And wherefore do the poor complain?
The rich man asked of me:
Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.
Southey.
Attended by police officers, we once paid a visit to a building called
the Old Brewery, which infests the city of New York as does a cancer the
bosom of a splendid woman. At the time in question, it was a very large
and rickety affair, and the _home_ of about _eighty pauper families_;
and we verily believe contained more unalloyed suffering than could have
been found in any other building in the United States. It belonged to
the city, and was rented by a woman, who, in her turn, rented it out by
piecemeal to the paupers. For many years it was a dram shop or a college
for the education of drunkards, and it is now the comfortless hospital
or dying-place of those drunkards and their descendants. We visited this
spot at midnight, and were lighted on our way by torches which we
carried in our hands.
Having passed through a place called Murderer’s Alley (on account of the
many murders committed there), our leading officer bolted into a room,
where was presented the following spectacle. The room itself was more
filthy than a sty. In the fireplace were a few burning embers, above
which hung a kettle, tended by a woman and her daughter. It contained a
single cabbage, and was all they had to eat, and the woman told us she
had not tasted food for twenty-four hours. The wretched being, it
appears, had been engaged in a fight with some brute of a man, who had
so severely bruised her face that one whole side was literally black and
blue. We asked her some questions and alluded to her young daughter. She
replied to our inquiries, and then burst into tears, and wept as if her
heart was broken. The only comment which the daughter made was, “Mother,
what are you crying about? Don’t make a fool of yourself. Tears will not
wipe away God’s curse.” The couch to which this pair of women were to
retire after their midnight meal, was a pallet of straw, wet with liquid
mud that came oozing through the stone walls of the subterranean room.
This woman told us that her husband was in the State prison, and that
she was the mother of seven daughters, all of whom but the one present
had died in girlhood, utterly abandoned to every vice. “Yes,” added the
woman, “and I hope that me and my Mary will soon join them; there can be
no worse hell than the one we are enduring.” She mourned over her
unhappy fate, and looked upon vice as a matter of necessity—for they
could not starve.
In the next room that we entered, on a litter of straw, and with hardly
any covering upon them, lay a man and his wife, the former suffering
with asthma and the latter in the last stages of consumption. Covered as
they were with the most filthy rags, they looked more like reptiles than
human beings. In another corner of the same room, upon a wooden box, sat
a young woman with a child on her lap; the former possessing a pale and
intellectual countenance, while the latter was a mere skeleton. The
woman uttered not a word while we were present, but seemed to be musing
in silent despair. Her history and very name were unknown, but her
silence and the vacant stare of her passionless eyes spoke of
unutterable sorrow. She was the “queen of a fantastic realm.”
Another room that we entered contained no less than five families, and
in one corner was a woman in the agonies of death, while at her side sat
a miserable dog, howling a requiem over the dying wretch. In another
corner lay the helpless form of a boy, about ten years of age, who was
afflicted with the small-pox, and had been abandoned to his miserable
fate. He had rolled off the straw, and his cheek rested upon the wet
floor, which was black with filth. All the rooms we visited were pretty
much alike, crowded with human beings, but there were particular ones
which attracted our attention. The faded beauty and yet brilliant eye of
one woman attracted our notice, and we were informed that it was only
about two years ago that she was performing Juliet at one of the
principal theatres to the delight of thousands. She is now an outcast,
and her only possession is a ragged calico gown. In another room we
noticed the living remains of a German philosopher, who was once a
preacher, then a professor in the Berlin and Halle Universities, an
author, a rationalist, a doctor of philosophy, and now a—pauper. He came
to this country about three years ago, supposing that his learning would
here find a ready market. This man is master of the Hebrew, Greek,
Latin, French, and German languages, and yet a bitter reviler of the
Christian religion! He was brought to his present state by the united
influences of his infidel principles and the wine cup.
