On Monday, the 13th day of July, 1863, the national conscription was proceeding in two districts of New York city. By Monday night the buildings and the blocks in which the provost marshals had their respective offices had been burned to the ground by a furious rabble, whose onset the police had in vain attempted to stay, and the great metropolis of North America was at the mercy of a raging mob, which roamed through the streets, robbing, beating, burning, murdering where they would.
By Tuesday the police had thoroughly organized, and the trial of strength between mob-law and authority began. Night closed over a still unconquered, defiant, law-contemning insurrection.
On Wednesday the public conveyances of the city were stopped, the places of business mostly closed, while the rioters alternated between hanging negroes, burning their houses, and plundering generally, on the one hand, and fighting the military on the other. Thursday the final struggle ensued, and when Friday dawned, though not until then, was the city fairly delivered from the hands of the insurgents, and restored to its wonted order. Now all is tranquil, and save the occasional ruins, the groans of the wounded in the hospitals, the agony of those who have lost friends or homes in the struggle, and the diminished number of the blacks, little remains to attest the scenes of terror through which New York has passed.
Whence came this riot? From what causes did it spring? Was it, indeed, a part of the great Southern rebellion, instigated by the emissaries of JeffersonDavis? Was it instigated by the Catholic Church as a part of their scheme for the reconstruction of the Church in America, and for obtaining the overthrow of republican institutions as a preliminary means to this end? Was it the work of unprincipled politicians, who wish to put a stop to the war, in order to carry out their ambitious plans by the aid of their Southern allies, and who thought that by stopping the draft they could stop the war? Was it the work of plunderers and thieves who inflamed the passions of the people, and incited them to deeds of violence, that they might rob in security? Did it spring from the honest indignation of the poorer classes, who deemed they were wronged by the $300 exemption clause? Or, finally, was it a reaction against supposed injustice on the part of men who believed that the forcing of individuals to fight against their will was contrary to the very genius of our institutions and our government, which recognizes the right of each person, according to his understanding, to the pursuit of happiness absolutely in his own way? Each one of these has been loudly urged as the undoubted cause of the difficulty. Let us probe the matter with care, and ascertain the source of the disturbance.
It is one of the vices of our political system, not yet remedied, that it holds out great inducements to unscrupulous and ambitious men to deceive the ignorant and credulous masses, in order to obtain their good will and their votes. This deception has necessarily to be practised, moreover, concerning the individuals and the things in regard to which the highest interests of the people demand they should not be deceived. For the wicked and designing politician knows that good men, who really have the interest of the people at heart, will not elect him to office. On the contrary, they will expose his true character and unmask his deception to the poor dupes whom he is cajoling and deluding. Hence the necessity, on the part of such men, of putting a complete barrier between the really good portion of the community and the ignorant and weak, who most need their assistance. The politician of this stamp resorts, therefore, to every means in his power to destroy the confidence of the lower classes in the higher. He succeeds in convincing the thoughtless portion of the masses that the respectable and comfortable citizen is his enemy and cares not for his condition, while he himself is the poor man's friend, watchful over his interests, and carefully guarding him from the designs of his foe. Thus the isolation of the ignorant, the wretched, and the depraved, from the benevolent, the sympathetic, and the wise is completed, and the wily politician has his victim and voter secure within his grasp.
In no way is the coöperation of the simple-minded and ignorant man more easily secured and his faith more firmly riveted than, by flattering his vanity and treating him as the peer of others infinitely his superiors. The fundamental principle of our political fabric, thepoliticalequality of all men, has afforded ample opportunity for designing persons to mislead the uninformed among the mass, and to make them believe thatpoliticalequality means social, intellectual, and moral equality, that all are in fact equal in all respects in society, and that their rights are infringed by their exclusion from such recognition.
But while plying the people with the most levelling dogmas of equality, it is the equality of the white race only that has been affirmed by the crafty demagogue. The efforts for the enfranchisement of the negro have been eagerly seized upon to widen still further the breach between the intelligent and the ignorant. The thoughtless among the masses have been persistently taught that the emancipation of the negro would result in his coming North, that this would bring him in as a competitor in the struggle for life, already so arduous and harassing, and that, consequently, the emancipation of the black was a direct blow at the interests of the poor white laboring man. When the present national conflict began, and the politicians of the cunning, unscrupulous school thought they saw it to be their interest to gain favor with the South, they opposed the war, and sought to league the populace on their side by raising the cry that the contest was for emancipation, not for saving the Union. And now, when all other efforts to end the struggle in favor of the South are unavailing, they have fastened on the prevention of the draft as the 'last ditch' in which to make a final stand and risk a last battle.
They have summoned all their forces to the field in this contest. They urge the poor man to resist the conscription, because it infringes the equality of the citizen and makes an invidious distinction between the rich and the poor. They teach him that he is being forced from fireside and friends, while others no better than himself are left at home; that his family are left destitute by his absence, while others remain to protect and support their dependants; that he is forced to do this in a war which has for its principal object the liberation of a people whom he believes he has every cause to hate, and who will become, on their liberation, his rivals in the race where suffering and perhaps starvation await the loser. Is it any wonder that they broke the wheel, scattered the names, and burnt the enrolling offices—that they plundered and murdered the negroes?
The New York riot had its active origin, nucleus, and strength in a feeling of bitter injustice, entertained by ignorant, simple-minded, crude men, the lowest class of our population, who had been deliberately deceived in relation to facts, by unscrupulous politicians, for ambitious purposes. They had been inflamed with wrath by supposed wrong; their worst passions were aroused, they had lost their self-control, and became reckless. It matters little whether the actual hostilities began by a spontaneous outburst of anger, when the passions had simmered a long time; or whether the emissaries of the politicians actually incited to the specific act at a preconcerted period. The responsibility of the latter is noways diminished if no such intervention occurred; the essential nature of the outbreak is the same if it did. Had there not been this deep-seated feeling of wrong on the part of a portion of the people, the instigations of the emissaries would have met no response. The sinew of the insurrection was this honest resentment of fancied injury.
Everything goes to prove that, in the outset, so far as theoriginal active rioterswere concerned, the draft was the immediate cause of the disturbance. They first burnt one provost marshal's office, and then proceeded a mile or more to burn another. Then they burnt the colored asylum. This was the first day's work mainly. There is no adequate explanation of the hatred exhibited to the negro throughout this riot, other than the supposition that the mob, or rather that portion of it who were abusing the blacks, believed that they were being forced from their homes in the service of a war, the object and purpose of which was the liberation of the negroes, and that, therefore, in a certain sense, the colored people were the cause of their being drafted. The peculiar feature of this mob, as contrasted with ordinary ones, was this bitterness against the negro.
On the succeeding days, however, the elements of the mob changed. The same nucleus remained, but other constituents were added to it. Thieves and plunderers joined it, for the sole purpose doubtless of robbing in safety; probably the first peacebreakers themselves, not ordinarily pilferers, carried off the articles of value, which were scattered among the ruins their rage had created. Scheming politicians fanned the flame which their teachings had already lit; the journals which are almost undisguisedly in favor of a dishonorable peace, and of a return of the Southern States with slavery untouched, skilfully incited, while seeming to discourage, the now rum-maddened and blood-drunken fiends; the idle, the vicious, the curious joined the throng, and the motives of the mob became as varied and diverse as its elements. Some hoped to stop the draft and remain unmolested at home. Others hoped to stop the draft, in order to stop the war, and enable them to say to the South, We have prevented your subjugation: give us our political reward. Some hoped to overthrow all law and order, that they might revel in the wealth they could then sequester. The great mass probably neither knew nor cared to what end they tended—their worst passions were aroused and controlled them; they luxuriated in violence and bloodshed, and their brutal instincts were satisfied.
