THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC
[This story originated in the advertisement of the humbug which itdescribes. Some fifteen or twenty years since, when gift enterprisesrose to one of their climaxes, a gift of a large sum of money, I think$10,000, was offered in New York to the most successful ticket-holder insome scheme, and one of $5,000 to the second. It was arranged that oneof these parties should be a man and the other a woman; and the amiablesuggestion was added, on the part of the undertaker of the enterprise,that if the gentleman and lady who drew these prizes liked each othersufficiently well when the distribution was made, they might regard thedecision as a match made for them in Heaven, and take the money as thedowry of the bride. This thoroughly practical, and, at the same time,thoroughly absurd suggestion, arrested the attention of a distinguishedstory-teller, a dear friend of mine, who proposed to me that we shouldeach of us write the history of one of the two successful parties, to bewoven together by their union at the end. The plan, however, lay latentfor years,--the gift enterprise of course blew up,--and it was not untilthe summer of 1862 that I wrote my half of the proposed story, with thehope of eliciting the other half. My friend's more importantengagements, however, have thus far kept Fausta's detailed biographyfrom the light. I sent my half to Mr. Frank Leslie, in competition for apremium offered by him, as is stated in the second chapter of the story.And the story found such favor in the eyes of the judges, that itreceived one of his second premiums. The first was very properly awardedto Miss Louisa Alcott, for a story of great spirit and power. "TheChildren of the Public" was printed in Frank Leslie's IllustratedNewspaper for January 24 and January 31, 1863. The moral which it triesto illustrate, which is, I believe, an important one, was thus commendedto the attention of the very large circle of the readers of thatjournal,--a journal to which I am eager to say I think this nation hasbeen very largely indebted for the loyalty, the good sense, and the hightone which seem always to characterize it. During the war, the pictorialjournals had immense influence in the army, and they used this influencewith an undeviating regard to the true honor of the country.]
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CHAPTER I.
THE PORK-BARREL.
"Felix," said my wife to me, as I came home to-night, "you will have togo to the pork-barrel."
"Are you quite sure," said I,--"quite sure? 'Woe to him,' says theoracle, 'who goes to the pork-barrel before the moment of his need.'"
"And woe to him, say I," replied my brave wife,--"woe and disaster tohim; but the moment of our need has come. The figures are here, and youshall see. I have it all in black and in white."
And so it proved, indeed, that when Miss Sampson, the nurse, was paidfor her month's service, and when the boys had their winter boots, andwhen my life-insurance assessment was provided for, and the new paymentfor the insurance on the house,--when the taxes were settled with thecollector (and my wife had to lay aside double for the war),--when thepew-rent was paid for the year, and the water-rate--we must have tostart with, on the 1st of January, one hundred dollars. This, as welive, would pay, in cash, the butcher, and the grocer, and the baker,and all the dealers in things that perish, and would buy the omnibustickets, and recompense Bridget till the 1st of April. And at my house,if we can see forward three months we are satisfied. But, at my house,we are never satisfied if there is a credit at any store for us. We aresworn to pay as we go. We owe no man anything.
So it was that my wife said: "Felix, you will have to go to thepork-barrel."
This is the story of the pork-barrel.
It happened once, in a little parish in the Green Mountains, that thedeacon reported to Parson Plunkett, that, as he rode to meeting byChung-a-baug Pond, he saw Michael Stowers fishing for pickerel through ahole in the ice on the Sabbath day. The parson made note of thecomplaint, and that afternoon drove over to the pond in his "one-horseshay." He made his visit, not unacceptable, on the poor Stowershousehold, and then crossed lots to the place where he saw poor Michaelhoeing. He told Michael that he was charged with Sabbath breaking, andbade him plead to the charge. And poor Mike, like a man, plead guilty;but, in extenuation, he said that there was nothing to eat in thehouse, and rather than see wife and children faint, he had cut a hole inthe ice, had put in his hook again and again, and yet again, and cominghome had delighted the waiting family with an unexpected breakfast. Thegood parson made no rebuke, nodded pensive, and drove straightway to thedeacon's door.
"Deacon," said he, "what meat did you eat for breakfast yesterday?"
The deacon's family had eaten salt pork, fried.
"And where did you get the pork, Deacon?"
The Deacon stared, but said he had taken it from his pork-barrel.
"Yes, Deacon," said the old man; "I supposed so. I have been to seeBrother Stowers, to talk to him about his Sabbath-breaking; and, Deacon,I find the pond is his pork-barrel."
The story is a favorite with me and with Fausta. But "woe," says theoracle, "to him who goes to the pork-barrel before the moment of hisneed." And to that "woe" both Fausta and I say "amen." For we know thatthere is no fish in our pond for spend-thrifts or for lazy-bones; nonefor people who wear gold chains or Attleborough jewelry; none for peoplewho are ashamed of cheap carpets or wooden mantelpieces. Not for thosewho run in debt will the fish bite; nor for those who pretend to bericher or better or wiser than they are. No! But we have found, in ourlives, that in a great democracy there reigns a great and gracioussovereign. We have found that this sovereign, in a reckless andunconscious way, is, all the time, making the most profuse provision forall the citizens. We have found that those who are not too grand totrust him fare as well as they deserve. We have found, on the otherhand, that those who lick his feet or flatter his follies fare worst ofliving men. We find that those who work honestly, and only seek a man'sfair average of life, or a woman's, get that average, though sometimesby the most singular experiences in the long run. And thus we find that,when an extraordinary contingency arises in life, as just now in ours,we have only to go to our pork-barrel, and the fish rises to our hook orspear.
The sovereign brings this about in all sorts of ways, but he does notfail, if, without flattering him, you trust him. Of this sovereign thename is--"the Public." Fausta and I are apt to call ourselves hischildren, and so I name this story of our lives,
"THE CHILDREN OF THE PUBLIC."
CHAPTER II.
WHERE IS THE BARREL?
"Where is the barrel this time, Fausta?" said I, after I had added andsubtracted her figures three times, to be sure she had carried her tensand hundreds rightly. For the units, in such accounts, in face of Dr.Franklin, I confess I do not care.
"The barrel," said she, "is in FRANK LESLIE'S OFFICE. Here is the mark!"and she handed me FRANK LESLIE'S NEWSPAPER, with a mark at thisannouncement:--
$100
for the best Short Tale of from one to two pages of FRANK LESLIE'S ILLUSTRATED NEWSPAPER, to be sent in on or before the 1st of November, 1862.
"There is another barrel," she said, "with $5,000 in it, and anotherwith $1,000. But we do not want $5,000 or $1,000. There is a littlebarrel with $50 in it. But see here, with all this figuring, I cannotmake it do. I have stopped the gas now, and I have turned the children'scoats,--I wish you would see how well Robert's looks,--and I have had anew tile put in the cook-stove, instead of buying that lovely new'Banner.' But all will not do. We must go to this barrel."
"And what is to be the hook, darling, this time?" said I.
"I have been thinking of it all day. I hope you will not hate it,--Iknow you will not like it exactly; but why not write down just the wholestory of what it is to be 'Children of the Public'; how we came to livehere, you know; how we built the house, and--all about it?"
"How Felix knew Fausta," said I; "and how Fausta first met Felix,perhaps; and when they first kissed each other; and what she said tohim when they did so."
"Tell that, if you dare," said Fausta; "but perhaps--the oracle says wemust n
ot be proud--perhaps you might tell just a little. Youknow--really almost everybody is named Carter now; and I do not believethe neighbors will notice,--perhaps they won't read the paper. And ifthey do notice it, I don't care! There!"
"It will not be so bad as--"
But I never finished the sentence. An imperative gesture closed my lipsphysically as well as metaphorically, and I was glad to turn the subjectenough to sit down to tea with the children. After the bread and butterwe agreed what we might and what we might not tell, and then I wrotewhat the reader is now to see.
CHAPTER III.
MY LIFE TO ITS CRISIS.
New-Yorkers of to-day see so many processions, and live through so manysensations, and hurrah for so many heroes in every year, that it is onlythe oldest of fogies who tells you of the triumphant procession ofsteamboats which, in the year 1824, welcomed General Lafayette on hisarrival from his tour through the country he had so nobly served.
