A Story of New York at the Present Time

LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF JACK ENGLE:

AN AUTO-BIOGRAPHY;

IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND SOME FAMILIAR CHARACTERS.

This story will be completed in six numbers, or less. The Writer having placed the manuscript complete in our hands we shall give such quantities weekly as to enable the reader to see the end within that time.—EDS.

PREFATORY.—Candidly reader we are going to tell you a true story. The narrative is written in the first person; because it was originally jotted down by the principal actor in it, for the entertainment of a valued friend. From that narrative, although the present is somewhat elaborated, with an unimportant leaving out here, and putting in there, there has been no departure in substance. The main incidents were of actual occurrence in this good city of New York; and there will be a sprinkling of our readers by no means small, who will wonder how the deuce such facts, (as they happen to know them) ever got into print.

We shall, in the narrative, give the performers in this real drama, unreal names; and for good reasons, throw just enough of our own toggery about them to prevent their being identified by strangers.

Some of the faces embodied in the story have come to our knowledge from sources other than that above mentioned . These, we shall add, or withhold, as the interest of the detail may demand.

CHAPTER I.

An approved specimen of young America—the Lawyer in his office—Old age, down at the heel—entrance of Telemachus and Ulysses—a bargain closed.

Punctually at half past 12, the noon-day sun shining flat on the pavement of Wall street, a youth with the pious name of Nathaniel, clapt upon his closely cropt head, a straw hat, for which he had that very morning given the sum of twenty-five cents, and announced his intention of going to his dinner.

“COVERT

Attorney at ”

stared into the room (it was a down-town law-office) from the door which was opened wide and fastened back, for coolness; and the real Covert, at that moment, looked up from his cloth-covered table, in an inner apartment, whose carpet, book-cases, musty smell, big chair, with leather cushions, and the panels of only one window out of three being opened, and they but partially so, announced it as the sanctum of the sovereign master there. That gentleman’s garb marked him as one of the sect of Friends, or Quakers. He was a tallish man, considerably round-shouldered, with a pale, square, closely shaven face; and one who possessed any expertness as a physiognomist, could not mistake a certain sanctimonious satanic look out of the eyes. From some suspicion that he didn’t appear well in that part of his countenance, Mr. Covert had a practice of casting down his visual organs. On this occasion, however, they lighted on his errand-boy.

“Yes, go to thy dinner; both can go,” said he, “for I want to be alone.”

And Wigglesworth, the clerk, a tobacco-scented old man—he smoked and chewed incessantly—left his high stool, in the corner where he had been slowly copying some document.

Old Wigglesworth! I must drop a word of praise and regret upon you here; for the Lord gave you a good soul, ridiculous old codger that you were.

I know few more melancholy sights than these old men present, whom you see here and there about New York; apparently without chick or child, very poor, their lips caved in upon toothless gums, dressed in seedy and greasy clothes, and ending their lives on that just debatable ground between honorable starvation and the poor house.

Old Wigglesworth had been well off once. The key to his losses, and his old age of penury, was nothing more nor less than intemperance. He did not get drunk, out and out, but he was never perfectly sober. Covert now employed him at a salary of four dollars a week.

Nathaniel, before-mentioned, was a small boy with a boundless ambition; the uttermost end and aim of which was that he might one day drive a fast horse of his own on Third avenue. In the mean time [wc], he smoked cheap cigars, cultivated with tenderness upon his temples, his bright brown hair, in that form denominated “soap-lock,” and swept out the office and ran the errands; occasionally stopping to settle a dispute by tongue or fist. For Nathanie 1 [sic] was brave, and had a constitutional tendency to thrust his own opinions upon other people by force if necessary.

Freed from the presence of the two, Mr. Covert sat meditating and writing alternately; until he had finished a letter, on which he evidently bestowed considerable pains.—He then folded, enveloped, sealed it, and locked it his desk.

A tap at the door.

“Come in.”

Two persons enter. One is a hearty middle-aged man, of what is called the working classes. The other is your humble servant, who takes all this [szc] pains in narrating his adventures, for your entertainment; his name is Jack Engle, and at the time of this introduction he is of the roystering age of twenty—stands about five feet ten, in his stocking feet—carries a pair of brown eyes and red cheeks to match, and looks mighty sharp at the girls as they go home through Nassau street from their work down town [szc].

“Mr. Covert, I suppose,” said my companion.

“That is my name, sir. Will thee be seated?”

“My name’s Foster,” settling himself in a chair, and putting his hat on the table, “you got a line from me the other day, I suppose?”

“Ah, yes—yes,” slowly answers the lawyer. Then looking at me, “and this is the young man, then?”

“This is the young man, sir; and we have come to see whether we can settle the thing. You see I want him to be a lawyer, which is a trade he does not much like, and would not himself have chosen. But I rather set my heart upon it; and he is a boy that gives in to me, and has agreed to study at the business for one year faithfully. And then I have agreed to let him have his own way.”

“He is not thy son, I think I understood,” said Covert.” [sz'c] “Not exactly,” answered the other, “and yet so near the same as to make no difference. Now you know my mind, and as I am a man of few words, I should like to know yours.”

“Well, we will try him, Mr. Foster, at any rate.”

