"Love, that old song, of which the world is never weary."

It was one of those beautiful, lengthening days, when May was pressing

back with both hands the shades of the morning and the evening; May in

New York one hundred and twenty-one years ago, and yet the May of A.D.

1886,--the same clear air and wind, the same rarefied freshness, full of

faint, passing aromas from the wet earth and the salt sea and the

blossoming gardens. For on the shore of the East River the gardens still

sloped down, even to below Peck Slip; and behind old Trinity the

apple-trees blossomed like bridal nosegays, the pear-trees rose in

immaculate pyramids, and here and there cows were coming up heavily to

the scattered houses; the lazy, intermitting tinkle of their bells

giving a pleasant notice of their approach to the waiting

milking-women.

In the city the business of the day was over; but at the open doors of

many of the shops, little groups of apprentices in leather aprons were

talking, and on the broad steps of the City Hall a number of

grave-looking men were slowly separating after a very satisfactory civic

session. They had been discussing the marvellous increase of the export

trade of New York; and some vision of their city's future greatness may

have appeared to them, for they held themselves with the lofty and

confident air of wealthy merchants and "members of his Majesty's Council

for the Province of New York."

They were all noticeable men, but Joris Van Heemskirk specially so. His

bulk was so great that it seemed as if he must have been built up: it

was too much to expect that he had ever been a baby. He had a fair,

ruddy face, and large, firm eyes, and a mouth that was at once strong

and sweet. And he was also very handsomely dressed. The long, stiff

skirts of his dark-blue coat were lined with satin, his breeches were

black velvet, his ruffles edged with Flemish lace, his shoes clasped

with silver buckles, his cocked hat made of the finest beaver.

With his head a little forward, and his right arm across his back, he

walked slowly up Wall Street into Broadway, and then took a

north-westerly direction toward the river-bank. His home was on the

outskirts of the city, but not far away; and his face lightened as he

approached it. It was a handsome house, built of yellow bricks, two

stories high, with windows in the roof, and gables sending up sharp

points skyward. There were weather-cocks on the gables, and little round

holes below the weather-cocks, and small iron cranes below the holes,

and little windows below the cranes,--all perfectly useless, but also

perfectly picturesque and perfectly Dutch. The rooms were large and

airy, and the garden sloped down to the river-side. It had paths

bordered by clipped box, and shaded by holly and yew trees cut in

fantastic shapes.




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