That the riot had any significant religious characteristics is not probable. Catholics were in it and of it, and so were Protestants. The mob was composed principally of those who scout all pretence of religion of any kind, and who are as little influenced by the priest as the negligent Protestant is by the preacher. Had it been otherwise, the priest who endeavored to get the body of Colonel O'Brien would have easily prevailed; for no church-going Catholics would refuse, in their wildest frenzy, the request of a priest for the possession of a dying man. That there are honest bigots in the Catholic Church who believe that within her pale only is safety for the human race, who believe, furthermore, that republican institutions are incompatible with her full supremacy, and rejoice, therefore, with holy zeal, at anything which seems to indicate their instability, is doubtless true. Some such individuals may have been among the rioters, urging them on in their frenzied work. But the manly, sincere, and indignant castigation given by the Catholic priesthood to the wretched miscreants on the Sunday following the disturbances, precludes any possibility of suspicion that the Church was either aware of the intended uprising, or that it approved the purposes or actions of the mob.
In deciding, then, as to the real character and purpose of the rioters, two distinct classes of persons must be taken into account: those actively engaged in insurgent proceedings, and those who, not appearing on the scene of action, incited and sustained the former in their demonstrations.
That the motives and purposes of the one class were different from those of the other, has been already indicated. The main object of the parties in the background, who had constantly been fomenting discord, was undoubtedly to aid the cause of the Southern rebellion, with whom they sympathize, not perhaps because they care for the South, but because they think their own interests demand its coöperation. The chief design of the first peacebreakers was to stop the draft, that they might not be forced away from home to fight, against their wishes. That they knew the real designs of their instigators, or that they had any prompters to the specific acts which inaugurated the riot, is not probable; that, after the commencement of the sedition, they were joined by such, and urged to further violence, cannot be doubted.
The insurrection had not, therefore, in its largest proportions, one single distinctive purpose, and was not the work of one set of men. It was a rising against the draft, but not wholly so. It was a blow in aid of the South, though not this only. It was a thieves' tumult, but that was not all. It was all of these, with some other ingredients, previously mentioned, the whole clustering and crystallizing around a nucleus of crude, ignorant, hard-working, passionate, rough, turbulent men, deceived by the adroit misrepresentations of interested persons, until, driven to madness by a sense of supposed injustice, they believed themselves justified in securing redress by the only means they knew.
Shall we stop here in our analysis of the nature and constituents of the New York mob? Have we yet discovered the fundamental causes which produced the riot, so that we shall be able to prevent such recurrences in the future? Or have we in reality only penetrated the crust of the question, and ascertained the immediate and superficial causes, not the radical and basic ones? The latter is the case. We have thus far seen the apparent and proximate causes merely—which brought to the surface, at the present time, a riotous disposition, always existent in the community, a volcano slumbering and smouldering, ever ready to burst forth and deluge society with its withering and destroying lava, whenever the flame is fitly fanned. Until we know the source of this riotous tendency in a portion of our population, the deeper cause of this recent outbreak, as of all our outbreaks, we are yet ignorant of the true sources of the frightful disturbance which our social order has sustained, in any such sense as makes a knowledge of causes practically available for remedy and cure.
Whether the preceding analysis of the mob be a true one or not, therefore; whether it were a part of the great Southern rebellion, brought about by rebel agents from abroad or living in our midst; or an outbreak of indignation against a law supposed to be unjust; or a riot of thieves, whose main purpose was plunder; or a politicians' bubble merely;—whether it were any or all of these, or something different from these or more than these; in any of these cases, we are yet at the threshold of our inquiry concerning it. We must go back over some ground which we have cursorily traversed, and look closer at the elements of society, to find a fitting solution to the spirit and conduct of the mob. Men are not given to acts of atrocious brutality, to frightful rage, or to wanton rapine, without the existence of some cause for their proceedings. However depraved a few individuals may be, the love of doing outrageous things for the mere sake of doing them is not natural to the human race. If there had not existed some deep feeling of supposed injustice on the part of the masses engaged in the sedition, coupled with the habitual misery of their lives, the wild frenzy of July would have been impossible. If the multitude had been rightly informed and judiciously cared for, neither the politicians nor the rebel emissaries could have stirred them to insurrection, nor thieves have gained their assistance and support.
The cause of the turbulent spirit exhibited in a large class of our population is, principally, the sense of pecuniary insecurity in which they live; the fear lest by an overabundance in the supply of labor, or by the disability of the laborer, they should be unable to get the means of living for themselves and their families. The writer of this article was impelled, by the duties of his profession, to spend his entire time, save the hours of sleep, during the days of the riot and the two weeks subsequent, among the active insurgents, in the neighborhood of the conflicts, and in other situations, which gave him peculiar advantages for knowing the nature of the mob and the causes of its actions. The prevailing complaint among the first active insurgents, and their sympathizers among the poor, was that they were about to be forced away from home to fight for the freedom of the blacks, who when free would become their competitors for the little they now earn. In listening to the knots gathered at the corners, to the conversation among the inhabitants of the most violently riotous districts, the wordswhich fell oftenest upon the ear were those of bitter, burning, blasting denunciation against the apathy of the rich, who, while enjoying the comforts of a competency, are forgetful of the continuous, persistent, hopeless, never-to-be-relieved, and crushing poverty of the poor, with its inevitable accompaniments. The writer does not hesitate to affirm, that but for this sense of the insecurity of their means of living, and the mistaken notions which had been instilled into them in regard to the negroes and the object of this war, as increasing still further this insecurity—a deception to which their ignorance, the necessary result of their present pecuniary conditions, even were there no other causes for it, renders them at all times liable—they could not have been incited to the recent sedition.
It is not easy for men who do not feel the daily and hourly pressure of poverty, to comprehend the constant solicitude which weighs upon the indigent. It is still less easy for them to understand the intensely practical point of view from which the poor must regard every question submitted to them, and the equally practical and speedy solution which they must find to problems of social interest presented for their consideration. The citizen who is comfortably situated in relation to money matters, can afford to look at the result which any social, economical, or mechanical change will introduce in his affairs with reference to a period of time more or less extended into the future. The man who has no capital, who literally earns hisdailybread, and whose ability to gain a livelihood for himself and his family depends upon his constant, unintermitted labor, is in no condition to look at any aspect of any question but in the one, vital, all-important view of his personal necessities. Anything which stops his work, for a week even, is destructive to him, no matter how beneficial its after results may promise to be. The binding force of dire necessity coerces him into this position; and even were he intelligent enough to see that all progress, no matter how destructive to particular departments of industry at first, eventually benefitsallclasses andallindividuals, he cannot afford to consider the question from this stand-point, if it affects his immediate occupation. The benefits of progress must be of secondary importance to an individual, when the present issue which the case presents to him is starvation or work. If the proposed improvement is liable to throw him out of employment for even a brief period, he must look upon it as a hostile invader and resist its introduction. It is this insecurity of social condition, therefore, which has always arrayed a portion of the masses against the introduction of new inventions, improvements in machinery, and labor-saving appliances of all descriptions, and which has caused the riots and violent demonstrations which, at times, have accompanied the first use of new mechanical contrivances. One of thefirstresults of the introduction of labor-saving machinery is to throw a large number of people temporarily out of employment. This is forcibly felt by the ignorant masses. They are not educated enough to see that this first result is more than counterbalanced by subsequent benefits;—indeed, it is still a debated question with many people of ordinary intelligence whether, on account of the large number of people primarily deprived of occupation, labor-saving machinery be a benefit to society;—and if they were so educated, their immediate necessities cannot be satisfied with this solution. The same is true in regard to the abolition of slavery. One of the first fruits of this measure will be, as they believe, to cause a large number of negroes to emigrate North. This is the practical point of the question which the poor and ignorant see. The results of this immigration have been magnified to them; a statement of the counteracting tendencies has been withheld by those interested in fomenting discord, or if not withheld, they do not see these as operating immediately on their condition, and hence regard them as practically not existing.
