DEAR AUNTY,--My last letter, written from Philadelphia, told you of my
having made Mr. Lincoln's acquaintance. A few days after we left for
Niagara, taking Rochester on our way. I had not seen Rochester since I was
eleven years old, and mama and I both wanted to go there again.
We slept in Rochester that night. The next morning a deputation headed by
the director of the penitentiary, flanked by a committee of benevolent
ladies, called upon us to beg me to sing for the penitents at the
penitentiary the next day, it being Sunday. They all said, in chorus, that
it would be a great and noble act.
I did not (and I do not now) see why pickpockets and burglars should be
entertained, and I could not grasp the greatness of the act, unless it was
in the asking. However, mama urged me (she can never bear me to say no),
and I accepted.
At the appointed time the director called for us in a landau, and we drove
out to the penitentiary. As we entered the double courtyard, and drove
through the much belocked gates, I felt very depressed, and not at all
like bursting forth in song. Mama and I were led up, like lambs to the
slaughter, on to a platform, passing the guilty ones seated in the pews,
the men on one side, the women on the other, of the aisles, all dressed in
stripes of some sort; they looked sleepy and stupid. They had just sat
through the usual Sunday exhortation.
The ladies of the committee ranged themselves so as to make a background
of solemn benevolence on the platform, in the middle of which stood a
primeval melodion with two octaves and four stops. One stop would have
been enough for me, and I needed it later, as you will see.
Here I was! What should I sing? I was utterly at a loss. Why had I not
thought this out before coming?
French love-songs; out of the question.
Italian prayers and German lullabies were plentiful in the _répertoire_,
but seemed sadly out of place for this occasion.
I thought of Lucrezia Borgia's "Brindisi"; but that instantly went out of
my mind. A drinking song urging people to drink seemed absurdly
inappropriate, as probably most of my audience had done their misdeeds
under the influence of drink.
I knew the words of "Home, Sweet Home," and decided on that. Nothing could
have been worse. I attacked the squeaky melodion, pushed down a pedal,
pulled out the "vox humana" stop--the most harmless one of the melodion,
but which gave out a supernaturally hoarse sound--I struck the chord, and
standing up I began. These poor, homeless creatures must have thought my
one purpose was to harass them to the last limit, and I only realized what
I was singing about when I saw them with bowed heads and faces hidden in
their hands; some even sobbing.
The director, perceiving the doleful effect I had produced, suggested,
"Perhaps something in a lighter vein." I tried to think of "something in a
lighter vein," and inquired, "How would 'Swanee River' be?"
"First-rate," said the kind director; "just the thing--_good_" emphasizing
the word _good_ by slapping his hands together. Thus encouraged, I started
off again in the melancholy wake of the melodion. Alas! this fared no
better than "Home, Sweet Home." When I sang "Oh; darkies! how my heart
grows weary!" the word _weary_ had a disastrous effect, and there was a
regular breakdown (I don't mean in the darky sense of the word, the
penitents did _not_ get up and perform a breakdown--I wish they had!); but
there was a regular collapse of penitents. I thought that they would have
to be carried out on stretchers.
The poor warden, now at his wits' end, but wishing to finish this
lugubrious performance with a flourish, proposed (unhappy thought) that I
should address a few words to the now miserable, broken-hearted crowd. I
will give you a thousand guesses, dear aunty, and still you will never
guess the idiotic words that issued from your niece's lips. I said,
looking at them with a triumphant smile (I have no doubt that, at that
moment, I thought I was in my own drawing-room, bidding guests good
night)--I said (I really hate to write it): "I hope the next time I come
to Rochester I shall meet you all here again."
This was the first speech I ever made in public--I confess that it was not
a success.