CHAPTER XXVII
_The Ruined Rector--Misery and Destitution--the All Night House--APainful Scene--Inhospitality--the Denouement._
We now return to Dr. Sinclair, whom we left on the downward path toruin. The unfortunate man was now no longer the rector of St. Paul's; acommittee of the congregation had paid him an official visit, at whichhe had been dismissed from all connection with the church. His place wassupplied by a clergyman of far less talent, but much greater integrity.
Mr. Sinclair (for such we shall hereafter call him,) was not possessedof wealth--for though he had lived in luxury, he had depended entirelyupon his salary for subsistence; and now that he was turned from hissacred occupation, dishonored and disgraced, he found himself almostpenniless. He had no friends to whom he could apply for assistance, forhis conduct had been noised abroad, and those who formerly had loved andreverenced him, now turned their backs upon him with cold contempt.
Instead of endeavouring to retrieve his fallen reputation by repentanceand good conduct, he no sooner found himself shorn of his clericalhonors, than he abandoned himself to every species of degradeddissipation. In two weeks after his removal from the church he waswithout a home; then he became the associate of the most vile.Occasionally he would venture to the house of some one of his formercongregation, and in abject tones implore the gift of some trifling sum;moved by his miserable appearance, though disgusted by his follies, thegentleman would perhaps hand him a dollar or two, and sternly bid himcome there no more. Sinclair would then hasten to the low pot house inWater Street which he made his resort, and amid his vagabond companionsexpend the money in the lowest debauchery.
Perhaps the reader may say the thing is impossible--no man could fall sorapidly from a high and honorable position, as to become in a few shortweeks the degraded creature Sinclair is now represented to be. But wemaintain that there is nothing exaggerated in the picture we have drawn.Here is a church congregation eminently aristocratic, wealthy, andrigidly particular in the nicest points of propriety. The pastor proveshimself unworthy of his sacred trust; he disgraces himself and them byindulgence in vice, which is betrayed by his looks and actions. Toohaughty and too impatient to take the erring brother by the hand, andendeavor to reclaim him, they at once cast him off with disgust, andfill his place with a more faithful pastor. Humbled and degraded,rendered desperate by his unhappy situation, the miserable man abandonshimself yet more recklessly to the vice; his self-respect is gone, thefinger of scorn is pointed at him, and to drown all consciousness of hisdownfall, he becomes a constant tipple and an irreclaimable sot.
The low groggery in Water street where poor Sinclair made his temporaryhome, was extensively known as the 'All Night House,' from the fact ofits being kept open night and day. As this establishment was quite afeature in itself, we shall devote a brief space to a description of it.
It was situated on the corner of Catherine street, opposite theCatherine Market--a region remarkable for a very 'ancient and fish-likesmell.' This Market was a large, rotten old shanty, devoted to the saleof stale fish, bad beef, dubious sausages, suspicious oysters, and dog'smeat. Beneath its stalls at night, many a 'lodger' often slumbered; andevery Sunday morning it was the theatre of a lively and amusing scene,wherein was performed the renowned pastime of 'niggers dancing foreels.' All the unsavory fish that had been accumulated during the week,was thus disposed of, being given to such darkies as won the mostapplause in the science of the 'heel and toe.' The sport used to attracthundreds of spectators, and the rum shops in the vicinity did a goodbusiness.
Suppose it to be midnight; let us enter the All Night House, and take aview. We find the place crowded with about forty men and boys, of allages, conditions and complexions. Here is the veteran loafer, who hadnot slept in a bed for years--his clothes smelling of the grease andfilth of the market stalls; here is the runaway apprentice, and here thedissipated young man who has been 'locked out,' and has come here totake lodgings. The company are all seated upon low stools; some arebending forward in painful attitudes of slumber; others are vainlytrying to sit upright, but, overcome by sleep, they pitch forward, andrecover themselves just in time to avoid falling on the floor.
Notice in particular this young man who is seated like the rest, and isnodding in an uneasy slumber. His clothes are of broadcloth, and wereonce fashionable and good, but now they are torn to rags, and soiledwith filth. His hands are small and white; his hair, luxurious andcurling naturally, is uncombed; his features are handsome, but bruisedand unwashed. This is Sinclair!
The bar-keeper of this place is quite a character in his way. Herejoices in the title of 'Liverpool Jack,' and is the _bully of Waterstreet_--that is, he is considered able to thrash any man that travelsin that region. He is a blustering, ruffianly fellow, full of 'strangeoaths.' He wears a red flannel shirt and tarpaulin hat; and possesses abull-dog countenance expressive of the utmost ferocity.
'Hello, you fellers,' cries Liverpool Jack, savagely surveying theslumbering crowd--'yer goin' to set there all night and not paternize de_bar_--say? Vake up, or by de big Jerusalem cricket I'm bound to dumpyer all off de stools!'
Some of the poor devils arouse themselves, and rub their eyes; but themajority slumbered on. Liverpool Jack becomes exasperated, and rushingamong them, seizes the legs of the stools, and dumps every sleeper uponthe floor. Having accomplished this feat, he resumes his place behindthe bar.
The door opens, and a party of young bloods enter, who are evidently'bound on a time.'--They are all fashionably dressed; and one of them,drawing a well-filled purse from his pocket, invites all hands up todrink--which invitation, it is needless to say, was eagerly accepted.Sinclair crowded up to the bar, with the others and one of the newcomers, observing him, cries out--
'By jingo, here's parson Sinclair! Give us a sermon, parson, and youshall have a pint of red-eye!'
'A sermon--a sermon!' exclaimed the others. Sinclair is placed upon astool, and begins a wild, incoherent harangue, made up of eloquence,blasphemy and obscenity. His hearers respond in loud 'amens,' and one ofthe young bloods, being facetiously inclined, procures a rotten egg, andthrows it at the unhappy man, deviling his face with the nauseousmissile. This piece of ruffianism is immediately followed by another;the stool on which he stands is suddenly jerked from beneath him, and hefalls violently to the floor, bruising his face and head shockingly.
Roars of laughter follow this deed of cruelty; poor Sinclair is raisedfrom the floor by Liverpool Jack, who thrusts him forth into the streetwith a curse, telling him to come there no more.
It is raining--a cold, drizzly rain, which penetrates through thegarments and strikes chill to the bones. On such a night as this,Sinclair was wont to be seated in his comfortable study, before ablazing fire, enveloped in a luxurious dressing gown, as he perused someinteresting volume, or prepared his Sabbath sermon; then, he had but toring a silver bell, and a well-dressed servant brought in a traycontaining his late supper--the smoking tea urn, the hot rolls, thefresh eggs, the delicious bacon, the delicate custard, and the exquisitepreserves. Then, he had but to pass through a warm and well--lightedpassage, to reach his own chamber; the comfortable bed, with its snowydrapery and warm, thick coverlid, invited to repose; and his dreams weredisturbed by no visions of horror or remorse. All was purity, andhappiness, and peace.
_Now_, how different! Houseless, homeless, shelterless--ragged, dirty,starving--diseased, degraded, desperate! Unhappy Sinclair, that was afatal moment when thou did'st yield to the fascinations of thatbeautiful Josephine Franklin!
It was near one o'clock, and the storm had increased to a perfecthurricane. The miserable man had eaten nothing that day; he tottered offwith weakness, and was numbed with the cold. By an irresistible impulsehe wandered in the direction of his former home in Broadway. He foundthe house brilliantly illuminated--strains of heavenly music issued fromit--lovely forms flitted past the windows, and peals of silvery laughtermingled with the howling of the tempest. A grand party was given therethat night;
the occupant of the house was a man of fashion and pleasure,and he was celebrating the eighteenth birth-day of his beautifuldaughter.
Sinclair lingered long around the house--it seemed as if some invisiblepower attracted him there. From the basement there arose the grateful,savory odor of extensive cooking.
'I am starving,' said he to himself--'and they have plenty here. I willgo to the door, like a beggar, and implore a morsel of food.'
With feeble steps he descended to the basement, and with a tremblinghand he knocked at the door. It was opened by a fat, well-fed servant,in livery, who demanded, in a surly tone, what he wanted?
'In heaven's name, give me food, for I am starving.'
'Ugh--a beggar!' said the servant, with disgust--'get you gone, we'venothing for you; master never encourages vagrants.'
The door was shut in Sinclair's face; with an aching heart he crawled upthe steps, and then, as if suddenly nerved with a desperate resolve, heapproached the front door, and rang the bell. The door was opened by afootman, who stared at the intruder with surprise and suspicion.
'Tell your master,' said Sinclair, faintly, 'that a person is here whomust speak with him. It is a matter of life and death.'
The servant did as requested; in a few minutes he returned and said:
'Master says that if your business is particular you must come into thedrawing room; he's not coming out here in the cold.'
He followed the servant thro' the hall; and in a moment more foundhimself standing in the brilliantly lighted drawing-room, in thepresence of a numerous party of ladies and gentlemen. His miserableappearance created quite a sensation in that fashionable circle.
'Aw, 'pon my honor,' lisped a dandy, raising his eye-glass and taking adeliberate survey of the intruder, 'what have we heah? quite a naturalcuriosity, dem me!'
'Oh, what an odious creature;' exclaimed a young lady with bare arms,naked shoulders, and the reddest possible hair.
'Quite shocking!' responded her admirer, a bottle-nosed specimen ofmonkeyism.
'I shall positively faint,' cried an old tabby, in a large turban; butas nobody noticed her, she didn't faint.
The host himself now advanced, and said, sternly,
'Well, fellow, what d'ye want?--Speak quickly and begone, for this is noplace for you. You d----d stupid scoundrel,' (to the servant,) 'how dareyou bring such a scare-crow here?'
'I wish to speak with you alone, sir,' said Sinclair, humbly.
The host motioned him to step out into the hall, followed him there, andcommanded him to be as brief as possible.
Sinclair told him who he was, and the circumstances of misery anddestitution in which he was placed. His listener shook his headincredulously, saying,
'It is a good game, my fine fellow, that you are trying to play off; youare an excellent talker, but you will find it hard to make peoplebelieve that you are Dr. Sinclair. In one word, you're an imposter.What, _you_ a clergyman! Pooh, nonsense!--There, not another word, butclear out instantly. John, show this fellow the door, and never admithim again!'
As poor Sinclair passed out of the door, he heard the company laugh longand loud at the supposed imposition he had attempted to practise uponMr. Grump, the 'worthy host.' Now be it known that this Mr. Grump wasone of the most arrant scoundrels that ever went unhung. Low-bred andvulgar, he had made a fortune by petty knavery and small rascalities. Hewas a master printer; one of those miserable whelps who fatten on theunpaid labor of those in their employ. An indignant 'jour' once toldhim, with as much truth as sarcasm, that 'every hair on his head was afifty-six pound weight of sin and iniquity!' He well knew that the poorwretch who had applied to him for relief, was no impostor; for he hadheard Dr. Sinclair preach a hundred times, and he had recognized himinstantly, notwithstanding his altered aspect. But he had pretended tobelieve him an impostor, in order that he might have a good excuse forwithholding assistance from the unfortunate man.
Rudely did the servant thrust forth poor Sinclair into the inhospitablestreet and the fearful storm. The rain now fell in torrents; and thedarkness was so intense, that the hapless wanderer cou'd only grope hisway along, slowly and painfully.--Upon one corner of the street thefoundation for a house had recently been dug, forming a deep anddangerous pit, lying directly in Sinclair's path: no friendly lanternwarned him of the peril--no enclosure was there to protect him fromfalling. Unconscious of the danger, he slowly approached the brink ofthe pit; now he stood upon the extreme edge, and the next instant _hefell_! There was a dull, dead sound--then a stifled groan--and all wasstill!
Morning dawned, bright and clear, the storm had subsided during thenight, and the glorious sun arose in a cloudless sky. A crowd wascollected on the corner of Broadway and one of the narrow streets whichcross its lower section. They were gazing at a terrible spectacle: thebody of a man lay in a deep pit below them, shockingly mangled; he hadfallen upon a heap of stones--his brains were dashed out, and his bloodscattered all around. Among the spectators was a portly, well-dressedman, who looked at the body steadfastly for some time, and then mutteredto himself--
'By G----, it is Dr. Sinclair, and no mistake! Too bad--too bad!--Whenhe came to my house last night, I little thought to see him dead thismorning! Plague on it, I ought to have given the poor devil sixpence ora shilling. No matter--he's better off now. He was a talentedfellow--great pity, but can't be helped.'
Yes, it _could_ have been helped, Mr. Grump; had you kindly taken thatpoor unfortunate by the hand, and afforded him food and shelter for abrief season, he never would have met that tragical end, but might havelived to reform, and lead a life of usefulness and honor; yes, he mighthave lived to bless you for that timely aid.
Reader, 'speak gently to the erring.' Do not too hastily or too harshlycondemn the follies or faults of others. A gentle word, spoken inkindness to an erring brother, may do much towards winning him back tothe path of rectitude and right. Harsh words and stern reproofs maydrive him on to ruin.
But let us return to the crowd collected around the mangled body ofSinclair.
'It's a sin and a shame,' said a stout man, in working clothes, 'thatthere wasn't some kind of a fence put around this infernal trap. Wherewas the Alderman of this ward, that _he_ didn't attend to it?'
'Be careful what you say, fellow,' said Mr. Grump, turning very red inthe face, 'I'd have you to know that _I_ am the Alderman of this ward!'
'Are you?--then let me tell you,' said the man, contemptuously, 'thatyou bear the name of being a mean, dirty old scamp; and if it was notfor fear of the law, I'd give you a d----d good thrashing!'
Alderman Grump beat a hasty retreat while the crowd set up a loud shoutof derision--for he was universally hated and despised.
The Coroner arrived--the inquest was held; and a 'verdict rendered inaccordance with the facts.' The body was taken to the 'Dead House;' andas no friend or relative appeared to claim it, it was the next dayconveyed to Potter's Field, and there interred among city paupers,felons and nameless vagrants.
City Crimes; Or, Life in New York and Boston Page 27
