Part 5 out of 5
"Are you glad to go?"
"Wal, there's two sides to that question. I calk'late to do my duty,
and do it hearty: but it _is_ rough on a feller leavin' his folks, for
There was a sudden huskiness in the man's voice that was not
apple-skins, though he tried to make believe that it was. I knew a
word about home would comfort him, so I went on with my questions.
"It is very hard. Do you leave a family?"
"My old mother, a sick brother,--and Lucindy."
The last word was uttered in a tone of intense regret, and his brown
cheek reddened as he added hastily, to hide some embarrassment.--
"You see, Jim went last year, and got pretty well used up; so I felt
as if I'd ought to take my turn now. Mother was a regular old hero
about it and I dropped everything, and come off. Lucindy didn't think
it was my duty; and that made it awful hard, I tell you."
"Wives are less patriotic than mothers," I began; but he would not
hear Lucindy blamed, and said quickly,--
"She ain't my wife yet, but we calk'lated to be married in a month
or so; and it was wus for her than for me, women lot so on not being
disappointed. I _couldn't_ shirk, and here I be. When I git to work, I
shall be all right: the first wrench is the tryin' part."
Here he straightened his broad shoulders, and turned his face toward
the flags fluttering far in front, as if no backward look should
betray the longing of his heart for mother, home, and wife. I liked
that little glimpse of character; and when Tom returned with empty
hands, reporting that every stall was exhausted, I told him to find
out what the man would like best, then run across the street and get
"I know without asking. Give us your purse, and I'll make him as happy
as a king," said the boy, laughing, as he looked up admiringly at
our tall friend, who looked down on him with an elder-brotherly air
pleasant to see. While Tom was gone, I found out Joe's name and
business, promised to write and tell his mother how finely the
regiment went off, and was just expressing a hope that we might meet
again, for I too was going to the war as nurse, when the order to
"Fall in!" came rolling down the ranks, and the talk was over. Fearing
Tom would miss our man in the confusion, I kept my eye on him till the
boy came rushing up with a packet of tobacco in one hand and a good
supply of cigars in the other. Not a romantic offering, certainly, but
a very acceptable one, as Joe's face proved, as we scrambled these
treasures into his pockets, all laughing at the flurry, while less
fortunate comrades helped us, with an eye to a share of these fragrant
luxuries by and by. There was just time for this, a hearty shake of
the big hand, and a grateful "Good-by, ma'am;" then the word was
given, and they were off. Bent on seeing the last of them, Tom and I
took a short cut, and came out on the wide street down which so many
troops marched that year; and, mounting some high steps, we watched
for our man, as we already called him.
As the inspiring music, the grand tramp, drew near, the old thrill
went through the crowd, the old cheer broke out. But it was a
different scene now than in the first enthusiastic, hopeful days.
Young men and ardent boys filled the ranks then, brave by instinct,
burning with loyal zeal, and blissfully unconscious of all that lay
before them. Now the blue coats were worn by mature men, some gray,
all grave and resolute: husbands and fathers, with the memory of wives
and children tugging at their heart-strings; homes left desolate
behind them, and before them the grim certainty of danger, hardship,
and perhaps the lifelong helplessness worse than death. Little of the
glamour of romance about the war now: they saw it as it was, a long,
hard task; and here were the men to do it well. Even the lookers-on
were different now. Once all was wild enthusiasm and glad uproar; now
men's lips were set, and women's smileless as they cheered; fewer
handkerchiefs whitened the air, for wet eyes needed them; and sudden
lulls, almost solemn in their stillness, followed the acclamations
of the crowd. All watched with quickened breath and brave souls that
living wave, blue below, and bright with a steely glitter above, as
it flowed down the street and away to distant battle-fields already
stained with precious blood.
"There he is! The outside man, and tallest of the lot. Give him a
cheer, auntie: he sees us, and remembers!" cried Tom, nearly tumbling
off his perch, as he waved his hat, and pointed out Joe Collins.
Yes, there he was, looking up, with a smile on his brave brown face,
my little nosegay in his button-hole, a suspicious bulge in the pocket
close by, and doubtless a comfortable quid in his mouth, to cheer the
weary march. How like an old friend he looked, though we had only met
fifteen minutes ago; how glad we were to be there to smile back at
him, and send him on his way feeling that, even in a strange city,
there was some one to say, "God bless you, Joe!" We watched the
tallest blue cap till it vanished, and then went home in a glow of
patriotism,--Tom to long for his turn to come, I to sew vigorously on
the gray gown the new nurse burned to wear as soon as possible, and
both of us to think and speak often of poor Joe Collins and his
Lucindy. All this happened long ago; but it is well to recall those
stirring times,--to keep fresh the memory of sacrifices made for us by
men like these; to see to it that the debt we owe them is honestly,
gladly paid; and, while we decorate the graves of those who died, to
remember also those who still live to deserve our grateful care.
I never expected to see Joe again; but, six months later, we did meet
in a Washington hospital one winter's night. A train of ambulances had
left their sad freight at our door, and we were hurrying to get the
poor fellows into much needed beds, after a week of hunger, cold, and
unavoidable neglect. All forms of pain were in my ward that night, and
all borne with the pathetic patience which was a daily marvel to those
who saw it.
Trying to bring order out of chaos, I was rushing up and down the
narrow aisle between the rows of rapidly filling beds, and, after
brushing several times against a pair of the largest and muddiest
boots I ever saw, I paused at last to inquire why they were impeding
the passageway. I found they belonged to a very tall man who seemed to
be already asleep or dead, so white and still and utterly worn out he
looked as he lay there, without a coat, a great patch on his forehead,
and the right arm rudely bundled up. Stooping to cover him, I saw that
he was unconscious, and, whipping out my brandy-bottle and salts, soon
brought him round, for it was only exhaustion.
