CHAPTER I.
Did you ever go a journey with your mother? No? Little Nelly did; it was great fun for her to see her mother pack the trunk. She had no idea before how much may be got into a trunk by squeezing. She thought it full half a dozen times, and laughed merrily when her mother pressed down the things with her hands, and piled as many more on top of them. Nelly and her mother were going to Niagara; that is a long way from New York. They went to bed very early the night before, for they knew that they must be up and off by daylight, breakfast, or no breakfast; for the cars do not wait for hungry people, as you may have found out. Long before daylight Nelly put her hand on her mother’s face, and said, It is time to get up, mother, and sure enough it was; so they both sprang out of bed, washed their eyes open, hurried on their clothes, and, I wish I could say, eat their breakfast, but unfortunately Nelly and her mother were boarding at a hotel. Now, perhaps you do not know that the servants in the New York hotels set up nearly all night, to wait upon people who stay out late at theaters, and like a nice dainty supper when they get home; and to take care of strangers, too, who arrive late at night; so you can imagine how tired they are, and how soundly they sleep, poor fellows, in the morning. Many of them are most excellent people, who bear without complaint all the hard words they get from those, whose chairs they stand behind, and who consider themselves privileged for that reason to insult and abuse them. No matter how weary they are, they must dart like a flash of lightning wherever they are sent, and get sworn at and abused even then for not going quicker. I remember well a middle-aged man who was waiter in a hotel where I once lived. He was as truly a gentleman as your own father. I could not bear that he should answer the bell when I rang it; it seemed to me that I should rather wait upon him. I could not bear that he should bow his head so deferentially every time he spoke to me, or be so troubled if my tea or coffee was not just as I was accustomed to have it. I could not bear that he should beg my pardon for every little omission or accident, so seldom occurring, too. I almost wished he would say something impudent or saucy; it made me so uncomfortable to see such a fine, dignified, gentlemanly man waiting upon my table, waiting upon people in the house, too, who were not fit to wipe his shoes; running hither and thither at the call of capricious, ill-bred children, whose wealthy parents had never taught them that servants have hearts to feel, and that they should be humanely treated. Ah, you should have seen our John; his manners would not have disgraced the White House. In fact I should not be surprised any day to hear that he was its master; for he who fills an inferior position faithfully and well, is he who oftenest rises to the highest. Remember that!
Well, as I was telling you, before I began about John, when Nelly and her mother got up, the poor, sleepy servants, who had not been in bed more than an hour or so, were not up, so Nelly nibbled a cracker and drank a glass of water, and she and her mother jumped into the carriage and were driven to the dépôt. How odd Broadway looked by early daylight! No gayly dressed ladies swept the pavements with their silken robes; no dandies thumped it with their high-heeled boots and dapper canes; no little girls, dressed as old as their mammas, glided languidly up and down, with their hands folded over their belts and an embroidered handkerchief between their kidded fingers. No—none but the useful class of the community were stirring: market-men, from the country, with their carts laden with lettuce, parsnips, cabbages, radishes, and strawberries, covered over with a layer of fresh, green grass, the very sight and odor of which made one long to be where it grew. Then there were milkmen, driving enough to tear up the pavement; then there were rag-pickers, gray with dirt, raking the gutters; then there were shop-boys and office-boys by the score, who had crossed the ferries to their work, for board in New York is expensive business; then there were tailoresses and sempstresses, more than I could count, with their shawls drawn round their thin shoulders, and their faces shrouded in their barege vails; then there were poor, tired news-boys asleep in entries and on steps, while others of their number rushed past with their bundles of damp papers. Little Nelly saw it all, for her eyes were sharp and bright; and now she is at the dépôt. All is hurry, skurry; carriages, cab-men, passengers, and baggage. Nelly’s eyes look wonderingly about her, and she keeps close to her mother, for the loud shouts of the men frighten her; now she is safe in the cars—how pale, sleepy, and cross every body looks! They hang up their traveling-bags on pegs over their heads, they fold up their shawls for cushions, they examine their pockets to see if their purses and checks are all right, they shrug their shoulders and pull down the windows to keep out the steam from the car boiler, for we are not yet out of the dépôt, they put their feet upon the seat, coil themselves up into a ball, and wonder why the cars don’t start. Siz—z—z, off we go—good-by New York, with your dust, and din, and racket—good-by to your sleepy belles, who are dreaming of last night’s ball, and getting strength to go to another; good-by to the gray old men who toil so hard to find them in dresses and jewels; good-by to their thoughtless sons, who spend so freely what they never earn; good-by to the squalid poor of whom they never think, though they may some day keep them wretched company; good-by to the poor old omnibus horses, who trot and stumble, stumble and trot, till one’s bones ache to look at them; good-by to the merry, sun-burned drivers, who so courteously rein up their horses, when ladies want to trip across the slippery streets; good-by to the little flower-girls, who manufacture those tempting little baskets of pinks, geraniums, and roses; good-by to the pretty parks, with their fountains and trees, nurses and children; good-by to the prisons, which often shut up better people than many whom the judges suffer to go unpunished at large; good-by to the hospitals with their groaning patients, watchful nurses, and skillful doctors. Good-by, we shall not be missed, no more than the pebble which some idle school-boy tosses into the pond, and which disappears and is thought of no more. Good-by, busy, dirty, noisy, crowded, yet delightful New York, for we are off to Niagara.