Sold!

Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.14 #84 (May 1857).

I was visiting the — Insane Asylum. The gentlemanly chaplain had conducted me from cell to cell, and exhibited to me the prisoner-patients as the keeper of a menagerie is wont to show the wild beasts to visitors. Having, at length, become surfeited with the conversation of love-lorn damsels, addle-headed philosophers, and crack-brained philanthropists, I was about to take my leave, when the chaplain exclaimed, "Stop, Mr. Prendergast, you must look at one more curiosity before you go. It's a man who, morning, noon, and night, is constantly muttering, 'Sold, sold, sold!' But I warn you not to be induced to listen to his story, or you will find yourself in the same predicament."
        "Sold, sold, sold!" moaned a querulous voice within, as my companion opened a cell-door. "Sold, by Heaven!" repeated the same voice, as I looked upon its proprietor, a shriveled, grizzled-haired gentleman, with woe-be-gone visage, who was reclining on an antiquated sofa. "Yes, Sir, sold, sold, sold!" he repeated, confidentially, as he turned his watery eyes upon me. "Stranger, allow me to unfold to you the tale of a man who has been sold."
        "There is neither head nor tail to it," said the gentlemanly chaplain, as I sat down on the antiquated sofa in the attitude of a listener; "however, you can listen to it if you choose." And the gentlemanly chaplain sat down and fell to reading a magazine that lay on the table.
        "Yes, Sir, I have been sold, emphatically sold!" said my entertainer, "and, what may seem strange to you, I have been laboring all my life to sell myself.
        "I was once young, like you, Sir. My eye was bright; my cheeks were red. My whiskers were as black as yours, and much more abundant. I had a heart, too. That's a thing, Sir, that wasn't quite out of fashion in those days. I had hopes, too.—Never mind—they are all sold. Yes, sold, sold, sold!
        "When I first came to live in New York, I loved a pretty, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, New Hampshire maiden with a merry laugh and elastic step and a form that wasn't all cotton and whalebone, and as loving a heart as there was in the Granite State. Country girls have hearts, Sir.
        "I came to New York to get a profession, and intended then to go back to New Hampshire, and marry this maiden, who was as poor as I was. People marry for love in the country, Sir.
        "But in New York I learned that my notions were antiquated. I found that love was obsolete in every thing but novels that men and women make to sell.
        "I found that in New York every body bought and sold, and that every thing was bought and sold. I learned that the chief end of man was to buy and sell. I saw that men and maidens, stocks and talents, dry-goods and characters, groceries and reputations, liquors and consciences, notes and votes, houses and friends, were bought and sold, all bought and sold.
        "The presiding genius of New York, the Demon of Bargain and Sale, a thrifty, bustling, persuasive demon in patent-leather boots, came to me one day, and whispered to me that when I was in Gotham, I should do as the Gothamites did. And he shook a bag of money in my ear. I was overpersuaded by its silvery eloquence.
        "I gave up my profession, and began to buy and sell. I gave up my New Hampshire maiden, too. Her love was all too cheap—so the demon said—it couldn't be bought and sold. They told me she shed some tears at being deserted, but she didn't pine away and die. Her heart was too strong for that. She married another man and, in due time, became the mother of ten children. That's the way New Hampshire girls take their revenge, Sir.
        "And so I bought and sold—bought and sold notes, and policies, and cargoes, and ships, and stores, and air-line railroads, and city lots in the moon.
        "I next sold promises and bought votes, and so got elected alderman of New York and, like other aldermen, sold myself every day in the year.
        "I then sold my principles and bought a nomination to Congress, wrote Honorable before my name, and sold my votes at rare bargains.
        "Meanwhile, I sold the heart-throbs of my best years, until, one morning, as I was looking in the glass, I observed a thread of silver over my right temple, and another ghostly intruder in my left whisker. At that sight, I felt a peculiar twinge in the place where my heart had once been. A subtle voice from the gray hair seemed to shout in my right ear, 'Sold!' the gray whisker echoed in my left ear, 'Sold!' and a voice from my heart-region responded, 'Sold!'
        "At this juncture, the Demon bowed himself into the room, and, rubbing his gloved hands together and jingling his bag of American coin, suggested that I had now reached a proper age for getting married. He also, still jingling the United States currency, gave me some important advice relative to the selection of a wife, which I promised to follow.
        "I first repaired to one of the emporiums of hair-dyes, cosmetics, pomatums, hair-invigorators, curling-irons, and French hair-dressers, where raven locks are bought by old New York, and mustaches are sold to young New York. There I had the silvery apparitions exorcised from my temple and whisker.
