Page:Peterson's Magazine 1855 B.pdf/13

PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXVIII.

A SKETCH "BELOW BLEECKER."

BY MISS ALICE GRAY.

"Died, on the eight instant, of consumption, Francisco Padrilla, aged sixty, a native of Venice." How often does such a notice meet your careless eye as you run over the list of deaths in the evening paper! The fifth act of another life tragedy has just closed in your midst, and surely there is enough on the sur fnce of this brief announcement to form material for imagining the foregoing scenes. It is worded with all possible conciseness—the last clause might perhaps have been omitted, but in that did not the pen follow the home-turnings of the heart that had just ceased to beat? Had" not the gliding gondolas of the "silent city" risen hefore the dying, and the dip of their oars seunded in his ear like echoing music? For sixty years he had buffeted the storms of life, and at least, amid the roar and the rush of the great city whither his steps had strayed, on the eight instant, he died. The fact you read of so coolly is filling some heart with curdling agony.

I used often to watch him go in and out, the poor foreign artist who never seemed to have any orders for the pictures that suoceeded each other on his easel. His black velvet coat grew every day more rusty, his step more spirit less. How lonely he looked amid the jostling crowd in Broadway, and what a lingering, melan chely glance would he cast upon it as he reached bis own corner, and turned down into the chill shadow of the lofty hotel! Once I saw him pause by a stand of oranges, in whose golden gleam he caught a look of sunny Italy—three cents was too much—he shook his head and passed on. With the exercise of a little Yankee guessing I soon learned much about the family. There was a boy with a Murillo head, and large, deep eyes, who, as winter advanced, went and eame with the packages of law-papers which had heen his father's burden. And day by day, in rain and shine, a girl of eighteen wrapped her thin shawl about her, and went to her round of music lessons. I knew her errand by her well-worn port-folio.

But after awhile the daughter's splendid voice attracted the attention of an "artist Lyrigue," and she received an offer for an opera engage ment. The terms proposed would fail to pay for the wear and tear of voice and strength in a most laborious occupation, but the eye of the employe had glanced around the bare room, and rested upon the pale, pinched cheek of Filippa. With a coarse jest about rouging for the stage, he took his leave, and now the lamps of a rickety hack glare at midnight upon the bed-room ceil ings of the neighbors. Filippa still returned at dusk from her music lessons, however, alone and hurriedly, patiently enduring the street impertinences which assail the "shabby-genteel" more than the laboring and even ragged poor.

But one night, while Filippa was singing at the opera, her father died. Did stupified misery keep dry the eyes of those lovely Italian orphans as they bent above the silent lips, or busied themselves in vain endeavors to throw around the rough coffin something of the grace and tenderness of their own loved land? Poverty's iron cuts deep into the soul at such a time. There were all the repulsive accompaniments of death, there was the unmarked grave in Potter's-field staring them in the face. But what is all this to thee, fair dweller in Fourteenth street, stretched on thy velvet lounge, planning a costume for Mrs. T——'s next reception? The remains of poor Francisco Padrilla lie in a low, dreary house far "below Bleecker." It is but a few steps from laughing, glittering Broadway, but your little feet never stumbled over its uneven pavement. There the roar of the near tide of gayety and bustle is a weariness and a mockery, and to you, perhaps, this recital seems the same. What is it all to you ? Let me tell you. You were at the opera last night. From your luxurious box you saw and listened