'It is the morning of my father's death—how should I forget it?'
'You refused to sing on the day of his sentence—can you find heart, then, to do so in this dreadful hour?'
The dirty little fingers fluttered nervously over the music-strings—as the creative hand might do with a human heart of whose destiny there was a doubt. For an instant a pang of agony wreathed the young face to the depth of its expressions, but she resumed her sorrowful complacency immediately.
'I am singing to my mother across the sea,' she said, quietly.
"Then, resuming her guitar, she swept out a yet more plaintive air, and lifted her young, shrill voice in song. The crowd around her did not increase, the interest was not enhanced, and the chary pennies of approbation were as few as before. But to me there was a wild, desolate melancholy in the melody that fell so unheedingly upon the ears of the crowd. They did not see nor hear what I did. They merely saw a dusky foreign girl using her voice for a scanty livelihood. I saw a patient, suffering, religious spirit, singing out its agony to a kindred spirit beyond the eight hundred leagues of heaving brine (I would wager my life that the mother heard that song, were she buried in the bosom of the Appenines); and the deep melancholy of those large, dark eyes, uplifted so plaintively, the saintly refinement of sorrow that lingered in the soft, olive face which spoke of far Italy, the 'divine despair' of the mellow voice, haunted me strangely and unpleasantly as I hurried away to the scene of death."
WHAT BECOMES OF THESE CHILDREN.
It is very sad to think of the future of these little ones. Without education, with an early familiarity with want, misery, brutality, and crime, the little minstrels rarely "come to any good." The girls grow up to lives of shame, and fortunately die young. The boys become vagrants, thieves, and often assassins. They soon find their way to the reformatory establishments and prisons of the city. The police watch them closely, and never overlook one of their offences. Everybody condemns them, and no one reflects that they are irresponsible for their sins. "As the twig is bent the tree is inclined."
CHAPTER X.
THE PRESS.
The press of New York is a subject which requires more time and space in its treatment than can be given to it in this volume, and we must therefore confine ourselves to a brief glance at it. It is divided into two branches, the secular and religious, and in the former we include all the political and literary journals of the City.