True womanhood a tale |
| 1. | CHAPTER I. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
 | CHAPTER I. True womanhood |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
On a cold, bright clear day, in the troubled winter of 1857-8,
when the great city of New York seemed to be struck with
paralysis, and the “boldest held their breath” for awhile, a
large crowd were gathered just outside of the Park; while, on
the opposite side of the way, there was another and yet
larger collection, filling the street and side-walks, and surging
and struggling about the open doors of a theatre.
The Park itself was emptied, and the City Hall, and the
courts of justice, and all the avenues and approaches were silent,
with only here and there a solitary straggler hurrying
through the grounds just covered with a light snow, or muffled
up to the eyes, and loitering on the way out, as if waiting for the
mob to disperse. Beggars, and thieves, and Irish laborers, and
ragged match-girls, and prize-fighters, and Bowery-boys, were
intermingled with well-dressed men, and stylish-looking women;
and shop-boys with parcels, and porters with large bundles and
baskets, were hurrying hither and thither along the outskirts of
the crowd, or elbowing their way through scattered groups of
quiet well-behaved persons, just within the gates. All eyes were
turned toward the city clock, then about to sound the hour of
twelve.
“What on earth is going to happen, Sir?” said a young fellow,
with a girlish look and a fashionable air, turning slowly
as he spoke, toward a large, handsome, thoughtful-looking man,
who stood bracing himself up, against all these troublesome interlopers,
the waist of a young woman, evidently frightened, though she
answered the speaker with a pleasant smile. “Do they have
plays here at noonday, as at Bartlemy Fair?”
“Not just here, my boy, — but over there,” pointing through
the leafless trees, toward Barnum's, “they have them at all
hours of the day.”
“Well, but I should be glad to know whether — ah!”
At this moment, the clock sounded through the clear wintry
air, like the tolling of a cathedral bell afar off; and the great,
silent, breathless multitude began heaving with life, and the
strange, deep stillness became a sort of smothered roar, beginning
over the way, and coming nearer and nearer, and growing
louder and louder every moment.
“Not another Astor-House riot, I hope,” said the young
woman, growing very pale, and clinging to the arm that upheld
her.
“No, my love, nothing of the kind. Be patient awhile —
don't be frightened — we are perfectly safe here; and the mystery
will soon be cleared up, I dare say.”
“Upon my word, Cousin Julia, I should think somebody was
going to the scaffold, or that another Cunningham tragedy was
in rehearsal; but the rush seems to be over now, and they appear
to be breaking up.”
“Yes, Arthur,—all breaking up and going about their business,
for they are too late.”
“Too late, Sir!”
“Even so. The clock has struck, the door is closed, and it
may be, forever.”
Arthur looked troubled and perplexed; but after a little consideration,
he brightened up, and peering into Julia's mournful
eyes, with a mischievous expression, he replied, — “But they
seem to care very little for their disappointment, Sir.”
Julia turned away from his look.
“And then too, how wonderfully quiet they are, as they
hurry off toward the great avenue yonder. What do they call
that, Uncle George?”
“That is Broadway, Arthur; our principal thoroughfare.”
“Ah! not the Broadway I have heard so much of, and so
longed to see, and have felt so well acquainted with, ever since
my boyhood, hey?”
“Perhaps not, Arthur,” said Uncle George, stopping short and
facing him with a pleasant smile; “not the broad way you have
heard most of, I am quite sure; the broad way we are all so fond
of loitering in, whatever may be our age or experience.”
“Oh, I understand you now!” said Arthur, turning away with
a gesture of impatience; “but, hadn't we better be going? The
side-walks are pretty clear now; and if we cross over, perhaps
we may find out the reason of the gathering. What say you,
Julia?”
“With all my heart! — ah! —”
At this moment, a sound like that of a battle anthem, from a
multitudinous host within the theatre, was heard, shaking the
walls, and rolling away through the wintry air, till there was another
stoppage along Chambers Street, up to the corner of Broadway,
and the words,
And crown him Lord of all!”
doors of the theatre.
Arthur stood as if struck speechless with amazement; and
then, after wondering awhile, he turned toward Julia with a bow,
and exclaimed, “And so! these are your famous matineés musicales
we have heard so much of, in your drawing-rooms and
newspapers! Upon my word, Uncle George, I must say that I
was not altogether prepared for this, though I have heard very
strange stories, over sea, about the musical furore of my beloved
countrymen; but the idea of interloping a Methodist hymn, at a
morning concert for the fashionables of New York, does indeed
go far beyond the most extravagant hopes I had formed of our
people.”
