We started in the first chapter of our volume of "Life Scenes," to take an evening-walk up Broadway. How little progress we have made. We turned off at Cortland street, to follow Mrs. Eaton and her children home, and then we went with the crowd to the fire. Then we came back to listen to the cry of "Hot Corn, hot corn! here is your nice hot corn, smoking hot!" that came up in such plaintive music from the mouth of Little Katy, in the Park. Then we followed her to her home, and to her grave. What a ramble I have led you, reader. Occasionally our route has led us back again and again into this great, broad, main artery of the lower part of this bustling world, this great moving, living body, called New York. There are several other broadways in the upper part of the city. We have but one in the lowest portion of it—that is for carriages. There are a good many broadways of the town, through which pedestrians go, where they "put an enemy in the mouth to steal away the brains," an enemy

Such a broadway may be seen, nay, must be seen, by all who enter the great, high, oaken doors of the granite portal of one of the best of the great Broadway hotels in New York, for the way is wide open, inviting the weary traveller to enter the great, dome-shaped "exchange"—exchange of gold, health, peace of mind, domestic blessings, for a worm that will gnaw out the very soul; a worm with teeth, "whose edge is sharper than the sword."

That granite pile is a creditable ornament to the city. Its walls have a look of solidity as enduring as the hills. Yet it contains an element within that has settled the strong built fabrics of a greater Master Builder than the architect of that house, down to the very dust, in a few short years, carrying with it marble palaces and granite walls.

That building was erected by one who sprang, from a class as lowly as the day laborer who helped to rear its walls, to almost immeasurable wealth, by a life of industry, free from the vice or misfortune of drunkenness.

At first it did not contain that great broadway to death. True, death had his abode there, but he kept in a cave out of sight. He did not thrust his hideous visage into the face of every guest, as he does now. The place of his "exchange" was then a place of green grass and flowers and sparkling fountains, upon which all the interior windows of that great caravansery looked down with joy and gladness, smiling o'er the perfumed atmosphere, and beauty admired beautiful flowers, and listened to love-inspiring songs of birds, and pattering of falling water in the great marble basin. Ah! that was a court, worthy of such a traveller's home. But it did not produce the profit that flows to the owner through another liquid channel, where that fountain once leaped, played and sparkled in the sunshine. Lovely eyes still look down from the surrounding chamber windows, not upon the flowers and birds and crystal waters, but upon an unsightly dome, and in fancy through its roof, and there they see their husbands, brothers, fathers, friends, putting an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains. How fancy will work; how it will send sharp pangs to the heart; sharper than a two-edged sword; how the feeble wife will look down upon that roof, and pray for it to give up her husband. Other wives have prayed the tomb for the same object, both equally effective. Both will pray to both again, and both will feel that hardest of all pangs for a wife to bear, the pang that tells of a lost husband; lost in one case almost as sure as the other; the loss more hard to bear, when lost while living, than when lost by death.

I was sitting, one night, in the corridor of this, with the exception of its drinking "exchange," really good, well managed hotel, looking over the balustrade, at the in-coming and out-going throng, counting the numbers that went rum-ward as three to one, to those who went up the solid stone steps, already deeply worn by the constant dropping of feet, and trying to read the varied countenances of the ever-changing, varying scene before me. It is a useful study, to study our own kind; it is a good place, in the corridor of a great hotel, to practice. Every now and then, a face beamed out from the mass which made me sensible that it was not new, but whether an old acquaintance, or one seen before in some other crowd, I could not tell. Once only I was sure that the face which riveted my attention was that of one I had called friend, yet, for my life, I could not tell when or where. It was one of those faces which we never forget. It was one which a child would approach with confidence, to ask for a favor. It was one, which a stranger in his walk through the city, would pick out among a hundred, to ask for a direction to a particular street. Ten chances to one, he would not be satisfied to give that stranger a direction in words, but would turn round, and go a little out of the way to show the inquirer the best route, or stand upon the side-walk until one of the right line of stages came up so as to be sure that he went right. There are a few such faces, which go far to redeem the mass from the charge of coldness or selfishness, which does seem to be the distinguishing mark of the majority.

I followed this one up the steps, and as far as the vision extended, as he walked away to one of the parlors. He was an elderly man, silvering with age, neatly, but plainly dressed, and I could not help feeling that he looked in everything about him, as though it would rejoice his very soul to have a chance to do a good action. I was not mistaken. You will not be if you read on. I could not sit still after he had passed up. I went into a long train of thought upon the mental question, the one absorbing question, "Who is he?" The argument grew intensely painful, and I became so much absorbed in it, that I almost forgot for a moment where I was, until I was brought back to consciousness by a little voice in my ear, of, "Please to buy these, sir." I almost said, no, without deigning to look up at the quasi beggar, as the frequency of the question, in all public places, is such that it is somewhat annoying. But there was a something in the tone of the voice that sent its magnetic power through me, and put down that spirit which gives the cold shoulder to the poor, and bids them "call again to-morrow."

"There is a Providence in all things," many a pious heart will aspirate, as the truths of this little incident are made manifest. It does, certainly, seem a little singular that this little pedlar girl should be the chosen instrument of connexion between me and that benevolent gentleman, whom I had been vainly endeavoring to recognise in thought, and also another character, with which the reader is already acquainted.

What is there in a word, or tone, the mere sound of the voice, that sends a stream of magnetic fluid through the system, to repel or attract the speaker?

