University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
A STROLL THROUGH THE CITY.

Richard, we have said, had leisure during the day. This
leisure he would turn to account; he would look about the
city. Richard, we need not say, loved to read; he had
read not a little for a simple, agricultural lad, and he was
always glad to get new books. Pity he should not have
them, when there is such an abundance. Richard had
been over the world at some length, in his geographies and
histories; he had travelled with attention and with profit;
yet with his own feet and walking-stick he had measured
but a few leagues of human affairs, — the merest crumb of
the great ball. He had never been in the business streets
of Woodylin, nor in its fashionable squares. So he sallied
forth, one sunny morning, to reconnoitre.

Woodylin consisted of two portions, — the Old and the
New Town, — divided by the River. The New Town comprised
the Factories and Saw-mills, which lay in a graceful
and polite bend of the stream. Yet both sides lived in harmony,
and strangers used to say but one pulse beat there,
whether in the head or feet. Nevertheless, fancy and caprice
must dash this pleasant cup of unity with a little variety.
As the New Town increased in size, and perhaps in conceit,
since it possessed many picturesque spots, and indulged in
much picturesque promise, its inhabitants called it the
Beauty of Woodylin. It became a standing quip for one to
say he did not live in Woodylin, but in the Beauty of it.
If one side was the city proper, the other would seem

to be the city improper. It would not stop at this; it
meant to be the city more proper. It erected a School-house
unequalled in the municipality. It hoped to do
many more things; but it is not so easy to work with hopes,
as with a well-earned fruition; it had nothing equal to Victoria-square.
Elder Jabson's Church was on the Beauty side.
Here was one of the Printing-offices, to which we may
again refer. On this bank, also, was the Light-house, —
a circumstance that originated innumerable smart sayings.
The Custom-house divided its favors with both shores.
The Beauty people built an Athenæum, founded a library,
and supported a course of lectures, to match the Lyceum
across the River. Here also a division of the Sons of Temperance
had sumptuous apartments. Yet as the sun and
rain, summer and winter, were alike on both sides of the
valley, so the greater interests, affections, and preferences
of the people, coalesced.

The Beauty side afforded less to engage the curiosity of
a country youth, like Richard, than the other. So he
crossed the stream. In a rambling way, he paused to look
into a precinct, known as Knuckle Lane; — a dismal region,
the sewer of poverty, filth and wretchedness, — a sort of
Jews' quarter, where the cast-off clothes of the city — its
old houses, old garments, old furniture, old horses — were
collected, and if not exposed for sale, were certainly exposed
to everything else.

Now, Richard's teacher at the Village High School inculcated
this doctrine among his scholars, — that they should
use in after life the knowledge they acquired at school; and
to the Geography class he particularly addressed himself, and
told them that when they saw new objects, they should
associate them with the places whence they came; that if at
any time they were abroad, they should recall, not only the

origin, but the history and use, of what they saw. “For
instance,” — and thus he illustrated his meaning, — “this
penknife is from England, — you know where England is;
this silk cravat is from France. The tea your mother uses
is from China; vain and extravagant dressing is from a
wicked heart;” — he would laugh when he said this; —
“rum is from the Devil.” So he instructed them on various
points, especially holding to the main one, that they
should keep their eyes open, — ever be seeing, ever be learners,
and have their minds always alive and active.

Recollecting this principle, Richard had a great many
things to think of, as he looked up Knuckle Lane. Why
this poverty? Why this meanness? Why are poverty and
meanness so associated? Is there no remedy for it? Thus
he questioned within himself. There is nothing of this sort
in Green Meadow, — his native town. He might have
stood there a month, in obedience to the direction of his
teacher, Mr. Willwell, before he could get at the solution
of the matter. So he went on into the street where wood
was exposed for sale.

What quantities of it! How the loaded teams crowded
the way!

Faithful to the principle just named, the first thought of
Richard, when he saw the wood, was his own home. The
oxen looked so like his own oxen, — the wood looked so like
wood he had handled, every stick of it; — he knew the best
kinds, and all kinds. But the oxen; — there came with them,
to his mind, his own barn-yard, and stable, and hay-mow;
he could have shaken the cattle heartily by the hand, every
one of them. Then he knew their best signs, — the broad
breast, the bright color, — and he could tell that there was
a sprinkling of Durham in them, and he knew where Durham
was.

And with the barn-yard was connected, in fact, and in his
mind, a little path, and then an apple-tree, and then a well-sweep,
a shed, and a kitchen; and so he crept along, till
he came pat upon his old Father and Mother;—but he
could stay there long.

