Part 8

We had thought to give in the foregoing Biographical Notes some touching instances of the experiences of the good women of the "Ladies' Union Relief Association" and Officer McWatters, in their noble work of succoring the needy, and binding up the wounds of the suffering. We have before us, furnished by the kindness of a friend, a partial record of the Association's deeds (never intended for publication), freighted with notes of bitter sorrows which they have assuaged, and which, written out, would fill pathetic volumes; but we have no space for them here. One, however, so enchains our interest that we cannot forbid ourselves to recite it here, as an exemplary instance, which, if multiplied in his mind by hundreds and thousands, will give the reader something like an adequate understanding of the vast work of kind and tender ministrations which these philanthropists have done, and are constantly doing.

Officer McWatters had two or three times visited a poor, sick, emaciated veteran soldier, by the name of Patrick O'Brien. Of course Patrick could earn nothing for his own support, and depended wholly upon what little his good wife (a comparatively young and fragile woman) could earn by washing and scrubbing, and which she shared with him and their three young children. McWatters was greatly moved by the condition of this family. He saw that the wife could not much longer sustain the burden she was bravely attempting to bear, and finally advised that, as the best thing to be done, the veteran should be sent, at the expense of the Ladies' Union Relief Association, to the Soldiers' Home at Dayton, Ohio. This was consented to by the soldier and his suffering wife, but not without great reluctance. The sympathy of sorrows is tenderly cohesive and sensitive. After leaving with the family some money for their aid, and fixing upon a time, two or three days thereafter, to call with a carriage, and take the soldier to the cars, Officer McWatters bade good day to the family. They expected him to come for the veteran in the night, for the poor man preferred travelling then, as he got no sleep in the night season.

Officer McWatters was so greatly impressed by the innate pride, high spirit, and profound love of the soldier for his family, so deeply reciprocated by them, that he could not bear to see that poor household separated, and at once interested himself to get an allowance for the soldier from the Association, and thus enable him to stay with his family; and he succeeded in procuring ten dollars a month for him, assurance of which he received by letter, just at the time appointed for taking the soldier from his poor home to the cars. He went to bear the good news to the family. It was so late when he got to their miserable little room (for one room, one bed, served them all), that they had retired, thinking that he would not come that night. He rapped, and announced his name, and the poor wife arose from the bed, and admitted him. The poor children awakened before he could announce the good news, and supposing that he had come to take away their father, rushed off from their couch, and sobbing and weeping, implored him not to take their father off, the violence of their and their mother's grief preventing Officer McWatters explaining his present errand for the space of a full minute or two. The poor soldier, moved by his family's grief, had risen from that one bed, and added his prayer to the rest, for something else possible to be done than the sending of him away.

At last Officer McWatters succeeded in quelling the passionate storm of wailing and grief for an instant, which he seized to tell them his errand in. It is not probable that pen or pencil could ever do faintest justice to the picture of the gleeful, tearful gratitude which that family exhibited in their sudden revulsion from broken-hearted grief to wild joy, as McWatters finished reading the letter he had received assuring the monthly allowance.

"Ten dollars a month!" A pitiable sum, yet it brought joy to that whole household at that dead hour of night, in the city of mingled sorrows, and vanities, and debaucheries, when hundreds and thousands of the pampered sons and daughters of luxury (worthless members of society) were wasting each more than ten dollars an hour in worse than useless ways,--in riot and "ribald revelry."

The poor man remained with his family nearly two years; when he died, and was buried by the Association. Upon his death his grateful widow wrote to the ladies a letter (a copy of which was taken from the archives of the Association without their special knowledge, it must be confessed, but by "no robbery" after all), and which we think most worthy a place here, in honor of the good ladies whose charities it acknowledges.

"NEW YORK, May 3, 1870.

"_To the Ladies Union Relief Association_:

"LADIES: It is my painful duty to inform you of the death of my husband, Patrick O'Brien. Allow me to express the deep sense of gratitude that I and my children feel towards your Association for the assistance you have generously extended to us during the last two years of his illness. The value of that assistance has been enhanced by the manner of its bestowal. Mr. McWatters, the kind dispenser of your bounty, has smoothed to the grave the pilgrimage of a proud spirit; but for the many delicate assurances he gave my husband that your generous assistance was not charity, but the poor soldier's rightful due, the last years of his life would have been embittered by a sad sense of destitution and dependence.

"My husband served the republic for nearly four years, during which service he was maimed in its defence, and died at last of disease contracted in the service. He could not have borne the thought that he and his little ones were subsisting on the cold charity of the world, and thanks to the delicate tact with which your aid was bestowed his mind was smoothed, and his last days on earth made peaceable.

"Please accept the sincere gratitude and blessings of a soldier's widow and three children.

MARY O'BRIEN."