What singular means are used to bring about strange results! I was magnetized by that voice. What the result was, you shall see. But after the fluid had once entered my brain, I could no more repel the voice, or its owner, or drive it away, than the iron can disengage itself from the magnet. I looked up, and a little girl with a basket upon her arm was standing by my side, holding up a pair of suspenders while she uttered the "Please buy these, sir?" close to my ear. She was a pretty child, between twelve and thirteen years old, rather precocious in appearance; was neatly dressed, and possessed of such a mild, sweet voice, that the mocking-bird might imitate it in his dulcet notes.

I could not say, no, in such tones as would send her away, and so I replied, pleasantly, "No, my girl, I do not wish to buy them."

The timid take courage at mild words. Was she too, attracted by mine? There is magnetism in the human voice.

"Then, perhaps, you will buy a box of matches?" "No." "Or a comb." "No." "Oh, do buy something, sir, it is getting late, and I am so anxious to sell a few shillings' worth more. Will you buy a pair of gloves? you wear gloves, don't you? Oh! do let me sell you a pair, you look as though you would buy something of me if you wanted anything. Will you buy a shirt collar? There is a nice one, sir, one that my sick mother made, sir. Will you buy that?"

"No, my girl, I never wear collars, but I will buy a pair of gloves, if you will answer me a few questions."

"Will you? Well sir, if they are such as I may answer, I will, and I don't think you would ask me any other—some men do, though."

"That is just one of the questions I wanted to ask you."

"Oh, sir, I wish you would not ask me what some men say to me, it is so bad; only yesterday evening, one very bad man—but I cannot tell."

And she burst into tears.

"Well, then, don't tell if it distresses you so."

"It won't now, and I want to tell you, because I should like to let you know what a good man that grey-headed old gentleman is that came in just before I did."

"What, the one with a gold-headed cane?"

"Yes, sir, a tall man, with a grey frock-coat, and such a good-looking face."

"Then, I do want you to tell me, if it is anything about him. I think I have seen him before."

"Then, I hope you will again, for he is one of the real good men. Well, sir, yesterday evening, I was here, and I offered to sell some things to a young gentleman, and he talked so clever, that I felt glad to think how many things he was going to buy, for he picked out a pair of gloves and six shirt collars, and several other things, and told me to come up to his room, and get the money, and I went up; I did not think it any harm, for I had been up several times before to gentlemen's rooms, and they never acted bad to me, but this one did, and I was so frightened that I screamed, and then he caught me, and put his handkerchief to my mouth, and I don't know what he would have done, but just then I heard a rap at the door, and somebody demanded to come in, but the door was locked, and he could not, and so the man that held me told him, but it did no good, for he was a strong man, and he burst the lock off in an instant, and how he did talk to the one in the room, and he made him pay me for all the things he had picked out, and then he told him to pack up his trunk, and leave the city by the first boat or railroad in the morning. And then he told him how he had watched his manœuvres, and then he took me in his room, and talked to me so good, so kind, and asked me all about my mother, and where she lived, and what she did, and why I went about peddling, and all that; and then he asked me if I would not like to go and live with some good family in the country? and then I told him that I should like to live with him, for, indeed, sir, I loved him, he talked so good to me. Then he gave a little sigh, and said, 'Ah, my girl, I wish I had a home to take you to, but I have none; I am a lone man in the world, but I will go and see your mother, and see what we can do for you, as you have grown too big for such work as this. You must quit it, or ruin is your doom,' and a great deal more, he said."

"And why have you followed it till now?"

"Because my mother would not let me quit it—in fact, sir, I do not see how we could live if I did quit, for I make about three dollars a week, and that is more than my mother can make with her needle, and work every day till midnight; and then she is sick sometimes, and so I must do something, for mother is very feeble and says she is almost worn out, and that I shall soon have nobody but myself to work for. I am sure I don't know what will become of me then; do you, sir?"

I thought, but dared not give it utterance. And I almost wept at the certainty of her sad fate, if she remained in the city; a fate she could not escape from, without abandoning her helpless mother, one of the poor sewing women of this pandemonium.

"Now, will you buy the gloves, for I have answered all the questions you asked?"

"One more. What is your mother's name?"

"May—Mrs. May. If you should want any shirts made, sir, there is her name and number on that little card."

"Is that your mother's writing?"

"Yes, sir; don't she write pretty? I can write too, but not like that."

"Well, I shall call and see your mother, if I want work. Here is the money for the gloves."

"I cannot make change; have you got the change, or shall I run out and get it changed? I will if you will keep my basket."

"No, no; I do not wish any change. You may keep it all."

"Oh, that is just the way that good old gentleman said last night—keep it all. Ah, me!"

And she gave a little start of surprise as she looked at the individual who seemed to be standing behind my chair.

"Why, here he is now. I do wonder if he has heard me talking all about him? I hope I have not said anything wrong."

"No, no, nothing that you need to blush for. I am glad you have found another friend to talk with; one who is willing to pay you for the time—time is money—that he keeps you from your business."

It was my turn to start now. I had heard that voice before. In a moment I could fix it in my memory, though it was a good many years since I had heard it, and then it was in the wilds of the West. I offered him my hand, and said:

"We have shaken hands before. Your name is—"

"Lovetree. And now I know you. I thought it was some one whom I had seen before. I saw you in such earnest conversation with this little pedlar girl, that I could not help drawing nigh to hear; I must own I wished to see if she would tell you the same story she did me. I think now she is a girl of truth. What can we do for her? Shall we go and see her mother?"

