Some wounds do never heal.
Although all my scenes are connected, and bear some relation one to the other, yet they are not continuous. Like the Panorama of Niagara, we must go back, cross over, look up, look down, first from this point of view, then from that, to see all the scenes of that wonder of wonders. So here, where a mighty torrent rushes on, sweeping a multitude down the great cascade, we have to look at scene after scene, before we can join them all together into one panoramic view. Our scenes, too, are as real and life-like as those. Sometimes a tree here, a flower there, then a little spray, then a cloud, or the natural color, a little heightened to give effect, and make the picture more vivid; but the rocks and rushing torrent, the real foundation of the picture, are all as nature made them. So it is with my present panoramic view of "Life Scenes in New York."
Again I shift the scene. Still you will find characters that you have met before, will meet again. It is a tale of sorrow, but a tale of truth.
A little girl was weeping there,
Pearl drops of bitter tears,
And hope with her was sleeping where
She spent her youthful years;
Her useless life was fleeing fast,
Her only school the street;
The future, gloomy shadows cast,
Where e'er she set her feet.
Her ev'ry day had one sad end,
Her ev'ry night the same;
Or sick, or well, she had no friend,
'Twere worthy of that name.
A mother gave this child her birth,
Or else she had not been;
But Judas like that mother's worth—
She sold her child to sin!
For gold she gave her child to sin,
For gold her child betray'd;
What gold would you, dear mother, win,
Your own to thus degrade?
What gold would you to others give,
From sin such others save?
Though gold is good to those who live,
'Tis useless in the grave.
Poor Madalina claims a tear,
From those her story read
Pray stop and pay that tribute here,
It is her only meed.
Now con her story careful o'er,
Her life was one of grief,
She needs not now your pity more—
To others give relief.
I suppose there are some who will turn away in disgust from the double title of this chapter. What, they will say, can "Life at the Five Points" have in it that is interesting to me, who lounge on silk brocatelle, and look down upon beggar girls and rag-pickers—disgusting objects—through lace curtains that cost more, to every window, than would furnish a hundred families in that locality with better furniture than they now possess?
No doubt you will turn away in disgust at the very sight of the title of "The Rag-picker's Daughter." Yet you may find something in the character of "Madalina," which will make you love the name. I should not wonder, in some of my walks through the city in future years, to hear that pretty name spoken to some sweet child, yet to be born in rose-perfumed chamber.
Then pass not by my tale of one so lowly. See how sweet is a cup of cold water to the dying.