Uncle George said nothing, but looked very much pleased, as
he drew Cousin Julia away; nor did he vouchsafe one word of
explanation, till they had crossed the street, when he stopped
suddenly before the chief entrance of the crowded theatre, where
and some with downcast eyes and wet lashes, though nothing
was to be heard but a far-off multitudinous rhythm, like that of
the summer sea, when its heavy undulations are felt along the
shore at dead of night, and the solid earth answers to the pulsation,
as to prayer.
“As I live!” said Arthur, pointing toward a large placard by
the doorway, as if he saw a spectre, — “As I live — a prayer-meeting!”
“Even so, young man,” said a stranger, who had been watching
the party, — a white haired, middle-aged man, with a fresh
countenance, and beautiful eyes, leaning forward on a large gold-headed
cane, and trembling, as he spoke, with a visible joy, —
“Even so, young man, as the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth,
a prayer-meeting!”
Uncle George and the venerable man here interchanged a
look, and were instantly on the best of terms. Both had the
gift of tongues, and speech was no longer needed. They understood
each other, as the angels above may, without speech.
“But a prayer-meeting in a theatre!” whispered Julia, with a
troubled expression; which led the stranger to say, “And why
not, poor child; can thee tell me where it would be more
needed?”
“But a prayer-meeting at noonday, my dear Sir!” exclaimed
Arthur, with a feeling he had not manifested before. “At noon-day,
and in the busiest city of our land!”
“And not only in the busiest city of our land, my dear young
friend, but in the busiest part of the city, as well as at the busiest
hour of the day.”
“For idlers, and gossips, and loafers of both genders, and all
genders,” added Arthur, looking at Julia, and beginning to feel
rather mischievous; for the dear old gentleman had many
listeners, and the stillness round about was uncomfortable, and
the outside pressure, though gentle, was growing heavier and
heavier.
“No, Arthur,” said Uncle George, “not wholly for idlers, and
gossips, and loafers of both genders, though of such is the kingdom
of Heaven.”
“Goodness me, Uncle George! what do you mean!” said
Julia.
“Are we not all gossips, and idlers, and loafers, dear child?
all alike spendthrifts and prodigals?”
And the stranger added, in a low voice, “Why stand ye here
idle all the day long? were the words of the Master, when he
called for the laborers;” and then, after a pause, he continued,
“Are there not publicans and sinners everywhere? Is it the
righteous only that are called? Are we not assured that harlots
and publicans shall enter the kingdom before us?”
Julia began to look frightened.
“Yes, dear Julia. The righteous need no repentance. They
want no Saviour. They are sufficient for themselves.”
“The whole need no physician,” added the stranger, with a
gentle seriousness, that went to the heart of Arthur, as he turned
slowly away.
“No, Arthur,” continued Uncle George, “not for idlers, and
loafers, and gossips, only; but for the busiest men of the age,
who best know the value of time, and who, I am told, are beginning
to make a business of prayer, and who rush to these gatherings
as to high change, or to the Custom-House when clearing
a ship, or to the Post-Office, or to a meeting of the board of
brokers.”
“And all this, my dear Sir,” said Arthur, after satisfying
himself that Uncle George was in downright earnest, “all this,
in the great noisy Babylon of New York! Of a truth, Sir, the
world must be coming to an end.”
“The world is coming to an end, my dear boy.”
Arthur grew more thoughtful.
“And everywhere the same,” continued Uncle George, in a
low dreamy voice, very much as if talking to himself, while
Arthur and Julia interchanged a look of surprise, almost of
alarm. “Everywhere! at Philadelphia, Chicago, Cincinnati,
and eastward, through all the New-England States, in Upper
and Lower Canada, and along the shores of the Pacific, thousands
and tens of thousands are filling the largest public halls of
our country, and most of the churches, not only every day in
the week, but almost every hour of the day, morning, noon, and
their whole crews `converted,' as they call it, upon the high-seas,
and the voice of midnight prayer is heard from solitary houses,
and remote neighborhoods, having little or no communication
with the rest of the world.”
“All easily enough accounted for, Uncle George,” said Arthur.
“Indeed!”
“Every generation has to undergo something of the sort, Sir.”
“Certainly, dear Arthur, certainly, or what would become of
the world?”
“And about a hundred years ago, in the days of Whitefield,
there was a shaking among the dry bones you know, such as
a —”
“Arthur Maynard!”
