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UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, January 1858, pp. 16-18)
Elsie. Oh, Uncle! how long we have been waiting for you to tell
us more of the Museum, and of all the wonderful things that are there!
I fear you will not find any other part as interesting and curious, as
that which contained the Aquaria.
Elsie. Perhaps not, Uncle. I never heard anything more curious
or beautiful, and I mean to have an aquarium of my own, by-and-by.
Fanny, Harry, and all the rest. And so do I,
and so do I, and so do I.
Frank. And soon we can go fishing in our own parlors,
without any danger of wetting our feet, or freezing our fingers.
Well, Frank, I will join you, some stormy day, and try the fun of
fishing in a glass vase, while seated in a rocking-chair, with Hannah
playing on the piano, or reading some luxurious book. But, we will now to
the Museum, for we have much to see there yet, before I can proceed with my
Pilgrimage.
There are so many things to be seen here, that I hardly know where
to begin. But, as it is the holiday season, and all the young folks are full
of Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, I will take you, first of all, to see
THE HAPPY FAMILY.
This is one of the most remarkable
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exhibitions ever made since the Flood. The scene in the Ark may have
been something like it; but, as we are not informed how the different
animals were disposed of there, we can not say certainly. Here, in one
large cage, without any division, or any attempt to keep them apart, are
animals, birds, insects, and reptiles, of opposite natures, and such as have
never been known to meet, except as enemies, all living together in perfect
peace and friendship. Here are dogs, cats, and mice, lying down and
sleeping, or playing together. Here is a dove, or a small bird, sitting
quietly on the back of a cat, or of a hawk. Here is a bird hopping from
coil to coil of a sleeping serpent. A timid rabbit is feeding side by side
with a dog, or a monkey. An owl sits on the same perch with a parrot. A
toad hops, unmolested, among cats, rats, mice, birds, and all the rest; and
a hen and a guinea-pig keep company with an ant-eater, and a Mexican hog.
Two or three cries at once. Why, Uncle, are you not
jesting? How can these different creatures live together, and not quarrel?
I can not tell you how it was brought about. I do not know what
means have been used to tame, and train them. But so it is. They are there,
in perfect peace and quiet. I have seen them, and watched them for a long
time, as they moved about, each one as much at ease, as if alone in the
cage--no one ever interfering with another, or seeming to be annoyed by
anything that is done. The mouse seems to have no more fear of the cat,
than of his fellow. The cat is apparently as friendly with the mouse, as
with her own kitten.
Frank. Why, what a witch that man must be!
Harry. Ha, ha, ha! not a witch, Frank, but a wizard.
Frank. Well, wizard, or witch, I don't care which;
but I should like to know how he does it.
That is a secret you will not find it easy to discover, and, if you
should aquire it, it would not do you any good. The greater part of the
secret is probably patience and perseverance. A man who has anything else
to do, could not well do anything of this kind. Besides, you are too
indulgent to your pets, and you would not like to restrain, and deny, and
punish them, as much as would be necessary to subdue their nature, and
change their habits entirely. These animals live together quietly, but they
are not lively and playful. The monkeys seem to retain something of their
love of fun, and of mischief. But yet, they do not carry it so far as to
annoy their companions.
You would be very much amused, I am sure, to see the "Happy
Family." Sometimes you will see them all up and moving, flying, hopping,
jumping, but never interfering seriously with each other; mingling, in the
strangest groups you can imagine. Sometimes, especially on a cold day, you
will see the greater part of them cuddled down together in a corner, a pile,
or lump of life, made up of cats, rabbits, Guinea-pigs, rats, monkeys, etc.,
etc., either quietly asleep, or trying to keep each
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other warm; while the rest of the family are moving about, from perch to
perch, or occasionally crowding themselves into the mass of sleepers.
There is in the Museum a great variety of the curious birds and
animals, wither living, or stuffed, and looking like life, which will repay
anybody for a few hours of study. I hope you will all have an opportunity
to see them. Among them are
The Leopard--an animal of the cat species. It is found in the
tropical regions of Asia and Africa. Its fur is yellow, with ten or twelve
ranges of small black clusters of spots on each flank.
The Ostrich--a native of Africa and Arabia, the largest of all
birds, being four feet from the ground to the top of the back, and its head
often as high as ten feet--is remarkable for its swiftness in running, in
which it is aided by wings, which are too small for flying. Its plumage is
elegant, and much sued in ornamental dress.
The Gnu, or Horned Horse, belongs to the ox tribe of
ruminating animals, and partakes of the form of the ox, the horse, and the
deer. It is found in South Africa.
The Rhinoceros (nose-horn) belongs to the same order of
animals as the elephant, distinguished as hoofed animals, which do not
ruminate, or chew the cud. It is of the species Tapir. It is much
larger than the American tapir, and is distinguished by a kind of horn on
its nose, composed of a solid fibrous substance, resembling a tuft of hairs
glued together. Some species have two horns, one above the other. It is
stupid and ferocious, frequents marshy places, and lives on grass and shrubs.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, February 1858), pp. 47-48)
Bidding farewell to the American Museum, I stepped out into Broadway,
and was, for a time, not a little confused by the rattling, and buzzing, and
hum of the living multitudes passing and repassing, and rushing up and down,
as if the goal of life was at one end or the other of Broadway. The
contrast was not agreeable, passing so suddenly from the quiet I had been
enjoying among the living and the dead in this great storehouse of natural
curiosities. I soon became accustomed to the din, however, and began to
take observations for my future progress. St. Paul's loomed up darkly on
the other side of the street, a structure neither imposing nor beautiful. A
statue of the great Apostle adorns a niche in the pediment.
