MEMOIRS OF A MILLIONAIRE
BY
LUCIA TRUE AMES
AUTHOR OF “GREAT THOUGHTS FOR LITTLE THINKERS”
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
=The Riverside Press, Cambridge=
1889
Copyright, 1889,
BY LUCIA TRUE AMES.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A._
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
Dedicated
TO
MY ONLY BROTHER, CHARLES H. AMES.
Written for all men and women to whom the privilege of American
citizenship has been vouchsafed, and to whom the stewardship of wealth
has been entrusted.
[Illustration]
EDITOR’S PREFACE.
Since the recent death of the noble woman whose name has become a
household word all over our land, and whose memoirs form the subject of
this volume, I have been repeatedly importuned to give to the public
some account of her remarkable life.
It is too soon yet to present an adequate biography, and for such a task
I should consider myself entirely unfitted. I have, however, endeavored,
though somewhat hastily, to put together such material, chiefly
selections from newspaper reports, letters, and diaries, as shall throw
light upon the numerous projects that were the outcome of her thought
and generosity, and which in certain ways are unparalleled in the annals
of those whose wealth has been devoted to the cause of humanity.
Cut off in the full ripeness of early womanhood, her work was
nevertheless accomplished, and millions shall in the ages to come reap
perennial harvests from the seed which in one short year her wisdom and
foresight sowed far and wide.
The world at large will know somewhat of her work; but only to those who
knew her best, to whom she revealed the warmth and intensity of her
strong nature, can the full beauty of her life be known.
The constant, subtle charm of her manner, now gracious and dignified,
now unconsciously naive and simple, only a master could portray. I must
content myself, therefore, with giving, in simplest words, but a few of
the many reminiscences that memory brings back of those moments which
may serve to make clear the thoughts and purposes that were the
mainspring of all her action, and which made her what she was, the
noblest woman I have ever known.
I have hesitated about using the word “Memoirs” in the title of this
volume. That word has a somewhat doleful and funereal sound, suggestive
of anything but the bright, vigorous life of her who was so intensely
warm and alive. But perhaps there is no other word that so well
expresses what I have here put together, and so I leave it as I wrote it
first, “Memoirs of a Millionaire.”
BOSTON, _June 7, 189–_.
MEMOIRS OF A MILLIONAIRE.
CHAPTER I.
The class of which I speak make themselves merry without duties. They
sit in decorated club-houses in the cities, and burn tobacco and play
whist; in the country they sit idle in stores and bar-rooms, and burn
tobacco, and gossip and sleep. They complain of the flatness of
American life; America has no illusions, no romance. They have no
perception of its destiny. They are not Americans.—EMERSON, _The
Fortune of the Republic_.
It was on the evening of election day that I first saw her. I had come
up from Salem to Boston, to spend the night and hear Booth and Barrett
the next day, and I had gone to dine at aunt Madison’s on Louisburg
Square.
The lamps had not been lighted, and we were all sitting cosily around
the open grate after dinner, talking over the _matinée_, and jesting
with two or three of Will’s college friends who were there for the
evening, when the portière was noiselessly drawn aside, and Mildred
Brewster came in with a cheery good evening.
I can recall now just how she looked, as, after the introductions were
over, she stood leaning on the back of aunt Madison’s chair, with the
ruddy glow of the firelight on her face, and her lithe figure dimly
outlined against the shadowy background.
I did not notice her much at first, for, after her blithe greeting, on
seeing strangers she had drawn back into the shadow and sat so quietly
that I, carrying on a gay banter with the young men, had almost
forgotten her.
I do not remember what was said at first. It did not make much
impression on me at the time, until, after a while, the talk grew a
little more serious, and the young men began to speak of their plans for
the future. They were all seniors, and each of them, except Will, had
plenty of money in his own right, with apparently nothing in life more
burdensome to do than to draw checks and order dinners at Young’s.
They were a handsome trio, broad-chested, keen-eyed, clad in the
daintiest of linen from Noyes Brothers,—“the jolliest swells in the
class,” Will called them.
Aunt Madison asked them, apropos of the election, how they had voted,
for they were all residents of Boston and had passed their majority.
They were evidently rather amused at the query, but each and all
politely replied that they hadn’t much enthusiasm about voting, and it
having been a rainy day, they had not taken the trouble to go to the
polls.
“You see, the fact is,” said the young man with the blonde mustache whom
Will called Ned Conro, “voting is a confounded bore, any way.”