In one room we saw a husband and his wife with three children, sound
asleep on a bed of shavings, and the furniture thereof consisted of only
a pine box, a wooden bowl (partly filled with meal), and a teacup, while
on the hearth of the empty fireplace were scattered a few meatless
bones. In another we saw a woman in a state of gross intoxication, whose
child, wrapped in rags, was lying on a bed of _warm ashes_ in one corner
of the fireplace. In one room a lot of half-clothed negroes were
fighting like hyenas; and in another a forlorn old man was suffering
with delirium tremens. In another, still, the fireplace was destitute of
fire and the hearth of wood. On the floor were three litters of straw;
on one lay the corpse of a woman and a dead infant, and another child
about three years of age, which had no covering upon its shivering body
except the fragments of an old cloak. On one pile of straw lay a
middle-aged man apparently breathing his last; and in the opposite
corner was seated a drunken woman, a stranger to the dead and dying, who
was calling down curses upon the head of her husband, who had abandoned
her to her misery. As we rambled about the old building, peering into
the dark rooms of poverty and infamy, we were forcibly reminded of
Dante’s description of hell. The majority of women that we saw were
widows, and we were informed that the rent they paid varied from two to
six shillings per week. Our guide, before leaving, directed our
attention to the back yard, where, within the last two years, twenty
people had been found dead. Their histories yet remain in mystery, and
we were told of the singular fact that a funeral had not been known to
occur at the Old Brewery for many years, as it has ever been a
market-place for anatomists and their menials.
On giving the readers of the Express some of the above facts, a number
of benevolent individuals remitted to us quite a large amount of money
for the inmates of the Brewery. One lady (God bless the Christian!) sent
us no less than ten dollars. In fulfilling our obligations to these
charitable friends, we purchased clothing, bread, pork, fish, and
vegetables, and, assisted by a couple of servants, took another walk
over the mansion of suffering. As we went in the day time, we expected
to see less misery than we did on our former visits, but were sadly
disappointed. We entered several new rooms and saw new pictures of
distress. In one was a very old negro, sitting in his desolate chimney
corner, with no clothing on his person but a pair of pantaloons; he was
afflicted with the asthma and shivering with cold, while his poor wife
was weeping over their wretched condition. When we supplied the latter
with food, we thought the overjoyed being would actually clasp me in her
arms. On entering another room, we discovered a mass of rags in one
corner, where lay an elderly woman who had lost the use of her limbs,
and had not been able to move from her couch of shavings for upwards of
two months. She was evidently the victim of consumption, and not far
from the gateway to the grave. Her only attendant was a kindly-disposed
woman who had the dropsy. When we gave her some food, she actually wept
tears of gratitude, and begged me to _accept a rug_, which she had made
of rags, probably picked up in the street. In another room, before an
expiring fire, sat a sickly-looking girl, about ten years of age,
holding in her arms a little babe, and the countenances of both were
deeply furrowed by premature suffering. Her story was that her mother
had been dead about a month, and she knew not the fate of her father,
who had been arrested for stealing some two weeks before. She obtained
her living by begging, and when too feeble to carry her infant sister in
the street, was in the habit of leaving it in her room under the
protection of a miserable dog, to which she directed my attention. We
gave this sadly unfortunate girl a large supply of food, and was sorely
grieved that it was not in our power to take her from her cheerless
dwelling place to some other home, where she might be fed, clothed, and
instructed. The act of adopting such a child would cover a multitude of
sins. The condition of Mr. Dickens’s fancy child “Little Nell” was real
happiness compared to the condition of this living and yet dying orphan.
God have mercy upon the _innocent_ poor!
Another room into which we entered was completely crowded with human
beings. On one bed of rags and straw lay a woman who was so very ill
that she could not speak, and her only covering, strange as it may seem,
was a tattered _American flag_. She was a stranger to all her
companions, but supposed to be the wife of a sailor, who had died some
months before. Immediately in front of the fireplace, lying on her side,
was a colored woman moaning with the rheumatism, and in her immediate
vicinity was her husband, suffering intensely with a cold. Here sat an
Irish woman on a chest, holding an infant in her arms; she was _singing_
a lullaby, and yet she told me that she had not eaten a hearty meal for
many weeks. There, lying in his corner, was a middle aged man, confined
to the floor by an ulcerated knee, and he had in charge a feeble babe,
which had never been blessed with even a calico dress—it was not only
naked, but a cripple from its birth. The wife of this man was dead, and
those were her dying groans which chilled my blood with horror when we
made a nocturnal visit to this miserable abode. His only helper in his
hour of great need was a puny boy, about seven years old, who seemed to
be an idiot. The appearance of this child we cannot possibly describe.
The _happiest_ individual in this room was a colored man, who appeared
to be in good health, but he crawled about on crutches, for he had lost
both his legs. He seemed to be an exceedingly worthy and amiable man,
and we were lavish in our gifts to him and those in whom he was
interested.