Then turning to me, “If thee will come in here to-morrow forenoon, young man, between nine and ten, I shall have more leisure for a talk; and we will then make a beginning. Although I warn thee in advance that it will depend entirely upon thyself how thee gets along. My own part will be nothing more than to point out the best road.” Which endeth the first chapter.

CHAPTER II.

The worthy milkman, and how he trusted people; and the wonderful luck he had one morning in finding a precious treasure.

This chapter is necessarily retrospective of the preceeding [szc] one.

Among the earliest customers of Ephraim Foster, there came one morning a little white-headed boy, neither handsome nor ugly. Ephraim kept a shop in one of the thoroughfares that cross Grand street, east of the Bowery; he sold milk, eggs, and sundry etceteras— in winter adding to his vocations, those of a purveyor of pork and sausage meat, which is a driving and a thriving trade, hereabout, in cold weather.

Fair America rivals ancient Greece in its love of pork. At the proper season, you may see, thickly set through the streets, the places for furnishing this favorite winter eating; beautiful red and white slices,

mighty hams, either fresh or smoked, sides and fore-quarters—and, at intervals, a grinning head with fat cheeks and ears erect.—Still more preferable to some, is the powerfully spiced sausage meat, or the jelly-like head-cheese.

In the preparation of the latter articles, the worthy Ephraim always did wonders; for folks had confidence in him—which is a great deal to bestow on a sausage vender [mc].—However, he deserved it all. He deserved more. He was one of the best fellows that ever lived. People said now and then that he would never set the North River a-fire; and yet Foster jogged along, even in his pecuniary affairs, faster and steadier than some who had the reputation of much superior cunning. He was, without thinking of it at all, constitutionally kind, liberal, and unselfish. It was in an humble way, to be sure; but none the less credit for that.—He had a knack of making mistakes against his own interest—giving the customer the odd pennies, and never gouging in weight or measure.

Then although the usual sign of “No Trust” hung up over the counter, Ephraim did trust very much—particularly if the family asking indulgence were poor, or the father or mother was sick. Although this resulted several times in bad debts that were no trifle to a man in his sort of business, it was marvellous how in the long run he didn’t really lose.

One time, a year after a certain thumping bill had been utterly despaired of, and the poor journeyman cabinet maker owing it had moved to another part of the city, things grew brighter with him, and he came round one cool evening to pay up like a man and make Ephraim’s wife a pretty present of a work-box. Another time when the long, long score of a poor woman, with little children, had been allowed to accumulate nearly all winter—for otherwise, they would have starved—the husband, an intemperate, shiftless character, died, and the woman was taken away by her friends. But strange to tell, who should be engaged, by and by, as cook in the house of a wealthy family three blocks off, but this very same woman—who grew fat and rosy in a good place, and not only paid the old score, long as it was,— (although Ephraim himself told her it was no matter, and might as well go, now; but the worthy cook began to grow angry then)—not

only did she settle the bill, but sent her old friend a deal of profitable custom. The story of his good deeds went to the ears of the mistress, and thence into other people’s; and you may depend Ephraim didn’t lose anything by that. So with all his soft-heartedness the man might be said to gain nearly enough to balance the really bad accounts; for they were not always coming back, after he gave them up—those unfortunate bills.

This was the sort of personage that the little flax-headed boy was lucky enough to come to. He didn’t seem to have performed any morning toilet; he was bare-headed and bare-footed; finally he was about ten years old.

“And who are you, my man?” said Ephriam [wc], for he had never seen the youngster before, although he knew, or thought so, every mother’s child for a dozen blocks around.

The tow head looked up in the shopkeeper’s face and answered that his usual appellation was Jack.

“And where do you come from?” continued Ephraim.

Master Jack looked up again, but returned no reply at all. He drew in a long breath and let it out again,—that sort of half sigh that children sometimes make: still keeping his eyes at Ephraim’s.

“I want some breakfast,” boldly came from his lips at last.

Ephraim stopped a moment in his work of hauling out before the door his stands and milk cans; but the bit of astonishment was followed by something very much like gratified vanity. It wouldn’t be every man, or woman either, that a little unfortunate, might appeal to with the style of Jack’s laconic speech. It was not a style where effrontery or the callous tone of an accustomed beggar struck out. It was rather like saying—sir, I see that you have a good heart, and that it always delights yo [st'c] to do a charitable deed.

There was another thing. Ephraim had, ten months before, been the possessor of a little white head, not much different from Jack’s, only a good deal younger. But it was its fate one melancholy evening, to be the subject of the consultation of three doctors of medicine, who attended it for five successive days. At the end of that time the little white head was whiter than ever, for it was dead. So the good fellow’s heart, thenceforward, warmed toward children with a still deeper warmth than before.

Without any more ado, or any talk about it, the milkman and the child by silent consent, seemed to form a mental compact.—The new assistant took hold; and the two helped each other in all the preparations and putting to rights. Tow-head sprinkled the flagstones in front, and swept them off; he would have done the same thing to the floor inside—only the owner himself had done it already.

As he bustled and brushed about, Ephraim more than once stopped, under the influence of a meditative abstraction; he probably weighed in his mind the chances of the new comer’s [sic] honesty—for he looked closely at him from time to time. What particular notions flitted through the tow-head, I now forget.

