 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XVIII.
The Battery is growing charming again, now that Nature
has laid aside her pearls, and put on her emeralds. The
worst of it is, crowds are flocking there morning and evening;
yet I am ashamed of that anti-social sentiment. It
does my heart good to see the throng of children trundling
their hoops and rolling on the grass; some, with tattered
garments and dirty hands, come up from narrow lanes and
stifled courts, and others with pale faces and weak limbs,
the sickly occupants of heated drawing-rooms. But while
I rejoice for their sakes, I cannot overcome my aversion to
a multitude. It is so pleasant to run and jump, and throw
pebbles, and make up faces at a friend, without having a
platoon of well-dressed people turn round and stare, and
ask, “Who is that strange woman, that acts so like a child?”
Those who are truly enamoured of Nature, love to be alone
with her. It is with them as with other lovers; the intrusion
of strangers puts to flight a thousand sweet fancies, as
fairies are said to scamper at the approach of a mortal
footstep.
I rarely see the Battery, without thinking how beautiful
it must have been before the white man looked upon it;
when the tall, solemn forest came down to the water's edge,
and bathed in the moonlight stillness. The solitary Indian
came out from the dense shadows, and stood in the glorious
brightness. As he leaned thoughtfully on his bow, his
crest of eagles' feathers waved slowly in the gentle evening
breeze; and voices from the world of spirits spoke into his
heart, and stirred it with a troubled reverence, which he
felt, but could not comprehend. To us, likewise, they are
ever speaking through many-voiced Nature; the soul, in
strives to guess its meaning. All round us, on hill and dale,
the surging ocean and the evening cloud, they have spread
open the illuminated copy of their scriptures—revealing all
things, if we could but learn the language!
The Indian did not think this; but he felt it, even as I
do. What have we gained by civilization? It is a circling
question, the beginning and end of which everywhere touch
each other. One thing is certain; they who pass through
the ordeal of high civilization, with garments unspotted by
the crowd, will make far higher and holier angels; will love
more, and know more, than they who went to their Father's
house through the lonely forest-path. But looking at it
only in relation to this earth, there is much to be said in
favour of that wild life of savage freedom, as well as much
against it. It would be so pleasant to get rid of that nightmare
of civilized life—“What will Mrs. Smith say?” and
“Do you suppose folks will think strange?” It is true that
phantom troubles me but little; having snapped my fingers
in its face years ago, it mainly vexes me by keeping me
for ever from a full insight into the souls of others.
Should I have learned more of the spirit's life, could I
have wandered at midnight with Pocahontas, on this fair
island of Manhattan? I should have, at least, learned all;
the soul of Nature's child might have lisped, and stammered
in broken sentences, but it would not have muttered
through a mask.
The very name of this island brings me back to civilization,
by a most unpleasant path. It was in the autumn of
1609 that the celebrated Hudson first entered the magnificent
river that now bears his name, in his adventurous
yacht, The Half Moon. The simple Indians were attracted
by the red garments and bright buttons of the strangers;
and as usual, their new friendship was soon sealed with the
accursed “fire-water.” On the island where the city now
thereof, named it Manahachtanienks, abbreviated,
by rapid speech, to Manhattan. The meaning of it
is, “The Place where all got Drunk Together.” As I walk
through the crowded streets, I am sometimes inclined to
think the name is by no means misapplied at the present day.
New-York is beautiful now, with its broad rivers glancing
in the sunbeams, its numerous islands, like fairy homes, and
verdant headlands jutting out in graceful curves into its
spacious harbour, where float the vessels of a hundred nations.
But oh, how beautiful it must have been, when the
thick forest hung all round Hudson's lonely bark! When
the wild deer bounded through paths where swine now
grunt and grovel! That chapter of the world's history was
left unrecorded here below; but historians above have it
on their tablets; for it wrote itself there in daguerreotype.
Of times far less ancient, the vestiges are passing away;
recalled sometimes by names bringing the most contradictory
associations. Maiden-lane is now one of the busiest
of commercial streets; the sky shut out with bricks and
mortar; gutters on either side, black as the ancients imagined
the rivers of hell; thronged with sailors and draymen;
and redolent of all wharf-like smells. Its name, significant
of innocence and youthful beauty, was given in the olden
time, when a clear, sparkling rivulet here flowed from an
abundant spring, and the young Dutch girls went and came
with baskets on their heads, to wash and bleach linen in
the flowing stream, and on the verdant grass.
Greenwich-street, which now rears its huge masses of
brick, and shows only a long vista of dirt and paving-stones,
was once a beautiful beach, where boys and horses went
in to bathe. In the middle of what is now the street, was
a large rock, on which was built a rude summer-house,
from which the merry bathers loved to jump, with splash
and ringing shouts of laughter.
