Laura E. Richards.
Laura E. Richards.
Laura E. Richards.
So, I think, all we who jumped and changed our feet, who pirouetted and chasséed under Mr. Papanti, owe him a debt of gratitude. His hall was a paradise, the stiff little dressing-room, with its rows of shoe-boxes, the antechamber of delight,—and thereby hangs a tale. The child Laura grew up, and married one who had jumped and changed his feet beside her at Papanti’s, and they two went to Europe and saw many strange lands and things; and it fell upon a time that they were storm-bound in a little wretch of a grimy steamer in the Gulf of Corinth. With them was a travelling companion who also had had the luck to be born in Boston, and to go to dancing-school; the other passengers were a Greek, an Italian, and—I think the third was a German, but as he was seasick it made no difference. Three days were we shut up there while the storm raged and bellowed, and right thankful we were for the snug little harbor which stretched its protecting arms between us and the white churning waste of billows outside the bar.
We played games to make the time pass;we talked endlessly,—and in the course of talk it naturally came to pass that we told of our adventures, and where we came from, and, in short, who we were. The Greek gentleman turned out to be an old acquaintance of our father, and was greatly overjoyed to see me, and told me many interesting things about the old fighting-days of the revolution. The Italian spoke little during this conversation, but when he heard the word “Boston” he pricked up his ears; and when a pause came, he asked if we came from Boston. “Yes,” we all answered, with the inward satisfaction which every Bostonian feels at being able to make the reply. And had we ever heard, in Boston, he went on to inquire, of “un certo Papanti, maestro di ballo?” “Heard of him!” cried the three dancing-school children,—“we never heard of any one else!” Thereupon ensued much delighted questioning and counter-questioning. This gentleman came from Leghorn, Mr. Papanti’s native city. He knew his family; they were excellent people. Lorenzo himself he had never seen, as he left Italy somany years ago; but reports had reached Leghorn that he was very successful,—that he taught the best people (O Beacon street! O purple windows and brown-stone fronts, I should think so!); that he had invented “un piano sopra molle,” a floor on springs. Was this true? Whereupon we took up our parable, and unfolded to the Livornese mind the glory of Papanti, till he fairly glowed with pride in his famous fellow-townsman.
And, finally, was not this a pleasant little episode in a storm-bound steamer in the Gulf of Corinth?
We had so many friends that I hardly know where to begin. First of all, perhaps, I should put the dear old Scotch lady whom we called “D. D.” She had another name, but that is nobody’s business but her own. D. D. was a thousand years old. She always said so when we asked her age, and she certainly ought to have known. No one would have thought it to look at her, for she had not a single gray hair, and her eyes were as bright and black as a young girl’s. One of the pleasantest things about her was the way she dressed, in summer particularly. She wore a gown of white dimity, always spotlessly clean, made with a single plain skirt, and a jacket. The jacket was a little open in front, showing a handkerchief of white net fastened with a brooch of hair in the shape of a harp.Fashions made no difference to D. D. People might wear green or yellow or purple, as they pleased,—she wore her white dimity; and we children knew instinctively that it was the prettiest and most becoming dress that she could have chosen.
Another wonderful thing about D. D. was her store-closet. There never was such a closet as that! It was all full of glass jars, and the jars were full of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and raisins, and all manner of good things. Yes, and they were not screwed down tight, as jars are likely to be nowadays; but one could take off the top, and see what was inside; and if it was cinnamon, one might take even a whole stick, and D. D. would not mind. Sometimes a friend of hers who lived at the South would send her a barrel of oranges (she called it a “bar’l of awnges,” because she was Scotch, and we thought it sounded a great deal prettier than the common way), and then we had glorious times; for D. D. thought oranges were very good for us, and we thought so too. Then she had some very delightful andinteresting drawers, full of old daguerreotypes and pieces of coral, and all kinds of alicumtweezles. Have I explained before that “alicumtweezles” are nearly the same as “picknickles” and “bucknickles”?