And yet I ought to know something about it, for I was myself the forsaken young vagabond, who found a friend in that pearl of a milkman. The spirit of Christ impelled you, Ephraim, whether you knew it or not. If I had been turned off with a surly answer, there might have been a body lost—or perhaps a soul; for I was sorely distressed.— Parentless and homeless—just at the turning point where familiarity with crime is developed into something worse—such was I when you took me in and ministered unto me.

CHAPTER III

Something for the special consideration of those who pay two hundred a year pew rent, and take the sacrament from vessels of silver and gold: Billjiggs, his life and death: wounds, and balm for the same.

At this time, I have only a confused and occasionally distinct recollection of my fortunes previous to the morning at the milkman’s.

You have doubtless, supposing you to have lived in or ever visited New-York, seen there many a little vagabond, in dirty tatters and shirtless. They generally wander along in men’s boots, picked up somewhere, whose disproportionate size makes it necessary for them to keep their feet sliding along, without lifting from the ground. The shuffling movement thus acquired sometimes sticks to them through life.

Nobody either cares, or appears to care, for these juvenile loafers. Some are the children of shame, and are cast out because they would be a perpetual memento of disgrace to their generators. Some are orphans of the poorest classes. Others run away from parental brutality; which is pretty plentiful, after all, among both high and low. Others again take to the streets for very sustenance; those who should naturally be their protectors living lives of drunkenness and improvidence.

The revelations of the Reports of the Chief of the Police, about this extensive element in what is termed the rising generation, are terrible and romantic in their naked facts, far beyond any romance of the novelist.

What I remember of my life previous to my introduction in the second chapter, was mostly located among this class. We were indeed wanderers upon the face of the earth; although our travels did not extend beyond the limits of the city, and the places within a few miles distance. The only principle that controlled us was the instinct to live, animally; to eat, (if we could get it,) when we were hungry, and to lie down and sleep wherever weariness overtook us.

I have a very clear recollection of a most intimate crony, with whom I shared luck and adventures; and who did the same with me. He was a little older than myself. His name, he always said, was William, or Bill, Jiggs; but we all used to call him Billjiggs, for convenience.

Billjiggs was quite a magnificent fellow. When elated or very good humored, indeed, he was wont to announce himself as one of the boys you read of in the Scriptures; though which of these numerous worthies he meant, he never specified. He had red hair,—very red. It was never combed; but it was cut every few days, by the friend who happened to be the handiest; sometimes with a scissors, sometimes with a jacknife [s/c], sharpened for the work; and once, I remember with a broad-axe. I had the honor of handling the implement myself on that occasion. Some carpeniers [ra'c], at work on a new house, had gone to dinner near by [wc], and left their tools lying loose around. Poor Billjiggs! I came very near laying his head open.

My friend would never allow me to be imposed upon by superior force or cunning; and though I was too little to add much to his weight in his own quarrels, still I sometimes managed to cast the balance in his favor, in cases where the odds were pretty nearly even. For Billjiggs was pugnacious; he entered into quarrels and fights on the smallest pretence, and sometimes received horrible drubbings.

One day, I remember, he pitched into a boy considerably bigger than himself, for some curt rejoinder to a critical remark of Billjiggs, about a certain spotted cap which the aforesaid boy chose to wear on his head. He of the spotted cap got considerably the worst of the battle, which waxed hot; when he was fain to seize a good sized, [rac] paving stone that happened to be loose in the street, and dealt Billjiggs such a blow on the side of his head that he fell flat and senseless on the ground, and the blood poured forth freely; the victor taking to his heels like a good fellow.

I mention this incident because it was the means of my first seeing an individual who years afterward, (as the reader will find in the course of the story,) played a prominent part in the affairs of my life.

Billjiggs was carried in the nearest basement, and restoratives applied to him.

An old Quaker lady, and a little girl of my own age, appeared to be the only ones at home. The old lady was very kind in her manner; and after washing Billjigg’s [s/c] dirty and bloody head, and applying plasters from the neighboring druggist’s, bound it up in her own large, clean, white linen handkerchief. The little girl had to fasten the knot in it, for the old lady’s fingers were not nimble enough . She did so very tenderly and neatly; and she seemed to me, as I looked at her, to be a little red-cheeked angel from Heaven.

Billjiggs afterwards kept thathandkerchief and couldn’tbe induced to part with it any way [wc]. He took it with him to Mexico, several years afterward; where the poor fellow met with an uglier wound that that of the paving stone; and no old Quaker lady to look after him; a wound which sent him to a grave among the prickly cactuses.

Such was the end of Billjiggs; than whom there are many worse young men, who dress in clean shirts, with straight high collars, and go to church of a Sunday.

This little girl—the old lady called her Martha—spoke so pleasantly to me, too; and the old lady, when we went away, told me to come there from time to time, and get what she had to bestow, either of food or clothing.

I don’t know how it was; but neither I nor my friend ever stepped foot in that basement afterward, even when we were the hungriest. For the first time almost in our lives, we had been treated with rational benevolence, and as if we were real human beings. I know, in my case, it touched me with a feeling I never remembered before. Although I would have died for the old lady, or the child, I felt something like pride toward them; or perhaps for their good opinion.

