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three days out of four, of our summer skies. As I sit, placidly,
early afternoon, off against Ninetieth street, the policeman, C. C., a
well-form'd sandy-complexion'd young fellow, comes over and stands near
me. We grow quite friendly and chatty forth-with. He is a New Yorker
born and raised, and in answer to my questions tells me about the life
of a New York Park policeman, (while he talks keeping his eyes and ears
vigilantly open, occasionally pausing and moving where he can get full
views of the vistas of the road, up and down, and the spaces around.)
The pay is $2.40 a day (seven days to a week)--the men come on and work
eight hours straight ahead, which is all that is required of them out of
the twenty-four. The position has more risks than one might suppose--for
instance if a team or horse runs away (which happens daily) each man is
expected not only to be prompt, but to waive safety and stop wildest nag
or nags--(_do it_, and don't be thinking of your bones or face)--give
the alarm-whistle too, so that other guards may repeat, and the vehicles
up and down the tracks be warn'd. Injuries to the men are continually
happening. There is much alertness and quiet strength. (Few appreciate,
I have often thought, the Ulyssean capacity, derring do, quick readiness
in emergencies, practicality, unwitting devotion and heroism, among
our American young men and working-people--the firemen, the railroad
employes, the steamer and ferry men, the police, the conductors and
drivers--the whole splendid average of native stock, city and country.)
It is good work, though; and upon the whole, the Park force members like
it. They see life, and the excitement keeps them up. There is not so
much difficulty as might be supposed from tramps, roughs, or in keeping
people "off the grass." The worst trouble of the regular Park employé is
from malarial fever, chills, and the like.
A FINE AFTERNOON, 4 TO 6
Ten thousand vehicles careering through the Park this perfect afternoon.
Such a show! and I have seen all--watch'd it narrowly, and at
my leisure. Private barouches, cabs and coupés, some fine
horseflesh--lapdogs, footmen, fashions, foreigners, cockades on hats,
crests on panels--the full oceanic tide of New York's wealth and
"gentility." It was an impressive, rich, interminable circus on a grand
scale, full of action and color in the beauty of the day, under
the clear sun and moderate breeze. Family groups, couples, single
drivers--of course dresses generally elegant--much "style," (yet perhaps
little or nothing, even in that direction, that fully justified itself.)
Through the windows of two or three of the richest carriages I saw
faces almost corpse-like, so ashy and listless. Indeed the whole affair
exhibited less of sterling America, either in spirit or countenance,
than I had counted on from such a select mass-spectacle. I suppose, as
a proof of limitless wealth, leisure, and the aforesaid "gentility," it
was tremendous. Yet what I saw those hours (I took two other occasions,
two other afternoons to watch the same scene,) confirms a thought that
haunts me every additional glimpse I get of our top-loftical general or
rather exceptional phases of wealth and fashion in this country--namely,
that they are ill at ease, much too conscious, cased in too many
cerements, and far from happy--that there is nothing in them which
we who are poor and plain need at all envy, and that instead of the
perennial smell of the grass and woods and shores, their typical
redolence is of soaps and essences, very rare may be, but suggesting the
barber shop--something that turns stale and musty in a few hours anyhow.
Perhaps the show on the horseback road was prettiest. Many groups
(threes a favorite number,) some couples, some singly--many
ladies--frequently horses or parties dashing along on a full run--fine
riding the rule--a few really first-class animals. As the afternoon
waned, the wheel'd carriages grew less, but the saddle-riders seemed to
increase. They linger'd long--and I saw some charming forms and faces.
DEPARTING OF THE BIG STEAMERS
_May 25._--A three hours' bay-trip from 12 to 3 this afternoon,
accompanying "the City of Brussels" down as far as the Narrows, in
behoof of some Europe-bound friends, to give them a good send off.
Our spirited little tug, the "Seth Low," kept close to the great black
"Brussels," sometimes one side, sometimes the other, always up to her,
or even pressing ahead, (like the blooded pony accompanying the
royal elephant.) The whole affair, from the first, was an animated,
quick-passing, characteristic New York scene; the large, good-looking,
well-dress'd crowd on the wharf-end--men and women come to see their
friends depart, and bid them God-speed--the ship's sides swarming with
passengers--groups of bronze-faced sailors, with uniform' d officers at
their posts--the quiet directions, as she quickly unfastens and moves
out, prompt to a minute--the emotional faces, adieus and fluttering
handkerchiefs, and many smiles and some tears on the wharf--the
answering faces, smiles, tears and fluttering handkerchiefs, from the
ship--(what can be subtler and finer than this play of faces on
such occasions in these responding crowds?--what go more to one's
heart?)--the proud, steady, noiseless cleaving of the grand oceaner
down the bay--we speeding by her side a few miles, and then turning,
wheeling,--amid a babel of wild hurrahs, shouted partings, ear-splitting
steam whistles, kissing of hands and waving of handkerchiefs.
