_The Ruined Rector--Misery and Destitution--the All Night House--A
Painful Scene--Inhospitality--the Denouement._
We now return to Dr. Sinclair, whom we left on the downward path to
ruin. The unfortunate man was now no longer the rector of St. Paul's; a
committee of the congregation had paid him an official visit, at which
he had been dismissed from all connection with the church. His place was
supplied by a clergyman of far less talent, but much greater integrity.
Mr. Sinclair (for such we shall hereafter call him,) was not possessed
of wealth--for though he had lived in luxury, he had depended entirely
upon his salary for subsistence; and now that he was turned from his
sacred occupation, dishonored and disgraced, he found himself almost
penniless. He had no friends to whom he could apply for assistance, for
his conduct had been noised abroad, and those who formerly had loved and
reverenced him, now turned their backs upon him with cold contempt.
Instead of endeavouring to retrieve his fallen reputation by repentance
and good conduct, he no sooner found himself shorn of his clerical
honors, than he abandoned himself to every species of degraded
dissipation. In two weeks after his removal from the church he was
without a home; then he became the associate of the most vile.
Occasionally he would venture to the house of some one of his former
congregation, and in abject tones implore the gift of some trifling sum;
moved by his miserable appearance, though disgusted by his follies, the
gentleman would perhaps hand him a dollar or two, and sternly bid him
come there no more. Sinclair would then hasten to the low pot house in
Water Street which he made his resort, and amid his vagabond companions
expend the money in the lowest debauchery.
Perhaps the reader may say the thing is impossible--no man could fall so
rapidly from a high and honorable position, as to become in a few short
weeks the degraded creature Sinclair is now represented to be. But we
maintain that there is nothing exaggerated in the picture we have drawn.
Here is a church congregation eminently aristocratic, wealthy, and
rigidly particular in the nicest points of propriety. The pastor proves
himself unworthy of his sacred trust; he disgraces himself and them by
indulgence in vice, which is betrayed by his looks and actions. Too
haughty and too impatient to take the erring brother by the hand, and
endeavor to reclaim him, they at once cast him off with disgust, and
fill his place with a more faithful pastor. Humbled and degraded,
rendered desperate by his unhappy situation, the miserable man abandons
himself yet more recklessly to the vice; his self-respect is gone, the
finger of scorn is pointed at him, and to drown all consciousness of his
downfall, he becomes a constant tipple and an irreclaimable sot.
The low groggery in Water street where poor Sinclair made his temporary
home, was extensively known as the 'All Night House,' from the fact of
its being kept open night and day. As this establishment was quite a
feature in itself, we shall devote a brief space to a description of it.
It was situated on the corner of Catherine street, opposite the
Catherine Market--a region remarkable for a very 'ancient and fish-like
smell.' This Market was a large, rotten old shanty, devoted to the sale
of stale fish, bad beef, dubious sausages, suspicious oysters, and dog's
meat. Beneath its stalls at night, many a 'lodger' often slumbered; and
every Sunday morning it was the theatre of a lively and amusing scene,
wherein was performed the renowned pastime of 'niggers dancing for
eels.' All the unsavory fish that had been accumulated during the week,
was thus disposed of, being given to such darkies as won the most
applause in the science of the 'heel and toe.' The sport used to attract
hundreds of spectators, and the rum shops in the vicinity did a good
business.
Suppose it to be midnight; let us enter the All Night House, and take a
view. We find the place crowded with about forty men and boys, of all
ages, conditions and complexions. Here is the veteran loafer, who had
not slept in a bed for years--his clothes smelling of the grease and
filth of the market stalls; here is the runaway apprentice, and here the
dissipated young man who has been 'locked out,' and has come here to
take lodgings. The company are all seated upon low stools; some are
bending forward in painful attitudes of slumber; others are vainly
trying to sit upright, but, overcome by sleep, they pitch forward, and
recover themselves just in time to avoid falling on the floor.
Notice in particular this young man who is seated like the rest, and is
nodding in an uneasy slumber. His clothes are of broadcloth, and were
once fashionable and good, but now they are torn to rags, and soiled
with filth. His hands are small and white; his hair, luxurious and
curling naturally, is uncombed; his features are handsome, but bruised
and unwashed. This is Sinclair!
The bar-keeper of this place is quite a character in his way. He
rejoices in the title of 'Liverpool Jack,' and is the _bully of Water
street_--that is, he is considered able to thrash any man that travels
in that region. He is a blustering, ruffianly fellow, full of 'strange
oaths.' He wears a red flannel shirt and tarpaulin hat; and possesses a
bull-dog countenance expressive of the utmost ferocity.
'Hello, you fellers,' cries Liverpool Jack, savagely surveying the
slumbering crowd--'yer goin' to set there all night and not paternize de
_bar_--say? Vake up, or by de big Jerusalem cricket I'm bound to dump
yer all off de stools!'
