At 170 Division Street, in this city, lives a philanthropic German lady, Mrs. Rosalia Goodman. The tendencies of her kindly heart have prompted her to devote much of her time to the comfort and relief of persecuted and neglected felines. The house she occupies is a three-story wooden building, and dates back to the Dutch period of the city. She has lived there for several years, and makes a comfortable living by renting rooms, retaining two for herself and her cats. Here she dispenses a liberal charity to a large family of cats. Besides many pets who for years have been kindly cared for, the family is constantly being increased by the addition of unfortunate tabbies whose wants are brought to the notice of the worthy woman. Lean and hungry cats prowling around in search of food, cats who bear the scars received by having boot-jacks, crockery-ware, etc., thrown at them by unappreciative hearers while they were performing a midnight concert; cats who come out with broken limbs and disordered fur from the ordeal of an interview with naughty little boys, and alI cats hungry and in distress, when brought to this asylum, receive the tenderest care. So well known in the neighborhood is the idiosyncrasy of Mrs. Goodman that whenever one of the cases above-mentioned comes to the notice of any of her sympathizing neighbors, the unfortunate sufferer is placed in her charge. When our artist visited her rooms, to make the sketch published on this page, he found the benevolent lady administering to the wants of some fifty cats, of all ages, sizes and conditions.

Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, July 7, 1875.

While New York is by no means the hottest city in the country, there have been a few days during the present season when the temperature reached a height altogether incompatible with human comfort. There were two such days last week, when the temperature reached ninety-four degrees in the shade, and the sufferings of those exposed to the torrid rays of the sun were intense. On the 23d, especially the heat was most oppressive and man and beast alike succumbed to its influences. The air was moist, no breeze was stirring, and when the noonday sun looked down upon Broadway it saw not one but many thousands of wilted men and women. Among the tenement houses the suffering was great, perhaps than at any time during the summer. The streets were deserted in the middle of the day, and the sweltering thousands labored and drudged in their hot and dismal rooms with no chance of relief. In the evening they swarmed about doorsteps and hallways and filled the streets.

Our illustration strikingly depicts the incidents of one of these hot days—the feverish consultation of the thermometer, the eager quest for comfort on the shady side of the street, the prostration of man and beast by the pitiless heat. Happy are they who in such “torrid times” as these are able to find cool retreats on mountain tops or by the sea or in fragrant forest depths where no ray of sun can ever penetrate.

Reprinted from the National Police Gazette, September 1, 1883