One Sunday evening, Dr. James was sitting in Miss Spelman's pleasant parlor; she was dozing in her chair by the fire, and Margaret sat on a little sofa near her. There had come a long pause, such as very often came on Sunday evenings, and on this occasion the doctor had been more abstracted and inattentive than usual. He sat by the table in an arm-chair, studying the fire with a troubled face, and Margaret watched him and wondered what was wrong. At last he started and said, as their eyes met,
"Miss Lester, pardon me. I believe I am very rude; I have a good deal on my mind, and when you stop speaking, my thoughts go off to something I cannot forget."
He paused a moment, and then, before she could answer him, went on. "They talk about a doctor's becoming callous, and indifferent to pain and suffering; I wish it were more true! Of course there are certain things which, when we have seen them borne well and bravely by some, we expect others to meet in the same way, and so seem unfeeling and unsympathizing when folks make a great fuss about them.
"When, however, I see people really suffering and in want, it makes me sick at heart, and I cannot forget it. There is a family a couple of miles out of the east end of this town who are in great trouble, and I don't see what can help them out of it." He stopped abruptly and stared at the fire again.
"Dr. James, do you suppose I am not interested? Go on quickly, and tell me the rest; for perhaps I can help these poor people."
He looked at her earnestly and continued,
"The husband is a shoemaker; a good fellow, though thriftless. It is the old story; want of work, a sick wife, a large family, rent due, and the wolf at the door. I have been to several people; but money seems very scarce just now, and more is needed than I can raise for them. My own funds are very low, and some kind people suggest the poor-house at Sealing for them; but that would break their spirit; so I can't bear to think of it."
"Why, Dr. James! of course I can help them. Why did you not come to me before? Cannot we go to-night and pay the rent, and take them what they need?"
"To-morrow will do for them; if you like, however, I can take the rent to Mr. Brown to-night. Perhaps you will sleep better for it; I know I shall. To-morrow you can drive there, and do what you think best for them."
Margaret's sympathy seemed very consoling to the doctor, and he talked to her freely of the state of the poor people with whom he came in contact. He said he had to see so much misery he could not possibly relieve, that it was a constant weight on his mind; it haunted him like a ghost; and even when warm and comfortable himself, he could not forget those wants which he so desired to relieve but could not. Then the people in the neighborhood rendered him but little assistance; for they either did not realize, or else were indifferent to the destitution of their neighbors.
Dr. James had never before opened his mind to Margaret as he did that evening. He spoke of his intense sympathy with the poor, simply and as a matter of course; and every word conveyed to her a reproach, for it made her conscious of her own selfishness and hardness of heart. Though she had always given freely, when asked, to fairs and subscriptions, and to charity collectors, she had done so, as she now saw, out of her abundance, and with a cold heart. How much thought had she ever given to the sufferings of the poor? What had she ever done to relieve them? Yet here was a man whose whole life was devoted to helping and healing his fellow-creatures, and who reproached himself for enjoying the simplest comforts so long as others were without them. A whole mine of new thoughts seemed opened in her mind; she longed to be alone; and when Dr. James had left her, after warmly grasping the hand that had given him the rent for his poor family, she said good-night to her aunt as early as possible, and going to her own room, she thought long and regretfully of the past, and formed a firm resolution to live more nobly for the future.
The next morning, after driving Martha Burney to Sealing as usual, Margaret filled her sleigh with good things at the grocery and provision stores and then made her way, by the directions Dr. James had given her, to the house of John McNally, the poor man of whom he had spoken. She found the distress quite as great as she had expected, and would not have known what to do first, had she not found there a woman from the neighborhood who was endeavoring to assist the sick wife. This woman at once made gruel and tea, and put away the provisions in their proper places, while Margaret collected around her the children, who were half starving, and distributed among them a plentiful supply of bread and butter, to which she afterward added a dessert of oranges and candy.
Poor John looked on as though it were all a dream, and watched Margaret's every movement as he would those of a good fairy, till, she turning to him, said kindly,
"Will you not sit down and have some breakfast? Perhaps this friend of yours will cook some steak for you."
Then he mechanically sat down on a chair near the table, and covering his face with his hands, strove to hide tears of joy that trickled down his cheeks. Margaret went into the chamber and sat by the wife, who was sitting up in bed drinking her gruel, while Susan, the friend, went to cook the steak, the savory smell of which soon filled the little house. Margaret left them with a promise to return the next day; but before she went, she put into John's hand a twenty-dollar bill, bidding him get every thing that his wife and family needed.
What a happy day that was for Margaret! She felt so light-hearted and joyous that she could hardly attend to her usual duties; but she endeavored to study and practise the regular number of hours, saying to herself, "If I am going to do good every day, I must not let it interfere with every thing else." In the afternoon she would not go out; she was sure the doctor would come, and she could not afford to miss his call. So Miss Selina took one of her friends to drive, and Margaret sat at home waiting. Tea-time came and her aunt returned, and still the visitor she expected had not appeared; at length, as they left the table, sleigh-bells were heard, and the doctor opened the hall door.
"There is a lovely moon, Miss Lester; can you not wrap yourself up and take a short drive with me?"
She hastened to get her hood, muff, and shawl, and in a few moments was flying over the frozen ground, in and out of the white moonlight and the dark shadows, the sleigh-bells ringing gayly, and her own heart beating fast with joy.
Dr. James was the first to speak.
"You can't think what a pleasure it has been to me all day, to think of those poor people relieved from their trouble and wretchedness; I am sure it has been a happiness to you also. The poor things consider your help as a direct interposition of providence, and I must say they seem full of gratitude rather to God than to you. They appear to consider you as merely a secondary cause of their relief."
"That is right enough, Dr. James; I owe a great deal more to them than they to me; I was never so happy before in my life."
"I can well believe it. But I must tell you something, Miss Lester, that may diminish your satisfaction a little; which I would not mention, however, if I did not think it would be useful in the future. What you did for the family was, in the main, excellent; but you remember I told you McNally was thriftless! Well, the sum of money you put into his hands was too large; when he went to Sealing for medicine and things for his wife, some idle fellows got hold of him, and the consequence was, I found him reeling about the street this afternoon, with a small bottle of medicine in his pocket, and all his money gone. I took him home, and administered the medicine to his wife myself; it was useless to speak to him then, but to-morrow I am going there to talk to him as he deserves, for he has not been drunk before for months."
"Why, I have done more harm than good."
"Not so bad as that, I am sure; you were injudicious, and a great deal too lavish in your bounty."
"Dr. James, it seemed to me very little to leave, when so much was needed; I quite congratulated myself on my prudence."
"It was a great deal of money for a poor man to have in his pocket. In almost all such cases the wife is the one to intrust with the money; she knows for what it is most needed, and makes it go as far as it can; but the best way of all, I think, is to find out, by interesting yourself, what are the wants of the poor, and supply them by your personal care. When you have time, you might go and talk with Rose—that is the wife—and, if you like, give her what she needs."
"I am glad you told me this, Dr. James; it will teach me to be wiser next time. You see I am wholly inexperienced, for I never did any thing of the kind before in my life. Now I am determined to try again. Can'tyou tell me of another case of distress among your patients?"
"Not at present, I believe, though, for that matter, I believe there is no want of poor people at any time. Miss Lester, excuse my asking you; do you want to do good systematically, and practically, and perseveringly, or is this only a passing enthusiasm, which will vanish when the novelty ceases?"
"Dr. James, if I do good perseveringly, as you say, I suppose the excitement will wear off, and it will become a very matter-of-fact, unromantic business, perhaps even tedious and inconvenient; still, I have thought about it all to-day, and I have made up my mind to help as many people as I can. So long as I remain here, it shall be one of my occupations."
