 | CHAPTER I.
THE FRIENDLESS BEGGAR. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
THE FRIENDLESS BEGGAR.
It was Christmas eve, that happy period for the young
who have parents above the wants and miseries of griping
poverty, and notwithstanding a heavy snow was falling, the
streets of the goodly city of Philadelphia were thronged
with joyous citizens, many of them returning to their
cheerful firesides, loaded with toys, which were to greet
the eyes of the happy children, when they should awake on
the morrow, as the mysterious presents of fabled St. Nicholas.
It was a gala time to all but the homeless and destitute;
and, alas! there are too many such, who, with fevered
eyes, can only look upon the happiness of others through
that deep veil of hopeless gloom which shuts out every
cheerful ray. To such poor wretches it was a time of open
mockery; for they keenly felt that but one tithe of what
was now so freely spent for foolish toys, would have provided
them against the pangs of starvation and death.
It is an awful thing for one to die of cold and hunger in
the midst of plenty; but such, we grieve to say, is too often
the case; while merchants on change count their profits by
thousands, and their wives and daughters roll in their carriages,
and flaunt their silks along our fashionable thoroughfares.
Must it always be so? is there no remedy? Great God,
forbid! We subscribe money to send missionaries to the
heathen, to convert them. Convert them to what? To
Christianity! Yet Christianity allows the heathen in her
own country, within the sound of the bells of her sacred
churches, to die of starvation. We talk of the slaves at
the South, and get up meetings of sympathy and condolence;
yet leave the slaves at the North—white and black
—freemen in name, but slaves to poverty and vice—to die
friendless and unpitied. Is this right? Have you, sir—
or you, madam—who step proudly within the portals of the
church, and sit luxuriously on cushioned seats, and offer up
musk-scented prayers to the Throne of the Omnipotent—
have you no feelings of humanity? have you no thought
for your poor brothers and sisters, who lie gasping in
wretchedness? If not, then do not longer insult Heaven
by uttering hypocritical prayers; for He who will sit in
judgment upon your acts, will say to you:
“The tree is known by its fruits. I was an hungered,
and ye gave me no meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me
no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me not in; naked,
and ye clothed me not; sick, and in prison, and ye visited
me not. Depart! I know ye not; for as ye did it not to
one of the least of these, (your poor brothers and sisters,)
ye did it not to me.”
Perhaps you will say, with a self-satisfied air:
“My conscience is easy, for I know of no poor that I
can relieve.”
Very well, then, if such be the case, follow the tracings
of our pen, and we will show you objects worthy of charity
—human beings wallowing in wretchedness—who, by a little
judicious assistance and counsel, may yet be snatched
from the jaws of mortal death, and that second death which
is a thousand fold worse than the first.
We have said that the streets were thronged with happy
citizens, going to and fro, on that snowy Christmas eve
which opens our story. But there was one abroad, in one
of the main thoroughfares, who, like our Master of old,
knew not where to lay her head. This was a mere child—
a little girl, of perhaps ten years of age—who, thinly clad,
almost barefoot, was stealing along, with tearful eyes and
pitiful look, unconscious whither her steps were tending—
nor caring, so she might find some good Samaritan who
would shelter her for the night and give her food. More
than once was she rudely jostled and put aside by purse-proud,
anxious passengers; and more than once was her
thin dress brushed by rustling silks; yet not one paused to
give her a kind word, or direct one look of sympathy to her
sorrowful face. Poor child! May God protect you! for
mankind seem to have no bowels of compassion.
At last the poor little thing, weary and discouraged,
stopped under a lamp, and looked tremblingly around her.
On either side of her was a row of fine dwellings, and she
fancied there might be hearts in some of them that would
take pity upon her. At this moment a man passed, well
buttoned up in a warm overcoat; and catching his eye, and
fancying there was something benevolent in the expression,
the little girl impulsively made a step forward, and holding
out her thin hand and half-naked arm, said, falteringly:
“Please, sir, will you give me a trifle?”
