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VENUS IN BOSTON;
A Romance of City Life.
"Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape
The fascination of thy magic gaze?
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,
And mould to every taste, thy dear, delusive shape."
BYRON'S CHILDE HAROLD
{First published 1849}
CONTENTS
VENUS IN BOSTON;
A Romance of City Life
INTRODUCTION 3
CHAPTER I. _The blind Basket-maker and his family._ 3
CHAPTER II. _Innocence in the Grip of Lust._ 7
CHAPTER III. _The Rescue._ 17
CHAPTER IV. _A night in Ann street._ 20
CHAPTER V. _The Chevalier and the Duchess._ 52
CHAPTER VI. _The Stolen Package._ 75
CHAPTER VII. _Showing the operations of Jew Mike._ 90
CHAPTER VIII. _The Chambers of Love._ 98
[Illustration: Frontispiece to _Venus in Boston_, 1850 edition. By
courtesy of the Trustees of the Boston Public Library.]
INTRODUCTION
I conceive it to be a prominent fault of most of the tales of fiction
that are written and published at the present day, that they are not
sufficiently _natural_--their style is too much exaggerated--and in
aiming to produce startling effects, they depart too widely from the
range of probability to engage the undivided interest of the enlightened
and judicious reader. Believing as I do that the romance of reality--the
details of common, everyday life--the secret history of things hidden
from the public gaze, but of the existence of which there can be no
manner of doubt--are endowed with a more powerful and absorbing interest
than any extravagant flight of imagination can be, it shall be my aim in
the following pages to adhere as closely as possible to truth and
reality; and to depict scenes and adventures which have actually
occurred, and which have come to my knowledge in the course of an
experience no means limited--an experience replete with facilities for
acquiring a perfect insight into human nature, and a knowledge of the
many secret springs of human action.
The most favorable reception which my former humble productions have met
with, at the hands of a kind and indulgent public, will, I trust,
justify the hope that the present Tale may meet with similar
encouragement. It certainly shall not prove inferior to any of its
predecessors in the variety of its incidents or the interest of its
details; and as a _romance of city life_, it will amply repay the
perusal of all country readers, as well as those who reside in cities.
With these remarks, preliminary and explanatory, I proceed at once to
draw the curtain, and unfold the opening scene of my drama.
CHAPTER I
_The blind Basket-maker and his family._
It was a winter's day, and piercing cold; very few pedestrians were to
be seen in Boston, and those few were carefully enveloped in warm cloak
and great coats, for the weather was of that intense kind that chills
the blood and penetrates to the very bone. Even Washington street--that
great avenue of wealth and promenade of fashion, usually thronged with
the pleasure-seeking denizens of the metropolis--was comparatively
deserted, save by a few shivering mortals, who hurried on their way with
rapid footsteps, anxious to escape from the relentless and iron grasp
of hoary winter. And yet on that day, and in that street, there stood
upon the pavement directly opposite the "Old South Church," a young girl
of about the age of fourteen years, holding in her hand a small basket
of fruit, which she offered to every passer-by. Now there was nothing
very extraordinary in this, neither was there anything very unusual in
the meek and pleading look of the little fruit girl, as she timidly
raised her large blue eyes to the face of every one who passed her--for
such humble callings, and such mute but eloquent appeals, are the common
inheritance of many, very many of God's poor in large cities, and do not
generally attract any great degree of notice from the careless (and too
often unfeeling) children of prosperity;--but there was something in the
appearance of the pale, sad girl, as, in her scant attire she shivered
in the biting wind, not often met with in the humble disciples of
poverty--a certain subdued, gentle air, partaking of much unconscious
grace, that whispered of better days gone by.
At length the clock in the steeple of the "Old South" pronounced that
the dinner hour had arrived--and despite the intense cold, the street
soon became alive with people hurrying to and fro; for what weather can
induce a hungry man to neglect that important era in the events of the
day--his _dinner_? This perfumed exquisite hurried by to fulfil an
appointment and dine at Parker's; the more sober and economical citizen
hastened on his way to "feed" at some establishment of less pretensions
and more moderate prices; while the mass of the diners-out repaired to
appease their hunger at the numerous cheap refectories that abound in
the neighborhood. But the poor, forlorn little fruit girl stood
unnoticed by the passing throng, which like the curtain of a river
hurried by, leaving her upon its margin, a neglected, drooping flower.