"Can you eat?" I asked, as he said, "Thanky, ma'am," after a long
draught of water and a dizzy stare.
"Eat! I'm starvin'!" he answered, with such a ravenous glance at a
fat nurse who happened to be passing, that I trembled for her, and
hastened to take a bowl of soup from her tray.
As I fed him, his gaunt, weather-beaten face had a familiar look; but
so many such faces had passed before me that winter, I did not recall
this one till the ward-master came to put up the cards with the
new-comers' names above their beds. My man seemed absorbed in his
food; but I naturally glanced at the card, and there was the name
"Joseph Collins" to give me an additional interest in my new patient.
"Why, Joe! is it really you?" I exclaimed, pouring the last spoonful
of soup down his throat so hastily that I choked him.
"All that's left of me. Wal, ain't this luck, now?" gasped Joe, as
gratefully as if that hospital-cot was a bed of roses.
"What is the matter? A wound in the head and arm?" I asked, feeling
sure that no slight affliction had brought Joe there.
"Right arm gone. Shot off as slick as a whistle. I tell you, it's a
sing'lar kind of a feelin' to see a piece of your own body go flyin'
away, with no prospect of ever coming back again," said Joe, trying to
make light of one of the greatest misfortunes a man can suffer.
"That is bad, but it might have been worse. Keep up your spirits, Joe;
and we will soon have you fitted out with a new arm almost as good as
"I guess it won't do much lumberin', so that trade is done for. I
s'pose there's things left-handed fellers can do, and I must learn 'em
as soon as possible, since my fightin' days are over," and Joe looked
at his one arm with a sigh that was almost a groan, helplessness is
such a trial to a manly man,--and he was eminently so.
"What can I do to comfort you most, Joe? I'll send my good Ben to help
you to bed, and will be here myself when the surgeon goes his rounds.
Is there anything else that would make you more easy?"
"If you could just drop a line to mother to let her know I'm alive, it
would be a sight of comfort to both of us. I guess I'm in for a long
spell of hospital, and I'd lay easier if I knew mother and Lucindy
warn't frettin' about me."
He must have been suffering terribly, but he thought of the women who
loved him before himself, and, busy as I was, I snatched a moment to
send a few words of hope to the old mother. Then I left him "layin'
easy," though the prospect of some months of wearing pain would have
daunted most men. If I had needed anything to increase my regard for
Joe, it would have been the courage with which he bore a very bad
quarter of an hour with the surgeons; for his arm was in a dangerous
state, the wound in the head feverish for want of care; and a heavy
cold on the lungs suggested pneumonia as an added trial to his list of
"He will have a hard time of it, but I think he will pull through,
as he is a temperate fellow, with a splendid constitution," was the
doctor's verdict, as he left us for the next man, who was past help,
with a bullet through his lungs.
"I don'no as I hanker to live, and be a burden. If Jim was able to do
for mother, I feel as if I wouldn't mind steppin' out now I'm so fur
along. As he ain't, I s'pose I must brace up, and do the best I can,"
said Joe, as I wiped the drops from his forehead, and tried to look as
if his prospect was a bright one.
"You will have Lucindy to help you, you know; and that will make
things easier for all."
"Think so? 'Pears to me I couldn't ask her to take care of three
invalids for my sake. She ain't no folks of her own, nor much means,
and ought to marry a man who can make things easy for her. Guess I'll
have to wait a spell longer before I say anything to Lucindy about
marryin' now;" and a look of resolute resignation settled on Joe's
haggard face as he gave up his dearest hope.
"I think Lucindy will have something to say, if she is like most
women, and you will find the burdens much lighter, for sharing them
between you. Don't worry about that, but get well, and go home as soon
as you can."
"All right, ma'am;" and Joe proved himself a good soldier by obeying
orders, and falling asleep like a tired child, as the first step
For two months I saw Joe daily, and learned to like him very much, he
was so honest, genuine, and kind-hearted. So did his mates, for he
made friends with them all by sharing such small luxuries as came to
him, for he was a favorite; and, better still, he made sunshine in
that sad place by the brave patience with which he bore his own
troubles, the cheerful consolation he always gave to others. A droll
fellow was Joe at times, for under his sobriety lay much humor; and I
soon discovered that a visit from him was more efficacious than other
cordials in cases of despondency and discontent. Roars of laughter
sometimes greeted me as I went into his ward, and Joe's jokes were
passed round as eagerly as the water-pitcher.
Yet he had much to try him, not only in the ills that vexed his flesh,
but the cares that tried his spirit, and the future that lay before
him, full of anxieties and responsibilities which seemed so heavy now
when the strong right arm, that had cleared all obstacles away before,
was gone. The letters I wrote for him, and those he received, told
the little story very plainly; for he read them to me, and found much
comfort in talking over his affairs, as most men do when illness
makes them dependent on a woman. Jim was evidently sick and selfish.
Lucindy, to judge from the photograph cherished so tenderly under
Joe's pillow, was a pretty, weak sort of a girl, with little character
or courage to help poor Joe with his burdens. The old mother was very
like her son, and stood by him "like a hero," as he said, but was
evidently failing, and begged him to come home as soon as he was able,
that she might see him comfortably settled before she must leave him.
Her courage sustained his, and the longing to see her hastened his
departure as soon as it was safe to let him go; for Lucindy's letters
were always of a dismal sort, and made him anxious to put his shoulder
to the wheel.