It is, therefore, the wretched material condition of the poorer masses and the ignorance, stupidity, brutality, and degradation accompanying these, together with the apathy of the rich and intelligent classes to their situation, which are the latent causes of our social broils, the recent riot included. In speaking of the pecuniary conditions and the sufferings of the lowest masses, let it be understood that no reference is intended to the present economical relations of labor and price, as compared with those of other times. I refer to thestatusof the poorest classes in society; to the miserable method of their lives, always wretched, ever burdensome, with but one source of temporary relief within their means, the grogshop, which deepens their misery; to their hopeless degradation and perpetual ignorance, under present social arrangements, whether labor be a little higher for a time or not. On the other hand, in referring to the apathy of the rich and intelligent classes, I do not charge them with a want of large benevolence on the ordinary charitable plane, but to something far different, as will appear in the sequel.
It is time, then, that the intelligent and opulent classes began to reflect upon the nature of the community in which they live, and upon the conditions of their neighbors; not, as heretofore, in a casual way, and without any intention of thoroughly considering the question, or doing anything to remedy radically the defects which they may discover, but in the spirit of desire and determination to relieve the masses permanently of burdens which press heavily upon them, to rescue them from the persistent deception of the intriguing demagogues whose snares are winding closer and closer around them, and to unite in bonds of respect and mutual assistance the physical substratum of society with the moral, intellectual, and substantial. The scenes of the New York riot are a solemn warning that the time has come when society must begin in earnest the work of lifting the masses out of their degradation, their squalor, their ignorance, and their poverty, or the lowest classes, driven to desperation, will make the attempt, at least, to drag society down to their level. The doctrine of equality has been pushed to its utmost in the hands of political cajolers, until the practical logic of the crude multitude, spurred to its intellectual conclusions by physical necessity, asks, What sort of equality is that which keeps the largest portion of the people in want, while the smaller rolls in plenty? So long as the estrangement of the lower classes from their natural directors and advisers continues, so long will these dangerous distortions of truth be powerful weapons in the hands of unfeeling men, whose interests and purposes are subserved by deception. And this estrangement will never cease until the intelligence and wealth of the community withdraw the allegiance of the masses from tricksters and schemers, and transfer it to themselves by the inauguration of such methods of social amelioration as shall convince the multitude of the falsity of the demagogue's teaching, and satisfy them of the fact that the higher classes have really their welfare at heart, and are anxious for their comfort and happiness. When this is done, the ignorant population will no longer be leagued on the side of falsehood, no longer stand the steady opponents of that progress which is so beneficial to themselves. The argument of practical help will have convinced them who their true friends are, and neither the rebel emissary, the dishonest politician, nor the thief will be able to stir them to insurrection, nor control them to the opposition of salutary and judicious laws.
The kind of relationship which mustexist between the rich and benevolent classes and the ignorant poor, must be a closer one in the future than has ever been in the past, and of a different character. In earlier times the isolation and separation which are common between the various orders of society in America, were unknown. There are many countries in which the powerful and opulent feel an obligation resting upon them to be the guardians and social providence of the weak and the humble. Hence the two classes are united to each other by ties of respect and order on the part of the indigent, and of care and protection on the part of the wealthy. The sense of pecuniary insecurity is there little felt, and the ignorant poor are not left to the machinations of any trickster whose interest it may be to deceive them. It is for this reason that even in societies where the oppression of the poor and weak is, in other ways, infinitely greater than in this country, riots and seditions are difficult to create. It is because of the social providence which, theoretically, and, in an appreciable degree, practically, the Southern master extends over his slaves, that it is so difficult to arouse them to insurrection. True, in the case of the slave and the landed peasant, the security from physical want is purchased by the sacrifice of other and higher advantages, but to a large proportion of the ignorant and the weak the means of life are more important than any other blessings.
In accordance with the spirit of our institutions, we enter as equals into the competitive struggle of life, where all cannot be gainers, and where it is inevitable that the strong and the intelligent should succeed, while the feeble and the ignorant must fail. But as both classes have been admitted freely into the race, there is no feeling on the part of the winners of duty or obligation toward the losers. If one chooses to be charitable, he may; if not, society has no claim upon him, no right toexpectthat he will make the care of others a part of his duty or his business. Thus the community is arrayed in two great classes: the intelligent, the strong in mind, and those of larger capacities, who, as a class, are rich, on the one side; and the ignorant, the weak-minded, the crude, who, as a body, are poor, on the other. A great gulf separates these two classes, who have nothing in common, and society rests on a social basis composed of forlorn, dissatisfied, ignorant people, developing day by day still more the accompaniments of ignorance and poverty—brutality, viciousness, drunkenness, and ferocity. This separation has too long continued, has too long left the country a prey to political demagogues, who have plunged it into repeated turmoils, and finally into civil war, by being able to operate upon the fears and feelings of the ignorant, deprived of all natural and proper guidance. It is a question, not only of duty, but of safety, for the rich and intelligent, whether they will suffer the lower orders to remain in their wretchedness and sullen dissatisfaction, sinking daily into still deeper degradation, and engendering still more bitter hatred; or whether they will accept their proper position as the organized guides and permanent social providence of the weak, and faithfully perform its functions.
In pressing upon the higher classes the obligation which they owe to the lower orders of society, and in urging them to assume the guardianship of the latter, the writer is not referring to vague and diffuse measures of ordinary philanthropy, but to definite and practical ones, of vast importance to the welfare of the wealthiest as well as to that of the poorest member of society. The individuals who have been most actively engaged in the stirring scenes of commercial life, are little aware, for the most part, of the rapid advances made in social science during the last twenty years, and especially within the last ten of these. Extensive as the new principles evolved in the departmentof mechanical discovery, during this period, have been, those in that of commercial and social activity have fully equalled them. The true method of organizing the workshop, the farm, and the manufactory, the right adjustment of capital and labor so as to secure larger advantages than heretofore to both capitalist and laborer, the just adaptation of supply and demand in community, the mutually beneficial coöperation of employer and employé, these and other questions of deep significance to the whole community have reached a theoretical, and, to a limited extent, a practical solution, which the students of social science patiently wait to communicate to the active workers in commercial or industrial affairs. For the want of this knowledge, now ready at their call, the capitalists and the employers are suffering, no less than the laborers and the employed. There is not a single department of human labor in which principles are not now known to the industrial scientist, which would enhance many fold the value of the means employed in such business, to the equal advantage of the owner of the capital and his assistants. The merchants, the bankers, the manufacturers, and the master mechanics are making a wasteful and inferior use of their material, while at the same time they are inadvertently keeping the lower classes in poverty by the want of a knowledge of these modern discoveries. It is from this lack of information only that the poor of New York, who to-day are steeped in their filth, their squalor, and their penury, are not each and all of them enjoying the comforts of a moderate competence and a decent home, the securing of which for them would have, at the same time, enhanced the wealth of the employers. The way to gain the allegiance, devotion, and fidelity of the poorer orders, is easy and simple. The problem of the harmonization of the interests of classes in community with mutual benefit to all, is scientifically solved. It only remains for the intelligent and benevolent to give due attention to the teachings of science in order to secure the most beneficial results.
