The Almighty1 Dollar. -- WASHINGTON IRVING. The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk; with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame; Buy cheap, sell dear; eat, drink, and sleep Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want; Pay tithes2 for soul-insurance; keep Six days to Mammon, one to Cant3. -- J. G. WHITTIER. Every one is as God made him, and oftentimes A great deal worse. -- MIGUEL DE CERVANTES. CHAPTER IV. A FEW SPECIMENS4 OF HUMANITY
Down Town--Messrs. Flint & Snarle--Tim, the Office Boy, and the pale Book-Keeper--The Escritoire--The Purloined5 Package--Mr. Flint goes Home--Midnight--Miss Daisy Snarle--The Poor Author.
In one of those thousand and one vein-like streets which cross and recross the mercantile heart of Gotham, is situated6 a red brick edifice7, which, like the beggar who solicits8 your charity in the Park, has seen better days. In the time of our Knickerbocker sires, it was an aristocratic dwelling9 fronting on a fashionable street, and "Jeems," in green livery, opened the hall door. The street was a quiet, orderly street in those days--a certain air of conscious respectability hung about it. Sometimes a private cabriolet rolled augustly along; and of summer evenings the city beaux, with extraordinary shoe-buckles, might have been seen promenading10 the grass-fringed sidewalks. To-day it is a miasmatic11, miserable12, muddy thoroughfare. Your ears are startled by the "Extray 'rival of the 'Rabia," and the omnibuses dash through the little confined street with a perfect madness. Instead of the white-kidded, be-ruffled gallants of Eld, you meet a hurrying throng13 of pale, anxious faces, with tare14, tret and speculation15 in their eyes. It is a business street, for Mammon has banished16 Fashion to the golden precincts of Fifth Avenue. The green of Jeems' livery is, like himself, invisible. He has departed this life--gone, like Hiawatha, to the Land of the Hereafter--to the land of spirits, where we can conceive him to be in his element; but he has a "town residence" in an obscure graveyard17, with his name and "recommendation" on a stone door-plate. His mundane18 superiors are reclining beneath the shadow of St. Paul's steeple, where they are regaled with some delectable20 music (if you would only think so) from the balcony of the Museum opposite, and have the combined benefit of Barnum's scenic-artist and the Drummond light. The massive door-plate, and highly polished, distorted knocker, no longer grace the oaken panels of number 85; but a republican sign over the family-looking doorway21 tells you that "the front room, second floor," is occupied by Messrs. Flint & Snarle. After passing up a flight of broad, uncarpeted stairs, you again see the name of that respectable firm painted on a light of ground glass set in the office door. Once on the other side of that threshold, you breathe mercantile air. There have been so many brain-trying interest calculations worked out on those high desks, that the very atmosphere, figuratively speaking, is mathematical. The sign should not read Flint & Snarle, for Snarle has been dead six months, and it is not pleasant to contemplate22 a name without an owner--it is not to every one, but Mr. Flint likes to read the sign, and think that Snarle is dead. He was the reverse of Flint, and that his name should have been Snarle at all is odd, for in life he was the quintessence of quietness, and the oil of good nature. But Flint is well named; he is chalcedony at heart. Nobody says this, but everybody knows it. Nell, the pretty match-girl, who sells her wares23 in Wall-street, never approaches him, nor the newsboys; and blind men, with sagacious, half-fed dogs, steer24 clear of him by instinct. He doesn't tolerate paupers25, and Italian hand-organs with monkey accompaniments--not he. The man who has not as much money as the surviving senior of Flint & Snarle, is a dog--in Flint's distinguished26 estimation. His God is not that divine Presence, whose thought "Shaped the world, And laid it in the sunbeams." Flint's God is Gold.-- "Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammered and rolled; Heavy to get, and light to hold; Hoarded27, bartered28, bought and sold; Stolen, borrowed, squandered29, doled30; Spurned31 by the young, but hugged by the old To the very verge32 of the church-yard mould; Price of many a crime untold33: Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!" Flint is about fifty-three years of age; but if you could forget his gray hair, and look only at those small, piercing black eyes, you would hardly think him forty. His black dress-coat is buttoned around his somewhat attenuated34 form, and he wears a stiff white cravat35 because it looks religious. In this respect, and perhaps in others, you will find Flint's prototype on every corner--people who look religious, if religion can be associated with the aspect of an undertaker. It is Monday morning. Mr. Flint sits in his private office reading the letters. There is a window cut in the wall, and he glances through it now and then, eyeing the book-keeper as if the poor careworn36 fellow were making false entries. On a high consumptive-looking stool sits the office boy, filing away answered letters and sundry37 bills paid. The stool seems so high and the boy so small, that he at once suggests