My impression is to this day, that the little episode I have just described; that gentle old face surrounded with the plain lace edging of its cap, and the silver hair so smoothly folded—and that other face, emblem of purity and infantile goodness—and the glimpse that came upon me, of a happy, peaceful, honest, well-ordered life; my belief is, I say, that all this acted with the influence of a good genius upon me, afterward. Child as I was, (ah, how far more deeply children think, than most people imagine!) I saw something of the moral of the difference between the meanness and poverty and degradation of my class, and the delicacy and wholesomeness and safety of that Quaker family. I knew that I was of the same flesh and blood, and the same nature, as they. I was encouraged, and ah how much more benefited by their really respectful kindness, than they dreamed of!

And here is a consideration, that the theorist on the evils of society might build a big structure upon; but as I am only jotting down a story of incidents, I will leave whoever sees these paragraphs, to carry out the train of thought for himself.

CHAPTER IV

A hint for unsuccessful schoolmasters and parents; the first woman with whom I fell in love; my teens, and how they went; I make a beginning at the big cheese; which leads to a dinner for three.

Whatever seeds of evil and degradation my life in the streets had infused in my character, before I took up my abode with Ephraim Foster, had no chance to grow afterward. Both his wife and himself treated me like a son; and better than many people treat their sons.

Kindness choked out all lingering tendencies to mischief within me; and the sentiment which just flickered a moment in my mind, when we were in the basement of the Quaker lady’s house, here grew into form and permanence; and I loved that rough husk of a fellow with a love which was only overtopped by my affection for my dear mother, (as I always call her) his wife Violet.

Violet! that [sic] was the name of one for whom I bear a sentiment imperishable until my heart perishes!

Let me describe her.

This woman with the name of a frail and humble flower, had the bodily height and breadth, of a good sized [sic] man. She was a country girl, when Ephraim married her, and loved to work out-doors. Her features were coarse; only her complexion was clean and healthy; and her eyes beamed with perpetual cheerfulness, and willingness to oblige. She had little education and what is called in the hot-house taste of the present day, intellect. She had no more idea of what are now called Woman’s Rights, than of the sublimest wonders of geology. But she had a beautiful soul; and her coarse big features were lighted up with more sweetness, to me, than any Madonna of Italian masters.

With the strength of a horse, Violet possessed the gentleness of a dove. How sweetly tasted the first food she prepared for me; how fresh and fragrant the homely clothes, I was given to put on that morning, after a bath in a big tub in the woodhouse; and how kindly the tone in which I was reminded of observances about the place, that day. For Violet was a critical housekeeper, and dirt was an abomination in her eyes.

Patient, considerate, self-denying, Mother! blessed [sic] is the home, blessed are the children, where such as you are found.

Nearly ten years of my life were here passed, smoothly and happily. A great portion of the last six, was spent at school; although I often wished to stop that, and undertake some trade, or employment; but my parents would not have it so. They prospered fairly: and said that they mode [sic] a decent living enough now, and it would perhaps be my turn by and by, when they grew old.

Ephraim had his mind set on my following the profession of the law. I did not steadily oppose him in this, after I found out it was a

darling notion; but the truth was, it by no means agreed with my own fancy.

The brightest jewel, saith the Persian poet, that glitters on the neck of the young man is the spirit of adventure. I felt this spirit within me; but I repressed it, and made it dumb, for I regarded their feeling who had lifted me into life, worthy to be so called.

You already know of my introduction to the lawyer Covert. I went the next day according to appointment, and made a beginning. This consisted simply in my master’s giving me an outline of the course of primary reading for a law student; and in my getting familiar with the office, just to take the rawness off.

I was much amused with Nathaniel, the office-boy, and felt a sincere pity for old Wigglesworth; and before the morning passed away we three were on very good terms together. Nat was pert enough, but he had a fund of real wit of which he was sufficiently lavish, in season, and out of season. He saluted me with gravity as “Don Cesar de Bazan;” from a resemblance he assumed to discover between myself and the player of that part at the theatre which Nathaniel was in the habit of honoring with an occasional shilling, and his presence. And Don Cesar he persisted in calling me from that time.

“Let not my lord forget that the banquet waits,” said this precious youth with a droll obeisance.

It was half-past 12, and I was to treat to a cheap dinner that day, in commemoration of the important era of my career.

We knew that Mr. Covert had an appointment to meet some clients at this time, and, (as Wigglesworth told me very often happened,) he signified his wish for a clear kitchen.

The parties just anticipated our departure. Two ladies came in a carriage, which we saw at the door; a big black driver, dressed in a cape surtout, seated on the box.

These ladies, (this Wigglesworth also told me in the street) were the wealthy Madam Seligny and her daughter. Madam was fat enough, and red enough; had a hooked nose, and keen black eyes. Her person glistened and rustled with jewelry and silks, diffusing a strong scent of musk, with every movement. She had a yellow silk bonnet, set back on her head; and her fat hands gloved in white kid, applied a perfumed handkerchief, [szc] of costly lace, to the before-mentioned nose. She waddled, rather than walked, and sank down panting in the great chair which Mr. Covert had placed for her.

