Title: The Story of a Summer - Or, Journal Leaves from Chappaqua
Author: Cleveland, Cecilia Pauline, 1850-
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Story of a Summer - Or, Journal Leaves from Chappaqua" ***


THE STORY OF A SUMMER;

OR,

JOURNAL LEAVES FROM CHAPPAQUA



BY

CECILIA CLEVELAND.



NEW YORK:

G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers.

LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.

M.DCCC.LXXIV.



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by

G. W. CARLETON & CO.,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



To

MY DEAR COUSINS,

IDA AND GABRIELLE,


THIS

STORY OF A SUMMER

IS AFFECTIONATELY

Dedicated.



This little volume is in no sense a work of the imagination, but a
simple record of a pleasant summer's residence at Chappaqua, embracing
many facts and incidents heretofore unpublished, relating to one who
once occupied a large portion of the public mind.  Believing that it
may interest many who care to know more of that portion of his busy
life which was not seen by the public, but which pertained to his home
circle, the author has been persuaded to print what was written merely
for the amusement of herself and friends.



CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.

Return to Chappaqua--A Walk over the Grounds--The Side-hill House--Our
First Sunday at Chappaqua--Drive to Mount Kisco--A Country Church--A
Dame Châtelaine--Our Domestic Surroundings


CHAPTER II.

Arrival of the Piano--Routine of a Day--Morning Toilettes--The
Dining-room--Pictures--Ida and Gabrielle--How occupied--The Evening
Mail--Musical Evening


CHAPTER III.

An Unexpected Visit--Morning Drives--Gabrielle's Ponies--A Repulsive
Object--A Visitor--The King of Sweden's Soup--Advantages of a Royal
Kitchen--Startling Experience--Ida's Letters--Strange Contents--A Lucky
Stone--Request for a Melodeon--Offers of Marriage--Arrival of a
Suitor--Reasons why he should marry Ida Greeley--He proves a
Lunatic--He is taken before a Magistrate--He is lodged in the County
Jail


CHAPTER IV.

A Visit from Papa--A Musical Squirrel--Letters--Croquet--Extracts from
Letters--Visitors--The Loss of the _Missouri_--The True Story of Ida's
Engagement


CHAPTER V.

Sunday in the Country--Proximity of a Meeting-house--How we pass our
Sundays--The House in the Woods--Ida's Glen--Mrs. Greeley's Favorite
Spring--The Children's Play-house--Gabrielle's Pets--Travelling in
1836--New York Society--Mr. Greeley's Friday Evenings--Mrs. Greeley as
a Bride--Her Accomplishments--A Letter concerning Mr. Greeley's Wedding


CHAPTER VI.

Visitors--Our Neighbors--The Chappaqua Croquet Club--Gabrielle's
Letter--A Riding Party--Summer Heat--The Music-room--Friends from the
City


CHAPTER VII.

Midsummer Day--An Artist's Visit--Ida's Letter--Moonlight on Croton
Lake--Morning Readings--Plato and Kohlrausch


CHAPTER VIII.

Story-telling--Mr. Greeley's Father--His Personal Appearance--His
Education--A Fine Voice--Mr. Greeley's Mother--A Handsome Woman--How
she is remembered in Vermont--Field Labor--Bankruptcy--A Journey to
Vermont--School Days--The Boy Horace--How he entertained his
Playmates--His First Ball--Separation from his Family


CHAPTER IX.

A Picnic at Croton Dam--The Waterworks--A Game of Twenty
Questions--Gabrielle as a Logician--Evangeline's
Betrothal--Marguerite's Letter--Description of
Chappaqua--Visitors--Edmonia Lewis


CHAPTER X.

Cataloguing the Library--A Thousand Volumes--Contrasting Books--Some
Rare Volumes--Mr. Greeley's Collection of Paintings--Authenticity of
the Cenci Questioned--A Portrait of Galileo--Portrait of Martin
Luther--Portrait of Mr. Greeley at Thirty--Powers' Proserpine--Hart's
Bust of Mr. Greeley--Mosaics and Medallions


CHAPTER XI.

The Fourth of July--A Quaker Celebration--The House in the Woods--Mrs.
Greeley's Life there--Pickie--Mary Inez--Raffie--Childhood of Ida and
Gabrielle--Heroism of Mrs. Greeley--The Riots of 1863--Mrs. Greeley
defends her House against the Mob


CHAPTER XII.

Pen Portraits--Lela--Majoli--Guerrabella and Celina--Their
Characteristics


CHAPTER XIII.

Biography of Mr. Greeley--Gabrielle's Questions--Mrs. Cleveland's
Corrections--The Boy Horace not Gawky, Clownish, or a Tow-head--His
Parents not in Abject Want--Mr. Greeley's Letter about his Former
Playmates--Young Horace and his Girl Friends--He Corrects their Grammar
and Lectures them upon Hygiene--He disapproves of Corsets


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


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


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


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


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


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


CHAPTER XX.

A Quiet Household--Absence of Marguerite and Gabrielle--Amusing Letters
from them--A Gypsy Fortune-teller--Marguerite returns with a
Visitor--The Harvest Moon--Preparing for Company--Arranging the Blue
Room--Intense Anticipation--"'He Cometh Not,' She Said"


CHAPTER XXI.

The Story of Mr. Greeley's Parents continued--He accompanies his Mother
to New Hampshire--Her Sisters--Three Thanksgivings in One Year--Pickie
as a Baby--His Childhood--Mrs. Greeley's Careful Training--His
Playthings--His Death--A Letter from Margaret Fuller


CHAPTER XXII.

The Friends' Seminary--The Principal Chappaqua
Residences--Reminiscences of Paris during the War--An Accomplished
Lady--Her Voice--Festivities--A Drive to Rye Lake--Making Tea on the
Beach--A Sail at Sunset--Fortune-telling by Firelight--The Drive
Home--Sunday Morning--A Row on the Pond--Dramatic Representations in
the Barn--A Drive to Lake Wampus--Starlight Row


CHAPTER XXIII.

Marriage of a Cousin--A Pretty Bride--Letters--Home Circle Complete--A
Letter of Adventures--Wedding Cards--A Musical Marriage--Housekeeping
under Difficulties--Telegraphic Blunders--A Bust of Mr. Greeley--More
Visitors


CHAPTER XXIV.

"All that's Bright must Fade"--Departures--Preparing the House for the
Winter--Page's Portrait of Pickie--Packing up--Studious Habits of the
Domestics--The Cook and her Admirers--Adieu to Chappaqua



ILLUSTRATIONS


The Side-Hill House

The Spring

The Rail-Road Station

The House in the Woods

The Children's Play House

The Stone Barn



THE STORY OF A SUMMER;

OR,

JOURNAL LEAVES FROM CHAPPAQUA.


CHAPTER I.

Return to Chappaqua--A Walk over the Grounds--The Sidehill House--Our
First Sunday at Chappaqua--Drive to Mount Kisco--A Country Church--A
Dame Châtelaine--Our Domestic Surroundings.


CHAPPAQUA, WESTCHESTER Co.,

_New York_, May 28, 1873

Again at dear Chappaqua, after an absence of seven months.  I have not
the heart to journalize tonight, everything seems so sad and strange.
What a year this has been--what bright anticipations, what overwhelming
sorrow!


_May 30_.

I have just returned from a long ramble over the dear old place; first
up to the new house so picturesquely placed upon a hill, and down
through the woods to the cool pine grove and the flower-garden.  Here I
found a wilderness of purple and white lilacs, longing, I thought, for
a friendly hand to gather them before they faded; dear little
bright-eyed pansies, and scarlet and crimson flowering shrubs, a
souvenir of travel in England, with sweet-scented violets striped blue
and white, transplanted from Pickie's little garden at Turtle Bay long
years ago.

[Illustration: The Side-Hill House.]

Returning, I again climbed the hill, and unlocked the doors of the new
house; that house built expressly for Aunt Mary's comfort, but which
has never yet been occupied.  Every convenience of the architect's art
is to be found in this house, from the immense, airy bedroom, with its
seven windows, intended for Aunt Mary, to _a porte cochère_ to protect
her against the inclemency of the weather upon returning from a drive.
But this house, in the building of which she took so keen an interest,
she was not destined to inhabit, although with that buoyancy of mind
and tenacity to life that characterized her during her long years of
weary illness, she contemplated being carried into it during the early
days of last October, and even ordered fires to be lighted to carry off
the dampness before she tried her new room.  By much persuasion,
however, she was induced to postpone her removal from day to day; and
finally, as she grew weaker and weaker, she decided to abandon that
plan, and journey to New York while she could.  In two weeks more she
had left us forever.


_June 1_.

Our first Sunday at Chappaqua.  We have a little church for a next-door
neighbor, in which services of different sects are held on alternate
Sundays, the pulpit being hospitably open to all denominations
excepting Papists.  Three members of our little household,
however--mamma, Marguerite, and I--belong to the grand old Church of
Rome; so the carriage was ordered, and with our brother in religion,
Bernard, the coachman, for a pioneer, we started to find a church or
chapel of the Latin faith.  At Mount Kisco, a little town four miles
distant, Bernard thought we might hear Mass, "but then it's not the
sort of church you ladies are used to," he added, apologetically; "it's
a small chapel, and only rough working people go there."

I was quite amused at the idea that the presence of poor people was any
objection, for is it not a source of pride to Catholics that _their_
church is open alike to the humblest and richest; so with a suggestive
word from Bernard, Gabrielle's spirited ponies flew

  "Over the hills, and far away."



A perpetual ascent and descent it seemed--a dusty road, for we are
sadly in want of rain, and few shade-trees border the road; but once in
Mount Kisco, the novelty of the little chapel quite compensated for the
disagreeable features of our journey there.  A tiny chapel indeed--a
plain frame building, with no pretence to architectural beauty.  It was
intended originally, I thought, for a Protestant meeting-house, as the
cruciform shape, so conspicuous in all Catholic-built churches was
wanting here.  The whitewashed walls were hung with small, rude
pictures, representing the _Via Crucis_ or Stations of the Cross, and
the altar-piece--not, I fancy, a remarkable work of art in its
prime--had become so darkened by smoke, that I only _conjectured_ its
subject to be St. Francis in prayer.

Although it was Whit-Sunday the altar was quite innocent of ornament,
having only six candles, and a floral display of two bouquets.  The
seats and kneeling-benches were uncushioned, and the congregation was
composed, as Bernard said, entirely of the working class; but the
people were very clean and respectable in their appearance, and fervent
in their devotions as only the Irish peasantry can be.

The pastor, an intelligent young Irishman, apparently under thirty, had
already said Mass at Pleasantville, six miles distant, and upon
arriving at Mount Kisco he found that about twenty of his small
congregation wished to receive Communion, as it was a festival;
consequently, he spent the next hour not _literally_ in the
confessional, for there was none, but in the tiny closet dignified by
the name of a vestry.  From thence, the door being open, we could with
ease, had we had nothing better to do, have heard all of the priest's
advice to his penitents.

This ceremony over, the young Father came out in his black cassock, and
taking up his vestments which lay upon the altar-steps, he proceeded
with the utmost nonchalance to put them on, not hesitating to display a
long rent in his surplice, and a decidedly ragged sleeve.

The Mass was a Low one, and the congregation were too poor to have an
organ or organist.  Quite a contrast to a Sunday at St. Stephen's or
St. Francis Xavier's, but the _Mass_ is always the same, however humble
the surroundings.


_June 3_.

We are unusually fortunate, I think, in our domestic surroundings.
Servants are proverbially the _bête noire_ of American ladies, and the
prospect of having to train some unskilled specimens of foreign
peasantry weighed heavily, I fancy, upon our beautiful Ida in her new
responsibility of a young _Dame Châtelaine_.  However, we have been, as
I said, singularly successful in obtaining servants.

To my great delight, there is not one ugly name in our little
household, although composed of eight members, commencing with _Queen_
Esther as mamma has been named; then we four girls--_la Dame
Châtelaine_, with her fair face, dark, pensive eyes, and modest
dignity; Gabrielle, or _Tourbillon_, our brilliant pet, and the
youngest of our quartette, although her graceful figure rises above the
rest of us; my sister Marguerite, _la Gentille Demoiselle_; and I,
Cecilia.

Then come the household retinue: Bernard, the coachman, already
introduced, a smart-looking young Irishman, whom the maids always find
very beguiling; Lina, the autocrat of the kitchen, a little,
wiry-looking woman from Stockholm, formerly cook, so _she_ says, to
King Charles of Sweden; and Minna, the maid.

Minna is a pretty young Bavarian, who has been only fifteen days in the
Land of Liberty, but she has already learnt, I am amused to see, _not_
to address a lady as "_gnädige_ Frau," or "Fräulein"--a style of
address imperative in South Germany from a maid to her mistress.  Minna
has not, however, imbibed all of the democratic principles that will, I
fear, come to her only too soon, for she has not yet learnt to emulate
her mistress in dress.  It is really quite refreshing to see a servant
dressed as a servant.  Minna is the perfection of neatness, and her
plain stuff or print gowns are _sans reproche_ in their freshness.  In
the matter of aprons she must be quite reckless, for they always look
as if just from the ironing-table.  They are made, too, in an
especially pretty fashion that I have never before seen out of Munich.
Scorning chignons, Minna appears with her own luxuriant hair in massive
braids wound about her well-shaped head, and as to-day is Sunday and a
_Fest-tag_, she adorns herself with a large shell-comb.  She has very
pretty, coquettish ways, that have already melted the heart of our
hitherto unsusceptible Bernard, and it is quite charming to hear her
attempts to converse with him in her broken English.

Minna came to me this morning directly after breakfast, and said,
"Where shall I go to church, Fräulein Cecilia?"

"I do not really know, Minna," I replied.  "You are a Lutheran, I
suppose?"

"Yes, Fräulein Cecilia."

"There is no church of that sort here," I said, "but there is a
Reformed Church next door."

With a very doubtful expression, she said: "I will see, Fräulein.  And
_bitte_, is not the _Pfingsten_ a Fest-tag in America?  In our country,
you know, it is _more_ than Sunday, and the people always amuse
themselves."

I explained to her as clearly as I could, that Pfingsten (Whit-Sunday)
was only a Fest-tag in her church, mine, and the Church of England, and
that it was never in this country a Fest-tag, outside of the religious
observance.

A very perplexed face was the result of my explanations; why Pfingsten
should not be Pfingsten the world over, and a public holiday with all
sorts of merry-makings, she could not understand.



CHAPTER II.

Arrival of the Piano--Routine of a Day--Morning Toilettes--The
Dining-room--Pictures--Ida and Gabrielle--How occupied--The Evening
Mail--Musical Evenings.


_June 4_.

Yesterday the piano was sent up from Steinway's, where it has been
stored since last fall, and now we have all settled to our different
occupations, and are as methodical in the disposition of our time as
though we were in school.

None of us are very early risers, for mamma, who should naturally set
us a good example, has been too long an invalid to admit of it, and we
girls have become habituated to the luxury of breakfasting in bed, from
residence abroad and in the tropics.  Not that we breakfast in bed at
the "Villa Greeley," however; we are much too sociable, and our
dining-room is too attractive, for that.   But we gratify our taste for
reasonable hours by assembling around the table at half-past eight.

"Shocking!" I fancy I hear Katie exclaim.  "I breakfast _at least_ two
hours earlier.  How can you bear to lose so much of the beautiful
morning?"

Don't imagine, dear Katie, that I _sleep_ till half-past eight: you
must know the wakeful temperament of our family too well for that.  I
find it, however, very poetic and delightful to listen to the matins of
the robins, thrushes, and wrens, from my pillows; and by merely lifting
my head I have as extended a panorama of swelling hills and emerald
meadows, as though promenading the piazza.

I have been in my day as early a riser as any one--even you, dear
Katie, have not surpassed me in this, respect; for you recollect those
cold winter days when I arose at "five o'clock in the morning," not,
however, to meet Corydon, but to attack the Gradus ad Parnassum of
Clementi by gaslight, in my desire to accomplish eight hours of
practice undisturbed by visitors.  At seven, however, I used to meet
with an interruption from my German professor.  Poor man!  I now pity
his old rheumatic limbs stumbling over the ice and snow to be with me
at that unreasonable hour of the morning.  But I then was ruthless, and
would not allow him even five minutes grace, for my time was then
regulated like clockwork, and a delay of a few moments would cause an
unpardonable gap in my day.  Now, however, that my education is
nominally finished, I feel that I may without self-reproach indulge in
some extra moments of repose, for it is impossible for one to work
_all_ the time; and a quiet hour of reflection is often, I think, as
useful as continual reading or writing.

We indulge in very simple morning toilettes here, as we have no
gentleman guests for whom to dress, nor ladies to criticise us;
consequently a few brief moments before the mirror suffice to make us
presentable.  A black print wrapper made Gabrielle-fashion, with our
hair brushed off plain from our faces, and flowing loosely _à la belle
sauvage_, or in cool braids, is the order of the day.  Even Marguerite,
who is the most conventional of our quartette, has conformed to the
fashion reigning here, and no longer coiffed in the stylish
_Impératrice_ mode, her sunny brown hair floats over her shoulders
unconfined by hair-pins, cushions, or rats.  Truly we live in Arcadian
simplicity, for under our roof there are neither curling nor crimping
irons, nor even a _soupçon_ of the most innocent _poudre de riz_.

At half-past eight a little hand-bell, silver in material and tone,
summons us to the breakfast-room.  This room is on the ground floor,
and is one of the prettiest in the house.  Four windows give us an
extended view of our Dame Châtelaine's sloping meadows and wooded
hills, and the carriage road winding off towards the pine grove and the
house in the woods.  We have several pictures on the walls--first a
portrait of my dear uncle; a boyish face with fair hair, deep blue
eyes, and an expression angelic in sweetness.  No one would imagine it
to be the face of a married man, but it was painted, mamma says, when
he was thirty years old.  Two large and admirable photographs, taken
early last summer, hang opposite it.  A striking contrast they are to
the pensive, fragile, blonde boy; these are impressed with the vigor
and mental and physical activity of his busy life, but the broad
intellectual brow, and the almost divine expression that plays about
the mouth, are the same in each.

An engraving from a picture by Paul Delaroche, the Archangel
Gabriel--the "patron," in Catholic parlance, of our little
Gabrielle--hangs between the windows, and over the comfortable sofa is
a copy of Liotard's celebrated pastel "la belle Chocolatière" in the
Dresden Gallery.  This copy Aunt Mary bought in that city when there
some years ago, and it is considered wonderfully fine.  Very pretty and
coquettish she looks in her picturesque Vienna dress, with the small,
neatly-fitting cap, ample apron, and tiny Louis Quinze shoes.  In her
case

  "My face is my fortune,"

was exemplified, and so pretty and modest is her demeanor that it is no
wonder that Count Dietrichstein, haughty nobleman though he was,
married her.  She is very different, however, from the chocolate
vendors whom I have seen in the streets of Paris.  I don't think a
nobleman would ever raise one of them from their original station, for
they are as a rule past fifty, and ugly and withered as only a
Frenchwoman of that age can be.

Breakfast is followed by a turn upon the piazza, a little stroll to the
spring, near which delicious wild strawberries nestle in a background
of sweet clover, bright buttercups, and field daisies, or a game of
croquet under the grand old oak-trees

  "After the sun has dried the dew."

Then we separate, each to our own room, and our different occupations.

[Illustration: The Spring.]

Ida is very busy now, for she is preparing a volume for publication in
the fall--her dear father's manuscript lectures and letters.

Gabrielle throws herself upon a sofa, and lies there motionless,
absorbed in the fascinating pages of some favorite book; indeed, she is
so quiet that in my periodical fits of tidiness I often seize a print
or bombazine frock, thrown, as I suppose, carelessly upon the bed or
sofa, and only by its weight do I discover that it is animated.  Last
year, Gabrielle's favorite site for reading was in the dear old
apple-tree close beside the house; but since she has attained the
dignity of sixteen and train dresses, she has abjured the apple-tree.

Marguerite is translating a volume from the German, _Musikalische
Märchen_, and I divide my time between the piano and occasional
newspaper articles.

But it is already one o'clock and dinner hour.  The afternoon passes
much like the morning.  We have letters to write, and much reading
aloud.  I have two books in progress--Plato's "Dialogues," and Madame
de Stäel's incomparable "Germany:" the latter I read aloud while in
Munich, but it is a work that cannot be too often studied.

At half-past six we dress and go down to the postoffice (about a
hundred yards distant) for the evening mail.  Half an hour later we
sup, and then follows, as L. E. L. would say, "a struggle and a
sacrifice."  What could be more delicious than a game of croquet, or a
drive in the cool twilight?  But Chappaqua, lovely though it is,
possesses a malaria that is dangerous after sunset, they say, and much
as I love to drive when Nature is bathed in the last ruddy flush of
day, and during the soft gray hour that succeeds it, I must heed the
prediction of _chills_ to all who indulge.

The evening is always devoted to music.  Both Ida and Gabrielle are
very fond of the piano, and Ida is rapidly becoming quite proficient in
the divine art.  She commenced the study of music when a little child,
under an excellent teacher, and also took lessons while in
boarding-school; but one studies the piano under difficulties while in
the routine of a _pensionnat_, for the hour devoted to it must be taken
from one's recreation time, or from some other lessons.  Our friends
will remember, too, that dear Ida was taken out of school while yet
very young, to become the devoted nurse that she has since shown
herself to her mother, and from the time she left the _Sacré Coeur_
until this spring she has never opened the piano.  Now, however, she
practises regularly and conscientiously, and brings to her music all
the enthusiasm of her loving nature, and the intelligence of her
superior mind; consequently, when her fingers are well trained, I shall
expect to see her a thoughtful and brilliant pianist.

Gabrielle is still in the tedious preliminary steps, for Geometry and
Latin, rather than the _Rhythme des Doigts_ and the _Ecole de la
Velocité_, have hitherto engaged her attention; but time will show.



CHAPTER III.

An Unexpected Visit--Morning Drives--Gabrielle's Ponies--A Repulsive
Object--A Visitor--The King of Sweden's Soup--Advantages of a Royal
Kitchen--Startling Experience--Ida's Letters--Strange Contents--A Lucky
Stone--Bequest for a Melodeon--Offers of Marriage--Arrival of a
Suitor--Reasons why he should marry Ida Greeley--He proves a
Lunatic--He is taken before a Magistrate--He is lodged in the County
Jail.


_June 5_.

As unexpected visit yesterday from Mr. O'Dwyer, a member of _The
Tribune_ staff, and for several years dear uncle's private secretary.

Mamma had invited Mr. O'Dwyer to come out and pass a quiet day with us,
and had appointed Wednesday for the visit.  Desirous of a little
excitement, and already somewhat weary of our nun-like simplicity of
toilette, we decided to do honor to our guest by dressing our hair
quite elaborately, and attiring ourselves, despite the heat, in our
best bombazines with their weight of crape.  We were assembled in the
dining-room after our early dinner, discussing, in our plain print
wrappers and Marguerite braids, our plans for the morrow, when Minna
announced:

"A visit, Madame; a gentleman."

"Probably a neighbor upon business," said mamma to us; "show him in
here, Minna."

The door opened, and enter the guest for whom, in imagination, we were
making such extensive preparations.

A very expressive glance was telegraphed around our circle.  I was
engaged in the domestic occupation of hemming one of papa's
handkerchiefs, and although Hawthorne draws so pretty a picture of the
beautiful Miriam while engaged in "the feminine task of mending a pair
of gloves," with all deference to the poet's taste, I consider the
beguiling little scraps of canvas or kid which I produce when company
is present, much more attractive than plain sewing.

In a moment the surprise was explained.  Mr. O'Dwyer had received
orders to represent _The Tribune_ somewhere, the following day, just in
time to catch the Pleasantville express, and run out to tell us that he
could not come at the time appointed.

"The circumstances were trying," we said to each other, after his
departure; but imagine, girls, how much worse they would have been, had
the visitor been a lady!  As long as a wrapper is black, I very much
doubt if a gentleman would know it from an afternoon dress.


_June 8_.

The usual routine of our morning occupations has been somewhat broken
of late, for these June days are too perfect to be spent within doors,
even with such grand companions as Plato or Beethoven.  We plan
charming hours to be spent in the pine grove, where Marguerite will
read to us a chapter or two of Kohlrausch's "Germany," and Ida will
give us a few pages of Taine's brilliant "Angleterre;" but as we are
starting with camp chairs, books, and work, Bernard approaches:

"Any orders, Miss?"

Frail mortals are too weak to resist, and in a few moments we are
seated in Ida's stylish new phaeton; and Gabrielle's irrepressible
ponies, under the guidance of Tourbillon herself, are dashing away at a
pace that terrifies our sober Quaker neighbors beyond expression.
Mamma has been solemnly warned against allowing Gabrielle to drive
"those fearful horses;" but we all share our pretty Tourbillon's
fondness for a _tourbillon_ pace, and know well the strength she
possesses in her little wrists, and the coolness she could exercise
were there any danger.

While returning from a charming drive upon the Sing Sing road, a day or
two since, the horses, whose spirits were unusually high, shied
suddenly at something dark by the roadside.  By a dexterous management
of the reins, Gabrielle quickly subdued them, and we all looked to see
what had startled them.  An object was crouching in the grass,
evidently human, but of what sex or nationality it was impossible in
one swift glance to determine; and it was quite amusing to hear our
different opinions as we drove on.

"I think," said mamma, "that it was an enormous woman, with a baby in
her arms, but I really cannot be sure, for I only looked at the
face--such a hideous, repulsive face.  I shall dream of it to-night, I
am convinced."

"A woman!" said Marguerite.  "My impression was of a very
murderous-looking man--an Indian, I thought, he was so very dark."

Gabrielle's view of the case differed from the others.  The creature
had, she said, a heavy black beard, which, was un-Indian-like, and was
garbed in a dark calico gown with open sleeves, through which she
plainly perceived a pair of unmistakably muscular, masculine arms.  In
the words of Macbeth--

      "You should be woman,
  And yet your beard forbids me to interpret
  That you are so."

Neither Marguerite nor Gabrielle had seen the baby, and Gabrielle's
conclusion that this frightful being was a convict who had escaped from
Sing Sing disguised as a woman, was quite logical.

"Chappaqua is certainly in unpleasant proximity to Sing Sing," I said
with a shudder, for I have not many elements of a heroine about me.

"Yes," was mamma's cheerful rejoinder, "and you know we were told
yesterday that one or two of the most dangerous convicts had recently
escaped, and had entered several houses in Chappaqua--to say nothing of
Mr. O'Dwyer's report that that dreadful Captain Jack has escaped, and
is known to be lurking in the neighborhood of our peaceful little
village."