"She always set consider'ble by me, mother did, bein' the oldest; and
I wouldn't miss makin' her last days happy, not if it cost me all the
arms and legs I've got," said Joe, as he awkwardly struggled into the
big boots an hour after leave to go home was given him.
It was pleasant to see his comrades gather round him with such hearty
adieus that his one hand must have tingled; to hear the good wishes
and the thanks called after him by pale creatures in their beds; and
to find tears in many eyes beside my own when he was gone, and nothing
was left of him but the empty cot, the old gray wrapper, and the name
upon the wall.
I kept that card among my other relics, and hoped to meet Joe again
somewhere in the world. He sent me one or two letters, then I went
home; the war ended soon after, time passed, and the little story of
my Maine lumberman was laid away with many other experiences which
made that part of my life a very memorable one.
Some years later, as I looked out of my window one dull November day,
the only cheerful thing I saw was the red cap of a messenger who was
examining the slate that hung on a wall opposite my hotel. A tall man
with gray hair and beard, one arm, and a blue army-coat. I always
salute, figuratively at least, when I see that familiar blue,
especially if one sleeve of the coat is empty; so I watched the
messenger with interest as he trudged away on some new errand, wishing
he had a better day and a thicker pair of boots. He was an unusually
large, well-made man, and reminded me of a fine building going to
ruin before its time; for the broad shoulders were bent, there was a
stiffness about the long legs suggestive of wounds or rheumatism, and
the curly hair looked as if snow had fallen on it too soon. Sitting at
work in my window, I fell into the way of watching my Red Cap, as I
called him, with more interest than I did the fat doves on the roof
opposite, or the pert sparrows hopping in the mud below. I liked the
steady way in which he plodded on through fair weather or foul, as if
intent on doing well the one small service he had found to do. I liked
his cheerful whistle as he stood waiting for a job under the porch
of the public building where his slate hung, watching the luxurious
carriages roll by, and the well-to-do gentlemen who daily passed him
to their comfortable homes, with a steady, patient sort of face, as if
wondering at the inequalities of fortune, yet neither melancholy nor
morose over the small share of prosperity which had fallen to his lot.
I often planned to give him a job, that I might see him nearer; but
I had few errands, and little Bob, the hall-boy, depended on doing
those: so the winter was nearly over before I found out that my Red
Cap was an old friend.
A parcel came for me one day, and bidding the man wait for an answer,
I sat down to write it, while the messenger stood just inside the
door like a sentinel on duty. When I looked up to give my note and
directions, I found the man staring at me with a beaming yet bashful
face, as he nodded, saying heartily,--
"I mistrusted it was you, ma'am, soon's I see the name on the bundle,
and I guess I ain't wrong. It's a number of years sence we met, and
you don't remember Joe Collins as well as he does you, I reckon?"
"Why, how you have changed! I've been seeing you every day all winter,
and never knew you," I said, shaking hands with my old patient, and
very glad to see him.
"Nigh on to twenty years makes consid'able of a change in folks,
'specially if they have a pretty hard row to hoe."
"Sit down and warm yourself while you tell me all about it; there is
no hurry for this answer, and I'll pay for your time."
Joe laughed as if that was a good joke, and sat down as if the fire
was quite as welcome as the friend.
"How are they all at home?" I asked, as he sat turning his cap round,
not quite knowing where to begin.
"I haven't got any home nor any folks neither;" and the melancholy
words banished the brightness from his rough face like a cloud.
"Mother died soon after I got back. Suddin', but she was ready, and I
was there, so she was happy. Jim lived a number of years, and was a
sight of care, poor feller; but we managed to rub along, though we had
to sell the farm: for I couldn't do much with one arm, and doctor's
bills right along stiddy take a heap of money. He was as comfortable
as he could be; and, when he was gone, it wasn't no great matter, for
there was only me, and I don't mind roughin' it."
"But Lucindy, where was she?" I asked very naturally.
"Oh! she married another man long ago. Couldn't expect her to take
me and my misfortins. She's doin' well, I hear, and that's a comfort
There was a look on Joe's face, a tone in Joe's voice as he spoke,
that plainly showed how much he had needed comfort when left to bear
his misfortunes all alone. But he made no complaint, uttered no
reproach, and loyally excused Lucindy's desertion with a simple sort
of dignity that made it impossible to express pity or condemnation.
"How came you here, Joe?" I asked, making a sudden leap from past to
"I had to scratch for a livin', and can't do much: so, after tryin' a
number of things, I found this. My old wounds pester me a good deal,
and rheumatism is bad winters; but, while my legs hold out, I can git
on. A man can't set down and starve; so I keep waggin' as long as I
can. When I can't do no more, I s'pose there's almshouse and hospital
ready for me."
"That is a dismal prospect, Joe. There ought to be a comfortable place
for such as you to spend your last days in. I am sure you have earned
"Wal, it does seem ruther hard on us when we've give all we had, and
give it free and hearty, to be left to knock about in our old age. But
there's so many poor folks to be took care of, we don't get much of
a chance, for _we_ ain't the beggin' sort," said Joe, with a wistful
look at the wintry world outside, as if it would be better to lie
quiet under the snow, than to drag out his last painful years,
friendless and forgotten, in some refuge of the poor.
"Some kind people have been talking of a home for soldiers, and I hope
the plan will be carried out. It will take time; but, if it comes to
pass, you shall be one of the first men to enter that home, Joe, if I
can get you there."
