Family Pride CHAPTER 1.
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There are but few people in the city of Bolton who do not recollect that ancient pile of buildings which once stood on the northern suburb, just beyond what was formerly called Buell's Orchard. Embowered amid branching sycamores and tall poplars, the Alms-House presented an appearance both imposing and attractive. Not until after its sad, life-wearied inhabitants were removed to their more attractive home at Colchester, did I enter its halls and chambers.
I cannot soon forget the emotions that were called up, as I passed from room to room, in which was no sound but that of my own echoing footsteps; nor the multitude of thoughts that crowded upon my mind. Within those time-worn and crumbling walls, how many a victim of unrestrained passions, of the world's wrong, had closed up the history of a life, the details of which would chill the heart with the most painful sympathy! And numbers of these were of my own city, and of those who had once moved in brilliant circles of wit, of talent, of fashion. The impressions then made, the thoughts then called into activity, have never passed away.
While engaged in business, one of my customers was an old man who had been for years employed about the Alms-House. He was intelligent, and much given to reminiscence. The incidents about to be related, are founded upon his narrations, and will be given as if detailed by him to the reader. And if they awaken in the heart any emotions of human kindness, the writer will not have woven in vain, the many-colored threads of human life into a web, with forms and figures, whose actions may be seen and read of all. But I will step aside, and give place to one whose narration, I doubt not, will hold the reader in bondage to intense interest —
I never was disposed to indulge in gloomy reflections on my own destiny. To me, everything in external nature has, all my life long, worn a smiling face. And, as I have never desired the blessings which others have received at the hands of a bountiful Providence, my state of mind has been that of contentment. But no one can live in this world, without feeling "a brother's woe," and many a heart-ache have I had, and many a tear have I dropped, over the misery of others. My station at the Alms-House made me familiar withwretchedness in a thousand distressing forms; but did not touch my feelings with the icy finger of indifference. Motherless babies were there, and old men tottering upon the brink of the grave. And both were wretched. The first, just entering upon the world, orphaned by death or desertion, unconscious of their sad condition, and yet miserable from neglect. The others, numbering the last grains in time's hour-glass, and looking back in dreary wretchedness, over the rough and thorny paths of a misspent life.
No fond mother can tell, when a child is born unto her, and she clasps it with a thrill of maternal delight to her bosom, what will be its future destiny. How often have I looked at the old men and women, at the middle-aged and the young children, who crowded that last refuge of the indigent and distressed, and said musingly to myself: "Little did she dream, when the small gentle cry of her new-born babe touched her ear, that her child would ever be in this place!" More than all, did I pity the babes that were brought in. The Alms-House is no place for infants. Hired nurses, with a dozen or two of children to attend, are not usually possessed of many maternal feelings; and, even if they were — what woman can properly minister to ten or twenty babes? Little kind and loving care did they get. Lying upon their backs for hours, many of them did nothing but moan and cry, during all their waking moments. But more than two-thirds of all the little ones that were brought in, speedily found rest from their troubles. I was always glad when it was said "another child is to be buried." Few visits did I make to their rooms. I could not better their condition — and I did not wish to witness their sufferings.
Those of all ages and sexes, and from all conditions in life, were there. And in each face was written, in lines too legible, characters that told of hereditary evils. Sin and misery, are united as one — they are joined in inseparable union. The sure price of transgression, is pain. But I will not weary, by giving way to the tendencies of old age, a disposition to moralize. The young reader looks for active life.
Standing one day upon the small porch which led into the entrance of the building on its northwest front, I observed a common wood-cart driving up the avenue, and went down to the gate to open it, in order to let the vehicle pass. As it was driven in, I saw that it contained a female, who was seated upon the bottom of the cart, leaning against one of the sides, with her head resting upon her bosom. Although her garments were worn and faded, and her face entirely concealed, I instinctively felt that she was one who had fallen from some high place in society. I never liked to see such people coming into our institution, and could not help the passage of a shadow of sadness over my spirits. When the cart stopped before the main entrance to the buildings, I went up to the side of it, and touching the woman, who did not lift her head, or make a motion to rise, said in a kind way,
"Let me assist you to get down, madam."
"Ha!" she said, in a quick voice, suddenly turning her face toward me. It was a pale, thin face, but full of womanly beauty. Her large, dark eyes seemed to flash, and the point of light in each, was as bright as the ray of a diamond. I was startled for a moment by such an apparition. But recovering myself, I said again,
"Let me assist you to get down, madam; you are at the end of your journey."
"Ha! ha!" she laughed, with an expression on her countenance of bitter irony. "I would think I was! But what is this?" looking up at the time-worn structure in the shadow of which we all were, "where am I?"
"This is the Alms-House, ma'am," I replied.
"The Alms-House!" she said, clasping her hands together and looking up, with a face convulsed and still paler, "Merciful Father, has it come to this?"
Then, covering her eyes with her hands, and bowing her head again upon her bosom, she seemed lost to all consciousness of the presence of anyone.
"I'll bring her out for you, Mister, in less than no time," said the carter, a stout Irishman, at the same time making a motion to seize hold of her feet, and drag her down to the bottom of the cart. This, I of course prevented. Taking the commitment paper from him, I pretended to examine it very minutely, for the purpose of giving the poor creature time to recover herself. After a few minutes, I said to her in a mild, soothing voice,
"You will have to get out here, madam. Let me assist you. You shall be kindly treated."
She made no reply; but rose to her feet, and, giving me her hand, allowed me to help her down. Mechanically she accompanied me into the house, and, after her name was registered, she was given over, without having uttered a word more than the necessary replies, to the matron.
"Who is this woman? Do you know?" I said to the carter, as I paid him his fees.
"I don't know anything about her. Only I heard somebody say, as I drove up the street 'If that isn't General Thompson's poor daughter Emily, in that cart!'"
"It can't be her, surely!" said I, "for she gave her name as Mrs. Watson."
"That doesn't matter at all, sir," said the Irishman. Names are plenty in this country."
"Who sent her here? Where did you take her from?" I asked.
"As to who sent her, that is more than I can tell. Those who did it, seemed anxious enough to have her taken away from off the steps of a big house in York Street, where she had seated herself, and wouldn't be persuaded to move. I had to take her up in my arms, and put her into the cart by main strength."
"General Thompson lives in York Street, does he not?"
"Yes, I believe he does. And now I remember, it was on his very door-step, that she was seated."
"Then, I suppose, she is no other than his unhappy daughter."
"I suppose so," responded the carter, indifferently; and, cracking his whip, he dashed away, leaving me to my own thoughts.
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