This window by which we sit is really very trying to our spirit. On
a clear fluid blue day the sunlight pours over the cliffs and craggy
coves and angles of the great buildings round St. Paul's churchyard.
We can see the temptation of being a cubist painter as we study all
those intersecting planes of light and shadow. Across the way, on
Fulton Street, above the girl in a green hat who is just now
ingurgitating a phial of orangeade, there are six different roof
levels, rising like steps toward the gold lightning bolts of the
statue on top of the Telephone and Telegraph Building. Each of
these planes carries its own particular impact of light or shadow.
The sunshine seems to flow like an impalpable cataract over the top
of the Hudson Terminal, breaking and shining in a hundred splashes
and pools of brightness among the stone channels below. Far down the
course of Church Street we can see the top floors of the Whitehall
Building. We think of the little gilt ball that darts and dances so
merrily in the fountain jet in front of that building. We think of
the merry mercators of the Whitehall Club sitting at lunch on the
cool summit of that great edifice. We think of the view as seen from
there, the olive-coloured gleam of the water, the ships and tugs
speckled about the harbour. And, looking down, we can see a peaceful
gentleman sitting on a bench in St. Paul's graveyard, reading a
book. We think seriously of writing a note, "_What are you
reading?_" and weighting it with an inkwell and hurling it down to
him. This window continually draws our mind outward and sets us
speculating, when we ought to be answering letters or making
inquiries of coal dealers as to whether there is any chance of
getting a supply for next winter.
* * * * *
On such a day, having in mind that we ought to write another chapter
of our book "How to Spend Three Hours at Lunch Time," we issued
forth with Endymion to seek refreshment. It was a noontide to stir
even the most carefully fettered bourgeois to impulses of escapade
and foray. What should we do? At first we had some thought of
showing to Endymion the delightful subterranean passage that leads
from the cathedral grottoes of the Woolworth Building to the City
Hall subway station, but we decided we could not bear to leave the
sunlight. So we chose a path at random and found ourselves at the
corner of Beekman and Gold streets.
Now our intention was to make tracks toward Hanover Square and there
to consider the world as viewed over the profile of a slab of
cheesecake; but on viewing the agreeable old house at the corner of
Gold Street--"The Old Beekman, Erected 1827," once called the Old
Beekman Halfway House, but now the Old Beekman Luncheonette--no
hungry man in his senses could pass without tarrying. A flavour of
comely and respectable romance was apparent in this pleasant place,
with its neat and tight-waisted white curtains in the upstairs
windows and an outdoor stairway leading up to the second floor.
Inside, at a table in a cool, dark corner, we dealt with hot dogs
and cloudy cider in a manner beyond criticism. The name Luncheonette
does this fine tavern serious injustice: there is nothing of the
feminine or the soda fountain about it: it is robust, and we could
see by the assured bearing of some well-satisfied habitués that it
is an old landmark in that section.
But the brisk air and tempting serenity of the day made it seem
emphatically an occasion for two lunches, and we passed on, along
Pearl Street, in the bright checkerboard of sunbeams that slip
through the trestles of the "L." It was cheerful to see that the
same old Spanish cafés are still there, though we were a little
disappointed to see that one of them has moved from its old-time
quarters, where that fine brass-bound stairway led up from the
street, to a new and gaudy palace on the other side. We also admired
the famous and fascinating camp outfitting shop at 208 Pearl Street,
which apparently calls itself WESTMINSTER ABBEY: but that
is not the name of the shop but of the proprietor. We have been told
that Mr. Abbey's father christened him so, intending him to enter
the church. In the neighbourhood of Cliff and Pearl streets we
browsed about enjoying the odd and savoury smells. There are all
sorts of aromas in that part of the city, coffee and spices, drugs,
leather, soap, and cigars. There was one very sweet, pervasive, and
subtle smell, a caressing harmony for the nostril, which we pursued
up and down various byways. Here it would quicken and grow almost
strong enough for identification; then again it would become faint
and hardly discernible. It had a rich, sweet oily tang, but we were
at a loss to name it. We finally concluded that it was the bouquet
of an "odourless disinfectant" that seemed to have its headquarters
near by. In one place some bales of dried and withered roots were
being loaded on a truck: they gave off a faint savour, which was
familiar but baffling. On inquiry, these were sarsaparilla. Endymion
was pleased with a sign on a doorway: "_Crude drugs and spices and
essential oils._" This, he said, was a perfect Miltonic line.
Hanover Square, however, was the apex of our pilgrimage. To come
upon India House is like stepping back into the world of Charles
Lamb. We had once lunched in the clubrooms upstairs with a charming
member and we had never forgotten the old seafaring prints, the
mustard pots of dark blue glass, the five-inch mutton chops, the
Victorian contour of the waiter's waistcoat of green and yellow
stripe. This time we fared toward the tavern in the basement, where
even the outsider may penetrate, and were rejoiced by a snug table
in the corner. Here we felt at once the true atmosphere of lunching,
which is at its best when one can get in a corner, next to some old
woodwork rubbed and shiny with age. Shandygaff, we found, was not
unknown to the servitor; and the cider that we saw Endymion beaming
upon was a blithe, clear yellow, as merry to look at as a fine white
wine. Very well, very well indeed, we said to ourselves; let the
world revolve; in the meantime, what is that printed in blackface
type upon the menu? We have looked upon the faces of many men, we
have endured travail and toil and perplexity, we have written much
rot and suffered much inward shame to contemplate it; but in the
meantime (we said, gazing earnestly upon the face of Endymion), in
the meantime, we repeated, and before destiny administers that final
and condign chastisement that we ripely merit, let us sit here in
the corner of the India House and be of good cheer. And at this
point, matters being so, and a second order of butter being already
necessary, the waiter arrived with the Spanish omelet.
Homeward by the way of South Street, admiring the slender concave
bows of fine ships--the _Mexico_ and the _Santa Marta_, for
instance--and privily wondering what were our chances of smelling
blue water within the next quinquennium, we passed in mild and
placid abandonment. On Burling Slip, just where in former times
there used to hang a sign KIPLING BREW (which always interested us),
we saw a great, ragged, burly rogue sitting on a doorstep. He had
the beard of a buccaneer, the placid face of one at ease with
fortune. He hitched up his shirt and shifted from one ham to another
with supreme and sunkissed contentment. And Endymion, who sees all
things as the beginnings of heavenly poems, said merrily: "As I was
walking on Burling Slip, I saw a seaman without a ship."
[Illustration]