Christian life -- Fiction; Farm life -- Fiction; New England -- Fiction
Up to this railing pressed the want-stricken crowd, the strong and
healthy bustling and crowding back the fallen and infirm. Here old
women struggled in the human tide, some casting fierce and quarrelsome
glances at each other, others shrinking back with tears in their eyes,
unequal to the coarse strife. Here, too, were men lean and gaunt with
the hunger of a long sea voyage, elbowed aside by some brawny armed
woman, who clamored loudly of the children she had left fast locked
up in her little place, that she could but just pay the rent for.
Here, too, were young girls, children with an aged, worn look, like
the fruit that withers to half its size before it ripens. Most
heartrending of all, persons of real refinement were mingled up with
this rude mass; poor wretches who had indeed seen better days, and
their helpless, broken-hearted looks, the remnants of early
sensitiveness, that still clung around them, was pitiful to behold.
The stranger saw that upon the outskirts of the crowd these persons
always lingered, waiting patiently till the coarse and strong were
served. Outstretched upon the benches near the walls, and resting
upon their bundles, were eight or ten sick men, with the fever upon
them, waiting for the van which was to convey them to Bellevue.
Through all this misery, huddled and jostling together, our good
Samaritan must force his way; for when he asked for the Commissioner,
the people pointed their lank fingers toward a door within the
railing, and between himself and that was all this crowd of hungry
beings.
"Let me pass, will you? Let me pass," he said, pale with the effects
of the scene, but speaking in a gentle tone.
"And why should you pass? Wait your turn like the rest of us!" said
a harsh-featured woman, turning fiercely upon him. "Is't because
you've a fine coat on that you'd put before your bethers, I'd be
liking to know?"
The stranger drew back. With all his benevolence he could not breast
that rough wave of human life, which dashes weekly against the steps
of our Alms House.
"Make room--make room there. What does the gentleman want? Make room,
I say!"
It was the voice of a clerk, who, casting his eyes over the crowd,
had seen the stranger.
The people did not fall back, but they huddled close together, with
their heads turned and gazing upon the stranger, some muttering
fiercely, others taking advantage of the moment to crowd closer to
the railing. Thus a passage was made, and the stranger made his way
through a little gate up to the platform, where the attentive clerk
came forward to learn his business.
"Oh, you should have passed on to the next entrance. It is difficult
to get along in this room on Saturdays," he said, after the stranger
had unfolded his errand. "You will find the Commissioner in his
office," and the clerk courteously opened a door.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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