Frank.--Does it look like Paul, Uncle?
I don't know, Frank. In the first place, I don't know how Paul looked,
except that he represents himself as not very good-looking. In the second
place, the statue is so high up, that you can not see what it looks like.
If it were a statue of Julius Cæsar, it would answer as well, so long
as the people accept it as meant for Paul.
In the church-yard, on the south side of the church, there is a tall
and somewhat imposing monument, which may be worthy of a passing notice. It
is an obelisk, twenty feet high, erected in honor of
THOMAS ADDIS
EMMETT, an Irish orator and patriot, whose brother,
Robert, was executed as a rebel in 1803. Thomas, escaping to this
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country, was received with great éclat, as one of a
persecuted race, a martyr to the cause of liberty. I was more interested in
this monument, that it brought freshly back to my memory my school-boy days,
when I was accustomed to recite, with great power of eloquence, as I then
thought, a portion of Robert Emmett's reply to the question, "What he had to
say why sentence of death should not be passed upon him?" It was a favorite
theme for our weekly declamations, and its author was to us a sort of
demi-god.
Thomas Addis Emmett became somewhat distinguished in this country as a
politician and a lawyer. His death, which took place about thirty years
ago, was sudden and impressive. He expired, without a moment's warning,
while addressing the court at the City Hall.
Passing St. Paul's, the next object of interest is the Astor House, a
fine, large hotel, and one of the best in the world. At the time of its
completion, some twenty-five years ago, it had no equal. To it belongs the
honor of originating the modern style of palace hotels. Others have arisen,
since, more imposing in extent, and more elaborate in architecture and
appointments; but I greatly doubt if there can be found in the world a house
more conveniently arranged, better conducted, or more thoroughly furnished
with every appointment for substantial comfort and reasonable luxury.
The Astor is built of Quincy granite, and occupies the whole front
between vesey and Barclay streets, 200 feet, extending back on those streets
150 feet.
The amount of eating done within those walls, in one year, would
astonish almost any frugal housewife.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
museum, March 1858, pp. 75-79)
Gazing at the Astor House provoked in me something of an appetite for
dinner. But I was doomed to wait some time, before tasting it. As I was
crossing Vesey Street, I met an old friend, the first familiar face I had
seen among the many thousands that had passed me in my pilgrimage. He
seized me cordially by the hand, and, though moving very rapidly when he
came up, seemed in no haste to go on. He turned back, and held me a long
time in conversation about the great city, its singular history, wonderful
growth, wealth, wickedness, etc. He was an old man, and very talkative. He
was born in New York, and had always resided there. He had heard his father
and grandfather relate many curious and interesting incidents of its early
history, and seemed to have the whole story at his tongue's end. He was
particularly interested in talking of its rapid growth, and showing how
steadily and powerfully it had been expanding into the acknowledged
metropolis of the Western world.
His grandfather's memory extended back almost to the time when the old
Dutch government was superseded by the English. In an old almanac, which he
carried in his pocket, he showed me a sketch of the city as it was in 1664,
when it contained 1,500 inhabitants, and occupied only so much of its
present territory as lies below Wall Street. In truth, it did not occupy
more than half that space, for a large part of what is now covered with
buildings was then water.
This cut shows us the East River view of the Battery, or Market Field,
as it was then called. The fort on the
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left was called Fort Amsterdam by the Dutch, and Fort George by the
English. The gallows, standing in solemn loneliness on the shore, shows
that New York, even in its youth, was not as virtuous as it should be.
It would occupy too much time and space to tell you all that my friend
had to say; but it will help you to form some idea of the strides the city
has taken toward the country, to remember that the Astor House is about half
a mile above Wall Street, and about four miles below the great
"Central Park," which may perhaps be regarded as the present limit of the
city on the north, though destined, by-and-by, as the name given it imports,
to be its center.
Standing on this point, we were continually jostled and disturbed by
the crowds passing up and down. New York as it is was continually
withdrawing our attention from New York as it was. I could not help
remarking to my friend the seeming earnestness and activity of the passers,
saying, that every one appeared to have an important object ahead, which he
was bent on accomplishing at once.
"Oh!" said he, "that is all appearance. Not one in twenty of
them have any object at all, except to see what is passing, and to occupy
time."
"Is that possible?" I asked. "How, then, do they support themselves?"
"You last question is more than I can answer," he replied; "and one
half of these people would be as much puzzled to answer it as I am. The
first I can answer at once, and give you proof that I am right."
"How will you do that?" I asked.
"I can stop five hundred, or a thousand of them, on this spot, for half
an hour, or more, and not one of them shall know why they stop, or what they
are looking after."
So saying, he stepped to the edge of the side-walk, drawing me with
him. Then, pointing toward the sky, just over the Museum, he said to me,
earnestly, "There! don't you see it?"
Instantly some twenty or thirty persons gathered around us, each
asking, "What is it?" The number of idle gazers and questioners increased
at every moment, and in about two minutes, the walk was so crowded and
crammed, that no one could pass, and all new-comers were compelled to stop.
Not one in twenty of the crowd knew why they were stopped, or how long they
would be detained; and very few of them cared, as long as they had something
new to excite them.
It was amusing to hear their questions and conjectures, some of them
given in a tone of positive earnestness, as if their very lives or fortunes
depended on knowing what strange thing had happened.
"Ha!" cried one. "I see it."
"What? What? Where?" cried a score at once.
"There! over the Museum. I vow it is a balloon, with an elephant in
it."
"Nonsense!" said his neighbor. "You don't see any such thing. The
balloon never was made that could carry an elephant."
"That's as much you know," replied the other. "Pray, did you never
hear of Rufus Porter's balloon, that was to carry fifty men to California in
two days?"
