"_In flower of youth and beauty's pride._"
DRYDEN
A crowded New York street,--Fifth Avenue at the height of the afternoon;
a gallant and brilliant throng. Looking over the glittering array, the
purple and fine linen, the sweeping robes, the exquisite equipages, the
stately houses; the faces, delicate and refined, proud, self-satisfied,
that gazed out from their windows on the street, or that glanced from
the street to the windows, or at one another,--looking over all this,
being a part of it, one might well say, "This is existence, and beside
it there is none other. Let us dress, dine, and be merry! Life is good,
and love is sweet, and both shall endure! Let us forget that hunger and
sin, sorrow and self-sacrifice, want, struggle, and pain, have place in
the world." Yet, even with the words, "poverty, frost-nipped in a summer
suit," here and there hurried by; and once and again through the
restless tide the sorrowful procession of the tomb made way.
More than one eye was lifted, and many a pleasant greeting passed
between these selected few who filled the street and a young man who
lounged by one of the overlooking windows; and many a comment was
uttered upon him when the greeting was made:--
"A most eligible _parti_!"
"Handsome as a god!"
"O, immensely rich, I assure you!"
"_Isn't_ he a beauty!"
"Pity he wasn't born poor!"
"Why?"
"O, because they say he carried off all the honors at college and
law-school, and is altogether overstocked with brains for a man who has
no need to use them."
"Will he practise?"
"Doubtful. Why should he?"
"Ambition, power,--gratify one, gain the other."
"Nonsense! He'll probably go abroad and travel for a while, come back,
marry, and enjoy life."
"He does that now, I fancy."
"Looks so."
And indeed he did. There was not only vigor and manly beauty, splendid
in its present, but the "possibility of more to be in the full process
of his ripening days,"--a form alert and elegant, which had not yet all
of a man's muscle and strength; a face delicate, yet strong,--refined,
yet full of latent power; a mass of rippling hair like burnished gold,
flung back on the one side, sweeping low across brow and cheek on the
other; eyes
"Of a deep, soft, lucent hue,--
Eyes too expressive to be blue,
Too lovely to be gray."
People involuntarily thought of the pink and flower of chivalry as they
looked at him, or imagined, in some indistinct fashion, that they heard
the old songs of Percy and Douglas, or the later lays of the cavaliers,
as they heard his voice,--a voice that was just now humming one of these
same lays:--
"Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine;
Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe."
"Stuff!" he cried impatiently, looking wistfully at the men's faces
going by,--"stuff! _We_ look like gallants to ride a tilt at the world,
and die for Honor and Fame,--we!"
"I thank God, Willie, you are not called upon for any such sacrifice."
"Ah, little mother, well you may!" he answered, smiling, and taking her
hand,--"well you may, for I am afraid I should fall dreadfully short
when the time came; and then how ashamed you'd be of your big boy, who
took his ease at home, with the great drums beating and the trumpets
blowing outside. And yet--I should like to be tried!"
"See, mother!" he broke out again,--"see what a life it is, getting and
spending, living handsomely and doing the proper thing towards society,
and all that,--rubbing through the world in the old hereditary way;
though I needn't growl at it, for I enjoy it enough, and find it a
pleasant enough way, Heaven knows. Lazy idler! enjoying the sunshine
with the rest. Heigh-ho!"
"You have your profession, Willie. There's work there, and opportunity
sufficient to help others and do for yourself."
"Ay, and I'll _do_ it! But there is so much that is poor and mean, and
base and tricky, in it all,--so much to disgust and tire one,--all the
time, day after day, for years. Now if it were only a huge giant that
stands in your way, you could out rapier and have at him at once, and
there an end,--laid out or triumphant. That's worth while!"
"O youth, eager and beautiful," thought the mother who listened, "that
in this phase is so alike the world over,--so impatient to do, so ready
to brave encounters, so willing to dare and die! May the doing be
faithful, and the encounters be patiently as well as bravely fought, and
the fancy of heroic death be a reality of noble and earnest life. God
grant it! Amen."
"Meanwhile," said the gay voice,--"meanwhile it's a pleasant world; let
us enjoy it! and as to do this is within the compass of a man's wit,
therefore will I attempt the doing."
While he was talking he had once more come to the window, and, looking
out, fastened his eyes unconsciously but intently upon the face of a
young girl who was slowly passing by,--unconsciously, yet so intently
that, as if suddenly magnetized, a flicker of feeling went over it; the
mouth, set with a steady sweetness, quivered a little; the eyes--dark,
beautiful eyes--were lifted to his an instant, that was all. The mother
beside him did not see; but she heard a long breath, almost a sigh,
break from him as he started, then flashed out of the room, snatching
his hat in the hall, and so on to the street, and away.
