JOHN ROBERT CHARLES
The new President was inaugurated on the fourth of March. The little
girl sighed to think how many Democratic people there were on her block.
They put out flags and bunting, and illuminated in the evening. They had
tremendous bonfires, and all the boys waived personal feeling and danced
and whooped like wild Indians. No healthy, well-conditioned boy could
resist the fragrance of a tar barrel.
Miss Lily Ludlow wore a red, white, and blue rosette with a tiny
portrait of Mr. Polk in the centre. The public-school girls often walked
up First Avenue and met Mrs. Craven's little girls going home. Lily used
to stare at Hanny in an insolent manner. She and her sister could not
forgive the fact that Miss Margaret had not called.
And now the talk was that Miss Margaret Underhill had a beau, a handsome
young doctor.
"They do think they're awful grand," said Lily to some of her mates.
"But they take up with that Dele Whitney, who sometimes does the
washing on Saturdays. It's a fact, girls; and the sister works in an
artificial-flower place down in Division Street. And the Underhills
think they're good enough to company with."
But the fact remained that the Underhills kept a carriage, and that Mr.
Stephen had married in the Beekman family, and Chris had heard that Dr.
Hoffman was considered a great catch. She was almost twenty and had
never kept company yet. Young men called at the house, to be sure, and
attended her home from parties, but the most desirable ones seemed
unattainable.
Her mother fretted a little that she didn't get to doing something. Here
were girls earning five or six dollars a week, and her father's wages
were so small it was a pinch all the time.
"I'm sure I make all our dresses and sew for father, and do lots of
housework," replied Chris, half-crying.
There were people even then who considered it more genteel not to work
out of the house. And since servants were not generally kept, a
daughter's assistance was needed in the household.
And to crown the little girl's troubles her dear mayor was retired to
private life and a Democrat ruled in his stead.
But there were the new discoveries to talk about, and the reduction of
postage due to the old administration. Now you could send a letter
three hundred miles for five cents. Hanny wrote several times a year to
her grandmother Underhill, so this interested her. At the end of the
century we are clamoring for penny postage, and our delivery is free.
Then they had to pay the carrier.
The electro-magnetic telegraph was coming in for its share of attention.
Scientific people were dropping into the old University of New York,
where Mr. Morse was working it. The city had been connected with
Washington. There were people who believed "there was a humbugging
fellow at both ends," and that the scheme couldn't be made to work. It
was cumbersome compared to modern methods. And Professor John W. Draper
took the first daguerreotype from the roof of that famous building. That
was the greatest wonder of the day. What was more remarkable, a picture
or portrait could be copied in a few moments. Then there was a hint of
war with Mexico, and the Oregon question was looming up with its
cabalistic figures of "54, 40, or fight." Indeed, it seemed as if war
was in the air.
Children too had trials, especially John Robert Charles. He had been
allowed to go to Allen Street Sunday-school with the Dean children, and
he went over on Saturday afternoon to study the lesson. Hanny used to
come in, and occasionally they had a little tea. They played in the
yard and the wide back area. The boys did tease him; the target was too
good to miss. Hanny sympathized with him, for he was so nice and
pleasant. They couldn't decide just what name to call him. Bob did well
enough for the boys, but it was a little too rough for girls.
His mother still made him put on a long, checked pinafore to come to
meals. His father used a white napkin. And he did wipe dishes for her,
and help with the vegetables on Saturday. He could spread up a bed as
neatly as a girl, but he kept these accomplishments to himself.
There was another excitement among the small people. Mr. Bradbury, who
for years was destined to be the children's delight, was teaching
singing classes and giving concerts with his best pupils. Mrs. Dean
decided to let the girls go to the four o'clock class. Hanny would join
them. They could study the Sunday lesson before or afterward.
"If I only could go," sighed the boy. The tears came into his eyes.
"And you can sing just lovely!" declared Tudie.
Josie stood up with a warmly flushing face.
"I do believe I'd raise an insurrection. It isn't as if you wanted to do
anything wicked, like swearing or stealing. And my father said God gave
beautiful voices to people to sing with."
"But if I asked mother she wouldn't let me go. And--I couldn't run away.
