The Dangerous Classes of New York, Part IV [pp. 496-498]

496 APPLETONS' JO LTBNAL OF POPULAR [APRIL 30,
I hear the freed brooks pour along;
I hear the cooing of the dove;
I hear the plashing on the pane;
The far-off murmur on the shore;
I hear the voice of Spring again But her sweet accents nevermore.
I feel the warm winds freshly blow
Athwart the fields that still retain
Some trace of last year's wealth and glow,
Through Winter's snow and Autumn's rain;
I feel the pulse of Nature bound
Beneath my foot where'er I treadBut neither touch, nor sight, nor sound,
Can give me back my sainted dead.
DANGER AHEAD!
HE train was passing rapidly along a stretch of road, miles in
length, that was without "station" or "switch." The day had
been gloomy, and toward evening there commenced one of those tre mendous rain-storms so peculiar to our climate, designated by the
unmeaning term of "an equinoctial." The surface of the country
along the entire route of the road was gently undulating, and con sequently subject to sudden overflow-but a long drought had dulled
any suspicion of danger by water, and the engineer had nothing, he
thought, especially to fear from the prevailing storm, but the wreck of
an uprooted tree, or a " cave" in the soft banks which lined the road,
where it cut through a slight upheaval, in the ordinary dead level.
The lamp at the head of the engine glowed with unusual brilliancy.
Its fierce rays were multiplied a hundred-fold by its metallic reflector,
while every drop of the descending rain, within a hundred yards, acted
as so many illuminated crystals; to see the train approaching you, it
seemed literally a long, quivering serpent, with a head of blazing fire.
Over five hundred individuals, representing every diversified interest and relation possible, were in that train of cars-and of all that
vast number not one had the slightest idea of danger, but slept,
chatted, or gave themselves up to comparative insensibility. They
had a ticket, paid for, to take them through with safety-what more
could they desire?
A glance at our illustration, better than words, suggests a realization of the critical and helpless condition of the traveller on the rail.
way. As often as we are from time to time shocked at the details of
some terrible accident, it is certainly extraordinary that they do not
more frequently happen. The series of boxes, called cars, packed
with living people, appear from necessity to be arranged for every
contingency that leads to destruction. Whatever may be the responsibility for carrying so much precious freight, the parties who are interested are few in number, of humble position, and poorly paid. The
engineer who controls the propelling power, the weight of whose little
finger, at a critical moment wrongfully exerted, might crush up the
train, is contented, nay thinks himself fortunate, if for the reward of
his unceasing toil he can, if married, command the humblest of
homes for his wife and children. The brakemen imperil their
existence a dozen times a day, at a possible average of twenty cents
for what is to them individually an open defiance of a deadly catastrophe-and yet to the strong arm and unceasing watchfulness of
such men, do millions of our population annually intrust their property and their lives; and, after all, how comparatively seldom is this
confidence betrayed!
The train is now moving splendidly. The complicated and diverse incidents which are brought together to make up such a magnificent piece of machinery for the moment harmonize, and the only
expression that remorseless friction can give, is a dull, grating sound,
good evidence under the circumstances that there is an accord between
iron, fire, water, and motion, nearly complete.
The pelting rain has been a deluge "higher up the road." The
mountain-tops, which are now so black and frowning in the distance,
caught the heavily-burdened clouds on their tops, and a deluge broke
down the furrowed sides of the hills and went plunging into the valleys below. It was a sort of race with the rushing of the accumulating waters, as they swept over wier and dam for the broad flats,
through which the railway, like a tensely-drawn thread, marked its
way.
The engineer had often hesitatifngly worked his way over the low
ground, the wheels of the long train stopping "ankle deep," in the
momentary rise of water, but he accomplished the task in safety;
and with his previous experience to guide him he entered the broadly
extended and shallow flood. Suddenly, from the attitude of commonplace attention, he leans forward, and attempts to penetrate the dark
ness that like a wall seems to inhedge the glare of his powerful reflector.
His eyes presently dilate with surprise. The delicate ripple that shows
the line where the running water coquets with the railway embankment is obliterated-and a sheen, as if of polished glass, develops the
terrible truth that a section of the road has dissolved away! The
danger is announced by a shriek, compounded of steam and brass, so
diabolical that it appears as if a thousand fiends, in a single breath,
endeavored to give utterance to exultation and anguish. The five
hundred somnolent passengers partially recover their steeped senses,
and wonder "if any thing has gone wrong outside?" But the alarmsignal has a different effect upon the brakemen: they seize the powerfully-constructed levers, and the train, which a moment previously
was so full of life, is paralyzed-it trembles into sections, and, clanking and groaning, reluctantly comes to a rest.
The passengers and train are saved!
THE "DANGEROUS CLASSES" OF NEW YORK.
IV.
THE NEWSBOYS' LODGING-HOUSE.
HE spectacle which earliest and most painfully arrested the
attention of those engaged in the movement of reform and
charity, spoken of in our recent articles, were the houseless boys in
various portions of the city.
There seemed to be a very considerable class of lads in New York
who bore to the busy, wealthy world about them, something of the
same relation which the Indians bear to the civilized Western settlers.
They had no settled home, and lived on the outskirts of society, their
hand against every man's pocket, and every man looking on them as
natural enemies, their wits sharpened like those of a savage, and their
principles often no better. Christianity reared its temples over them,
and civilization was carrying on its great work, while they-a happy
race of little heathens and barbarians-plundered, or frolicked, or
or led their roving life, far beneath. Sometimes they seemed to me,
like what the police call them, "street-rats," who gnawed at the
foundations of society, and scampered away when light was brought
near them. Their life was, of course, a painfully hard one. To sleep
in boxes, or under stairways, or in hay-barges on the coldest winternights, for a mere child, was hard enough; but often to have no food,
to be kicked and cuffed by the older ruffians, and shoved about by the
police, standing barefooted and in rags under doorways as the winterstorm raged, and to know that in all the great city there was not a
single door open with welcome to the little rover-this was harder
Yet, with all this, a more light-hearted youngster than the street-boy
is not to be found. He is Always ready to make fun of his own sufferings, and to "chaff" others.
His face is old from exposure and his sharp "struggle for ex.
istence;" his clothes flutter in the breeze; and his bare feet peep out
from the broken boots. Yet he is merry as a clown, and always ready
for the smallest joke, and quick to take "a point" or to return a
repartee. His views of life are mainly derived from the more mature
opinons of "flash-men," engine-runners, cock-fighters, pugilists, and
pickpockets, whom he occasionally is permitted to look upon with
admiration at some select pot-house; while his more ideal pictures of
the world about him, and his literary education, come from the low
theatres, to which he is passionately attached. His morals are, of
course, not of a high order, living, as he does, in a fighting, swearing,
stealing, and gambling set. Yet he has his code: he will not get
drunk; he pays his debts to other boys, and thinks it dishonorable to
sell papers on their beat, and, if they come on his, he administers
summary justice by "punching;" he is generous to a fault, and will
always divide his last sixpence with a poorer boy. "Life is a strife"
with him, and money its reward; and, as bankruptcy means to the
street-boy a night on the door-steps without supper, he is sharp and
reckless, if he can only earn or get enough to keep him above water.
His temptations are, to cheat, steal, and lie. His religion is vague.
One boy, who told me he "didn't live nowhere," who had never heard
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[APriL 30,