"Was to!" growled the impatient objector. "Did he ever do it?"
Having accomplished his object, my friend took me by the arm, and drew
me aside, to continue his story of "the Olden Times."
In his enthusiasm, he forgot that
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I was on a pilgrimage, with my pack in my hand, and he did not know that
I had not had my dinner. From one story to another, he carried me quite
back to the first discovery of the Bay and River, in 1607; then, nothing
would do but he must show me a picture of Hendrick Hudson, in his
quaint, old dress, with a sketch of his ship, the Half Moon, as she lay at
anchor, off the Highlands, surrounded by large numbers of Indian canoes.
The brave old navigator thought, as Columbus did, that he had reached the
farther India, and that the "River of the Mountains," as he called it, came
down from the heart of its golden regions.
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The early settlers had many difficulties with the Indians, owing
chiefly to the avarice and injustice of the new-comers, and to the effect of
the "fire-water." Treaties were made with them, at various times,
only to be broken, on the first and slightest pretense. The Indians, not
knowing how to read, depended upon the white men to make, declare, and
explain the treaty. And then, when any difficulty arose, it depended upon
the honor and honesty of the white men to make a fair case of it. Whatever
may be said of the cruelty of th4e red men, their provocations were many and
great. It
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certainly was not necessary to rob them of their lands, as they were
disposed to sell them very cheap. For seventy-five dollars--and
that, perhaps, in rum and trinkets--they sold the whole Island of New York.
The old Dutchmen were shrewd in making bargains, but they were not very
careful to keep on the right side of the Indians. They often provoked them
to acts of violent retaliation, and then made war upon them, as if they had
been first to offend. The Indians were noble-looking men, some of them, and
worthy of a better fate. With all their fantastic costume, they do not
appear to much disadvantage by the side of the Dutch governor and his
council. If the Indians had been the artists in this case, they might,
perhaps, have drawn a picture still more favorable to their ancestors. As
it is, the history and the illustrations are all the work of the "pale
faces;" and, bad as it appears for them, they have probably made out the
best case they could.
My friend occupied me so long with these old matters, and entertained
me so much by his enthusiasm and his anecdotes, that I did not move from the
spot where we first met, where I shall now be obliged to leave you, having
no more time at present.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, April 1858, pp. 117-118)
Well, Uncle, said Jessie, here we are, waiting to hear of your
progress. If you stand so long at every corner, you will hardly live to see
the end of Broadway.
I never expect to see the end of it, my dear; for it grows faster than
I can travel. It now stretches miles away into the country. But, little by
little, we will see what we can.
Frank. Is Broadway very wide?
No. There are many streets in the city wider than this. When it was
first laid out, while the city was but little more than a village, and the
houses were all low, it was considered very spacious. And so it was, for
the use then required of it. But, at the present time, when most of the
buildings, on both sides, are seven and eight stories high, and the street
is the principal thoroughfare of a city of nearly a million of people, it is
very inconveniently narrow.
To proceed-- My antiquarian friend was not disposed to drop the
subject he had taken up with so much interest. He entertained me with the
history of St. Paul's--of the Astor House, of the Museum--the Park Theater,
and many other prominent objects in this vicinity. He walked with me some
distance, and entertained me much by his remarks, and his enthusiasm in all
matters relating to this "great city." While standing near the Astor House,
he called my attention to the gates, at the southern extremity of the Park,
opposite, and informed me that the balls on the top of the gate-posts were
brought from the site of the ancient city of Troy. They are about fourteen
inches in diameter, perfectly round, and apparently of brown granite, or
sandstone. In what position they were found there, or what may have been
their origin, or purpose, my friend could not inform me.
Harry. Perhaps they are some of the thunderbolts of old Jove,
left on the battle-field.
Elsie. More likely they are the marbles used by the giants in
their sports.
Whatever may have been their origin, or use, they now occupy a
conspicuous place at the main entrance to the Park; while not one in ten
thousand of those pass them daily knows anything of their history, or looks
upon as any other than ordinary ornaments to a gate-post.
While talking of these matters, an amusing incident occurred, near by,
which illustrates one of the innumerable phases of Broadway life. A
hand-organ, with the usual accompaniment of a monkey, as a tax-gatherer, was
grinding out its uncouth measures, opposite the door of a fashionable Hair
Dressing Establishment; while the monkey, full of his pranks,
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was investigating every object of interest in the vicinity.
Presently the door opened, and a very genteel, carefully-dressed man,
with gold spectacles and a gold-headed cane, came out. The monkey, who,
just then, was amusing himself, by reaching through the meshes of a wire
window-skreen, [sic] for pea-nuts, which the boys threw at him,
mischievously seized the gold spectacles, and endeavored to escape with
them. This proved a more difficult matter than he imagined, as they were
hooked behind the ears of the wearer, who did not at all relish either the
rude scratching of his ears, or this public derangement of his toilet. In
the scuffle which ensued, the gentleman's highly polished hat fell to the
pavement, and was trampled under foot by the crowd. His cravat was left in
a state of unseemly disorder, and his temper was ruffled, like the sea in a
storm, or a courtier in the time of Queen Bess. The monkey succeeded, at
length, in getting possession of the spectacles, though in a damaged
condition; and then, springing to the top of an awning-post, out of the
reach of the enraged dandy, he coolly attempted to adjust them to his own
ugly phiz. This was a difficult matter, as he did not understand how to
make them hold on. Having made several unsuccessful attempts, during which
the crowd shouted and cheered him on, he flung them down, and sprang across
the awning, into one of the windows of the Astor House.
Frank. I thought these monkeys were always chained to the
organ.
