them; cleansing and purifying, like a breath of sweet air, all the
dreadful remembrances of that foul home from which they were rescued.
Think what it were to change the life, temporal and eternal, of _one_
such child! And God be praised, the number of the saved is Legion.
How like a dreadful dream to the girl, in a happy home of her own,
with her own innocent baby on its father's knee, will be the pit of
degradation, where, but for this charity, _she_ might have been lost.
She realizes it fully now, when she looks into her little baby's face,
and grows chill with fear as she kisses it. And her brother! the hale,
sturdy-honest, well-to-do farmer, who comes in of an evening to talk
about _his_ farm and _his_ crops, and _his_ barns full of plenty--can
that be Johnny? once with the hat guiltless of a brim, the coat with
one flap, the trousers with half a leg, and the mouth full of oaths
and obscenity! Can that be Johnny, who dodged policemen so adroitly,
and was on the high road to the gallows in short jackets? This is not
fiction. This is not imagination. The biographies of great men and
women will yet adorn your library shelves, whose childhood had such
rescuing as this. One gets the heart-ache at every step in New York,
if he has eyes or ears for aught save Mammon; and yet how like
sun-beams, now and then, across this darkness, comes some noble
charity, of whose existence you knew nothing, till some unpretentious
sign arrests the eye, in some street never before travelled by you in
your daily rounds--some "Asylum," or "Retreat," or "Home," or
Hospital, at whose gate Mercy stands with outstretched arms, nor asks
the poor unfortunate whom it shelters, its creed or its nationality,
but says only--Here is comfort and help.
This much concerning _organized_ Charities. But of the noble women,
and men, too, who daily and quietly stretch out helping hands, giving
time and money, without other reward than the satisfaction such acts
bring to a kind heart--of them, surely there is One who will keep
record.
* * * * *
I see other signs of the millennium. In Massachusetts they have
Evening Lectures for the benefit of the convicts in the State Prison.
I shall never forget my tour through a State Prison, one bright summer
day. The hopeless faces of the men in the workshops. Their sullen
looks when by twos they marched in long procession across the yard,
under guard, to their dinner. I shall never forget the poor wretches
in the carding-room, breathing all day, and every day, the little
fuzzy, floating particles, which set me coughing painfully the moment
I entered the door; and when I asked the attendant if it did not
injure their lungs, the cool matter-of-fact manner in which he
answered, "Yes--they didn't live very long." I remember well the
horrid, contracted cells, against whose walls I know I should have
dashed out my brains, were I locked in long enough. And well too could
I understand what a horror Sunday must be, imprisoned there, _all_
day, with only the interval of an hour of church; alone with torturing
memories; till they prayed for the light of Monday morning and
work--work!--ever so _hard_ work, so that it only brought contact and
companionship with their kind, speechless though it were.
I remember, too, being told, on inquiry, that the convicts were
allowed books to read in their cells on Sunday; but on examination of
the cells, I found many so dark that even at midday the offer of
"books to read" would have been a mere mockery. I remember, too, the
emaciated, hollow-eyed sick men, lounging on benches in the yard, and,
when I pitied them, being told that they often "feigned sickness."
Heaven knows I should not have blamed them for feigning anything, when
humanity so slept that visitors were told _in their hearing_ of their
crimes, as they were severally pointed out, and their names and former
professions and places of residence given; here a doctor, there a
minister, who had fallen from grace.
Surely, thought I, there _must_ come a time when a better way than
this shall be found to "_reform_" men. Surely it can never be done by
driving them mad with unrelieved severity like this. For I remembered
a letter I received from a convict, to whom some printed word of mine
had accidentally floated through his prison bars, and "helped him," so
he wrote me, "to bear up till the time for his release came, when he
hoped to be a better man."
Had I never written but that one word, I am glad to have lived for
that man's sake.
And now what a change! These poor creatures, instead of darkness and
solitude--with hate, and revenge, and despair maddening them--have
evening lectures for their profit and encouragement. Something to
_think_ about in the long hours of wakefulness and sickness;
something to look forward to when the day's unrewarded toil is done;
something to rout the demons that crouch in their cells and wait their
coming at night, till any other hell than this would seem heaven. Let
us hope that the example of good old Massachusetts in this and many
other praiseworthy regards may be widely imitated.
Surely as God lives, there is a window in the soul of every debased
man and woman, at which Love and Mercy may knock and whisper, and be
heard. Nor can warden or overseer or chaplain ever be sure that from
those convict cells is not issuing the stifled cry--No man cares for
_my_ soul.