"That sounds mighty cheerin' and comfortable, thanky, ma'am. Idleness
is dreadful tryin' to me, and I'd rather wear out than rust out; so I
guess I can weather it a spell longer. But it will be pleasant to look
forrard to a snug harbor bymeby. I feel a sight better just hearin'
tell about it." He certainly looked so, faint as the hope was; for the
melancholy eyes brightened as if they already saw a happier refuge in
the future than almshouse, hospital, or grave, and, when he trudged
away upon my errand, he went as briskly as if every step took him
nearer to the promised home.
After that day it was all up with Bob, for I told my neighbors Joe's
story, and we kept him trotting busily, adding little gifts, and
taking the sort of interest in him that comforted the lonely fellow,
and made him feel that he had not outlived his usefulness. I never
looked out when he was at his post that he did not smile back at me; I
never passed him in the street that the red cap was not touched with a
military flourish; and, when any of us beckoned to him, no twinge of
rheumatism was too sharp to keep him from hurrying to do our errands,
as if he had Mercury's winged feet.
Now and then he came in for a chat, and always asked how the Soldiers'
Home was prospering; expressing his opinion that "Boston was the
charitablest city under the sun, and he was sure he and his mates
would be took care of somehow."
When we parted in the spring, I told him things looked hopeful, bade
him be ready for a good long rest as soon as the hospitable doors were
open, and left him nodding cheerfully.
But in the autumn I looked in vain for Joe. The slate was in its old
place, and a messenger came and went on his beat; but a strange face
was under the red cap, and this man had two arms and one eye. I asked
for Collins, but the new-comer had only a vague idea that he was dead;
and the same answer was given me at headquarters, though none of the
busy people seemed to know when or where he died. So I mourned for
Joe, and felt that it was very hard he could not have lived to enjoy
the promised refuge; for, relying upon the charity that never fails,
the Home was an actual fact now, just beginning its beneficent career.
People were waking up to this duty, money was coming in, meetings were
being held, and already a few poor fellows were in the refuge, feeling
themselves no longer paupers, but invalid soldiers honorably supported
by the State they had served. Talking it over one day with a friend,
who spent her life working for the Associated Charities, she said,--
"By the way, there is a man boarding with one of my poor women, who
ought to be got into the Home, if he will go. I don't know much about
him, except that he was in the army, has been very ill with rheumatic
fever, and is friendless. I asked Mrs. Flanagin how she managed to
keep him, and she said she had help while he was sick, and now he is
able to hobble about, he takes care of the children, so she is able to
go out to work. He won't go to his own town, because there is nothing
for him there but the almshouse, and he dreads a hospital; so
struggles along, trying to earn his bread tending babies with his one
arm. A sad case, and in your line; I wish you'd look into it."
"That sounds like my Joe, one arm and all. I'll go and see him; I've a
weakness for soldiers, sick or well."
I went, and never shall forget the pathetic little tableau I saw as I
opened Mrs. Flanagin's dingy door; for she was out, and no one heard
my tap. The room was redolent of suds, and in a grove of damp clothes
hung on lines sat a man with a crying baby laid across his lap, while
he fed three small children standing at his knee with bread and
molasses. How he managed with one arm to keep the baby from squirming
on to the floor, the plate from upsetting, and to feed the hungry
urchins who stood in a row with open mouths, like young birds, was
past my comprehension. But he did, trotting baby gently, dealing out
sweet morsels patiently, and whistling to himself, as if to beguile
his labors cheerfully.
The broad back, the long legs, the faded coat, the low whistle were
all familiar; and, dodging a wet sheet, I faced the man to find it
was indeed my Joe! A mere shadow of his former self, after months of
suffering that had crippled him for life, but brave and patient still;
trying to help himself, and not ask aid though brought so low.
For an instant I could not speak to him, and, encumbered with baby,
dish, spoon, and children, he could only stare at me with a sudden
brightening of the altered face that made it full of welcome before a
word was uttered.
"They told me you were dead, and I only heard of you by accident, not
knowing I should find my old friend alive, but not well, I'm afraid?"
"There ain't much left of me but bones and pain, ma'am. I'm powerful
glad to see you all the same. Dust off a chair, Patsey, and let the
lady set down. You go in the corner, and take turns lickin' the dish,
while I see company," said Joe, disbanding his small troop, and
shouldering the baby as if presenting arms in honor of his guest.
"Why didn't you let me know how sick you were? And how came they to
think you dead?" I asked, as he festooned the wet linen out of the
way, and prepared to enjoy himself as best he could.
"I did send once, when things was at the wust; but you hadn't got
back, and then somehow I thought I was goin' to be mustered out for
good, and so wouldn't trouble nobody. But my orders ain't come yet,
and I am doing the fust thing that come along. It ain't much, but the
good soul stood by me, and I ain't ashamed to pay my debts this way,
sence I can't do it in no other;" and Joe cradled the chubby baby in
his one arm as tenderly as if it had been his own, though little Biddy
was not an inviting infant.
"That is very beautiful and right, Joe, and I honor you for it; but
you were not meant to tend babies, so sing your last lullabies, and be
ready to go to the Home as soon as I can get you there."
"Really, ma'am? I used to lay and kind of dream about it when I
couldn't stir without yellin' out; but I never thought it would ever
come to happen. I see a piece in the paper describing it, and it
sounded dreadful nice. Shouldn't wonder if I found some of my mates
there. They were a good lot, and deservin' of all that could be done
for 'em," said Joe, trotting the baby briskly, as if the prospect
excited him, as well it might, for the change from that damp nursery
to the comfortable quarters prepared for him would be like going from
Purgatory to Paradise.
"I don't wonder you don't get well living in such a place, Joe. You
should have gone home to Woolwich, and let your friends help you," I
said, feeling provoked with him for hiding himself.