D. D.’s son was a gallant young soldier, and it was his hair that she wore in the harp-shaped brooch. Many of the daguerreotypes were of him, and he certainly was as handsome a fellow as any mother could wish a son to be. When we went to take tea with D. D., which was quite often, we always looked over her treasures, and asked the same questions over and over, the dear old lady never losing patience with us. And such jam as we had for tea! D. D.’s jams and jellies were famous, and she often made our whole provision of sweet things for the winter. Then we were sure of having the best quince marmalade and the clearest jelly; while as for the peach marmalade—no words can describe it!
D. D. was a wonderful nurse; and when we were ill she often came and helped our mother in taking care of us. Then shewould sing us her song,—a song that no one but D. D. and the fortunate children who had her for a friend ever heard. It is such a good song that I must write it down, being very sure that D. D. would not care.
“There was an old man. and he was mad,And he ran up the steeple;He took off his great big hat.And waved it over the people.”
“There was an old man. and he was mad,And he ran up the steeple;He took off his great big hat.And waved it over the people.”
“There was an old man. and he was mad,And he ran up the steeple;He took off his great big hat.And waved it over the people.”
To D. D. we owe the preservation of one of Laura’s first compositions, written when she was ten years old. She gave it to the good lady, who kept it for many years in her treasure-drawer till Laura’s own children were old enough to read it. It is a story, and is called—
Marion Gray, a lovely girl of thirteen, one day tied on her gypsy hat, and, singing a merry song, bade good-by to her mother, and ran quickly toward the forest. She was the youngest daughter of Sir Edward Gray, a celebrated nobleman in great favor with the king, and consequently Marion had everything she wished for. When she reachedthe wood she set her basket down under a chestnut-tree, and climbing up into the branches she shook them till the ripe fruit came tumbling down. She then jumped down, and having filled her basket was proceeding to another tree, when all of a sudden a dark-looking man stepped out, who, when she attempted to fly, struck her severely with a stick, and she fell senseless to the ground.Meanwhile all was in confusion at the manorhouse. Marion’s faithful dog Carlo had seen the man lurking in the thicket, and had tried to warn his mistress of the danger. But seeing she did not mind, the minute he saw the man prepare to spring out he had run to the house. He made them understand that some one had stolen Marion. “Who, Carlo, who?” exclaimed the agonized mother. Carlo instantly picked up some A-B-C blocks which lay on the floor, and putting together the letters that form the word “Gypsies,” looked up at his master and wagged his tail. “The Gypsies!” exclaimed Sir Edward; “alas! if the gypsies have stolen our child, we shall never see her again.” Nevertheless they searched and searched the wood, but no trace of her was to be found.. . . . . . .“Hush! here she is! Isn’t she a beauty?”“Yes! but what is her name?”“Marion Gray. I picked her up in the wood.A splendid addition to our train, for she can beg charity and a night’s lodging; and then the easiest thing in the world is just to find out where they keep the key, and let us in. Hush! hush! she’s coming to.”These words were spoken by a withered hag of seventy and the man who had stolen her. Slowly Marion opened her eyes, and what was her horror to find herself in a gypsy camp!I will skip over the five long years of pain and suffering, and come to the end of my story. Five years have passed, and the new king sits on his royal throne, judging and condemning a band of gypsies. They are all condemned but one young girl, who stands with downcast eyes before him; but when she hears her doom, she raises her dark flashing eyes on the king. A piercing shriek is heard, the crown and sceptre roll down the steps of the throne, and Marion Gray is clasped in her father’s arms!
Marion Gray, a lovely girl of thirteen, one day tied on her gypsy hat, and, singing a merry song, bade good-by to her mother, and ran quickly toward the forest. She was the youngest daughter of Sir Edward Gray, a celebrated nobleman in great favor with the king, and consequently Marion had everything she wished for. When she reachedthe wood she set her basket down under a chestnut-tree, and climbing up into the branches she shook them till the ripe fruit came tumbling down. She then jumped down, and having filled her basket was proceeding to another tree, when all of a sudden a dark-looking man stepped out, who, when she attempted to fly, struck her severely with a stick, and she fell senseless to the ground.
Meanwhile all was in confusion at the manorhouse. Marion’s faithful dog Carlo had seen the man lurking in the thicket, and had tried to warn his mistress of the danger. But seeing she did not mind, the minute he saw the man prepare to spring out he had run to the house. He made them understand that some one had stolen Marion. “Who, Carlo, who?” exclaimed the agonized mother. Carlo instantly picked up some A-B-C blocks which lay on the floor, and putting together the letters that form the word “Gypsies,” looked up at his master and wagged his tail. “The Gypsies!” exclaimed Sir Edward; “alas! if the gypsies have stolen our child, we shall never see her again.” Nevertheless they searched and searched the wood, but no trace of her was to be found.
