Salome Shepard, reformer

by Helen M. Winslow

It had been a work of no small magnitude to find a suitable matron for the Newbern Shepard Hall. But, finally, the widow of a former physician in Shepardtown, a woman of excellent character and judgment, and with some experience as matron of a young ladies’ school, was secured and duly installed in the two pleasant rooms set apart for her in the girls’ wing.

John Villard had relieved Salome’s mind of another perplexity, by offering to take up permanent quarters for himself in the young men’s side; for, although she had felt the necessity of such an arrangement, she had not liked to ask him to give up what she rightly guessed were more congenial apartments in a quiet corner of the town. But he felt that his influence would be needed at the Hall, and that he could do the work which he hoped to do much better, if he were in the midst of the young men whom he wished to interest in many ways. And before Halloween, he was comfortably settled in two rooms at the Hall.

The evening came, clear and cold; such an evening as only the last of October can give. The building was brilliantly lighted from top to bottom, and decorated with flags and evergreen. Outside, Chinese lanterns and bunting lined both sides of the walk up to the main entrance, and helped to give it a holiday air. A band of street-musicians, who happened to be in town, had been engaged and were stationed in front of the building, where their tolerably harmonious strains gave just as much pleasure to the not over-critical audience that was fast assembling, as Thomas’ or Seidl’s men could have afforded them.

Inside, Salome waited impatiently. Without any premeditated plan, Villard and Burnham placed her and Marion, with Mrs. Soule in the background—for she “declined to be introduced to these persons”—in the center of the library; and forming themselves into a reception committee, they drafted into service a few of the best-appearing young men, who presented every comer to the owner of the mills and her friend. After giving each one a cordial welcome and hand-shake, Salome told them they were free to inspect the new building as they pleased; and, consequently, every mill-hand, accompanied by every other member of his or her family, went critically over the wonderful new building, which seemed to their unaccustomed eyes a structure of unwonted magnificence, and furnished in a most luxurious style.

It had been fitted up inexpensively, but with the utmost good taste. No carpets were on the floors, but American rugs abounded wherever they had seemed necessary. The library furniture was of plain, substantial oak, like the heavy woodwork of the room. Throughout the rest of the house, bedrooms, dining-rooms, and class-rooms were furnished with strong, neat, ash furniture. There were a few good engravings on the walls of the principal rooms, and the bookcases were about half-filled with literature of a harmless and interesting, if light quality. They had all agreed it would not be best to fill the shelves at first, but to watch the popular taste and to “leave room for improvement,” as Marion said.

The operatives were simply astonished at what they saw. Some were even yet incredulous, and whispered that they would not be willing nor able to live in such a place; but many of the girls’ eyes brightened as they inspected their new quarters, and showed a determination, on the part of their owners, to come in for some of the good times they saw in store. It is doubtful if even the lowest ones there did not feel a new self-respect creeping up in their hearts. Dress may not make the man, but surroundings often do the woman.

By half-past eight the stream of people stopped pouring through the big front doors. Everybody had come in, shaken hands with Salome and Marion, and passed along, scattering themselves over the building.

“Now let’s get every one into the hall, above,” said Salome, “and have a little talking and some music.”

It was some little time before the crowd of visitors could be gathered in one place, but after a while the hall was well filled, and the musicians installed in their place. The sound of the band, indoors, proved an effectual summons for the stragglers. For the first time, Salome, on the platform, faced a surging, eager crowd of her own people in Newbern Shepard Hall.

She had wanted one of her two “faithful henchmen” to take the lead to-night; but they had each refused, saying she was better fitted than they; that it was eminently her own affair and not theirs, and that the success of the opening depended on her alone. The last argument was enough, and, much to Mrs. Soule’s horror at seeing “Cora de Bourdillon’s daughter” in such a plight, Salome presided over her first meeting,—“exactly as if she were one of those ‘woman’s rights women.’”