Our stay in Washington had come to an end and the campaign was on.
I was building a business block in Chicago, which had come to a tangle
owing to labor conditions. Throughout the country there was a movement
for the ten-hour day, and there were many strikes, particularly in the
East.
We decided to return to Chicago by way of New York. Dorothy was in great
anxiety about Mammy and Jenny lest they be kidnapped along the way.
Desperate characters were about who picked up negroes in the North and
sold them in the South. It was as common a matter as robbing a bank or
picking a pocket. We kept a close watch on Mammy and Jenny. In New York
we rode together in a carriage. But this was also made necessary by the
fact that negroes were not permitted to use the street cars.
The city now had half a million people; but I found the old places, like
Niblo's Garden, and again walked to Washington Square whither I had
taken my lonely way so many years before. Leaving our boy, Reverdy, with
Mammy and Jenny at the Astor House, Dorothy and I spent much time in
sightseeing.
Broadway was our particular delight. Though it was poorly paved, and
dimly lighted at night, it was a scene of great fascination. It was the
great promenade. Omnibuses, cabs, hacks, trucks rolled through it all
day long. There were footmen in livery; luxury was displayed in the
equipages. There were crowds of foreigners; and ragged boys and girls
who sold matches or newspapers. New York had the penny newspaper. We
looked out upon the street in the early morning, when the workers
streamed to their tasks. We saw it at breakfast time, when the bankers
hurried toward Wall Street, and the lawyers were going to court, or to
their offices in Nassau and Pine streets. In the afternoon ladies,
richly dressed, dandies, and loafers crowded the sidewalks. There was
fashion in abundance; wonderful silks, ermine cloaks, furs, feathers,
gorgeous costumes of all sorts. Gold had been discovered in California!
The Mexican cessions and Oregon could be felt on Broadway. In the shops
articles from every part of the world were for sale. There were ladies'
oyster shops, ladies' reading rooms, and ladies' bowling alleys.
We drove to the new residence districts, like La Fayette Place, Waverly
Place, Washington Square, and lower Fifth Avenue. We went down to the
Battery from which I had looked with lonely eyes on the ships and the
bay fifteen years before. The sailing vessels were giving way to the
steamship. The Cunarder _Canada_ was in port, 250 feet long, of 2000
horsepower, and with a speed of eleven knots an hour. Everywhere we
encountered the New York policemen who had taken the place of the
night-watch of 1833. They were all in uniform too. They had made a fight
against the uniforms, upon the principle that all men are free and
equal, and that they would not be liveried lackeys. But they had come to
it. We also attended the theater frequently, like the Chatham and the
Olympic. But most wonderful of all was Barnum's Museum, in which that
great showman had collected dwarfs and giants, fat women and human
skeletons.
I felt impelled to hurry to Chicago, but Dorothy wanted to shop and so
we stayed on. One day I had an agreeable surprise in meeting with
Yarnell as we were entering the Astor House. I had not seen him since I
parted with him in 1833, on my way west. He was now about forty-five
years of age, but looked as youthful as when I first saw him, and was
more of a dandy. He touched my arm as I passed him. I recognized him at
once and presented him to Dorothy. As Dorothy was anxious to return to
our son, she left me with Yarnell who wished to join me at luncheon.
He took me to the Hone Club, which was the resort of good livers and men
about town. After ordering the meal we set to the comparison of notes.
He was eager to hear about the West and of Chicago. He could scarcely
believe that Detroit and Milwaukee had a population of about 20,000
each, and that Chicago had distanced them with 30,000. I told him of our
canal, which was done, and of our great shipping. Illinois had more than
300 miles of railroad, and we were building more at a rapid rate. This
led, of course, to Douglas. Yarnell wanted to hear more of him. I told
Yarnell of the beginning of my friendship with Douglas; how he had
helped me from the stage to Mrs. Spurgeon's house in Jacksonville; of
our friendship since that time, and of our winter in Washington. Then we
fell to talking of Webster and Seward. Seward was a power in New York,
now about forty-seven years of age; but Yarnell did not like him.
Webster had wavered, particularly before the logic of Calhoun. But,
after all, was not Webster cribbed by his New England environment?
Seward had since been an anti-Masonic, had attended its national
convention in 1830. Then he had joined the Whigs, in order to oppose
Jackson. Nearly all lunacies had gone into the composition of the Whigs.
What about this observance of the law, the higher law included? Why did
not Seward honor the requisition of the Governor of Virginia for the
return of a fugitive slave? Then we took up Greeley. His daily _Tribune_
was now having an enormous circulation. Greeley and Seward were not
friends, but there was much of spiritual kinship between them. We grew
humorous over recounting the new movements: Spiritualism, women's
rights, and temperance. "Do you know what happened right here in New
York?" said Yarnell. "The Millerites got ready for the Second Advent of
Christ, and there was a shop in the Bowery which displayed a large
placard with the words 'muslin for ascension robes.'"
"Don't you see how clearly Douglas' compact mind stands out against all
this folly?" "Yes," said Yarnell, "but how is Douglas going to stand out
against it? These various reformers never get tired, and they are so
numerous that they will overwhelm any man. Besides that, you find able
minds like Seward and Greeley taking up with them. Is it the same way
out in Chicago?" "Not so much so," I said. "We have many foreigners out
our way, and they give a different quality to the civilization. Come out
and see."
Yarnell walked with me back to the Astor House, and we parted.
I found Dorothy in tears, almost hysterical. Jenny, in her absence, had
stepped from the room for a moment. She had not returned. She could not
be found. I went on the streets, I searched everywhere. I drove to the
open squares, to the Battery. I enlisted the aid of policemen, but they
were none too friendly. I went to the _Tribune_ and inserted an
advertisement. The hotel employees took a hand. But no Jenny. She was
deeply attached to our boy. She could not have willingly wandered away.
She must have been kidnapped.
Dorothy cried herself to sleep. I sat through half the night at the
window, looking out upon Broadway, listening, at last, to the stir and
sounds of dawn. Jenny had been in the Clayton family almost from her
birth; an associate of Mammy's for many years. The affection that
existed between Dorothy and Jenny was intimate and tender. Dorothy
depended upon her for everything. I went to Dorothy and took her in my
arms, trying to console her. She was as deeply affected as if she had
lost a sister. All that day we searched for Jenny. The days went by, and
we did nothing but try to find her. Our loss became the talk of the
hotel. The newspapers took up the story. Where was Jenny; in whose
hands; what fate had she met? Our boy cried for her, and Mrs. Clayton
was inconsolable. But at last we had to move on to Chicago. Was Jenny
kidnapped? We never knew. We only knew that we never saw her again. This
was the sordidness of slavery, its temptation to the meanest passions,
the lowest lusts. The loss of Jenny made me hate it.