Already these modern industrial principles are being adopted in some considerable degree into active practice by eminent citizens. In New York city the methods of recent discoveries are being introduced into large manufactories with the most satisfactory and beneficial results to all concerned. But these attempts, as yet, have been undertaken without any thorough examination of the whole scope of principles relating to the operations in hand, and hence without the largest achievable results. These will come when the intelligent and moneyed classes awake to the importance of the subject; to the understanding that the knowledge of methods for securing immense social improvements is in existence; and to a determination to possess that knowledge and to apply it to its legitimate ends—the organization of a social providence for the ignorant and weak, and the binding of all classes of society into relations of mutual sympathy and assistance.
All this, however, looks to a period of time, more or less, though it is to be hoped not far, distant. In the meantime, while society remains with its present constitution, riots are liable, and a practical question still remains, of the method which should be pursued in dealing with them. There is a time for all things, said a man of reputed wisdom. And the time for considering the sufferings of a people or for being in anywise tender hearted, is not when a madman or a cohort of madmen are howling about your houses or your city, with knives and torches, blood in their eyes, fiery rum in their veins, demoniac rage in their hearts, and the instincts of hell in their natures. A mob has no mind, only passions. It were as idle to attempt to make it listen to reason, as to argue with a lunatic in the height of his frenzy. A mobis not only a creature of passions, but of the worst passions. Every man has in him more or less of the demoniac element, which, commonly, he is constrained by the requirements of the society in which he lives to keep within decent limits. A mob can never have an existence until the parties which compose its nucleus, at least, have toppled from their customary self-control, and passion has assumed the guidance. Then the devil, long restrained and compressed, takes a holiday. As a high-mettled steed, after being kept a long time within the narrow limits of his stable, and being obliged to conduct himself in a staid manner, on being released, runs, whisks his tail, kicks up his heels, lays back his ears, opens his mouth, and rushes with mock vicious-looking eyes at whomsoever he meets, and all this from mere wantonness, to enjoy his freedom; so the devil in the man, not perchance the theological one, but still the devil no less actually, as seen every day in the activity of the baser passions, on being released, by the abdication of reason and the substitution of feeling, begins to exercise his ingenuity in the play of his faculties, compensating himself for his long confinement. From hour to hour, and from day to day, this devil gets fuller possession of the individual, who becomes more and more an unreasoning creature, until a blind, furious, brutal, bloodthirsty demon is all that remains of what might have once been merely a not well balanced human being.
It is notorious that a mob will commit atrocities which a single individual could scarcely be tempted to perpetrate. The reason is partially evident from the statement just made. A more philosophical explanation may be given. It is a law of social intercourse that there is always among companies of individuals a more or less effective contagion of whatever sentiment is most powerful among them. Still further, this contagion or magnetic battery of sympathy, while pervading the whole assembly, likewise increases the individual potency of the sentiment in the mind of each person. It is for this reason, that an orator thrills more deeply each hearer in a vast sympathetic assembly, than he would the same individual in a less crowded company; that music is more inspiring in a great crowd of people than elsewhere, etc. In an assemblage where the finer sentiments are predominant, this contagion is of the finer sort, and serves to elevate the whole company: in a gathering where the lower passions preponderate, the contagion is of the debasing kind, and serves to excite still further the worst elements of brutality, and to sink the individuals which compose the company still lower in the scale of humanity. To the educators of the young and to the governors of the people, this law is of immense importance.
A mob is, therefore, not only under the influence of its worst passions, but every hour of its existence these are growing more potent, in the mob as an entity, and in the persons which compose it. The only true mercy which can be shown to such an assembly, aside from any question of the safety of community, is to suppress it; to suppress it at once; and to use every means necessary to that end. Relentless rigor is the only measure adequate to the occasion. It is the weakness of civilization that it hesitates to be cruelly kind. The mistake of the military authorities in regard to the New York riot, was lenity. The prompt and vigorous bombardment, in the beginning of the rising, of a block of the houses in which the rioters were safely ensconced, while covertly firing on the soldiers and policemen, would have done more to quell the mob than all subsequent proceedings, and would have saved life in the end. It would have forced the inhabitants of these houses who, as things were conducted, could safely give all possible aid to the insurgents, to compel these to lay down their arms, in order to insure the safety of the sympathizers. Had the first, and the second, and the third house from which the assassins were permitted to fire been battered to the ground with cannon shot, the last two days of fighting would have been unnecessary. The police cowed the mob wherever they met them, because they showed no quarter. They hit hard and they hit often. They felt that the way to knock the riot in the head, was to knock the rioters in the head. And they did it, as Inspector Carpenter says, 'beautifully.' New York feels as proud of these Metropolitan policemen as he does; and that is saying a great deal.
We discover, then, by this brief analysis of the great riot, that social outbreaks of this kind have theirimmediateandtangiblecauses, which are superficial in their character, and vary with the occasion; that these causes depend for their disturbing power upon others which are morefundamental, and which inhere in the nature of our present social relations; that so long as the wealthy and intelligent classes shall decline the permanent guardianship and organized care of the poor and ignorant masses, the liability to such recurrences will remain; that when they break forth, the safety of community and mercy to the rioters alike demand that the mob be scattered on the instant by an iron and relentless hand; and, finally, that the only method by which society will be permanently and effectually freed from a liability to the terrors of mob-rule, is the reorganization of its economical arrangements in such a manner that the miseries of poverty and ignorance shall be forever removed from the community, and a social providence be firmly established which shall secure physical comfort and kindly sympathy to all classes of citizens.
It was left long ago,And the rank weeds growWhere the lily once bent her head;Thick and tall they grow,And some lying low,Beaten down by a human tread.And the laughing sun,When the day's nearly done,Looks in on the cheerless floor;And falleth the rainThrough the broken pane—Shrill whistles the wind at the door.And the thistles standAt the gate where no handEver lifts the latch, now nailed fast:One gate low doth lieWhich the passer byTreads o'er as he hurries past.On the fence close byWhere the sunbeams lieDoth the kingly Nightshade blow;But the Asters tallThat grew by the wallHave vanished long ago.Not now, as of old,Blooms the gay Marigold,Looking in at the kitchen door;And the Cypress redIs long since dead,And the Monkhood blossoms no more.But the Hopvine stillBy the window sillIs as full as in days of yore;And the Currants growAs thickly nowAnd as ripe as e'er before.But the hearth is bare—Not a log blazes thereTo light up the empty room:Not a soft shadow fallsOn the whitewashed walls:All is silent—all wrapt in gloom!Not a chair on the floor,Not a rug at the door,Where the cat once lay in the sun;And no grandame sitsAt the door and knits,Telling tales of days bygone!All is silent now,And the long weeds bowTheir heads in the wind and rain;—But the dwellers of yoreWill ne'er enter the doorOf that dreary old House again!E. W. C.
