CHAPTER II.

THE CANAL STREET SHIRT STORE.

"Do you call them stitches? S-a-y? How d'ye expect a man to git a livin' if he's robbed in that way? Do you call that a shirt--s-a-y?"

"Indeed I did my best--"

"Did your best? I should like to know what you take me for? D'ye think I'm a fool? Did not I give you the stuff for five shirts, and fust of all, I exacted a pledge of five dollars from you, to be forfeited if you spoilt the stuff--"

"And you know I was to receive two shillings for each shirt. I'll thank you to pay me my money, and restore my five dollars and let me go--"

"Not a copper. This shirt is spoilt. And if those you have in your arms are no better, why they are spoilt too--"

"They're made as well as the one you hold--no better."

"Then I can't sell 'em for old rags. Just give 'em to me, and clear out--"

"At least give me back my five dollars--"

"Not a copper. Had you finished these shirts in the right style, they'd a-sold for fifteen dollars. As it is, the money is forfeited,--I mean the five dollars which you left with me as a pledge. I can't employ you any more. Just give me the other four shirts, and clear out."

The storekeeper and the poor girl were separated by a counter, on which was placed a showy case. She was dressed in a faded calico gown, and a shawl as worn and faded, hung about her shoulders. She wore a straw bonnet, although it was a night in mid-winter; and beneath her poverty-stricken dress, her shoes were visible: old and worn into shreds they scarcely clung to her feet. Her entire appearance indicated extreme poverty.

The storekeeper, who stood beneath the gas-light, was a well preserved and portly man of forty years, or more, with a bald head, a wide mouth and a snub nose. Rings glistered on his fat fingers. His black velvet vest was crossed by a gold chain. His spotless shirt bosom was decorated by a flashy breastpin. He spoke sharp and quick, and with a proper sense of his dignity as the Proprietor of the "ONLY UNIVERSAL SHIRT STORE, No. ----, Canal St., New York."

Between him and the girl was a glass case, in which were displayed shirts of the most elegant patterns and elaborate workmanship. Behind him were shelves, lined with boxes, also filled with shirts, whose prices were labeled on the outside of each box. At his right-hand, was the shop-window,--a small room in itself--flaring with gas, and crowded with shirts of all imaginable shapes--shirts with high collars, Byron collars, and shirts without any collars at all;--shirts with plaits large, small and infinitesimal--shirts with ruffles, shirts with stripes and shirts with spots;--in fact, looking into the window, you would have imagined that Mr. SCREW GRABB was a very Apostle of clean linen, with a mission to clothe a benighted world, with shirts; and that his Temple, "_the_ ONLY UNIVERSAL SHIRT STORE," was the most important place on the face of the globe. There, too, appeared eloquent appeals to passers-by. These were printed on cards, in immense capitals,--"SHIRTS FOR THE MILLION! THE GREAT SHIRT EMPORIUM! WHO WOULD BE _without a shirt, when Screw Grab sells them for only_ $1? THIS IS _the_ ONLY SHIRT STORE,"--and so on to the end of the chapter.

The conversation which we have recorded, took place in this store, soon after 'gas-light' on the evening of Dec. 23d, 1844, between Mr. SCREW GRABB and the POOR GIRL, who stood before him, holding a small bundle in her arms.

"You surely do not mean to retain my money?" said the girl--and she laid one hand against the counter, and attentively surveyed the face of Mr. Grabb--"You find fault with my work--"

"Never saw _wuss_ stitchin' in my life," said Grabb.

"But that is no reason why you should refuse to return the money which I placed in your hands. Consider, Sir, you will distress me very much. I really cannot afford to lose that five dollars,--indeed--"

She turned toward him a face which, impressed as it was with a look of extreme distress, was also invested with the light of a clear, calm, almost holy beauty. It was the face of a girl of sixteen, whom thought and anxiety had ripened into grave and serious womanhood. Her brown hair was gathered neatly under her faded straw bonnet, displaying a forehead which bore traces of a corroding care; there was light and life in her large eyes, light and life without much of hope; there was youth on her cheeks and lips; youth fresh and virgin, and unstained by the touch of sin.

"Will you give me them four shirts,--s-a-y?" was the answer of Grabb,--"them as you has in your bundle there?"

The girl for a moment seemed buried in reflection. May be the thought of a dreary winter night and a desolate home was busy at her heart. When she raised her head she fixed her eyes full upon the face of Mr. Grabb, and said distinctly:

"I will _not_ give you these shirts until you return my money."

"What's that you say? You won't give 'em back--won't you?" and Mr. Grabb darted around the counter, yardstick in hand. "We'll see,--we'll see. Now just hand 'em over!"

He placed himself between her and the door, and raised the yardstick over her head.

The girl retreated step by step, Mr. Grabb advancing as she retreated, with the yardstick in his fat hand.

"Give 'em up,--" he seized her arm, and attempted to tear the bundle from her grasp. "Give 'em up you ----" he applied an epithet which he had heard used by a manager of a theater to the unfortunate girls in his employment.