“But of course you have an interest in national politics, if not in
municipal affairs?” said aunt Madison, inquiringly, as she looked up
from her knitting and beamed benevolently at the young man through her
gold-bowed spectacles. “I suppose you young men at Harvard, with all
your study of history and political economy, are wide awake about all
these things.”
“Oh, we talk free trade and protection more or less, that is, the
fellows did who took that course of study last year. I don’t go in for
that sort of thing myself very much; my money isn’t in manufactures, and
I don’t care a continental about the tariff one way or the other. And as
for politics,—of course we all go in for the hurrah and fun in a
presidential campaign, but I don’t look forward to doing anything
further in that line after I graduate. It is all well enough for any one
who has a fancy for it and who wants to run for office, and that sort of
thing. But there can’t be more than two senators and one governor in a
state at a time, and anything less than that isn’t worth the trouble.
“I’ve mighty little respect for any man who condescends to be a ward
politician. Boston is an Irish city, after all, though last year some of
the better class got their blood up and had a clearing out; but the game
isn’t worth the candle, and I, for one, am willing to let the Irish go
the whole figure if they wish to do it. We can’t get rid of them, and it
doesn’t pay to mix up with them. I don’t propose to vote to have my
father, or any other gentleman of good old New England stock, sit beside
some liquor-seller or grocer as common councilman or alderman.”
“Neither do I,” ejaculated my _vis-à-vis_, whom Will had introduced as
Mr. Mather; “a fellow who begins to bother his head about all these
little twopenny municipal affairs only soils his hands for his pains,
and doesn’t improve matters one atom. It’s well enough to vote if one
wants to, but what does a single vote amount to? It counts no more when
cast by a Harvard professor than by some South Cove ‘Mick.’ Suppose Mr.
Smith and Mr. Brown are up for school committee; you don’t know a thing
about either of them, except that they are nominated by a set of rummies
and demagogues, or else by a lot of women or pious temperance cranks.
You are a professional man and your time is worth ten dollars an
hour,—you don’t care a fig about the whole school committee business
anyway; it’s the women’s affair—they can vote on that. Let them turn out
and manage it as they did last year, if they want to; but you can’t
expect a man to look after these matters, and be elbowed and hooted down
at the caucuses, if he has the tastes of a gentleman and all the
responsibilities of a profession or a large business on his shoulders.”
“The fact is that in municipal matters the ballot ought to be put on a
property basis, and until that is done, I shall bother myself precious
little about it,” remarked the third young gentleman, twirling his seal
and addressing his three feminine listeners.
I wondered why Mildred’s cheeks had grown so rosy and why her dark eyes
had such a gleam in them as she laid down the bit of embroidery on which
her fingers had been busy, and turned toward the speaker. “What a
profile!” I thought; “almost pure Greek, only the chin is a little too
square.”
“The truth is,” the young man continued, “we have no great men now and
no great issues, unless you call all this frenzy about the school
question a great issue. We’ve got to come to see that the government has
no right to tax its citizens to teach history, anyway. It’s an
imposition to tax a man to send some one else’s child to a high school.
Let the state give a child the three R’s, and then if he wants to learn
about Tetzel or Luther, let his father pay to have him taught in his own
way. Politics is no profession for a young man. There’s no great amount
of money in it, unless you’re mighty shrewd, and tricky, too; and as for
fame, the man must be pretty thick-skinned who can stand the pelting
which every reputation gets nowadays, and not wince under it. For my
part, I think democracy is a good deal played out. It was all right so
long as men _were_ equal; but we’re getting about as stratified a
society now as there is anywhere in the Old World; and there’s no use in
the sentimental every-man-a-brother kind of talk. I don’t propose to
shake the greasy hand of any of these beastly foreigners that are coming
here and crowding us to the wall. I don’t grudge them the rights of
American citizenship; they may have it and welcome, if they want it; but
where they step in I step out. In fact, I think I shall settle down in
Paris or Florence for a while. There’s lots more fun for a fellow over
there.”
There was more of this sort of talk. I watched Mildred’s face, and
noticed that her lips were twitching and her fingers playing nervously
with the fringe of a scarlet silk shawl which she wore. Evidently she
was under some stress of strong emotion, though for what reason I but
vaguely guessed. She had come out of the shadow, and stood tall and
stately, with her arm resting on the mantel and her eyes fixed on the
speakers with such a look as I had never before seen on any countenance.
There was anger and pity and contempt, strangely mingled, on her mobile
features. She had forgotten herself, and I think they were fairly
startled at the look they read in her tell-tale face.
Will made an attempt to change the subject, but Mr. Mather broke in:
“You look as though you did not agree with us, Miss Brewster. Come, we
have monopolized the conversation so far, now tell us what _you_ think.”
