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THE SISTERHOOD OF THE GREEN VEIL.

BY GEORGE LIPPARD.

To me there is a world of meaning in a green veil. It is not worn by the flaunting courtezan in her paint and feathers, nor does it turn aside the wind and sun from the face of the popular actress or idolized opera singer. Your fashionable lady would as soon be seen riding in an omnibus with a battered sixpence between her fingers, as to be seen anywhere under the shelter of a green veil. And who then is it that wears the green veil ?

That patient and gentle Sisterhood, whose order of worship has but one word for its litany, Toil, Toil, Toil; whose Convent is a Factory; whose way of life is darker and drearier than that of any Nun in the most severe of Catholic Convents. The Sisterhood of the Green Veil is a numerous and a patient race. The world-fagged darling of some rich merchant or democratic aristocrat, may one bright morning after the ball is over, assume the sudden resolution to turn devotee and take the White Veil, amid all the pomp of the mass, the chaunt of choristers and glitter of jewelled cross and golden banner. But the Green Veil! It is assumed by thousands who go sadly along the deserted streets in the dimness of the winter daybreak, who eat their hard crust in silence, who sit patiently down to the loom or the work bench, and when twelve long and weary hours of toil are over, creep home-to that home which has never been to them-a home. The Green Veil, plain unpretending and plebeian in appearance, suits well with the tarnished dress and faded bonnet of the poor girl who belongs to the Sisterhood. It speaks of no style, tells nothing of gaudy ball rooms or nights spent in virtuous dissipation; but wafting aside to the impulse of the wind, it discloses the wan and faded face, which under less harsh nourishment than the food and shelter afforded by toil might have been red with health and wreathed with beaming smiles. And then the full dark eye, faded with want and penury, or the mild blue eye, subdued to an expression of quiet and uncomplaining endurance, or the brown eye, robbed of its glances, as the face

is of its youth. Ah-ha! A sigh for the fate of this gentle Sisterhood, coupled with a laugh at the mock benevolence which sends Bibles and money to the ends of the earth, while virtuous womankind wears off her finger-nails with hopeless toil at home -ah-ha!

This is not funny, says some mustachioed reader, whose life has but the three incidents, the dinner, the opera and the night of dissipation. We expected fun, says the fashionable lady in her silks and smiles, we expected fun, and you give us a funeral elegy.

You are right. We confess ourselves wrong. But step this way. Come, to this broad window of the Astor House, and let us look out upon the deserted or almost deserted street. The day is breaking over the Park, and the fountain, like Time, showers forever its drops like the tickings of a watch. Come fine lady, come fine gentleman, we will give you fun."

You see that girl crossing Broadway? That girl in the dingy plaid shawl, the tarnished calico dress, the plain straw bonnet? Her face is shrouded by the Green Veil. Through slosh and mud and snow she picks her way at this early hour of the winter morning. Look at her well. Mark the hurried walk, the downcast head, the fingers clutching the shawl as the wind comes howling over the Park.

Well, what of this girl? Why fine lady, (and fine gentleman,) looking from the windows of the Astor House, I wish to tell you a secret. It is funny; quite funny. God made that woman, with the same thoughts, the same hopes, the same impulses that were given to you, fine lady. Your life is the party, the dinner, the ball, the revel and the bed of down. Hers is the crust of bread, the pallet of straw, and the toil in the morning, the toil at noon, the toil in the afternoon, and too often the toil in the night. You were once young and beautiful. So was this girl. Dissipation and rouge have faded your cheeks-toil, the hard crust and blight of poverty have faded hers.

Do tell me, is it not funny, that this poor working girl should esteem the hard crust and the life of toil, as worthier with the glory of virtue, than all the luxury of silks, satins and beds of down when destitute of that glory.

And the same God made you both, and the same Providence watches over you, and down to one grave and to one banquet of the worm you must go: you, the fine lady and you the sister of the Sisterhood of the Green Veil!

This is all very funny, and the fine lady laughs. Ha-haha-he! And yet, sweet woman in your silks and satins, for you, and such as you, fifty thousand women in faded gowns and Green Veils, labor in this New York, from morning till night, summer and winter, the whole year round. Fifty thousand

women, who with the blessing of a better state of society, might each have been a good wife or child-hallowed mother, are your slaves, and the slaves of such as you.

Who made the dress which shields your limbs from cold? Who the bonnet which gives additional grace to your lovely countenance? Who folded the sheets of the novel or the annual which lays on your centre table. Who embroidered the slipper on your pretty foot? Name one article of dress or one item of adornment, which does not owe its origin to the Sisterhood of the Green Veil!

Oh, gentle and patient Sisterhood, with genius and beauty locked up within your enduring FIFTY-THOUSAND, why not cast off your shackles and take society as it is? How many sweet opera singers might be gleaned from your ranks? How many gifted poets? How many idolized lady authors and lady actors? And can you prefer the quietude of virtue and toil, to the blaze of the world's idolatry and the luxury of fine clothing, days passed in one wild whirl of pleasure, nights in dissipation and the hum of pleasure followed by the bed of down?

If the eye of an angel ever looks forth from Heaven, softened by a tear, it is when its glance rests upon one of this quiet Sisterhood, sadly picking her way through the streets in the daybreak of a winter morning, on her path to that toil which has no end, no hope, while her wan face is shrouded by a Green Veil.