. . . . . . .
“Hush! here she is! Isn’t she a beauty?”
“Yes! but what is her name?”
“Marion Gray. I picked her up in the wood.A splendid addition to our train, for she can beg charity and a night’s lodging; and then the easiest thing in the world is just to find out where they keep the key, and let us in. Hush! hush! she’s coming to.”
These words were spoken by a withered hag of seventy and the man who had stolen her. Slowly Marion opened her eyes, and what was her horror to find herself in a gypsy camp!
I will skip over the five long years of pain and suffering, and come to the end of my story. Five years have passed, and the new king sits on his royal throne, judging and condemning a band of gypsies. They are all condemned but one young girl, who stands with downcast eyes before him; but when she hears her doom, she raises her dark flashing eyes on the king. A piercing shriek is heard, the crown and sceptre roll down the steps of the throne, and Marion Gray is clasped in her father’s arms!
Another dear friend was Miss Mary. She was a small, brisk woman, with “New England” written all over her. She used to stay with us a good deal, helping my mother in household matters, or writing for our father; and we all loved her dearly. Shehad the most beautiful hair, masses and masses of it, of a deep auburn, and waving in a lovely fashion. She it was who used to say, “Hurrah for Jackson!” whenever anything met her special approval; and we all learned to say it too, and to this day some of us cheer the name of “Old Hickory,” who has been in his grave these fifty years. Miss Mary came of seafaring people, and had many strange stories of wreck and tempest, of which we were never weary. Miss Mary’s energy was untiring, her activity unceasing. She used to make long woodland expeditions with us in the woods around the Valley, leading the way “over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier,” finding all manner of wild-wood treasures,—creeping-jenny, and ferns and mosses without end,—which were brought home to decorate the parlors. She knew the name of every plant, and what it was good for. She knew when the barberries must be gathered, and when the mullein flowers were ready. She walked so fast and so far that she wore out an unreasonable number of shoes in a season.
Speaking of her shoes reminds me that at the fire of which I spoke in a previous chapter, at the Institution for the Blind, Miss Mary was the first person to give the alarm. She had on a brand-new pair of morocco slippers when the fire broke out, and by the time it was extinguished they were in holes. This will give you some idea of Miss Mary’s energy.
Then there was Mr. Ford, one of the very best of our friends. He was a sort of factotum of our father, and, like The Bishop in the “Bab Ballads,” was “short and stout and round-about, and zealous as could be.” We were very fond of trotting at his heels, and loved to pull him about and tease him, which the good man never seemed to resent. Once, however, we carried our teasing too far, as you shall hear. One day our mother was sitting quietly at her writing, thinking that the children were all happy and good, and possessing her soul in patience. Suddenly to her appeared Julia, her hair flying, eyes wide open, mouth ditto,—the picture of despair.
“Oh, Mamma!” gasped the child, “I have done the most dreadful thing! Oh, the most dreadful, terrible thing!”
“What is it?” exclaimed our mother, dropping her pen in distress; “what have you done, dear? Tell me quickly!”
“Oh, I cannot tell you!” sobbed the child; “I cannot!”
“Have you set the house on fire?” cried our mother.
“Oh, worse than that!” gasped poor Julia, “much worse!”
“Have you dropped the baby?”
“Worse than that!”
Now, therewasnothing worse than dropping the baby, so our mother began to feel relieved.
“Tell me at once, Julia,” she said, “what you have done!”
“I—I—” sobbed poor Julia,—“I pulled—I pulled—off—Mr. Ford’s wig!”