_A GLANCE AT WASHINGTON._
I have no means of judging what Washington may look like in sunny
weather; sleet and rain having combined on my visit there, for a
"spell" of the most detestable weather ever encountered by a
traveller. The streets were a quaking jelly of mud, filled with a
motley procession of dirt-incrusted army-wagons, drawn by
wretched-looking horses, the original color of whose hide was known
only to their owners. Military men swarmed on the sidewalks, gossipped
on the steps of public buildings, filled hotel entries, parlors and
dining-rooms, and splashed through mud-puddles with a recklessness
born of camp-initiation. To escape from wet sidewalks into street-cars
was to wade to them literally ankle-deep in mud-jelly. To the
resolute, however, all things are possible; especially when millinery
and dry-goods are counted as naught; I went there to see what was to
be seen, and I saw it.
The night before I visited the Capitol there came a heavy fall of
snow; the long avenues of trees leading to it looked very beautiful,
bending under their pure white burden, or tossing it lightly off, as
the wind swept by. Every garden seat had a round white cushion, every
statue a snow-crown. No art of man could have improved upon this
festal adorning of nature. The "prospect from the dome" we had to
take, by faith, more's the pity, the snow-king having drawn a veil
over it. Of course I stared about the Rotunda, like my betters. As I
have never "been abroad," I suppose I am not entitled to an opinion
upon the pictures I saw there; but it _did_ strike me that De Soto,
the discoverer of the Mississippi River, who travelled through the
wilderness for that purpose, thousands of miles, exposed to all
dangers and weathers; who lost cattle and men by fatigue and famine,
and was otherwise harassed to the verge of dissolution, could not, at
the moment, when success crowned his efforts, have been found in a
rich crimson jacket with slashed Spanish sleeves, and silk stockings
drawn over well-rounded calves, and an immaculate head of hair,
looking as if it had just emerged from a fashionable barber's shop. I
say it struck _me_ so, but then I'm "only a woman," and have never
been to Italy. It struck me also that their rags, and their dirt, and
their uncombed locks, and their jaded horses, would have looked quite
as picturesque, and had the added advantage of being true to nature.
It occurred to me also that some of the horses of the victorious
generals in the other pictures were very impossible animals, but that
may be owing to some defect in my early education. I could not help
thinking that our great-great-great-grand children might possibly wish
that we had left the _art-selection_ to themselves. It won't matter
much to us then, however.
How patriotic I felt when I stood on the floor of the Senate! A minute
more, and I should have forgotten my bonnet, and made a speech myself.
It might not have been "in order," but I think it would have been
listened to while it lasted, though when my enthusiasm was over, I
should probably have collapsed into shamefaced consciousness, very
much as do the restored breathers of "the laughing gas." I never heard
a more eloquent or appropriate prayer than was offered at the opening
of the Senate, that day, by a clergyman, whose name I did not learn.
Years ago, and what clergyman would have dared utter such bold words
in such a place? There were no speeches made that morning; and there
was no need; the place itself was inspiration. My breath came quick as
I looked about me.
As to the "White House," I have no doubt that the upholstery and
carpets are all right--also the chandeliers. For myself I coveted the
green-house and garden, and the fine piazza at the back of the house,
with its view of Arlington Heights and the white tents of the
encampment in the distance. The "East Room," with its Parisian carpet,
would have astonished the ghost of Mrs. John Adams, who used to dry
her clothes there, when it was in an unfinished state. How very
strange it looked to see sentinels on duty before the doors; one
realizes that there "is war," when in Washington and its surroundings,
where railroad gates and public buildings are guarded, and at every
few miles of road up starts a sentinel, and camps are so plentiful
that one ceases to regard them with a curious eye.
* * * * *
After walking through the Patent Office at Washington, I had several
reflections. First, a feeling of thankfulness that our innocent
ancestors died without knowing how uncomfortable they were,--minus
these modern improvements. Secondly, how many heads must have ached,
hatching out the ideas there practically perfected. Thirdly, did the
_real_ inventors themselves reap any reward, pecuniary or otherwise,
or, having died "making an effort," did some charlatan, with more
money than brains, filch their discovery and, attaching his name to
it, secure both fame and gold?
Leaving these vexed questions unsettled, the place is of rare interest
even to the ordinary curiosity-hunter, destitute either of
philosophical or mechanical proclivities. Looking at General
Washington's relics, one cannot but be struck with the simple tastes
of that time. The plates, knives and chairs, which formed part of his
household furniture, would--apart from their associations--be sniffed
at in any fashionable mansion of the present day. And as to his
camp-chest and writing-desk, every mother's 1862-pet, whose budding
moustache is half demolished by parting kisses, is provided with a
better as he goes to "the war." And Washington's coat, waistcoat and
breeches are of a fabric so coarse, that our present officials would
decline wearing the like except under compulsion. The same may be said
of the coat worn by the immortal General Jackson; at the mention of
whose name I will forever remove my bonnet, for his unswerving loyalty
toward, and manly defence of, his zealously slandered wife. Alas for
some of the pluck and spirit that animated the sometime wearers of
those faded old military clothes. But it is too aggravating a theme;
though I _did_ linger over those military buttons, with divers little
thoughts which I should like to have whispered into the President's
ear, and which, if properly carried out, would no doubt save this
nation!
