Читать книгу John Smith's Funny Adventures on a Crutch - A. F. Hill - Страница 10

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I HAD always been of a literary turn; so, while employed in the Arsenal, I concluded to write a book, and give to the world, therein, an account of soldier life, as I had experienced it; and I had very little doubt that eighty or ninety thousand dollars might be made out of it. I carried out my determination, writing in the evenings, after my daily labors; and when I left the Arsenal, I had completed the manuscript of my work, which, when published, a few months after, constituted a duodecimo volume of over four hundred pages.^[1]

I did not make “eighty or ninety thousand” out of the work, as my sanguine nature had led me to anticipate; but I made a “few thousand,” and I concluded to travel a little and see some of that portion of the world lying within the boundaries of the United States: and it was while thus traveling,

chiefly in our own country, that I met with a great many funny adventures which I shall relate in this book.

The first time I visited New York, I went to remain a few weeks as correspondent of a Pennsylvania newspaper. I think any stranger’s first impression of Gotham is, that it is a busy sort of a place; and the longer he stays there the more he “keeps on thinking so.” The bustle of Broadway has been so frequently dilated upon, that I will not attempt to enter upon a regular description of it. It must be seen to be appreciated; and I concluded to see it the first thing. So I hailed an omnibus that came thundering along, and somewhat astonished the driver by climbing nimbly to the top of it, instead of taking a seat within.

“You get up quicker than a two-legged man,” was his brief comment.

“Havn’t so much weight to pull up,” I replied; and paid my fare.

From my lofty perch I had a good view up and down Broadway, as well as on each side. Numberless pedestrians thronged the sidewalks, while vehicles, of all kinds, shapes and sizes, crowded together, rolled along and swayed to and fro in the street like a mighty torrent.

We had not proceeded far up Broadway, when cluck! went one of the front wheels of our “bus” against another one that was coming down—they got tangled and a “jam-up” ensued. Although I could not see that it was the fault of either driver, they cursed each other in round terms. One driver swore at the other, and the other swore at him; then they swore at each other, in concert, for a quarter of a minute, in the course of which they were very earnest and emphatic in advising each other to emigrate to a certain fabled climate where the mercury in the thermometer seldom falls to the freezing point. The way these drivers curse each other is frightful. If all the men told to go to that hot climate in the course of a year by Broadway drivers, should go, the place would be crowded to suffocation. The expression I refer to seems to be a favorite one among the drivers of vehicles on Broadway; and I presume, that on that thoroughfare there are more men urged to visit Erebus in one day, then there are warned against it in all the rest of the land in a whole year.

For about two miles up Broadway, the rattle of omnibuses, express-wagons, drays, furniture-cars, buggies, barouches, cabriolets, etc., was really bewildering. As I looked upon the busy streams of men that hurried along the sidewalks—their faces all strange to me, yet no two alike—and saw the rumbling carriages, all crowding forward as though life depended on their speed, I could not help thinking of this stanza in Byron’s Childe Harold:

“But ’midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,

And roam along the world’s tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

Minions of splendor, shrinking from distress!

None that with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less,

Of all that flattered, followed, sought or sued,

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!”

Every one who has had any experience in the matter, must have observed that a person is more lonely in a crowded city, where he is unacquainted, than in the depths of the forest where no human being is seen.

As I had no money to throw away, I stayed at a modest hotel in Park Row, where one could live on less than twenty-five dollars a day. I shall never forget a brief acquaintance I made there. The first evening I stayed in New York, I was seated in the hotel trying to make up my mind whether to go to the theater or not, when I observed, sitting near me, a sedate gentleman of prepossessing exterior, fifty or sixty years old, and dressed in plain clothes and a broad-brimmed silk hat, of a grave and dignified appearance. I could not help fancying that he was at least an ex-governor, or something of the sort; and I felt somewhat flattered when he moved his chair closer to mine, with the obvious intention of addressing me. He opened his mouth to speak, and I nerved myself to reply with respectful dignity, when he said, in a low tone:

“Would you lend me fifteen cents?”

The man was a “dead beat.” I resolved never to place much reliance on appearances again.

Having made up my mind to go to the theater and see John E. Owens play “Solon Shingle,” I walked out. At the door I met a solitary boot-black, who greeted me with, “black ’em?”

“You may black it,” I replied, “for you see I have only one to black.”

“All right,” said he; whereupon I seated myself on a low railing that guarded a cellar-way, and placed my foot on his box.

He had soon “shined” it sufficiently, but was still brushing away at it, when I said:

“There, that will do; what do you charge?”

The dirty, ragged little fellow looked thoughtfully and earnestly up into my face, and replied:

“O, I won’t charge you any thing; you’re only got one.”

I compelled him to accept a ten-cent note, of course, assuring him that I had “bushels of ’em;” but the intention was no less kind in him; and such a noble thought, though the poor little heart from which it sprung be clothed in rags and filth, will shine in heaven when the rust has long covered and hidden the millions of gold which men of wealth have contributed to “charitable institutions!”

Before leaving New York, (which is ironically styled Gotham, from an old English town noted for the stupidity of its citizens,) let me say one word about its early history. New York, the great commercial metropolis of this country, is built on an island fourteen miles long, and from one fourth of a mile to two miles and a half wide, called, originally, Manhattan Island. This island was purchased from the Indians many years ago for twenty-four silver dollars. No wonder that race of people have had such bad luck during the last century; for any people who would extort such a sum of money from simple, inoffensive Europeans, don’t deserve any providential favors. Poor, impoverished New York has been struggling ever since to get out of debt, but in vain; this colossal sum, which the heartless savages demanded in ready hard cash, completely “strapped” the mayor and city council, and they have never been able to struggle up to an independent pecuniary position since.

Shortly before leaving the city, I was taking my usual stroll, when, turning the corner of Broadway and Fulton street rather abruptly, I accidentally planted my crutch fairly upon the unfortunate toes of an elderly gentleman. He proved to be one of the irascible sort—and no doubt it did hurt like the deuce—and he turned angrily toward me, brandished a cane, and vociferated:

“****’* fire and ***nation! If you were not a one-legged man I’d knock your head off!”

Thus, you see, that having lost a leg saved my head.

I felt a little riled at first, but seeing that he was an old man, I curbed my fiery passion and calmly replied:

“If I were not a one-legged man, sir, I would not be using a crutch; and hence it wouldn’t have happened.” And we went our ways.

Without getting robbed, or garroted, or murdered in cold blood—in fact without getting “done” in any shape, I spent several weeks in New York, visiting many places of interest in the vicinity, such as Central Park, High Bridge, and the various islands in the bay and harbor; and finally returned to Philadelphia, my adopted city, with the impression that New York wasn’t such a bad place after all.