Read Ebook: New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million by Lippard George

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Ebook has 1196 lines and 59148 words, and 24 pages

eleton-like form to its full height--"We're all cured,--"

"Cured? What mean you? How cured?"

"Cured of--life!" said John; and, stepping quickly forward, he fell at the doctor's feet.

The doctor seized the light as he fell, and attempted to raise him from the floor,--but John was dead in his arms.

Our history now returns to Israel Yorke, whom, with Ninety-One and the eleven, we left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's door.

"Hush, boys! hush!" whispered Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch "Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant."

The door opened, and Israel entered, followed by Ninety-One and the eleven, all of whom preserved a dead stillness.

A single light was burning dimly in the artist's humble room. It cast its rays over the humble details of the place,--over the bed, which was covered by a white sheet. The place was deathly still.

"What does all this mean?" cried Israel. "There is no one here." Ninety-One took the light from the table, and led Israel silently to the bed. The eleven gathered round in silence; you could hear their hard breathing through the dead stillness of the room. Ninety-One lifted the sheet, slowly; his harsh features quivering in every fiber.

"That's what it means," he said hoarsely.

The furnace, with the fire put out, still remained in the center of the room.

"They are asleep,--asleep, certainly," cried Israel, falling back, "they can't be dead."

The truth is, that Israel felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

And he clutched Israel's wrist until the little man groaned with pain.

"But how do you know he poisoned himself and these?" faltered Israel.

"He left a scrap o' paper in which he told about it an' the reason for doin' it. The doctor who came in when it was too late, saw the charcoal burnin', an' found the p'ison at the bottom of the cups. An' this man," he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy fellow with a frank, honest face, "this man an' his wife live in the next room. He was out last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard poor Martin ravin' about you an' his eight dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children, an' starvation, death, an' the cold dark street. She heered him, I say, but didn't suspec' there was p'ison in the case until the doctor called her in, an' then it was too late."

"But how did you know of all this? What have you to do with it?"

"You see the doctor went an' told the JUDGE, who has just been tryin' you,--told him hours ago, you mind,--an' THE JUDGE sent me here with you, in order to show you some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el?"

Ninety-One's features were harsh and scarred, but now they quivered with an almost child-like emotion. With his brawny hand he pointed to the bodies of the dead,--

"Thar's eight dollars worth o' yer notes, Isr'el," he said. "Thar's Chow Bank, Muddy Run, an' Tarrapin Holler! Look at 'em! Don't you think that some day God Almighty will ax you to change them notes?"

And Israel shrank back appalled from the bed. Ninety-One clutched his wrist with a firmer grasp; the eleven gathered closely in his rear, their ominous murmur growing more distinct; and the light, held in the convict's hand, shed its calm rays over the faces of the dead family.

This death-scene in the artist's home, calls up certain thoughts.

Poverty! Did you ever think of the full meaning of that word? The curse of poverty is the cowardice which it breeds, cowardice of body and soul. Many a man who would in full possession of his faculties, pour out his life-blood for a friend, or even for a stranger, will, when it becomes a contest for a crust of bread,--for the last means of a bare subsistence,--steal that crust from the very lips of his starving friend, and would, were it possible, drain the last life-drop in the veins of another, in order to keep life in his own wretched carcass. The savage, starving in the snow, in the center of his desolate prairie, knows nothing of the poverty of the civilized savage, much less of that poverty, which takes the man or woman of refined education, and kills every noble faculty of the soul, before it does its last work on the body. Poverty in the city, is not mere want of bread, but it is the lack of the means to supply innumerable wants, created by civilization,--and that lack is slow moral and physical death. Talk of the bravery of the hero, who, on the battle-field stands up to be shot at, with the chance of glory, on the one hand, and a quick death on the other! How will his heroism compare with that brave man, who in the large city, year after year, and day by day, expends the very life-strings of his soul, in battling against the fangs of want, in keeping some roof-shelter over his wife and children, or those who are as dependent upon him as wife and children? Proud lady, sitting on your sofa, in your luxurious parlor, you regard with a quiet sneer, that paragraph in the paper , which tells how a virtuous girl, sold her person into the grasp of wealthy lust for--bread! You sneer,--virtue, refined education, beauty, innocence, chastity, all gone to the devil for a--bit of bread! Sneer on! but were you to try the experiment of living two days without--not your carriage and opera-box,--but without bread or fire in the dead of winter, working meanwhile at your needle, with half-frozen fingers for just sixteen pennies per day, you would, I am afraid, think differently of the matter. Instead of two days, read two years, and let your trial be one of perpetual work and want, that never for a moment cease to bite,--I am afraid, beautiful one, were this your case, you would sometimes find yourself thinking of a comfortable life, and a bed of down, purchased by the sale of your body, and the damnation of your soul. And you, friend, now from the quiet of some country village, railing bravely against southern slavery, and finding no word bitter enough to express your hatred of the slave market, in which black men and black women are sold--just look a moment from the window of your quiet home, and behold yonder huge building, blazing out upon the night from its hundred windows. That is a factory. Yes. Have you no pity for the white men, who are chained in hopeless slavery, to the iron wheels of yonder factory's machinery? Have you no thought of the white woman, who very often are driven by want, from yonder factory to the grave, or to the--brothels of New York? You mourn over black children, sold at the slave block,--have you no tear for white children, who in yonder factory, are deprived of education, converted into mere working machines , and transformed into precocious old men and women, before they have ever felt one free pulse of childhood?

MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS.

Leaving Frank to writhe alone in her agony, Nameless and Mary pursued their way through the dark streets, as the morning drew near. They arrived at length, in front of that huge mansion, in Greenwich street, which once the palace of ease and opulence, was now, from the garret to the cellar, the palace of rags, disease and poverty. How Mary's heart thrilled as she led Nameless through the darkness up the marble stairs! A few hours since she went down those stairs, with death in her heart. Now her husband, risen from the grave was on her arm, hope was in her heart, and--although dark and bitter cold, and signs of poverty and wretchedness were all around her,--the future opened before her mental vision, rosy and golden in its hues of promise.

At the head of the stairway, on the fourth story Mary opened a door, and in the darkness, led Nameless across the threshold.

"My home!" she whispered, and lighted the candle, which hours ago, in the moment of her deepest despair, she had extinguished.

As the light stole around the place, Nameless at a glance beheld the miserable garret, with its sloping roof walls of rough boards, and scanty furniture, a mattress in one corner, a sheet-iron stove, a table, and in the recess of the huge garret window an old arm-chair.

"This your home!" he ejaculated and at the same time beheld the occupant of the arm-chair,--in that man prematurely old, his skeleton form incased in a loose wrapper, his emaciated hands resting on the arms, and one side of his corpse-like face on the back of the chair,--he after a long pause, recognized the wreck of his master, Cornelius Berman.

"O, my master!" he cried in a tone of inexpressible emotion, and sank on his knees before the sleeping man, and pressed his emaciated hand reverently to his lips. "Is it thus I find you!" and profoundly affected, he remained kneeling there, his gaze fixed upon that countenance, which despite its premature wrinkles, and dead apathetic expression, still bore upon its forehead,--half hid by snow-white hair,--some traces of the intellect of Cornelius Berman.

While Nameless knelt there in silence, Mary glided from the room, and after some minutes, again appeared, holding a basket on one arm, while the other held some sticks of wood. Leaving her husband in his reverie, at her father's feet, she built a fire in the sheet-iron stove, and began to prepare the first meal which she had tasted in the course of twenty hours. Continued excitement had kept her up thus far, but her brain began to grow dizzy and her hand to tremble. At length the white cloth was spread on the table, and the rich fragrance of coffee stole through the atmosphere of the dismal garret. The banquet was spread, bread, butter, two cups of coffee,--a sorry sort of banquet say you,--but just for once, try the experiment of twenty-four hours, without food, and you'll change your opinion.

The first faint gleam of the winter morning began to steal through the garret window.

"Come, Carl,"--she glided softly to his side, and tapped him gently on the shoulder, "breakfast is ready. While father sleeps, just come and see what a good housekeeper I am."

He looked up and beheld her smiling, although there were tears in her eyes.

He rose and took his seat beside her at the table. Now the garret was rude and lonely, and the banquet by no means luxurious, and yet Nameless could not help being profoundly agitated, as he took his seat by the side of Mary.

Breakfast over, he once more knelt at the feet of the sleeping man. And Mary knelt by his side, gazing silently into his face, while his gaze was riveted upon her father's countenance. Thus they were, as the morning light grew brighter on the window-pane. At length Mary rested her head upon his bosom, and slept,--he girdled her form in his cloak, and held her in his arms, while her bosom, heaving gently with the calm pulsation of slumber, was close against his heart. The morning light grew brighter on the window-pane, and touched the white hairs of the father, and shone upon the glowing cheek of the sleeping girl.

Nameless, wide awake, his eyes large and full, and glittering with thought, gazed now upon the face of his old master, and now upon the countenance of his young wife. And then his whole life rose up before him. He was lost in a maze of absorbing thought. His friendless childhood, the day when Cornelius first met him, his student life, in the studies of the artist, the pleasant home of the artist on the river, the hour when he had reddened his hand with blood, his trial, sentence, the day of execution, the burial, the life in the mad-house,--these scenes and memories passed before him, with living shapes and hues and voices. And after all, Mary, his wife was in his arms! The sun now came up, and his first ray shone rosily over the cheeks of the sleeping girl.

Nameless remembered the letter which Frank had given him, and now took it from the side pocket of his coat. He surveyed it attentively. It bore his name, "GULIAN VAN HUYDEN."

"What does it contain?" he asked himself the question mentally, little dreaming of the fatal burden which the letter bore.

The sleeping man awoke, and gazed around the apartment with large, lack-luster eyes. At the same time, with his emaciated hand, he tried to clutch the sunbeam which trembled over his shoulder. Nameless felt his heart leap to his throat at the sight of this pitiful wreck of genius.

"Do you not know me, master?" exclaimed Nameless, pressing the hand of the afflicted man, and fixing his gaze earnestly upon his face.

Was it an idle fancy? Nameless thought he saw something like a ray of intelligence flit across that stricken face.

"It is I, Carl Raphael, your pupil, your son!"

As though the sound of that voice had penetrated even the sealed consciousness of hopeless idiocy, the aged artist slightly inclined his head, and there was a strange tremulousness in his glance.

"Carl Raphael, your son!" repeated Nameless, and clutched the hands of the artist.

Again that tremulousness in the glance of the artist, and then,--as though a film had fallen from his eyes,--his gaze was firm, and bright, and clear. It was like the restoration of a blind man to sight. His gaze traversed the room, and at length rested on the face of Nameless.

"Carl!" he cried, like one, who, awaking from a troubled dream, finds, unexpectedly, by his bed a familiar and beloved face--"Carl, my son!"

Mary heard that voice; it roused her from her slumber. Starting up, she pressed her father's hands.

"O, Carl, Carl, he knows you! Thank God! thank God!"

"Mary," said the father, gazing upon her earnestly, like one who tries to separate the reality of his waking hours from the images of a past dream.

First upon one face, then upon the other, he turned his gaze, meanwhile, in an absent manner, joining the hand of Mary and the hand of Carl.

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