The Tragedy of the Little Lace Maker.

(ELLA GINGLES' OWN STORY.)

As a prelude to the story which Ella Gingles tells for herself from the beginning of her trip from Ireland to America and her horrible experiences, the following letter which was received by Attorney Patrick H. O'Donnell from her pastor, is printed.

Larne Manse, Larne, Co. Antrim, Ireland.
29th June, 1909.

Dear Sir:—

Last evening two American ladies, Miss Hopkins, of Chicago, and Mrs. Murphy, of Minneapolis, called upon me with reference to the poor young girl, Ella Gingles, whom, like a chivalrous-hearted Irishman, you have done and are doing so much to protect and defend. I know her well, her father is a member of the Congregation of which I am minister, as were his ancestors before him. He is a large farmer, well off, as Irish farmers go here in the North of Ireland, and his wife, Ella's mother, is an exceedingly nice, gentle-hearted woman. They have had a large family—thirteen, if my memory serves me—and as their minister I christened them all and have seen them grow up from infancy. Ella was frequently under my roof, as she was on friendly terms with two young ladies—my adopted daughters—who reside with me. I always found her a bright, cheerful, well-principled girl, clever in many ways with her needle, etc., and especially in the art of crocheting and manufacturing lace. In the latter branches I know that she won prizes at our local annual industrial exhibitions in the town of Larne. But the family being large and their not being particularly prosperous here in Ireland, she and other young members of the family, like many other young people of energy and enterprise, have sought a land of better promise across the Atlantic with sad results to her unfortunately. As I have said, she is the child of respectable and well-off parents. She, herself so far as I know, has always been respectable and well conducted in every way, with a large infusion of enterprise and determination in her character; so that you may proceed in your generous and energetic endeavors in her behalf with the most entire confidence in her integrity in every respect. Accept for yourself and convey to those truly Christian people who are associated with you in the defense of an innocent, but much-injured young girl, the assurance of the most sincere gratitude and admiration, not only of the writer, but of the sorely-stricken parents and friends of poor Ella, and believe me,

Sincerely yours,
J. Kennedy,
Minister of the Old Presbyterian Congregation
of Larne & Kilwaughter.
(Postmarked): "Larne, Ireland, June 30, 1909."

By Ella Gingles.

It is a long and hard way when one must set forth to expose one's own butchery, shame and misfortune, but I feel that in telling this story the very fact that I have been a victim will carry with it weight.

It is a far cry from the green hills of Larne, from the wet meadows, glistening with the rains, from the song of the nightingale in the gathering dusk, the sweetness, the beauty of that green island which I call my home and which will henceforth be my only home, to the mire and filth of a criminal court in the city of Chicago, to the unspeakable horrors through which I have been dragged, and to the desperation to which I was driven.

Yes, this is a very far cry, from sweetness and light to mire and filth, but I feel that in justice to myself I must tell this thing as it is. I do not feel now as if this mire and filth had touched my person. I feel today that although I have been the victim of human fiends, although I have been more monstrously abused than any other girl of my age or character in the world, I myself am as clean and pure as on the day when I left that little Irish homestead 18 miles from Belfast and came to America. One who is murdered is not a murderer, nor is one who is outraged a person of bad character. And a clean mind soon forgets even the most terrible episodes, the most awful happenings. Yes, I will forget everything that has happened and become again the girl who left Ireland such a short time ago to become a victim of fiends.

There are things that one must try to forget, although I know in my heart that my sleep till my dying day will be haunted by the pictures of the demons who have worked their will upon me and who if they had their just deserts should burn in deepest hades forever. But I will forget, I must forget. If I do not forget I shall go mad.

They say that I have been cool, calm and collected on the witness stand during my trial. I have been cool, calm and collected because I was telling the truth, but the reaction from those awful hours in court have been so terrible that I shudder even yet to think of them.

It was only the thought of the green hills, of the heather, of the blossoms in Spring and the yellow corn at harvest time, of the cuddling mother love, of the kindly faces which will not turn away because I have been tortured—just the green hills, the green hills, and the rains and the sunshine and the light and the purity—I can say no more, but they will help me to forget, they will help me to become again the girl who won the lace prizes in Larne and the girl who had not been the victim of fiends. I will forget there. I could never forget here. America has become to me a nightmare, a horror; the name stands to me for all that is vile, horrible, unmentionable.

I am telling my story, not because I have any animus against anybody, not because I wish to get even with anybody, not because I wish to clear my own name, because I believe that has been cleared before the world by the solemn edict of a jury—not because I wish to create or to have brought forth the terrible things which were done to me.

I am telling this story in the hope of saving other girls, who like myself may be in danger from the beastly "slavers" and a life of shame. If I can but save a few girls from this horrible fate, if I can only help, in some modest way, to protect womanhood from the horrors of white slavery, I shall feel happy for laying bare my soul and giving to the world the true story of the attempt to make a white slave out of me.

I feel that I must write it, that American girls, and girls of foreign birth who come to America, will not be misled and trapped as I was into the veritable jaws of hell. If I can keep a single girl out of this hell on earth by telling the plain story of what happened to me, I shall feel that I have done my duty by myself.

