University of Virginia Library

20. Chapter XX.
A Street Battle.

THE funeral was over, and Widow Marvin slept in her
last bed, in the plain cemetery which was the burial-place
of the humble congregation to which she had been
attached in life. Margaret Winston, clasping the orphan
Emily's hand, as they stood in the church-yard together,
had listened, with her, to that sound so dismal to a
mourner's ear, the grating fall of gravel on the coffin's lid,
when the sexton cast his first clod into the grave, and the
solemn words, “ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” trembled
upon the preacher's lips. Good Mrs. Dumsey, also,
with her darling Tommy, and his eldest sister, formed
part of the funeral group; and the worthy day-nurse
mingled her tears in earnest sympathy with her young
friend. And when, returning together in the single carriage
which served for the funeral cortege, Emily leaned
her head upon Margaret's bosom, Mrs. Dumsey spoke kind
words, in discreet consolation, and hushed Tommy's noisy
exclamations, as he remarked, with great delight, the
objects which they passed; showing herself, albeit unversed
in social refinement, at least the possessor of that
homely grace—the art of doing good.

It was evening when they arrived at Emily's now lonesome
home in Foley's Barracks; and it was on crossing
its threshold that the most bitter realization of her
bereavement smote the young girl's heart. Mrs. Dumsey,
with her children, had bidden good-night, and the two
friends sat, with arms entwined together, upon the bed
whence all that was earthly of the widow had so lately
been removed.

“What a long, weary day it has been to me!” murmured
Emily. “Oh, Margaret! my heart feels dead
in my bosom!”

“It will revive dear! you will feel better to-morrow!
Please God, Emily, there are many happy days in store
for you!”

A sigh, which the seamstress heaved, as she uttered
these words, almost belied their hopefulness; but she
kissed Emily's forehead, drawing her fondly to her breast.

“You must go home with me to-night, Emily. It is
too lonely here for you, and I cannot bear to leave you.
I will make up a bed for the children, and you shall sleep
in my arms, sister! God will watch over us both.”

Emily returned convulsively the embrace which Margaret
gave her, and stifling the sobs that were breaking out
afresh, endeavored to summon calmness to her reflections.
Then, acceding gratefully to the proposition which the
seamstress had made, she took the latter's arm, and, locking
the door, they left in company the room that seemed
no longer to be home to Emily's sorrowing spirit.

Twilight was at hand when the two girls emerged from
the gloomy precincts of Foley's Barracks, and turned the

corner of a narrow street conducting to Kolephat's College,
that was but a few squares distant. The clear
skies and balmy air, which had made the Sunday so lovely,
had at this time given place to clouds and a raw east
wind, and a drizzling rain was just commencing to descend.
Emily, weak and trembling, clung heavily to her companion's
arm, as they picked their way over the muddy
pavement.

It was no unusual sight—two humble females, walking
through uncomfortable mist, and along the narrow street,
at nightfall, in this poor quarter of the town; such realities
as orphanage and sorrow—such truths as poverty and loneliness—were,
indeed, but habitudes of those dim purlieus
of which the tenant-house was the central feature. But of
such unselfish pity as animated Margaret's brow, and of
such tender confidence as soothed the heart of Emily,
there might, alas! be found but few examples in this
squalid neighborhood. Yet, indeed, over these wretched
hovels, as over the dwellings of luxury, in other localities,
He watched, whose power is limitless, and whose unsleeping
vision “seeth the fall of a sparrow,” and “heareth
the young ravens when they cry.”

The rain increased as the friends hurried on, in silence,
towards their destination, drawing more closely their
shawls about them, as the air blew sharply from the piers.
Few persons were in the streets, for the night threatened
to be a very stormy one; but, as the girls crossed a pent-up
square, whence branched off many alleys filled with
dingy huts, inhabited by beings far poorer than themselves,
and sentinelled by low drinking-shops, they could

hear at intervals the voices of men and women, loud in
drunken hilarity, or violent in quarrelsome altercation.
Margaret shuddered; for she had heard that some of
these horrible by-ways were the abiding-places of thieves,
and, perhaps, criminals of a darker character.

But in a neighborhood such as this, poverty is the wayfarer's
protection. The wretches who skulked from the
face of day in these miserable dens warred mainly against
the possessors of the world's goods—waging unequal strife,
from day to day, and from year to year, until their worthless
lives became the forfeit of their outcast hatred of
society. Perhaps, on this account, the sewing-girls were
in less danger of insult in those dark streets than they
might have been in quarters lined with costly mansions;
nevertheless, it was not without trepidation that they pursued
their way, clinging to one another, as they hastened
past each dark-mouthed alley; and it was with increased
terror that, in turning a corner, they encountered the
staggering figure of an intoxicated man, who stretched
out his hand suddenly, as if to grasp the arm of Emily.
Margaret stopped, and drew her companion back, checking
a cry which rose to her lips, and endeavoring to make
room quietly for the drunkard, who, indeed, seemed incapable
of any violence, being hardly able to support his
reeling frame.

There was just light enough left to enable the seamstress
to observe that the inebriate was clad in ragged
garb, and that he had evidently fallen repeatedly to the
ground, for his face and body were covered with the
street mud. A feeling of pity mingled with the disgust

which his appearance excited, and, as she drew back, to
let him pass, she sighed to think that the wretch would
soon fall helpless in the gutter, or, worse still, find his
devious way to some desolate hovel, there, perhaps, to
inflict his evil presence on some suffering wife and mother.

At this moment, and while the man staggered past
them, a confused rattle of wheels, and sudden jargon of
shouting voices, sounded in the contiguous street, and at
the same instant the bell of the City Hall struck the
alarm for fire. The drunkard seemed to grow bewildered,
and swayed violently to the right, stumbling heavily over
the broken curb-stone, and pitching at his length out into
the narrow street. Margaret uttered a shriek, which was
lost in the din that immediately succeeded; for a crowd
of yelling men and boys, clinging to the rope of a fire-engine,
came ploughing, with a wide sweep, around the
corner, and then the machine itself, glittering in brass, on
which a score of torchlights were reflected, followed in
noisy clangor, and with fearful velocity. The blare of
horns, the wild turmoil of rushing men, and noisy clash
of bells, nearly paralyzed Emily, and it was almost by
main strength that Margaret drew her quickly backward
to the porch of a dwelling-house, till the reckless
multitude had passed. There, crouching down, with the
orphan's trembling form in her arms, the seamstress
beheld a spectacle which filled her with horror. The
wheels of the engine, whirled onward by a hundred strong
hands, had passed the spot where she had seen the drunkard
fall, and the fierce tramp of hundreds of feet had
swept over the prostrate wretch. Margaret could not

distinguish aught in the darkness, but she felt that a
human form lay mangled and bleeding, perhaps dead, upon
the stones.

No other being heeded, and perchance, few of that
drove of men had seen the miserable one whose helpless
body they had stumbled over in their wild progress. None
turned back to succor; for in another moment one of those
fearful scenes was transpiring, too often witnessed in the
city streets, where rival companies of firemen, encountering
suddenly, appear at once inspired with mortal hatred, and
engage in conflict almost instantaneously. Another engine,
dragged around a neighboring corner, was dashed violently
against the first, and the motley press immediately commenced
a horrible mêlée.

The concussion of the two engines, entangling each
other's ropes, seemed to be the occasion of transforming
the opposing bands from human beings into demons.
Shouts of defiance, oaths, and maledictions resounded
through the confused mass, and blows were interchanged
spontaneously. Everything that could be converted into
a weapon was seized upon and wielded as such. The
heavy brazen trumpets and engine-wrenches were seized
and brandished aloft, paving-stones were torn from their
bed, and clumps of rotten ice fell in showers upon the
combatants, while knives gleamed and pistols were discharged
in the very midst of the infuriated crowd.

A burly youth, in a red shirt, appeared to bear the
brunt of the fight, a rain of blows falling incessantly
upon his head, while he fought with arms and legs,
delivering blows and kicks with an alacrity and exactitude

that proved him no stranger to such contests.
Behind him was a lank and thin-faced lad, garbed also in
fireman's shirt and cap, who flourished a trumpet wildly,
dealing up and down blows with the rapidity of a hammer.
It was the youngster introduced, in a previous
chapter, to the reader's notice, as the undertaker's
apprentice.

The belligerents on either side appeared to be animated
with intense vindictiveness, clutching at one another, and
exchanging savage blows, while a chorus of fierce exclamations
rose above the clatter of bells, rung ceaselessly, as if
to stimulate the wrath of those who fought. Amidst all,
the torches danced to and fro, flashing upon the strange
and frightful scene. The ropes of the two engines became
entangled still more, in the evolutions of the combat, and
as they marked the centre of the field, the forces on
either side were alternately driven to and from them, as
the fortune of the battle seemed by turns to vary. At
length the weaker or less courageous party yielded ground
and fled, leaving their engine overturned upon the pavement,
and a yell, like the whoop of Indians, testified the
triumph of their opponents.

For a moment after this there was a cessation of the
unearthly clamor, and then a fresh excitement agitated
the swaying crowd. Lights suddenly appeared in a house
upon one side of the narrow street, and a door seemed to
be violently forced in by a rush of those nearest to it. In
a moment afterwards, the interlocked engines were left
almost unguarded in the street, while the late combatants,
thronged over the curb-stone, and, uttering hideous

cries, dashed into a beer-house which they had broken
open.

During the progress of this disgraceful, though, alas!
too common mêlée, Emily, more dead than alive, had been
held closely in the arms of Margaret, who crouched in the
shadow of the area where she had sought shelter, and
there tremblingly awaited the result, dreading each moment
that some rush of the infuriated young men would
precipitate them upon her retreat, yet daring not to seek
safety in flight, because on either side the street presented
a scene of disorder. The seamstress had heard, in times
past, of encounters between fire-companies, but, in her
simplicity, had deemed that they were but passing contests
in the street, speedily checked by interference of
policemen. Yet here, at the close of a Sabbath day, and
within a few short squares of crowded thoroughfares, a
fierce and protracted riot went on before her eyes, while
not a guardian of the city's peace appeared, to stay its
fury. The police—loitering in the purlieus of taverns,
with watchful eyes for petty rogues and homeless wanderers—the
police, conniving with criminals and sharing
their unlawful gains—the police, entertaining stool pigeons
and serviceable villains whom outraged justice should
banish from society—the police, winking at open violations
of law by the keepers of gaming-houses, by lottery dealers,
by professional thieves and marketable bravos—the police,
aiding to exalt unscrupulous and dishonest men to place
and power, suborning corruption in the ballot-box, and
supporting fraud in the court-room—where were they
when drunken riot endangered the peace of a civilized

city, and profaned the holy quiet of a Christian Sabbath?
Where were they when, hurled down and trampled over
by brutal ruffians, a human being—miserable outcast, yet
still a human being—lay mangled, bleeding, and unnoticed
on the pavement?

It is not improbable that some good reader—dweller,
perhaps, amid the calm of rural society—may feel inclined
to give but little credence to a narrative of scenes like
that I have but now depicted, regarding its details as an
author's customary license; but it must, unhappily, be
declared that fiction cannot claim a place in such relation.
Street-combats between rival fire-bands, quite as bold and
bloody, quite as secure from interruption by police, are far
too common in our metropolis to challenge wondering
remark. Gangs of ruffian youths, under various slang
designations, hailing from different wards and precincts
of the city, identify themselves more or less with the Fire-Department,
and cast a stigma on that noble arm of
municipal service which its worthy members deplore as
cruel and unmerited. The odium should not lie, indeed,
at the doors of those whose lives are perilled in defence of
property and life; but until they free their gallant ranks
from the ruffians who disgrace them, the violence and disorder
which a few create must too often involve in reprobation
the many who condemn the evils. It is from
hordes of desperate youths, leagued in secret, for wicked
purposes, that brutal members of our police, turbulent
portions of the fire organization, hired bullies at the polls,
and combinations of river-thieves, foot-pads, and burglars,
are recruited, day by day and year by year, until the

great city swarms with unknown banditti—threatening to
be far more dangerous in the future than the swell-mob of
London, the lazzaroni of Naples, the leperos of Mexico,
or that restless underswell of revolution, the lower strata
of Parisian social life.

And whence come, individually, all these ignorant,
debased, besotted, or malignant youths and boys that
form the classes to which I have alluded? and whence
arise their young sisters of the streets, flitting through
their short night of wretchedness and shame, and dropping
incessantly, like the brothers, into prisons, hospitals, and
graves? Whence, O Human Heart! come these wretched
ones—crossing our daily path, like dusky shades or noxious
airs, and vanishing away into a gloomy Beyond, where-from
come unto our ears wailing and shrieks as of lost
souls? Where, but from Foley's Barracks?—where, but
from Kolephat College?—where, but from all the abodes
of desolation, and squalor, and misery, and vice, wherein
nature is warped into crookedness, and humanity is brutalized—wherein
infants become adepts in vice, and the
virus of evil example jaundices the moral sense, even as
transmittal of corruption abases the bodily blood. Go
down to the tenant-house, political economist! and learn
how civilization can breed desert scorpions! go thither,
physician! and behold how society can gangrene unseen;
descend, Samaritan! with wine and oil, to bind up the
wounds of God's image, passed by too long by Priest and
Levite.

Margaret the seamstress—yea, and Emily the orphan—
were aware of truths that political philosophy has but of

late years begun to consider. They knew that many little
ones, of two, and four, and six years, whom they habitually
encountered in the passage-ways of the houses wherein
they dwelt—whom, likewise, they marked in childish play
on the street walks, and in lanes and alleys—were growing
up under influences that would surely fashion them
into the ruffianly youths whom they saw desecrating the
Sabbath day by drunken rioting. Must the wise legislators
and philosophers of the world ever remain ignorant
of simple truths with which the humble are so familiar?
Let them go down to the tenant-house, and con lessons of
life.

With beating hearts and timid steps, the two girls at
length stole away from their shelter, while the revellers
crowded around the beer-house door. Cowering in the
house-shadows, and retracing their steps deviously amid
the thick mist, they at length left the sounds of riot
behind—left, too, as they recollected, with a shudder, the
form of a poor outcast man, lying on the stones of the
street, perhaps dying, perhaps dead!