A NEW YORK MERCHANT.
Mr. Lawrence Newt, the brother of Boniface, sat in his office. It
was upon South Street, and the windows looked out upon the shipping
in the East River--upon the ferry-boats incessantly crossing--upon the
lofty city of Brooklyn opposite, with its spires. He heard the sailors
sing--the oaths of the stevedores--the bustle of the carts, and the hum
and scuffle of the passers-by. As he sat at his table he saw the ships
haul into the stream--the little steamers that puffed alongside bringing
the passengers; then, if the wind were not fair, pulling and shoving the
huge hulks into a space large enough for them to manage themselves in.
Sometimes he watched the parting of passengers at the wharf when the wind
was fair, and the ship could sail from her berth. The vast sails were
slowly unfurled, were shaken out, hung for a few moments, then shook
lazily, then filled round and full with the gentle, steady wind. Mr.
Lawrence Newt laughed as he watched, for he thought of fine ladies
taking their hair out of curl-papers, and patting and smoothing and
rolling it upon little sticks and over little fingers until the curls
stood round and full, and ready for action.
Then the ship moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, from the wharf--so
slowly, so imperceptibly, that the people on board thought the city was
sliding away from them. The merchant saw the solid, trim, beautiful
vessel turn her bow southward and outward, and glide gently down the
river. Her hull was soon lost to his eyes, but he could see the streamer
fluttering at the mast-head over the masts of the other vessels. While
he looked it vanished--the ship was gone.
Often enough Mr. Lawrence Newt stood leaning his head against the
window-frame of his office after the ship had disappeared, and seemed
to be looking at the ferry-boats or at the lofty city of Brooklyn. But
he saw neither. Faster than ship ever sailed, or wind blew, or light
flashed, the thought of Lawrence Newt darted, and the merchant, seemingly
leaning against his office-window in South Street, was really sitting
under palm-trees, or dandling in a palanquin, or chatting in a strange
tongue, or gazing in awe upon snowier summits than the villagers of
Chamouni have ever seen.
And what was that dark little hand he seemed to himself to press?--and
what were those eyes, soft depths of exquisite darkness, into which
through his own eyes his soul seemed to be sinking?
There were clerks busily writing in the outer office. It was dark in
that office when Mr. Newt first occupied the rooms, and Thomas Tray, the
book-keeper, who had the lightest place, said that the eyes of Venables,
the youngest clerk, were giving out. Young Venables, a lad of sixteen,
supported a mother and sister and infirm father upon his five hundred
dollars a year.
"Eyes giving out in my service, Thomas Tray! I am ashamed of myself."
And Lawrence Newt hired the adjoining office, knocked down all the walls,
and introduced so much daylight that it shone not only into the eyes of
young Venables, but into those of his mother and sister and infirm
father.
It was scratch, scratch, scratch, all day long in the clerks' office.
Messengers were coming and going. Samples were brought in. Draymen came
for orders. Apple-women and pie-men dropped in about noon, and there were
plenty of cheap apples and cheap jokes when the peddlers were young
and pretty. Customers came and brother merchants, who went into Mr.
Lawrence Newt's room. They talked China news, and South American news,
and Mediterranean news. Their conversation was full of the names of
places of which poems and histories have been written. The merchants
joked complacent jokes. They gossiped a little when business had been
discussed. So young Whitloe was really to marry Magot's daughter, and the
Doolittle money would go to the Magots after all! And old Jacob Van
Boozenberg had actually left off knee-breeches and white cravats, and
none of his directors knew him when he came into the Bank in modern
costume. And there was no doubt that Mrs. Dagon wore cotton lace at
the Orrys', for Winslow's wife said she saw it with her own eyes.
Mr. Lawrence Newt's talk ceased with that about business. When the
scandal set in, his mind seemed to set out. He stirred the fire if
it were winter. He stepped into the outer office. He had a word for
Venables. Had Miss Venables seen the new novel by Mr. Bulwer? It is
called "Pelham," and will be amusing to read aloud in the family. Will
Mr. Venables call at Carville's on his way up, have the book charged
to Mr. Lawrence Newt, and present it, with Mr. Newt's compliments, to
his sister? If it were summer he opened the window, when it happened to
be closed, and stood by it, or drew his chair to it and looked at the
ships and the streets, and listened to the sailors swearing when he
might have heard merchants, worth two or three hundred thousand dollars
apiece, talking about Mrs. Dagon's cotton lace.
One day he sat at his table writing letters. He was alone in the inner
room; but the sun that morning did not see a row of pleasanter faces than
were bending over large books in odoriferous red Russia binding, and
little books in leather covers, and invoices and sheets of letter paper,
in the outer office of Lawrence Newt.
A lad entered the office and stood at the door, impressed by the silent
activity he beheld. He did not speak; the younger clerks looked up a
moment, then went on with their work. It was clearly packet-day.
The lad remained silent for so long a time, as if his profound respect
for the industry he saw before him would not allow him to speak, that
Thomas Tray looked up at last, and said,
"Well, Sir?"
"May I see Mr. Newt, Sir?"
"In the other room," said Mr. Tray, with his goose-quill in his mouth,
nodding his head toward the inner office, and turning over with both
hands a solid mass of leaves in his great, odoriferous red Russia
book, and letting them gently down--proud of being the author of that
clearly-written, massive work, containing an accurate biography of
Lawrence Newt's business.
The youth tapped at the glass door. Mr. Newt said, "Come in," and, when
the door opened, looked up, and still holding his pen with the ink in
it poised above the paper, he said, kindly, "Well, Sir? Be short. It's
packet-day."
"I want a place, Sir."
"What kind of a place?"
"In a store, Sir."
"I'm sorry I'm all full. But sit down while I finish these letters; then
we'll talk about it."