The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1874-08-05
Letter from Florence Percy.
Spicy, Bright and Rs ndablc.

Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen. now in this city
has written to the New York World the follow
ing spicy and readable letter:
Sir-In your paper of July % notice the iol
lowing item of news, contained in the letter o,
special correspondent at Augusta. Me-:
Mrs. Elizabeth Akers Allen, equally well
known as Florence Percy" is at present edi.
torially connected with the Portland Advertls
err. She is the author of 'Rook Me to Sleep,
Mother" which poem was written by her while
factory girl in this state, upon the sheet oil
coarse brown wrapping paper in which she had
brought her ncontime lunch, and while wait
ing for the hour to rec0mmence labor.
The careful particularly of detail visible in
this bit of news gives it smack of authenticity
which is almost ;rresistibly convincing. In fact,
could almost believe it myself, had not been
previously informed by an equally veracious
newspaper correspondent, that wrote the poem
by the bedside of my dying little boy in Bos-
ton, when, under the heaviest pressure of mis-
fortune and poverty, was earning pinched
living for him and myself by doing slor-work
without sewing machine. 1 was naturally
enough surprised at this, for never lived in
Boston, never did slop-work without sewing
machine, never earned my little boys living,
Inever wrote verses at his bedside, my little
boy never died, aud l never had little boy.
Still 1 did not dispute the story, for consider
contradicto as suggestive of ill-breeding, and
an alternative to be employed only in extremi-
ties. And it was as well that l did not, for l
was presently assured through the same chan
mel that wrote the poem out of the lowest
depths OF poverty and despair, caused by the
deSertIon OF my husband, with whom / had
eloped from boarding school, ana who had re-
paid my devotion by forsakng me the next day.
Notwittsta lding the unusual brevity of my
matrim, nj II career, and the fact that had
previous been the idol of happy home. his
desertion appears to have lett me in utter
wretchedness and imminent danger of starva-
ton, under which depressing circumstances I
wrote tie poem referred to-a remorseful la
nent for the mother whose heart had broken.
Ihls view was scarcely less unhappy than the
former, and would have affected me deeply, ex-
ceptIng that never was invited to elope from
boarding school. l never eloped from auy-
where never attended boarding school, My
husband never deserted me- and never broLa
my mothers heart. But 1 was drawn away
from the m0urhful contemplation of these
Things by third statement, TO the effect that
Wrots the poem on my death-bed in Philadel
phia, in wretched howell, where the rain drift.
sd in across the miserable bed whereon soon
afterward breathed my last.
Ihis was the best story of the three, because
1t was conclusive-it put the unfortunate writer
out OF her misery. But just as commenced to
eXult over this contamination, Jersey GENTLE
man, Mr.. Alexander NJ. w. Ball, found anoth-
er world to conquer, and published book TO
prove that never wrote the poem at all, but
mad stolen il from him. What was l TO be-
eve? had at different times been Informed
through the newspapers that Miss Elizabeth
AIger, OF New York city, another lady out
West, a gentleman somewhere else and a
blacksmith in Georgia, each wrote the pnem.
aud each had friends to swear to it; and as
though the affair was not already sufficiently
6ewlldering, here comes voice of conviction
rom my own state, declaring through the
world that wrote the poem myself while /
was factory girl in Maine. This is all very
well, excepting that 1 never carried my lunch
IN coarse brown wrapping paper" very much
a newspaper when / cannot afford
napkin; that should scorn to write such vers-
es on Drown paper obscured by fragments of
u .ta PIE ana apple sauce and that never
was INSIDE factory in Maine. Like the chi.
prlt ID court, whose case was SO patbeticaIv
presented to the jury as to touch even himself
TO tears, l must confess that did not know T
have suffered so much until informed of il bv
1he sympathetic newspaper correspondent.
For journals and journalists I have a sincere
respect, and even family affection; but what
offence bave / ever committed against that
Ubiquitous person, the newspaper correspon-
lent, that in all his flights of fancy he invsri-
ably describes me as in the depths of poverty,
distress and disgrace, and incapable of earning
| respectable living? Why does he not saw, |
by way Of variety, that wrote the |
,oem in a fine residence on Murray Hill, in "a |
'alatial mansion on Fifth Avenue, in the midst |
IT the regal 1ectangularity of Philadelphia or /!
n vine-clad country seat on the Hudson? |
Why not, Instead of calling me a pauper, |
llosbedient daughter, discarded wife, starry
ny sewng-woman, or wretched factory OPP /
ratlvs, with her lunch wrapped in coarse brown !
'aper (that is the unkindest cut of alb, why 1
loI aiioW me sometimes to be favorte of |
ortune, a lady of fashion, or-if it be not too
n1 n 10 ask-a newspaper correspondent?
one OF two things is proven by these melan-
molly recltals OF my impecunosity; for with ali
l heseLand entertainments in my behalf on
ne pupiic sympathy, have never yet receive
q the frst offer OF assistance from philanthro. ]
lists. Either the advantages of advertising