One Glorious Ambition Page 22

  “I think not,” John said. “We Whigs will favor it, but the Democrats resist any federal moneys being spent inside the states. They want the land sold and the money given to them to do with as they see fit. The western states are already glum, because they have not been able to sell some of their land at the federal minimum of one dollar and twenty-five cents an acre. We may have to propose lowering that price.”

  “And they will fund what? Not mental hospitals,” Dorothea said. She placed her delicate fingers on the white lace collar of her dress. “As for the land prices, anything less than a dollar twenty-five will not bring in enough revenue to sustain the hospitals. Maybe we should ask for more land.”

  “The Massachusetts delegates might agree with you. They would like the proceeds of western lands to be given to them, by apportion, precisely because the New England states have little public land to sell.”

  “But the North is not so committed to moral treatment,” Jane Bell said. “You have been more successful in the Dixie states.”

  “New Jersey and Pennsylvania were the first to move forward,” Dorothea pointed out.

  “That’s hardly New England,” Jane said. “And what you propose is a new national charity approach. It’s a wonderful idea but it’s never been proposed before.” Dorothea knew this. It was what made her stomach churn in the night when sleep evaded her.

  “You’ll have to reach out to New England with the land distribution support rather than appeal to their benevolent nature,” Senator Bell said. “The proposal really does benefit them more than the western states. And there will be many knocking on the door of free land. Homesteaders. States for new colleges and universities, all to advance the nation, none for the indigent insane or for the poor at all. The Free-Soil Party wants confirmation that slavery will not darken the new territories. And the railroads.” He poked at the air with his cigar, smoke curling around his face. “They will be your biggest competition. New Englanders may eventually see a benefit to them in their long struggle to win distribution rights from federal sales.” He pulled on the vest stretching over his stomach. “You must win over the Democrats. We Whigs alone cannot carry your bill.”

  “I have a plan to reach the biggest Democrat: the president,” Dorothea told him.

  “Have you now?” Jane looked up from her knitting.

  “Oh, I know you have little time for President Polk,” Dorothea said. “Though he is a Tennessean.”

  “The worst thing Tennesseans have perpetrated on the country. The man has little time for Whigs,” the senator scoffed.

  “Yes. But his wife has an interest in my work. At least I heard that, so I have boldly asked for an appointment. She has invited me to tea.”

  Bell grunted. “I have no such luxury of opportunity.”

  “Oh, Dorothea! What a coup!” To her husband, Jane said, “We women are forced to work through wives and others, as we are excluded from the halls of Congress.”

  Bell turned to her. “And have you been approached by some Democrat seeking my attention?”

  “I have not. And if I did, I would tell you. But I do have ears. I do hear things.”

  “Indeed.” He smiled, then turned to Dorothea. “And for whatever you can tell me of Mrs. Polk’s husband’s state of mind, I would be most grateful.” He stood and made a courtly bow to Dorothea. Under his breath he added, “On more than one occasion, I believe, the president has been relieved of his reason.”

  “Oh, John!” his wife protested as she and Dorothea exchanged smiles.

  Sarah Childress Polk wore maroon, which set off her olive skin and hair as black as piano keys.

  “Welcome, Miss Dix. I have heard such wonderful things about you and your work in our South. I’m so pleased you asked for an audience.”

  “And you are so gracious to have invited me to a tea instead.” Dorothea noted they were the same height and, from what she knew, nearly the same age. A nephew had been taken in as a ward because the president and first lady had no children of their own, another thing they shared.

  “It’s lovely to spend an afternoon with a well-informed and intelligent woman,” the first lady said. She motioned Dorothea to sit, and a dark-skinned man brought in a tray of cool drinks and small sandwiches. “Sweet tea is my favorite but I must serve it without liquor to set an example here in the North, my husband tells me.”

  “I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.” She nodded to the server. Was the waiter a slave? in the Executive Mansion?

  They spoke of the president’s ward, Dorothea’s travels, the first lady’s fine education in North Carolina.

  “So few women were allowed schooling,” Dorothea noted. “It’s getting better.”

  “Yes, I was most fortunate. Some men are threatened by an educated woman, but the president is not.” She appeared stern, yet her voice was warm with a southern lilt and welcoming.

  “We are most fortunate to have him in the seat of power.”

  “He agreed to serve only one term, you know. I suspect it helped him defeat Clay in the end, but he will have to be productive to annex Texas as he wishes and deal with the British over the Oregon argument. He has some ideas for fiscal changes as well.”

  “I didn’t realize … I am hopeful he might take my little project under his wing.”

  “You have a national interest for the mentally ill? I was not aware. I thought it was in the states you worked.”

  “I propose that some federal government land might be sold and the proceeds would go toward publicly funding hospitals for the mentally ill.”

  “Oh my, that is a grand scheme. Everyone seems to want land, don’t they?” She smiled then, and Dorothea saw she had large teeth, which might account for her stern look when she did not smile.

  “Perhaps it is a scheme, but for a worthy cause. You are a Presbyterian, I believe.” The first lady nodded. “So you know of justice and mercy. It’s really all I seek. I feel we are all responsible for those impaired of their reason, but regardless, they deserve a decent life. Our Lord asks this of us.”

