 | Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
PREFACE.
In presenting the following story to the public, I think
it proper to introduce it with a few remarks. I had for a
long time entertained the idea, that a novel might be written—founded
in part upon the thrilling scenes and incidents
of every-day occurrence amongst the poorest and
most degraded class of a large city—which, while containing
all the essentials to make it interesting to the general
reader, might be subservient to a higher purpose—that of
calling the attention of sympathetic and philanthropic individuals
to the awful vices and miseries of beings bearing
the human form, who are actually below the brutes in the
great scale of progression, and of whom it may be said
that they do not really live, but rather drag on a horrible
existence, till death by famine, death by pestilence, death
by drunkenness, or death by suicide, puts an end to their
earthly career.
I knew it was fashionable to take up collections in
churches to promote the propagation of the gospel in our
own country; I knew it was fashionable for different
church organizations to raise large sums to send gospel
missionaries among the heathen; I knew it was fashionable
the slaves at the South; but I knew at the same time, that
within fifteen minutes' walk of the head-quarters of some
of these charitable associations, hundreds of human beings,
both white and black, were annually perishing of cold,
starvation, and neglect—perishing for the want of the most
common necessaries of life; and I reasoned that these benevolent
organizations could not know of such scenes of
distress, lying so easy of access, else charity would begin
at home; and so I thought it my duty to tell them, in my
own humble way—hoping that a few, if not all of them,
would be induced to do something for the starving poor of
their own city.
I am aware that there is a great difference between a
sermon in a novel and a sermon from a pulpit; but if the
writer in the one case, and the preacher in the other, each
proclaim the same great truth, I cannot see that the truth
itself is altered by its different modes of conveyance; and
the seed thus sown, I think as likely to spring up and bear
fruit to one sower as the other. Hence I hold, that the
writer of novels and the minister of the gospel, may both
have a mission to perform; and both be able to effect much
good, if they will, each in his own peculiar way and field
of labor.
I know it is fashionable for what is called the religious
community, to cry down novels as a whole—applying to
them all sorts of offensive epithets—such as degrading, demoralizing,
vicious, and licentious; and I know, too, that
certain wiseacres—who care nothing about religion, but
—take a peculiar pleasure in adding the adjectives—trifling,
nonsensical, insipid, and trashy; and although I so far agree
with both classes, as to admit that all these terms may
be properly applied to some novels; yet I must record my
solemn protest against the sweeping denouncement—against
the indiscriminate application of terms that are in many
cases false and slanderous.
Two modern writers, of marked ability, have very justly
observed:
“Sometimes a good novel is found the very best medium
for conveying a useful lesson when other means fail.”
“The disguise of fiction has been, in all ages, a far more
effective way to inculcate lessons of life, than dry didactics.”
We all know that when our Saviour desired to impress
some great truth upon the minds of his hearers, he spoke
in what was called a parable; and a parable, according to
Webster, is “A fable, or allegorical relation, or representation
of something real in life or nature, from which a
moral is drawn for instruction.” In other words, it is a
great truth, enclosed in a garb of fiction, for the purpose
of making it more impressive and effective; and if it is not a
species of novel, it is at least, I think, a happy illustration
of a distinction without a difference. Then wherefore condemn
a novel, simply because it is a novel? or because
somebody has written a reprehensible one? Why not discriminate
between the good and bad?
With the design, as I have said, of writing a novel
fellow-beings, I began to look about me for facts for a
foundation. I soon perceived that, to effect the purpose I
had in view, it would be necessary to make my story, to a
certain extent at least, local; for I considered it very important,
if I made the statement that human beings were
annually freezing and starving to death in our land of
plenty, to tell where they were freezing and starving to
death—so that should any kind-hearted individuals feel
disposed to relieve their wants, they might find the sufferers
without difficulty; and none might be able to ease the
troublous qualms of conscience, by supposing the scenes
described to exist only in the imagination of the writer.
Having been for the last four years a resident of Philadelphia,
I naturally looked about Philadelphia for a locality
suited to my purpose; and I regret to say, I had not to
look long, or go far, to find such scenes of degradation,
destitution, and misery, as made me shudder to contemplate.
