University of Virginia Library

SIGHTS FROM MY WINDOW.

It is my custom, dear reader, to mount the three
steps leading from the centre of my quadrangular attick
to its only window, every evening, just before
twilight steals upon the streets. The city is then all
abroad. Carriages are then plentier than pedestrians!
With a brown Havanna, elastic and fragrant, between
my lips, I mechanically take my seat in the little
dormant nook, and, while the blue wreaths of
smoke curl idly above my head, floating along the
sloping ceiling, and perfuming, with its delicious narcotic
odors, the whole room, to the utter discomfiture
of my foes, the moschetoes, I observe, with a philosophic
and speculative eye, the passing multitude. This
has been my habit since the evening of the first of
May last, when I was formally inducted into my elevated
domicil, which, for the moderate charge of two
dollars and one shilling per week—(I only room and
lodge here, dear reader, preferring to take my meals
in quiet independence, at the restaurateur's. One's
hours are his own, then, you know! Besides—but I
have other reasons of my own which I need not mention)—I
am privileged to call my home, my castle!
My window looks down on Broadway—that part of

Broadway near Bleecker street.—A quiet, and withal,
the “court-end” of the town, reader! A slight projection
of the roof and its gutter conceals from me
the side-walk on this side; but the middle of this great
thoroughfare—the grand artery of the city—and the
opposite trottoir, are exposed, like a map, to my visual
espionage.

Look with me forth from the window, complaisant
reader! Take my chair there in the nook, and I will
stand (for there is room only for one) on this step beside
you. You need not first cast your eyes about
my apartment. It contains only a single cot-bed—the
birthright of bachelors—two chairs, one of which you
now honor me by occupying in the window, a small,
drawerless, pine table, covered with loose manuscripts,
poems, a well thumbed novel, “Clinton Bradshaw,”
a Dictionary of Quotations, and a Bible. It is also
adorned by a bowl and pitcher, a drinking glass, with
a slight flaw on its rim, and a napkin of no particular
hue. A circular mirror, the size of a hat-crown, a
strip of old carpet, stretched from the bed to the window,
and a leathern trunk much worn by dint of
travel, and containing my wardrobe, complete the tale
of my personal goods, chattels and appurtenances.
Turn your back, sir, upon these uninteresting domestic
items, and let us together survey the living drama
beneath.

The evening is most delightful. The tree-tops are
waving and rustling with a cool wind which comes
fresh from the sea. The sun is near the horizon, and
flings his yellow beams aslant the city, gilding, as if
they were touched with a pencil dipped in gold, the
outlines of the spires and towers. See how the red
glow lingers upon the woods of Long Island, as if
they were indeed on fire, and with what dazzling
splendor the windows of the houses on the heights
send back the sun-beams! How such an evening
gladdens the heart! One feels at peace with himself

and all around him. See how the city has poured
forth its beauty and fashion to do homage to the beauty
of the hour. Bend forward a little, a very little,
and you may see down Broadway a mile, till the
street terminates in a point. The summits of the
trees on the Battery rise still beyond, here and there
relieved by an intervening spire, pointing, like the
finger of faith, to heaven. What a confused spectacle,
the whole! What a labyrinth of carriages, moving
in every possible direction, threatening every instant
to come in dangerous contact, and yet passing
each other safely! And the side walk—you can follow
it with your eye till it is lost beneath the projecting
shade from the stores in the distance—for your
gaze penetrates the business section of Broadway.
How the people pour along both pavés! more on the
west one, for it is the most fashionable and pleasant.
How, in a long, dark line, like trains of emmets, passing
different ways, to and from their habitations of
sand, they seem to move along. You can watch them
till you can contemplate them only as long lines of
these busy insects, passing and repassing. To the eye
where is the distinction? Which is the immortal? The
emmet performs its allotted destiny, so does man.
Both alike spring from and return to the earth. In
this world, the one appears as useful as the other, its
pursuits as earnest and as dignified. It is in the next
world where man shall stand forth in his destined
greatness, either for good or evil. Here he is as the
brutes that perish!

Having given utterance to this brief morceau of a
moral, let us survey more particularly the crowd flowing
past like a human river.

Do you observe that barouche with claret-colored
pannels and lining, drawn by two large bays, with an
elderly gentleman on the back seat, clothed in deep
mourning? As he turns his face this way, it wears a
cast of sadness. Two months ago, that carriage contained