It was left long ago,And the rank weeds growWhere the lily once bent her head;Thick and tall they grow,And some lying low,Beaten down by a human tread.
And the laughing sun,When the day's nearly done,Looks in on the cheerless floor;And falleth the rainThrough the broken pane—Shrill whistles the wind at the door.
And the thistles standAt the gate where no handEver lifts the latch, now nailed fast:One gate low doth lieWhich the passer byTreads o'er as he hurries past.
On the fence close byWhere the sunbeams lieDoth the kingly Nightshade blow;But the Asters tallThat grew by the wallHave vanished long ago.
Not now, as of old,Blooms the gay Marigold,Looking in at the kitchen door;And the Cypress redIs long since dead,And the Monkhood blossoms no more.
But the Hopvine stillBy the window sillIs as full as in days of yore;And the Currants growAs thickly nowAnd as ripe as e'er before.
But the hearth is bare—Not a log blazes thereTo light up the empty room:Not a soft shadow fallsOn the whitewashed walls:All is silent—all wrapt in gloom!
Not a chair on the floor,Not a rug at the door,Where the cat once lay in the sun;And no grandame sitsAt the door and knits,Telling tales of days bygone!
All is silent now,And the long weeds bowTheir heads in the wind and rain;—But the dwellers of yoreWill ne'er enter the doorOf that dreary old House again!
E. W. C.
'Race Miller, indeed! why don't you say Jim Burt at once? I think I'd better go live in Rocky Hollow, and weave baskets for a living; hadn't I?'
'Well, Dimpey, the race is notalwaysto the swift, you know; so you'd better look out in time;' and Polly Jane took up her pan of peas, and went laughing into the kitchen. I suppose she thought she had said something smart, as our name isSwift; and perhaps she had; but it made me as mad as hops, I won't deny it, though Iama minister's niece! So I pulled my sunbonnet over my face, and went to weeding the flowerbeds, to get cool. It was going on to noon, and the sun was baking hot, but I didn't mind that; I couldnotshell peas in the same pan with Polly Jane while I felt so provoked.
Idothink that Race Miller is one of the homeliest young men I ever set my eyes on: if I say sonow, you may be sure it's true. His skin is almost as dark as an Indian's, and his hair curls up as tight as wool—you couldn't straighten it if you brushed his head off. Then his eyes are blue and twinkly, and he has a short nose, and a great, broad mouth, that, whenever he laughs, opens wide enough to swallow you; to be sure, it is filled with nice, white teeth, and has a good-natured expression; but his teeth are so strong they look as if they could bite through a tenpenny nail; and when he answers out in Bible class, and comes to the long words, such as 'righteousness' and 'Jerusalem,' it really seems as if they were something good to eat, he crunches them so with those great teeth of his!
You'll wonder how he came to have such a ridiculous name asRace. His mother named him Horace, after somebody in a book, but as none of her connection owned the name, nor anybody else in this part of the country, it didn't come natural to call him by it, so they shortened it down to Race, to make it handy. I supposeIoughtn't to say much about names, however, forDimpeydon't amount to much; but that isn'tmyfault; I was christened with a right pretty name—Phebe Ann! but Cousin Phebe lived with us when I was little, and it made a sort o' confusion to have two of us, and my cheeks were so full of dimples that Calanthy—she's the oldest of us children, and has kept house ever since mother died—well, she called me Dimpey, and the rest took it up, and so I suppose I shall be Dimpey Swift to the end of the chapter—that is, not DimpeySwiftexactly; but I forgot, I was telling about Race Miller.
I was so vexed with Polly Jane for even hinting that he was a match forme, that I jerked out the weeds with all my might, and I do believe our Persian pink border never was so clean before or since; when I came in, there wasn't a weed left in it, big or little!
Now the fact was, I couldn't help knowing I wastolerablegood-looking by the way the boys man[oe]uvred 'round to walk home from singing school with me, and by their staring at me in meeting when they ought to have been looking at the minister. I used to try and keep my eyes fast on my hymn book, but it seemed as if I could see right through the lids; and I knew well enough that when Ned Hassel bent down his head and pretended to be picking out his notes in 'Sacred Psalmody,' he was peeping atmeall the time. I suppose I was a little spoiled by having so many beaux, for Calanthy was a regular old maid: you mustn't ever mention it, but she'd been disappointed once, and wouldn't keep company with anyone after that; and Polly Jane hadonly one sweetheart, and I didn't think much of him, though hewasthe schoolmaster, and knew more than all of us put together. He was kind-a slow in his speech, and a good deal bald; his hair never came in right well after he had the typhus fever; but John Morgan was a real good fellow for all that, and I was a little fool not to know it.
Well, I stooped over the flower beds till I was tired and 'most melted, and I was just thinking of giving up, when Calanthy called to me from the kitchen door, 'Don't stay out in the sun any longer, Dimpey; you'll have time to cool before dinner, for father hasn't come in yet.' Calanthy always petted me considerable, for I was only a year old when mother was taken away, and Calanthy had to bring me up, and teach me everything about the house.
So I went through the garden out into the orchard, and sat down under the big Baldwin apple tree, to rest; it was a nice, shady spot, and there came up a breeze off the river t'other side the meadow, where father and the boys were mowing. The air smelt as sweet as could be of the new hay, and I took off my bonnet and sat down on the grass, and leaned my head against the tree; the bees were humming in the clover, and the sound made me sleepy, and I believe I must have dozed while I was sitting there. I don't know how it was, but all at once I saw a picture in my mind: I couldn't get rid of it, try my best. It happened long ago, when I was a little bit of a thing, but it all came back to me under that apple tree. It was when our old mare Peggy took fright at a tin peddler's wagon just as she was crossing the bridge at the foot of Smith's hill; what ailed the creature I can't tell, for she's as steady as clockwork generally. Dear me! I've ridden her ever since I wassohigh! But perhaps it was the sun shining on one of the tins hanging outside the wagon, that reflected into her eyes and scared her out of her wits; at any rate, she gave a sudden spring, and pitched father right over her head; then she ran home as fast as she could go, and jumped over the fence into thedooryard. Calanthy wasn't well, and when she saw old Peggy come tearing along the road without father, she fainted away, and Polly Jane caught her as she was falling, and helped her on the bed in the spare room. I was sitting on a little chair in the hall, stringing beads; I thought Calanthy was dead, and commenced screaming like a catbird; and poor Polly Jane was almost distracted, and didn't know which way to turn. Race Miller was a boy about fourteen at that time, and as strong as a lion; he happened to be driving down the hill just as the accident happened, and he and the peddler lifted father into his wagon, and Race brought him home and then drove off for the doctor as quick as he could; he had two miles to go, but he did it in no time, and had the doctor there just as Calanthy fairly came to and was able to walk about.