I know not from what Pearl-street derives its name; but,
in more snesen than one, it is now obviously a “pearl cast
before swine.”
The Bowery, with name so flowery, where the discord
of a thousand wheels is overtooped by shrill street-cries,
was a line of orchards and mowing-land, in rear of the olden
city, called in Dutch, the Bouwerys, or Farms; and in
populat phrase, “The High Road to Boston.” In 1631,
old Governor Stuyvesant bought the “Bouwerys,” (now so
immensely vauable, in the market sense,) for 6,400 guilders,
or £1,066; houses, barn, six cows, two horses, and two
young negro slaves, were included with the land. He built
a Reformed Dutch church at his own expense, on his farm,
within the walls of which was the family vault. The
church of St. Mark now occupies the same site, and on the
outside wall stands his original grave stone, thus inscribed:
“In this vault lies buried Petrus Stuyvesant, late Captain
General and Commander-in-Chief of Amsterdam in New-Netherland,
now called New-York, and the Dutch West
India Islands. Died August, A. D. 1682, aged 80 years.”
A pear tree stand without the wall, still vigorous, though
brought from Holland and planted there by the governor
himself. His family, still among the wealthiest of our city
aristocracy, have preserved some curious memorials of their
venerable Dutch ancestor. A prtrait in armour, well executed
in Holland, probably while he was admiral there,
represents him as a dark complexioned man, with strong,
bold features, and mustaches on the upper lip. They
likewise preserve the shirt in which he was christened; of
the finest Holland linen, edged with narrow lace.
Near the Battery is an inclosure, called the Bowling
Green, where once stood a leaden statue of George II.;
an appropriate metal for the heavy house of Hanover.
During the revolution, the poor king was pulled down and
dragged irreverently through the streets, to be melted into
than being
To stop a hole to keep the wind away.”
would probably have been less abhorent to him, than it
would be to the apostles to know the uses to which they are
applied by modern Christians.
The antiquities of New-York! In this new and ever-changing
country, what ridiculous associations are aroused
by that word! For us, tradition has no desolate arches,
no dim and cloistered aisles. People change their abodes
so often, that, as Washington Irving wittily suggests, the
very ghosts, if they are disposed to keep up an ancient custom,
don't know where to call upon them.
This newness, combined with all surrounding social influences,
tends to make us an irreverential people. It was
the frequent remark of Mr. Combe, that of all nations,
whose heads he had ever had an opportunity to observe,
the Americans had the organ of veneration the least developed.
No wonder that it is so. Instead of moss-grown
ruins, we have trim brick houses; instead of cathedrals,
with their “dim, religious light,” we have new meeting-houses,
built on speculation, with four-and-twenty windows
on each side, and at both ends, for the full enjoyment of
cross-lights; instead of the dark and echoing recesses of
the cloister, we have ready-made coffins in the shop-windows;
instead of the rainbow halo of poetic philosophy,
we have Franklin's maxims for “Poor Richard;” and in
lieu of kings divinely ordained, or governments heaven-descended,
we have administrations turned in and out of office
at every whirl of the ballot-box.
“This democratic experiment will prove a failure,” said
an old-fashioned federalist; “before fifty years are ended,
where will you get the blood?” inquired an Irishman, with
earnest simplicity; “sure you will have to send over the
water to get some of the blood.” Whereupon, irreverent
listeners laughed outright, and asked wherein a king's blood
differed from that of an Irish ditch-digger. The poor fellow
was puzzled. Could he have comprehended the question,
I would have asked, “And if we could import the kingly
blood, how could we import the sentiment of loyalty?”
The social world, as well as the world of matter, must
have its centrifugal as well as centripetal force; and we
Americans must perform that office; an honourable and
useful one it is, yet not the most beautiful, nor in all respects
the most desirable. Reverence is the highest quality
of man's nature; and that individual, or nation, which
has it slightly developed, is so far unfortunate. It is a
strong spiritual instinct, and seeks to form channels for
itself where none exists; thus Americans, in the dearth of
other objects to worship, fall to worshipping themselves.
Now don't laugh, if you can help it, at what I bring forth
as antiquities. Just keep the Parthenon, the Alhambra, and
the ruins of Melrose out of your head, if you please; and
pay due respect to my American antiquities. At the corner
of Bayard and Bowery, you will see a hotel, called the
North American; and on the top thereof you may spy a
wooden image of a lad with ragged knees and elbows,
whose mother doesn't know they're out. That image commemorates
the history of a Yankee boy, by the name of
David Reynolds. Some fifty years ago, he came here at
the age of twelve or fourteen, without a copper in his pocket.