"Pray let us change the subject," I entreated, "or between convicts and
Modocs I shall have the nightmare for a month."


_June 9_.

We have just said good-by to Señor Delmonte, of Hayti, who has gone
down on the 4.45 train, after passing, I hope, a pleasant day with us.

[Illustration: The Train Station.]

We have led such a quiet life since last fall, that a visit from a
friend is a very pleasant excitement, and with the assistance of our
invaluable Minna and Lina, there is nothing to be dreaded in the
preparations.  Then, too, it is so pleasant to unpack the superb linen
that Aunt Mary bought abroad--the heavy damask table-cloths with their
beautiful designs, and the immense dinner napkins, protecting one's
dress so admirably against possible accident--and to take out the
exquisite silver and Sèvres; everything is perfection, even to the
little gold, lily-shaped hand-bell.  Afterwards we go to gather flowers
in all their morning freshness, and if it is ten o'clock, we walk down
to the station to meet the New York train.

Señor Delmonte is a very agreeable gentleman, and quite a favorite in
New York circles.  In figure he rises far above ordinary humanity, six
feet two inches being, I believe, his exact height--and his very dark
complexion and stately gravity render him quite conspicuous in a
drawing-room.  He is reported extremely wealthy.

Upon returning from a drive on the Pleasantville road with Señor
Delmonte, Ida ran down to the kitchen for a moment, to see if harmony
reigned there (for Lina and Minna are not, I regret to say, becoming
warm friends; but more of that to-morrow).  Ida rarely troubles the
cook with her presence, for Lina, like all _cordons bleus_, is a great
despot, and impatient of _surveillance_; but as she can be trusted to
arrange an entire _menu_ without any hints from Ida, la Dame Châtelaine
gladly leaves the responsibility to her.  What therefore was my
surprise to see Ida return from her visit downstairs with an
unmistakable look of anxiety upon her pretty face, and beckon me out of
the music room where we were sitting.

"What _do_ you think, Cecilia?" she announced, in despairing accents.
"Lina has made a soup of sour cream, which is now reposing in the
ice-box!"

"Of _what_?" I said, scarcely crediting her words, and running down to
the kitchen.

Lina's feelings were considerably ruffled that her young mistress did
not appreciate the soup, which she considered a triumph of art, and
which consisted of sour cream, spices, and a little sugar--to be eaten,
of course, cold.

"Nice soup," she said, in the most injured tones; "King of Sweden think
excellent, but Miss no like it."

It was, however, too late to make another soup, so we consoled
ourselves with the thought that a king approved of it, and we would
show a plebeian taste if we did not also appreciate it.  However, some
wry faces were made over the unlucky soup at the table, and the King of
Sweden's taste was the subject of much merriment.

I was somewhat sceptical at first that Lina had ever been in the royal
household at Stockholm, notwithstanding that she did cook so admirably;
but she managed yesterday evening to tell me, in her broken English,
about her residence in the palace.

It seems that inexperienced cooks can, by paying a certain sum, be
admitted into the royal kitchen to learn from the chief cook.  After
they have perfected themselves in their profession, they receive wages,
and upon leaving, are presented with a diploma.  Why could not a
somewhat similar institution--omitting the sovereign--become
practicable in our own country?  Both housekeepers and newspapers groan
over the frightful cooking of our Bridgets; Professor Blot lectures
upon the kitchen scientifically and artistically considered, and our
fashionable ladies go to his classes to play at cooking; but the
novelty soon wears off, and home matters continue as badly as ever.

I do not know if the President would consent to imitate the Swedish
sovereign, by throwing open the kitchen of the White House in the same
liberal fashion, but surely he ought to be willing to make some
sacrifices for the common good--perhaps even to submit occasionally to
a dinner spoilt by the experiments of young apprentices to the culinary
art.  Three months' training ought to suffice to make a very good cook,
and with a diploma from the White House, situations would be plentiful,
wages higher than ever, and employers would have the satisfaction of
knowing that their money was not thrown away.


_June 11_.

We may pass some sad hours at Chappaqua this summer, but I do not think
we shall suffer from _ennui_--that is, if the startling events of the
past week are to be repeated often during the summer.

I have already spoken of the escaped convict whom we saw in the grass
the other day.  It is unnecessary to say that we carefully barricaded
our doors that night; for, in case of danger, our situation would not
be a cheerful one--a household of seven helpless women, save during
papa's weekly visit, and Bernard, our only protector, asleep in the
side-hill house.  Our precautions, however, were superfluous; the
convict did not favor us with a visit, but something far more thrilling
than the loss of the family silver was in store for us.

Dear Ida has received since last fall scores of letters from, I think,
every State in the Union, and even from Europe, from people of whom she
had never heard before, and upon all sorts of subjects.  Some of her
correspondents are interested in her spiritual, others in her temporal,
welfare; some advise change of air as beneficial after her affliction,
and alternately she is offered a home in Colorado and Maine.  But such
letters form the exception; usually the writer has a favor to request.
The most modest of the petitions are for Ida's autograph or photograph,
while others request loans of different sums from units to thousands.
She is occasionally informed that the writer has a baby named Ida
Greeley, and it is intimated that a present from the godmother would be
acceptable.  Again she is asked to assist in building a church, or to
clothe and educate some poor girl--her own cast-off wardrobe of colored
clothes will be accepted, the writer graciously says, although new
dresses would be preferable.

One letter dated Lebanon is chiefly upon the virtues of a _lucky
stone_, which the writer will as a great favor sell to Miss Greeley for
twenty-five dollars.  All further misfortune will, she says, be averted
from Ida if she becomes its owner; the stone is especially recommended
as beneficial in love-affairs, and, the writer kindly adds, it is not
to be taken internally.

Another letter is from the mother of a young invalid girl, begging Miss
Greeley, whom she knows by report to be very wealthy and charitably
inclined, to make her daughter a present of a melodeon, as music, she
thinks, might help to pass away the tedious hours of illness.

Sometimes Ida is solicited to open a correspondence for the improvement
of her unknown friend, or to dispose of some one's literary wares,
while offers of marriage from her unseen admirers are of almost daily
occurrence.  I think I would not exaggerate in saying she might reckon
by the bushel these letters, written generally in very questionable
grammar, and worse chirography.  In very few instances has she ever
replied to them, for they have been usually from people possessing so
little claim upon her, that the favors they so boldly requested could
only be viewed in the light of impertinence.

One letter, couched in somewhat enigmatical terms, was dated from
Baltimore, and was explicit upon one point only--that it was the
manifest will of Providence that Ida should marry him--S. M. Hudson.
We read the letter together, laughed a little over it, and threw it
into the waste basket.  Time passed, and we came out here.  Ida was
greeted upon her arrival by another letter from the mysterious Hudson,
who, not at all discomfited by the cool reception, of his proposal,
addressed her as his future wife, and announced that he had come on
from Baltimore to marry her, that he was now in New York, and would
wait there to hear from her.

"The man is certainly crazy!" exclaimed Marguerite.

"Indeed he is!" said mamma, reading his rambling sentences very slowly:
"I should judge him to be perfectly insane, and I only hope he will not
come out here to pay his _fiancée_ a visit."

"You know he requests me to send him funds to defray his expenses, Aunt
Esther," said Ida quietly; "perhaps the lack of money will avert such a
calamity."

"What an unromantic conclusion to a love-letter!" said Gabrielle
scornfully.

The conversation turned to the depredations of the neighbors and
neighbors' children upon the property.  "Mr. Greeley's place" had
always been looked upon in the light of public property, and intruders
walked and drove through the grounds quite as a matter of course, and
helped themselves freely to whatever they liked in the floral, fruit,
or vegetable line.  The young ladies, however, decided that they had
submitted to such conduct quite long enough, and we sent to Sing Sing
for some printed handbills warning trespassers off the place.

Two or three days passed, and we had entirely forgotten Ida's erratic
admirer, when Gabrielle returned from a morning walk with the
information that an intoxicated man was sitting upon the steps of the
side-hill house.  She met mamma and Ida starting for a little stroll,
and communicated this unpleasant news to them.  Mamma, however, is not
timid, and she walked on with Ida, determined to view the invader from
afar, and then summon Bernard to dismiss him.

A figure was sitting, as Gabrielle said, upon the piazza of the new
house, but was so motionless that Ida exclaimed laughingly:

"It is a scarecrow placed there by some one in retaliation for our
notice to trespassers to keep off the grounds."

As they passed it, however, the scarecrow slowly lifted its head and
addressed them with:

"Is this Mr. Greeley's place?"

"Yes," said mamma.

"And is this young lady Miss Ida?"

"Yes."

"You have received, I believe, a few letters from me, Miss Ida: my name
is Hudson."

Fortunately our family are not of a fainting disposition, for a
_tête-à-tête_ with a lunatic was a situation requiring some nerve and
perfect self-control; so, although mamma and Ida were much alarmed upon
learning the name of their visitor, they neither screamed nor fainted,
and mamma invited him quite courteously to walk up to the house.

Mr. Hudson was a tall, powerful man, with cunning, restless, gray eyes,
was well dressed, and wore a linen duster.  He had come, he said, seven
hundred miles to see Ida.  Upon reaching the house, he followed mamma
into the dining-room where Marguerite, Gabrielle, and I were sitting at
work.

"Ah, Miss Gabrielle!" he said, "I supposed you were at school."

One or two other rational remarks of the sort, and mamma's perfect
_sang-froid_ so deceived me that I decided the supposed lunatic must be
perfectly sane.  In a moment, however, he looked somewhat uneasy, and
said:

"I have a long story to tell your niece, ma'am, but I feel a little
bashful about speaking before so many young ladies."

"Would you like to see me alone, then?" said mamma promptly; "you would
not object to telling your story to a married woman."

Then signing to us to leave the room, she followed us to the door, and
_breathing_ rather than whispering, "Run for Bernard," returned.

It appears that the man grew more excitable when alone with mamma, and
the story he told her was not a cheerful one to hear.

"It began," he said, "five years ago, by my father cutting his throat
with a razor.  They say he was crazy, and," with a fiendish chuckle,
"some people say I am crazy too."

"Indeed!" said mamma, sympathetically, "how sad!"

"This we may call the first scene in the story," he added, although
what connection there was between suicide and his proposed marriage
with Ida, poor mamma could not imagine.

I could half fill my journal with the rambling, senseless, and menacing
remarks that Hudson made to mamma, adding emphasis to his discourse by
whirling a pair of very long and sharp scissors close to her eyes (he
was further armed with two razors, we subsequently learnt).  Ida, he
said, first appeared to him in a vision--a beautiful young girl in
distress, who appealed to him for aid, but some one seemed to stand
between them--a tall woman dressed as a Sister of Charity (evidently
mamma, in her mourning dress and long crape veil).  He then enlarged
upon the awful punishment that inevitably overtook those who opposed
the Will of Providence (i.e., his marriage with Ida): death by some
violent means being unavoidable.  At this point, the scissors were
whirled more excitedly than ever, and Hudson's eyes glared with rage.
I need not say that mamma feared every moment would be her last; but
still preserving a calm exterior, she never took her eyes off him for
an instant, and merely remarking, "It is quite warm here; shall we not
sit upon the piazza?" accompanied him there, and sat down close beside
him, that he might not suspect she feared him.  The moments seemed
endless until Bernard's heavy tread was heard upon the kitchen stairs.

"Excuse me a moment," said mamma, with a most innocent face; and in an
interview of _half_ a minute explained to Bernard that Hudson was a
dangerous lunatic who must be taken away immediately; then waiting till
the valorous Bernard was safely out on the piazza, she unceremoniously
shut and locked the door.  Hudson, apparently much surprised at such
inhospitable conduct, pulled the door-bell half a dozen times.  When he
was quite wearied with his exertions, Bernard suggested that they
should take a little walk together.  Much coaxing was requisite, for
Hudson was quite determined to effect an entrance; but finally Bernard
took his arm, and bore him off to the tavern.

"I had much more to say to Mrs. Cleveland," he remarked, _en route_,
"but I fear it has already been too much for her nerves."

At the tavern, Bernard found a constable, who immediately arrested the
unhappy victim of misplaced affection, and telegraphed to Mount Kisco
for a magistrate.  Then ensued endless hours of waiting.  Mamma lay
upon the sofa whiter than any ghost, now that the strain upon her
nerves was relaxed, and Mrs. L----, a loquacious neighbor, ran in from
time to time with reports of what people were saying, and how the
prisoner looked and felt.

At 7 P.M. the magistrate, Mr. Clarence Hyatt, arrived, and we all went
down to the improvised court-house in the tavern.  Ida and mamma were
shown into a private room, where Mr. Hyatt, a very polite and agreeable
gentleman, took their affidavits before they were confronted with the
enemy.  The news had by this time spread far and near, and all
Chappaqua was assembled.  The wildest reports were now circulated, to
the effect that Hudson had pointed a pistol at Ida, and vowed to kill
her instantly if she did not promise to marry him, and mamma and Ida
were advised to keep their veils down, that he might not become
familiar with their faces, and to remain at a respectful distance from
him.

Hudson was sitting between two constables, and was being inspected by a
large crowd.  He looked very quiet, and upon listening to the
affidavits, remarked that Mr. Hyatt must have misunderstood the ladies,
for he was perfectly incapable of having alarmed them to the extent
indicated; that he certainly admired Miss Ida, and desired to marry
her, but that he would not willingly injure or alarm the humblest
creature--adding reproachfully that those affidavits would suffice to
condemn him to State prison for life.  He appeared so perfectly
rational and calm, that the magistrate was perfectly dumbfoundered, and
for the moment thought him sane; and even we commenced to reproach
ourselves, and doubt which was the insane party.

"Well," said Mr. Hyatt, "I will now hear your story."

"I will read it to you," said Hudson, drawing a book from his pocket,
and then commenced again the same incoherent nonsense with which he had
already favored mamma.  The object now was to show the chain of
evidence that pointed out Ida as his bride.  The most important link
was the fact that he had once seen a flock of white geese sailing
through the air.  He put up his finger, and one fluttered down to him;
and as G stood both for goose and Greeley, it was a clear manifestation
of the Divine Will (at this point, the audience burst into a roar of
laughter).  Besides, he liked our family, we suited him in every
respect; and especially because we so much reminded him of John the
Baptist (we inwardly hoped that the resemblance would not extend to
decapitation).  If Miss Greeley would not marry him, he kindly added,
he would take her cousin Marguerite instead, but he must positively
marry one of the family.  He was now perfectly wild, and when he
remarked, with a reproachful glance at Ida, that he disliked
_ko-kwettes_, and liked a girl who would say in answer to an offer,
"Yes sir-ee," or "No sir-ee," the magistrate brought the evidence to a
conclusion.  He gave him to the constable to be taken to the county
jail, where he was to be detained until the Court sat, if, in the
meantime, his relatives did not appear from Massachusetts to claim him
(for his place of residence varied--at first Baltimore, then Michigan,
it was now Massachusetts).

Hudson spent the night at the tavern, and appeared at times so
rational, that he was not strictly guarded; consequently, when the
constable looked for him after breakfast, the bird had flown.  He was
instantly followed, and discovered walking on the railway track about
two miles off, swinging his little bundle quite unconcernedly.  In
reply to the questions of his captors, he said that he had just
intended to make a little circuit about the country, and then return to
marry Ida.  He is now, thank fortune, safely lodged _in jail_.



CHAPTER IV.

A Visit from Papa--A Musical Squirrel--Letters--Croquet--Extracts from
Letters--Visitors--The Loss of the Missouri--The True Story of Ida's
Engagement.


_June 13_.

Papa came up late last night with a supply of the latest periodicals,
weekly journals, etc., and my pet squirrels in a new and spacious cage.
These little creatures were presents to me this spring, and are very
pretty, and partially tame.  I remember, however, one escapade of
theirs shortly before we left the city.

My balcony at home is enclosed with glass, and there I frequently
allowed the squirrels to play.  A game of _cache-cache_, of half an
hour or so, was generally necessary before I could induce Fliegende
Holländer, the livelier of the pair, to return to the narrow limits of
his cage.  One day, however, through some carelessness, the door from
the balcony into my room was left open, and the squirrels were missing.
Senta (christened after the heroine of Wagner's clever opera) was
captured after some little difficulty, but not the Dutchman.  Being a
flying squirrel, he was so very tiny that he could easily conceal
himself in a dark corner, and although I descended upon my knees to
peer under my sofa, bureau, writing-table, and _chiffonnière_, my
search was fruitless--the Flying Dutchman had evidently vanished to
join the Phantom Ship.  I felt very uneasy, fearing he might fall a
prey to my two cats, who would no doubt find cold squirrel a very
tempting _entremet_; or if he escaped this Scylla, the Charybdis of
death by starvation lay before him.  The hours passed, and Fliegende
Holländer did not appear.  Senta was cheerful, and reigned mistress of
the revolving wheel--always the bone of contention between the pair.
Once, during the afternoon, I fancied I heard a scratching as if of
tiny claws, but could not obtain even a glimpse of his vanishing,
fan-shaped tail.

In the evening two or three gentlemen were present, and Marguerite sang
for them.  After the song (Gounod's "Naïade," a lovely _salon_ piece),
we were speaking of the loss of dear little Holländer, when one of our
friends exclaimed:

"Why, that squirrel was perched over the register while Miss Cleveland
was singing, but he was so quiet that I thought he was stuffed."

"He evidently is fond of music," said another; "pray sing something
more, Miss Cleveland, and perhaps he may again come out."

He had travelled down from the third story to the parlor through the
flue (fortunately there was no fire), and was now commencing to desire
society and food again.

"Since he is fond of music," said Marguerite, "I will sing the ballad
of the Flying Dutchman from Wagner's opera--that ought certainly to
draw him out again."

A music-loving squirrel evidently, and one versed in the art; for with
the first strains of those curious harmonies and chromatic runs,
descriptive of the howling winds that herald the coming of the Phantom
Ship, Holländer's tiny head peered out, followed, after a furtive
glance about, by his little body.  Two gentlemen started to capture
him, and then a chase ensued.  Holländer tried to scamper up a picture,
but tripped upon its glass, and fell.  At last, the Colonel captured
him in an attempt to scale the curtains, and after much struggling,
kicking, biting, and other vigorous protestations from Holländer,
landed him safely in his cage.

The squirrels evidently enjoy country life very much.  Early this
morning Minna took them out of doors, and removed the bottom of the
cage that they might play upon the grass, which so much exhilarated
them that I am convinced they fancied they were entirely free.  Then I
removed the hot cotton from their little nest, and filled it with fresh
clover-leaves, which I am sure they much prefer.  They run no risk of
being devoured here, for Aunt Mary always disliked cats, so that there
is not one upon the place, and Gabrielle's pet dog, a native of
Bordeaux, has viewed them from afar, and snuffed at the cage, but is
evidently too well-bred a Frenchman to desire even to tease them.


_June 14_.

A letter to-day from one of my Paris friends, Jennie Ford.  She says:

"How divine it must be at Chappaqua!  I am glad you are enjoying
yourself, and are well.  But you do not say a word of your Western
trip.  I hope you have not given it up."

Then follows a cordial invitation for me to visit her in her beautiful
home upon Lake Erie, now looking its prettiest in the leafy month of
June.  All sorts of pleasant inducements are held out: a croquet-lawn
of velvet softness, long drives, and charming rides in which to display
my stylish new beaver and habit, moonlight excursions upon Lake Erie,
and no lack of handsome cavaliers, including naval officers.  However,
despite all these attractions, I do not think I shall care to leave
Chappaqua this summer.

Jennie enclosed a photograph of the lady who reigned as belle of the
American colony in Paris, some four or five years ago--Mrs. Horace
Jenness, then Miss Carrie Deming.  Three years of married life have
changed the beautiful Carrie somewhat, if this picture is a truthful
one.  The perfect outline of her face is unaltered, but the haughty
expression that "La Princesse" wore in former days has vanished, and
the fond young mother, grouped with her two little children is prettier
than ever.


_June 15_.

I feel singularly indolent, and indisposed to journalize this evening.
Perhaps it is the result of two hours spent in croquet, a game in which
I am very unproficient and therefore find decidedly wearisome; but
Gabrielle, who is the best croquet player in Chappaqua, is in the city
to-day, and my feeble assistance was necessary to make up the quartette.

Two entire hours spent in this game seem quite an unwarrantable loss of
time, but we have had a guest from New York to-day, and therefore both
Plato and Kohlrausch have remained under lock and key in the library.

I think no one enjoys the country more thoroughly than a physician when
he can escape from his patients for a holiday, and Dr. Howe, our
visitor of to-day, was not an exception.  This gentleman is, I fancy,
quite young in his profession, for his figure is of almost boyish
slenderness; his face, too, which reminds one somewhat of Shelley in
its delicacy and brightness, and its dark eyes and luxuriant curls, is
quite youthful for a fully fledged M.D.

Dr. Howe returned from Europe some months since, and brought us a
letter of introduction from a friend of mamma's in Florence; but owing
to mamma's long illness and the seclusion in which we lived last
winter, we have not seen him many times.

I have in my lap a number of letters received in this evening's mail.
One is from my dear friend, Mrs. Knox, the charming contralto of Christ
Church.  We had expected her to visit us this week, but her unexpected
departure for the West has prevented her from doing so.  She says:

"You must truly be enjoying Chappaqua these heavenly June days.  I hope
that the fresh air and rest are putting roses into your pale cheeks and
giving you health and strength for your literary labors.  My sudden
departure compels me to forego the pleasure I had anticipated in seeing
you at Chappaqua--at least until the fall.  I am appreciative of the
courtesy of your dear mamma in inviting me to spend a day in that
lovely retreat, already made sacred to me by my high regard and
admiration for your most noble uncle, whose home it was."

Another letter is written upon most dainty stationery, bearing the
impress of Tiffany, and adorned with a prettily devised monogram in
lavender and gold (handsome stationery is one of my weaknesses).  This
letter I know to be sprightly and amusing before I open it, for my
friend Lela has been for two or three years one of my most entertaining
correspondents.  We were intimate friends in Paris three or four years
ago, when Lela was a school-girl, and I an _enfant de Marie_, and
although we have been separated by hundreds of miles, by the ocean, and
finally, by Lela's marriage, our attachment continues; so, no
reproaches upon school-girl friendships, I beg.

Lela was married last winter, but she and her handsome French husband
are yet in the honeymoon, which will last, I fancy, forever--certainly
the former Queen of Hearts seems now to care for only _one_ heart.  She
says:

"You must be having a lovely time in such a charming place.  We have
been to Saratoga.  It was stupid enough to send your worst enemy there."


_June 17_.

This week has been quite lost, so far as study is concerned, for nearly
every day has been interrupted by visitors.

Looking out of the window this morning, I saw a carriage containing two
strange young ladies stop before the house.  In answer to their inquiry
for Miss Greeley and Miss Gabrielle, Minna informed them, in her broken
English, that they were both in the city for the day.  They looked
quite aghast upon receiving this information, for they had already
dismissed their carriage, in which they had driven from Pleasantville,
and knew probably that there was no down train till 4.45, so quite
helplessly they inquired if _no_ members of the family were at home.
Learning that Mrs. Cleveland and her daughters were here, one of the
young ladies, a stylish girl in mourning, desired Minna to announce
Miss Hempstead and her cousin.  I puzzled a little over the name while
glancing in the mirror to see that my crape ruffle was properly
adjusted, and my hair in tolerable order.  The name seemed familiar,
and yet I knew that no friend of mine bore it.

I found the young ladies in the music room.  Miss Hempstead introduced
herself by saying:

"Perhaps you may have heard my name, although you do not know me.  My
brother was a friend of Mrs. and Miss Greeley, and was purser of the
_Missouri_."

I was then somewhat surprised that I had not divined Miss Hempstead's
identity from the name and her black dress; but the burning of the
_Missouri_ made scarce any impression upon me at the time, surrounded
as I was last fall by such heavy family afflictions; and the name of
the young purser, whose tragic fate then filled the newspapers, had
since then almost entirely passed from my memory.

An ordinary passenger ship is wrecked or burned, "Extras" are issued, a
three days' excitement follows, and it is then a thing of the past; but
as the _Missouri_ bore, on this memorable voyage, not indeed Caesar and
his fortunes, but the supposed _fiancé_ of dear Ida, its loss is an
event still interesting to the gossiping public.  It was useless to try
to convince any one that no engagement had ever existed between Mr.
Hempstead and Ida: no one would credit my most solemn protestations.
Many people not personally acquainted with us, but who knew the facts
"upon the best authority," as outsiders usually do, said that the
marriage was to have taken place before the election, but after Aunt
Mary's death it was postponed for three months.  Before two weeks had
elapsed, however, Mr. Hempstead was, in the poetic language of the
journals, "sleeping beneath the coral wave," and poor Ida received as
many well-meant condolences over his death as over Aunt Mary's.

When the tragedy of last autumn was all over, the interest of the
public was greater than ever, and Ida, "who had within four short weeks
lost mother, lover, and father," formed the subject of many a pathetic
editorial and sermon.  A London journal styled Ida the "maiden widow,"
spoke of uncle's fond attachment to Mr. Hempstead, and announced that
the loss of his prospective son-in-law was an affliction that
precipitated Mr. Greeley's death.

I first heard of Mr. Hempstead in the winter of 1869-70.  Aunt Mary,
who was then commencing to fail, went with Ida to Nassau to spend the
cold months.  Her state-room, engaged at the last moment, was a very
uncomfortable one, and Mr. Hempstead, then purser of the _Eagle_, gave
up for her use a large deck state-room with three windows--a great
comfort to Aunt Mary, who was always so partial to an airy bedroom.
The voyage proved, however, a very stormy one, and the waves dashed in
through these three windows, quite drenching poor Ida, who suffered so
much from sea-sickness as to be quite indifferent to danger or
discomfort.

In writing to me after reaching Nassau, Ida mentioned Mr. Hempstead in
a few words:

"The purser was an agreeable and gentlemanly officer, and so kind to
mamma."

She did not, however, mention his name, and I never knew it till last
summer.

After their return to New York, in the spring of 1870, Aunt Mary
invited Mr. Hempstead to visit them at Chappaqua, as she felt under
some obligations to him for having given her his state-room, and
subsequently executed some little commissions for her, between New York
and Nassau.  He came out here, and made a visit of a week.  In July of
the same year.  Aunt Mary and Ida went abroad, and from that time the
acquaintance dropped.  That he admired Ida know, but how any one could
manufacture an engagement from such slight material, I cannot imagine.