Now this man had what is called a kind heart; and had
he known how painfully a little charity was needed, he
silver coin; but it was snowing; his thickly padded overcoat
was snugly buttoned; and so, making a feint to feel
in his pocket, he answered:
“I have no change, my little girl.”
As he passed on, two large, hot tears—for the tears were
hot if the child was cold—rolled down her pale, wan face;
and covering it with her hands, she drew back, and leaned
against the lamp-post for support.
While standing thus, the door of a house in front of her
was opened, and a gentleman came out upon the steps, and
deliberately spread an umbrella, while another appeared
just within, holding the door with one hand.
“It is snowing finely,” said the first; “and if it keeps
on this way through the night, we shall have fine sleighing
to-morrow. By-the-by, Deacon, if there should be a good
fall of snow, would you like a drive with me out to the
Wissahiccon?”
“Thank you,” answered the other, in a smooth, oily
tone; “I should like it very much in the afternoon. In
the morning, you know, I must attend Divine service, and
put in my mite to aid the poor—God help them!”
“Ah! true!” said the first; “we should not forget the
poor at this season of festivity; and as I may not get down
to hear the sermon, I will commission you to put in my mite
for me.”
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket two half-dollars,
which he handed to the Deacon, who thanked him in the
name of the poor, and promised to deposit them, on the day
following, in the charity box of the church in which he
worshipped.
“Well,” continued the one with the umbrella, “should
the day be fine, and good sleighing, I will call for you at
three o'clock.”
“Very well—that will suit—and thank you too.”
“Good night, Deacon Pinchbeck.”
“Good night, friend Parker—good night.”
The gentleman with the umbrella walked hastily away,
and Deacon Pinchbeck backed in and closed the door.
The little girl, whom neither of these persons had noticed,
and who had heard every word of the conversation
reported, thought, simple soul, that the house of such a
pious man would be the place to solicit charity; and so,
after some tremblings and misgivings, she summoned the
resolution which attends despair, ventured up the marble
steps, and gave a slight ring. The Deacon, who was still
in the entry, exchanging some words with his wife, who was
up stairs, did not wait for the servant, but answered the
bell himself.
“Well,” he said, harshly, as his eye fell upon the miserable
object who stood trembling before him, partly with
cold and partly with fear—for she was not a beggar by
profession, and felt very timid: “well, what do you want?”
His voice was no longer soft and oily, but more like a
file going across the teeth of a saw.
“Ple-a-a-se, sir,” chattered the little girl, “I'm very
hungry.”
“Hungry, are you?” returned the pious Deacon, with
holy horror: “why don't you go home, then, and not be
out at this time of night, ringing gentlemen's door-bells?
Have you not been told never to put your feet on these
steps, you miserable creature? Eh! come, speak! have you
never been told to keep away from here?”
“N-n-no, sir,” stammered the girl, bursting into tears—
“I never was here before.”
“Then you are a new one, eh? one of the new beggarly
impostors, are you? Well, come in here, till I teach you
a lesson.”
The child, much frightened, drew back, and would have
darted down the steps, but the Deacon caught hold of her,
and said:
“Not so fast, my little thief—not so fast; you don't
escape me this way.” Then seeing some one approaching
along the street, he added, in a milder tone, but one that
could be heard at a greater distance: “Come in, my poor
child! come in, and I will see what I can do for you.”
Reassured by the change of his voice, and seeing no alternative,
the little girl entered the house, and the Deacon
closed the door. He then bade her follow him into the
back-parlor, which was handsomely furnished, and lighted
with gas, with a cheerful coal fire burning in the grate and
sending out a pleasant heat. A fat little boy, with rather
coarse, impudent features, sat on a cricket, near the fire,
with his hands locked over his knees, and a sleek, tabby
cat purring in his lap. A large stuffed rocking-chair stood
in the centre of the apartment; and throwing himself into
this, the Deacon, in an authoritative tone, bade his trembling
captive advance to his side, where she underwent a
very rigid and contemptuous scrutiny.