But enough, enough. There can be no use in continuing this painful
record. We would assure our readers, however, that we have only sketched
a small portion of the unimagined misery which lately existed and still
exists in the Old Brewery. The spectacles we have witnessed there excel
the most extravagant flights of fancy; we have never read the book which
contained pictures of such complete and hopeless misery. We have told a
simple tale of truth, contributed our pittance, and it now remains for
the opulent of the great metropolis and the rulers thereof to do their
duty. Is it right that such a building as the Old Brewery should be
suffered to exist within a stone’s throw of the City Hall? Is it right
that the “hell hounds” (we now allude to a fact) should be permitted by
the authorities to sell their poisons _under the same roof_ where
hundreds of people are dying from starvation, brought upon them by their
own folly and those very dram shops? We would not make an issue upon the
license question; but, we ask, is it right, is it humane, to allow this
state of things? If the aged in iniquity cannot be reclaimed, ought not
something to be done to save the children of the Old Brewery—the
innocent, laughter-loving children, from spending their days in misery?
If nothing else can be done, it would be a mercy to fire that abode of
suffering, even though every soul within its walls should perish in the
flames; the wail of agony would indeed be dreadful, but it would be of
short duration. Why will not the superb city of New York wipe from her
bosom this lump of leprosy, which is now preying upon her vitals? Can
the rich now understand why it is that the poor complain?
An Irishman, his wife, and two children were brought to the alms-house
in a complete state of starvation. They landed in the city from an
emigrant ship, and had not tasted food for several days. The mother was
wellnigh a perfect skeleton, and the sunken cheeks and eyes of the whole
family told the melancholy truth that they were the victims of the most
intense suffering. One of the children was so near dead that it could
not walk, whilst it was with the utmost difficulty that even the father
could totter over the floor. They were as nearly dead as it is possible
for the living to be, and want of food was the principal cause which had
brought them to this miserable state. In answer to all questions asked
them, their replies were, “We want some bread; do give us some bread; we
will die if you do not give us some bread.” As a matter of course their
wants were immediately supplied, but the utmost caution was necessary in
administering food. When they were seated at the table, the first thing
the mother did was to feed her youngest child. In doing this she took
not the least notice of herself, but uttered a strange wild laugh; and,
when the child was made quite sick by even a spoonful of rice, the
mother wept most bitterly, and said: “Oh, my child is going to die!—what
shall I do to save its darling life?” Four days afterwards every member
of this exiled family had passed into the unknown future.
On another occasion an intemperate woman was taken to the alms-house,
ragged and reeling at the time, and bearing a little child, supposed to
be about sixteen months old. It was literally a skeleton, entirely
destitute of flesh, a mere fragment of humanity. The smaller portions of
its arms and legs were not more than half an inch in thickness, while
the corners of its mouth were drawn down, and its eyes so deeply sunken
that it had the appearance of an old and decrepit woman. Its face was
white as snow, its body almost as cold, and wrinkles upon its cheek and
brow were distinctly marked; and what made the picture still more
wretched was the fact that the poor child had the _whooping cough_ and
was _totally blind_. The opinion of the attending physician was that the
child had been famished. On questioning the mother about her offspring
it was ascertained that the child had never taken any food but what came
from her breast; its condition was partly attributed to this fact, and
it was evident that all its sufferings were inherited from its mother;
that _it had been a drunkard even from the hour of its birth_. It was
found necessary to take the child away from its mother; but, as she
would not give it up, she was taken to the Tombs, and at midnight, when
the parent was in a deep sleep, the child was taken from her filthy and
inflamed bosom, and placed in the hands of a careful nurse. The weeping
and wailing of that forsaken mother, on the following morning, were
terrible in the extreme. Her brain was on fire, and at the setting of
the sun she was numbered with the dead. In less than a week thereafter
the pauper child had followed its mother to Potter’s Field.