One day last summer, during the excitement of the campaign, I had taken
up a rose-tinted society journal as a little respite from politics,
when my eyes fell upon a paragraph announcing Ida's engagement to Mr.
William Hempstead, Purser of the _Missouri_; and then I for the first
time learnt the officer's name.  My astonishment can be imagined; and
to this day it remains an enigma who invented that little society item.
If a fertile-minded reporter had desired to head his column of
Engagements in High Life with Ida's name, and had announced that she
would shortly be led to the hymeneal altar (I believe that is the
correct phrase in newspaper parlance) by any one in our circle of
acquaintances with whom she was at all intimate, it would not have been
surprising; but why a person whom she had not seen or heard of for two
years should have been selected, is a mystery worthy of G. P. R. James.

But in writing about Mr. Hempstead, I have neglected his sister.  Miss
Hempstead was a tall, fine-looking young girl, with, however, a
strikingly foreign appearance for an American _pur sang_.  She was
born, she told me, in Belize, Central America, where her father was
United States Consul.  A tropical sun had given her a complexion of
Spanish darkness, heightened by large black eyes and jet black
hair--the exact counterpart, Ida afterwards told me, of her brother,
who was often mistaken for a Cuban.

When the period of the consulate of Mr. Hempstead père was over, he had
become so much attached to Belize, that he decided to make it his
future residence.  His daughter said she could not imagine what he
found to like in the place, for between earthquakes and yellow fever,
one was in a continual state of terror; there was no society, the
population being almost entirely negro, and no schools; consequently
the children of the few white resident families were obliged to go to
England or to the United States to be educated.

Miss Hempstead was sent to London, and five or six years of the
discipline of a first-class English school have made her quite
different from the fully fledged society queens who graduate from our
Murray Hill _pensionnats_ at sixteen or so.  A little English reserve
to tone down somewhat their sparkling natures is all that our
bewitching American girls need to make them perfect, but I fear they
will for several years yet bear the stigma of, "Charming, but too wild."



CHAPTER V.

Sunday in the Country--Proximity of a Meeting-house--How we pass our
Sundays--The House in the Woods--Ida's Glen--Mrs. Greeley's Favorite
Spring--The Children's Play-house--Gabrielle's Pets--Travelling in
1836--New York Society--Mr. Greeley's Friday Evenings--Mrs. Greeley as
a Bride--Her Accomplishments--A Letter concerning Mr. Greeley's Wedding.


_June 16_.

Sunday is, I think, a very _triste_ day in the country (low be it
spoken).  I cannot remain longer than an hour at church, for the Mass
is a low one, and the sermon consists of fifteen minutes of plain,
practical instruction, unembellished by rhetoric, to the congregation.
The church, it is true, is four miles distant, but Gabrielle's
aristocratic ponies, Lady Alice and The Duchess, fairly fly over the
ground--up or down hill, it is immaterial to them--and consequently, I
find myself, when my religious duties are over, with many idle hours
upon my hands.

The croquet balls and mallets, our "Magic Rings," and other out-of-door
games, are put away in the "children's play-house," a little white hut
on the borders of the croquet ground, where Ida and dear little Raffie
used to keep their toys, and where Gabrielle in later days housed her
menagerie of pets.

The piano, too, is not only closed, but locked, for the flesh is weak,
and I fear the temptation of the beautiful cold keys.  It may be the
baneful effect of a foreign education, but I cannot see that there
would be any evil result from a little music on Sundays.  However, we
have a Dissenting church for a next-door neighbor, and the residents of
Chappaqua are chiefly Quakers, who frown upon the piano as an ungodly
instrument; so with a sigh, I replace in my portfolio that grand hymn
that in 1672 saved the life of the singer, Stradella, from the
assassin's knife, and a beautiful Ave Maria, solemn and chaste in its
style as though written by St. Gregory himself, but composed and
dedicated to me by mamma's friend, Professor F. L. Ritter.

My pretty bits of fancy work with their bright-colored silks, the tiny
needle-book worked while in Munich in an especially pretty stitch, and
in the Bavarian colors--blue and white--and my Bavarian thimble--silver
and amethyst--are put away in a bureau drawer, for although a Catholic,
I do not imitate our Lutheran maid, who spends her Sundays in sewing
and knitting.

Plato and Kohlrausch, our week-day sustenance, do not come certainly
under the head of Sunday reading, although I see nothing objectionable
in them; but after all, one requires, I think, a change of literature
on Sundays as well as a different dress, and an extra course at dinner.

"What shall we do?" says Gabrielle.

We have each written a letter or two, for Sunday is, I am sure, every
one's letter-writing day, and now we put on our broad-brimmed garden
hats, with their graceful trimmings of gauze and crape, and stroll off
to the spicy pine grove, where we sit down on the dry spines, and
Arthur repeats to us quaint bits from some of the rare old books he
read in the British Museum three years ago, or entertains us with some
of his own adventures when travelling on foot over beautiful France and
Italy, and "Merrie England."

Ida and I, however, wandered away from the others this morning, and
strolled up to the dear old house in the woods where she passed her
childhood.  This is, to my mind, the sweetest and most picturesque spot
upon the entire estate, and I do not wonder that Aunt Mary, with her
keen love for the beautiful in Nature, her indifference to general
society, and her devotion to her children, to study, and to reflection,
preferred the quiet seclusion of her home shut in by evergreens, with
the deep ravine, and the joyous little brook at her feet, to the most
superb mansion that graces our magnificent Hudson.

[Illustration: The House in the Woods.]

One of the purest springs on the place is in the ravine, or "Ida's
Glen," as uncle christened it long ago.  Here at the foot of the long
wooden staircase is a basin of natural rock, and flowing into it is the
sweetest, coolest water in the world.  This water Aunt Mary always
preferred to any other on the place--even to the spring at the foot of
the side-hill, so celebrated in the campaign times as the spot where
uncle and his visitors would stop to "take a drink," when returning
from a walk.  Exquisite in her neatness, Aunt Mary would frequently
order the basin of her favorite spring to be well purified by a
thorough scrubbing with brush and soap, followed by a prolonged rinsing
with water.  During her illness last fall, she frequently asked to have
a pitcher of water brought from this spring, which she always
especially relished.

That uncle shared his wife's partiality for this spring is evident by
his description of it in his "Recollections":

"In the little dell or glen through which my brook emerges from the
wood wherein it has brawled down the hill, to dance across a gentle
slope to the swamp below, is _the_ spring,--pure as crystal,
never-failing, cold as you could wish it for drink in the hottest day,
and so thoroughly shaded and sheltered that, I am confident, it was
never warm, and never frozen over.  Many springs upon my farm are
excellent, but this is peerless."

The house in the woods was built by uncle to suit Aunt Mary's taste,
and very comfortable and complete it is.  Uncle says of it:

"It is not much--hastily erected, small, slight, and wooden, it has at
length been almost deserted for one recently purchased and refitted on
the edge of the village; but the cottage in the woods is still my home,
where my books remain, and where I mean to garner my treasures."

The house consists of two stories with that most necessary addition to
a country house, a broad piazza.  To the right stands a white cottage,
built for the servants.  Almost in front of the house is a large
boulder, moss-grown and venerable.  This, Aunt Mary would not have
removed, for she loved Nature in its wildest primeval beauty, and now
the rock is associated with loving memories of Raffie's little hands
that once prepared fairy banquets upon it, with acorn-cups for dishes;
but now those baby hands have long since been folded quietly in the
grave.

The little play-house, that has since been removed to the
croquet-ground, once stood not far from this rock, and has been used,
as I said, by Gabrielle as a menagerie for her pets.  A strange
assortment they often were for a little girl.  Inheriting her mother's
exquisite tenderness of feeling towards helpless animals, Gabrielle
would splinter and bandage up the little legs of any baby robin or
sparrow that had met with an accident from trying its wings too early,
would nurse it till well, and then let it fly away.  At one time she
had in the play-house a little regiment of twelve toads, a red
squirrel, and a large turtle.  Aunt Mary never wished her to cage her
pets, as she thought it cruel; consequently they had the range of the
play-house, and Gabrielle fed them very conscientiously.  She ought,
however, to have followed the example of St. Francis, who used to
preach to animals and insects when he had no human audience, and given
her pets a daily dissertation upon brotherly love and tolerance, for
they did not, I regret to say, live together in the Christian harmony
that distinguished Barnum's Happy Family.  The result was, that one day
when Gabrielle went to minister to their physical wants, she found only
a melancholy _débris_ of little legs.  Her supposition was that the
turtle had consumed the toads and then died of dyspepsia, and that the
squirrel had by some unknown means escaped from the play-house, and
returned to primeval liberty.

[Illustration: The Children's Play House.]

Forgetting this sad experience, Gabrielle endeavored at another time to
bring up a snake and a toad in the way they should go (this time in an
empty hen-coop); but the snake certainly did depart from it, and
astonished the family much by gliding into the kitchen with the unhappy
toad in his mouth.  Poor Gabrielle's feelings can be imagined.  She
endeavored courageously to wrest the toad from its enemy's jaws, but
all in vain; she was obliged to see the hapless creature consumed by
the snake.

Mamma has often described Aunt Mary to me as she looked when she first
met her.  The portrait mamma draws of her as a bride would scarcely be
recognized by those who only knew her after long years of weary illness
had

  "Paled her glowing cheek."

I will give it in mamma's own words:

"Immediately after your uncle's marriage, he sent for me to come from
my parents' quiet farm in Pennsylvania, to spend the winter in the city
with himself and his wife.  A great event this was to me--far greater
than your first visit to Europe, for the journey occupied double the
time that is now spent between New York and Liverpool, and I was a
young girl whose acquaintance with the world was confined to the narrow
limits of the little village of Clymer; I had never even been sent away
to boarding-school.

"One bright September morning I started upon my eventful journey.  Your
uncle Barnes drove me in a buggy to Buffalo, a distance of three days
at that time.  At this city--the first large one that I had ever seen,
my brother left me in charge of a party going through, as he supposed,
to New York.  Then ensued two weeks upon a canal boat; very slow
travelling you children would consider it, accustomed as you are to
whirling over the country in an express train; but at my romantic age,
this dreamy, delicious style of boat travel was the perfection of
happiness.

"At Rochester my friends left me, first placing me under the care of
the captain of the canal-boat, who promised to put me upon the
steamboat when we should reach Albany.

"The prospect of the day to be spent upon the Hudson possessed no
charms for me, but on the contrary, untold terror.  I had never before
seen a steamboat, but they had been introduced upon Lake Erie, near
enough to my home for me to hear, with alarm, of all the accidents that
had so far befallen them upon that very turbulent sheet of water;
consequently, I embarked upon the 'Washington,' in the full conviction
that I was about to meet with my doom.

"All that day I sat motionless in a corner of the promenade deck,
reading my Bible.  Perfectly oblivious alike to the magnificent scenery
that I was passing, and to the elegant toilettes such as my
country-bred eyes had never before beheld, by which I was surrounded; I
neither spoke to nor looked at any one, nor dared to leave my seat even
to go to dinner; but endeavored to gain, from the sacred volume in my
hands, strength for the terrible fate that I was confident awaited me.
I have often since wondered what my fellow-travellers thought of the
still, shy little figure whose eyes were never once lifted from her
Bible.

"About four o'clock a terrible explosion was heard, the boat was thrown
violently upon her side, and a scene of confusion, shrieks, and
fainting-fits then ensued.  I did not faint--I was much too alarmed for
that; I merely turned very white, and trembled from head to foot.  The
wheel-house had been blown away, I learnt before long, but no one
fortunately was injured, and after a delay of an hour or so the boat
was righted, and we proceeded upon our journey, at a snail's pace,
however.

"Owing to the accident, we did not reach New York until ten o'clock.
No one was at the pier to meet me, for brother had supposed that I
would arrive before sunset.  As I did not appear, however, he concluded
that I had not left Albany at the time appointed.  But my adventures of
the day were not yet over.  I secured a cab, and drove to the address
he had given me, 123 Hudson Street, which in 1836 was by no means the
plebeian locality it is at present, but a fashionable street, devoted
exclusively to elegant residences.  Upon inquiring for Mr. Greeley, my
consternation was great to learn that although he had looked at rooms
in that house, he had not engaged them, and the landlady had no idea of
his address.  I was almost as timid about cabs as I had been about the
steamboat; for I had heard stories of young girls being robbed and
murdered by New York cab-drivers, and here I was, late at night, in all
the whirl and excitement of the metropolis, driving I knew not where,
and entirely at the mercy of an assassin.  However, my modest trunk did
not look very inviting, I suppose, for I reached _The New Yorker_
office--the only other address I knew in the city--without further
adventure, where I ascertained that brother was now living at 124
Greenwich Street--a most beautiful situation close by the Battery--then
the fashionable promenade of New York.  He had written to tell me of
his change of residence, but the letter failed to reach me.

"It was half-past eleven when I finally reached my home.  The large
parlor was ablaze with lights, and crowded with people; for it was
Friday, the night that _The New Yorker_ went to press, and brother's
reception evening.  I was trembling with fatigue and excitement, and
very faint, for I had not eaten since early in the morning; but all
these emotions vanished when I was introduced to my new sister.  I had
seen no pictures of her, and knew her only through brother's
description, and a few letters she had written me since her marriage,
and I was quite unprepared for the exquisite, fairy-like creature I now
beheld.  A slight, girlish figure, rather _petite_ in stature, dressed
in clouds of white muslin, cut low, and her neck and shoulders covered
by massive dark curls, from which gleamed out an Oriental-looking
_coiffure_, composed of strands of large gold and pearl beads.  Her
eyes were large, dark, and pensive, and her rich brunette complexion
was heightened by a flush, not brilliant like Gabrielle's, but delicate
as a rose-leaf.  She appeared to me like a being from another world."

To continue mamma's reminiscences of uncle's first year of married life:

"I found my sister-in-law's tastes," she said, "quite different from
those of the majority of young ladies.  In literature her preference
was for the solid and philosophic, rather than the romantic class of
reading; indeed, I may say that she never read, she _studied_; going
over a paragraph several times, until she had fully comprehended its
subtleties of thought, and stored them away in her retentive memory for
future use.  During that year, I never knew her to read a work of
fiction; but philosophy or science formed her daily nourishment; whilst
brother, whenever he had a free evening, read aloud to Mary and I from
Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, sweetened now and then
with a selection from Lord Byron or Mrs. Hemans--the two poets that at
that time he preferred.

"But although your Aunt Mary had such severe literary tastes, she was
by no means gloomy in her disposition, as you might perhaps infer.
Your uncle being at that time editor of a weekly journal, he was
comparatively a man of leisure, and he and Mary went frequently to the
theatre, and to hear lectures--a source of great enjoyment to both of
them.  They also mingled considerably in general society, for Mary was
then very fond of dancing, although there was rarely or never any at
her Friday evenings, for literary people then, as now, eschewed the
goddess Terpsichore.

"I told you that I arrived in New York upon brother's reception-night.
Those Friday evenings wore a great source of pleasure to me,
introducing me as they did to the literary coterie of the metropolis.
Nearly all the men and women of note at that time met in our parlors on
Greenwich Street, and many of them were regular or occasional
contributors to brother's journal.  Among the names that I can recall,
were Gen. Morris, then editing the _New York Mirror_; the two Clark
brothers, editors of the _Knickerbocker_, one of whom, Willis Gaylord
Clark, was at that time writing his clever 'Ollapodiana;' Fitz-Greene
Halleck, the poet; George M. Snow, who later in life became financial
editor of _The Tribune_, and is now deceased; Professor A. C. Kendrick,
of Hamilton College, the translator of Schiller's 'Victor's Triumph,'
which subsequently appeared in _The New Yorker_, and which, you will
remember, your uncle has occasionally read for us at our own Tuesday
evening receptions; Mrs. O. M. Sawyer, the accomplished wife of
brother's pastor, then making her _débût_ in the literary world with
poems and occasional translations from the German; Elizabeth Jessup
Eames, who was writing stories and poems for _The New Yorker_, under
the signature of 'Stella;' Mrs. E. F. Ellet, in 1836 a handsome young
bride, who had come up from the South, and was contributing
translations from the French and German to the same journal; Anne Cora
Lynch, now Madame Botta; and many others.

"I must not forget to mention Fisher, the sub-editor of _The New
Yorker_, and, in his own estimation, the most important person upon
that journal.  He was what might be called a literary fop, and was much
given to the production of highly-wrought, Byronic poems and sketches.
I remember hearing that some one called one day at the office, and
asked to see the editor.  Fisher immediately presented himself.

"'What!' said the visitor, somewhat surprised, 'are you Mr. Greeley?'

"'No,' said Fisher, running his fingers nonchalantly through his curls,
'I am not Mr. Greeley, but,' drawing himself up, 'I am the editor of
_The New Yorker_.  Mr. Greeley is only the printer.'

"This incident having got out among brother's friends, it was
considered so good a joke that for years he was called in the office
and by the literary fraternity, 'The Printer.'

"The entertainment at these Friday evenings was mainly conversation,
varied by the occasional reading of a poem.  Your Aunt Mary was much
admired that winter, both for her exquisite beauty and the charm of her
winning, artless manners.  As I said, she was very fond of dancing; but
brother never had time to accomplish himself in the art.  I remember,
however, that at a Christmas party given by his partner, Mr. Wilson, he
was induced to dance a quadrille.  His mathematical accuracy enabled
him to go through the figures perfectly, when he had once seen them
danced; and he enjoyed it so thoroughly, and wore such an air of
unconscious happiness, that an old Quaker lady (the mother-in-law of
Mr. Wilson) who was looking on remarked to me, 'I didn't think thee
could find so beautiful a sight as thy brother's dancing this side of
heaven.'

"I have described your Aunt Mary as beautiful, and perhaps you would
infer that she was also over-fond of dress.  She was no devotee to
fashion, and her toilet was, even at that period, characterized by
great simplicity, but was noted, at the same time, for picturesqueness."

Ida showed me, the other day, a very interesting letter written to her
father by a friend, Mr. Yancey, who was present at his marriage, and as
it confirms what mamma has said of Aunt Mary's beauty, I will make some
extracts from it.  Mr. Yancey was the son-in-law of Squire Bragg, at
whose house Aunt Mary resided while teaching school in North Carolina.


"GERMANTOWN, TENNESSEE, _July 6, 1847_.

"MR. GREELEY:

"DEAR SIR:--Sitting to-night 'all solitary and alone,' my mind has
wandered back upon scenes that have past eleven years ago, though vivid
now even as yesterday.  It was about that time that I saw you first,
and indeed saw you last.

"Little did I then dream that I beheld in that modest personage one who
is now acknowledged as the 'distinguished and accomplished Horace
Greeley.'

"You well remember your first visit to the South, I dare say.  You
cannot have forgotten many incidents that occurred at a little village
of North Carolina, called Warrenton?  No, there is _one_ circumstance I
feel assured you never can forget while memory lasts, and there are
others to which I claim the right to call your attention: for instance,
do you remember your first meeting with a certain Miss Cheney at the
house of Squire Bragg, the father of Capt. Bragg, who lately
distinguished himself at Monterey and Buena Vista?  Do you now remember
to whom you related the secret of your visit, who procured the parson,
and what persons accompanied you to church, and then with your
beautiful bride returned to breakfast?  We saw you take the solemn
vows, we witnessed the plighted betrothal, and when you bore away from
us this prize, you also carried our best wishes that you might be ever
blessed, and she be made always happy.  May it not have been otherwise."

. . . . "I would, my dear sir, be pleased to hear from you, and to
learn something of the results and changes which time has brought about
in your own family.

"Be pleased to remember me to your sweet wife, and if there be any, or
many little G------s, my kind regards to them also.

"Very respectfully,

"A. L. YANCEY."



CHAPTER VI.

Visitors--Our Neighbors--The Chappaqua Croquet Club--Gabrielle's
Letter--A Hiding Party--Summer Heat--The Music-room--Friends from the
City.


_June 18_.

While out on the croquet ground this afternoon, a lady and gentleman
alighted from a carriage, and walked up to join us.  They proved to be
our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Charles E. Wilbour, of New York, who had
driven over from White Plains to make us an afternoon call.  Mrs.
Wilbour is a charming, intellectual woman, the president of Sorosis,
and a friend of many years of both mamma and Aunt Mary.  In appearance
she is tall, handsome, and queenly, dressing in perfect taste, and a
graceful hostess.  Her pretty daughter Linny is a school friend of
Gabrielle's at St. Mary's.

Mr. and Mrs. Wilbour spend much time during the summer, driving about
from one town to another; certainly the most comfortable and agreeable
mode of travelling that one could adopt.

We have some agreeable neighbors here, who contribute somewhat to the
general entertainment.  The aristocracy of Chappaqua are chiefly Quaker
families who have lived here since the days of the Indians, and who
look down quite doubtfully upon the New York families who come out here
for the summer only, and of whose ancestry they know nothing.  The
fathers and mothers wear the Quaker dress, and use the "Friends"
phraseology, which I think very pretty and caressing, but the young
people depart somewhat from the way of grace, in speech, costume, and
habits.  The young girls wear whatever color of the rainbow best suits
their fresh complexions, are skilled in flirting, and with the
assistance of the young gentlemen, have organized a club for weekly
croquet parties and private theatricals at the residences of the
different members, whilst picnics and riding-parties to Croton and Rye
Lakes, and other pretty points of interest, are of frequent occurrence.
But of the riding-parties Gabrielle has just written a sprightly
description to a school friend, and before the letter goes to the post,
I will transcribe it.


CHAPPAQUA, _June 18_.

"DEAR MOLLIE: I received your charming letter and photograph last week.
Many thanks for both.  You ask me how do I pass my time, and what is
the latest excitement?

"Well, to begin with, you must know that we have just started a club in
Chappaqua for mutual amusement, but as I have been indisposed for some
time, I certainly have not yet derived much benefit from it, but spend
most of my time reading.

"Last Saturday I was just longing for something to happen, and
apostrophizing the world as a hollow sham, when Minna came up to say
that we had all been invited to an equestrian party, to start after
tea.  You would have imagined I had been offered several kingdoms by my
delight.  I gave two or three screams of condensed joy, while dancing
wildly around the room, much to Aunt Esther's surprise.

"But on second thoughts, what _was_ I to do for a horse?  My ponies had
never been broken to the saddle, but having made up my mind to go, go I
would, if I had to ride a wild buffalo; so I ordered Lady Alice around
an hour before the time to start.  When she arrived, the balcony was
filled with a large and anxious audience, and rather than fail before
so many, I was determined that either I should break the horse in, or
she should break me.  I sprang into the saddle, but before I could seat
myself or put my foot in the stirrup, she jerked her head away from
Bernard, and commenced a series of exciting manoeuvres, rearing,
plunging, and kicking.  For about five minutes I defied all the laws of
gravitation.  But when the coachman tried to seize her bridle, she
shied so suddenly that I was surprised to find myself on terra firma.
I jumped up directly and assured every one that I had not hurt myself
in the least, in fact had never felt better; but between you and me, I
felt very like the dog that was tossed by the cow with the crumpled
horn.  I am afraid that by this time I had let my little angry passions
rise--in other words, I was decidedly angry.

"I got on splendidly this time, and was quite ready to start with my
cousins when the time came, although my Lady Alice evinced serious
objections to the gate, and preferred ambling gently along sideways up
the hill.  After a while I intimated kindly with my whip a desire to
gallop.  I fear that, like some of our friends, she is hard to take a
hint, for she progressed by the most wonderful plunges, garnished with
little kicks; but I kept her head well up, and clawed out several
handfuls of her mane.  When we came to the rendezvous, my cavalier
proposed running her for two or three miles to take down her spirits a
little, after which she went beautifully, and I never enjoyed a ride so
much before.

"We rode to Lake Wampus, and everything looked so lovely, for the full
moon lighted it up like a mirror, and we had singing and thrilling
ghost stories.

"Dear me, how awfully long this letter is!  Be sure you answer it soon.

"Yours lovingly,

"GABRIELLE."


_June 19_.

The heat and dust are becoming insufferable, for we have had no rain,
save in very homoeopathic doses, during the three weeks that we have
been here.  The shrubs and bushes by the roadside look so piteous under
their weight of dust, that I feel half inclined to try the effect of a
feather brush upon their drooping leaves; and Bernard, who is never
prone to take cheerful views of anything, grows daily more gloomy when
we inquire after the progress of the kitchen-garden.  But, although we
are sighing under the heat, it is nothing, we are told, to what the New
Yorkers are now enduring, and our friends, Mrs. Acheson and Dr. Taylor,
who came out yesterday from the city to spend the day with us,
congratulated us upon the coolness of the temperature at Chappaqua.

The morning was passed out of doors playing croquet and walking

  "Sotto i pini del boschetto,"

to use the words of the coquettish Countess and her arch waiting-maid
in the "Marriage of Figaro" (that Letter Duo contains, I think, some of
the most delicious music that the joyous Mozart ever wrote).

The sun was too hot after our early dinner, for us to find much
pleasure in croquet; so we sat in the music-room, and upon the piazza,
and listened to a few songs from Marguerite, and watched the skill of
papa and the handsome blond doctor in the "Magic Rings,"--a very easy
game, to all appearance, but one which really requires much dexterity
of hand.

The music-room is, I think, the coolest and pleasantest room in the
house.  It is one of the additions built by uncle after he had
purchased this house--a large, square room on the ground floor, with
curtained windows opening upon the balcony, and upon the old
apple-tree.  It is singularly favorable for music, for it contains no
heavy furniture, and the floor is uncarpeted.  We had intended to
remove all the pictures from the walls, that they might not deaden the
sound of the music, but we could not resist an exquisite "Mary in the
Desert," purchased by uncle in Florence, in 1851; so this painting is
now hung over the piano.

Our sprightly brunette friend with the merry black eyes, Mrs. Acheson,
looked unusually pretty and charming yesterday.  I love to describe
stylish toilettes as well as any fashion-writer; so here is hers in all
its details: steel-colored silk trimmed with turquoise blue,
demi-traine, her hair beautifully dressed (or _coiffured_, to use the
fashionable newspaper word) in puffs and rolls, and finished with a
little blue feather; while an elegant fan attached to half a yard of
gold chain depended from her belt.

When the 4.45 train was at hand, Ida and I walked down to the station
with our friends.  Quite luckily there was a drawing-room car attached
to the train, although such luxury is generally confined to the
express, which does not stop here.  I learnt, however, from the
station-master, that this car had borne some happy pair as far as
Albany the day before, had stayed there over-night for repairs, and was
now returning in a leisurely manner to New York.



CHAPTER VII.

Midsummer Day--An Artist's Visit--Ida's Letter--Moonlight on Croton
Lake--Morning Readings--Plato and Kohlrausch.


_June 21_.

In honor of Midsummer Day, Marguerite and I have spent the morning at
the piano, playing Mendelssohn's delicious fairy music from the
Midsummer Night's Dream.