She did not speak at first, and there was an awkward silence for a
minute. When it was broken, her voice sounded so painfully hard and calm
in its effort not to tremble that I scarcely recognized it.
“Within two weeks,” she said, speaking slowly, “I have sat for five
hours face to face with the leading anarchists of New England. I have
questioned them, and they have told me frankly of their doctrines, which
you already know, and which, I scarcely need to say, I heartily detest.
But I have not heard, either from the lips of these misguided men or
from any one for many months, anything which has so shocked and
surprised me as what I have just listened to here.”
I felt that she was trembling as she spoke, but her voice was low and
quiet.
She continued: “When one is filled with indignation and grief it is
difficult to speak justly and wisely, and therefore, if you will excuse
me, I think that I will not trust myself to say anything further.”
“Good heavens!” cried Mr. Mather, staring at her in undisguised
amazement, while his companions glanced slyly at each other with faint
smiles and an evident endeavor to make the best of an embarrassing
situation.
“I think, dear, you had better tell them what you are thinking of, lest
they misunderstand you; of course you don’t mean that they are worse
than anarchists,” said aunt Madison, gently.
“No, not worse, but more to blame,” replied Miss Brewster, with
extraordinary candor, and then recollecting herself, a crimson tide
suddenly mantled her neck and cheek and brow, and she drew back again
into the shadow.
“I beg your pardon,” she stammered; and then with a little forced laugh
she added, “you see, you oughtn’t to have tempted me to speak. I was
sure to give offense if I spoke my thoughts.”
“Ah, but we can’t excuse you unless you go on,” said Ned Conro,
persuasively. “As for me, you have whetted my curiosity so that I shan’t
sleep a wink to-night,” he went on, with a twinkle in his eye, “unless I
know why my father’s son and heir, who has hitherto supposed himself to
be always on the side of law and order, is more to blame than these
foreign wretches who have come over here with the notion in their addled
heads that they are going to upset this nineteenth-century civilization
with a few ounces of dynamite.”
Mr. Gordon echoed Mr. Conro’s request, while a quizzical smile played
around his lips, and I knew as well as if he had told me, that he was
saying to himself, “Gad, she’s a specimen! One of these cranky
women’s-righters, no doubt. How they do like to hold forth! These girls
always spoil a fellow’s fun with their high and mighty theories and
ideas.” And this son of a quadruple millionaire thrust his hands deep
into the pockets of his English trousers and stretched himself
comfortably to listen, with all the complacent condescension of a man to
whom twenty-two years of experience and masculine wisdom gave a
consciousness of virtuous superiority.
The flush had faded from Mildred’s cheek, but I fancied from the look in
her eyes that she was in no mood to be trifled with; this was no mere
passing gust of passion. She had received a wound which had cut her to
the quick; for, as I afterwards learned to know, hers was one of those
rare natures, rare in men, rarer still in women, which scarcely feels a
personal slight, but to which a grand, absorbing idea is more real and
vital than all else, and which counts treason to this the unpardonable
sin.
“If I speak, I must speak plainly,” said Mildred. “I have neither time
nor wit to clothe my thoughts in ambiguous, inoffensive words. Like
plain, blunt Antony, I can only ‘speak right on’ and say ‘what in my
heart doth beat and burn.’”
“Good, I like that,” said Mr. Mather gravely, and there was an instant’s
silence, broken only by the chime of the cathedral clock as it struck
the hour.
“I have been thinking,” said Mildred quietly, “of those words in that
record of the young Hebrew, who, it is said, sold his birthright for a
mess of pottage. I have been thinking also of those words of our own
Emerson: ‘We live in a new and exceptional age. America is another name
for Opportunity. Our whole history appears like a last effort of
Providence in behalf of the human race.’ Perhaps you do not see the
connection between these two thoughts, but to me it seems very close. To
have for one’s inheritance the birthright of American citizenship seems
to me something so rich and precious that to despise it and ignobly sell
it,—not like Esau for the mess of pottage which could relieve his
hunger,—but to sell it to the stranger for the sake of gaining immunity
from responsibility, yes, more than that, throwing it away out of sheer
contempt for it and ingratitude for what it has done for one, this seems
to me the acme of cowardice and selfishness.”
I noticed that Mr. Mather knit his brows at this, and I thought I
detected a slight flush in his cheeks, but perhaps it was only the
firelight. Mildred did not look up or hesitate, but went steadily on.
“We sit here in the Promised Land
That flows with Freedom’s honey and milk;
But ’twas they won it, sword in hand,
Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk.”