"No, ma'am!" he answered, with a look I never shall forget, it was so
full of mingled patience, pride, and pain. "I haven't a relation
in the world but a couple of poor old aunts, and they couldn't do
anything for me. As for asking help of folks I used to know, I
couldn't do it; and if you think I'd go to Lucindy, though she is wal
off, you don't know Joe Collins. I'd die fust! If she was poor and I
rich, I'd do for her like a brother; but I couldn't ask no favors of
her, not if I begged my vittles in the street, or starved. I forgive,
but I don't forgit in a hurry; and the woman that stood by me when I
was down is the woman I believe in, and can take my bread from without
shame. Hooray for Biddy Flanagin! God bless her!" and, as if to find a
vent for the emotion that filled his eyes with grateful tears, Joe
led off the cheer, which the children shrilly echoed, and I joined
"I shall come for you in a few days; so cuddle the baby and make much
of the children before you part. It won't take you long to pack up,
will it?" I asked, as we subsided with a general laugh.
"I reckon not as I don't own any clothes but what I set in, except a
couple of old shirts and them socks. My hat's stoppin' up the winder,
and my old coat is my bed-cover. I'm awful shabby, ma'am, and that's
one reason I don't go out more. I can hobble some, but I ain't got
used to bein' a scarecrow yet," and Joe glanced from the hose without
heels that hung on the line to the ragged suit he wore, with a
resigned expression that made me long to rush out and buy up half the
contents of Oak Hall on the spot.
Curbing this wild impulse I presently departed with promises of speedy
transportation for Joe, and unlimited oranges to assuage the pangs of
parting for the young Flanagins, who escorted me to the door, while
Joe waved the baby like a triumphal banner till I got round the
There was such a beautiful absence of red tape about the new
institution that it only needed a word in the right ear to set things
going; and then, with a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all
together, Joe Collins was taken up and safely landed in the Home he so
much needed and so well deserved.
A happier man or a more grateful one it would be hard to find, and if
a visitor wants an enthusiastic guide about the place, Joe is the one
to take, for all is comfort, sunshine, and good-will to him; and
he unconsciously shows how great the need of this refuge is, as
he hobbles about on his lame feet, pointing out its beauties,
conveniences, and delights with his one arm, while his face shines,
and his voice quavers a little as he says gratefully,--
"The State don't forget us, you see, and this is a Home wuth havin'.
Long life to it!"
WHAT THE BELLS SAW AND SAID
[Written in 1867.]
"Bells ring others to church, but go not in themselves."
No one saw the spirits of the bells up there in the old steeple at
midnight on Christmas Eve. Six quaint figures, each wrapped in a
shadowy cloak and wearing a bell-shaped cap. All were gray-headed, for
they were among the oldest bell-spirits of the city, and "the light of
other days" shone in their thoughtful eyes. Silently they sat, looking
down on the snow-covered roofs glittering in the moonlight, and the
quiet streets deserted by all but the watchmen on their chilly rounds,
and such poor souls as wandered shelterless in the winter night.
Presently one of the spirits said, in a tone, which, low as it was,
filled the belfry with reverberating echoes,--
"Well, brothers, are your reports ready of the year that now lies
All bowed their heads, and one of the oldest answered in a sonorous
"My report isn't all I could wish. You know I look down on the
commercial part of our city and have fine opportunities for seeing
what goes on there. It's my business to watch the business men, and
upon my word I'm heartily ashamed of them sometimes. During the war
they did nobly, giving their time and money, their sons and selves to
the good cause, and I was proud of them. But now too many of them have
fallen back into the old ways, and their motto seems to be, 'Every one
for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.' Cheating, lying and
stealing are hard words, and I don't mean to apply them to _all_ who
swarm about below there like ants on an ant-hill--_they_ have other
names for these things, but I'm old-fashioned and use plain words.
There's a deal too much dishonesty in the world, and business seems to
have become a game of hazard in which luck, not labor, wins the prize.
When I was young, men were years making moderate fortunes, and were
satisfied with them. They built them on sure foundations, knew how to
enjoy them while they lived, and to leave a good name behind them when
"Now it's anything for money; health, happiness, honor, life itself,
are flung down on that great gaming-table, and they forget everything
else in the excitement of success or the desperation of defeat. Nobody
seems satisfied either, for those who win have little time or taste
to enjoy their prosperity, and those who lose have little courage or
patience to support them in adversity. They don't even fail as they
used to. In my day when a merchant found himself embarrassed he didn't
ruin others in order to save himself, but honestly confessed the
truth, gave up everything, and began again. But now-a-days after all
manner of dishonorable shifts there comes a grand crash; many suffer,
but by some hocus-pocus the merchant saves enough to retire upon and
live comfortably here or abroad. It's very evident that honor and
honesty don't mean now what they used to mean in the days of old May,
Higginson and Lawrence.
"They preach below here, and very well too sometimes, for I often
slide down the rope to peep and listen during service. But, bless you!
they don't seem to lay either sermon, psalm or prayer to heart, for
while the minister is doing his best, the congregation, tired with
the breathless hurry of the week, sleep peacefully, calculate their
chances for the morrow, or wonder which of their neighbors will lose
or win in the great game. Don't tell me! I've seen them do it, and if
I dared I'd have startled every soul of them with a rousing peal. Ah,
they don't dream whose eye is on them, they never guess what secrets
the telegraph wires tell as the messages fly by, and little know
what a report I give to the winds of heaven as I ring out above them
morning, noon, and night." And the old spirit shook his head till the
tassel on his cap jangled like a little bell.