        "I was then prepared to enter the matrimonial market as a favored purchaser. Why shouldn't I be? I had gold, and houses, and land, and credit, and a name with Honorable before it; and, with all this, was not yet fifty by ten months. I visited Phalon's daily—the gray templar and white whisker had disappeared. I would make a rare young bridegroom. With the proceeds of my better years, I determined to invest largely in matrimonial felicity. 'None but the best for me—the best that can be bought!' I exclaimed, as I entered the market to buy me a wife.
        "You look surprised, Sir, because I speak of buying a wife. You may think that wives are sold only in such Mohammedan towns as Constantinople and Cairo, and in Thackeray's novels; but I assure you, on the word of a man whose sanity is above a shadow of suspicion, that, every day, here in New York city, Christian maidens are sold, sold, SOLD!
        "I met, at a 'crush' party—a kind of matrimonial fair, you know—one of the most dazzling and queenly of the dazzling and queenly maidens of New York. Her form was the perfection of symmetry; her complexion, the perfection of delicacy and bloom; her eye (she had just been taking wine), the perfection of melting tenderness; her hair, the perfection of mazy luxuriance. Her breath wafted the concentrated fragrance of Southern gales, or—a Parisian perfumery. She gleamed with diamonds, as a flower sparkles with dew-drops. Her ensemble was ravishingly artless and unstudied. She was an heiress, too.
        "I determined that she should be mine. The Demon whispered to me that she was the daughter of a Wall Street dealer in fancy stocks—that, like his other fancy stocks, she was for sale to the highest bidder.
        "After the customary preliminaries, in which I was duly instructed by the Demon, I approached the father with an offer. After some chaffering, and appraising, and praising, and beating down, we agreed upon particulars, and the transfer was made. Then he took out his memorandum-book to make a note of the transaction, and I fancied that he wrote thus: 'Daughter Maria sold.'
        "She consented to the bargain, as New York girls generally do—what else can they do? A duchy-less Italian Duke, who had sung duets with her, was dismissed, swore he should 'go dead,' and, the next week, married a widow with twice her money.
        "There was a poor, golden-haired young poet, who had long loved her and written three-verse sonnets to her. I saw him draw near to her, and heard him murmur something in low, earnest tones. I overheard her response: 'You are too late. I am sold!'
        "The young poet revenged himself by writing a satirical comedy on 'High Life in New York,' which was 'damned' on its first representation, and he died of chagrin. Some, however, said he starved to death.
        "The bargain which had been made in Wall Street was ratified in Grace Church, by a clergyman in robe and surplice, and duly witnessed by relatives and friends. As I gave the response 'I will,' the image of the New Hampshire maiden, looking just as she had when I had loved her long years before, glided to my side, and whispered, 'Sold.' That has always puzzled me, for I learned that on that very day she was seated in her cottage in New Hampshire, grown plain and matronly, nursing her tenth child, and superintending the washing and the churning of the butter.
        "As my bride responded, 'I will,' the ghost of the poor poet stepped between us, and murmured, 'Sold!' As the clergyman said, 'I pronounce you man and wife,' man and wife exchanged glances, and both inaudibly ejaculated, 'Sold!' The Wall Street dealer chuckled triumphantly, and repeated to himself, 'Daughter Maria sold!' Relatives and friends thronged around us to congratulate us on being—sold; and foremost among them came the Demon, still rubbing his gloved hands together, jingling his money-bag, and repeating complacently, 'Sold, sold, sold!'
        "No one noticed him but myself, however.
        "In my first light slumbers that night, brimstone-colored imps with flaming noses ensconced themselves in my ears. A portly imp seated himself astride my nose, and a whole bevy of imps perched in my hair and whiskers. Then the imp on my nose flourished a baton; the imp in my right ear began to growl bass; the imp in my left ear screeched tenor, and the whole company of imps joined in chanting a doggerel, which was all chorus, and the chorus was 'Sold, sold, sold!' When, at length, I awoke, my bride tossed uneasily by my side, and murmured in her sleep, 'Sold!'
        "Every night since that one, I have been favored with a 'free concert' by the same artists, with no change of programme.
        "Before the honey-moon was ended I discovered that my bride, like the other fancy stocks sold by her father—the purchasers of which are included in the inventory of the sold—was not all that she had seemed to be. Fool that I had been to expect it—I was deservedly sold!