You see that would be just for once. Perhaps then I wouldn't be let to
come over here, afterward," the boy replied sadly.
"Couldn't you coax?" asked Hanny.
"I could just ask, and she'd say no."
Hanny felt so sorry for him. He was very fair and had pretty, but rather
timid eyes.
"You can't raise an insurrection when you know for certain it'll be put
down the next moment," the boy added.
"Well," Josie drew a long breath and studied.
"I'd ask my father," said Hanny.
"And he'd say, 'Ask your mother; it's as she says.' Most everything _is_
as mother says."
"Then I'd put my arms around his neck and coax. I'd tell him I wanted to
be like other boys. They think it's queer----"
Hanny stopped, very red in the face.
"Oh, you needn't mind. I know they laugh at me and make fun of me. But
mother's so nice and clean, only I wish she'd dress up as your mothers
do, and take a walk sometimes and go to church. And she cooks such
splendid things and makes puddings and pies, and she lets me sit and
read when I'm done my lessons. I have all the Rollo books, and father
has Sir Walter Scott, that he's letting me read now. It's only that
mother thinks I'll get into bad things and meet bad boys and get my
clothes soiled. Oh, sometimes I'm so tired of being nice! Only you
wouldn't want me to come over here if I wasn't."
That was very true.
"But there are a great many nice boys. Ben's just lovely, only he is
growing up so fast," said the little girl, with a sigh. "And though Jim
teases, he is real good and jolly. He doesn't keep his hands clean, and
mother scolds him a little for that."
They could not decide about the insurrection. Presently it was time for
Charles to go home. He was always on the mark lest he should not be
allowed the indulgence next time. The poor boy had been moulded into the
straight line of duty.
The girls went out to swing. They could all three sit in at once. And
they often talked all at once.
"It's just awful mean!"
"If we only could do something!"
"Girls!" Josie put her foot so firmly on the ground it almost tipped
them out. "Girls, let _us_ see Mr. Reed and ask him."
They all looked at each other with large eyes.
"It couldn't be wrong," began Josie; "because I've asked _your_ father,
Hanny, to let you come up to our stoop."
"No, it couldn't be," said the chorus in firm approval.
"Then let's do it. He always comes up First Avenue about half-past five
on Saturdays. Now if we were to walk down----"
"Splendid!" ejaculated Tudie.
"And I'll ask mother if we can't go out for a little walk."
"We mustn't wait too late."
Tudie ran in to look at the kitchen clock. It was twenty minutes past
five.
"I'll go and ask."
"Why, isn't your own sidewalk good enough?" was Mrs. Dean's inquiry.
"Well--yes, you may do an errand for me down at the store. I want a
pound of butter crackers. Don't go off the block."
They put on their bonnets. Hanny's was a pretty shirred and ruffled blue
lawn. They twined their arms around each other's waists, with Hanny in
the middle and walked slowly down to the store. Tudie kept watch while
her sister was making the purchase. Then they walked up, then down,
looking on the other side lest they should not see him. Up and down
again--up with very slow steps. What if they _should_ miss him!
They turned. "Hillo!" cried a familiar voice.
"Oh, Mr. Reed!" They blocked his way in a manner that amused him. He
looked from one to the other, and smiled at the eager faces.
"Oh, Mr. Reed--we wanted to--to----"
"To ask you----" prompted Tudie.
Josie's face was very red. It was different asking about a boy. She had
not thought of that.
"We want Charles to go to singing-school with us next Saturday. Mr.
Bradbury said we might ask all the _nice_ children we knew."
Hanny had crossed the Rubicon in a very lady-like manner.
Mr. Reed laughed pleasantly, but they knew he was not making fun of
them.
"Why, yes; I haven't any objection. It will be as his mother says."
They all looked blank, disappointed.
"If _you_ would say it," pleaded Josie. "Then we should be sure."
"Well, I will say it. He shall go next Saturday. He has a nice voice,
and there is no reason why he should not be singing with the rest of
you."
"Oh, thank you a thousand times."
"It's hardly worth that." Mr. Reed was a little nettled. Had Charles put
them up to this?
They were at the corner and turned down their side of the street,
nodding gayly.