We have had little time to practise or read this week, for company has
been of almost daily occurrence; Marguerite returned yesterday morning
from a flying visit to the city, accompanied by our friends, Colonel
Rogers and Mr. Hows, the artist, who is a neighbor of ours in our rural
part of the city--Cottage Place.  Colonel Rogers was dressed entirely
in gray, a costume that looked delightfully cool, and was a perfect
match for his eyes.

The morning was spent in playing croquet, and in showing our guests
over the place, whose wild beauty delighted Mr. Hows' artistic eyes.
We walked first to the flower-garden, where we gathered flowers to
dress the table for dinner, and then visited the pine grove, the
romantic dell, and the stone barn of which uncle was always so proud,
where we spent an hour amid the sweet hay.

For the evening a drive was proposed, as we have now quite recovered
from our former dread of malaria.  Ida held the ribbons on this
occasion, and as I was not one of the party, I will insert her graceful
description of the pleasant evening.


"CHAPPAQUA.

"DEAR JULIA: I was so sorry to get your letter saying you could not
come.  I wish you had not let your tiresome old dressmaker deprive me
of the pleasure of your company on our expedition to Croton Lake.

"I must tell you all about the delightful time we had.  Two of the
numerous friends of our blue-eyed Marguerite, Colonel Rogers and Mr.
Hows, whose exquisite pictures you and I have so often enjoyed
together, were our cavaliers on this occasion.  As our light carriage
only has room for four, I drove the ponies myself.  We started just
about sundown, and the pleasant coolness of evening came on while there
was still daylight enough to light up the constantly changing panorama
of hill and dale, and forest and distant river, beyond which the blue
mountain range dimly seen, now seemed to emerge into bolder relief, and
again to fade back into cloud-land.

"Mr. Hows' delight in the scenery was certainly equalled by mine in
listening to its praises.  I am very fond of this part of Westchester,
and when people talk of the beauties of the Adirondacks, I listen with
the silent conviction that we have everything here but the musquitoes
and the bad cooking, with both of which I cheerfully dispense.

"But to return to our drive.  The last mile the road ran through a dark
forest, following the course of a stream called Roaring Brook, which
generally makes good its title to the name, but now, owing to the
recent drouth, was reduced to roaring as gently as Bottom's Lion
promised to do.  At last the lake was reached, and turning to the
right, we were soon skimming along at a great pace on the wide
boulevard that skirts the water as far along as Pine's Bridge.  There
we put up our ponies at a hotel with an impossible and unpronounceable
Indian name, and accepted the Colonel's kind invitation for a row.  We
all regretted there was no moon, with as much self-reproach as if it
had been accidentally left behind, but were glad enough to get into our
little white boat, that looked quite silvery against the dark current.

"The gentlemen, who had been dying to hear Marguerite sing ever since
coming out here, now suggested that her voice was all that was needed
to make the hour perfect; so Marguerite, who is as sweet and unaffected
about her singing as if she hadn't the most exquisite soprano ever
heard off the stage, consented without any tiresome urging, and asked
what it should be.  We were evenly divided between 'Robin Adair' and
Mario's 'Good-bye, Sweetheart,' so our pretty songstress kindly gave us
both.

"I cannot recall the delicious effect of her singing as we were
drifting along in the sombre twilight, better than by quoting Buchanan
Read's charming lines, which I dare say you have seen before:

  "'I heed not if
  My rippling skiff
  Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;
  With dreamful eyes
  My spirit lies
  Under the walls of Paradise.

  "'Under the walls
  Where swells and falls
  The bay's deep breast at intervals;
  At peace I lie,
  Blown softly by
  A cloud upon this liquid sky.

  "'No more, no more
  The worldly shore
  Upbraids me with its load uproar:
  With dreamful eyes
  My spirit lies
  Under the walls of Paradise.'

    "I. L. G."


_June 24_.

The week commenced with a dash of rain, but this morning it was again
as hot as though no clouds had darkened the sky.  Croquet was out of
the question, and not even for the sake of trying my new beaver and
stylish habit, so becoming to a slight figure, could I confront the
dust and the sun's blazing rays upon Nancy's back (for such is the
unromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing me
when we ride).  No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and the
Duchess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and arching
their pretty necks, evidently impatient to be off, were sent back to
the stables, much amazed, I doubt not, at our capricious conduct; while
we--mamma, Marguerite, and I--sauntered up to the cool pine grove,
accompanied by Arthur, bearing a camp-chair for mamma, and a couple of
wise-looking tomes, in whose society we were to spend the morning.

But I have not yet introduced Arthur.  He is neither brother, cousin,
nor _fiancé_, but bound to us by almost brotherly ties, having been our
playmate when we were little children; and after the death of his
parents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artist
wife), he became mamma's ward, and was our constant companion in Italy
and France.  Arthur has come on from Cambridge, where he has just taken
his degree as a lawyer, to make us a visit of some weeks, and we have
had much pleasure talking over with him those poetic days that we
passed together in Florence and Venice.

But _our_ life is never made up of talking and dreaming, delightful
though it may be, and we have a certain amount of reading to do every
day, which we despatch as conscientiously as we do our prayers.  There
is no rule, however, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthur
often relieves us of that duty.  I enjoy his reading very much,
especially when one of Plato's "Dialogues" is the lesson of the day,
for into them he throws so much enthusiasm and dramatic force, that
they are quite a revelation to me.  I was amused this morning, upon
turning over the leaves of my journal of last winter, to find my first
impressions of the "Dialogues" thus laconically expressed:

"I have to-day commenced to read Plato aloud.  I cannot say that I find
him very refreshing as yet; still I try to admire him as much as I
conscientiously can."

I must confess that at first the abstruse subtleties of Socrates and
his brother logicians were too much for my little brain, but now that I
am more familiar with them, I quite delight in following their
arguments.  These "Dialogues" remind me of a fugue in musical
composition; only melody is wanting to make the resemblance perfect,
for here, as in the "Well-tempered Harpsichord," one train of thought
is taken up, viewed from every side and in every light--that is to say,
pursued through every possible key only to return and end at the
original starting-point.



CHAPTER VIII.

Story-telling--Mr. Greeley's Father--His Personal Appearance--His
Education--A Fine Voice--Mr. Greeley's Mother--A Handsome Woman--How
she is remembered in Vermont--Field Labor--Bankruptcy--A Journey to
Vermont--School Days--The Boy Horace--How he entertained his
Playmates--His First Ball--Separation from his Family.


_June 25_.

"What a delightful evening for story-telling!" said Gabrielle, as she
listened to the heavy rain-drops falling upon the leaves of the old
apple-tree; "will you not give us one, Aunt Esther?"

"Yes," said Ida and Marguerite, drawing their chairs closer to mamma's
sofa.  "Do tell us about yourself when you were a young girl, and about
grandpapa and grandmamma!"

"Ah," said mamma, with a sigh, "you children have never known my dear
parents!"

Marguerite was the only one of the young quartette who remembered
having seen grandpapa, and her recollections of him were confused with
memories of people in Europe, where our childhood was spent.

"How did he look when you were a little girl, mamma?" I inquired.  "I
think he is quite imposing in your little picture taken the year before
he died, and he must have been very handsome when he was young."

"He was not only handsome: he was an unusual man," said mamma,
decidedly.  "No biographer, in speaking of our family, has ever
estimated him correctly, and even dear brother himself does not give
sufficient importance to father's fine character and mental qualities;
but you know that he left home when a boy of fifteen, and after that
time he only saw father at long intervals.

"You remember, Cecilia, that all the foreign sketches you have ever
read of brother, announce that his parents were 'common peasants,'
while many American writers, although they do not use the word
'peasant,' convey a similar impression.  Father was by no means a
common man, for to be 'common' one must be vulgar or ignorant, and
father was neither.  He was not uneducated, although his schooling was
very slight; but he was a good reader, was very skilful in arithmetic,
and wrote an excellent hand--an accomplishment for which our family are
not celebrated--beside possessing a hoard of self-acquired information
upon different subjects.  During the long winter evenings in our lonely
Pennsylvania home, he taught us younger children arithmetic, and was
very fond of giving us long sums to puzzle out.  I have often, heard
him say to brother Barnes,

"'You must store your mind with useful knowledge, that when you go out
into the world you will have something to talk about as well as other
people.'

"A poor farmer in those days did not have much opportunity to acquire
accomplishments, as you may well imagine; but father possessed one
talent that, if properly directed, might have made his fortune and
ours.  I have never yet heard a natural voice that excelled your
grandfather's; a high, clear, powerful tenor, with unsurpassed strength
of lungs, which, added to his handsome presence, would have made him
one of the finest singers that has yet trodden the boards.  Of course
his voice was uncultivated, with the exception of the slight training
of country singing-classes, and the songs that he knew were simple
ballads; but his memory was very retentive, and his singing was in
great demand when company was present.  At husking-parties and
apple-bees, when supper was over and the young people wished to dance,
if no fiddler was present, father would be petitioned to sing.  I have
often known him to sing country dances for hours, and he sung so
heartily, and marked the time so well, that the young people enjoyed
the dancing as much as if the music had been furnished by the most
skilful violinist.

"I told you that father was a handsome man.  He had large blue eyes,
soft, silky, brown curls clustering around a magnificent brow, a set
color in his cheeks, and a hand that the hardest field labor could not
deprive of its beauty--long, tapering fingers, and pointed nails, such
as novelists love to describe, but in real life are rarely seen outside
of the most aristocratic families.  His teeth were small, white and
even, and at the time of his death, when eighty-seven years old, he had
only lost one.  His figure, though less than six feet, gave the
impression of a much taller man; for he was slenderly built without
being thin, and his carriage was almost military.  To this fine
presence was added an air of dignity and almost _hauteur_, that was
very unusual in a poor farmer.  But father was proud to an unparalleled
degree.  Indeed, it was his pride that caused him to plunge into the
wild forests of Pennsylvania.  His haughty nature could not bear the
life of subordination that he led in Vermont, where he did not own an
acre of land, and was obliged to work under the orders of others, often
far inferior to him, and where he fancied the story of his flight from
New Hampshire was known to every one.  Smarting with mortification, he
toiled until he could save a few hundred dollars to buy some acres in
the wilderness, far from all his former associates, and there he buried
himself with my dear mother and their five little children.  But these
morose feelings were somewhat subdued as the years rolled on.

"With his children he was affectionate, but, like an old-school father,
very distant.  He never struck one of us in his life--a glance being
sufficient to enforce obedience, or subdue the wildest spirits.  He was
always as particular about the etiquette of the table as though we were
served by footmen in livery; and in our poorest days, when cups and
saucers were scant and spoons still more so, we were obliged to observe
the utmost decorum till we were helped; and any laughing or chatter
among the younger ones was immediately quelled by the emphatic descent
of father's fork upon the coverless table, with the words, 'Children,
silence!'

"Father was highly respected by our neighbors in Pennsylvania, and was
often urged to accept some county office.  However, he always declined."

"Do you think, mamma," said Marguerite, "that grandmamma was as
handsome as grandpapa?"

A pause of a moment or two.

"They were very different," was her reply.  "Mother had neither
father's brilliant face, nor his imposing presence, but she was a very
handsome woman.  She had soft blue eyes, a perfectly straight nose, a
mouth rather large, perhaps, for beauty, but full of character, brown
hair tinged with red, and a transparent, though not pallid complexion.
If you wish more minute details, look at your uncle's picture.  No man
ever resembled a woman more strikingly than he did our dear mother."

"In a recently published life of uncle," said I, "the author speaks of
grandmamma as often working in the fields, and describes her as large
and muscular, and possessing the strength of a man.  Is not that an
exaggeration?"

"Mother was above medium height," was mamma's reply, "but her figure
was slender, with small and well-shaped hands and feet.  It was her
pride that water could flow under the arch of her instep; and her
fingers, notwithstanding the hard toil of daily life, remained so
flexible, that, when fifty years old, she could still bend them
_backwards_ to form a drinking-cup."

"Let me tell you, Aunt Esther," interposed Ida, "how grandmamma is
remembered in Vermont.  When Gabrielle and I were quite small children,
we went there on a visit, and papa took us to see some old lady (whose
name I have forgotten) residing in Westhaven.  This lady had known
grandmamma very well, and, after contemplating Gabrielle and I for some
time, remarked curtly, 'Neither of you children are as handsome as your
grandmother was.'"

This uncomplimentary remark caused us all to laugh heartily.  Mamma
then resumed her story.

"As for field labor, your grandmother may, while we were in New
Hampshire, have sometimes assisted father for a day or two during the
pressure of haying or harvesting time; but never, since I was old
enough to observe, can I recollect seeing her work in the fields.
Certainly mother was not a woman to hesitate to do cheerfully whatever
necessity required.  But she had quite enough to occupy herself at home
with the entire duties of a house, with the spinning, weaving, and
making up of all the linen and woollen cloth that the household used;
and the care and early instruction of her little ones--for it was her
pride that all of her children learned to read before going to school.
I remember that when I was first sent to school, at the age of four,
the teacher, with a glance at my tiny figure (for I was a small,
delicate child), called me up to read to her, and opened the book at
the alphabet.  Deeply injured, I informed her that I knew my letters,
and could read over in 'An old man found a rude boy in one of his
apple-trees,'--a fable that all familiar with Webster's Spelling-book
will remember.

"My first distinct recollection of mother is in the dark days in New
Hampshire.  Father, as you know, had lost everything that he possessed,
and was obliged to fly into the next State to escape imprisonment for
debt.  After he left, his furniture was attached and sold.  I remember
seeing strange, rough men in the house, who pulled open all the trunks
and chests of drawers, and tossed about the beautiful bed and table
linen that mother had wrought before her marriage.  Another picture,
too, is impressed indelibly upon my mind--how mother followed the
sheriff and his men about from room to room with the tears rolling down
her face, while brother Horace, then a little white-haired boy, nine
years old, held her hand and tried to comfort her, telling her not to
cry--he would take care of her.

"But mother, although humiliated and heart-sore at the poverty and
disgrace that lay before her so early in her married life, was not a
woman to fold her hands and think sadly of what

  "'--might have been.'

She wiped away her tears, and her busy fingers were soon preparing warm
hoods and dresses to protect her little ones from the bitter cold
during the journey that lay before us, for in the course of two or
three months father had by hard toil earned money sufficient to send
for us.  I remember very well that journey over the mountains covered
with snow into the State of Vermont, and our establishment in what was
called the 'small house by the ledge' in the little neighborhood of
houses clustering on and about the old Minot estate.

"You children, accustomed as you have been from your infancy to the
attractive text-books of the present day, would quite scorn the system
of instruction at the school I attended in Westhaven.  I went there
three winters, but although I soon rose to the first class in reading
and spelling, in which branches I was unusually precocious, my
education was confined entirely to those two departments of learning.
Few text-books were then used in the school, for the parents of the
children were generally too poor to pay for many, and the musty old
Grammar and Arithmetic were kept in reserve for the older scholars.  On
account of my youth the teacher did not advance me, and I went again
and again through the old Spelling-book, and learnt by heart what was
called the 'fore part of the book'--some dry rules of orthography,
which never conveyed the slightest idea to my mind, although I repeated
them, parrot-like, without missing a word, and which the teacher never
thought of explaining to me.  From the spelling-book I was in time
promoted to the New Testament (not as easy reading as might have been
selected, by the way).  This was followed by the American Preceptor,
and subsequently by Murray's 'English Reader,' a work reserved for the
most advanced scholars.

"My brothers did not go to school during the summer months, for their
services were then required to assist father in his work; and I, too,
had to leave school every day at eleven o'clock to carry their dinner
to them at the place, a mile and a half distant, where they were
clearing a portion of the Minot estate.

"When brother Horace was thirteen years old he was taken out of school,
as the teacher could instruct him no longer.  I was kept at home also,
and brother taught me, giving me lessons in arithmetic and penmanship,
which studies had been prohibited me at school.  Here commenced a most
tender attachment and sympathy between brother and I.  As there were
two children--Barnes and sister Arminda--between us, our difference of
years had hitherto kept us somewhat apart; but after brother had been
for several months my instructor we were from that time the nearest in
heart in our large household.

"I think that mother must have entirely regained her spirits during the
four years that we lived in Vermont, for I remember that men, women,
and children alike delighted in her society, and our house was the
centre of the little neighborhood.  We resided very near the
school-house, and rarely did a morning pass without a visit from some
of the girls, to have a few words of greeting from mother on their way
to their lessons.  When recess time came, they would arrive in numbers
to spend the time with her, and beg for a song or a story from the
inexhaustible supply with which her memory was stored, and there they
would remain, fascinated by her sweet, low voice until she would be
obliged to playfully chase them out of the house to compel them to
return to school.  From the teacher, for tardiness, punishment was a
very frequent occurrence, but it made slight impression upon the girls
in comparison with the enjoyment of listening to one of mother's
thrilling or romantic stories, for the following day they would return
to our house to again risk the penalty.

"I told you that brother taught me after we were taken out of school.
He was the gentlest and kindest of instructors, and was always ready to
lay down his own book to help me out of any difficulty that my lesson
presented, although it was by no means easy to make him close his book
under other circumstances; such as the solicitations of his young
friends to join them in a game.

"I have described father to you as a stern man in his every-day
intercourse with us, but although his motto was 'Work,' he was always
willing to grant us a holiday or a play-hour, when he thought we had
earned it.  He would relax his dignity, too, somewhat when young people
came to pass the evening with us; would encourage us to play games and
dance, and would often join us; for, although he never played cards
himself, nor would he allow them to be played in his house, he himself
taught us how to dance.

"When our young friends came to see us, there was much rejoicing from
brother Barnes, who was full of life and spirits, and always ready to
play, and from Arminda and myself; but brother Horace, not at all
allured by blind-man's-buff or a dance, would retire to a corner with a
pine knot (for in those days candles were few), preferring the
companionship of his book to our merry games.  Coaxing was all in vain:
the only means of inducing him to join us was to snatch away his book
and hide it; but even then he preferred to gather us quietly about him
and tell us stories.  I remember that before he left home he had
related to us, among other things, the thousand and one stories of the
'Arabian Nights,' and 'Robinson Crusoe.'  This gift of story-telling he
inherited from mother, whose talent in that line certainly equalled
that of the beautiful Sultana Scheherazade herself.  At this time,
although I had never seen a copy of Shakespeare, I was familiar with
the names and plots of all his imaginative, and many of his historical
plays, which mother would relate to us in her own words, embellished
now and then with bits of the original verse, as she sat at her
spinning-wheel, or busied herself about the household work.

"It was, I think, at this same time--our last year in Vermont--that a
large ball, for young people only, was given in our neighborhood.  Much
speculation was excited among our young friends as to whether Horace
would dance at this ball, and especially if he would fetch a partner
with him.  It was the general opinion that he would not, as he did not
bear a high reputation for gallantry.  Great, then, was the
astonishment of all present when Horace entered the ballroom with Anne
Bush, the prettiest girl in the neighborhood, upon his arm.  He opened
the ball with her, and his deportment quite silenced those who had
questioned his appearance.

"Before long, preparations for another journey were in progress.
Father had earned money sufficient to buy some land, and I heard that
we were going to Pennsylvania.  I was, however, too young to be much
impressed by this news, and it was not until I saw mother once more in
tears that its importance was apparent to me.  This time mother wept as
bitterly as before, for not only was she to be separated by a greater
distance from her family in New Hampshire, to whom she was fondly
attached, and from the pleasant circle of friends she had made in
Westhaven, but her darling among us children, her beautiful eldest boy,
of whom she was so proud, was to be left in Vermont."



CHAPTER IX.

A Picnic at Croton Dam--The Waterworks--A Game of Twenty
Questions--Gabrielle as a Logician--Evangeline's
Betrothal--Marguerite's Letter--Description of
Chappaqua--Visitors--Edmonia Lewis.


_June 26_.

Gabrielle and I have just returned from spending the day at Croton Dam.
A large party from the prominent families of Chappaqua was organized by
Miss Murray, the pretty daughter of one of our neighbors, and at nine
o'clock a number of carriages, packed to overflowing with young people
and lunch-baskets, and led off by a four-horse wagon, started
caravan-wise from the place of rendezvous, Mr. Murray's elegant grounds.

The drive was a very pretty one, skirting for some distance the
beautiful little lake that supplies the great thirsty city of New York;
and the spot chosen for the picnic--shady, terrace-like heights, with a
gradual slope to meet the water, and a rough bench here and there--was
declared the most suitable place in the world to lay the cloth.  One or
two members of the party remained behind to unload the carriages, count
the broken dishes, and estimate the proportion of contributions--many
people fetching salt in abundance but forgetting sugar, whilst others
furnished elaborately frosted cakes, but omitted such necessaries as
knives and forks.  Meantime, we climbed the stone steps leading to the
waterworks, and after a glimpse of the seething dark-green water
through the heavy iron grating, we hunted up the overseer and asked him
to unlock the doors for us, that we might have a nearer view.  He
assented, and admitted us very obligingly, giving us meantime a graphic
description of the yearly journey of the Inspector in a boat down the
dark passage to New York, and pointing out the low narrow place of
entry from the water-house where they must lie down in the boat.

Dinner hour is generally a most interesting moment in a picnic, and
this was the time when the young gentlemen showed their gallantry by
partaking only of such viands as had come from the baskets of their
favorites among the young ladies.

A cloth was spread upon the ground; seats were extemporized for the
ladies out of carriage cushions, waterproofs and wraps; the knives,
forks and plates were dealt out as impartially as possible, and we
passed a very merry hour.

When the repast was over, the party dispersed--some to play croquet,
others to row upon the lake, or to stroll about under the trees; some
young ladies produced books and bright bits of fancy-work, while
Gabrielle, Arthur and I, with our pretty captain, Miss Murray, and one
of her attendant cavaliers, decided to pass away the time by playing a
game--no trivial game, however; neither "consequences" nor
fortune-telling, but an eminently scientific one entitled "Twenty
Questions."  For the benefit of the uninitiated I will remark that the
oracle chooses a subject (silently), and the others are allowed to put
twenty questions to him to enable them to divine it--usually commencing
with "Is the object that you have in your mind to be found in the
animal, vegetable, or mineral kingdom?"

Gabrielle is very clever in this somewhat abstruse game, for she
possesses her mother's spirit of inquiry and love of reasoning, and she
passes entire evenings with Arthur, pursuing the most perplexing and
intangible subjects.  She and Arthur are admirably matched in this
game; for if she is unparalleled in the quickness with which she will
follow up a clue and triumphantly announce the mysterious object, after
asking eighteen or nineteen questions, Arthur is no less adroit in
selecting unusual subjects, and so artfully parrying her questions as
to give her the least possible assistance.  I often hear them call to
each other--

"I have chosen a subject; you will never in the world guess it!"

Then follows an hour of questions and reasoning, with inferences drawn
and rejected, and a display of sophistry that would do credit to a more
fully fledged lawyer than Arthur is at present.

Yesterday, after dinner, they launched into one of their games, and
Gabrielle guessed after eighteen questions what would have required
forty, I am sure, from any one else--the eighty-eighth eye of a fly!

Another was even more puzzling.  The object belonged, Arthur assured
her, to the vegetable kingdom, the color was white, and he had often
met it within a dozen yards of the railway station.  "A daisy," was the
first and natural solution, but she was, he assured her, very far
adrift.  "A telegraph post," she next announced, but she was again
unsuccessful.  At this point I left them; but after an hour had passed
Gabrielle ran up to my room to tell me that she had guessed it--a polka
dot upon one of her morning dresses!

The object chosen by Arthur at the picnic was the right horn of the
moon.  Gabrielle, this time, sat beside me and enjoyed the perplexity
of the questioners, for not until we were about to step into the
carriage to return home did they guess it.


_June 27_.

A letter this morning from our pretty cousin Evangeline, announcing
that she is engaged to a Dr. Ross of Chautauqua county, where she
lives.  Evangeline is the only daughter of mamma's youngest sister,
Margaret.  She is eighteen years old, of medium height, and well
formed, with a fair complexion, the chestnut hair that is peculiar to
the younger members of the Greeley family, and brown eyes inherited
from her father's family, for the Greeley eye _par excellence_ is blue.
Although Evangeline has been brought up in the quiet little village of
Clymer, she has been well educated, and besides being uncle's favorite
among his nieces, she was much admired in general society during the
winter that she spent with us in New York two years ago.  At uncle's
birthday party, which she attended, she was by many pronounced the
handsomest young lady present.

We have never seen Dr. Ross, but mamma remembers his family well, and
says that "he comes of a good stock."  He is not wealthy, but he is in
a good profession, is of unexceptionable character, and very devoted to
our dear Evangeline; so they have _my_ blessing.  The marriage will not
take place until December, when Evangeline will have laid off her
mourning.

Marguerite's portfolio is open upon her writing-table, and a letter to
Evangeline, not yet sealed, lies between the blotting-sheets.  As it
speaks of Evangeline's betrothal, I will insert it here:


"CHAPPAQUA, _June 27_.

"DEAREST EVANGELINE:--You complain in your last letter that I do not
write enough about Chappaqua and 'the farm.'  You wish particulars.  My
sweet cousin, I thought that you were familiar with descriptions of
this dearest spot on earth, as I remember that dear uncle gave each of
us a copy of his 'Recollections' the last Christmas that you were with
us--the last Christmas indeed that he spent upon this earth.  Peruse
that volume, dear, for in it you will find a more vivid picture, a more
poetic description of his dearly loved home and surroundings, than
anything that I can say.

"As to Chappaqua being a large or small village--it is small, very
small, not half so large as Clymer, where you live; but it is far more
picturesque.  There are only a dozen or two houses in all, including a
couple of stores, a post-office, a 'wayside inn,' and a church without
a bell.  There are, however, many fine residences scattered over the
township; whichever way we drive, we see elegant mansions nestling in a
copse of wood, or crowning some hill-top.

"The valley through which we approach Chappaqua is faced on either side
by a succession of beautiful undulating hills that are thickly covered
with dark-green foliage.  This farm, consisting of eighty-four acres
(for you know that there is another lying adjacent of nearly the same
size), presents very beautiful and varied scenery.  Near the house in
the woods, where uncle and aunt lived so many years, a pretty brook
winds down by the lower barn, and goes singing away through the meadows
bright

  "'With steadfast daisies pure and white.'

But this is not all; this lovely, babbling brook fills a large pond,
high up in the woods, then flows over a stone dam, and comes rushing
down in a succession of waterfalls, stopping for breathing-space in one
of the wildest story-telling glens I ever saw.

"And here, in the gloom of the forest-trees, where the birds love to
congregate, and a thousand perfumes of clover and new-mown hay, and the
aroma of the evergreen grove, come up, Ida and I spend many an hour,
forgetful of city life, and heedless about ever returning to it.

