A Little Girl in Old New York - Amanda Minnie Douglas (the beginning after the end read novel txt) 📗

the poor lad had no chance before. It was not a hope swept away, there had been no hope. But now he gave up.

"Don't be a fool nor a coward," exclaimed his father gruffly. "Here, get your hat and go straight over to the Deans'. Tell them your _father_ says you can go to singing-school next Saturday afternoon, that he will be very glad to have you go. And next time you want anything ask me."

If the boy had only dared clasp his father's hand and thank him, but he had been repressed and snipped off and kept in leading-strings too long to dare a spontaneous impulse. So he walked over as if he had been following some imaginary chalk line. The Deans were all up in the back parlor. He did his errand and came back at once, before Josie and Tudie had recovered from their surprise.

Nothing else happened. Mrs. Reed went out presently to do the Saturday-night marketing. She preferred to go alone. She could make better bargains. When she returned Mr. Reed lighted his cigar and took a stroll around the block. There was no smoking in the house, hardly in the back yard.

Saturday noon Mrs. Reed said to her son:

"You are to go to singing-school this afternoon. If I hear of your loitering with any bad boys, or misbehaving in any way, that will end it."

The poor lad had not felt sure for a moment. Oh, how delightful it was! though a boy nudged him and said, "Sissy, does your mother know you're out," and two or three others called him "Anna Maria Jemima Reed."

However, as Mr. Bradbury was trying voices by each row, the sweetness of Charles' struck him, and he asked him to remain when the others were dismissed. One other boy and several girls were in this favored class, and next week they had the seats of honor.

The next great thing for all the children was the May walk. All the Sunday-schools joined in a grand procession and marched down Broadway to Castle Garden. There was a standard-bearer with a large banner, and several smaller ones in every school. The teachers were with the classes, the parents and friends were to be at the Garden. Most of the little girls had their new white dresses, the boys their summer suits and caps. For May was May then, all but Quaker week, when it was sure to rain.

A pretty sight it was indeed. The bright, happy faces, the white-robed throng, and almost every girl had her hair curled for the occasion. There was a feeling among some of the older people that curls were vain and sinful, but they forgave them this day.

The audience was ranged around the outside. The little people marched in, and up the broad aisle, singing:


"We come, we come, with loud acclaim,
To sing the praise of Jesus' name;
And make the vaulted temple ring
With loud hosannas to our King."


The platform--they called it that on such occasions--was full of clergymen and speakers for the festival. Some of the older eminent divines, some who were to be eminent later on, some of the high dignitaries of the city; and they could hardly fail to be inspired at the sight of the sweet, happy, youthful faces.

And how they sang! The most popular thing of that day was:


"There is a happy land--
Far, far away."


It was fresh then and had not been parodied to everything. No doubt it would have shocked some of the sticklers if they had known that the words and tune were, in a measure, adapted from a pretty opera song:


"I have come from a happy land,
Where care is unknown;
And first in a joyous band
I'll make thee mine own."


There were many other hymns that appealed to the hearts of the children of those days. "I Think When I Read that Sweet Story of Old," and "Jesus Loves Me, this I Know."

There were speeches, short and to the point, some with a glint of humor in them, and then hymns again. Perhaps we have done better since, but the grand enthusiasm of that time has not been reached in later reunions.

It seemed to the little girl that this really was the crowning glory of her life. She could not have guessed under what circumstances she was to recall it, indeed this day had no future to her. At first her mother had insisted the walk was too long, but Steve said he and Dolly would bring her home in the carriage. Margaret promised to get her new white dress done, and it was to be tucked almost up to the waist. Her mother gave in at last, and went down to see the children, being delighted herself.

Aunt Eunice was there, too. She had come to the city for the long-talked-of visit, and next week was to be Quaker Meeting. She had not been to one in years. Indeed, she could hardly call herself a Friend. She had married out of the faith and said _you_ oftener than _thee_, but she kept to the pretty, soft gray attire and plain bonnet.

Hanny and the Deans and Nora thought her "just lovely." Hanny went to the Friends' Meeting-House with her on Sunday afternoon, down in Hester Street. It was severely plain, and the men sat on one side, the women on the other, while a few seats were reserved for any of the world's people that might stray in. The men looked odd, Hanny thought, with their long hair just "banged" across the forehead and falling over their collars. The coats were queer, too, and they kept on their hats, which shocked her a little at first.