“Forgive me, Sir, I did not mean to speak irreverently; but
having Whitefield's very words in my mind, I used them without
much consideration. There was a revival, you know, which
lasted many years, and swept over the whole of this country, and
a large part of England.”
“Yes, Arthur, but no such revival as they have now, it would
seem; for no such tumultuous outbreaks, no such ecstacies, have
happened, and no counterfeit or spurious transformations have
been charged, as were frequent in that day, and almost characteristic,
we are told.”
“I have seen it stated in a religious paper of high character,”
said Julia, “that in our country, more than three thousand a day
have been converted, week after week, since last October. Can
this be true, Sir, do you believe?”
“It seems to be true, my dear; and, judging by the testimony
of the secular papers, the Morning Herald, and Tribune for example,
every day seems to be a day of Pentecost for the land,
though not for neighborhoods or cities.”
“I am afraid religion is getting to be fashionable,” said Julia.
“I hope so, with all my heart.”
“Why! Uncle George!” exclaimed Julia.
“As in the day of Constantine, Sir?” suggested Arthur.
“Not altogether. I would have it unselfish, uncalculating,
with kings, and princes, and lawgivers; for they, too, have souls
to be saved.”
“But fashionable, Sir?”
“Yes, Arthur, fashionable. One thing is clear. This earth
will not be regenerated, the brethren will not dwell together in
unity, the Saviour will not be wanted, till men are no longer
ashamed of Him; in other words, till religion has become fashionable.”
“The strangest man!” said Arthur, stooping forward to whisper
with Julia; “seems to be a good deal of a Methodist, hey?”
“So was Havelock,” said Julia.
“But,” added Uncle George, — and again he stopped, as if unwilling
to leave the subject, — “I would have you bear in mind,
both of you, dear children, that we have had neither pestilence
nor earthquake to fill our churches; no failure of crops, no cities
laid in ashes, no fleets of merchantmen strewing the shore with
wrecks, or foundering at sea, with all their golden cargoes; and
as for the —”
Arthur had just left the side of Julia, and was coming round
where he could hear better, when a large boy was pushed against
them, and then there was a sudden rush, a faint cry from Julia,
the sound of a smart, quick blow, and a rough looking fellow
pitched headlong into the gutter before them.
“Arthur! dear Arthur!” screamed Julia, as he sprang forward,
with his collar open, his hat off, and his brown hair flying
loose, and stood waiting for the vagabond to move.
“Arthur Maynard, stop! are you mad! look to Julia, Sir, and
leave the scoundrel to me!” said Uncle George, just as the newsboys
and boot-blacks began shouting at the top of their voices,
“a fight! a fight! form a ring! form a ring!” and straightway
the apple-women sprang to their tables and baskets, and the
hackney-coachmen to their horses.
Arthur made no reply, but stood, looking very pale, and
breathing hard, as the fellow gathered himself up slowly, and
inch by inch, as it were, evidently meaning mischief; but in
moving a step or two nearer his man, Arthur felt something
crush under his foot, and on looking down, saw a heavy gold
knowledge, when the great lubberly boy pushed against her,
and was stooping to pick it up, when a by-stander, a confederate,
interfered, and levelling a blow at Arthur's uncovered head,
must have stretched him at full length upon the side-walk, but
for the timely interference of Uncle George, who sprang upon
the fellow, and catching him by the throat, shook him till his teeth
chattered; very much as a huge mastiff would shake a nasty cur.
“Here comes the Police! here they come!” shouted the boys,
“Just in from drill,” said a by-stander.
“Don't be frightened, my love,” said Uncle George, as the
regular tramp of what appeared to be a large body of men,
marching in silence, but with the greatest military precision,
drew near. “I see the Superintendent himself — be quiet, Sir! —
and half a score of policemen hurrying up, — will you be quiet,
Sir!” giving the fellow another shake, which set all the boys a
laughing.
“That's the talk, Sir! give it to him!” shouted a well-dressed
man, with gray hair, and a white neckcloth, winking at the same
time to the by-standers, and then thrusting his tongue into his
cheek.
“Hurrah for the Parson! hurrah for Billy Swipes! hurrah!”
screamed the boys, tumbling about in every direction, as the
blue coats and glittering badges of the police began to appear
among the trees.
“Clear the way! clear the way!” shouted a large, powerful
man, with a voice like a trumpet, the eye of a hawk, and a countenance
that Stuart or Trumbull would have been delighted with.