"Very well, then; and for the direction of practical, systematic good works, I advise you to go to the Catholic priest."
"What! to that fat man with the red face, who laughs so loud?"
"Ah Miss Lester! if you had a little more medical knowledge, you would be aware that natural temperament is in itself enough to account for the corpulence of some people, to say nothing of the sedentary life a priest generally leads; and in finding fault with that laugh, you touch on a tender point; for it is, in my eyes, one of Father Barry's shining virtues. It is the 'being jolly' under all circumstances, and in spite of every thing adverse and difficult, which makes this obscure country priest a great man. Think of his life! What can be more laborious, more self-sacrificing, more ill-paid, thankless and disheartening? And look at his face! My dear Miss Lester, he is an educated man, and yet his intercourse is entirely with the rude and ignorant poor of this most bigoted of places. He is cut off from all those who profess to be people of education here, and who look down on him with contempt and suspicion, because they cannot even conceive what a life of devotion and self-sacrifice means. What could have induced him to choose such a life, liable to be condemned to such a place and such a people, I do not understand."
"Think of your own life, Dr. James."
"Ay, there it is; I often think of the two lives, and naturally compare them. Now, see the difference: I choose this place for myself, and shall stay here as long or as short a time as I see fit; he, as I understand it, is placed here by his bishop, for a year or for his lifetime, he knows not which. Then, I work among these people because it makes me contented, and because I cannot bear to see misery and not relieve it. But he, strange to say, is not moved by a spirit of active benevolence only, or even chiefly, so far as I can judge; for he believes human suffering to be the penalty of sin; a penalty which must be paid—therefore, better paid in this life than in the life to come; and when I say to him, 'Then why do you do good to every one within your reach?' he answers, 'For the love of God.'"
"Strange!" Margaret answered, feeling that he expected her to say something, but with her mind occupied, it must be confessed, rather with her companion's character than with that of the priest.
"Yes, you see he is as far removed from mere philanthropy as he can be, and yet I know of no life so useful as his; mine grows dim beside it. Then, again, when I compare our lives, he has none of that self-approval, or rather self-complacency, which is the staff and support of mine."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. Of course I know that my work is a good and useful one, and that I do it well. I know, moreover, that there are not many men of my age and abilities who would consent to live such a life as mine. Hence I feel at times a self-satisfaction which is to me inspiration, and strength, and refreshment. On the contrary, Father Barry, though his life appears to me crowded with good works, seems to fear that if he should die now his hands would be found empty. His life differs from mine in its motive: he acts from religious principle, while I help the poor only because it makes me wretched to see suffering without trying to relieve it. You see I talk to him freely; I meet him a good deal among my patients, and we have done some good turns for each other. I go to see him, and when he is not busy, often sit with him of an evening; and he is the best company I know. But I have been so engrossed by my own reflections that I forgot I was giving you advice; by all means if you want to bestow relief where it is most needed, ask his assistance.
"Why not the minister here, or at Sealing?"
"Dr. Thorndike here is, as you know, an old man, too old and infirm to visit much; he could not help you; and Mr. Sparks, at Sealing, has a large family, a wife who is always delicate, and a small salary. Poor fellow! he means to do his duty; but his only servant is a little girl, and after a wakeful night, walking up and down with the baby, he has to see to the furnace fire, split the wood, and do 'chores' generally. Then he has his sermons to write, his parishioners to visit, and little tea-drinkings to grace with his presence; of all of which duties I admit he acquits himself irreproachably. He is, in fact, quite a model parson, and so, I assure you, he is considered at Sealing; but, as you may imagine, he has little time for miscellaneous visiting among the poor. Indeed, he is only too glad to have Father Barry assume almost the whole of that hard work, and is on the best of terms with him in private, though he rails against popery and the priesthood from the pulpit in the most popular manner. No; I don't advise you to be guided either by our Congregationalist brother here, or our Methodist brother at Sealing. Father Barry knows every poor family for twenty miles around, and he can give you as much and more work than you can attend to." By this time they were nearing home and the doctor said,
"I am glad you are not discouraged by this little accident, at the outset of your benevolent works; it is brave of you, and deserves better success next time. You have done well for the beginning, and have reason to feel happy. I will go over to McNally's to-morrow, and frighten him a little, and in the afternoon, or the next day, you can go to see his wife again."
Dr. James declined to come in; he shook hands warmly with Margaret, and drove away. Miss Spelman was very curious to know what had taken place on the drive.
"Was he agreeable, my dear? Did he tell you about himself?"
"Rather about his friend the priest; how strange that he should think so much of him."
Miss Spelman shook her head, "I don't approve of that intercourse; these priests are very sly, and who knows that he may not be a Jesuit in disguise? I have warned the doctor about it, but he is very self-willed. Would you believe it, my dear? The only place he ever goes on Sundays is to the Catholic mass, either at Sealingor here, where they have it in the hall once a month; on which occasion Father Barry always dines with him. I do not mean to say that Dr. James goes to the mass every Sunday, for he often sleeps late on that day; but he never goes to church anywhere else."
"I don't blame him," said Margaret, "for not enjoying Dr. Thorndike's sermons; they always put me to sleep; or Mr. Sparks's either, for that matter, they are so intensely commonplace! I am sure I could write a great deal better ones, without having been to college or studied divinity, either."
Margaret did not see the doctor till the next evening; she had been very busy all day, and so had he; but as she was playing cribbage with Miss Spelman, after tea, he made his appearance, and, declaring that he had plenty of time, and that they must finish their game, he sat down before the fire and waited till Miss Spelman triumphantly announced:
"A double sequence, eight; pairs royal, fourteen; that takes me out, my dear."
"It is a rubber, too," Margaret observed, rising and approaching the fire. "Now, Doctor James, I have some business to talk over with you, and you must come with me into the dining-room; or I will put on my cloak, and we will go out on the piazza."
"It is moonlight out there," remarked Miss Spelman, "if you only dress warm enough."
"And will the moon retire behind a cloud, if I should insist on catching cold, aunty? But you need not be afraid; my cloak is very warm; I will put the hood over my head, and we will walk fast up and down all the time. Shall we not, Doctor James?"
They proceeded to the piazza, and began their promenade, while Miss Spelman, taking occasion to go into the dining-room, stood there in the dark, smiling as she watched their figures pass back and forth before the window. "It is all going just right," she thought; "how much they always have to say to each other!"
Meanwhile, as soon as they had stepped out of the window, Margaret began, "Well, Doctor James, where do you suppose I have been to-day?"
"To the McNallys', this afternoon, I suppose."
"Very wisely guessed; but where have I been this morning?"
"Really, Miss Lester, you tax my curiosity too far; I am not good at guessing."
"I have been to see Father Barry."
"Really!" he exclaimed, now surprised indeed, for he had not imagined she would act so promptly on their talk of the previous evening. He did not yet understand the energy of her character, her activity and earnestness, which made a resolve and its fulfilment almost simultaneous.