        "Her form—I am telling you family secrets, my dear fellow, of course they'll go no further—her form, I say, was indeed symmetrical enough, but its most ravishing perfections, the exquisitely tapering waist, the voluptuously rounded bust, which I had deemed master-works of Nature, were triumphs of Art—the divine art of Madame Bellemode, her French dress-maker. Had my object been to possess a master-piece by Madame Bellemode, I should have bought that well-dressed statues, with waxen face, glass eyes, and imaginary continuations—that model for New York belles—that looks out on Broadway from the bow-window of Madame's shop. But as that had not been my object, I deemed that, in that respect, I had been sold.
        "Her complexion, too, which had so dazzled me, was all—well, I won't say what, but this I do say, that if my object had been to buy a painting, I should have ordered one from a French, or Italian, or native artist—from any other source, in fact, except the New York School of Designing Women.
        "When I first saw my wife without her complexion, however, I learned that she was at least ten years older than I had taken her to be. I found, too, that her tresses, which had bewildered me by their glossy luxuriance, had originally come from Paris—but not with her. Her diamonds, unlike the dew-drops which they had reminded me of, seldom sparkled except by gas-light, and, as I learned to my cost, were much more expensive than dew-drops. The bewitching artlessness of her expression was the result of a world of art, and her unstudied ensemble was her constant study. In these additional respects, I reluctantly admitted that I had been sold.
        "One day, before our honey-moon was ended, we had a visitor—a spectre—a fashionably-dressed spectre—a spectre of polite leisure. In the movements of his attenuated form there was the fashionable air of premature old age. His wan visage wore the fashionable blasé expression. You may have met him. His name was Ennui. He was the bosom-companion of many fashionable people, was much courted in fashionable circles, and had the easy confidence that generally distinguishes fashionable bores.
        "He dined with us on his first visit. Though he received but a cold welcome, he came again the next, and every following day. He would breakfast, lunch, dine, and even go abroad with us. His spectral constitution was afflicted with a proclivity for yawning. His yawns proved infectious, and so we three—my wife, the spectre, and I—would entertain one another principally by yawning, and between yawns would ever and anon murmur in succession, 'Sold, sold, sold!'
        "Dissatisfied with the result of my attempt to purchase domestic felicity, I consulted my wife as to the further investments necessary in order to secure it. Her advice was prompt, and on that advice, as a dutiful husband, I promptly acted.
        "I bought a choice lot on Fifth Avenue. On that lot I proceeded to erect a palace—a royal palace, five stories and a half high, and with brown stone front, all on the most modern and expensive plan. I decorated the interior with the most modern and expensive styles of gilding, and carving, and fresco, and furniture and plate. I filled the library with books in the most modern and expensive bindings. I filled the conservatory with the most modern and expensive plants. I filled the stables with horses of the most modern and expensive breed. As my palace would not be furnished without containing some gems of art, I bought for it a gallery of paintings, which—so the salesman assured me—were chef-d'œuvres of all the old masters. I observed that when I had bought them the salesman thrust his tongue into his cheek, and, referring, of course, to the pictures, exclaimed, 'sold!'
        'It was indispensable that the inhabitant of a Fifth Avenue palace possess a coat-of-arms. I had not inherited such an article. I sought the family archives and tried to trace back my pedigree, but lost it the third generation back—in a jail. You see I make you a confidant, my dear fellow. My grandfather's appropriate emblem would have been an aw) and waxed-end, and my father's a spade and plow; but neither of them kept a carriage, or had any coats but homespun ones. We visited the Heraldry Office, but were not suited. In my perplexity, the demon came to my relief, with a simple and appropriate device. It was a hollow heart, filled with American coin, with the motto, 'Sold, sold, sold!'
        "When my house was completed, my wife smiled on it and on me, and said we should be so happy! We took up our abode in it, and were happy—one week.
        "At the expiration of that week, the spectre walked in with his sickly smile, and suggested that our house was not perfectly well arranged, nor the embellishments in perfectly good taste, nor the furniture perfectly well assorted; that our establishment was inferior to the Joneses', two blocks above; and that the Smiths' new house across the way would eclipse it altogether; that Fifth Avenue palaces were troublesome, and expensive, and unsatisfactory luxuries at best, but were his favorite resorts, and that he had come to stay with us always. Then my wife and I yawned, and ejaculated in dismay, 'Sold, sold, sold!'
        "Presently my wife spoke. Said she, 'Let us give a grand party—a "crush" party—and invite two thousand people!' I acquiesced, and the cards were sent.
        "The grand night at length came, and Sexton Brown came, and the throng of carriages came, and the two thousand invited guests came, and among them the Smiths and Joneses came. They danced, and flirted, and crowded, and crushed one another in my parlors, and ate my oysters and ices, and drank my wine, and damaged my furniture, and criticised my pictures, and—went away. When the last carriage had rolled away I walked through my deserted parlors, and glanced at my damaged carpets, stumbled over a broken chair, and sat down on a disjointed sofa and murmured 'Sold!' And a chorus of voices, sounding strangely like those of my late guests, echoed, 'Sold, sold, sold!'
        "I repaired to my library, and sat down to my desk to look to my accounts. As I opened it, out sprang a bevy of pale phantoms with long bills. A phantom with the proportions of a fiddle and sinews of catgut, thrust into my ear a music-bill; another, with the sweet persuasiveness of sugar, insinuated into my lips a confectionery-bill; and a bottle-bellied phantom pecked at me with a wine-bill. They opened their bills and clamored, severally, for a thousand, eight hundred, six hundred, four hundred, and two hundred dollars. Then all croaked in concert, 'Five thousand!' I rushed in terror to bed, and dreamed of seeing five thousand little cherubs, with faces like gold dollars, borne away captive by relentless bills, and woke up screaming 'Sold, sold, sold!'
        "For years I continued dutifully to follow my wife's advice, and, by a strange coincidence, whenever I had done so was invariably haunted by the ornithological phantoms. In the mean time I had children—fast sons and dashing daughters, and, as they increased in number and stature, the phantoms increased likewise in number and length of bill, and I began to be afflicted with a sense of goneness in the region of my pocket, which gradually grew into a chronic emptiness. I sought relief from this sensation in gambling and drinking, At gambling my losses greatly exceeded my winnings, and my drinking brought on delirium tremens, in which, they said, I fought lustily with imaginary devils, and screamed as lustily 'Sold, sold, sold!'
        "Still my wife and children increased their demands. They gave more expensive parties, bought costlier furniture, and jewels, and horses, and carriages, and dry-goods, and finally succeeded in quite eclipsing the Smiths across the way. At about that time, by a strange coincidence, the last of my houses, and land, and stocks, were sold.
        "Then my wife continued to eclipse the Smiths on credit, until, one night, after we had given the greatest party of the season, the ornithological spectres, having pressed their claims in vain, set up a terrific clamor, and the next day I was pronounced bankrupt!
        "A few days after a red flag hung in front of my brown stone front.
        "A great crowd collected to see the contents of a Fifth Avenue palace sold.
        "The Smiths, whom we had eclipsed, looked out of their windows across the way, and chuckled in triumph to see the finery of their rivals sold.
        "Ladies—some of my wife's bosom friends—came early and chatted together delightfully, and made rare bargains all day long, until the last thing was sold.
        "People who had often attended my parties came, looking quite as merrily to see my household stuff sold.
        "Newspaper reporters came, to regale the delighted public with descriptions of each article and the exact sum for which it had sold.
        "The Demon was there, as he always was where any thing was to be sold.
        "My furniture, and plate, and books, and pictures, and wines, and horses, and carriages—all were sold.
        "At nightfall, the auctioneer threw down his hammer, drew a long breath, and exclaimed, 'All sold!'
        "And the Demon rubbed his gloved hands complacently as ever, and repeated, as he jingled his money-bag, 'Sold!'
        "Then the crowd dispersed reluctantly, murmuring as they went, 'Sold! sold! sold!'
        "As I sat down that evening in a plainly-furnished apartment, with my wife and children, they glanced reproachfully at me and muttered, 'Sold!' and I glanced reproachfully back at them and echoed, 'Sold!' and then each glanced reproachfully at all the rest and moaned, 'Sold! sold! sold!'
        "Then the Demon entered the room. He came without his patent leather boots, and in their stead, I saw hoofs—cloven hoofs! He was not gloved; his fingers were long, bony talons. Instead of a money-bag he jingled a chain. He sought to lay hold of me, but after a fierce struggle I drove him away.
        "The next day, owing to the kind efforts of my family, I was furnished with lodgings here—a nice place it is, too. The Demon followed me here, and has often tried to take me. I have kept him off as yet, but I am growing older and weaker. He will have me yet, for I am sold! yes, sold! sold! sold!
        "Every day, at about this hour—see! there he is now! by the window!—Ha, ha!"
        And the old gentleman sprang up from the antiquated sofa, and seizing a quarto volume, hurled it with maniac energy at the Demon, and—floored the gentlemanly chaplain, who had fallen asleep over the magazine, and was nodding in his chair. With no gentle impetus, he then pitched me, head foremost, over him, and as the chaplain and I made a hasty exit from the room, he laughed long, loud, and maliciously, and shouted, louder than ever, "Sold! sold! sold!"