Speak not to me of the sweetness of revenge! Of all unhappy mortals
the vengeful man must be the most wretched. I suffered more in
the anticipation of mine than ever I had when smarting under the
injury, grievous as the memory of it is to me even now. Day after day
I went across the street to begin the search. For hours I lingered
about the record clerk's room where they kept the old station-house
blotters, unable to tear myself away. Once I even had the one from
Church Street of October, 1870, in my hands; but I did not open
it. Even as I held it I saw another and a better way. I would kill
the abuse, not the man who was but the instrument and the victim of
it. For never was parody upon Christian charity more corrupting to
human mind and soul than the frightful abomination of the police
lodging-house, sole provision made by the municipality for its
homeless wanderers. Within a year I have seen the process in full
operation in Chicago, have heard a sergeant in the Harrison Street
Station there tell me, when my indignation found vent in angry
words, that they "cared less for those men and women than for the
cur dogs in the street.
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