She was one of those unfortunate beings whom we can
only liken to a frost-nipped flower—beautiful by nature,
but withered and faded by the chilling air of adversity.
She was, as we have before remarked, about ten years of
age—but small and slender—and now, alas! thin and
wasted, for want of the necessaries of life. Her face was
not clean—neither were her hands; but she only needed
washing, feeding, and dressing, with kind words and gentle
smiles, to have made her a beauty of which the most fastidious
could have been proud. Her features were pretty,
but soiled and haggard. She had a straight nose, a prim
little mouth, with even, pearly teeth, and gentle, expressive
blue eyes. A ragged hood partially covered her head, the
and neck in disorder, being uncombed and matted. A thin,
ragged gown, one sleeve of which was gone above the elbow,
with a draggling under garment, old slip shod shoes,
both too large and unmated, and a black, faded, moth-eaten
shawl, of small dimensions and coarse stuff, completed her
attire. This apology for a shawl she drew close around
her person, and endeavored to keep her naked arm concealed
under it. She was indeed an object of striking interest
to the true philanthropist.
Marked was the contrast between this poor child of sorrow,
and the rich, fat, pious Deacon Pinchbeck, and his
hopeful son and heir. The Deacon was a man on the shady
side of forty, very plump, like one who lives well, but
neither tall nor graceful. His face had an oily look; but
the expression could be harsh and cold enough when he
wished. The eyes were a light gray, shrewd, and rather
small; the nose short, angular, and turned up at the end;
the mouth large and sensual, and the cheeks plump and
fresh. He had scarcely any eyebrows, and his forehead
was what some would term intellectual; but it was not so
in reality; for the Deacon knew very little beyond certain
long prayers, certain stereotyped pious sayings, and how to
get money and keep it. The forehead, it is true, looked
well to one who had no idea of the noble science of phrenology.
It looked high, because the Deacon was a little
bald; and it looked oily, because the Deacon fed well;
but from the base to the crown, it had a very unintellectual
slope; and the place where the organs of veneration
and benevolence should have been, was so flat, that the
good man might have set a pail of water there and carried
it with very little difficulty. Of course the Deacon dressed
well, in dark broadcloth; and to look more sanctified, if
not ministerial, he wore round his neck a white cravat,
rich, full of cant to the pious, but a regular tyrant to those
whom he could oppress with impunity.
He was of vulgar extraction—id est—what the fashionable
term vulgar. His father was a drunkard, and his mother
took in washing. His mother was still living in
poverty, which speaks volumes for the baseness of his
heart. In his early life he had been a pedlar; and what
with cheating and stealing—for more than once, in buying
his wares, he had pilfered from an honest salesman—he
had scraped together a sum of money that had enabled him
to purchase a grocery. In this business, for ten years, he
was so prosperous, owing to false weights, over charges,
etcetera, that at last he sold out, at an enormous profit,
and turned usurer. His plan of doing business now was
very simple. For instance, he had the money, and you
wanted it: in fact you were so situated that you must have
it. Very well. Mr. Absalom Pinchbeck—he was not a
Deacon in those days—would not charge you any more interest
than the law allowed: Oh! no—not he. But you
could give him your note, with a good endorser, or good
real estate security, for a hundred dollars, with interest,
payable at six months, and Mr. Pinchbeck would count
you down seventy-five dollars. All fair, you see; and if
you wanted a larger sum, it could be done at the same
rate; sometimes, perhaps, if you were not too much distressed,
at a better rate. Well, suppose you gave him a
mortgage on your property, and by some misfortune could
not meet his demand at the proper time; why, Mr. Pinchbeck
could not find it convenient to renew your note; but
he would do something better—for himself. He would
kindly sell your property for you, secure his debt, and perhaps
bid it in for one-half its real value.