"Ah," she murmured--"why will they not buy my fruit? I have not taken a
single penny to-day, and how can I return home to poor grandfather and
my little brother, without food? Good people, could you but see them,
your hearts would be softened--." And the tears rolled down her cheeks.
While thus soliloquizing, she had not noticed the approach of a little
old man, in a faded, threadbare suit, and with a care-worn, wrinkled
countenance. He stopped short when he saw that she was weeping, and in
an abrupt, yet not unkind manner, inquired--
"My child, why do you weep?"
The girl looked up through her tears at the stranger, and in a few
artless words related her simple story. She was an orphan, and with her
little brother, lived with her grandfather. They were very poor, and
were wholly dependent upon a small pittance which the grandfather (who
was blind) daily earned by basket making, together with the very small
profits which she realized by the sale of fruit in the streets. Her
grandfather was very ill, and unable to work, and the poor family had
not tasted food that day.
"Poor thing!" exclaimed the little old man when she had concluded her
affecting narrative. He straightaway began fumbling in his pockets, and
it seemed with no very satisfactory result, for he muttered--"The devil!
I have no money--not a copper; bah! I can give you nothing. But hold!
where do you live, my child?"
The girl stated her place of residence, which was in an obscure but
respectable section of the city. The little old man produced a greasy
memorandum book, and a stump of a pencil, with which he noted down the
direction; then, uttering a grunt of satisfaction, but without saying a
single word, he resumed his walk, and was soon lost in the crowd.
Evening came, and with it a furious snow-storm. Madly the wind careered
through the streets--now fiercely dashing the snow into the faces of
such unfortunate travellers as chanced to be abroad in that wild
weather--now shaking the roofs of crazy old houses--and now tearing away
in the distance with a howl of triumph at its power. The storm fiend was
abroad--the elements were at war, and yet in the midst of that furious
tumult, the poor fruit girl was toiling on her way towards her humble
home. She reached it at last. It was a poor and lowly place, the abode
of humble but decent poverty; yet the angel of peace had spread her
wings there, and contentment had sat with them at their frugal board.
True, it was but a garret; yet that little family, with hearts united by
holy love, felt that to them it was a _home_. And then its little window
commanded a distant view of a shining river, and green, pleasant fields
beyond; and all day long, in fine weather, the cheerful sunshine looked
in upon them, casting a gleam of gladness upon their hearts. It had been
a happy home to the blind basket-maker and his grandchildren; but alas!
sickness had laid its heavy hand upon the aged man, and want and
wretchedness had become their portion.
The girl entered with a sad heart, for she brought no relief to the
hungering and sorrowing inmates of that lowly dwelling. Without saying a
word she seated herself at the bed-side of her grandfather, and taking
his hand in hers, bedewed it with her tears. The old man turned towards
her, and said--
"Thou art weeping, Fanny--what distresses thee? Tears are for the aged
and the sorrowing--not for the young. Thou hast not brought us
food?--well, well; the will of Heaven be done! I shall soon be in the
grave, and then thou and Charley--"
"No, no, grandfather, pray don't say so," cried the poor girl, sobbing
as if her heart would break--"what should we do without you? Heaven may
spare you many happy years. I can work for you, and--"
"So can I, too," rejoined her brother Charley, a lad eight or nine years
of age--"and only to-day I got a promise from Mr. Scott the tailor, that
I might, when a little older, run of errands for him, and my wages will
be a dollar and a half a week--only think how much money I shall earn!"
"Thou art a brave little man," said the grandfather--"but, my children,
let us put our trust in God, and if it is His will that my earthly
pilgrimage should end, be it so! Thank Heaven, I owe nothing, and can
die at peace with all the world."
It had long been Fanny's custom to occupy an hour or so every evening,
in reading to her grandfather. But that evening she did not, as usual,
draw up the little table, and open the pages of some well-thumbed,
ancient volume, to read, for perhaps the twentieth time, of the valorous
deeds of some famed knight of the olden time, or mayhap, of the
triumphant death of some famed martyr for religion's sake. For alas! the
frugal but wholesome meal which had always preceded the reading of those
ancient chronicles, was now wanting; and the little family sat
listening to the raging of the pitiless storm without and counting the
weary moments as they passed.