Well, father wasn't hurt as bad as we thought—only stunned by the fall; he had a bad bruise on his cheek, though, and Dr. Basset said he must keep still on the bed all day, and have his face bathed with laudanum and vinegar. They were all so busy that no one thought aboutme, till Race came out of father's room and found me sitting on the low chair, rocking my doll in my arms, and crying as if my heart would break; I had felt so lonesome and miserable that I was holding the doll for company; and when Race saw me he said, 'Why, what's the matter with little Dimpey?' 'Is father dead?' said I; 'can't I go and see him?' Then Race told me father was better, and that I must not cry, and this made me cry more; so he took me up in his arms, doll and all—I well remember how strong his arms felt—and sat down in the big rocking chair in the parlor; and when the house was quiet, and Calanthy came to look for me, there she found us, I with my arms roundRace's neck, and the dolly hugged up tight, and all three of us fast asleep!
But this was long ago, and I was a woman now, and a good deal sought after, as I said before, and some of my beaux were well off and good looking; and, if the truth must be spoken, Race had not paid me much attention lately, and did not seem to think as much of me as Ned Hassel did, and the other young men of our place. To be sure he worked very hard, for his father was sick a good while and died in debt, and their farm was mortgaged to 'Squire Stevens; and as Race was the only child, everything came uponhim, and he was in the field early and late, trying to pay off the mortgage, and keep the old homestead for his mother. Hewasa good son—that everybody said; but he didn't visit 'round as much as some.
I sat so long under the apple tree thinking of all this, that I got quite cool and comfortable, and when Polly Jane called me in to dinner I felt good-natured again.
While we were eating dinner, brother Joe said, 'Dimpey, as soon as we get through haying the boys are going to have a drive to Spring Mountain, and take the girls up, for a picnic. Ned Hassel started it; I guess he wants to show off his sorrel horses; but that near horse of his is as skittish a creetur as ever I see—I wouldn't ride after it, if I was you.' 'No, no,' said father; 'Dimpey isn't going to have her neck broken bythembeasts; Ned always drives 2.40, as he calls it, and he'll be sure to race with the other teams if they give him a chance.'
Now, if there is anything Idolike, it is riding behind fast horses! Father and Joe drive so slow I'd almost as soon walk, but whenever Biel and I went off by ourselves we made the dust fly a little; it didn't hurt our horses a bit, for they were in good pasture all summer, and got as fat as pigs. I thought in a minute how much I'd like to go with Ned; but I knew Polly Jane was watching me, go I said, sort o' careless like, 'I guess Ned could keep his horses from running if he wanted to; but he hasn't asked me to ride yet; it will be time enough to say no when he does.' Biel looked up and gave me a wink, and Calanthy said, 'You must let me know a day or two before you are ready, Joe, so that I can get some nice things made for you; our biscuits weren't quite light last picnic, and I felt really ashamed of 'em.'
Calanthy is sothoughtful—I wish I was more like her.
After dinner was cleared away, I concluded I'd walk down to Preston—we live about a mile out of the village—and get a new ribbon for my round hat. I'm so glad the old pokey bonnets are gone but o' fashion—the round ones are much more becoming to young people. I thought perhaps I would meet some of the girls at the store, and hear more about the picnic—and my hat was getting shabby for want of new strings, whether or no. Just by the hay scales I met Jim Burt, the lame basketmaker, shuffling along as usual with his baskets slung on his back. Poor Jim was real simple, and couldn't do anything but weave baskets; he and his mother lived alone in Rocky Hollow, away t'other side of Preston; they were as poor as poverty, but Mrs. Burt managed to scramble along somehow, and keep a home for herself and Jim; he hadn't wit enough to take care of himself, but was very fond of his mother, and would do as she told him.
I said good day to Jim, and was passing on, for I felt in a hurry to get to the store, when he called after me, 'I say, Miss Dimpey! don't your folks want any baskets? Mother's deown sick, and can't drink milk, and I want to get her some tea, and I hain't got a cent o' money; she paid eout the last for sugar abeout a week ago.' Poor Jim always speaks as if his nose had been pinched together when he was a baby, and had never come apart since; but when I turned around he lookedso sorrowful, my heart ached for him.
'What ails your mother, Jim?' said I.
'She's got some kind o' fever, and her head aches awful; she wants to drink all the time, but she won't eat nothin'. I fried a slice of pork real good for her, but she didn't eat a mite!'
'Well, Jim,' said I, 'go up to our house, and tell Miss Calanthy about your mother, and I guess she'll buy a basket; we want a new clothes-basket, come to think.'
I walked on, but somehow I did not feel so much like buying ribbons as before I met Jim. I couldn't help thinking of poor Mrs. Burt, without any comforts for sickness, and no one to take care of her but this half-witted son; however, I comforted myself by supposing the neighbors would not let her suffer, and that Calanthy would likely give Jim something good to take to her.
When I got to the store, who should be there but Abby Matilda Stevens and Rhody Mills! Abby is generally thoughta beauty, because she has great black eyes that are always so bright and shiny I wonder the hens don't try and peck at them; then she is tall and slim waisted, and her hair is as black as a coal, and longer than common; but I never liked such dreadfulsparklyeyes, do you? I think the kind that have a sort o' hazy look come into them—like the pond when a little summer cloud passes over the sun—are a great deal handsomer. However, I never dared to say so, for fear people might think I was jealous of Abby Matilda.
Rhody Mills is a very good-natured girl, and always ready for a frolic, and the moment she saw me she said, 'Here comes Dimpey Swift now;'—they had been talking about me, I guess;—'oh, Dimpey, are you going to the picnic on Spring Mountain?'
'Our boys were talking about it at noon,' said I; 'I suppose some of us will go—Polly Jane or I; I don't much think Calanthy will.'
'I wish we could go on horseback,' said Rhody; 'that would be real fun; but our Will says we must have a wagon to carry the baskets, so we had better all drive.'
'Who are you going with, Dimpey?' said Abby Matilda.
I knew well enoughwhowould be likely to ask me, but as I had no invitation yet, I answered, 'Oh, Joe or Biel, I suppose; father won't trust me with anyone else!'
'Well, thank goodness,Ican ride with whoever I please,' said Abby; 'I should think you were old enough to take care of yourself, Dimpey, if you'reevergoing to be;' and Abby Matilda tossed her head, and rolled up her shiny eyes in that hateful way she has.
'Iwouldn't ride with some of the boys if they were to ask me, said Rhody; 'Will is a real good hand with horses, and he says that the tricks some people play with their animals are enough to ruin the finest horse ever was raised.'
'Who do you mean bysomepeople?' said Abby, and she looked right scornful.
Rhody laughed: 'I didn't mention any names,' said she; 'but I know good driving from harum-scarum, wherever I see it.'
'I'mnot afraid to ride behind any horses inthispart of the country,' said Abby; 'and I think all cowards had better keep off Spring Mountain!'
I felt my face turn red; but I wouldn't please the spiteful thing by saying a word; so I bought my ribbon and started for home. I had to pass Mrs. Miller's farm on my way, and as I came along by the stone fence, I heard a great gee-hawing; they had just finished loading up the hay cart, I suppose, for Hiram—the hired man—turned the oxen toward the barn as I came up, and Race stood leaning his arms on the fence, and looking up the road; it's likely he was tired and hot,for he seemed to me uncommonly homely, and I was such a goose then, I thoughtlookswas everything. He seemed to be thinking mighty hard of something, for he didn't see me till I got close to him, and then he gavesucha start, and his face grew redder than ever!