"There are some, however, whom I love and honor," he said, in a
benignant tone, "who honestly earn their bread, who deserve all the
success that comes to them, and always keep a warm corner in their
noble hearts for those less blest than they. These are the men who
serve the city in times of peace, save it in times of war, deserve the
highest honors in its gift, and leave behind them a record that keeps
their memories green. For such an one we lately tolled a knell, my
brothers; and as our united voices pealed over the city, in all
grateful hearts, sweeter and more solemn than any chime, rung the
words that made him so beloved,--
"'Treat our dead boys tenderly, and send them home to me.'"
He ceased, and all the spirits reverently uncovered their gray heads
as a strain of music floated up from the sleeping city and died among
"Like yours, my report is not satisfactory in all respects," began the
second spirit, who wore a very pointed cap and a finely ornamented
cloak. But, though his dress was fresh and youthful, his face was
old, and he had nodded several times during his brother's speech.
"My greatest affliction during the past year has been the terrible
extravagance which prevails. My post, as you know, is at the court end
of the city, and I see all the fashionable vices and follies. It is
a marvel to me how so many of these immortal creatures, with such
opportunities for usefulness, self-improvement and genuine happiness
can be content to go round and round in one narrow circle of
unprofitable and unsatisfactory pursuits. I do my best to warn them;
Sunday after Sunday I chime in their ears the beautiful old hymns
that sweetly chide or cheer the hearts that truly listen and believe;
Sunday after Sunday I look down on them as they pass in, hoping to see
that my words have not fallen upon deaf ears; and Sunday after Sunday
they listen to words that should teach them much, yet seem to go by
them like the wind. They are told to love their neighbor, yet too many
hate him because he possesses more of this world's goods or honors
than they: they are told that a rich man cannot enter the kingdom of
heaven, yet they go on laying up perishable wealth, and though often
warned that moth and rust will corrupt, they fail to believe it till
the worm that destroys enters and mars their own chapel of ease. Being
a spirit, I see below external splendor and find much poverty of heart
and soul under the velvet and the ermine which should cover rich and
royal natures. Our city saints walk abroad in threadbare suits, and
under quiet bonnets shine the eyes that make sunshine in the shady
places. Often as I watch the glittering procession passing to and fro
below me. I wonder if, with all our progress, there is to-day as much
real piety as in the times when our fathers, poorly clad, with weapon
in one hand and Bible in the other, came weary distances to worship in
the wilderness with fervent faith unquenched by danger, suffering and
"Yet in spite of my fault-finding I love my children, as I call
them, for all are not butterflies. Many find wealth no temptation to
forgetfulness of duty or hardness of heart. Many give freely of their
abundance, pity the poor, comfort the afflicted, and make our city
loved and honored in other lands as in our own. They have their cares,
losses, and heartaches as well as the poor; it isn't all sunshine with
them, and they learn, poor souls, that
"'Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.'
"But I've hopes of them, and lately they have had a teacher so genial,
so gifted, so well-beloved that all who listen to him must be better
for the lessons of charity, good-will and cheerfulness which he brings
home to them by the magic of tears and smiles. We know him, we love
him, we always remember him as the year comes round, and the blithest
song our brazen tongues utter is a Christmas carol to the Father of
As the spirit spoke his voice grew cheery, his old face shone, and in
a burst of hearty enthusiasm he flung up his cap and cheered like a
boy. So did the others, and as the fairy shout echoed through the
belfry a troop of shadowy figures, with faces lovely or grotesque,
tragical or gay, sailed by on the wings of the wintry wind and waved
their hands to the spirits of the bells.
As the excitement subsided and the spirits reseated themselves,
looking ten years younger for that burst, another spoke. A venerable
brother in a dingy mantle, with a tuneful voice, and eyes that seemed
to have grown sad with looking on much misery.
"He loves the poor, the man we've just hurrahed for, and he makes
others love and remember them, bless him!" said the spirit. "I hope
he'll touch the hearts of those who listen to him here and beguile
them to open their hands to my unhappy children over yonder. If I
could set some of the forlorn souls in my parish beside the happier
creatures who weep over imaginary woes as they are painted by his
eloquent lips, that brilliant scene would be better than any sermon.
Day and night I look down on lives as full of sin, self-sacrifice and
suffering as any in those famous books. Day and night I try to
comfort the poor by my cheery voice, and to make their wants known by
proclaiming them with all my might. But people seem to be so intent on
business, pleasure or home duties that they have no time to hear and
answer my appeal. There's a deal of charity in this good city, and
when the people do wake up they work with a will; but I can't help
thinking that if some of the money lavished on luxuries was spent on
necessaries for the poor, there would be fewer tragedies like that
which ended yesterday. It's a short story, easy to tell, though long
and hard to live; listen to it.
"Down yonder in the garret of one of the squalid houses at the foot of
my tower, a little girl has lived for a year, fighting silently and
single-handed a good fight against poverty and sin. I saw her when she
first came, a hopeful, cheerful, brave-hearted little soul, alone, yet
not afraid. She used to sit all day sewing at her window, and her lamp
burnt far into the night, for she was very poor, and all she earned
would barely give her food and shelter. I watched her feed the doves,
who seemed to be her only friends; she never forgot them, and daily
gave them the few crumbs that fell from her meagre table. But there
was no kind hand to feed and foster the little human dove, and so she
"For a while she worked bravely, but the poor three dollars a week
would not clothe and feed and warm her, though the things her busy
fingers made sold for enough to keep her comfortably if she had
received it. I saw the pretty color fade from her cheeks; her eyes
grew hollow, her voice lost its cheery ring, her step its elasticity,
and her face began to wear the haggard, anxious look that made its
youth doubly pathetic. Her poor little gowns grew shabby, her shawl so
thin she shivered when the pitiless wind smote her, and her feet were
almost bare. Rain and snow beat on the patient little figure going
to and fro, each morning with hope and courage faintly shining, each
evening with the shadow of despair gathering darker round her. It was
a hard time for all, desperately hard for her, and in her poverty, sin
and pleasure tempted her. She resisted, but as another bitter winter
came she feared that in her misery she might yield, for body and soul
were weakened now by the long struggle. She knew not where to turn
for help; there seemed to be no place for her at any safe and happy
fireside; life's hard aspect daunted her, and she turned to death,
saying confidingly, 'Take me while I'm innocent and not afraid to go.'