"You see it was just as easy as nothing," remarked Josie complacently.
Mr. Reed entered his own area, wiped his feet, and hung up his hat. He
went out in the back area and washed his hands. Every other day a clean
towel was put on the roller. The house was immaculate. The supper-table
was set. Mrs. Reed was finishing a block of patchwork, catch-up work,
when she had to wait two minutes. She went out in the hall taking the
last stitch, and called up the stairway:
"John Robert Charles!"
Meals were generally very quiet. Charles had been trained not to speak
unless he was spoken to. Once or twice his father looked at him. A
pinafore was rather ridiculous on such a big boy. How very large his
white collar was! His hair looked too sleek. He was a regular Miss
Nancy.
He helped his mother take out the dishes and wiped them for her.
"Come out on the stoop, Charles," said his father afterward, as he
picked up his paper.
Mrs. Reed wondered if Charles had committed some overt act that she knew
nothing about. _Could_ anything elude her sharp eyes?
Mr. Reed pretended to be busy with his paper, but he was thinking of his
son. In his early years the child had been a bone of contention. His
mother always knew just what to do with him, just what was proper, and
would brook no interference. What with her cleanliness, her inordinate
love of regularity and order, she had become a domestic tyrant. He had
yielded because he loved peace. There was a good deal of comfort in his
house. He went out two or three evenings in the week, to the lodge, to
his whist club, and occasionally to call on a friend. Mrs. Reed never
had any time to waste on such trifling matters. He had not thought much
about his boy except to place him in a good school.
"Charles, couldn't you have asked me about the singing-school?" he said
rather sharply.
"About--the singing-school?" Charles was dazed.
"Yes. It wasn't very manly to set a lot of little girls asking a favor
for you. I'm ashamed of you!"
"Oh, father--who asked? We were talking of it over to Josie Dean's. I
knew mother wouldn't let me go. I--I said so." Charles' fair face was
very red.
"You put them up to ask!"
"No, I didn't. They never said a word about it. Why, I wouldn't have
asked them to do it."
Mr. Reed looked suspiciously at his son.
"You don't care to go?"
"Yes, I do, very much." The boy's voice was tremulous.
"Why couldn't _you_ ask me?"
"Because you would leave it to mother, and she would say it was not
worth while."
"Was that what you told them?" Mr. Reed was truly mortified. No man
likes to be considered without power in his own household.
"I--I think it was," hesitated the boy. The girls had started an
insurrection, sure enough. Well, the poor lad had no chance before. It
was not a hope swept away, there had been no hope. But now he gave up.
"Don't be a fool nor a coward," exclaimed his father gruffly. "Here, get
your hat and go straight over to the Deans'. Tell them your _father_
says you can go to singing-school next Saturday afternoon, that he will
be very glad to have you go. And next time you want anything ask me."
If the boy had only dared clasp his father's hand and thank him, but he
had been repressed and snipped off and kept in leading-strings too long
to dare a spontaneous impulse. So he walked over as if he had been
following some imaginary chalk line. The Deans were all up in the back
parlor. He did his errand and came back at once, before Josie and Tudie
had recovered from their surprise.
Nothing else happened. Mrs. Reed went out presently to do the
Saturday-night marketing. She preferred to go alone. She could make
better bargains. When she returned Mr. Reed lighted his cigar and took a
stroll around the block. There was no smoking in the house, hardly in
the back yard.
Saturday noon Mrs. Reed said to her son:
"You are to go to singing-school this afternoon. If I hear of your
loitering with any bad boys, or misbehaving in any way, that will end
it."
The poor lad had not felt sure for a moment. Oh, how delightful it was!
though a boy nudged him and said, "Sissy, does your mother know you're
out," and two or three others called him "Anna Maria Jemima Reed."
However, as Mr. Bradbury was trying voices by each row, the sweetness of
Charles' struck him, and he asked him to remain when the others were
dismissed. One other boy and several girls were in this favored class,
and next week they had the seats of honor.