Away after her, through block after block, across the crowded avenue to
Broadway. "Who is she? where did she come from? _I_ never saw her
before. I wonder if Mrs. Russell knows her, or Clara, or anybody! I will
know where she lives, or where she is going at least,--that will be some
clew! There! she is stopping that stage. I'll help her in! no, I
won't,--she will think I am chasing her. Nonsense! do you suppose she
saw you at the window? Of course! No, she didn't; don't be a fool!
There! I'll get into the next stage. Now I'll keep watch of that, and
she'll not know. So--all right! Go ahead, driver." And happy with some
new happiness, eager, bright, the handsome young fellow sat watching
that other stage, and the stylish little lace bonnet that was all he
could see of his magnet, through the interminable journey down Broadway.
How clear the air seemed! and the sun, how splendidly it shone! and
what a glad look was upon all the people's faces! He felt like breaking
out into gay little snatches of song, and moved his foot to the waltz
measure that beat time in his brain till the irate old gentleman
opposite, whom nature had made of a sour complexion and art assisted to
corns, broke out with an angry exclamation. That drew his attention for
a moment. A slackening of speed, a halt, and the stage was wedged in one
of the inextricable "jams" on Broadway. Vain the search for _her_ stage
then; looking over the backs of the poor, tired horses, or from the
sidewalk,--here, there, at this one and that one,--all for naught! Stage
and passenger, eyes, little lace bonnet, and all, had vanished away, as
William Surrey confessed, and confessed with reluctance and discontent.
"No matter!" he said presently,--"no matter! I shall see her again. I
know it! I feel it! It is written in the book of the Fates! So now I
shall content me with something"--that looks like her he did not say
definitely, but felt it none the less, as, going over to the
flower-basket near by, he picked out a little nosegay of mignonette and
geranium, with a tea-rosebud in its centre, and pinned it at his
button-hole. "Delicate and fine!" he thought,--"delicate and fine!" and
with the repetition he looked from it down the long street after the
interminable line of stages; and somehow the faint, sweet perfume, and
the fair flower, and the dainty lace bonnet, were mingled in wild and
charming confusion in his brain, till he shook himself, and laughed at
himself, and quoted Shakespeare to excuse himself,--"A mad world, my
masters!"--seeing this poor old earth of ours, as people always do,
through their own eyes.
"God bless ye! and long life to yer honor! and may the blessed Virgin
give ye the desire of yer heart!" called the Irishwoman after him, as he
put back the change in her hand and went gayly up the street. "Sure,
he's somebody's darlint, the beauty! the saints preserve him!" she said,
as she looked from the gold piece in her palm to the fair, sunny head,
watching it till it was lost in the crowd from her grateful eyes.
Evidently this young man was a favorite, for, as he passed along, many a
face, worn by business and care, brightened as he smiled and spoke; many
a countenance stamped with the trade-mark, preoccupied and hard, relaxed
in a kindly recognition as he bowed and went by; and more than one found
time, even in that busy whirl, to glance for a moment after him, or to
remember him with a pleasant feeling, at least till the pavement had
been crossed on which they met,--a long space at that hour of the day,
and with so much more important matters--Bull and Bear, rise and fall,
stock and account--claiming their attention.
Evidently a favorite, for, turning off into one of the side streets,
coming into his father's huge foundry, faces heated and dusty, tired,
stained, and smoke-begrimed, glanced up from their work, from forge and
fire and engine, with an expression that invited a look or word,--and
look and word were both ready.
"The boss is out, sir," said one of the foremen, "and if you please,
and have got the time to spare, I'd like to have a word with you before
he comes in."
"All right, Jim! say your say."
"Well, sir, you'll likely think I'm sticking my nose into what doesn't
concern me. 'Tain't a very nice thing I've got to say, but if I don't
say it I don't know who in thunder will; and, as it's my private opinion
that somebody ought to, I'll just pitch in."
"Very good; pitch in."
"Very good it is then. Only it ain't. Very bad, more like. It's a nasty
mess, and no mistake! and there's the cause of it!" pointing his brawny
hand towards the door, upon which was marked, "Office. Private," and
sniffing as though he smelt something bad in the air.
"You don't mean my father!" flame shooting from the clear eyes.
"Be damned if I do. Beg pardon. Of course I don't. I mean the fellow as
is perched up on a high stool in that there office, this very minute,
poking into his books."
"Franklin?"