Rebecca, the daughter, offered mettle more attractive. She was a pretty good specimen of Israelitish beauty, tall and slender, and in the full maturity of womanhood. She dressed with some taste, although richly, and with a little of her national fondness for jewelry.

Going down stairs [sz'c], I was aware that Mr. Covert, from the inside, shut the door and locked it.

Our dinner was eaten, with much approval, and not a little mirth. We had some sparkling cider, which Nathaniel declared made him feel quite young again. Wigglesworth brightened up too, and offered a toast wishing that I might have the very best luck the law could offer.

“That,” said Nat, “would be to hold on where you are, and never put your foot in Covert’s office again. For if you want to know this child’s opinion about him, it is just—”

But the boy stopped himself suddenly, and in a few moments we adjourned.

In the next chapter I shall fill up the blank Nat left; and also tell how I got along at the law.

To be Continued.

CHAPTER V

A young man in a perplexing predicamesome philosophy about the same; Nathaniel and his dog; I behold a young lady, under circumstances that try her temper.

Could I stand it? Would it not turn my young blood into something of a molasses article—something to be gauged and weighed, involving tare and tret, and the sage confabulations of those solid, bald-headed, respectable old gentlemen, with pencils in one hand, and little blank books in the other? Could such an eternal procession of chapter ones, title twos, and section threes, have any other result than to make my brain revolve like this earth, on its own axis? Would it not be better to settle the difficulty with courage, by calling a council of Ephraim Foster, Violet and Covert, and frankly telling them that I found I was neither fitted for the study of the law, nor the study of the law for me; and kindly but resolutely declare my determination to go no further?

I had been five weeks a student, in Covert’s office, and the preceding reflections were the result.

At my age—I have before mentioned that I was just passed [szc] twenty—a young man of intelligence and health, wants something to engross him—some real object, for his vitality, his feelings, his almost boundless moral and physical spring. It is indefinite what it should be; some find that object in the gratification of an eager desire to go to sea, to visit different places, or other methods of mere change of locality. Some get it in the pursuit of a particular aim, on which they have set their hearts; these aims are as various as mankind, only the pursuit must not be shut out to them.

With me, this craving could never be satisfied with the study of law. That was becoming more and more repugnant to me. I had not yet tasted very deeply, it is true, but it was quite enough. I felt one of those strong presentiments that I could not be happy in that way— one of those instincts which, without arguing much on the subject, it is generally wise to follow.

But then my good father—the man who had saved me from ruin—who had overwhelmed me with obligations [sic]—who even now supplied me more liberally with pocket money, than many rich men do their sons—and whose heart was firmly set on this very thing!

One time lately, in a manner which would admit the inference of either joke or earnest, I had ventured a few words, for an experiment, to see how Ephraim would look on any such move as turning a short corner in my studentship. His countenance fell, and he winced like a fellow under a shower bath.

Could I so thoroughly displease this man, in almost the only serious point where he had demanded from me a compliance with his will? Allowing that it were a penance to me, ought I not to submit, even for his sake, if for no other? And would not time change my aversion, and perhaps make me ashamed of my childish prejudices and weakness?

Such debates and contradictions worried me exceedingly; causing my commencement in Covert’s office, and the following few weeks, to make a real blotch in my usually happy fortunes. And after all I came to no decision. I waded on through the slough of Chapters, titles and sections, as before; and began, I fancied, to look pale and thin, as indeed became a professional personage.

Not but that tne [sic] dryness and cloudiness of my occupation were often relieved by gleams of warmth, [sic] interest or fun. It was impossible not to be amused with Master Nat, and nearly all his sayings and doings, including his attachment to, and the tricks he taught, his big, docile dog Jack, whose capers, sagacity, and even his expressive look, and long yellow wool, were the delight of the boy’s life. Never was brute more thought of than Jack, by Nathaniel; and he returned his master’s friendship in kind.

Jack, indeed, was very free in his demonstrations. This was exhibited one afternoon, when he and Nathaniel returned from dinner. In the office, by the table, stood a lady, while at his desk in the next room Mr. Covert held serious talk with Pepperich Ferris, a stock and financial speculator, who frequently came there on business.

The lady, who was young yet, although old enough to have cut her wisdom teeth, appeared to be waiting for Ferris. She had the stylish, self-possessed look, which sometimes marks those who follow a theatrical life. Her face, though not beautiful, was open and pleasing, with bright black eyes, and a brown complexion. Her figure, of good height and graceful movement, was dressed in a costly pale colored silk.

“Ah, you have a beautiful dog,” said she, as Jack marched up to her, wagging his tail. And she leaned to pat him on the head and shoulders.

Jack gave up his heart without delay, and, in an instant, two large and particularly muddy paws were planted on the folds of the pale silk.

The lady uttered a slight scream, and started indignantly back; for she was but woman, and the dress was truly splendid. But when Mr. Covert came forward in great anger, and chid Nathaniel severely, and reminded him of former prohibitions about bringing Jack upon those sacred premises—and when the sagacious brute crawled in a by-place, with evidently depressed spirits—and Nathaniel was more chop-fallen than would be supposed for that philosophic young gentleman—then the lady laughed a good natured [s/c] laugh.