I think he had run away; at all events, he was alone
and friendless. Weary and hungry, he leaned against a
tree, where the hotel now stands; every eye looked strange
upon him, and he felt utterly forlorn and disheartened.
While he was trying to devise some honest means to obtain
the wharf; and the Yankee eagerly offered his services.
For this job he received twenty-five cents; most of which
he spent in purchasing fruit to sell again. He stationed
himself by the friendly tree, where he had first obtained
employment, and soon disposed of his little stock to advantage.
With increased capital he increased his stock. He
must have managed his business with Yankee shrewdness,
or perhaps he was a cross of Scotch and Yankee; for he
soon established a respectable fruit stall under the tree; and
then he bought a small shop, that stood within its shade;
and then he purchased a lot of land, including several buildings
round; and finally he pulled down the old shop, and
the old houses, and built the large hotel which now stands
there. The old tree seemed to him like home. There he
had met with his first good luck in a strange city; and from
day to day, and month to month, those friendly boughs had
still looked down upon his rising fortune. He would not
desert that which had stood by him in the dreary days of
poverty and trial. It must be removed, to make room for
the big mansion; but it should not be destroyed. From its
beloved trunk he caused his image to be carved, as a memento
of his own forlorn beginnings, and his grateful recollections.
That it might tell a truthful tale, and remind
him of early struggles, the rich citizen of New-York caused
it to be carved, with ragged trowsers, and jacket out at elbows.
There is a curious relic of bygone days over the door of
a public house in Hudson street, between Hamersley street
and Greenwich Bank, of which few guess the origin. It
is the sign of a fish, with a ring in its mouth. Tradition
says, that in the year 1743, a young nobleman, disguised
as a sailor, won the heart of a beautiful village maiden, on
the western coast of England. It is the old story of woman's
fondness, and woman's faith. She trusted him, and
of betrothal. Time passed on, and she heard no more from
him; till at last there came the insulting offer of money, as
a remuneration for her ruined happiness, and support for
herself and child. Some time after, she learned, to her
great surprise, that he was a nobleman of high rank, in the
royal navy, and that his ship was lying near the coast.
She sought his vessel, and conjured him by all recollections
of her confiding love, and of his own earnest protestations,
to do her justice. At first, he was moved; but her
pertinacity vexed him, until he treated her with angry scorn,
for presuming to think she could ever become his wife.
“God forgive you,” said the weeping beauty; “let us
exchange our rings again; give me back the one I gave
you. It was my mother's; and I could not have parted
with it to any but my betrothed husband. There is your
money; not a penny of it will I ever use; it cannot restore
my good name, or heal my broken heart. I will labour to
support your child.” In a sudden fit of anger, he threw
the ring into the sea, saying, “When you can recover that
bauble from the fishes, you may expect to be the wife of a
British nobleman. I give you my word of honour to marry
you then, and not till then.”
Sadly and wearily the maiden walked home with her
poor old father. On their way, the old man bought a fish
that was offered him, just taken from the sea. When the
fish was prepared for supper that night, lo! the ring was
found in its stomach!
When informed of this fact, the young nobleman was so
strongly impressed with the idea that it was a direct interposition
of Providence, that he did not venture to break the
promise he had given. He married the village belle, and
they lived long and happily together. When he died, an
obelisk was erected to his memory, surmounted by the effigy
of a fish with a ring in its mouth. Such a story was of
merchants, until it became universal tradition. Some old
emigrant brought it over to this country; and there in Hudson
street hang the Fish and the Ring, to commemorate the
loves of a past century.
Now laugh if you will; I think I have made out quite
a respectable collection of American antiquities. If I seem
to you at times to look back too lovingly on the Past, do
not understand me as quarrelling with the Present. Sometimes,
it is true, I am tempted to say of the Nineteenth
Century, as the exile from New Zealand did of the huge
scramble in London streets, “Me no like London. Shove
me about.”
Often, too, I am disgusted to see men trying to pull down
the false, not for love of the true, but for their own selfish
purposes. But notwithstanding these drawbacks, I gratefully
acknowledge my own age and country as pre-eminently
marked by activity and progress. Brave spirits are everywhere
at work for freedom, peace, temperance, and education.
Everywhere the walls of caste and sect are melting
before them; everywhere dawns the golden twilight of
universal love! Many are working for all these things,
who have the dimmest insight into the infinity of their relations,
and the eternity of their results; some, perchance,
could they perceive the relation that each bears to all, would
eagerly strive to undo what they are now doing; but luckily,
heart and hand often work for better things than the head
wots of.
| Letters from New York | |