Haw-Ho-Noo; Or, Records of a Tourist

by Charles Lanman

OUR MASTER IN LANDSCAPE.

“His departure has left a vacuity which amazes and alarms us. It is as if the voyager on the Hudson were to look to the great range of the Catskills, at the foot of which Cole, with a reverential fondness, had fixed his abode, and were to see that the grandest of its summits had disappeared, had sunk into the plain from our sight. I might use a bolder similitude; it is as if we were to look over the heavens on a starlight evening and find that one of the greater planets, Hesperus or Jupiter, had been blotted from the sky.” Funeral Oration by William Cullen Bryant.

Upon the romantic life of the greatest of American landscape painters it is not our province to discourse, for that task has been assigned to a gifted poet and friend of the departed—the Reverend Louis L. Noble;—nor do we purpose to expatiate upon his beautiful character as a man, and his genius as an artist; for that labor of love has already been accomplished by the eminent poet from whom we have borrowed our motto. The only idea that we have in view, is simply to describe the truly Epic productions of the late Thomas Cole (in whose studio, which looked out upon the Catskill Mountains, we have spent many pleasant hours), for the edification of those of our readers who have never had an opportunity of examining them.

In the first place, then, we will turn our attention to the series of five pictures, entitled “The Course of Empire.” This work is an epitome of the life of man, and is conceived and executed in a manner which must convince the beholder that the artist possessed many of the attributes of the philosopher, the poet, and the Christian.

In the first picture we have a perfectly wild scene of rocks, mountains, woods, and a bay of the ocean, reposing in the luxuriance of a ripe spring. The clouds of night are being dissipated by the beams of the rising sun. On the opposite side of the bay rises a lofty promontory, crowned by a singular, isolated rock, which would ever be a conspicuous landmark to the mariner. As the same locality is preserved in each picture of the series, this rock identifies it, although the position of the spectator changes in the several pictures. The chase being the most characteristic occupation of savage life, in the foreground we see an Indian clothed in skins, pursuing a wounded deer, which is bounding down a narrow ravine. On a rock, in the middle ground, are other Indians, with their dogs surrounding another deer. On the bosom of a little river below are a number of canoes passing down the stream, while many more are drawn up on the shore. On an elevation beyond these is a cluster of wigwams, and a number of Indians dancing round a fire. In this picture we have the first rudiments of society. Men are already banded together for mutual aid in the chase. In the canoes, huts, and weapons, we perceive that the useful arts have commenced, and in the singing, which usually accompanies the dance of savages, we behold the germs of music and poetry. The Empire is asserted, to a limited degree, over sea, land, and the animal kingdom.

Ages have passed away, and in the second picture we have the Simple or Arcadian State of Society. The time of day is a little before noon, and the season early summer. The “untracked and rude” has been tamed and softened. Shepherds are tending their flocks; a solitary ploughman, with his oxen, is turning up the soil; and in the rude vessels passing into the haven of a growing village, and in the skeleton of a barque building on the shore, we perceive the commencement of Commerce. From a rude temple on a hill the smoke of sacrifice is ascending to the sky, symbolizing the spirit of Religion. In the foreground, on the left hand, is seated an old man, who, by describing strange figures in the sand, seems to have made some geometrical discovery, demonstrating the infancy of Science. On the right hand is a woman with a distaff, about crossing a stone bridge; beside her, a boy is drawing on a stone the figure of a man with a sword; and beyond these, ascending the road, a soldier is partly seen. Under some noble trees, in the middle distance, are a number of peasants dancing to the music of pipe and timbrel. All these things show us that society is steadily progressing in its march of usefulness and power.

Ages have again passed away, and in the third picture we have a magnificent city. It is now mid-day, and early autumn. The bay is now surrounded by piles of architecture, temples, colonnades, and domes. It is a day of rejoicing. The spacious harbor is crowded with vessels, war-galleys, ships, and barques, their silken sails glistening in the sunshine. Moving over a massive stone bridge, in the foreground, is a triumphal procession. The conqueror, robed in purple, is mounted on a car drawn by an elephant, and surrounded by captives and a numerous train of guards and servants, many of them bearing pictures and golden treasures. As he is about to pass the triumphal arch, beautiful girls strew flowers in his path; gay festoons of drapery hang from the clustered columns; golden trophies glitter in the sun, and incense rises from silver censers. Before a Doric temple, on the left, a multitude of white-robed priests are standing on the marble steps, while near them a religious ceremony is being performed before a number of altars. The statue of Minerva, with a Victory in her hand, stands above the building of the Caryatides, on a columned pedestal, near which is a company of musicians, with cymbals, “trumpets also, and shawms.” From the lofty portico of a palace, an imperial personage is watching the procession, surrounded by her children, attendants, and guards. Nations have been subjugated, man has reached the summit of human glory. Wealth, power, knowledge, and taste have worked together and accomplished the highest meed of human achievement and Empire.

Another change—and lo! in the fourth picture, the Vicious State, or State of Destruction. Behold the consequences of luxury, in the weakened and debased condition of mankind. A savage enemy has entered the once proud and happy city; a fierce tempest is raging; walls and colonnades are lying in the dust, and temples and palaces are being consumed by the torch of the incendiary. The fire of vengeance is swallowing up the devoted city. An arch of the bridge over which the triumphal procession had before passed, has been battered down, and broken pillars, ruins of war-engines, and the temporary bridge which had been thrown over, indicate that this has been the scene of direst contention. Now there is a terrible conflict on the bridge, whose insecurity accelerates the horror of the conflict. Horses, and men, and chariots, are precipitated into the raging waves. War-galleys are contending; others in flames; and others still, sinking beneath the prow of a superior foe. Smoke and flames are issuing from the falling and prostrate edifices; and along the battlements and in the blocked-up streets the conflict is dreadful indeed. The foreground is strewed with the bodies of the dead and dying. Some have fallen into the basin of a fountain, tinging the water with blood. One female is sitting in mute despair over the dead body of her son; another leaping over a battlement, to escape the grasp of a ruffian soldier; and other soldiers drag a woman by the hair down the steps, that form the pedestal of a mutilated colossal statue, whose shattered head lies on the pavement below. A barbarous enemy has conquered the city; Carnage and Destruction have asserted their frightful Empire.