one of the lovliest girls ever whirled along
Broadway on an evening drive. She was always
arrayed in simple white, with a neat cottage and green
veil. (What a pity the ladies should have given up
the pretty, fascinating cottage! nothing was ever so
becoming to a pretty face!) She sat upon the forward
seat, with her face to her father. Such a face as hers
angels must wear! It was lovely beyond description.
Raphael would have thrown aside his pencil before
her in despair. Her eyes were large, black, and lustrous.
All her soul beamed in them when she spoke
to her parent. Tenderness, passion, love, devotion,
and each and every gentle quality, that makes woman
ethereal and heavenly above men, dwelt in them, and
played in a brilliant smile upon her lips. Every evening,
for three weeks, she rode past; and every evening
she was the same brilliant and beautiful creation.
The sound of her carriage-wheels were at length
looked for by me with habitual expectation. One
evening I sought in vain for her lovely face among
the throng of carriages. Twilight was lost in night,
and I had seen neither the claret barouche nor the object
of my solicitude. Two weeks passed away, and,
with slower motion, the long-looked for barouche
came in sight. The father and daughter were in it.
She sat upon the back seat; but oh, how changed!
Her pale and sunken cheek leaned upon his shoulder,
while with tender parental anxiety, he supported her
drooping form. She had been ill, and, no doubt, was
now taking the air for the first time. Poor girl, she
was but the shadow of her former self. Two more
evenings she passed, and she seemed weaker each day.
The third, the fourth, and the fifth evenings, the claret-colored
barouche was withdrawn from the gay cavalcade.
The sixth, there appeared a long line of carriages,
proceeding at that slow pace which indicates
a funeral procession. A hearse, covered with a pall,
and decorated with black plumes, came first; then
slowly behind it, the claret-coloured carriage, lined
with crape. He was in deep mourning, his face buried
in a white kerchief. He was alone in the barouche.
His daughter was beneath that pall. He
was following her to the grave! There is a sad tale,
and full of strange interest, I have since learned of
her. I may tell it you in some still, twilight hour.

There rolls a carriage more splendid than any we
have yet seen, and we have seen many gorgeous
ones.—A black footman in a sort of half-livery—(for
cis-atlantic aristocrats ape, but do not copy, the aristocracy
of Europe)—is behind; and there is a black
coachman, with the same fancy-colored hat-band and
button on his cape, pompously mounted upon the
coach-seat. Observe his air. He feels himself a greater
gentleman than his master. There is a lady within,
both graceful and pretty, yet she sits mopingly beside
that noble-looking gentleman. Two months ago they
rode out together in a landau. She was then all
smiles and animation. Shortly after, a wedding party
passed beneath my window; this lady and gentleman
were sitting side by side, the happiest of the
happy. They now ride out as you have just seen.
They are married! I rather think I shall not aspire
to the room with a double bed!

There go two “middies,” in a sulkey. One of them
is “larking” it on shore with much grace. See the
air with which he reins in his noble animal! Mark
his position—turning his side partly to the horse, and
as erect as the mizzen-top-gallant-mast of his frigate!
He is evidently creating a sensation; at least he thinks
so, which is virtually the same thing. His shipmate
beside him is equally as gay in navy blue and buttons;
but he is visibly raw. He is not at home. His hands
are sadly troublesome. The sulkey is open all round,
and he is much embarrassed by his exposure to all
eyes. He wishes himself in the cook's coppers, rather
than where he is. The self-possession and ease of

his more graceful and knowing companion, contrasts
admirably with his bashful awkwardness. Yet he
will go aboard to-night and swear bravely what a glorious
drive he had up Broadway.

There trots a magnificent creature! See, he scarce
touches the pavement. But see what a gawk is
mounted on him! That fellow has been learning to
ride every evening for the last two months; and look
at him—I could mount a pair of crutches on a horse
more gracefully. His spurs are too long, and he carries
his legs as if he had neither knee nor ankle joint.
I will find you a pair of compasses will do better.

Here is a hack trundling by loaded with “loafers.”
Heaven bless the inventor of this most expressive term!
Two Irish women and three children on the front seat,
and two men in white roundabouts behind. The chests,
and bags, and boxes, are piled like a catacomb around
the driver and behind his coach. The children are
bawling, yet the women are laughing and chattering,
and the men lovingly sharing a bottle of whiskey between
them. There they turn down a cross street, as
happy, no doubt, in their own way, as any who have
rode by this evening. There rolls a carriage, containing
but a single lady. She always wears that same
sweet smile. She is now alone, but I have seen her
carriage full of noisy, beautiful children. She takes
them out with her twice a week. She is arrayed in
half mourning; for so I should read that black riband,
passed with such elegant simplicity about her hat.
She must be a widow, for I have never known her to
be accompanied by a husband-looking man. These
husbands are marked men! There are signs by which
I know them!

There is a grave looking gentleman, walking with
a stout orange stick. He never rides. He takes his
airings on foot. He knows how to preserve his health.
That miserable little boy has risen from the steps of
that marble portico to solicit his charity. See! he

looks at the lad and then at the crowd. Mark the
struggle between pity for the wretched beggar-boy,
and reluctance at giving in so public a manner. His
amiable sensitiveness prevails. He takes another look
at the crowded pavé, and turns hastily and passes on.
Observe him! He looks back—his step falters—his
hand seeks his pocket. He has turned back and placed
a quarter of a dollar in the child's hand. Now see
how he withdraws from the public eye, as if he
thought all had seen him give what he would rather
should have been given in secret. How elastic his
step! He will sleep soundly to-night, that good man!
and with a clear conscience!