There were few people we loved better than Tomty, the gardener. This dear, good man must have been a martyr to our pranks, and the only wonder is that he was able todo any gardening at all. It was “Tomty” here and “Tomty” there, from morning till night. When Laura wanted her bonnet-strings tied (oh, that odious little bonnet! with the rows of pink and green quilled ribbon which was always coming off), she never thought of going into the house to Mary, though Mary was good and kind too,—she always ran to Tomty, who must “lay down the shovel and the hoe,” and fashion bow-knots with his big, clumsy, good-natured fingers. When Harry was playing out in the hot sun without a hat, and Mary called to him to come in like a good boy and get his hat, did he go? Oh, no! He tumbled the potatoes or apples out of Tomty’s basket, and put that on his head instead of a hat, and it answered just as well.
Poor, dear Tomty! He went to California in later years, and was cruelly murdered by some base wretches for the sake of a little money which he had saved.
Somehow we had not very many friends of our own age. I suppose one reason was that we were so many ourselves that there were always enough to have a good time.
There were one or two little girls who used to go with us on the famous maying-parties, which were great occasions. On May-day morning we would take to ourselves baskets,—some full of goodies, some empty,—and start for a pleasant wooded place not far from Green Peace. Here, on a sunny slope where the savins grew not too thickly to prevent the sun from shining merrily down on the mossy sward, we would pitch our tent (only there was no tent), and prepare to be perfectly happy. We gathered such early flowers as were to be found, and made garlands of them; we chose a queen and crowned her; and then we had a feast, which was really the object of the whole expedition.
It was the proper thing to buy certain viands for this feast, the home dainties being considered not sufficiently rare.
Well, we ate our oranges and nibbled our cocoanut, and the older ones drank the milk, if there was any in the nut: this was considered the very height of luxury, and the little ones knew it was too much for themto expect. I cannot remember whether we were generally ill after these feasts, but I think it highly probable.
In mentioning our friends, is it right to pass over the good “four-footers,” who were so patient with us, and bore with so many of our vagaries? Can we ever forget Oggy the Steamboat, so called from the loudness of her purring? Do not some of us still think with compunction of the day when this good cat was put in a tin pan, and covered over with a pot-lid, while on the lid was set her deadly enemy Ella, the fat King Charles spaniel? What a snarling ensued! what growls, hisses, yells, mingled with the clashing of tin and the “unseemly laughter” of naughty children!
And Lion, the good Newfoundland dog, who let us ride on his back—when he was in the mood, and tumbled us off when he was not! He was a dear dog; but Fannie, his mate, was anything but amiable, and sometimes gave sore offence to visitors by snapping at their heels and growling.
But if the cats and dogs suffered from us,we suffered from José! O José! what a tyrannous little beast you were! Never was a brown donkey prettier, I am quite sure; never did a brown donkey have his own way so completely.
Whether a child could take a ride or not depended entirely on whether José was in the mood for it. If not, he trotted a little way till he got the child alone; and then he calmly rubbed off his rider against a tree or fence, and trotted away to the stable. Of course this was when we were very little; but by the time the little ones were big enough to manage him José was dead; so some of us never “got even with him,” as the boys say. When the dearest uncle in the world sent us the donkey-carriage, things went better; for the obstinate little brown gentleman could not get rid of that, of course, and there were many delightful drives, with much jingling of harness and all manner of style and splendor.
These were some of our friends, two-footers and four-footers. There were many others, of course, but time and space fail to tell ofthem. After all, perhaps they were just like other children’s friends. I must not weary my readers by rambling on indefinitely in these long-untrodden paths; but I wish other children could have heard Oggy purr!
Many interesting visitors came and went, both at Green Peace and the Valley,—many more than I can recollect. The visit of Kossuth, the great Hungarian patriot, made no impression upon me, as I was only a year old when he came to this country; but there was a great reception for him at Green Peace, and many people assembled to do honor to the brave man who had tried so hard to free his country from the Austrian yoke, and had so nearly succeeded. I remember a certain hat, which we younger children firmly believed to have been his, though I have since been informed that we were mistaken. At all events, we used to play with the hat (I wonder whose it was!) under this impression, and it formed animportant element in “dressing up,” which was one of our chief delights.
One child would put on Kossuth’s hat, another Lord Byron’s helmet,—a superb affair of steel and gold, which had been given to our father in Greece, after Byron’s death (we ought not to have been allowed to touch so precious a relic, far less to dress up in it!); while a third would appropriate a charming little square Polish cap of fine scarlet, which ought to have belonged to Thaddeus of Warsaw, but did not, I fear.
