University of Virginia Library

THE MAN OF THE FLY-MARKET FERRY.

An indefinite number of years ago I boarded in the
Bowery. Our accommodations were, in those days,
looked upon as something superior; it being an established
rule of the house for not more than six
gentlemen to sleep in one room, which to me, who
was a stranger to the customs of New-York, appeared
in the hot summer nights, a sufficiency. The
boarders were principally young men, most of them
clerks in drygood stores, and the conversation generally
turned upon the quantity of sales they had
severally effected in the course of the day, the particulars
of which they narrated with an appearance
of intense interest, bordering on enthusiasm. I was
always of a speculative rather than a practical turn
of mind, and I confess those counter and counting-house
reminiscences did not powerfully affect me,
though I listened to them in a devotedly decorous
manner. One individual alone attracted my attention.
He was a middle-aged man, about the middle

height, and neither very corpulent nor otherwise,
and at first sight there appeared nothing about
him to distinguish him from the ordinary run of
mortals. He was, however, a singular individual,
and had some strange peculiarities. Melancholy
had “marked him for her own;”—he was evidently
a man of many sorrows, and a deep and settled
grief seemed to pervade his every action. His appetite
was uncommonly good, and he ate more and
talked less than any man I ever saw.

He was an inoffensive being; and yet, for some
unascertained cause, the landlady “looked loweringly”
upon him.—As I entered the house rather abruptly
one evening, I perceived the middle-aged gentleman
and the lady of the mansion in deep and earnest
conversation. The tones of her voice were sharp
and decided—her action was energetic in the extreme—her
face had lost much of the mild expression
and winning softness which characterize her
sex, and I distinctly heard her pronounce the impressive
words—“I have been put off long enough,
and I'll be put off no longer!” The middle-aged
gentleman sighed profoundly; he was evidently
much affected, and without saying a word, he took
up his candle, and retired to his bed. Heaven only
knows what were his reflections!

Next morning, notwithstanding the severe mental

struggle of the preceding evening, not a trace of
passion was visible on his countenance. He was
calm, though by no means collected, for instead of
taking his place next the landlady, as was his wont,
he obliviously seated himself opposite a dish of pickled
salmon, a fish for which he had always manifested
a decided predilection. His mind was in a
high state of abstraction—the world around was to
him as nothing—and he helped himself four times
from the savoury fish alluded to, without in the least
noticing the inflamed and ominous looks of the
hostess. He continued to eat, as it appeared to me,
mechanically, long after the other boarders had
arisen from the table, until looking around and perceiving
that he was seated alone with the lady, who
was apparently preparing to open a conversation,
with more agility than I had previously seen him
manifest, he started from his chair—seized by mistake
a new hat instead of his old one from the pile
in the passage, and rushed out of the house. He
came not to dinner, and at tea he was not visible!
but not so did the middle-aged gentleman, and from
that time forward he was seen among us no more.

At the expiration of twenty-four hours, the landlady
overcame her natural feelings of delicacy, and
proceeded to break open his clothes chest, in order
to elicit some compensation for sundry pecuniary
obligations which she alleged he had omitted to discharge.
I was present at the operation: the lock
was forced—the lid was anxiously raised—but alas!
an extensive vacuum presented itself. No integuments
were there, excepting a few “shreds and
patches” at the bottom of the chest in the shape of
ancient shirts and fractions of neck and pocket
handkerchiefs. This was all that the repository of
the middle-aged gentleman contained, setting aside
a few sheets of paper which the landlady threw
away as rubbish, and which I instinctively secured.
On one of them was written the following “Legend,”
which illustrates in a high degree the morbid sensibility
of the amiable writer. Connected as it is
with local circumstances calculated to render it peculiarly
interesting to the feelings of every New-Yorker,
and breathing as it does a tone of the purest
morality, I feel it my bounden duty to give it
without alteration or addition to the public. The
catastrophe is singularly impressive and strikingly
applicable to the present high-pressure times.
Though I cannot say that I myself recollect the
events here recorded, there is strong reason to believe

they are not apochryphal, and doubtless live
in the memories of many worthy inhabitants of
this city. The following is the

MANUSCRIPT.

“I am a miserable individual; my brightest hopes
have been blighted and my finest feelings exceedingly
lacerated. All my life an unfortunate constitutional
temperament has disinclined me from following
any useful or profitable employment; and as I
inherited nothing from the author of my lamented
existence, excepting a good constitution and somewhat
of an epicurean taste, I have consequently
been subjected to the mercenary importunities of
mankind in every city, town, and village where I
have resided for any length of time. Even when
totally destitute of money, and without the most
distant prospect of ever possessing any, they have
ruthlessly pressed their claims upon me, until disgusted
with their heartless importunities, I have
frequently, without vouchsafing a parting word,
quitted their domiciles, and wandered no one knew
whither. In the course of my shifting, strolling life,
I have, as might be expected, met with strange incidents
and scarcely to be credited adventures, but
among them all I know of none which more powerfully
affected me than one which accurred in this

very city of New-York, early in the nineteenth
century.

