{"product_id":"2940013087248","title":"The Wondersmith","description":"A small lane, the name of which I have forgotten, or do not choose to\u003cbr\u003eremember, slants suddenly off from Chatham Street, (before that\u003cbr\u003eheadlong thoroughfare reaches into the Park,) and retreats suddenly\u003cbr\u003edown towards the East River, as if it were disgusted with the smell of\u003cbr\u003eold clothes, and had determined to wash itself clean. This excellent\u003cbr\u003eintention it has, however, evidently contributed towards the making of\u003cbr\u003ethat imaginary pavement mentioned in the old adage; for it is still\u003cbr\u003eemphatically a dirty street. It has never been able to shake off the\u003cbr\u003eHebraic taint of filth which it inherits from the ancestral\u003cbr\u003ethoroughfare. It is slushy and greasy, as if it were twin brother of\u003cbr\u003ethe Roman Ghetto.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI like a dirty slum; not because I am naturally unclean,--I have not a\u003cbr\u003edrop of Neapolitan blood in my veins,--but because I generally find a\u003cbr\u003ecertain sediment of philosophy precipitated in its gutters. A clean\u003cbr\u003estreet is terribly prosaic. There is no food for thought in carefully\u003cbr\u003eswept pavements, barren kennels, and vulgarly spotless houses. But\u003cbr\u003ewhen I go down a street which has been left so long to itself that it\u003cbr\u003ehas acquired a distinct outward character, I find plenty to think\u003cbr\u003eabout. The scraps of sodden letters lying in the ash-barrel have their\u003cbr\u003emeaning: desperate appeals, perhaps, from Tom, the baker's assistant,\u003cbr\u003eto Amelia, the daughter of the dry-goods retailer, who is always\u003cbr\u003eselling at a sacrifice in consequence of the late fire. That may be\u003cbr\u003eTom himself who is now passing me in a white apron, and I look up at\u003cbr\u003ethe windows of the house (which does not, however, give any signs of a\u003cbr\u003erecent conflagration) and almost hope to see Amelia wave a white\u003cbr\u003epocket-handkerchief. The bit of orange-peel lying on the sidewalk\u003cbr\u003einspires thought. Who will fall over it? who but the industrious\u003cbr\u003emother of six children, the eldest of which is only nine months old,\u003cbr\u003eall of whom are dependent on her exertions for support? I see her slip\u003cbr\u003eand tumble. I see the pale face convulsed with agony, and the vain\u003cbr\u003estruggle to get up; the pitying crowd closing her off from all air;\u003cbr\u003ethe anxious young doctor who happened to be passing by; the\u003cbr\u003emanipulation of the broken limb, the shake of the head, the moan of\u003cbr\u003ethe victim, the litter borne on men's shoulders, the gates of the New\u003cbr\u003eYork Hospital unclosing, the subscription taken up on the spot. There\u003cbr\u003eis some food for speculation in that three-year-old, tattered child,\u003cbr\u003emasked with dirt, who is throwing a brick at another three-year-old,\u003cbr\u003etattered child, masked with dirt. It is not difficult to perceive that\u003cbr\u003ehe is destined to lurk, as it were, through life. His bad, flat face--\u003cbr\u003eor, at least, what can be seen of it--does not look as if it were made\u003cbr\u003efor the light of day. The mire in which he wallows now is but a type\u003cbr\u003eof the moral mire in which he will wallow hereafter. The feeble little\u003cbr\u003ehand lifted at this instant to smite his companion, half in earnest,\u003cbr\u003ehalf in jest, will be raised against his fellow-beings forevermore.","brand":"Purple Cow Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47145542451440,"sku":"2940013087248","price":5.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013087248_p0.jpg?v=1763576778","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013087248","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}