It was recorded in the newspapers that the dead body of an aged man had
been found, tied up in a coffee bag, and floating in the East river. His
throat was cut from ear to ear, and it was supposed he had been
murdered, but later developments explained the mystery. The name of the
deceased was subsequently ascertained; he belonged to one of the oldest
and most respectable families of Connecticut, and was related to one of
its former governors. The individual in question spent the morning and
noon of his life in the lap of luxury; in old age, however, his wealth,
wife, children, and nearly all his kindred, were taken away from him,
and he became a man acquainted with many sorrows. Some months previous
to the time when his body was found, and while actually suffering from
hunger, it so happened that he entered a certain dwelling for the
purpose of asking alms. The principal inmate of that dwelling was a
widow who had once been on the most intimate terms with the family of
the beggar, having been born in the same town. The friends of other days
recognized each other, a long conversation ensued, which recalled a
thousand recollections of childhood, and they were very happy. The only
thought which oppressed the spirit of the mendicant was, that his bones,
when he came to die, would be deposited in the soil of strangers, and
his only prayer was that he might be buried among his kindred. His kind
friend assured him that, if her own life was spared, the desire of his
heart should be fully gratified.
Weeks passed on, and, contrary to the wishes of his friend, the old man
became an inmate of the almshouse. In process of time the silver cord of
the pilgrim’s life was broken, and he was buried in the public
graveyard. Subsequently to this his body was disinterred, used for
purposes of dissection, and rudely thrown into the river. In the
meanwhile the widow had sent to the coroner to inquire how she might
obtain the pauper’s body, as she wished to bury him elsewhere than in
Potter’s Field, but she could meet with no encouragement. A number of
days was the man’s body tossed to and fro in the East River, but by the
hand of Providence it was washed ashore and given in charge to the
coroner. This gentleman suspected that the deceased was the friend of
the widow who had consulted him some days before, and it so happened
that his suspicions were well founded, for the body in due time was
recognized. It was given into the custody of the good woman, who had it
placed in a decent coffin, and the aged pauper was buried in the vault
of the W——, in Connecticut, by the side of his wife and children. It is
indeed a fact that fiction is often not one-half so strange as truth;
and it is also certain that human life is but a dream, and the ways of
God unsearchable.
Beautiful were the orphan minstrels of whom we are now to speak;
beautiful in mind and heart. The party was composed of three
individuals, two sisters and a little brother, the eldest of whom had
not yet seen her thirteenth summer. Remarkable singers they were not,
but yet there was something wild and plaintive in their voices which
cannot easily be forgotten. The instruments they used, however—the harp,
the tamborin, and flute—were uncommonly musical, and played upon with
facility and taste.
We became acquainted with these minstrels in this wise. They had stopped
for a few moments, about nine o’clock in the evening, in the hall of
Rathbun’s hotel. After delighting a crowd of listeners, and receiving a
few pennies, they courtesied and bowed, and then continued on their way.
We had an hour’s leisure at the time, and resolved as a matter of
curiosity, that we would follow the children. We did so, and saw them
enter two or three hotels, where they performed a number of pieces. The
night was now far advanced, and they turned Barclay Street on their way
home. Onward did they trip, with gladness in their hearts, talking
together in the French tongue; and, in a few moments after, we saw them
turn down Washington street into an emigrant boarding house. We were now
in a predicament, and afraid to lose our game. But resolving to defend
our conduct by inquiring after some imaginary person, we bolted into the
house and followed the children up two flights of stairs. They entered a
room where were seated a very old man and an equally old woman. The
meeting between this aged pair and the little children was quite
touching, for, when the money was counted and laid away, the latter were
rewarded by a loving embrace. Soon as this scene was ended we made our
appearance, and introduced ourselves by asking the intended question.
This having been promptly and politely answered, we proceeded a little
further in our queries, and obtained the following information: The
senior members of this family were the grandparents of the children, and
their only relatives in the world. The old man said they were all
natives of France; that they had been in this country four months; and
that their only support was derived from the _unwearied labors of the
minstrel children_. As the old man told his story his eyes were filled
with tears; he was mourning over his own helplessness, and yet rejoicing
over the _living blessings_ of his old age. Having apologized for my
rudeness, and uttered what I thought would be a word of comfort, we bade
each member of the family a kind good night, and left them to obtain the
repose they needed, and to dream perchance of church bells ringing in
one of the beautiful valleys of their native land.
We happened to be out at an unusually late hour on a certain night, and
while on our way home witnessed the following picture. In passing one of
the more splendid mansions in the upper part of Broadway our attention
was attracted by a singular looking object, which we thought was
attempting to effect an entrance into the house. Curiosity led us to
draw near, when we beheld a group of three little girls nestled in the
corner of the marble doorway. One of them appeared to be about twelve
years of age, and the other two had perhaps seen seven and nine years.