I once heard a story of a sister of the Sisterhood of the Green Veil which may bring tears to your eyes. I will tell it plainly, wildly as it was told to me. One night, four persons were grouped around a table, by the light of a flickering tallow candle, and among the damps and shadows of a subterranean den, which was sunken far below the smooth right-angled streets of the Quaker City, even below the kennels and huts of Baker street. It was, in a word, one of those wretched haunts, where the Lepers of the large city, congregate on the cold winter night, after a day spent in beggary, starvation and crime. Three of those persons were outcasts; mere boys in years, but with the stamp of precocious crime upon their faces, and the dull apathy of want in their blessed eyes. One had been in prison; the other had stained his hands in human blood; the third was simply a pauper, and they simply addressed each other by the names of "Number Ten," "Red Brand" and "Rags." The man with whom they conversed was remarkable for his muscular form, clad in a dashing dress, sparkling with jewellery; he was tall, dark bearded and dark haired, and with something of the sailor in his every look and gesture. He was known by the name of "Black Larry." The story goes on to tell us, that these four persons, all boys in years, and yet old in the world's ways, and venerable in its wrongs and crimes, were all the children of poor

men, who had been in the service of Stephen Girard. In that service they died, and "the good old man" gave their orphans an assurance, written on paper too, that they should be among the first, to be provided for, in his contemplated College of the Poor. He died; the city corporation squandered his money by millions; thirteen years rolled away; the orphans cast upon the world, without home or education, and, here they are before us. Three of them paupers and convicts; the fourth, dashing in his dress and manner, a Pirate, or at least a Captain of a slave-ship, fitted out at a Philadelphia wharf, by a respectable house, and sent to Africa to trade in flesh and blood. Black Larry has returned to the city, to arrange matters for another cruise; in the course of his rambles among the foul dens, hidden under that city's broad brimmed hat, he has lighted upon the three wretches and recognized them as the orphan comrades of his boyhood. From their rags they each bring forth a paper, signed with the name of Stephen Girard, and commending these orphans to the tender mercies of the Directors of his College, when it is built. Black Larry produces a similar paper; at once a kind of rude brotherhood springs up between the well-dressed Pirate and the ragged outcasts. They drink together, and drink of the foul poison, sold by the proprietor of the den, and Larry begins to speak of an Orphan Sister, whom he has seen but once since they were little children together. "Two years ago, looking through the windows of a store in Second street, I saw her-knew her— but dared not speak to her-for she'd ask where my money came from, and I dare not tell that I was doing a devil's work for devil's wages!" Where is she now? Larry, even in this low debauch, remembers his last sight of her beautiful face; the memory of that sister is the holy thing, in his depraved nature; the last wreck of other days still clinging to his soul. At this moment Red Brand, maddened by the drugs which he has drank, proposes a dance, and from the darkness of the den, drags a miserable female into light. Let us look in upon the scene.

"Come, you jade, no fooling, or I'll cuff you as I did yesterday," growled the ruffian, as he stood her erect against the table. The poor wretch, whose form swollen with disease, was clad in tatters, while her face, bloated with alcohol, was encircled by masses of tangled hair, soiled with the dust of the floor, was either too weak to stand, or her senses were yet confused by her drunken slumber, for she fell backward, and lay with her whole length on the table.

"Brandy!" she faintly murmured, " Brandy !"

Black Larry, who had been gazing into the opposite corners of the room turned and beheld her. The light, standing beside her head-fell over her bloated countenance, around whose outlines the traces of loveliness and beauty, seemed even yet to lin

ger. Larry arose, with his curiosity excited by the appearance of the miserable woman. He cast one glance over her form, with the white bosom, white even yet, though foul hands had beaten it in drunken frenzy, appearing in the light from the garment of tatters, while the palsied feet, swollen by consumption, were thrust from the skirts, like the feet of a corpse. Black Larry bent slowly down, his curling beard touching her face, as he surveyed her with a long and careful glance.

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Brandy—I burn-I burn-brandy!" muttered the miserable

woman.

She unclosed her eyes. Black Larry raised his head. The convict saw him tremble; the murderer noticed that his face had grown very pale; the pauper wondered why his lips quivered so tremulously. Stretching forth his hands, as if to save himself from a fall over some dizzy height, that man stood there for a moment, and then sank back into the chair.

"ALICE!" he murmured in a whisper that froze their blood. The vagabonds gazed upon his livid face with a look of surprise. "What! You don't mean to say? Not that thing?" cried Red Brand starting backward, with the brandy bottle in his hand.

"My sister!" said Black Larry in a hoarse whisper, as he wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

The miserable girl moved on the table, and clutched at its rough boards with her quivering hands:

"I burn-I burn! Brandy-why will you not give mebrandy!"

Black Larry silently arose. Bending down his head, he shaded his features from the light, with his upraised hand, and gazed upon her face. The vagabonds could not mark the writhings of his countenance, but even in that dim light, they beheld his muscular form quiver as with the first touch of some deathly disease. The hand which shaded his eyes, trembled with a short, quick, nervous motion.

All was silent. The criminals regarded his speechless emotion, with a mute reverence that said more for their rude sympathy with his death-like agony, than all the eloquence of words, that ever flowed from the lips of some great orator.

"Alice" he murmured, in a whisper, scarcely audible, yet wrung syllable by syllable, from his writhing heart" Alice, don't you know me? I am your brother, Alice, your own brother!"

The eye-lids of that bloated face slowly unclosed. Those eyes were lifted to his face. The veins of the white enamel filled with injected blood, the lids purpled and swollen, there was yet a soft expression lingering in the wild glare of her eyes, like the faint ray of a lamp, mingling in the red light of a conflagration. "Alice Alice" groaned his choaking voice-"you know me? My sister, you know me ?"

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