The Surveyor manipulated with his scale on all sides of
the wood, — inspected the ends, peered in among the crevices,
rapped on the bark. “The sled is heavier than that,”
said the owner, looking at the bill the official gave him.
“Short lengths,” replied the latter. “We measure from
the inside to the tip of the scarf.” “There is a round cord,
or my cattle may be ashamed of themselves, and never
expose their sweat and hot flanks in Woodylin again.” “It
is not well packed.” “It is well packed, — I'll leave it to
any one that knows. Here, Captain,” he called to Richard;
“you have seen cord-wood, I should say, from your looks;
you can tell what a load is, and when it's loaded. Is that
merchantable?” “I should think it was,” replied Richard.
“Is he a Surveyor?” exclaimed that dignitary; “has he
been sworn?” “I have handled wood,” added Richard,
“and I call that well stowed.” “I shall not condescend to
dispute with you,” returned the Surveyor. “Nor I with
you,” echoed the driver, and he tore up the bill. “Your
wood is forfeited,” said the Surveyor. “It sells for a cord,
or I will back about, and fling it into Knuckle Lane. I
guess they won't dispute about it there.”

Richard was called to apply his education in a way his
school-master had not provided for; yet, after all, it was
only an amplification of the general rule.

“I advise you, young man,” remarked the Surveyor to
our friend, with a sinister tone of voice, “to mind your own
business.”

Richard took the hint, and went on. He turned, without

method in his route, into Lafayette-street, — a broad street,
with fine trees, fine houses, fine churches. This led into
Victoria-square. With all his philosophy, it would have
been difficult to pierce the mystery that lay about him now.
He could, indeed, with his eye comprise the magnificence of
the place, — count the stories of the houses, enumerate the
successive blocks; but even to his eye, there was an inexplicable
richness. How splendid those great elms would be
in the summer! — that he knew. But the people, — the
parlors, — the wardrobes, — the feelings; — he might as
well be looking at the Moon.

He entered St. Agnes-street, where the Governor resided,
and came to a halt in front of the Family mansion. There
were the ornamented fence, the arched gateway, the deep
yard planted with trees and shrubbery, the long piazza with
its corinthian columns, the windows with rich caps, the
heavy cornice, and the high walls of the building itself,
that arrested his eye. Did he know what was inside? He
did not — nor even who lived there. He saw what went in
there; he saw two ladies, with stone-marten muffs, garnet
velvet sacks, and one with a blue satin hat and bird of
paradise feathers. These were Barbara and Melicent.
They turned as they mounted the steps, and cast a leisure
glance around, that alighted upon Richard, and passed to
other objects. What account should he give of these to his
teacher? What a distance between his home-spun and
their French velvets! He drew back a little, as they looked
towards him, and interposing between him and them a fir-tree,
made good his escape. He came into a quarter of
uneven pavements; he passed houses that had their basements
new-furbished, and new-windowed, and let for grocery
stores, while the upper stories remained dingy, brown, and
dark; the improvement of the city being rapid and great,

and flinging itself in haste into such parts of a building as
it could most conveniently reach. What life, what animation,
began to spread itself before him, in the long vistas of
the business streets! How the sun poured itself down, cheerful
and bright, on those syndromes of modern civilization!
People complained of tight times, a dull season; — there
was no dulness, no tightness, to Richard's eye. Gayly varnished
sleighs, puffed and pranked with silver-furred robes,
and streaming with a whole pack of tails behind, flashed
by. Pungs of butter, oats, mutton, defiled along. Four
elegant horses, attached to an elegant van, with seats for
twenty, and having a dasher as high as a barn-door, on
which danced an Hungarian girl, under an arch of gilded
flowers and vines, attracted his gaze. He saw men in
buffalo coats, and scarlet leggins, and very red faces,
moving to and fro rather heavily, with the chin sunk, as if
in deep thought. These were stage-drivers, executing their
orders. People from the country were continually arriving,
and hitching their horses at the stone posts by the walk; —
the females crawling out of their fur beds, then squinting at
the signs over the doors, and darting forwards, as if their
health and salvation were staked on getting in at a particular
door.

There were men with pale faces, and white cravats, and
gray hair, who walked a little stooping and leisurely; —
these were the ancient and venerable fathers of the City.
Young men, well dressed, with bits of paper and little
blank-books in their hands, passed him, walking fast and
straight forwards; — these were clerks. Others, in loose
paletots, with one arm folded round the breast, and cigars
in their mouth, were the gentlemen of leisure.

