University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME, BUT SOMETIMES VENTURES
ABROAD.

On a dark and chilly evening in the last
month of the year, a young portrait-painter
named Stanford was sitting alone in the room
where he practised his art. An easel was before
him, and on it was a painting, although so
dim was the light shed by a solitary candle from
an adjoining table, that it was difficult to distinguish
the figures on the canvass. There was
a fireplace in the apartment, but it no longer
emitted a cheerful warmth, for the last spark
upon the hearth-stone had expired, and the air
was growing colder and colder.

The artist seemed to be unconscious of the
decay of his fire, for he still sat, with arms
folded and eyes fixed, as if absorbed in contemplation.
While he is in this position, let us
take such a survey of his person as the imperfect
light will permit. To judge from his features,
he has numbered not far from twenty-seven

years. In stature you would call him neither
short nor tall, and in frame neither stout nor
thin. His complexion, though not ruddy, is
sufficiently indicative of good health, and his
face, if not handsome, has that charm of expression
which may generally be found in company
with serenity of mind and cheerfulness of temper.
But hark! he begins to soliloquize, and,
with his permission, we will overhear what he
has to say.

“I wish I had a thousand dollars! I would go
abroad and study my art. I would see the best
models—cull from every style its choicest beauties—satisfy
myself of the merits of every school
—then return and astonish the natives. I do really
wish I was not quite so poor. Heigho!
What! Mr. Franklin Stanford! do you call
yourself poor? What ingratitude! Are you
not out of debt? Haven't you good health and
good spirits? Have you any one to look out
for but yourself? Haven't you a fair field and
no favour? What more would you ask, so you
have wit enough to shut a door without jamming
your fingers, and energy enough to go in
when it rains? Surely no young man, unencumbered
and free, has a right to call himself
poor in this new country, while there are millions
upon millions of government acres whither
he can go and shoot buffalo and deer for his dinner,
sleep on a prairie, and drink out of the Mississippi!”

As the young painter concluded his soliloquy,
which, had he imagined it would ever be recorded
in print, would undoubtedly have been

less discursive and free, the City Hall clock
struck the hour of midnight.

“Halloo! Twelve o'clock! I had no idea it
was so late! I must have been in a brown study,”
continued Stanford, as he threw on his cloak,
and, putting out the light, left the room to wend
his way towards his boarding-house.

In the street, he found that a slight snow had
fallen since he was last out. The air was humid
and uncomfortable, the sidewalks were
sloppy, and New-York's great thoroughfare
seemed dull, dreary, and deserted. Turning the
corner of Vesey-street, Stanford passed the Astor
House and hurried up Broadway, eager to
seek warmth and repose in his bed. The city
was unusually still. Occasionally the figure of
a watchman, with his staff under his arm and
his hands in his pockets, cowering up against
the embrasure of a door, might be distinguished
through the mist, but his doze was undisturbed
by the rattling of carriages or the exclamations
of riotous pedestrians.

Our young painter had not gone farther than
Chambers-street, however, when he met a little
girl, rather thinly clad, who followed him a step
or two, and said, in a low, sweet voice, “Sir!
sir! will you listen to me?”

Stanford was naturally humane, but of late he
had been so accustomed to the importunities of
beggars in Broadway, and so well aware was he
that it was one of the tricks of the most experienced
of them to send forth their children with
slight clothing on inclement nights to excite
compassion, that on the present occasion he

passed on without bestowing any notice upon
the little mendicant who had accosted him.
She did not renew her appeal, and he had proceeded
several rods at a rapid pace, when something
like a twinge of pity and regret induced
him to look back. The little girl had leaned
her head against the iron lamp-post at the corner,
and Stanford fancied that he heard her
giving way to something like a subdued sob.

What should he do?

“Go home,” whispered Selfishness. “You
are sleepy and tired. Think of your warm bed.
If the child is suffering, let the watchmen take
care of her. She is doubtless some impostor.
If you are to be stopped in this way by every
object of compassion you meet, you may as
well abandon every other occupation for that of
alms-giver.”