What pleasant things we had to dress up in! There was our father’s wedding-coat, bright blue, with brass buttons; and the waistcoat he had worn with it, white satin with raised velvet flowers,—such a fine waistcoat! There were two embroidered crape gowns which had been our grandmother’s, with waists a few inches long, and long, skimp skirts; and the striped blue and yellow moiré, which our mother had worn in some private theatricals,—that was beyond description! And the white gauze with gold flounces—oh! and the peach-blossom silk with flowers all over it—ah!
But this is a digression, and has nothing whatever to do with our guests, who never played “dressing up,” that I can remember.
One of our most frequent visitors at Green Peace was the great statesman and patriot, Charles Sumner. He was a very dear friend of our father, and they loved to be together whenever the strenuous business of their lives would permit.
We children used to call Mr. Sumner “the Harmless Giant;” and indeed he was very kind to us, and had always a pleasant word for us in that deep, melodious voice which no one, once hearing it, could ever forget. He towered above us to what seemed an enormous height; yet we were told that he stood six feet in his stockings,—no more. This impression being made on Laura’s mind, she was used to employ the great senator as an imaginary foot-rule (six-foot rule, I should say), and, until she was almost a woman grown, would measure a thing in her own mind by saying “two feet higher than Mr. Sumner,” or “twice as high as Mr. Summer,” as the case might be. Ican remember him carrying the baby Maud on his shoulder, and bowing his lofty crest to pass through the doorway. Sometimes his mother, Madam Sumner, came with him, a gracious and charming old lady. I am told that on a day when she was spending an hour at Green Peace, and sitting in the parlor window with our mother, Laura felt it incumbent upon her to entertain the distinguished visitor; so, being arrayed in her best white frock, she took up her station on the gravel path below the window, and filling a little basket with gravel, proceeded to pour it over her head, exclaiming, “Mit Humner! hee my ektibiton!” This meant “exhibition.” Laura could not pronounce the letter S in childhood’s happy hour. “Mamma,” she would say, if she saw our mother look grave, “Id you had? Why id you had?” and then she would bring a doll’s dish, or it might be a saucepan, and give it to her mother and say, with infinite satisfaction, “Dere! ’mooge you’helf wid dat!”
Another ever welcome guest was John A. Andrew, the great War Governor, as weloved to call him. He was not governor in those days,—that is, when I first remember him; but he was then, as always, one of the most delightful of men. Who else could tell a story with such exquisite humor? The stories themselves were better than any others, but his way of telling them set every word in gold. The very sound of his voice made the air brighter and warmer, and his own delightful atmosphere of sunny geniality went always with him. That was a wonderful evening when at one of our parties some scenes from Thackeray’s “The Rose and the Ring” were given. Our mother was Countess Gruffanuff, our father Kutasoff Hedzoff; Governor Andrew took the part of Prince Bulbo, while Flossy made a sprightly Angelica, and Julia as Betsinda was a vision of rarest beauty. I cannot remember who was Prince Giglio, but the figure of Bulbo, with closely curling hair, his fine face aglow with merriment, and the magic rose in his buttonhole, comes distinctly before me.
Who were the guests at those dinner-partiesso well remembered? Alas! I know not. Great people they often were, famous men and women, who talked, no doubt, brilliantly and delightfully. But is it their conversation which lingers like a charm in my memory? Again, alas! my recollection is of finger-bowls, crimson and purple, which sang beneath the wetted finger of some kindly elder; of almonds and raisins, and bonbons mystic, wonderful, all gauze and tinsel and silver paper, with flat pieces of red sugar within. The red sugar was something of an anticlimax after the splendors of its envelope, being insipidly sweet, with no special flavor. The scent of coffee comes back to me, rich, delicious, breathing of “the golden days of good Haroun Alraschid.” We were never allowed to drink coffee or tea; but standing by our mother’s chair, just before saying good-night, we received the most exquisite dainty the world afforded,—a “coffee-duck,” which to the ignorant is explained to be a lump of sugar dipped in coffee (black coffee,bien entendu) and held in the amber liquid till it begins to meltin delicious “honeycomb” (this was probably the true ambrosia of the gods); and then we said good-night, and—and—went and begged the cook for a “whip,” or some “floating-island,” or a piece of frosted cake! Was it strange that occasionally, after one of these feasts, Laura could not sleep, and was smitten with the “terror by night” (it was generally a locomotive which was coming in at the window to annihilate her; Julia was the one who used to weep at night for fear of foxes), and would come trotting down into the lighted drawing-room, among all the silks and satins, arrayed in the simple garment known as a “leg-nightgown,” demanding her mother? Ay, and I remember that she always got her mother, too.