“Hurrah for the Superintendent! Hurrah for Talmadge!
Hurrah for the Recorder!” and instantly, as if a thunderbolt
had fallen in their midst, the mob scattered right and left, and
the Superintendent, with five or six followers, came through the
Park gate, and across the street, with their coats buttoned up
close, and a short, uneasy-looking bludgeon sticking out of their
side-pockets.
“Halt! silence there! Look to the lady, Page! This way,
Holmes! watch that fellow in the gutter there; he's for clawing
off, you see!”
“Ay, ay, Sir!”
“Call a carriage, Fred!” to a young man at his elbow in a citizen's
dress; “and look to the young lady yourself, will you?”
“With all my heart, Sir!” said the young man, bowing to Julia,
who stood near, with her hands clasped, her veil flying loose,
and trembling from head to foot.
“Ah, General! Good morning to you,” said Uncle George,
turning away his eyes for a moment from the burly knave he
was throttling, and not a little amused with the promptitude, the
quiet energy, and the military precision of the Superintendent.
“Ah, Pendleton, is that you? Good morning; how are you
to-day? We have been hoping to see you at the drill.”
“I meant to be with you, but a —”
“Over three hundred out in this division, and all about such
as you see here;” whereupon most of the boys and ragamuffins
of all ages began to steal away; “good men and true, — ready
for anything.”
Here some of the outsiders began whispering; and not a few
threatening looks were interchanged, with many a portentous
shake of the head.
“Fifteen hundred, Major, all told.”
“Enough to garrison the city, my dear General.”
“Hope to have three thousand before the winter is through.”
“May be wanted, Sir, if these meetings are allowed to continue
in Tompkins' Square.”
“Not so loud, if you please. We are watched, and every
word will be reported. There are listeners and eaves-droppers all
round us.”
“But nothing to fear, come what may,” said Uncle George, upheaving
his broad chest and looking about upon the rabble with a
compassionate smile.
“Nothing, my dear Sir, with fifteen hundred of such men,”
looking upon the people, and speaking loud enough to be heard,
“thoroughly trained, and” — with a significant smile, “armed
with revolvers.”
The mob drew further off, and their growling and muttering
died away in low murmurs, and occasional whispers.
“But, I say, Pendleton, what's in the wind here? what's to
pay?”
“Nothing very serious, my dear Sir, and yet we are heartily
glad to see you and your fellows.”
The General shook his head. His fellows were not soldiers
from the Crimea, and of course were in no humor to be called
anything less than gentlemen.
“They were never more wanted by daylight, I promise you.
Julia, my love, why don't you go? don't be frightened, the
trouble is all over now; just step into Stewart's with the gentleman,
and wait for us there, will you?”
“If you please, madam,” said the General, with a courtly bow.
“The lady is in your charge, Fred.”
Arthur turned to follow.
“No! no, my boy, you may be wanted,” said Uncle George,
“we cannot spare you.”
At this moment, somebody called the attention of the Superintendent
to the fellow Uncle George had been holding by the throat.
“God bless me, Pendleton, what are you doing?” said he,
“don't strangle the poor fellow!”
“Shame! shame!” shouted a bystander.
“Shame! shame!” repeated half a score of outsiders, “let
him go! let him go!”
“God forgive me! what have I done?” said Uncle George,
turning away with a look of horror, and covering his face with
his hands.
“Look to him, Peters! bear a hand there, Williams, don't let
him pitch into the street! give way there!” said the Superintendent,
as the man staggered off, with his tongue lolling out, and
all purple about the mouth.
The two policemen sprang forward, but before they could reach
the poor fellow, there was a sudden rush, followed by a great hubbub
and hustling about their way, with shouts of laughter, and
cries of “Well done, Billy! hurrah for you, Billy! run for your
life! down with the Police! hurrah!”
Whereupon the boys began tumbling about like mad. The
apple-women laughed, and even the Superintendent smiled, as he
hurried away into the thickest of the crowd.
“Hurrah for Talmadge! hurrah for the Police! hurrah!”
yelled the raggedest and happiest of the smaller boys, pitching
head over heels into the street, and rolling over in the gutter by
dozens, while their outcries never stopped for a moment, — “hurrah!
hurrah!”
“I say, Joe, wan't that slick!” screamed a little barefooted
wretch with a ragged apron flying about his legs, while he bobbed
in and out among the horses' feet, with a great lump, or junk as
he called it, of lollipop sticking out of his mouth.
