University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
The City Head-Foremost in Business; and the Second Day's Work.

An early breakfast (cider again, for he cuts in at this house at
every turn) and out again. There's a keen day's work before
you, Lankey! Big Abel! They aimed at once for the North
River; passing the old State's Prison, with its four sad columns
and yellow front, they soon had evidence that the river was
not far off, for in the front of a cooper's shop, beyond, they discerned
jutting from a window half-bricked up; that was all his
allowance; a wedge-fashioned sign, bearing on it in alternate
stripes of red and white, “The North River Temperance Benevolent
Society,” which society was clearly a conjuror in a
bottle from the small scope they had allowed him with his blinking
eye. Now, along the river as fast as they can move, with
stacks of lumber cutting out the view of the water, quite often,
and lumber-yards at the back of these, with cool, shady recesses:
idle hay-bales sleeping out on the pier in the sun:
stone-cutters: coal-yards painting the neighborhood about with
a touch or two of their free brush: and presently, as they
speeded along, they were hailed by a man from the bows of a
weather-beaten boat, lying against the wharf. He was in a
faded tarpaulin with nankins faded to match; coatless, but with
a blue cloth waistcoat of homespun texture.

“Look out there—where you goin' to!” This was his outcry.

The Little Manhattan knew him at once. Barskin, the boatman
(who had been summoned by Lankey more than once to

court as having some knowledge, got up the river, of his old
Indian title).

“It's all settled!” said Lankey, when he had gone near to
the boatman.

“It is?” said the boatman. This was evidently a matter of
considerable wonderment to Mr. Barskin, and he denoted by his
manner a vehement desire to know the particulars, it having
occurred to him that it might not be so very easy a case to dispose
of, as it involved the proprietorship of all New York.
And when Lankey made known to him, with the aid of Big
Abel, the manner of the adjustment, he kept his surprise and
astonishment at the same point.

“Really, now!” This was what the boatman said. “You
don't say so.”

What was better still; this was Big Abel speaking; they
were going to celebrate the settlement on Thursday evening
next, at the old Banking-House, at the head of the city, and
would be glad to see Mr. Barskin there. He'd be there.

Big Abel and Lankey hurried on, passing now great numbers
of old boilers, rusty dogs, and long gone out of use, lying alongside
of the river (with a very uncomfortable feeling, one would
think, towards all that good water): a Dutch woman in a door-way
mending a sail: coils of tarred rope at chandlers' shops:
when, farther down, the little negro-boy coming out of a side
street with plenty of kite tackle in his arms, and at his side a
little white, a delicate, fair-eyed little fellow, bearing kite tackle
too.

Pompey Smith (that was his name), and his white young
friend come over from the east side to catch a breeze; and if
you would but look that way, how still the city lay. No
breath among the steeple-vanes; no fluttering of the rosy flags;
and the long straight streets, with houses stretching on and on
in calm upright lines, suggested to the mind not a thought of
shouting masons, clattering bricks, or ringing trowels; but stood

there, as if there they had stood for ever. The wind brought no
mention of the far-off carts or jolting stages, but they passed as
pictures to the eye, and nothing more. But here where Pompey
and the white boy had come, a little gust, just an infant in
his modest way of drawing on, crept in from the sea; and the
white boy, as being readiest, set his kite on end, in Pompey's
hand, who running back a score of yards, gave her a slide up
into the air; the white boy sped away, and up she flew! The
house-top first; that was no feat at all; then, with another gentle
leap, over the liberty-cap, near by; then, with her tail raking
the very steeple's point; and off she shot, beyond all city
heights, away! Then Pompey, planting his on end, against a
post; to go by herself; pulled such a foot, that, ere a minute
could be born to follow it from earth, she elbowed white
boy's in the very bend of heaven; and now a gallant show it
was; what coaxing of the string, what humoring of the tail,
what paying out. A flight of pigeons, set forth from an old
brewery some quarter of an hour before, hanging, like motes
against the sun, were children to these two eager kites.
Who has it? Pompey now—and now the other: and now no
mortal eye can tell, for both are gone from sight. A twanging
snap, a wriggling of the skirt (a snake dropped out of heaven!),
a mad plunge, twenty yards or so, and down she goes: Pompey's:
and all through the neighborhood there springs a countless
cry of boys, “Broke loose—kite loose!” and quick eyes
having gauged her falling-place, quick feet make after; boys,
short and tall, great and little, from all streets about; but Pompey's
friend, his kite put in hand of a stander-by, swiftest and
foremost of all.