Some of the poor devils arouse themselves, and rub their eyes; but the
majority slumbered on. Liverpool Jack becomes exasperated, and rushing
among them, seizes the legs of the stools, and dumps every sleeper upon
the floor. Having accomplished this feat, he resumes his place behind
the bar.
The door opens, and a party of young bloods enter, who are evidently
'bound on a time.'--They are all fashionably dressed; and one of them,
drawing a well-filled purse from his pocket, invites all hands up to
drink--which invitation, it is needless to say, was eagerly accepted.
Sinclair crowded up to the bar, with the others and one of the new
comers, observing him, cries out--
'By jingo, here's parson Sinclair! Give us a sermon, parson, and you
shall have a pint of red-eye!'
'A sermon--a sermon!' exclaimed the others. Sinclair is placed upon a
stool, and begins a wild, incoherent harangue, made up of eloquence,
blasphemy and obscenity. His hearers respond in loud 'amens,' and one of
the young bloods, being facetiously inclined, procures a rotten egg, and
throws it at the unhappy man, deviling his face with the nauseous
missile. This piece of ruffianism is immediately followed by another;
the stool on which he stands is suddenly jerked from beneath him, and he
falls violently to the floor, bruising his face and head shockingly.
Roars of laughter follow this deed of cruelty; poor Sinclair is raised
from the floor by Liverpool Jack, who thrusts him forth into the street
with a curse, telling him to come there no more.
It is raining--a cold, drizzly rain, which penetrates through the
garments and strikes chill to the bones. On such a night as this,
Sinclair was wont to be seated in his comfortable study, before a
blazing fire, enveloped in a luxurious dressing gown, as he perused some
interesting volume, or prepared his Sabbath sermon; then, he had but to
ring a silver bell, and a well-dressed servant brought in a tray
containing his late supper--the smoking tea urn, the hot rolls, the
fresh eggs, the delicious bacon, the delicate custard, and the exquisite
preserves. Then, he had but to pass through a warm and well--lighted
passage, to reach his own chamber; the comfortable bed, with its snowy
drapery and warm, thick coverlid, invited to repose; and his dreams were
disturbed by no visions of horror or remorse. All was purity, and
happiness, and peace.
_Now_, how different! Houseless, homeless, shelterless--ragged, dirty,
starving--diseased, degraded, desperate! Unhappy Sinclair, that was a
fatal moment when thou did'st yield to the fascinations of that
beautiful Josephine Franklin!
It was near one o'clock, and the storm had increased to a perfect
hurricane. The miserable man had eaten nothing that day; he tottered off
with weakness, and was numbed with the cold. By an irresistible impulse
he wandered in the direction of his former home in Broadway. He found
the house brilliantly illuminated--strains of heavenly music issued from
it--lovely forms flitted past the windows, and peals of silvery laughter
mingled with the howling of the tempest. A grand party was given there
that night; the occupant of the house was a man of fashion and pleasure,
and he was celebrating the eighteenth birth-day of his beautiful
daughter.
Sinclair lingered long around the house--it seemed as if some invisible
power attracted him there. From the basement there arose the grateful,
savory odor of extensive cooking.
'I am starving,' said he to himself--'and they have plenty here. I will
go to the door, like a beggar, and implore a morsel of food.'
With feeble steps he descended to the basement, and with a trembling
hand he knocked at the door. It was opened by a fat, well-fed servant,
in livery, who demanded, in a surly tone, what he wanted?
'In heaven's name, give me food, for I am starving.'
'Ugh--a beggar!' said the servant, with disgust--'get you gone, we've
nothing for you; master never encourages vagrants.'
The door was shut in Sinclair's face; with an aching heart he crawled up
the steps, and then, as if suddenly nerved with a desperate resolve, he
approached the front door, and rang the bell. The door was opened by a
footman, who stared at the intruder with surprise and suspicion.
'Tell your master,' said Sinclair, faintly, 'that a person is here who
must speak with him. It is a matter of life and death.'
The servant did as requested; in a few minutes he returned and said:
'Master says that if your business is particular you must come into the
drawing room; he's not coming out here in the cold.'
He followed the servant thro' the hall; and in a moment more found
himself standing in the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, in the
presence of a numerous party of ladies and gentlemen. His miserable
appearance created quite a sensation in that fashionable circle.
'Aw, 'pon my honor,' lisped a dandy, raising his eye-glass and taking a
deliberate survey of the intruder, 'what have we heah? quite a natural
curiosity, dem me!'
'Oh, what an odious creature;' exclaimed a young lady with bare arms,
naked shoulders, and the reddest possible hair.
'Quite shocking!' responded her admirer, a bottle-nosed specimen of
monkeyism.