"Oh, it is nothing,” she said. “It is nothing. It was my own fault, for I called him.”

And she snapped her fingers and called Jack again; and expressed her confidence in the spots washing off without the least trouble; and insisted that the lawyer should find no more fault with the boy, to whom she herself spoke pleasantly.

The consequence of which was a few days afterwards, that I, at Nathaniel’s suggestion, incurred an expense of some five dollars, and went to the theatre on a benefit night, after giving Wigglesworth a ticket, besides similar gifts of the same sort to one or two boys, Nathaniel’s sworn cronies.

CHAPTER VI 

The dancing girl on a benefit night: I introduce the reader to the valuable acquaintance off. Fitzmore Smytthe.

Upon the stage she looked really fascinating, and her pale silk dress, with those great folds which the dog spoiled, had given place to the short gauzy costome [sic] of a dancing girl. Her legs and feet were beautiful, and her gestures and attitudes easy and graceful, to a degree hardly ever seen among the mechanical performers of the ballet.

When this fine looking girl—this Inez—came forward in her part, I heard a specially clattering applause, over in a corner of the house, where, upon examination, I discovered Master Nathaniel, and his friends, each armed with big sticks, which they plied vigorously upon all the wooden work in their neighborhood.

New York is a progressive city, of vast resources; but in nothing is its energy more perceptible than in its juvenile population proper— their culture and their beginning early.

From Nathaniel and his friends, my attention was now attracted nearer by.

“Um—m—m; devilish lovely girl. Um—m—m. Ah?”

Such was the remark of a fashionably attired gentleman by my side, who nodded approvingly toward me. I had a slight acquaintance with him, and had fallen foul of him, that evening, just on entering the theatre, where we happened to take seats together. He was clerk in a bank not far from Covert’s office, and the name on his very genteel little enamelled card, was “J. Fitzmore Smytthe.”

Really I beg pardon all round for not introducing, with specific description, long before, this same Fitzmore Smytthe. Our acquaintance was, in fact, one that dated back some seasons beforehand. He was only four or five years my elder; and I first knew him as the assistant of a small dry-goods store, in the neighborhood of our house. Young Mr. Smytthe even then, although but a boy, was very, very

genteel. Conversational powers he had acquired only on a solitary theme, that of selling dry-goods to the ladies—he on one side of the counter, they on the other. These powers were, however, somewhat brilliant in that way. They might be illustrated or summed up in the following phrases, varied to suit any difference of the rank, age, or temperament, of purchasers.

“Shall I show you any thing [sic] else to-day, ma’am?”

“No ma’am, we haven’t any of that article; it’s not worn at all, now.”

“Where will you have these things sent, ladies?”

“This is real French goods, ma’am, and is very much worn.—I will put it to you low.”

“Ah, that would be lower than cost price, ma’am.”

“Indeed, I am sure you will be pleased with it.—I warrant it to wash like a rock.”

“This will be somewhat dearer, ma’am; it is the very best material, and one-and-threepence is positively the lowest I could afford it[.’]’ &c, &c, &c, &c.

Take Fitzmore on any other tack, and he floundered like a whale in the shallows.—He retreated to a dull muttering, interspersed with an occasional spasm of meaning.—This muttering, or mumble, had the great advantage of leaving the hearer to make out of it any sort of sentiment, [sic] which said hearer chose to infer.—This was often very convenient^]

“Um—m—;” “Ah, I believe so;” and phrases of that sort, made up most of my friend’s stock, now that he was out the dry-goods line.

In response to his praise of the dancing girl, I asked him if he had seen her before.

“Um—m—m —Should think so—Develish [sic] intimate with Inez—Visit her.”

I knew that Smytthe had an ambition to be on familiar terms with all sorts of notabilities; and, as the dance was over we walked out, and into a neighboring refreshment saloon, where he told me what he knew of Inez.

She was Spanish by birth, but must have been, from early life in England; at any rate, she talked the language without any foreign tone. She was very independent, had the reputation of possessing some money, well invested; and although much talked about, Smytthe averred that she was as good as other people; and only to a few, of which he broadly hinted that he was one, deigned the favor of her smiles and her friendship. He announced to me quite confidentially, that he often visited her, and that they were on the best terms in the world together.

Probably he read something like incredulity in my looks, for, warming over his glass of wine, he promised me, if I wished it, to give me an opportunity of paying the charming Spaniard a visit, one evening, in his company.

CHAPTER VII

Portrait of a black sheep: how the lawyer cheated the carpenter: my acquaintance with Inez ripens marvellously.

The character of Covert did not take me long to understand, particularly as Wigglesworth volunteered a good deal of information about him; and what I could not help seeing from day to day in the office, made up the rest. That he was an unprincipled man, with boundless selfishness and avarice, seemed sure enough; but whether he was a cunning villain, or no, puzzled me to tell.

