 |
"'Yours,
"'HORACE GREELEY.'"
"I don't believe," said Gabrielle, "that papa ever wrote that letter."
"It does not sound much like him," rejoined Marguerite, "with the exception of 'Yours, Horace Greeley'; what do you think, mamma?"
"The letter is characteristic," was mamma's reply; "the style is his, but there are several words that I have never known him to use; however, they may have been illegible in the original, and their place supplied by the printer's ingenuity. I remember hearing father and mother often speak of Reuben Nichols who lived near grandfather in Londonderry, and I believe that he had a son named Reuben, and a daughter named Aseneth, so the letter must be genuine, I suppose."
"Was it true, mamma?" inquired Marguerite, "that uncle was fond of little girls? You know it has been said of him that he was as a man quite indifferent to women."
"Yes, he was very partial to little girls," was mamma's reply, "when they were pretty and gentle. Not, however, in the love-making way of the present precocious generation, but he liked to talk to them, and relate stories from the books he had read. Perhaps the secret of his preference lay in the fact that they made more attentive and sympathetic listeners than his rough boy-friends.
"I told you the other day that at the ball he attended when thirteen years old, he was the escort of Anne Bush, the prettiest girl in the village. She was perhaps a year younger than he, and as I remember her, extremely pretty—a slender figure, cheeks like roses, blue eyes, dark hair, and very gentle, ladylike ways. She had a sister Sophie, who was as plain as Anne was pretty; and a wild, mischievous girl, but my inseparable and dearest companion.
"There were two other girls of whom brother was very fond at that time; Cornelia Anne Smith and Rebecca Fish. Cornelia Anne was older than the other girls, about fourteen, I think, and was the fondest of learning of the trio. I remember that she often used to bring her school-books to brother when some difficulty had arisen in her lessons, and he would explain the hard points. I think that he always corresponded with these girls, and visited them occasionally after they became women, for you know with what tenacity he clung to his early associations. He has often spoken to me of Rebecca Fish, who is now Mrs. Whipple, of Fairhaven.
"You would be amused if I were to tell you how he used to pass the time that he spent with these three girls. A city-bred boy of thirteen or fourteen would have been quite capable of arranging an elopement with the prettiest one, but brother's style of courtship was quite unique; he used to correct their grammar when they conversed, and gravely lecture them upon the folly of wearing stays!
"The corsets which so aroused his ire were quite different from those of the present day. At that time, you must know, the Empire dress, that you have seen in portraits of the time of the first Napoleon, was all the fashion; no crinoline, skirts so extremely scant and gored that they clung to the figure like drapery upon a statue, and waists a finger and a half in depth, with inch-wide bands instead of sleeves. This style of dress was very graceful and becoming when worn by a woman of slender figure, and those who were not thus favored by Nature made the best of their figures by wearing what was then called 'busks,' or more popularly 'boards.' The corsets worn in those days did not clasp in front, but merely laced behind, and inserted in the lining of the front was the 'busk,' a piece of steel, or (among poorer people) wood two inches wide, and the depth of the corset. This busk, with the addition of very tightly drawn lacing-strings, was supposed to give great symmetry to the figure. No village belle ever liked to own that she laced tightly, or that she wore a board; as it was a tacit admission that her figure could not bear unaided the test of the Empire dress; consequently brother's remarks would be received by his young friends with an injured air, and a vehement protest against such a false accusation. Brother would then test their truth by dropping his handkerchief and requesting them to pick it up; if they 'wore a board,' stooping would be impossible, or, at all events, very difficult; an ordeal that would cover them with confusion, when the philosopher of thirteen years old would resume his moral lecture upon the laws of hygiene, and the follies of fashion."
CHAPTER XIV.
The Morning Mail—A letter to Mrs. Cleveland—Strange Contents—Ida's Letter Bag—Appeals for Money, for Clothing, and for her Hand—An Original Letter from a Trapper.
July 13.
Going to the post-office for the morning mail is, I think, our greatest daily pleasure. For some reason, we seldom have many letters by our second mail, the 6.30 P.M. train, but in the morning our box is always well filled, for we receive regularly the dear daily Tribune, six weekly journals, and the leading magazines, and as we all have quite a number of correspondents, we feel deeply aggrieved if our box is not filled to repletion at least once a day.
Ida, of course, is blessed with the greatest number of letters in the family, for besides those from her own and her father's friends,
"The cry is, still they come!"
in shoals from unknown people of high and low degree, sometimes containing merely poems, or expressions of sympathy and interest in the sad history of our beautiful cousin, but varied occasionally by some of the extraordinary appeals for help which I have already mentioned.
This morning I went down to the office when the mail came in. There was the usual number of expectant faces—Miss Murray and Miss Cox in their carriages, and our more rural neighbors standing about the pigeon-hole; however, every one makes way for us in Chappaqua, and I approached nearer, and asked for our letters. A very rough-looking man standing near by, looked on with interest while the postmaster handed out letter after letter, and finally said:
"You belong to the family, do you not?"
"Yes," I said, for I always answer the rustic salutations of the people about here, knowing them to have had a sort of feudal attachment to uncle.
"I thought a great deal of the old gentleman," he said with a rude pathos in his voice that was very touching. "I used to see him very often, for I live in these parts, and he always used to say good-morning so pleasant, and was never ashamed to shake my dirty, hard hand!"
This reminds me of a little incident that mamma related yesterday. She was standing upon the balcony when an old gentleman who was driving past, seeing mamma, stopped his horses, looked up and bowed, hesitated, and then said:
"Excuse me, but is thee the sister of Horace Greeley that was?"
Mamma assented.
"I thought so," he said, "I saw it in thy countenance."
He then told mamma his name, and, after making a few remarks about uncle that showed thoroughly good feeling, drove on.
It is not uncommon for those driving past to slacken their horses and gaze earnestly at the house, and, if any of us are upon the piazza or at the windows, they always bow—a mark of respect that is also shown us by all the farmers and working people about here.
But I am forgetting Ida's letters. I brought her this morning as many as six or eight, some of which were put up in yellow-brown envelopes, and directed in very questionable chirography. In a few moments she knocked at mamma's door and said,
"I have brought you a few letters from some of my extraordinary correspondents, Aunt Esther."
"We will compare notes, my dear," said mamma, looking up from a rose-colored sheet embellished with decidedly scrawly writing. "I have just received one that is quite astounding."
"From Tennessee," said Ida, looking at the postmark. "I know the writing; that man has sent me as many as half a dozen letters, wishing to enter into correspondence. I suppose that finding me so unresponsive he thinks he will try another member of the family."
"He comes to the point in a most emphatic manner this time," said mamma, "by asking me for your hand; and as the letter is really a curiosity in a literary point of view, I will read it to you." [1]
"NASHVILLE, TENN.
"MRS. JOHN F. CLEVELAND:—I reckon I am one of the spoilt children of the South, similar to what Mr. Greeley says of South Carolina. I want to Marry Miss Ida, because she is the daughter of the most powerful Man that has yet appeared on the American Continent. Mr. Greeley turned four millions of slaves loose with the Pen can't I win his daughter with the same facile weapon? Now Mrs. Cleveland won't you help me? I am not a Humbug, I have too many bullet holes through my body to be classed with that tribe of insects. I begin to feel a little skittish about my age, 35 and not yet Married. Yet I have always been rather a fatalist and incline to Worship some star. The Greeks Worshiped the sun, And moon under the Name of Isis and Osiris, but I am more like the Arab look to the stars for something sublime and unchanging among all the bright lights that hang and move in the firmament. The North Star Appears to be the most important. The Axis on which our Earth daily turns. The point from which all Mariners calculate their course in mid ocean, and safely guides Them from continent to continent. Without the North Star there would be no Magnetic Meridian by which Governments could be surveyed and divided equitably to its inhabitants and civilization would lose its strong hold in being based on Justice. If there is any South Star that plays such an important part on this continent or Europe I have never heard of it. Miss Ida is the North Star made so by the fact her father was the great center around Which The whole country swung. And As she is the oldest the crown of greatness ought to rest on her head. And if she will Marry Me I will do as hard fighting as Caesar did to put it there. With great respects yours Truly
"——— ———."
This letter would have excited more astonishment than it did, had it not been only a fair specimen of what Ida has been daily receiving since her father's death. She then read us one from Indiana, addressed to herself, and written, as the newspapers would say, with a view to matrimony, but couched in quite a business-like strain:
"MISS IDA GREELEY:
"May I not surprise you by the fact that I desire an acquaintance with you. I send you my photograph (which however is too light to be perfect), hoping yours in return. If answered, I in my next will give my age and history generally.
"Yours truly
"——— ———."
Another was from a widow with a son at college, who was very badly in debt. The mother appealed to Ida as a lady of fortune and generosity, and the only person to whom they could look for aid, to pay the son's debts, "And," Ida added with mock indignation, "she does not even promise that I shall be ultimately rewarded with the young man's hand."