He came to a store that had an ancient goose hanging

one side of the door; — he knew where geese came from.
A pair of denim over-hauls mated it on the other; — he
knew where such things came from, but he looked more
closely at them, — not philosophically, but economically, —
for he wanted a pair. He saw in the shop barrels, — rows
of barrels, — piles of barrels; and on the heads of the barrels
he read, N. E. Rum. Devil! thought he, what a
Devil is here! He remembered the words of his Teacher,
— “Rum comes from the Devil.” There were men in the
store drinking, and other men serving drink. The Devil,
he thought, had set up business for himself there. He
turned hastily away.

He came into a street of new stores, with high brick
walls, and great windows; and every window, — oh, it was
a realm of enchanted vision, — a gulf opening into Paradise,
— a portal of Dream-land! There were oranges and
lemons in the Fruiterer's windows, that brought to Richard's
memory what he had learned of Sicily, Cuba, and the
evergreen Tropics. There were golden watches and bracelets,
diamond rings, pearl brooches, in the Jeweller's, spread
out in full view, on terraces of black velvet; and Potosi
came to his mind, Golconda and the Arabian Nights.
At the Confectioner's, glass globes of candies and lozenges,
and all kinds of colored sugars, stood a-row, and there were
sugar dogs, and sugar houses, and sugar everything, —a
whole microcosm of pretty ideas in sugar; and what should
he think of, —what did he think of, but Memmy and Bebby?

Richard was a parvenu; he was fresh from the country,
— this everybody saw; the way he stared at things
showed it, even if his red shirt, and snuff-colored monkey-jacket,
and striped mittens, did not. But Richard knew
where everybody came from, and he had no inquiries to
make about them. But he did not understand the mystery

of all the things he saw in the windows, and he wished the
friend of his youth was there to tell him. This instructor
had a pin that he took from his coat-sleeve, on which he
used to dilate, and spent hours talking about it, and telling
how it was made; then he illustrated all sorts of things by
it. A pin and a pencil were a whole armory of apparatus
for Mr. Willwell. At the Jeweller's, he longed to ask the
artist some questions; but there the man sat, right behind
this beautiful display of work, brushing a bit of brass, and
never looking at what was before him, — never looking at
Richard, — but very vacantly laughing and joking with an
idle fellow that stood near by, with his thumbs in his
breeches pockets. Richard was almost bursting with philosophical
admiration and inquisitiveness, and the man was
so stupid! How different from his Teacher!

But when he faced the many-tinted and many-shaped
wonders of the Confectioner's, he wished, he only wished,
if the window should fall out, and those piles of fascination
be tumbled to the ground, Memmy and Bebby might be
there!

As if his fancies were just turning into realities, he heard
a thundering over head, and a crash at his side. The snow,
sliding from the high roof, had fallen to the ground. It
struck among the horses, and frightened them. Richard
attempted to compose them. One beast, frantic and fiery,
broke his halter, and plunged backwards, dragging Richard
after him. Richard was thrown to the ground, but without
relinquishing his hold. The horse turned to run; Richard,
by a strong jerk of the rein, and a dextrous application of
one foot to the flank of the animal, cast him, and had him
lying quietly on his side, before the people, who rushed to
his assistance, had time to be of much service. It was the
Governor's horse, and in the sleigh was the Governor's

daughter, and the Governor himself appeared in the crowd.
The daughter overflowed with thankfulness; the Governor
took, with his thumb and finger, from his vest-pocket, it
might be a cent, or a dime, it was a gold piece, which he
quietly dropped into one of the flaring pockets of Richard's
jacket.

The crowd dispersed, and Richard resumed his studies.
He reached the Booksellers' quarter. An immense wooden
book, suspended at the corner of the street, over the walk,
caught his eye, and large pictorial advertisements on the
door-posts held it fast. He read the advertisements; he
went from door to door, reading what was emblazoned at
each, — reading the posts from top to bottom. There were
books by authors familiar to him, and more by those of
whom he had not heard; there were titles of books that conveyed
no meaning, and some that aroused all his curiosity
to know what they meant; and others still, so full of meaning
he could hardly keep from clutching the bills and running
home. These doors of the Booksellers' Shops, with
their typographical enigmas, were mystic entrances to the
enchanted palace of youthful hope and intellectual idealism,
and to what he had wished to know, and to what he thought
some time he might know, and to those visions his Teacher
unconsciously kindled in his mind, and to things of which
his Pastor spoke. If he could not enter this palace, he
could look into it through the windows; so he ranged
along from window to window, up and down the street.
May no worse impediments to aspiration and desire ever
be offered than transparent glass! Richard did not feel
that he was denied anything, though he stood outside, and
though it was cold weather; he thought he had a feast.
He was thankful to the kind people that put these things in
the windows. It seemed to him that the panes of glass