“It was on a Sunday morning in the beginning
of May, that I opened the door of a house which had
become hateful to me, and sallied out into the street.
Unconscious of what direction I was taking, chance
conducted me into Maiden-lane, and I sauntered
down until my further progress was impeded by
the East River. It was one of those delicious
May mornings when spring, as if mad with joy at
effecting her escape from the dominion of winter,
had infused an exuberance of life and animation
into all creation. The waves were glancing and
dancing in the sunshine across the beautiful bay
of New-York, and the fresh breeze came sweeping
over the waters. The denizens of the city were
thronging across to Long Island to

and many aspiring young men were seated aloft
in their buggies, sulkies, and other vehicles with
names of equal euphony, awaiting the arrival of
the boat. A friend of mine, who happened to be
going that way, entreated me to accompany him,
and as he satisfied all pecuniary demands, I entered
the gate, and took my station by the toll-gatherer,
with whose appearance and manners I was very
much struck in passing, particularly his slow and
solemn way of receiving the money tendered him,
and, notwithstanding the agitation and impatience
of the passengers, his deliberate manner of returning
the change. He was a man apparently about
forty-five; his person was round, fat, oily, and somewhat
loose and swampy; the original hue of his
face was gone, and it was now a combination of
many colors, in which red and purple predominated;
its prominent protuberance was truly Bardolphian
—large, bulbous, and succulent; on it

“The bell had rung for the last time, and the
gate was slowly closing, when a long black column,
which on nearer approach assumed a little the appearance
of a human being, was seen making its
way, with all possible expedition, down Maidenlane,
in order to catch the boat, but whether it would
succeed or not was a very dubious point. One thing
was against it; the wind was blowing freshly up
the street, and though the body, from its thin, hatchet-like
appearance, was well adapted for cutting
through an opposing current of air, yet the pressure
upon the whole surface was evidently too much,

for at every squall the long attenuated legs kept
plunging in the wind, but without making any
progress. It was like a boat pulled against a strong
tide, which the rowers prevent from receding, but
with all their exertions are unable to advance an
inch. Fortunately, however, just as the small bell
had rung to put on the steam, the breeze slackened,
and the attenuation was enabled to reach the gates
of the ferry. It proved to be an interesting and
somewhat dyspeptic-looking young man, or rather
the “sketch and outline of a man,” for he was evidently
as yet only a design. Like an onion run to
seed, his altitude was uncommon, but his circumference
a mere joke; and what added to the length
and diminished the breadth was, that he had encased
himself in a long-waisted black coat, which
it was his pleasure to button tightly around him,
and bestowed his nether extremities in a pair of
fashionable pantaloons, familiarly denominated
“tights,” of the same sombre hue. I must take
upon myself to say that this latter act was extremely
injudicious, because the young man's legs were
not particularly straight—they came in contact at
the knees, but instead of descending perpendicularly,
branched off so as to form the figure which
geometricians call an isosceles triangle, and which
is commonly defined by the term “knock-kneed.”
His face was pale, thin, and uncomfortable looking,
and he had altogether the appearance of having
been dieted on vegetables and water during the
winter months. He was such a being as Falstaff
meant when he talked about a “forked radish;” or
like what pretty Perdita had in her mind's eye
when she exclaims—
How he had contrived to weather the blasts of
January, and attain the month of May, is one of
those inscrutable mysteries of nature, which the
more weak blinded man attempts to solve, the further
he goes astray, until reason is swallowed up in
conjecture, and “nothing is but what is not.” I can
only vouch for the fact, that the month was May,
and he was still a sentient being.

“When the thin young man presented himself at
the gate of the ferry (which was done in less time
than it has taken me to describe him,) the contrast
between him and the fiery-faced ferryman was most
marked and striking. The latter looked at him
as if he thought he was shortly bound for another
world, and I myself was partly of the same opinion;
be that as it might, he still evinced a laudable interest

in the pecuniary concerns of this, for notwithstanding
the larboard chain of the boat had been
unloosed, and they were preparing to do the same
with the starboard, he presented the man of the Fly-market
ferry with a five dollar bill of the Catawaba
bank in Alabama, by which procedure he calculated
not only to secure his passage gratis, but have the
bill discounted at a cheaper rate than it would cost
in the regular way of business. But alas! how
short-sighted are the schemes of mortals, as will be
made apparent hereafter. The man of the Fly-market
ferry was seemingly prepared for all contingencies
of this kind, for drawing from his side-pocket
a large greasy-looking roll of bills, he slowly
and deliberately proceeded to select the most suspicious
and unbrokerable banks. Just as he had
accomplished this to his satisfaction, and given back
four dollars, and ninety-six cents, the starboard
chain was unloosed, and the boat proceeded on her
way. The young man first saw that the change
was all right, and then rushed precipitately forward,
and I verily believe would have succeeded in reaching
the boat, had it not been decreed otherwise;
but just as he had got half-way down the gang-way
his foot slipped, and he fell prostrate: his bones
rattled violently in his skin, and the hand which contained
the change came in forcible contact with the
ground—its powers of tension relaxed—and the
valuable contents were precipitated into the water!

