“It seems to be easier than it is, I begin to think,” replied Philip.
“Well, why don’t you go into something? You’ll never dig it out of the Astor Library.”
If there be any place and time in the world where and when it seems easy to “go into something” it is in Broadway on a spring morning, when one is walking city-ward, and has before him the long lines of palace-shops with an occasional spire2 seen through the soft haze3 that lies over the lower town, and hears the roar and hum of its multitudinous traffic.
To the young American, here or elsewhere, the paths to fortune are innumerable and all open; there is invitation in the air and success in all his wide horizon. He is embarrassed which to choose, and is not unlikely to waste years in dallying5 with his chances, before giving himself to the serious tug6 and strain of a single object. He has no traditions to bind7 him or guide him, and his impulse is to break away from the occupation his father has followed, and make a new way for himself.
Philip Sterling8 used to say that if he should seriously set himself for ten years to any one of the dozen projects that were in his brain, he felt that he could be a rich man. He wanted to be rich, he had a sincere desire for a fortune, but for some unaccountable reason he hesitated about addressing himself to the narrow work of getting it. He never walked Broadway, a part of its tide of abundant shifting life, without feeling something of the flush of wealth, and unconsciously taking the elastic9 step of one well-to-do in this prosperous world.
Especially at night in the crowded theatre—Philip was too young to remember the old Chambers’ Street box, where the serious Burton led his hilarious10 and pagan crew—in the intervals11 of the screaming comedy, when the orchestra scraped and grunted12 and tooted its dissolute tunes13, the world seemed full of opportunities to Philip, and his heart exulted14 with a conscious ability to take any of its prizes he chose to pluck.
Perhaps it was the swimming ease of the acting15, on the stage, where virtue16 had its reward in three easy acts, perhaps it was the excessive light of the house, or the music, or the buzz of the excited talk between acts, perhaps it was youth which believed everything, but for some reason while Philip was at the theatre he had the utmost confidence in life and his ready victory in it.
Delightful17 illusion of paint and tinsel and silk attire18, of cheap sentiment and high and mighty19 dialogue! Will there not always be rosin enough for the squeaking20 fiddle-bow?
Do we not all like the maudlin21 hero, who is sneaking22 round the right entrance, in wait to steal the pretty wife of his rich and tyrannical neighbor from the paste-board cottage at the left entrance? and when he advances down to the foot-lights and defiantly23 informs the audience that, “he who lays his hand on a woman except in the way of kindness,” do we not all applaud so as to drown the rest of the sentence?
Philip never was fortunate enough to hear what would become of a man who should lay his hand on a woman with the exception named; but he learned afterwards that the woman who lays her hand on a man, without any exception whatsoever24, is always acquitted25 by the jury.
The fact was, though Philip Sterling did not know it, that he wanted several other things quite as much as he wanted wealth. The modest fellow would have liked fame thrust upon him for some worthy26 achievement; it might be for a book, or for the skillful management of some great newspaper, or for some daring expedition like that of Lt. Strain or Dr. Kane. He was unable to decide exactly what it should be. Sometimes he thought he would like to stand in a conspicuous27 pulpit and humbly28 preach the gospel of repentance29; and it even crossed his mind that it would be noble to give himself to a missionary30 life to some benighted31 region, where the date-palm grows, and the nightingale’s voice is in tune1, and the bul-bul sings on the off nights. If he were good enough he would attach himself to that company of young men in the Theological Seminary, who were seeing New York life in preparation for the ministry32.
Philip was a New England boy and had graduated at Yale; he had not carried off with him all the learning of that venerable institution, but he knew some things that were not in the regular course of study. A very good use of the English language and considerable knowledge of its literature was one of them; he could sing a song very well, not in time to be sure, but with enthusiasm; he could make a magnetic speech at a moment’s notice in the class room, the debating society, or upon any fence or dry-goods box that was convenient; he could lift himself by one arm, and do the giant swing in the gymnasium; he could strike out from his left shoulder; he could handle an oar4 like a professional and pull stroke in a winning race. Philip had a good appetite, a sunny temper, and a clear hearty33 laugh. He had brown hair, hazel eyes set wide apart, a broad but not high forehead, and a fresh winning face. He was six feet high, with broad shoulders, long legs and a swinging gait; one of those loose-jointed, capable fellows, who saunter into the world with a free air and usually make a stir in whatever company they enter.