This scene of the poor family, with their single bed, and as they stood in their night-clothes before Officer McWatters, as, choked with mingled feelings of sympathy and a sense of the joy he was about to give them, he read, with tears, the welcome news, ought to be put upon canvas, and hung upon the walls of all the haunts of sin, the gold-room of the Exchange, the brokers' offices, bankers', princely merchants' ware-rooms, sectarian churches, and the other meeting-places of pride and robbery throughout the city, and underneath it should be written, "A chapter of our civilization in the 19th century."

S.

MACK AND THE VETERAN.

A TOUCHING TALE--THE POETRY AND PATHOS OF BARE FEET.

The following, taken from the New York Dispatch of October 16, 1870, is not only to the point as illustrating the noble traits of Officer McWatters' character, but is too well told not to be preserved here. We think best to make no substitution of "McWatters" in the place of the familiar _sobriquet_ by which the genial writer was pleased to designate him.

In one of the big public institutions set apart for a branch of the Municipal Government of this big, overgrown city of ours, there is one, among the many departments of this, that, and the other thing, presided over by our friend Mr. Mack.

Mr. Mack is a gentleman, who, though old in years, is not old in infirmity, and he walks about with a vim and spirit that might be profitably imitated by many listless young men of the period.

Besides devoting his time and talents to his official position, he takes an active interest in everything of a philanthropic nature. We are ignorant of the number of societies which have these objects to attain, of which Mr. Mack is a member; but in all of them he is among the most active.

Among the charitable societies, is one composed of ladies, who attend the wants of disabled soldiers, their widows and orphans. The ladies have selected our friend Mr. Mack as their almoner, and his office is visited every day by scores of poor people.

On a late visit to the good man, we found a poor veteran just approaching his desk.

"Mr. Mack, sir," said the man.

"That's my name sir. Take a seat."

The man stepped forward briskly, but with a limp. He was sixty years of age, with gray hair, shabbily attired, lame in the leg and arm, and, as it afterwards appeared, one half of his right foot gone; a wreck of the human form divine, but with much manliness left about him.

"What is your business, friend?"

"That's it, sir; and I'll thank you if you can do it," he replied cheerily, as he handed a letter.

"You want to go to New London?" said Mr. Mack, after reading the missive.

"That's it, sir; my darter lives there. I've walked all the way from Philadelphia, and my legs have kinder give out. One of them ain't of much account anyway, but I've got to make the best of it."

_Mr. Mack._ "Were you a soldier? You know my business is principally with soldiers, although I should be glad to assist you if it is in my power."

_Veteran._ "Well, I guess so, sir. I got knocked up in this kind of shape doing service for Uncle Sam."

He raised his arm with difficulty, and pointed to his leg.

_Mr. Mack._ "Have you your discharge papers?"

_Veteran._ "I'm sorry to say that I haven't got them with me. I had them framed, and after the old woman died (tearfully), I sent them to Mollie for safe-keeping. But they're honorable, sir--they are, indeed."

_Mr. Mack._ "I might give you a letter that would insure you an entrance to the Soldiers' Home. Would you like to go there?"

_Veteran._ "O, dear! no, sir; although it may be a good enough sort of a place. I've got a home with my darter Mollie, who is well married, and settled in the place that I am making for; and I know that she will never go back on the old man, for she used to think too much of me, and be too delighted to see me when I came home from a long voyage in happier days. O, no, sir! (brushing the tears from his eyes with his coat sleeve), Mollie will make room for me."

During the colloquy, Mr. Mack was busily engaged in writing a note, and after finishing it, went into an adjoining room to obtain a necessary signature. He returned without getting it, and was obliged to delay the veteran until the official, whose name to the letter was wanted, came in.

_Mr. Mack._ "You will have to wait a little while until I can get this note signed."

_Veteran._ "All right, sir; never mind me--I'm used to waiting. I learned that some time ago, when I waited through the long watch at sea, till my turn came to climb into my bunk, and when I was on post in the army, till the relief guard came around; and when I've been away from home,--in times past, you know, I had a home of my own once, sir,--I've waited for the day to roll around when I would see my wife and Mollie (who was a little bit of a thing then) again. And all I'm waiting for now is the time when my shattered old hulk shall be laid aside as used-up timber; and all I hope for, when that time comes, is, that my darter Mollie may be alongside, and I shan't mind it much."

_Mr. Mack._ "Are you a native of Connecticut?"

_Veteran._ "No, sir; I'm a Baltimorean. I was born opposite the old Independent engine-house, in Gay Street, and my father and mother before me were born in the city, too, for that matter."

_Mr. Mack._ "A great many from your State fought in the Southern army."

_Veteran._ "That's so, sir; they did. But how do you think it was possible for me to do so, after having followed the old Stars and Stripes through the Mexican war, and having sailed under its protection for going on thirty years? O, no, sir! I had too much love for it. Why, sir, every port I ever entered respected that flag. They couldn't help it; besides, they knew they had to!" (Drawing himself up proudly.)

_Mr. Mack._ "Did you enlist in a Maryland regiment?"

_Veteran._ "No, sir. I'll tell you all about it. You see when the Massachusetts regiments passed through Baltimore, the brig that I sailed on had just returned from a voyage to Rio, and we were unloading in Smith's dock, near Centre Market. The soldiers had disembarked from the cars at the Philadelphia depot, and were marching along Pratt Street, towards the Washington station, when the attack was made on them. As I looked from the deck of the brig I saw the old flag pushing and dodging along the street, with a shower of stones and bricks flying around it, and I heard the sound of pistol-shots and the hissing and hooting of the mob. I happened to turn around, and I saw the same colors proudly flapping in the wind from the mast head, and I tell you it was too much for me--I couldn't stand it. I went to the captain, almost choking, and I told him I wanted an order for my pay; I was going home. I was the second mate of the brig; and the captain was a little wrathy at the idea, for he wanted me to stay and help him superintend the unloading of that part of the cargo that was to be left on the dock, before dropping down to Fell's Point the next day. I told him I must leave; and as he had no further hold on me, he had to give me the order. The owners were surprised, too; but after some talk they paid me, and I went home to the old woman. She said, 'You look excited; what's the matter with you?' 'Well,' said I, 'I am going to enlist in the Union army, and try and help to pay these fellows that fired on the American colors in Pratt Street to-day, back in their own coin.' 'That's right,' said she; 'I wish they'd let me carry a gun, and I'd go with you.' And I wished for once in my life that Mollie was a boy; for I might have made a drummer out of her, anyway, for she was too small for anything else. Well, you know;--but I hope I'm not tiring you with my long yarn, sir?"

_Mr. Mack._ "No; go on with it."

_Veteran._ "They were not raising any regiments in Maryland; and I fell in with a Hoosier, who was going home to Madison to enlist, and I promised him ten dollars if he would get me past the surgeons. I'm sixty-six years old; and you know I was too old for them, because they were more particular in the early part of the war than they were later. Well, when we got to Madison, to make matters sure, I went and got my hair dyed; and as luck would have it, the recruiting officers were a little drunk, and I passed without any difficulty, though one of them asked me how old I was, and I told them a lie, God forgive me, that I was thirty-nine years old! I went into the Army of the Cumberland, and at Chickamauga a shell burst near me, and I was knocked up in the way you see."

_Mr. Mack._ "You have served with General Howard?"

_Veteran._ "Yes, sir; and a good, noble-hearted man he was, too, sir. There was no airs about him. He was just like one of the boys,-- moving around among the men in a blue army blouse and the regulation cap, with a kind word for everybody; and when there was a battle, wherever there was the most danger you were sure to find him."

Mr. Mack stepped out, and returned with the letter, which he handed to the old veteran, with some money, which he took with some hesitation, saying, that all he wanted was to get a passage to New London, and Mollie would attend to his wants.

"When I get there," said he, "Mollie will find me some clothes to wear, for these are getting rather soiled; and I'm kind of ashamed to be seen in them, for I've been used to wearing a little better."

Mr. Mack told him that he only gave him the money to buy some food on the way, and keep him strong enough to look for his Mollie when he arrived at his destination.

"That's so, sir," said he; "I ain't got as much as will buy me a good supper. When I left Philadelphia, I didn't have enough to pay my passage, and I have made many a longer march. I didn't think it was much to walk a hundred miles, so, sooner than beg my passage, I thought I'd walk it. My lame leg made it rather harder than I expected, and I made slow work of it. I soon spent what money I had for meals, and I was obliged to part with a bull's-eye watch, that cost me twelve dollars a good many years ago. It was pretty old, and I only got a dollar and a half for it. Bull's-eye watches ain't worth as much as they used to be. I sold my old pocket-book, too; but as it didn't have anything in it, it was no good to me. I got my breakfast this morning, and have a small balance in my pocket, off of my spectacles, that I sold to an old fellow that they suited exactly; and I tell you I missed them this morning when I tried to read a newspaper with an account of the war in Europe. I think that war is going to do our people some good. They'll want some of our corn and wheat, and I tell you the crops did look amazing fine in the country that I passed through. I'm getting interested in the way things are going on on the other side of the water, and I think I'll buy a pair of specs with some of this money you gave me, and read to-day's news about it."

"Do you know," said Mr. Mack, "that you are entitled to seventy-five dollars for the loss of your foot, under the law to supply soldiers with cork legs, when they have sustained the injury in the line of duty?"