But, if the reader wishes to lengthen out this story he may button thenext silver-gray friend he meets, and ask him to tell of the brokenEnglish and broken French of the Marquis, of Levasseur, and the rest ofthem; of the enthusiasm of the people and the readiness of the visitors,and he will please bear in mind that of all that am I.
For it so happened that on the morning when, for want of better lions toshow, the mayor and governor and the rest of them took the Marquis andhis secretary, and the rest of them, to see the orphan asylum in DeeringStreet,--as they passed into the first ward, after having had "a littlerefreshment" in the managers' room, Sally Eaton, the head nurse, droppedthe first courtesy to them, and Sally Eaton, as it happened, held mescreaming in her arms. I had been sent to the asylum that morning with apaper pinned to my bib, which said my name was Felix Carter.
"Eet ees verra fine," said the Marquis, smiling blandly.
"Ravissant!" said Levasseur, and he dropped a five-franc piece intoSally Eaton's hand. And so the procession of exhibiting managers talkingbad French, and of exhibited Frenchmen talking bad English, passed on;all but good old Elkanah Ogden--God bless him!--who happened to havecome there with the governor's party, and who loitered a minute to talkwith Sally Eaton about me.
Years afterwards she told me how the old man kissed me, how his eyeswatered when he asked my story, how she told again of the moment when Iwas heard screaming on the doorstep, and how she offered to go and bringthe paper which had been pinned to my bib. But the old man said it wasno matter,--"only we would have called him Marquis," said he, "if hisname was not provided for him. We must not leave him here," he said; "heshall grow up a farmer's lad, and not a little cockney." And so, insteadof going the grand round of infirmaries, kitchens, bakeries, anddormitories with the rest, the good old soul went back into themanagers' room, and wrote at the moment a letter to John Myers, who tookcare of his wild land in St. Lawrence County for him, to ask him if Mrs.Myers would not bring up an orphan baby by hand for him; and if, bothtogether, they would not train this baby till he said "stop"; if, on theother hand, he allowed them, in the yearly account, a hundred dollarseach year for the charge.
Anybody who knows how far a hundred dollars goes in the backwoods, inSt. Lawrence County, will know that any settler would be glad to take award so recommended. Anybody who knew Betsy Myers as well as old ElkanahOgden did, would know she would have taken any orphan brought to herdoor, even if he were not recommended at all.
So it happened, thanks to Lafayette and the city council! that I had notbeen a "Child of the Public" a day, before, in its great, clumsy,liberal way, it had provided for me. I owed my healthy, happy home ofthe next fourteen years in the wilderness to those marvellous habits,which I should else call absurd, with which we lionize strangers.Because our hospitals and poorhouses are the largest buildings we have,we entertain the Prince of Wales and Jenny Lind alike, by showing themcrazy people and paupers. Easy enough to laugh at is the display; butif, dear Public, it happen, that by such a habit you ventilate yourBridewell or your Bedlam, is not the ventilation, perhaps, acompensation for the absurdity? I do not know if Lafayette was any thebetter for his seeing the Deering Street Asylum; but I do know I was.
This is no history of my life. It is only an illustration of one of itsprinciples. I have no anecdotes of wilderness life to tell, and nosketch of the lovely rugged traits of John and Betsy Myers,--my realfather and mother. I have no quest for the pretended parents, who threwme away in my babyhood, to record. They closed accounts with me whenthey left me on the asylum steps, and I with them. I grew up with suchschooling as the public gave,--ten weeks in winter always, and ten insummer, till I was big enough to work on the farm,--better periods ofschools, I hold, than on the modern systems. Mr. Ogden I never saw.Regularly he allowed for me the hundred a year till I was nine yearsold, and then suddenly he died, as the reader perhaps knows. But JohnMyers kept me as his son, none the less. I knew no change until, when Iwas fourteen, he thought it time for me to see the world, and sent me towhat, in those days, was called a "Manual-Labor School."
There was a theory coming up in those days, wholly unfounded inphysiology, that if a man worked five hours with his hands, he couldstudy better in the next five. It is all nonsense. Exhaustion isexhaustion; and if you exhaust a vessel by one stopcock, nothing isgained or saved by closing that and opening another. The old up-countrytheory is the true one. Study ten weeks and chop wood fifteen; study tenmore and harvest fifteen. But the "Manual-Labor School" offered itselffor really no pay, only John Myers and I carried over, I remember, adozen barrels of potatoes when I went there with my books. The schoolwas kept at Roscius, and if I would work in the carpenter's shop and onthe school farm five hours, why they would feed me and teach me all theyknew in what I had of the day beside.
"Felix," said John, as he left me, "I do not suppose this is the bestschool in the world, unless you make it so. But I do suppose you canmake it so. If you and I went whining about, looking for the best schoolin the world, and for somebody to pay your way through it, I should die,and you would lose your voice with whining, and we should not find oneafter all. This is what the public happens to provide for you and me. Wewon't look a gift-horse in the mouth. Get on his back, Felix; groom himwell as you can when you stop, feed him when you can, and at all eventswater him well and take care of him well. My last advice to you, Felix,is to take what is offered you, and never complain because nobody offersmore."
Those words are to be cut on my seal-ring, if I ever have one, and ifDr. Anthon or Professor Webster will put them into short enough Latinfor me. That is the motto of the "Children of the Public."
John Myers died before that term was out. And my more than mother,Betsy, went back to her friends in Maine. After the funeral I never sawthem more. How I lived from that moment to what Fausta and I call theCrisis is nobody's concern. I worked in the shop at the school, or onthe farm. Afterwards I taught school in neighboring districts. I neverbought a ticket in a lottery or a raffle. But whenever there was achance to do an honest stroke of work, I did it. I have walked fifteenmiles at night to carry an election return to the _Tribune's_ agent atGouverneur. I have turned out in the snow to break open the road whenthe supervisor could not find another man in the township.
When Sartain started his magazine, I wrote an essay in competition forhis premiums, and the essay earned its hundred dollars. When themanagers of the "Orphan Home," in Baltimore, offered their prizes forpapers on bad boys, I wrote for one of them, and that helped me on fourhard months. There was no luck in those things. I needed the money, andI put my hook into the pork-barrel,--that is, I trusted the Public. Inever had but one stroke of luck in my life. I wanted a new pair ofboots badly. I was going to walk to Albany, to work in the State libraryon the history of the Six Nations, which had an interest for me. I didnot have a dollar. Just then there passed Congress the bill dividing thesurplus revenue. The State of New York received two or three millions,and divided it among the counties. The county of St. Lawrence divided itamong the townships, and the township of Roscius divide
d it among thevoters. Two dollars and sixty cents of Uncle Sam's money came to me, andwith that money on my feet I walked to Albany. That I call luck! Howmany fools had to assent in an absurdity before I could study thehistory of the Six Nations!
But one instance told in detail is better than a thousand told ingeneral, for the illustration of a principle. So I will detain you nolonger from the history of what Fausta and I call
THE CRISIS.
CHAPTER IV.
THE CRISIS.
I was at work as a veneerer in a piano-forte factory at Attica, whensome tariff or other was passed or repealed; there came a greatfinancial explosion, and our boss, among the rest, failed. He owed usall six months' wages, and we were all very poor and very blue. JonathanWhittemore--a real good fellow, who used to cover the hammers withleather--came to me the day the shop was closed, and told me he wasgoing to take the chance to go to Europe. He was going to the MusicalConservatory at Leipsic, if he could. He would work his passage out as astoker. He would wash himself for three or four days at Bremen, and thenget work, if he could, with Voightlander or Von Hammer till he couldenter the Conservatory. By way of preparation for this he wanted me tosell him my Adler's German Dictionary.
"I've nothing to give you for it, Felix, but this foolish thing,--it isone of Burrham's tickets,--which I bought in a frolic the night of oursleigh-ride. I'll transfer it to you."
I told Jonathan he might have the dictionary and welcome. He was doing asensible thing, and he would use it twenty times as much as I should. Asfor the ticket, he had better keep it. I did not want it. But I saw hewould feel better if I took it,--so he indorsed it to me.
Now the reader must know that this Burrham was a man who had got hold ofone corner of the idea of what the Public could do for its children. Hehad found out that there were a thousand people who would be glad tomake the tour of the mountains and the lakes every summer if they coulddo it for half-price. He found out that the railroad companies were gladenough to put the price down if they could be sure of the thousandpeople. He mediated between the two, and so "cheap excursions" came intobeing. They are one of the gifts the Public gives its children. Risingfrom step to step, Burrham had, just before the great financial crisis,conceived the idea of a great cheap combination, in which everybody wasto receive a magazine for a year and a cyclopaedia, both at half-price;and not only so, but the money that was gained in the combination was tobe given by lot to two ticket-holders, one a man and one a woman, fortheir dowry in marriage. I dare say the reader remembers the prospectus.It savors too much of the modern "Gift Enterprise" to be reprinted infull; but it had this honest element, that everybody got more than hecould get for his money in retail. I have my magazine, the old _BostonMiscellany_, to this day, and I just now looked out Levasseur's name inmy cyclopaedia; and, as you will see, I have reason to know that all theother subscribers got theirs.
One of the tickets for these books, for which Whittemore had given fivegood dollars, was what he gave to me for my dictionary. And so weparted. I loitered at Attica, hoping for a place where I could put in myoar. But my hand was out at teaching, and in a time when all the world'sveneers of different kinds were ripping off, nobody wanted me to put onmore of my kind,--so that my cash ran low. I would not go in debt,--thatis a thing I never did. More honest, I say, to go to the poorhouse, andmake the Public care for its child there, than to borrow what you cannotpay. But I did not come quite to that, as you shall see.
I was counting up my money one night,--and it was easily done,--when Iobserved that the date on this Burrham order was the 15th of October,and it occurred to me that it was not quite a fortnight before thosebooks were to be delivered. They were to be delivered at Castle Garden,at New York; and the thought struck me that I might go to New York, trymy chance there for work, and at least see the city, which I had neverseen, and get my cyclopaedia and magazine. It was the least offer thePublic ever made to me; but just then the Public was in a collapse, andthe least was better than nothing. The plan of so long a journey wasQuixotic enough, and I hesitated about it a good deal. Finally I came tothis resolve: I would start in the morning to walk to the lock-stationat Brockport on the canal. If a boat passed that night where they wouldgive me my fare for any work I could do for them, I would go to Albany.If not, I would walk back to Lockport the next day, and try my fortunethere. This gave me, for my first day's enterprise, a foot journey ofabout twenty-five miles. It was out of the question, with my finances,for me to think of compassing the train.
Every point of life is a pivot on which turns the whole action of ourafter-lives; and so, indeed, of the after-lives of the whole world. Butwe are so pur-blind that we only see this of certain special enterprisesand endeavors, which we therefore call critical. I am sure I see it ofthat twenty-five miles of fresh autumnal walking. I was in tiptopspirits. I found the air all oxygen, and everything "all right." I didnot loiter, and I did not hurry. I swung along with the feeling thatevery nerve and muscle drew, as in the trades a sailor feels of everyrope and sail. And so I was not tired, not thirsty, till the brookappeared where I was to drink; nor hungry till twelve o'clock came, whenI was to dine. I called myself as I walked "The Child of Good Fortune,"because the sun was on my right quarter, as the sun should be when youwalk, because the rain of yesterday had laid the dust for me, and thefrost of yesterday had painted the hills for me, and the northwest windcooled the air for me. I came to Wilkie's Cross-Roads just in time tomeet the Claremont baker and buy my dinner loaf of him. And when my walkwas nearly done, I came out on the low bridge at Sewell's, which is adrawbridge, just before they raised it for a passing boat, instead ofthe moment after. Because I was all right I felt myself and calledmyself "The Child of Good Fortune." Dear reader, in a world made by aloving Father, we are all of us children of good fortune, if we onlyhave wit enough to find it out, as we stroll along.
The last stroke of good fortune which that day had for me was thesolution of my question whether or no I would go to Babylon. I was to goif any good-natured boatman would take me. This is a question, Mr.Millionnaire, more doubtful to those who have not drawn their dividendsthan to those who have. As I came down the village street at Brockport,I could see the horses of a boat bound eastward, led along from level tolevel at the last lock; and, in spite of my determination not to hurry,I put myself on the long, loping trot which the St. Regis Indians taughtme, that I might overhaul this boat before she got under way at her newspeed. I came out on the upper gate of the last lock just as she passedout from the lower gate. The horses were just put on, and a reckless boygave them their first blow after two hours of rest and corn. As theheavy boat started off under the new motion, I saw, and her skipper sawat the same instant, that a long new tow-rope of his, which had laincoiled on deck, was suddenly flying out to its full length. The outerend of it had been carried upon the lock-side by some chance or blunder,and there some idle loafer had thrown the looped bight of it over ahawser-post. The loafers on the lock saw, as I did, that the rope wasrunning out, and at the call of the skipper one of them condescended tothrow the loop overboard, but he did it so carelessly that the lazy roperolled over into the lock, and the loop caught on one of the valve-ironsof the upper gate. The whole was the business of an instant, of course.But the poor skipper saw, what we did not, that the coil of the rope ondeck was foul, and so entangled round his long tiller, that ten secondswould do one of three things,--they would snap his new rope in two,which was a trifle, or they would wrench his tiller-head off the rudder,which would cost him an hour to mend, or they would upset those twohorses, at this instant on a trot, and put into the canal the rowdyyoungster who had started them. It was this complex certainty which gavefire to the double cries which he addressed aft to us on the lock, andforward to the magnet boy, whose indifferent intelligence at that momentdrew him along.
I was stepping upon the gate-head to walk across it. It took but aninstant, not nearly all the ten seconds, to swing down by my arms intothe lock, keeping myself hanging by my hands, to catch
with my rightfoot the bight of the rope and lift it off the treacherous iron, to kickthe whole into the water, and then to scramble up the wet lock-sideagain. I got a little wet, but that was nothing. I ran down thetow-path, beckoned to the skipper, who sheered his boat up to the shore,and I jumped on board.
At that moment, reader, Fausta was sitting in a yellow chair on thedeck of that musty old boat, crocheting from a pattern in _Grodey'sLady's Book_. I remember it as I remember my breakfast of this morning.Not that I fell in love with her, nor did I fall in love with mybreakfast; but I knew she was there. And that was the first time I eversaw her. It is many years since, and I have seen her every day from thatevening to this evening. But I had then no business with her. My affairwas with him whom I have called the skipper, by way of adapting thisfresh-water narrative to ears accustomed to Marryat and Tom Cringle. Itold him that I had to go to New York; that I had not time to walk, andhad not money to pay; that I should like to work my passage to Troy, ifthere were any way in which I could; and to ask him this I had come onboard.
"Waal," said the skipper, "'taint much that is to be done, and Zekieland I calc'late to do most of that and there's that blamed boy beside--"
This adjective "blamed" is the virtuous oath by which simple people, whoare improving their habits, cure themselves of a stronger epithet, asmen take to flagroot who are abandoning tobacco.
"He ain't good for nothin', as you see," continued the skippermeditatively, "and you air, anybody can see that," he added. "Ef you'vemind to come to Albany, you can have your vittles, poor enough they aretoo; and ef you are willing to ride sometimes, you can ride. I guesswhere there's room for three in the bunks there's room for four. 'Tainteverybody would have cast off that blamed hawser-rope as neat as youdid."
From which last remark I inferred, what I learned as a certainty as wetravelled farther, that but for the timely assistance I had rendered himI should have plead for my passage in vain.
This was my introduction to Fausta. That is to say, she heard the wholeof the conversation. The formal introduction, which is omitted in nocircle of American life to which I have ever been admitted, took placeat tea half an hour after, when Mrs. Grills, who always voyaged with herhusband, brought in the flapjacks from the kitchen. "Miss Jones," saidGrills, as I came into the meal, leaving Zekiel at the tiller,--"MissJones, this is a young man who is going to Albany. I don't rightly knowhow to call your name, sir." I said my name was Carter. Then he said,"Mr. Carter, this is Miss Jones. Mrs. Grills, Mr. Carter. Mr. Carter,Mrs. Grills. She is my wife." And so our _partie carree_ was establishedfor the voyage.
In these days there are few people who know that a journey on a canal isthe pleasantest journey in the world. A canal has to go through finescenery. It cannot exist unless it follow through the valley of astream. The movement is so easy that, with your eyes shut, you do notknow you move. The route is so direct, that when you are once shieldedfrom the sun, you are safe for hours. You draw, you read, you write, oryou sew, crochet, or knit. You play on your flute or your guitar,without one hint of inconvenience. At a "low bridge" you duck your headlest you lose your hat,--and that reminder teaches you that you arehuman. You are glad to know this, and you laugh at the memento. For therest of the time you journey, if you are "all right" within, in elysium.
I rode one of those horses perhaps two or three hours a day. At locks Imade myself generally useful. At night I walked the deck till oneo'clock, with my pipe or without it, to keep guard against thelock-thieves. The skipper asked me sometimes, after he found I could"cipher," to disentangle some of the knots in his bills of lading forhim. But all this made but a little inroad in those lovely autumn days,and for the eight days that we glided along,--there is one blessed levelwhich is seventy miles long,--I spent most of my time with Fausta. Wewalked together on the tow-path to get our appetites for dinner and forsupper. At sunrise I always made a cruise inland, and collected thegentians and black alder-berries and colored leaves, with which shedressed Mrs. Grill's table. She took an interest in my wretchedsketch-book, and though she did not and does not draw well, she did showme how to spread an even tint, which I never knew before. I was workingup my French. She knew about as much and as little as I did, and weread Mad. Reybaud's Clementine together, guessing at the hard words,because we had no dictionary.
Dear old Grill offered to talk French at table, and we tried it for afew days. But it proved he picked up his pronunciation at St.Catherine's, among the boatmen there, and he would say _shwo_ for"horses," where the book said _chevaux_. Our talk, on the other hand,was not Parisian,--but it was not Catherinian,--and we subsided intoEnglish again.
So sped along these blessed eight days. I told Fausta thus much of mystory, that I was going to seek my fortune in New York. She, of course,knew nothing of me but what she saw, and she told me nothing of herstory.
But I was very sorry when we came into the basin at Troy, for I knewthen that in all reason I must take the steamboat down. And I was veryglad,--I have seldom in my life been so glad,--when I found that shealso was going to New York immediately. She accepted, very pleasantly,my offer to carry her trunk to the Isaac Newton for her, and to act asher escort to the city. For me, my trunk,
"in danger tried," Swung in my hand,--"nor left my side."
My earthly possessions were few anywhere. I had left at Attica most ofwhat they were. Through the voyage I had been man enough to keep on aworking-gear fit for a workman's duty. And old Grills had not yet graceenough to keep his boat still on Sunday. How one remembers littlethings! I can remember each touch of the toilet, as, in that corner of adark cuddy where I had shared "Zekiel's" bunk with him. I dressed myselfwith one of my two white shirts, and with the change of raiment whichhad been tight squeezed in my portmanteau. The old overcoat was the bestpart of it, as in a finite world it often is. I sold my felt hat toZekiel, and appeared with a light travelling-cap. I do not know howFausta liked my metamorphosis. I only know that, like butterflies, for aday or two after they go through theirs, I felt decidedly cold.
As Carter, the canal man, I had carried Fausta's trunk on board. As Mr.Carter, I gave her my arm, led her to the gangway of the Newton, tookher passage and mine, and afterwards walked and sat through the splendidmoonlight of the first four hours down the river.
Miss Jones determined that evening to breakfast on the boat. Be itobserved that I did not then know her by any other name. She was to goto an aunt's house, and she knew that if she left the boat on its earlyarrival in New York, she would disturb that lady by a premature ringingat her bell. I had no reason for haste, as the reader knows. Thedistribution of the cyclopaedias was not to take place till the next day,and that absurd trifle was the only distinct excuse I had to myself forbeing in New York at all. I asked Miss Jones, therefore, if I might notbe her escort still to her aunt's house. I had said it would be hard tobreak off our pleasant journey before I had seen where she lived, and Ithought she seemed relieved to know that she should not be wholly astranger on her arrival. It was clear enough that her aunt would send noone to meet her.
These preliminaries adjusted, we parted to our respective cabins. Andwhen, the next morning, at that unearthly hour demanded by Philadelphiatrains and other exigencies, the Newton made her dock, I rejoiced thatbreakfast was not till seven o'clock, that I had two hours more of theberth, which was luxury compared to Zekiel's bunk,--I turned upon myother side and slept on.
Sorry enough for that morning nap was I for the next thirty-six hours.For when I went on deck, and sent in the stewardess to tell Miss Jonesthat I was waiting for her, and then took from her the check for hertrunk, I woke to the misery of finding that, in that treacherous twohours, some pirate from the pier had stepped on board, had seized thewaiting trunk, left almost alone, while the baggage-master's back wasturned, and that, to a certainty, it was lost. I did not return toFausta with this story till the breakfast-bell had long passed and thebreakfast was very cold. I did not then tell it to her till I had seenher eat her break
fast with an appetite much better than mine. I hadalready offered up stairs the largest reward to anybody who would bringit back which my scanty purse would pay. I had spoken to the clerk, whohad sent for a policeman. I could do nothing more, and I did not chooseto ruin her chop and coffee by ill-timed news. The officer came beforebreakfast was over, and called me from table.
On the whole, his business-like way encouraged one. He had some clewswhich I had not thought possible. It was not unlikely that they shouldpounce on the trunk before it was broken open. I gave him a writtendescription of its marks; and when he civilly asked if "my lady" wouldgive some description of any books or other articles within, I readilypromised that I would call with such a description at the policestation. Somewhat encouraged, I returned to Miss Jones, and, when I ledher from the breakfast-table, told her of her misfortune. I took allshame to myself for my own carelessness, to which I attributed the loss.But I told her all that the officer had said to me, and that I hoped tobring her the trunk at her aunt's before the day was over.
Fausta took my news, however, with a start which frightened me. All hermoney, but a shilling or two, was in the trunk. To place money in trunksis a weakness of the female mind which I have nowhere seen accountedfor. Worse than this, though,--as appeared after a moment's examinationof her travelling _sac_,--her portfolio in the trunk contained theletter of the aunt whom she came to visit, giving her her address inthe city. To this address she had no other clew but that her aunt wasMrs. Mary Mason, had married a few years before a merchant named Mason,whom Miss Jones had never seen, and of whose name and business this wasall she knew. They lived in a numbered street, but whether it was FourthStreet, or Fifty-fourth, or One Hundred and Twenty-fourth, or whether itwas something between, the poor child had no idea. She had put up theletter carefully, but had never thought of the importance of theaddress. Besides this aunt, she knew no human being in New York.
"Child of the Public," I said to myself, "what do you do now?" I hadappealed to my great patron in sending for the officer, and on the wholeI felt that my sovereign had been gracious to me, if not yet hopeful.But now I must rub my lamp again, and ask the genie where the unknownMason lived. The genie of course suggested the Directory, and I ran forit to the clerk's office. But as we were toiling down the pages of"Masons," and had written off thirteen or fourteen who lived in numberedstreets, Fausta started, looked back at the preface and its date, flungdown her pencil in the only abandonment of dismay in which I ever sawher, and cried, "First of May! They were abroad until May. They havebeen abroad since the day they were married!" So that genie had to puthis glories into his pocket, and carry his Directory back to the officeagain.
The natural thing to propose was, that I should find for Miss Jones arespectable boarding-house, and that she should remain there until hertrunk was found, or till she could write to friends who had this fataladdress, and receive an answer. But here she hesitated. She hardly likedto explain why,--did not explain wholly. But she did not say that shehad no friends who knew this address. She had but few relations in theworld, and her aunt had communicated with her alone since she came fromEurope. As for the boarding-house, "I had rather look for work," shesaid bravely. "I have never promised to pay money when I did not knowhow to obtain it; and that"--and here she took out fifty or sixty centsfrom her purse--"and that is all now. In respectable boarding-houses,when people come without luggage, they are apt to ask for an advance.Or, at least," she added with some pride, "I am apt to offer it."
I hastened to ask her to take all my little store; but I had to own thatI had not two dollars. I was sure, however, that my overcoat and thedress-suit I wore would avail me something, if I thrust them boldly upsome spout. I was sure that I should be at work within a day or two. Atall events, I was certain of the cyclopaedia the next day. That should goto old Gowan's,--in Fulton Street it was then,--"the moral centre of theintellectual world," in the hour I got it. And at this moment, for thefirst time, the thought crossed me, "If mine could only be the namedrawn, so that that foolish $5,000 should fall to me." In that case Ifelt that Fausta might live in "a respectable boarding-house" till shedied. Of this, of course, I said nothing, only that she was welcome tomy poor dollar and a half, and that I should receive the next day somemore money that was due me.