This one had been chained, but had got loose. It was some hours before
he was caught, during which he led his pursuers in a chase all over the
house.
Meanwhile, the discomfited exquisite had swallowed his rage, refitted
his toilet, and gone on his way.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, May 1858, pp. 145-147)
Owing to the confusion of the monkey-chase and the uproar and fun it
occasioned, my friend and I became parted, and as the quaint old Bunyan
says, I addressed myself to my way.
Frank. What answer did you get, sir?
Oh! a very amusing one; at the same time, it was not agreeable. The
crowd which had gathered to see the fun, or to learn what it was, attracted
some of the New York highwaymen, the professed pick-pockets, who have
acquired such adroitness in their craft, that they can take the watch out of
a man's pocket, or the diamond-ring from his finger, without his knowing it.
One of these commenced operations on a lady, who was uncomfortably squeezed
in among the mass near me, and succeeded in getting her gold watch and
chain, while she was most anxious about her laces and flowers. A policeman
happened to be so near as to see the act, seized the robber, while his hand
was yet in the lady's pocket, searching for her purse. The scamp
immediately dropped the watch into my bosom, and cried, "Hands off! What
are you about?" with sundry other angry exclamations, as if he felt himself
grossly insulted, to be touched by a policeman. The officer kept his hold,
however, while he thief continued to bluster and to protest his innocence.
When asked for the watch, he knew nothing of it, and when I produced it, he
turned on me like a savage, and said, "There's the thief!--let me alone!"
The officer knew better, and calling some of his comrades, took him off to
the Tombs, while I went on my way unmolested.
Jesse. Did not this incident detain you a long time?
Not more than five minutes; then the tide flowed on as quietly as
before. A robbery, or a murder, in Broadway, is scarcely noticed, more than
the dropping of a pebble into a stream, which makes a few ripples, and soon
disappears.
Being a little fatigued with my adventure, I crossed over to the Park,
and took a seat on one of the chains, by which the various grass sections
are protected from intrusion. Here I had a fine view of the confluence of
the two great thoroughfares of New York, Broadway and the Bowery, which last
has an outlet here, through Chatham Street and Park Row. On the next page
is a very good representation of the scene, as it now appears, so far as the
buildings are concerned. The artist hs contrived to clear away a
considerable number of trees from the lower end of the Park, and an immense
number of carriages and foot passengers from the streets. I never saw those
streets so deserted. Perhaps he took the likenesses of those only who were
willing to pay for being made so conspicuous. Or, possibly, the handsome
people stood still,
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to be taken, while the rest ran away. On the right, you see a part of
the Astor House. Next to that is St. Paul's Church, the steeple, which
seems to be at the wrong end, lifting its slender spire above the hotel.
The building in the center, which cuts off the train of wagons and carriages
going down Broadway, is "The American Museum," where we made such a pleasant
visit a short time since, and where we saw such a variety of rare and
interesting curiosities.
Frank. What are all those flags for, Uncle?
A mere fancy of the manager, to attract attention, making the Museum
more conspicuous, as far as it can be seen.
On the left is "Park Row." Park Theatre once occupied a conspicuous
place there; but has given place to stores and warehouses, for a more
useful, if not a more profitable, kind of business. If the gentleman and
lady standing under the tree, by the gate, should turn to the left, and look
straight through one of those buildings on Park Row, and through another,
separated from it by a very narrow alley, they might see right into our
sanctum, at 116 Nassau Street, and (if they have very good eyes, or a magic
pair of spectacles) read what we are now writing about them.
Elsie. Oh, Uncle, wouldn't that be funny? But is your office
so near the Great Museum?
You mean to ask, perhaps, if the American Museum is so near the
Great Museum? Yes, close under our wing, which accounts for its
great prosperity.
Frank. Pray, Uncle, are those balls you spoke of, at a former
meeting, which came from the site of ancient Troy, on these gate-posts at
this end of the Park? If so, they look much smaller than you represented
them.
They are not there now, Frank. The old gates have been replaced with
new and lighter ones, for which the Troy balls would be quite too large. I
do not know where they are at the present time.
There are rail-tracks on Park Row, extending through Chatham Street and
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the Bowery, up the east side of the city, and connecting with the Harlem
and New Haven Railroads. One of the cars is just on the start, as you see.
If you want a ride, you must jump in quickly, or it will be off. But, as
they go every three minutes, you can, if you please, wait till we finish our
talk.
Elsie. Dear Uncle, I thought there was a fountain at this end
of the Park. I do not see anything of it in this picture.
There is a fountain, or rather a basin, near this end of the Park, not
embraced in this view. When it was first built, there was a constant
display of its brilliant and beautiful jets, attracting large numbers of
people, to pause as they passed, and keeping always fresh and green the
trees, shrubs, and flowers on every side. But there is seldom any water in
it now, the city fathers preferring to waste it in some other way. The
flowers are all dead, the evergreens withered and brown, and even the grass
gray, thirsty, and stinted, as if a blight had fallen on the place. This
Park has nothing about it that is inviting or tasteful as a Park. But
anything green, in the midst of so much brick and marble, is refreshing. As
an open space, for the better circulation of air, it is of great value.
Parks are sometimes called the lungs of a city. But if your lungs, or mine,
were as uniformly choked with dust as the City Hall Park is, we should never
breathe without coughing.
While I was sitting on the chain, amusing myself with the ever-shifting
scene before me, an alarm of fire was sounded from the great bell on the
City Hall. One, two, three, four, the deep,
solemn tones rang out; and again, one, two, three,
four, and so at intervals of a minute or two, for some time.