As to the fifteen flashy silk robes presented by the Japanese
government to ours, I had no desire to get into them. A strange
soldier standing near while I was gazing, stepped up, and with camp
frankness said to me: "now I suppose, being a lady, you can form some
idea of the value of those things." "Oh, yes," said I, "they are like
the bonnets of to-day, expensive in proportion to their ugliness."
Penetrated by the wisdom of my reply, he answered feelingly, "_Just
so_,"--and touching his cap, passed on. Among General Washington's
relics I saw a cane presented to him by Franklin, and a chandelier
presented to Washington by some French magnate, so awkward, inferior
and crude, compared with the splendid affairs of the present day, that
one compassionately wishes, for the donor's sake, that his name were
withheld. I saw also, under glass, the original treaties of several
foreign nations, French and others, with our government. The
autographic signatures of great potentates, yellow with time, was
suggestive. The models of steam-engines, revolvers, torpedoes,
mowing-machines and excavators, were "too many for me;" I might have
looked wise over them, to be sure, like other folks, but had I stood
staring till the millennium I couldn't have comprehended them, so
where was the use of shamming? I just said, that's not in my line, and
inspected the different varieties of hoop-skirts; and though the
masculine mind may not recognize the fact, the perfection to which
those things have arrived by gradual stages is comforting to
contemplate. I say "comforting" advisedly; because if one _must_ drag
round so many yards of dry goods, a cage is better adapted to hang
them on than the human hips. It is my opinion that notwithstanding the
torrent of abuse to which the hoop is and has been subjected, it will
never be _dropped_--save at bed-time.
* * * * *
It is a melancholy affair to visit public institutions that have
sprung from the legacies of wealthy persons, so often do they fail to
carry out the philanthropic results so enthusiastically programmed by
the donors. This reflection seemed to me not out of place when leaving
the Smithsonian Institute in Washington. The building itself is fine,
and favorably located, and the grounds about it very attractive; but
dust-covered statues, cobwebs, and a general and indescribable air of
inefficiency in the interior, were painfully palpable, and stood as a
type of other posthumous charities which have come under my notice. In
fact, "_wills_" oftener turn out, "_wonts_" than one imagines,
codiciled and guarded as they may be by the best human ingenuity and
foresight. Snakes are not the only wriggling animals, and dead men are
happy in not being able to return to their old haunts. Some of the
pictured celebrities in the place would have leaped from their frames,
had they heard the irreverent bystanders, who here "doing" the lions,
asking who they were, and gaping at the guide-book recital of their
greatness and goodness, from some companion; or turning an indifferent
joke, in the middle of the narration, upon the cut of the pictured
coat, or hair, or beard. It was an excellent comment upon the wearing,
toil and fret of ambition, which eats the heart out of life, and often
sets aside everything worth living for, to gain--_a name_. The
collection of animals there would be interesting doubtless to the
naturalist; but we often wonder who _but_ he, could take pleasure in
bottled snakes, sprawling, impaled bugs, and stuffed monkeys and
baboons. As to the latter, they are too painful a burlesque upon human
beings, to be regarded with complacency. Their horrible and fiendish
exaggeration of some faces, which all of us have, once or more, in our
lives met, is anything but agreeable. The collection of stuffed birds
in this place is exquisitely beautiful. One lingers _there_, oblivious
of wide-mouthed, hungry-looking bears, standing on their hind legs, or
grinning skulls of Indians, or other delightful monstrosities. These
brilliant birds, orange with black wings, or scarlet wings with black
bodies, or drab with bright little heads, or with the whole body of
the loveliest blue, were beautiful as the most brilliant hued
bouquet. So perfectly were they prepared and mounted, that one waited
expectant for a sweet trill, or an upward flight. There was also a
very curious and pretty exhibition of bird's eggs, of every size and
color, some of them "cuddled" comfortably in little nests. I would
have agreed to leave to the Institution the numerous and precious
volumes of "De Bow's Review" which graced it, for the liberty of
appropriating those bright birds and those pretty eggs.