"This year we are occupying the roadside house, which, although not so
beautiful as the new one on the side-hill, nor so retired and romantic
as the one in the woods still is lovely and has a very charming
prospect.  It stands on sloping ground that is skirted by forest and
fruit trees.  Some of them throw their grateful shade on the piazza and
balcony that run the width of the front of the house.  My room opens on
the balcony by three French windows, and here I often walk to catch the
last gleam of departing day, or linger after nightfall to see the
far-away stars come out.  The moonrise here is perfectly enchanting,
climbing up as it does over the eastern hills, and throwing its pensive
light over the silent meadows, and distant, dark woods.

"But I have filled my sheet before speaking of your engagement.  As I
have not seen your handsome doctor, you will not expect me to be
enthusiastic.  I hear that he is intelligent, clever in his profession,
and of excellent character, but not rich.  Well Evangeline, you know I
approve of wealth, combined with other good qualifications; but if I
had to choose between a man of mind and a man of money, I don't think I
would hesitate long which to take; so you are sure of my approbation,
and you have my best wishes for your future happiness.

"Your loving cousin,

"MARGUERITE."


_June 29_.

A visit yesterday from our friend Mrs. Sarah L. Hopper, the clever
contributor to several Southern journals.  Among them the _Washington
Gazette_, and the _True Woman_--the latter an anti-suffrage journal.
Mrs. Hopper not only writes well; she is also a woman of varied and
excellent reading, and the appreciation of the modern classics is
displayed in one of her poems--an admirable apostrophe to the character
and works of Dante.  This poem, which was published some time since,
Mrs. Hopper once recited to us, and both mamma and I were struck with
the true ring of poesy so apparent in it.


_June 30_.

Upon returning from church yesterday, we found the front door standing
open, a couple of arm-chairs upon the piazza, and a newspaper or two in
lieu of the occupants--proof unmistakable of a masculine invasion.  Who
it was we could not imagine; that it was not a neighbor we were
convinced by seeing the morning _Herald_ and _Times_, for the Sunday
papers cannot be obtained here, save by being at the depot when the
interminable way-train comes up from New York, and waylaying the
newsboy who accompanies the cars; and for this our neighbors are rarely
sufficiently enterprising.  Unmistakably our visitors had come from the
city.

Upon questioning Minna, she gave us a graphic description of the
gentlemen.  One was "tall, oh so tall! with dark hair and red
cheeks"--in him we recognized Mr. Walworth Ward--the other was a blonde
gentleman whom she had seen here before.

"Lina has already made wine _padding_," she said, seeing Ida about to
descend and inspect the larder.  "Miss no fret--all right."

Ida and I then started to walk to the grove, where we thought we would
probably find our guests awaiting our return.  Not there, indeed, but
in the vegetable garden we found them, where they were kindly looking
after the interests of the family by weeding the strawberry-beds,
regardless of the Sabbath, and notwithstanding one of the gentlemen was
a grandson of a D.D.  In answer to our regrets that we should have been
absent when they arrived, they mildly intimated some surprise, one
having telegraphed his proposed coming, and the other sent a message
through papa the day previous; dear papa, however, had as usual
forgotten to deliver the message, and whither the telegram went, no one
could imagine.


_July 1_.

A visit yesterday from the little colored sculptress, Edmonia Lewis.
Miss Lewis was accompanied by a box of formidable size, containing, she
told us, a marble bust of Mr. Greeley, which she had brought out here
for the opinion of the family; but as Ida was in the city where she had
gone for a day's shopping, we reserved our judgment until she should
return and see it with us.

I was very glad to learn that Miss Lewis was prospering in both a
pecuniary and an artistic point of view.  She had, she told me,
received two orders for busts of uncle--one from the Lincoln Club, and
one from a Chicago gentleman.  She intends returning to Rome before
long.

Miss Lewis had already opened a studio while we were in Rome four or
five years ago, and I heard much talk about her from her brother and
sister artists.  I intended at one time to visit her studio and see her
work, but several sculptors advised me not to do so; she was, they
declared, "queer," "unsociable," often positively rude to her visitors,
and had been heard to fervently wish that the Americans would not come
to her studio, as they evidently looked upon her only as a curiosity.
When, therefore, I did see her for the first time (last summer), I was
much surprised to find her by no means the morose being that had been
described to me, but possessed of very soft and quite winning manners.
She was amused when I told her what I had heard of her, and remarked,
quite pertinently:

"How could I expect to sell my work if I did not receive visitors
civilly?"

Miss Lewis expressed much gratitude to Miss Hosmer and Miss Stebbins
for their kindness to her in Rome, and of Miss Cushman she said
enthusiastically, "She is an angel!"

She is, I have been told, very well received in society abroad, and
when baptized a Catholic in Rome, two ladies of high position, Countess
Cholmondeley and Princess Wittgenstein, offered to stand godmother for
her.  Edmonia chose Lady Cholmondeley, whom I remember well in Rome as
a great belle and a highly accomplished woman.  She wrote poetry, I was
told, and modelled in clay with much taste, and her finely trained
voice and dainty playing of the harp I well remember as one of the
attractions of Miss Cushman's receptions.

Edmonia has, beside her somewhat hard English appellation, two pretty
baptismal names--Maria Ignatia.



CHAPTER X.

Cataloguing the Library--A Thousand Volumes--Contrasting Books--Some
Rare Volumes--Mr. Greeley's Collection of Paintings--Authenticity of
the Cenci Questioned--A Portrait of Galileo--Portrait of Martin
Luther--Portrait of Greeley at Thirty--Powers' Proserpine--Hart's Bust
of Mr. Greeley--Mosaics and Medallions.


_July 2_.

This morning we have had a family picnic at the side-hill house, where
the amusement was, however, neither "Twenty Questions," gossip, nor
croquet; but arranging and cataloguing uncle's large library.  The
books had hitherto been kept in the house in the woods, with the
exception of those in daily use, filling three good-sized bookcases in
our present residence; but as the house in the woods had been twice
broken into last winter, Ida thought it safer to move them all down
this summer to the side-hill house, where Bernard sleeps.  Accordingly,
a wagon-load or two was brought down the other day and deposited in the
dining-room, and this morning, as we had no guests, and no very
pressing occupations, we all, including Minna, went up there directly
after breakfast to look them over.

"I am resolved," Ida had said, "to have the books catalogued, that I
may know in future how many I yearly lose by lending them to my
friends."  Consequently the work was doubled by the necessity of
writing down the names, and we had unluckily chosen the hottest day
that we had so far experienced for this laborious task.  We all went to
work, however, with as much energy as though the temperature was at a
reasonable degree, and I felt quite proud of my achievements when the
work was done, having catalogued, myself, over three hundred volumes.

Our work was divided: mamma read off the names of the books, and
Marguerite and I wrote them down, and Minna then dusted and carried
them into the next room to Ida, who placed them upon the shelves,
dividing the library into compartments for poetry, biography, science,
fiction, etc.  An endless task it seemed at first to sort the books,
for more than one thousand volumes of all sizes and in every variety of
binding from cloth to calf, had been thrown promiscuously on the floor,
and the hottest antagonists in the political and religious world were
now lying side by side in the apparent enjoyment of peace and
good-will.  "Slavery Doomed" and "Slavery Justified" composed one
externally harmonious group, while "Footfalls on the Boundary of
Another World," "How I became a Unitarian," and Strauss' "Life of
Jesus," lay beside their rigidly orthodox neighbors, the "Following of
Christ," by Thomas à Kempis, Cardinal Wiseman's "Doctrines of the
Church," and a Jesuit Father's idea of the Happiness of Heaven.

Uncle's fondness for his country home was manifested by thirty or more
large volumes upon Agriculture, and several others upon Rural
Architecture, while his literary and aesthetic taste was displayed by a
superb edition of Macaulay, in eight octavo volumes, combining the
whitest of paper and the largest and clearest type, with richest
binding; Lord Derby's translation of the Iliad, Mackay's "Thousand and
One Gems," a large and elegant volume of Byron's complete works, and
Bryant's "Library of Poetry and Song"--the two latter beautifully bound
and illustrated.  Xenophon, Herodotus, Josephus, and Caesar lay off at
an aristocratic distance from their neighbors, and looked down with
scorn upon anything so modern as Noel's "Rebellion," or Draper's "Civil
War in America;" while memories of the buried "Brook Farm" arose from
the past as mamma took up a volume or two upon Co-operative
Associations.

Uncle's strict temperance principles were illustrated by half a dozen
volumes upon the "Effects of Alcohol," including "Scriptural Testimony
against Wine;" and a work or two upon the Tariff Question recalled many
a _Tribune_ editorial penned by the dear, dead hand.

A large dark pile of some twenty volumes loomed up from a distant
corner--Appleton's useful Cyclopaedia--and beside them lay an enormous
Webster's Dictionary, handsomely put up in a chocolate-colored library
binding.

Many elegantly bound volumes were presentation copies from their
authors--among them a magnificent album of languages, beautifully
illuminated, and bound in scarlet morocco, containing the Lord's Prayer
in one hundred different tongues.  This book sold, Ida said, for one
hundred dollars a copy.

In striking contrast with this gorgeous volume were two little
yellow-leaved, shabbily bound books, valued, however, at one hundred
dollars each, and treasures which no money could have bought from
uncle--one a copy of Erasmus, dated Basle, 1528, and the other "The
tvvoo Bookes of Francis Bacon on the Proficience and Aduancement of
Learning, diuine and humane," printed, the fly-leaf states, at London,
in 1605.


_July 3_.

I have not yet, I believe, spoken of more than one or two of the
pictures that uncle bought while in Europe the first time.  He then
spent ten thousand dollars on paintings, a piece or two of sculpture,
and a few little curiosities of art in the way of mosaics and
antiquities from different ruins of Italy, which, for a man who was by
no means a Stewart or an Astor, showed great liberality.  Uncle could
not afford, like ostentatious millionnaires, to dazzle the public with
paintings bought by the yard; but for a man of his means he displayed,
I think, a true love for art and a strong desire to encourage it.  His
purchases, too, were very different from the second-rate pictures so
often purchased abroad by uncultivated eyes, for instead of depending
merely upon his own judgment, he asked the assistance of the sculptor
Story in choosing his souvenirs; and his collection, though small, is
admirable, containing two or three _bonâ-fide_ old masters, purchased
at the sales of private galleries in Florence and Rome.

The pictures, like the books, have been kept hitherto in the house in
the woods, but this spring Ida moved them all to the roadside house
that we might constantly enjoy them, and the parlor now presents quite
the appearance of a museum.  It is over the music-room, and its long
French windows open upon a balcony, from which we daily admire our
tender, Italian-like sunsets.  To the right it is overhung by the
branches of our favorite apple-tree, from whose clusters of tiny fruit
we each chose an apple some days since.  Gabrielle then marked them
with the owner's initial cut out of paper, the form of which we will
find in the autumn indelibly impressed in the apple's rosy cheek.

But to return to our museum.  Upon ascending the stairs one's eyes
first rest upon the "very saddest face ever painted or conceived," as
Hawthorne describes the beautiful Cenci.  While in Rome I resided upon
the Piazza Barberini, opposite the palace containing this exquisite
painting, and I visited it with a devotion almost equalling Hilda's.
Much excitement prevailed that winter in art circles concerning the
authenticity of this picture, and hot discussions took place wherever
the believers and unbelievers chanced to meet.  No possible proof
existed, one party would declare, that Guido had ever painted Beatrice
Cenci; and no one had thought of it as other than a fancy head until
Shelley had aroused the interest of the public in the half-forgotten
tragedy of poor Beatrice's sad life by the sombre drama, "The Cenci."
From that time, they say, caprice has christened this picture Beatrice
Cenci, and Hawthorne has added much to its interest by the prominence
he gives it in the "Marble Faun."  They, however, are unable to find
the traces of sorrow, the "tear-stained cheeks" and "eyes that have
wept till they can weep no more," so eloquently described by all
writers and art-critics of the present day; and so far I agree with
them--the face does not impress me with such depths of woe.

Their opponents, however, hold the time-honored tradition that Guido
painted Beatrice in her cell upon the morning of her execution, or as
she stood upon the scaffold--for there are two versions of the
story--and that the gown and turban which she wears were made by her
own hands on the night preceding the fatal day.  But no words of mine
can give a fair idea of this celebrated painting: I will transcribe
Hawthorne's description of it.

"The picture represented simply a female head; a very youthful,
girlish, perfectly beautiful face, enveloped in white drapery, from
beneath which strayed a lock or two of what seemed a rich though hidden
luxuriance of auburn hair.  The eyes were large and brown, and met
those of the spectator, but evidently with a strange, ineffectual
effort to escape.  There was a little redness about the eyes, very
slightly indicated, so that you would question whether or no the girl
had been weeping.  The whole face was quiet; there was no distortion or
disturbance of any single feature, nor was it easy to see why the
expression was not cheerful, or why a single touch of the artist's
pencil should not brighten it into joyousness.  But in fact it was the
very saddest picture ever painted or conceived; it involved an
unfathomable depth of sorrow, the sense of which came to the observer
by a sort of intuition.  It was a sorrow that removed this beautiful
girl out of the sphere of humanity, and set her in a far-off region,
the remoteness of which--while yet her face is so close before
us--makes us shiver as at a spectre."

Next to the Cenci a St. Francis hangs, his hands devoutly folded and
his head bowed in pious meditation upon the sufferings of his Redeemer,
whose figure bound upon the Cross lies before him.  The skull at his
feet and the dreary landscape surrounding him indicate his hermit-life
of isolation and penance.  The Saint is dressed in the coarse brown
habit of a mendicant friar, and his face is luminous with that
gentleness that distinguished his character after his conversion; for
it is recorded of him that he would step aside rather than harm the
smallest insect.

Above St. Francis is one of the most precious gems, historically and
intrinsically considered, of the collection.  The picture is
small--only cabinet size; but it is none the less valuable on that
account, when we reflect that it dates from the sixteenth or early in
the seventeenth century.  It is a portrait of Galileo painted from life
by Andrea Bartone, and was bought at a sale of the Santi Gallery.  Only
the head and bust are represented--the latter clothed in a dark-brown
open vest, with a scarlet mantle thrown over the shoulders; but the
face is one that would not easily be forgotten--a rugged, powerful
face, with great, earnest eyes, scant hair well sprinkled with gray,
and deep furrows lining the dark brow.

Over the doorway, opening into the room that was formerly Aunt Mary's,
is an antique marble medallion of Juno, the haughty Mother of the gods;
this was dug up near Tusculum.

Next comes an exquisite Madonna and Child by Carlo Dolce (a copy).  The
mother's face is youthful and radiant with divine beauty: the Infant
Jesus stands upon her knee, and extends a plump little hand in
benediction.

Next, a portrait of uncle painted in 1839--two years earlier than the
one that hangs in the dining-room.  This picture, mamma says, was an
excellent likeness of him when he was twenty-eight years old; and the
biographers who are so prone to describe him in his younger days as
having been "uncouth" and "awkward," would be, I think, much startled
if they could see it.  His coat is black, with a black tie, like other
gentlemen, and his air, instead of being "rustic" or "gawky," is
expressive of gentle dignity, while his face, so often described as
plain, is to me beautiful enough to have represented a young saint.

Next these pictures is another medallion--the "Mother of the Gracchi,"
and under them a small table upon which stand several marble
curiosities: a model of the tomb of Scipio, Minerva issuing from the
head of Jupiter, and two busts of Roman soldiers in the time of
Titus--antiques, and quite yellow and valuable.

In the centre of the parlor is a round table bought in Rome, and made
of variegated marble taken from the ruins of the palace of the Caesars.

In a corner, upon a handsome pedestal, stands Powers' bust of
Proserpine, of which uncle was especially proud.  He speaks of it in
his "Glances at Europe," in these words:

"I defy Antiquity to surpass--I doubt its ability to rival--Powers'
Proserpine and his Psyche with any models of the female head that have
come down to us; and while I do not see how they could be excelled in
their own sphere, I feel that Powers, unlike Alexander, has still
realms to conquer, and will fulfil his destiny."

A very prominent picture, and one that was a great favorite with uncle,
is an original portrait of Luther, by Lucas Cranach, one of the great
lights of the Flemish school of painting.  I have seen in the Dresden
Gallery the counterpart to this picture, painted by the same artist,
but representing Luther after death.  I much prefer the animated
expression of the _living_ picture, for it is hard to think of the
fiery reformer as dead, even at this late day.

Over the sofa is a large Holy Family, a painting in the school of
Raphael, and underneath it hangs one of our most valuable pictures--a
veritable Guercino, painted in 1648.  The subject is St. Mary Magdalen.

I wish that I had time to write in detail of all the beautiful things
in the parlor--a card-table made like the centre-table of classic
marble from the ruins of Rome, an exquisite moonlight view of a
Benedictine Convent upon the Bay of Naples, with a young girl kneeling
before the shrine of the Madonna; a Venetian scene--the Doge's palace
with its graceful, Moorish architecture; St. Peter and St. Paul; the
Cumaean Sybil, a beautiful female figure whose partly veiled face
seemed full of mystery; St. Agatha, and an Ecce Homo.  There are still
some more marble medallions that I have not mentioned; several valuable
antiques, portraits of Alexander the Great and Tacitus, and a
bas-relief representing the flight of Aeneas--the former found near the
Appian Way--and two others that are comparatively modern--likenesses of
Pope Clement XI., and Vittoria Colonna, the gifted Italian poetess of
the fifteenth century.

But I have not yet spoken of the pearl of our museum.  This piece of
sculpture was not one of uncle's Italian purchases, nor does it date
back for centuries, but it is priceless to us, especially as it is, we
believe, the only copy now existing.  I allude to the bust made of
uncle in 1846 by Hart, the Kentucky sculptor.  This bust was the first
work of importance that Mr. Hart had ever executed, for he was then in
the first flush of manhood, and the early vigor of that genius that has
since wrought out so many beautiful creations.  Then, however, he had
not modelled his fine statue of Henry Clay, ordered by the ladies of
Virginia, nor had he even dreamed of his lovely "Triumph of Woman" that
when finished will send his name down to posterity, as our greatest
_creative_ American sculptor.

Mamma was living with uncle when Mr. Hart arrived in New York with a
commission from Cassius M. Clay to make this bust, and she has often
told me all the circumstances of the sittings.  Uncle was then, as
ever, extremely busy, and it was very difficult for him to give Mr.
Hart an occasional half hour for a sitting.  As ordinary means failed,
Mr. Hart brought his clay and instruments to _The Tribune_ office, and
there he worked whilst uncle rested from his daily editorial labors;
but even while "resting," his lap was full of newspapers, and he could
not afford the time to "pose," for his eyes were rapidly scanning their
columns.

"I never," said mamma, "knew an artist to make such a study of
another's face as Mr. Hart did of brother's.  He was not content with a
mere sitting from him now and then; he visited him at the house; he
watched his face in company, and attended every occasion when he spoke
in public, that he might model him, he said, in his best mood.
Consequently the bust was the most perfect likeness that had ever been
made of brother, and as his face was then delicate and his features so
classic in their cut, it was, I thought, the most beautiful piece of
sculpture that I had ever seen.  It was quite a revelation to dear
brother, who in his modesty had never had an idea of his own beauty."

Ten plaster busts were struck off for the family and a few intimate
friends, but as none of them were ever put into marble, they have all,
I believe, with the exception of this one, been destroyed.  Mamma's
copy was overthrown by Marguerite's little hands when a child; another
belonging to one of our cousins was broken by her little son; and
although Cassius Clay's copy was buried, Mr. Hart told me, during the
war to save it from the hands of the soldiers, he had no reason to
suppose that it finally had escaped the fate of the others.  Aunt Mary,
however, in her anxiety to preserve her copy, at once enveloped it in
linen, and packed it in a box.  Consequently it is now as perfect as
the day it left the studio; but mamma had never seen it from that time
until this spring, when Ida exhumed it from the store-room.

Mr. Hart and uncle were always warm friends, although Mr. Hart left for
Europe soon after completing this bust, where he has since remained,
with the exception of a flying visit to America about twelve years ago.
Uncle speaks of visiting his studio in 1851, in these words ("Glances
at Europe," page 217):

"I saw something of three younger sculptors now studying and working at
Florence--Hart of Kentucky, Galt of Virginia, and Rogers of New York.
I believe all are preparing to do credit to their country.  Hart has
been hindered by a loss of the models at sea from proceeding with the
statue of Henry Clay, which he is commissioned by the ladies of
Virginia to fashion and construct; but he is wisely devoting much of
his time to careful study, and to the modelling of the ideal, before
proceeding to commit himself irrevocably by the great work which must
fix his position among sculptors, and make or mar his destiny.  I have
great confidence that what he has already carefully and excellently
done is but a foretaste of what he is yet to achieve."



CHAPTER XI.

The Fourth of July--A Quaker Celebration--The House in the Woods--Mrs.
Greeley's Life there--Pickie--Mary Inez--Raffie--Childhood of Ida and
Gabrielle--Heroism of Mrs. Greeley--The Riots of 1863--Mrs. Greeley
defends her House against the Mob.


_July 5_.

Yesterday was the pleasantest Fourth I ever experienced in America.
Last year at this time I was upon the Catskill Mountains, and was
aroused at an unearthly hour by the discharge of a cannon, whose
reverberation was something appalling, and made me doubt if I was not
shot.  The hotel was graced with the presence of some thirty or forty
children, whose fond parents had invested largely in fire-crackers and
toy cannon for them, and no place upon the grounds, it seemed, was so
favorable for the ebullition of youthful patriotism as the spot
directly under my window.  Consequently, as I was already weak from the
effect of a prolonged attack of nervous fever, I was before nightfall
in a state akin to distraction, and filled with anything but patriotic
sentiments.  I could not then but think with regret of a previous
Fourth spent upon the steamship _St. Laurent_, where fire-crackers were
tabooed, and the celebration consisted entirely of a magnificent
dinner, and speeches--during the latter I made my escape to the deck.

This year was pleasanter still.  I do not know if the Chappaqua people
are less patriotic than other citizens of the Union, but our nerves
were only disturbed by the occasional popping of a fire-cracker in the
garden of our neighbor, the train-master over the way; and when we
strayed off to the Glen after dinner, we were as free from disturbing
noise as though our country had not been born ninety-seven years ago.
But although noisy demonstrations do not seem the fashion here (perhaps
owing to the predominance of Quakers in the neighborhood), the dormant
enthusiasm of the people for the Fourth was aroused at sundown, when a
mass meeting was held at the tavern, or "Chappaqua Hotel" as it is
grandly styled, and lengthy and energetic speeches were delivered.
From our piazza we could hear the orators' voices ascending to a very
high key as they warmed with their topic, and quite congratulated
ourselves that we were not obliged to be of the audience.

After dark there was a small display of Roman candles and sky-rockets;
and so ended the glorious Fourth.


_July 6_.

I have again dreamed away an entire morning upon the piazza of the
house in the woods--to me the stillest, sweetest spot in the world.  I
have described this dear old house and its romantic surroundings again
and again since I have been here this summer.  I can scarcely turn over
half a dozen leaves of my journal without finding some allusion to it;
but it is a subject possessing such fascination for me that I must
again revert to it.  I like to pass a quiet hour upon the steps of the
piazza, or upon the large moss-grown boulder in front of the house
where Ida, Raphael, and Gabrielle have all played; and while my fingers
are busily employed with some fanciful design wrought with gold thread
or emerald-green silk,

  "My thoughts wander on at their own sweet will,";

oftenest returning, however, to Aunt Mary's life here in the woods with
her little children.  A lonely, comfortless life many women would have
deemed it, so entirely shut in as she was from the outer world; and to
any one less self-reliant and self-sustained than Aunt Mary it would
have been so.  For that there were discomforts in her country life I do
not doubt, although they were much lessened by uncle's easy
circumstances; and the house itself was finished off with all the city
improvements and conveniences practicable to introduce into a building
of its size and situation.  Still, the house was distant from good
markets, and the trees encircled it so closely that the sun's rays did
not penetrate the rooms until ten o'clock; but Aunt Mary loved her
trees as though they were human, and at that time would not allow one
to be cut down, notwithstanding the dampness that they created.  An
idle woman would have regretted the distance at which the house stood
from the public road, as no distraction ensued from looking out of the
windows; and a timid or nervous one would have dreaded the long nights
in that solitary house when uncle was in the city or absent upon
lecturing tours, and no neighbor was within calling distance in case of
danger.

Occasionally, too, Aunt Mary would be left without servants, for all
American ladies know how difficult it is to retain them in the country,
especially in so small and lonely a place as Chappaqua was then, and
although she frequently had some friend making her long visits of
months, still there were days when she would be alone with only the sad
memory of her buried darlings, her splendid Pickie, the pride and hope
of both parents, and sweet little Mary Inez, and her two living
children, too young to be very companionable.

Raphael, mamma says, was a beautiful boy, although not perhaps so
noticeable as Pickie, for he had not his brilliant color, and his hair,
too, was not so dazzling in shade, but very much like his father's.
His features, however, were quite as finely cut as those of his much
admired brother, and his temperament was gentle and loving.  Ida
cherishes very tender memories of him, for he was the only brother whom
she knew, and her constant playfellow before Gabrielle's birth.  There
were seven years difference in the ages of the brothers.  Pickie died
at five, of cholera; and Raffie at seven years old, of croup.

But although Aunt Mary had such sad memories in the past, she had two
beautiful children left to her, and for them she lived this life of
seclusion at Chappaqua, remaining here six months of every year that
they might acquire a fine physical development from walking, driving,
and riding in the pure country air.  Ida has often told me of the wild
games of play she used to have when a child with Osceola, a little
Indian boy, and dwelt especially upon her prowess in racing down hill
in emulation of him.  The parents of this boy then occupied the
roadside house, which did not at that time belong to uncle.

Gabrielle's stories are different.  She loved to ride the unbroken
colts, and tend her menagerie in the play-house.  She has, too, much to
tell about the way her mother used to train her to be as fearless in
case of fire or thieves as she was when seated upon a bare-backed
horse, and often she has made me smile, though fully recognizing the
wisdom of Aunt Mary's lessons, when telling me how she was obliged to
rehearse imaginary escapes from fire or midnight attacks.

Besides a devoted love for her children, a passion for the beautiful in
Nature, and fondness for solitude and books, or the companionship of
some one person of congenial tastes and highly cultured mind, Aunt Mary
possessed a fund of moral strength and heroism that one might indeed
read in the flash of her black eyes, but which a casual observer would
think incompatible with her frail figure.  It was, however, many times
severely tested during uncle's absence when she had no male protector
to whom to look for assistance: but then she proved all-sufficient in
herself.  At one time a number of workmen were employed upon the
place--rough, sullen creatures--who used to come to her to receive
their pay; and knowing her, a delicate, sickly woman, to be there
alone, they would often clamor for more wages than they were entitled
to receive, but never could they frighten her into granting it, for
though generous and charitable, nothing was more repugnant to her
feelings than an attempt to take an unfair advantage of her.