“I tell you!” was the knowing reply of another boy, as he
capered about hither and thither like a bunch of crackers, trying
to get a peep at the doings outside, where it appeared the man
had just been `overhauled' and was fairly in charge of a policeman.
No sense of cold troubled these ragged, starving boys, though
it was midwinter, and they looked pinched with hunger, and the
sharp wind was blowing through and through the padded overcoats
and rich furs of the well-dressed and warmly-clothed about
them.
“Anything more, Pendleton?” said the Superintendent, coming
up with a generous flush upon his old-fashioned, revolutionary
face, and looking very much delighted with the adventure.
“Why yes, that gentleman there in the ragged roundabout,
who seems to have no idea of getting up, while my young friend
is within reach, may need a little of your attention.”
“Indeed! up with you, Sir!” said the General, taking him by
the collar, and setting him on his feet with a jerk.
“And that other very respectable man, you see there with the
white cravat and gold-headed cane,” lowering his voice and pointing
to a by-stander, who had been the first to cry `shame! shame!'
Though dressed in black, and gray-haired, with gold spectacles,
I have an idea from what I have seen, that, if the gentleman is
not a confederate, he is at least entitled to your special consideration,
just now, for intermeddling.”
Here the man referred to began to grow uneasy; and as the
consultation was carried on with a somewhat mysterious look, he
left his perch, and was moving away, with a calm, lofty, almost
unimpeachable air of dignity, when the Superintendent called
he called him, which appeared to be understood, for he stepped
in front of the gentleman, and begged of him, with a bow, to be
so obliging as to take off his spectacles.
“Take off my spectacles, you scoundrel! what d'ye mean by
that, hey?”
“Pooh, pooh!” said the policeman — or detective rather — for
he was one of that renowned body, who are all eyes and ears,
and always on the alert.
“Really!” said the Superintendent, coming near enough to
judge for himself. “Oh, ho! is that you, my fine fellow?
Away with him, Sir!”
The detective laid his hand very gently upon the gentleman's
collar, and they walked off together like old acquaintances, without
another word.
“One of the most dangerous thieves upon our list, my dear
Sir,” said the Superintendent; “and if you will take the trouble
to drop into our office in Broome Street,” handing a card, “we
will show you his daguerréotype, along with half a hundred others
you will stand a good chance of becoming acquainted with, if
you stop here this winter, and do not eschew these little street-gatherings.
Good morning, Major.”
“Good morning, General.”
A bow, with a few brief words of acknowledgment, followed
by the interchange of cards, and a suggestion that witnesses
would be wanted before the Recorder, and the two thieves and
their well-dressed, gray-haired confederate were marched off to
the station-house, while the Superintendent, who had just received
a communication from head quarters, by telegraph, started off
upon the track of a wretched boy from the neighborhood of New
York, who had stabbed a man to the heart on the Sabbath evening
before, while walking home quietly, through a broad, handsome
street, with his wife upon his arm.
“Your hat, I believe, Sir,” said a youth, who had taken charge
of Arthur's hat from the first, holding it behind him, however,
till the young man had begun to feel rather uncomfortable, and
was looking round for it.
“Much obliged.”
“Handsomest `one-two,' I ever saw, Sir,” winking. “Straight as
a cannon ball!”
Arthur blushed and looked rather ashamed; Uncle George grew
more and more thoughtful; and when they found Julia, though
not fifteen minutes had passed, poor thing! she was well-nigh
speechless, and complained of being tired to death waiting for
them. She had but just missed her heavy gold chain, the gift of
a dead mother, and was but beginning to understand, though not
very clearly, what had happened.
On their way to the St. Nicholas, Arthur tried to explain the
whole affair to Uncle George; but Uncle George only shook his
head in silence, not being half satisfied with himself.
“But Uncle, dear Uncle, what would you have done?” whispered
Julia, as the trouble she saw in poor Arthur's countenance,
and the sorrow she felt for herself, and the mournful
earnestness, deep stillness, and slow step, almost remorseful, of
her beloved uncle, began to weigh heavily upon her.
“I dare not say, God forgive me!” said Uncle George, drawing
a long breath, and looking piteously into Arthur's eyes.
“But with your great bodily strength, Sir?”
“I cannot answer for myself, dear children. God only knows!
I tremble when I think what might have happened. I ought to
be magnanimous, or at least forgiving.”
“Dear Uncle!”
| CHAPTER I. True womanhood | |