Scarcely had the alarm been repeated twice, before the rumbling of engines
and the shouts of the noisy firemen were heard. From different directions,
they rushed along the streets, shouting, screaming, hallooing, like so many
wild Indians--sometimes dashing on to the sidewalks, to avoid the crowd of
carriages, and then sweeping on through the moving lines of omnibuses, as if
they would tear up the very pavement in their fury and haste. The people
generally paid no attention to the fire, or to the noise the firemen made
about it. They went on their way with the same earnestness, or lounged on
the corners with the same indifference, as before.
Frank. How did they know that their own houses might not be on
fire?
Few of them would stop to think of that; and those who did, would know
from the four strokes of the bell whether or not the fire was in their
district. In New York, none but the firemen and the rowdies take any
interest in a fire, unless their own property is in danger; and it is well
they do not. If everybody should rush to the scene, as they do in small
towns and villages, the crowd would be so great, the firemen could not do
their duty, and every fire would be accompanied by a mob and a fight.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, June 1858, pp. 174-175)
Crossing over to the west side of Broadway, on leaving the Park, I
re-commenced my pilgrimage. The street was very different, in some
respects, from what you would find it if you should go there now. Many of
the old buildings have been taken down, and new ones erected in their
places. Pausing at the corner of Park Place, for instance, which is the
second street from the Astor House, I had a very pleasant and refreshing
view of the grounds and buildings of Columbia College, which are now
displaced by a bustling street, and tall, bare marble or stone stores. This
College was founded somewhat more than a century ago, and here have been
educated many of the great men who have adorned the history of our country.
The site which, when first occupied, was quite out of town, has been, for
more than a quarter of a century, a sort of oasis in a wilderness of brick
and mortar. Commerce crowded so hard upon it, that it not only ceased to be
a suitable place for quiet study, but became too valuable to be held for
such a purpose. So the inexorable street went through; the College and the
"College Green" disappeared, and Mammon piled up in their places his palaces
of trade.
As I looked down upon the spot, of which I had often heard, I recalled
some incidents connected with the early history of the College, which had
interested me much, as I heard them from the lips of one who witnessed and
took part in them. The time was a few years after the Revolution, and
embraced the period of the formation of our present government, and the
inauguration of General Washington as its first President.
The characters were Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Knox, Morris,
Marshall, Jay, Hamilton, Burr, John Randolph, of Roanoke, and many others of
the same circle. They seemed, as by magic, to come up and pass before me.
I had, as it were, known them as they looked and acted and talked on this
spot. Their mental photographs had been taken for me, by my friend, and I
had them here before me. I talked with them, and sought to protract their
visit. But the vision soon passed. The place, the people, the customs were
so changed, they did not feel at home. They looked sorrowfully on the
extravagance and luxury of the times, and seemed to feel that all their
labors and sacrifices would, after all, prove fruitless of any permanent
good.
Elsie. Why, Uncle, you must have fallen asleep in the street,
to have had such a dream as that!
No, no, my dear child. Nothing so "quick as thought." All this and
more passed through my mind in the twinkling of an eye, conjured up by the
simple association of the "College Green," with the stories I had heard from
my old Dutch friend. There are waking as well as sleeping dreams, you know,
and visions of things never
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seen or even visible. I did pause at the corner of the street.
Very probably I put on a very grave face, as these thoughts came rushing
upon me; but I kept my eyes open, and my mind busy, and was very soon on my
way again up Broadway, and in very different company from that I had called
around me at the corner.
Frank. Did you ever see any of the great men of your day-dream?
Of those whom I have mentioned, I have seen only one, and that the very
one whom I should least care to see--Aaron Burr. He was a man to be
despised for his character--for exalted talents prostituted to low and base
ends--and to be feared and shunned for an influence as malignant as it was
irresistible. He always appears to me, standing as he did in the midst of
that constellation of great and good names, like another Lucifer among the
morning stars. There have been many traitors, like Arnold, but few
incarnate demons, like Burr. His example should be a beacon to warn all
young men that the way of virtue is the only way to honor, and that the sure
way to gain and keep the respect of others is, to respect themselves. This
Burr never could have done. Born with the highest intellectual endowments,
thrown into the society of the noblest and best race of men the world ever
saw, with everything around and before him that could excite the loftiest
ambition, he seems to have regarded himself as only the creature of
passion--born to indulge, and not to aspire.
Frank. Did he not aspire to political honor and power?
Yes; and he might have attained it, if he had sought it openly and
honorably. But, in that, as in everything else, he preferred the wrong to
the right, the crooked to the straight.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, August 1858, pp. 54-55)
A pilgrim is supposed to attend to his own business, and not to be
disposed to notice every odd thing that comes in his way. Thousands of
people were constantly passing and repassing, of whom I took no note at all.
Some were beggars, and some were peddlers of cigars, cakes, nuts, or
matches. There was one very notable character, however, of whom I could not
help taking notice. He has become one of the "institutions" of the Great
Metropolis, and he forces himself upon the notice of every pil-
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p. 55
grim, whether he will or not. Even the deaf can hardly avoid hearing
him; and the blind, if they do not see him, must always know when he is
near. He is called "the four-cent man." For some years he has made it his
sole business to peddle paper and envelopes in the street, having but one
price, four cents, for the wares he offers. From morning till night,
day after day, in heat and cold, and in all weathers, he marches slowly
along the sidewalk, with his samples well arranged before him, calling out,
in a clear, distinct voice, with a full, slow utterance:
"Twelve--sheets--of--writing paper--for four--cents."
"Twenty-five--self-sealing--envelopes--for four--cents."