One feature in the place was quite novel. Specimens framed under glass
of the hair of some of the Presidents of the United States. Either
these gentlemen were not liberally endowed with this commodity, or
inveterate lion-hunters had taught them a niggardly caution on the
distribution of this article, in view of baldness or a future wig; for
under the names of some of them were only four or six hairs. Most of
them were white or grey; suggestive of rather equivalent repose, for
the craniums from whence they sprang. Of course, one's organ of
reverence would not admit in this case the possibility of the trick
adopted by "pestered" celebrities--attacked in the hair--viz: wickedly
substituting something else for the original coveted article. Of
course not! As to the soldiers and military men passing through
Washington, they must be pleased to know how comfortably they can be
"embalmed," should a chance shot render it necessary. Large signs to
this effect, conspicuously placed, and running the whole length of a
block, stare them remindingly in the face, at every turn. As to
Jackson's equestrian statue, fronting the President's house, I opine
that nobody _but_ General Jackson could have sat on a horse's back in
that rearing condition, without slipping backward over the tail.
However, one forgives everything to an admirer of General Jackson; and
the sculptor evidently had strong faith in his omnipotence, as well as
in the wonderful upward, danger-defying curve of his unique horse's
tail!
_GLIMPSES OF CAMP LIFE IN WAR TIME._
A visit to the head-quarters of an executive General is a means of
grace. I recommend it to all ladies who, year after year, closing
their disgusted ears to what limpingly passes below stairs, accept its
dawdling results as inevitable. For my own part, my back is up. So
imbued am I with the moral beauty of military discipline, that unless
I can inaugurate its counterpart from garret to cellar, I shall return
in disgust to army-life.
The idea struck me forcibly one morning before breakfast as I stepped
out into the bright sunshine, to behold a captain drilling his company
for the day. As each musket was presented for inspection, turned
quickly from one side to the other, and tossed lightly back into its
owner's waiting hands, I rushed back to tent and exclaimed: "General,
can you give any reason why we ladies shouldn't do with our pots, pans
and gridirons, each day, what your captain is doing yonder with the
muskets of his men; and with a 'guard-house' to back us up in case of
default or impertinence." "Why--_don't_ you ladies inspect your pots,
pans and gridirons?" inquired General Butler. "When our cooks are
_out_, never for our lives else," I replied. "Poor slaves!" was his
feeling reply.
"Poor slaves!" I echoed, as I returned to my lovely "drill" and grew
more righteously mad each minute. As I stood there, my dears, I for
one resolved never again to be the pusillanimous wretch to say, "If
you please, Martha," or "will you please, Bridget, bring me this or
that." No--instead, I boldly propose: "Orderly! bring me that baby!"
and when Bridget comes in, with a well-feigned sorrow for the decease
of that stereotyped "friend" who is always waiting to be "waked," and
begs leave of absence, let us answer, _à la militaire_, "Yes--you can
go for awhile; but your 'friend' is not dead, neither are you going to
a wake. I want you to understand that I am not deceived." And when,
after repeated instructions, the roast-beef is still overdone, with
executive forefinger let us touch the bell, and in the _lowest_ but
firmest of tones remark, "Orderly! put the cook in the guard-house."
But stay--women can never manage women that way. They are too cat-ty.
Let us have _men_-cooks, my dears, and science as well as civility
with our sauce. Yea--_men_-cooks, who will not "answer back;"
_men_-cooks who will not need to be an hour at the glass "prinking"
before they can look a tomato in the face; men-cooks, who, having once
done a thing "your way," can ever after reproduce it, and not, with
feminine caprice, or heedlessness, each time lessen the sugar and
double the salt, and vice-versa; _men_-cooks, whose "beaux" are not
always occupying the extra kitchen chair; _men_-cooks, who understand
the economy of space, and do not need a whole closet for every
tumbler, or a bureau-drawer for each towel.
Oh! I have not been "to camp" for nothing. There are no carpets
_there_ to spot with grease. There are no pictures whose golden frames
are wiped with a wet dish-cloth. There are no velvet chairs, or
ottomans, upon which they can lay red-hot pokers or entry-mats. There
is no pet china they can electrify the parlor with smashing, to the
tune of hundreds of dollars. But instead, there are little tents
dotted about, furnished with brave men; and for pictures, long lines
of army wagons trailing their slow length along; and yonder, against
the burnished sunset sky, gallop the cavalry, with glittering arms;
and there are "squads" of secesh coming into the lines, with most
astounding hats and trowsers and no shoes, who hold up the _wrong
hand_ when they take the oath of allegiance, and make their "mark" in
the registry book instead of writing their names, and some of whose
"profession," when questioned, is--"to shoemake;" and there are
grotesque-looking contrabands; and rat-ty looking, useful mules; and
in the evening there are fire-fly lamps gleaming from the little
tents; and of a cool evening lovely, blazing camp-fires, round which
you can sit and talk with intelligent men till the small hours, about
other things than "bonnets;" and there's reveille, and--good heavens!
_why_ did I come back to New York, with its "peace-men" and its tame
monkeys.
* * * * *