"Why are you surprised? Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I had such a remarkable adventure! You see Miss Burney and I drove to Sealing this morning, as usual. I did not tell her a word of what I was going to do; I only worked on her sensibilities a little about the McNallys; not that I wanted her to do any thing for them, but merely because I felt like harrowing somebody's feelings. After I had left her, I took my lesson, shopped a little, paid a visit to those silly Gleeson girls—putting off the evil day, you see—and then went straight to Father Barry's house. As I approached, I saw a woman coming out of the gate, holding in her hand two plates—one turned upside down—evidently containing something good. She was talking to herself and saying, 'O God bless him! God bless him!' and did not seem to see me or any thing else. My curiosity was roused, and I stopped her by asking, 'God bless whom? And what have you got in those plates?' She stared at me for a moment, and then exclaimed, 'Oh! but he is a darling man!' 'God bless and reward him!' and so on. At last I extorted from her that his reverence had given her 'a bit of lovely steak,' for her sick daughter at home. I was interested, and hurried past her, up the steps, where I found the door ajar, left so probably by the woman, in coming out. I was a little curious, I acknowledge, and hence did not stop to ring. After entering, I paused to consider what I should do next. There were two closed doors on one side of the entry, and one half open, on the other. I approached the one that was partly open, and stood on the threshold of—what do you suppose? actually the dining-room, with Father Barry seated at the table, eating bread and butter, with a dish of potatoes on the table, and before him a saucer containing two boiled eggs. I understood how things were, at a glance; he had sent his own dinner away with that woman, and was dining on eggs instead. Why are you laughing?" Margaret exclaimed, suddenly breaking off.
"The whole thing is so amusing, and I would say so characteristic. Your stopping the woman, entering the house as if it belonged to you, seeing all that poor Father Barry was eating for his dinner, and then making so complete a story out of the whole affair. Forgive me for laughing; you can't think how interested I am. Will you not go on?"
Margaret, who had been perfectly serious herself, after a moment's pause continued, "I was taken aback, you may be sure, and begged pardon in a very confused manner; but Father Barry rose, and, with the utmost politeness, asked me if there was any thing he could offer me. I thought to myself that there was not much left to offer any one. So I asked permission to wait till he had finished, and he showed me into a sort of parlor, where something, which must have been a confessional, made part of the furniture; and there I sat and stared at large maps of the county and of Ireland, and pictures of a pope and of the Virgin, for about ten minutes, when he came and asked me to excuse him for keeping me waiting. He knew me before I told him my name, and seemed surprised when I explained what I had come for. He said he wished he could give me Sunday-school work to do, but as I was not a Catholic, that was impossible. However, there was quite enough of other work to be done. He was very kind, and we soon came to a good understanding. The first family he spoke of were the McNallys, and he proposed—only think how sensible!—that I should give John some work to do. He said shoes were very much needed among his Sunday-school children, this winter; so he proposed that I should order a number of pairs of different sizes, and bring them by instalments, for him to distribute among his children. Altogether, I was very glad I went, and I see that his advice will be most useful. I am going again on Friday."
"I am sure you have been quite successful. Still, don't undertake more than you can perform."
"No. Father Barry said the same; I will take care not to overdo things in the beginning, because I mean to keep it up."
"I found John McNally," saidthe doctor, "quite overcome by shame and remorse; he was sure the lady would never trust him again. I told him he did not deserve that she should. I was very harsh at first, and only allowed myself to be softened by degrees. At last I told him that his rent was paid, and that I would try to get him work."
"And I found Rose sitting up, this afternoon," said Margaret. "She would like to do a little plain sewing when she is better, and I said I would get her some. She says they could get along very well, if John could only have steady work to do; but it is so much easier to buy shoes in Sealing, that people forget him. Now, Dr. James, I have a plan of moving them to Sealing, and getting a little shoe-shop for John, and then they would be sure to prosper, for he is a good workman, I hear."
"Let me caution you against beginning too impulsively in favor of this one family. Remember that there are others in want, and you cannot do so much for all. Besides, I have known a sudden stroke of good luck to prove the ruin of poor and honest people like these. I think we can get John more work, and I will take care that other people do not forget him."
Margaret was reluctantly persuaded to give up the plan of a removal to Sealing, and only comforted herself by ordering of McNally fifty pairs of shoes for Father Barry's Sunday-school children.
There is no need of describing more fully the three winter months that Margaret passed at Shellbeach. The time went faster than ever, after she had offered her services to Father Barry. Under his direction, she did great good; more indeed than any one knew of, for she had obtained a promise from the good priest that he would not speak of her charities. So when Dr. James once or twice tried to lead his friend to speak about the matter, Father Barry, desirous that she should not lose the reward of the "Father who seeth in secret," only smiled and said, "She knows all about it, you must go to her." As for the McNallys, Margaret still considered them as herprotégés, and cherished in private the project for improving their condition.
Then she had done something else, a thing of which she was very proud, and of which she often afterward boasted—she had taught a roomful of children in the public school at Sealing! Old Mr. Burney was growing more and more infirm, and seemed threatened with the entire loss of his mind. It became every day more difficult to leave him; and one morning, Margaret, on calling as usual for her friend, found that her father had had a shock of paralysis, and could not be left. Martha had planned to send an excuse by Margaret for her absence; but she could think of no person to supply her place, and she was completely surprised by Margaret's announcing her intention to try her hand at managing the children! All remonstrance was in vain, and having received a few brief directions, Margaret drove rapidly away to Sealing. How her fashionable friends in New York would have opened their eyes, had they been favored with a sight of Miss Lester hearing two or three dozen children recite the multiplication-table!
She returned in the afternoon, radiant, and, as she herself said, "hungry as a bear." She gave glowing accounts to Martha of her success, and begged to be allowed to try theexperiment again on the morrow. Some of the boys, she remarked, evidently "took her measure;" but after trying a little impertinence, they gave it up as a bad job, and every thing went as well as Martha could have desired. For three days, Margaret kept this up, and gained the hearts of even the most obdurate of her scholars. How delighted she was with her success! At the end of that period, as old Mr. Burney had grown better, Margaret's school duties came to a close.
It was early spring. The buds were swelling, the birds beginning to sing, and a week of mild weather had filled every one's heart with a longing for out-of-door life, when an excursion was planned by a few of the Sealing young people, to a wild and beautiful spot called the Glen, a few miles inland, a favorite resort for picnic parties. There were a dozen in all, and they were to go in a large open wagon with four seats, and take their provisions with them. It was the custom of the place for the young men to have the nominal getting-up of these excursions; that is, they incurred the expense of the "team" and the trouble of invitations, while the girls prepared the eatables. There was always to be an equal number of ladies and gentlemen; the couples were arranged beforehand, and each youth was in duty bound to devote himself to his companion unremittingly, during the drive and at the place of the picnic.
Dr. James had agreed to join this party, an almost unheard-of thing for him to do, and the committee of arrangements had assigned him to Margaret, as her escort. This was disinterested on the part of the other ladies; for although they were not supposed to have a voice in the distribution of the gentlemen, their influence was certainly felt, as one or two of the committee very conveniently had sisters, who gave their advice at home, and communicated to their intimate friends the results of their important deliberations. It was disinterested in them, then, to allow Miss Lester to have as her escort the doctor, who was a great favorite, and by far the most desirable man, in the towns of Sealing and Shellbeach combined, for an escort, a partner, a husband, or what not. Added to this, it was quite an honor to have him devote so much of his precious time to their picnic; he was, in fact, the lion of the party, and perhaps no one else could have been selected for his companion without exciting disapprobation, to say the least, in the minds of many of the others. So it seemed to be a wise as well as a magnanimous plan which gave to Margaret the privilege of the exclusive attention of Dr. James for one whole afternoon.
A perception of the state of the case dawned upon her, as the great wagon stopped at Miss Spelman's door, and she inwardly smiled when, after seeing her contribution to the feast safely packed away, she took her place between the doctor and a young man, who was usually accounted for as being "in the bank," though what office he held in that important institution was left rather uncertain.
She resolved to repay the politeness of the rest of the party by making herself generally agreeable, and monopolizing her escort as little as possible. In this she succeeded admirably, and the whole company were in high spirits and enjoying themselves to the utmost when they reached the Glen, and began to walk through pastures and over rough and broken ground, before reaching the bed ofthe brook, where the picnic proper was to be held. All the provisions were set down on the high, flat rock which answered for a table, and then the party broke up into couples, as the girls expressed their inclinations, some to sit down on the rocks and others to explore the woods or follow up the stream to its source.