"Twelve--sheets--of note paper--for four--cents." He speaks so loud
and so distinct, that he can be heard in almost any room of the buildings,
for some distance around, and no one finds any difficulty in understanding
exactly what he has to sell, and how much he expects to get for it.
Ellen. How can he afford to sell so cheap, Uncle? We have to
pay a cent apiece, when we buy envelopes.
There are two reasons why he sells so cheap, my dear. In the first
place, he has no rent to pay, no clerks, no fire and lights. He does all
his business in the street, and by daylight, and does it all himself. In
the second place, he buys cheap, and sells large quantities. His business
is very prosperous. He never varies his prices, and never loses anything by
credit. His custom is all cash.
Kate. Are not the people of the city sometimes annoyed by these
constant outcries in the streets? You know how the newsboys in Cincinnati
disturbed us, as we were going to church, on Sunday.
Yes, they are, as a class, considered as a kind of nuisance. The
Sunday papers are particularly so; and in some of the cities, they are not
allowed thus to disturb the quiet of the holy day. The outcries would not
be so annoying, if they were only intelligible. For the most part, you can
not guess what they say, unless you have a chance to see what they have to
sell. This "four-cent man" is teaching them a lesson, by which it is hoped
they will profit. He ought to be regarded as one of the reformers of the
day. When he is gone, they should erect a statue to his memory, at some
prominent corner, to remind all peddlers, as they pass, of the value of
plain dealing and plain speaking.
But there is, it seems, one objection to this plain-speaking
four-cent man. His full clear voice and plain words command
attention, and often as he passes, every one must hear. This
sometimes disturbs the thoughts and interrupts the business of men who are
easily distracted, and whose business requires very close and quite
attention. In such cases, they have sometimes requested him to change his
tone, or to remove to some other street, and have even paid him the amount
of an ordinary day's earnings, to keep still for a day, while some important
consultation was in progress. A very short time since, I noticed him, as if
some new idea had seized him, moving quietly along, and saying, in a sort of
undertone, which yet was very distinct and clear, "Envelopes and paper,
selling off cheap." This he continued till 4 o'clock in the afternoon, and
then took up his old strain, in the same clear, full voice,
"Twelve--sheets--of writing paper--for four--cents." He had been
hired to "spare the ears of the public" till that time, and he faithfully
kept his part of the contract.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, September 1858, pp. 79-81)
In Broadway there are many things to puzzle a pilgrim. Where do so
many people come from? Where are they going? How do they all get a living?
and is it possible that they all find a home at night?
Look, now, at this poor, blind cripple, led by a child, and begging his
way down, and then begging his way up; and then at these organ-grinders,
rending the air with a kind of shrieking music, about as melodious and
agreeable as that of a pig in the act of being stuck. Here, on the corner,
is a shriveled-up old woman, somewhere between sixty and eighty years of
age, who looks as if here life had been one long agony. She sits, from
morning till night, day after day, on that same stone, with a small basket
of peanuts, the whole value of which can not exceed fifty cents. Her gains,
if she sell out her stock every day, can not be more than fifteen or twenty
cents. God help her! I suppose she is more thankful for that than these
fashionable ladies are for their silks and satins, and the fine carriage
they ride in.
Just observe the carriages, as they pass, or stand in waiting by the
sidewalk. Some of them are quite plain, but many of them are very stylish
and showy, highly plated or gilded, with coachman and footman in gaudy
liveries.
Some pilgrims would have paused in front of Stewart's great marble
palace, and moralized an hour or so on fashion, extravagance, and the
follies of the world in general. I looked at it, as I went by, with a
feeling of admiration at its proportions, and of wonder at the enterprise
and courage of its builder. I can not say, moreover, that I did not admire
the fine equipages that stood all along the street in front of it, and the
fine ladies, old and young, who were going in and out, in two ceaseless
processions. There are worse ways of spending money than this, and there is
something of human love and parental affection mingled with the pride, and
something of refined taste, with the mere love of display, here exhibited.
So I passed on, not quite sure, to say the least, that there was not a
lurking emotion of envy even in my old heart, or at least an entire
willingness, if I could have the chance, to ride in a carriage, and see my
wife and daughters, and all my large family handsomely dressed. But I
passed on, leaving the fashionable world to please itself in its own way,
and the poor, miserable starving begging world to creep on as best it could.
My sympathies, just then, were turned in a new direction. One of my
fellow-travellers, who had never rode in a carriage in his life, slipped and
fell on the pavement, and came so near being run over and crushed, that I
could not hold back from trying to help him. He had two more legs than I
had, but he could manage to stand, for all that, on the slippery pavement,
and--
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p. 80
Elsie. Oh! Uncle. It was a horse, wasn't it?
Yes, it was a horse, an omnibus horse--but a fellow-creature and a
fellow-traveler, and I felt for him. But he was soon up, and on his way,
and so was I. In a few minutes I found myself in front of the New York
Hospital, a very plain substantial building, but, after all, much more to my
taste than any of the marble palaces which commerce and pride have reared,
above and below it, on the same great thoroughfare.
The Hospital stands back some hundred feet from Broadway, with an
avenue, ninety feet wide, leading to it. It has ample ground for its
accommodation, covering nearly an entire block. When it was erected, it was
quite out of town; and those who selected the site, probably never thought
of such a thing as the city overtaking it. It is now so far down, that both
fashion and business have made prodigious strides beyond it. It is the
general hospital of the city. It is liberally endowed, and embraces every
provision for the best and most effective care of those who require its
attention.