Upon one occasion, a man with whom she had had some business
transactions came to claim a payment that was not due him.  Aunt Mary
explained to him that he was not entitled to it, and refused to see him
again.  He returned another day, and she would not allow the door to be
opened.  He then remained outside pulling the bell and thumping for
admittance.  Aunt Mary spoke to him from the balcony above, and
requested him to leave.  He vowed he would not stir without his money,
and tried to coerce her by the most frightful threats and oaths.  "When
his imprecations were at their highest, Aunt Mary descended, and
throwing open the door, told him to come in; then turning to Gabrielle,
who stood beside her, said:

"Go upstairs and fetch my pistol off from the bureau."

Upon hearing these words the man left very quickly, and never returned
again to annoy her.  In relating this incident to me, Gabrielle said:

"Of course I knew perfectly well that I would find no pistol upon the
bureau, but I had been too well trained by mamma to show the slightest
surprise, and promptly went upstairs in quest of imaginary firearms."

But this exhibition of cool courage paled in contrast with the true
heroism of Aunt Mary displayed at the time of the terrible anti-draft
riots in July, 1863.  Living in the retirement of the woods, she was
not in the habit of going down to the village or associating with the
neighbors; consequently, she was rarely informed upon the local news.
She wondered that no letters or papers had arrived for a day or two,
but merely supposing that some accident upon the road had delayed the
mails, she went about her ordinary occupations, perfectly unconscious
of the peril she was in.  Finally, Mr. Quinby, a Quaker neighbor, came
to the house by a long circuit, and informed her that a mob of about
three hundred men, who had collected from Sing Sing and other parts of
the country, were drinking at the tavern, and threatening to sack
"Greeley's house," and hang the family to the nearest trees.  It was at
the risk of his life that Mr. Quinby had come to warn Aunt Mary, and he
implored her to escape as quickly as possible, and offered to conceal
her and the children in his house.

Aunt Mary did not shriek or fall down in a fainting fit upon learning
that hundreds of desperate men were threatening her life.  Although she
had been very ill and was still weak, perfectly cool and collected, she
considered what was best to be done.  Her husband was in New York, and
of the dozen or so Irish laborers employed upon the place, two or three
had already been seen drinking amicably with the rioters, and the
others, as well as the Irish servant, she feared to trust Clark, the
overseer, a very competent Englishman, was an excellent shot; but what
could one man do against three hundred?  As for saving herself by
deserting her house, Aunt Mary scorned to do it; but immediately
devised a plan that reminds one of the heroism of a Dame Châtelaine of
the Middle Ages.

First of all, the valuables were to be moved, but without exciting the
suspicions of the servant or workmen, as they might inform the rioters.
The men were accordingly sent off to a distant part of the farm to
work, and the maid kept busy, while twelve trunks were lowered into a
wagon standing at the back of the house.  Mr. Quinby immediately
covered them with hay, and drove to his own house, where he stored them
until the trouble should be over, and then sent his son back to help
the family.

To Gabrielle's surprise, her mother and Ida now appeared in very
voluminous and housewifely looking aprons, and were constantly going up
and down stairs.  At last an untimely draught blew Aunt Mary's apron
aside, and Gabrielle, who had not been informed of the danger, caught a
glimpse of the picture of the Archangel Gabriel.  All of the pictures
and pieces of sculpture were then removed to a little hut in the
orchard near the stables, built in the side of a hillock, half under
ground, and quite overgrown by vines; and when both pictures and the
precious books were safely out of the house Aunt Mary felt that she
could breathe.  By that time Clark had returned from Sing Sing, where
he had purchased a large amount of gunpowder by Aunt Mary's direction.
This he arranged in a train from the house to a distant point, and the
preparations were then completed.  When the rioters should come Aunt
Mary was to speak to them from the balcony and warn them to go away,
and in the meantime Mr. Quinby and Clark were to take the children out
of the house by the back window, which was but a step to the top of a
low woodshed, from which they could easily get to the ground.  Then,
while the rioters were storming the barricaded doors, Aunt Mary was to
make her escape, and when she and the children were at a safe distance
a match was to be applied to the gunpowder, blowing up alike house and
rioters.

Mr. Quinby, being a Quaker, had looked on reluctantly while the mine
was being laid, and when he had done all he could to help Aunt Mary, he
returned to the tavern to see the state of affairs there.  He found the
mob still drinking, and uttering horrible threats against the family.
His conscience then obliged him to give the wretches a hint of the doom
that awaited them, ending with these words:

"Heed my warning, my brethren; Horace Greeley is a peace man, but Mary
Greeley _will_ fight to the last!"

After dark, the rioters came to the gates and howled, and uttered
threats, but dared not approach very close to the fortress armed by a
sick woman and two children; and when weary of exercising their lungs
went peacefully away.  Meantime, Aunt Mary, being fatigued by the
exertions of the day, laid down, Ida said, when everything was in
readiness to meet the rioters, and slept peacefully till morning.



CHAPTER XII.

Pen Portraits--Lela--Majoli--Guerrabella and Celina--Their
Characteristics.


_July 8_.

While looking over a box of old letters and newspapers this morning I
came across a little sketch descriptive of our quartette, written last
winter for a New York journal.  This sketch, or "Pen Portraits," as it
was styled, veils our identity under fictitious names, the initials
only being preserved, and although it passes over our imperfections and
very much exaggerates our accomplishments, still it contains, I think,
so much that is characteristic that I will preserve it by copying it
into my journal.  The writer commenced with a description of mamma's
room in Cottage Place, and dwelt particularly upon a picture of uncle
hanging over the mantelpiece, but that portion of the sketch has been
torn off and lost.

. . . . . . "But let us regard the _living_ pictures.  You see that
youthful group!  A group to inspire a poet or painter!  They are
four--they are cousins.  Two are orphans; you see a resemblance to the
face in the frame wreathed in _immortelles_.  We will first observe
those two that sit with arms entwined, smiling up into each other's
eyes.  It is the gentle Lela[1] and her cousin Majoli, _belle_ Majoli
we may call her.  These cousins are nigh the same age, and their hearts
beat in sweet accord.  And there is a certain likeness, spiritual more
than physical--for Majoli is taller and slighter, and fairer, too, if
we reckon by the hue of the hair and color of the eyes.

"Lela has soft, soliciting, brown eyes; Majoli is azure-eyed, laughing
or languid according to her varying mood.  Lela's face is pale as
moonbeams; filial solicitude and divine sorrow have left their
chastening impression upon her exquisite lineaments.  Her countenance
is Madonna-like in purity, ingenuousness, and self-abnegation.

"Majoli's delicate features are untouched by pain or care, and though
her spiritual countenance is often tinged with melancholy, no harsh
experience has traced those pensive lines.  'Tis but the soul's
limning--a musical nature is hers, emotional and imaginative.

"Lela's head is large, though not unfeminine, and the magnificent
wealth of tawny-colored hair reminds one of Guercino's Holy Magdalen.
She has pretty, modest ways of looking down under those pale, drooping
lids with her calm, confiding eyes, and if the mouth is somewhat large,
the teeth are white and even, and the lips are coral-tinted.  The nose
is straight and slender, and suggests the chisel of Phidias, and from
the expansive brow we infer a broad culture and comprehensive
understanding.  It is the seat of Philosophy, as well as the throne of
the Muses.

"Majoli's head is smaller than Lela's, but its pose is aristocratic and
graceful.  The blonde hair is artistically coiffed, and though the
features are not strikingly regular, there is sympathy and great
sweetness in the face, and art and refinement are expressed even by the
slim, pale hands.  An airy, lithesome figure she has, and the beat of
her footfall is cadenced to the measure of joyous music.  Frail she
seems compared with Lela's well-rounded figure, but if she has not
equal strength, she has elasticity; and if more energy and power is
indicated by the physiognomy of Lela, Majoli has ambition and judgment
to compensate.

"We have compared Lela's face to the rich portraiture of Guercino;
Majoli's suggests the pencil of that famous old Spanish master, Ribera,
whose pictures of women were always a blending of the elegance of a
court lady with the simplicity and _naïveté_ of a church devotee.  Half
belle, half _religieuse_ we may style her.

"And on what have these dainty minds been nurtured, and who have been
their intellectual mentors?  Lela has been bred within a cloister's
walls, and foreign travel has polished both mind and manners.

"In no school has Majoli's mind been formed, nor is she greatly
indebted to learned professors for her mental attainments.  A mother's
love has quickened the budding intellect, a mother's intelligence has
trained and directed the unfolding powers.  The grace of foreign speech
is on her tongue, and scenes and pictures of distant lands are
enshrined in her memory.  Ancient lore has for her a peculiar charm;
history is her delight; Plutarch, Josephus, Gibbon, Macaulay, she has
conned well.  Poesy she loves much.  The poetry of the Bible, Dante,
Schiller, Herbert, Browning, are her favorites.  In sacred books she
finds sweet enjoyment.  The Fathers of the Church afford her great
pleasure; St. Augustine, St. Basil, Thomas à Kempis, etc.  She has the
grace of devotion, but her love of the Church is affected more by its
aesthetical qualities than its theological dogmas.

"Lela is a passionate book-lover.  There are few modern writers that
have not furnished entertainment to her accomplished mind, and she is
not unacquainted with the best Latin and Greek authors.  English,
German, and French literature are alike open to her.  Biography,
essays, dramas, poetry, with more serious reading, occupy her time.
Virgil and Horace, Bacon, Shakespeare, Racine, Victor Hugo, Heine and
George Eliot may be mentioned as among her preferences.

"But while we are attempting to portray some noticeable characteristics
in Lela and Majoli, how are Celina and Guerrabella occupied?  You see
Guerrabella has a pencil in her hand.  She is sketching a head; if we
look closely, we shall probably recognize our own, grotesquely drawn,
for there is no denying that our young genius is fond of caricaturing
her friends.  Celina sits by a table; her large, open eyes have a
distant, dreamy expression.  Her pen moves rapidly across the page; she
is writing a Musical Recollection, we may presume.

"Guerrabella is the youngest of the group.  She is tall, picturesque,
imposing.  Her face is radiant with blushes, dimples, and smiles.  She
looks so fresh and beautiful that she might have set for Greuze's
picture of 'Sweet Sixteen.'  A sense of thorough enjoyment flashes from
the bright, blue-gray eyes, and is indicated by the rose-bloom on cheek
and lips.  There is an air of strength and courage perceptible, and a
certain dash in her manner that associates her with Scott's favorite
heroine, Di Vernon.  She has great mimic powers, and might adorn the
histrionic stage.  Towards art and literature she seems equally
attracted, and what she will eventually decide to follow we cannot now
predict.  She will fail in nothing for want of talent.

"Celina's height scarce reaches to Guerrabella's shoulder; her figure
is fragile and dainty; and though her cheek lacks bloom, the lines are
soft and graceful, and the face pensive and poetic.  The mouth is small
and well curved, and the air of repose that rests upon the imaginative
brow resembles the Muse of Meditation.  The serenity that is uniformly
spread over her unique countenance is in strong contrast to the
animated, vivacious features of her cousin.  Celina's head is fashioned
after a classic model, and the mass of amber-hued hair which crowns it
might be taken for an aureola.  Her pansy-like eyes are full of sweet,
poetic vision.  The brow is marked by delicately defined eyebrows, and
the eyelashes are long and silken.  'Tis a melodic countenance,
foreshadowing that dream-world from which our young heroine has never
for a moment awakened.  Too _petite_, some might deem her, for womanly
perfection; but physical symmetry, ease, and a dignified bearing
elevate the fairy figure to the true standard.  She moves about with an
airy grace, and nothing earthly is lighter than her footfall.  Her
small, delicate hands grace the keyboard, and music in her has an
enchanting interpreter.

"Guerrabella participates in the family passion for literature.  She
possesses great intellectual independence, and her preferences are
decided, usually inclining to the bold and strong.  She is fond of
Macaulay's 'Heroic Lays of Many Lands;' she rejoices in Becky Sharp;
and there is a tradition that she learned to read in the works of
Thackeray, spelling out the words of that magnificent novel, Henry
Esmond.

"Celina has explored the treasures of classic lore in music and
literature.  Homer, Herodotus, Plato, she has read, with Tasso and his
chivalrous lays, and Spenser and his stately verse.  In music, Glück
and Grétry, Beethoven and Boieldieu's dulcet tones have helped to
fashion her musical mind.

"But we must not dismiss our heroines without indicating the toilettes
that most become them.  Velvets and rich brocade befit the Lady Lela's
superb figure.  Scarlet is her color, and diamonds her essential
ornament.  The moss-rose should be her favorite flower.

"Soft gray or pale azure of light fabrics do best agree with Majoli's
sylph-like form.  Pearls and feathers are consonant to her artistic
taste.  Her emblematic flower is the lily, of sacred and legendary lore.

"All shades and fabrics of whatever texture harmonize with
Guerrabella's style.  Ample should be the folds that habit her majestic
figure, and brilliant the gems that are to rival her flashing,
sparkling eyes: yet we might indicate _couleur de rose_ as best
blending with her own exquisite tints, and the opal with its mysterious
light as in some way prefiguring her genius and high destiny.

"And how shall we vest our _mignonne_--Celina?  Gossamer tissues,
fabrics of airy texture--a magic web for the daintiest Lady in our
Land.  No color of human invention; their dyes would oppress her.
_White_ with a gleam of moonlight upon it; a reflection of the aura of
her hair, or the first pale beams of the morning.  Other gems would I
not but those wondrous starlike eyes, to light up a face radiant with
thought and sensibility."


[1] For Lilian, Ida's second name.



CHAPTER XIII.

Biography of Mr. Greeley--Gabrielle's Questions--Mrs. Cleveland's
Corrections--The Boy Horace not Gawky, Clownish, or a Tow-head--His
Parents not in Abject Want--Mr. Greeley's Letter about his Former
Playmates--Young Horace and his Girl Friends--He Corrects their Grammar
and Lectures them upon Hygiene--He disapproves of Corsets.


_July 10_.

"Auntie, is it possible," said Gabrielle, indignantly running into
mamma's room with an open volume in her hand, "that papa was as homely
and awkward when a boy and young man as this writer describes him?
'Tow-head,' 'gawky,' 'plain,' and 'clownish,' are some of the most
uncomplimentary epithets applied to him.  He is described as having
'white hair with a tinge of orange at the ends,' and as 'eating as if
for a wager;' while grandpapa, the writer says, was so poor that papa
had to walk barefooted over the thistles, without a jacket, and in
trousers cut with an utter disregard of elegance or fit, and it was
remarked that they were _always_ short in the legs, while one was
invariably shorter than the other.  Was it possible that grandpapa
could not afford an inch more of cloth to make poor papa's trousers of
equal length, and was it true that papa never had but two shirts at a
time until he came to New York, and that he never had any gloves?  When
he was an apprentice in Portland every one used to pity him, Mr. ------
says, as he walked shivering to the _Spectator_ office on cold winter
days, thinly clad, and with his gloveless hands thrust into his pockets
to protect them from being frost-bitten!"

"My child, you overwhelm me with your questions," said mamma.  "Let me
take them singly, and I will do my best to refute this writer's
unpleasant statements.

"First as to personal appearance.  You say he styles your papa 'plain'
as a boy.  That is absurd, for his features, like mother's, were as
perfect as a piece of Grecian sculpture.  'Tow-head' is also a
mis-statement.  Brother's hair never was at any time tow-color, and the
tinge of orange at the ends existed only in the author's imagination.
Tow-color, you know, is a sort of dirty white or gray; whereas
brother's hair, until he was thirty years old, was like Raffie's, pure
white.  After that time, it commenced to change to a pale gold-color,
which never, however, deepened into orange.  What was your next
question, my dear?"

"About papa's wardrobe," said Gabrielle, her cheeks still flushed with
excitement; "were you indeed so miserably poor, auntie?"

"We were certainly very poor after father failed," said mamma firmly,
"but we were by no means reduced to abjectness.  I can never remember
the time, in our poorest days, when the boys had not, besides their
brown linen work-day shirts, cotton shirts for Sunday, and father his
'fine shirt' to wear to church and for visiting.  Your papa was dressed
suitably for our station in life--neither better nor worse than the
sons of neighbors in our circumstances.  As for going barefoot, all
country boys at that time did so during the summer months; your papa
was not an exception.

"You speak of his gloveless hands.  I never saw a pair of kid gloves
worn by farmers while we lived in Vermont or Pennsylvania; and
certainly they would have been very inappropriate for a boy-farmer or a
printer's apprentice to wear; but brother was always, both at home and
at Poultney, supplied with warm woollen mittens of mother's knitting.
As for the cut of his trousers, I am surprised that any sensible author
should use so unfit a word as 'elegance' in speaking of a poor farmer's
clothing.  I told you the other day that our wardrobe for every-day
wear was spun, woven, and made by mother, and it is not to be expected
that home-made coats and trousers should have the cut of a fashionable
New York tailor; but they were, at all events, warm and comfortable.
That brother's trousers were always short, and especially in one leg,
is an absurd fabrication.  The story may perhaps have risen from some
one who remembers his lameness in Poultney, when he acquired the habit
of dragging one leg a little after the other, and that style of walking
may have apparently shortened one of the trouser legs.  Have you
anything else to ask, little one?"

"Yes, auntie," said Gabrielle, smiling at mamma's methodical way of
answering: "was papa an awkward boy, and did he eat vulgarly?"

"I have told you, dear," mamma replied, "how we were brought up.  I
never saw your papa eat ravenously while he was at home; for father was
a despot at table, and any appearance of gluttony would have been
quickly checked by the dreaded descent of his fork upon the table.  I
think it probable that later in life, when your papa became a
distinguished man, and every moment was of value, that he did eat
quicker than was consistent with the laws of etiquette, but not when he
was a boy.

"As for his awkwardness, I can readily imagine that a boy so intensely
preoccupied would not appear in so favorable a light to strangers as
one who should seek the society of people rather than books, and a
superficial observer might have mistaken his air of abstraction for
rustic bashfulness.  You know that he was always absorbed in a book
from the time he was three years old.  Father would often send him to
do an errand--to fetch wood or the like; he would start very
obediently, but with his eyes upon his book, and by the time he had
reached the door he would have completely forgotten everything outside
the page he was reading, and it was necessary to send some one after
him to remind him of his errand.  He certainly was very unlike
every-day boys, not only in appearance, but in habits and moral
qualities.  Never did I hear a coarse or profane word pass his lips;
the purity of his soul was radiant in his beautiful modest countenance;
while his slender, boyish figure, with the ponderous white head poised
upon his long, slim neck, always reminded me of a lovely, swaying lily."

"I have seen recently in some book," said Marguerite, "that uncle was
never at his ease in polite society.  This I think very absurd.  To be
sure he had not the manners of a dancing-master, but--"

"Yes," interrupted mamma; "this statement is another of the usual
exaggerations current about brother.  As you say, he had not the
manners of a dancing-master, and when importuned and annoyed by shallow
people, may often have been abrupt with them; but when in society, I
have always seen his company as much or more courted than that of any
other person present, and have never known him to shrink or be
embarrassed in the presence of people of distinction or rank.  Few men
have, I think, been more misrepresented, though often with the kindest
intentions, than my dear brother."

"You spoke of papa's lameness while at Poultney, Aunt Esther," said
Ida, looking up from a letter that she was reading; "pray how did he
become lame?  Was it serious?  I do not remember hearing him mention
it."

"It occurred, I believe, in this way," said mamma.  "Whilst your papa
was in the _Spectator_ office, he chanced one day to step upon a rough
box, which turned over, and hitting him upon the leg, inflicted a cut
below his knee.  At first, brother thought it a mere scratch not worth
noticing; but when he subsequently took cold in it, he found it very
troublesome, and although he then consulted several medical men, they
were unable to cure it, I do not remember hearing that he was ever
confined to the house with it--probably because he could not afford to
give up his work long enough to have it properly treated; but for two
or perhaps three years he limped to and from the office.  When he went
subsequently to Erie, Pennsylvania, to work as a journeyman printer,
the wound, which had partially healed, had again opened, and was very
painful.  Some old woman residing there, however, gave him a simple
remedy which soon cured it permanently."

"From whom is the letter that you are reading, Ida?" inquired
Gabrielle, putting up her father's biography in a bookcase; "does it
contain a request for a loan of $500, or is it an offer of a home in a
Christian family?"

"Neither, for once," answered Ida.  "It is from _The Tribune_ office,
and contains a slip cut from the Omaha _Bee_, headed, 'Horace Greeley
upon Girls.'  It appears that a lady, Miss Hewes, who did not know papa
personally, wrote to him to ask if he recollected his first
school-house, and a former playmate of his, named Reuben Nichols, whose
acquaintance Miss Hewes had just made.  Here is papa's answer, dated
Washington, 1856.  Let me read it to you, Aunt Esther, and tell me if
you think it is genuine."


"'MISS HEWES:--As I do not know you, and am little interested in any
but a part of your letter, you will allow me, in my terrible
hurry--having two days' work that ought to be done to-day, while I must
leave at evening for a journey to our Pittsburg Convention--to speak
only of that.

"'I very well remember the red school-house in which I first began to
learn (the paint was worn off long since, and it was very far from red
when I last saw it); I remember the Nichols children, who lived, just
below the school-house, in a large house.  But I was very young then,
and I do not make out a clear mental picture of Reuben Nichols.  I
think he must have been considerably older than I.  But I recollect one
Aseneth Nichols, one of two girls not much older than I, whom I thought
very pretty, so that while I was a very good speller, and so one of the
two at the head of the first class in spelling, who were entitled to
"choose sides" for a spelling match; I used to begin by choosing these
two pretty girls who couldn't spell hokee to save their souls.  Well,
this was found not to answer; I knew enough to spell but not to choose
sides; so the _rôle_ had to be altered, and the two next to the one at
the head had the honor of "choosing sides."  Ask Mr. Nichols if he had
a sister Aseneth, and if he remembers any such nonsense as this.  My
kind regards to him.

"'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 fêtes
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
châtelaine 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 châtelaine, 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
_fête champêtre_, if not a _bal masqué_, 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 _dis_inclined 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 entrée 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 _soufflée_, 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.

"I have told you what a splendid voice your grandfather had.  Brother
Barnes was the only one of the five children who inherited it, and with
it a very quick ear for music.  I remember hearing mother say, that
when he was three and four years old, he was often called upon to sing
for our friends, who not unfrequently rewarded his talent with
presents; however, at the time when his voice changed, it completely
lost its musical qualities, to our great regret.

"As he grew older, he developed a taste for argument, that would have
done him good service had he been able to follow out his darling
project of becoming a lawyer; indeed, as it was, he was always called
upon, unprofessionally, to settle the neighbors' disputes, and was
renowned for making all the love-matches of the neighborhood.  In his
reading he had rather a peculiar taste; he delighted in theological and
controversial books, and I never knew any one who was more thoroughly
acquainted with the Bible.  He could not only give the precise chapter
and verse from which any text was taken, but was able to detect the
slightest verbal error in the quotation.

"He had a passion for preaching, and although unordained, was always
ready to deliver a sermon whenever he could find a vacant church and an
audience.

"Every one in America has heard of your papa's benevolent disposition,
and the amount he used to spend in private charities.  Your Uncle
Barnes was, if possible, more generous.  I have known him to part with
his last dollar to relieve another from want or embarrassment, and this
was not done through weakness or inability to refuse, but from a
genuine impulse of sympathy with those in need.

"I am very proud to say of my only surviving brother, that although he
has never had the advantage of a good education, he has lived to the
age of sixty without indulging in tobacco, wine, or profane language,
and has brought up his boys in the same temperate habits."

"How many children has Uncle Barnes, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida.  "I
have, I think, seen only three."

"There are ten living," replied mamma.  "Brother Barnes, you know, has
been twice married.  His first wife was a woman of fine character, but
became, soon after her marriage, a confirmed invalid, and brother
Barnes' constant attention and care of her during her years of illness
was almost unparalleled for devotion.

"Victoria is the oldest of the children: she was a very bright, clever
little girl, and a great pet with mother, as she was the first
grandchild born at home.  Sister Arminda's children, living at some
distance, were not so available for instruction, and in that occupation
consisted mother's happiness.  She taught Victoria to read when she was
two years and a half old, and I remember seeing her stand, a few years
later, at mother's knee, reading one of Hans Christian Andersen's
stories, with the tears streaming down her cheeks at the pathos--a
proof of appreciation that delighted mother's heart.

"Victoria is married, and lives in Kansas.  She is a fine, intelligent
woman, and since the loss of her little girl, last winter, has shown a
strong disposition to write.  She has the ability to do so, and if her
health and her home duties permit, I am sure she will make a clever
writer.

"Horace, whom you have seen, is next Victoria in age; he is also
married, and lives in New Jersey.

"Two married daughters, Mary and Esther, follow.  Mary's mind resembles
mother's in her grasp for politics and history, but she inherits her
own mother's feeble health, which unfits her for giving expression to
her masculine intellect.  Esther, who was named for me, is a sweet and
lovely woman, and a devoted wife and mother.

"Poor Woodburn came next on the list--a sensitive, silent youth, more
resembling his Uncle Horace than any of the other children.  You all
recollect his sad death three years ago.

"Oscar and Clarence are the youngest of Sally's, the first wife's,
children.  Clarence is the cleverest of the family among the boys.  He
is very well educated, and now supports himself as a land surveyor,
although not yet twenty years old."

"Where does he live, Aunt Esther?" inquired Gabrielle, "With his
father?"

"No; in Kansas with Victoria," was the reply.  "I must not forget to
tell you that he taught school in Indiana when only sixteen years old,
and received a diploma from the State.  His half-sister, Eugenia, who
is only fourteen, has had very pretty verses published in different New
York journals."

"Did Aunt Margaret receive as good an education as you did, when a
young girl, mamma?" inquired Marguerite.  "I remember hearing you say
that you were sent away to school for two or three years."

"No," replied mamma, "her advantages for learning were not so good as
mine; indeed, I was her principal teacher.  As I have told you, I went
to school very little as a child, and the village school at Vermont
gave only the most meagre and elementary instruction, but I was always
an eager reader of whatever came in my way, as well as an attentive
listener, and thus I contrived while in the woods to pick up
considerable information.  I remember seeing at that time in a
neighbor's house, a little, cheaply bound volume, 'Blair's Rhetoric,'
which so interested me that I offered to take care of the owner's baby
for two weeks, if she would give me the book.  A bargain was
accordingly made; I 'tended baby' for fifteen days, and received in
exchange the precious volume, which I studied until I learnt it by
heart.