The last and most impressive picture of this series is the scene of Desolation. The sun has just departed, and the moon is ascending the twilight sky over the ocean, near the place where the sun rose in the first picture. The shades of evening are gradually stealing over the shattered and ivy-grown ruins of that once great city. A lonely column rises in the foreground, on whose capital a solitary heron has built her nest, and at the foot of it her mate is standing in the water, both of them apparently conscious of being a living mockery. The Doric temple and triumphal bridge may still be identified among the ruins, which are laved by the waters of the tranquil sea. But though man and his works have perished, the steep promontory with its isolated rock, still rears itself against the sky, unmoved, unchanged. Time has consumed the works of man, and art is resolving into its elemental nature. The gorgeous pageant has passed, the roar of battle has ceased, the multitude has mingled with the dust, the Empire is extinct.

The first, second, and last of these paintings are the best of the series, not only in the poetry they portray, but in their execution. The style is more varied and natural, and has less the appearance of paint than many of the artist’s later productions. As to the third and fourth paintings, the conception of both is exceedingly fine and poetical, but they are deficient in execution. The architecture is admirably done, but the numerous figures which it was necessary to introduce, are poorly drawn and arranged; and there is a feebleness in the effect. It would be, perhaps, too much to ask that an artist should be a great painter of scenery, and also a master of the human figure. As a whole, however, the Course of Empire is a work of art worthy of any nation or any painter. These pictures were painted for the late Luman Reed, at a cost of eight thousand dollars, but are now the property of the New York Gallery, which institution owes its existence to Mr. Reed, whose collection of pictures formed the foundation thereof.

The next work to which we would call the attention of our readers is called “The Voyage of Life.” It is a series of four pictures, allegorically portraying the prominent features of man’s life, viz: childhood, youth, manhood, and old age. The subject is one of such universal interest, that it were almost impossible to treat it in an entirely original manner, but no one can deny that the conception of the painter displays a high and rare order of poetic power.

In the first, we behold the dawn of a summer morning. A translucent stream is issuing from an unknown source, out of a deep cavern in the side of a mountain. Floating gently down the stream, is a golden boat, made of the sculptured figures of the Hours, while the prow is formed by the present hour holding forth an emblem of Time. It is filled with flowers, and on these a little child is seated, tossing them with his upraised hands, and smiling with new-born joy, as he looks upon the unnumbered beauties and glories of this bright world around him; while a guardian angel is at the helm, with his wings lovingly and protectingly extended over the child. Love, purity, and beauty emanate like incense from the sky, the earth, and water, so that the heart of the gazer seems to forget the world, and lose itself in a dream of heaven.

A few fleeting years are gone, and behold the change! The Stream of Life is widened, and its current strong and irresistible, but it flows through a country of surpassing loveliness. The voyager, who is now a youth, has taken the helm into his own hands, and the dismissed angel stands upon the shore looking at him with “a look made of all sweet accord,” as if he said in his heart, “God be with thee, thoughtless mortal!” But the youth heeds not his angel, for his eyes are now riveted by an airy castle pictured against the sky, dome above dome, reaching to the very zenith. The phantom of worldly happiness and worldly ambition has absorbed the imagination and eager gaze of the wayward voyager, and as he urges his frail bark onward, he dreams not of the dangers which may await him in his way. To the boat, only a few flowers are now clinging, and on closer observation we perceive that the castle in the air, apparently so real, has only a white cloud for its foundation, and that ere long the stream makes a sudden turn, rushing with the fury of a maddened steed down a terrible ravine. The moral of the picture it is needless to elucidate.

Another change, and lo! the verge of a cataract and a fearful storm. The rudderless bark is just about to plunge into the abyss below, while the voyager (now in the prime of manhood) is imploring the only aid that can avail him in the trying hour, that of heaven. Demoniacal images are holding forth their temptations in the clouds around him, but he heeds them not. His confidence in God supports him, the previous agony of his soul is dispelled or subdued, by a reflection of immortal light stealing through the storm, and by the smiles of his guardian angel, visibly stationed in the far-off sky.

The Voyage of Life is ended, and our voyager, now white with hoary hairs, has reached that point where the waters of time and eternity mingle together—a bold conception, which is finely embodied by the daring genius of the painter. The hour-glass is gone, and the shattered bark is ready to dissolve into the fathomless waters beneath. The old man is on his knees, with clasped hands and his eyes turned heavenward, for the greenness of earth is forever departed, and a gloom is upon the ocean of eternity. But just above the form of our good voyager is hovering his angel, who is about to transport him to his home; and, as the eye wanders upward, an infinite host of heavenly ministers are seen ascending and descending the cloudy steps which lead to the bosom of God. Death is swallowed up in life, the glory of heaven has eclipsed that of the earth, and our voyager is safe in the haven of eternal rest. And thus endeth the allegory of Human Life.

With regard to the mechanical execution of these paintings, we consider them not equal to some of the earlier efforts of the same pencil. They are deficient in atmosphere, and have too much the appearance of paint. The water in the first, second, and third pictures is superior, but the perspective and atmosphere in the second are masterly. In all of them the figures are very fine, considering the difficulty of managing such peculiar characters. In the first we are pleased with the simplicity of the composition: in the second, with the variety, there being portrayed the elm of England, the plains of Tuscany, the palm of tropic climes, the mountains of Switzerland, and the oak of America; in the third, with the genius displayed in using the very storm to tell a story; and in the fourth, with the management of the shadows, and the apparent reality of the light from heaven. These pictures were painted for the late Samuel Ward of New York city, and the price received for them was six thousand dollars. During the last year, however, they were purchased by the American Art Union, and distributed among the prizes at their annual lottery in December.

Duplicates of the above paintings were executed by Cole, and sold to a gentleman in Cincinnati in the year 1846.

The last, and in many respects the most impressive, of Cole’s more ambitious productions, is a series of five pictures entitled The Cross and the World. The designs or studies for these pictures were all executed, but owing to the untimely death of the artist, only two out of the five were ever finished on a large scale. This series of pictures constitutes a Christian poem of a high order, and in describing them, we shall employ the language of the artist’s friend Noble, who has probably studied the entire work more thoroughly than any other man. The idea is that two youths enter upon a pilgrimage—one to the cross and the other to the world.

In the first picture the eye of the beholder first strikes the bold termination of a chain of mountains, with craggy peaks lost in the clouds.

The same lofty range is seen through the entire series.