'I shall positively faint,' cried an old tabby, in a large turban; but
as nobody noticed her, she didn't faint.
The host himself now advanced, and said, sternly,
'Well, fellow, what d'ye want?--Speak quickly and begone, for this is no
place for you. You d----d stupid scoundrel,' (to the servant,) 'how dare
you bring such a scare-crow here?'
'I wish to speak with you alone, sir,' said Sinclair, humbly.
The host motioned him to step out into the hall, followed him there, and
commanded him to be as brief as possible.
Sinclair told him who he was, and the circumstances of misery and
destitution in which he was placed. His listener shook his head
incredulously, saying,
'It is a good game, my fine fellow, that you are trying to play off; you
are an excellent talker, but you will find it hard to make people
believe that you are Dr. Sinclair. In one word, you're an imposter.
What, _you_ a clergyman! Pooh, nonsense!--There, not another word, but
clear out instantly. John, show this fellow the door, and never admit
him again!'
As poor Sinclair passed out of the door, he heard the company laugh long
and loud at the supposed imposition he had attempted to practise upon
Mr. Grump, the 'worthy host.' Now be it known that this Mr. Grump was
one of the most arrant scoundrels that ever went unhung. Low-bred and
vulgar, he had made a fortune by petty knavery and small rascalities. He
was a master printer; one of those miserable whelps who fatten on the
unpaid labor of those in their employ. An indignant 'jour' once told
him, with as much truth as sarcasm, that 'every hair on his head was a
fifty-six pound weight of sin and iniquity!' He well knew that the poor
wretch who had applied to him for relief, was no impostor; for he had
heard Dr. Sinclair preach a hundred times, and he had recognized him
instantly, notwithstanding his altered aspect. But he had pretended to
believe him an impostor, in order that he might have a good excuse for
withholding assistance from the unfortunate man.
Rudely did the servant thrust forth poor Sinclair into the inhospitable
street and the fearful storm. The rain now fell in torrents; and the
darkness was so intense, that the hapless wanderer cou'd only grope his
way along, slowly and painfully.--Upon one corner of the street the
foundation for a house had recently been dug, forming a deep and
dangerous pit, lying directly in Sinclair's path: no friendly lantern
warned him of the peril--no enclosure was there to protect him from
falling. Unconscious of the danger, he slowly approached the brink of
the pit; now he stood upon the extreme edge, and the next instant _he
fell_! There was a dull, dead sound--then a stifled groan--and all was
still!
Morning dawned, bright and clear, the storm had subsided during the
night, and the glorious sun arose in a cloudless sky. A crowd was
collected on the corner of Broadway and one of the narrow streets which
cross its lower section. They were gazing at a terrible spectacle: the
body of a man lay in a deep pit below them, shockingly mangled; he had
fallen upon a heap of stones--his brains were dashed out, and his blood
scattered all around. Among the spectators was a portly, well-dressed
man, who looked at the body steadfastly for some time, and then muttered
to himself--
'By G----, it is Dr. Sinclair, and no mistake! Too bad--too bad!--When
he came to my house last night, I little thought to see him dead this
morning! Plague on it, I ought to have given the poor devil sixpence or
a shilling. No matter--he's better off now. He was a talented
fellow--great pity, but can't be helped.'
Yes, it _could_ have been helped, Mr. Grump; had you kindly taken that
poor unfortunate by the hand, and afforded him food and shelter for a
brief season, he never would have met that tragical end, but might have
lived to reform, and lead a life of usefulness and honor; yes, he might
have lived to bless you for that timely aid.
Reader, 'speak gently to the erring.' Do not too hastily or too harshly
condemn the follies or faults of others. A gentle word, spoken in
kindness to an erring brother, may do much towards winning him back to
the path of rectitude and right. Harsh words and stern reproofs may
drive him on to ruin.
But let us return to the crowd collected around the mangled body of
Sinclair.
'It's a sin and a shame,' said a stout man, in working clothes, 'that
there wasn't some kind of a fence put around this infernal trap. Where
was the Alderman of this ward, that _he_ didn't attend to it?'
'Be careful what you say, fellow,' said Mr. Grump, turning very red in
the face, 'I'd have you to know that _I_ am the Alderman of this ward!'
'Are you?--then let me tell you,' said the man, contemptuously, 'that
you bear the name of being a mean, dirty old scamp; and if it was not
for fear of the law, I'd give you a d----d good thrashing!'
Alderman Grump beat a hasty retreat while the crowd set up a loud shout
of derision--for he was universally hated and despised.
The Coroner arrived--the inquest was held; and a 'verdict rendered in
accordance with the facts.' The body was taken to the 'Dead House;' and
as no friend or relative appeared to claim it, it was the next day
conveyed to Potter's Field, and there interred among city paupers,
felons and nameless vagrants.