A third was dated Illinois, and bore the sonorous signature of Greeley Barnum M———. This epistle was extremely prolific, inasmuch as it gave the occupations, ages, and a personal description of not only the immediate members of the writer's family, but even extended to cousins once or twice removed. He had also much to say about his name of Greeley; sometimes he was proud of it, and sometimes the reverse, according to the company he was in. Passing over all this prelude, we discovered that Greeley Barnum M———'s object in writing was to request a complete outfit for his sister who was about to go to school. "You are a young Lady, Miss greeley," the writer touchingly said, "and know everything that my sister would be likely to want." The clothes, he kindly intimated, could be put up in a box, and sent by express, prepaid; and having done so, Ida was requested to notify his sister and also an uncle and aunt at some distant point, that they might not be distressed by thinking their niece was going to school without a suitable outfit.
The next letter that Ida took up was from a Kansas man, more modest in his requests than the others, for he neither asked for her hand nor a loan, but being anxious for self-improvement, solicited a little assistance from her in that line. This letter was written in an even, flowing hand, with very few mis-spelt words.
"WICHITA, KANSAS.
"MISS IDA GREELY:
"Well, here is another fool, will no doubt be the first thought that will pass through your mind, and it is quite likely that you may in the main be correct.
"I have a very high regard for all womankind. I have read so much about your sympathetic nature, I thought perhaps our sympathies might be mutual in some respects.
"I am always desirous of improving, and have heretofore looked to much to persons no better qualified than myself to instruct or improve in correspondence of any kind. Knowing that you are educated and refined I apply to you as a perfect Gentleman for a small portion of your time say one half-hour in four weeks as a time set aside to answer any letter I might write, at same time corract misspell'd words etc. And do it unreservedly. I am formerly from the east: come west less than one year ago, have lost my wife, am thirty years old, and like you without friends. In return for your favor I can write you a description of this great Arkansas Valley and county beyond, of the rapid growth of the country etc. which may in part repay you for your trouble to please one lonely heart far from home. Will not give you any description of Self or business unless I receive some answer but will say that I am of good family, in good business, and doing well.
"With respect
"——— ———."
"Here is another letter that at all events is short," said Ida, continuing to read:
"MISS GREELEY:
"For some years past your father very kindly gave me assistance during three months of the year; if you can continue this, it will be a great charity, as I am very much in need of it.
"Yours respectfully
"——— ———."
"Have you not yet exhausted your mail?" enquired Gabrielle.
"No," said Ida, "I have still two or three letters to read to Aunt Esther. Here is one in which you will be interested, Gabrielle. The writer calls you familiarly 'Elite': I think he must have read that very accurate description of you that went the rounds of the papers last summer, in which you remember you are a shy and shrinking flaxen-haired fawn. He would be quite surprised, I think, if he could see what a majestic 'Elite' you are."
"ALLEGHANY CO. PENN.
"To whom it may concern:
"Know ye that I have had a desire to know more about the Greeley girls for several months, and that the desire for acquaintance became so strong after meeting your father and sister a few nights since (while sleeping) that I concluded to write.
"It seems to be Gabrielle's acquaintance I particularly desire, but she being young and inexperienced I address you as her natural guardian, allowing you to dispose of my communication as you think best.
"Being what some folks call an eccentric individual; feeling lonely in the world, and believing, from what I know of the laws of Hereditary Descent and your parents that you and your sister must possess the noblest natures; and believing that no harm but good—at least to me—can come from our acquaintance, I write to ask a correspondence.
"If you or 'Ellie' feel like sending a reply—well; if not, there shall be no hard feelings, but it would be a satisfaction to me to know that my letter had been received.
"Sincerely wishing you and all the world all happiness, I close. Accept my warmest sympathy in your bereavement, and believe me to be the friend of Humanity.
"VICTOR MELVIN.
"P.S. For reasons not necessary to mention, I write under an assumed name. Write, PLEASE."
The next one was from Chicago, addressed to Miss ida greeley. The writer said:
"I am about to pen you a few lines, hopeing you will not receive them in a contemptious manner, but rather in a business than a formal way.
"Pleas to put the form of introduction and society regulations aside, and consider your future happiness, pleasure and welfare only. I am well aware that you are very much anoid and persecuted, thereby I mean persistant attentions from undesirable persons; now my obgect at present is to aid you in a manner that you can soon and forever shut down on all disagreeable attentions.
"now I would suggest some beautiful locality in California or orogon there to live a quiet retired life free from former acquaintances and continnad anoyances. now if you think you could accept my services, they are honorably tendered and would be kindly and heartily given. Pleas to inform me at the earliest conveniance. Pleas to not misinterpret my intentions.
"yours in sincerity
"pleas to
"Address ———— ————."
After listening to this extraordinary epistle, mamma said dryly:
"I think, my dear, that that is the strangest letter you have yet received."
"It is nothing, auntie," was the reply, "to one I have in reserve, in which the writer not only has a request to make, but actually proposes making me a present; it is not, however, his hand, for a wonder!"
"DEERLODGE, MONTANA.
"To MISS IDA GREELY:
"Young lady I suppose you will be surprised at receiving a letter from the frontier, my motive for writing is this. I am a mountaineer—that is a trapper a good many years ago I met with your father Horace Greely on the plains, and greatly admired the old gentleman. The way I came to make his acquaintance is this. A drunken, unruly Cuss seeing that your father appeared quiet and peaceable thought it safe to play the bully at his expence so he commenced to insult and threaten Mr. Greely in a pretty rough manner. Seeing that your father was quiet and peaceable and did not wish to quarrel with the Cuss I took the Cuss in hand, and spoiled his beauty for him, and taught him a lesson to mind his own business. Mr. Greely greatly overated the trifleing service I had done, he thanked me warmly, he became very friendly with me and gave me good advice. Among other things he advised me to do was to get a breach loading rifle instead of my muzlle loading rifle. I laughed at the idea I supposed my old muzlle loader was the best. Since then I have found out that Mr. Greely was right and that I was rong. Mr. Greely at the time offered to purchase one and give it to me I refused to accept it. He then told me any time I changed my mind to let him know, and he would send me a good breech loading rifle. I have often thought about it since, but never wrote to him. My reasons for writing to you now are these; I and my partner Beaver Bob started down the Yellow Stone last fall to trap near the Big Horn river. We were pretty successful and made the Beaver mink martin and other vermin suffer—but one day we were attaced by a hunting party of 15 or 20 Ogallala Sioux. In the fight my old partner Beaver bob was wiped out I was wounded but managed to make my escape and after a pretty hard time reached the Mission on the head of the Yellow Stone—I mean near the head. I lost my horses all my outfit in fact almost everything. When my ammunition was expended—I mean used up—I threw my rifle away and took to the brush and ran for it—I mean the chance of life. Lately I have heard that Mr. Greely has handed in his chips—that is passed in his checks—I mean gone to limbo you know. I'm sorry for the old man but we must all go some time you know. and now miss what I want to know is will you instead of your father send me a breech loading rifle. If you do I shall be much obliged to you and if you don't I hope there is no harm done. The kind of rifle I want is one of Sharps new improved shooting rifles with a barrell 36 inches in length and a barrell 16 pound weight Calibre 44. They are mad in Sharps factory Connetticot in a place called Hartford. If one was sent to me by Wells and Fargoes express to Deerlodge city Montana Territory, I should get it. The name or rather the nickname by which I am known among mountain men is Death Rifle. The redskins I mean the Indians gave me that name many years in Dacotah Territtory and it stuck to me ever since. My right name is Hugh De Lacey so when you wish to adress or direct any thing to me direct to Hugh De Lacey, Deerlodge City, Montana. Miss Greely a great many eastern men we remarked seem to think that we mountaineers are to blame for having trouble with the redskins I can assure you we never bother the infernal vermin only when they bother us and that is pretty often for when they get a chance to go for our hair they take it no more at present I remain
"Yours respectfully
"HUGH DE LACEY.
"N.B. I have heard you eastern ladies are in the habit of useing a deal of false hair in your toilets if you choose miss Greely I will send you a lot of Indians hair any time you want it. I remain yours respectfully
"HUGH DE LACEY."
"It reads like a chapter from one of Cooper's novels," said mamma, "and the romantic name of Hugh De Lacey would be more appropriate to the handsome young descendant of some old Huguenot refugee family than such a rough trapper as your correspondent 'Death Rifle;' but the present he offers you is most singularly inappropriate; no one who had ever seen your wealth of hair, my child, would think of presenting you with a chignon;" and as she spoke she loosened and shook out Ida's heavy clusters of hair, which, released from their orderly Marguerite braids, swept over her black dress like a tawny mantle.
[1] I insert this and the subsequent letters precisely as they are written, merely withholding some of the signatures.
CHAPTER XV.
Life in the Woods of Pennsylvania—Journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania in 1826—Travelling on Canal-boats—Incidents by the Way—Home in the Wilderness—Aggressions of Bears and Wolves.
July 14.