To the left, a straight and narrow path takes its way up a rugged gorge, down which there beams a silvery light from a bright cross in the sky. The path at first leads off through fields of real flowers, betokening the early part of the Christian life, neither difficult nor uninviting. In the distance a dark mist, hovering over the track, conceals from the advancing wayfarer the real difficulties of his journey, and betokens the sorrows which of necessity befall him. To the right, a gracefully winding way leads down into a gently undulating and pleasant vale. Stretching forward through delightful landscapes, it finally fades away, and leaves the eye to wander on to the dim pinnacles and domes of a great city. A golden light falls through an atmosphere of repose, and lends warmth, softness, and beauty, as well to crag and precipice as to the rich valley. By-paths, serpent-like, steal up upon the sunny slopes of the mountain, inviting the traveler to the enjoyment of the prospect and the coolness of the waterfall.

Vegetation of unnatural growth, and gorgeous and unreal flowers skirt the borders of the way.

At the foot of the mountain stands Evangelist with the open Gospel. A little in advance are the waters, symbolical of Baptism.

Two youths, companions in the travel of life, having come to the parting of their road, are affectionately and earnestly directed to the shining cross. While one, through the power of truth, enters with timid steps upon his holy pilgrimage, the other, caught by the enchantment of the earthly prospect, turns his back upon Evangelist and the Cross, and speeds forward upon the pathway of the world.

In the second picture we have a wild mountain region now opening upon the beholder. It is an hour of tempest. Black clouds envelop the surrounding summits. A swollen torrent rushes by, and plunges into the abyss. The storm, sweeping down through terrific chasms, flings aside the angry cataract, and deepens the horror of the scene below. The pilgrim, now in the vigor of manhood, pursues his way on the edge of a frightful precipice. It is a moment of imminent danger. But gleams of light from the shining cross break through the storm, and shed fresh brightness along his perilous and narrow path. With steadfast look, and renewed courage, the lone traveler holds on his heavenly pilgrimage.

The whole symbolizes the trials of faith.

In the third picture the beholder looks off upon an expanse of tranquil water. On the right are the gardens of pleasure, where the devotees of sensual delights revel in all that satiates and amuses. Near a fountain, whose falling waters lull with perpetual murmurs, stands a statue of the goddess of Love. An interminable arcade, with odorous airs and delicious shade, invites to the quiet depths of a wilderness of greenery and flowers. A gay throng dances upon the yielding turf, around a tree, to the sound of lively music. Near an image of Bacchus, a company enjoys a luxurious banquet.

On the left is the Temple of Mammon, a superb and costly structure, surmounted by the wheel of Fortune. Beneath its dome, a curiously-wrought fountain throws out showers of gold, which is eagerly caught up by the votaries below.

From the great censers, rising here and there above the heads of the multitude, clouds of incense roll up and wreath the columns of the temple—a grateful odor to the God. The trees and shrubbery of the adjacent grounds are laden with golden fruit.

Far distant, in the middle of the picture, a vision of earthly power and glory rises upon the view. Splendid trophies of conquest adorn the imposing gateway; suits of armor, gorgeous banners, and the victor’s wreath. Colonnades and piles of architecture stretch away in the vast perspective. At the summit of a lofty flight of steps stand conspicuous the throne and the sceptre. Suspended in the air, at the highest point of human reach, is that glittering symbol of royalty, the crown. Between the beholder and this grand spectacle are the armies in conflict, and a city in flames, indicating that the path to glory lies through ruin and the battle-field. To the contemplation of this alluring scene the Pilgrim of the World, now in the morning of manhood, is introduced. Which of the fascinating objects before him is the one of his choice, is left to the imagination of the spectator. The picture symbolizes the pleasure, the fortune, and the glory of the world.

In the fourth picture, the pilgrim, now an old man on the verge of existence, catches a first view of the boundless and eternal. The tempests of life are behind him; the world is beneath his feet. Its rocky pinnacles, just rising through the gloom, reach not up into his brightness; its sudden mists, pausing in the dark obscurity, ascend no more into his serene atmosphere. He looks out upon the infinite. Clouds—embodiments of glory, threading immensity in countless lines, rolling up from everlasting depths—carry the vision forward toward the unapproachable light. The Cross, now fully revealed, pours its effulgence over the illimitable scene. Angels from the presence, with palm and crown of immortality, appear in the distance, and advance to meet him. Lost in rapture at the sight, the pilgrim drops his staff, and with uplifted hands, sinks upon his knees.

In the last picture, desolate and broken, the pilgrim, descending a gloomy vale, pauses at last on the horrid brink that overhangs the outer darkness. Columns of the Temple of Mammon crumble; trees of the gardens of pleasure moulder on his path. Gold is as valueless as the dust with which it mingles. The phantom of glory—a baseless, hollow fabric—flits under the wing of death to vanish in a dark eternity. Demon forms are gathering around him. Horror-struck, the pilgrim lets fall his staff, and turns in despair to the long-neglected and forgotten Cross. Veiled in melancholy night, behind a peak of the mountain, it is lost to his view forever.

The above pictures are in the possession of the artist’s family. We did think of describing at length all the imaginative productions of our great master in landscape, but upon further reflection we have concluded merely to record their titles, by way of giving our readers an idea of the versatility of Cole’s genius. They are as follows:—The Departure and Return, which is a poetical representation of the Feudal Times, The Cross in the Wilderness, Il Penseroso, L’Allegro, The Past and Present, The Architect’s Dream, Dream of Arcadia, The Expulsion of Adam and Eve, and Prometheus Bound. As the last mentioned picture is owned in England, and is unquestionably one of the wildest and most splendid efforts of the painter’s pencil, we cannot refrain from a brief description. The scene represented is among the snow-covered peaks of a savage mountain land, and to the loftiest peak of all, is chained the being who gives the picture a name. Immediately in the foreground, is a pile of rocks and broken trees, which give a fine effect to the distant landscape, while, just above this foreground, is a solitary vulture slowly ascending to the upper air, to feast upon its victim. The idea of leaving the devouring scene to the imagination, could only have been conceived by the mind of the most accomplished artist. The time represented is early morning—and the cold blue ocean of the sky is studded with one brilliant star, which represents Jupiter, by whose order Prometheus was chained to the everlasting rock.

This is one of the most truly sublime pictures we have ever seen, and possesses all the qualities which constitute an epic production. The unity of the design is admirable—one figure, one prominent mountain, a cloudless sky, one lonely star, one representative of the feathery tribes, and one cluster of rocks for the foreground—and it is also completely covered with an atmosphere which gives every object before us a dreamy appearance. In point of execution we cannot possibly find a fault with this glorious picture, and we do not believe that the idea of the poet was ever better illustrated by any landscape painter.