“Yes, they won it, not we; and we, the heirs of all the ages, for whom
the whole creation has groaned and travailed until now, we, the favored
children of the best age, the best land which history has known, we idly
fold our hands and let the wealth of all the past, which others have
toiled for and shed bloody sweat to gain, fall into our laps as a matter
of course, as if it were but the just due of such lordly creatures as
we.
“Of what value, pray, is all our study of history if we have so little
realizing sense of its meaning, if we have no imagination to fill out
with quivering, throbbing life this record of the past, which shows what
mankind has been, and what, thank God, we have escaped?
“Of what value are the sacrifices of those who at bitter cost bought us
our freedom and privilege, if we are so lost to all sense of honor as to
tacitly say, ‘everything has been done for us, to be sure, but we can’t
be expected to go out of our way to see that it is passed along to those
who are less favored’?”
Mr. Mather made a gesture of dissent and looked up as if to speak; but
Mildred did not notice him. She was gazing with fixed eyes into the
shadows, and seemed to have forgotten her little audience and to be
addressing herself to an unnumbered throng of unseen listeners. Her
bosom heaved and her breath came and went quickly as she went on with
her relentless sarcasm.
“Yes, our business as immortal sons of God is first of all to look out
for our precious selves. Let us all see to it that no annoying social or
economic questions shall disturb our minds. Let us not be distracted
from our culture and amusements by being forced to waste time in
settling the prosaic bread and butter problems of the ‘lower classes.’
Let us wash our hands of all responsibility. Why should we hold
ourselves debtors either to the Greeks or to the barbarians?
“Oh, we are not hard-hearted. We would live and let live. But we can
count it no part of our business to soil our fingers by lending a hand
to the poor wretch whose blind guide has led him into the miry ditch.
“Let him who ‘despises his birthright’ just think for an instant what
citizenship on the continent of Europe means. You talk about finding
‘more fun’ in Paris and Vienna than here, yes, to be sure; for there you
have nothing to do but to skim the cream of everything and dream away
your youth surrounded by all that the thought of the ages and modern
science can devise to stimulate your already fastidious palate. But
suppose you were a _citizen_ of Germany or Austria or Russia, and must
spend from three to six of the best years of your life in active service
in the army; suppose you were taxed to the extent of over thirty per
cent. of your earnings like the people of Italy; suppose you knew that
your country was growing poorer and taxation was on the frightful
increase as is the case in continental countries; suppose you were taxed
to support a church in which you did not believe, and a government which
granted you no representation; suppose privilege and prejudice hung like
a millstone round every effort for your social advancement!
“Why,” continued Mildred after a moment’s pause, “just imagine for an
instant all that is involved in the difference in comfort and mode of
life from the simple statement that during the ten years from 1870 to
1880, when the United States decreased its aggregate taxation nine per
cent., Germany increased hers over fifty per cent. Imagine, if you can,
what it means to the lives of millions of human beings when I say that
during a period when the wealth of Europe decreased per caput three per
cent. that of our country increased nearly forty per cent.
“It is one thing, I have found, to travel in Europe untaxed, unmolested,
and unaffected by that gloomy war cloud which continually hovers over
every nation; where, even in times of peace, one man out of twenty-two
is withdrawn from productive industries to train himself to destroy his
fellow-beings. It is quite another thing to be an irresponsible
traveler, free to come and go and say what he pleases.
“Let those who count their American citizenship of such slight worth
think what a delightful existence theirs would be if they were so
favored as to be one of the subjects of the Russian Tsar! Think of the
bliss of living in a land where one is never disturbed by the
encroachments of foreigners, or expected to attend caucuses and polls;
where, in fact, the less he knows about the government the better for
him and his! Fancy the pleasure in reading newspapers where the news of
the day is under such careful surveillance, through the kindness of the
censorship, that one is never disturbed by troublesome political
matters, and has always the calm consciousness that everything is going
well, although ninety per cent. of the hundred millions over whom the
Russian flag waves cannot write their names; where a man may not go from
one town to another without a passport; where for joining a club that
advocates a constitutional monarchy, as here you might join a club that
advocates Nationalism, you may be subject without a moment’s warning to
arrest and solitary confinement for a year or two without a trial! You
have read Kennan and Stepniak. You know these are hard facts.
“So when I see men who have been ground between the millstones of caste,
priestcraft, and governmental oppression come here and turn against all
government, I have less contempt and more patience for them than for the
young men of our land, who owe almost every blessing that they enjoy to
this government, and who from mere indolence and apathy choose to allow
the demagogue and ignorant alien to shape its destiny.
