RODNEY IN PHILADELPHIA.
Young Rodney was prepared for an early start on the following
morning; and, in company with Bill Seegor, he crossed the ferry
to Jersey City just as the sun rose, and together they commenced
their journey to Philadelphia. They were soon beyond the
pavements of the town, and in the open country. It was a lovely
morning, and the bright summer developed its beauties, and
dispensed its fragrance along their path. The birds sang
sweetly, and darted on swift wing around them. The cattle roamed
lazily over the fields, and the busy farmers were everywhere
industriously toiling. All nature seemed joyously reflecting the
serene smile of a benevolent God.
Even the wicked hearts of the wanderers seemed lightened by the
influence of the glorious morning, and cheerily, with many a
jocund song and homely jest, they pressed on their way. Even
guilt can sometimes forget its baseness, and enjoy the bounties
of the kind Creator, for which it expresses no thankfulness and
feels no gratitude.
At noon they stopped at a farmer's house, and Bill told the
honest old man that they belonged to a ship which had sailed
round to Philadelphia; that it had left New York unexpectedly,
without their knowledge, and taken their chests and clothes
which had been placed on board; and that, being without money,
they were compelled to walk across to Philadelphia to meet it.
The farmer believed the falsehood, and charitably gave them a
good dinner. They walked on till after sunset, and then crossed
over a field, and climbed up into a rack filled with hay, where
they slept all night.
In the morning they started forward very hungry, for they had
eaten nothing, since the noon before, except a few green apples.
They stopped at the first farm-house on the road, and, by
telling the same falsehood that had procured them a meal the day
before, excited the pity of the farmer and obtained a good
breakfast.
Thus did they go on, lying and begging their way along.
On the third day there were heavy showers, accompanied by fierce
lightnings and crashing thunders. They were as thoroughly soaked
as if they had been thrown into the river, and at night had to
sleep on a haystack, in the open field, in their wet clothes.
Rodney's feet, too, had become very sore, and he walked in great
and constant pain.
In the afternoon of the fourth day they stopped on the banks of
the Delaware, five or six miles from Philadelphia, to wash their
clothes, which had become filthy in travelling through the dust
and mud. As they had no clothing but what they wore, there was
nothing else to be done but to strip, wash out their soiled
garments, and lay them out on the bank to dry, while they swam
about the river, or waited on the shore, with what patience they
could summon.
A little after sunset they reached the suburbs of the great
city; and now the sore feet and wearied limbs of the boy could
scarcely sustain him over the hard pavements. Yet Bill urged him
onward with many an impatient oath, on past the ship-yards of
Kensington,--on, past the factories, and markets, and farmers'
taverns, and shops of the Northern Liberties,--on, through the
crowded thoroughfares, and by the brilliant stores of the
city,--on, into the most degraded section of Southwark, in
Plumb-street, where Bill said a friend of his lived. This friend
was an abandoned woman, who lived in a miserable frame cabin,
crowded with wicked and degraded wretches, who seemed the
well-known and fitting companions of Rodney's patron. The woman
for whom he inquired was at a dance in the neighborhood, and
there Bill took the boy in search of her.
They went up a dark alley, and were admitted into a large room
filled with men and women, black and white, the dregs and
outcasts of society.
A few dripping candles, placed in tin sconces along the bare walls,
threw a dim and sickly glare over the motley throng. A couple of
negro men, sitting on barrels at the head of the room, were drawing
discordant notes from a pair of cracked, patched, and greasy
fiddles. And there were men, whose red and bloated faces gave
faithful witness of their habitual intemperance; and men, whose
threadbare and ragged garments betokened sloth and poverty; and
men, whose vulgar and ostentatious display of showy clothing, and
gaudy chains, and rings and breast-pins, which they did not know
how to wear, indicated dishonest pursuits; and men, whose blue
jackets and bluff, brown faces showed them to be sailors; and men,
whose scowling brows and fiendlike countenances marked them as
villains of the blackest and lowest type. And there were women,
too, some old--at least, they looked so--and haggard; some young,
but with wretched-looking faces, and dressed in tawdry garments,
yet generally faded, some torn and some patched, and all seeming to
be brought from the pawnbroker's dusty shop for the occasion.
In a little filthy side-room was a bar covered with bottles and
glasses, behind which stood a large, red-faced man, with a big
nose, and little ferret, fiery eyes, now grinning like a satyr,
now scowling like a demon, dealing out burning liquors to his
miserable customers.
A man fell beastly drunk from a bench upon the floor. "Take him up
stairs," said the man at the bar. Rodney followed the two men who
carried him up, and looked into the sleeping apartment. The floor
was covered with dirty straw, where lodgers were accommodated for
three cents a night. Here the poor wretches were huddled together
every night, to get what sleep they could in the only home they had
on earth.
Thus does vice humble, and degrade, and scourge those who are
taken in its toils. From the threshold of the house of guilty
pleasure there may issue the song and laugh of boisterous mirth;
but those who enter within shall find disgrace and infamy, woe
and death.