"You've hit it. Franklin,--Abe Franklin,--that's the ticket."
"What's the matter with him? what has he done?"
"Done? nothing! not as I know of, anyway, except what's right and
proper. 'Tain't what he's done or's like to do. It's what he is."
"And what may that be?"
"Well, he's a nigger! there's the long and short of it. Nobody here'd
object to his working in this place, providing he was a runner, or an
errand-boy, or anything that it's right and proper for a nigger to be;
but to have him sitting in that office, writing letters for the boss,
and going over the books, and superintending the accounts of the
fellows, so that he knows just what they get on Saturday nights, and
being as fine as a fiddle, is what the boys won't stand; and they swear
they'll leave, every man of 'em, unless he has his walking
papers,--double-quick too."
"Very well; let them. There are other workmen, good as they, in this
city of New York."
"Hold on, sir! let me say my say first. There are seven hundred men
working in this place: the most of 'em have worked here a long while.
Good work, good pay. There ain't a man of 'em but likes Mr. Surrey, and
would be sorry to lose the place; so, if they won't bear it, there ain't
any that will. Wait a bit! I ain't through yet."
"Go on,"--quietly enough spoken, but the mouth shook under its silky
fringe, and a fiery spot burned on either cheek.
"All right. Well, sir, I know all about Franklin. He's a bright one,
smart enough to stock a lot of us with brains and have some to spare; he
don't interfere with us, and does his work well, too, I reckon,--though
that's neither here nor there, nor none of our business if the boss is
satisfied; and he looks like a gentleman, and acts like one, there's no
denying that! and as for his skin,--well!" a smile breaking over his
good-looking face, "his skin's quite as white as mine now, anyway,"
smearing his red-flannel arm over his grimy phiz; "but then, sir, it
won't rub off. He's a nigger, and there's no getting round it.
"All right, sir! give you your chance directly. Don't speak yet,--ain't
through, if _you_ please. Well, sir, it's agen nature,--you may talk
agen it, and work agen it, and fight agen it till all's blue, and what
good'll it do? You can't get an Irishman, and, what's more, a free-born
American citizen, to put himself on a level with a nigger,--not by no
manner of means. No, sir; you can turn out the whole lot, and get
another after it, and another after that, and so on to the end of the
chapter, and you can't find men among 'em all that'll stay and have him
strutting through 'em, up to his stool and his books, grand as a
peacock."
"Would they work _with_ him?"
"At the same engines, and the like, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Nary time, so 'tain't likely they'll work under him. Now, sir, you see
I know what I'm saying, and I'm saying it to _you_, Mr. Surrey, and not
to your father, because he won't take a word from me nor nobody
else,--and here's just the case. Now I ain't bullying, you understand,
and I say it because somebody else'd say it, if I didn't, uglier and
rougher. Abe Franklin'll have to go out of this shop in precious short
order, or every man here'll bolt next Saturday night. There! now I've
done, sir, and you can fire away."
But as he showed no signs of "firing away," and stood still, pondering,
Jim broke out again:--
"Beg pardon, sir. If I've said anything you don't like, sorry for it.
It's because Mr. Surrey is so good an employer, and, if you'll let me
say so, because I like you so well," glancing over him
admiringly,--"for, you see, a good engineer takes to a clean-built
machine wherever he sees it,--it's just because of this I thought it was
better to tell you, and get you to tell the boss, and to save any row;
for I'd hate mortally to have it in this shop where I've worked, man and
boy, so many years. Will you please to speak to him, sir? and I hope you
understand."
"Thank you, Jim. Yes, I understand; and I'll speak to him."
Was it that the sun was going down, or that some clouds were in the sky,
or had the air of the shop oppressed him? Whatever it was, as he came
out he walked with a slower step from which some of the spring had gone,
and the people's faces looked not so happy; and, glancing down at his
rosebud, he saw that its fair petals had been soiled by the smoke and
grime in which he had been standing; and, while he looked a dead march
came solemnly sounding up the street, and a soldier's funeral went
by,--rare enough, in that autumn of 1860, to draw a curious crowd on
either side; rare enough to make him pause and survey it; and as the
line turned into another street, and the music came softened to his ear,
he once more hummed the words of the song which had been haunting him
all the day:--
"Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants, all,
And don your helmes amaine;
Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call
Us to the field againe,"--
sang them to himself, but not with the gay, bright spirit of the
morning. Then he seemed to see the cavaliers, brilliant and brave,
riding out to the encounter. Now, in the same dim and fanciful way, he
beheld them stretched, still and dead, upon the plain.