Our New York Letter.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 933, 17 January 1890, Page 8

Our New York Letter.

Whenever I think of the magnificent charities of New York my soul is filled with admiration for the ministering angels that care for them, and yet it seems impossible for human foresight to shield all the children of misfortune iu a great city like ours. Aside from the city charities, which cost us millions of dollars, many of our churches have organised bodies of relief, and there are many hundreds of private individuals who scour the slums and poorer quarters daily, and yet with all our care eases of suffering occur shocking to contemplate, telling us in ho uncertain tones that the miffenium is yet far off.

One day last week a woman was found in a room, almost destitute of furniture and everything else, iu the midst of her starving children; they had not tasted* food for nearly two days. When they were discovered the mother was stark, staring mad, and endeavoured to take her life by leaping from the window. Her story is only one of a thousand. Young and beautiful, she attracted the attention of a merchant tailor, well to do, and married him. Matters ran smoothly with the young couple for several years. The wife was frugal and the husband industrious, and their home was happy as happy couid be. Four beautiful children blessed the union—loved by' the father and adored by the mother, so that nothing seemed wanting to fill their cup of happiness. But in an evil hour the father took to drink, then ruin came swift and sure. He became an outcast and a vagabond. Tho mother for years struggled against fate, and last week she was taken to a madhouse. The ohildren were passed over to Mr Gerry’s society and the wretched father was sent to the penitentiary. A newspaper correspondent tells the story of an interview with the girl wife of Mcllaaiu, the eighteen-year-old murderer of the German groceryman Lucca of Brooklyn. Nothing more pathetio can be found in history or fiction than the story of this poor waif, who will be the widow of a murderer when she reaches fifteen. When asked how she came to marry this disreputable tough, she said, ‘ Because he told me that he loved me, No one ever told me so before.’ Did not your mother tell you, so ? asked tho questioner. ‘ Oh, ho,’ said the poor creature. ‘ She never took me in her arms, though I longed to get there, and she never kissed me in her life that I can remember.’ When the mother was asked if this was true, with a brutality worthy of a wild beast, she said, ‘Av eoorse it is thrue. I don’t believe in huggin’ an’ kiasin’ an’ spilin’ em.’ Speaking of her daughter, she said : ‘ She was headstrong an’ I thried to knock it out av her, but I cudn’t.’ How did you try to knock it out of her ’ the interviewer inquired. ‘ Wid me fiats av eoorse ; and her brothers thried to knock it out av her, too, but they cudn’t.' How ’ again asked the questioner. * Why, wid their fiats, as they had a right too. They knocked her down and beat her on the Sure.’ What a revelation of savagery is this ! A poor, weak little girl of thirteen or fourteen, who in all her life had never heard from a mother’s or a brother’s lips one word of love or kindness ; whose only remembrance of home was of beatings and drunkenness and blasphemy. What wonder that she drifted away ! Who shall be surprised if she is lost ?

But notwithstanding this there are charities here the record of which are kept in the Lamb’s Book of Life, and whose stories of mercy and love will stand out bright as the noonday sun on the Judgment Day. What can be more helpless than a sick and destitute woman ’ Homeless, friendless, penniless in a great city, she' sinks by the wayside, and the mad stream of busy life sweeps by her, each too intent on his own affairs to think of the flotsam by the way. Yet not all; the priest and the Levite, perohance, may pass on the other side of the way, but a good Samaritan is also journeying along the road. ■. It is over thirty years since Dr Marion Sim, of blessed memory, founded the Woman’s Hospital. Strange as it may seem, up to that time there was no similar institution in the oivilised world. Hospitals there were by the thousand, and many where men only were received ; but neither here nor in Europe was there any hospital devoted exclusively to the diseases of women. A department was set apart for those who were able to pay, but they receded no better treatment than the homeless wanderer that charity had gathered from the streets. Dr Sims early saw that if tho institution was to be a permanent success he must enlist the aid of women. The name of Jay Gould and Russell Sage stand on the marts of commerce, and there where the money changers as the synonyms of all that is despicable and merciless in money getting, yet here bn the list of patrons I find the names of their wiv’eS, Ivlrs Jay Gould and Mrs Russell Sage. But tbeie is one other name there bright and golden with blessed memories, •vyhich, stand out like a shining star gleaming through a stormy sky. Mrs William B„ Astor for twenty years'has stood the unquestioned queen of our social life. She was the one tvoman whose supremacy caused hq