After he left college Philip took the advice of friends and read law. Law seemed to him well enough as a science, but he never could discover a practical case where it appeared to him worth while to go to law, and all the clients who stopped with this new clerk in the ante-room of the law office where he was writing, Philip invariably advised to settle—no matter how, but settle—greatly to the disgust of his employer, who knew that justice between man and man could only be attained34 by the recognized processes, with the attendant fees. Besides Philip hated the copying of pleadings, and he was certain that a life of “whereases” and “aforesaids” and whipping the devil round the stump35, would be intolerable.
[Note: these few paragraphs are nearly an autobiography36 of the life of Charles Dudley Warner whose contributions to the story start here with Chapter XII. D.W.]
His pen therefore, and whereas, and not as aforesaid, strayed off into other scribbling37. In an unfortunate hour, he had two or three papers accepted by first-class magazines, at three dollars the printed page, and, behold38, his vocation39 was open to him. He would make his mark in literature.
Life has no moment so sweet as that in which a young man believes himself called into the immortal40 ranks of the masters of literature. It is such a noble ambition, that it is a pity it has usually such a shallow foundation.
At the time of this history, Philip had gone to New York for a career. With his talent he thought he should have little difficulty in getting an editorial position upon a metropolitan41 newspaper; not that he knew anything about newspaper work, or had the least idea of journalism42; he knew he was not fitted for the technicalities of the subordinate departments, but he could write leaders with perfect ease, he was sure. The drudgery43 of the newspaper office was too distasteful, and besides it would be beneath the dignity of a graduate and a successful magazine writer. He wanted to begin at the top of the ladder.
To his surprise he found that every situation in the editorial department of the journals was full, always had been full, was always likely to be full. It seemed to him that the newspaper managers didn’t want genius, but mere44 plodding45 and grubbing. Philip therefore read diligently46 in the Astor library, planned literary works that should compel attention, and nursed his genius. He had no friend wise enough to tell him to step into the Dorking Convention, then in session, make a sketch47 of the men and women on the platform, and take it to the editor of the Daily Grapevine, and see what he could get a line for it.
One day he had an offer from some country friends, who believed in him, to take charge of a provincial48 daily newspaper, and he went to consult Mr. Gringo—Gringo who years ago managed the Atlas—about taking the situation.
“Take it of course,” says Gringo, “take anything that offers, why not?”
“But they want me to make it an opposition49 paper.”
“Well, make it that. That party is going to succeed, it’s going to elect the next president.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Philip, stoutly50, “its wrong in principle, and it ought not to succeed, but I don’t see how I can go for a thing I don’t believe in.”
“O, very well,” said Gringo, turning away with a shade of contempt, “you’ll find if you are going into literature and newspaper work that you can’t afford a conscience like that.”
But Philip did afford it, and he wrote, thanking his friends, and declining because he said the political scheme would fail, and ought to fail. And he went back to his books and to his waiting for an opening large enough for his dignified51 entrance into the literary world.
It was in this time of rather impatient waiting that Philip was one morning walking down Broadway with Henry Brierly. He frequently accompanied Henry part way down town to what the latter called his office in Broad Street, to which he went, or pretended to go, with regularity52 every day. It was evident to the most casual acquaintance that he was a man of affairs, and that his time was engrossed53 in the largest sort of operations, about which there was a mysterious air. His liability to be suddenly summoned to Washington, or Boston or Montreal or even to Liverpool was always imminent54. He never was so summoned, but none of his acquaintances would have been surprised to hear any day that he had gone to Panama or Peoria, or to hear from him that he had bought the Bank of Commerce.
