I met with scoffs, I met with scorns
From youth, and babe, and hoary hairs,
They called me in the public squares,
The fool that wears a crown of thorns.
TENNYSON'S "IN MEMORIAM."
It was without delay that Holden applied himself to the purpose of
his visit to New York, in which he was seconded, to the best of his
ability, by Pownal. All the time the young man could spare from his
own business he devoted to his friend, though fearful that there was
little probability of succeeding in the search. But who, however,
convinced of the futility of the inquiries, could refuse his
assistance to one engaged in an investigation of so deep and sacred an
interest, and who believed with an implicit faith in ultimate success?
And such is the nature of enthusiasm, or a high-wrought faith, that
Pownal himself could not refrain from entering with some degree of
spirit into an inquiry, which he felt would probably be in vain.
Together they sought out, in the first place, the street indicated by
Esther. Formerly an obscure part of the city, it had now become, by
those mutations which are constantly occurring, and nowhere with such
rapidity as in this country, a considerable rendezvous of trade. By
rare good luck, the name of the street had been preserved, and by luck
still rarer, the house itself, corresponding in all respects to the
description by Esther. It was one of those ancient Dutch houses, of
which mention has been made, built of a yellowish brick, and standing
with its gable-end toward the street, its steep-pointed roof,
constituting at least one-half of the building, rising with an air of
command, dominating the whole, and seeming, indeed, to be that portion
to which all the other parts were only subsidiary, and constructed for
its honor and glory. Neither Holden nor Pownal had, for an instant,
doubted the honesty and truth of Esther, and yet it must be confessed,
that the discovery of a building, so exactly corresponding with her
description, added fresh fuel to the hopes of the former, and was
not without influence on the latter. And yet, at a moment when, as
it seemed to himself, he was about to realize his dear hopes--for the
imagination of the Solitary leaped over all intervening difficulties,
and, in the confusion of his mind, it almost appeared as if when the
door opened, he should see and recognize his son--Holden laid his hand
on Pownal's arm, and arrested his steps.
"Stay," he said, "let me pause a moment, and recover my wandering
thoughts. There is a sound as of a tempest in my brain, and a confused
noise, as of a trampling of men and horses."
He sat down on the stone step, as if unable to support himself, and
rested his head on his hand.
"Here," he said, speaking to himself, with a trembling voice, "the
merciful savage whose heart the Lord touched, left my child. Here his
little feet trod, and against this wall his head rested. Would that
these inanimate things could know my gratitude! But thou knowest it,
O, all Merciful, my goodness, and my fortress, my high tower, and my
deliverer, my shield, and he in whom I trust. Lord, what is man that
thou takest knowledge of him! or the son of man, that thou makest
account of him! Didst thou not, in the olden time, hear the voice
of the perishing child, Ishmael, and say, by thine angel, unto his
weeping mother, Fear not, for God hath heard the voice of the lad
where he is. Arise, lift up the lad, and hold him in thine hand, for
I will make him a great nation? Even so now hast thou done unto me and
remembered me in my low estate, for thy mercy endureth for ever."
Thus the father poured out his heart, alike unconscious of the
gathering crowd, which his unusual appearance and strange language had
collected around him, and of the observations they made.
"I say, Haxall," said a stout boy, whose dirty and ragged clothing,
and vicious expression of face, proclaimed him one of those
predestined candidates for the State Prison and gallows, bred to
their fate by the criminal neglect of the State, "I say," he said,
addressing his companion, as wicked looking as himself, "isn't it a
rum old covey."
"Why the old cuss is a crying," answered Haxall, "or, perhaps, it's
the whisky leaking out he took for his morning bitters."
"Whisky be d----d," said the other. "He never got as far as that. It's
nothing but sour cider. I can smell it."
Here there was a brutal laugh, in which some of the bystanders,
equally degraded, joined.
"For shame, young men," said a respectable-looking person, whose
broad-brimmed hat, and formal and amply cut clothing, proclaimed him
a Quaker; "is an old man, in tears, a proper subject for ribaldry?
It were better ye were engaged in some honest employment, than idling
away your time, and disgracing yourselves by the use of profane
language."