Margaret, to whom every thing was new and interesting, wished to go through the Glen, and proposed that they should climb the wooded bank above them, follow the stream through the woods, and return by the rocks. Dr. James was very willing, and they set out on their scramble up the bank, and then along the edge, catching at branches or roots of trees for support, and slipping frequently on the wet last year's leaves and damp earth. It was all fun to Margaret; she laughed with an almost childish delight at every difficulty, refused all assistance, and kept generally ahead of her companion, who seemed inclined to take the rough climbing more leisurely, and was not enraptured when the treacherous leaves landed him in a hole, or a seemingly firm bough which he grasped gave way in his hand, and almost made him lose his balance and fall.
At last the head of the Glen was reached; a turn had hidden the rest of the party from them, and their voices sounded faint and distant.
"Now we will go down to those lovely green meadows," said Margaret. "But, O Dr. James! what is that?"
"Only a bridge across, made of a great pine log. You see the top has been smoothed."
"A bridge! Then it is meant to be crossed. Come, let us cross it."
"Certainly, if you wish. I have been foolish enough to cross it before, and am willing to do so again."
"Why was it foolish?"
"Because it is dangerous. It is only a few steps across, I acknowledge. But look down; how would you like to fall among those rocks?"
At this moment three or four of the party came round a huge rock which had hidden them from sight, and evidently noticed the two standing by the bridge.
"You need not try to frighten me, Dr. James; my nerves are not easily shaken. Come, shall I go first?"
"If you please. Your stick may be a sort of balance-pole; imagine yourself on the tight-rope, and look steadily at that little tree before you; don't look down. I am in earnest, Miss Lester."
Margaret looked at him, laughed, and stepped on the little bridge. The people who were looking at them were frightened, and the girls turned away their faces. Margaret made three steady steps, then paused.
"Do you see what a lovely green that water is, just below us?"
Two steps more and her stick dropped, she staggered, and put her hands to her head.
"I am falling!"
But she felt a strong hand on each of her shoulders, and a voice of command said,
"Fix your eyes on that tree, and walk straight on." She obeyed, and three more steps brought her to firm ground. Instantly, almost before her feet touched the bank, the doctor withdrew his hands, and without a word, with a displeased and gloomy face, preceded her down the bank. He was saying to himself,
"Now we shall have a scene, and she will say she owes her life to me, and call me her preserver, or some such nonsense."
Margaret leaned for a moment against the little tree she had been told to look at so steadfastly, and then followed her companion through thewoods. He walked so fast that she was soon out of breath trying to overtake him. When she had done so, she said in a low voice,
"I am vain and contemptible. I despise myself more than I can express. Forgive me for giving you so much trouble."
Dr. James turned; his face was clear, and he smiled upon her with a smile that was sunshine itself; he did not reply, but walked slowly by her side, then stooped, and holding something out to her, said,
"See, here are the first flowers; the little hepatica ventures out before all the rest. Will you take it? How pretty it is! how delicate the colors are; and the stem is covered with fur. Notice the green and brown leaves, too; they add to its beauty and singularity. It is my favorite flower."
The deep flush in Margaret's face had died away, and her voice had resumed its usual tone when they joined the rest of the party, and sat down to the feast; but her gayety was gone, and it seemed as if nothing could recall it. She was abstracted and serious, and not in accordance with the merriment around her. At last she arose, and went to a rock, on which she leaned, and watched the little minnows darting about in a green pool of water, when she was startled by the doctor's voice close beside her. He held toward her a small silver tumbler, filled with iced claret and water, and said in an undertone,
"Miss Lester, how can you let a trifle weigh so on your mind, and cloud all your enjoyment?" He was smiling in a friendly way; but she looked at him reproachfully, and said,
"How can you call it a trifle? It might have cost me my life."
"You are right," he replied gravely; "nothing ought to be called a trifle whose consequences might be serious; though attendant circumstances make us look at the same thing in such different lights at different times. On the bridge, and when I felt angry with you afterward, your conduct seemed to me a most weighty matter; now I can with difficulty recall any thing except the honesty and courage of your apology. Having seen and humbly acknowledged your fault, will you not now confer a favor on the whole party by forgetting what is past?"
Margaret smiled, and saying, "I will, at least, forget myself," accompanied him back to the party.
She did her part very well, and, owing in a great measure to her efforts, the rest of the picnic and the moonlight drive home were quite as pleasant as the setting out had been.
"She is a brave woman," the doctor said to himself that night in his study; but Margaret was quite unconscious that his opinion of her had been raised instead of lowered, by the occurrences of the picnic party at the Glen.
This little mortification—and it really was one to Margaret's high spirit, owing to her anxiety to stand well in Dr. James's opinion—should have been a lesson to her to give up contradicting him, and opposing her own will to his, and for a time it was so; and yet that very wish to please, of which she was conscious and ashamed, made her often dispute with and appear to oppose him, when she would have liked to agree and do as he advised.
She began to realize something else, too, that had the effect of making her surround herself, as it were, with an armor of prickles and thorns; so that her intercourse with the doctor was far from peaceful or pleasant.She felt that the work she was doing among the poor was wholly with and for Father Barry; she was helping him, not Dr. James; and this, she felt, was the doing of the latter, and not without a reason. At first, when he had recommended her to take the priest as her adviser, she had felt a cooling of enthusiasm; still, having said she meant to persevere, she would not draw back.
It would have been sweet to her, she knew it now, to help the doctor; to be his friend, confidant, coadjutor; to feel that she was making his labor, which she revered and sympathized with, easier and pleasanter. But he had made that impossible; he had directed her to go to some one else for help, for counsel, for support, while he stood alone as before, and had never again applied to her for assistance for his patients, though she had once or twice asked if she could not relieve them. She understood the pride which prevented him from accepting her money, or placing himself under obligations to her. "He does not like me well enough to let me help him," she said to herself; and she soon abandoned all those efforts to make herself agreeable to him, which at first came so naturally to her.
The picnic lesson, therefore, though by no means forgotten, had ceased to influence her actions; and when the real spring-time came, with mild air, and young, fresh green, as May drew to its close and June was at hand, Margaret had managed to quarrel with Dr. James several times, and had made herself unhappy and him far from comfortable. He began to come less often to his old friend, Miss Spelman's, and to hear less of Margaret's plans and doings.
Miss Selina was much puzzled at the turn things were taking, and yet, when they disputed, she was half the time uncertain whether they were in fun or in earnest; and it did no good to remonstrate with Margaret; for the incomprehensible girl agreed with all she said, and acknowledged the doctor to be perfectly right.
The friendship with Martha Burney continued, however, and at her house Margaret always appeared to the best advantage, even before Dr. James. She seemed to stand somewhat in awe of her older friend, and was desirous to please; and besides, she had made a kind of agreement with herself that when she met the doctor there, she might allow herself to be as pleasant and conciliatory as her inclinations led her to be. She was in a peculiar frame of mind, and this curious compromise can be better described than explained.
In the mean time, old Mr. Burney gradually became more and more feeble; soon he lost his mind to such a degree as not to be able even to recognize his faithful daughter; and at last, early in May, he died. Margaret could not understand how Martha could grieve as she did at his loss; knowing his character and former misdoings, and seeing him a broken-down, witless old man, the daughter's sorrow seemed to her unreasonable; but when Martha talked of him as he was once, when his wife was living, handsome and brave and generous, the idol of those two fond women, it made her think of her own dear and noble father, lying alone in his quiet resting-place in the little Swiss graveyard, and she found she could give the sympathy and comfort which before were impossible.
