When William Walton, of Colonial prestige, left his father’s_Free, and other stories

St. George’s Square, New York, in the spring of 1801, it was to

spend a day of social activity, which, in the light of his ordinary

commercial duties, might be termed idleness. There were, among other

things, a luncheon at the Livingstone Kortright’s, a stroll with one

Mlle. Cruger to the Lispenard Meadows, and a visit in the evening to

the only recently inaugurated Apollo Theater, where were organized the

first permanent company of players ever transported to America. Under

the circumstances, he had no time for counting-house duties, and had

accordingly decided to make a day of it, putting the whole matter of

commerce over until such time as he could labor uninterrupted, which

was to-morrow.

As he came out of the door over which was a diamond-pane lunette

for a transom, he was a striking example of the new order of

things which had come with the Declaration of Independence and the

victory of the colonies over the British. Long trousers of light

twilled cloth encased his legs, and were fastened under his shoes

by straps. A flower-ornamented pink waistcoat and light blue dress

coat of broadcloth, shared with brass buttons, yellow gloves, and an

exceedingly narrow-brimmed silk hat, in giving his appearance that

touch of completeness which the fashion of the day demanded. In the

face of those of the older order, who still maintained the custom of

wearing knee breeches and solemn, black waistcoats, he was a little apt

to appear the exaggerated dandy; but, nevertheless, it was good form.

My Madame Kortright would expect it at any luncheon of hers, and the

common people knew it to be the all-desirable whenever wealth permitted.

In lower Pearl Street, below Wall, which direction he took to reach

the Bowling Green and the waterfront, he encountered a number of the

fashionable, so far as the commercial world was concerned, who were

anything but idle like himself.

“Why, Master Walton, are you neglecting business so early in the

morning?” inquired Robert Goelet, whose iron-mongering business was

then the most important in the city.

“For this day only,” returned Walton, smiling agreeably at the thought

of a pleasant day to come. “Several engagements make it unavoidable.”

“You are going to the Collect, then, possibly?” returned Goelet,

looking in the direction of the old water reservoir, where all of the

city’s drinking supply was stored.

“No,” said the other, “I had not thought of it. What is there?”

“Some one, I understand, who has a boat he wishes to try. It is said to

go without sail. I should think one with as many ships upon the water

as you have would have heard of any such invention as that.”

“Ah, yes,” answered young Walton, “I have heard of men who are going to

sail in the air, also. I will believe that a vessel can go without sail

when I see it.”

“Well,” said the other, “I do not know. These inventors are strange

adventurers, at best, but there might be no harm in looking at it. I

think I shall go myself later.”

“Oh, I should also like to see it,” said the other, “providing I have

time. When is it to sail, do you know?”

“About eleven,” answered Goelet. “The _Post_ tells of it.”

“Many thanks for the information,” returned the other, and, with a few

commonplaces as to ships expected and the news from France, they betook

their separate ways.

In one of the many fine yards which spread before the old mansions

below Wall Street, he beheld John Adams, the newly-elected President of

the States, busy among his flowers. The elder statesman bowed gravely

to the younger gentleman and returned to his work.

“A fine gentleman,” thought the latter, “and well worthy to be the

chief of this good government.”

As he neared the Bowling Green, he observed that there was no one of

the many residents about taking advantage of the pleasant sunlight to

enjoy an hour at that favorite pastime, and so continued his way to

the Astor docks adjoining the Whitehall slip, where never yet had the

commercial New Yorker, interested in the matter of shipping, failed to

find a crowd. Messrs. John Jacob Astor and William Van Rensalaer were

already upon the ground, as he could see at a distance, the distinct

high hat of the one and the portly figure of the other standing out in

clear relief against the green waters of the bay. Elder Johannis Coop

was there, he of the vast ship chandlery business, and Opdyke Stewart,

importer of the finest stuffs woven in Holland. Old Jacob Cruger and

Mortimer Morris, the lean Van Tassel and Julius van Brunt, merchants

all and famous men of the city, chatted, smiled, and laughed together

as they discussed the probabilities of trade and the arrival of the

_Silver Spray_ and the _Laughing Mary_, both in the service between

New York and Liverpool. Almost every worthy present was armed with his

spy-glass, as the three-foot telescopes were then called, and now and

then one would take a look down the bay and through the distant narrows

to see if any sign of a familiar sail were present.