some one occupying a dangerous position--at a mast-head or on the golden ball of a church-steeple. For thus risking his life, he receives "thirty dollars per year, and clothing." We like to have forgotten that. The said clothing consists of one white cravat full of hinges, and a dilapidated coat, twelve sizes too large for him, his widowed mother supplying the deficiency. Save the monotonous38 ticking of a thick-set, croupy clock, and the nervous scratching of pens, not a sound is heard. Mr. Flint in deep thought, with his thumbs lost in the arm-holes of a white vest, paces up and down his limited sanctum, just as a thoughtful-eyed, velvet-mouthed leopard39 walks its confined cage, only waiting for a chance to put its paws on somebody. The stool on which the boy is sitting is a rickety concern, and its creakings annoy Mr. Flint, who comes out, and looks over the orphan40's shoulder. If his lynx eyes discover a document incorrectly filed, he pinches the delinquent's ears, till he (the orphan) is as red in the face as an August sunset. Mr. Flint chuckles41 when he gets back to his desk, and seems to enjoy it immensely, for he drums out an exhilarating dead march with his long, wiry fingers on the cover of the letter-book. The pale book-keeper--his hair and eyes are darker than when we first saw him sitting with little Bell at "the round window" in the Old House--continues to write assiduously; and the orphan thinks that he hears fire-bells, his ears ring so. He's an unfortunate atom of humanity, that office-boy. He was never young. He never passed through the degrading cycles of infancy--never had any marbles or hoops42: his limbs were never ignominiously43 confined by those "triangular44 arrangements" incidental to babyhood. At five, when other children are bumping their heads over steep stairs, he smoked cinnamon segars, and was a precocious45, astute46 little villain47 at seven. For thirty-six months he folded books for Harper & Brothers, and at the advanced age of ten years three months, was bound over to the tender mercies of Flint & Snarle for "thirty dollars per year and clothing," (so the indentures48 read;) but as he is charged with all the inkstands demolished49 during the term, and one gross of imaginary lead pencils, he generally has about twenty-five dollars to his credit on the 1st of January, which Flint generously offers to keep for him at four per cent. interest, and which offer the ungrateful orphan "firmly but respectfully" declines. "Mortimer!" cries Mr. Flint, in a quick, snarly50 voice from the inner office. The book-keeper lays down the pen which he has just dipped in the ink, and disappears in the little room. Mr. Flint is turning over the leaves of the invoice51 book. "In thirteen pages there are no less than two blots52 and five erasures. You have grown careless in your penmanship lately;" and Mr. Flint closes the book with a report like that of a pocket-pistol, and opens it again. One would suppose the office-boy to be shot directly through the heart; but he survives, and is attacked with a wonderful fit of industry. "Do you write in your sleep?" inquires Mr. Flint, with a quiet insolence53. Mortimer thinks how often he has toiled54 over those same pages at hours when he should have been sleeping--hours taken from his life. But he makes no reply. He only bites his lips, and lets his eyes flash. Suddenly a thought strikes him, and, bending over Mr. Flint's shoulder, as if to examine more closely his careless chirography, he takes a small key from an open drawer in the escritoire behind him, and drops it into his vest-pocket. After receiving a petulant56 reprimand, Mortimer returns to his desk; and again that weary, weary pen scratches over the paper. After the bank deposit is made up, and Mr. Flint looks over the bill-book, and startles the orphan from a state of semi-somnolency, he goes on 'Change. He is no sooner out, than Mortimer throws Tim a bit of silver coin. "Get some apples for yourself, Tim." Tim (he's small of his age) slides down from the high stool with agility57, while his two eyes look like interrogation points. He is wondering at this sudden outbreak of munificence58, for though "Mr. Mortimer" always had a kind word for Tim, and tried to extricate59 him from the web of mistakes which Tim was forever spinning around himself, yet Tim never knew him to come down with the "block tin" before, as he eloquently60 expressed it; and he looks at Mortimer all the time he is getting his cap, and pauses a moment at the door to see if he doesn't repent61. When Tim's feet cease sounding on the stairs, Mortimer goes into the back office, and with the key which he had taken from the drawer, unlocks a small iron hand-safe. His trembling fingers turn over package after package; at last he finds one which seems to be the object of his search. This he hastily conceals62 in the bosom63 of his coat. After carefully re-locking the safe, he approaches the escritoire to return the purloined key, but to his dismay he finds the drawer locked. The one above it, however, is unfastened. Drawing this out, he places the key in its right compartment64. Mortimer, in searching for the paper which he has hidden in his bosom, had removed several others from the safe; but in his nervousness he had neglected to replace a small morocco case. He discovers