There are many novel features in it, but let them pass. Note
these thinly-clad creatures who hurry shivering past, while the keen
wind searches, with icy fingers, through their scanty garments, and
whirls the blinding snow in their pitiful, wearied faces. We count them
by tens, by scores, by hundreds, as we stand patiently here--all
bearing the same general aspect of countenance, all hurrying anxiously
forward, as if this morning's journey were the most momentous one of
their whole lives. But they take the same journey every morning, year
in and year out, whether the sun shines or the rain falls, or the bleak
winds whistle and the snow sweeps in their faces, with a pain like the
cutting of knives. The same faces go past in this dreary procession
month after month. Occasionally one will be missing--she is dead.
Another: she is worse than dead--_her_ face had beauty in it. Thus one
by one I have seen them drop away--caught by disease, born of their
work and their want, bringing speedy end to the weary, empty life;
caught by temptation and drawn into the giddy maelstrom of sin, to come
out no more forever.
To-morrow morning take your stand at Fulton or Catharine ferry, and
you shall see much such another procession go shivering by. The next
day station yourself somewhere on the west side, say in Canal street, a
few blocks from Broadway; here it is again. If Asmodeus-like, you could
hover in the air above the roofs of the town, and look down upon its
myriad streets at this hour, you would see such processions in every
quarter of the metropolis.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261