0276
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Autobiography of Amelia E. Barr
All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography
The Red Leaves of a Human Heart
By Amelia E. Barr
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
MCMXIII
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
TO MY FRIENDS
DR. CARLOS H. STONE
AND
MRS. STONE
I INSCRIBE
WITH AFFECTIONATE ESTEEM
THIS STORY OF MY LIFE
Cherry Croft
A.D. 1913
[Illustration: MRS. BARR AT 80]
CONFIDENCES
This is to be a book about myself but, even before I begin it, I am
painfully aware of the egotistical atmosphere which the unavoidable
use of the personal pronouns creates. I have hitherto declared that I
would not write an autobiography, but a consideration of circumstances
convinces me that an autobiography is the only form any personal
relation can now take. For the press has so widely and so frequently
exploited certain events of my life--impossible to omit--that disguise
is far out of the question. Fiction could not hide me, nor an assumed
name, nor even no name at all.
Why, then, write the book? First, because serious errors have
constantly been published, and these I wish to correct; second, there
has been a long-continued request for it, and third, there are
business considerations not to be neglected. Yet none, nor all of
these three reasons, would have been sufficient to induce me to truck
my most sacred memories through the market-place for a little money,
had I not been conscious of a motive that would amply justify the
book. The book itself must reveal that reason, or it will never be
known. I am sure, however, that many will find it out, and to these
souls I shall speak, and they will keep my memory green, and listen to
my words of strength and comfort long after the woman called Amelia
Huddleston Barr has disappeared forever.
Again, if I am to write of things so close and intimate as my feelings
and experiences, I must claim a large liberty. Many topics usually
dilated on, I shall pass by silently, or with slight notice; and, if I
write fully and truly, as I intend to do, I must show many changes of
opinion on a variety of subjects. This is only the natural growth of
the mental and spiritual faculties. For the woman within, if she be of
noble strain, is never content with what she has attained; she
unceasingly presses forward, in lively hope of some better way, or
some more tangible truth. If any woman at eighty years of age was the
same woman, spiritually and mentally, she was at twenty, or even
fifty, she would be little worthy of our respect.
Also, there are supreme tragedies and calamities in my life that it
would be impossible for me to write down. It would be treason against
both the living and the dead. But such calamities always came from the
hand of man. I never had a sorrow from the hand of God that I could
not tell to any good man or woman; for the end of God-sent sorrow is
some spiritual gain or happiness. We hurt each other terribly in this
world, but it is in ways that only the power which tormented the
perfect man of Uz would incite.
I write mainly for the kindly race of women. I am their sister, and in
no way exempt from their sorrowful lot. I have drank the cup of their
limitations to the dregs, and if my experience can help any sad or
doubtful woman to outleap her own shadow, and to stand bravely out in
the sunshine to meet her destiny, whatever it may be, I shall have
done well; I shall not have written this book in vain. It will be its
own excuse, and justify its appeal.
AMELIA BARR
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. The Border Land of Life 1
II. At Shipley, Yorkshire 11
III. Where Druids and Giants Dwelt 25
IV. At Ripon and the Isle of Man 47
V. Sorrow and Change 60
VI. In Norfolk 69
VII. Over the Border 81
VIII. Love Is Destiny 91
IX. The Home Made Desolate 106
X. Passengers for New York 126
XI. From Chicago to Texas 146
XII. A Pleasant Journey 177
XIII. In Arcadia 195
XIV. The Beginning of Strife 214
XV. The Break-up of the Confederacy 235
XVI. The Terror by Night and by Day 259
XVII. The Never-Coming-Back Called Death 278
XVIII. I Go to New York 300
XIX. The Beginnings of a New Life 319
XX. The Family Life 335
XXI. Thus Runs the World Away 354
XXII. The Latest Gospel: Know Thy Work and Do It 374
XXIII. The Gods Sell Us All Good Things for Labor 405
XXIV. Busy, Happy Days 426
XXV. Dreaming and Working 446
XXVI. The Verdict of Life 466
Appendix I. Huddleston Lords of Millom 481
Appendix II. Books Published by Dodd, Mead and Company 488
Appendix III. Books Published by Other Publishers 490
Appendix IV. Poems 492
Appendix V. Letters 499
Index 513
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Mrs. Barr at 80 Frontispiece
Mrs. Barr's Birthplace 8
Rev. William Henry Huddleston 52
Mrs. Barr at 18 98
Mr. Robert Barr 204
Miss Lilly Barr 288
Mrs. Barr November, 1880 364
Miss Mary Barr (Mrs. Kirk Munroe) 378
"Cherry Croft," Cornwall-on-Hudson 428
Miss Alice Barr 456
CHAPTER I
THE BORDER LAND OF LIFE
"Date not God's mercy from thy nativity, look beyond to the Everlasting
Love."
* * * * *
"Ask me not, for I may not speak of it--I saw it."--TENNYSON.