“Turn back,” said Humanity. “A stray dog
should excite your pity on such a night as this.
Go and inquire the poor child's story, test its
truth, and lend her such aid as your slender
means will allow. It is a very convenient excuse
to cry out `imposition,' but let not your
heart be blinded by that perfidious plea. Is it
not better to be duped than to do an injustice?
Be merciful, as you would have mercy at your
extremest need.”

Here the debate closed, and I am happy to
say that Humanity won the cause.

“What ails you, my child?” said Stanford,
retracing his steps, and laying his hand on the
little girl's shoulder.

She started, and looked up in his face. The

adjoining lamp shed its rays upon her features.
Like dew upon lilies, the tears glistened on her
pale cheeks, which looked all the paler from the
contrast of her dark eyes and hair. Her frame
was slender and small, but straight as an arrow,
and symmetrical as an antelope's. A shawl
was thrown around her head and held together
under her chin, affording little protection against
the frigid, penetrating air. She gazed a moment
wistfully at Stanford; and then a shudder and
a sigh, such as an infant who has sobbed itself
asleep sometimes gives vent to, seemed to proceed
from the very depths of her heart.

“Poor child! poor child! You are cold,”
said Stanford, with an emotion of tenderness
which made his voice tremulous.

The girl leaned her forehead on his extended
arm, and wept with a passionate vehemence,
which surprised and agitated him.

He threw a portion of his cloak around her,
and said, “Be calm, my child; do not weep so.
Tell me what distresses you. Nay, it is late,
and we should make the most of our time.”

Checking her tears by a strong effort of her
will, she said, “Forgive me, sir, but you spoke
so kindly!”

“Poor child! poor child!” muttered Stanford,
and he drew the cloak closer around her
fragile form. “What is your name?”

“Ruth, sir—Ruth Loveday.”

“Well, tell me, now, Ruth, what I can do for
you. Let me hear your story.”

“I came out, sir, to beg a lemon and some
sugar to make some lemonade for father.”

“Your father, then, is ill?”

“He is ill, sir, of a fever; so ill, I fear he
will—” a sob interrupted the sorrowful conclusion
of the little girl's reply; but, after a moment's
pause, she continued:

“I went down into that oyster cellar at the
corner to get what I wanted, but the man who
keeps it drove me away when he found I had
no money.”

“Well, I have some money, Ruth. Is there
nothing besides lemonade your father would
like? Does he suffer for want of food?”

“Not now, sir, for his appetite is gone. He
has eaten nothing since—”

Again did the little creature's sobs seem to
choke her utterance. Stanford had discernment
enough to perceive that such wo never could
be counterfeited. He gave full credit to her
story; and putting his arm, with the cloak over
it, around her shoulder, he went with her to the
oyster cellar.

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour,
there were several young men present engaged
in smoking and drinking. One of them staggered
up to Stanford, and told him that he must
drink with him, or fight. Without noticing this
abrupt communication, Stanford purchased the
articles which the little girl had come forth to
procure, and turned to quit the uncongenial
spot. But at this moment the tipsy youth espied
the little girl, half hidden by the cloak, and
pulled her forth with violence, while he laughed,
and declared that she should drink too. Poor
Ruth shrank back with alarm, and begged him

to desist; and Stanford, seeing no other mode
of escape, compelled him to let go his hold by
knocking him down. Immediately the companions
of the prostrate man pressed forward to
avenge his fall. Stanford hastily threw off his
cloak and handed it, with his bundle, to Ruth,
telling her to open the door and keep in advance
of him. Ruth promptly obeyed; and her new
protector retreated gradually and without injury
up the steps till he reached the sidewalk, when
he contrived to hit the foremost of his opponents
in such a way as to send him back upon
the rest, pitching the whole of them down into
the cellar.

“Now, Ruth, give me the cloak and bundle;
take my other hand, and see how fast you can
run.”

Turning the corner of Reade-street towards
the east, the painter, with his little charge, ran
some distance, pursued by the young men,
whom strong drink had converted into ruffians.
Their shouts and execrations at length aroused
a watchman, who interrupted them in their
course, and whom they attempted to beat. He
sprang his rattle, however, and was soon surrounded
by his brethren, who seized and pinioned
the rioters, and conveyed them to the
watchhouse, from which, in the morning, they
would be led before a police-justice, to lament
their own imprudence, and shudder at the
thought of the mortification of their friends.
So much for brandy and water! What fiends
and fools does it make of men!

