When it came to writing stories, Isabella sometimes relied on “real” life for inspiration. She’d take an actual occurrence—an overheard conversation, an event she attended, or something as simple as a family gathering—and use it as the basis for her story.
Other times, a story she wrote was inspired by a lesson she wanted to convey, or a kernel of truth around which she fashioned a story. That was the case in 1887 when she published a little story called “Monuments,” about a young girl who visits a cemetery in New York with her Aunt Joanna.
The story draws on fact: Green-Wood in Brooklyn, New York is a real place that Isabella very likely visited because of its famed monuments.
In the 1800s Green-Wood Cemetery, with its extraordinary grave markers and lush, rolling hills, was a popular tourist destination. People came to spend the day with their picnic baskets and marvel over the sculpted monuments.
In her story, Isabella mentions one of the most magnificent monuments that marks the grave of Miss Charlotte Canda, a seventeen-year-old bride-to-be who was tragically killed after falling from a run-away carriage.
She also mentions a monument dedicated to the brave firefighters of New York City and, in particular, Andrew Schenck, who perished in 1854 while trying to save people and his fellow firefighters from a burning department store.
As a creative storyteller, Isabella took these tales of tragedy and heroism and crafted them into a story about a completely different kind of ‘monument’—one built not of marble and stone, but of transformed lives and acts of service.
Here’s the short story Isabella wrote:
It was my first visit to New York. A few days after my arrival uncle took me to Green-Wood, the most beautiful cemetery I ever saw. We visited the many points of interest. As we stood gazing at the fireman’s monument, uncle told me the story of his heroism; how in one of the fierce fires this brave man lost his life while rescuing a woman from the flames. Then we spent a long time looking at the monument to Miss Canda, the beautiful young heiress who was thrown from a carriage and killed; and her fortune was built up in this wonderful marble.
The next morning aunt said, “You will go with me today to another Green-Wood and see grander monuments than any you saw yesterday.”
I wondered how that could be, but we were soon on our way. At length we turned into narrow, dirty streets, growing worse and worse. I shuddered at such sights and sounds of human beings, never before dreaming that in grand New York there could he so much wretchedness. I drew closer and closer to aunt, fearing one of the human demons that leered at us would seize me and carry me off.
Such people! Such places to live in! Such language! Why, it almost makes my hair stand on end to think of it. Aunt did not seem to mind them. Maybe they knew her, for everyone stood aside for us to pass.
“Here it is,” she said at length. “Here is the other Green-Wood.”
“This?” I answered, looking around for gravestones and monuments, and seeing nothing but dreadful houses and miserable objects. “This is Green-Wood?”
She simply answered, “Yes; come right in and you shall see the monuments.”
I could only follow, wondering all the while if aunt was not losing her mind.
A sweet-faced girl met us with a warm welcome to aunt and an earnest look at me. As she led the way within, aunt whispered:
“One of the monuments, Clara.”
“What? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Her name is Maggie,” she quickly whispered back; “used to be called ‘wild Maggie;’ was one of the worst girls in this region. Never mind now, I will tell you more hereafter. Take a good look at her, you’ll see her again.”
Then I heard singing like the songs of many angels. A door swung open. We entered. It was a great company of children, black and white, some with sweet sad faces; others with evil looks, but all singing. Soon Maggie came in from another door and sat among them and I could hear her voice ring out in joyful strains, leading the rest.
There was prayer and Bible reading, and such a good talk by a gentleman. It seemed like heaven, while many of the children, some partly blind, some lame, some pale and sad-faced, gathered around after meeting was out and seized Aunt Joanna’s hand, and seemed so happy. Another lady was there to whom they all pressed for a smile and a word.
“That lady,” said aunt, “is Sir Christopher Wren.”
“What can you mean?” I asked. “Sir Christopher Wren was a man who died in England more than a hundred years ago.”
Aunt Joanna only laughed and said, “And came to life again, my child. This is he, only greater.”
“What?” said I, more and more bewildered.
But she went on: “Look around here at the monuments. You knew Sir Christopher was the architect of the great Westminster Abbey of London, and that kings and statesmen and poets are buried there, and their names and deeds are written there; but if anyone inquires for Sir Christopher Wren’s monument, he is told to look at the wonderful building of which he was the architect.”
“I see,” said I, “that lady has ‘built up’ Maggie.”
“Exactly,” said Aunt Joanna, “and more than one hundred other miserable, sick and wicked children. See that frail girl over there coming toward her? It would take a book to tell how this lady used to come daily here and bend over her crib, sometimes holding her in her arms for hours fearing each moment would be her last. But come and I will introduce you, and you shall see a monument greater than Christopher Wren.”
After we were on our way home, aunt told me the story of this lady; how one day curiosity led her to go through this worst part of New York. Her heart was so touched at the wretchedness of the people that she resolved to do something for them. Her friends tried to dissuade her. Some said the people would kill her; some said it was no use to try to help them. But she went right forward, and now after years of labor and sorrow there is her monument: saved children.
Before my return home in the country, Aunt Joanna gave a treat to the children of the Home all at her own expense.
Maggie, once “Wild Maggie,” and I served. How many sandwiches I passed around, how many cups of milk Maggie filled, how some of the urchins were dressed, how they laughed, or chattered, or stared, what they all said to aunt Joanna about the “treat,” would fill a book.
You can read more about Green-Wood Cemetery by clicking here.
Click on these links to read the stories behind the monuments for:
The Firefighters Monument honoring Andrew Schenck
Isabella Alden 