[1] For Lilian, Ida's second name.
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 werealwaysshort 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 theSpectatoroffice 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 theSpectatoroffice, 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 fromThe Tribuneoffice, and contains a slip cut from the OmahaBee, 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 therôlehad 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."
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 dailyTribune, 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 leastoncea 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; feelinglonelyin 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 isnot, 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.
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 theNorth 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 theSpectatoroffice 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."