"I wish you would to-morrow. She is not at home to-night. She has gone—at any rate she told me she would go to see a lady, a real good lady, who is worse off than my mother, for she is in a bad house, and she wants to get away; she told me so to-day, and they will not let her. She is one of the best women in the world. She is a dress-maker, and she used to live so nice in Broome street, close by my mother, with another good girl, and that girl got married and moved away off out West, I don't know how many thousand miles; and this girl got married too; and, oh dear! her husband used to get so drunk, and go to bad places, and his wife used to work and work; my mother used to work for her, and she was good to my mother, and that is what makes me so sorry for her now."

"How came she in the bad house you tell of, and how did you come to find her there?"

"Oh my, I cannot tell you all about it, I don't know; I know she had an auction, and she went away in a carriage, and I felt so sorry, and I did not know where she went; but to-day, I saw that same carriage, and saw her with that same woman, and I followed it home, and then I went up to the door, and I told the girl I had come to see Mrs. Morgan; that was no lie, for I had, if I did not know before that she was there; and that Mrs. Morgan wanted to buy some needles; that was a lie; but what should I say, I wanted to see her so bad; and then the girl said, she was not there, that there was no Mrs. Morgan in the house, and then I felt bad, because I knew she was there, and I was afraid something was wrong, and I began to cry, indeed, sir; don't laugh at me, I could not help it, I would have cried my eyes out to see her, but the girl said, she was not there, and I said, I saw her come there in the carriage, just a minute ago; and then another girl told the servant girl, it was Lucy, Lucy Smith, that I wanted to see; but I knew it was not, but I thought I would go up and see Lucy Smith, and may be she would tell me about Mrs. Morgan; and so I went to Lucy Smith's room, and I rapped on the door, and somebody said, come in; I thought I should go off, for I knew the voice in a minute, and I opened the door, and then it was not Lucy Smith, they only called her so for sham, and so that nobody would know her; it was Mrs. Morgan. How glad I was to see her, and how glad she was to see me; how she did hug me and kiss me, and call me her little pet; and then she told me—but you don't want to hear—why did you not stop me before—my mother says I always talk too much when I get a-going; I am sorry that I have talked so much, but, oh, how I do wish you would go and see Mrs. Morgan, and help her to get away from there; I will give you all the money I have made to-day, to help you, and I am sure my mother would give it as soon as I would, for she cried and took on so when I told her. Oh dear! I know well enough she never would be a bad woman, unless they made her."

"I do not understand this matter at all; do you?"

"Oh, yes, I replied, perfectly. Some poor unfortunate woman, with a miserable, drunken husband, has been driven by necessity, probably to take up her abode in some house of sin, where she finds her life miserable, and is anxious to escape; I suppose that is it."

"Anxious to escape! Why, sir, you confuse me worse than ever. No one is obliged to stay in such houses, are they? If she wished to go away, she could go; it is her own sinful choice that she is there."

"Friend Lovetree, how long have you lived out West?"

"Well, some twenty-five years, I suppose. You have a short way of turning a corner. Was I talking anything about the West?"

"No. Twenty-five years. This city has changed some in that time, and you have got behind the times. You don't know as much as this little girl about this matter. Ask her."

"How is it little girl—what did you tell me was your name?"

"Stella, sir, Stella May."

"Well then Stella, what is to hinder this Mrs. Morgan from coming away if she wishes?"

"Because she is in debt, sir."

"Debt, sir, debt! do private citizens imprison their fellows for debt? Are women compelled to live in houses of prostitution in this city, a city where the Bible is read and gospel preached, against their will? Preposterous, I will not believe it."

"Nevertheless it is gospel truth, as much as the Bible itself. The keepers of such houses sometimes inveigle innocent young girls into their dens, board and clothe them, and get them in debt, and in fact make them slaves, as sure as those who are bought and sold in southern cities. They cannot leave unless they leave naked, with the mark of their owner branded, not upon the surface of their bodies, but burnt into the inmost recesses of the mind.

"Sometimes those who go there voluntarily, repent afterwards most bitterly, most gladly would leave, but the door is closed against them, they are shut out of the world by the mark upon them, and shut in by their creditor mistress, or kept in such a state of intoxication that they have no time to redeem themselves from their life of slavery.

"From this little girl's account I venture to say that this woman is some one of the thousands of poor seamstresses, who stitch and starve in this city, who perhaps in very despair after a long struggle to live with a drunken husband, has been tempted into one of these places, and is now repenting grievously, and would gladly get away, but has not the means to do so; for she lacks a small sum to pay her greedy landlady some iniquitous charge, and a few dollars and some friend to assist her in her immediate necessities. Thus she will live a short life of excitement, and go friendless and unwept to an early grave."

"She shall not. She shall not. I have money, useless, idle, more than I shall ever want, and I have no friends. I will be her friend, I will rescue her, and she shall be mine."

Stella, the little pedler, had stood as though transfixed, during all this time, drinking in every word, until she found that her friend, poor Mrs. Morgan, would have some one to care for her, some one to love her as she loved her, one who had money, "more money than he wanted," to assist her, and then she grew as enthusiastic as Mr. Lovetree. She caught him by the hand, and as the tears ran down her cheeks, tears of joy, blessed tears, that drop like honey upon the lips, sending sweetness through every channel of sensation in the whole system, she said, "Will you, will you give her money to get out of that place? Will you go and see her? Will you love her? Oh I am so happy! I must run home and tell my mother, and that will make her happy too. Now I am so glad I told you all about it."