"Smoke the old quiz, Haxall," cried the boy who had first spoken. "He
opens rich. Let's see what's in the prig."
"Smoke him, smoke him," cried several voices.
Thus exhorted, Haxall jerking his cap jauntily on one side of his
head, throwing an additional quantity of impudence into his face, and
placing his hands on the hips, so that the elbows stuck out on each
side, approached the Quaker.
"So you set yourself up for a preacher of righteousness," he said; "do
ye? Well, you may preach away without asking my leave, or I'll give it
to ye gratis, for nothing. That's cheap enough, I guess. Most of
your sort, though, don't like to preach for nothing. So here's my
contribution to set you a going." So saying, he held out a cent.
"There's value received," he added, "and, mind ye, ye give us a
preachment equal to the consideration. But first, beloved brother,
I've a question to ask. Up to the tip top of your judgment, now do you
think your regimentals is just the right thing, and no mistake?
Did Saint Paul and Saint, Saint, d----n the fellows, I forget their
names"----
"Saint Tammany," suggested his companion.
"I owe you a drink for that, Bill," said Haxall. "Yes, Saint Tammany.
Now, do you think them gentlemen, who I've heard, was real respectable
men, though it was rather a comedown to take to preaching, ever
sported such an infernal broadbrim as that, or turned out a tail as
broad as yours?"
The Quaker gentleman, who, at the commencement of the young scamp's
speech, as if frightened at the prospect of a colloquy he had
provoked, had betrayed a desire to escape from the crowd, seemed, as
the other proceeded, to have changed his mind, and listened to him
with the utmost calmness and imperturbable good humor. When the boy
had got through with his impertinences, which he ran over with great
volubility, garnishing them with many epithets we have omitted, and,
at the close, had received the applause of those like him, who stood
around, and, now, seemed waiting for a reply, the Quaker, with great
sweetness, answered--
"My young friend, it would ill become me to return a harsh word for
thy rather rude address, nor will my feelings towards thee and all in
thy unhappy condition, permit me to speak to thee, except in pity and
in sorrow."
"Go to h----l with your pity. Nobody asks you for it," exclaimed
Haxall, fiercely.
"Gently, boy, gently, and do not profane thy lips with such language.
Alas! thou hast been allowed to grow up like a wild animal, and
canst not be expected to know there are those who regard thee with
affection. But, surely, goodness can never be quite extinguished in
one who has the form of humanity. I see thou dost not know me?"
"Never set eyes on ye before, old square toes, and be d----d to you."
"Yet, I know thee, and, perhaps, the guilt is partly mine that thou
art even now what thou art. Thou hast, then, forgotten the man who,
only a year ago, jumped off Coenties Slip, and, by the kindness of
Providence, rescued a boy from drowning?"
"Have I forgot!" exclaimed Haxall, with a sudden revulsion of feeling.
"No, d----d me, not altogether. I thought there was something devilish
queer in your voice. So you was the man, and I am the b'hoy. Oh,
what a cussed beast I am to insult you! Give us your hand. I ask
your pardon, sir. I ask your pardon. And," he added, looking fiercely
round, "if there's a man here who crooks his thumb at ye, I swear I'll
whip him within an inch of his life."
"Swear not at all," said the mild Quaker, "nor talk of fighting, as
if thou wert a dog. I see, notwithstanding thy coarseness and vile
language, thou art not all evil, and, if thou wilt come with me,
I will endeavor to repair my former neglect, by putting thee in a
situation where thou mayst become an useful man."
The boy hesitated. Two impulses seemed to be drawing him in opposite
directions. He was afraid of the ridicule of his companion, and of the
sneer which he saw on his face, and who, now, was urging him to leave
with him. Yet, there was something peculiarly attractive about the
Quaker that was difficult to resist.
The good Quaker read the indecision of his mind, and understood the
cause. "Come," he said, "be a man, and choose for thyself like a man.
Thou shalt remain with me only so long as thou wilt, and shalt be free
to leave at thy pleasure."