The former was seated in the Turkish fashion on the coarse matting,
apparently half asleep, whilst the heads of the other two were pillowed
on her lap, and both evidently enjoying a dream of peace and comfort. As
we remembered the sumptuous and fashionable entertainment in which we
had just participated, and reflected upon the picture before us, we were
almost disposed to doubt the evidence of our senses. It was already past
midnight, and the sleet which beat upon our head assured us that we
ought to make an effort to relieve the vagrant children from their
miserable condition, for they were almost naked and barefooted.
After some difficulty we found a watchman, when we awoke the children
and asked them about their home. They reluctantly told us where their
parents resided, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could
induce them to accompany us. We succeeded, however, in taking them
_home_, which was a comfortless dwelling with one room, where we
witnessed the following spectacle. On a bed of straw lay the father of
these children in a state of senseless intoxication, and on the bare
floor in another corner of the room was the mother, moaning with pain,
and bleeding from wounds which had been inflicted by her cruel husband.
One of the little girls told us they had not eaten as much food as they
wanted for ten days, that they had been forced into the street for the
purpose of begging, and that the scene before us was an old story to
them. My opulent and happy readers, it is probable, can scarcely believe
that such things actually exist in the Christian city of New York; but
what we assert is as true as the fact, that the scourge intemperance is
annually destroying some thirty thousand souls in our land alone.
This allusion to intemperance reminds me of another melancholy picture,
which we once witnessed in the great emporium. We had been enjoying a
walk among the shipping in South street, when we discovered, partly
hidden from view by a pile of casks and boxes, a man and two guardian
angels. It was the insensible form of a poor drunkard, lying on the
ground, and at his side two little girls, one of whom looked upon me
with a most wo-begone expression of countenance, while the pale temples
of the other were resting on the bloated bosom of the man. He was their
father, and they were motherless.
We once visited the Children’s Hospital connected with the Alms-house of
New York, and the spectacles we there witnessed were even more touching
than those connected with the Old Brewery. The entire building (which is
on Blackwell’s Island) contained over one hundred children, about
one-half of whom were so ill as to be confined to their beds, and it is
the room where these were harbored to which we now allude. The beds were
arranged along the walls, about three feet apart, and each end of every
bed or cot was occupied by a sick child. The majority of them were
motherless and fatherless, and entirely dependent upon strangers for
those kind and delicate attentions which commonly smooth the pathway to
the grave. Some of them were the offspring of intemperate parents, now
confined in the State Prison; while many of them had not even inherited
a name. Not one of the whole number but presented a feeble and haggard
appearance, and the pains of many were intense, for their mingled moans
actually fills the room with a heart-sickening chorus. One poor little
thing, about three years of age, was sitting in its bed, eating a dry
crust of bread, to satisfy a morbid appetite, and the disease which
preyed upon the vitals of this child was consumption in its most ghastly
form. Hollow and wrinkled were its cheeks, eyes large and deeply sunken,
and, while looked upon, hot tears trickled upon its pillow. In the same
bed was another of these unhappy children, dying from the terrible
malady of scrofula. It had been a cripple from its birth, and could
hardly be recognized as a human being. We caught a glimpse of the
creature’s countenance as it slumbered, and was positively startled by
its surpassing beauty. It was as bright and spiritual as the light of a
star. It was certain, however, that death had marked it for the grave,
and we remembered the poet’s words:—
“The good die first,
And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust,
Burn to the socket.”
Wordsworth.
This deformed but yet lovely fragment of humanity had been picked up as
a foundling, and was without a name. Another child which attracted my
attention, though only about twelve years of age, had the appearance of
being thirty. She had been brought from an emigrant ship, suffering with
fever associated with bronchitis. She had a finely developed head, a
beautiful and highly intellectual face, but it was deeply marked with
the lines of suffering, and her cheeks were flushed with the hue of
approaching death. She was also troubled with a hollow cough, and her
body was a mere skeleton. The attending physician patted her upon the
head and asked her how she felt to-day; when she looked up with a smile,
“made of all sweet accord,” and answered: “I am going to die, doctor.
Tell them to have my coffin ready; and, dear doctor, will they not bury
me by the side of my mother and little sister, in that place you call
Potter’s Field?” Who now can ask the question: “And wherefore do the
poor complain?”