"And you will do it," said she, looking up in his face so earnestly, "yes, I know you will, you don't look like one of those kind of folks who say one thing and mean another."

Yes he would do it, I knew that; naturally enthusiastic, though not easily carried away by sudden flaws of side winds, when he once said, "I will do it," it was half done.

"Now I will run home and tell mother, for I want her to be as happy as me. Good night."

"Stop, stop a moment, you have not told us where the poor lady is that you wish us to go and see, nor what her name is."

"Oh dear, I forgot that. Yes I told you, Mrs. Morgan, but you want her whole name; well that is such a pretty name; I love pretty names; have you a card, I will write it for you."

"What, can you write?"

"Oh yes, sir, before we got so poor, I used to go to school. I would like to go now, but I have no time. You ought to see my mother write; she can write so pretty."

I saw what was working in the benevolent old gentleman's face, while Stella was writing. He had heard her say, "I would like to go to school now," and he was resolving in his mind, "Why not? Why should I not send her there? I have none of my own to send." It was a good resolve.

"There, that is it. 'Mrs. Athalia Morgan, at Mrs. Laylor's in H——n street.' I don't recollect the number, but you can find it easy enough; mother says it does seem as though the evil one always stood ready to lead folks to such houses. But you had better inquire for Lucy Smith. They don't know her by any other name there. Shall I go now? Good night. I am so anxious to tell mother."

"Athalia!—Athalia!" said my friend, as he spelt over the name on the card. "Athalia! oh, pshaw! that is nonsense, yet it might be—why not? I say, my little girl, you knew her before she was married. What was her name then?"

"And what is that, 'why not,' and what about that name? The little girl is well on her way home, by this time, if she kept on at the speed she went down stairs. Her earnestness makes me begin to feel a good deal interested in that woman."

"Nothing, only a thought, a mere passing thought, and yet I cannot shake it off. It is rather an unusual name. I had a brother—yes, I had a brother, whether I have or not now, I cannot tell; yet he was not exactly a brother either, though we called the same woman mother, and the same man father, and whether he is living now or not I cannot say, but think not. He did very badly, drank up all his property, and took the usual course, and I suppose he is dead, and his wife too, and then his children are orphans, and why not this be one of them; it is the same name. Athalia—it is not a common name; if it had been I should not remember it, for I never saw her but once, then a little girl not as big as this one just here. I wish she had not run away so soon, before I could ask her a single question. What shall I do now?"

"Go and ask Athalia herself."

"What! to-night? It is now ten o'clock, time all respectable citizens were in bed. It is too late."

"No, it is never too late to begin to do good. It is just the hour that the lives of the inmates of such houses, as we propose to visit, begin. From this till one or two o'clock, drinking, carousing, swearing, and all sorts of revelry and debauchery, and then——it is well that night has curtains. Now this house where we are to go, however, I take, from its location, to be one of a different character, one that maintains a show of respectability, yet is one of the most dangerous, for its victims are drawn from among a class just as good as Stella has described Mrs. Morgan."

"You think, then, that we may go there safely, at this hour of the night?"

"As safely, as respects our persons, as to church. As dangerously, as respects our morals, as the poor weak bird fluttering within the charmed circle of the fascinating serpent."

"As to that I fear nothing."

"So has said many a one. I say,

or he will soon come to such familiarity that he will eat freely out of the same dish. No man is proof against the fascinations of a designing woman. But as we go doubly armed, for our cause is just, let us go, go at once, for I see you are excited about that name. It would be strange, if it should prove to be your niece."

"Yes and stranger still, the way that we have been brought together, and to a knowledge of her, through our mutual sympathy for this little pedler girl, such an one as we may see every hour in the streets, without exciting a passing thought. What a mysterious power governs all our actions, and how we are influenced and turned aside from the path we had marked out, by the most trivial circumstances. I had seen this little girl come in here and offer her little wares a score of times, without paying any attention to her or her movements, except to wonder how any mother could trust such a child, bright, good-looking, free spoken, forward—that is, precocious—among so many fops and libertines, who would take advantage of her some day, and by deceit and money work her ruin. Last night I had put on my gloves and hat, and was just walking out as she came in with her 'Please to buy this, sir,' and why I did not go out I cannot tell, but some unaccountable influence turned me back, and I picked up a paper and sat apparently absorbed in its contents, while my ear was open and mind awake to every word and movement of the libertine rascal who made a pretence of buying liberally, to induce her to go up to his room to get the pay. I followed, watched him to his room, heard the key turn in the lock, heard all his conversation, his vile proposals, and her virtuous rejection, with an energy, 'that she had rather starve and see her mother dead;' and then I heard a struggle and I knew the villain was using his brutal strength upon a weak girl, and then I burst the door, and then—you know the rest."

"Why did you not strike the villain dead at your feet?"

"That is savage nature."

"Why not arrest and punish him, then, for his attempt at rape?"

"That is civilized nature."

"What then did you do?"

"I forgave him, and bade him repent, and ask God to forgive him, as I did."

"Lovetree, give me your hand, I give you my heart; I stand rebuked. I understand you now, that was Christian nature. Let us go."