"Well, sir," said he, "I didn't know it, but you can see whether I am entitled to it;" and he pulled off his boot, and showed the stump of his foot, with the same pride that we remember to have seen a general officer display the stump of his arm lost in action.

The exposure showed that he was without socks, his foot being wrapped up in a handkerchief.

While he was exhibiting his stump, we observed Mr. Mack pulling his shoes off, and we expected to see him display a wounded foot also, when he hastily pulled off his socks; but instead of so surprising us, he handed the socks, which he had evidently but just put on that day, to the veteran, and against that individual's earnest protestations, forced him to take them to wear.

We are certain that the same angel who dropped a tear on the record of Uncle Toby's oath, will enter those socks to the credit side of Mr. Mack's account, at a large increase on their market value.

Shaking hands with the battered old veteran, and wishing him good speed on his journey to Mollie, we left Mr. Mack in his office in a meditative mood.

LOST IN THE STREETS.

OPERATIONS OF THE BUREAU FOR THE RECOVERY OF LOST PERSONS, ETC.--OFFICER McWATTERS IN CHARGE.

During a considerable portion of his connection with the Metropolitan Police, Officer McWatters had charge of the department denominated "Bureau for the Recovery of Lost Persons;" a position which both his experience and active sympathies with sorrow peculiarly fitted him to fill. Its duties were very onerous, as will be seen by the following article copied from the World newspaper of December 12, 1868, and which cannot fail to greatly interest such of our readers as are not conversant with life and its mysteries in the great Babylon of America.

In a side room of the main hall of the Central Police Headquarters, on the second story, in Mulberry Street, is a desk, at which sits an old rosy-cheeked, white-headed police officer, named McWatters. Officer McWatters is famous in New York. He is a theatrical critic, and his opinions on music and the drama are greatly esteemed by artists; but, like most critics, he is a little dogmatic at times, perhaps.

Officer McWatters is detailed by Inspector George Dilks to take charge of a department organized in November, 1867, to supply a great want, and which is now in successful operation. This department is known as the "Bureau for the Recovery of Lost Persons." Officer McWatters was formerly in the City Hall Precinct, under Captains Thorne and Brackett, and is very well acquainted with the city, so his services have been made available in his new bureau.

MISSING MEN AND WOMEN.

The manner of investigation in regard to a missing relative or friend is as follows: As soon as a person disappears from home, the nearest relative, on learning of the missing person, goes to police headquarters and makes application to the "Missing Bureau" for information. The age, height, build; whiskers, if any; color of eyes, dress, hair; the place where last seen, the habits and disposition of the person, are given to the inspectors, and Officer McWatters makes proper entries on his register, which he keeps for that purpose, of all these facts. The personal description of the missing one is compared with the returns made by the Morgue every twenty-four hours to the police inspectors. Should the description answer to the person and clothing of any one found at the Morgue, word is at once sent to the relatives of the joyful news. Besides this, another very necessary precaution is taken to find the person or persons missing. Cards are printed, five or six hundred in number, and sent to all the police offices on special duty in the different metropolitan precincts, with instructions to the captains to have his men make active and energetic search for the person.

TROUBLES ABOUT LOST PEOPLE.

Over seven hundred people have been reported as missing, to police headquarters during the past twelve months. Of this number the majority have been found, it is believed, as no record can be kept of those who are not reported when found, by their relatives or friends, to headquarters. Occasionally, a person who reports some one missing belonging to them, will give all the details about him, but if found, will fail to notify the authorities, from a sense of shame where domestic difficulties have occurred in families, or from laziness, or a sense of forgetfulness. Thus all track is lost of those who have been found unknown to the police, and accurate statistics are baffled in the matter of inquiry.

WHERE AND HOW PEOPLE ARE LOST.

The manner in which missing men are advertised, is as follows: A card, of which the following are fair examples, is circulated among the police.

"MISSING.--Morton D. Gifford, about twenty-five years of age, light hazel eyes, brown hair, full beard and mustache same color, five feet six and three quarters inches; has lost two first joints of the middle fingers of right hand. Had on a light brown cloth suit bound with black, the vest cut without a collar, a black cloth overcoat made sack fashion, with black velvet buttons. Was last seen on board the steamer City of Norfolk, running between Norfolk and Crisfield, in connection with the Crisfield, Wilmington, and Philadelphia Railroad Annameric line, on the 3d of February, 1868. Had with him a black leather satchel, containing a full suit of black clothes, hat, linen, &c. Was a soldier in the Union army, and has recently been in business in Plymouth, North Carolina. Any person having any information regarding him will please communicate with Inspector Dilks, 300 Mulberry Street, New York."

"OFFICE OF THE SUPERINTENDENT OF METROPOLITAN POLICE, } 300 MULBERRY STREET, NEW YORK, January 11, 1868. }