were very large, and very accommodating. He saw the
backs of many beautiful books, and the inside of one great
landscape book. He saw many more things, the nature of
some of which he understood, while others puzzled him.
On the broad shelf of one shop he saw porcelain gentlemen,
in antique costume, standing very erect; — what they were
for he did not know, but he supposed they were toys, and
he knew toys came from Germany; so Germany was in his
mind. He saw pearl-handled penknives, and all that Teacher
and books had said about Sheffield was remembered. There
was a little marble dog, with a gold chain about its neck; —
he did not comprehend that. There were boxes of toilette
soap, hidden away in silvered paper; — here he was out,
too. There were quantities of Valentines, to which he
could get no clue whatever. A box of gold pencils revived
his confidence. There were patent inkstands, and patent
pickwicks, and patent table-bells; — good a mechanician as
he might be, he was totally confused. In the broad alcove
of the bay window of another shop, in addition to all this
glitter and richness below, over head were a whole choir of
little white angels, and a bevy of cupids, venuses, and innocent
white children. O Memmy! oh Bebby! where are you
now? And more still! there were beautiful pictures, Madonna
faces, tenderest looks of childhood, many a sweet human
expression, verdant landscapes, quiet pastorals, some of the
deepest affections of the heart. Germany, Sheffield, Art,
Mystery, — good-by! They all vanish; nothing tempts
his curiosity now; his spirit is ravished by a new enthusiasm;
— these simple pictures sink into his soul, and his
imagination swims in ideal feeling.

On the door of this store he read Nefon's. By this time,
also, he recollected that he wanted some paper and pens;
and especially were his thoughts quickened, when, among

the many things that garnished the door-way, he saw the
words Circulating Library; for he remembered his Pastor
told him to seek one out, — “that is,” he added, “if you can
find a good one, a good one.” Did Nefon keep a good Circulating
Library? What was this Nefon's? He looked
again at the inscription. Then he looked at the window;
he even stepped on the sill, and looked through the glass
door. Was Nefon's so small that one word sufficed to
cover it? Was it so large that that same pair of syllables
was all the hint it needed to give? Of whatever size, it
was big enough for Richard. He had studied grammar, and
he knew the apostrophe indicated the possessive case; he
saw at a glance that Nefon possessed what, to his eye, appeared
so grand and magnificent; and Nefon must be a large
man. He was mistaken in this; Nefon was a small man,
— small in stature, though he had a large heart, and a large
head. Why was not Nefon on the alert, and when there
stood on the walk a stranger who had such interest in his
wares, why did he not open the door and invite him in?
That was not Nefon's way of doing business. Yet, if he
had known who stood there, and what the feelings of the
young man were, and how near that young man's feelings
were like his own, he would not only have invited him, but
even seized him by the collar and snatched him in, and
saved him the trouble of getting in as he did; for Richard's
heart beat smartly, — so smartly it might have answered
for a good knock, if there had been any but himself to hear
it, — and he tried the latch twice before it yielded. But he
entered. Did the inside of the shop fulfil its out-door
promise? Was Nefon equal to Nefon's? This is the
truth of the matter: if Nefon's face — that is, his showwindow
— looked bright and attractive, his heart — that is,
the interior of the store — was less lustrous, but more solid;
darker because it was deeper, and more quiet because it
was more substantial. This Richard felt; and if he wondered
in the street, he was awed within the walls. What
quantities of books! Now, within those books, that filled
the shelves on either side, and were piled on the counters,
lay many of the purest and profoundest thoughts and feelings
that Richard ever had, and many more which he
expected to have; and it is not strange that he gazed at the
books, and forgot Nefon. Nor did Nefon notice Richard;
there were other persons with whom he was engaged.

Richard had heard of great libraries; — of the Alexandrine
library, that was burned; of the National Library, at Paris;
— but if all the libraries in all the world had been flung into
one, and opened to his view, his emotion could not be much
deeper than it was now. Not that Nefon had so many
books, but Richard had never seen so many.

But before he could set his eye steadily to work, his
imagination must exercise itself a little; and there passed,
as in a trance, before his mind, many a rosy-colored youthful
vision of books, and, as it were, a sea of literary mist, in
which floated whole islands of flower-reading; and calm,
shady coves of solid intellectual progress opened in the
scene. These things over, he could observe more literally
the nature of what was about him.