I had heard frequent mention of the philanthropic labors
of William J. Mullen amongst this suffering class of our
population, and I thought he might be able to furnish me
with such facts as I required. With a letter of introduction
from the Hon. Judge Kelley, I therefore called upon
Mr. Mullen, and made known to him the object of my visit.
He received me with that kind and gentlemanly courtesy
which is so characteristic of one who labors for the good
of his fellows, and said it would afford him great pleasure
to show me around through the haunts of misery, and put
facts which had come under his own observation.
A day was appointed, and we visited the County Prison
—of which, by the way, he is now the visiting agent—and
though I had no fault to find with the prison itself, nor
with the way in which it was managed, yet I soon learned
that our statute laws, as construed and abused by here
and there an unfeeling, unscrupulous magistrate, are made
most terribly oppressive to the poor wretch who has
neither money nor friends. I learned, for the first time,
that a man for being merely suspected of crime, might be
more severely punished than one actually proved guilty.
And in this way: the man proved guilty receives his sentence,
and, when his term of sentence expires, is set at
liberty; while it sometimes happens that the suspected man
is required to find bail for future good behaviour; but
being poor, and without friends, he cannot give the necessary
security, and is forthwith sent to prison; and he
may remain there a long, dreary year, unless the Judge or
the Lord see proper to set him free; and even when his
year has expired, it sometimes requires the exertions of a
friend to secure his release. I saw one poor fellow there,
who had been confined in his cell six months. And for
what? Why, simply, for being too poor to give bail that
he never would be a rogue! Well, heaven help us! those
of us, especially, who have no money nor rich relations.
There are quite a number of other pleasant things connected
with our laws and those who administer them—
though I wish it to be distinctly borne in mind, that, in
I refer only to individual cases, and have no design
of casting reproach upon them as a body, for many of them
are honest, honorable men. One poor wretch having a
spite against another, or perhaps to conceal his own guilt,
goes before a magistrate, and makes oath that such a person
has stolen something, or is about to steal something,
or has threatened his life, or something of this kind, it little
matters what, and forthwith the victim is arrested and
brought before the judicial functionary, who hears the case,
already prejudged, and thinking only of his fees, and
nothing of justice, takes no pains to ascertain whether the
accusation is false or true; but coolly informs the trembling
defendant that he must find so much bail for
future good behavior, and pay so much costs, or be sent to
prison. If he can pawn the coat on his back to pay the
costs, (and this is sometimes done,) and get some friend to
go his security, he is to be reckoned among the fortunate
ones; and is to be envied by hundreds who have no coats to
pawn, and who are sent to prison, to remain there till such
time as some kind-hearted individual, like Mr. Mullen,
takes their case in hand, and, either by getting the magistrate
to release them of costs and bail, or by paying the
one and entering the other himself, or by some such hook
and crook, frees them from durance vile, to return to their
starving families. Persons have been known to suffer a
long, dreary, health-wasting imprisonment, to say nothing
of its other horrors, simply from being forgotten—the committing
magistrate having neglected to make a return of
trial is months in coming on; and then they are found to
be innocent, and are allowed to go home and find their families
starved, or starve themselves in disgrace. Witnesses
in important cases, when unable to enter bail, are frequently
confined in the debtor's prison, or in an adjoining
cell to the accused, till after the trial, which may be
months hence, instead of their depositions being taken,
and they being allowed to go at large. It is therefore a
dangerous thing for a poor man to see a crime committed
and tell of it; the gloomy prison is his reward; and doubtless
this interesting mode of managing witnesses keeps
many crimes concealed. All these things are true of both
sexes.
The foregoing are only a few of the many startling
facts connected with the Philadelphia County Prison; and
had I time and space, I could narrate tales of individual
suffering, that would make the blood of a feeling heart
curdle, and bring the blush of shame to the cheek of a
Choctaw!
In company with Mr. Mullen, I next visited that awful
locality lying between Fifth and Seventh, South and Fitzwater
streets; and though the day was warm and pleasant,
yet the scenes of destitution, drunkenness, and suffering,
which I here witnessed, made a painful impression upon my
mind; and I could not help thinking, if thus it was on a
day like this, what must it be at the midnight hour of winter,
with the thermometer at zero! As I have endeavored
to draw a faint picture of the miserable scenes of this quarter
curious to the work itself.