"You forget, Mr. Carter," replied Fausta, as proudly asbefore,--"you forget that I cannot borrow of you any more than of aboarding-house-keeper. I never borrow. Please God, I never will. It mustbe," she added, "that in a Christian city like this there is somerespectable and fit arrangement made for travellers who find themselveswhere I am. What that provision is I do not know; but I will find outwhat it is before this sun goes down."
I paused a moment before I replied. If I had been fascinated by thislovely girl before, I now bowed in respect before her dignity andresolution; and, with my sympathy, there was a delicious throb ofself-respect united, when I heard her lay down so simply, as principlesof her life, two principles on which I had always myself tried to live.The half-expressed habits of my boyhood and youth were now uttered forme as axioms by lips which I knew could speak nothing but right andtruth.
I paused a moment. I stumbled a little as I expressed my regret that shewould not let me help her,--joined with my certainty that she was in theright in refusing,--and then it the only stiff speech I ever made toher, I said:--
"I am the 'Child of the Public.' If you ever hear my story, you willsay so too. At the least, I can claim this, that I have a right to helpyou in your quest as to the way in which the public will help you. Thusfar I am clearly the officer in his suite to whom he has intrusted you.Are you ready, then, to go on shore?"
Fausta looked around on that forlorn ladies' saloon, as if it were thelast link holding her to her old safe world.
"Looked upon skylight, lamp, and chain, As what she ne'er might see again."
Then she looked right through me; and if there had been one mean thoughtin me at that minute, she would have seen the viper. Then she said,sadly,--
"I have perfect confidence in you, though people would say we werestrangers. Let us go."
And we left the boat together. We declined the invitations of the noisyhackmen, and walked slowly to Broadway.
We stopped at the station-house for that district, and to the attentivechief Fausta herself described those contents of her trunk which shethought would be most easily detected, if offered for sale. Her mother'sBible, at which the chief shook his head; Bibles, alas! brought nothingat the shops; a soldier's medal, such as were given as target prizes bythe Montgomery regiment; and a little silver canteen, marked with thedevice of the same regiment, seemed to him better worthy of note. Herportfolio was wrought with a cipher, and she explained to him that shewas most eager that this should be recovered. The pocketbook containedmore than one hundred dollars, which she described, but he shook hishead here, and gave her but little hope of that, if the trunk were onceopened. His chief hope was for this morning.
"And where shall we send to you then, madam?" said he.
I had been proud, as if it were my merit, of the impression Fausta hadmade upon the officer, in her quiet, simple, ladylike dress and manner.For myself, I thought that one slip of pretence in my dress or bearing,a scrap of gold or of pinchbeck, would have ruined both of us in ourappeal. But, fortunately, I did not disgrace her, and the man looked ather as if he expected her to say "Fourteenth Street." What would shesay?
"That depends upon what the time will be. Mr. Carter will call at noon,and will let you know."
We bowed, and were gone. In an instant more she begged my pardon, almostwith tears; but I told her that if she also had been a "Child of thePublic," she could not more fitly have spoken to one of her father'sofficers. I begged her to use me as her protector, and not to apologizeagain. Then we laid out the plans which we followed out that day.
The officer's manner had reassured her, and I succeeded in persuadingher that it was certain we should have the trunk at noon. How muchbetter to wait, at lea
st so far, before she entered on any of theenterprises of which she talked so coolly, as of offering herself as anursery-girl, or as a milliner, to whoever would employ her, if only shecould thus secure an honest home till money or till aunt were found.Once persuaded that we were safe from this Quixotism, I told her that wemust go on, as we did on the canal, and first we must take ourconstitutional walk for two hours.
"At least," she said, "our good papa, the Public, gives us wonderfulsights to see, and good walking to our feet, as a better Father hasgiven us this heavenly sky and this bracing air."
And with those words the last heaviness of despondency left her face forthat day. And we plunged into the delicious adventure of exploring a newcity, staring into windows as only strangers can, revelling inprint-shops as only they do, really seeing the fine buildings asresidents always forget to do, and laying up, in short, with thosestreets, nearly all the associations which to this day we have withthem.
Two hours of this tired us with walking, of course. I do not know whatshe meant to do next; but at ten I said, "Time for French, Miss Jones.""_Ah oui_" said she, "_mais ou_?" and I had calculated my distances, andled her at once into Lafayette Place; and, in a moment, pushed open thedoor of the Astor Library, led her up the main stairway, and said,"This is what the Public provides for his children when they have tostudy."
"This is the Astor," said she, delighted. "And we are all right, as yousay, here?" Then she saw that our entrance excited no surprise among thefew readers, men and women, who were beginning to assemble.
We took our seats at an unoccupied table, and began to revel in theluxuries for which we had only to ask that we might enjoy. I had alittle memorandum of books which I had been waiting to see. She needednone; but looked for one and another, and yet another, and between us wekept the attendant well in motion. A pleasant thing to me to be findingout her thoroughbred tastes and lines of work, and I was happy enough tointerest her in some of my pet readings; and, of course, for she was awoman, to get quick hints which had never dawned on me before. A veryshort hour and a half we spent there before I went to the station-houseagain. I went very quickly. I returned to her very slowly.
The trunk was not found. But they were now quite sure they were on itstrack. They felt certain it had been carried from pier to pier and takenback up the river. Nor was it hopeless to follow it. The particularrascal who was supposed to have it would certainly stop either atPiermont or at Newburg. They had telegraphed to both places, and were intime for both. "The day boat, sir, will bring your lady's trunk, andwill bring me Rowdy Rob, too, I hope," said the officer. But at the samemoment, as he rang his bell, he learned that no despatch had yet beenreceived from either of the places named. I did not feel so certain ashe did.
But Fausta showed no discomfort as I told my news. "Thus far," said she,"the Public serves me well. I will borrow no trouble by want of faith."And I--as Dante would say--and I, to her, "will you let me remind you,then, that at one we dine, that Mrs. Grills is now placing the salt-porkupon the cabin table, and Mr. Grills asking the blessing; and, as thisis the only day when I can have the honor of your company, will you letme show you how a Child of the Public dines, when his finances are low?"
Fausta laughed, and said again, less tragically than before, "I haveperfect confidence in you,"--little thinking how she started my bloodwith the words; but this time, as if in token, she let me take her handupon my arm, as we walked down the street together.
If we had been snobs, or even if I had been one, I should have taken herto Taylor's, and have spent all the money I had on such a luncheon asneither of us had ever eaten before. Whatever else I am, I am not a snobof that sort. I show my colors. I led her into a little cross-streetwhich I had noticed in our erratic morning pilgrimage. We stopped at aGerman baker's. I bade her sit down at the neat marble table, and Ibought two rolls. She declined lager, which I offered her in fun. Wetook water instead, and we had dined, and had paid two cents for ourmeal, and had had a very merry dinner, too, when the clock struck two.
"And now, Mr. Carter," said she, "I will steal no more of your day. Youdid not come to New York to escort lone damsels to the Astor Library orto dinner. Nor did I come only to see the lions or to read French. Iinsist on your going to your affairs, and leaving me to mine. If youwill meet me at the Library half an hour before it closes, I will thankyou; till then," with a tragedy shake of the hand, and a merry laugh,"adieu!"
I knew very well that no harm could happen to her in two hours of anautumn afternoon. I was not sorry for her _conge_, for it gave me anopportunity to follow my own plans. I stopped at one or twocabinet-makers, and talked with the "jours" about work, that I mighttell her with truth that I had been in search of it;--then I sedulouslybegan on calling upon every man I could reach named Mason. O, how oftenI went through one phase or another of this colloquy:--
"Is Mr. Mason in?"
"That's my name, sir."
"Can you give me the address of Mr. Mason who returned from Europe lastMay?"
"Know no such person, sir."