"Aunt Esther, in all the stories of your early days that you have told us, you have not yet described your life in Pennsylvania," said Ida one evening, when we were gathered about the piano. "Do tell us about it. You have once or twice merely alluded to living in the woods, and my curiosity is quite excited. Were they veritable forests? I do not remember hearing papa say much about them."
Mamma smiled sadly.
"What makes you think of Pennsylvania to-night, my child?" she asked.
"I do not know, auntie," was the reply, "unless perhaps it was hearing Cecilia sing 'My love is like the red, red rose.' You told me, I remember, that grandmamma used often to sing that pretty little Scotch ballad."
"Yes, it was one of mother's favorite songs," said mamma. "I can remember perfectly the way she used to sing it. Not in your English version, Cecilia, but with Burns' own Scotch words, and in her sweet, low voice, with a ring of passion that one rarely hears in a drawing-room at the present day. As Charles Reade says of one of his heroines, 'She sung the music for the sake of the words, not the words for the sake of the music—which is something very rare.'
"I am not surprised that you have never heard your papa say much of our life in Pennsylvania, for you remember that he did not accompany us there, but only made us occasional visits. Before we left Vermont father had already apprenticed him, at his earnest desire, to the publishers of the North American Spectator, at Poultney, and brother Barnes (who is fifteen months his junior) then took his place in the household. I think that your papa had been some time in the Spectator office before our departure for the woods, in September."
"Yes," said Marguerite, who always remembers dates; "he was apprenticed the April before you left, and came over to Westhaven to bid you all good-by. I remember what he says of the parting in his 'Recollections:' [1]
"'It was a sad parting. We had seen hard times together, and were very fondly attached to each other. I was urged by some of my kindred to give up Poultney (where there were some things in the office not exactly to my mind), and accompany them to their new home, whence, they urged, I could easily find in its vicinity another and better chance to learn my chosen trade. I was strongly tempted to comply, but it would have been bad faith to do so; and I turned my face once more towards Poultney, with dry eyes but a heavy heart. A word from my mother, at the critical moment, might have overcome my resolution. But she did not speak it, and I went my way, leaving the family soon to travel much farther and in an opposite direction. After the parting was over, and I well on my way, I was strongly tempted to return; and my walk back to Poultney (twelve miles) was one of the slowest and saddest of my life.'
"Do commence at the beginning, mamma," Marguerite continued, "and tell us all about the journey to Pennsylvania, and how your new home looked when you arrived. How large was the family then? Aunt Margaret was born in Vermont, was she not?"
"Yes, and a very pretty little creature she was," said mamma, with a sister's pride in the youngest of the family. "She was extremely small for her age—indeed, she weighed only three pounds and a half at her birth, and I recollect hearing some one say that the nurse put her into the family coffee-pot and shut down the lid."
"The coffee-pot!" we all exclaimed, in chorus. "Pray how large was it? Somewhat over the ordinary size, I trust."
Mamma laughed. "Yes, it was larger than coffee-pots of the present day," she said; "an old-fashioned tin coffee-pot, broad at the bottom and gradually narrowing towards the top. But still it was extraordinary that a baby could be put in it, and the lid shut down."
"What induced grandpapa to select Pennsylvania for a residence, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida. "Was land cheaper there than elsewhere?"
"You have answered your question yourself, dear," was mamma's reply. "Land was very cheap there, and through our careful economy in Vermont, father had saved enough money to buy about two hundred acres, to which he subsequently added, from time to time, so that the old Greeley homestead now consists of between three and four hundred acres. Then two of father's brothers, Uncle Benjamin and Uncle Leonard, had settled in Wayne township three or four years previous, and, to use your papa's words, had 'made holes in the tall, dense forest that covered nearly all that region for twenty to fifty miles in every direction.' Father went to Pennsylvania in advance of us, bought his land, and then returned to fetch us to our new home.
"I remember seeing mother weep bitterly when she left Vermont; but, as ever through her brave life, she made no complaint. As for myself, I remember no regrets, save at parting with dear brother; for I was too young to feel other than childish exultation at the prospect of making a long journey; and that journey from Vermont to our new home upon the 'State line,' between New York and Pennsylvania, I must here remark, occupied a month. Locomotion, you see, was not so rapid in the year 1826 as it is now."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Gabrielle. "Pray, auntie, in what way did you travel to advance at such a snail's pace? I should think you could almost have walked the distance in that length of time."
"You will be amused when I tell you the length of the first day's journey," replied mamma. "Father hired a large wagon, and stowed away our trunks, furniture, and all of his family in it, and we went as far as Whitehall, a distance of about nine miles. Here we stopped over night, and the next day took the boat for Troy, where we again broke the journey after travelling, I believe, two days. At that time there were no regular ferry-boats to cross the river from East to West Troy, and passengers were taken over in row-boats. I remember that the boatmen stood by the river-side and called all day and night:
"'Over, over, over, going o-o-o-o-ver!' to attract custom.
"Now came the most delightful part of the journey—going from Troy to Buffalo upon the canal-boat. There were two different kinds of boats that went between those cities; the packet-boats, carrying the mails and passengers but no freight, and the line-boats, which took both freight and passengers, and were consequently cheaper. These were used by people like ourselves, who were moving from one part of the country to the other, with furniture, who wished to economize, and to whom time was no object; for the packet-boats travelled twice or thrice as rapidly as the line-boats.
"I think I never enjoyed myself so thoroughly when a child, as at that time. My sisters and I were much petted by the captain and the passengers; and the excitement of being on the water, and the constant change of scene, kept up our spirits to the highest pitch. Margaret, who was then four years old, was, I remember, an especial favorite on the boat; for she was extremely pretty, with her fragile, doll-like figure, her clear complexion, bright blue eyes, and reddish gold curls. She inherited the family talent for spelling, and was very fond of displaying her accomplishments in that line; for sister Margaret was a very self-possessed little creature, and was afraid of no one—not even of father himself. I recollect that when the boat stopped at any small town to take on passengers, Margaret's bright eyes would if possible discover a shop with the sign 'Grocery;' and then, going up to some one of her new friends, would gravely spell 'G-r-o, gro, c-e, ce, groce, r-y, ry, grocery;' followed usually by an intimation that a reward of merit would be acceptable. She was so extremely small for her age, that her achievement of spelling a three-syllable word was looked upon as something marvellous by the passengers, and some one would immediately take her ashore, and buy her some candy or fruit from the grocery.
"Another incident that impressed itself strongly upon me during this journey, was eating a peach for the first time. I had never seen a peach in either New Hampshire or Vermont.
"But, during those long September days that we children spent running over the boat, and indulging in all sorts of wild mischief, poor mother had by no means an easy life. It was impossible for her to keep us together and under her eyes; and what with the fear that we might fall overboard, or meet with some accident from the bridges, I know that she only looked forward to the time when the journey should be over, and we safe on land again."
"The bridges, mamma!" said Marguerite, "to what danger were you exposed from them?"
"The bridges crossing the canal," explained mamma, "were so extremely low, that no one upon the boat could stand upright; often the boat could barely glide under them without grazing the rails of the deck. The captain used to keep on the lookout, and as we approached one, would call, 'Bridge ahead.' Then the women and children would rush down the staircase to the little cabin, and the gentlemen would usually throw themselves at full length upon the dock until the bridge was passed. That was always a moment of terrible anxiety for poor mother if we were out of sight; for accidents and even loss of life had been known to occur; indeed, on father's previous journey, he witnessed an accident of a most terrible character. A woman, who was going only a short distance in the boat, was very much afraid that she would be taken past the town where she wished to stop, and paid no attention to the warning to go below as they approached a bridge. The captain, seeing the danger she was in, seized her by the arm, and thrust her downstairs. She rushed up, and he again pulled her down. Confident that she was about to be taken past her destination, the poor woman for the third time broke away from him, and reached the deck just in time to be struck by the bridge and instantly killed."
"Frightful!" said Marguerite with a shudder. "Tell us about the rest of your journey, mamma. How did you travel after you left Buffalo? Upon Lake Erie, I suppose?"
"No, indeed!" replied mamma, "although there were at that time steamboats upon the lake; but father had had so terrible an experience upon his previous journey, that he would not subject his family to the caprices of Lake Erie. He had started from Buffalo upon a schooner, but a dreadful storm arose, in which the boat struggled for three days and was then obliged to put back to Buffalo a complete wreck. Father declared at that time that he would never expose his family to the hair-breadth escape from death that he had undergone; consequently, he hired a strong wagon at Buffalo, and we travelled along what was called the 'Lake Shore Road' to the town of North East, whence we took a southern course to Wattsburgh.
"When at Wattsburgh, we were only eight miles distant from our destination, but as we were now to leave the main road and plunge into the deep forest, father exchanged his horses and wagon for a heavy wooden sled and a yoke of oxen. Then we commenced to realize what our new life was to be. There was no road through the woods, and the only indication of the route was blazed or marked trees. Huge logs, so high that the oxen could barely step over them, lay occasionally across our path, and from time to time we had to stop while father and brother Barnes hewed down the trees that obstructed the way. We children thought this pioneer episode even preferable to our experience upon the boat, but I remember that dear mother sighed often and deeply.