Covert, from what I had learned of Wigglesworth, had come reasonably by his swindling disposition. His father had given him lessons in it early, and he proved an apt scholar. One of his first tricks, when, as a young man, he entered upon the practice of the law, was as follows—the two arranging a plan to this effect. The father entered into a contract with an honest carpenter, who had got about enough ahead for him to take such a speculation, to build a house. The plan was decided on, the terms fixed, the papers drawn out, a day being mentioned in them with rigid conditions on which the house was to be completed—and the carpenter undertook his work. He had credit with the lumber, hardware, and other dealers; for he already possessed some little property of his own, and he hoped to satisfy a mortgage upon that, with the profits he should make out of Covert’s job; for he did a good deal of the work himself. He had a numerous family, and he was very anxious to have for them a permanent home.

Well, the job went on swimmingly; the house being enclosed, and a great portion of the inside work done. But as it went on, the Coverts discovered that they wanted additional improvements made inside— various fine finishings, cornices, and etceteras, which could only be done slowly. The carpenter told the elder Covert that, in that way, the house could not be finished at the time specified; the answer was, (no one else being by,) not to mind, but to go on and do the work well, without troubling about the particular day it should be completed.

Our carpenter was unsuspicious, and he took the matter very easily, until the arrival of the period mentioned in the contract.—The next day as he was at work in the house with his apprentices and journeymen, he was quite thunderstruck by the coming of two constables, who ordered the premises to be cleared, and then closed and nailed them up!

The two scoundrels had taken their precautions, and prepared their way, but too well; they had the law on their side, and the mechanic and his family were ruined.—For a trumpery claim of damages was established, and not a single dollar did Covert pay for the work. The lumber and hardware merchants levied for their bills, on the carpenter’s own little property, all of which it took to pay them, and every dollar of his toil-earned savings was at once swept away.

Such formed one of Lawyer Covert’s beginnings in life, under the tutoring of his precious parent—who was withal a sanctified man, wore a white neckcloth, and wouldn’t have taken the name of the Lord in vain, on any account. Whether the old fellow is alive yet I don’t know; but the son is—damn him!

Covert—of course I am talking of the lawyer, now—had, among the forms of his selfishness, some political ambition. He had been up once already, for the State Legislature, but was defeated. At the present time he took some pains to get a nomination for the Assembly; our city members being then elected by general ticket, and he expected to be carried on the tide with the rest, for his party had shown a handsome working majority, as it is called, at the preceding contest.

Wiggleworth [szc] could not say much about Covert’s pecuniary condition. He told me that the lawyer lived in good style, however, in an up-town street; that, although occasionally pinched for money, he managed to make both ends meet; and that his business was tolerably extensive.

In his treatment of me the lawyer was civil, without paying any particular attention. He evidently didn’t censider [sz'c] me worth taking much pains about, either to gain my friendship, or prevent my enmity; and doubtless troubled his mind little concerning me. It looked business-like to have a student in the office, and I was occasionally of some assistance in copying, or hunting up authorities.

All this while my dislike to the profession remained the same, and the conflict was from time to time resumed, in my mind, whether to give it up or not. Covert himself was such an unfavorable illustration of the class, that it by no means helped to reconcile me to the prospect of joining them.

Inez visited our office two or three times after the adventure with Jack; and, somehow, we struck up quite an acquaintance together. I must confess I was a little bashful at first, but her manner was easy and sociable without being at all forward; and a young man does not long remain bashful when treated kindly by a pretty woman.

One day Inez had to wait half an hour, for Mr. Covert’s return. Old Wigglesworth sat in his corner, deeply immersed in some specially intricate copying; Nathaniel was out in the long wide passage-way, having a romp with his dog; and, as no one else seemed on hand to do the honors, I placed a chair for Inez, sat down near by on [szc] another, and soon made quite astonishing progress, for a youth who knew so little of the sex. We talked, laughed, spoke of Inez’ benefit, and so forth; and had a very agreeable hour, toward the close of which the Spaniard gave me her address, and invited me to call and see her, as she was not to perform that evening.

I mentioned Mr. J. Fitzmore Smytthe’s name, and said that he spoke of her as an old acquaintance. She laughed and said, “Bring him along with you; for I don’t know that I dare have you come and see me alone.”

Now it struck me that I had a great deal rather not have him, and I told Inez so; but she laughed more heartily than before.

“I make Smytthe an indispensable condition,” said she, “for I see that my fears were well founded.”

Covert now came in, and our sociability, much to my regret, was done with.

From the conversation that ensued, for I was curious to know what brought her here, I found that these visits of the dancing girl had reference to some investment of her spare funds in stock. Covert, among his other employments, had got himself chosen officer in an insurance company; and Pepperich Ferris and Smytthe were instrumental in advising Inez to make the investment^] Perhaps I had no ground for suspicion, yet I determined to find out something of the particulars of the affair; for I didn’t consider either Smytthe or Ferris immaculate.

CHAPTER VIII.

The character and home of the Dancing Girl—A delightful evening, for three—I almost fall in love, if jealousy is any sign.

Inez—she never went by any other name, except in legal documents, when the term, ‘a Spanish dancing girl,’ was added; Inez belonged to that class of professional people, including a majority of those whose parents earn their living, by serving the public, and depending on the latter’s favor, who are prematurely developed.

These unfortunates have the experience of men and women while yet in early youth. Under feverish stimulants, they come forward, like hot-house plants, and sometimes their growth is unwholesome, and as fragile.