Oh, how still it was! Hanny waited and waited for the minister, but she could not see any pulpit. There was no singing, only that solemn silence. If she had been a little Quaker girl she would have been thinking of her sins, and making new resolves. Instead she watched the faces. Some were very sweet; many old and wrinkled.

Suddenly an old gentleman arose and talked a few moments. When he sat down a tall woman laid off her hat and, standing up, began to speak in a more vigorous manner than the brother. She seemed almost scolding, Hanny thought. After her, another silence, then a lovely old lady with a soft voice told of the blessings she had found and the peace they ought all to seek.

Everybody rose and went out quietly.

"It doesn't seem a real church, Aunt Eunice," said Hanny. "And there was no minister."

"Oh, child, it isn't! It's just a meeting. It did not seem very spiritual to-day."

"If they only had some singing."

Aunt Eunice smiled, but made no reply. Hanny decided she did not want to be a Friend.

They went down to visit Aunt Nancy and Aunt Patience, and Margaret took Aunt Eunice up to see Miss Lois Underhill, who had gone on living alone. She said she could never take root in any other place, and perhaps it was true. Her kindly German neighbor looked after her, but she was very grateful for a visit.

Steve was building his new house and they thought to get in it by the fall. It was on the plot Dolly's father had given her at Twentieth Street near Fifth Avenue. The Coventry Waddells, who were really the leaders of fashionable society, were erecting a very handsome and picturesque mansion on Murray Hill, between Fifth and Sixth avenues on Thirty-eighth Street. The grounds took the whole block. There were towers and gables and oriels, and a large conservatory that was to contain all manner of rare plants, native as well as foreign. But everybody thought it quite out in the country.

Steve laughingly said they would have fine neighbors. The Waddells were noted for their delightful entertaining.

They took Aunt Eunice a walk down Broadway to show her the sights. The "dollar side" had become the accepted promenade. Already there were some quite notable people who were pointed out to visitors. You could see Mr. N. P. Willis, who was then at the zenith of his fame. When a Sunday-school entertainment wanted to give something particularly fine, the best speaker recited his poem, "The Leper," which was considered very striking. There was Lewis Gaylord Clark, of _The Knickerbocker_, who wrote charming letters, and these two were admitted to be very handsome men. There was George P. Morris, whose songs were sung everywhere, and not a few literary ladies. There was the Broadway swell in patent-leather boots and trousers strapped tightly down, in the style the boys irreverently called pegtops. He had a high-standing collar, a fancy tie, a light silk waistcoat with a heavy watch-chain and seal, a coat with large, loose sleeves, a high hat, and carried his cane under his arm, while, as one of the writers of the day said, "he ambled along daintily."

Then you might meet the Hammersley carriage with its footman and livery that had made quite a talk. Young and handsome Mrs. Little, whose marriage to an old man had been the gossip of the season, sat in elegant state with her coachman in dark blue. Now one hardly notes the handsome equipages, or the livery either.

But the "Bowery boy" was as great a feature of the time as the Broadway swell. He, too, wore a silk hat, and it generally had a three-inch mourning band. His hair was worn in long, well-oiled locks in front, combed up with a peculiar twist. He wore a broad collar turned over, and a sailor tie, a flashy vest with a large amount of seal and chain, and wide trousers turned up. His coat he carried on his arm when the weather permitted, and he always had a cigar in the lower corner of his mouth. He walked with a swagger and a swing that took half the sidewalk. He ran "wid de machine," and a fire was his delight; to get into a fight his supreme happiness. He really did not frequent the Bowery so much as the side streets. There were little stores where cigars and beer were sold, something stronger perhaps, and they were generally kept by some old lady who could also get up a meal on a short notice after a fire. On summer nights they had chairs out in front of the door, and tilting back on two legs would smoke and take their comfort. For diversion they went to Vauxhall Garden or the pit of the Bowery Theatre. Yet they were quite a picturesque feature of old New York.

Bowery and Grand Street were the East Side's shopping marts. Stewart was building a marble palace at the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street. You went to Division and Canal streets for your bonnets. There were a few private milliners who made to order and imported.

There were sails and short journeys to take even then. Elysian Fields had not lost all its glory. And yet the little girl was quite disappointed in her visit to it. She had lived in the country, you know, she had looked off the Sound at Rye Beach and seen the Hudson from Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow, and really there were lovely spots up the old Bloomingdale road. And she had pictured this as beyond all.

Aunt Eunice was very much struck with the changes. Her surprise really delighted the little girl.