The next great thing for all the children was the May walk. All the
Sunday-schools joined in a grand procession and marched down Broadway to
Castle Garden. There was a standard-bearer with a large banner, and
several smaller ones in every school. The teachers were with the
classes, the parents and friends were to be at the Garden. Most of the
little girls had their new white dresses, the boys their summer suits
and caps. For May was May then, all but Quaker week, when it was sure
to rain.
A pretty sight it was indeed. The bright, happy faces, the white-robed
throng, and almost every girl had her hair curled for the occasion.
There was a feeling among some of the older people that curls were vain
and sinful, but they forgave them this day.
The audience was ranged around the outside. The little people marched
in, and up the broad aisle, singing:
"We come, we come, with loud acclaim,
To sing the praise of Jesus' name;
And make the vaulted temple ring
With loud hosannas to our King."
The platform--they called it that on such occasions--was full of
clergymen and speakers for the festival. Some of the older eminent
divines, some who were to be eminent later on, some of the high
dignitaries of the city; and they could hardly fail to be inspired at
the sight of the sweet, happy, youthful faces.
And how they sang! The most popular thing of that day was:
"There is a happy land--
Far, far away."
It was fresh then and had not been parodied to everything. No doubt it
would have shocked some of the sticklers if they had known that the
words and tune were, in a measure, adapted from a pretty opera song:
"I have come from a happy land,
Where care is unknown;
And first in a joyous band
I'll make thee mine own."
There were many other hymns that appealed to the hearts of the children
of those days. "I Think When I Read that Sweet Story of Old," and "Jesus
Loves Me, this I Know."
There were speeches, short and to the point, some with a glint of humor
in them, and then hymns again. Perhaps we have done better since, but
the grand enthusiasm of that time has not been reached in later
reunions.
It seemed to the little girl that this really was the crowning glory of
her life. She could not have guessed under what circumstances she was to
recall it, indeed this day had no future to her. At first her mother had
insisted the walk was too long, but Steve said he and Dolly would bring
her home in the carriage. Margaret promised to get her new white dress
done, and it was to be tucked almost up to the waist. Her mother gave in
at last, and went down to see the children, being delighted herself.
Aunt Eunice was there, too. She had come to the city for the
long-talked-of visit, and next week was to be Quaker Meeting. She had
not been to one in years. Indeed, she could hardly call herself a
Friend. She had married out of the faith and said _you_ oftener than
_thee_, but she kept to the pretty, soft gray attire and plain bonnet.
Hanny and the Deans and Nora thought her "just lovely." Hanny went to
the Friends' Meeting-House with her on Sunday afternoon, down in Hester
Street. It was severely plain, and the men sat on one side, the women on
the other, while a few seats were reserved for any of the world's people
that might stray in. The men looked odd, Hanny thought, with their long
hair just "banged" across the forehead and falling over their collars.
The coats were queer, too, and they kept on their hats, which shocked
her a little at first.
Oh, how still it was! Hanny waited and waited for the minister, but she
could not see any pulpit. There was no singing, only that solemn
silence. If she had been a little Quaker girl she would have been
thinking of her sins, and making new resolves. Instead she watched the
faces. Some were very sweet; many old and wrinkled.
Suddenly an old gentleman arose and talked a few moments. When he sat
down a tall woman laid off her hat and, standing up, began to speak in a
more vigorous manner than the brother. She seemed almost scolding,
Hanny thought. After her, another silence, then a lovely old lady with a
soft voice told of the blessings she had found and the peace they ought
all to seek.
Everybody rose and went out quietly.
"It doesn't seem a real church, Aunt Eunice," said Hanny. "And there was
no minister."
"Oh, child, it isn't! It's just a meeting. It did not seem very
spiritual to-day."
"If they only had some singing."
Aunt Eunice smiled, but made no reply. Hanny decided she did not want to
be a Friend.
They went down to visit Aunt Nancy and Aunt Patience, and Margaret took
Aunt Eunice up to see Miss Lois Underhill, who had gone on living alone.
She said she could never take root in any other place, and perhaps it
was true. Her kindly German neighbor looked after her, but she was very
grateful for a visit.