his negligence65, and hears foot-falls on the stairs at the same moment. There is no time to re-open the chest: he wraps the case in his handkerchief, and resumes his place at the desk. Tim returns munching66 the remains67 of a gigantic apple, and bearing about him a convicting smell of peanuts. Suddenly Mr. Flint enters, and Tim is necessitated68 to swallow the core of his russet without that usual preparatory mastication69 which nature's kindly70 law suggests. Mr. Flint has made a capital bargain on 'Change, and his face is lighted up with a smile, if fancy can coax71 such an expression into one. It looks like a gas-light in an undertaker's window. It is five o'clock. Mr. Flint goes home to doze72 over a diminutive73 glass of sherry. He holds it up between his eyes and the light, smiling to see the liquid jewels, and wishes that they were real rubies74. Flint! they are red tears, and not jewels which glisten75 in your glass, for you crushed the poor, and took advantage of the unfortunate to buy this pleasant blood which pulses in your brittle76 chalice77! That night he thought of a pair of blue, innocent eyes which once looked pleadingly in his--of two tiny arms that were once wound fondly around his neck. Those eyes haunted him into the misty78 realm of dreams, where myriads79 of little arms were stretched out to him; and he turned restlessly on his pillow. Ah, Flint, there is an invisible and powerful spirit in the heart of every man that will speak. It whispers to the criminal in his cell; and the downy pillows and sumptuous80 drapery around the couch of Wealth cannot keep it away at midnight. There is not a house but has its skeleton. There is a ghastly one in Flint's. The silvery lips in Trinity steeple chime the hour of eleven; St. Paul's catch it up, and hosts of belfrys toss the hour to and fro like a shuttle-cork. Then the goblin bells hush81 themselves to sleep again in their dizzy nests, murmuring, murmuring!--and the pen of the pale book-keeper keeps time with the ticking of the office time-piece. It is nearly twelve o'clock when he reaches the door of a common two-story house in Marion-street. The door is opened before he can turn the bolt with his night-key, and the whitest possible little hand presses his. He draws it within his own, and places his arm around the daintiest little waist that ever submitted to the operation. Then the two enter the front parlor82, where the dim light falls on Mortimer and a beautiful girl on the verge of womanhood. She looks into his face, and his lips touch a tress of chestnut83 hair which has fallen over his shoulder. "You are very pale. Have you been unwell to-day?" "No, Daisy," and he bends down and kisses her. "Why do you persist in sitting up for me? I shall scold if you spoil your cheeks. Kiss me, Daisy." The girl pouts84, and declares she won't, as she coquettishly twines85 her arms around his neck, and Mortimer has such a kiss as all Flint's bank stock could not buy him--a pure, earnest kiss. He was rich, poor in the world's eye, richer than Flint, with his corpulent money bags, God pity him! They sit a long while without speaking. Mortimer breaks the silence. "We are very poor, Daisy." "Yes, but happy." "Sometimes. To-night I am not; I am weary of this daily toiling86. The world is not a workshop to wear out souls in. Man has perverted87 its use. Life, and thought, and brain, are but crucibles88 to smelt89 gold in. Nobleness is made the slave of avarice90, just as a pure stream is taught to turn a mill-wheel and become foul91 and muddied. The rich are scornful, and the poor sorrowful. O, Daisy, such things should not be! My heart beats when I think how poorly you and your mother are living." "O, how much we owe you, Mortimer! you are selling your life for us. From morning till night, day after day, you have been our slave. Poor, dear Mortimer, how can we thank you? We can only give you love and prayers. You will not let me help you. Last night, when you found me embroidering92 a collar, a bit of work which Mrs. Potiphar had kindly given me, you pleasantly cut it in pieces with your pen-knife, and then pawned93 your gold pencil to pay for ruining Mrs. Potiphar's muslin--too proud to have me work!" "Why will you pain me, darling? I was complaining for others, not myself. I do not toil55 as thousands do. I am impulsive94 and irascible, and do not mean all I say. I am ungrateful; my heart should be full of gratitude95 to-night, for the cloud which has hung over me the last six months has shown its silver lining19." "What do you mean?" cries Daisy. "Do you know that you are an heiress?" asks Mortimer, gaily96. Daisy laughs at the idea, and mockingly says, "Yes." "An heiress to a good name, Daisy! which is better than purple, and linen97, and fine gold." Daisy looks mystified, but forbears to question him, for he complains of sleep. The lovers part at the head of the stairs. Mortimer, on reaching his room, draws a paper from his bosom; he weeps over it, reads it again and again; then he holds it in the flame of a candle. When the ashes have fallen at his feet, he exclaims: "I have kept my promise, Harvey Snarle! Peace to your memory!" From a writing-desk in a corner of the room he takes a pile of manuscript, and weary as he is, adds several pages to it. The dream of his boyhood has grown with him--that delightful98 dream of authorship! How this will-o'-the-wisp of the brain entices99 one into mental fogs! How it coaxes100 and pets one, cheats and ruins one! And so that appalling101 pile of closely-written manuscript is Mortimer's romance? Wasted hours and wasted thought--who would buy or read it? A down-town clock strikes the hour of two so gently, that it sounds like the tinkling102 of sheep-bells coming through the misty twilight103 air from the green meadows. With which felicitous104 simile105 we will give our hero a little sleep, after having kept him up two hours after midnight. Slumber106 touches his eyelids107 gently; but Daisy lies awake for hours; at last, falling into a trouble sleep, she dreams that she is an heiress. Oh, Daisy Snarle!