The reader can imagine how many forms this dialogue could be repeatedin, before, as I wrought my way through a long line of dry-goods casesto a distant counting-room, I heard some one in it say, "No, madam, Iknow no such person as you describe"; and from the recess Fausta emergedand met me. Her plan for the afternoon had been the same with mine. Welaughed as we detected each other; then I told her she had had quiteenough of this, that it was time she should rest, and took her, _nolensvolens_, into the ladies' parlor of the St. Nicholas, and bade her waitthere through the twilight, with my copy of Clementine, till I shouldreturn from the police-station. If the reader has ever waited in such aplace for some one to come and attend to him, he will understand thatnobody will be apt to molest him when he has not asked for attention.
Two hours I left Fausta in the rocking-chair, which there the Public hadprovided for her. Then I returned, sadly enough. No tidings of RowdyRob, none of trunk, Bible, money, letter, medal, or anything. Still wasmy district sergeant hopeful, and, as always, respectful. But I washopeless this time, and I knew that the next day Fausta would beplunging into the war with intelligence-houses and advertisements. Forthe night, I was determined that she should spend it in my ideal"respectable boarding-house." On my way down town, I stopped in at oneor two shops to make inquiries, and satisfied myself where I would takeher. Still I thought it wisest that we should go after tea; and anothercross-street baker, and another pair of rolls, and another tap at theCroton, provided that repast for us. Then I told Fausta of therespectable boarding-house, and that she must go there. She did not sayno. But she did say she would rather not spend the evening there. "Theremust be some place open for us," said she. "There! there is achurch-bell! The church is always home. Let us come there."
So to "evening meeting" we went, startling the sexton by arriving anhour early. If there were any who wondered what was the use of thatWednesday-evening service, we did not. In a dark gallery pew we sat, sheat one end, I at the other; and, if the whole truth be told, each of usfell asleep at once, and slept till the heavy organ tones taught us thatthe service had begun. A hundred or more people had straggled in then,and the preacher, good soul, he took for his text, "Doth not God carefor the ravens?" I cannot describe the ineffable feeling of home thatcame over me in that dark pew of that old church. I had never been in solarge a church before. I had never heard so heavy an organ before.Perhaps I had heard better preaching, but never any that came to myoccasions more. But it was none of these things which moved me. It wasthe fact that we were just where we had a right to be. No impudentwaiter could ask us why we were sitting there, nor any petulantpoliceman propose that we should push on. It was God's house, and,because his, it was his children's.
All this feeling of repose grew upon me, and, as it proved, upon Faustaalso. For when the service was ended, and I ventured to ask her whethershe also had this sense of home and rest, she assented so eagerly, thatI proposed, though with hesitation, a notion which had c
rossed me, thatI should leave her there.
"I cannot think," I said, "of any possible harm that could come to youbefore morning."
"Do you know, I had thought of that very same thing, but I did not daretell you," she said.
Was not I glad that she had considered me her keeper! But I only said,"At the 'respectable boarding-house' you might be annoyed by questions."
"And no one will speak to me here. I know that from Goody Two-Shoes."
"I will be here," said I, "at sunrise in the morning." And so I bade hergood by, insisting on leaving in the pew my own great-coat. I knew shemight need it before morning. I walked out as the sexton closed the doorbelow on the last of the down-stairs worshippers. He passed along theaisles below, with his long poker which screwed down the gas. I saw atonce that he had no intent of exploring the galleries. But I loiteredoutside till I saw him lock the doors and depart; and then, happy in thethought that Miss Jones was in the safest place in New York,--ascomfortable as she was the night before, and much more comfortable thanshe had been any night upon the canal, I went in search of my ownlodging.
"To the respectable boarding-house?"
Not a bit, reader. I had no shillings for respectable or disrespectableboarding-houses. I asked the first policeman where his district stationwas. I went into its office, and told the captain that I was green inthe city; had got no work and no money. In truth, I had left my purse inMiss Jones's charge, and a five-cent piece, which I showed the chief,was all I had. He said no word but to bid me go up two flights and turninto the first bunk I found. I did so; and in five minutes was asleep ina better bed than I had slept in for nine days.
That was what the Public did for me that night. I, too, was safe!
I am making this story too long. But with that night and its anxietiesthe end has come. At sunrise I rose and made my easy toilet. I boughtand ate my roll,--varying the brand from yesterday's. I bought another,with a lump of butter, and an orange, for Fausta. I left my portmanteauat the station, while I rushed to the sexton's house, told his wife Ihad left my gloves in church the night before,--as was the truth,--andeasily obtained from her the keys. In a moment I was in thevestibule--locked in--was in the gallery, and there found Fausta, justawake, as she declared, from a comfortable night, reading her morninglesson in the Bible, and sure, she said, that I should soon appear. Norghost, nor wraith, had visited her. I spread for her a brown papertablecloth on the table in the vestibule. I laid out her breakfast forher, called her, and wondered at her toilet. How is it that women alwaysmake themselves appear as neat and finished as if there were noconflict, dust, or wrinkle in the world.
[Here Fausta adds, in this manuscript, a parenthesis, to say that shefolded her undersleeves neatly, and her collar, before she slept, andput them between the cushions, upon which she slept. In the morning theyhad been pressed--without a sad-iron.]
She finished her repast. I opened the church door for five minutes. Shepassed out when she had enough examined the monuments, and at arespectable distance I followed her. We joined each other, and took ouraccustomed morning walk; but then she resolutely said, "Good by," forthe day. She would find work before night,--work and a home. And I mustdo the same. Only when I pressed her to let me know of her success, shesaid she would meet me at the Astor Library just before it closed. No,she would not take my money. Enough, that for twenty-four hours she hadbeen my guest. When she had found her aunt and told her the story, theyshould insist on repaying this hospitality. Hospitality, dear reader,which I had dispensed at the charge of six cents. Have you ever treatedMiranda for a day and found the charge so low? When I urged otherassistance she said resolutely, "No." In fact, she had already made anappointment at two, she said, and she must not waste the day.
I also had an appointment at two; for it was at that hour that Burrhamwas to distribute the cyclopaedias at Castle Garden. The EmigrantCommission had not yet seized it for their own. I spent the morning inasking vainly for Masons fresh from Europe, and for work incabinet-shops. I found neither, and so wrought my way to the appointedplace, where, instead of such wretched birds in the bush, I was to getone so contemptible in my hand.
Those who remember Jenny Lind's first triumph night at Castle Gardenhave some idea of the crowd as it filled gallery and floor of thatimmense hall when I entered. I had given no thought to the machinery ofthis folly, I only know that my ticket bade me be there at two P.M. thisday. But as I drew near, the throng, the bands of policemen, the longqueues of persons entering, reminded me that here was an affair of tenthousand persons, and also that Mr. Burrham was not unwilling to make itas showy, perhaps as noisy, an affair as was respectable, by way ofadvertising future excursions and distributions. I was led to seat No.3,671 with a good deal of parade, and when I came there I found I wasvery much of a prisoner. I was late, or rather on the stroke of two.Immediately, almost, Mr. Burrham arose in the front and made a longspeech about his liberality, and the public's liberality, andeverybody's liberality in general, and the method of the distribution inparticular. The mayor and four or five other well-known and respectablegentlemen were kind enough to be present to guarantee the fairness ofthe arrangements. At the suggestion of the mayor and the police, thedoors would now be closed, that no persons might interrupt the ceremonytill it was ended. And the distribution of the cyclopaedias would at oncego forward, in the order in which the lots were drawn,--earliest numberssecuring the earliest impressions; which, as Mr. Burrham almostregretted to say, were a little better than the latest. After these hadbeen distributed two figures would be drawn,--one green and one red, toindicate the fortunate lady and gentleman who would receive respectivelythe profits which had arisen from this method of selling thecyclopaedias, after the expenses of printing and distribution had beencovered, and after the magazines had been ordered.
Great cheering followed this announcement from all but me. Here I hadshut myself up in this humbug hall, for Heaven knew how long, on themost important day of my life. I would have given up willingly mycyclopaedia and my chance at the "profits," for the certainty of seeingFausta at five o'clock. If I did not see her then, what might befallher, and when might I see her again. An hour before this certainty wasmy own, now it was only mine by my liberating myself from this prison.Still I was encouraged by seeing that everything was conducted likeclock-work. From literally a hundred stations they were distributing thebooks. We formed ourselves into queues as we pleased, drew our numbers,and then presented ourselves at the bureaux, ordered our magazines, andtook our cyclopaedias. It would be done, at that rate, by half past four.An omnibus might bring me to the Park, and a Bowery car do the rest intime. After a vain discussion for the right of exit with one or two ofthe attendants, I abandoned myself to this hope, and began studying mycyclopaedia.