"Then I saved pennies until I had collected a sufficient number to send
to Erie and purchase a copy of Comstock's Natural Philosophy--the first
one by the way that had ever been brought into our township--and these
two books, together with my self-acquired knowledge, and my own
experience of two years as a teacher, sufficed to fit me to enter the
Fredonia Academy, and to compete fairly with the other girls whose
instruction had not been so dearly bought.

"I spent four of the happiest years of my life in school at Fredonia,
and only regretted that sister Margaret could not have shared my
advantages.

"Meantime, Margaret commenced to teach school at the age of fifteen,
and continued to do so, until she was married, when twenty years old,
giving great satisfaction to every one.  She has, you know, three
children.  Her two boys, Eugene and Arthur, are promising young men,
and are both employed in _The Tribune_ office.  Arthur is married, and
has several children.  We all know how pretty his sister Evangeline is;
she, you know, is to become Mrs. Dr. Ross this winter."


[1] Here a line is missing.



CHAPTER XX.

A Quiet Household--Absence of Marguerite and Gabrielle--Amusing Letters
from them--A Gypsy Fortune-teller--Marguerite returns with a
Visitor--The Harvest Moon--Preparing for Company--Arranging the Blue
Room--Intense Anticipation--"'He Cometh Not,' She Said."


_August 14_.

Our little household has been unusually quiet for the past week, owing
to the absence of the two lively members of the family, Marguerite and
Gabrielle, who are visiting friends by the seaside and upon the shores
of Seneca Lake.  Their absence makes a great change in the ways of the
household, for Ida and I have not the high spirits and constant flow of
words that distinguish our sisters, and we spend our time as quietly
and busily as two little nuns, not even dreaming of asking any one to
come up from the city and pass Saturday with us.  We miss them very
much, especially at the table, and in the half hour after tea, when we
always gather about mamma's sofa for a little chat, before separating
for our evening's work--writing, practising, or whatever it may be.

Ida and I usually form the audience upon these occasions, and listen
with great interest to Marguerite's entertaining stories of adventures
at home and abroad, or Gabrielle's droll mimicry of the strongly marked
characteristics of some one she has met or dreamed of.  Sometimes the
candles are extinguished, and a ghost story is told, for Gabrielle is
fond of the supernatural, and her dramatic style of narration adds much
to our enjoyment; indeed, chancing the other day to read in a magazine
one of her pet stories, I was astonished to find how tame it sounded.

Ida and I find, however, some compensation for our sisters' absence in
their sprightly letters, which arrive while we are at the tea-table.
Marguerite writes every day, and her letters are inimitable in their
humor and _esprit_, for she writes exactly as she talks.  She is
visiting some friends whose acquaintance we made in Paris, and who have
a beautiful country-seat upon Long Island.  Her letters are filled with
accounts of drives, fishing-parties, and excursions in yachts and
row-boats, and, lastly, of meeting a _real_ gypsy encampment (not the
time-honored one in "Trovatore") and having her fortune told.

A gypsy woman, it seems, stopped the carriage as Marguerite was driving
past, and expressed so strong a desire to "unveil the future for the
young lady," that Marguerite consented, and held out her hand.  Quite
scornfully the gypsy said that her _own_ palm must first be crossed
with money.  Marguerite accordingly gave her a dollar bill, thinking
that would be the full value of any fortune she would receive from a
wandering gypsy, but the money was indignantly returned--the oracle did
not tell one-dollar fortunes.

Somewhat astonished at so extensive a demand upon her purse, Marguerite
gave her another dollar, whereupon the gypsy at once declared that the
young lady had a lucky face, and would never want for anything during
her life.  The usual dark and fair gentlemen figured largely in her
fortune, and--with a glance at Marguerite's blonde complexion--she was
to beware the treachery of a brunette rival; however, she was destined
to triumph in the end, and would indeed succeed in all her
undertakings.  I am sure the gypsy could have promised no less,
considering the high price she placed upon her predictions.

Gabrielle's experience is very different.  She is visiting a former
schoolmate, a young girl of her own age.  Bessie is now a pupil of
Vassar College, and enthusiastic over her studies: consequently the
amusements of the two girls are of a very sedate nature: in Gabrielle's
words, "A hermit in his cell, my dear Cecilia, never had a more quiet
life than I at present enjoy."

She and Bessie had commenced, Gabrielle told me, to write a story
together.  The _débût_ was most brilliant, and for a time they worked
very harmoniously, but unluckily the two little authoresses had
different views respecting the _proposal_ (not drawn from life, I
imagine, considering their years), and in Gabrielle's letter of
yesterday no mention was made of the progress of the story.

The letter, which was very vivacious, was chiefly devoted to the girls'
exploits while taking a buggy drive.  Gabrielle, who is so fearless
with her own ponies, quite scorned the lamb-like animal that was sent
up from the livery stable, but she appears to have had much diversion,
nevertheless, to judge from her letter.  She says:

"Yesterday I tried to break the monotony of life at Seneca Lake by
hiring a buggy and horse for Bessie and me to drive.  You should have
heard the shriek of horror that rent the air at the approach of the
peaceful old nag.  Miss Carpenter exclaimed:

"'Oh mercy, he points his ears!'

"Poor beast, his ears were pointed by nature, and _he_ could not help
it.  Mrs. Brown burst forth to the astonished stableman:

"'Does he kick, roll, rear, bite, or shy?  Tell me quick, for I know he
must do some of them.'

"We did have our drive though, and an adventure too, for we were caught
in the rain, and entered a barn where a handsome young man acted the
part of host, and generously bestowed hay upon our horse."


_August 16_.

A telegram last night from Marguerite, saying, "Will come on the early
train with the Honorable Francis"--a very pleasant surprise, for,
knowing the habits of that gentleman, we had supposed him to be, if not
at the Antipodes, at least in Europe; accordingly, we went down to meet
the train in quite a flutter of excitement.

Mr. Colton is "honorable" from having represented his government for
four years at Venice.  In appearance he is tall and swarthy, with a
foreign and picturesque cast of features not unlike the Italian type: a
"lovely brigand" we sometimes call him.  Notwithstanding his easy and
somewhat nonchalant air, he is a true American in his active and
restless disposition and his love for travelling.  I would be afraid to
state the number of miles he has travelled since we made his
acquaintance in Paris four years ago, and I have known him to start at
forty-eight hours' notice to make a tour of the world.

Mr. Colton made us a visit of two days, and was sufficiently
enthusiastic over dear Chappaqua to satisfy even our exacting demands.

We had some sport over the probable speculations of the telegraph
operators concerning our visitor.  Out of mischief, Marguerite had
mentioned him in her telegram merely as "the Honorable Francis;" for so
deep an interest is taken in the messages we receive and send, that we
enjoy puzzling the operators a little; indeed, we may say that our
telegrams are common property here, for seldom do we receive them until
they have been carefully read by the telegraph and railroad officials,
and then handed to any interested outsider who may chance to be in the
office.  I will give a little scene that occurred not long ago, by way
of illustration.

Our friend Mr. A---- alights from the morning train, and is welcomed by
a friend of his who is stopping for a week or so in Chappaqua.

"Delighted to see you, A----.  Knew you were coming up this morning, so
thought I would run down to the train and meet you."

"How in the world did you know I was coming, my dear fellow?" inquires
the astonished A----.  "You don't know Mrs. Cleveland or her niece, do
you?"

"No, I don't know them," is the prompt reply, "but I was in the
telegraph office yesterday, and saw your acceptance when it arrived."


TABLEAU.

_August 19_.

I am not partial to Friday, as it is often an unlucky day for me--a
superstition that has come down to me from grandmamma; but, although I
try to think it absurd, our experience of yesterday proved a singular
confirmation.

Ida and I had thought to celebrate the return of Marguerite and
Gabrielle by inviting several friends from the city to enjoy the
delicious moonlight with us.  Mamma accordingly wrote the invitations,
and we at once commenced our preparations.  The _fête_ we decided
should last three days, and was to commence Friday afternoon--ominous
day!  We were to have moonlight walks and drives; we were to kindle a
fire of pine cones and charcoal upon the beach at Rye Lake, and boil
the kettle and make tea; a boat was to be placed upon our own little
pond, and a tent pitched near by; and, last and most brilliant, Ida's
lovely Southern friend, Miss Worthington, and Gabrielle, were to occupy
the tent, dressed as gypsies, and tell the fortunes of the company.

We could scarcely wait for Friday to arrive, but there were many
preparations to be made, so we curbed our impatience and worked very
industriously.  As we were now seven in the household, not counting the
servants, and had invited quite a number of guests, the resources of
our house were not extensive enough to stow them all away, consequently
we spent a lively morning at the side-hill house fitting up three
rooms, with Minna's assistance.

The blue room, with its pretty outlook upon the meadows, was our
favorite, and upon it we bestowed the most attention.  The carpet was
gray and blue, of an especially pretty pattern, and the handsome
marble-topped bureau, exhumed from the never-failing resources of the
house in the woods, looked as fresh as though purchased yesterday.  We
made the bed with our own hands, touching with reverent care the superb
blankets with their inscription:

"To Horace Greeley, the Protector of American Industry."

Then, when the blue silk eider-down counterpane was adjusted to our
satisfaction, and one or two little ornaments added to the bureau and
chimney-piece--"Cupid" in the Naples Gallery, and my dear Lela's
portrait, both framed in blue velvet, and a beautiful Sèvres vase which
mamma calls "the one that Pickie _didn't_ break" (his little hands
destroyed its mate)--we congratulated ourselves upon the effect of the
room.

_Apropos_ of the Cupid, Ida sent it last winter with Annibal Caracci's
"Magdalen" and one or two other religious pictures to be framed at
Schaus'.  When they were sent home, to our surprise, the frames were
all surmounted by crosses--an emblem that, although quite _en règle_
for the Holy Magdalen, was, we thought, singularly inappropriate for
Cupid.  Stopping in at Schaus' a day or two later, I inquired of young
Mr. Schaus, to whose taste we had left the selection of the frames, his
reason for this extraordinary innovation.  His reply was as naïve as
unexpected:

"But, mademoiselle, does Cupid, then, never meet with crosses?"

Having done our best for the blue room, we walked over the grounds to
see that they were all in order, and when we had admired the pretty
blue boat, the white tent, and the water-lilies in full bloom (planted
that morning), and gone down to the express office to receive a package
due by the ten o'clock train--a copy of the poems of one of the
expected guests, which was to be left carelessly in his room with a
mark at one of the ballads,--we congratulated ourselves that we had
done all in our power to make the rooms look tasteful and pretty.

Lina was in her glory, having had an unrestricted order to do her best.
I had a slight foreboding of disappointment, as it was Friday,
remembering, too, that the dining-room was lighted by three candles the
previous night (a French superstition); but we all dressed in good
spirits.

The somewhat spectral appearance of five ladies in mourning was
somewhat relieved by the recent addition to our little circle, Miss
Worthington, whose dress, though black, was enlivened by a little dash
of pale blue--a most becoming match for her fair complexion and golden
curls.

We did not wish to ruffle our hair unnecessarily by playing croquet or
walking, so we all sat very sedately in the music-room watching for the
5.15 train to arrive.  It came at last.  We rushed out on the piazza,
but recognized no one among the few passengers who alighted.

Disappointment number one.  However, they will surely come at half-past
six, we argued, and taking up some books and work, we waited patiently
until the next train arrived.  Again we ran out upon the piazza.  Papa
was upon the platform at the depot, but we saw no other figure that
looked familiar.

"What did I tell you, Ida," said I solemnly, "when, against my
entreaties, three candles were lighted last night?"

Never before was papa so long in walking up from the station--I suppose
for the reason that he came laden with messages, notes, and telegrams.
His "young chief" was detained in the editorial rooms by affairs of
great moment; another gentleman had been summoned to the bedside of his
father, who was in a dying condition; two other gentlemen had plunged
rashly into the preliminary steps to matrimony, and were, I suppose,
engaged in serenading their _fiancées_, while the other two had
apparently been made way with, for from them we had no message of any
sort.

The crowning injury was the receipt of a book from a friend who is in
the habit of supplying me with the latest novels.  Usually I am pleased
with the books she sends me, but a glance at the title, "'He Cometh
Not,' She Said," made me hurl it to the farthest corner of the room;
that was too much for any one to bear.

We sat down with small appetites to the elaborate dinner that Lina had
prepared, and went gloomily to bed at an early hour.



CHAPTER XXI.

The Story of Mr. Greeley's Parents continued--He accompanies his Mother
to New Hampshire--Her Sisters--Three Thanksgivings in One Year--Pickie
as a Baby--His Childhood--Mrs. Greeley's Careful Training--His
Playthings--His Death--A Letter from Margaret Fuller.


_August 31_.

"Mammi," said I, waking from a deep reverie as I sat beside our bright
wood-fire (for we have had two days of dashing rain, and fires have not
been at all disagreeable), "did grandpapa ever return to New Hampshire
after he left it in 1821?"

"No, my dear," was the reply; "he never returned, nor did he manifest
any desire to see his former home and his old friends again.  I suppose
that all of his pleasant recollections of New Hampshire were superseded
by the thought that it was the scene of his bankruptcy, and his proud
spirit shrunk from meeting those who might remember that he had left
Amherst a fugitive.  He was deeply attached to his forest home, and I
do not think he ever had an hour of discomfort after he came there.
Father always expressed the wish that he might be buried upon his farm.
His old age was very serene and happy; he lived to see his 'hole in the
forest' become an extensive farm, and the vast wilderness that had
surrounded him disappear, while the little tavern and cluster of
log-houses across the State line from us grew to be the village of
Clymer.

"Father died in 1867, at the age of eighty-seven.

"As for mother, she had the happiness before her death of seeing her
fondly loved relatives once more.  In the autumn of 1843, mother and I
went to New Hampshire to visit the old home and friends.  Father was
urged to accompany us, but he chose to cling to his Western home.  For
the third time I now travelled in a canal-boat, but this time it was a
packet, and not one of the slow 'line-boats' that I described to you in
speaking of our journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania.

"Brother Horace accompanied us from New York to New Hampshire, where we
spent several weeks visiting mother's old friends and relatives.  The
meeting between mother and her sister, Aunt Margaret Dickey, was
especially tender, for they had been separated many years, and did not
expect to meet again.

"Aunt Margaret is still living, although now in her ninetieth year.  I
remember hearing that she read your uncle's 'Recollections,' as they
appeared in the _Ledger_, with the liveliest interest.  She was at that
time eighty-four years old.

"In her youth Aunt Margaret was a decided beauty, with luxuriant hair
of the real golden shade, neither flaxen, ash-color, nor red.  She was
naturally refined and amiable.

"From New Hampshire we went to Fitchburg, Massachusetts, where mother's
half-sister, Sally, resided.  Aunt Sally was doubly my aunt, having
married father's brother, Dustin Greeley.  She was a slender, handsome
woman, with blue eyes and light hair, and possessed mother's happy
temperament, which all the trials of her hard life had not been able to
change.

"That year I celebrated three Thanksgivings within as many weeks."

"Pray how did that happen, auntie?" inquired Gabrielle, who had just
entered the room.

"Thanksgiving Day was not then restricted to the last Thursday in the
month," was the reply, "but was appointed by the Governor of each State
at any time that he saw fit between harvest and the holidays;
therefore, being in three different States within a month, I had three
Thanksgiving dinners.

"When we returned to New York, we stopped for a short visit at Turtle
Bay.  Pickie was then eight months old, and as sweet and poetic-looking
as one of Correggio's cherubs.  Your mamma was then in the first flush
of her maternal enthusiasm.  She and your papa were desirous that
mother should remain in New York and spend the winter with them; but
fondly as she loved your papa, and dear as her daughter-in-law and her
little grandson were to her, she felt that her duty and her strongest
love recalled her to her husband and her home in the woods.  She
returned to Pennsylvania, and took up again her life of daily care, but
she brought back little joy with her, although no word of discontent
escaped her.  Her favorite seat was by the window looking east, and
there we often surprised her gazing with an intent look down the road.
When we would ask her if she was expecting any one, or for whom she was
looking, she would say with a startled expression, 'Oh, no one;' but we
always fancied that she was thinking of her early home that she had now
left forever.

"A year or two later, slowly, silently, and peacefully she passed away."

"I thought, auntie," said Gabrielle, "that you lived with mamma when
Pickie was a baby.  I am sure I have heard her say that you helped her
to take care of him."

"That is true, dear," replied mamma, "but I did not remain in New York
at the time of which we are now speaking.  I accompanied mother home to
Pennsylvania, and the following spring, when Pickie was a year old,
your mamma wrote to ask me to come back, and assist her in the care of
her beautiful boy.  I remained with her until my marriage, consequently
Pickie became very near to me, and his death was almost as great a
shock to me as it was to his parents."

"Do tell us, mamma," said Marguerite, "about Pickie's childhood.  I
have always heard that he was brought up in a very remarkable way, but
beyond the fact of Aunt Mary's great devotion to him, I know very
little concerning him."

"Your Aunt Mary," mamma replied, "looked upon Pickie's birth as much in
the light of a miracle as if no other child had ever before been born.
He was Heaven-sent to her, and she sacrificed herself completely for
the better development of Pickie's individuality, or, to use the
language of the reformers of those days, in 'illustrating the
independence of the child's self-hood.'  Nothing could have been more
boundless than her enthusiasm for her baby; and it was night and day
her study to guard his health, and to watch and cherish his opening
intellect.  No child prince could have been more tenderly and daintily
nurtured than he was; as his father often said, 'Pickie is a dear boy
in every sense of the word;' for nothing was too rare or too costly for
him.

"You have heard of the brilliancy of his complexion: this was owing in
part to his mother's watchful care of his diet, and to his bathing.  An
hour was allowed for his daily bath, and for brushing out his
luxuriant, silken hair.  This was one of my duties, and no doubt it was
that scrupulous care that gave it so rare a shade.

"As for his food, it was quite peculiar.  He never ate baker's bread,
nor indeed any bread prepared by other hands than his mother's or mine,
and he was not given meat or cake--with the exception of oatmeal
cake--while candies, or indeed sugar in any form, butter, and salt were
rigidly excluded from his diet; but white grapes, and every choice
fruit that this or foreign markets afforded, he was allowed to eat in
abundance, and the result of this system was a sturdy constitution, and
a complexion unparalleled for beauty.

"I said that he never ate butter; but cream and milk were given him
instead."

"What sort of toys did he have, mamma?" I inquired.  "I can never
imagine him playing with dolls like an ordinary child."

"He never did," replied mamma; "his toys, like his meals, were
peculiar.  One of the largest rooms in the house was chosen for his
nursery, and as his mother would not have a carpet upon the floor, it
was scrubbed daily.  Here his playthings were kept--a singular
assortment one would think them, but your aunt seldom gave him what
would simply amuse him for the moment, but sought rather to surround
him by objects that would suggest ideas to his mind--on a plan somewhat
like that of the _Kindergarten_ system, but more poetic, and entirely
original with herself.  He had lovely pictures, and a real violin,
while the shops were constantly searched for whatever was curious,
instructive, or beautiful.

"Pickie's mind and conversation were very unlike those of the children
even of our best families, for he never had children for playfellows,
and those friends whom his mother permitted to be near him were of the
most cultivated and noble character.  His language consequently was as
choice as that of the minds who surrounded him, and very quaint it
sounded from a child's lips.  At this time Margaret Fuller was with us,
and Pickie lived in most intimate relations to this pure, high-minded
woman.

"In her care to prevent Pickie from knowing of the existence of
wickedness and cruelty in this world, your Aunt Mary would rarely
permit him to converse long with any save the chosen few that I have
mentioned, lest the innocence of his child-mind should be shocked by
hearing of war, or murder, or cruelty to animals, while she was ever
guarding him lest his eyes might rest upon some painful or disagreeable
object."

"Don't you think, mamma," said Marguerite, "that that letter of
Margaret Fuller's upon Pickie's death shows remarkable feeling for a
child unrelated to her?"

"Which letter?" inquired Ida.

"The one that is copied in the 'Recollections,'" was the reply.

"I think," returned Ida, "that the one she wrote to papa which has
never been published is much finer."

"Oh, do read it to us," said Marguerite.  So, unlocking a little box,
Ida took out a sheet quite yellow and worn, and read it to us:


"RIETI, _August 25, 1848_.

"MY BELOVED FRIEND:--Bitterest tears alone can answer those
words--_Pickie is dead_.  My heart has all these years presaged them.
I have suffered not a few sleepless hours thinking of our darling,
haunted with fears never again to see his sweet, joyous face which on
me, also, always looked with love and trust.  But I always thought of
small-pox.  Now how strangely snatched from you, oh poor mother; how
vain all your feverish care night and day to ward off the least
possible ill from that fair frame.  Oh, how pathetic it seems to think
of all that was done for dear, dear Pickie to build up strong that
temple from which the soul departed so easily.

"You say I left him too soon to know him well, but it was not so.  I
had spiritual sight of the child, and knew his capacities.  I hoped to
be of use to him if he lived, for sweet was our communion beside the
murmuring river, and when he imitated the low voices of the little
brook, or telling him stories in my room, which even then he well
understood.  A thousand times I have thought of the time when he first
said the word _Open_ to get into my room, and my heart always was open
to him.  He was my consolation in hours sadder than you ever
guessed--my spring-flower, my cheerful lark.  None but his parents
could love him so well; no child, except little Waldo Emerson, had I
ever so loved.  In both I saw the promise of a great future: its
realization is deferred to some other sphere; ere long may we follow
and aid it there.

"Ever sacred, my friend, be this bond between us--the love and
knowledge of the child.  I was his aunty; and no sister can so feel
what you lose.  My friend, I have never wept so for grief of my own, as
now for yours.  It seems to me _too_ cruel; you are resigned; you make
holy profit of it; the spear has entered and forced out the heart's
blood, the pure ichor follows.  I know not yet how to feel so; I have
not yet grieved away the bitter pang.

"My mother wrote me he said sometimes he would get a boat and carry
yellow flowers to his Aunty Margaret.  I suppose he had not yet quite
forgotten that I used to get such for him.  I often thought what I
should carry him from Europe--what I should tell him--what teach?  He
had a heart of natural poetry; he would have prized all that was best.

"Oh, it is all over; and indeed this life is over for me.  The
conditions of this planet are not propitious to the lovely, the just,
the pure; it is these that go away; it is the unjust that triumph.  Let
us, as you say, purify ourselves; let us labor in the good spirit here,
but leave all thought of results to Eternity.

"I say this, and yet my heart is bound to earth as never before; for I,
too, have a dearer self--a little son.  He is now about the age sweet
Pickie was when I was with him most; and I have thought much of the one
in the dawning graces of the other.  But I accept the lesson, and will
strive to prepare myself to resign him.  Indeed, I had the warning
before; for, during the siege of Rome, when I could not see him, my
mind, agonized by the danger of his father, as well as all the
overpowering and infamous injuries heaped upon the noble, sought refuge
in the thought of him safe, in his green nook, and, as I thought, in
care of worthy persons.  When at last we left, our dearest friends laid
low, our fortunes finally ruined, and every hope for which we
struggled, blighted, I hoped to find comfort in his smiles.  I found
him wasted to a skeleton; and it is only by a month of daily and hourly
most anxious care (in which I was often assisted by memories of what
Mrs. Greeley did for Pickie) that I have been able to restore him.  But
I hold him by a frail tenure; he has the tendency to cough by which I
was brought so low.

"Adieu.  You say, pray for you; oh, let us all pray together.  I hope
we shall yet find dear Pickie where he is; that earthly blemishes will
be washed out, and he be able to love us all.  Till then, God help and
guide us, dear friend.  Amen.

"M. F. O.

"You may address me in future as Marchioness Ossoli."



CHAPTER XXII.

The Friends' Seminary--The Principal Chappaqua
Residences--Reminiscences of Paris during the War--An Accomplished
Lady--Her Voice--Festivities--A Drive to Rye Lake--Making Tea on the
Beach--A Sail at Sunset--Fortune-telling by Firelight--The Drive
Home--Sunday Morning--A Row on the Pond--Dramatic Representations in
the Barn--A Drive to Lake Wampas--Starlight Row.


_August 24_.

A visit last night from Mr. Collins, the Principal of Chappaqua
Institute.  This gentleman is one of our neighbors; so when the duties
of school hours are over, he frequently calls in to play a game of
croquet, or to join in the evening rubber of whist, of which Marguerite
and Gabrielle are so fond.  I had often heard his name before he was
introduced to us, and imagined, from his responsible position, that he
must be some staid, gray-haired Quaker; but, upon meeting him, I was
surprised to discover that, although Principal of the "Friends'
Seminary," he belonged to the "world's people"; and was quite young
enough to impress the more susceptible among his young lady pupils.


_August 27_.

In speaking of the handsome residences about and near Chappaqua, I have
unintentionally overlooked one of the finest among them.  It is
situated about half-way between Chappaqua and Mount Kisco; and so far
as I can judge by a view from the road, the grounds are both extensive
and well cultivated.  The house stands back from the road, and is quite
imbedded in trees, and the lawn and flower-beds are very prettily laid
out.

Upon asking Bernard one day, as we were driving to Mount Kisco, to whom
this place belonged, he said that he had forgotten the owner's name,
but believed he was now in Europe; and it was not until quite recently
that I ascertained it was the property of Mr. Elliott O. Cowdin, of New
York City, Paris, or Westchester County.  I really do not know which
place to accredit to him as his residence.

Yesterday Mr. Cowdin dined with us, and we had quite a merry time
recalling our adventures upon leaving Paris in 1870.  It was only three
days before the battle of Sedan, when every one was rushing away from
the doomed city, that we also decided to leave; and Mr. Cowdin was very
kind in helping us off.  We had many tribulations and delays in
procuring our tickets, and having our luggage registered, for thousands
were waiting in the Gare St. Lazare to escape from the range of
Prussian shells; but between the energy of Mr. Cowdin and his servant
Harry, and the talismanic name of Washburne (for our ambassador had
kindly given us his card to present at the ticket and freight offices),
we succeeded in running the blockade much easier than we had
anticipated.  Once in the waiting-room, we seated ourselves upon our
bags, for every chair had been taken hours before, and waited for the
twelve o'clock train.  We sat patiently for an hour, and were then
informed it would not start until six, for what reason we could not
learn; for French officials can never be induced to give you any
information.