And in this connection, a sense of duty compels me to
say a few words of Mr. Mullen's disinterested labors here
among the poor. Some years ago, being in easy circumstances,
and hearing much of the awful sufferings of his fellow
beings in this vicinity, he boldly ventured among them,
at the risk of his life—for here, be it remarked, are the head
quarters of criminals of every grade, from the thief who
would risk imprisonment to steal a penny, to the bloody
wretch who would cut your throat for a dollar—he boldly
ventured among them, I say, at the risk of his life, and
seeing the state of horrible misery, which now enclosed
him as in a vortex of night-mares, he nobly resolved to
make an attempt to meliorate their condition. No sooner
had he formed this resolution, than, with that energy of
purpose, firmness of mind, and unyielding determination
which characterize him, he set about his Christian task.
It was in the dead of winter, and hundreds were freezing
and starving to death; and he saw it was necessary to rent
some building, in which to establish his head-quarters, and
have a place to warm, and feed, and clothe his perishing
brothers and sisters. There was a church in the vicinity,
and he applied for that; but the trustees refused to rent it
for any such degrading purpose, and he had to look elsewhere.
He finally procured a building, and did all that
one man could do to alleviate the distress around him. He
has continued to labor in this field ever since, aided by other
philanthropists, and is still as active among the poor as
to carry out his noble plans. He is the founder of the
Moyamensing House of Industry, where the suffering poor,
who have neither home nor friends, are fed and cared for,
and has held the office of President of over fifty other Benevolent
Societies and Institutions. May God give him
his reward!
I must here add a word or two more, for fear of being
misunderstood. What I have said of William J. Mullen, I
have said without solicitation, and I am writing this without
his knowledge. I felt it to be my duty to speak of him
as I have, simply as an act of justice; and I can honestly
assert, that I would say the same of any other man, friend
or enemy, if I could be assured he had done as much to relieve
the wants and miseries of my unfortunate fellow beings.
Mr. Mullen lives in Philadelphia, and keeps a record
of all his transactions, which can be perused by any one
who may desire to do so. But I warn you that that record,
of many volumes, with its details of crime and suffering,
would make your blood run cold with horror. Without the
strongest evidence of its being a plain, unvarnished statement
of facts, no one could be made to believe that such
things could occur in our day and generation. It is a record
of human wrong, human frailty, and human wretchedness,
over which the very angels in Heaven must weep.
But let me hasten to conclude this already lengthy introduction.
After returning from the locality I have mentioned, I
found myself in possession of all the facts I required; but
narration, in a work making any pretensions to refinement
—I began, for the first time, to perceive the difficulties
which lay in the way of the accomplishment of the task I
had undertaken. I wished to write a novel, which might
please the general reader, and at the same time call attention
to the vices and miseries which exist in every great
city, and especially in that quarter of Philadelphia of which
mention has more than once been made. But to describe
the scenes as they really existed and do still exist there,
without any relief, I very naturally concluded would shock
and disgust the reader, and prove an entire failure.
So after much pondering of the subject, I settled upon
the plan which I have carried out, and which I hope may
meet the approbation of the great public, to whose candid
and impartial judgment I now submit the work, well knowing
that if it fail of its design, the fault must rest with the
author, and not with those who render an unbiassed decision.
If it be thought by any that I have lingered more
than I should among the scenes of misery, vice, and crime,
I can truly assert that I have done so for a higher purpose
than that of merely writing a thrilling tale, and that I have
labored to relieve and lighten the dark shades of a dark
picture as much as I could, without destroying its power of
impressing the mind with the truth of a more terrible
reality.
In conclusion, let me add, I have aimed at no personalities,
and especially at no religion—for true religion, the
religion taught by our Saviour, I love and venerate. Of
classes, I have spoken somewhat boldly—perhaps too
boldly to please the pompous hypocrites who use religion
as a cloak to cover their vices. If such prove to be the
case, it may afford them some consolation to be told, that I
had no design or expectation of pleasing them from the
start—though I think they should rather blame themselves
for the facts, than the writer for alluding to them.
It may interest some to know, that I first saw the little
“Hunchback” in the County Prison, and subsequently
reeling through one of the streets, with a group of ragged
urchins following him, hooting and laughing. Of the other
characters, I need only say, they have their counterparts
in real life.
| Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |