Salome Shepard, reformer

by Helen M. Winslow

There are people who can look calmly upon a sunset, and see nothing but a glare of red and yellow light. There are others who see in it a glorious picture with matchless tints and shadows. There are yet others, fewer, indeed, than the rest, but who hold the secret of God’s holy purpose written more or less plainly in their souls; who see not only the glare of red and yellow light, whose brilliant tints and deep tones make an unrivaled picture, but who read something of the deeper meanings of the Great Artist; who receive into their own hearts some part of the glowing light which strengthens purpose, and crystallizes hopes and ideals hitherto dreamy and undefined.

Salome Shepard had stood at a western window at sunset. In the hush and stillness of the hour, the poet-quality of her soul had interpreted to her the meaning of life and the great fact of human brotherhood. And when she finally drew the curtains on the deepening night, she felt that a sudden revelation had come to her—that, at last, her life purpose, in the shape of a sternly defined duty, stood revealed.

“Well,” said Mr. Greenough, after a few moments of aimless conversation, for nobody seemed desirous of taking the initiative, “what are you going to do with us all to-night, little girl? Don’t you think you rather usurp the privileges of an old man in calling together a meeting to discuss business, of which he is the legal head? Come, give an account of yourself and your quixotic actions.”

“Oh, I beg that none of you will think that.” And Salome looked around the room appealingly. “I simply wished that we might have a fair and honest talk. I want every one here to express his views. And I want to express mine—for at last, thank heaven, I have some.”

“Getting strong-minded, eh?” retorted Mr. Greenough. “Well, go on. I suppose you want to practice on us before taking a larger field. Going to take the suffrage platform? or build school-houses for the niggers? Or do you aspire to the bureau of Indian Affairs? Which is it?”

“None of them,” responded Salome, inwardly resenting the untimely jest, but determined not to show her impatience. “None of them. I propose to begin nearer home. I propose to go to work, earnestly, and I hope practically, to raise the condition, morally, mentally and physically, of my own factory-people.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Villard and the head book-keeper.

“And I have called you here,” pursued Salome, “to ask each and every one of you to be my assistant and coadjutor. I have not been thinking of nothing, during the last three months. I am a woman, comparatively young, and with absolutely no knowledge of the practical side of a working-man’s life. But I have been thinking, and my conclusions are these: that a strike is a much more serious matter for the working-people than it is for us. We act as if they go out on a strike either to annoy us or to have a good time. I have been down among them—sought the by-ways and hedges, as it were—and I tell you they are having anything but a good time. This strike is the outcome of want and privation, and it has brought the people to still greater want and privation. I believe they are not a set of noisy malcontents on the lookout for an opportunity to create a disturbance. On the contrary, they see in this course the only chance of bringing before the public questions of vital importance to them. They earn their bread by the sweat of their brow—and not always good bread either,—while we, as capitalists, are hoarding up money. At the most, they get very little of what their work really yields. I desire, above all things, sir, that you grant their desires and no longer require them to give up their Labor Union. Capitalists have their Board of Trade, which virtually amounts to the same thing. Let the workmen have their one chance to assert themselves by a combination of their forces. And let each side show to the other that tolerance and Christian charity which each demands from the other.”

“What about the tolerance and Christian charity of the outrage they tried to perpetrate last night?” asked Mr. Greenough.

“I do not believe the Labor Union is responsible for that,” replied Salome, with a far-seeing sympathy in her eyes. “Unfortunately it was an outgrowth of their opinions, passions and prejudices. But you must confess, sir, that had you met them with the tolerance which the growing spirit of the age demands, there is little likelihood that matters would ever have reached the point where such an action could have been planned. I want this strike ended on any terms. I want to see the operatives, every one of them, at work again at fair wages. And then, God helping me, I propose to do something for their elevation—something to help them live better, cleaner, manly and womanly lives—something which shall carry out my grandfather’s noble plans, and help make the factory system of New England one of her grandest achievements.”