JOHN ROBERT CHARLES
The new President was inaugurated on the fourth of March. The little girl sighed to think how many Democratic people there were on her block. They put out flags and bunting, and illuminated in the evening. They had tremendous bonfires, and all the boys waived personal feeling and danced and whooped like wild Indians. No healthy, well-conditioned boy could resist the fragrance of a tar barrel.
Miss Lily Ludlow wore a red, white, and blue rosette with a tiny portrait of Mr. Polk in the centre. The public-school girls often walked up First Avenue and met Mrs. Craven's little girls going home. Lily used to stare at Hanny in an insolent manner. She and her sister could not forgive the fact that Miss Margaret had not called.
And now the talk was that Miss Margaret Underhill had a beau, a handsome young doctor.
"They do think they're awful grand," said Lily to some of her mates. "But they take up with that Dele Whitney, who sometimes does the washing on Saturdays. It's a fact, girls; and the sister works in an artificial-flower place down in Division Street. And the Underhills think they're good enough to company with."
But the fact remained that the Underhills kept a carriage, and that Mr. Stephen had married in the Beekman family, and Chris had heard that Dr. Hoffman was considered a great catch. She was almost twenty and had never kept company yet. Young men called at the house, to be sure, and attended her home from parties, but the most desirable ones seemed unattainable.
Her mother fretted a little that she didn't get to doing something. Here were girls earning five or six dollars a week, and her father's wages were so small it was a pinch all the time.
"I'm sure I make all our dresses and sew for father, and do lots of housework," replied Chris, half-crying.
There were people even then who considered it more genteel not to work out of the house. And since servants were not generally kept, a daughter's assistance was needed in the household.
And to crown the little girl's troubles her dear mayor was retired to private life and a Democrat ruled in his stead.
But there were the new discoveries to talk about, and the reduction of postage due to the old administration. Now you could send a letter three hundred miles for five cents. Hanny wrote several times a year to her grandmother Underhill, so this interested her. At the end of the century we are clamoring for penny postage, and our delivery is free. Then they had to pay the carrier.
The electro-magnetic telegraph was coming in for its share of attention. Scientific people were dropping into the old University of New York, where Mr. Morse was working it. The city had been connected with Washington. There were people who believed "there was a humbugging fellow at both ends," and that the scheme couldn't be made to work. It was cumbersome compared to modern methods. And Professor John W. Draper took the first daguerreotype from the roof of that famous building. That was the greatest wonder of the day. What was more remarkable, a picture or portrait could be copied in a few moments. Then there was a hint of war with Mexico, and the Oregon question was looming up with its cabalistic figures of "54, 40, or fight." Indeed, it seemed as if war was in the air.
Children too had trials, especially John Robert Charles. He had been allowed to go to Allen Street Sunday-school with the Dean children, and he went over on Saturday afternoon to study the lesson. Hanny used to come in, and occasionally they had a little tea. They played in the yard and the wide back area. The boys did tease him; the target was too good to miss. Hanny sympathized with him, for he was so nice and pleasant. They couldn't decide just what name to call him. Bob did well enough for the boys, but it was a little too rough for girls.
His mother still made him put on a long, checked pinafore to come to meals. His father used a white napkin. And he did wipe dishes for her, and help with the vegetables on Saturday. He could spread up a bed as neatly as a girl, but he kept these accomplishments to himself.
There was another excitement among the small people. Mr. Bradbury, who for years was destined to be the children's delight, was teaching singing classes and giving concerts with his best pupils. Mrs. Dean decided to let the girls go to the four o'clock class. Hanny would join them. They could study the Sunday lesson before or afterward.
"If I only could go," sighed the boy. The tears came into his eyes.
"And you can sing just lovely!" declared Tudie.
Josie stood up with a warmly flushing face.
"I do believe I'd raise an insurrection. It isn't as if you wanted to do anything wicked, like swearing or stealing. And my father said God gave beautiful voices to people to sing with."
"But if I asked mother she wouldn't let me go. And—I couldn't run away. You see that would be just for once. Perhaps then I wouldn't be let to come over here, afterward," the boy replied sadly.
"Couldn't you coax?" asked Hanny.
"I could just ask, and she'd say no."
Hanny felt so sorry for him. He was very fair and had pretty, but rather timid eyes.
"You can't raise an insurrection when you know for certain it'll be put down the next moment," the boy added.
"Well," Josie drew a long breath and studied.
"I'd ask my father," said Hanny.
"And he'd say, 'Ask your mother; it's as she says.' Most everything is as mother says."
"Then I'd put my arms around his neck and coax. I'd tell him I wanted to be like other boys. They think it's queer——"
Hanny stopped, very red in the face.
"Oh, you needn't mind. I know they laugh at me and make fun of me. But mother's so nice and clean, only I wish she'd dress up as your mothers do, and take a walk sometimes and go to church. And she cooks such splendid things and makes puddings and pies, and she lets me sit and read when I'm done my lessons. I have all the Rollo books, and father has Sir Walter Scott, that he's letting me read now. It's only that mother thinks I'll get into bad things and meet bad boys and get my clothes soiled. Oh, sometimes I'm so tired of being nice! Only you wouldn't want me to come over here if I wasn't."
That was very true.
"But there are a great many nice boys. Ben's just lovely, only he is growing up so fast," said the little girl, with a sigh. "And though Jim teases, he is real good and jolly. He doesn't keep his hands clean, and mother scolds him a little for that."
They could not decide about the insurrection. Presently it was time for Charles to go home. He was always on the mark lest he should not be allowed the indulgence next time. The poor boy had been moulded into the straight line of duty.