In this latter way Mr. Pinchbeck got to owning houses
a widow who had managed to put two husbands under the
turf, and he paid his addresses to her. She was larger
than himself, and somewhat older; but she had some property,
and very winning ways, and so Mr. Pinchbeck proposed.
She knew him to be rich, and she accepted. In
private she turned out to be a perfect shrew; but as she
always had honeyed words for him in company, this could
be borne. Sometimes, in a pet, she boxed his ears, or
kicked him out of bed; but as Mr. Pinchbeck generally
succeeded in cheating somebody soon after, he put this
down to good luck—equivalent to throwing an old shoe
after him. He really feared her more than he did his
God; but he took care to keep this a secret, and always
spoke of her as his dear wife, dear angel, and so forth.
Being at last married and prosperous, and blessed with
a son, who inherited his mother's temper and his father's
meanness, Absalom Pinchbeck thought it would be for his
interest to join the church. His wife, who had some idea
of respectability and fashion, thought so too; and so they
both got religion together—or said they did, at least—and
were made members of a church which had a high steeple,
a good sounding bell, carpeted aisles, and cushioned seats.
Mr. Pinchbeck being very devoted and rich, and his wife
rather good-looking and fashionable, he was thought worthy
of the office, and was accordingly chosen a Deacon.
Now the Deacon never alluded to his past life and his poor
mother, and there were but few of his present acquaintances
who knew his history. There were, however, some
who did, and who, if made angry, would throw it up to
him; but the Deacon would piously roll up his eyes, and
exclaim, with a sigh, that the Lord had been very kind to
His poor, humble servant—which was doubtless true, seeing
deserve.
“Well,” said the Deacon, after a long and severe scrutiny
of his trembling prisoner, “so you pretend to be a
new impostor, do you?”
“Please, sir, let me go, and I'll never come here again,”
returned the frightened child, beginning to cry.
“Hum! you want to go, do you?” rejoined the Deacon;
“you are very anxious to get away, are you? that looks
suspicious. Nelson, (to the little boy,) attend! Mark
what now takes place! I intend, my son, that you shall
one day be a great lawyer; and great lawyers, my son,
have to cross-question witnesses. Now your father is going
to question, and cross-question, this little impostor;
and you will be able to learn something useful. We should
always endeavor to pick up knowledge wherever we can,
my son—at least such knowledge as will make us great in
—in—a—ah—the world.”
“Go ahead, dad,” answered the juvenile prodigy.
“So you came here to steal, did you?” continued the
Deacon to the little girl.
“Oh! no, sir!” was the frightened answer.
“Not exactly to steal yourself, perhaps, but to lay a
plan for others. You see I know all about such creatures
as you. What have you got in your hand, that you keep
it hid under that rag of a shawl?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Let me see!”
The child showed her hand, and with it her naked arm.
“What have you done with the putty, or whatever you
use, for taking impressions of locks? Ha! you see I
know your tricks—so own up.”
“I haven't got any putty, sir.”
“But you had.”
“No, sir, I never had any.”
“No stories now—you know you had.”
“No, sir, I never had any putty, and I don't know what
you mean.”
“You see what story-tellers these things are, Nelson—
they can't tell the truth.”
“If I's you, dad, I'd switch her—that 'ud fetch her.”
“Perhaps I shall before I'm done, if she don't answer
me better. Do you know, you creature, that I could put
you in prison, for coming here to steal?”
“But I didn't come here to steal—indeed, indeed, I
didn't!” cried the poor child.
“Why didn't you come in the day-time then? or why
did you come here at all?”
“I was so hungry, sir.”
“Hungry, were you? Indeed! Are you hungry now?”
“Yes, sir—some—not much.”
“Ha! I see you can't tell a straight story. Where do
you live?”
“I haven't any home, sir.”
“Come! that's likely! if you go on in this way, I shall
take Nelson's advice and switch you.”
“I guess if dad switches you once, you'll be glad to tell
the truth,” said the boy, putting down the cat, and getting
up. “Let's see your face;” and coming up close to her,
he pinched her arm.