“And how is Master Walton?” asked the elder Astor, recognizing the

scion of the one exceedingly wealthy family of the community.

“Very well, thank you,” returned the other, surveying the company,

whose knee breeches and black coats presented a striking contrast to

his modern trousers and fancy jacket.

“These modern fashions,” exclaimed Cruger, the elder, coming forward,

“make us old fellows seem entirely out of date. They are a wretched

contrivance to hide the legs. If I were a young woman I would have no

man whose form I could not judge by his clothes.”

“And if I were a young man,” put in the jovial John Jacob, “I would put

on no clothes which a young woman did not approve of.”

“Ah, well,” said the other, smiling, “these fashions are strange

contrivances. Not ten years since a man would have been drummed out of

New York had he appeared in such finery as this, and now, by heaven,

it is we old fellows who are like to be shown the door for dressing as

our fathers taught us.”

“Not so bad as that, surely,” said Walton. “Full dress commands the old

style yet at evening. This is but daylight custom. But how about the

Bowling Green; is no one to play there this morning?”

“Not when two ships like the _Silver Spray_ and the _Laughing Mary_

are like to show their noses at any moment,” observed Cruger stoutly.

“I have fifty barrels of good India ale on the _Silver Spray_. Astor,

here, has most of the hold of the _Laughing Mary_ filled with his dress

goods. No bowling when stocks must be unpacked quickly.”

“It is a weary watch, this, for these dogged vessels,” added Astor

reflectively. “There is no good counting wind or wave. The Spaniard,

too, is not dead yet, worse luck to him.”

“I saw that about the _Polly_,” said young Walton interestedly.

“Perhaps the government will wake up now to our situation. The Spaniard

can wipe our vessels off the seas and hide behind the piracy idea. We

need more war vessels and that quickly, I think.”

“And I, too,” said Astor. “But we are like to have them now. Only

to-day Congress voted to buy more land across the East River there,”

and he waved his spy-glass in the direction of the green outlines of

Long Island.

“And that reminds me,” said Walton, pulling out his timepiece by the

fob attached to it; “I but now met Goelet, who says there is to be a

boat tried at the Collect which goes without sail. It is to be run by

steam.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Cruger, “I have no time for such nonsense.”

“I heard of it,” remarked Astor. “Possibly there is something to it.

There could be no harm in going to see.

“I am going” said Walton, “and by-the-bye, it is high time I was on my

way.”

“And if you have no objection I go with you,” said Astor, who was

seriously interested to know if there was anything to this idea or not.

Others hearing this joined them.

Having thus secured companionship, young Walton proceeded up the

Whitehall slip to the Bowling Green, whence, with his friends, he now

turned into the Broadway, and so out past the fine residences and

occasional stores of that new thoroughfare to the old White residence,

where later was to be White Street, and thence eastward, across the

open common, to the Collect, where is now the Tombs. Quite a formidable

company of sightseers had gathered, the aristocracy, gentry, and common

rabble forming in separate groups. A very plain and homely looking

individual of the older school, clad in swallowtail and knee breeches,

was there with a contrivance large enough to sustain his own weight

in the water, which he was endeavoring with a wrench, a hammer, and

an oil can to put in final shape for the very important experiment of

traveling without sail. Naturally he had the undivided and even pushing

and prying attention of all present.

While the citizens thus gazed, awaiting in comfortable idleness for

something of the marvelous to happen, there came a clattering sound

along the east road toward the city, where suddenly appeared the

outlines of Van Huicken’s water wagon, a great hogshead on wheels,

which, by its rumbling haste, suggested fire. Close after followed the

Almerich, another vehicle of the same kind, which secured its name from

its owner. Both drivers hailed the crowd while yet a distance off with

shouts of “Fire!” and then from distant Fulton Street were heard the

sounds of a bell tolling out the same intelligence.

Everybody now wavered uncertainly between the possibility of witnessing

a marvelous invention and the certainty of seeing a splendid

conflagration, with the result that certainty triumphed. Instantly upon

learning the nature of the fire, both commonry and gentry departed,

leaving Astor and Walton, with their associates, gazing at the

tinkering wonder-worker alone.

“That must be near the President’s house,” observed Walton, who was

looking toward the city. “It may spread.”

“This fellow will get nothing out of his machine to-day, I fear,”

returned Astor, moved by the thought of a dangerous and yet interesting

fire as he gazed rather unfavorably upon the quiet inventor, who had

not remained unaware of this public defection. “Let us go back.”

With somewhat more of eagerness than was conformable with their general

stately bearing, this rather important local company now took up the

trail of the water wagons and returned.

In William Street, just off the Old Boston Road and near the

newly-named Liberty Street, were many signs of public excitement. The

fine residence of the Athorps, recently leased by the French minister,

had taken fire, and was rapidly burning. Although nine of the fourteen

water-pumps of the city were upon the scene of action, and eight

men were toiling at each handle, little progress was making. Bucket

brigades were also in operation, the volunteer citizens drawing upon

every well in the neighborhood for blocks about; but to small result.

The flames gained apace. Men ran looking for Goiter’s water conveyance,

which had not yet been pressed into action, and Huicken’s Broadway

sprinkler, which, however, had already been sent to the Collect for

more water. There was a deal of clatter and confusion, coupled with the

absolute certainty of destruction, for no pumping could throw the water

beyond the second story. More than once the tank supply, as rattled

forward from the Collect and the East River, was totally suspended,

while the flames gained new ground. This latter was due to the badness

of the roads and the inadequacy of the help at the supply end, where,

since all thought to gaze upon the fire, none were remaining to help

the lone Huicken or the energetic Goiter.

When this last company of volunteer fire fighters arrived, with their

buckets and other contrivances for fighting a blaze, the flames had

gained such headway that there was little to be done. Walton wasted

half an hour discussing fire protection, and then bethought himself of

his luncheon engagement.

“I must be out of this,” he said to Astor, as they stood gazing upon

the flames and the surging throng. “I am late as it is.”

The genial forefather scarcely heard him at all. So interested was he

that his own luncheon mattered not at all. Quietly Walton withdrew

then, and getting back into Boston Road and the Broadway, betook

himself toward the Bowling Green and Madame Kortright’s.

That lady’s mansion was to the west of the old playground, looking out

over lawn and lane to some space of water to be seen in the East River

and a boat or two at anchor in the bay. As he tapped upon the broad

door with its brazen knocker, a liveried servant opened to him, bowing

profoundly in greeting.

“Will Master Walton give me his hat and gloves?”

“Ah, Master Walton,” remarked the hostess, who now entered smiling. “I

had almost doubted your punctuality, though you have good reason. Whose

house is it burning?”

“Count Rennay’s,” answered Walton, mentioning the French representative

to our government.

“I have sent a servant to discover it for me, but he has not yet

returned. It must have fascinated him also. We must sit to lunch at

once, sir.”

As the hostess said this, she turned about in her great hoops, now but

recently, like long trousers, come into fashion, and led the way. Her

hair was done in the curls of the post-revolution period, three at

each side, about the ears, and a tall chignon that was almost a curl

in itself. With stately grace she led the way to the dining chamber

and bowed him to his place. Eulalia, a daughter, and Sophia, a friend,

entered almost at the same moment with them through another door.