  “Indeed He does ask us much. But how justice is derived is one of those issues that could put another crack in the Liberty Bell.” Does she speak of slavery? “After all, we are not all responsible for the mentally ill. They bring it on themselves.”

  “Do you think so? I would disagree, respectfully. Yes, some overindulge in ale. But many more are born with disparities. And others we make for them, our freewheeling democracy leaves people uncertain and increases anxieties. Dictatorships do not speak of the mentally ill. Things are certain in their world. In ours”—she raised her hands as though saying “this or that”—“I have met many a legislator in need of treatment from our freewheeling ways.”

  The first lady laughed but turned it into a cough when she realized Dorothea was serious. “It would make an interesting dinner conversation with physicians and jailers and superintendents of such institutions,” she said. “And a few of those legislators.”

  “It would.”

  “If the occasion arises, I will speak with my husband. He is always interested in an intelligent woman’s point of view. Now, tell me, how do you find your accommodations at Mrs. Bride’s? I hear the boardinghouses can be quite charming in the city, almost like one’s home. And where is your home, Miss Dix? I have heard of your travels but never much about where your people came from. I’m sure it’s an interesting family story.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Praying a Grant of Land

  For the first time in years, Dorothea was weakened by flu. In June 1848 she desperately wanted her Memorial Praying a Grant of Land to be presented to the Congress. She wrote from her bed, coughing and achy, while Mrs. Bride’s little pug rested at the foot of her bed. She shortened the document to thirty-two pages. She wanted it in a New York Democrat’s hands. His name was John A. Dix, but he was no relation. She thought her strategy ingenious: pick someone from the party most likely to object as the bill’s sponsor. She had courted the Democrat early in May for
that reason.

  “Are we related, Miss Dix?” the senator asked when she sought a meeting with him in his walnut-paneled congressional office. Lamps with multicolored shades cast a rainbow of light in the interior office lacking windows. He had gentle brown eyes, and they studied her face in the surrounding light.

  Dorothea lowered her eyes. “It would please me to be your relative, but I am not.” She almost flirted, flashing her eyes at him and offering a generous smile.

  “More’s the pity. What can I do for such a reforming woman?”

  She described her proposed memorial and how she thought the government might fund public mental hospitals across the nation, sprinkling her speech with vivid images of the lost and forgotten, the epileptics and the insane. They spoke for the fifteen minutes he had allotted her. He was silent when his aide began to usher Dorothea out. Then he asked, “Might I join you at your quarters for further discussion?”

  “I’m staying at Mrs. Bride’s. Please invite your lovely wife.”

  At the boardinghouse, they spoke well into the evening. She knew he had seen suffering in the war of 1812. Dorothea had taken tea with his wife, Catherine, and knew they were Episcopalians, which led Dorothea to believe that he was both a born leader and a man grounded in faith. He would be a perfect sponsor for her bill.

  “There is someone in my life,” Dix said, his voice softened by the piercing memory. “An aunt. She lived with us for a time, until my mother could not provide for her. There were visits to private hospitals, the constant vigilance of making sure she was well tended. It drained my mother terribly. I was the oldest child. It was difficult enough with resources. I cannot imagine what it must be like for the indigent, the untreatable insane.”

  “You have suffered,” Dorothea said. “That’s exactly why I want you to introduce my memorial.”

  “I’ve had my annoyances with President Polk,” he said. “As you know, we walked out of the Democratic convention when they failed to endorse the Mexican Territory as slave free. Someone else might be a better sponsor.”

  “I believe your wisdom and your heart will bring attention. I am meeting with Whigs, but I know fewer Democrats, and you are the majority party now.”

  “We will have work to do,” he told her. They explored whom she ought to meet with, who might be malleable or who could be “Miss-Dixed.” She had told the couple of the comment from the Pennsylvania assemblyman and her success with the Speaker and the senate president. “I charmed them into changing their minds.”

  “Miss-Dixed.” He smiled. “Some might think we are related.”

  “We could let them believe we are brother and sister.”

  “I, the older brother, and you, the adorable younger sister.”

  She smiled and let her eyes twinkle. “I shall address my letters to you in that familiar way, if you consent.”

  “Likewise.” He stood, pulled at the sleeves of his waistcoat that were a bit short for his long arms. “We’ll spice the political soup with it then,” he said. “What better endorsement than a Dix support the famous Miss Dix. Let them think it is a family affair.” He bowed to her.

  In June her room smelled of illness as she finished the memorial through a blizzard of handkerchiefs and honey-laced elixirs brought to her by Jane Bell.

  “ ‘I have visited epileptics, imbeciles, the insane in all but three states and have traveled sixty thousand miles,’ ” she read to Jane from the memorial and suggested that more than ninety percent of those relieved of their reason lacked critical care. She thought deeply about whether to comment on the causes of mental illness in the document, even though most people agreed the very nature of democracy and America’s style of political freedom played a part in causing mental strain.