Reader, walk with us. We threaded our way along the crowded side-walk, passing or meeting, between the Astor House and Canal street, not less than fifty girls; some of them not over twelve years old, many about fourteen or fifteen, some of them superbly beautiful, naturally or artificially, and all, such as the spirit, hovering over the poor shipwrecked mariner upon the stormy ocean, cries wildly to, as they sink, down, down, to death, "lost, lost, lost!"

"Why, why, tell me why they are permitted to roam through the streets, plying their seductive arts? Where are your police? Where your city Fathers?—guardians of the morals of strangers and citizens! How can anything, male or female, remain pure in such an atmosphere of impurity? Where are your laws? laws of love that lift up the fallen. Where all your high-paid, well-fed city guardians, who should watch the city youth, to keep them from becoming impure?"

Echo gave the answer, and it reverberated back and forth from granite wall to freestone, from marble front to red-burnt bricks, from dark cellar to gas-lighted hall, from low dens of death to high rooms of wealth and fashion, from law makers to law breakers; echo came back with that one word, "Impure, impure, impure."

How the throng go thoughtlessly onward. Do they ever think—think what a sirocco blast from the valley of the Upas tree, is sweeping over this city? Do mothers ever inquire, ever think whether it is possible for their sons to escape the contagion of such company as they keep in the great evening promenade of this mighty Babylon? Have New York mothers no feeling of fear for their sons? or has "the pestilence that walketh in darkness," obtained such strength that this is overcome? or has the plague spot grown so familiar to their eyes that they no longer seek to wash it out? If they have given up their sons, if they have surrendered the great street to the almost exclusive occupancy, at night, of painted harlots; have they also given up their daughters, surrendered them to the wiles of the seducer? do they let them go out without fear, even in company with their male friends, to be jostled upon the side-walks by midnight ramblers, and seated at the same table, at some of the great "saloons," side by side with those who win to kill, whose trade is death, whose life is gilded misery, though enticing as the siren's song? Have they forgotten that we are all creatures of surrounding circumstances, subject to like influences, and liable to the same disease as those who breathe the same atmosphere, and if that is impure, those who breathe it may become so?

Even now, while I write, the "New York Daily Tribune," gives this "Item" to its readers:—

"Mysterious Disappearance.—On Sunday evening last, between six and seven o'clock, Miss G. C—— left her father in Spring street, near Broadway, to go to her brother-in-law's (Mr. B——), No. — Spring street, since which time nothing has been heard of her, and it is feared that she has been dealt foully with. She is seventeen years of age, good-looking and rather tall; dark complexion, and dark eyes; lisps somewhat when in conversation. She was dressed in plaid, light and dark stripe; Talma cape; straw bonnet, trimmed with white outside, and green and white inside. Her disappearance has caused the deepest affliction to her family, and any information that can be given will be gratefully received by her aged parent, No.—Spring street."

"It is feared that she has been foully dealt with." Yes, and it ought to be feared that "good-looking, rather tall" young girls, are foully dealt with in the streets of this city, every night in the week. It is feared she is not the first girl of seventeen, whose "mysterious disappearance has caused the deepest affliction to her family."

"Any information will be gratefully received." Yes, any information will be gratefully received by the author of this book, which he can use effectually to awaken aged parents to the fact, that each one of these girls who wander the streets at midnight, or who fill up the dens of infamy that line whole blocks of some of the best streets in this city, is somebody's child; some "mysterious disappearance," that has caused deep affliction, and will cause more, for she is now influencing others to disappear from the path of rectitude, in the same way that she did.

Perhaps, yea, it is probable, more than probable, that Miss G. C—— has been inveigled into one of these dens where worse than cannibals live, for they only eat the body, while these destroy the soul.

How long would a house be permitted to stand, where human flesh was served up as a banquet for those who delighted to feast upon such dainty food? A house where young girls were driven in by force or fascination, to be cooked and eaten by young epicures and gouty gormandizers. How the city's indignation would boil over, and how the storm of wrath would beat upon that house, until there would not be one stone left upon another.

Yet how calmly that same public sleeps on by the side of a thousand worse houses, where victims are worse than cooked and eaten every day—they are roasted alive.

How coldly parents will read that "mysterious disappearance;" they will never think that girl has been destroyed by cannibals, far worse are here—they belong to savage life.

How carelessly, how thoughtlessly mothers will read this page that tells how their daughters may be influenced to ruin themselves, by such unfortunate associations as they must meet with in their walks through the city, while our municipal government permits the streets to be monopolized by the impure, because it is itself just what the echo answered.

How I would rejoice if I could make the truth manifest, as regards this matter, that, "to the pure all things are pure."

Now, let us walk on.

You need not stop to drop anything into the hand of that woman with a child on her lap. True, she looks like a pitiable object, with her opium-drugged infant wrapped in that old blue cloak, but she is not. She is a professional beggar. I have known her these three years. That child is not hers. It is hired for the purpose. It draws a share of the benefit, as it does the sympathy of those who are attracted by that well-put-on, appealing look. That child is kept by a woman who keeps three others "to let." They never grow too big. Laudanum is not the food that infants grow upon. They will die young, and others will be begged, borrowed, or stolen, for the same purpose.

There, the sixpence you have given that little child, will go into the till of that "family grocery," before we are a block farther on our way. I know her.

It is hardly charity to give to that man; I know him too, and where he lives.

"But, he is blind."

I know it, and that is his fortune. With it he supports himself and family of great idle girls and boys, better than many others live who labor. He is a stout, rugged, hearty man, capable of doing much useful labor, if he had any one to direct him.

"Well, here, what of this?"

