University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Effects of intemperance. A scene from real life.

Shakspeare.

Milton.

Shakspeare.

Emma Portland passed the house of her beloved sick
friend, Mrs. Johnson; but had not gone more than half a
square in the direction of Broadway, which she had to cross,
when she saw the figure of a man prostrate, and white with the
falling snow, directly in her pathway. This object, owing to
the night and the blinding effect of the snow, was not seen
until she was within a few steps of him.

The consciousness of her unprotected situation now flashed
upon her; she feared that she had rashly exposed herself to
insult or danger; for the thought of the person being dead, or
one perishing in the streets of a populous and well-guarded
city, did not, at first, occur to her as a possibility. She started
back; and the first impuse was to cross the narrow street,
and thus avoid notice or danger. She however observed that
the figure was motionless. The thought of a person having
fallen in a fit, and left to perish by cold, occurred. She had
been reading but a few hours before, among other lessons of
humanity and love, the parable of the good Samaritan. That
beautiful fiction by which its great author inculcated truth—the
love and duty due to a neighbour—and that the word neighbour
meant, one of the human race, though of an adverse nation
and religion.

Such lessons were not lost on Emma Portland. As she
turned to cross to the other side of the street, the Levite who
passed by and avoided the abused and wounded traveller, arrested
her steps. She advanced towards the object which had
alarmed her, and with feelings of mingled terror and compassion
gazed on a being so pitiably exposed to suffering and
death.

A lamp-post stood near; but the chilled oil scarcely served
the purpose of feeding the wick of the lamp; and it was only
a fitful and glimmering light which was shed through the flakes
of falling snow on the surrounding objects. She advanced
nearer, and the light flickered and expired. She had stooped
over the object, that now interested her, at the moment the exhausted
lamp shot forth a feeble and a last ray. She saw that
the thin, dishevelled grey hair of an aged man, was the only
covering of the head, which lay pillowed on a pile of snow that
had been shoveled from the side-walk. The light of the lamp
was now extinguished; but amid snow there is no perfect
darkness.

Emma had too much of the good Samaritan in her composition
to think a second time of passing on the other side of the
way. She saw, that this poor creature, instead of being an
object to create alarm, was a subject for compassion and active
assistance. Her own lonely and unprotected situation
was forgotten. She again stooped over the prostrate and fallen
man—fallen indeed!—to ascertain whether he was living or
dead. She saw by his colour and breathing that life was not
extinct—that it was a “foul and loathsome” image of death

which she beheld—and she recognised the features of George
Frederick Cooke!

Involuntarily she uttered a faint shriek—rather of surprise
and horror than terror; but, with characteristic self-possession,
she the next instant bent the powers of her well-regulated
mind in search of the readiest mode by which to overcome
difficulties and procure relief to the sufferer, apparently unconscious,
though so eminently in peril of immediate death.

The question for her to determine was, where could assistance
for the unhappy man be obtained most promptly? She
thought of Kent's; but it was distant, and he was not in a
state of mind or body—old, worn down, and afflicted—to bear
the helpless man so far. Mrs. Johnson and Henry occurred
to her—but she shrunk from alarming her, and thought more
than one man necessary to carry the inert—perhaps dying—
body. She recollected the City-Hall, and knew that it was not
far off, and afforded ample aid. She had heard that the central
city-watch-house was there, and of course men ready, without
loss of time, to fly to the aid of the distressed. She had often
heard the sonorous notes of “All's well” wafted through the
trees of the park, and echoed by the surrounding buildings.
Thought is more rapid than the pen or even the eye: these
thoughts occupied but a moment, and the course to be pursued
was resolved upon.

“I will there seek assistance—there I am sure to find and
obtain it without delay.” She was unconscious of wind or
snow, and exercise supplied heat to counteract the chilling
blasts. “I am rushing among strange and coarse men; but
my sex must be respected. I am doing my duty; I shall soon
be there; I may save this unfortunate gentleman!” Such were
the replies that quieted her fears.

At first she almost ran, in her impatience to procure succour;
but the snow impeded her feet, and she found her breath
failing. She stopped. The picture of a watch-house such as
she had seen described in books, occurred to her, and appeared
appalling. She remembered the figures she had sometimes
passed at night in the streets, covered with rough garments, armed
with bludgeons, and made conspicuous by helmet-like hats.
She had seen them gliding silently along like beings of another
world, or those startling things, creatures of darkness, who never
appear by day. Her heart beat quick, and her courage began to
fail. “Heavenly father!” she ejaculated, “strengthen my purpose
if it is right!” She felt that it was right, and she was strengthened.
The image of the old man whom she had known so

kind and gentle in private life, was present to her mind; his
life depended upon her exertion. She quickened her pace.
Her impatience increased when she reached the park and saw
the building before her which promised relief; she almost ran, in
despite of impediment, as she passed along by the palings on
the west side of the enclosure; she opened the gate nearest the
hall, and glided along in front of the bridewell. She saw a light
glimmering from a cellar-like passage; the entrance was by a
few steps, and it appeared to lead, like a long arch-way, under
the massive edifice. She approached, and saw that the vaultlike
place was lighted by a solitary lamp, suspended from the
low-arched roof. Before she could descend the steps to this
subterraneous abode she had another struggle with her fears.
She stopped to listen, as her foot touched the second step.
She heard a confused murmuring sound, and occasionally a
hoarse, loud voice, grating and discordant. All was new—all
was terrific to the aflirighted maiden. The light from the lamp
showed her what at first was an apparently interminable gloomy
passage of dark massive stone-work, crossed by gates of iron
gratings. She again heard a noise of human voices, which
she perceived came from a lateral passage, leading to the left.
That way she must seek for aid. She descended the stone
stairs, and stood (again hesitating) on the broad flagging of the
floor; from whence, looking forward, she saw, through the
iron bars, a distant pale light, which she knew, after a moment's
reflection, must proceed from an opening at the other
end of the building, similar to that she had entered, made visible
by the snow beyond.

She heard a step behind her, and had scarcely turned her
head, when a rude hand grasped her shoulder, and as rude a
voice assailed her ear, with, “What are you doing here,
girl?”

She, trembling, looked up and saw the gigantic figure of a
man towering over her, and appearing more colossal from
standing on the step from which she had just descended.
This was one of the guardians of the night who had returned
from his rounds, and seeing, as he approached, that some one
was in the passage, had descended the steps cautiously, to take
the supposed eave-dropper or outcast by surprise.

“Your business here?”

“I have come here for help, sir,” was the answer of the
trembling maid.

“Why did you stand here?”

“I did not know which way to go.”

“So this is your first visit to the watch-house? Come
then! I'll introduce you to a plenty of good company.”

Saying this he took her by the arm and led her forward to the
passage from which she had heard the sound of voices. Into
this, still dar er than the place from which they came, he turned
and pressed forward.

Emma involuntarily shrunk, and held back, exclaiming,
“Heaven protect me! What a place is this!”

“Don't be alarmed, miss,” said her conductor, seemingly
impressed favourably by her words and voice, “don't be
alarmed—if you want help, this is the place—I'll speak to the
captain.”

They reached a door, which he opened, and Emma found
herself in an apartment lighted, by what appeared from the
contrast, a noon-day blaze. Her conductor led her in,
and leaving her to herself while he spoke to the captain, she
gazed in amazement at a scene so utterly strange as that
which surrounded her.

The place in which she stood, (environed by figures, some
sitting, but most stretched upon benches; some talking, others
sleeping) was separated by gratings from an inner apartment,
and, as her quick eye fell upon the prison-like bars, she saw
within a motley crowd of every colour—rags and filth were
commingled with dresses of pretension, and here and there
flaring female ornaments, with feathers and silks, caught her
bewildered sight. Curiosity, to see what new figure, what
additional wretch, had been ushered in by the watchman, to be
thrust into the den of misery as a companion to themselves,
brought many to the bars of their cage; and male and female,
black and white visages, appeared, with eyes staring at the innocent
and almost bewildered girl, like hideous phantasms in
a feverish dream. The contrast formed by the flaunting finery
of some females who had been hurried hither from a fancy-ball,
with the forlorn expression of their faces, the degraded situation,
and the squalid appearance of their companions, seemed
to realize the fantastic incongruities of a vision in disturbed
sleep. Close to the distorted and bloated countenance of an
enraged drunkard might be seen the pale face of a wretched
woman, whose tears had washed away the artificial colouring
meant to represent health, and exhibited the wreck of beauty, a
prey to disease.

Emma turned away her eyes in disgust from the spectre-like
scene, which, at first, attracted them by the fascination of
strangeness—a novelty beyond imagining. After the first

glare of the room on entering, the light became dim, the air
thick and offensive to the senses. The objects were becoming
indistinct—a sickening oppression was stealing over the astonished
maiden, when she was aroused by a voice demanding
from her conductor, who she was? and for what offence she
was brought there?

She lifted her eyes and turning her head saw the captain of
the watch, whose slumbers had been broken by the person who
introduced her. The captain was at this moment sitting by
the fire on the bench which had been his bed: his head was
bound with a bandana handkerchief, and a blanket was partly
wrapt around him. Emma's conductor was still explaining
that she was not constrained to visit their place of guard, and
came for assistance; but as the captain's words seemed to
confound her with the criminals or rioters of the night, they
awakened her energies. She advanced towards him.

“I am not brought here against my will. I come to demand
assistance.” The beautiful girl seemed at once restored to
the possession of her courage and the exercise of her clear
intellect. “I come for help to save a gentleman from death.
There is not a moment to be lost—let me conduct some of the
watch to his assistance. In a few moments he may be a
frozen corpse—he is perishing in the street—helpless—in this
killing—this dreadful night!”

As she spoke her mantle fell back from her head, for she
had thrown it over her quilted hood as a further protection
from the storm. The hood slipt off with it, and her face,
beaming beauty, benevolence, and intelligence, appeared glowing
in the full light of the fire: the comb, which alone sustained
the profusion of silken locks, lost its hold as the covering of
her head was thrown off, and her long clustering tresses rolled
over her slender form in luxuriant confusion.

The captain sprung upon his feet with intent to apologise
for the rough reception she had met: he was prevented by one
of his subordinates, who had, like himself, been slumbering at
the fire; but, as if roused by the last words of Emma, started
up—gazed at the unusual apparition, and cried out, as he advanced
towards her, “good heavens, Emma Portland! what?
what brings you here?” She was employed in adjusting her
dress when she heard this well known voice, and looking up
beheld Henry Johnson!