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The society for the erection of this Hospital was organized in 1771,
and received its charter from the Earl of Dunmore, then Governor of the
Province. Having received liberal aid from the Legislature, the building
was commenced in 1773. In 1775, when nearly completed, it was destroyed by
fire. further aid being promptly rendered by the Legislature, it was
recommenced in less than a month. but the good work was again delayed, or
for the time defeated, by the breaking out of the Revolutionary War. The
city being in possession of the British, the Hospital was occupied as
barracks for English and Hessian troop soldiers.
It was not until January, 1791, that the place was opened, under its
own proper officers, for the reception of patients. From that time, it has
gone steadily on in its work of mercy, relieving thousands of patients, and
adding greatly to the comfort of numbers, whose cases were past all human
relief.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, October 1858, pp. 118-119)
While I was inspecting the hospital, a friend, noticing the deep
interest I felt in such institutions of mercy, called my attention to
another, of a very different kind, which was situated not very far off. It
was out of my track, somewhat, but, being an independent pilgrim, and warmly
interested in every effort to reclaim the vicious and elevate the degraded,
I was easily drawn aside to take a look at the Five Points' Mission House,
and House of Industry.
About one minute's walk from roadway, that renowned thoroughfare of
fashion, wealth, and commerce, brought us to this central point of squalid
misery and sin, the most filthy and uninviting portion of the great city.
An open space of about one acre, formed by the meeting of Little Water,
Cross, Anthony, Orange, and Mulberry streets, is called, by way of derision,
"Paradise Square." On one side of this open space once stood the "Old
Brewery," known to fame as one of the most perfect illustrations of a hell
one earth, which even the purlieus of a Sodom could furnish. This Brewery
was erected in 1792, and was occupied in its appropriate vocation for about
forty-five years. In 1837 it was rented out as a tenement house, or
rookery. From this time it became a moral post-house, of the darkest and
lowest description, and was marked by a shameless wickedness and misery
which our young friends would find it difficult to conceive of. One portion
of it was christened "The Den of Thieves," a name which would aptly
characterize the whole building. Along one side of it ran a narrow, filthy
path, scarcely three feet wide, known as "Murderer's Alley." Nothing can be
imagined more offensive and disgusting than the condition and aspect of the
whole place, as it was eight years ago. Every room, every corner was
reeking with filth, crime, and wretchedness. a mission to such a spot would
seem more hopeless than to the darkest region of heathendom. But no place
is too dark for the light of the Gospel to penetrate, or too desperate for
the power of the Gospel to transform.
The spot where that "Old Brewery" stood is now covered by a handsome,
substantial building, called the Five Points' Mission House. If it be a
triumph of Christianity to convert a theater into a church, what shall we
say of such a transformation as this?
"It was the very nest of crime. The worst passions which deform our
common human nature had their sowing time and their fruit season there.
Young children were there immolated to Moloch, and men and women of ripe
years were transplanted thence, to bloom upon the gallows. The foulest
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p. 119
crimes were hatched, fostered, and developed there. There was the home
of the assassin, the thief, and the prostitute. Up those curious stairs,
and along those winding passages, through nests of chambers, ingeniously
contrived to prevent the escape of the victim, or elude the search of his
friends, has been borne many an unhappy wretch, who will never be heard of
till the morning of the resurrection. The Old Brewery was, at one period of
its history, not excelled by any haunt in London or Paris, as the
lazar-house and infectious center of crime.
"But where it once stood, a church has been erected, with a house for
the preacher, school-rooms for the ignorant, bath-rooms for the dirty, and
tenements, clean, wholesome, and inviting, for the homeless."
On the opposite side of the square stands the Five Points' House of
Industry, a large, handsome, convenient structure, which has sprung out of
the same spirit of Christian enterprise and active humanity which conceived
and completed the Mission House. The latter is more strictly a religious
institution, but nevertheless cares for the body as well as for the soul.
The former is, in its inception and design, an industrial and reformatory
enterprise, but does not, by any means, neglect the interests of the
immortal soul, nor give them a secondary place. Mr. Pease, to whom the
great work of originating and accomplishing the mission is mainly to be
ascribed, is the head and front of this also. In connection with the House
of Industry in this city, he has a farm in Westchester County, where he
resides, and where he has a large number of children who have been snatched
from the very jaws of pollution and death, and placed under the most
wholesome training for usefulness and happiness.
At some other time, I will tell you more about this farm, and the good
it has done.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, November 1858, p. 150)
Again on the great thoroughfare. How full of life, bustle, and show!
But I heed not the bustle and show. I look only for the life, for that
which I have just seen is so far exalted above bustle and show, that they
seem more hollow and meaningless than ever.
Here now is an object which touches the same chord. It seems to have
strayed away from the region I have just left, and to be out of place in any
part of Broadway. But such is life, abounding in the strongest
contrasts--the bright and the dark, the sad and the joyous, the happy and
the wretched, side by side, jostling each other, and sometimes mysteriously
changing places. Look at this poor cripple. His lower limbs are entirely
paralyzed and useless. He can not walk a step, nor stand, nor even move his
legs in any way, without the aid of his hands. He is sadly deformed in his
back, and his neck is so twisted, that his chin rests on his left shoulder.
Can you imagine a more pitiable object? And do not your young hearts thrill
with gratitude to Him who has made you to differ, as you walk by, erect, and
in full health and vigor? But he is not unhappy, for he, too, is grateful.
Pushed helplessly about in his little wagon, he finds sunlight in human
smiles, and absolute happiness in feeling that God is his Father, and will
yet make him whole. He knows that, when he gets home, he will be as erect
and vigorous as any of the children of the Father's great family. What a
contrast! With scarcely one of all the blessings which constitute our life
and happiness, he is contented, grateful, happy--while with all these gifts
lavished upon, and preserved to us from year to year, we fret, pine, and
murmur, as if God were not only unkind, but unjust.