"At the close of the second day, the eight miles were accomplished, and we reached father's property. He had bought with the land a rough little log-house, or rather hut, as it had but one room, and in this we were to live until he could build a better one. At the sight of her dreary home, mother's heart fairly sunk, and I shall never forget her tears."
Mamma paused for a moment; then steadying her voice, said:
"I am prouder than ever of my mother when I think how nobly she bore the separation from her darling son, and her exile from her family, and, you may almost say, from civilization. She could not, at first, it is true, restrain her tears, but from that moment never a murmur of complaint crossed her brave lips, and we children never dreamed, till years later, how keenly she felt the sacrifice that she had been compelled to make."
"But were you really so far out of the world, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida. "Did you have no neighbors at all? We had two uncles there, I thought. Surely they must have been some society for grandmamma?"
"I do not believe," mamma replied, "that any other spot upon the globe, not even Robinson Crusoe's island, could now seem so desolate and shut off from all communication as our home in the woods did then. You must remember that there were no railways in 1826, which fact made us still more remote from the rest of the world. Now, with the railways spreading in every direction over our vast Republic, you can scarcely imagine what it was to live with an almost impenetrable forest between yourself and your nearest neighbor. Uncle Benjamin occupied what was called the 'next lot,' and had the ground been cleared, the distance from us would still have been three-quarters of a mile; but when the distance was increased three-fold by the darkness of the forest, and there was in addition every probability of meeting a bear or two on the way, you can imagine that being neighborly was scarcely practicable."
"Bears!" exclaimed Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with excitement; "how lovely! Darling auntie, do tell us more about them. It must have been like one of Captain Mayne Reid's stories, to live in that delightful Pennsylvania!"
"Our life there," said mamma, "certainly equalled the wildest tales of adventures experienced by early settlers that I have ever read, and we children found it quite as 'lovely' as you imagine it to have been. We never felt isolated, although our entire 'clearing' consisted of only four acres, upon which our house stood, and any further prospect was shut out by the woods. To us it was delightful to realize the adventures of Robinson Crusoe, which, as I told you, brother had read to us in Vermont, merely changing tropical animals and scenery for that of the North. I do not remember ever being afraid, but the wolves, who nightly howled in gangs about our slightly built house, the bears who ate up the corn in our little patch, the porcupines who gnawed the hoops off our pork barrels, and the frightful, screaming owls, struck terror to poor mother's heart.
"I recollect that one night father went out to drive away a porcupine whose teeth and claws he heard busily at work upon a barrel hoop, but the creature rushed into the house through the open door, and ran across the trundle bed where sister Arminda and I slept. I need not tell you how dangerous it would have been had one of his quills penetrated our flesh."
"Do go on, auntie; this is delightful," said Gabrielle.
"When father had paid for his land," said mamma, "and bought a yoke of oxen and a cow—two essential things for a farmer—he had very little, if any, money left. There was no danger, however, that we should suffer from want, for the woods were so full of game that father would take his gun in the morning and go out to shoot something for dinner with the same confidence that he would have gone to a market to buy it. Partridges and pigeons in the greatest abundance formed our daily fare, while the deer used to walk into our corn-patch and almost offer themselves as targets for father's or brother Barnes' gun. Venison, I recollect, was so plentiful that a farmer, after shooting a deer, would only trouble himself to fetch home the hind-quarters and hide—the latter being marketable. In the spring there were cowslips and other wood plants in abundance, which made a delicious substitute for spinach. Tea was very scarce with us, and was kept for Sundays; but beech nuts, burnt and ground, made a very palatable coffee, that formed our daily beverage. Butter must have been an unmarketable article, for I remember that during the first three years we spent there, it sold for six cents a pound."
"Did you grow anything on the farm to sell, mamma?" I inquired. "I suppose not, during the first years."
"'No," said mamma; "and if we had, there would have been no market for it."
"Then what did you do for money, Aunt Esther?" said Ida. "Grandpapa had very little, you say."
"I must not forget," said mamma, "that we had one marketable production, and one that you would not easily guess.
"I wonder, Gabrielle, if your favorite chemistry goes back so far into elementary principles, as to tell you from what black salts are made? School-books seldom, I think, trouble themselves with the origin of things, so I will tell you that after the great logs were burnt that father had felled in clearing, the ashes were collected and leeched, and the lye boiled down in immense cauldrons till it became granulated like sugar. It then formed what was called 'black salts,' and these salts are the basis of potash, soda, etc. The salts could always find a ready market, and with them we paid our taxes, and bought what necessaries we could not raise ourselves."
[1] Page 62.
CHAPTER XVI.
A Birthday—A Surprise—The Day celebrated by a Dinner—An Awkward Mistake—A Queen of Fashion—A Drive to Tarrytown—A Poem to Ida.
July 16.
An air of mystery has pervaded the house for the past week. My offers to take Ida's letters to the post, or to go and fetch home the mail, have been met with a hasty negative, and Minna despatched forthwith to attend to them; and whenever I might enter Ida's room, it would appear to be at a most inopportune moment, for the earnest conversation that had been going on between herself and Gabrielle would instantly stop, and their countenances assume a most transparent expression of indifference. Long whispered conversations with mamma were continually taking place, and Ida seemed to be more frequently called to the kitchen by Lina than I had ever before known her to be, that autocrat being ordinarily by no means tolerant of her presence there. Finally, Ida was summoned to New York upon important business—to meet her lawyer, I supposed, but wondered why she did not simply authorize papa to represent herself, as well as Gabrielle, whose guardian he is, and thus spare herself a tedious day in the city in such sultry weather.
Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is Marguerite's. As the fetes occur in midsummer, we are usually—if in America—upon the Catskill Mountains, or some equally inaccessible place, so that a celebration is not practicable; indeed, our birthdays have not been celebrated since 1869, when some friends in Paris took us all to St. Germain, where we passed a most delightful week at the Pavilion Henri Quatre (a hotel built upon the spot where Louis XIV. was born), and daily drove and picniced in the grand old forest for which St. Germain is noted. The events of yesterday were therefore most unexpected and agreeable.
Ida and Gabrielle, after congratulating Marguerite and I, and giving us some elegant presents (for we usually receive our presents upon the same day, as less than twenty-four hours separate our anniversaries), asked us to drive down to the station with them to meet the train, and gently intimated that as some one might come up from New York with papa, we had better put on our best bombazines. Quite obediently I went upstairs, put on the dress with its weight of crape, clasped on my new black velvet ceinture, with its buckles of oxidized silver in delicate filagree work, (Marguerite's gift), and obtuse to the inappropriateness of a dress fan for morning use, suspended from the chatelaine another birthday gift—a black lace fan. Then, when I had put the finishing touch, in the shape of dear Ida's present—a vinaigrette of oxidized silver formed like a half-furled fan—I was quite satisfied with my toilette; before the day was over, however, my ceinture was adorned with a tortoise-shell chatelaine, whistle, and tablets, as well as a dainty riding-whip—papa's present—and I deeply mourned the impossibility of wearing two beautiful pictures, a new novel, and a large box of Iauch's best bonbons.
When the train arrived, papa emerged, followed by our artist neighbor, Mr. John Hows.
"Why, papa has brought up Mr. Hows!" I said. "How very—" my exclamation of pleasure was checked by surprise at the appearance of his brother, the musical editor of the Express, followed by our friends, Dr. Taylor and Colonel Rogers.
"Is this a surprise party?" Marguerite and I inquired blankly.
My dear friend Lela Paraf then tripped out, assisted by her elegant husband, and followed by Mr. Eugene Durkee and his brother, two Paris friends of ours. Then the car door opened once more, and "our young chief," as papa calls Mr. Reid, and Colonel Hay issued—a surprise party indeed.
Ida had intended to invite only a few young gentlemen to spend the day with us, fearing that if she sent out invitations to ladies to dinner, some enterprising reporter might announce that she had given at least a fete champetre, if not a bal masque, which in our deep mourning would not be an agreeable report to be in circulation; but Lela is so charming and dear to us all, and has remained so faithfully my most intimate friend for the last six months, notwithstanding the rival that I dreaded in her husband, that Ida made an exception for her.
As we were marshalling our regiment to return to the house, a tall, dark, distinguished-looking gentleman, elegantly dressed, hastened towards us. Who he was I could not imagine, but as his face seemed familiar, I welcomed him with a beaming smile. He must, however, be very near-sighted, I thought, for he overlooked my extended hand, merely bowing very low, and going on towards the house.
"Who is he, Ida?" I said in a whisper; "I don't remember his name."
"I suppose not," said Ida, laughing; "though you have seen him often enough. It is Emile, from Delmonico's. I sent for him to help Minna serve the table."
I was no longer surprised that my distinguished-looking gentleman did not shake hands with me.
When we were upon the croquet ground, I had an opportunity to admire Lela's toilette. A born Queen of Fashion, her dresses even when as a school-girl were my admiration, and her toilette for my birthday showed the refinement of delicacy and taste: for, not wishing to be the only lady present in colors, she wore a black grenadine, with black bows and a black lace hat; her diamond ear-drops and one half-blown deep red rose alone testifying that her mourning robe was only worn through sympathy.