It is an observation of Dr. Johnson, that no place affords
a more striking instance of the vanity of human hopes than
a public library; for who, he asks, can see the wall crowded
on every side by mighty volumes, without considering the
oblivion that covers their authors? Yes, had these authors
known what eye was upon them now, — how that heart
coveted them, — how this young man would have gloated
over their dullest lines, and carried to his closet their most
neglected tomes, — they would have smiled within their leaves,

and, in their own joyous thrill, shaken off the dust that lay
on their lids. The meanest author on Nefon's shelves was
immortal in Richard's feelings; Richard was fame, fortune,
posterity, to all of them. How much suffering, neglect, and
toil, was recompensed in that single moment!

But as he gazed at these rows of books, reaching higher
than his head, and extending, in shadowy files, far into the
rear of the building, the pleasant sky of things became a
little overcast. He had this feeling, — that he knew nothing,
and never should know anything.

He had the feeling which a young and ardent author
may be supposed to have, who enters a book-shop with a
basket of books on his arm, to dispose of his wares, and try
his fortune in the general market. He sees such a multitude
of other authors, with their bright, glittering titles,
— some in pretty blue muslin; some in prettier brown goatskin;
some arabesqued in gold; others fragrant in Russia:
here one, urgent for a purchaser, in two volumes; there one
in three: here one reposing in princely folio; there one
gemmed in 18mo: one recommended by his engravings;
another by his type: some calling attention to the originality
of their style; others to the importance of their matter: some
pushed forward by backers; others buoyant in their own
reputation. He feels that he has not written anything, and
never shall write anything; and contemplates the books in
his basket as a collection of apes, that he had unwittingly
sought to introduce among polite and respectable men,
whose chattering he had mistaken for speech; and he
would fain set them adrift in the first piece of woods he can
find.

So Richard, the admirer of all authors, — so many an
author, — is, in a sense, killed by those authors whom Dr.

Johnson summarily consigns to oblivion. This bibliothecal
dust, after all, has some power in it.

So, we say, Richard, with these treasures, endless granaries,
of wisdom, genius, art and science, before him, felt he
knew nothing, and never should know anything. He forgot
even the Circulating Library, and paper and pens; and was
half resolved to leave the premises, and go home to Memmy
and Bebby, and the Green Mill. But ere he had time to
execute such a purpose, Nefon accosted him with a cool,
How do you do, Sir? Richard could hardly tell how he
did.

Recollecting himself, however, he asked after a Circulating
Library. Nefon replied that he kept one, retailed the
terms, but added, it was an unprofitable part of his establishment,
and, moreover, that he had been obliged to adopt the
rule of not lending to strangers, — that was, to people out
of town, and to such as had no —. He was at loss for a
word; he said credentials, or something of that sort. He
meant, to irresponsible persons; to those, in a word, who
looked as Richard did.

Ah, Nefon, how could you do so? But Nefon was busy;
he had many customers, and many cares, and he did not
regard Richard attentively. He had a glimpse at him, and,
not thinking but that he might be a prodigal, good-fornothing
fellow, like many in the city, who wanted a novel
to read, he answered him as he did. Why did he not look
into Richard's gentle, truthful eye? why did he not observe
his earnest, honest face? What did he see in the glimpse
he had? A red shirt, coarse coat, and rustic manner. The
truth must be told, though Nefon falls. The suit which
Richard's mother had spun and wove for him, which she
had bade him good-by in, and which she had thought, with
a strong motherly feeling, “None will be ashamed of my

son” in, — that suit well-nigh ruined him with Nefon. Nefon
will deny this; but we will put it to him thus: Suppose
Richard wore a fine linen shirt, a Cremonia doeskin paletot,
and one of Bebee's castors, — would you have answered
him as you did?

But Richard possessed a last resort. He took from his
wallet a piece of paper, which, after some hesitation, he gave
to Nefon. That paper was a sort of cosmopolitan passport
for Richard, from the hands of his Pastor. It ran thus: —

This was nuts to Nefon; or it would have been, if he had
forthwith cracked them. But between interruptions on the
one hand and those first impressions on the other, he dallied.
He looked at Richard, — looked as if he had not seen

him before, though he had been in the shop twenty minutes.
He looked again; and Richard, embarrassed and
aggrieved, took the note, and turned away.

Now, why all this? Could not the three thick volumes
of Lavater outweigh the short jacket? Why had not
Nefon been appointed Head Phrenological Custom-house
Inspector, — and he might have determined in a trice that
Richard contained no fraud in his composition. We have
said Nefon had a great head and a great heart, though he
was a small man; but all his greatness would have melted
with kindness and run over, had he imagined how the case
stood. He will not do so again.

He did offer his library to Richard; he asked him after
his business, and where he lived, and said he should be glad
to see him again.

Richard took a book, and left the shop; but he could not
go home and face the children with empty hands. So he
got candy and toys, as a sort of ammunition with which to
encounter the onset of their affections.