His death made little apparent difference. Martha, after the funeral, went quietly on with her school duties, till she "could think of something more useful to do," she said; and her little household was as quiet and homely as usual, only, as it seemedto other people, much pleasanter. But Martha said,
"Oh! it was such a difference; she could not work with half the spirit now that it was only for herself; she had always had some one to live for, and now she could not feel any interest in what she did."
Margaret often went for her in her phaeton and brought her back to her aunt's to tea, and there grew up between them a sympathy and affection that was destined to last for life.
TO BE CONTINUED.
The rapid growth of New York City is at present exciting universal interest throughout the country; and as a place of residence, or in a business point of view, it would be difficult to over-estimate the vast advantages it possesses. Nature has lavished upon the island its choicest gifts; surrounded on one side by the East and Harlem rivers, on the other by the beautiful Hudson, the "Rhine of America," as an entirety, its advantages for natural drainage and general healthfulness cannot be surpassed. But eighteen miles from the Atlantic Ocean, with an admirable harbor, the nations of the earth already vie with each other in pouring into the lap of this infant giant their most costly productions and most beautiful works of art. It is now the most populous city and the greatest commercial emporium of the western hemisphere, and stands with its youthful vigor a proud rival of the largest cities of the old world. With the vast undeveloped wealth of free America, and the energy and ambition of her sturdy sons to press it forward, is it not easy to foreshadow the prospective importance of this metropolis of the Union?
But one subject of uneasiness presents itself in this glance at the future, and that is the rather limited space which nature's barriers have allowed us, and which threatens eventually to stop the progress of the city. "Manhattan Island is but thirteen and one half miles long, and has an average width of one and three fifths miles. This gives an area of twenty-two square miles, or fourteen hundred acres."[62]
We may consider the city as pretty solidly built up as far north as Fifty-ninth street, the border of Central Park. The census of next year will probably show the population to number between thirteen and fourteen hundred thousand souls; and the rate of increase is estimated to be between six and seven per cent per annum. Thus the population of the island in 1880 will number far above two millions, and the city be extended as far northward as Ninetieth street. There are but "37,244 lots of full size, that is, twenty-five by one hundred feet, between Eighty-sixth and One Hundred and Fifty-fifth street."[63]This shows conclusively that before many more such decades of years roll round, every availableportion of the island will be built upon, and our further expansion apparently prevented. But this, we hope, will be obviated by the erection of the East River bridge, and other modes of rapid transit to our sister city, Brooklyn, and the Jersey shore; thus enabling us to bring within our limits all the territory that will be required.
For the present, the rapidly increasing number of our commercial houses and the consequent greed for space shown by trade in the lower part of the city, as well as our constantly augmenting population, show conclusively that the better class of residents now occupying locations south of Thirty-fourth street will be obliged to look elsewhere for homes. That this is to be the case no one can doubt, who has studied the progress of business marts in their up-town march, during the last two years. The invasion of Union Square, the magnificent buildings on Broadway between Eighteenth and Nineteenth streets, the "Grand Hotel," and, more than all else, the appropriation of the lower end of Fifth Avenue for public galleries, attest this fact, and warn us that no prominent location below Thirty-fourth street will, in a short time, be safe from the all-powerful grasp of this insatiable demand. With this fact before us, the question arises, What portion of the island offers the greatest prospective permanency for private residences, and at the same time the best inducements for the happiness and physical well-being of the people?
That tract of the island bounded on the south by Thirty-fourth street, on the east by Lexington avenue, on the west by Sixth avenue, and on the north by Fifty-seventh street, is undoubtedly very desirable property; but with our rapid growth it is impossible to tell what it will be twenty years hence; and besides, we are lured past this portion by the many advantages offered by the section north of it.
We have now before us the Central Park, extending from Fifth Avenue on the east, to Eighth avenue on the west; and stretching out in picturesque beauty from Fifty-ninth to One Hundred and Tenth street. To the east and west of this, we find topographically a very different character of country. On the east side from Fifty-ninth to Ninetieth street, the surface is very uneven; in some parts ledges of rock run up one hundred and twenty feet above tide-water, and then abruptly descend into valleys almost on a level with tide-water; and here are found the beds of old streams, so many of which formerly rolled their sluggish waters through this portion of the island into the East River. The general fall is eastward, though not sufficiently so to make natural drainage into the river good. From Ninetieth street to the Harlem River, we have a perfectly flat plain; unbroken, with the exception of Mount Morris Square, by any marked elevation. The land lies but little above tide-water, and presents every appearance of being to a great extent "made ground." This supposition is further strengthened by the alluvial character of the soil. Many suppose that a branch of the Hudson once flowed across the island at Manhattanville to Hell Gate; but we believe that originally the upper portion of Manhattan was a distinct island, and have no doubt the waters of the Hudson washed freely between the two, and in time the amount of soil gradually deposited on either bank limited and eventually closed the gap, thus giving us our present formation.
On the west side of the park we have a very different topography.
"From Fifty-ninth to One Hundred and Fourth street, the Eighth avenue is nearly the central ridge of the Island. Its average height is twenty to thirty feet above the Fifth avenue. At Fifty-ninth street, the elevation of the Eighth avenue above the tide-level is seventy-six feet four inches, increasing to ninety feet at Seventieth street, reaching one hundred and twenty feet at Eighty-fifth street and one hundred and twenty-two feet at Ninety-second street; descending, it is eighty-nine feet at One Hundred and Fourth street, and gradually falls off to the general low level of Harlem plains."At One Hundred and Sixth street, the ridge extends north-westwardly, leaving the Eighth avenue, running nearly along the Ninth avenue to One Hundred and Twentieth street; then bending westwardly, and forming the southern hill-side of the Manhattan valley to the Hudson River. The new grade of the Eighth avenue already established, by keeping up elevations and filling depressions, will gradually ascend to and then descend from its summit at Ninety-second street, and make the finest possible grade for any avenue on the island."[64]
"From Fifty-ninth to One Hundred and Fourth street, the Eighth avenue is nearly the central ridge of the Island. Its average height is twenty to thirty feet above the Fifth avenue. At Fifty-ninth street, the elevation of the Eighth avenue above the tide-level is seventy-six feet four inches, increasing to ninety feet at Seventieth street, reaching one hundred and twenty feet at Eighty-fifth street and one hundred and twenty-two feet at Ninety-second street; descending, it is eighty-nine feet at One Hundred and Fourth street, and gradually falls off to the general low level of Harlem plains.
"At One Hundred and Sixth street, the ridge extends north-westwardly, leaving the Eighth avenue, running nearly along the Ninth avenue to One Hundred and Twentieth street; then bending westwardly, and forming the southern hill-side of the Manhattan valley to the Hudson River. The new grade of the Eighth avenue already established, by keeping up elevations and filling depressions, will gradually ascend to and then descend from its summit at Ninety-second street, and make the finest possible grade for any avenue on the island."[64]
To appreciate, one must see the romantic beauty presented by the bold bluff of rocky formation against which the crystal waters of the Hudson dash in ceaseless waves and eddies. At points forming ascents from seventy to one hundred and forty feet above tide-water, it stretches away, with varying elevation and constantly changing scenery until it reaches Manhattanville. There, as if to make space to cradle the village in its rocky embrace, for a few blocks it disappears, only to rise in more stately proportions beyond, forming its crowning glory of landscape grandeur at Washington Heights.
"There is a high table-land between the Eighth and Ninth avenue ridge on the east, and the Hudson River bank on the west. The surface of this table-land is broken; it has high rocky ridges and mounds in central locations reaching these elevations. AtNinth avenue and Sixty-sixth street89feet.Ninth avenue and Seventieth street98"Ninth avenue and Eighty-fourth street120feet.Ninth avenue and Ninety-first street121"Ninth avenue and One Hundred and Fifth street117"Tenth avenue and Seventy-seventh street98"Tenth avenue and Eighty-fifth street109"Tenth avenue and Ninety-Second street107"Tenth avenue and One Hundred and Fifth street109"Tenth avenue and One Hundred and Seventeenth street145""Between these elevations, which (except a central ridge or terrace between the Ninth and Tenth avenues from Seventy-ninth to Ninety-fourth street) are not generally continuous, are numerous hollows and valleys, the lowest having an elevation of fifty to sixty feet above the tide-level. The average elevation of this plateau is as much as seventy-five feet; in the more northerly portion, as much as one hundred feet. The surface drainage from this plateau finds its way to the river, through the valleys above indicated, at Sixty-seventh, Eightieth, and Ninety-sixth streets."[65]
"There is a high table-land between the Eighth and Ninth avenue ridge on the east, and the Hudson River bank on the west. The surface of this table-land is broken; it has high rocky ridges and mounds in central locations reaching these elevations. At
Ninth avenue and Sixty-sixth street89feet.Ninth avenue and Seventieth street98"Ninth avenue and Eighty-fourth street120feet.Ninth avenue and Ninety-first street121"Ninth avenue and One Hundred and Fifth street117"Tenth avenue and Seventy-seventh street98"Tenth avenue and Eighty-fifth street109"Tenth avenue and Ninety-Second street107"Tenth avenue and One Hundred and Fifth street109"Tenth avenue and One Hundred and Seventeenth street145"
"Between these elevations, which (except a central ridge or terrace between the Ninth and Tenth avenues from Seventy-ninth to Ninety-fourth street) are not generally continuous, are numerous hollows and valleys, the lowest having an elevation of fifty to sixty feet above the tide-level. The average elevation of this plateau is as much as seventy-five feet; in the more northerly portion, as much as one hundred feet. The surface drainage from this plateau finds its way to the river, through the valleys above indicated, at Sixty-seventh, Eightieth, and Ninety-sixth streets."[65]
With a view to the prospective physical health of the city, the authorities should do every thing possible to destroy the extensively prevailing malaria found in it, which emanates from the large tract of made ground along the East River, and from the beds of the original streams, which covered acres of land in the primitive state of the island. Few people fully comprehend the insidiousness of this poison which affects the system in such a variety of ways and shows such erratic developments that at times the skill of the physician is baffled in attempting to detect its presence. It is rendered more permanent in many locations by the miserable condition of the sewers, and, where these have not been built, by the irregular grading of streets forming obstructions to the natural drainage of the soil. Again, in many places where sewers have been provided, as along the course of Seventy-fourth street between Third and Fifth avenues, they do not seem to entirely prevent the generation of the poison, as intermittent and remittentfevers are still rife in the surrounding districts: not properly filling up the beds of the streams in many of these cases may, however, account for this.
Owing to its rocky formation, malaria has found a home in but few locations in the north-western section of the city; and if these are examined, they will generally be found to be lots which, by the grading of the streets, have been made lower than the side-walks. When these are properly filled, the deleterious influence they exert will disappear. In addition to this, the level of this section is so much above tide-water that it possesses every advantage for natural, and, when that does not prove sufficient, every facility for promoting artificial, drainage.
According to the report of the Board of Central Park Commissioners for last year, "the prevailing winds for the year were west and north-west." Let us see what comparative difference this makes to the two sections of the city under consideration. The west side receives this wind in all its bracing freshness directly after it has passed over the Jersey highlands, on the opposite side of the Hudson. It carries before it all the exhalations from this side toward the east, and imparts a healthful vigor to all who come within its influence. The east side, being so much below the level of the west, receives but little of the benefit to be derived from this wind. Again:
"When the mercury in the barometer rises, the smoke and injurious emanations are quickly dispelled in the air. When the mercury lowers, we see the smoke and noxious vapors remain in the apartments and near the surface of the earth. Now, every one knows that, of all winds, that from the east causes the mercury in the barometer to rise the highest, and that which lowers it most is from the west. When the latter blows, it carries with it all the deleterious gases it meets in its course from the west. The result is, that the inhabitants of the eastern parts of a city not only have their own smoke and miasmas, but also those of the western parts brought by the west wind. When, on the contrary, the east wind blows, it purifies the air by causing the injurious emanations to rise, so that they cannot be thrown back upon the west. It is evident, then, that the inhabitants of the western parts receive pure air from whatever part of the horizon it comes. We will add, that the west wind is most prevalent, and the west end receives it all fresh from the country."From the foregoing facts, M. Junod lays down the following directions: First, persons who are free to choose, especially those of delicate health, should reside in the western part of a city. Secondly, for the same reason, all the establishments that send forth vapors or injurious gases should be in the eastern part. Thirdly and finally, in erecting a house in the city, and even in the country, the kitchen should be on the eastern side, as well as all the out-houses from which unhealthy emanations might spread into the apartments."[66]
"When the mercury in the barometer rises, the smoke and injurious emanations are quickly dispelled in the air. When the mercury lowers, we see the smoke and noxious vapors remain in the apartments and near the surface of the earth. Now, every one knows that, of all winds, that from the east causes the mercury in the barometer to rise the highest, and that which lowers it most is from the west. When the latter blows, it carries with it all the deleterious gases it meets in its course from the west. The result is, that the inhabitants of the eastern parts of a city not only have their own smoke and miasmas, but also those of the western parts brought by the west wind. When, on the contrary, the east wind blows, it purifies the air by causing the injurious emanations to rise, so that they cannot be thrown back upon the west. It is evident, then, that the inhabitants of the western parts receive pure air from whatever part of the horizon it comes. We will add, that the west wind is most prevalent, and the west end receives it all fresh from the country.
"From the foregoing facts, M. Junod lays down the following directions: First, persons who are free to choose, especially those of delicate health, should reside in the western part of a city. Secondly, for the same reason, all the establishments that send forth vapors or injurious gases should be in the eastern part. Thirdly and finally, in erecting a house in the city, and even in the country, the kitchen should be on the eastern side, as well as all the out-houses from which unhealthy emanations might spread into the apartments."[66]
The absence of foliage is a great disadvantage in malarious districts, and here the east side of the city enjoys a marked superiority over the west in the ample and rich character of its soil, which, with proper cultivation would produce trees of luxurious foliage. On account of the small quantity and the poor quality of the soil in many locations in the north-western section of the island, trees are not as numerous as they should be; but it becomes only a greater duty to foster those we have, and to constantly increase their number by planting others in every desirable location. Too little regard has in all ages been paid to that beautiful harmony established by the wisdom of God in nature, and but few persons consider how essential the vegetable kingdom is to animal life. With each inspiration of air which we draw into our lungs to obtain oxygen, a certain amount of blood is purified, and throws off its carbon.This carbon is rapidly absorbed by plants, and nurtures them; and in return they liberate the oxygen which is absolutely necessary for our being.