Four Irishmen, all afflicted with the ship fever, had landed from an
emigrant ship in the city of New York. The party consisted of a father
and three sons. They were friendless and without money. In the company
of three hundred beings, as miserable as themselves, had they landed in
the city, and, in the confusion attendant upon the discharge of the
ship, it so happened that they were separated, and the father knew not
the fate of the sons, nor the sons the fate of the father.
A number of weeks elapsed, when the elder brother of this family called
upon the commissioner of the almshouse, praying for assistance that he
might find his relatives, if yet in the land of the living. The story
that he told of his own sufferings since his arrival was most
melancholy; for he had been living the life of a sick vagrant, in and
about the Tombs. The commissioner took pity upon him and gave him all
the assistance he desired, and the pauper, with a guide, started upon
the hunting expedition. The first place they visited was the New York
Hospital, where it was ascertained the second brother had died of the
loathsome ship fever, and whence his remains had been taken to Potter’s
Field. They next went to the Bellevue Hospital, and heard precisely the
same story with regard to the third brother. They also visited the
Lunatic Asylum, where it was ascertained that the father had been
confined as a raving maniac, but had paid the debt of nature, and was
now a resider in the city of the dead. As to the feelings of the forlorn
man, who had thus been stripped of every tie which bound him to the
earth, I cannot attempt to describe them. His only prayer was that one
little spot of earth might be granted to him, where he might rebury his
dead relatives, provided their bodies could be recognized, and where his
own ashes might be deposited after his race was run. The commissioner
promised to do all in his power to bring out this result, and in less
than one week _the pauper’s prayer was answered_!
It was an emigrant ship, and when boarded by a New York pilot he was
informed that she had left England with two hundred poverty-stricken
passengers, some twenty-five of whom had died on the passage, and been
buried in the deep. Among the departed were a father and mother, who had
left behind them a little girl nine years old. Desolate indeed was her
lot before she became an orphan; but when the “silver cord” which bound
her to her parents was broken, her condition became more deplorable than
ever; and, as the ship glided into the noble bay of New York, the child
was also numbered with the dead—none knowing whence she came, none
knowing even her baptismal name.
In due time the ship was safely moored, and, while the usual discharging
bustle was going on, an almshouse coffin was sent for, into which the
pauper child was placed (with her ragged clothes carefully tucked round
her body), and then given into the charge of the alms-house sextons. Not
one tear was shed as they mounted the hearse, and not one word of regret
or sorrow was uttered by the multitude around as the sextons started for
Potter’s Field.
Long was the way to the crowded city of the dead. The sextons were in a
merry mood, and, as their carriage rattled over the stony streets, they
cracked their jokes and laughed as if going to a wedding instead of the
tomb. But how could these men be blamed? They were following their
vocation and receiving liberal pay. Once in a while, however, a
troublesome thought seemed to pass their minds, but it was only when
fearful that they might lose their dinner on account of the great number
of paupers who were to be buried before the coming on of night. They
hurried by a school-house, before which a flock of little girls were
playing and laughing in their glee, but these happy children thought not
upon the sister spirit whose remains were going to the grave. Onward
rattled the hearse, and after turning the corner of a street it came to
a halt, and the senior sexton stepped into his house for a drink of
water. A number of laughing children met him at the door, and after he
had satisfied his thirst he gave each one of them a kiss, and again, in
a jovial mood, started for the public grave-yard. Another mile and the
hearse reached the margin of the East River, where the Potter’s Field
boat was in waiting, managed by the keeper of the field. Carelessly was
the coffin transferred from the hearse to the boat, and the journey of
the dead was continued. The boat was now moored at the landing place on
Randall’s Island, where the coffin was taken away on a man’s shoulder,
and deposited in a deep trench covered with a few shovels full of sand,
and lying in the midst of a multitude of unknown dead from every nation
on the globe. And thus endeth the story of the pauper child, who crossed
the ocean only to find a grave _in a land she never saw, and where the
very name she bore is utterly unknown_.
It was the twilight hour, and we saw an old and deformed woman standing
in front of St. Paul’s, asking alms. We happened to be in the mood just
then, and tarried for a few moments to watch the charity of the world.