“I have lived long—I have wandered over a
great part of the habitable globe, and I have seen
human misery and suffering in every variety of
shape and degree, but such another picture of unqualified
wretchedness as the thin young man presented
when he found his cash was “buried in the
briny tide,” and that he had lost the boat, I have not
seen. (Owing to the absorbing interest of this melancholy
affair, I myself had lost my passage, but not
being in any particular hurry, this was a small consideration.)
The stranger collected his limbs together
and rose slowly from the ground, and in doing
so a ray of sunshine glimmered through the
gloom of his unparalleled situation, for he perceived
a solitary sixpence, that had escaped the fate of
its companions, lying glittering on the edge of the
dock; he stooped to pick it up, but before his agitated
hand could grasp this fraction of the metallic
currency, a young, dirty, ragged, embryo-state-prison
varlet, who was lounging about, pounced upon
it, and transferred it to his own pocket. The young
man naturally enough demanded the restitution of
his property, but this sprout of original sin, in the
most solemn manner, and with every appearance of
truth, sturdily denied all knowledge of the transaction.

“This was the unkindest cut of all,” and the
young man gave way under it. Stunned by the
heavy and quick-succeeding blows of fate, he staggered
he knew not whither, and most unfortunately
through the gates of the ferry, which instantly closed
upon him. This immediately recalled him to a
sense of his situation, and he attempted to return
through the door-way, but such a proceeding encountered
the decided opposition of the man of the
ferry. The stranger was eloquent, and he poured
forth a fervid torrent of words—he implored the
ferryman by every tie, divine and human,—by all
that links society together—by the confidence of
man in man, to take his word that he had already
paid his passage, and let him pass; this the man of
the ferry undoubtedly remembered, but he was not
legally bound to do so, and moreover, he also remembered
the Catawaba bank bill, and peremptorily
refused all re-admittance without a preliminary
fourpence. The stranger finding words of no avail
grew frantic, and attempted to force the passage vi
et armis, but the man of the ferry pushed him back,
at the same time unfeelingly exclaiming, “No you
don't!” His cup of bitterness was now full to the
brim and one drop over, but tears at length came
to the relief of the sufferer, and he wept! The
ferryman
and the unfortunate finding all was of no use, dashed
the tear from his eye, turned his back on the
scene of his misery, and bent his way up Maiden-lane.
One consolation was left him amid all his
wretchedness—the wind was now in his favor, and
he proceeded without difficulty. On coming to the
corner of Pearl-street he turned along, and the interesting,
dyspeptic, thin young man was lost to my
sight, perchance for ever.

“My tale draws fast to its tragical conclusion. I
went over in the next boat, remained in Brooklyn
that night, and returned the following morning.
On arriving at the dock, I perceived that many people
were congregated together, and also that another
individual gathered in the fourpences. On inquiry
I learnt that during the short interval of my
absence, the man of the ferry—the author of so
much misery, had been summoned to another world.
The manner of his death was simply thus. After
the boat had stopped running on the preceding
evening, he wended his way, as was his wont, to a
neighboring tavern, where he proceeded to “pour
huge draughts of aqua-vitæ down,” in a way that
would have petrified any unsophisticated man to

behold. In this course he persevered for some time,
and then to crown the whole, undertook, for a trifling
wager, to swallow a pint of fourth-proof brandy
at a draught. It was rather too much for him,
but he had a thirst for distinction in that line; he
attempted the feat and succeeded, though he immediately
sunk upon the floor in a state of insensibility.
The next morning when he awoke, he felt dry
and feverish, and a pitcher of cold water happening
unluckily to stand near, he proceeded to deluge his
inward man with its contents. The result was
such as might naturally have been expected under
such circumstances. His inside being heated like
a furnace, and no sooner had the cold water come in
contact with it, than an immense quantity of steam
was instantly generated; there being no safety-valve,
the unfortunate man, like an overcharged
boiler, instantly exploded, and the animated mass,
which, but a few short hours before, I had left full
of fire and spirits, was shattered into a thousand
pieces, and scattered over the floor of the porter-house.
Fortunately no lives, excepting his own,
were lost by the explosion. A coroner's inquest
was held on the body, and a verdict brought in
that “the deceased came by his death in consequence
of his ignorance of the power of steam.”

The moral to be deduced from this event is obvious.
Let no one who has had a predilection for
ardent spirits—and there are but too many who
have such predilections—drink copiously or incautiously
of cold water, lest the result be similar, and
they too share the fate of the MAN OF THE FLY-MARKET
FERRY.