bitterness, for she seemed to rule by the. authority accredited to kings—the right divine. No one except a person acquainted with the relentless and exacting duties of such a station can conceive the never ending work of such a life. Yet this dead saint, worth untold millions, stole away from her fashionable friends and her luxurious home to minister with her own hands to the wants of poor helpless creatures who in their own estate hardly knew what shelter was. A beautiful story is told of Mrs Astor by one who witnessed the scene. The lady was passing by one of the little rooms where a p or wretched soul was silently passing away, no mother’s voice. No sister’s kindly touch, no doughter’s love cheered the pathway of the lone wanderer as she stood on the verge of the valley of the dark shadow. Perhaps as the clouds began to thicken and her eyes grew dim she boated in fancy through long years of sorrow and tears to the home of her childhood, and she heard loved voices, long since hushed in death, whispering softly in her ear bright visions, love, and hope, bright as silver bells. The breath of the sufferer came thick arid fas*, the death straggle being broken by eobs and praver. The lady paused for a moment at the door, a woman was on her knees at the bedside of the dying girl ; in a moment all was over, the spirit of the homeless waif had tvken its flight, the woman ruse from her knees while the hot tears streamed down her cheeks like rain ; it was Mistress Astor, the great social queen, the wife of the hundred hundred millionaire. You good people, who read in your newspaper gossip the stories of our social life, sometimes disfigured by grossnes end scandal, please remember that some of the brightest examples of charity and Christian love are found among those whose millions have placed them beyond the reach of want, and, as far as gold can, of sorrow or care.

The medical staff of this institution has embraced the very beat talent that this country has ever known, Dr Marian Sims, Dr Agnew, Dr James B. Hunter, Dr Thomas, Dr James Weod, Dr Charles Carroll Lee, Dr Bozeman, and many others equally famous. For twelve years the Board of Surgeons remained unchanged, and when the retirement of some and the death of others rendered a change inevitable, there was a sharp competition amongst the most distin-f guished surgeons in New York for the post of honour. The gentlemen selected to till the vacant posts are among the most distinguished surgeons in our country—Dr Horace Tracey Hanks of Madison Avenue, Dr Henry D. Nicoll, and J>r Clement Cleveland ; Dr Bache McE. Emmett, and Dr Thomas Addis Emmet still remaiuing on the staff, lhis splendid charity needs a further endowment of one hundred thousand dollars to make It self-supporting, a home where a poor, friendless and needy woman can secure such medical assistance as kings could not have commanded a century ago. If the readers of the Broadbrim Letter would put in ten cents each, the sum would be realised in a week. If some good soul who has read my letters for years feels that the time is approaching when her money will not be of much use to her, think of the Woman's Hospital of New York city and lay up a few treasures where tbe moth doth not consume nor thieves break in and steal. Blessed be Providence the elections are over. The Democratic cyclone has struck New York, bounded, over Brooklyn, caught Virginia on the fly, knocked spots out of Ohio, and made lowa a dark and bloody ground, and bas raised hob generally, strewing the sea and the shore with Repub llcan wrecks. TammaDy is on top. Dick Crocker, the great sachem, is looking round with a ten million power microscope for the remains of the county democracy—so far he has made no discovery. Among the surprises of the week is the breaking of Samuel J. Tilden's will. He desired to found a public library, and gave his house in Grammercy Park and his millions for that purpose. He was a lawyer of great experience, and knew all about making wills, but he failed to make his own so that it would hold, so New York loses the library and the heirs get his money. Queer world isn’t it, where a man can’t do as he Ukes with hie own 3 If this wise old man

failed who can succeed? Moral : Do whatever you intend to do in your lifetime. Don’t wait for someone else to do it after you are dead. Just for experiment try sending a few thousands to the Woman’s Hospital ; if it succeeds, try a few thousands more, then yoa can see while you are alive the good you are doing, and the recording angel will keep the golden page all the same. Broadbrim.