Well, dear children, it makes me happy and thankful to know that you do
not feel so now--that you value your blessings, and pity those who can not
enjoy the same. Cherish this feeling. Let it take deep root in your
hearts, or it will gradually die out, and leave you as insensible as marble.
But, what have we here? a new aspect of life, a new phase of humanity.
A young man stands on the edge of the sidewalk, and holds up a pack of plain
cards, quietly calling the attention of the passers to "something curious."
One stops to see what it is, then another, till he has quite an audience.
He then shuffles his cards, which were all white on the back, at first, and
in a moment they appear spotted with blue stars. He takes great pains to
show you, in the first place, that the cards are all blank. Then, with a
great show of words, which mean nothing, and a look as if he expected
everybody to be astonished, he shows up, first a set of blue stars, then red
stars, then black ones, till somebody is astonished, and asks him
what he will take for the secret. The price is ridiculously small for the
power to perform a miracle. It is soon paid, and the purchaser, grown
wondrous who by the revelation then made to him, pockets his cards, and goes
off to see whom he can dupe in the same way.
Frank.--Why, Uncle, how does he manage to make these changes?
I did not think the secret worth a shilling, and therefore I was not
initiated, so that I can not explain it to you. But if there was any real
mystery in it, he would not sell it so cheap.
UNCLE HIRAM'S PILGRIMAGE, by William C. Cutter (from Robert Merry's
Museum, December 1858, pp. 178-179)
The pilgrim who walks with his eyes open, is continually meeting with
sights that are strange and unexpected. Many are very disagreeable, and
disagreeable in that way that we feel, as we pass them, that it must be as
painful for those who exhibit them to be seen in such a throng, as it is to
us to see them. It is difficult to understand how poverty in rags should
feel any satisfaction in showing itself by the side of heartless and
ostentatious wealth. And yet in Broadway, as in many other of the great
panoramas of life, they jostle each other at every turn. It may be, and
probably is, a feeling of selfish pride on our part, that we think it would
be more becoming and natural for the very poor and ill clad to choose some
more quite walk, when they would be less exposed to observation and to
painful contrast. But there is no accounting for tastes. They evidently
think they have as good a right to exhibit their ugliness in broad daylight
as the more favored have to show off their splendor and magnificence. And
so you meet them in all the ingenious deformities of real or feigned
distress, all the darker and more urgent in its appeals, as well as the more
disgusting, for the violent contrasts it presents.
Look here, now. You have read of Esquimaux dog-teams traveling with
velocity over the snow of the Arctic regions. But here is a dog-team in
Broadway, and it would seem, too, an Esquimaux squaw to claim and guide it
as her own. Who would suppose such a team would ever be seen in Broadway,
or find anything to do there! But here you meet them daily, crowding their
way through the interminable sea of carriages, omnibuses, carts, wagons,
drays, and vehicles of every name, and often, it would seem, at the imminent
hazard
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of being crushed between them. The Esquimaux dog-teams are only driven
on the snow, and generally consist of ten or twelve dogs harnessed together
in pairs. The New York dog-teams are not quite so extensive or fanciful;
they are a sort of mongrel between these and the Mexican or South American,
where we often see a pair of mules at the pole, with an ox or a bull for a
leader, and sometimes, even, a mule and an ox side by side. The New York
team is generally a small hand-cart, with two dogs harnessed to the axletree
or the shafts, a man, a woman, or a boy leading off. Sometimes there are
three or four dogs, some attached to the axletree and some to the shafts.
The harness is of the most motley character, made up of leather straps,
strings of every color, bits of cloth, and sometimes of small chains. The
dogs are trained, and always look as if they had seen hard service in the
training, and lost all the natural life and frolic of a dog. They plod
along moodily, their heads down, and their tongues hanging out, paying no
attention to anything by the way, and seeming to be burdened with the care
of some great business. They often look as if they felt that they were in
the wrong place, and greatly abused. I remember seeing one team dragging
heavily along with an overloaded cart, and a master, much more of a brute
than his dogs, who looked as if on the verge of going mad--not with ordinary
canine madness, but with loss of that reason and instinct which make the dog
the friend and faithful servant of man. You can see something of the same
expression in this team. How unlike the same animals racing about the
fields, or even tamely following a master in the street! How unlike the
free and spirited action of the Esquimaux team! The dog was not made to
draw heavy burdens; his feet are not formed for such service, nor his limbs
adapted to the required strain. Even the Esquimaux dog is often used up by
this unnatural labor, becomes insane, rushes hither and thither, howling in
his restless agony, and dies in convulsions.
The New York dogs suffer apparently in the same way, although I have
never heard of any of them dying as the Arctic dogs do. They draw at a
great disadvantage, being so much below the cart that their efforts to pull
have the effect to increase the weight they are drawing. Whenever the cart
stops, they lie down in their tracks and sheep, or watch tremblingly the
motions of their master, as if expecting a lash or a kick to accompany the
call for a new start. These dogs are well fed, however, and always seem to
be plump and in good order. It is difficult to see how they can be made
profitable; it must cost as much to board them as to feed a child. But, as
I have said, there is no accounting for tastes, and one half the world has
no idea how the other half lives.
Harry. What business are these dog-drivers engaged in?
They follow quite a variety of businesses. Some of them are
rag-pickers, scouring the streets, and gathering up paper and rags, which
they sell to the paper-makers. Some pick up or buy old iron, which they
sell to the founders; others gather bits of rope, twine, and a great variety
of other matters, for the junk-shops; and they are all in the way of finding
whatever valuable things are lost in the streets. Some of them have amassed
money by their occupation, and own large houses in the city.
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