"I saw it all! I saw how she sold everything that would bring money
and paid her little debts to the utmost penny; how she set her poor
room in order for the last time; how she tenderly bade the doves
good-by, and lay down on her bed to die. At nine o'clock last night as
my bell rang over the city, I tried to tell what was going on in the
garret where the light was dying out so fast. I cried to them with all
"'Kind souls, below there! a fellow-creature is perishing for lack
of charity! Oh, help her before it is too late! Mothers, with little
daughters on your knees, stretch out your hands and take her in! Happy
women, in the safe shelter of home, think of her desolation! Rich men,
who grind the faces of the poor, remember that this soul will one day
be required of you! Dear Lord, let not this little sparrow fall to
the ground! Help, Christian men and women, in the name of Him whose
birthday blessed the world!'
"Ah me! I rang, and clashed, and cried in vain. The passers-by only
said, as they hurried home, laden with Christmas cheer: 'The old bell
is merry to-night, as it should be at this blithe season, bless it!'
"As the clocks struck ten, the poor child lay down, saying, as she
drank the last bitter draught life could give her, 'It's very cold,
but soon I shall not feel it;' and with her quiet eyes fixed on the
cross that glimmered in the moonlight above me, she lay waiting for
the sleep that needs no lullaby.
"As the clock struck eleven, pain and poverty for her were over. It
was bitter cold, but she no longer felt it. She lay serenely sleeping,
with tired heart and hands, at rest forever. As the clocks struck
twelve, the dear Lord remembered her, and with fatherly hand led her
into the home where there is room for all. To-day I rung her knell,
and though my heart was heavy, yet my soul was glad; for in spite of
all her human woe and weakness, I am sure that little girl will keep a
joyful Christmas up in heaven."
In the silence which the spirits for a moment kept, a breath of softer
air than any from the snowy world below swept through the steeple and
seemed to whisper, "Yes!"
"Avast there! fond as I am of salt water, I don't like this kind,"
cried the breezy voice of the fourth spirit, who had a tiny ship
instead of a tassel on his cap, and who wiped his wet eyes with the
sleeve of his rough blue cloak. "It won't take me long to spin my
yarn; for things are pretty taut and ship-shape aboard our craft.
Captain Taylor is an experienced sailor, and has brought many a ship
safely into port in spite of wind and tide, and the devil's own
whirlpools and hurricanes. If you want to see earnestness come aboard
some Sunday when the Captain's on the quarter-deck, and take an
observation. No danger of falling asleep there, no more than there is
up aloft, 'when the stormy winds do blow.' Consciences get raked fore
and aft, sins are blown clean out of the water, false colors are
hauled down and true ones run up to the masthead, and many an immortal
soul is warned to steer off in time from the pirates, rocks and
quicksands of temptation. He's a regular revolving light, is the
Captain,--a beacon always burning and saying plainly, 'Here are
life-boats, ready to put off in all weathers and bring the shipwrecked
into quiet waters.' He comes but seldom now, being laid up in the home
dock, tranquilly waiting till his turn comes to go out with the tide
and safely ride at anchor in the great harbor of the Lord. Our crew
varies a good deal. Some of 'em have rather rough voyages, and come
into port pretty well battered; land-sharks fall foul of a good many,
and do a deal of damage; but most of 'em carry brave and tender hearts
under the blue jackets, for their rough nurse, the sea, manages to
keep something of the child alive in the grayest old tar that makes
the world his picture-book. We try to supply 'em with life-preservers
while at sea, and make 'em feel sure of a hearty welcome when ashore,
and I believe the year '67 will sail away into eternity with a
satisfactory cargo. Brother North-End made me pipe my eye; so I'll
make him laugh to pay for it, by telling a clerical joke I heard the
other day. Bellows didn't make it, though he might have done so, as
he's a connection of ours, and knows how to use his tongue as well
as any of us. Speaking of the bells of a certain town, a reverend
gentleman affirmed that each bell uttered an appropriate remark so
plainly, that the words were audible to all. The Baptist bell cried,
briskly, 'Come up and be dipped! come up and be dipped!' The
Episcopal bell slowly said, 'Apos-tol-ic suc-cess-ion! apos-tol-ic
suc-cess-ion!' The Orthodox bell solemnly pronounced, 'Eternal
damnation! eternal damnation!' and the Methodist shouted, invitingly,
'Room for all! room for all!'"
As the spirit imitated the various calls, as only a jovial bell-sprite
could, the others gave him a chime of laughter, and vowed they would
each adopt some tuneful summons, which should reach human ears and
draw human feet more willingly to church.