"Plants absorb their food entirely in a liquid or gaseous form, by imbibition, according to the law ofendosmosis, through the walls of the cells that form the surface; as when liquids of unequal density are separated by a permeable membrane, the lighter liquid or the weaker solution will flow into the stronger with a force proportionate to the difference in density; but at the same time a smaller portion of the denser liquid will flow out into the weaker, which process is calledexosmosis. The fluid absorbed by the roots is thus carried from cell to cell, rising principally in the wood, and is attracted to the leaves, or other parts of the plants exposed to the sun and light, by the exhalation which takes place from them, and the consequent inspiration of the sap. Here the crude sap is exposed to sun and light, and assimilated and converted into organizable matter."[67]
"Plants absorb their food entirely in a liquid or gaseous form, by imbibition, according to the law ofendosmosis, through the walls of the cells that form the surface; as when liquids of unequal density are separated by a permeable membrane, the lighter liquid or the weaker solution will flow into the stronger with a force proportionate to the difference in density; but at the same time a smaller portion of the denser liquid will flow out into the weaker, which process is calledexosmosis. The fluid absorbed by the roots is thus carried from cell to cell, rising principally in the wood, and is attracted to the leaves, or other parts of the plants exposed to the sun and light, by the exhalation which takes place from them, and the consequent inspiration of the sap. Here the crude sap is exposed to sun and light, and assimilated and converted into organizable matter."[67]
Man, in his ruthless desire to utilize, according to his weak appreciation, every thing placed within his power, destroys the very breastworks against disease and death with which the foresight of the Creator has surrounded him. Many instances are recorded where the removal of a grove of trees has rendered entire villages for ever afterward a prey to the innumerable miseries produced by malarial poison. This fact has been recognized from the earliest days, and demonstrated so clearly by experience, that the more intelligent inhabitants of rural districts, where marshes abound, build their homes so that winds passing over them, and consequently laden with their pestilential exhalations, shall be intercepted by some belt of forest-trees. Many parts of Italy would be uninhabitable without the protection of its luxurious vegetable productions, and it is well known that the citizens of Rome are thus shielded from the south-west wind passing over the dreaded Pontine marshes. The salutary influence of foliage is not felt in the case of malaria alone; observers have noticed the comparative immunity from epidemic diseases also enjoyed by those whose homes are thus protected. During the prevalence of cholera in Burlington, Iowa, in 1850, this was strikingly demonstrated.
"In the houses on the west side of Main street, north of Court, more deaths took place than in any other portion of the city; and more occurred, in proportion to the number of inmates, in every other house than in the one in front of which were trees, and, what is still more convincing, the natural predisposition to cholera existed to a greater extent among the inmates of this house, than in any other. Another and more striking instance occurred in the two houses nearest the 'old saw-mill.' The house adjoining the mill was surrounded by trees, and not one of the occupants suffered from cholera; while, in the other house, which was exposed, and stood upon the bank of the Mississippi, three deaths took place; and what is more to the point, the family which escaped were new-comers, and suffering fromnostalgia, and the effects of a change of climate, which act as a predisposing and exciting cause of the disease; while those who lived in the other house were old residents, and had been thoroughly acclimated. Dr. Buckler notices similar facts in his account of the cholera, as it appeared in the Baltimore Alms-house, in 1849."[68]
"In the houses on the west side of Main street, north of Court, more deaths took place than in any other portion of the city; and more occurred, in proportion to the number of inmates, in every other house than in the one in front of which were trees, and, what is still more convincing, the natural predisposition to cholera existed to a greater extent among the inmates of this house, than in any other. Another and more striking instance occurred in the two houses nearest the 'old saw-mill.' The house adjoining the mill was surrounded by trees, and not one of the occupants suffered from cholera; while, in the other house, which was exposed, and stood upon the bank of the Mississippi, three deaths took place; and what is more to the point, the family which escaped were new-comers, and suffering fromnostalgia, and the effects of a change of climate, which act as a predisposing and exciting cause of the disease; while those who lived in the other house were old residents, and had been thoroughly acclimated. Dr. Buckler notices similar facts in his account of the cholera, as it appeared in the Baltimore Alms-house, in 1849."[68]
Trees are useful to us in another respect; they moderate temperature. In winter, the heat of the earth is constantly ascending their trunks to be given to the air. It is well known that large forests decidedly lessen the intense cold, and, in summer, moderate the extreme heat, by the great amount of moisture which they exhale from their leaves. Again, who has not felt the happy influence a forest has upon the mind? How our petty troubles melt away, and our hearts expand with grateful homage, when we listen to the tuneful harmonyof æolian sweetness, as the feathered songsters of the grove, and the passing breezes rustling through the verdant foliage unite to form nature's orchestra, wafting upward one grand strain of praise to the Deity. And when, in the autumn of our lives, borne down by blighted hopes and ruined ambition, we seek the forest's solitude, every fitful breeze sounds a low wail of sympathy, falling in gentle cadence on the crushed heart.
The young growth of the trees is particularly noticeable in Central Park, and in this respect it will be many years before we can rival Druid Hill Park near Baltimore, where the grand old trees, raising their majestic heads toward heaven, seem whispering to every passing zephyr hymns of adoration. Here, art may carve meandering roads, span the crystal streams with elaborate bridges, erect statues in honor of man, decorate and adorn to suit the taste of the most fastidious; but high above all these, the majestic oaks wave their luxuriant foliage, and assert the superiority of the works of the Creator over the imitations of the creature. Thus it needs but a moment's consideration to see what a material advantage to our comfort, physical well-being, and happiness trees are; and to understand why our broad avenues should be bordered with them, and their growth fostered as much as possible in our parks; and we may rest assured that succeeding generations will bless us for the forethought which will add so much to the beauty and healthfulness of our metropolis.
The eastern portion of all large cities is devoted to manufacturing purposes, and New York presents no exception to this almost universal rule. By reason of the comparatively level and easily graded character of the east side, buildings were rapidly erected along the line of the Second, Third, and Fourth avenues; and the suburban villages of Harlem and Yorkville have been most remunerative to property-holders on that side of the park. The easy access to the points above named by the city railroads has drawn that kind of capital which invests in good substantial tenant-houses. These pay sufficiently well to prevent their being demolished, even with a prospect of better pecuniary results from a higher class of property; and thus are always an obstacle in the way of first-class improvements in a neighborhood.
The east side possesses a great many advantages which will in time increase its commerce, and render its entire river-side most valuable. Already numbers of manufactories, lumber-yards, and other business places occupy nearly the entire water-front as high as Fiftieth street; and the easy approach to, and gentle slope of its bank offering great facility for landing merchandise, will rapidly increase their number toward the northern extremity of the island. Again, should the attempt to relieve Hell Gate of its dangerous rocks be successful, a new era of prosperity will dawn for the East River shore, and every foot of its extent at once receive increased valuation. Piers will spring into existence, and vessels of every description bearing the precious wares of every clime, will seek this hitherto inhospitable channel, and thus lessen their tedious voyage by at least two hundred miles.
North of Fifty-ninth street on the west side, with the exception of the squatter's shanty, removable at a few days' legal notice, there is nothing to impede the numerous and beautiful improvements designed by the Central Park Commissioners, to whose judgment this work is intrusted. These improvements consist in layingout parks and public drives, and in adding in every possible way to the natural advantages of this section. First, at the intersection of Broadway, Eighth avenue, and Fifty-ninth street we will have the Circle, with a radius of two hundred and sixteen feet. This will provide at once an opening to the grand Boulevard, and also add to the beauty of the entrance at this point to Central Park. The ground around this circle will undoubtedly present one of the finest positions in the city for public buildings, and will become as valuable for this purpose as that in the neighborhood of Union Square. In this connection we would express a hope that the commissioners will reconsider the great mistake they have made in closing Sixtieth street between Eighth avenue and the Boulevard, thereby cutting off the view of the park and its grand entrance from the residents of that street. It would add much to the finish of the circle, and the beauty of the approach to the park, if Fifty-ninth street retained to either river the width it has between Fifth and Eighth avenues. Eventually a ferry will be established at either extremity of this street, for the accommodation of persons desiring to visit the park; and this with other circumstances, combines to make it very desirable that it should be one of the wide streets. Several efforts have been made to have the Belt Railroad running on this street removed to Fifty-eighth street, but so far without success. As this change is desired by the property-owners and residents in the neighborhood of the park, it is hoped it will be effected by the Legislature during their session this winter.