'Good day, Dimpey!' said he; 'how are all your folks?'
'Very well, thank you, Race.'
'Ain't you going to stop and see mother a minute?'
'I can't, to-day; I've got some sewing to do before dark.'
This was nothing but an excuse—I'll own it now; for I knew I could easily trim my hat next day; but I was so afraid that Race might ask me to go to the picnic with him, I felt in a hurry to get away; so I said good-by pretty quick and went on before Race had time to say anything more.
When I got home, the first thing I saw was a new clothes-basket standing on the ironing table; and Calanthy called to me from the hall, 'Run up stairs and take a rest, Dimpey, for I want you to go to the Hollow after tea, and see Widow Burt. I guess she's very sick, from what Jim says; and Polly Jane and you had better go and find out what help she needs.'
Now I had been thinking all the way from Preston, that Ned Hassel would certainly call in the evening, to ask me to the picnic, before the other boys got a chance. So I expect I answered a little cross, 'Dear me! Calanthy! 'way down there to-night; won't to-morrow be time enough?'
'Why, yes, dear,' said Calanthy, 'if you are too tired; but I was afraid the poor soul might be suffering, for Jim's nobody in sickness, you know; and I don't like to have Polly Jane go alone. Besides, there's such a big ironing to do to-morrow, I can't well spare you in the morning.'
Calanthy spoke so kind, I felt ashamed of my bad temper; so I answered, 'Very well, Calanthy, I'll go to-night; I'm not much tired.'
After tea Polly Jane and I set out; we had a little basket with camphor and mustard, and other useful things Calanthy had put up for Mrs. Burt: it is a beautiful walk through the Hollow, and I should have liked it very much if my head had not been so full of the picnic that I couldn't think of anything else. We didn't go through the village, but turned off the main road into a lane that cut off a part of the distance. I was a little ahead of Polly Jane, for shewouldcarry the basket, and we had just got into the lane when she said to me, 'Look back, Dimpey; here comes one of your beaux!' I turned around, and saw Ned Hassel on one of his fast horses. He pulled up at the corner and called out—his voice was a little tooloudand confident like, I must confess—'Good evening, Polly Jane; good evening, Dimpey; are you going to take a walk in the woods, so near sundown?'
It provoked Polly, I suppose, to hear him speak so bold, for she answered, very short, 'No, we're going on an errand.'
He didn't seem to notice, but looked at me, and said, 'I was just on my way to your house, Dimpey, to ask your company to the picnic next week; I suppose Joe told you about it? We're going to set out early, and have a real good time; I mean to take my fast team and the light wagon, and we can get up the mountain before the others have fairly started.'
Polly Jane spoke up again—she never could bear the Hassels, and always said they were the greatest braggarts in our county: 'That would be great fun, for you and Dimpey to get ahead of all the company! I thoughtpicnickersalways kept together.'
Ned colored up and looked angry, but he only said, 'Will you engage to ride with me, Dimpey?'
If Polly Jane had not been there, Ishould have told Ned to ask father if I might go; but I couldn't bear to have her think I wanted Ned for a beau; so I answered, 'I don't know yet whether I can go or not; I'll see what our folks say.'
'Well, Dimpey, I'll come over to your house to-morrow night; I guess you'll go; good evening,' and away he galloped.
'Guessyou'll go, indeed!' said Polly Jane, as soon as he was out of hearing. 'I guess she won't go withyou, Mr. Impudence! You're not going to make a fool of our Dimpey, and break her neck besides, not if her father knows it,Ican tell you.'
It isn't often that Polly Jane speaks out so spunky, but I expect she was vexed because he didn't answer her; as for me, I could have cried to think that things happened so, and I felt almost angry with poor Widow Burt for being sick, and taking me away from home that evening. It was awful wicked, but I was well punished for it afterward.
'It'stoobad in you to talk so, Polly,' said I, 'as if I was a child six years old! I wonderwhyit's impudent in Ned to ask me to ride with him; you wouldn't say so if it was any one else; but you hate poor Ned—you know you do,' and here I broke down and really cried; but they were spiteful tears, after all.
'There, now, Dimpey,' said Polly Jane—she was overherpet in a minute—'don't feel bad; I didn't mean to be cross to Ned; but he has such a bold way of talking, as if he thought nobody could refusehim, that he always makes me angry, and I can't help it. But youshallgo to the picnic, dear, whether he takes you or not; there will be plenty glad to ask you; so kiss me, Dimpey, and I won't tease you again.'
I let her kiss me, and then walked on sullen enough till we came to Mrs. Burt's. The house was a forlorn old place, with only one room and a bedroom, and a garret next the roof, where Jim slept. The door of the living room opened out into a shed, where Mrs. Burt did her work in summer time. The trees grew close up to the shed, and the well was under it; and as we came up, who should I see but Race Miller, drawing a bucket of water to fill the teakettle, while Jim kindled a fire in the stove. Theredidseem to be no end of vexations that day, and I wished myself a hundred miles off.
'Why, Polly Jane! is that you? I didn't think of seeing you down here to-night—and Dimpey, too! We heard that Mrs. Burt was very sick, and mother had tea early, and we came over to see how the poor soul was.'
'Is your mother in the bedroom?' said Polly.
'Yes; we've fixed Mrs. Burt up in the rocking chair, and mother is making her bed. I want to get a cup of tea made for her as quick as I can, for she has a good deal of fever, and is thirsty all the time. Come, Jim! set on the kettle, and we'll have it boiling in no time.' And Race stooped down and blew the fire with his mouth till it blazed up nicely.
'I'll go help your mother, Race,' said Polly Jane. 'You sit down, and rest, Dimpey; you've had walking enough to-day;' and she went into the bedroom, and left me alone with Race. Jim didn't count for anybody.
Race stepped in the room, and brought out a chair; he put it just outside the shed door, and said:
'Sit down there, Dimpey, that's a nice cool place.' I sat down, and he took a seat in the doorway, close by me. 'Dimpey!' said he, 'if mother hadn't wanted me, I meant to go up to your house to ask you if you'd give me your company to the picnic on Spring Mountain. You know we talk of having one next Wednesday, don't you?'
'There!' thought I; 'what am I to do now? I daren't say I'm engaged, for fear father won't let me go with Ned Hassel; and besides, I didn'tpromise Ned; so it would be telling a lie.' Then I thought how pleasant it would be to ride with the fast horses, and—I may as well own it—to pass Abby Matilda on the road, and let her see I could do as I pleased, and that I wasn't a coward, I didn't speak for a minute, and then I said:
'I believe I'm engaged already!'
The words seemed to come out before I knew it. Race didn't speak, and I felt so guilty I never raised my eyes, but made believe I was sorting some wild flowers I'd picked in the Hollow. Jim came out just then with the teapot in his hand, and drawled out:
'That pesky kettle deont bile yet. 'Pears to me it's tarnal long abeout it; it ollers acts contrairy when mother's in a hurry for her tea!'