I am told by men who know about these awful things that my case is only one of many. What happened to me may be an isolated instance and I am told that it is representative of the workings of the panders for the "upper ring," or the dealing in girls' bodies by rich men, rather than the selling of girls to cheap resorts through a quicker route.

I feel that there is no pit too deep for people who will send an innocent girl into a life of shame, who will throw temptation in a girl's way, and will, when temptation fails, resort to force to drive her into hades itself.

I was born in Larne, Ireland. My parents are respectable middle class people and property owners. Our family is a large one, there being thirteen children. We are protestants, as are most of the people of that particular district of Ireland, our church being the Presbyterian. We have always been members of that church, as the letter from our pastor shows.

Larne, the city where I was reared, is a little town about 18 miles from Belfast. One of the principal industries of the town is the making of hand-made Irish laces. I was brought up to the lace-making trade. I won several prizes against the best lace-makers in the Belfast region. I have invented one particular lace pattern of my own, an improved "grape-vine pattern." With this I won the lace-making prize in Larne on the occasion.

In Ireland there are continual tales of America, how easy it is to make money over there. I had never been farther away from Larne than Belfast in all my life. Many Irish girls had come to America, worked for a time and returned home with money, placing herself in a position to help out her parents in their old age. These stories attracted me. I met girls who had been to America. They had made lots of money and had fine clothes. The name America soon came to mean to me a golden land in the West, as it has meant to many another simple Irish girl. The spell came upon me so strongly that I could think of nothing else. I could see nothing but a golden land, and a fortune that I could make there with my laces, for I had heard that fabulous prices were paid for Irish laces in America. I begged my people to let me go to America. After much pleading they gave their consent.

I was about to purchase my ticket in Belfast when word reached me that Belle Raymond, a girl I knew in Belfast and who had already purchased her ticket but had been taken ill, would be unable to make the trip. I thought I might get this ticket a little cheaper. I did save quite a little by purchasing her ticket, but I was obliged, on account of the registration of her name, to come under her name. My enemies have made much of the fact that I had gone under Belle Raymond's name. I am sorry now that I did it after all that has come out in connection with my terrible experiences. But I hope I will not be too severely blamed for doing what so many other people, even business people of integrity, have been known to do. To travel on another person's pass is undoubtedly wrong, but it is not a heinous crime.

Belle Raymond's ticket was for Canada and not for America direct, but to my mind all the countries over here were just alike, and as long as one landed on the west side of the Atlantic Ocean, I was satisfied. It was all a land of gold to me. So I went to Montreal on the ticket of Belle Raymond.

On ship-board I made several acquaintances among the other Irish girls on board, and they told me that the best way to get a start on this side of the water was to get a position as maid to some great lady and then interest her in lace-making. Then, they said, I could soon build up a good trade for my laces among the people who had plenty of money to pay for them. They said that any attempt to sell laces outright would end in failure, as not one person in 100 knew real Irish lace when they saw it, and they would think that I was a fraud unless some great lady vouched for me.

I did not land directly in Montreal. The last stage of the journey I performed by train from Quebec, where I left the steamer. I spent half a day in Quebec viewing the sights of the city in company with several other girls. I then took the train for Montreal where I went directly to the Young Women's Guild home, where I knew I would be safe. The Guild secured me a position with the Thornton family in Belleville, Ontario.

I was overjoyed when I found that I was going into a great rich family, for they told me that Mrs. Thornton's father was worth many, many millions of dollars, and that he controlled the roller mill business in Canada. This meant that if I secured Mrs. Thornton as a patroness for my laces I could get all the rich ladies to buy.

Disappointment awaited me and my dreams were shattered. I worked nine months as a housemaid. Mrs. Thornton was not approachable by servants, although she was uniformly kind and considerate.

At the Thornton home the disillusions as to the golden land began to disappear rapidly and my life settled down to the humdrum of a housemaid's life. My dreams were shattered. I was tempted to do wrong on numerous occasions. Disheartened, I finally left the services of the family. I was given a letter certifying to my good character when I quit.

But there was no chance to get started with my lace-making. I thought perhaps it was because Belleville was too small a place and that therefore I would do better if I could get a place in a big city where I might get a position as lace-maker in some of the big stores I had heard about.

I went to Toronto where I worked for about three weeks. At the end of this time I had almost given up hope of doing anything with my lace-making. I was heartsick and almost ready to go home. I had saved up a little money, however, enough to take me to Chicago or some big city in the United States, and still have $40 or $50 left with which to support myself until I could get work of some kind. I was on the point of going back home to Ireland at first, but the thought that I would get there just about penniless, and without having done well on this side, and the thought of what the neighbors would say and how the other girls would laugh at me, finally decided me to come to Chicago and make one last trial at what the Americans call "making good" before I gave up all hope. This fatal decision was my ruin. Had I been able to see ahead just a little, to have looked into that awful hell-pit of a Wellington hotel—but there. God ruled otherwise and perhaps chose me out as an example and warning.