At the word, the young woman retreated into a corner behind the counter, her face flushed and her eyes flashing with an almost savage light--

"You cowardly villain!" she said, "to insult me because I will not permit you to rob me. O, you despicable coward--for shame!"

The look of her eye and curl of her lip by no means pleased the corpulent Grabb. He grew red with rage. When he spoke again it was in a loud voice and with an emphatic sweep of the yardstick.

"If you don't give 'em up, I'll--I'll break every bone in your body. You hussy! You ----! What do you think of yourself--to attempt to rob a poor man of his property?"

These words attracted the attention of the passers-by; and in a moment, the doorway was occupied by a throng of curious spectators. The poor girl, looking over Grabb's shoulders, saw that she was the object of the gaze of some dozen pairs of eyes.

"Gentlemen, this hussy has attempted to rob me of my property! I gave her stuff sufficient to make five shirts, and she's spoilt 'em so I can't sell 'em for old rags, and--and she won't give 'em up."

"If they ain't good for nothing, what d'ye want with 'em?" remarked the foremost of the spectators.

But Grabb was determined to bring matters to a crisis.

"Now, look here," he said, holding the yardstick in front of the girl, and thus imprisoning her in the corner; "if you don't give 'em up, I'll strip the clothes from your back."

The girl turned scarlet in the face; her arms sank slowly to her side; the bundle fell from her hands; she burst into tears.

"Shame! shame!" cried one of the spectators.

"It's the way he does business," added a voice in the background. "He won't give out any work unless the girl, who applies for it, places some money in his hands as a pledge. When the work is brought into the store, he pretends that it's spoilt, and keeps the money. That's the way he raises capital!"

"What's that you say?" cried Grabb, turning fiercely on the crowd, who had advanced some one or two paces into the store. "Who said that?"

A man in a coarse, brown bang-up advanced from the crowd--

"I said it, and I'll stand to it! Ain't you a purty specimen of a bald-headed Christian, to try and cheat the poor girl out of her hard-airned money?"

"I'll call the police," cried Grabb.

"What a pattern! what a beauty!" continued the man in the brown bang-up; "why rotten eggs 'ud be wasted on such a carcass as that!"

"Police! Police!" screamed Grabb,--"Gentlemen, I'd like to know if there is any law in this land?"

While this altercation was in progress the poor girl--thoroughly ashamed to find herself the center of a public broil--covered her face with her hands and wept as if her heart would break.

"Take my arm," said a voice at her side; "there will be a fight. Quick, my dear Miss, you must get out of this as quick as possible."

The speaker was a short and slender man, wrapped in a Spanish mantle, and his hat was drawn low over his forehead.

The girl seized his arm, and while the crowd formed a circle around Grabb and the brown bang-up, they contrived to pass unobserved from the store. Presently the poor girl was hurrying along Canal street, her hand still clasping the arm of the stranger in the cloak.

"Bad business! Bad business!" he said in a quick, abrupt tone. "That Grabb's a scoundrel. Here's Broadway, my dear, and I must bid you good-night. Good-night,--good-night."

And he left the poor girl at the corner of Broadway and Canal street. He was lost in the crowd ere she was aware of his departure. She was left alone, on the street corner, in the midst of that torrent of life; and it was not until some moments had elapsed that she could fully comprehend her desolate condition.

"It was the last five dollars I had in the world! What can I do! In the name of God, what can I do!"

She looked up Broadway--it extended there, one glittering track of light.

"Not a friend, and not a dollar in the world!"

She looked down Broadway--far into the distance it extended, its million lights over-arched by a dull December sky.

"Not a friend and not a dollar!"

She turned down Broadway with languid and leaden steps. A miserably clad and heart-broken girl, she glided among the crowds, which lined the street, like a specter through the mazes of a banquet.

Poor girl! Down Broadway, until the Park is passed, and the huge Astor House glares out upon the darkness from its hundred windows. Down Broadway, until you reach the unfinished pile of Trinity Church, where heaps of lumber and rubbish appear among white tombstones. Turn from Broadway and stride this narrow street which leads to the dark river: your home is there.

Back of Trinity Church, in Greenwich street, we believe, there stands on this December night a four storied edifice, tenanted, only a few years ago, by a wealthy family. Then it was the palace of a man who counted his wealth by hundreds of thousands. Now it is a palace of a different sort; look at it, as from garret to cellar it flashes with light in every window.

The cellar is the home of ten families.

The first floor is occupied as a beer "saloon;" you can hear men getting drunk in three or four languages, if you will only stand by the window for a moment.

Twenty persons live on the second floor.

Fifteen make their home on the third floor.

The fourth floor is tenanted by nineteen human beings.

The garret is divided into four apartments; one of these has a garret-window to itself, and this is the home of the poor girl.

She ascended the marble staircase which led from the first to the fourth floor. At every step her ear was assailed with curses, drunken shouts, the cries of children, and a thousand other sounds, which, night and day resounded through that palace of rags and wretchedness. Feeble and heart-sick she arrived at length in front of the garret door, which opened into her home.

She listened in the darkness; all was still within.

"He sleeps," she murmured, "thank God!" and opened the door. All was dark within, but presently, with the aid of a match, she lighted a candle, and the details of the place were visible. It was a nook of the original garret, fenced off by a partition of rough boards. The slope of the roof formed its ceiling. The garret window occupied nearly an entire side of the place. There was a mattress on the floor, in one corner; a small pine table stood beside the partition; and the recess of the garret-window was occupied by an old arm-chair.

This chair was occupied by a man whose body, incased in a faded wrapper, reminded you of a skeleton placed in a sitting posture. His emaciated hands rested on the arms, and his head rested helplessly against the back of the chair. His hair was white as snow; it was scattered in flakes about his forehead. His face, furrowed in deep wrinkles, was lividly pale; it resembled nothing save the face of a corpse. His eyes, wide open and fixed as if the hand of death had touched him, were centered upon the flame of the candle, while a meaningless smile played about his colorless lips.

The girl kissed him on the lips and forehead, but he gave no sign of recognition save a faint laugh, which died on the air ere it was uttered.

For the poor man, prematurely old and reduced to a mere skeleton, was an idiot.

"Oh, my God, and I have not bread to feed him!" No words can describe the tone and look with which the poor girl uttered these words.

She flung aside her bonnet and shawl.

Then it might be seen that, in spite of her faded dress, she was a very beautiful young woman; not only beautiful in regularity of features, but in the whiteness of her shoulders, the fullness of her bust, the proportions of her tall and rounded form. Her hair, escaping from the ribbon which bound it, streamed freely over her shoulders, and caught the rays of the light on every glossy wave.

She leaned her forehead upon her head, and--thought.

Hard she had tried to keep a home for the poor IDIOT, who sat in the chair--very hard. She had tried her pencil, and gained bread for awhile, thus; but her drawings ceased to command a price at the picture store, and this means of subsistence failed her. She had taught music, and had been a miserable dependent upon the rich; been insulted by their daughters, and been made the object of the insulting offers of their sons. And forced at length by the condition of her IDIOT FATHER, to remain with him, in their own home--to be constantly near him, day and night--she had sought work at the shirt store on Canal street, and been robbed of the treasure which she had accumulated through the summer; an immense treasure--FIVE DOLLARS.

She had not a penny; there was no bread in the closet; there was no fire in the sheet iron stove which stood in one corner; her Idiot Father, her iron fate were before her--harsh and bitter realities.

She was thinking.

Apply to those rich relations, who had known her father in days of prosperity? No. Better death than that.

She was thinking. Her forehead on her hand, her hair streaming over her shoulders, her bosom which had never known even the thought of pollution, heaving and swelling within her calico gown--she was thinking.

And as she thought, and _thought_ her hair began to burn, and her blood to bound rapidly in her veins.

Her face is shaded by her hand, and a portion of her hair falls over that hand; therefore you cannot tell her thoughts by the changes of her countenance.

I would not like to know her thoughts.

For there is a point of misery, at which but two doors of escape open to the gaze of a beautiful woman, who struggles with the last extreme of poverty: one door has the GRAVE behind it, and the other,----

Yes, there are some thoughts which it is not good to write on paper. It was in the midst of this current of dark and bitter thoughts, that the eye of the young woman wandered absently to the faded shawl which she had thrown across the table.

"What is this? A letter! Pinned to my shawl--by whom?"

It was indeed a letter, addressed to her, and pinned to her shawl by an unknown hand.

She seized it eagerly, and opened it, and read.

Her face, her neck, and the glimpse of her bosom, opening above her dress, all became scarlet with the same blush. Still her eyes grew brighter as she read the letter, and incoherent ejaculations passed from her lips.

The letter was written--so it said--by the man who had taken her from the store on Canal street. Its contents we may not guess, save from the broken words of the agitated girl.

"'_At twelve o'clock, at_ "THE TEMPLE," _whose street and number you will find on the inclosed card_.'"

And a card dropped from the letter upon the table. She seized it eagerly and clasped it as though it was so much gold.

"'THE TEMPLE,'" she murmured again, and her eyes instinctively wandered to the face of her father.

Then she burst into a flood of tears.

For three hours, while the candle burned toward its socket, she meditated upon the contents of that letter.

At last she rose, and took from a closet near the door, a mantilla of black velvet, the only garment which the pawnbroker had spared. It was old and faded; it was the only relic of better days. She resumed her bonnet and wound the mantilla about her shoulders and kissed her IDIOT FATHER on the lips and brow. He had fallen into a dull, dreamless sleep, and looked like a dead man with his fallen lip and half-shut eyes.

"'THE TEMPLE!'" she exclaimed and attentively perused the card.

Then extinguishing the candle, she wound a coverlet about her father's form and left him there alone in the garret. She passed the threshold and went down the marble stairs. God pity her.

Yes, God pity her!