At the head of the long, oaken table there were already standing the

two black table servants of this dignified household, splendid imported

Africans, trained in Virginia. My lady’s table was a-gleam with much of

the richest plate and old Holland china in the city. An immense silver

candelabra graced the center, and at every corner were separate graven

gold sticks making a splendid show.

“I have the greatest terror of fire anywhere in our city,” began

the hostess, even as young Walton was bowing. “We have so little

protection. I have urged upon our selectmen the necessity of providing

something better than we have--a water tower or something of the sort

but so far nothing has come of it.”

“You were at the fire, Master Walton?” inquired the handsome Eulalie

archly.

“I came that way with several friends from the Collect,” he answered.

“Why the Collect?” asked the hostess, who was now seated with the two

blacks towering above her.

“There is a man there who has a boat which is to go without sail, as I

understand it, providing his idea is correct. It is to go by steam, I

believe, only he did not succeed in making it so do to-day, at least

not while I was there. It may have gone, though. I could not wait to

see.”

“Oh marvelous,” exclaimed Eulalie, putting up a pair of pretty hands,

“and really is it a boat that will travel so?”

“I cannot vouch for that,” returned the youth gravely. “It was not

going when we visited it. The fire and my engagement took the entire

audience of the inventor away,” and he smiled.

“I shall have no faith in any such trap as that until I see it,”

observed Madame Kortright. “Fancy being on the water and no sail to

waft you. Mercy!”

“I fancy it will be some time before men will venture afar on any such

craft,” returned the youth; “but it is a bit curious.”

“Dangerous, I should say,” suggested Mistress Sophia.

“No,” said Walton, “not that, I think. My father has often told me that

Master Franklin predicted to him that men should harness the lightning

before many years. That is even more strange than this.”

“That may all be true,” said Madame Kortright, “but it has not come to

pass yet. It will never be in our time, I fear. But did you hear of the

case of jewels at Maton’s?”

“Has he imported something new?” inquired Eulalie smartly.

“The last ship brought a case of gems for him, I hear,” continued the

hostess. “That should be of interest to you, Master Walton.”

The youth flushed slightly at the implication involved. His attentions

to Mistress Beppie Cruger were becoming a subject of pleasing social

comment.

“So it is,” he said gaily, as he recovered his composure. “I shall look

in upon Maton this very afternoon.”

“And I should like to see what is new in France,” said the ruddy Sophia

seriously. “I have not an earring or a pin in my collection that is not

as old as the hills----”

“Nor any the less valuable, I venture,” answered Walton, with an

impressive air.

“I would give them for new ones, believe me,” returned the girl

quaintly.

Upon this gossiping company the two blacks waited with almost noiseless

accuracy, one serving at each side in answer to silent looks and nods

from the hostess. Walton watched them out of the corner of his eye,

gossiping the while. In his new home, he thought, whenever the fair

lady consented, there should be two such lackeys gracing her more

tender beauty. He could not help thinking how much more effective they

would appear behind her than his present hostess, who, however, was

attractive enough. It made him restless to depart, for certainly this

afternoon he should definitely, if he could, learn his fate. The jewels

would be one excuse. He would take her to look at the jewels before the

evening called them to the theater, and then he would see.

Once he was free of the entertainment provided, he hurried away into

Wall Street, the spire of Trinity already beginning to cast a short

eastward shadow. About the building occupied as the new National

Capitol a few dignitaries from the colonies were to be seen. The new

mixture of stores among the residences was beginning to make lovely

Wall Street less conservative. A bank had opened just below the

Capitol, its entrance reaching out to the very sidewalk and hedging in

the view of the gardens beyond. Soon, if the city kept on growing, all

the fine old gardens would have to go.

He pondered, as he walked, until he came to a certain gateway below

William Street, where he entered. From a window looking out upon a

small balcony above a face disappeared, and now he was greeted by

another pompous servant at the door.

“My compliments,” he said, “to Mistress Cruger, if she pleases, and I

am waiting.”

