The Bow of Orange Ribbon | Page 2

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."
[Illustration: Joris Van Heemskirk]
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.
In the spring this garden was a wonder of tulips and hyacinths and
lilacs, of sweet daffodils and white lilies. In the summer it was ruddy
with roses, and blazing with verbenas, and gay with the laburnum's
gold cascade. Then the musk carnations and the pale slashed pinks
exhaled a fragrance that made the heart dream idyls. In the autumn
there was the warm, sweet smell of peaches and pears and apples.
There were morning-glories in riotous profusion, tall hollyhocks, and
wonderful dahlias. In winter it still had charms,--the white snow, and
the green box and cedar and holly, and the sharp descent of its frozen
paths to the frozen river. Councillor Van Heemskirk's father had built
the house and planted the garden, and he had the Dutch reverence for a

good ancestry. Often he sent his thoughts backward to remember how
he walked by his father's side, or leaned against his mother's chair, as
they told him the tragic tales of the old Barneveldt and the hapless De
Witts; or how his young heart glowed to their memories of the dear
fatherland, and the proud march of the Batavian republic.
But this night the mournful glamour of the past caught a fresh glory
from the dawn of a grander day forespoken. "More than three hundred
vessels may leave the port of New York this same year," he thought. "It
is the truth; every man of standing says so. Good-evening, Mr. Justice.
Good-evening, neighbours;" and he stood a minute, with his hands on
his garden-gate, to bow to Justice Van Gaasbeeck and to Peter Sluyter,
who, with their wives, were going to spend an hour or two at
Christopher Laer's garden. There the women would have chocolate and
hot waffles, and discuss the new camblets and shoes just arrived from
England, and to be bought at Jacob Kip's store; and the men would
have a pipe of Virginia and a glass of hot Hollands, and fight over
again the quarrel pending between the governor and the Assembly.
"Men can bear all things but good days," said Peter Sluyter, when they
had gone a dozen yards in silence; "since Van Heemskirk has a seat in
the council-room, it is a long way to his hat."
"Come, now, he was very civil, Sluyter. He bows like a man not used to