With regard to the actual views and other less ambitious productions of Cole, we can only say that the entire number might be estimated at about one hundred. The majority of them are illustrative of European scenery, but of those which are truly American, it may be said that they give a more correct and comprehensive idea of our glorious scenery, than do the productions of any other American artist. In looking upon his better pictures of American scenery we forget the pent-up city, and our hearts flutter with a joy allied to that which we may suppose animates the woodland bird, when listening in its solitude to the hum of the wilderness. Perpetual freedom, perpetual and unalloyed happiness, seem to breathe from every object which he portrays, and as the eye wanders along the mountain declivities, or mounts still farther up on the chariot-looking clouds, as we peer into the translucent waters of his lakes and streams, or witness the solemn grandeur and gloom of his forests, we cannot but wonder at the marvelous power of genius. The style of our artist is bold and masterly. While he did not condescend to delineate every leaf and sprig which may be found in nature, yet he gave you the spirit of the scene. To do this is the province of genius, and an attainment beyond the reach of mere talent. The productions of Cole appeal to the intellect more than to the heart, and we should imagine that Milton was his favorite poet. He loved the uncommon efforts in nature, and was constantly giving birth to new ideas. He had a passion for the wild and tempestuous, and possessed an imagination of the highest order. He was also a lover of the beautiful, and occasionally executed a picture full of quiet summer-like sentiment: but his joy was to depict the scenery of our mountain land, when clothed in the rich garniture of autumn. He was the originator of a new style, and is now a most worthy member of that famous brotherhood of immortals whom we remember by the names of Lorraine, Poussin, Rosa, Wilson, and Gainsborough.

The name of Cole is one which his countrymen should not willingly let die. A man of fine, exalted genius, by his pencil he has accomplished much good, not only to his chosen art, by becoming one of its masters, but eminently so in a moral point of view. And this reminds us of the influences which may be exerted by the landscape painter. That these are of importance no one can deny. Is not painting as well the expression of thought as writing? With his pencil, if he is a wise and good man, the artist may portray, to every eye that rests upon his canvass, the loveliness of virtue and religion, or the deformity and wretchedness of a vicious life. He may warn the worldling of his folly and impending doom, and encourage the Christian in his pilgrimage to heaven. He may delineate the marvelous beauty of nature, so as to lead the mind upward to its Creator, or proclaim the ravages of time, that we may take heed to our ways and prepare ourselves for a safe departure from this world, into that beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death. A goodly portion of all these things have been accomplished by Thomas Cole. As yet, he is the only landscape painter in this country who has attempted imaginative painting, and the success which has followed him in his career, even in a pecuniary point of view, affords great encouragement to our younger painters in this department of the art. He has set a noble example, which ought to be extensively followed. Observe, we do not mean by this that his subjects ought to be imitated. Far from it; because they are not stamped with as decided a national character, as the productions of all painters should be. Excepting his actual views of American scenery, the paintings of Cole might have been produced had he never set foot upon our soil. Let our young artists aspire to something above a mere copy of nature, or even a picture of the fancy; let them paint the visions of their imagination. No other country ever offered such advantages as our own. Let our young painters use their pencils to illustrate the thousand scenes, strange, wild, and beautiful, of our early history. Let them aim high, and their achievements will be distinguished. Let them remember that theirs is a noble destiny. What though ancient wisdom and modern poetry have told us that “art is long and time is fleeting!”—let them toil and persevere with nature as their guide, and they will assuredly have their reward.

POVERTY.[2]

And wherefore do the poor complain?

The rich man asked of me:

Come walk abroad with me, I said,

And I will answer thee.

Southey.

Attended by police officers, we once paid a visit to a building called the Old Brewery, which infests the city of New York as does a cancer the bosom of a splendid woman. At the time in question, it was a very large and rickety affair, and the home of about eighty pauper families; and we verily believe contained more unalloyed suffering than could have been found in any other building in the United States. It belonged to the city, and was rented by a woman, who, in her turn, rented it out by piecemeal to the paupers. For many years it was a dram shop or a college for the education of drunkards, and it is now the comfortless hospital or dying-place of those drunkards and their descendants. We visited this spot at midnight, and were lighted on our way by torches which we carried in our hands.

Having passed through a place called Murderer’s Alley (on account of the many murders committed there), our leading officer bolted into a room, where was presented the following spectacle. The room itself was more filthy than a sty. In the fireplace were a few burning embers, above which hung a kettle, tended by a woman and her daughter. It contained a single cabbage, and was all they had to eat, and the woman told us she had not tasted food for twenty-four hours. The wretched being, it appears, had been engaged in a fight with some brute of a man, who had so severely bruised her face that one whole side was literally black and blue. We asked her some questions and alluded to her young daughter. She replied to our inquiries, and then burst into tears, and wept as if her heart was broken. The only comment which the daughter made was, “Mother, what are you crying about? Don’t make a fool of yourself. Tears will not wipe away God’s curse.” The couch to which this pair of women were to retire after their midnight meal, was a pallet of straw, wet with liquid mud that came oozing through the stone walls of the subterranean room. This woman told us that her husband was in the State prison, and that she was the mother of seven daughters, all of whom but the one present had died in girlhood, utterly abandoned to every vice. “Yes,” added the woman, “and I hope that me and my Mary will soon join them; there can be no worse hell than the one we are enduring.” She mourned over her unhappy fate, and looked upon vice as a matter of necessity—for they could not starve.

In the next room that we entered, on a litter of straw, and with hardly any covering upon them, lay a man and his wife, the former suffering with asthma and the latter in the last stages of consumption. Covered as they were with the most filthy rags, they looked more like reptiles than human beings. In another corner of the same room, upon a wooden box, sat a young woman with a child on her lap; the former possessing a pale and intellectual countenance, while the latter was a mere skeleton. The woman uttered not a word while we were present, but seemed to be musing in silent despair. Her history and very name were unknown, but her silence and the vacant stare of her passionless eyes spoke of unutterable sorrow. She was the “queen of a fantastic realm.”