Many, in the passing tide of human life, were to us unknown, but of the
few that we recognized the following attracted our particular attention:
First came a gentleman whom we knew to be a merchant of great wealth;
and, as he approached the beggar, we surely thought that he would listen
to her petition. But no—he was thinking of his last importation, or the
sum total of his rents, and he passed on with these words as a donation:
“You must go to the poor-house, my good woman.” We thought upon the days
of darkness.
Then came a scholar-like looking young man, whom we knew to be a
struggler with poverty; but he approached the beggar with a smile upon
his countenance, dropped a shilling into her withered hand, called for
God’s blessing to rest upon her head, and resumed his way. My fancy now
wandered to that blessed region where ever floweth the river of life.
Next came an intemperate and selfish man. When the imploring look of the
cripple met his own, he coolly frowned upon her, uttered a wicked curse,
and reeled onward to a hall of sinful revelry. And now we pondered on
the worm that never dieth.
Finally came a little flock of boys and girls, returning from school.
The woman smiled upon them, but spoke not a single word. The children
knew her to be a beggar, and paused to talk with her a moment. She told
them briefly the story of her life, and they were melted to tears. All
the pennies that the children could raise were given to the woman; and
each child, with an immortal jewel in its heart, passed on its way to
receive a shower of kisses from its fond parents. And now our mind
reveled in a dream of heaven-born loveliness.
And now, by way of giving our readers an idea of _self-inflicted_
poverty, we will furnish them with a brief sketch of an old miser
residing in the Empire city:
He is an old man—a very old man; he is also a strange man—a very strange
man; whose history and name are alike unknown. His business is that of a
paper scavenger, and the spoil which he collects in his journeying about
the city he disposes of at the rate of one cent per pound. Many pounds
does he often gather in a single day; but, as it only costs him four
shillings per week to live, it is certain he lays up a few shillings at
the close of every day. He commences his daily business in the down-town
streets even when the day is breaking, and continues at his monotonous
employment until the dark hours. He never goes home to dinner, but, when
hungry, generally purchases a dry crust of bread, and eats it sitting
upon the lower steps of the Custom-house or the City Hall. Never does he
utter a word to a living soul; and when the stranger looks upon him he
feels disposed to exclaim, “what a poor miserable being!” He is, indeed,
a pitiable object to look upon, for his leather clothes are glossy and
hard with the accumulated filth of many years, and his countenance is
furrowed all over with deep wrinkles which no one could believe were
ever moistened with a tear. He is a hard-visaged man, repulsive and even
terrible to look upon. For fifteen years have we known this singular
being, and “even then he was so old he seems not older now.” There are
people in this great city who have been familiar with his form for
upwards of twenty years, and they affirm that he has been a paper
scavenger during all that time. At all times, when the winds of winter
howl through the streets, and also when the dog-star reigns, does he
pursue his laborious and degrading employment.
And now, that I have introduced my hero to the reader, it is meet that
we should mention what we know of his actual condition. He is a miser—a
narrow-minded and mean miser, who can count his dollars by tens of
thousands. If the reader doubts my word, let him, when next he meets the
miserable man in the public highway, ask him the time of day, and he
will be promptly answered, on the authority of a superb gold watch,
hidden in his filthy vestments. A dry crust of bread, and a cast-off
bone constitute his daily food, and yet this man carries the deeds in
his pocket which prove him to be the proprietor of at least five
handsome dwelling houses, located in a fashionable part of the city;
certificates of bank stock and other valuable papers are also hidden in
his pockets. He is a widower, but the father of an only daughter, whom
he has established over a superbly furnished house as the sole mistress
and only tenant. She has all she needs in the way of household things,
and every luxury of the season, and, though her servants may prepare a
sumptuous feast, none participate with her in its enjoyment. Though it
would add to her happiness on such occasion to call in a neighboring
friend, yet the privilege of giving an invitation is denied by her
father in the most positive and imperative manner. In the rear of this
daughter’s dwelling is located a rickety shell of a cabin, resembling
more the appearance of a sty than a human habitation, and this is the
only dwelling-place of our miser; and here he spends the precious hours
of his leisure life, counting his gold and examining the signatures of
his deeds by the light which rests upon his oaken table, and seldom is
it extinguished until after the hour of midnight; and when exhausted
with his strange vigils, carefully does he fasten, with heavy iron
bolts, the door of his den, and sink to sleep upon his bed of rags.