It was sufficiently amusing to see ten thousand people resign themselvesto the same task, and affect to be unconcerned about the green and redfigures which were to divide the "profits." I tried to make out who wereas anxious to get out of that tawdry den as I was. Four o'clock struck,and the distribution was not done. I began to be very impatient. What ifFausta fell into trouble? I knew, or hoped I knew, that she wouldstruggle to the Astor Library, as to her only place of rescue andrefuge,--her asylum. What if I failed her there? I who had pretended tobe her protector! "Protector, indeed!" she would say, if she knew I wasat a theatre witnessing the greatest folly of the age. And if I did notmeet her to-day, when should I meet her? If she found her aunt, howshould I find her? If she did not find her,--good God? that wasworse,--where might she not be before twelve hours were over? Then thefatal trunk! I had told the police agent he might send it to the St.Nicholas, because I had to give him some address. But Fausta did notknow this, and the St. Nicholas people knew nothing of us. I grew moreand more excited, and when at last my next neighbor told me that it washalf past four, I rose and insisted on leaving my seat. Two ushers withblue sashes almost held me down; they showed me the whole assemblysinking into quiet. In fact, at that moment Mr. Burrham was beggin
gevery one to be seated. I would not be seated. I would go to the door. Iwould go out. "Go, if you please!" said the usher next it,contemptuously. And I looked, and there was no handle! Yet this was nota dream. It is the way they arrange the doors in halls where they chooseto keep people in their places. I could have collared that grinning bluesash. I did tell him I would wring his precious neck for him, if he didnot let me out. I said I would sue him for false imprisonment; I wouldhave a writ of _habeas corpus_.
"_Habeas corpus_ be d----d!" said the officer, with an irreverentdisrespect to the palladium. "If you are not more civil, sir, I willcall the police, of whom we have plenty. You say you want to go out; youare keeping everybody in."
And, in fact, at that moment the clear voice of the mayor was announcingthat they would not go on until there was perfect quiet; and I felt thatI was imprisoning all these people, not they me.
"Child of the Public," said my mourning genius, "are you better thanother men?" So I sneaked back to seat No. 3,671, amid the contemptuousand reproachful looks and sneers of my more respectable neighbors, whohad sat where they were told to do. We must be through in a moment, andperhaps Fausta would be late also. If only the Astor would keep openafter sunset! How often have I wished that since, and for less reasons!
Silence thus restored, Mr. A----, the mayor, led forward his littledaughter, blindfolded her, and bade her put her hand into a green box,from which she drew out a green ticket. He took it from her, and read,in his clear voice again, "No. 2,973!" By this time we all knew wherethe "two thousands" sat. Then "nine hundreds" were not far from thefront, so that it was not far that that frightened girl, dressed all inblack, and heavily veiled, had to walk, who answered to this call. Mr.A---- met her, helped her up the stair upon the stage, took from her herticket, and read, "Jerusha Stillingfleet, of Yellow Springs, who, at herdeath, as it seems, transferred this right to the bearer."
The disappointed nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine joined in arapturous cheer, each man and woman, to show that he or she was notdisappointed. The bearer spoke with Mr. Burrham, in answer to hisquestions, and, with a good deal of ostentation, he opened a check-book,filled a check and passed it to her, she signing a receipt as she tookit, and transferring to him her ticket. So far, in dumb show, all waswell. What was more to my purpose, it was rapid, for we should have beendone in five minutes more, but that some devil tempted some loafer in agallery to cry, "Face! face!" Miss Stillingfleet's legatee was stillheavily veiled.
In one horrid minute that whole amphitheatre, which seemed to me thenmore cruel than the Coliseum ever was, rang out with a cry of "Face,face!" I tried the counter-cry of "Shame! shame!" but I was in disgraceamong my neighbors, and a counter-cry never takes as its prototype does,either. At first, on the stage, they affected not to hear or understand;then there was a courtly whisper between Mr. Burrham and the lady; butMr. A----, the mayor, and the respectable gentlemen, instantlyinterfered. It was evident that she would not unveil, and that they wereprepared to indorse her refusal. In a moment more she courtesied to theassembly; the mayor gave her his arm, and led her out through aside-door.
O, the yell that rose up then! The whole assembly stood up, and, as ifthey had lost some vested right, hooted and shrieked, "Back! back! Face!face!" Mr. A---- returned, made as if he would speak, came forward tothe very front, and got a moment's silence.
"It is not in the bond, gentlemen," said he. "The young lady isunwilling to unveil, and we must not compel her."
"Face! face!" was the only answer, and oranges from up stairs flewabout his head and struck upon the table,--an omen only fearful fromwhat it prophesied. Then there was such a row for five minutes as I hopeI may never see or hear again. People kept their places fortunately,under a vague impression that they should forfeit some magic rights ifthey left those numbered seats. But when, for a moment, a file ofpolicemen appeared in the orchestra, a whole volley of cyclopaedias felllike rain upon their chief, with a renewed cry of "Face! face!"
At this juncture, with a good deal of knowledge of popular feeling, Mr.A---- led forward his child again. Frightened to death the poor thingwas, and crying; he tied his handkerchief round her eyes hastily, andtook her to the red box. For a minute the house was hushed. A cry of"Down! down!" and every one took his place as the child gave the redticket to her father. He read it as before, "No. 3,671!" I heard thewords as if he did not speak them. All excited by the delay and the row,by the injustice to the stranger and the personal injustice of everybodyto me, I did not know, for a dozen seconds, that every one was lookingtowards our side of the house, nor was it till my next neighbor with thewatch said, "Go, you fool," that I was aware that 3,671 was I! Eventhen, as I stepped down the passage and up the steps, my only feelingwas, that I should get out of this horrid trap, and possibly find MissJones lingering near the Astor,--not by any means that I was invited totake a check for $5,000.
There was not much cheering. Women never mean to cheer, of course. Themen had cheered the green ticket, but they were mad with the red one. Igave up my ticket, signed my receipt, and took my check, shook handswith Mr. A---- and Mr. Burrham, and turned to bow to the mob,--for mob Imust call it now. But the cheers died away. A few people tried to go outperhaps, but there was nothing now to retain any in their seats asbefore, and the generality rose, pressed down the passages, and howled,"Face! face!" I thought for a moment that I ought to say something, butthey would not hear me, and, after a moment's pause, my passion todepart overwhelmed me. I muttered some apology to the gentlemen, andleft the stage by the stage door.
I had forgotten that to Castle Garden there can be no back entrance. Icame to door after door, which were all locked. It was growing dark.Evidently the sun was set, and I knew the library door would be shut atsunset. The passages were very obscure. All around me rang this horridyell of the mob, in which all that I could discern was the cry, "Face,face!" At last, as I groped round, I came to a practicable door. Ientered a room where the western sunset glare dazzled me. I was notalone. The veiled lady in black was there. But the instant she saw meshe sprang towards me, flung herself into my arms, and cried:--
"Felix, is it you?--you are indeed my protector!"
It was Miss Jones! It was Fausta! She was the legatee of MissStillingfleet. My first thought was, "O, if that beggarly usher had letme go! Will I ever, ever think I have better rights than the Publicagain?"
I took her in my arms. I carried her to the sofa. I could hardly speakfor excitement. Then I did say that I had been wild with terror; that Ihad feared I had lost her, and lost her forever; that to have lost thatinterview would have been worse to me than death; for unless she knewthat I loved her better than man ever loved woman, I could not face alonely night, and another lonely day.
"My dear, dear child," I said, "you may think me wild; but I must saythis,--it has been pent up too long."
"Say what you will," she said after a moment, in which still I held herin my arms; she was trembling so that she could not have sat uprightalone,--"say what you will, if only you do not tell me to spend anotherday alone."
And I kissed her, and I kissed her, and I kissed her, and I said,"Never, darling, God helping me, till I die!"
How long we sat there I do not know. Neither of us spoke again. For one,I looked out on the sunset and the bay. We had but just time torearrange ourselves in positions more independent, when Mr. A----camein, this time in alarm, to say:--
"Miss Jones, we must get you out of this place, or we must hide yousomewhere. I believe, before God, they will storm this passage, and pullthe house about our ears."
