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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 velvetceinture, 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, myceinturewas 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 theExpress, 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 afête champêtre, if not abal 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 hercarte blanchein 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-dayUpon 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 beforeI touched the terrace graced by you.
For what's a Queen's or Poet's worth?The light that lies on land and seaResplendent? Dearer far to meThe 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 mateMay 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 hereTo 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.
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 becometooapparent, 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 theSpectatoroffice—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 anappreciativereader.
"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 wellThe 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."
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 Yorksalonsand 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 ofThe Tribunewould 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 aTimeseditorial.
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 shouldlookpious, and the neighbors would never know that we werenotgoing to church.
One littlecontretempsmarked 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 stronglydisinclined 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 athisend 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 lemonsoufflée, 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. Toopetiteto 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, verypetite; 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.
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 theNew 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 hisNew 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 theNew 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 domeWoke in my soul a wondrous thrill--When every leaf in Nature's tomeBespoke Creation's marvels still;When morn unclosed her rosy bars,Woke joys intense; but naught e'er badeMy soul leap up like ye bright stars![1]