JOHN THOUGHT HE WOULD LIKE TO TRAVEL.
I HAD always been of a literary turn; so, while employed in the Arsenal,
I concluded to write a book, and give to the world, therein, an account
of soldier life, as I had experienced it; and I had very little doubt
that eighty or ninety thousand dollars might be made out of it. I
carried out my determination, writing in the evenings, after my daily
labors; and when I left the Arsenal, I had completed the manuscript of
my work, which, when published, a few months after, constituted a
duodecimo volume of over four hundred pages.[1]
Footnote 1:
OUR BOYS. Comprising the personal experiences of the author while in
the army, and embracing some of the richest and raciest scenes of army
and camp life ever published. By A. F. Hill, of the Eighth Pa.
Reserves. With portrait of the author on steel, and several
characteristic illustrations on wood. 12mo. Cloth, price $1.75.
I did not make “eighty or ninety thousand” out of the work, as my
sanguine nature had led me to anticipate; but I made a “few thousand,”
and I concluded to travel a little and see some of that portion of the
world lying within the boundaries of the United States: and it was while
thus traveling,
chiefly in our own country, that I met with a great many funny
adventures which I shall relate in this book.
The first time I visited New York, I went to remain a few weeks as
correspondent of a Pennsylvania newspaper. I think any stranger’s first
impression of Gotham is, that it is a busy sort of a place; and the
longer he stays there the more he “keeps on thinking so.” The bustle of
Broadway has been so frequently dilated upon, that I will not attempt to
enter upon a regular description of it. It must be seen to be
appreciated; and I concluded to see it the first thing. So I hailed an
omnibus that came thundering along, and somewhat astonished the driver
by climbing nimbly to the _top_ of it, instead of taking a seat within.
“You get up quicker than a two-legged man,” was his brief comment.
“Havn’t so much weight to pull up,” I replied; and paid my fare.
From my lofty perch I had a good view up and down Broadway, as well as
on each side. Numberless pedestrians thronged the sidewalks, while
vehicles, of all kinds, shapes and sizes, crowded together, rolled along
and swayed to and fro in the street like a mighty torrent.
We had not proceeded far up Broadway, when cluck! went one of the front
wheels of our “bus” against another one that was coming down—they got
tangled and a “jam-up” ensued. Although I could not see that it was the
fault of either driver, they cursed each other in round terms. One
driver swore at the other, and the other swore at him; then they swore
at each other, in concert, for a quarter of a minute, in the course of
which they were very earnest and emphatic in advising each other to
emigrate to a certain fabled climate where the mercury in the
thermometer seldom falls to the freezing point. The way these drivers
curse each other is frightful. If all the men told to go to that hot
climate in the course of a year by Broadway drivers, should go, the
place would be crowded to suffocation. The expression I refer to seems
to be a favorite one among the drivers of vehicles on Broadway; and I
presume, that on that thoroughfare there are more men urged to visit
Erebus in one day, then there are warned against it in all the rest of
the land in a whole year.
For about two miles up Broadway, the rattle of omnibuses,
express-wagons, drays, furniture-cars, buggies, barouches, cabriolets,
etc., was really bewildering. As I looked upon the busy streams of men
that hurried along the sidewalks—their faces all strange to me, yet no
two alike—and saw the rumbling carriages, all crowding forward as though
life depended on their speed, I could not help thinking of this stanza
in Byron’s Childe Harold:
“But ’midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,
And roam along the world’s tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendor, shrinking from distress!
None that with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
Of all that flattered, followed, sought or sued,
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!”
Every one who has had any experience in the matter, must have observed
that a person is more lonely in a crowded city, where he is
unacquainted, than in the depths of the forest where no human being is
seen.
As I had no money to throw away, I stayed at a modest hotel in Park Row,
where one could live on less than twenty-five dollars a day. I shall
never forget a brief acquaintance I made there. The first evening I
stayed in New York, I was seated in the hotel trying to make up my mind
whether to go to the theater or not, when I observed, sitting near me, a
sedate gentleman of prepossessing exterior, fifty or sixty years old,
and dressed in plain clothes and a broad-brimmed silk hat, of a grave
and dignified appearance. I could not help fancying that he was at least
an ex-governor, or something of the sort; and I felt somewhat flattered
when he moved his chair closer to mine, with the obvious intention of
addressing me. He opened his mouth to speak, and I nerved myself to
reply with respectful dignity, when he said, in a low tone:
“Would you lend me fifteen cents?”
The man was a “dead beat.” I resolved never to place much reliance on
appearances again.
Having made up my mind to go to the theater and see John E. Owens play
“Solon Shingle,” I walked out. At the door I met a solitary boot-black,
who greeted me with, “black ’em?”
“You may black _it_,” I replied, “for you see I have only one to black.”
“All right,” said he; whereupon I seated myself on a low railing that
guarded a cellar-way, and placed my foot on his box.
He had soon “shined” it sufficiently, but was still brushing away at it,
when I said:
“There, that will do; what do you charge?”
The dirty, ragged little fellow looked thoughtfully and earnestly up
into my face, and replied:
“O, I won’t charge _you_ any thing; you’re only got _one_.”
I compelled him to accept a ten-cent note, of course, assuring him that
I had “bushels of ’em;” but the intention was no less kind in him; and
such a noble thought, though the poor little heart from which it sprung
be clothed in rags and filth, will shine in heaven when the rust has
long covered and hidden the millions of gold which men of wealth have
contributed to “charitable institutions!”
Before leaving New York, (which is ironically styled Gotham, from an old
English town noted for the stupidity of its citizens,) let me say one
word about its early history. New York, the great commercial metropolis
of this country, is built on an island fourteen miles long, and from one
fourth of a mile to two miles and a half wide, called, originally,
Manhattan Island. This island was purchased from the Indians many years
ago for twenty-four silver dollars. No wonder that race of people have
had such bad luck during the last century; for any people who would
extort such a sum of money from simple, inoffensive Europeans, don’t
deserve any providential favors. Poor, impoverished New York has been
struggling ever since to get out of debt, but in vain; this colossal
sum, which the heartless savages demanded in ready hard cash, completely
“strapped” the mayor and city council, and they have never been able to
struggle up to an independent pecuniary position since.
Shortly before leaving the city, I was taking my usual stroll, when,
turning the corner of Broadway and Fulton street rather abruptly, I
accidentally planted my crutch fairly upon the unfortunate toes of an
elderly gentleman. He proved to be one of the irascible sort—and no
doubt it _did_ hurt like the deuce—and he turned angrily toward me,
brandished a cane, and vociferated:
“****’* fire and ***nation! If you were not a one-legged man I’d knock
your head off!”
Thus, you see, that having lost a leg saved my head.
I felt a little riled at first, but seeing that he was an old man, I
curbed my fiery passion and calmly replied:
“If I were not a one-legged man, sir, I would not be using a crutch; and
hence it wouldn’t have happened.” And we went our ways.
Without getting robbed, or garroted, or murdered in cold blood—in fact
without getting “done” in any shape, I spent several weeks in New York,
visiting many places of interest in the vicinity, such as Central Park,
High Bridge, and the various islands in the bay and harbor; and finally
returned to Philadelphia, my adopted city, with the impression that New
York wasn’t such a bad place after all.