The servant bowed and retired. In a few moments more there fluttered

down into the large reception room from above the loveliest embodiment

of the new order of finery that he had ever seen. Such daintiness in

curls and laces, such lightness in silken flounces displayed upon

spreading hoops, he felt to be without equal. With a graceful courtesy

she received his almost ponderous bow.

“Mother gives you her greeting, and she cannot come with us to-day,”

she said. “She has a very severe headache.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” he replied sympathetically, “but you

will come? The weather has favored us, and I fancy the meadows will be

beautiful to see.”

“Oh, yes, I will come,” she returned smiling. “It is not quite three,

however,” she added. “You are early.”

“I know,” he answered, “but we may talk until then. Besides there is

something I wish you to see before theater time--no, I will tell you of

it later. Henry will be on time.”

They seated themselves very respectfully distant and took up the

morning’s commonplaces. Had he heard of the fire and where the French

minister was now being entertained? Cards had but this morning come

from the Jacob Van Dams for a reception at their new house in Broome

Street. The Goelets were to build farther out in Pearl Street.

“I think it is a shame,” she said, “the way they are deserting us in

this street. We shall have to go also very shortly, and I like Wall

Street.”

“When your turn comes perhaps you will not mind it so much,” he

returned, thinking of the proposal he hoped to find the courage to

make. “Broome Street is certainly pleasing after the new style.”

She thought of all the fine residences being erected in that new

residence section, and for some, to him, inexplicable reason, smiled.

Outside, through the vine-festooned window, she could see a broad, open

barouche turning.

“Here is the carriage,” she said.

As they came out of the quiet chamber into the open sunlight, part

of their stilted reserve vanished. Once in the carriage beside him,

she smiled happily. As they rolled into William Street and up the Old

Boston Road into the green shaded Bowery, she laughed for the very joy

of laughing.

“It is good to feel spring again,” she said, “the cold days are so

many.”

As they traveled, an occasional citizen before his doorway, or pleasure

seeker upon horseback, greeted them. The distinguished Aaron Burr was

here prancing gaily countryward. Old Peter Stuyvesant’s mansion was

kept as rich in flowers as when he had been alive to care for it.

“Are not the fields beautiful about here?” he observed, after they had

passed the region of the Collect.

“Lovely,” she returned. “I never see them but I think of dancing, they

are so soft.”

“Let us get out and walk upon them, anyhow,” he answered. “Henry can

wait for us at the turn yonder.”

He was pointing to a far point, where, through a clump of trees, the

winding footpath, leading out from here, joined Broadway, now a lane

through the woods and fields.

Gaily she acquiesced, and he helped her down. When the servant was out

of hearing, he reached for a dandelion, and pressing his lips to it

said, “Here is a token.”

“Of what?” she said shyly.

“What should it be?” he asked wistfully.

“Spring, probably.”

“And nothing else?”

“Youth,” she answered, laughing.

“And nothing else?” he questioned, drawing close with a tenderness in

his voice.

“How should I know?” she said, laughing and casting it down, because of

her fear of the usual significance of the situation.

“You mustn’t throw it away,” he said stooping. “Keep it. I’ll tell you

what it means. I--I----”

“See the wild roses!” she exclaimed, suddenly increasing her pace. “I

should rather have some of those for a token, if you please.”

He relaxed his tension, and hastened for that which she desired. When

he returned to hand them to her, she was laughing at something.

“Ah, you laugh,” he said sadly. “I think I know why.”

“It is because of the day,” she answered.

Somehow he could make no progress with his declaration until it was too

late. Already they were near the carriage, and south along the road a

quarter of a mile was the Lispenard country house. Her relatives, the

Lispenards, were there as owners. He scarcely had time for what he

wished to say.

“Shall we stop there?” he asked in a subdued murmur, as in driving

again they neared the long piazza where guests were seated enjoying the

prospect of the meadows beyond. “It is four now, and the play begins at

six. There are some new jewels from France at Maton’s, which I thought

When William Walton, of Colonial prestige, left his father’s house,