Below this, a great number of people in gay dresses, many
with ribbons about them, and children at their side, came pouring
down the street, their eyes shifting from a little house at
the river-side to a green walk beyond the river. They made
for the little house first, which kept up, by aid of a bell hung

in a cover to shield his precious voice from the weather, and a
red-faced, bulky body of a man at the end of it, a great racket;
and the more desperate grew the red-faced man, the more they
rushed upon him, and the more he begged them, through the
bell, to keep rushing. Now, among these there came down
two you would have known in a thousand, or in ten thousand,
because they were beautiful in person to begin with; but that
was nothing; because they were making for the red-faced
gate-man with great speed, that wasn't much; because they
were young and pure of heart, clearly: but let us hope there
were many such seeking the free air of the green fields beyond
the river: but most of all, and all in all, because they were
evidently bound for pleasure, as two spirits in one, making up
into a little bank all the hopes and fears and joys of two, as a
common fund to draw upon when days should grow dark and
hours creep wearily, and the pale trouble should run upon and
try to break them some bleak November afternoon, far on in
time.

William and Mary! It was they, and no other!

The Poor Scholar, with his inky finger, white for once; and
his mistress, with nothing but angels sitting in her eyes, or
dancing about there whenever she turned on him.

The book was written! That was it. That little rounded
Life which he had discerned lying in the midst of many things;
that plan of a Book unborn, which might grow to beauty in his
brain; which had risen as by magic day by day out of nothing;
which had borrowed a color of the morning light, and a whisper
from the wind, and a golden substance from the very stones under
foot. It was done. Ah, happiness, who knows its like?
The child is born; womb, cradle, mother's arms and father's
smiling, all in one. The book was done! Old Trepidation, that
said it could not be written, thou'rt a weazen, shivering, good-for-nothing
fool! And friendly Doubt, that picked a blemish in you
at the very thought of your conceiving, sit with cripples evermore,

and go not, thou, henceforth among true-shapen men!
The book was writ! And what an afternoon was that to Mary
and the Poor Scholar. Was there ever such a sun sent to shine
of an afternoon before! And such a ferry-master to take the
pay; the jolliest of all tax-gatherers, depend upon it! And
such a charm of a boat; and the Fields; that afternoon they
took the name, Elysian, and rightfully have held it ever since!

That book was doing wonders this very afternoon; and these
were nothing to the miracles it was going to do in the way of
wedding-garments, and parson's fee, and housekeeping, down
an everlasting perspective of purest domesticity. There was
a cloud came flying across the sun just then, and they stepped
upon the boat.

Lankey Fogle might have set up a claim here, as being a
cove or creek, which in old time the Indians used to make with
their canoes in crossing, to and fro, the river; but he had his
glimmering eye elsewhere.

The afternoon steamboats were coming out; with the bridle off,
it was quite clear at the first view; a herd of them. The
Arrow first; darting like a ray along the water; the Troy, the
brave old Albany. What fellows they were for speed! And
all so easily swinging their long walking-beams as a gentleman
swings his cane in an easy promenade, when the world goes
well with him after dinner. Flags in great plenty flying from
long staves: music too (two or three bands on their way to the
Springs): and how cheerfully packed they seem in the bows,
at the stern, on the upper deck: with people too who are, to
innocent lookers-on from shore, all bent—for a vague wonder
and curiosity hangs, even yet, about the people that go a
voyage—for pleasure-land, somewhere ahead, without a thought
of care to cross their track. Here and away with a breath,
these swiftsure steamers flew; each cheered, from the pier-heads,
by swarming boys; they are at the pains to execute this
piece of goodness every sunny afternoon; with a whirl of caps

and a piping shout. Seen for an instant; then out of sight.
After these, with flags too (hinting at nothing), came boats for
Dobb's Ferry, Hastings, Sing-Sing; slow coaches creeping on,
with twilight at their backs before they're out of sight. Then
a staggering old hulk that aims for somewhere over the river,
and has been this many years; but whether he ever gets there,
no traveller has ever come back that way to tell. And now,
with quite another look, though built the same; down the river,
with a racer's leap between them—the people all aghast on
board, and quite awe-stricken at coming on the city at his evening
meal—three others; and sweltering the river with glowing
coals let drop in haste, they round upon him, and hug-to with
panting breath. By the fiery light he makes in wheeling round
Lankey espies on one an Indian, all of paint, upon his side;
the old canoes come back upon his thought, the dusky oarsmen,
and their early rule along this water. Lankey! These
are yours!