I couldn't help laughing, and as I raised my head, I caught Race looking at me as if he'd look me through and through. His eyes seemed twice as big as common! He got up, however, without saying anything, and went to making the tea, and at that minute Polly Jane came out of the bedroom, and told us Mrs. Miller thought that Widow Burt ought to be watched, and said she would stay all night if Polly would stay too. 'So,' said Polly, 'if Race will take you home, Dimpey, I'll watch with Mrs. Miller. Race spoke up quick, and said, 'Certainly; he'd see me home,' and it was growing so late I couldn't say anything against it. As soon as he found he could do no more to help them—(heisone of the handiest men about the house I ever saw, I must saythat)—Polly said we'd better go, for Calanthy might feel uneasy. Before we started, she drew me to one side, and whispered:
'Dimpey! I wish you'd tell John Morgan how sorry I am to break my promise to walk with him to-night; but Mrs. Burt is very sick, and Mrs. Miller couldn't get along without me.'
I thought to myself—'What a wicked little thing I am ever to get angry with Polly Jane, when she isn't a bit selfish, and always ready to do good. It's real hard to give up her walk, for John teaches three evenings in the week, and can't always get a chance to go with her!' So I spoke as pleasant as I could, and kissed her for good night, and then set out to walk home with Race Miller.
I have been through Rocky Hollow a great many times, but I shall never forget that walk! The evening was clear and bright, but it was pretty dark in among the willows. Race put out his hand once or twice to help me over a big stone or log, and said:
'Take care, Dimpey! don't go so fast, or you'll hurt your little feet against the stones.'
My feet are not so very little, but I expect he thought so because his own are so big. I suppose it was foolish, but he seemed such a stout, strong fellow, I felt as if he wanted to take me up, and carry me like a baby; but may be he never thought of such a thing.
When we got out in the road it looked quite light; there was a glow on the sky where the sun had gone down, and one bright star had come out just over Spring Mountain, and seemed as if it was keeping watch over the spring—I mean the spring on the top of the mountain that gives it its name. Everything was still, except the crickets that kept up a great singing among the trees. I always liked to be out in the starlight, and should have felt happy then, only things had gone crooked with me all day, and nothing seemed to please me. Uncle Ezra—he's our minister, and one of the best men that ever lived—hesays it's always so when we haven't done right ourselves—and I really believe it is—for I remember how discontented I felt that night.
Presently Race spoke:
'See that star over the mountain, Dimpey! don't it look handsome up there all alone? By the by, who is going to wait on you to the picnic—you didn't say, did you?'
I was so vexed at the question, I'd a great mind to answer,'It's none ofyourbusiness, Race Miller, who I go with,' but just then, I can't tell why, the thoughts I'd had in the morning out in the orchard all came back to me, and I remembered how Race had given up coming to ask me because his mother wanted him; and then I thought how good he was to his mother, and waited on her as if she was a pretty young girl. And what wouldmymother say, if she was living, to hear me speak so. Father always saidshenever gave any one a cross word in her life! I looked up at the star, and it appeared to me that mother might be up there watching me, and knowing all my thoughts; and instead of answering Race, I put down my head and burst out crying. I'd wanted to have a good hard cry all day, and now I would have given the world to stop, and I couldn't.
'Why, Dimpey!' said Race, 'whatisthe matter?'
I couldn't speak; we were passing a big maple tree, and I stopped and hid my face against it, so that Race couldn't see it. He let me cry a few minutes, and then took hold of my hand as gentle as a little child, and whispered, 'Don't cry, Dimpey! I can't bear it. I'm afraid I shall do something rash, if you don't stop soon!'
I didn't know what he meant by 'somethingrash,' but his voice sounded so earnest, it frightened me. I took my hand out of his, and wiped my eyes; and then I said, 'It's very shallow to cry when one's head aches; but I couldn't help it.'
'Does your head ache, Dimpey?' said Race; 'oh, how sorry I am I haven't my wagon here. I'm afraid you can't walk home.'
Now, my headdidache; but it was because I had been crying; but you see, if one leaves the truth ever so little, how deceitful one has to be to keep it up. I felt realmeanwhen Race showed so much concern about me, and told him I could walk very well.
'Won't you take my arm?' said he; 'that will help you.'
I couldn't refuse, though I was dreadfully afraid we might meet somebody. We walked on in silence for a while, and I could feel Race's heart beat against my hand that lay on his arm, for he held me close to his side, as if I was in danger of falling. Presently he said:
'I only asked who you were going with, Dimpey, because I wanted you to have a good time; if I can't haveyourcompany, I don't care to go; but I hoped you would enjoy yourself.'
Race spoke so honest it made me feel ashamed of my ugly spirit, and I answered:
'Edward Hassel asked me to go withhim; but father's got a notion he drives too fast, and perhaps he won't let me ride with him.'
I felt Race give a kind of shiver; and when he spoke again, his voice trembled like everything.
'Dimpey!' said he, 'you musn't think I'm jealous of Ned; I want to see you happy, but Iamsorry he asked you first, for it's a dangerous road up the mountain, and Neddoesdrive too reckless, that's a fact; I hope he don't mean to take them young sorrels of his?'
Now, I know I ought to have told Race the whole truth; but I was so afraid he might say something to father; I only answered:
'Oh, I guess Ned will be careful enough; he goes up to High Farm very often, and his horses are used to the road.'
'Yes,' said Race; 'but the worst part is past High Farm; however, perhaps he'll be careful; so don't say that I interfered, Dimpey; for I don't want any words with Ned.'
He didn't say anything after that until we got to our gate, and then he spoke out so sudden, he made me start.
'Dimpey, if you knew—'
I don't know what he meant to say, for father was sitting on the doorstep, and called out:
'Is thatyou, Polly?'
'It's Dimpey, father,' said I. 'Widow Burt is very sick, and needs watchers; and Mrs. Miller and Polly Jane are going to sit up with her to-night.'
So we came in; and after talking a few minutes with father, Race went home.
I was up bright and early next morning, and worked as smart as I could to get things out of the way before Polly Jane came; for I knew she'd be tired, and she always would take hold till the work was done, no matterhowtired she was. While I was ironing, Calanthy went in the milkroom to work over the butter, so I had the kitchen to myself; and having no one to talk to me, I kept thinking of all that happened the night before. I had my own share of curiosity, and I couldn't help wondering what Race Miller had been going to say when father interrupted him: 'If I only knew'—what? Was it something about Ned, or himself? I turned it over in my mind twenty times, like a sheet of paper; but the same side always came up, and there was nothing on it.
It was ten o'clock before Polly Jane got home, and I was right glad I'd worked so hard, for she looked worn out—and no wonder! Calanthy had some nice hot coffee and cream cakes ready for her; but she was so sleepy she could hardly eat anything. She said that Mrs. Burt had passed a miserable night, and toward morning had got out of her head, and was so wild and restless they could scarcely keep her in the bed. As soon as it was light they sent Jim for Dr. Basset, and he gave her a strong dose of morphine. Mrs. Miller had to go home, and when Mrs. Burt fell asleep, Polly left Jim to watch her—he was as faithful as a dog, poor fellow!—and went in to Preston to try and get somebody to stay with her through the day. Polly Jane went first to 'Squire Stevens's, thinking that Abby Matilda had less housework to do than most of the girls; her mother kept a hired woman, and perhaps she'd be willing to go foroneday; but Abby was afraid of catching the fever, and said 'they'd better have Widow Burt taken to the poorhouse at once, fornobodywould like to stay in that damp Hollow and take care of her, poking their eyes out in the dismal old house!'