"That's fair," said Haxall. "I'll go with you, sir. Goodbye, Bill," he
exclaimed, turning to his companion, and extending his hand. But
Bill, thrusting both his hands into his pockets, refused the hand, and
answered contemptuously--
"If you've turned sniveller, go and snivel with Broadbrim. I've
nothing to say to such a mean-spirited devil."
"You're a mean devil yourself," retorted Haxall, all his fiery
passions kindling at the other's taunt.
"Come, my young friend," said the gentleman, drawing him away gently,
"return not railing for railing. I trust the time may yet come, when
reproach, instead of exciting anger, will only be an incentive to
examine thy bosom more closely, to see if thou dost not deserve it."
Long before the conclusion of this conversation, the original cause
of it had entered the house with Pownal, and, upon his departure, the
little crowd had gradually dispersed, so that, when the benevolent
Quaker left, with the boy whom he hoped should be a brand plucked from
the burning, very few persons remained. Bill followed his departing
companion with a scornful laugh, but the latter--as if his good
angel stood by his side to strengthen him--had resolution enough to
disregard it.
When Holden and Pownal entered the house, the front part of which was
used as a shop, they were received with great civility by a woman who
was officiating at the counter, and, upon their desire to speak with
her husband, were shown by her into a back room, used as a parlor, and
requested to be seated. Her husband, she said, had stepped out a short
time since, though, already, gone longer than she expected, and would
certainly be back in a few moments. Her prophecy was correct, for,
sure enough, they were hardly seated before he made his appearance.
He appeared to be an intelligent person, and answered without
suspicion or hesitation to the best of his ability, all the questions
addressed to him, so soon as he understood their object. But his
information was exceedingly limited. He knew nothing at all about a
person who had occupied the house more than twenty years before--nor
was it, indeed, reasonable to suppose he should. In all probability
the number of tenants was almost as great as of the years that had
since elapsed: the name mentioned to him was a very common one: many
such were to be found in the Directory, and the chances were that
the house itself had repeatedly changed owners in a community so
changeable and speculating. If the gentlemen would allow him to
suggest, the best course would be to examine the records in the
Register's office, and trace the title down to the time desired.
In this way the name of the owner could, without difficulty, be
discovered, and if he were alive he might, perhaps, be able to inform
them what had become of the person who was his tenant at the time,
although that was hardly probable.
The suggestion was plainly sensible, and had, indeed, occurred to
Pownal from the beginning, and he had accompanied Holden that morning
more for the purpose of determining whether the house described by
Esther, still existed, than with the expectation of making any further
discovery. His anticipations had been more than realized; a favorable
beginning had been made; there was every inducement to prosecute
the search. When, therefore, Holden and Pownal thanked the obliging
shopkeeper for his politeness, and took their leave, both felt that
their morning had not been thrown away, though the condition of their
minds was somewhat different, the former being confident of success,
the latter hoping for it.
"I will call at the Register's office," said the young man, "and
direct an examination to be made of the records. We shall be able to
obtain the result to-morrow, and until then you must endeavor to amuse
yourself, my dear friend, as well as possible. You know I sympathize
with your impatience, and shall expedite our search with all
diligence, and heaven grant it a happy termination."
Pownal saw that the search was made at the office of the Register, and
the title traced through several persons to the period when the house
was occupied by the man named by Esther. Upon further inquiry it was
ascertained that the proprietor at that time was still alive, and one
of the principal citizens of the place. Holden lost no time in calling
upon him, but was doomed to disappointment. He was received, indeed,
with great urbanity by the gentleman, one of the old school, who
proffered every aid in his power, and made an examination of his
papers to discover the name of his tenant. He was successful in the
search, and found that the name was the same given by Esther, but what
had become of the man he was unable to say.