Another room that we entered contained no less than five families, and in one corner was a woman in the agonies of death, while at her side sat a miserable dog, howling a requiem over the dying wretch. In another corner lay the helpless form of a boy, about ten years of age, who was afflicted with the small-pox, and had been abandoned to his miserable fate. He had rolled off the straw, and his cheek rested upon the wet floor, which was black with filth. All the rooms we visited were pretty much alike, crowded with human beings, but there were particular ones which attracted our attention. The faded beauty and yet brilliant eye of one woman attracted our notice, and we were informed that it was only about two years ago that she was performing Juliet at one of the principal theatres to the delight of thousands. She is now an outcast, and her only possession is a ragged calico gown. In another room we noticed the living remains of a German philosopher, who was once a preacher, then a professor in the Berlin and Halle Universities, an author, a rationalist, a doctor of philosophy, and now a—pauper. He came to this country about three years ago, supposing that his learning would here find a ready market. This man is master of the Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French, and German languages, and yet a bitter reviler of the Christian religion! He was brought to his present state by the united influences of his infidel principles and the wine cup.

In one room we saw a husband and his wife with three children, sound asleep on a bed of shavings, and the furniture thereof consisted of only a pine box, a wooden bowl (partly filled with meal), and a teacup, while on the hearth of the empty fireplace were scattered a few meatless bones. In another we saw a woman in a state of gross intoxication, whose child, wrapped in rags, was lying on a bed of warm ashes in one corner of the fireplace. In one room a lot of half-clothed negroes were fighting like hyenas; and in another a forlorn old man was suffering with delirium tremens. In another, still, the fireplace was destitute of fire and the hearth of wood. On the floor were three litters of straw; on one lay the corpse of a woman and a dead infant, and another child about three years of age, which had no covering upon its shivering body except the fragments of an old cloak. On one pile of straw lay a middle-aged man apparently breathing his last; and in the opposite corner was seated a drunken woman, a stranger to the dead and dying, who was calling down curses upon the head of her husband, who had abandoned her to her misery. As we rambled about the old building, peering into the dark rooms of poverty and infamy, we were forcibly reminded of Dante’s description of hell. The majority of women that we saw were widows, and we were informed that the rent they paid varied from two to six shillings per week. Our guide, before leaving, directed our attention to the back yard, where, within the last two years, twenty people had been found dead. Their histories yet remain in mystery, and we were told of the singular fact that a funeral had not been known to occur at the Old Brewery for many years, as it has ever been a market-place for anatomists and their menials.

On giving the readers of the Express some of the above facts, a number of benevolent individuals remitted to us quite a large amount of money for the inmates of the Brewery. One lady (God bless the Christian!) sent us no less than ten dollars. In fulfilling our obligations to these charitable friends, we purchased clothing, bread, pork, fish, and vegetables, and, assisted by a couple of servants, took another walk over the mansion of suffering. As we went in the day time, we expected to see less misery than we did on our former visits, but were sadly disappointed. We entered several new rooms and saw new pictures of distress. In one was a very old negro, sitting in his desolate chimney corner, with no clothing on his person but a pair of pantaloons; he was afflicted with the asthma and shivering with cold, while his poor wife was weeping over their wretched condition. When we supplied the latter with food, we thought the overjoyed being would actually clasp me in her arms. On entering another room, we discovered a mass of rags in one corner, where lay an elderly woman who had lost the use of her limbs, and had not been able to move from her couch of shavings for upwards of two months. She was evidently the victim of consumption, and not far from the gateway to the grave. Her only attendant was a kindly-disposed woman who had the dropsy. When we gave her some food, she actually wept tears of gratitude, and begged me to accept a rug, which she had made of rags, probably picked up in the street. In another room, before an expiring fire, sat a sickly-looking girl, about ten years of age, holding in her arms a little babe, and the countenances of both were deeply furrowed by premature suffering. Her story was that her mother had been dead about a month, and she knew not the fate of her father, who had been arrested for stealing some two weeks before. She obtained her living by begging, and when too feeble to carry her infant sister in the street, was in the habit of leaving it in her room under the protection of a miserable dog, to which she directed my attention. We gave this sadly unfortunate girl a large supply of food, and was sorely grieved that it was not in our power to take her from her cheerless dwelling place to some other home, where she might be fed, clothed, and instructed. The act of adopting such a child would cover a multitude of sins. The condition of Mr. Dickens’s fancy child “Little Nell” was real happiness compared to the condition of this living and yet dying orphan. God have mercy upon the innocent poor!

Another room into which we entered was completely crowded with human beings. On one bed of rags and straw lay a woman who was so very ill that she could not speak, and her only covering, strange as it may seem, was a tattered American flag. She was a stranger to all her companions, but supposed to be the wife of a sailor, who had died some months before. Immediately in front of the fireplace, lying on her side, was a colored woman moaning with the rheumatism, and in her immediate vicinity was her husband, suffering intensely with a cold. Here sat an Irish woman on a chest, holding an infant in her arms; she was singing a lullaby, and yet she told me that she had not eaten a hearty meal for many weeks. There, lying in his corner, was a middle aged man, confined to the floor by an ulcerated knee, and he had in charge a feeble babe, which had never been blessed with even a calico dress—it was not only naked, but a cripple from its birth. The wife of this man was dead, and those were her dying groans which chilled my blood with horror when we made a nocturnal visit to this miserable abode. His only helper in his hour of great need was a puny boy, about seven years old, who seemed to be an idiot. The appearance of this child we cannot possibly describe. The happiest individual in this room was a colored man, who appeared to be in good health, but he crawled about on crutches, for he had lost both his legs. He seemed to be an exceedingly worthy and amiable man, and we were lavish in our gifts to him and those in whom he was interested.

But enough, enough. There can be no use in continuing this painful record. We would assure our readers, however, that we have only sketched a small portion of the unimagined misery which lately existed and still exists in the Old Brewery. The spectacles we have witnessed there excel the most extravagant flights of fancy; we have never read the book which contained pictures of such complete and hopeless misery. We have told a simple tale of truth, contributed our pittance, and it now remains for the opulent of the great metropolis and the rulers thereof to do their duty. Is it right that such a building as the Old Brewery should be suffered to exist within a stone’s throw of the City Hall? Is it right that the “hell hounds” (we now allude to a fact) should be permitted by the authorities to sell their poisons under the same roof where hundreds of people are dying from starvation, brought upon them by their own folly and those very dram shops? We would not make an issue upon the license question; but, we ask, is it right, is it humane, to allow this state of things? If the aged in iniquity cannot be reclaimed, ought not something to be done to save the children of the Old Brewery—the innocent, laughter-loving children, from spending their days in misery? If nothing else can be done, it would be a mercy to fire that abode of suffering, even though every soul within its walls should perish in the flames; the wail of agony would indeed be dreadful, but it would be of short duration. Why will not the superb city of New York wipe from her bosom this lump of leprosy, which is now preying upon her vitals? Can the rich now understand why it is that the poor complain?