  “Now this next sentence I believe sincerely, but I wonder if I ought to include it. ‘A high incidence of insanity among politicians is caused by the many varied and intense “excitements” in the political sphere. Even a presidential election will adversely affect the mental state of the people.’ ”

  Jane laughed.

  “It is fact,” Dorothea defended as she hacked through another attack.

  “Oh, Dorothea, I know.” Jane straightened Dorothea’s pillow, adjusted her writing desk, and freshened her water. “You have no sense of humor, my friend. We shall hope most legislators do.”

  “I speak of those legislators already in mental hospitals, mostly private ones. People I’ve met.”

  “I know. But they may be looking across the aisle at one of their colleagues and wondering about his mental health.” Jane laughed.

  “But it is not meant to be funny. It is all true. The government does have an obligation, and the excitements of political life can cause mental derangement. It is one reason why women ought not be public. We have to guard against such excitements.”

  Jane stared at her. “You are a public figure, Dolly. And you are not mentally impaired.”

  “I am not public. I am careful about protecting my femininity. I am—”

  “Oh, you are no raving Julia Ward Howe, and I have not heard you rail against rum, but surely you see you have influence and power as a woman participating in public discourse. Your presence when they introduce the bill will cause applause and notice. You must know that.”

  Dorothea coughed. She made a few more changes, then in a breathless voice she finished reading from Memorial Praying for a Land Grant. “ ‘It is the duty of the government to exercise its civil obligation on behalf of the mentally ill as well as to demonstrate federal compassion. I ask for the people that which is already the property of the people.’ ” She dropped the papers on her lap. “True greatness of a nation is not found in war, Jane. It is found in Godlike attributes which sanctify public life.” She lay back on her pillows. “What do you think?”

  “Add that last part, about war and Godlike attributes. Then I think it’s ready for your brother, Senator Dix, to make the introduction. Now just get well so you can be there to hear it.”

  Senator John Dix read movingly from the memorial, though he did not read aloud all thirty-two pages. Dorothea was nowhere in the chamber. She still suffered from a flu-like illness. But by the end of that day, knowing the deed had been done, her fever broke and her cough silenced.

  Jane Bell told her later that Senator Dix had given notice to her by name and there had been applause. “So sad you were not there to hear it.”

  “I must remain out of the fray lest I become the object of discussion as a woman reformer rather than keeping the focus on those who need the reform.”

  Her health much improved, Dorothea could now track her Praying for a Grant of Land. She had suggested that the memorial go to a select committee set up by Senator Dix rather than the committee on public lands, with the hope her memorial could be voted upon before the close of the session in August.

  Dorothea followed the progress through the Congressional Globe, a published record of the ongoing debates in Congress. She noticed on the same day Dix presented her bill that a railroad sought land to lay tracks from Lake Michigan to the West. So the first volley had been fired: her land needs for the mentally ill would compete with transportation, and the argument of economic and national advancement over the needs of the least of these.

  Notes back and forth about the committee acceptance or debate from John Dix enhanced the Globe’s notations.

  “We are at the point of contention,” Dix told her a few weeks before the August recess.

  The Bells took after-dinner coffee at the boardinghouse, and with John and Catherine Dix and Dorothea, they sat on the wide porch overlooking a lotus pond in bloom with pink and white water lilies. Festive fans met the sultry July air, keeping the mosquitoes at bay.

  “The western and southern states object because my proposal will help the northern states more than theirs,” Dorothea said.

  “You have it, clear as Mrs. Bride’s broth,” Dix said.

  “It’s ridiculous, dear brother. The Senate is supposed to be t
he chamber of consensus, coming to agreement on behalf of the people. Can you not influence your New York colleagues?”

  “The railroaders are in the Senate offices daily,” John Bell said.

  “Then so shall I. And I will spend a little more time with the select committee. Might that help?”

  Senator Bell shrugged. “Hard to know. They are generally supportive. Jefferson Davis and Thomas Hart Benton have come along. The two of us, you know, are supportive.”

  “It is just so frustrating!”

  “The very middle name of politics,” Jane Bell said.

  Over the next week, with time running out, wrangling persisted over the territories issues. Dorothea’s bill sat like the spectator she was, while men argued about the role of the federal government within the territories. John C. Calhoun used his reason and eloquence as twin daggers attacking the very features that Dorothea needed for her bill to succeed. She would have to wait. That’s what legislation was about.

  Meanwhile, she rose early, wrote letters while she ate a light biscuit, and garnered support from private and public asylum hospital physicians and superintendents. She urged them to write to their congressmen and senators. She sat outside committee rooms in order to confer with aides during breaks, bringing facts and figures and stories to support their discussion—when it was of her bill. She lamented to Anne her frustrations, sent pressed flowers in her letters to Marianna, and increased her correspondence with Joseph, deciding that even if he did not write often, she would.

  Optimism buoyed her one day, despair threatened on another. She felt powerful when asked for advice by legislators and committee members, but powerless when they failed to incorporate her ideas. Why ask? The session wore on with only the passionate debates about the territories and slavery filling the galleries. In between were tedious hours of sitting, waiting, hoping to catch a senator or congressman she might win to her side. The summer heat stifled her like a tight corset. A fan was her constant companion.