The two were intimate at that time,—they had been classmates—and saw a great deal of each other. Indeed, they lived together in Ninth Street, in a boarding-house, there, which had the honor of lodging55 and partially56 feeding several other young fellows of like kidney, who have since gone their several ways into fame or into obscurity.
It was during the morning walk to which reference has been made that Henry Brierly suddenly said, “Philip, how would you like to go to St. Jo?”
“I think I should like it of all things,” replied Philip, with some hesitation57, “but what for.”
“Oh, it’s a big operation. We are going, a lot of us, railroad men, engineers, contractors58. You know my uncle is a great railroad man. I’ve no doubt I can get you a chance to go if you’ll go.”
“But in what capacity would I go?”
“Well, I’m going as an engineer. You can go as one.”
“I don’t know an engine from a coal cart.”
“Field engineer, civil engineer. You can begin by carrying a rod, and putting down the figures. It’s easy enough. I’ll show you about that. We’ll get Trautwine and some of those books.”
“Yes, but what is it for, what is it all about?”
“Why don’t you see? We lay out a line, spot the good land, enter it up, know where the stations are to be, spot them, buy lots; there’s heaps of money in it. We wouldn’t engineer long.”
“When do you go?” was Philip’s next question, after some moments of silence.
“To-morrow. Is that too soon?”
“No, its not too soon. I’ve been ready to go anywhere for six months. The fact is, Henry, that I’m about tired of trying to force myself into things, and am quite willing to try floating with the stream for a while, and see where I will land. This seems like a providential call; it’s sudden enough.”
The two young men who were by this time full of the adventure, went down to the Wall street office of Henry’s uncle and had a talk with that wily operator. The uncle knew Philip very well, and was pleased with his frank enthusiasm, and willing enough to give him a trial in the western venture. It was settled therefore, in the prompt way in which things are settled in New York, that they would start with the rest of the company next morning for the west.
On the way up town these adventurers bought books on engineering, and suits of India-rubber, which they supposed they would need in a new and probably damp country, and many other things which nobody ever needed anywhere.
The night was spent in packing up and writing letters, for Philip would not take such an important step without informing his friends. If they disapprove59, thought he, I’ve done my duty by letting them know. Happy youth, that is ready to pack its valise, and start for Cathay on an hour’s notice.
“By the way,” calls out Philip from his bed-room, to Henry, “where is St. Jo.?”
“Why, it’s in Missouri somewhere, on the frontier I think. We’ll get a map.”
“Never mind the map. We will find the place itself. I was afraid it was nearer home.”
Philip wrote a long letter, first of all, to his mother, full of love and glowing anticipations60 of his new opening. He wouldn’t bother her with business details, but he hoped that the day was not far off when she would see him return, with a moderate fortune, and something to add to the comfort of her advancing years.
To his uncle he said that he had made an arrangement with some New York capitalists to go to Missouri, in a land and railroad operation, which would at least give him a knowledge of the world and not unlikely offer him a business opening. He knew his uncle would be glad to hear that he had at last turned his thoughts to a practical matter.
It was to Ruth Bolton that Philip wrote last. He might never see her again; he went to seek his fortune. He well knew the perils61 of the frontier, the savage62 state of society, the lurking63 Indians and the dangers of fever. But there was no real danger to a person who took care of himself. Might he write to her often and, tell her of his life. If he returned with a fortune, perhaps and perhaps. If he was unsuccessful, or if he never returned—perhaps it would be as well. No time or distance, however, would ever lessen64 his interest in her. He would say good-night, but not good-bye.
In the soft beginning of a Spring morning, long before New York had breakfasted, while yet the air of expectation hung about the wharves65 of the metropolis66, our young adventurers made their way to the Jersey67 City railway station of the Erie road, to begin the long, swinging, crooked68 journey, over what a writer of a former day called a causeway of cracked rails and cows, to the West.
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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13
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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14
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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50
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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51
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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52
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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54
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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59
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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64
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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