A mighty street now they came to, running back with a start
at the river as though he'd carry the city all before him!

As they passed across this, both Lankey Fogle and Big Abel
had a vision; of a sudden. It was of an endless series of deep-down
cellars, with gloomy small-coal fires alight therein, tended
by men in sleeves, each with the handle of a black iron noggin
in one hand, and with the other feeding them from time to time,
from countless streaked bowls. The Canal-street plan of
oyster-stewing—that was it! And there swung, as far as eye
could see, high in air, rising one upon the other, the red-white
oyster-moons; to light the seeker down, and look shrewdly
after what goes on below. Many a revel has he seen that
faded, swinging, half-extinguished oyster-moon! The tales he
has to tell, up there rolling to and fro, about his pole; of wilful,
wicked men who sell their souls, almost, to keep his company
from night to night; of watchmen off the guard to pass
their hours, with no upbraiding from the bitter wind and pelting

rain; of jolly players there carousing, wet and dry; of parsons
even who have changed their stocks from white to black to
get an interview of these white-armed ministers below; of aldermen,
and magistrates of high degree: ah, who has seen the half,
or who can tell the third of what he knows, that wicked, staring
oyster-moon!

These are the Little Manhattan's—all of these—the only
planets he can see shining in his faded firmament!

But there's more business forward, beyond; waggons of
every order; garden-carts; barrows; all full, all tending one
way, and pressing upon the great market on the river as though
they would smother him. Every variety of driver, too; dusty
men, with hats apparently dug out of the earth; boys; women, in
rusty bombazines and dirty strings about their waists. A wild,
tumultuous rush of eager men bearing hats, of a second-hand,
you might say a twenty-second hand, complexion, in long crates,
with which they push in and out among the crowd of people
who fill up all the intervals between the carts.

And now the market himself; a low, broad-backed spread
with alleys, running hither and thither, and little platforms up
and down, and swarms of dealers of every kind, borne down,
too great for any mortal market to get along with, by great ribs
and haunches and slabs of bright red beef; and hung all
about, till he almost stooped in the shoulders, with poultry,
chicken, duck, turkey. Then upon the floor great heaps of
apples, and baskets of melons; and again upon the walls rabbits
dangling by their legs; and deer; and strings of pigeons;
and bird-cages, all alive with bobolinks and blackbirds and
quails and canaries.

That market had as much on his mind as he could carry, I
know; and seeing all he owned came fresh, with scarce a hand
between, out of the old dark mould of the very earth his fathers
were laid in, the Little Manhattan would have claimed it for
himself. But Big Abel had a word to say. Leading Lankey

to a pier-head before the market, he drew from his box, which
he planted on a spile, a part of his documents, and would have
it that his great-grandfather Hudson had made a landing there,
and had an understanding with the tribe by which it became
his fee. It didn't appear very clearly, but there was an old
parchment for it, which (to tell the truth plainly) Lankey Fogle
couldn't read, and Big Abel took it, one might say, by default.
But going back, on an errand they had there, when the Little
Manhattan saw how weather-beaten this poor market was, and
tumbling and moss-covered, and what noble promise it gave of
returning, so to speak, to the very grass that grew there once,
again, he went aside and chuckled like a very Indian, at the
thought. The errand was yet to do, and going to the very
heart of the place, they came upon a mighty huckster-woman,
Mrs. Saltus by name, the mightiest of her tribe.