This departing of the big steamers, noons or afternoons--there is no
better medicine when one is listless or vapory. I am fond of going down
Wednesdays and Saturdays--their more special days--to watch them and the
crowds on the wharves, the arriving passengers, the general bustle and
activity, the eager looks from the faces, the clear-toned voices, (a
travel'd foreigner, a musician, told me the other day she thinks an
American crowd has the finest voices in the world,) the whole look of
the great, shapely black ships themselves, and their groups and lined
sides--in the setting of our bay with the blue sky overhead. Two days
after the above I saw the "Britannic," the "Donau," the "Helvetia" and
the "Schiedam" steam out, all off for Europe--a magnificent sight.
TWO HOURS ON THE MINNESOTA
From 7 to 9, aboard the United States school-ship Minnesota, lying up
the North river. Captain Luce sent his gig for us about sundown, to the
foot of Twenty-third street, and receiv'd us aboard with officer-like
hospitality and sailor heartiness. There are several hundred youths on
the Minnesota to be train'd for efficiently manning the government navy.
I like the idea much; and, so far as I have seen to-night, I like the
way it is carried out on this huge vessel. Below, on the gun-deck, were
gather'd nearly a hundred of the boys, to give us some of their singing
exercises, with a melodeon accompaniment, play'd by one of their number.
They sang with a will. The best part, however, was the sight of the
young fellows themselves. I went over among them before the singing
began, and talk'd a few minutes informally. They are from all the
States; I asked for the Southerners, but could only find one, a lad from
Baltimore. In age, apparently, they range from about fourteen years to
nineteen or twenty. They are all of American birth, and have to pass a
rigid medical examination; well-grown youths, good flesh, bright eyes,
looking straight at you, healthy, intelligent, not a slouch among them,
nor a menial--in every one the promise of a man. I have been to many
public aggregations of young and old, and of schools and colleges, in
my day, but I confess I have never been so near satisfied, so comforted,
(both from the fact of the school itself, and the splendid proof of our
country, our composite race, and the sample-promises of its good average
capacities, its future,) as in the collection from all parts of the
United States on this navy training ship. ("Are there going to be _any
men_ there?" was the dry and pregnant reply of Emerson to one who had
been crowding him with the rich material statistics and possibilities of
some western or Pacific region.)
_May 26_.--Aboard the Minnesota again. Lieut. Murphy kindly came for
me in his boat. Enjoy'd specially those brief trips to and fro--the
sailors, tann'd, strong, so bright and able-looking, pulling their oars
in long side-swing, man-of-war style, as they row'd me across. I saw
the boys in companies drilling with small arms; had a talk with Chaplain
Rawson. At 11 o'clock all of us gathered to breakfast around a long
table in the great ward room--I among the rest--a genial, plentiful,
hospitable affair every way--plenty to eat, and of the best; became
acquainted with several new officers. This second visit, with its
observations, talks, (two or three at random with the boys,) confirm'd
my first impressions.
MATURE SUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS
_Aug. 4_.--Forenoon--as I sit under the willow shade, (have retreated
down in the country again,) a little bird is leisurely dousing and
flirting himself amid the brook almost within reach of me. He evidently
fears me not--takes me for some concomitant of the neighboring earthy
banks, free bushery and wild weeds. _6 p.m._--The last three days have
been perfect ones for the season, (four nights ago copious rains, with
vehement thunder and lightning.) I write this sitting by the creek
watching my two kingfishers at their sundown sport. The strong,
beautiful, joyous creatures! Their wings glisten in the slanted sunbeams
as they circle and circle around, occasionally dipping and dashing the
water, and making long stretches up and down the creek. Wherever I go
over fields, through lanes, in by-places, blooms the white-flowering
wild-carrot, its delicate pat of snow-flakes crowning its slender stem,
gracefully oscillating in the breeze,
EXPOSITION BUILDING--NEW CITY HALL--RIVER TRIP
PHILADELPHIA, _Aug. 26_.--Last night and to-night of unsurpass'd
clearness, after two days' rain; moon splendor and star splendor. Being
out toward the great Exposition building, West Philadelphia, I saw it
lit up, and thought I would go in. There was a ball, democratic but
nice; plenty of young couples waltzing and quadrilling--music by a good
string-band. To the sight and hearing of these--to moderate strolls up
and down the roomy spaces--to getting off aside, resting in an arm-chair
and looking up a long while at the grand high roof with its graceful and
multitudinous work of iron rods, angles, gray colors, plays of light and
shade, receding into dim outlines--to absorbing (in the intervals of the
string band,) some capital voluntaries and rolling caprices from the big
organ at the other end of the building--to sighting a shadow'd figure
or group or couple of lovers every now and then passing some near or
farther aisle--I abandon'd myself for over an hour.
Returning home, riding down Market street in an open summer car,
something detain'd us between Fifteenth and Broad, and I got out to view
better the new, three-fifths-built marble edifice, the City Hall,
of magnificent proportions--a majestic and lovely show there in the
moonlight--flooded all over, facades, myriad silver-white lines and
carv'd heads and mouldings, with the soft dazzle--silent, weird,
beautiful--well, I know that never when finish'd will that magnificent
pile impress one as it impress'd me those fifteen minutes.
To-night, since, I have been long on the river. I watch the C-shaped
Northern Crown, (with the star Alshacca that blazed out so suddenly,
alarmingly, one night a few years ago.) The moon in her third quarter,
and up nearly all night. And there, as I look eastward, my long-absent
Pleiades, welcome again to sight. For an hour I enjoy the soothing and