The girls went out to swing. They could all three sit in at once. And they often talked all at once.
"It's just awful mean!"
"If we only could do something!"
"Girls!" Josie put her foot so firmly on the ground it almost tipped them out. "Girls, let us see Mr. Reed and ask him."
They all looked at each other with large eyes.
"It couldn't be wrong," began Josie; "because I've asked your father, Hanny, to let you come up to our stoop."
"No, it couldn't be," said the chorus in firm approval.
"Then let's do it. He always comes up First Avenue about half-past five on Saturdays. Now if we were to walk down——"
"Splendid!" ejaculated Tudie.
"And I'll ask mother if we can't go out for a little walk."
"We mustn't wait too late."
Tudie ran in to look at the kitchen clock. It was twenty minutes past five.
"I'll go and ask."
"Why, isn't your own sidewalk good enough?" was Mrs. Dean's inquiry. "Well—yes, you may do an errand for me down at the store. I want a pound of butter crackers. Don't go off the block."
They put on their bonnets. Hanny's was a pretty shirred and ruffled blue lawn. They twined their arms around each other's waists, with Hanny in the middle and walked slowly down to the store. Tudie kept watch while her sister was making the purchase. Then they walked up, then down, looking on the other side lest they should not see him. Up and down again—up with very slow steps. What if they should miss him!
They turned. "Hillo!" cried a familiar voice.
"Oh, Mr. Reed!" They blocked his way in a manner that amused him. He looked from one to the other, and smiled at the eager faces.
"Oh, Mr. Reed—we wanted to—to——"
"To ask you——" prompted Tudie.
Josie's face was very red. It was different asking about a boy. She had not thought of that.
"We want Charles to go to singing-school with us next Saturday. Mr. Bradbury said we might ask all the nice children we knew."
Hanny had crossed the Rubicon in a very lady-like manner.
Mr. Reed laughed pleasantly, but they knew he was not making fun of them.
"Why, yes; I haven't any objection. It will be as his mother says."
They all looked blank, disappointed.
"If you would say it," pleaded Josie. "Then we should be sure."
"Well, I will say it. He shall go next Saturday. He has a nice voice, and there is no reason why he should not be singing with the rest of you."
"Oh, thank you a thousand times."
"It's hardly worth that." Mr. Reed was a little nettled. Had Charles put them up to this?
They were at the corner and turned down their side of the street, nodding gayly.
"You see it was just as easy as nothing," remarked Josie complacently.
Mr. Reed entered his own area, wiped his feet, and hung up his hat. He went out in the back area and washed his hands. Every other day a clean towel was put on the roller. The house was immaculate. The supper-table was set. Mrs. Reed was finishing a block of patchwork, catch-up work, when she had to wait two minutes. She went out in the hall taking the last stitch, and called up the stairway:
"John Robert Charles!"
Meals were generally very quiet. Charles had been trained not to speak unless he was spoken to. Once or twice his father looked at him. A pinafore was rather ridiculous on such a big boy. How very large his white collar was! His hair looked too sleek. He was a regular Miss Nancy.
He helped his mother take out the dishes and wiped them for her.
"Come out on the stoop, Charles," said his father afterward, as he picked up his paper.
Mrs. Reed wondered if Charles had committed some overt act that she knew nothing about. Could anything elude her sharp eyes?
Mr. Reed pretended to be busy with his paper, but he was thinking of his son. In his early years the child had been a bone of contention. His mother always knew just what to do with him, just what was proper, and would brook no interference. What with her cleanliness, her inordinate love of regularity and order, she had become a domestic tyrant. He had yielded because he loved peace. There was a good deal of comfort in his house. He went out two or three evenings in the week, to the lodge, to his whist club, and occasionally to call on a friend. Mrs. Reed never had any time to waste on such trifling matters. He had not thought much about his boy except to place him in a good school.
"Charles, couldn't you have asked me about the singing-school?" he said rather sharply.
"About—the singing-school?" Charles was dazed.
"Yes. It wasn't very manly to set a lot of little girls asking a favor for you. I'm ashamed of you!"
"Oh, father—who asked? We were talking of it over to Josie Dean's. I knew mother wouldn't let me go. I—I said so." Charles' fair face was very red.
"You put them up to ask!"
"No, I didn't. They never said a word about it. Why, I wouldn't have asked them to do it."
Mr. Reed looked suspiciously at his son.
"You don't care to go?"
"Yes, I do, very much." The boy's voice was tremulous.
"Why couldn't you ask me?"
"Because you would leave it to mother, and she would say it was not worth while."
"Was that what you told them?" Mr. Reed was truly mortified. No man likes to be considered without power in his own household.
"I—I think it was," hesitated the boy. The girls had started an insurrection, sure enough. Well, 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. They took her over in Hammersley Street. Old Mr. Bounett seemed quite feeble, and though he was not in his court attire, he had a ruffled shirt-front and small-clothes. Aunt Eunice thought him delightful. It seemed queer to think of a French quarter in New York in the old part of the last century where people met and read from the French poets and dramatists, and almost believed when civilization set in earnestly, French must be the polite language of the day.
The little girl felt quite as if she was one of the hostesses of the city. She knew so many strange things and could find her way about so well. And yet she was only ten years old.
Aunt Eunice thought her a quaint, delightful little body, and wise for her years. But she was small. Nora Whitney had outgrown her and the Dean children were getting so large. As for the boys, they grew like weeds, and the trouble now was what to do with Ben. There was no free academy in those days, but the public school gave you a good and thorough education in the useful branches.