An Irishman, his wife, and two children were brought to the alms-house in a complete state of starvation. They landed in the city from an emigrant ship, and had not tasted food for several days. The mother was wellnigh a perfect skeleton, and the sunken cheeks and eyes of the whole family told the melancholy truth that they were the victims of the most intense suffering. One of the children was so near dead that it could not walk, whilst it was with the utmost difficulty that even the father could totter over the floor. They were as nearly dead as it is possible for the living to be, and want of food was the principal cause which had brought them to this miserable state. In answer to all questions asked them, their replies were, “We want some bread; do give us some bread; we will die if you do not give us some bread.” As a matter of course their wants were immediately supplied, but the utmost caution was necessary in administering food. When they were seated at the table, the first thing the mother did was to feed her youngest child. In doing this she took not the least notice of herself, but uttered a strange wild laugh; and, when the child was made quite sick by even a spoonful of rice, the mother wept most bitterly, and said: “Oh, my child is going to die!—what shall I do to save its darling life?” Four days afterwards every member of this exiled family had passed into the unknown future.

On another occasion an intemperate woman was taken to the alms-house, ragged and reeling at the time, and bearing a little child, supposed to be about sixteen months old. It was literally a skeleton, entirely destitute of flesh, a mere fragment of humanity. The smaller portions of its arms and legs were not more than half an inch in thickness, while the corners of its mouth were drawn down, and its eyes so deeply sunken that it had the appearance of an old and decrepit woman. Its face was white as snow, its body almost as cold, and wrinkles upon its cheek and brow were distinctly marked; and what made the picture still more wretched was the fact that the poor child had the whooping cough and was totally blind. The opinion of the attending physician was that the child had been famished. On questioning the mother about her offspring it was ascertained that the child had never taken any food but what came from her breast; its condition was partly attributed to this fact, and it was evident that all its sufferings were inherited from its mother; that it had been a drunkard even from the hour of its birth. It was found necessary to take the child away from its mother; but, as she would not give it up, she was taken to the Tombs, and at midnight, when the parent was in a deep sleep, the child was taken from her filthy and inflamed bosom, and placed in the hands of a careful nurse. The weeping and wailing of that forsaken mother, on the following morning, were terrible in the extreme. Her brain was on fire, and at the setting of the sun she was numbered with the dead. In less than a week thereafter the pauper child had followed its mother to Potter’s Field.

It was recorded in the newspapers that the dead body of an aged man had been found, tied up in a coffee bag, and floating in the East river. His throat was cut from ear to ear, and it was supposed he had been murdered, but later developments explained the mystery. The name of the deceased was subsequently ascertained; he belonged to one of the oldest and most respectable families of Connecticut, and was related to one of its former governors. The individual in question spent the morning and noon of his life in the lap of luxury; in old age, however, his wealth, wife, children, and nearly all his kindred, were taken away from him, and he became a man acquainted with many sorrows. Some months previous to the time when his body was found, and while actually suffering from hunger, it so happened that he entered a certain dwelling for the purpose of asking alms. The principal inmate of that dwelling was a widow who had once been on the most intimate terms with the family of the beggar, having been born in the same town. The friends of other days recognized each other, a long conversation ensued, which recalled a thousand recollections of childhood, and they were very happy. The only thought which oppressed the spirit of the mendicant was, that his bones, when he came to die, would be deposited in the soil of strangers, and his only prayer was that he might be buried among his kindred. His kind friend assured him that, if her own life was spared, the desire of his heart should be fully gratified.

Weeks passed on, and, contrary to the wishes of his friend, the old man became an inmate of the almshouse. In process of time the silver cord of the pilgrim’s life was broken, and he was buried in the public graveyard. Subsequently to this his body was disinterred, used for purposes of dissection, and rudely thrown into the river. In the meanwhile the widow had sent to the coroner to inquire how she might obtain the pauper’s body, as she wished to bury him elsewhere than in Potter’s Field, but she could meet with no encouragement. A number of days was the man’s body tossed to and fro in the East River, but by the hand of Providence it was washed ashore and given in charge to the coroner. This gentleman suspected that the deceased was the friend of the widow who had consulted him some days before, and it so happened that his suspicions were well founded, for the body in due time was recognized. It was given into the custody of the good woman, who had it placed in a decent coffin, and the aged pauper was buried in the vault of the W——, in Connecticut, by the side of his wife and children. It is indeed a fact that fiction is often not one-half so strange as truth; and it is also certain that human life is but a dream, and the ways of God unsearchable.

Beautiful were the orphan minstrels of whom we are now to speak; beautiful in mind and heart. The party was composed of three individuals, two sisters and a little brother, the eldest of whom had not yet seen her thirteenth summer. Remarkable singers they were not, but yet there was something wild and plaintive in their voices which cannot easily be forgotten. The instruments they used, however—the harp, the tamborin, and flute—were uncommonly musical, and played upon with facility and taste.

We became acquainted with these minstrels in this wise. They had stopped for a few moments, about nine o’clock in the evening, in the hall of Rathbun’s hotel. After delighting a crowd of listeners, and receiving a few pennies, they courtesied and bowed, and then continued on their way. We had an hour’s leisure at the time, and resolved as a matter of curiosity, that we would follow the children. We did so, and saw them enter two or three hotels, where they performed a number of pieces. The night was now far advanced, and they turned Barclay Street on their way home. Onward did they trip, with gladness in their hearts, talking together in the French tongue; and, in a few moments after, we saw them turn down Washington street into an emigrant boarding house. We were now in a predicament, and afraid to lose our game. But resolving to defend our conduct by inquiring after some imaginary person, we bolted into the house and followed the children up two flights of stairs. They entered a room where were seated a very old man and an equally old woman. The meeting between this aged pair and the little children was quite touching, for, when the money was counted and laid away, the latter were rewarded by a loving embrace. Soon as this scene was ended we made our appearance, and introduced ourselves by asking the intended question. This having been promptly and politely answered, we proceeded a little further in our queries, and obtained the following information: The senior members of this family were the grandparents of the children, and their only relatives in the world. The old man said they were all natives of France; that they had been in this country four months; and that their only support was derived from the unwearied labors of the minstrel children. As the old man told his story his eyes were filled with tears; he was mourning over his own helplessness, and yet rejoicing over the living blessings of his old age. Having apologized for my rudeness, and uttered what I thought would be a word of comfort, we bade each member of the family a kind good night, and left them to obtain the repose they needed, and to dream perchance of church bells ringing in one of the beautiful valleys of their native land.

We happened to be out at an unusually late hour on a certain night, and while on our way home witnessed the following picture. In passing one of the more splendid mansions in the upper part of Broadway our attention was attracted by a singular looking object, which we thought was attempting to effect an entrance into the house. Curiosity led us to draw near, when we beheld a group of three little girls nestled in the corner of the marble doorway. One of them appeared to be about twelve years of age, and the other two had perhaps seen seven and nine years. The former was seated in the Turkish fashion on the coarse matting, apparently half asleep, whilst the heads of the other two were pillowed on her lap, and both evidently enjoying a dream of peace and comfort. As we remembered the sumptuous and fashionable entertainment in which we had just participated, and reflected upon the picture before us, we were almost disposed to doubt the evidence of our senses. It was already past midnight, and the sleet which beat upon our head assured us that we ought to make an effort to relieve the vagrant children from their miserable condition, for they were almost naked and barefooted.

After some difficulty we found a watchman, when we awoke the children and asked them about their home. They reluctantly told us where their parents resided, and it was with the utmost difficulty that we could induce them to accompany us. We succeeded, however, in taking them home, which was a comfortless dwelling with one room, where we witnessed the following spectacle. On a bed of straw lay the father of these children in a state of senseless intoxication, and on the bare floor in another corner of the room was the mother, moaning with pain, and bleeding from wounds which had been inflicted by her cruel husband. One of the little girls told us they had not eaten as much food as they wanted for ten days, that they had been forced into the street for the purpose of begging, and that the scene before us was an old story to them. My opulent and happy readers, it is probable, can scarcely believe that such things actually exist in the Christian city of New York; but what we assert is as true as the fact, that the scourge intemperance is annually destroying some thirty thousand souls in our land alone.

This allusion to intemperance reminds me of another melancholy picture, which we once witnessed in the great emporium. We had been enjoying a walk among the shipping in South street, when we discovered, partly hidden from view by a pile of casks and boxes, a man and two guardian angels. It was the insensible form of a poor drunkard, lying on the ground, and at his side two little girls, one of whom looked upon me with a most wo-begone expression of countenance, while the pale temples of the other were resting on the bloated bosom of the man. He was their father, and they were motherless.

We once visited the Children’s Hospital connected with the Alms-house of New York, and the spectacles we there witnessed were even more touching than those connected with the Old Brewery. The entire building (which is on Blackwell’s Island) contained over one hundred children, about one-half of whom were so ill as to be confined to their beds, and it is the room where these were harbored to which we now allude. The beds were arranged along the walls, about three feet apart, and each end of every bed or cot was occupied by a sick child. The majority of them were motherless and fatherless, and entirely dependent upon strangers for those kind and delicate attentions which commonly smooth the pathway to the grave. Some of them were the offspring of intemperate parents, now confined in the State Prison; while many of them had not even inherited a name. Not one of the whole number but presented a feeble and haggard appearance, and the pains of many were intense, for their mingled moans actually fills the room with a heart-sickening chorus. One poor little thing, about three years of age, was sitting in its bed, eating a dry crust of bread, to satisfy a morbid appetite, and the disease which preyed upon the vitals of this child was consumption in its most ghastly form. Hollow and wrinkled were its cheeks, eyes large and deeply sunken, and, while looked upon, hot tears trickled upon its pillow. In the same bed was another of these unhappy children, dying from the terrible malady of scrofula. It had been a cripple from its birth, and could hardly be recognized as a human being. We caught a glimpse of the creature’s countenance as it slumbered, and was positively startled by its surpassing beauty. It was as bright and spiritual as the light of a star. It was certain, however, that death had marked it for the grave, and we remembered the poet’s words:—

“The good die first,

And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust,

Burn to the socket.”

Wordsworth.

This deformed but yet lovely fragment of humanity had been picked up as a foundling, and was without a name. Another child which attracted my attention, though only about twelve years of age, had the appearance of being thirty. She had been brought from an emigrant ship, suffering with fever associated with bronchitis. She had a finely developed head, a beautiful and highly intellectual face, but it was deeply marked with the lines of suffering, and her cheeks were flushed with the hue of approaching death. She was also troubled with a hollow cough, and her body was a mere skeleton. The attending physician patted her upon the head and asked her how she felt to-day; when she looked up with a smile, “made of all sweet accord,” and answered: “I am going to die, doctor. Tell them to have my coffin ready; and, dear doctor, will they not bury me by the side of my mother and little sister, in that place you call Potter’s Field?” Who now can ask the question: “And wherefore do the poor complain?”

Four Irishmen, all afflicted with the ship fever, had landed from an emigrant ship in the city of New York. The party consisted of a father and three sons. They were friendless and without money. In the company of three hundred beings, as miserable as themselves, had they landed in the city, and, in the confusion attendant upon the discharge of the ship, it so happened that they were separated, and the father knew not the fate of the sons, nor the sons the fate of the father.

A number of weeks elapsed, when the elder brother of this family called upon the commissioner of the almshouse, praying for assistance that he might find his relatives, if yet in the land of the living. The story that he told of his own sufferings since his arrival was most melancholy; for he had been living the life of a sick vagrant, in and about the Tombs. The commissioner took pity upon him and gave him all the assistance he desired, and the pauper, with a guide, started upon the hunting expedition. The first place they visited was the New York Hospital, where it was ascertained the second brother had died of the loathsome ship fever, and whence his remains had been taken to Potter’s Field. They next went to the Bellevue Hospital, and heard precisely the same story with regard to the third brother. They also visited the Lunatic Asylum, where it was ascertained that the father had been confined as a raving maniac, but had paid the debt of nature, and was now a resider in the city of the dead. As to the feelings of the forlorn man, who had thus been stripped of every tie which bound him to the earth, I cannot attempt to describe them. His only prayer was that one little spot of earth might be granted to him, where he might rebury his dead relatives, provided their bodies could be recognized, and where his own ashes might be deposited after his race was run. The commissioner promised to do all in his power to bring out this result, and in less than one week the pauper’s prayer was answered!