"Faith, brother, you've kept your word and got the laugh out of us,"
cried a stout, sleek spirit, with a kindly face, and a row of little
saints round his cap and a rosary at his side. "It's very well we are
doing this year; the cathedral is full, the flock increasing, and the
true faith holding its own entirely. Ye may shake your heads if you
will and fear there'll be trouble, but I doubt it. We've warm hearts
of our own, and the best of us don't forget that when we were
starving, America--the saints bless the jewel!--sent us bread; when we
were dying for lack of work, America opened her arms and took us in,
and now helps us to build churches, homes and schools by giving us a
share of the riches all men work for and win. It's a generous nation
ye are, and a brave one, and we showed our gratitude by fighting for
ye in the day of trouble and giving ye our Phil, and many another
broth of a boy. The land is wide enough for us both, and while we work
and fight and grow together, each may learn something from the other.
I'm free to confess that your religion looks a bit cold and hard to
me, even here in the good city where each man may ride his own hobby
to death, and hoot at his neighbors as much as he will. You seem to
keep your piety shut up all the week in your bare, white churches, and
only let it out on Sundays, just a trifle musty with disuse. You set
your rich, warm and soft to the fore, and leave the poor shivering at
the door. You give your people bare walls to look upon, common-place
music to listen to, dull sermons to put them asleep, and then wonder
why they stay away, or take no interest when they come.
"We leave our doors open day and night; our lamps are always burning,
and we may come into our Father's house at any hour. We let rich and
poor kneel together, all being equal there. With us abroad you'll see
prince and peasant side by side, school-boy and bishop, market-woman
and noble lady, saint and sinner, praying to the Holy Mary, whose
motherly arms are open to high and low. We make our churches inviting
with immortal music, pictures by the world's great masters, and rites
that are splendid symbols of the faith we hold. Call it mummery if
ye like, but let me ask you why so many of your sheep stray into our
fold? It's because they miss the warmth, the hearty, the maternal
tenderness which all souls love and long for, and fail to find in your
stern. Puritanical belief. By Saint Peter! I've seen many a lukewarm
worshipper, who for years has nodded in your cushioned pews, wake and
glow with something akin to genuine piety while kneeling on the stone
pavement of one of our cathedrals, with Raphael's angels before his
eyes, with strains of magnificent music in his ears, and all about
him, in shapes of power or beauty, the saints and martyrs who have
saved the world, and whose presence inspires him to follow their
divine example. It's not complaining of ye I am, but just reminding ye
that men are but children after all, and need more tempting to virtue
than they do to vice, which last comes easy to 'em since the Fall. Do
your best in your own ways to get the poor souls into bliss, and good
luck to ye. But remember, there's room in the Holy Mother Church for
all, and when your own priests send ye to the divil, come straight to
us and we'll take ye in."
"A truly Catholic welcome, bull and all," said the sixth spirit, who,
in spite of his old-fashioned garments, had a youthful face, earnest,
fearless eyes, and an energetic voice that woke the echoes with its
vigorous tones. "I've a hopeful report, brothers, for the reforms of
the day are wheeling into rank and marching on. The war isn't over nor
rebeldom conquered yet, but the Old Guard has been 'up and at 'em'
through the year. There has been some hard fighting, rivers of ink
have flowed, and the Washington dawdlers have signalized themselves by
a 'masterly inactivity.' The political campaign has been an anxious
one; some of the leaders have deserted; some been mustered out; some
have fallen gallantly, and as yet have received no monuments. But at
the Grand Review the Cross of the Legion of Honor will surely shine on
many a brave breast that won no decoration but its virtue here; for
the world's fanatics make heaven's heroes, poets say.
"The flock of Nightingales that flew South during the 'winter of our
discontent' are all at home again, some here and some in Heaven. But
the music of their womanly heroism still lingers in the nation's
memory, and makes a tender minor-chord in the battle-hymn of freedom.
"The reform in literature isn't as vigorous as I could wish; but a
sharp attack of mental and moral dyspepsia will soon teach _our_
people that French confectionery and the bad pastry of Wood, Bracdon,
Yates & Co. is not the best diet for the rising generation.
"Speaking of the rising generation reminds me of the schools. They are
doing well; they always are, and we are justly proud of them.
There may be a slight tendency toward placing too much value
upon book-learning; too little upon home culture. Our girls are
acknowledged to be uncommonly pretty, witty and wise, but some of
us wish they had more health and less excitement, more domestic
accomplishments and fewer ologies and isms, and were contented with
simple pleasures and the old-fashioned virtues, and not quite so fond
of the fast, frivolous life that makes them old so soon. I am fond
of our girls and boys. I love to ring for their christenings and
marriages, to toll proudly for the brave lads in blue, and tenderly
for the innocent creatures whose seats are empty under my old roof.
I want to see them anxious to make Young America a model of virtue,
strength and beauty, and I believe they will in time.
"There have been some important revivals in religion; for the world
won't stand still, and we must keep pace or be left behind to
fossilize. A free nation must have a religion broad enough to embrace
all mankind, deep enough to fathom and fill the human soul, high
enough to reach the source of all love and wisdom, and pure enough to
satisfy the wisest and the best. Alarm bells have been rung, anathemas
pronounced, and Christians, forgetful of their creed, have abused
one another heartily. But the truth always triumphs in the end, and
whoever sincerely believes, works and waits for it, by whatever
name he calls it, will surely find his own faith blessed to him in
proportion to his charity for the faith of others.
"But look!--the first red streaks of dawn are in the East. Our vigil
is over, and we must fly home to welcome in the holidays. Before we
part, join with me, brothers, in resolving that through the coming
year we will with all our hearts and tongues,--
"'Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring out the false, ring in the true;
Ring in the valiant man and free,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.'"
Then hand in hand the spirits of the bells floated away, singing in
the hush of dawn the sweet song the stars sung over Bethlehem,--"Peace
on earth, good will to men."