Chapter 12424232

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Chapter Number6
Chapter TitleChapter VI. NEW YORK.
Chapter Urlhttp://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article12424232
Full Date1843-05-17
Page Number4
Corrections6
Word Count7489
IllustratedN
Last Corrected2010-06-27
Newspaper TitleThe Sydney Morning Herald (NSW : 1842 - 1954)
Trove TitleAmerican Notes for General Circulation
article text

AMERICAN NOTES

FOR

GENERAL CIRCULATION.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.  

CHAPTER VI.

NEW YORK.

THE beautiful metropolis of America is by no means so clean a city as Boston, but many of its streets have the same characteristics : except that the houses are not quite so fresh-ooloured, the sign-boards not quite so gaudy, the gilded letters not quite so golden, the bricks not quite so red, the stone not quite so white, the blinds and area railings not quite so green, the knobs and plates upon the street doors not quite so bright and twinkling. There are many

bye-streets, almost as neutral in clean co- lours, and positive in dirty ones, as bye- streets in London ; and there is one quarter, commonly called the Five Points, which, in respect of filth and wretchedness, may be safely backed against Seven Dials, or any other part of famed St. Giles's

The great promenade and thoroughfare, as most people know, is Broadway ; a wide and bustling street, which, from the Battery Gardens to its opposite termination in a country road, may be four miles long. Shall we sit down in an upper floor of the Carlton House Hotel (situated in the best  

part of this main artery of New York), and when we are tired of looking down upon the life below, sally forth arm-in-arm, and mingle with the stream ?

Warm weather ! The sun strikes upon our heads at this open window, as though its rays were concentrated through a burning-glass ; but the day is in its zenith, and the season an unusual one. Was there ever such a sunny street as this Broadway ! The pavement stones are polished with the tread of feet until they shine again ; the red bricks of the houses might be yet in the dry, hot kilns ; and the roofs of those omnibuses look as though if water were poured on them, they would hiss and smoke, and smell like half- quenched fires. No stint of omnibuses here ! Half a dozen have gone by within as many minutes. Plenty of hackney cabs and coaches too ; gigs, phaetons, large- wheeled tilburies, and private carriages rather of a clumsy make, and not very different from the public vehicles, but built for the heavy roads beyond the city pavement. Negro coachmen and white ; in straw hats, black hats, white hats, glazed caps, fur caps ; in coats of drab, black, brown, green, blue, nankeen, striped jean, and linen ; and there, in that one instance (look while it passes, or it will be too late), in suits of livery. Some southern republican that, who puts his blacks in uniform, and swells with sultan pomp and power. Yonder, where that phaeton with the well-clipped pair of grays has stopped—standing at their heads now —is a Yorkshire groom, who has not been very long in these parts, and looks sorrow- fully round for a companion pair of top boots, which he may traverse the city half a year without meeting. Heaven save the ladies, how they dress ! We have seen more colours in these ten minutes, than we should have seen elsewhere, in as many days. What various parasols ! what rain- bow silks and satins ! what pinking of thin stockings, and pinching of thin shoos, and fluttering of ribbons and silk tassels, and display of rich cloaks with gaudy hooks and linings ! The young gentlemen are fond, you see, of turning down their shirt-collars and cultivating their whiskers, especially under the chin ; but they cannot approach the ladies in their dress or bearing, being, to say the truth, humanity of quite another sort. Byrons of the desk and counter, pass on ; and let us see what kind of men those are behind ye : those two labourers in holiday clothes, of whom one carries in his hand a crumpled scrap of paper from which he tries to spell out a hard name,

while the other looks about for it on all the doors and windows.

Irishmen both ! you might know them if they were masked, by their long-tailed blue coats and bright buttons, and their drab trowsers, which they wear like men well used to working dresses, who are easy in no others. It would be hard to keep your model republics going, without the countrymen and countrywomen of

those two labourers. For who else would

dig, and delve, and drudge, and do domestic work, and make canals and roads, and execute great lines of Internal Im- provement ! Irishmen both, and sorely puzzled too, to find out what they seek. Let us go down, and help them, for the love of home, and that spirit of liberty which admits of honest service to honest men, and honest work for honest bread, no matter what it be.

That's well ! We have got at the right address at last, though it is written in strange characters truly, and might have been scrawled with the blunt handle of

the spade the writer better knows the use of than a pen. Their way lies yonder, but what business takes them there ?

They carry savings : to hoard up ? No. They are brothers, those men. One crossed the sea alone, and working very hard for one half-year, and living harder, saved funds enough to bring the other out. That done, they worked together, side by side, contentedly sharing hard labour and hard living for another term, and then their sisters came, and then another brother, and, lastly, their old mother. And what now ? Why, the poor old crone is restless in a strange land, and yearns to lay her bones, she says, among her people in the old grave-yard at home ; and so they go to pay her passage back : and God help her and them, and every simple heart, and all who turn to the Jerusalem of their

younger days, and have an altar-fire upon

the cold hearth of their fathers.

This narrow thoroughfare, baking and blistering in the sun, is Wall-street ; the Stock Exchange and Lombard-street of New York. Many a rapid fortune has been made in this street, and many a no lees rapid ruin. Some of these very merchants whom you see hanging about here now, have locked up money in their strong-boxes, like the man in the Arabian Nights, and opening them again have found but withered leaves. Below, here by the the waterside, where the bowsprits of ships stretch across the footway, and

almost thrust themselves into the windows, lie the noble American vessels which have made their Packet service the finest in the

world. They have brought hither the foreigners who abound in all the streets : not perhaps, that there are more here, than in other commercial cities ; but else- where, they have particular haunts, and you must find them out ; were, they per-

vade the town.

We must cross Broadway again ; gain- ing some refreshment from the heat, in the sight of the great blocks of clean ice which are being carried into shops and bar-rooms ; and the pine-apples and water- melons profusely displayed for sale. Fine streets of spacious houses here, you see !— Wall-street has furnished and dismantled many of them very often—and here a deep green leafy square, Be sure, that is

a hospitable house with inmates to be affectionately remembered always, where they have the open door and pretty show     of plants within, and where the child with laughing eyes is peeping out of window at the little dog below. You wonder what may be the use of this tall flag-staff in the bye street, with something like Li- berty's head-dress on its top : so do I.   But there is a passion for tall flag-staffs hereabout, and you may see its twin bro- ther in five minutes, if you have a mind.

Again across Broadway, and so-passing from the many-coloured crowd and glitter- ing shops—into another long main street, the Bowery. A railroad yonder, see, where two stout horses trot along, drawing a score or two of people and a great wooden ark with ease. The stores are poorer here ; the passengers less gay—clothes ready- made and meat ready-cooked, are to be bought in these parts ; and the lively whirl of the carriages is exchanged for the deep rumble of carts and waggons. These signs which are so plentiful, in shape like river buoys, or small balloons, hoisted by cords to poles, and dangling there, an- nounce, as you may see by looking up, " OYSTERS IN EVERY STYLE,'' They tempt the hungry most at night, for their dull candles glimmering inside, illuminate

these dainty words, and make the mouths   of idlers water, as they read and linger.

What is this dismal-fronted pile of   bastard Egyptian, like an enchanter's palace in a melo-drama !—a famous prison, called The Tombs. Shall we go in.

So. A long narrow lofty building, stove-

heated as usual, with four galleries, one   above the other, going round it, and com- municating by stairs. Between the two sides of each gallery, and in its centre a bridge, for the great convenience of cross- ing. On each at these bridges sits a man, dozing or reading, or talking to on idle companion. On each tier are two opposite rows of small iron doors. They look like furnace doors, but are cold and black, as though the fires within had all gone out. Some two or three are open, and women, with drooping heads bent down, are talking to the inmates. The whole is lighted by a skylight, but it is fast closed : and from the roof there dangle, limp and drooping,

two useless wind-sails.

A man with keys appears to show us round. A good-looking fellow, and, in his way, civil and obliging.

"Are those black doors the cells ?'' " Yes."

"Are they all full ?"

" Well, they're pretty nigh full, and that's a fact, and no two ways about it."

"Those at the bottom are unwholesome, surely ? "

"Why, we do only put coloured people in'em, That's the truth."

" When do the prisoners take exercise ?" " Well, they do without it pretty much." " Do they never walk in the yard ?"

" Considerable seldom."

" Sometimes, I suppose ?"

" Well, it's rare they do. They keep pretty bright without it."

" But suppose a man were here for a twelve-month. I know this is only a prison for criminals who are charged with grave offences, while they are awaiting their trial, or are under remand, but the law here, affords criminals many means of delay. What with motions for a new trial, and in arrest of judgment, and what not, a prisoner might be here for twelve months, I take it, might he not ?"

" Well, I guess he might."

" Do you mean to say that in all that

time he would never come out at that little iron door, for exercise ?"

" He might walk some, perhaps—not

much."

" Will you open one of the doors ?" " All, if you like."

The fastenings jar and rattle, and one   of the doors turns slowly on its hinges. Let us look in. A small bare cell, into

which the light enters through a high   chink in the wall. There is a rude means   of washing, a table, and a bedstead. Upon the latter sits a man of sixty; reading.   He looks up for a moment ; gives an im- patient dogged shake ; and fixes his eyes upon his book again. As we withdraw our heads, the door closes on him, and is fas- tened as before. This man has murdered his wife, and will probably be hanged.

" How long has he been here ?"

" A month."

" When will he be tried ?" " Next term."

" When is that ?" " Next month."

" In England if a man be under sentence of death, even he has air and exercise at

certain periods of the day."  

"Possible ?"

With what stupendous and untrans- lateable coolness he says this, and how loungingly he leads on to the women's side : making, as he goes, a kind of iron castanet of the key and the stair-rail !

Each cell on this side has n square aperture in it. Some of the women peep anxiously through it at the sound of foot- steps ; others shrink away in shame. For what offence can that lonely child, of ten or twelve years old, be shut up here ? Oh ! that boy ? He is the son of the prisoner we saw just now ; is a witness against his father ; and is detained here for safe- keeping, until the trial that's all.

But it is a dreadful place for the child to pass the long days and nights in. This is rather hard treatment for a young witness, is it not ? What says our conductor ?

"Well, it an't a very rowdy life, and

that's a fact ! "

Again he clinks his metal castanet, and leads us leisurely away. I have a question to ask him as we go.

" Pray, why do they call this place The

Tombs ?"  

" Well, it's the cant name." " I know it is. Why ? "

" Some suicides happened here when it was first built. I expect it come about

from that."

" I saw just now, that that man's clothes were scattered about the floor of his cell.

Don't you oblige the prisoners to be or- derly, and put such things away ? "

" Where should they put 'em ? "

" Not on the ground surely. What do you say to hanging them up?"

He stops, and looks round to empha-

size his answer :

" Why, I say that's just it. When they had hooks they would hang them- selves, so they're taken out of every cell, and there's only the marks left where they used to be ! "

The prison-yard in which he pauses now, has been the scene of terrible per- formances. Into this narrow grave-like place, men are brought out to die. The wretched creature stands beneath the gib- bet on the ground ; the rope about his neck ; and when the sign is given, a weight at its other end comes running down, and swings him up into the air

a corpse.

The law requires that there be present at this dismal spectacle, the judge, the jury, and citizens to the amount of twenty five. From the community it is hidden. To the dissolute and bad, the thing re- mains a frightful mystery, Between the

criminal and them, the prison wall is in- terposed as a thick gloomy veil. It is the curtain to his bed of death, his winding sheet and grave. From him it shuts out life, and all the motives to unrepenting hardihood in that last hour, which its mere sight and presence is often all-sufficient to sustain. There are no bold eyes to make him bold ; no ruffians to uphold a ruffian's name before. All beyond the pitiless stone' wall, is unknown space.  

Let us go forth again into the cheerful

streets.

Once more in Broadway ! Here are  

the same ladies in bright colours, walking to and fro, in pairs and singly ; yonder the very same light blue parasol which passed and repassed the hotel-window twenty limes while we were sitting there. We are going to cross here. Take care of the pigs. Two portly sows are trotting up behind this carriage, and a select party of half-a-dozen gentlemen-hogs have just now turned the corner.

Here is a solitary swine, lounging home- ward by himself. He has only one ear ; having parted with the other to vagrant dogs in the course of his city rambles. But he gets on very well without it ; and leads a roving, gentlemanly, vagabond kind of life, somewhat answering

to that of our club-men at home.

He leaves his lodgings every morning at a certain hour, throws himself upon the town, gets through his day in some man- ner quite satisfactory to himself, and re- gularly appears at the door of his own house again at night, like the mysterious

master of Gil Blas. He is a free-and-

easy, careless, indifferent kind of pig, having a very large acquaintance among other pigs of the same character, whom he rather knows by sight than conversa- tion, as he seldom troubles himself to stop and exchange civilities, but goes grunting down the kennel, turning up the news and small-talk of the city, in the shape of cabbage-stalks and offal, and bearing no tails but his own ; which is a very short one, for his old enemies, the dogs, have been at that too, and have left him hardly enough to swear by. He is in every respect a republican pig, going wherever he pleases, and mingling with the best society, on an equal, if not su- perior footing, for every one makes way   when he appears, and the haughtiest give him the wall, if he prefer it. He is a great philosopher, and seldom moved, unless by the dogs before mentioned. Sometimes, indeed, you may see his small eye twinkling on a slaughtered friend, whose carcase garnishes a butcher's door- post, but he grunts out, "Such is life : all flesh is pork !" buries his nose in the mire again, and waddles down the gutter : comforting himself with the reflection that there is one snout the less to antici- pate stray cabbage-stalks, at any rate.

They are the city scavengers, these pigs. Ugly brutes they are ; having, for  

the most part, scanty, brown backs, like the lids of old horse-hair trunks : spotted   with unwholesome black blotches. They have long, gaunt legs, too, and such peaked snouts, that if one of them could be per- suaded to sit for his profile, nobody would recognise it for a pig's likeness. They are never attended upon, or fed, or driven, or caught, but are thrown upon their own   resources in early life, and become preter-  

naturally knowing in consequence. Every pig knows where he lives, much better than anybody could tell him. At this  

hour, just as evening is closing in, you will see them roaming towards bed by scores, eating their way to the last. Occa-   sionally, some youth among them who has  

over-eaten himself, or has been much

worried by dogs, trots shrinkingly home-  

ward, like a prodigal son : but this is a rare case : perfect self-possession and self reliance, and immovable composure, being

their foremost attributes.

The streets and shops are lighted now ;    

and as the eye travels down the long thoroughfare, dotted with bright jets of gas, it is reminded of Oxford-street or Piccadilly. Here and there, a flight of broad stone cellar-steps appears, and a painted lamp directs you to the Bowling Saloon, or Ten- pin Alley ! Ten-pins being a game of min-  

gled chance and skill, invented when the legislature passed an net forbidding Nine- pins. At other downward flights of steps, are other lamps, marking the where- abouts of oyster cellars—pleasant retreats, say I ; not only by reason of their won- derful cookery of oysters, pretty nigh as large as cheese-plates, (or for thy dear sake, heartiest of Greek Professors !) but because of all kinds of enters of fish, or flesh, or fowl, in these latitudes, the swallowers of oysters alone are not gregarious ; but sub- duing themselves, as it were, to the nature of what they work in, and copying the coyness of the thing they eat, do sit apart in curtained boxes, and consort by twos, not by two hundreds.

But how quiet the streets are ! Are there no itinerant bands ; no wind or stringed instruments ? No, not one. By day are there no Punches, fantoccinis, dancing dogs, jugglers, conjurors, orches- trinas, or even barrel-organs ? No, not one. Yes, I remember one. One barrel organ and a dancing monkey—sportive by nature, but first fading into a dull lumpish monkey, of the Utilitarian school. Beyond that, nothing lived ; no, not so much as a   white mouse in a twirling cage.

Are there no amusements? Yes, there is a lecture-room across the way, from which that glare of light proceeds, and there may be evening service for the ladies thrice a week, or oftener. For the young gentlemen there is the counting-house, the store, the bar-room ; the latter, as you may see through these windows, pretty full. Hark ! to the clinking sound of hammers, breaking lumps of ice, and to the cool gurgling of the pounded bits, as, in the process of mixing, they are poured from glass to glass ! No amusements ? What are these suckers of cigars and swallowers of strong drinks, whose hats and legs we see in every possible variety of twist, doing, but amusing themselves ? What are the fifty newspapers, which those precocious urchins are bawling down the street, and which are kept filed within, what are they but amusements? Not vapid waterish amusements, but good strong stuff ; dealing in round abuse and blackguard names ; pulling off the roofs of private houses, as the halting devil did in Spain ; pimping and pandering for all degrees of vicious taste, and gorging with coined lies the most voracious maw ; im- puting to every man in public life the coarsest and the vilest motives ; scaring away from the stabbed and prostrate body politic, every Samaritan of clear conscience and good deeds ; and setting on, with yell and whistle and the clapping of foul hands, the vilest vermin and worst birds of prey.—No amusements !

Let us go on again ; and passing this wilderness of an hotel with stores without its base, like some continental theatre, or the London Opera House shorn of its colonnade, plunge into the five Points. But it is needful, first, that we take as our escort these two heads of the police, whom you would know for sharp and well-trained officers if you met them in

the Great Desert. So true it is, that cer-

tain pursuits, wherever carried on, will stamp men with the same character.

These two might have been begotten, born, and bred, in Bow Street.

We have seen no beggars in the streets by night or day , but of other kinds of strollers, plenty. Poverty, wretchedness, and vice, are rife enough where we are

going now.

This is the place these narrow ways, diverging to right and left, and reeking  

everywhere with dirt and filth. Such lives as are led here, hear the same fruits here as elsewhere. The coarse and bloated   faces at the doors, have counterparts at home, and all the wide world over. De-

bauchery has made the very houses pre-

maturely old. See how the rotten beams   are tumbling down, and how the patched and broken windows seem to scowl dimly, like eyes that have been hurt in drunken frays. Many of those pigs live here. Do       they ever wonder why their masters walk uptight in lieu of going on all fours ? and why they talk instead of grunting ?

So far, nearly every house is a low   tavern ; and on the bar room walls, are       coloured prints of Washington, and Queen     Victoria of England, and the American Eagle. Among the pigeon-holes that hold   the bottles, are pieces of plate-glass and   coloured paper, for there is, in some sort, a taste for decoration, even here. And as seamen frequent these haunts, there are   maritime pictures by the dozen : of partings between sailors and their lady-loves, por-    

traits of William, of the ballad, and his Black-Eyed Susan ; of Will-Watch, the       Bold Smuggler ; of Paul Jones the Pirate, and the like : on which the painted eyes of Queen Vittoria and of Washington to boot, rest in as strange companionship, as

on most of the scenes that are enacted in their wondering presence.

What place is this, to which the squalid street conducts us ? A kind of square of leprous houses, some of which are attain- able only by crazy wooden stairs without.

What lies beyond this tottering flight of steps, that creak beneath our tread ? a miserable room, lighted by one dim candle, and destitute of all comfort save that which may be hidden in a wretched bed. Beside it, sits a man his elbows on his knees his forehead hidden in his hands. " What ails that man ?'" asks the foremost officer. " Fever," he sullenly replies, without looking up. Con- ceive the fancies of a fevered brain, in such a place as this !

Ascend these pitch dark stairs, heedful of a false footing on the trembling boards, and grope your way with me into this wolf- ish den, where neither ray of light, nor breath of air, appears to come. A negro lad, startled from his sleep by the officer's voice—he   knows it well—but comforted by his as-   surance that he has not come on business,   officiously bestirs himself to light a candle. The match flickers for a moment, and   shows great mounds of dusky rags upon   the ground ; then dies away and leaves a denser darkness than before, if there can be degrees in such extremes. He   stumbles down the stairs, and presently   comes back, shading a glaring taper with his hand. Then the mounds of rags are seen to be astir, and rise slowly up, and the floor is covered with heaps of negro women, waking from then sleep : then white teeth chattering, and their bright eyes glistening and winking on all sides with surprise and fear, like the countless repe-  

tition of one astonished African face in   some strange mirror.

Mount up these other stairs with no less caution (there are traps and pitfalls here, for those who are not so well escorted as ourselves) into the housetop, where the   bare beams and rafters meet over-head, and calm night looks down through the crevices in the roof. Open the door of one of these cramped hutches full of sleeping negroes. Pah! They have a char-       coal fire within ; there is a smell of singe- ing clothes, or flesh, so close they gather round the brazier ; and vapours issue forth that blind and suffocate.From every   corner as you glance about you in these dark retreats, some figure crawls half-  

awakened, as if the judgment hour were near at hand, and every obscene grave were giving up its dead. Where dogs would   howl to lie, women, and men, and boys   slink off to sleep, forcing the dislodged rats to move away in quest of better lodgings.

Here too are lanes and alleys, paved with mud knee-deep : underground cham- bers, where they dance and game ; the walls bedecked with rough designs of ships,   and forts, and flags, and American Eagles out of number : ruined houses, open to the street, whence, through wide gaps in the walls, other ruins loom upon the eye, as though the world of vice and misery had nothing else to show : hideous tene- ments which take their name from robbery and murder : all that is loathsome, droop- ing, and decayed is here.  

Our leader has his hand upon the latch of " Almack's," and calls to us from the       bottom of the steps ; for the assembly- room of the Five Point fashionables is

approached by a descent. Shall we go in ?

It is but a moment.

Heyday ! the landlady of Almack's  

thrives ! A buxom fat mulatto woman,

with sparkling eyes, whose head is daintily ornamented with a handkerchief of many colours. Nor is the landlord much be- hind her in his finery, being attired in a smart blue jacket, like a ship's steward,   with a thick gold ring upon his little   finger, and round his neck a gleaming golden watch-guard. How glad is he to   see us ! What will we please to call for ? A dance ? It shall be done directly, sir : " a regular break-down "  

The corpulent black fiddler, and his friend who plays the tambourine, stamp upon the boarding of the small raised or- chestra in which they sit, and play a lively measure. Five or six couple come upon the floor, marshalled by a lively young negro, who is the wit of the assembly, and the greatest dancer known. He never leaves off making queer faces, and is the delight of all the rest, who grin from ear to ear incessantly. Among the dancers are two young mulatto girls, with large, black, drooping eyes, and head-gear after   the fashion of the hostess, who are as shy, or feign to be, as though they never danced before, and so look down before the visitors, that their partners can see nothing but the long fringed lashes.  

But the dance commences. Every gentleman acts as long as he likes to the   opposite lady, and the opposite lady to him, and all are so long about it that the   sport begins to languish, when suddenly the lively hero dashes into the rescue. Instantly, the fiddler grins, and goes at it tooth and nail ; there is new energy in the tambourine, new laughter in the dancers ; new smiles in the landlady ; new confidence in the   landlord ; new brightness in the very can- dles. Single shuffle, double shuffle, cut and cross-cut : snapping his fingers, rolling his eyes, turning in his knees, presenting the backs of his legs in front, spinning about on his toes and heels like nothing but the man's fingers on the tambourine ; dancing with two left legs, two right legs, two wooden legs, two wire legs, two spring

legs—all sorts of legs and no legs—what is this to him ? And in what walk of life, or dance of life, does man ever get such stimulating applause as thunders about when, having danced his partner off her feet, and himself too, he finishes by leap- ing gloriously on the bar-counter, and   calling for something to drink, with the   chuckle of a million counterfeit Jim Crows,     in one inimitable sound !

The air, even in these distempered parts   is fresh after the stifling atmosphere of the houses, and now, as we emerge into a broader street, it blows upon us with a purer breath, and the stars look bright again.

Here are the tombs once more. The city watch house is a part of the building.

It follows naturally on the sights we have just left. Let us see that, and then

to bed.

What ! do you thrust your common   offenders against the police discipline of

the town, into such holes as these ? Do men and women, against whom no crime is proved, lie here all night in perfect

darkness, surrounded by the noisome

vapours which encircle the flagging lamp you light us with, and breathing this filthy and offensive stench ! Why, such inidecent and disgusting dungeons as these cells, would bring disgrace upon the most despotic empire in the world. Look at them, man—you, who see them every   night, and keep the keys—do you see   what they are ? Do you know how drains are made below the streets, and wherein these human sewers differ, except in being always stagnant.

Well, he don't know. He has had five-and-twenty young women locked up     in this very cell at one time, and you'd hardly realise what handsome faces there   were among 'em.

In God's name ! shut the door upon the   wretched creature who is in it now, and put its screen before a place, quite unsur- passed in all the vice, neglect, and devilry, of the worst old town in Europe.

Are people really left all night, untried, in those black sties?—Every night. The watch is set it seven in the evening. The magistrate opens his court at five in the morning. That is the earliest hour at which     the first prisoner can be released ; and if an officer appear against him, he is not taken out till nine o'clock or ten.—But if     any one among them die in the interval, as   one man did, not long ago ? Then he is   half-eaten by the rats in an hour's time ; as that man was ; and there an end.

What is this intolerable tolling of great bells ; and clashing of wheels, and shouting

in the distance ? Afire. And what that

deep red light in the opposite direction ?

Another fire. And what these charred and blackened walls we stand before ? A  

dwelling where a fire has been. It was more than hinted, in an official report, not   long ago, that some of these conflagrations were not wholly accidental, and that speculation and enterprise found a field of exertion, even in flames : but be this as it may, there was a fire last night, there are two to-night, and you may lay an even   wager there will be at least one, to-morrow. So, carrying that with us for our comfort, let us say, good night, and climb up stairs

to bed.

One day, during my stay in New York, I paid a visit to the different public insti-

tutions on Long Island. One of them is a Lunatic Asylum. The building is hand- some, and is remarkable for a spacious and elegant staircase.The whole structure         is not yet finished, but it is already one of considerable size and extent, and is capable of accommodating a very large number of patients.

I cannot say that I derived much com- fort from the inspection of this clarity.  

The different wards might have been cleaner and better ordered ; I saw nothing of that salutary system which had im-

pressed me so favourably elsewhere ; and everything had a lounging, listless, mad-   house air, which was very painful. The moping idiot, cowering down with long   dishevelled hair ; the gibbering maniac, with his hideous laugh and pointed finger ;

the vacant eye, the fierce wild pace, the gloomy picking of the hands and lips, and munching of the nails : there they were all, without disguise, in naked ugliness an horror. In the dining-room, a bare,     dull, dreary place, with nothing for the eye to rest on but the empty walls, a wo- man was locked up alone. She was bent,   they told me, on committing suicide. If anything could have strengthened her in   her resolution, it would certainly have been the insupportable monotony of such an

existence.

The terrible crowd with which these

halls and galleries were filled, so shocked me, that I abridged my stay within the shortest limits, and declined to see that   portion of the building in which the re- fractory and violent were under closer restraint. I have no doubt that the gen- tleman who presided over this establish- ment at the time I write of, was competent to manage it, and had done all in his power to promote its usefulness : but will

it be believed that the miserable strife of  

party feeling is earned even into this sad refuge of afflicted and degraded humanity ? Will it be believed that the eyes which are     to watch over and control the wanderings   of minds on which the most dreadful visi-

tation to which our nature is exposed has fallen, must wear the glasses of some   wretched side in politics ? Will it be believed that the governor of such a house as this, is appointed, and deposed, and changed perpetually, as parties fluctuate and vary,

and as then despicable weathercocks are     blown this way or that ? A hundred times     in every week, some new most paltry ex- hibition of that narrow-minded and inju-   nous party spirit, which is the Simoom of     America, sickening and blighting every-

thing of wholesome life within its reach, was forced upon my notice ; but I never turned my back upon it with feelings of such deep disgust and measureless con- tempt, as when I crossed the threshold of this mad-house on Long Island.    

At a short distance from this building   is another called the Alms House, that is to say, the work-house of New York.   This is a large Institution also ; lodging, I believe, when I was there, nearly a thousand poor. It was badly ventilated, and badly lighted ; was not too clean ; and impressed me, on the whole, very uncom- fortably. But it must be remembered that New York, as a great emporium of commerce, and as a place of general resort,   not only from all parts of the States, but from most parts of the world, had always a large pauper population to provide for ; and   labours, therefore, under peculiar difficulties in this respect. Nor must it be forgotten   that New York is a large town, and that   in all large towns a vast amount of good   and evil is intermixed and jumbled up together.

In the same neighbourhood is the Long Island Farm, where young orphans are nursed and bred. I did not see it, but I believe it is well conducted ; and I can the

more easily credit it, from knowing how mindful they usually are, in America, of that beautiful passage in the Litany which remembers all sick persons and young

children.

I was taken to these Institutions by water, in a boat belonging to the Long Island Jail, and rowed by a crew of pri- soners who were dressed in a striped uni- form of black and buff, in which they     looked like faded tigers. They took me     by the same conveyance, to the Jail itself.

It is an old prison, and quite a pioneer   establishment, on the plan I have already         described. I was glad to hear this, for it   is unquestionably a very different one.     The most is made, however, of the means it possesses, and it is as well regulated as   such a place can be.

The women work in covered sheds, erected for that purpose. If I remember right, there are no shops for the men,

but be that as it may, the greater part of them labour in certain stone quarrries near   at hand. The day being very wet indeed, this labour was suspended, and the pri-   soners were in their cells. Imagine these cells, some two or three hundred in num- ber, and in every one a man locked up ; this one at his door for air, with his   hands thrust through the grate ; this one   in bed (in the middle of the day, re- member) ; and this one flung down in a heap upon the ground, with his head against the bars, like a wild beast. Make     the rain pour down, outside, in torrents.   Put the everlasting stove in the midst :

hot, and suffocating and vaporous, as a

witch's cauldron. Add a collection of gentle odours, such as would arise from a thousand mildewed umbrellas, wet through, and a thousand buck-baskets, full of half-  

washed linen—and there is the prison, as  

it was that day.

The prison for the State at Sing Sing, is,   on the other hand, a model jail. That,   and Mount Auburn, are the largest and   best examples of the silent system.

In another part of the city is the Refuge

foi the Destitute : an Institution whose ob- ject is to reclaim youthful offenders, male   and female, black and white, without dis-   tinction ; to teach them useful trades, ap-   prentice them to respectable masters, and make them worthy numbers of society. Its desi0n, it will be seen, is similar to that at Boston ; and it is a no less meritorious and admirable establishment. A suspicion crossed my mind during my inspection of this noble charity, whether the super- intendent had quite sufficient knowledge   of the world and worldly characters ; and whether he did not commit a great mistake in treating some young girls, who were to all intents and purposes, by their years and   their past lives, women, as though they were little children ; which certainly had a ludicrous effect in my eyes, and, or I am much mistaken, in theirs also. As the in-

stitution, however, is always under the vigi- lant examination of a body of gentlemen of  

great intelligence and experience, it cannot fail to be well conducted ; and whether I am right or wrong in this slight particular, is unimportant to its deserts and character, which it would be difficult to estimate too highly.

In addition to these establishments, there are, in New York, excellent hospi-

tals and schools, literary institutions and libraries ; an admirable fire department (as indeed it should be, having constant practice), and charities of every sort and kind. In the suburbs there is a spacious   cemetery ; unfinished yet, but every day improving. The saddest tomb I saw there was " The Strangers' Grave. Dedicated   to the different hotels in this city."  

There are three theatres. Two of them, the Park and the Bowery, are large, ele- gant, and handsome buildings, and are, I grieve to write it, generally deserted.     The third, the Olympic, is a tiny show-   box for vaudevilles and burlesques. It is   singularly well conducted by Mr. Mitchell,

a comic actor of great quiet humour and originality who is well remembered and esteemed by London playgoers. I am   happy to report of this deserving gentle- man, that his benches are usually well filled, and that his theatre rings with merriment every night. I had almost forgotten a small summer theatre, called   Niblo's, with gardens and open air amuse-    

ments attached, but I believe it is not

exempt from the general depression under   which theatrical property, or what is hu-     morously called by that name, unfortu-  

nately labours.  

The country round New York is sur-   passingly and exquisitely picturesque. The climate, as I have already intimated,   is somewhat of the warmest. What would     it be without the sea breezes, which come from its beautiful Bay in the evening time,   I will not throw myself or my readers into a fever by inquiring.

The tone of the best society in this city is like that of Boston ; here and there, it may be, with a greater infusion of the mercantile spirit, but generally polished and refined, and always most hospitable. The houses and tables are elegant, the hours later and more rakish ; and here is, perhaps, a greater spirit of contention in   reference to appearances, and the display   of wealth and costly living. The ladies are singularly beautiful.

Before I left New York I made arrange- ments for securing a passage home in the   George Washington, packet ship, which was advertised to sail in June ; that being the month in which I had determined, if   prevented by no accident in course of my ramblings, to leave America.  

I never thought that going back to England, returning to all who are dear to me and to pursuits that have insensibly grown to be a part of my nature, I could  

have felt so much sorrow as I endured, when I parted at last, on board this ship,     with the friends who had accompanied me from this city. I never thought the name of any place, so far away and so lately known, could ever associate itself in my mind with the crowd of affectionate re- membrances that now cluster about it. There are those in this city who would brighten, to me, the darkest winter-day   that ever glimmered and went out in Lap- land ; and before whose presence even home grew dim, when they and I ex- changed that painful word which mingles with our every thought and deed ; which haunts our cradle-heads in infancy, and   closes up the vista of our lives in age.    

(To be continued.)