It was an emigrant ship, and when boarded by a New York pilot he was informed that she had left England with two hundred poverty-stricken passengers, some twenty-five of whom had died on the passage, and been buried in the deep. Among the departed were a father and mother, who had left behind them a little girl nine years old. Desolate indeed was her lot before she became an orphan; but when the “silver cord” which bound her to her parents was broken, her condition became more deplorable than ever; and, as the ship glided into the noble bay of New York, the child was also numbered with the dead—none knowing whence she came, none knowing even her baptismal name.

In due time the ship was safely moored, and, while the usual discharging bustle was going on, an almshouse coffin was sent for, into which the pauper child was placed (with her ragged clothes carefully tucked round her body), and then given into the charge of the alms-house sextons. Not one tear was shed as they mounted the hearse, and not one word of regret or sorrow was uttered by the multitude around as the sextons started for Potter’s Field.

Long was the way to the crowded city of the dead. The sextons were in a merry mood, and, as their carriage rattled over the stony streets, they cracked their jokes and laughed as if going to a wedding instead of the tomb. But how could these men be blamed? They were following their vocation and receiving liberal pay. Once in a while, however, a troublesome thought seemed to pass their minds, but it was only when fearful that they might lose their dinner on account of the great number of paupers who were to be buried before the coming on of night. They hurried by a school-house, before which a flock of little girls were playing and laughing in their glee, but these happy children thought not upon the sister spirit whose remains were going to the grave. Onward rattled the hearse, and after turning the corner of a street it came to a halt, and the senior sexton stepped into his house for a drink of water. A number of laughing children met him at the door, and after he had satisfied his thirst he gave each one of them a kiss, and again, in a jovial mood, started for the public grave-yard. Another mile and the hearse reached the margin of the East River, where the Potter’s Field boat was in waiting, managed by the keeper of the field. Carelessly was the coffin transferred from the hearse to the boat, and the journey of the dead was continued. The boat was now moored at the landing place on Randall’s Island, where the coffin was taken away on a man’s shoulder, and deposited in a deep trench covered with a few shovels full of sand, and lying in the midst of a multitude of unknown dead from every nation on the globe. And thus endeth the story of the pauper child, who crossed the ocean only to find a grave in a land she never saw, and where the very name she bore is utterly unknown.

It was the twilight hour, and we saw an old and deformed woman standing in front of St. Paul’s, asking alms. We happened to be in the mood just then, and tarried for a few moments to watch the charity of the world. Many, in the passing tide of human life, were to us unknown, but of the few that we recognized the following attracted our particular attention:

First came a gentleman whom we knew to be a merchant of great wealth; and, as he approached the beggar, we surely thought that he would listen to her petition. But no—he was thinking of his last importation, or the sum total of his rents, and he passed on with these words as a donation: “You must go to the poor-house, my good woman.” We thought upon the days of darkness.

Then came a scholar-like looking young man, whom we knew to be a struggler with poverty; but he approached the beggar with a smile upon his countenance, dropped a shilling into her withered hand, called for God’s blessing to rest upon her head, and resumed his way. My fancy now wandered to that blessed region where ever floweth the river of life.

Next came an intemperate and selfish man. When the imploring look of the cripple met his own, he coolly frowned upon her, uttered a wicked curse, and reeled onward to a hall of sinful revelry. And now we pondered on the worm that never dieth.

Finally came a little flock of boys and girls, returning from school. The woman smiled upon them, but spoke not a single word. The children knew her to be a beggar, and paused to talk with her a moment. She told them briefly the story of her life, and they were melted to tears. All the pennies that the children could raise were given to the woman; and each child, with an immortal jewel in its heart, passed on its way to receive a shower of kisses from its fond parents. And now our mind reveled in a dream of heaven-born loveliness.

And now, by way of giving our readers an idea of self-inflicted poverty, we will furnish them with a brief sketch of an old miser residing in the Empire city:

He is an old man—a very old man; he is also a strange man—a very strange man; whose history and name are alike unknown. His business is that of a paper scavenger, and the spoil which he collects in his journeying about the city he disposes of at the rate of one cent per pound. Many pounds does he often gather in a single day; but, as it only costs him four shillings per week to live, it is certain he lays up a few shillings at the close of every day. He commences his daily business in the down-town streets even when the day is breaking, and continues at his monotonous employment until the dark hours. He never goes home to dinner, but, when hungry, generally purchases a dry crust of bread, and eats it sitting upon the lower steps of the Custom-house or the City Hall. Never does he utter a word to a living soul; and when the stranger looks upon him he feels disposed to exclaim, “what a poor miserable being!” He is, indeed, a pitiable object to look upon, for his leather clothes are glossy and hard with the accumulated filth of many years, and his countenance is furrowed all over with deep wrinkles which no one could believe were ever moistened with a tear. He is a hard-visaged man, repulsive and even terrible to look upon. For fifteen years have we known this singular being, and “even then he was so old he seems not older now.” There are people in this great city who have been familiar with his form for upwards of twenty years, and they affirm that he has been a paper scavenger during all that time. At all times, when the winds of winter howl through the streets, and also when the dog-star reigns, does he pursue his laborious and degrading employment.

And now, that I have introduced my hero to the reader, it is meet that we should mention what we know of his actual condition. He is a miser—a narrow-minded and mean miser, who can count his dollars by tens of thousands. If the reader doubts my word, let him, when next he meets the miserable man in the public highway, ask him the time of day, and he will be promptly answered, on the authority of a superb gold watch, hidden in his filthy vestments. A dry crust of bread, and a cast-off bone constitute his daily food, and yet this man carries the deeds in his pocket which prove him to be the proprietor of at least five handsome dwelling houses, located in a fashionable part of the city; certificates of bank stock and other valuable papers are also hidden in his pockets. He is a widower, but the father of an only daughter, whom he has established over a superbly furnished house as the sole mistress and only tenant. She has all she needs in the way of household things, and every luxury of the season, and, though her servants may prepare a sumptuous feast, none participate with her in its enjoyment. Though it would add to her happiness on such occasion to call in a neighboring friend, yet the privilege of giving an invitation is denied by her father in the most positive and imperative manner. In the rear of this daughter’s dwelling is located a rickety shell of a cabin, resembling more the appearance of a sty than a human habitation, and this is the only dwelling-place of our miser; and here he spends the precious hours of his leisure life, counting his gold and examining the signatures of his deeds by the light which rests upon his oaken table, and seldom is it extinguished until after the hour of midnight; and when exhausted with his strange vigils, carefully does he fasten, with heavy iron bolts, the door of his den, and sink to sleep upon his bed of rags.