# Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper/Volume 18/Number 450/Jessamine Leaves

JESSAMINE LEAVES.
Spring in absolute earnest at last. Blue skies, balmy breezes and open windows; strawberries if you like to pay 50 cents a dozen for them, and other delicacies intended evidently either for Lilliputian appetites or Brobdignagian pockets; and bonnets—spring bonnets with a spring in them—bonnets which should be called Excelsior! The milliners declare they are not so high as they were last year, but the lace and roses and African grass, and indescribable ornaments of Jet—which our aunt Jerusha will call sproozels—attain an altitude calculated to strike the beholder with amazement. I have remarked them in church—don't groan and say "shocking!" I was attending to the words of the Rev. Creamcheese—but ours is a fashionable church, and sitting half-way down the aisle, I couldn't see anything but my neighbors' bonnets. I dodged one way, and my gaze was baffled be by a maize-colored plume, another, and blue silk cap crowns baffled me. I stretched my neck, but that was useless, I am not a giantess; so I gave up the effort in despair, and naturally forgot theology in millinery.
A Man of Wax.
Flowers and fruit are very pretty in wax, and we presume masculine members of society of tender years admire wax beauties who turn about and wheel about in hairdressers' establishments, and wax widows who simper behind "grief-bordered" kerchiefs in mourning stores. But heaven defend us from men of wax! Whoever conceived the idea of moulding the counterfeit presentment of a military hero, three feet high, painting his cheeks pink, putting on his head a little wig, dressing him in uniform, hanging by his side a little sword, and putting him on exhibition in our fair? So he sold for $150 or so. There is something awful in it. We are told that the effigy is the gallant Ellsworth, and shudder. The poor young soldier has gone where it is impossible for him to redress his wrongs, otherwise we fear he would be as anxious to tear down this monstrously pretty likeness as he was to uproot the rebel flag. If it were a likeness of Little Mac, for instance, that gentleman could, if he pleased, take the presentation sword—which he didn't get—and cut it down, annihilate it, and bestow its value on the Fair. But a dead hero is helpless, and Ellsworth in wax is sufficient to make any soldier exclaim, "May I never be a hero, lest ladies innocently and horribly perpetuate me in wax!"
Two Cent Pieces.
Congress is considering the propriety of giving us two cent pieces. The description is glowing. "They resemble gold coin in size and appearance," says the dispatch; "on one side is a wheat-wreath, on the other, the words, God is our trust."
Do not feel elated, however, we don't believe any brilliant dream on the subject will be realised. Government cannot issue any currency in these mysterious days that is not disgusting, that has not from the first a greasy and unpleasant feeling, and that does not stick to your fingers and pocketbook. Nickel cents were charming, and the plague-suggesting postal currency was better still. We presume the "gold-resembling" twopenny pieces will cap the climax. We shall be obliged to have recourse to "tea bricks," white pebbles or tenpenny nails before long, unless Peace makes her appearance on the stage, with an olive branch in one hand and a bag of gold and silver in the other.
The Crisis.
People who are wise in such matters predict an awful crush before long. Everything will be blown to atoms. Everybody will be bankrupt. Every hotel will be closed. Every paper will go out like the snuff of a candle. Millionaires will retire to back attics, and make brooms for a living. Merchant princes will be reduced to the necessity of vending pins and shoestrings in baskets from door to door. Persons now residing in Fifth Avenue will wander over the world with hurdygurdies and hand-organs, receiving pennies to go away; and fashionable belles will be glad of their servants' cast-off calicoes. At first we were alarmed, but on calm consideration we remember such dire prognostications as long as we can remember anything, and are perfectly sure that, even during the worst crisis, everybody had as much to eat and to wear as they ever had before; consequently we do not believe in the approach of famine and rage, and expect that silk dresses will sweep the sidewalks for years to come, and that jewellery will glitter, and palatial residences will continue to grow, even in the midst of the impending crisis.
Broadway Policemen.
Broadway policemen are not impartial; we regret to say it, but it is so. Of course we don't mean to insinuate that if they see a gentleman with his hand in another gentleman's pocket, they do not immediately inform him of his singular mistake, whoever he may be. We merely allude to the acts of official courtesy performed by the uniformed guardians of the law upon street corners. If you doubt me take up your position at any window favorable for such observation, and watch one of them for an hour. There he stands, like the statue of Napoleon, on a corner, conscious of the fact that unenlightened strangers take him for a military man; and, over on the other side, Aunt Jerusha from the country waves her parasol and red cotton pocket-handkerchief in vain. She is "dreadful skeered;" he knows that well enough, but it is a matter of no importance to him. He waits until she scampers wildly into the middle of the road, and rescues her with majestic scorn from the feet of sundry impatient horses, muttering grimly as he does so: "Old women seem to want to get run over; why can't you look out, old lady?"
Returning to his corner and the Napoleon attitude, he waits again until a bevy of maids and matrons gather on the opposite corner. He scans them critically: very respectable, good sort of folks out shopping, a passably pretty face amongst them; the the girl with the curls; rather betwitching.
This decides him. He forsakes the Napoleon attitude for the Seventh Regiment march—crosses the street—advances to the girl with curls—clutches her by the arm—says to the others—"You come on, now"—and escorts the trembling bevy to the other side, leading them into rather more danger than they of could possibly have managed to get into without his assistance, and paying no heed to the small shrieks and ejaculations of those behind him.
Again, after a parting nip of the young lady's arm, monsieur reposes himself à la Napoleon the Great—and behold a matron—portly and tall—competent to subdue any number of horses and omnibus drivers—grim and obstinate, and strong-minded. She will be taken care of—not that she needs protection, but on principle—the officer must do his duty—and he does it fiercely. How he drags her through the mud—on the double quick—charging on vehicles so that they retreat in turn.
Ah! it is grand—we don't know who will be Commander-in-Chief of the Union Army by the time this appears, but whoever it is couldn't do it better. The strong-minded lady clutches the nearest lamp-post and gasps for want of breath.
But behold! Somebody—something—in a tight basque all bugles—in sky-blue silk, rich as silk can be—with lace and velvet tacked on everywhere—with a scarlet scarf tied under one ear—with gloves of mauve and bracelet of gold—with jockey hat and sweeping plume—and dotted veil and rose-tinted cheeks—tresses in a bead bagwig, all but one, which (since purchased at the hairdresser's) will escape—and with a parasol which turns into a gun—observe her—she pauses—'tis but a moment—he of the brass buttons flies to her rescue—he embraces her with one arm—he shakes a furious fist at presuming drivers—he kicks an infant sweep importuning for a penny—and smiling down into her eyes, places her safely on the sidewalk and turns to gaze after her while aunt Jemimas and grandma Smiths vainly beseech his escort—they cannot win favor in his sight. Yes, policemen are partial, there's no denying that.