Yes, you may give there; no, give me the quarter, see what I will do with it. I will buy two smiles.

"Good evening, Joseph, how do you do this evening?"

"Oh, very well, sir, thank you. How are you this evening?"

"Very well. How is trade with you, Joseph? Do these gay people buy your bouquets?"

"Well, some do, sir, but these big boys and stout men can run about and forestall a poor black man who has got no legs."

"Joseph, has that sewing woman been down this evening; the one who always stops to give you a kind word and look, and smell of your flowers?"

"What, the one that looks so pale, the one who makes shirt collars; the one you gave the bouquet to, sir?"

"Yes; and I want you to give her another, here is the money."

"I wish I had known it a few minutes ago, for her daughter went by; she stopped a moment just to admire this one, and said, how she did wish she could afford to buy it for her mother; and then she said, it did not matter, she had such good news to tell her, and she picked up her basket, and away she ran."

There was a queer idea came into my mind, when he said basket, just as though there could be but one girl out to-night with a basket. I was about to drive away the idea as a foolish one, when something whispered me, "Ask him." So I did.

"A girl with a basket? Who is that girl with a basket; do you know her name?"

"Oh, yes. We call her, the little pedler. She is a nice girl. Her mother's name is May."

The queer idea was a true one after all. And so this woman, whom I had often seen speaking pleasant words to this poor legless Negro man, who sits night after night, upon the Broadway side-walk, selling bouquets, is Mrs. May, the little pedler's mother.

"Do you know where she lives?—could you get anybody to carry this to her to-night?"

"Yes, sir, here is Tom Top, he will go in a minute; he will do anything for me, or for a lady; he is ragged and dirty, but he is a good boy; it is a pity he had not somebody to be good to him. Tom, will you go to Mrs. May's for me? Stella, the little pedler's mother, you know where she lives?"

"Yes, sir, shall I carry that? Is that for Stella?"

"No, that is for her mother."

"And this," said Mr. Lovetree, picking up another beauty, "this is for Stella. Stop, Tom. Here is a shilling for you. Don't tell who sent you. Now let us go on. You know this poor black fellow, then, do you? What is his name!"

"Joseph Butler. He was a sailor. He was shipwrecked, and lost his legs by freezing, fourteen years ago. He has been to sea five years since, as cook, hobbling around on the stumps. Now, he supports his family by selling bouquets. Did you ever see a finer face? Always cheerful, intelligent, and polite; it is a pleasure to buy flowers of him. It is a wonder that ladies and gentlemen do not all feel it a duty and pleasure both, to buy all their bouquets of this poor cripple."

"It is because they never think. If they did, they certainly would."

"Then, I must ask them to think. I must try and awaken the sympathies of the benevolent to look at this poor unfortunate black man as they pass, and see if they do not think him a fit subject for honest sympathy. He is not a beggar. He gives a fair equivalent for your money. At least, give him a kind word, or pleasant look, and he will return you the same."

How we do linger in our walk. So will you, reader, if you come to New York, and undertake to see all the curiosities of Broadway, in one night.

At length, we reached Mrs. Laylor's. It is a handsome house, in a quiet street. My friend hesitated about entering. He thought I must be mistaken. It did not look like what he had conceived of such houses. Then he was afraid they would suspect us, and would not let us in.

"For the fact is, we do not look much like the class of men who visit such places," said he.

"That shows how little you know of life in New York. Let me manage this matter, and I assure you, they will think us two old rakes, rich ones, too, out of whom they may make a harvest."

So we went up the broad, high steps, and rang the bell with a jerk, that said, as near as bells can speak, that is somebody that has been here before. The lady, as is the usual practice, came herself to the door, unlocked it, and opened it a little way, where it is held by a chain, so that she could reconnoitre, and if the company did not suit, or if a stranger applied, she would refuse him, particularly, if she had plenty of company, unless he could give very good references.

I thought of that, and so I said, with the same confidence that I had put into my pull of the bell, "Good evening, Mrs. Laylor, how do you do this evening? You were unwell the other evening when I was here. This is Mr. Treewell, from the South." That was an "open sesame," that undid the chain directly, and we walked in as old acquaintances. True, she could not exactly locate us, but our easy assurance carried us through.

"Walk into the parlor, gentlemen, there is nobody there, we are quite alone this evening. Or, will you go in the back room; the young ladies and I were having a little game of whist together, to drive off the dullness."

Yes, to drive off the dullness, thought I; to get rid of the horror of thinking. That is the greatest curse that this class of women have to endure. They cannot bear to think. They must have something "to drive off the dullness." If they have no company, they must play cards, or something else to keep away thought. If they have company, wine is the panacea. They cannot afford to buy it themselves, but they often persuade gentlemen to do so, pretending to be very thirsty, when they have just been drinking, because that is a part of the contract upon which they are kept by the mistress of the house. If a girl had any conscientious scruples about coaxing a gentleman to buy, or about drinking, or wasting all the wine that all of them would buy, she would be trained into the work, or turned out of doors. So that it is a very rare thing for one of them to go to bed sober. In the morning, or rather towards night, when they wake up, they are almost unable to dress themselves for the next scene in the round of dissipation, until they have sent out and got a little cheap rum, "to bring them up."

Those who have studied the life of these poor, wretched women as carefully as I have, will not wonder at the shortness of it.