He said this, not conscious as he began that I was there. At thatmoment, however, I felt as if I could have met a million men. I startedforward and passed him, saying, "Let me speak to them." I rushed uponthe stage, fairly pushing back two or three bullies who were alreadyupon it. I sprang upon the table, kicking down the red box as I did so,so that the red tickets fell on the floor and on the people below. Onestuck in an old man's spectacles in a way which
made the people in thegalleries laugh. A laugh is a great blessing at such a moment. Curiosityis another. Three loud words spoken like thunder do a good deal more.And after three words the house was hushed to hear me. I said:--
"Be fair to the girl. She has no father nor mother She has no brothernor sister. She is alone in the world, with nobody to help her but thePublic--and me!"
The audacity of the speech brought out a cheer and we should have comeoff in triumph, when some rowdy--the original "face" man, Isuppose--said,--
"And who are you?"
If the laugh went against me now I was lost, of course. Fortunately Ihad no time to think. I said without thinking,--
"I am the Child of the Public, and her betrothed husband!"
O Heavens! what a yell of laughter, of hurrahings, of satisfaction witha _denouement_, rang through the house, and showed that all was well.Burrham caught the moment, and started his band, this timesuccessfully,--I believe with "See the Conquering Hero." The doors, ofcourse, had been open long before. Well-disposed people saw they needstay no longer; ill-disposed people dared not stay; the blue-coated menwith buttons sauntered on the stage in groups, and I suppose the worstrowdies disappeared as they saw them. I had made my single speech, andfor the moment I was a hero.
I believe the mayor would have liked to kiss me. Burrham almost did.They overwhelmed me with thanks and congratulations. All these Ireceived as well as I could,--somehow I did not feel at allsurprised,--everything was as it should be. I scarcely thought ofleaving the stage myself, till, to my surprise, the mayor asked me to gohome with him to dinner.
Then I remembered that we were not to spend the rest of our lives inCastle Garden. I blundered out something about Miss Jones, that she hadno escort except me, and pressed into her room to find her. A group ofgentlemen was around her. Her veil was back now. She was very pale, butvery lovely. Have I said that she was beautiful as heaven? She was thequeen of the room, modestly and pleasantly receiving their felicitationsthat the danger was over, and owning that she had been very muchfrightened.
"Until," she said, "my friend, Mr. Carter, was fortunate enough to guessthat I was here. How he did it," she said, turning to me, "is yet anutter mystery to me."
She did not know till then that it was I who had shared with her theprofits of the cyclopaedias.
As soon as we could excuse ourselves, I asked some one to order acarriage. I sent to the ticket-office for my valise, and we rode to theSt. Nicholas. I fairly laughed as I gave the hackman at the hotel doorwhat would have been my last dollar and a half only two hours before. Ientered Miss Jones's name and my own. The clerk looked, and said,inquiringly,--
"Is it Miss Jones's trunk which came this afternoon?"
I followed his finger to see the trunk on the marble floor. Rowdy Robhad deserted it, having seen, perhaps, a detective when he reachedPiermont. The trunk had gone to Albany, had found no owner, and hadreturned by the day boat of that day.
Fausta went to her room, and I sent her supper after her. One kiss and"Good night" was all that I got from her then.
"In the morning," said she, "you shall explain."
It was not yet seven, I went to my own room and dressed, and tenderedmyself at the mayor's just before his gay party sat down to dine. I met,for the first time in my life, men whose books I had read, and whosespeeches I had by heart, and women whom I have since known to honor;and, in the midst of this brilliant group, so excited had Mr. A---- beenin telling the strange story of the day, I was, for the hour, the lion.
I led Mrs. A---- to the table; I made her laugh very heartily by tellingher of the usher's threats to me, and mine to him, and of the disgraceinto which I fell among the three thousand six hundreds. I had neverbeen at any such party before. But I found it was only rather simplerand more quiet than most parties I had seen, that its good breeding wasexactly that of dear Betsy Myers.
As the party broke up, Mrs. A---- said to me,--
"Mr. Carter, I am sure you are tired, with all this excitement. You sayyou are a stranger here. Let me send round for your trunk to the St.Nicholas, and you shall spend the night here. I know I can make you abetter bed than they."
I thought as much myself, and assented. In half an hour more I was inbed in Mrs. A----'s "best room."
"I shall not sleep better," said I to myself, "than I did last night."
That was what the Public did for me that night. I was safe again!
CHAPTER LAST.
FAUSTA'S STORY.
Fausta slept late, poor child. I called for her before breakfast. Iwaited for her after. About ten she appeared, so radiant, so beautiful,and so kind! The trunk had revealed a dress I never saw before, and thesense of rest, and eternal security, and unbroken love had revealed acharm which was never there to see before. She was dressed for walking,and, as she met me, said,--
"Time for constitutional, Mr. Millionnaire."
So we walked again, quite up town, almost to the region of pig-pens andcabbage-gardens which is now the Central Park. And after just the firstgush of my enthusiasm, Fausta said, very seriously:--
"I must teach you to be grave. You do not know whom you are asking to beyour wife. Excepting Mrs. Mason, No. 27 Thirty-fourth Street, sir, thereis no one in the world who is of kin to me, and she does not care for meone straw, Felix," she said, almost sadly now. "You call yourself 'Childof the Public.' I started when you first said so, for that is just whatI am.
"I am twenty-two years old. My father died before I was born. My mother,a poor woman, disliked by his relatives and avoided by them, went tolive in Hoboken over there, with me. How she lived, God knows, but ithappened that of a strange death she died, I in her arms."
After a pause, the poor girl went on:--
"There was a great military review, an encampment. She was tempted outto see it. Of a sudden by some mistake, a ramrod was fired from acareless soldier's gun, and it pierced her through her heart. I tellyou, Felix, it pinned my baby frock into the wound, so that they couldnot part me from her till it was cut away.
"Of course every one was filled with horror. Nobody claimed poor me, thebaby. But the battalion, the Montgomery Battalion, it was, which had, bymischance, killed my mother, adopted me as their child. I was voted'Fille du Regiment.' They paid an assessment annually, which the colonelexpended for me. A kind old woman nursed me."
"She was your Betsy Myers," interrupted I.
"And when I was old enough I was sent into Connecticut, to the best ofschools. This lasted till I was sixteen. Fortunately for me, perhaps,the Montgomery Battalion then dissolved. I was finding it hard to answerthe colonel's annual letters. I had my living to earn,--it was best Ishould earn it. I declined a proposal to go out as a missionary. I hadno call. I answered one of Miss Beecher's appeals for Western teachers.Most of my life since has been a school-ma'am's. It has had ups anddowns. But I have always been proud that the Public was my godfather;and, as you know," she said, "I have trusted the Public well. I havenever been lonely, wherever I went. I tried to make myself of use. WhereI was of use I found society. The ministers have been kind to me. Ialways offered my services in the Sunday schools and sewing-rooms. Theschool committees have been kind to me. They are the Public's highchamberlains for poor girls. I have written for the journals. I won oneof Sartain's hundred-dollar prizes--"
"And I another," interrupted I.
"When I was very poor, I won the first prize for an essay on bad boys."
"And I the second," answered I.
"I think I know one bad boy better than he knows himself," said she. Butshe went on. "I watched with this poor Miss Stillingfleet the night shedied. This absurd 'distribution' had got hold of her, and she would notbe satisfied till she had transferred that strange ticket, No. 2,973, tome, writing the indorsement which you have heard. I had had a longing tovisit New York and Hoboken again. This ticket seemed to me to beckon me.I had money enough to come, if I would come cheaply. I wrote to myfather's business partner, and enclosed a note to his only sister. Sheis Mr
s. Mason. She asked me, coldly enough, to her house. Old Mr. Grillsalways liked me,--he offered me escort and passage as far as Troy orAlbany. I accepted his proposal, and you know the rest."
When I told Fausta my story, she declared I made it up as I went along.When she believed it,--as she does believe it now,--she agreed with mein declaring that it was not fit that two people thus joined should everbe parted. Nor have we been, ever!
She made a hurried visit at Mrs. Mason's. She prepared there for herwedding. On the 1st of November we went into that same church which wasour first home in New York; and that dear old raven-man made us
ONE!
The Man Without a Country, and Other Tales Page 9