We had sat three hours at the table, and were lingering over the ices and awaiting the coffee and fruit, when a shrill whistle, warning the guests that the train was nigh, caused a flight more rapid than that of Cinderella. Farewells were left unspoken, and "French leave" taken in good earnest, as our friends made a short cut through the garden of Bischoff, the trainmaster, who lives opposite us. Their departure could scarcely be said to be graceful, but as they had only three minutes' time to meet the train, it was obligatory.
Lina had exercised all of her art in preparing the birthday dinner, and as Ida gave her carte blanche in her most extravagant demands—such as twenty pounds of beef for gravies, and an entire bottle of Madeira for the soup, the dinner was very elegant and satisfactory. Lina would, I fancy, have been much aggrieved, had she known that her artistic dishes were supposed to have been sent up from Delmonico's.
July 20.
A drive to Tarrytown to-day. After two months of inland air, the change to the exhilarating salt breeze blowing up from the Hudson was very refreshing, and made us quite regret, during the few hours we spent there, that Chappaqua could not be occasionally transported to the seaside.
"I am especially fond," said Ida, "of living by the sea, although I do not enjoy an ocean voyage; but a cottage at Newport is my ideal home for the summer."
"Newport air," said mamma, "would, I think, be too strong for me. The most agreeable sea air that I ever experienced was upon the Isle of Wight. There the climate was so mild as to be very beneficial to me. But you must know as much or more than I do about the Isle of Wight air, for you spent several months there with your mother when last in Europe, did you not?"
"Yes, we spent a winter and spring at Ventnor," said Ida; "that town, you know, is especially recommended to people with lung troubles, although I could never see that it did poor mamma much good."
"Did you ever see, Aunt Esther," inquired Gabrielle, "the poem that was addressed to Ida while she was at Ventnor?"
Mamma had not before heard of it; therefore, upon our return, Ida took it out of her portfolio, and showed it to us. It was written by a New York editor and poet, and was, we all thought, very beautiful and appropriate. As it was in MSS., Ida allowed me to copy it into my journal.
A FAMILIAR IDYL.
FOR IDA LILLIAN GREELEY.
Dear friend! If I could step to-day Upon your cosey English isle, Victoria's chosen home erewhile, And hallowed by the Laureate's lay;
Though beauty breaks from every view, And one long splendor edge the shore, I should not pause an hour before I touched the terrace graced by you.
For what's a Queen's or Poet's worth? The light that lies on land and sea Resplendent? Dearer far to me The friendship which outweighs the earth.
Should I not find you—happy chance— Just where your ivied cottage stands, Dreaming with hope of western lands, Or facing torn and tortured France?
And you could tell of sunny days? Of chalky cliffs and spreading downs; Nature is more than bustling towns, And country life than city ways.
But hearing now a robin sing, I wonder if his English mate May not be hopping near your gate, A harbinger, with ours, of Spring.
I know the precious charge you hold; But now, when comes the budding year, I wish the rather you were here To see our leafy months unfold.
To watch the coming choir of birds, And note the lengthening twilight hours, The miracles of buds and flowers, And tender shows too sweet for words.
But you who hear the throstle sing, And greet the lark's high ecstasies, May learn to care no more for these, And spurn each weaker voice and wing.
I will not think it—home is home; And much as other skies may do, Ours will not reach its sweetest blue, Nor May seem perfect, till you come.
March 1, 1871.
CHAPTER XVII.
Gabrielle and her Embroidery—Life in Pennsylvania continued—Sugar-making—Horrible Incident—A Woman devoured by Wolves—A Domestic Picture—Evening Readings—The Library of Mr. Greeley's Father—Mr. Greeley's Mother intellectually considered—Her Education—Mr. Greeley's Eldest Sister—She teaches School at the Age of Twelve.
July 25.
"It is some time, auntie," said Gabrielle, from the sofa, "since you have told us any stories. Now I wish that this evening, while I am working upon my pin-cushion, you would relate some more episodes of your Pennsylvania life;" and she opened her work box, and took out a little roll of canvas, upon which she was busy delineating in pale yellow wool a stiff little canary, with a surprising eye, and an impossible tail.
"I have forgotten what I have already related, dear," replied mamma; "you must tell me where to take up my story."
"You left off at the manufacture of black salts," said Gabrielle, "and I want you to commence at that very point, and not forget anything that occurred."
"Perhaps you would like to hear about sugar making," said mamma; "that was one of father's yearly enterprises, and great sport we young people thought it."
"Oh, do tell us about it," said Gabrielle, with sparkling eyes; "that will be delightful; almost as good as meeting a bear."
"Although not so exciting, I fear," said mamma, laughing; "I am sorry that I have no encounters with bears to meet your demands for thrilling adventures to-night; but if, as I suppose, you have never seen the process of sugar making, you will find an account of it quite interesting."
"Father had upon his extensive acres hundreds of grand old forest maples, which, growing as they did, in patches in the wilderness, formed what were called in country parlance 'sugar bushes,' or, in the more elegant language of books, 'sugar orchards.' Early in the spring, when the sun stood high, and the snow began to melt, the maples would be 'tapped,' as the farmers say; sometimes by boring into them, and often by driving in a chisel; then a wooden spout would be inserted through which the sweet sap would begin to trickle down into the troughs placed there to receive it. From these troughs it was collected and carried in buckets and pails to an immense receptacle hollowed out of the trunk of some great tree; usually selecting what was called the 'cucumber tree,' as its soft wood could be more easily excavated than that of other trees. The men used to wear a yoke upon their shoulders with hooks from which the pails were suspended; and thus equipped they would traverse to and fro with the sap. I well remember lending my assistance to father by trudging valiantly through snow that reached my knees, to carry buckets of sap, but without the assistance of a yoke.
"The process of making sugar is very like that I described in the manufacture of black salts. The sap is poured into immense cauldrons, and boils sometimes for several days. As fast as it evaporates, fresh sap is poured in until the syrup becomes thick, and then follows granulation, or, as the farmers call it, 'sugaring off.' These periods of sugaring off, which occurred usually once or twice a week during the sugar season, were participated in by the neighbors from far and near, who would come to eat sugar and make merry.
"I forgot, however, to tell you that while the sap was boiling, some one had to spend the night in the woods to refill the cauldron, and to keep up the fire. In our family this duty fell to brother Barnes, who took much delight in it. With some boy friend he would camp out upon a bundle of straw before the fire, and with a nice supper, and songs and stories, diversified by rising every half hour to stir up the fire, and watch the cauldron, and to have a private sugaring off for their own benefit, the boys would pass away the night.
"But were they in no danger from wild animals, mamma?" inquired Marguerite.
"Not much," replied mamma; "the boys always took their guns with them, but although the deer would rustle over the leaves, and bears and wolves would creep softly up to the little encampment, the fire was usually sufficient protection, and the wolves would content themselves with howling, and with a dissatisfied grunt the bears would move slowly away.
"Often the boys would see through the darkness a pair of fiery eyes glaring at them, and seizing their rifles they would shoot; but if they missed aim, the bears or wolves would have been sufficiently alarmed by the noise to make their escape whilst they could. Boys accustomed to a pioneer's life feared nothing; such adventures were as great sport to them in the woods, as they are to you, Gabrielle, while listening to them safely housed."
"But in novels, and books of travel in new countries, auntie," said Gabrielle with a dissatisfied shake of her pretty head, "when you fire at a bear or other wild animal and do not kill him, he instantly turns and kills you. Were the bears and wolves of Pennsylvania less ferocious than those of other countries?"
"They did not often seem bloodthirsty," replied mamma, "for the reason, I suppose, that the woods were full of smaller animals on which they could prey, and consequently they did not need to attack human beings for sustenance. I remember, however, one incident that may perhaps satisfy your desire for more thrilling adventures.
"An old woman living near what was called 'the Carter settlement,' some six miles from us, started to pay a visit to a friend in the next 'clearing.' To reach her destination she had to pass through the densest part of the forest, with no indication of a path to guide her: but she never thought of danger as she started upon her long, lonely walk.
"Several days elapsed before it was fairly realized that the old lady was missing; and then the neighbors started en masse through the forest with tin pans, tin horns, and stalwart lungs, to look for her. Their shouts met with no response, but after a long search they met a pack of wolves who fled rapidly past them. Fairly alarmed now lest the old woman should have perished from fatigue and exposure, they pursued the search with desperate haste, and not far from the spot where they had met the wolves, found some scraps of a dress that was recognized as hers, a few bones, and her feet, which, encased as they were in stout boots, the wolves had disdained to devour. Whether the old woman had fallen a live victim to the wolves, or had died of hunger and fatigue and then furnished a repast to them, we never knew; this latter supposition, however, seemed hardly probable, for she could have found in the woods wild berries, succulent roots, and water sufficient to subsist upon for several days."
A shiver of horror went around our little circle, and even Gabrielle's love for the terrible was satisfied.
After a short pause, Marguerite said:
"You must often have felt lonely, mamma, did you not, living so far away from all places of amusement, lectures, and the like? Indeed, I suppose that buried as you were in the woods, you did not even have the excitement of going to church."
"No," said mamma; "we were dependent for entertainment entirely upon our own resources and the few books we had brought with us from Vermont; but we children were never conscious of a lonely hour, and if dear mother felt sad and weary of our uneventful life, we never knew it.
"We worked hard all day, every one of us, even little Margaret having something to do; but in the evening we had a change of occupation. At twilight, when father and brother Barnes had come home, and our early supper was over, father would say:
"'Mary, what have you to read to us to-night?'
"Immediately fresh logs would be piled up in the great open fireplace, the candles lighted, we girls would draw up to the table with our knitting or sewing, Barnes would throw himself down before the fire, and mother would take up a book for the evening's reading. This reading was as much a part of the routine of the day as dinner or supper, and was indeed our only means of culture that winter, distant as we were from schools and all other educational advantages. Mother always monopolized the position of reader; indeed, until after her death, father seldom read a book, but contented himself with being a listener."
"And was he a good listener, mamma?" I inquired, "or did he stop grandmamma from time to time to comment upon the author and the events?"
"Father's intentions were the best in the world," replied mamma smiling, "but you must remember that he would sit down to listen, completely exhausted from a day's work that had commenced with the first tinge of dawn, and before very long, soothed by mother's musical voice, his breathing would become more and more audible, and his head commence to nod. Quite patiently mother would continue her chapter, feigning not to be conscious of the heavy breathing that proceeded from the arm-chair, and often from the boyish figure stretched before the fire, until their slumber would become too apparent, when, closing the book, she would call them severely to task for their inattention.
"Rubbing his eyes, father would rouse up, and indignantly refuting the accusation, declare that he had heard every word.
"Instantly putting him to the test, mother would inquire what she had been reading about?
"After a moment of deep reflection, father would say penitently:
"'Well, Mary, if you will just read back a page or two, I will remember all about it.'
"Very indulgently mother would turn back, but often before she had reached the former stopping-place, father's breathing would announce that he was again resting from the hard day's toil.
"Barnes was somewhat better as a listener, but he, like father, worked hard, and it was often difficult for him to keep awake during the reading of history or novels; but we three girls were a most interested audience, and somewhat compensated for masculine inattention.
"But father was not always drowsy; at times he would listen with keen interest to the evening reading, and very much vexed he would be if the arrival of any neighbor should put a stop to it.
"'My wife is reading something extremely interesting to us,' he would artfully say; 'perhaps you would like to listen to it also?'
"'By all means,' the unsuspecting visitor would reply, and not another opportunity would he have to speak until it was time to take leave."
"What books did grandmamma read to you?" inquired Marguerite. "You have mentioned both history and novels, but without giving any names."
"Your uncle," replied mamma, "supplied us with light literature from the resources of the Spectator office—newspapers, pamphlets, periodicals, etc., and mother's own little library was sterling in its quality as her own old-fashioned ballads; it was quite varied, too, considering how few volumes it contained.
"One of the books that I remember was Butler's 'History of the United States;' a ponderous tome that I presume you children have never seen.
"Another volume from which we derived much information and pleasure was a large 'Universal History;' the name of its author I have forgotten.
"The 'History of the Jews,' by Josephus, was also a great favorite with mother; this work did not, however, belong to us, but was lent us by your other grandfather, Marguerite. Mr. Cleveland, a neighbor of ours, you know, had, like us, a small library of standard books, which he was always glad to lend to an appreciative reader.
"The 'Wonders of Nature and Providence' was another book that I remember well, and a 'Life of Napoleon,' by what author I do not know, but which was a source of endless delight both to father and mother. The emperor, you know, had been dead only since 1821, consequently his exploits were fresh in every one's memory, and some of mother's most stirring songs were about 'General Bonaparte.' You four children come legitimately by your devotion to Napoleon, for both father and mother were enthusiastic in their admiration for the great French hero.
"Among our smaller books was a life of Prince Eugene of Savoy, and the memoirs of Baron Trenck, whose romantic history we enjoyed as much as the most thrilling novel.
"As for novels, we had not many at that time, although the newspapers with which brother furnished us usually contained serial stories that mother used to read aloud. I remember, however, that mother owned 'Waverley,' 'Rob Roy,' and 'Francis Berrian,' a romance of which father was especially fond, and all of which she read to us.
"For poetry, we had a volume of selections from English poets, accompanied with brief sketches of their lives, a volume about two-thirds the size of Dana's 'Household Book of Poetry,' a copy of Cowper, whose poems mother particularly liked, especially 'The Task'; a small, unbound copy of Byron's 'Corsair,' and a volume of English songs, a collection that I have never since seen. This list refers, you know, to our first years in the woods, and everything that I have mentioned was read aloud to us by mother.
"On Sundays we had a change of literature. Father, although not what would be called a religious man, as he was not a member of any church, had a great respect for the observance of the Sabbath, and unlike his less scrupulous neighbors, rested from work on that day. The morning was devoted to reading the Bible, and in the evening father would sing with his splendid voice, 'God of Israel,' the 'Rock of Ages,' and other fine old psalm tunes. One hymn of which he was especially fond, I remember commenced,
"'The day is past and gone, The evening shades appear; Oh, may we all remember well The day of Death draws near.'
"This he used to sing with great expression of devotion.
"I have often wished that I had had the advantage of living in New York when a child, but I would not now exchange a city education for the sweet memory of our quiet evenings at home, and the sphere of intelligence and affection in which I was nurtured."
Mamma paused a moment, then continued:
"These books that I have mentioned were not new to mother: she had read and knew them almost by heart long before she commenced reading them to us, and her mind was an inexhaustible source of knowledge. Although her school-days were limited, she was not ignorant of the common branches. She had studied, she told me, the 'Ladies' Lexicon,' from which she had obtained a very thorough knowledge of English grammar. She wrote a trim hand, she had a practical knowledge of arithmetic, and geography had claimed a portion of her time in school; but what she had learnt there was but a commencement. She must subsequently have studied astronomy, for she taught me without books to recognize the planets and trace the constellations, and at any hour of the night she could tell the time by looking at the position of the stars. She had the talent for dates that you have inherited, Marguerite, and was authority for the neighborhood upon all disputed points in politics since the days of Washington; indeed, it was quite amusing to see the men all come to consult 'Aunt Mary' rather than father, when a knotty question arose."
"As you have described grandmamma," said Marguerite, "she appears to be superior to grandpapa. Do you so consider her?"
"Mother was father's superior," replied mamma, "intellectually and morally. Father was rather cold in his nature, but mother had a warm heart. She was an enthusiastic friend, and she loved every living thing. I do not remember ever hearing her speak an ill word of a neighbor, and I am sure she never had an enemy in her life.
"Though I do not call father warm-hearted, he certainly had great affection for mother, and was sincerely attached to his family. I have heard him say that he would walk all night, rather than stop short of his home.
"Father was sometimes called by our neighbors a hard parent. He never was, it is true, demonstrative in his affection, but he was strictly just, and never harsh in his treatment of us. As I have often told you, he believed in work for himself and his family, and I have heard him say that sooner than have a child of his grow up idle, he would make him pick up stones in one lot, and throw them over into the next one. He considered that he had been generous in allowing brother Horace to leave home, or, as country people call it, 'giving him his time,' six years before he became of age, and he was willing at any time to allow his daughters to seek their fortunes away from home, should they desire to do so.
"This winter of 1826-27 was the last one that we four children spent at home together. The next year sister Arminda, although only twelve years old, opened a school in the little log-house upon our west farm—"
"When only twelve years old!" we interrupted in chorus; "pray whom did she teach? Babies?"
"No," replied mamma, "she had a dozen or fourteen pupils, little boys and girls, some of whom were older than herself, for very young children could not have walked that distance—three and four miles."
"But I should think," interposed Gabrielle, "that the scholars would have felt more inclined to play with Aunt Arminda, than to learn the lessons she gave them; she was such a child."
"Your aunt was tall and well-developed," replied mamma, "and had a natural air of dignity that gave her the appearance of being older than she really was. She did not find it difficult to impress her pupils with respect, or to enforce obedience."
"What did she teach them, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida; "only the elementary branches, I suppose?"
"Reading, writing, and spelling," replied mamma; "arithmetic and grammar, geography, sewing and knitting."
"And how much did she make?" I inquired, being of a practical turn of mind at that moment.
"She was paid by the week," said mamma, "and received the same salary as the majority of school-mistresses in those primeval days; seventy-five cents and her board. She 'boarded around,' as the phrase was, among her pupils. This may seem very little to you, but you must remember that in those days a good milch cow cost only ten dollars, and everything else was proportionately cheap.
"The next two winters, sister Arminda was in school herself, and the following year, when she was fifteen, she was married to our handsome cousin Lovel, Uncle Benjamin's son."