Of course we accepted the very polite invitation to go in where the young ladies were. We had an object in doing so. Neither of us knew Mrs. Morgan, and if we should inquire for her, if it suited the convenience of madame she would palm off any other one that she thought she could make pass. I adopted my plan of operations very quickly. I thought if they had had no company yet to-night, they had had no wine, and consequently would not be in the best of moods to be communicative. As soon as we were introduced, I ordered a bottle of wine and thought I would find out if either of the three girls present answered to the name of Lucy, and if she did, I intended to whisper one word in her ear, and that word should be "Athalia," and watch what emotion it produced.

It would be entirely impossible for a stranger to form an idea what an emotion the very name of wine caused among them. They were fairly longing for it. We were in the good graces of all the household at once. I pleaded headache not to drink. Lovetree took his glass with them. I fixed upon one that I thought perhaps might be Athalia, but soon found that she was called Nannette.

Another was Belle, and the third was Adelaide. The latter was one of the most perfectly beautiful girls in face and form I ever saw, and she had really pretty red hair. I have often met or passed her since that in the street and never without admiring her beauty and thinking of her mother, and how she must mourn "a girl lost."

I was now satisfied that Athalia was not in the room, and I said carelessly. "Where is that other girl I saw here, with brown hair and blue eyes, not very tall?"

"What was her name?"

"Oh, confound names, I never can think of names."

"Oh, I know who he means," said Adelaide, "it is Lucy, Lucy Smith."

"Yes, yes, that is it. It is Lucy at any rate."

"She is in her room. She has got the dumps—the blues—I should not wonder if she was all melted by this time, she has been crying these three days."

"Crying, why what has she to cry about? I should not think anybody need to cry in this house, you never cry, do you?"

The very question almost brought a tear, but she drove it back.

"Well, Lucy must come down and have some wine. Get her down, and we will have another bottle."

"She won't come. We are all tired of trying. She has got the pouts, because Mrs. Laylor took her trunk away from her to keep for her board. She don't make any thing. All she ever did make was out of Frank Barkley, and that she gave to redeem her watch and a good-for-nothing old Bible I don't see what she wants of that."

"Well, I am going to have her down—I have no opinion of having any girl in the dumps. Where is her room?"

"Third floor back room. That is right, go and bring her out whether or no. She has hardly been out for a week till to-day Mrs. Laylor took her out riding with her, to try to put a little life in her, for fear she would die on her hands, and she would have to bury her for charity."

"Well, well, I will bring her down, see if I don't. Come, Treewell, if she will not come without we will bring her."

So away we went upstairs, now satisfied that we were on the right trail, and that we had completely lulled all suspicion that we wanted anything of Lucy Smith, except to compel the poor heart-sick woman to join in a Bacchanalian revel, at which her soul revolted. Up, up we went, passed three "private rooms," in which we will not seek to look, for they are occupied by those who come veiled and in the dark. Here is the room we want. We knocked but received no welcome "come in."

How quick she would open the door if she knew who was waiting for admission. Tired of knocking, we enter unbidden, and find the room empty. The prisoner has escaped.

The truth flashed upon my mind in a moment. She has gone off with Mrs. May. Mr. Lovetree thought not, for Stella said they would not let her go out except some one in the house went with her to watch her.

"No matter. I am almost sure that woman has got her away. These women are great at contrivance. Very likely she came prepared for it, as Stella told her of course, all that Mrs. Morgan had told her."

We made a light and the first thing that Lovetree saw was the Bible, and Athalia's name—her age and birth-place and the age and names of her father and mother and grandfather and grandmother, a complete family record. I thought the man would go crazy. It would have made him nearly crazy if he had found her an inmate here, as much lost to shame as those we had just been carousing with, and now to find that she was not here put him into a perfect agony. He thought he could not live till morning without seeing her. At first we thought of going directly to Mrs. May's but then we recollected we did not know where she lived and could not find out, for I had lost her card that Stella gave me.

Finally we concluded to go down and talk a minute in the same kind of sang froid manner, to keep up our assumed characters and then go home and await coming events.

We were rallied as we entered the room with a jeering laugh at not being able to bring one woman between us both.

Then I pretended to get angry at being sent upon a fool's errand, to a room where nobody was at home. At that Mrs. Laylor started.

"Was she not in the room?"

"No, nor has not been lately. You are playing tricks with the wrong persons, trying to fool us."

"Indeed, gentlemen, upon my honor it is no trick."

She rang the servants' bell violently. "Martha, do you know where Lucy Smith is? She is not in her room. Have you let her out to-night?"

"No, ma'am. I have not let anybody out but that sewing woman."

"Where is Kate? Send Kate up. Kate have you let anybody out to-night?"

"Yes, ma'am. I let that sewing woman out."

"You let her out! Martha says she let her out."

"So I did."

"And so did I."

"Both of you."

"I did."

"Well, I did."

"You have let out the ——. Get out of the room, you stupid Irish ——s. You have let out the sewing woman, sure enough. I have lost my bet which I made with Frank, of a hundred dollars that I would keep her here till she would not want to go away."