But these guests? I remember the great Professor Agassiz, with his wise, kindly face and genial smile. I can see him putting sugar into his coffee, lump after lump, till it stood up above the liquid like one of his own glaciers. I remember all the “Abolition” leaders, for our own parents were stanch Abolitionists, and worked heart and soul forthe cause of freedom. I remember when Swedish ships came into Boston Harbor, probably for the express purpose of filling our parlors with fair-haired officers, wonderful, magnificent, shining with epaulets and buttons. There may have been other reasons for the visit; there may have been deep political designs, and all manner of mysteries relating to the peace of nations I know not. But I know that there was a little midshipman in white trousers, who danced with Laura, and made her a bow afterward and said, “I tanks you for de polska.” He was a dear little midshipman! There was an admiral too, who corresponded more or less with Southey’s description,—
“And last of all an admiral came,A terrible man with a terrible name,—A name which, you all must know very well,Nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.”
“And last of all an admiral came,A terrible man with a terrible name,—A name which, you all must know very well,Nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.”
“And last of all an admiral came,A terrible man with a terrible name,—A name which, you all must know very well,Nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.”
The admiral said to Harry, “I understand you shall not go to sea in future times?” and that is all I remember about him.
I remember Charlotte Cushman, the great actress and noble woman, who was a dearfriend of our mother; with a deep, vibrating, melodious voice, and a strong, almost masculine face, which was full of wisdom and kindliness.
I remember Edwin Booth, in the early days, when his brilliant genius and the splendor of his melancholy beauty were taking all hearts by storm. He was very shy, this all-powerful Richelieu, this conquering Richard, this princely Hamlet. He came to a party given in his honor by our mother, and instead of talking to all the fine people who were dying for a word with him, he spent nearly the whole evening in a corner with little Maud, who enjoyed herself immensely. What wonder, when he made dolls for her out of handkerchiefs, and danced them with dramatic fervor? She was very gracious to Mr. Booth, which was a good thing; for one never knew just what Maud would say or do. Truth compels me to add that she was theenfant terribleof the family, and that the elders always trembled when visitors noticed or caressed the beautiful child.
One day, I remember, a very wise and learned man came to Green Peace to see our mother,—a man of high reputation, and withal a valued friend. He was fond of children, and took Maud on his knee, meaning to have a pleasant chat with her. But Maud fixed her great gray eyes on him, and surveyed him with an air of keen and hostile criticism. “What makes all those little red lines in your nose?” she asked, after an ominous silence. Mr. H——, somewhat taken aback, explained as well as he could the nature of the veins, and our mother was about to send the child on some suddenly-bethought-of errand, when her clear, melodious voice broke out again, relentless, insistent: “Do you know, I think you are the ugliest man I ever saw in my life!” “That will do, Maud!” said Mr. H——, putting her down from his knee. “You are charming, but you may go now, my dear.” Then he and our mother both tried to become very much interested in metaphysics; and next day he went and asked a mutual friend if he were really the ugliest man thatever was seen, telling her what Maud had said.
Again, there was a certain acquaintance—long since dead—who was in the habit of making interminable calls at Green Peace, and who would talk by the hour together without pausing. Our parents were often wearied by this gentleman’s conversational powers, and one of them (let this be a warning to young and old) chanced one day to speak of him in Maud’s hearing as “a great bore.” This was enough! The next time the unlucky talker appeared, the child ran up to him, and greeted him cordially with, “How do you do, bore? Oh, you great bore!” A quick-witted friend who was in the room instantly asked Mr. S—— if he had seen the copy of Snyder’s “Boar Hunt” which our father had lately bought, thinking it better that he should fancy himself addressed as a beast of the forest than asBorus humanus; but he kept his own counsel, and we never knew what he really thought of Maud’s greeting.
