the last of its scalding contents upon his knees. He gave a start of agony and horror, when the treacherous chair, upon the edge of which he had been perched, slid out from under him, and he found himself seated upon the floor. The fragile china, which he held in his hand, was shattered into a score of fragments, while his hat, in falling, came in contact with the lady, who was standing before him, and bestowed its contents in the most liberal manner upon her snowy dress.

Mary Briggs was as sweet a girl as the city held on that New Year’s Day, but even she could not prevent a look, half of vexation, and half of amusement, from passing over her countenance. The frown was but transient, and soon passed off into an expression of sympathy for the condition of the luckless gentleman at her feet. Mr. Potts, however, did not perceive the change. With a sudden spring he made for the door of the room. Two strides more brought him to the street door, which the servant was just then closing behind a new visitor. He rushed through like a whirlwind, without noticing their astonished looks, and shut the door after him with a report like a thunder-clap.

A SENSATION.

He had taken only a single step from the threshold when he found himself suddenly detained by an irresistible power, while at the same instant a sudden darkness came over his vision, as though a black curtain had been drawn between his eyes and the world without. He leaned against the door for support, with a terrible apprehension that his overwrought nervous system had yielded to the shock, and that he had been struck with sudden paralysis and blindness. But finding, in the course of a few moments, that the weakness did not increase, he proceeded to investigate his situation. Seeing a faint glimmer of light, like the narrow line shining under the door of an illuminated apartment, he put his hand to his eyes, and found that the obscuration was caused by the hat, which had slipped down from his forehead, and was now resting on the tip of his nose. He took it off, and beheld the well-known broad-brim which was wont to cover the capacious head of Mr. Briggs, instead of his own resplendent beaver. Mr. Potts then proceeded to examine into the cause of his detention, and found that the skirt of his coat had caught in the door. The whole matter was now plain. In his exodus through the hall, he had snatched up the only hat he saw, forgetting that his own was lying in the drawing-room beside the broken china; his hasty flight had projected his skirts horizontally as he passed through the door, which had closed upon them. The shock occasioned by the sudden check upon his progress, had brought the hat, too large for his head, over his eyes. The whole extent of his misfortune dawned gradually upon him. The keen January air reminded him that he had left his upper garment in the hall, while his benumbed fingers admonished him that the primrose kids, which he had so carefully selected, were ornamental rather than useful. He hesitated whether he should ring to be released from his durance, and to recover the missing articles of his apparel; but a sound within warned him that the visitor whom he had met was just taking his departure; and he felt that he could not encounter him. With a desperate tug at his coat, he tore himself away, leaving a fragment of the skirt behind him, and rushed down the steps.

MR POTTS TEARS HIMSELF AWAY.

Mr. Potts was in no mood or condition to pursue his intended rounds. His only thought was how to bestow himself for the remainder of the day, till he could creep home unobserved, under cover of night. He made his way to one of the obscure streets running parallel with Broadway, down which he went till he reached Florence’s. He rushed through the whole length of the long saloon, and took possession of the box most remote from the door. The waiter was astonished by the multiplicity and singular character of the orders which kept coming all that afternoon from No. 19, in which cigars and potables largely figured.

MR. POTTS RECEIVES A LECTURE ON TEMPERANCE.

Toward ten o’clock, Mr. Potts might have been seen making his way down Broadway, with a peculiarly oscillating motion. He had just reached the corner of Murray-street, and was felicitating himself that the troubles of the day were over, when he found his progress checked by a strong hand fastened upon his collar. He looked up with a stupid stare, and was half sobered by the sight of Mr. Briggs, in his well-known fur-trimmed wrapper. That worthy gentleman’s special hobby was Temperance, and he never failed to trot it out on all available occasions. Mr. Potts clearly furnished such an occasion. In vain he protested that he had drunk only a single glass “o’ bran’y-’n-w-r-r.” Mr. Briggs had an infallible test of a man’s sobriety; If he could say “National Intelligencer,” he was sober: if not, not. Mr. Potts’s nearest approach to these sounds was, “Na-s-nl’ntl-n’sr.” From the fact of his present condition, Mr. Briggs leaped to the conclusion that his conduct in the morning was owing to the same cause, and proceeded to set forth the enormity and danger of such a course, to the great edification of a group who soon gathered around. After being kept for half an hour shivering in the cold, Mr. Potts was suffered to escape. He saw that he was under a cloud, and was at a loss what to do, till the lucky thought struck him, of securing our intervention to “set the matter straight with old Briggs:” whence our acquaintance with all the facts of the case, of which so many contradictory accounts have been circulated about town.