And there was such, a string of oaths as I never heard before, and hope I never shall hear again, particularly from female profane lips. None but a drunken slave driver, ever poured out such a stream of awful language, full of oaths, anger and billingsgate expressions, at the escape of one of his victims, as she did at the escape of a woman whom she had determined to debase to her own level, until she had brought her to that condition that she would feel degraded in the eyes of the world, would know that all her own sex had closed and barred the door against her, so that she could never return to the paths of virtue, and she would be to her mistress a "profitable investment," for she would be attractive, by her beauty and manners, and "draw custom to the house." But she had escaped—gone off too in a temper of mind which might send retribution back upon the head of one who under the guise of friendship had first robbed, then by pretended debt, enslaved her mind, coaxed and almost driven her into intoxication, and then prostituted her most shamefully. It would be idle to pretend that Athalia had escaped without sin. She had not. She had sinned deeply. She said afterwards while claiming some extenuation, though by no means trying to justify her fall, that her mind was so wrought upon by her disappointments of life, by her lone and friendless condition, by the accumulation of debt, by the terrible treachery of those she had entrusted herself with as such disinterested friends, by her anxiety to obtain her valued keepsakes and get money enough to redeem them, and then escape from the pandemonium she found that she had unwittingly entered, that she had determined to drown her thoughts in wine, and then she accepted the oft-repeated proposals of Frank Barkley to redeem her watch, which he honorably did, but which another friend, one of Mrs. Laylor's friends, whom she forced her to accept, and which cost her the friendship of Frank, robbed her of, and carried off so that she never saw it again; whether he kept it or gave it to Mrs. Laylor, she never knew.

Often she intended to fly, but it seemed to her that she could not get away; she was kept in one constant whirl of excitement so that she could not reason with herself long enough to determine what to do. What deterred her most, was that she had nowhere to go to, no friend to call upon for counsel or assistance, and thus she went on from day to day, adopting one plan in the morning to discard it at night.

Frank was very kind to her in a certain measure. He liked her, but it was a very selfish liking. He did not like to hear her talk about leaving. He liked her there, and he was almost as much her jailer as Mrs. Laylor. He took her out to all manner of dissipation, theatres, saloons, late suppers, balls and frolics, in which strong drink—not Athalia Morgan—acted as wild a part as the wildest. But he offered her no means of escape. She began to have a sort of fondness for Frank. What woman can avoid liking one who is devoted to her? But this devotion to one was not what Mrs. Laylor wished. It was not what brought the most money to her iron chest. She would like to negotiate the charms of Athalia to some rich libertine every day, whenever she could meet with one fool enough to pay her well for her influence with the "young widow."

Among the most determined of her suitors, was a young Frenchman, who used every art which he knew well how to use with words and money, to win Athalia's favor. As a last resort, he pledged a splendid diamond ring to Mrs. Laylor, if she would accomplish what he could not.

When all other arts fail to work ruin and misery in a woman's mind, there is one left, one which concentrates all the power of all the lies of the father of deception. It is jealousy.

There is a little story in "Othello," about the arts of a villain, to produce mischief by that power. It is nothing compared with the villainy and lies invented to produce jealousy between Frank and Athalia, so as to let in the Frenchman, and win that ring.

Villainy is too often successful in this life. It was in this case. Jealousy, a feeling of revenge, drives more women to infidelity towards those they love, than all other causes.

It did its perfect work with Athalia, and then the fiend who had accomplished the work, laughed at her, and told her how she had been fooled, thinking it would have the usual effect, to make her careless of what she did in future. It had an entirely different effect upon Athalia. It was this that produced the state of mind that Adelaide called the dumps, the blues, and the tears that Stella saw her shed. Stella had told her mother much that Athalia told her, much that the child did not understand, but the mother did, for she knew how girls were inveigled into those houses, and kept there as prisoners.

I have lately witnessed a scene, highly illustrative of this fact. It is one of the "Life Scenes of New York."

Coming up one of the streets west of Broadway, about one o'clock at night, I saw a fellow hovering near a house, whom I recognized as a Negro wood-sawyer that I had seen the day before, engaged at the same house, putting wood down the cellar grate. I knew him or thought I did, as a poor but honest man, and I felt pained with a fear that I had been deceived, that he had left the grate unfastened, and now was about to steal something from the cellar. I passed on around the next corner, out of sight, and then turned back and crossed over, where I could have a full view of his operations. There were no lamps burning, because there should, or might have been moonlight, if it had been clear; as it was, it was a fitting time for the burglar's trade. Directly, the fellow approached the grate, opened it carefully, and drew up a trunk. My heart beat with excitement, fear, and sorrow. I was just on the point of calling, "Watch," I must own with a view of letting the fellow escape, and saving the trunk, when I saw a bonnet, then a shawl, and then a full suit of woman's clothes follow the trunk up from that dark recess. My mind was somewhat relieved; my honest wood-sawyer might be honest still, though he was probably assisting a dishonest woman; else why did she leave that house, to all appearance, an honest house, for all that I had ever seen in passing it a hundred times, in such a clandestine manner. The Negro walked on with the trunk on his shoulder, and the woman followed. It was a scene of such frequent occurrence, that it would excite no suspicion or question from a policeman. He would think it was a passenger by the train, from Boston, or Albany, or the Erie railroad, all of which make midnight arrivals.

On they went, block after block, and I followed, till I thought the chase likely to prove a long one, and then I stepped up to the woman, and laying my hand upon her shoulder, said, "Stop!" She uttered a little cry of alarm, and said, "Oh, don't take me up, please don't."

The Negro stopped, looked round, and set down the trunk hastily, evidently supposing that a star had nabbed her, and that the better part of a fight consists in running away. There was a light here, for the lamp-lighters were just going their late rounds. He gave one glance back before he started, to be sure he had good cause to run, and instantly burst into a most merry fit of laughter, very unlike what might be supposed that of a caught burglar.