White locks of the
octogenarian in thin drifts across the white pillow--fresh fall of
flakes on snow already fallen. Children with dimpled hands thrown put
over the pillow, with every breath inhaling a new store of fun and
frolic.
Let the great hosts sleep! A slumberless Eye will watch them. Silent
be the alarm-bells and merciful the elements! Let one great wave of
refreshing slumber roll across the heart of the great town, submerging
trouble and weariness and pain. It is the third watch of the night,
and time for the city to sleep.
But be not deceived. There are thousands of people in the great
town who will not sleep a moment to-night. Go up that dark court. Be
careful, or you will fall over the prostrate form of a drunkard lying
on his own worn step. Look about you, or you will feel the garroter's
hug. Try to look in through that broken pane! What do you see?
Nothing. But listen. What is it? "God help us!" No footlights, but
tragedy--mightier, ghastlier than Ristori or Edwin Booth ever acted.
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