If you hate sappy Valentine’s Day cards and traditions, you can probably blame the late Victorians. From them came cute fat cherubs with bows and arrows, smiling little girls in bonnets with banners proclaiming “Be Mine”, and the general fixation with celebrating this relatively obscure martyred saint’s death with gifts of candy, flowers, champagne and jewelry. Like cute little kittens in a basket, the Victorians really loved Valentine’s Day. So it was upon this day, in 1883, that a rotund Brooklyn lawyer, a Queens judge, a couple of other men of law, witnesses, and a stenographer found themselves out in Merrick, Long Island, celebrating the holiday by working instead of with loved ones. They had all been scheduled to take the deposition of a witness who was too sick to come into court. Here is their tale:

It was a miserable day. Almost everyone there was equally as miserable for having to stray from their fireplaces on such a raw and rainy day. George A. Mott was a lawyer with offices in the Garfield Building, at Court and Remsen Streets, in Downtown Brooklyn. The Brooklyn Eagle, which related this story, described him as larger than life, a relatively short man at 5’7”, who stood 5’7 1/2” in his fashionable shoes, when addressing the court. His appetites were large, the paper said, but Mr. Mott, who dressed with the conservative look of a clergyman, was a man of philanthropic deeds, known for generously clothing orphan children, as well as for his hard work in the law. From their description, it is evident that Mr. Mott was as equally interested in a good meal, as a good case.

Opposing Mott on a case this day, was another lawyer, who was as ample as Mott, but without the ecclesiastical flair. He had a florid, open face, was bald with bushy sideburns, guileless blue eyes, and a ready smile. His name was Robert A. Davidson, and that day, he and Mott were on the opposite sides of a case before Surrogate Judge Charles DeKay Townsend. Their witness was a Mrs. Abigail Lott, who was important to the case, but was too sick to come to court. She lived in Merrick, LI. It had been decided to take her deposition on Valentine’s Day, and everyone made their way out to Merrick.

February 14, 1883 was a bitter day, with a ferocious winter storm raging. The icy wind changed the freezing rain into sleet, and back to rain again, pelting exposed faces with, as the paper described it, “the sting of a reptile.” By the time Mr. Mott and his companions, Judge Edmund J. Healy, and witnesses, the Misters Van Wyck, Seaman and Hewlett, reached the Lott house, they were cursing, soaking wet, and freezing. When they were let in, Surrogate Judge Townsend, lawyer Davison, and the court stenographer were already sitting warm and comfortable in front of a raging fire, waiting for them.

After drying off and warming up, the legal procedures began and they began to question Mrs. Lott. After about an hour, Mr. Mott was starting to droop. Suddenly, he perked up, raised his head, and began to sniff the air. A smile came to his lips, and the light came back into his eyes. Just then, Mrs. Lott’s nurse opened the door to the kitchen, and from that room emanated the source of Mr. Mott’s interest. All of the room’s occupants could now smell the tantalizing aroma of oysters frying, snapping and hissing as their shells opened, and the succulent meat sizzling as it hit the frying oil. From the kitchen came the sound of dishes clattering, and the jingle of knives and forks. As the nurse kept the door open just long enough for everyone to smell the aromas, and hear the delightful symphony, Mrs. Lott jumped at the sound of a cork popping, and the nurse let the door close again.

Mr. Mott smiled. “Hmm, ah, nice smell,” he said to Mr. Hewlett. “Just see me tuck in.” Hewlett smiled in agreement, as Mott’s eyes glistened. Judge Healy rubbed his hands together. Mr. Seaman lay back and sighed, and Mr. Davison surreptitiously poked Judge Townsend in the ribs with his hand, while the stenographer leaned back, and looked around at the room. “Ah!” he said.

“I’ll hope you’ll hurry up, now,” Mr. Mott said to Davison. He pulled out his “side wheel Republican repeater”, and checked the gun, and replaced it in his pocket. “I’ve got another engagement, and we’ve got another little matter,” he laughed, “to attend to.” He then grew nervous and anxious, pacing the room, and according to Van Wyck and Hewlett, he actually bent over and sniffed the keyhole in the door leading to the kitchen.

Davidson said, “Surrogate Townsend, I wish you would come with me, about that other business, you know?” “Oh, come, none of that,” Mott said angrily. “Business is over. It’s deuced sharp, and things get cold now as soon as they are cooked. Let’s hurry up.” “Just a minute,” said Mr. Davison, smiling at Mr. Mott. He and the Surrogate, followed by the stenographer, left the room, entering the kitchen.

“What can they have to talk about in private?” Mott asked his companions. “If they felt half as ravenous for those fried oysters and the contents of that bottle as I do, they’d put off chinning until some other time.” He continued to pace distractedly.

His companions agreed, but thought that Davison and the others would return in a couple of minutes. About ten minutes later, Davison walked back in the room, wiping his mouth. “I’m sorry the oysters and things wouldn’t go around,” he announced. He smiled, his merry blue eyes twinkling.

Mr. Mott’s throat grew so dry, the paper said, he couldn’t swear. Mr. Hewlett choked back an oath, and Mr. Seaman grasped the nearby mantelpiece for support. Judge Healy fell back on his judicial dignity, and said nothing. The four men rose, quietly put their coats on, and went back into the storm, where the wind snatched their comments from anyone’s hearing, and the sounds of conviviality could no longer be heard. Mr. Mott, more than likely, lost the case, as well. Cupid’s cruel arrows had hit where it really hurt. May your Valentine’s Day be better than theirs was.


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