But of all visitors at either house, therewas one whom we loved more than all others put together. Marked with a white stone was the happy day which brought the wonderful uncle, the fairy godfather, the realization of all that is delightful in man, to Green Peace or the Valley. Uncle Sam Ward!—uncle by adoption to half the young people he knew, but our very own uncle, our mother’s beloved brother. We might have said to him, with Shelley,—
“Rarely, rarely comest thou,Spirit of delight!”
“Rarely, rarely comest thou,Spirit of delight!”
“Rarely, rarely comest thou,Spirit of delight!”
for he was a busy man, and Washington was a long way off; but when he did come, as I said, it was a golden day. We fairly smothered him,—each child wanting to sit on his knee, to see his great watch, and the wonderful sapphire that he always wore on his little finger. Then he must sing for us; and he would sing the old Studenten Lieder in his full, joyous voice; but he must always wind up with “Balzoroschko Schnego” (at least that is what it sounded like), a certain Polish drinking-song, in which he sneezedand yodeled, and did all kinds of wonderful things.
Then would come an hour of quiet talk with our mother, when we knew enough to be silent and listen,—feeling, perhaps, rather than realizing that it was not a common privilege to listen to such talk.
“No matter how much I may differ from Sam Ward in principles or opinion,” said Charles Sumner once, “when I have been with him five minutes, I forget everything except that he is the most delightful man in the world.”
Again (but this was the least part of the pleasure), he never came empty-handed. Now it was a basket of wonderful peaches, which he thought might rival ours; now a gold bracelet for a niece’s wrist; now a beautiful book, or a pretty dress-pattern that had caught his eye in some shop-window. Now he came direct from South America, bringing for our mother a silver pitcher which he had won as a prize at a shooting-match in Paraguay. One of us will never forget being waked in the gray dawn of asummer morning at the Valley, by the sound of a voice singing outside,—will never forget creeping to the window and peeping out through the blinds. There on the door-step stood the fairy uncle, with a great basket of peaches beside him; and he was singing the lovely old French song, which has always since then seemed to me to belong to him:
“Noble Châtelaine,Voyez notre peine,Et dans vos domainesRendez charité!Voyez le disgraceQui nous menace,Et donnez, par grace,L’hospitalité!Toi que je révère,Entends ma prière.O Dieu tutelaire,Viens dans ta bonte,Pour sauver l’innocence,Et que ta puissanceUn jour recompenseL’hospitalité!”
“Noble Châtelaine,Voyez notre peine,Et dans vos domainesRendez charité!Voyez le disgraceQui nous menace,Et donnez, par grace,L’hospitalité!Toi que je révère,Entends ma prière.O Dieu tutelaire,Viens dans ta bonte,Pour sauver l’innocence,Et que ta puissanceUn jour recompenseL’hospitalité!”
“Noble Châtelaine,Voyez notre peine,Et dans vos domainesRendez charité!Voyez le disgraceQui nous menace,Et donnez, par grace,L’hospitalité!Toi que je révère,Entends ma prière.O Dieu tutelaire,Viens dans ta bonte,Pour sauver l’innocence,Et que ta puissanceUn jour recompenseL’hospitalité!”
There is no sweeter song. And do you think we did not tumble into our clothes and rush down, in wrappers, in petticoats, in whatever gown could be most quickly puton, and unbar the door, and bring the dear wanderer in, with joyful cries, with laughter, almost with tears of pure pleasure?
All, that was “long ago and long ago;” and now the kind uncle, the great heart that overflowed with love and charity and goodwill to all human kind, has passed through another door, and will not return! Be sure that on knocking at that white portal, he found hospitality within.
And now it is time that these rambling notes should draw to a close. There are many things that I might still speak of. But, after all, long agoislong ago, and these glimpses of our happy childhood must necessarily be fragmentary and brief. I trust they may have given pleasure to some children. I wish all childhood might be as bright, as happy, as free from care or sorrow, as was ours.
THE END.
FOOTNOTES:[1]I find it to be stone clover.[2]In the book entitled “Queen Hildegarde.”
FOOTNOTES:
[1]I find it to be stone clover.
[1]I find it to be stone clover.
[2]In the book entitled “Queen Hildegarde.”
[2]In the book entitled “Queen Hildegarde.”