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1
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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solicits
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| 恳请 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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promenading
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| v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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miasmatic
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| adj.毒气的，沼气的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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tare
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| n.皮重；v.量皮重 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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paupers
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| n.穷人( pauper的名词复数 )；贫民；贫穷 | |
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distinguished
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bartered
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| v.作物物交换，以货换货( barter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doled
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| 救济物( dole的过去式和过去分词 )； 失业救济金 | |
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spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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careworn
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| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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leopard
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| n.豹 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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indentures
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| vt.以契约束缚（indenture的第三人称单数形式） | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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snarly
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| adj.善于嚣叫的；脾气坏的；爱谩骂的；纠缠在一起的 | |
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invoice
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| vt.开发票；n.发票，装货清单 | |
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blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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conceals
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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64
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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necessitated
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| 使…成为必要，需要( necessitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mastication
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| n.咀嚼 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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glisten
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| vi.（光洁或湿润表面等）闪闪发光，闪闪发亮 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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81
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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84
pouts
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| n.撅嘴，生气( pout的名词复数 )v.撅（嘴）( pout的第三人称单数 ) | |
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twines
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| n.盘绕( twine的名词复数 )；麻线；捻；缠绕在一起的东西 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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crucibles
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| n.坩埚，严酷的考验（ crucible的名词复数 ） | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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entices
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
coaxes
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的第三人称单数 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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101
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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102
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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103
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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106
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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107
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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