Another exclamation of amazement from the little group, and a chorus of—
"Married at fifteen! How surprising! And did she make a pretty bride?"
"She was a very handsome girl," replied mamma, and made a striking contrast to her blonde brothers and sisters, for she had a rich brunette complexion, large, dark-blue eyes, glossy dark hair, and set roses in her cheeks, which, even now that she is a great-grandmother have not entirely faded. She was womanly far beyond her years; not so romantic, perhaps, as sister Margaret and I were at her age, but that she possessed talent, enterprise, and ambition, is shown by the success of her school, established at an age when most girls are contentedly dressing their dolls.
"Sister Arminda is a woman of superior character, and a devoted wife and mother. She has had many severe trials to contend with during her long married life. Her heart has known bitter sorrow, for of her family of eleven beautiful children only four are now living; but she has borne all these afflictions with enduring heroism. The devotion of herself and her husband is something people of the world would consider quite Arcadian in these days of matrimonial infelicity, for until your Aunt Arminda paid me that visit three years ago, she had never, since her marriage, left her husband two successive nights."
CHAPTER XVIII.
Visitors—A Sunday Drive—Croton lake by Daylight—A Sail—A Sudden Squall—Anxiety about our Fate—Miraculous Escape from Drowning—Arrival of a Pretty Cousin—A Child Poetess.
August 4.
A gap in my journal of several days, during which time I have found it impossible to write. I have now several events to record.
Papa came out Saturday afternoon to make us his weekly visit, accompanied by Mr. Reid.
Papa's "young chief" looked as well as though he had not the weight of the new nine-story Tribune building upon his shoulders this hot weather, and was exceedingly agreeable. Those who have only known Mr. Reid in New York salons and in editorial rooms can have no idea what a different man he is when enjoying the relaxation of the country. Never could I have imagined that the haughty young proprietor of The Tribune would condescend to participate in "ring toss," croquet, and similar frivolities; but I have found this summer that, besides being an adept in the masculine accomplishments of driving and riding, he is an enthusiastic champion of croquet, taking apparently the same pleasure in sending an adversary's ball to the extreme limits of the croquet-ground that he would in refuting a Times editorial.
The evening was devoted to cards and ballad-singing, for, although so prominent a member of New York literary society, Mr. Reid does not, I am glad to say, think it necessary to dislike music.
For the next day an expedition to Croton Lake had been planned. When alone, we never drive on Sunday, except to church, lest our sober Puritan neighbors should be shocked; but as we had a guest for that day, we made an exception to our usual severe rules; for a Sunday in Chappaqua is somewhat gloomy to a visitor. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, the carriage came, and Ida and I, with papa and Mr. Reid, started on this pleasant little excursion, papa mischievously suggesting that we should look pious, and the neighbors would never know that we were not going to church.
One little contretemps marked our departure. The Duchess had been lame for a day or two, and another horse had been hired for the day to replace her. The strange horse was evidently the property of a Quaker, and more accustomed to going to meeting than on frivolous pleasure parties, for she was a very staid and subdued animal, and strongly disinclined to keep up with the lively pace adopted by spirited little Lady Alice. The drive, therefore, was decidedly an interesting one. Papa held the reins, and Mr. Reid devoted himself to whipping up the laggard beast. In this style we proceeded over the country at a moderate pace, and finally reached the beautiful lake and the hotel upon its banks. The shade of the broad piazza formed a very pleasant relief from the heat overhead, and we were glad to rest a little while. We had not been there many minutes before some one recognized Mr. Reid, and informed the portly landlord, who immediately hastened upon the scene, and welcomed him to Croton Lake with enthusiasm.
In the parlor the piano was open, and half a dozen children were drumming upon it; therefore, seeing that "music" on Sundays was not prohibited by the rules of the house, I went to the piano when the children wearied of it, and sung, at Ida's request, an Ave Maria, and grandpapa's favorite "Rock of Ages." We had some little amusement over the necessity of going four miles from home in order to enjoy music on Sundays.
The water looked very inviting, rippling up to the beach, and a row to Croton Dam was proposed. After some little delay, a boat and a very good-natured negro boatman were procured, and we departed.
The sun, I must own, was rather hot at that hour of the day, and struck with peculiar force upon our hot bombazine dresses, and heavy crape veils. Ida and I looked with a sigh at Mr. Reid's cool white flannel suit. Sam, the boatman, ceased to row, and let the boat drift, being overcome by the heat, while papa sat in the bow, and looked disconsolate that he had not the morning news to read.
We were now at quite a distance from the shore, and as there was no one present but the boatman to be shocked by hearing secular music, I ventured to sing a few simple ballads, for music and water I think blend most harmoniously.
Soon light, fleecy clouds commenced to shield us from the sun's scorching rays; we closed our parasols, and played with the deliciously cool water, wondering meantime like Miss Helen, in that exquisite "Atlantic" story, if we could call up a mermaid front below. But while we were drifting along so charmingly, the clouds had become heavier and blacker, and seizing the oars, Sam commenced to row with desperate haste. We were, however, beaten in our race with the storm, and reached Croton Dam in a perfect tempest of thunder, and lightning, and dashing rain. Unfortunately Ida and I had worn slippers, not having expected to walk, and there was only one umbrella in the party—our little parasols with their crape borders and bows being more suitable for ornament than service; however, we scrambled up the steep bank as best we could, and ran to the protecting doorway of the water-house (the house itself was locked as it was Sunday). Here we stowed ourselves away like so many sardines, and waited patiently under the umbrella for an hour. Finally the sun broke out, and we made our way over deep ponds of water back to our boat. Sam looked up with a dejected expression as we approached, and feared the boat wasn't fit for the ladies to go home in; he was bailing it out as fast as he could, but it was very wet.
Wet indeed! Why Sam had not drawn the boat up on the beach and turned it over during the rain, no one could imagine; but that brilliant idea had not occurred to him. Therefore we were obliged to row back with our feet reposing in little pools of water.
Before long, down came the rain again in torrents, but stimulated by the prospective fee, Sam rowed with giant strokes. About a mile from the hotel, we met the landlord rowing with desperate haste. It seems that the rain had been even more violent at his end of the lake, having been magnified into a squall upon the water, and a tornado upon land, blowing down trees, and breaking away the lattice-work of the hotel piazza; consequently he supposed our boat must have been ingulfed, and had come to look for the corpses. His amazement at finding us alive, and, though very wet, in excellent spirits, was great.
An entree into the hotel in our wet dresses was rather a formidable affair for Ida and myself, as all the boarders were assembled upon the piazza to see, I suppose, how we looked after our "miraculous escape from drowning." Hastening past them into a private room, we took off our dripping wraps, and supplied their places with brilliant plaid shawls lent us by the landlady, in which we drove back to Chappaqua—to the wonder, I doubt not, of all who recognized us on the way. The horses this time went more evenly, and the entire strain of propelling the carriage did not fall upon poor Lady Alice. But when we reached home, Mr. Reid's white suit, and our dresses, veils, and even faces, were a sight to behold from the liquid mud with which we were bespattered. We had to turn out of our way for a couple of miles, as a tree blown down by the storm lay across the main road, and this second detention did not increase the enthusiasm of our welcome from Lina, for dinner had been ordered at half-past three, and it was five when we reached the house. Her pet dessert, a lemon soufflee, intended to be eaten as soon as baked, was not, I must own, improved by standing so long; but otherwise no serious damage was done to the dinner, and we were thankful that our adventures when indulging in pleasure parties on Sunday were over.
The evening passed quietly, but very agreeably. Mr. Reid went down to the city in the six o'clock train, and papa read aloud to us Byron's splendid, stirring "Isles of Greece," and portions of "Childe Harold." Reading poetry is quite an accomplishment of papa's, and although he is very happy in sentimental and heroic verse, he has also a keen sense of humor, and his reading of comic and dialect poems, especially those of Hans Breitmann, have been much complimented; indeed, in "our circle" he is the reader par excellence of Bret Harte, John Hay, and Hans Breitmann.
August 7.
Marguerite and Ida went down yesterday to the city for a day's shopping, a relaxation of which we are all quite fond. I walked down to the station to meet them upon their return, and was not a little surprised to see a third black-robed figure emerge from the cars with them. Too petite to be Gabrielle, who has been visiting a school-friend for the last week, it was not until the second glance that I recognized the abundant golden-brown hair and romantic eyes of our pretty cousin, Theresa Walling.
Theresa is Aunt Arminda's granddaughter, and although only eighteen, is entitled to pass through a door in advance of Marguerite, Ida and I, and to occupy the back seat in a carriage, for she is married, and has had two sweet little girls, one of whom died during that sad month of November, last year, and the oldest, her pretty Theresa Beatrice, only a week ago. Quite delicate from her childhood, the loss of her babies has been a great affliction to their poor little mother, and Ida brought her out to visit us, hoping that change of scene might bring back the former rose-flush to her pale cheeks.