The unfortunate child uttered a cry of pain, and drew
back.
“Stop!” said the father; “don't you attempt to correct
her, Nelson—you are too young. Come, you beggar—tell
me where you live, this minute!”
“I don't live any where, sir. I used to live with an old
woman, down by the river—but she beat me so, I had to
leave her.”
“So! you're a runaway, eh?”
“I ran away from her, sir.”
“I ought to take you back there, I suppose—for it's the
duty of good citizens to return all the runaways they find.
What did she beat you for?”
“I don't know, sir—I always minded her.”
“You were a bad girl, I suppose. What is your name?”
“Ellen, sir.”
“Ellen what?”
“Ellen Norbury.”
“Ellen Norbury, eh? Hum! Have you got a father?”
“No, sir.”
“Never had one, may be;” and the witty Deacon laughed
at his coarse joke, and his hopeful son joined in—not because
he understood the inuendo, but because he thought
it proper to laugh when his father did. “Never had a
father, eh?” pursued the inquisitor.
“Yes, sir;” and the recollection caused little Ellen to
sob hysterically.
“What became of him?”
“He died, sir.”
“Hum! Well, have you got a mother?”
“No, sir—she's dead too.”
“What did your father do for a living?”
“He was an artist, sir.”
“Where did he live?”
“In Dublin, sir.”
“Did he never live in this country?”
“No, sir—he died on the voyage over.”
“Did your mother live here?”
“A little while, sir.”
“What did she do for a living?”
“After father died, she made shirts.”
“Where did she live?”
“Down near the river, sir.”
“How long has your father been dead?”
“Over two years, sir.”
“How long has your mother been dead?”
“Most two years, sir.”
“Where have you been living since?”
“With the old woman who lived in the same house with
my mother.”
“What's her name?”
Ellen hesitated, and the Deacon repeated the question.
“I don't like to tell, sir.”
“Why?'
“Because you might take me back.”
“No, I shan't trouble myself so much about you: in fact,
I believe all you have told me is false. When did you run
away?”
“Day before yesterday, sir.”
“Where did you sleep last night?”
“I crawled into an old shed, and laid on some straw.”
“Where do you expect to sleep to-night?”
“I don't know, sir.”
“Hum! a pretty pack of lies, I'll be bound.”
At this moment the door opened, and the stately Mrs.
Pinchbeck sailed in, dressed in silk. She was a large woman,
and, in her younger days, had probably been good
looking; but her features now were coarse, and a near inspection
showed the crow's-feet around her small, keen
eyes, notwithstanding a pretty free use of cosmetics. Her
hair and teeth were false, her eyebrows pencilled, and her
large flabby cheeks painted. Still, by gas-light, she was as
passably comely as could be expected of a woman verging
on fifty, who had spent a good portion of her time in fashionable
dissipation.
“What is it, my love? what is going on here?” she inquired,
addressing her now uneasy lord.
“Why, my angel,” answered the latter, with a look that
showed he had some fears of how the intelligence might be
received, “this is a little beggar wretch, who had the impudence
to ring our bell, my dear, and I brought her in here
to give her a lesson.”
“Indeed!” said the lady, her little eyes snapping with
anger: “how dare you bring such a creature into my parlor—into
my presence—with all her dirt and filth? I'll
teach you a lesson, Deacon Absalom Pinchbeck;” and advancing
to her trembling spouse, she bestowed upon his
organ of hearing a most unlady-like Christmas box—a box,
in fact, that caused him to leave his seat sideways, with
tears in his eyes.
She then sailed up to the corner of the fire-place, and
rung the kitchen bell.
“Catharine,” she said to the servant, with a disdainful
air, pointing to little Ellen, “show this bundle of rags into
the street.”
Poor little Ellen was only too glad to escape; and when
the cold pierced her thin garments, and the snow fell upon
her, and the door closed behind her, she drew a long sigh
of relief.
Poor child!
| CHAPTER I.
THE FRIENDLESS BEGGAR. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |