The Secrets of the Great City Part 40

He was at Fredericksburg, and there lost his left arm. It was a severe trial to him, for in the trade to which he had been trained, and to which he hoped to return at the close of the war, both arms were necessary. Nevertheless, he bore up against everything, and submitted to his long and painful suffering as only a brave man can. When the wound was healed, he went back to his command. He had no idea of claiming his discharge for the loss of only one arm. He said, cheerfully, he would only leave the service when the other arm, or a leg, went from him.

He was well enough to partic.i.p.ate in the battle of Chancellorsville, but not sufficiently restored to health to meet the fate which there befell him, for, toward the close of the second day's engagement, he was taken prisoner. A few days later he was marched to Richmond, and there became an inmate of the famous 'Libby prison.' A dreary attack of sickness followed his arrival there, and lasted several months.

Hospital life, even among one's own friends, is not pleasant. To a prisoner, among his enemies, even though they be kind and humane, it is horrible. He is constantly haunted by the fear that he will die there, and that his fate will never be known to his friends at home. So, in spite of the bravery of Sergeant Williams, this feeling constantly preyed upon him and r.e.t.a.r.ded his recovery.

The weeks and months went by slowly, and at last the long imprisonment came to an end. The sick man was sent back to the North, among a number of others, who were exchanged under a special arrangement. A furlough was granted him to go home and recruit his health. He was so weak and thin when he went back to his old home, that his friends scarcely knew him. But his native air, and the cheerful home scenes, soon brought him up again, and when he returned to his regiment, he was as well and as hearty as ever. He reached the army just after Grant had taken command of it, and was reorganizing it for the last grand campaign against Richmond.

He began the march with a light heart and happy antic.i.p.ations. They were cut short at Cold Harbor, where he lost his right leg. His days of service were now over, and he went into the hospital to await his recovery, when he would have to go back to the world unfitted for almost any avocation. Still he consoled himself with the hope that the people for whom he had fought and suffered, would not let him lack for some means of employment.

When he was able to leave the hospital, the war had been decided, and the great struggle was over. He received his honorable discharge from the government, and transportation to the city where he had enlisted.

After a brief rest, he set about looking for employment.

It was a harder task than he had antic.i.p.ated. No one had anything for him to do, 'Times were so dull,' 'there was so little to do,' that no one could think of employing him. In vain he urged his services to the country and for them. They were very sorry for him. They would help him if they could; but really it was impossible.

Every day his small stock of money grew smaller, and with it his hopes grew fainter. At last he disappeared from the notice of his friends, to re-appear again in a short time under different circ.u.mstances.

One day his friends were attracted by the sight of a crowd collected around a cracked and ricketty hand-organ. Approaching it they found that the organ-grinder was no less a person than Sergeant Williams. He was clad in his suit of faded blue, with his sergeant's chevrons and all. He was grinding away at his old hand-organ as the last means left him for support. Every day he may be seen along the princ.i.p.al streets of the city, patiently and sadly earning his pittance in this way--a mode so very repugnant to one's manhood.

This is the end and reward of his services and sufferings. In a land so prosperous, so favored as our own, a soldier of the Union, in his garb of honor, who has given for his country everything but his life, is forced to resort to an avocation formerly considered only fit for vagrants. It is no discredit to him, for he bears himself there as proudly as he did when following the old flag; but there is a bitter, burning sense of wrong in his heart. Perhaps you may know, dear reader, who is responsible for it.

CHAPTER LXII.

THE ABATTOIRS.

Formerly the city was much injured and rendered unhealthy, by the practice of killing animals for market in the crowded sections. In the summer these slaughtering establishments were perfect pesthouses. Now the slaughtering is done almost entirely at the abattoirs, or slaughter houses, at Communipaw, New Jersey. The buildings used for this purpose are large, and are fitted up with every convenience. The cost of killing is slight, and the butchers are well repaid by having their meat sent to them in excellent condition. The abattoirs are situated on the sh.o.r.e of the bay, where the pure sea breezes keep them fresh and healthful, and the refuse matter and filth are thrown into the water and carried off by the tide.

The mode of slaughtering is by machinery, as far as possible, and is a great improvement on the old method. Any one who has witnessed the slaughtering of animals in our small butcher shops could not fail noticing that more brutality was used upon the creatures than was necessary to secure death. According to methods which were formerly general in their application, and now are by no means exceptions to the practice, beeves were killed with heavy hammers, the butcher pegging away upon their heads until insensibility ensued; and sheep and hogs were either pounded to death or see-sawed across the throat until their heads were nearly severed from their bodies. When the bodies were s.h.i.+pped for market, much, difficulty was found in effecting a ready sale, on account of their bruised and bloodless appearance. The system by which the work is performed at the abattoirs is as humane and painless to the animal as the taking of life can be; and as a large portion of the business is done by machinery, the bodies are not subject to contusions, and, consequently, present a fresh, healthy appearance after death. To show the superiority of the new system over the old method of slaughtering was the object of our former ill.u.s.trations. Upon recent observation, we found that where the average weekly number of cattle killed, dressed, and s.h.i.+pped was about fifteen hundred, that of hogs was nearly ten times as great, and we now give a faithful representation of this portion of the work.

"The apartment in which hogs are slaughtered is upon the second floor of the building, and our first scene is that of the pen into which the animals are driven from their quarters. A chain clasp, patented by Mr.

P.W. Dalton, who superintends this department, is fastened to one of the hind legs, and this being attached to a rope connected with a huge wheel, the hog is raised from the floor and swung to a stand, where a ring of the clasp is caught on a large hook descending from the axle of a sheave or wheel, which runs along a railway, and the hog is pushed through a small pa.s.sage-way into a second pen.

"By the time it has reached this place, its excitement has subsided, and it hangs in a comparatively quiet manner. The butcher watches a fitting opportunity, and cuts the hog's throat with a sharp knife, and swings it further along on the railway.

"As soon as each sheave is used the hogs are lowered into the scalding- tub, which is about fourteen feet long, four feet wide, and three and a half feet deep. They are allowed to remain in boiling water one minute, and are then turned out upon the sc.r.a.ping-bench by an instrument extending across the tub, and furnished with several long teeth. At this bench are about fourteen men, each of whom has something to do on every hog that is sent down. The first two on each side, technically known as scuddlers, sc.r.a.pe the bristles from the head and shoulders; the next four shave, with long knives, the remainder of the body, and roll it to the end of the bench, where a final sc.r.a.ping takes place; a gambrel is inserted in the hind legs, and the hog is forwarded on a sheave to the dressers' table.

"For this work there are several men, each one having a special portion a.s.signed to him. As soon as the entrails have been removed, and the body properly cleansed, it is removed to the drying apartment, where it remains suspended on parallel 'runs' until the following day, when it is weighed, and then delivered to the wagons from windows, by means of shoots. The entrails, and other portions removed from the bodies, are taken to another part of the building, where a most extensive and complete lard manufactory is in constant operation.

"Here are eight monster iron caldrons, into which the raw material is thrown; a powerful current of steam is introduced from beneath, and the fat is rapidly reduced to a liquid state. It is then run off into smaller vats, where it remains to settle and cool sufficiently to be packed for s.h.i.+pping. During the busy season one hundred and twenty tierces of pure lard and forty tierces of soap grease are drawn off daily. The sediment at the bottom of the vats is removed, and a.s.sists in filling up the Hackensack river.

"With all the hurry and confusion incident to the immense amount of work done, it is remarkable how the building can be kept in so inoffensive a condition, and all the labor performed in such a quiet and orderly manner. The most scrupulous cleanliness is observed in every department, and the ventilation is perfect."

CHAPTER LXIII.

THE MORGUE.

There is located on the East river side of the great city, an establishment which has been but lately introduced. It is the Morgue, or Dead House, and is modelled after the famous place of the same name in Paris. Bodies found in the streets, or in the harbor, are brought here and left a certain time for identification. Each article of clothing found upon them, or any trinket, or other property, which might lead to the discovery of the name and friends of the dead, is carefully preserved. Bodies properly identified are surrendered to the friends of the deceased. Those unclaimed are interred at the expense of the city, and their effects are preserved a much longer time for purposes of identification.

It is a gloomy looking building, this Morgue, and it is rarely empty.

In a dark, cheerless room, with a stone floor, there are rows of marble slabs supported by iron frames. Over each one of these is a water jet.

Stretched on these cold beds, are lifeless forms, entirely covered with a sheet except as to their faces, which stare blankly at the dark ceiling. A constant stream of fresh water falls on the lifeless b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and trickles over the senseless forms, warding off decay to the latest moment, in the vain hope that some one to whom the dead man or woman was dear in life may come and claim the body. It is a vain hope, for but a few bodies are claimed. Nearly all go to the potter's field, where they sleep well in their nameless graves.

The dark waters of the rivers and bay send many an inmate to this gloomy room. The harbor police, making their early morning rounds, find some dark object floating in the waters. It is scarcely light enough to distinguish it, but the men know well what it is. They are accustomed to such things. They grapple it and tow it in silent horror past the long lines of s.h.i.+pping, and pause only when the Morgue looms up coldly before them in the uncertain light of the breaking day. The still form is lifted out of the water, and carried swiftly into the gloomy building. It is laid on the marble slab, stripped, covered with a sheet, the water is turned on, and the room is deserted and silent again. Shall we tell you the story, reader, of this unfortunate man.

Step back with us, and look at the face lying so cold and white under the trickling water. It is that of a young man; there is a deep gash in the forehead, and the sheet over the breast is stained with blood.

Only two days ago this young man, in high health, and full of life and spirits, left his home in a neighboring State for a visit to the great city. A mother's blessing and a sister's kiss hallowed his departure, and even his faithful dog seemed loth to part from him. He laughed at the fears of his dear ones, and gayly promised a speedy and safe return. [Footnote: The reader will find this story told with inimitable fidelity in our illuminated t.i.tle page, the scenes embodied in that engraving explain themselves, and convey no uncertain warning.] He reached the city, and his business was soon transacted. He had heard much in his country home of the dangers to which unsophisticated strangers were apt to fall in the Metropolis, but he had laughed at the idea of his being so silly as to allow himself to be treated so. He would take just one glance at the shady side of city life, to satisfy his curiosity, and have something to talk about at home, and would then start on his return. He would merely be a looker on.

A gaudy transparency in front of a cellar caught his eye, and invited him to come and enjoy the hospitalities of Madame X----'s Varieties. An inward voice bade him shun the place, but as he was only going for curiosity, he silenced the faithful monitor, and boldly entered. He would not have liked to have any friend see him there, and he entered the hall timidly. Not knowing what else to do, he seated himself at a neighboring table. The room was full of girls, whose very appearance made him blush for shame, and with men who eyed him with no friendly looks. In a moment, two girls came and seated themselves beside him, and bade him "be sociable." Not wis.h.i.+ng to appear "verdant," the young man, whose rusticity was evident to every one in the room, threw off his timidity, and boldly ordered liquor. He drank deeply, to keep up his courage, and, determining to "have his fun out," commenced a lively conversation with the girls. A man and a woman soon sought the same table, and the party became the very merriest in the room. The young man, who had come only through curiosity, was determined to enjoy himself. At a late hour, he left the hall, with just enough of reason remaining to know what he was doing. As he reached the street he was joined by two men, who had followed him from the saloon. Accosting him, they told him they were glad he had left the hall.

"Why?" he asked in surprise.

"Because," he answered, "those girls you were with had laid a plan to make you drunk, and rob you. They know you are a stranger in the city, and they are after your money."

The young man's liquor had robbed him of his discretion, and he answered, thickly, that he had over two hundred dollars with him, that he had collected that day. A look of intelligence pa.s.sed between the two men. One of them asked the young man if he would not go into a neighboring barroom and drink with them. He muttered something about wanting to go to his hotel, but they a.s.sured him that, after a friendly drink, they would take him there. He went with them. Gla.s.ses were filled and drained, and the young man was in high spirits with his new friends. If the bar-keeper suspected anything, he held his peace.

The three men then left the "Gin palace" together, and the young man, relying upon their promise to conduct him to his hotel, went with them without suspicion. They led him down dark, crooked streets, a.s.suring him that he was almost at his lodgings. The air grew fresher and fresher, and at last the low ripple of the waves was heard as they dashed in upon the sh.o.r.e. A momentary ray of prudence flashed through the drunken helplessness of the doomed man, and, alarmed by the strangeness of the scene and the sight of the river, he stopped short, and declared he would go no further.

His prudence came too late. In an instant, he was felled to the ground by a heavy blow from one of his companions. At the same moment, they were joined by two other men, who came up so suddenly that they almost seemed to spring out of the darkness. A handkerchief was tied tightly over the victim's mouth, and, catching him up in their arms, the four men bore him rapidly out to the end of one of the most deserted piers.

The sense of his danger roused the poor fellow from his drunken stupor, and almost sobered him. He struggled violently to free himself from his a.s.sa.s.sins, but they held him down with grips of iron. A heavy blow on the forehead from a "billy," rendered him senseless, and a well-aimed knife-thrust sent him into eternity. The murderers, accustomed to such work, quickly rifled his pockets of money, watch, and other valuables.

Then there was a heavy splash in the dark water, and the secret was confided to the keeping of the silent stars.

The harbor police found the body, as we have described, and conveyed it to the Morgue.

Weary with waiting and watching, the friends of the young man will come hurriedly to the city, and the police authorities, who know well where to look for such missing ones, will take them to the Morgue, where their lost darling lies waiting for them.

Young man, if curiosity tempts you to seek to penetrate the secrets of the great city, remember that you may learn them only to your cost.

CHAPTER LXIV.

THE OLDEST MAN IN NEW YORK.

Strangers visiting the Church of the Ascension, in New York, cannot fail to notice the presence of an old gentleman, who occupies an arm- chair immediately in front of the chancel, in the middle aisle, and who gives the responses to the service in a very loud and distinct manner.

This is, perhaps, the oldest man of the entire million of New York city inhabitants. It is Captain Lahrbush, formerly of the British army, but for the last twenty years a New York resident. He was born in London, on the 9th of March, 1765. It is not extravagant to say, that his life has been more remarkable, embracing more various and extraordinary experiences, than that of any one now living, in any quarter of the globe. He entered the military service of Great Britain, October 17, 1789, and fought, under the Duke of York, with the Sixtieth Rifles, in Holland, in the campaign of 1793. Five years later, he was present when Humbert surrendered to Lord Cornwallis, at Pallinauck, in Ireland. In 1801, he was with Lord Nelson at the taking of Copenhagen. In 1806-7, he was an attache of the suite of Lord Castlereagh, at Vienna; and on the 22d of June, of the latter year, he witnessed the memorable interview between Napoleon and Alexander, at Tilsit. During the next two years, he was with the Duke of Wellington, in the Spanish peninsula, and was knighted at Talavera, having received promotion for distinguished gallantry at Busaco. In the year 1811, he was sent to the Cape of Good Hope, and bore a prominent part in the Caffre war of 1813.

When Napoleon was imprisoned at St. Helena, Captain Lahrbush was charged with his personal custody, as commander of the guard, a delicate and responsible duty, which he performed for the greater part of 1816-17. The following year, wearying of the military profession, he sold his commission in the Sixtieth Rifles, and retired to private life, but subsequently went to Australia, in the capacity of superintendent of a convict station at Cathure; and in 1837, at the age of seventy-one, removed to Tahiti. From this point he made many voyages, to the East Indies, to China, and to different parts of South America. In 1842, in consequence of having taken sides with the Protestant missionaries against the Roman Catholic propaganda, he was forcibly removed from Tahiti to France, and took occasion of this removal to travel on the continent. In 1847, when eighty-one years of age, he undertook the management of Lord Howard de Welden's estate, in the Island of Jamaica; and, in 1848, came with his widowed daughter and grandson to New York. Both mother and child died soon after their arrival, leaving him, at his advanced age, lonely indeed. But the old man has lived on, to the present moment, in the enjoyment of unimpaired, and a truly wonderful degree of bodily health. In 1867, he celebrated his one hundred and first birthday, at a breakfast in the house of an eminent gentleman of New York, where many officers and citizens were invited to meet him. His appearance is that of a hale man, and, as seen in church, he looks the junior of many others in the congregation. The most surprising fact connected with the old gentleman's prolonged life, is, that for many years he was in the habit of taking seventy-five grains of opium--and, on one occasion, he took one hundred and fifty grains in a dose. Though he has long abandoned the use of the drug, he feels certain he could drink half a pint of laudanum with impunity. Captain Lahrbush is said to retain, with surprising freshness, the scenes and events of some of the grandest and most imposing of modern history of which he has been the eye-witness.

He speaks of Blucher as having been very good company, but a heavy drinker, who swore terribly at Napoleon. Louisa, the Queen of Prussia, he thought the handsomest woman of her time, and Alexander, of Russia, the most elegant-looking man in Europe. As for Napoleon, whose face he had an abundant opportunity to study, he declares that no likeness that was ever taken of him, conveys the proper idea of his features and their expression. The closest resemblance, he says, is that of the coins of the empire, especially the profile upon the five franc pieces.