Early marriages appear hereditary in that branch of the family, for Aunt Arminda was married at fifteen, and Theresa's mother at fourteen; consequently, Aunt Arminda found herself a great-grandmother when some years short of sixty.
I said that Theresa lost her youngest child within the thirty days that elapsed between uncle's and Aunt Mary's deaths; but those were not the only bereavements in our family that sad winter; before the spring came, Theresa's father and a little girl, our cousin Victoria's child, had also died.
Theresa's beauty is not the true Greeley type—blonde, with blue eyes. Her complexion is somewhat like her grandmother's—a delicate olive with an exquisite flush, when in health. The contour of her face is a perfect oval; her eyes are dark and pensive, and although her hair is almost golden in its brightness, both her eyebrows and lashes are of a dark chestnut brown. In figure she is, as I said, very petite; she and I are the two "little ones" of the family.
Theresa displays considerable taste for literature; and, notwithstanding the demand that her children made upon her time, has written some romantic stories that have been published in New York journals.
She has a bright little brother, and three sisters—Fannie, Jessie, and Lillian; all pretty and clever children. Fannie, who is now only fourteen, will, I hope, when older, become a graceful poetess; for the verses that she has already had published under her pretty signature, "Fannie Fawn," are very musical, and promise well for the future.
CHAPTER XIX
Mr. Greeley visits his Family in Pennsylvania—He expounds Mathematics and Philosophy to his Brother and Sisters—Fishing and Bee Hunting—Forest Fires—A Subsequent Visit—He returns as Editor of the New Yorker—He writes the 'Faded Stars'—Characteristics of Mr. Greeley's Brother—His Children—Mr. Greeley's Younger Sisters—Their Education.
August 9.
"Mamma," said Marguerite, looking up from the tea-table where we were all assembled, "did uncle visit you often in Pennsylvania? I suppose so, for I know what an affectionate family you wore, and how very fond he was of his parents."
"He visited us as often as he could," replied mamma, "but you know that the distance was great, and during the four years that he spent in Poultney, his time was not at his command. I can only remember two visits that he made us during that period; each one, however, lasted a month.
"It was, I think, during our second year in the woods that he came home for the first time. I well remember, after the first joy of the reunion was over, examining his trunk to see what books he had brought with him. Those that I found there were quite different from what many boys of seventeen would have chosen, when going home for a vacation. I do not recollect meeting any books of adventure or romance; but works upon the higher mathematics and philosophy were there to show that dear brother's education was by no means at a standstill, although he was working hard to earn his own living.
"During the evenings, he would gather us about him, and illustrate some mathematical problem, or, giving us a dissertation upon natural science, would expound the laws of gravitation, etc.
"In the daytime, when not fishing or bee hunting, he would work in the fields with father and brother Barnes. There was excellent trout fishing, I remember, in the brooks; and that, with bee hunting and watching the forest fires, was his only amusement; for shooting was a pastime in which he never indulged."
"I thought," said Marguerite, "that boys in the country were always fond of shooting."
"As a rule they are," replied mamma; "but your uncle was not. His delicate, sensitive nature was always shocked by the sharp report of a gun. I remember that when we were in Vermont he and brother Barnes would go out together to hunt squirrels, Barnes carrying the gun; and that when the game was found, brother Horace would cover his ears with his hands, to soften the noise of the discharge.
"I suppose, my dears, that you do not know how hunters find wild honey?"
We knew little of wild honey save that John the Baptist used to eat it, so mamma continued:
"The bees, having no hives provided for them, made their honey in the hollow trunks of trees; and as it was one of the luxuries of our table, it was quite important to trace out their hiding-places. Brother Barnes would go out with a little box of syrup or honey, and when he found a bee upon a flower would imprison it in the box, detaining it there until it had had time to load itself with sweetness. When it was released, it would make a 'bee line' for its home in the tree; never pausing by the way, even for the sweetest flowers. Barnes would note the direction it had taken, and follow it as well as he could; but often he would be obliged to capture several bees, and sometimes pass days in the pursuit, before he would be rewarded by hearing in some tree a buzzing that could almost be called roaring. The next step was to fell the tree, which would cause the bees to quickly disperse; not, however, without stinging the intruder; but the result compensated for a sting or two, for it was not unusual for Barnes to find from twenty to thirty pounds in a tree, often, however, so mixed with the soft wood that we were obliged to strain it before it was fit to put upon the table."
"You spoke of the forest fires, mamma," said Marguerite; "pray, what were they? The woods were never literally on fire, I suppose."
"Oh yes," replied mamma, "and the fire often lasted a long time. One means of clearing the ground to make a farm was to fell the trees, while in full leafage, in what were called 'winrows.' They lay in great piles for a year and sometimes longer; then when quite dry they would be ignited, and a glorious bonfire on a gigantic scale would ensue. The fire would burn up not only all the logs and dead leaves upon the ground, but, spreading its way through the forest, would do considerable damage to the living trees, burning as it often did for weeks. It was, however, a grand sight to watch it through the darkness of the night, and when the fire running up the hollow trunk of some dead tree would burst out in a blaze at the top, we children were filled with enthusiasm, and used to call them 'our beacon lights.' Never did brother Horace seem happier than during that fiery season, and often he and brother Barnes spent the greater portion of the night among the burning log-piles, stirring up the fires when they smouldered, and throwing on brush and fresh logs.
"During the year that he worked at his trade upon the shores of Lake Erie, we saw him more frequently; but the visit that I remember with the greatest pleasure was one that he made us just after establishing his New Yorker. I was much impressed during this last visit with a marked change in brother's taste and character—a change indicated as much by his reading as by his external appearance. His trunk was now filled with standard works and volumes of poems, instead of treatises upon science, and he appeared in a perpetual rose-dream. He seemed to me the embodiment of romance and poesy, and now as I think of him with his pure, unselfish nature, so early devoted to what was noblest and best, I can only compare him to the high-minded boy-saint, the chaste, seraphic Aloysius.
"It was while at home this time that he wrote his poem 'The Faded Stars,' that was published in the New Yorker, and copied into several leading journals—"
"Oh, I am so fond of that poem," interrupted Ida, "that I have copied it into my album of poetical selections. Papa wrote it, you say, while visiting you?"
"Yes, he wrote it in the room where the family were all assembled. I recollect sitting beside him and watching his face as line after line flowed from his pen. I had never before seen any one write a poem, and it seemed to me quite wonderful. Read it to me, Ida, if your album is at hand; I do not recollect all the stanzas."
"THE FADED STARS."
BY HORACE GREELEY.
I
"I mind the time when Heaven's high dome Woke in my soul a wondrous thrill— When every leaf in Nature's tome Bespoke Creation's marvels still; When morn unclosed her rosy bars, Woke joys intense; but naught e'er bade My soul leap up like ye bright stars! [1]
II.
"Calm ministrants to God's high glory! Pure gems around His burning throne! Mute watchers o'er man's strange, sad story Of crime and woe through ages gone! 'Twas yours, the wild and hallowing spell, That lured me from ignoble glens— Taught me where sweeter fountains Than ever bless the worldling's dreams.
III.
"How changed was life! A waste no more Beset by Pain, and Want, and Wrong, Earth seemed a glad and fairy shore, Made vocal with Hope's impassioned song. But ye bright sentinels of Heaven! Far glories of Night's radiant sky! Who when ye lit the brow of Even Has ever deemed man born to die?
IV.
"'Tis faded now! That wondrous grace That once on Heaven's forehead shone: I see no more in Nature's face A soul responsive to mine own. A dimness on my eye and spirit Has fallen since those gladsome years, Few joys my hardier years inherit, And leaden dulness rules the spheres.
V.
"Yet mourn not I! A stern high duty Now nerves my arm and fires my brain. Perish the dream of shapes of Beauty! And that this strife be not in vain To war on fraud intrenched with power, On smooth pretence and specious wrong, This task be mine tho' Fortune lower— For this be banished sky and song."
"How did it happen, mamma," inquired Marguerite, "that Uncle Barnes has not become a distinguished man? Is he not clever like Uncle Horace, or was he not fond of learning? It seems strange that he never left home to seek his fortune in the world."
"Brother Barnes has quite as much genius," mamma quickly replied, "as your Uncle Horace, and under equally favoring circumstances would have made as brilliant a man. A farmer's life was distasteful to him, and it was for years his dream to go away from home, and receive an education that would fit him for the bar or the pulpit, towards both of which 'callings' he was strongly attracted. It would, however, have been impossible for father to have hewn a farm unaided out of the wilderness, and he could not afford to hire any assistance, so brother Barnes generously sacrificed all his own aspirations and preferences, and devoted his life, which might have been a brilliant and successful one, to the dull routine of farm acres."
"Did Uncle Barnes resemble papa much, as a boy?" inquired Ida.
"Your uncle was of a very different temperament," replied mamma; "he was as gay and loquacious as your papa was silent and abstracted. He was very fond of reading and of study, but he lacked your papa's perseverance; he was more awake to the outer world and its distractions, whereas brother Horace was oblivious to everything else, when he once held a book in his hand. |
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