Holden now determined to make the inquiry of every one of the same
name as that of the person sought. The search he pursued with all the
ardor of a vehement nature, stimulated by the importance of an object
that lay so near his heart. There was no street, or alley, or lane,
where there was the slightest chance of success, unvisited by his
unwearied feet. And varied was the treatment he received in that
persevering search: by some met with contempt and insult as a crazy
old fool, whose fittest place was the lunatic asylum, and who ought
not to be allowed to prowl about the streets, entering people's houses
at unseasonable hours and plaguing them with foolish questions: by
others with a careless indifference, and an obvious desire to be rid
of him as soon as possible, but to the honor of human nature, be it
said, by most with sympathy and kindness. It was, moreover, usually
among the poorer, that when it was necessary to mention the reason
of his inquiry, he was treated with the most gentleness and
consideration. Whether it is that suffering had taught them feeling
for others' woes, while prosperity and worldly greed had hardened the
hearts of the richer, let the reader determine. And, again, it was
upon the women his tale made the tenderest impression. Whatever maybe
the condition of woman, however sad her experience in life, however
deplorable her lot, however low she may be sunk in degradation, it is
hard to find one of her sex in whom sensibility is extinguished. With
her, kindness is an instinct. The heart throbs of necessity to a story
of sorrow, and the eye overflows with pity.
But the diligence of Holden was in vain, and, at last, he was obliged
to confess that he knew not what further to do, unless he took his
staff in hand and wandered over the world in prosecution of his
search.
"And that will I do, Thomas," he said, as one day he returned from his
inquiry, "if naught else can be done. My trust is in the Lord, and He
doth not mock. He despiseth not the sighing of the heart, nor hath He
made the revelation and put this confidence into my mind in vain. I
know in whom I have trusted, and that He is faithful and true."
Whatever might have been the opinion of Pownal, he was incapable of
uttering a word to discourage Holden, or of inflicting unnecessary
pain. "Why should I," he said, "dampen his enthusiasm? Small, as seems
to me, the chance of ever discovering his son, it is, after all, mere
opinion. Things more wonderful than such a discovery have happened. By
me, at least, he shall be sustained and encouraged. Disappointment, if
it comes, will come soon enough. I will not be its ill-omened herald."
He, therefore, said, in reply--
"Esther's story is certainly true. Our researches corroborate its
truth. We have found the house, and a person of the name she gave, did
live in it at the time she mentioned."
"They satisfy thee, Thomas; but I have a more convincing proof--an
internal evidence--even as the sure word of prophecy. It speaks to me
like a sweet voice, at mine uprising and lying down, and bids me be
strong and of good cheer, for the day of deliverance draweth nigh.
Doubt not, but believe that, in His good time, the rough places shall
be made smooth, and the darkness light. And yet, shall I confess
it unto thee, that, sometimes, a sinful impatience mastereth me? I
forget, that the little seed must lie for a time in the earth, and
night succeed day and day night, and the dew descend and the rain
fall, and the bright sun shine, and his persuasive heat creep into the
bosom of the germ before its concealed beauty can disclose itself,
and the lovely plant--the delight of every eye--push up its coronal
of glory. But, it is a transitory cloud, and I cry, Away! and it
departeth, and I say unto my heart, Peace, be still, and know that I
am God!"
"It would seem," said Pownal, "that there is often a connection
between the presentiments of the mind and an approaching event. How
frequently does it happen, for instance, that one, without knowing
why, begins to think of a person, and that, almost immediately, the
person will present himself.
"It is the shadow of approaching destiny, and men have moulded the
fact into a proverb. There is a world of truth in proverbs. They
enclose, within a small space, even as a nut its kernel, a sum of
human experience. In the case thou citest, may it not be that the man
doth project a sphere of himself, or subtle influence, cognizable by
spirit, albeit, the man be himself thereof unconscious? But know that
it is no vague and uncertain emotion that I feel. I tell thee young
man, I have heard the voice as I hear thee, and seen the vision
clearer than in dreams. Naught may stay the wheel of destiny. An
Almighty arm hath whirled it on its axis, and it shall revolve until
He bids it stop."
Thus, unfaltering in his confidence, secure of the result, believing
that to himself a revelation had been made, the Solitary expressed
himself. As the blood mounted into his ordinarily pale cheeks, his
lips quivered and his eyes were lighted up with a wild enthusiasm,
Pownal could not but admire and acknowledge the omnipotence of
that faith which regards no task as arduous, and can say unto the
mountains, Be ye cast into the sea! and it is done.