The bell in a neighboring steeple had just told the hour of nine, when,
as the echo of that last stroke died away in the distance, a heavy step
was heard ascending the stairs that led to their humble apartment. As
the sound approached nearer, Fanny heard a voice occasionally giving
utterance to expressions of extreme irritation and impatience,
accompanied by certain sounds indicating that the person, whoever it
might be, often stumbled upon the dark, narrow and somewhat dilapidated
stair-case. "Blood and bomb-shells!" exclaimed a voice--"I shall never
reach the top, and my shins are broken. The devil! there I go again.
Corporal Grimsby, thou art an ass, and these stairs are the devil's
trap!" And here the luckless unknown paused a moment to breathe, rub his
shins, and refresh himself with an emphatic imprecation upon all dark
and broken stair-cases in general, but upon _that_ one in particular. At
this moment, Fanny made her appearance at the landing with a light, and
was astonished to behold her new acquaintance of that afternoon, the
little old man who had inquired her residence. A most rueful expression
sat upon his visage, and he carried upon one arm a huge basket. The
friendly light enabled him soon to reach the end of his journey; he
entered the little room without ceremony, and depositing his burden upon
the table, exclaimed--
"Hark'ee, child, I am an old soldier, am not apt to grumble at trifles,
[_illegible word_] and blunderbusses! I never before got into such a
snarl.--Mounting the ramparts of the enemy was mere child's play to it!"
Here he began to take out the contents of the basket, meanwhile keeping
up a running commentary, during which his countenance wore an expression
of the most intense ill-humor, in strange contrast with the evident
benevolence of his character and intentions. He found fault with
everything which he had brought, although, in truth, the articles were
all of excellent quality.
"Here," said he, with a growl of dissatisfaction--"is a pair of
chickens--starved, skinny imps, for which I paid double their value to
that knave of a poultry merchant--bah! And here are some French rolls,
that I'll be sworn are as hard as the French cannon balls that were
thrown at Austerlitz. These vegetables are well enough, and this pastry
hath a savory smell, but pistols and cutlasses! this wine _looks_ as
sour as General Grouty's face on a grand parade. Let me draw the cork
and taste--no, by the nose of Napoleon! it is excellent--fit for the
great Frederick himself. Here, child, haste and spread a cloth, for I am
hungrier than a Cossack. Powder and shot! we shall have a supper fit for
a Field Marshal!"
By this time the eccentric but kind old man had placed upon the table
all the materials of an excellent and substantial repast. This done, he
turned to the grandfather of Fanny, who had listened to his speech with
much astonishment, and exclaimed--
"Cheer thee up, old friend, cheer thee up, and pick a bone with us;
here, wash the cobwebs from thy throat by a hearty draught from this
flask. I am an old soldier, and love all men; I stand on no ceremony; so
fall to, fall to!"
Saying this, he seated himself at the table, and having seen that all
were duly supplied with a liberal portion of the edibles, commenced the
attack with [_illegible word_] truly surprising. Nor were the others at
all backward in emulating so good an example. The grandfather, whose
illness had mainly been produced by a lack of those little luxuries so
essential to the debilities and infirmities of advanced age, after
partaking sparingly of what was set before him, felt himself much
bettered and refreshed thereby; and Fanny, who had dried her tears, and
satisfied the cravings of hunger, smiled her gratitude upon the kind
provider. Little Charley had already become much attached to "good
Corporal Grimsby," who had given him such a nice supper--while the
latter gentleman, having finished his meal, drew forth an antiquated
pipe, having a Turk's head for the bowl and a coiled serpent for the
stem, which having lighted, he proceeded to smoke with much gravity and
thoughtfulness. Not a word did he utter, but smoked away in silence,
until the clock struck ten; then pocketing his pipe, and depositing the
now empty flask and dishes in the basket, he announced his intention of
departing. The grandfather was cut short in a grateful acknowledgment of
the stranger's kindness, by the abrupt exit of that singular personage,
who bolted down stairs with a precipitancy that was truly alarming,
scarce waiting for Fanny to light him down.
This singular visit was of course the subject of much surprise and
conjecture in the little family of the blind basket-maker; but when
Fanny related how the stranger had accosted her in the street, and
inquired her residence, they concluded that he was some eccentric but
benevolent person, who had taken that method of contributing to the
relief of their wants.
And who was this queer little old man, so shabby and threadbare--so
"full of strange oaths,"--so odd in his manner, so kind in his
heart--calling himself Corporal Grimsby--who had come forward at that
opportune moment to supply a starving family with food? Time will show.