At the close of another hour, we were not only white with alarm,
supposing the Prussians were at the city gates, but were also in a
starving condition, having eaten nothing since our eight o'clock
breakfast of chocolate and rolls.  What to do we did not know; the
doors of the waiting-room were closed, and despite the shrieks and
frantic kicks of the terrified and penned-up passengers, no egress was
permitted.  Finally, our party of five helpless women decided to appeal
to Mr. Cowdin, feeling confident that he would devise some means to
relieve our forlorn condition.  A piteous note was accordingly written,
informing him that we should be prisoners until six o'clock, and
appealing to his American chivalry to come and share our confinement
with us, and to fetch some bread and butter, of which we stood sorely
in need.

Among the employees of the station a messenger was found, and in less
than an hour Mr. Cowdin's friendly face was seen, as he made his way
through the crowd, followed by the invaluable Harry with a basket.  An
impromptu table-cloth, consisting of newspapers, was spread upon the
floor, and we gathered about our feast, the other passengers meantime
eying us hungrily, as roast chicken, Bordeaux, and a four-pound loaf
appeared from the basket.

That was my last meal in Paris, and although the circumstances appeared
very amusing as we talked them over with Mr. Cowdin yesterday, they
were anything but entertaining at that time, expecting momentarily as
we did that a shell would explode among us.


_August 31_.

I have just returned from a walk to the station to meet our friend,
Mrs. George Gilman, whom we expected would spend the day with us, but
found instead a note from her saying that ill-health would prevent her
from visiting us at present.

Mrs. Gilman is a dear friend of ours, and a charming and accomplished
woman.  Her elegant drawing-rooms upon Lexington Avenue are a resort
for not only the fashionable world, but a favorite rendezvous for the
principal vocalists and pianists of the city, for Mrs. Gilman is
perhaps the only amateur in New York society whose voice equals
Carlotta Patti's in extent, and the ease with which her flute-like
tones reach G in alt.  Her voice has been carefully trained by many of
the great New York masters, and has also had the advantage of Paris
instruction.  Therefore we may congratulate ourselves that we possess
in private life, one who would make so admirable a prima donna.


_September 6_.

My journal, about which I am usually so conscientious, has been
neglected for nearly a week, for we have had a succession of visitors,
and my time has been entirely taken up with drives, games of croquet,
and starlight walks.

On Saturday, several friends came up with papa in the morning train;
some merely to pass the day, and others to make a longer stay with us.
Mr. James Parton, the well-known author, had not visited dear Chappaqua
in twenty years, and was desirous of seeing the changes that time had
effected in this lovely spot.  Others, too, were visiting us for the
first time, and preferred to see the wild, picturesque beauties of the
place, rather than to drive, ride, or play croquet; consequently the
company soon divided.  One party strolled off through the woods, and
followed the course of the brook up to our tiny cascade--now, however,
swollen by the heavy rains we have recently had into quite a noisy and
impetuous waterfall, while others who had earlier in the season spent
long mornings with us under the pines and beneath the oaks on the
side-hill, now enrolled themselves in Gabrielle's regiment, confident
that she would lead them to a glorious victory on the field of croquet.

We did not assemble again until our two o'clock dinner, and as soon as
that meal was over, we started upon the long-contemplated picnic to Rye
Lake.  A large six-seated carriage and a pair of stout horses had been
hired, and Ida's own phaeton and ponies were also at the door to convey
our party to that most romantic sheet of water.

Every seat in the two conveyances was occupied, and all the available
corners were filled with tightly packed baskets, containing charcoal
and pine-cones to kindle a fire upon the smooth beach, tea-kettles and
teapots, table linen, dishes and provisions.  The drive was one of the
most delightful that we have yet had, and was heightened by the dreamy
haze of autumn, that is now faintly perceptible.

The lake is private property, and picnics are frowned upon; however,
the most attractive gentleman in our party was sent to ask permission
for us to pass the afternoon there, and a cordial assent was quickly
granted.

A well-trimmed sward, shaded by fine old oaks, was selected as the most
suitable place to lay the cloth, and then, to pass away the time until
six o'clock, several of the party went out in a row-boat.

"We were absent an hour or more, playing cards, singing, and drifting
about; now and then grazing a rock, or narrowly escaping an upset,
owing to the disproportion of weight among the passengers, and at
sunset returned to our encampment.  Here we found a blazing fire, and
the tea-kettle singing joyously.  An extensive meal was spread upon a
neat white cloth, and we grouped about it upon our bright carriage
rugs, so like leopard skins with their black spots upon a yellow
ground.  Hot tea was a very agreeable substitute for the lemonade that
generally forms the beverage at picnics, and as we all had excellent
appetites, the meal passed off very pleasantly.

"What are we to do now!" inquired one restless being, as we walked down
to the beach, leaving Bernard to consume the _débris_ of the feast and
collect the dishes.

"I think this fire so comfortable," said one of the young ladies, "that
I mean to remain beside it, as it is now dark and rather chill."

"Let us play whist by the firelight," was suggested by those who had
not been out in the boat.

"Or, better still, have our fortunes told by its light," said Ida,
throwing a couple of branches upon the burning coals.

"Delightful!" exclaimed Marguerite.  "I have not forgotten that we have
among us a Gypsy Queen, whose predictions are always realized;" turning
to a pretty blonde, whose delicate features and sunny curls testified
that she was only a gypsy through her talent for unveiling the future
to her friends.

The rugs were accordingly spread out upon the beach, and we gathered
about the fire whilst the cards were being shuffled and cut for the
past, present, and future.  A weird sight it was, and one that the
great Rembrandt would have delighted to paint: a background of dark,
silent trees, before us the motionless lake, illumined by the silver
crescent then setting, while the faint glimmer of starlight, and the
fiery glow of the burning wood, lit up the face of our young seeress,
as with a puzzled brow, but a pretty air of faith, she bent over the
talismanic cards.

In turn our fortunes were all told, and not a little wonder was excited
when some hidden page of the past, as a former engagement, or a
never-mentioned marriage, was disclosed.

One young man was told that he would live happily, but always be
poor--a destiny that he received with a droll air of resignation and
philosophy; while another was warned to beware of a blonde enemy,
causing him to recoil with a look of mock terror from the fair-haired
Philippe Hubert who sat beside him.

An elegant young Englishman was alternately inspirited and depressed,
by hearing that an uncle in India was about to leave him a legacy, and
that a tailor's bill of many years' standing was now upon its way to
him, whilst for all the young ladies a brilliant future was predicted.

My fortune was, however, quite mysterious.  I was told to beware of a
male enemy, and two rivals, a blonde and a brunette, and was in
imminent danger of poison.  I was soon to be engaged to a poor man, but
was to marry a millionnaire, who would leave me a widow at the end of
five years' time.  Whether I was then to

  "--marry my own love,"

the oracle did not disclose.

Then ensued the long drive home.  The air was chill but exhilarating,
and we sung and told ghost stories, and were astonished, when at last
we dashed through a white gate, to find ourselves at home once more.
It was ten o'clock the next morning before we were all assembled at the
breakfast-table, and we had scarcely risen from our last cups of
coffee, when a couple of friends arrived upon the slow Sunday train.
How we were now to amuse ourselves was the question for the proximity
of a church compelled very quiet demeanor.  Finally we had a brilliant
idea: the stone barn which had been filled only a few days previous
with fresh, sweet hay, would be just the place to spend the morning.
Accordingly we walked up there, pausing, however, on the way for a row
on the pond in our pretty blue boat, and then ensued two charming
hours.  We mounted the hay-loft, and nestled down in the soft mounds
(to the detriment of our black dresses, by the way, for upon emerging
we were covered with burrs and straws), and being far from reproving
ears we sung both sacred and secular music, and laughed at a droll
impersonation, of Fechter's Claude--

  "Ah! false one,
  It is ze Prince zow lovest, not ze man," etc.,

and an equally comic burlesque upon Forrest, and were very sorry to
learn that the carriages were waiting to take us to Lake Wampas.

[Illustration: The Stone Barn.]

"A new lake?" inquired a friend who had already accompanied us to Rye
and Croton Lakes; "pray how many does Westchester County possess?"

Each new one is of course the prettiest, and beautiful as Rye Lake had
been the previous night under the influence of the setting sun, and
starlight, we all decided that Lake Wampas was simply perfect.

Dinner was ready upon our return, and before the dessert was placed
upon the table a warning whistle was heard, and several of our friends
were obliged to bid us a hasty adieu, and rush through Bischoff's
garden to catch the train.

In the evening we walked up to the pond for a row among the
water-lilies by starlight.  There we found the bonny blue boat awaiting
us, but the oars had disappeared.  Whether Bernard disapproved of
water-parties on Sunday, or had merely put the oars away for safety, we
could not tell, but having gone so far, we were determined not to be
disappointed, so we embarked, and with an old garden-rake, and a long
pole to propel the boat, we succeeded, at all events, in having a very
laughable row.

The next morning our friends left us; the play-days were over, and we
once more settled ourselves to study.



CHAPTER XXIII.

Marriage of a Cousin--A Pretty Bride--Letters--Home Circle Complete--A
Letter of Adventures--Wedding Cards--A Musical Marriage--Housekeeping
under Difficulties--Telegraphic Blunders--A Bust of Mr. Greeley--More
Visitors.


_September 10_.

A letter yesterday from our cousin Estelle Greeley, signed, however, by
a new name, for she was married last week.  Estelle is Aunt Arminda's
youngest daughter, and although not yet eighteen, was before the death
of Theresa's children a great-aunt.  She sent us her picture, taken
with her husband.  She is a very pretty girl, with large, dreamy, blue
eyes, and lashes so long and dark as to cast deep shadows--a
languishing effect often produced on city belles by artificial means.
Her hair is of that sunny brown shade peculiar to so many of our
cousins, and she has hitherto worn it floating over her shoulders _à la
belle sauvage_; but now I suppose she thinks so _negligée_ and girlish
a coiffure incompatible with her new dignity as a married woman, for I
observed in her picture that it was wreathed into an imposing diadem
braid.

Although Estelle is rather young to have married, the match has
received the cordial approbation of tho entire family.  She was married
at home, but has now gone to live at Columbus, Pennsylvania, where her
father-in-law is a prominent merchant.  Her letter was full of
enthusiasm over her happiness, but I was glad to learn that she did not
intend, like so many young brides, to give up her music in the
excitement of her new married life.

Our mail was not large this morning, for our friends are now returning
to the city, and are busy with the demands of upholsterers and
dress-makers in anticipation of the gayeties of the coming season; some
few, however, are still enjoying this delicious September weather by
the seaside or inland.

Our friend, Mrs. Cutler, the pretty Virginia novelist and society star,
is now in Westchester County, and promises us a visit very soon.  She
speaks with deep feeling of the pleasure it will afford her to visit
dear uncle's loved home, and in conclusion sends many kind messages to
mamma's "bouquet of girls."

One of my most intimate friends, Marguerite Aymar, after having visited
several watering-places, and contributed sparkling letters to different
New York journals this summer, has now come to Westchester County to
pass away quietly the remainder of the season, and gather up strength
for her literary labors during the coming winter.  I learn by a letter
received from her yesterday, that she is boarding within driving
distance of Chappaqua--a very agreeable prospect for me, for Marguerite
and I are much given to long talks together, and are very fond of an
exchange of ideas over our many literary plans.

Miss Aymar is a clever young writer, by no means confining herself to
the graceful poems, stories, and sketches that she dashes off with such
ease, but evincing talent and tact in her more thoughtful magazine
articles.  She is now, she tells me, at work upon a novel.


_September 13_.

Our home circle is once more complete, for Mrs. Lamson, who left us
some weeks ago to visit friends in Connecticut, has now returned to
remain with us until we go down to the city.

Mrs. Lamson was one of dear uncle's earliest friends, their
acquaintance dating back indeed to the days of Poultney--and we are all
deeply attached to her.


_September 15_.

Arthur's name, I believe, has not yet been mentioned in my journal
since he left us early in August.  He is a very tormenting
correspondent, for he never writes with the promptitude that would be
agreeable, but his letters when they do come are always entertaining,
and one that arrived this morning, detailing his adventures since his
departure from Chappaqua, we found especially so.  Before making some
extracts from it, I must explain that he left us to join a number of
young men from Chappaqua, headed by our neighbor, Mr. Carpenter, who
were to camp out at Rye Beach, and indulge in unlimited fishing
parties.  This out-of-doors life delighted Arthur, accustomed as he had
been to foot journeys in Europe, and when the party broke up he bought
a waterproof suit, hired a boat and a tent, and rowed up the Sound to
Boston, where he lives, sleeping meantime on land or in his boat, as
best suited his caprice.  I will now give his exploits in his own words.

"I remained on the beach some time after Mr. Carpenter and the others
left, caught and made food of many fishes, and came near making myself
food for them, for in hauling up anchor in a rough sea I tipped out of
the boat, but luckily saved myself by clutching its side, and lifting
myself in at imminent risk of turning the whole concern bottom upwards.

"Being wrapped in slumber on the rocks one night with a big fire
burning beside me, my bed of dry seaweed caught fire, and woke me by
its fierce breath; but escaping an evil fate for the present, I came
safely home to Boston, which I felt keen joy to see once more.

"I have gone into the office of a lawyer here, and am engaged in the
delightful occupation of 'sooing folks' (as the old fellow pronounces
it).  You may imagine me seated on the extreme top of a high stool,
forging like a young Cyclops with malignant pleasure, the writs and
summonses which are presently to be flourished by the Sheriff in the
face of the astonished Defendant."

Among our other letters this morning was a package from London
containing the dainty wedding-cards of a beautiful young American
pianist (Teresa Carreño) and her handsome violinist husband,
accompanied by a long letter from the bride.  The letter was
overflowing with happiness, and the naïveté with which she described
all the little annoyances of her new married life, and especially the
trials of a young housekeeper, was quite delicious.  Her furniture had
not yet come from Paris, and there were but two chairs in the parlor;
consequently, when a visitor came, her husband was obliged to stand,
she said, with the greatest ceremony.  She sat by the kitchen table to
write to me, and the cook overturned her ink, making a blot upon the
page: all of these little details made up a perfect picture of her
life.  Of course the letter was full of "my husband," and the signature
was no longer the impulsive, girlish--"With a thousand kisses, my
darling, ever your own Teresita," but a decorous and matronly ending:
"Yours affectionately, Teresa Carreño Sauret."

Two more letters by the evening mail; one having the features of the
"Re Galantuomo" upon the postage stamps, is from a young American music
student in Florence, a pupil of Hans Von Bülow, who will, upon her
return to her own country, be known as one of our finest amateur
pianists.

There is also a letter from our estimable friend, Miss Booth, the
accomplished Editress of Harper's Bazar.  She will spend next Saturday
with us, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wright.


_September 20_.

Ida went down to the city yesterday, to see both her lawyer and
dress-maker, saying that she would return by the half past six o'clock
train.  We went down accordingly to meet the cars, but she did not
arrive upon them; a telegram, however, was shortly sent up to the
house, announcing that she would come on the eight o'clock train,
accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Wiss.

"Mrs. Wiss!" exclaimed mamma, upon reading the telegram, "who can she
be?  I do not know any such person."

Gabrielle could not remember any one by the name of Wiss among Ida's
friends, and suggested that the ladies might be old friends of her
father's, whom Ida had never before seen; so remarking that the eight
o'clock train was a late one for ladies to travel upon alone, mamma
rang for Minna, and told her to delay our tea an hour and a half longer.

When we heard the footsteps of the travellers upon the piazza, we all
went out with some curiosity to meet our unknown visitors.  For a
moment we were speechless, as we recognized in the matron of the party,
Ida's charming Southern friend, Mrs. Ives, and in the tall young man
(her son) who accompanied her, the supposed Miss Wiss.  How the
telegraph operator could have so confused the names, no one could
imagine.

Mrs. Ives is a brilliant talker, and a woman of great polish and high
family connections.  She has lived North for several years, but will
return to Baltimore this winter to our great regret, for her
picturesque home near the Manhattanville Convent was a most delightful
place to spend an hour, while listening to the entertaining
conversation of the hostess, and the exquisite harp-playing of her
sister.


_September 25_.

A letter this morning from the little sculptress, Vinnie Ream.  She is
at Washington, and writes me that she has sold her bust of dear uncle
to the Cornell University.  I have not seen the bust since it was put
into marble, but when I saw it in clay at her New York studio two years
ago, I considered it a spirited and excellent likeness.  Vinnie is full
of the high courage that never deserts her through all of her trials
from public and private criticism, and she has my best wishes for a
bright and successful future.


_September 28_.

Two arrivals by the morning train: Mrs. Gibbons, a friend of many years
of dear uncle, Aunt Mary, and mamma, and a lady at whose hospitable
residence uncle often found a pleasant home, when his family were
absent, and Lucy White, an intimate friend of Ida and myself.

Miss White has just returned from a three months' visit to Europe, and
she gave us a very lively account of her gay season in London, and her
visit to Paris.  I was glad to learn from her that my favorite Italian
and Spanish pictures again occupied their accustomed places in the
_Salon Carré_ at the Louvre, and that the diadem mode of dressing the
hair, so becoming to my tiny figure, was by no means out of style in
Paris, but was, on the contrary, more fashionable than ever.


_September 30_.

A letter this morning from Katie Sinclair.  I rejoice to learn that her
health is improving, for, when we visited her some weeks ago, her
cheeks were almost as white as the pillows upon which they rested.

We were disappointed that we could not hear Katie sing that day, for we
had anticipated quite a little musical matinée; but her sister Mary,
who is an enthusiastic pianoforte student, made amends by playing with
much taste and expression, a dreamy "Melody," by Rubenstein.



CHAPTER XXIV.

"All that's Bright must Fade"--Departures--Preparing the House for the
Winter--Page's Portrait of Pickie--Packing up--Studious Habits of the
Domestics--The Cook and her Admirers--Adieu to Chappaqua.


_October 1_.

"All that's bright must fade."

This long, delightful summer is now over, and the time approaches for
us to return to the din and whirl of city life.

Miss Worthington left us this morning to return to her beautiful
Southern home, and Gabrielle, too, has gone back to the quiet of her
convent school, guided by the Protestant Sisters of St. Mary.

Ida is busily counting, and packing away the dainty china and silver,
suggestive of so many pleasant gatherings of friends that we have had
this summer, and Minna has brought down from the store-room large
chests to contain the heavy linen sheets with Aunt Mary's initials
beautifully embroidered in scarlet.

The guest-room and the parlors commence to wear a dismantled look, for
one by one the pretty trifles that ornamented them are being removed,
and although many of the pictures still hang upon the walls, dear
little Pickie's portrait stands in an unoccupied bedroom swathed in
linen, and ready to journey to the city when we do, for Ida prizes it
so highly that she will not box it up and send it by express, but
intends to have one of the servants carry it under her supervision,
lest some harm may befall it.  I do not wonder that it is priceless to
her; I also think it of inestimable value, for not only is it a
portrait of the beautiful little cousin whom I never saw, but even one
uninterested in Pickie would, I am sure, be attracted by it as a rare
work of art.  It is a full-length picture: the child holds in his hands
a cluster of lilies--a fit emblem of his spotless purity, and his
undraped limbs are perfectly moulded as those of an infant St. John.
His hair, of the line that Titian and Tintoretto loved to paint, falls
upon his shoulders like a shower of ruddy gold, and for depth of tone
and richness of color the picture more resembles the work of one of the
old Venetian Masters than a painting by modern hands.

Whilst in town the other day, I called in the Tenth Street Studio
Buildings to ask Mr. Page when he could give a few days of his time to
restoring Pickie's portrait, as it has been somewhat affected by the
dampness during the years that it has stood in the house in the woods.
Mr. Page gave me a very amusing account of the difficulty he
experienced in obtaining sittings from Pickie.

"Young children," he said, "are always averse to having their portraits
painted, and there is usually a struggle to induce them to submit to
the confinement of posing for me; but in Master Pickie's case, the
child was so full of life that I might almost as well have tried to
obtain sittings from a butterfly as from him."

Pickie's rapid illness and sudden death occurred before the picture was
completed, and although Mr. Page worked upon it for some time from
memory and from daguerrotypes of the child, a few finishing touches
remain to be added.


_October 3_.

This morning I at last realized what I have been endeavoring to banish
from my mind--that the day of our departure from dear Chappaqua is at
hand.  This fact was brought home to me in a very practical manner by
the arrival of our immense French trunks from the side-hill house,
where they have been stored this summer, and the necessity of packing
them, coupled with an intimation from mamma that it would be as well to
put my books and music in the bottom, and my dresses in the top of my
trunk.  I am somewhat of a novice in packing, for during the
preparations for our eight ocean voyages that duty never once fell to
my lot; however I flatter myself that such _very_ elementary
instructions were not necessary.

Quite tenderly I took down from the shelves the books that I had
brought from New York for summer reading, for mingled with every page
was some pleasant association.  One chapter in Kohlrausch's "Germany"
seemed still to retain the faint perfume of the pale primroses that I
gathered in the meadow that day to mark my stopping-place, and my
little volume of Voltaire's "Charles Douze" recalled an interesting
argument upon the relative claims to greatness of that hero, and my
hero par excellence, the first Napoleon.

My ponderous volumes of Plato brought before my mind Arthur's reading,
and the life with which he invested the words of these old-time
philosophers that had so keen an interest for him; while Madame de
Staël's "Allemagne," and my little copy of Ehlert's "Letters on Music"
were associated with almost every hour of the day.  They had lain upon
my writing-table the entire summer, and it was my habit whenever I laid
down my pen for a moment to take up one book or the other, and glance
at a page of Ehlert's criticisms upon opera, symphony, or song, or
Madame de Staël's profound essays upon art, morals, and politics.

This long summer has been one of great sweetness and content to us all.
A tinge of sadness has, it is true, been mingled with our daily life,
but we have felt the spiritual presence of our loved ones always near
us, urging and encouraging us to persevere and fit ourselves to join
them hereafter.  With this feeling we have worked constantly and
closely, and our record of improvement has been somewhat
satisfactory--to ourselves at least.  We have gone through the weighty
volumes that we had given ourselves as summer tasks; we have written
and practised; and, although Minna constantly exclaims upon our close
attention to study, a desire for improvement has extended
(unconsciously to ourselves) from the parlor to the kitchen.  Going
down there one night to give some orders for the next day, I was amused
by overhearing Lina say, "It is time to go to school now."  Immediately
Minna's bright-colored knitting was laid aside, and the two women drew
up to the table with their books.  After studying their English lesson,
they recited it to each other, followed by a brief reciprocal lesson of
Swedish and German.

Bernard also had his book, and was studying with great apparent
industry, although in what foreign tongue he was accomplishing himself
I do not know.  Perhaps he was trying to master the intricacies of the
German language, that he might offer himself to Minna through the
medium of her own tongue.  I was amused to see that he occupied what
might be called the neutral ground, at a table lighted by a flickering
candle, and at an equal distance from his sweetheart and his foe; for
since Bernard has commenced to take moonlight strolls with Minna, Lina
has taken deadly umbrage, which she manifests by giving him
candle-ends, cutting off his supply of coffee, and reducing his
comforts generally.

At first I felt quite sorry for Lina, so completely excluded as she was
at one time from the society of the other two, especially as she was
much older than Minna, and not at all prepossessing in appearance; but
since I have learned that she has in the village four Swedish admirers
who make her weekly visits, I have ceased to waste any sympathy upon
her.  We were quite amazed one Sunday afternoon to see four stalwart
blond men wending their way kitchen-wards, and inquiring in broken
English for "Swedish girl;" for of all places our quiet little
Chappaqua is the last one where we would have thought of seeing any of
Lina's compatriots.  These men, it seems, are employed in repairing the
railroad track; and learning that they had a countrywoman in the
village, called to make her acquaintance; so Lina can now triumph over
Minna.  I have heard from Minna that each one of the four men has
already offered himself to Lina, and that she refused them, remarking,
however, that she knew a girl in New York who would like to marry one
of them.  The men thanked her, but thought the distance rather too
great to go for a wife.

Despite their little difference over Bernard, the two women have lived
together quite amicably this summer; and it has been a great relief to
dear Ida, while so gracefully presiding as mistress of the house, to
feel that harmony reigned in the kitchen.


_October 5_.

Our last day in dear Chappaqua; we go down to the city to-morrow
morning.  How dread is the thought of leaving the poetic quiet of our
country home, to return to the confusion and excitement of city life;
that city, too, that will be fraught with such sad memories for us
during the last days of October and November.

How quickly it has gone, this long, sweet summer.  I cannot realize
that near five months have passed since that bright May morning that we
arrived here, and found dear Chappaqua in all her tender spring
freshness.  Imperceptibly the days have flown; the delicate hues of
leafy May have deepened and gone; the summer is over, and autumn with
her glowing tints has stolen upon us.  Now in vain do we hunt for
daisies to pull apart petal by petal with the old French rhyme that
every schoolgirl knows,

  "Il m'aime un peu--beaucoup,
  Passionément,--pas du tout!"

The daisies have gone with the sweet double violets and roses, and the
fragrant heliotrope and mignonette, of which we used to make bouquets
to dress the table and adorn the rooms; whilst brilliant, scentless
flowers now fill our garden beds, and the maples with their aureolas of
flame color and molten cold tell the same sad story--summer has fled.

For the last time I have walked up to the pine grove, and have taken
leave of that spot where dear uncle's feet have so often trodden, and
said farewell, too, to the forest trees whose trunks still bear the
impress of the axe once wielded by that hand now forever at rest; I
have drunk once more from the spring that Aunt Mary so dearly loved,
and which is far sweeter to me than the vaunted waters of Trevi, and
entered for the last time her loved home in the woods over whose
threshold her weary feet will never pass again.

  "Tempo passato, perche non ritorni a me?"

Adieu to Chappaqua and to my journal.  My daintily bound volume, so
large that I feared not easily to fill its pages, is closely covered,
and only a few blank lines remain whereon to take leave of it forever.
Adieus are always saddening, and I close it with the words unspoken.

And for dear, dear Chappaqua, I can find no words more fitting to
express my love than those verses written, it is true, in honor of
another Westchester Home, but so appropriate that I will insert them
here, trusting their author, Mr. JOHN SAVAGE, will pardon me for so
doing.


OUR DEAR WESTCHESTER HOME.

  Where'er my hopeful fancy dares,
    Or toiling footstep falls--
  Through ancient cities' thoroughfares
    Or Fortune's festal halls;
  O'er mountains grand, through forests deep,
  Or crest the yielding foam,
        I find no spot
        Like that dear cot,
  My own Westchester Home!

      *      *      *      *

  Bedecked with every sylvan charm,
    By loving Nature blest,
  Embraced between the ocean's arm
    And Hudson's bounteous breast,
  Westchester, in her beauty smiles
  To Heaven's protecting dome,
        For all the good.
        By field or flood
  That crowns our happy home!



THE END





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Story of a Summer - Or, Journal Leaves from Chappaqua" ***

Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.