Leading Stanford on from street to street,

Ruth stopped at last before an old wooden
building, which stood in an alley that belonged
to that inodorous section of the city known as
the Five Points.

“Is this your house, Ruth?”

“We have a room, sir, on the ground floor,
but there are several families besides ours in
the building.”

“So I should think,” said Stanford, as the
sound of fiddles and of dancing came to his
ears from one of the upper stories. He hesitated
a moment at the entrance of the abode,
as he glanced around at the signs of poverty,
uncleanliness, misery, and vice which were externally
apparent in the light of a neighbouring
street-lamp. But when he looked at Ruth's
wan, but earnest and intelligent features, and
thought of her forlorn condition, he overcame
his repugnance, and told her to lead on. She
pushed open the street door, and, passing
through a dark entry, followed by her new
companion, raised the latch of another door,
and said,

“Here is our room, sir. Will you walk in?”

Stanford entered with the little girl, who
closed the door gently behind them. Poverty
has no need of locks and bolts, no fear of the
midnight thief. In one corner of the room was
a mattress of straw, on which reposed two sickly-looking
children, apparently boys. A tattered
screen partially concealed their couch. The
opposite corner contained a small trundle bed,
which was occupied by a female child, who
seemed to be not more than four or five years

old. A larger bed stood between the windows
on another side of the apartment, and there lay
the figure of a man. The furniture of the apartment
was scanty, old, and poor; and the feeble
light that was shed upon it came from a taper
that burned in a broken cup on a chair. A
rusty, dilapidated stove protruded from the
hearth into the centre of the room, but it seemed
rather to add to the cheerlessness than to
alleviate it, for it contained no fire.

While Stanford was surveying the abode of
penury, Ruth hastened to her father's bedside,
and, bending over him, kissed his forehead, and
told him she had brought with her the materials
for making some lemonade.

“No matter now, Ruth,” said Mr. Loveday,
endeavouring to prop himself up by a pillow,
and disclosing to Stanford a face and form emaciated
by severe illness. “Give me a sip of
water, and then listen to what I have to say.”

Ruth obeyed him with looks of solicitude and
tenderness, and neither father nor daughter
seemed conscious of the presence of a stranger
during the conversation that ensued.

“Be composed, Ruth,” said the invalid,
“when I tell you that my last hour is close at
hand. Nay, do not sob so. Hear me. I have
never told you the name of your mother's father.
He was bitterly opposed to our marriage,
for I was poor and of humble extraction. Not
even your birth and our straitened circumstances
abated his resentment. The more he heard
of our indigence, the more did it seem to exasperate
him against us. When your mother

died, and I was visited with that complaint in
the eyes which forced me to abandon my business
of engraving, I made a last appeal to
him in favour of his grandchildren. It was
answered with contumely. In the anguish of
my heart, I vowed that I would starve with my
children rather than apply to him again for
aid. But affliction has vanquished pride. The
thought of your forlorn condition is too much.
You have been all goodness, Ruth. The sight
of you must move him, if he be human—give
me some more water—nay, first—”

“Dear father, you are exhautsed. Rest a
while. There! let me moisten your lips.”

The dying man sank back, but immediately
made a violent effort to rally his energies.

Raising his hand convulsively, he gasped
forth, “Quick! Hear me—his name—address
—find in—”

His lips moved, but no sound came from
them; and with a sigh, which was his last, his
body became motionless in death.

Terrible was little Ruth's wailing when she
became assured of the dreadful truth. She
wildly kissed the inanimate lips, and wet with
hot tears the pale, thin cheeks. So intensely
did she seem to suffer—so shaken was her gentle
frame by the vehemence of her sorrow, that
Stanford, alarmed for her immediate safety,
drew near, and by soothing words attempted
to withdraw her from the sad spectacle. She
repelled him, as if unwilling to be comforted.
He placed his hands upon her throbbing brow,
and soothingly parted with his fingers her dark

curls, until, with a slight moan, her head sank
upon his arm, and she slept. The tempest of
wo had passed. Taking the yielding form of
the little sufferer in his arms, he removed to
the principal chair in the room, and, drawing
his cloak once more around her, watched with
tender solicitude her peaceful slumber.