With Inez, however, there was the saving fact of a strong vein of native common sense. She afterward told me, when we became more intimate, that the first man she really loved, (and she loved in the morning of her life,) taught her the most profitable lesson she had ever learned. He was treacherous; she was devoted and confiding. And that treachery it was that with the scorching mark of a hot iron, burnt on her heart, the precept Caution, the great need that is so long coming to young souls, and that, when it comes, puts an end forever to the

freshest joys, and the thoughtless abandon, of their lives. And yet it is so useful in this wicked world; and we cannot get along without it. And so, as the dose must be taken, the sooner the wry face is past, and the qualms gone, the better.

“Oh,” said the frank-hearted girl, “I have not traveled alone through so many lands; I have not gained my bread, among shows, and coarse people—making journeys, and taking up with any kind of accommodation—subject to all sorts of proposals, and all variations of applause, indifference, and scorn: I have not gone through these, and much more, for nothing.

“You have candidly asked me my own opinion of myself. I will be as candid with you. I know that I am not good. But I feel also that I never have been, and am not, abandoned enough to be unworthy the sympathy of those who are good. I am conscious of having committed no spiteful meanness; I wound or receive [sic] no one who trusts in me. I have never wronged a human being—I have not thought myself better than the degraded and lost ones—but rather pity and relieve them.”

She stopped abruptly, and looked at us with her sharp black eyes.

“But am I not making myself ridiculous?” she added.

On the contrary, I felt a real admiration for this independent and, in some respects, unfortunate girl; and the evident truth which impelled her to talk of her character in that way, impressed my feelings strongly.

But—whether jealousy or not, something put the thought in my head at this moment—could this woman love such a fop as Smytthe? She might have got along with Smith [wc], because that is a manly acceptance of one’s destiny, and a plump defiance of the world. But Smytthe, was a sort of sneaking and cowardly evasion—a consciousness of something wrong, and a timid desire to dust people’s eyes about it.

I answered nothing to the question of Inez, and Smytthe gave his eternal

“Ah—O—um—um—m—O, no indeed.”

We had coffee, and some biscuits. It was delightful coffee, made by Inez herself, in, as she told us, the Spanish fashion.

A stout, rosy, Irish woman—of all people in the world, Mrs. Nancy Fox, wife of Barney Fox, and mother of seven little Foxes—served us these refreshments. Or rather she appeared to serve us, but Inez was in such good spirits and so nimble and graceful, that she really did everything.

Barney and Nancy and the little children, lived in a rear building on the same premises, and the services of the tidy industrious Irish woman, were quite invaluable to Inez, who had formed an attachment to her, and requited her liberally. Barney followed the honorable business of hod-carrying, and at a pinch, even took a place under government, as a street-sweeper. Barney was up to snuff, too, as will be shown by and by.

And now, when I look back upon it, there have been stupider evenings passed, than the one which was talked and sipped away by us in that comfortable little parlor. There we were in easy chairs encompassing a round table in the middle of the room; a fine astral lamp shedding a soft light over every thing [mc]; the cheerful fire, for it was a chilly evening, in the open grate—by the side whereof, on a substantial ottoman, when everybody had been helped to coffee—was placed Mrs. Fox herself, in her snowy cap and clean check apron— placed there compulsorily and as well supplied as the rest, by Inez herself, with one of the junior Foxes, pretty little Maggy, crouching close into the folds of her gown, and quite too much awe-struck with the grandeur of the scene, to enjoy the cakes which Inez fed her with from time to time.

By Jupiter! yes. I remember it so well, now. Inex [szc] brought out an old guitar, the tuning whereof was a work of more labor than love. She sang to us some pleasing songs—first in English, and then, as the evening wore on, and she sang better, in Spanish. And when Mrs. Fox, burthened with the fragments of the feast—quite a stock of delicacies for her—took her departure, we sat and listened, and listened. Inez had not a voice of much power; but there was deep feeling in her songs, and in her way of performing them. They were plaintive, without being melancholy.

The night was by no means extremely late when we left. Somewhat to my surprise and far more to my gratification, my quondam friend

Smytthe departed with me.

“Why,” said I, as he took his hat, and went forth into the passage

way [sac], at the same time, “Why I supposed you were to stay--

that is, I didn’t know you were going with me now.”

I no sooner uttered the words than I felt that I had made an unfortunate slip. Smytthe colored and twirled his little whisker. “Um-m-m, not at present, I think.”

Inez darted her keen eyesight from his face to mine. Doubtless with woman’s intuition she divined the real truth.

There was a pause, for a moment, and I felt a little apprehensive that the hot-blooded Spaniard was going to give us a taste of her temper.

But she didn’t. She laughed gaily, and then with more deliberation than usual she said, looking me in the face,

“Of all supposings in the world, you could not have supposed anything more absurd. You will learn that to a certainty, one of these days; for I hope you will come and see me again when I send for you—for we have had a pleasant evening, and I like you: Good night. Good night, Smytthe.”

And she quickly turned, went in, and locked the door, without waiting for another word.

“Um-m-m,” said the bank clerk, as we walked homeward, “devilish girl for joking. How well she carried off that last one.”

I had never before heard anything from Smytthe involving such a deep process of thought as this way of getting over that dash of cold water.