THIS SIDE AND THAT.
I am weary of this hollow show and glitter—weary of fashion’s stereotyped lay-figures—weary of smirking fops and brainless belles, exchanging their small coin of flattery and their endless genuflexions: let us go out of Broadway—somewhere, anywhere. Turn round the wheel, Dame Fortune, and show up the other side.
“The Tombs!”—we never thought to be there! nevertheless, we are not to be frightened by a grated door or a stone wall, so we pass in; leaving behind the soft wind of this Indian summer day, to lift the autumn leaves as gently as does a loving nurse her drooping child.
We gaze into the narrow cells, and draw a long breath. Poor creatures, tempted and tried. How many to whom the world now pays its homage, who sit in high places,shouldbe in their stead? God knoweth. See them, with their pale faces pressed up against the grated windows, or pacing up and down their stone floors, like chained beasts. There is a little boy not more than ten years old; what hashedone?
“Stolen a pair of shoes!”
Poor child! he never heard of “Swartout.” How should he know that he was put in there not forstealing, but for doing it on so small a scale?
Hist! Do you see that figure seated in the further corner of that cell, with his hands crossed on his knees? His whole air and dress are those of a gentleman. How came such a man as that here?
“For murder?” How sad! Ah! somewhere in the length and breadth of the land a mother’s heart is aching because she spared the rod to spoil the child.
There is a coffin, untenanted as yet, but kept on hand; for Death laughs at bolts and fetters, and many a poor wretch is borne struggling within these gloomy walls, only to be carried to his last home, while none but God may ever know at whose fireside stands his vacant chair.
And here is a woman’s cell. There are two or three faded dresses hanging against the walls, and a bonnet, for which she has little use. Her friends have brought her some bits of carpeting, which she has spread over the stone floor, with her womanly love of order (poor thing), to make the place lookhome-like. And there is a crucifix in the corner. See, she kneels before it! May the Holy Virgin’s blessed Son, who said to the sinning one, “Neither do I condemn thee,” send into her stricken heart the balm of holy peace.
Who is that? No! itcannotbe—but, yes, it is he—and what a wreck! See, he shrinks away, and a bright flush chases the marble paleness from his check. God bless me! That R—— should come to this! Still, Intemperance, with her thousand voices, crieth. “Give! give!” and still, alas! it is the gifted, and generous, and warm-hearted, who oftenest answer the summons.
More cells?—but there is no bed in them; only a wooden platform, raised over the stone floor. It is for gutter drunkards—too foul, too loathsome to be placed upon a bed—turned in here like swine, to wallow in the same slough. Oh, how few, who, festively sipping the rosy wine, say “mymountain stands strong,” e’er dream of such an end as this.
Look there! tread softly: angels are near us. Through the grated window the light streams faintly upon a little pallet, where, sweet as a dream of heaven, lies a sleeping babe! Over its cherub face a smile is flitting. The cell has no other occupant; angels only watch the slumbers of the prison-cradled. The place is holy. I stoop to kiss its forehead. From the crowd of women pacing up and down the guarded gallery, one slides gently to my side, saying, half proudly, half sadly, “’Tismybabe.”
“It issosweet, and pure, and holy,” said I.
The mother’s lip quivers; wiping away a tear with her apron, she says in a choking voice:
“Ah, it is little the likes of you, ma’am, know how hard it is for us to get the honest bread!”
God be thanked, thought I, that there is one who “judgethnotas man judgeth;” who holdeth evenly the scales of justice; who weigheth against our sins thewhirlpoolof our temptations; who forgetteth never the countless struggles for the victory, ere the desponding, weary heart shuts out the light of Heaven.