“You complain that we have a ‘stratified society.’ Are you not doing
your best to make it a stratified society and create a caste system when
you advocate a property qualification for the ballot, and would deny all
but the barest rudiments of education to the poor boy? One would think
that you had been brought up in a monarchy and did not realize that from
the people we must choose our legislators as well as our voters, and
that a system which can be tolerated in a country where rulers are
hereditary is most perilous for a government that is of ‘the people, by
the people, and for the people.’
“You say ‘there are no great men now,’ ‘no great issues.’ True, the war
is over, and Grant and Lincoln are dead, but
‘Life may be given in many ways,
And loyalty to truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as in the field,
So bountiful is fate.’
“I do not doubt if our flag were openly dishonored you, too, would
spring to arms and give your life-blood as heroically as those who fell
at Manassas or in the Wilderness.
“But how many young men have that kind of heroism that impels them to
devote their culture and ability to unostentatious, unceasing service to
the state, though it bring no glory or reward in fame or office? No, the
cowards are not so often to be found on the battlefield as at the
committee meeting and the caucus.
“True, there seems to be nothing sublime in being a faithful health
commissioner, an Anthony Comstock, a General Armstrong, or a Felix
Adler; nothing glorious in busying one’s self with such prosy things as
labor statistics and tenement houses, with prison reform and sewage and
primary schools and ward politics. ’Tis a thankless task, and the large
per cent. of our Boston legal voters who did not vote yesterday
doubtless think, if they think at all, that even the casting of a ballot
once or twice a year is too great a sacrifice of their valuable time,
and more than ought to be expected of men whose private and social
interests are of far more importance than the welfare of the body
politic.
“And as for caucuses, how preposterous to expect a man who has such
important matters as Art Club receptions, Psychical Research meetings,
and Longwood toboggan parties to attend, to spend one or two evenings a
year in the company of grocers and saloon-keepers, all for the sake of
defeating some lamplighter or pawnbroker who wants a nomination for the
city council! What difference does it make who is on the council,
provided taxes are not raised?
“Yes,” continued Mildred, and a shade of melancholy replaced the quiet
scorn in her tone, “the last thing that you or they ever dream of is
that you have a debt to pay and are basely repudiating it.”
The voice, whose tremor at last betrayed the intensity of the feeling
that had hitherto been carefully guarded, ceased, and suddenly starting
with a self-conscious look, and coloring deeply, Mildred glided softly
from the room. Aunt Madison followed her.
The fire had burned low and the light was dim. The young men had
forgotten me in the sofa corner.
There was not a word said for a minute or two as they sat looking into
the bed of coals and listening to the wind shuddering through the bare
branches of the elms outside. Mr. Mather sat leaning forward with his
elbows on his knees and his head on his hands; I could not see his face.
Presently he looked up and made a motion as if to speak, but apparently
he changed his mind, for he said nothing. At last Mr. Gordon’s voice
broke the silence.
“I say, Madison,” he asked, with a studiously polite manner, “who is
this charming Miss Brewster who has favored us with the benefit of her
views?”
“She is a sort of second cousin of my mother,” Will replied. “She has
just returned from abroad, and I haven’t seen much of her yet.”
“Well,” rejoined the other, “with your permission, I will venture to say
that with all due respect to your mother’s second or third cousin, I
would as lief hear it thunder as to hear her talk. Why can’t a pretty
woman let well enough alone and not go into hysterics over what she
doesn’t know anything about? You would think, to hear her go on, that
the country was going to the devil, and that we were the cause of it.”
“I wonder if all those facts about Russia and the thirty per cent.
taxation in Italy are really true,” interposed Mr. Conro, meditatively.
“She reeled off all those statistics like a schoolma’am saying dates.”
“They are true if she says so, you can bet your life on that,” answered
Will, thoroughly nettled. “Being out at Cambridge most of the time, I
haven’t seen much of her, and I never heard her say so much on any
subject before to-night. I was about as much surprised as you were at
her coming out in that way; but if you and Gordon think she is the kind
of girl to go into hysterics over nothing, you are mightily mistaken.
Most people talk for the sake of talking, but I’ve seen enough of her to
know that when she says a thing it stands for something. What you said
hurt her in a way a fellow like you can’t understand. You’ve no interest
in a girl who has any notions beyond flattering you into thinking you
are the most stunning fellow going.”
“Beg pardon,” drawled Gordon, “but”—
“Hold on there,” interposed Mr. Mather, grimly; “you’ve said enough.
What she said was solid gospel, and you know it as well as I do.”