Steve was building his new house and they thought to get in it by the
fall. It was on the plot Dolly's father had given her at Twentieth
Street near Fifth Avenue. The Coventry Waddells, who were really the
leaders of fashionable society, were erecting a very handsome and
picturesque mansion on Murray Hill, between Fifth and Sixth avenues on
Thirty-eighth Street. The grounds took the whole block. There were
towers and gables and oriels, and a large conservatory that was to
contain all manner of rare plants, native as well as foreign. But
everybody thought it quite out in the country.
Steve laughingly said they would have fine neighbors. The Waddells were
noted for their delightful entertaining.
They took Aunt Eunice a walk down Broadway to show her the sights. The
"dollar side" had become the accepted promenade. Already there were some
quite notable people who were pointed out to visitors. You could see Mr.
N. P. Willis, who was then at the zenith of his fame. When a
Sunday-school entertainment wanted to give something particularly fine,
the best speaker recited his poem, "The Leper," which was considered
very striking. There was Lewis Gaylord Clark, of _The Knickerbocker_,
who wrote charming letters, and these two were admitted to be very
handsome men. There was George P. Morris, whose songs were sung
everywhere, and not a few literary ladies. There was the Broadway swell
in patent-leather boots and trousers strapped tightly down, in the style
the boys irreverently called pegtops. He had a high-standing collar, a
fancy tie, a light silk waistcoat with a heavy watch-chain and seal, a
coat with large, loose sleeves, a high hat, and carried his cane under
his arm, while, as one of the writers of the day said, "he ambled along
daintily."
Then you might meet the Hammersley carriage with its footman and livery
that had made quite a talk. Young and handsome Mrs. Little, whose
marriage to an old man had been the gossip of the season, sat in elegant
state with her coachman in dark blue. Now one hardly notes the handsome
equipages, or the livery either.
But the "Bowery boy" was as great a feature of the time as the Broadway
swell. He, too, wore a silk hat, and it generally had a three-inch
mourning band. His hair was worn in long, well-oiled locks in front,
combed up with a peculiar twist. He wore a broad collar turned over, and
a sailor tie, a flashy vest with a large amount of seal and chain, and
wide trousers turned up. His coat he carried on his arm when the weather
permitted, and he always had a cigar in the lower corner of his mouth.
He walked with a swagger and a swing that took half the sidewalk. He ran
"wid de machine," and a fire was his delight; to get into a fight his
supreme happiness. He really did not frequent the Bowery so much as the
side streets. There were little stores where cigars and beer were sold,
something stronger perhaps, and they were generally kept by some old
lady who could also get up a meal on a short notice after a fire. On
summer nights they had chairs out in front of the door, and tilting back
on two legs would smoke and take their comfort. For diversion they went
to Vauxhall Garden or the pit of the Bowery Theatre. Yet they were quite
a picturesque feature of old New York.
Bowery and Grand Street were the East Side's shopping marts. Stewart was
building a marble palace at the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street.
You went to Division and Canal streets for your bonnets. There were a
few private milliners who made to order and imported.
There were sails and short journeys to take even then. Elysian Fields
had not lost all its glory. And yet the little girl was quite
disappointed in her visit to it. She had lived in the country, you know,
she had looked off the Sound at Rye Beach and seen the Hudson from
Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow, and really there were lovely spots up the
old Bloomingdale road. And she had pictured this as beyond all.
Aunt Eunice was very much struck with the changes. Her surprise really
delighted the little girl. They took her over in Hammersley Street. Old
Mr. Bounett seemed quite feeble, and though he was not in his court
attire, he had a ruffled shirt-front and small-clothes. Aunt Eunice
thought him delightful. It seemed queer to think of a French quarter in
New York in the old part of the last century where people met and read
from the French poets and dramatists, and almost believed when
civilization set in earnestly, French must be the polite language of the
day.
The little girl felt quite as if she was one of the hostesses of the
city. She knew so many strange things and could find her way about so
well. And yet she was only ten years old.
Aunt Eunice thought her a quaint, delightful little body, and wise for
her years. But she _was_ small. Nora Whitney had outgrown her and the
Dean children were getting so large. As for the boys, they grew like
weeds, and the trouble now was what to do with Ben. There was no free
academy in those days, but the public school gave you a good and
thorough education in the useful branches.