She sate in the very lap of the deep shade cast by the market
—her back to it, her face toward the river—at that hour; within
a world of greens, dewy from the fields, in baskets, in bunches,
spread on a table before her, heaped about her on the
ground. And how she glowed upon that cheery summer's
afternoon, with her broad, happy face, as though she it was that
ripened all with her beaming look; she had: they got from her
the ripeness and the flavor (touches of good heart) dearest to the
buyers, I am sure. How she talked on, savoring in her rustling
speech, and sparkling eyes and waving motion, of the
corn-field, the brook, and garden-life, where all these things
took their growth. She was waiting on a bachelor of the old
school, who always bought of her; silver-buckled at the knee,
clean-hosed, and with a maple cane upon the ground.

“Your turn next, Sonny!” to a little white-headed fellow,
lingering bashfully near the table's edge, with a couple of
coppers in his fingers. “What'll you have this afternoon. Now,
my dear. Well, Dick.” This was a serving-man with a

basket. “Lankey! Bless me, this is a cure for sore eyes.
Chickweed?” This was the white-headed little fellow's order.
“Well. What can you want? Canary-seed: ah, my Beauty,
there's trouble in your eye; one of them is gone, I see. Sweet
Jack or Bob—which was it?”

It was Bob, Mrs. Saltus; that died upon his perch this morning:
he came out of this corner of the market, you know!

Diving to her pocket-bottom, in her gown, from time to time;
a strange cavern, that! what merry music of the little coin
crept out upon the air.

Mrs. Saltus! That market knew well his place, and held
his breath each morning 'till she came in. Then off at the
very top of his speed! Who knew the bills, the ragged, tattered,
dingy bills so well as she; when butchers rushed, whiteaproned,
on her, these flying in their hands? Who kept the
news so well from all the country, east, north, south, west, as
she? Whose bank of change so deep? Whose pitcher dewy
always, with draughts so clear and cold? Stories, too! In all
the pauses of the market, aye, over all its din as well, at times,—
the murmur of the water-wheel that throws off brightness at
his every bound, could fill the air about not half so freshly!
The great snow-storm she loved to dwell on in these glowing
summer-days, when bells did all the talking of the town, and
people glided to and fro like magic to the eye! The season
short of greens! The famous wild-pigeon flights over the city,
that played the mischief with the sun and moon!

Would she come to Big Abel's, Lankey Fogle's entertainment
(she was friend of both)?

Bless their dear hearts, wouldn't she! 'Zekiel, that was her
grandson, should bring her in the garden waggon. Be there!
If there were stairs to the house (she hoped there was), and the
walls could hold her up. Good-bye, my son (to Big Abel);
good-bye, dear old Indian.

With which god-speed they proceeded to a little cabinet or
tin, about the size of a bird's cage, standing on four thin legs,
in the skirts of the market, where coffee was served in white
cups, out of the tin kept a-glow by the coals under him, and
cakes out of his top, along with it.

While they were busy at the tin, there came to them from
Mrs. Saltus—by a little boy, a hanger-on of the place—a couple
of dainty pot-cheeses; taking which in hand, they looked
towards her gratefully, and were met; she was evidently waiting
for it; with a broad, kindly smile, that said plainly enough,
“There's something nice for you!” which acted as a delicious
grace before cheese, and answered in the place of small gold
dishes, and knife and fork of solid silver.

Now, what a time there was, a little below this! How they
howl! Men with whips and sticks, and long eager arms,
stretched through the steam-boat gates; raging like evil spirits
kept out of Paradise. And all for the sake of certain little
leathern rolls and square boxes, borne in hand or guarded by
well-dressed persons within, as though they had come long
journeys just to vex and torment and hideously agitate the gentlemen
outside, by the sight of them! The afternoon boats, in!
When that shout goes up, what a din fills all the streets about;
how they run, rush, scamper, tattered fellows, white, black, dingy
(chiefly), boys, men. And if they fail to make a meal, by their
manner, of these evil-disposed men who unrighteously and
cruelly keep them out of their own, in the way of trunks and
carpet-bags, they're more Christian than I am willing to allow
them to be, just now.

But the day settles by degrees over even so fierce a tumult
as this, and night comes on, bringing out lights upon the water,
twinkling; lights on land, streaking the water far away; a
gloomy sound of plashing boats along the shore, coming to or
scudding along close in. One sound after another, of all the

busy week, dies away; and by the time Big Abel and the Little
Manhattan are housed in the well-behaved little cottage across the
Battery ground, silence has taken the city in his lap, and holds
him there to nurse him to such quiet thoughts as Sunday has a
right to meet him with.