From the north-western portion of the circle issues the boulevard mentioned above. This will be in reality the extension of Broadway, and is designed to be one hundred and fifty feet wide, with twenty-two feet of its central portion reserved for a grass-plot, to be bordered on either side with shade-trees. It will extend along the line of the old Broadway road "crossing Ninth avenue at Sixty-fifth street and Tenth avenue at Seventy-second street, and then passing about midway between the Tenth and Eleventh avenues to One Hundred and Fourth street, where it bends to the westward, following the line of the Bloomingdale road, and strikes the Eleventh avenue at One Hundred and Seventh street, and then follows the Eleventh avenue to One Hundred and Fifty-fifth street. Beyond One Hundred and Fifty-fifth street it continues as a part of the improvements of the Fort Washington district, which are now being carried out by the commissioners under the law of 1865,"[69]framed for this purpose.
Then we have the Zoölogical Garden, which is considered a portion of Central Park, and which is to occupy the space bounded by Seventy-seventh street on the south, Ninth avenue on the west, Eighty-first street on the north, and Eighth avenue on the east. It should properly be extended, taking in the same blocks from Seventy-seventh to Eighty-first street, as an arm of the park, and crossing the intervening avenues and boulevard by arched bridges, to the Riverside Park, which skirts the Hudson. This last will be one of the most beautiful improvements on the island. Commencing at Seventy-second street, with the rocky highland, it continues along the bank of the Hudson as far north as One Hundred and Thirtieth street. It will be bounded on the east by the new River-bank avenue, which runs along the crest of the highland, and is to beone hundred feet wide, and on the west by Twelfth avenue. It is difficult to imagine a more charming variety of scenery than this park must present from its many prominent points. A continuous view of the Hudson for miles will be seen, with the bold highlands of New Jersey on the opposite shore, and the limpid waters of the river adding variety to the charming landscape. Turning toward the north, Fort Washington looms up in grand proportions against the distant horizon, covered with rich foliage, and studded here and there with princely mansions. Glancing eastward, the park, with its charming intermingling of natural and artificial beauty, stretches away toward the East River in endless variety of lawn, shrubbery, and pebbly pathway; while to the south a grand panoramic view of the island city is presented, with its myriad towers and steeples of public buildings and of churches, all attesting the prosperity and wealth of the people. We hope the Park Commissioners will consider the extension we have above suggested. If made now, its expense would be light in comparison with the increased value of the property bordering the proposed connections; while the combination of the two parks, the boulevard, and the Zoölogical Garden would form a succession of grand pleasure-grounds such as no city of the world can now boast of.
We have still to mention Morningside Park, which is to commence at One Hundred and Tenth street, and extend as far north as One Hundred and Twenty-third street. It will be somewhat irregular in form and its southern portion will be bounded on either side by one of the new avenues, and the northern extremity by Ninth and Tenth avenues. It is most fortunate that the original intention of cutting down the grade of the streets in this section has been changed, and the matter left to the option of the Central Park Commissioners. We may rest assured that excellent taste will harmonize their improvements, and every notable point be reserved for some artistic design, and thus no natural advantage be destroyed which would add to the beautiful symmetry of the whole.
During the progress of these vast improvements a permanent system of sewerage should be devised for the comfort and convenience of the inhabitants of this district. At present this could be readily effected, as in many parts of the boulevard, Eighth avenue, and side streets, the grade will have to be raised several feet above the present level. This is particularly noticeable in the boulevard in the neighborhood of Eighty-fourth street, where the old Broadway road must lie twenty feet below the grade of the grand drive. It should also be a question as to the kind of sewer to be adopted. We are convinced that throwing away the contents of our sewers is an irreparable error, as all thedébrispassing through them should be used as a fertilizing agent. Throughout the country, but more particularly in the South, is the reckless abuse of the soil noticeable. Our farmers sow and reap their crops year after year until the earth is worn out, and loses its productive power; then they seek new fields. Our territory is so vast, that the effect of this wretched mode of farming has not as yet been felt; but it must be, sooner or later. In many parts of Europe, the same ruinous policy has been pursued, and now the inhabitants are obliged to import guano to sufficiently revivify their impoverished land to raise even the lightest crop. We are happy to see that some of our public men have had their attention drawn to this fact. Senator Sprague in arecent conversation said, "We are rapidly exhausting our virgin soil, without furnishing it the means of recovery in the shape of fertilizers, and extending our railroads to new tracts as fast as we wear out the old cultivated ones." If we could deodorize the material from our sewers, and put it to practical uses, we would be gainers in many ways. In the first place, our piers would be relieved of the enormous quantity of decomposing matter which may constantly be seen festering under the sun's rays, and emitting pestilential exhalations; and secondly, a vast amount of valuable fertilizing material would be garnered from this large city, which would go far toward enriching the lands around us; and we may add that this experiment has been tried, and proved not only a success, but also highly remunerative.
"Sewerage has been advantageously deodorized and applied to agricultural uses in localities in England, where it could not be conveniently discharged into the sea, by the process of Mr. W. Higgs, of Westminster, which consists in collecting it in large tanks and admitting with it a stream of lime-water, the effect of which is to cause the precipitation of the organic matter with the phosphates, urates, sulphates, etc., and the expulsion of any free ammonia. Through the cover of the tanks the ammonia and all gaseous matters are conveyed by a pipe into a convoluted chamber, where they are fixed by various chemical reagents, and preserved. The tanks, when full, are allowed to remain undisturbed for an hour, when the liquids are drawn off clear and without odor. The pulpy sediments are then collected and dried, and rendered fit for the market. The expense of the process was rated at £1 per ton, and the manure thus prepared was sold at Cardiff for £3 per ton."[70]
"Sewerage has been advantageously deodorized and applied to agricultural uses in localities in England, where it could not be conveniently discharged into the sea, by the process of Mr. W. Higgs, of Westminster, which consists in collecting it in large tanks and admitting with it a stream of lime-water, the effect of which is to cause the precipitation of the organic matter with the phosphates, urates, sulphates, etc., and the expulsion of any free ammonia. Through the cover of the tanks the ammonia and all gaseous matters are conveyed by a pipe into a convoluted chamber, where they are fixed by various chemical reagents, and preserved. The tanks, when full, are allowed to remain undisturbed for an hour, when the liquids are drawn off clear and without odor. The pulpy sediments are then collected and dried, and rendered fit for the market. The expense of the process was rated at £1 per ton, and the manure thus prepared was sold at Cardiff for £3 per ton."[70]
It is an unquestionable fact that through the sewers of cities enormous quantities of the constituents of plants are conveyed into the sea, and unless saved and restored to the soil, the loss must be made up from other sources, or the lands become impoverished. From the London sewers, refuse matter is thrown into the river Thames; and so fearfully does this immense body of filth pollute its waters that it has been found necessary during warm weather to neutralize the impurity and destroy the foul gases by throwing large quantities of disinfectants into the river, costing the city as much as "£20,000 in the summer of 1859." They are now constructing an addition to their sewers which will carry their contents along the course of the river eight miles to Barking, into a reservoir a mile and a half long, and about one hundred feet wide by twenty-one feet deep. From this reservoir it will be, at high-tide, discharged, through numerous large pipes, into the middle and bottom of the river, at the depth of sixty feet below the surface. "The estimated cost of this vast work is about £4,000,000, and the time fixed for its completion five years."[71]