I entered this incarnation on March the twenty-ninth, A.D. 1831, at
the ancient town of Ulverston, Lancashire, England. My soul came with
me. This is not always the case. Every observing mother of a large
family knows that the period of spiritual possession varies. For days,
even weeks, the child may be entirely of the flesh, and then suddenly,
in the twinkling of an eye, the mystery of the indwelling spirit is
accomplished. This miracle comes not by observation; no mother ever
saw it take place. She only knows that at one moment her child was
ignorant of her; that at the next moment it was consciously smiling
into her face, and that then, with an instinctive gladness, she called
to the whole household, "the baby has begun to notice."
I brought my soul with me--an eager soul, impatient for the loves and
joys, the struggles and triumphs of the dear, unforgotten world. No
doubt it had been aware of the earthly tabernacle which was being
prepared for its home, and its helper in the new onward effort; and
was waiting for the moment which would make them companions. The
beautifully fashioned little body was already dear, and the wise soul
would not suffer it to run the risks of a house left empty and
unguarded. Some accident might mar its beauty, or cripple its powers,
or still more baneful, some alien soul might usurp the tenement, and
therefore never be able effectually to control, or righteously use
it.
I was a very fortunate child, for I was "possessed by a good spirit,
yea rather being good, my spirit came into a body undefiled and
perfect" (Wisdom of Solomon, 8:20). Also, my environments were fair
and favorable; for my parents, though not rich, were in the possession
of an income sufficient for the modest comforts and refinements they
desired. My father was the son of Captain John Henry Huddleston, who
was lost on some unknown sea, with all who sailed in his company. His
brother, Captain Thomas Henry Huddleston, had a similar fate. His
ship, _The Great Harry_, carrying home troops from America, was dashed
to pieces on the Scarlet Rocks, just outside Castletown, the capital
of the Isle of Man. When the storm had subsided the bodies of the
Captain and his son Henry were found clasped in each other's arms, and
they were buried together in Kirk Malew churchyard. During the years
1843 and 1844 I was living in Castletown, and frequently visited the
large grave with its upright stone, on which was carved the story of
the tragedy. Fifteen years ago my sister Alethia went purposely to
Castletown to have the lettering on this stone cleared, and made
readable; and I suppose that it stands there today, near the wall of
the inclosure, on the left-hand side, not far from the main entrance.
When my grandmother, Amelia Huddleston, was left a widow she had two
sons, John Henry and William Henry, both under twelve years of age.
But she seems to have had sufficient money to care well for them, to
attend to their education, and to go with them during the summer
months to St. Ann's-by-the-Sea for a holiday; a luxury then by no
means common. She inspired her sons with a great affection; my father
always kept the anniversary of her death in solitude. Yet, he never
spoke of her to me but once. It was on my eleventh birthday. Then he
took my face between his hands, and said: "Amelia, you have the name
of a good woman, loved of God and man; see that you honor it."
After the death of their mother, I believe both boys went to their
uncle, Thomas Henry Huddleston, collector of the port of Dublin. He
had one son, the late Sir John Walter Huddleston, Q. C., a celebrated
jurist, who died in 1891 at London, England. I was living then at East
Orange, New Jersey. Yet, suddenly, the sunny room in which I was
standing was thrilled through and through by an indubitable boding
token, the presage of his death--a presage unquestionable, and not to
be misunderstood by any of his family.
Sir John Walter was the only Millom Huddleston I ever knew who had not
"Henry" included in his name. This fact was so fixed in my mind that,
when I was introduced to the _one_ Huddleston in the city of New York,
a well-known surgeon and physician, I was not the least astonished to
see on his card "Dr. John Henry Huddleston." Again, one day not two
years ago, I lifted a newspaper, and my eyes fell on the words "Henry
Huddleston." I saw that it was the baptismal name of a well-known New
Yorker, and that he was seriously ill. Every morning until his death I
watched anxiously for the report of his condition; for something in me
responded to that singular repetition, and, though I never heard any
tradition concerning it, undoubtedly there is one.
Millom Castle and lands passed from the Huddleston family to the Earls
of Lonsdale, who hold them with the promise that they are not to be
sold except to some one bearing the name of Huddleston. Not more than
ten years ago, the present Earl admitted and reiterated the old
agreement. One part of the castle is a ruin covered with ivy, the rest
is inhabited by a tenant of the Earl. My sister stayed with this
family a few days about twelve years ago. Soon afterwards Dr. John
Henry Huddleston, accompanied by his wife, visited Millom and brought
me back some interesting photos of the church and the Huddleston
monuments.
The Millom Huddlestons have always been great ecclesiastics. There
lies upon my table, as I write, a beautifully preserved Bible of the
date A.D. 1626. It has been used by their preachers constantly, and
bears many annotations on the margins of its pages. It is the most
precious relic of the family, and was given to me by my father on my
wedding-day. Their spiritual influence has been remarkable. One
tradition asserts that an Abbot Huddleston carried the Host before
King Edward the Confessor, and it is an historical fact that Priest
Huddleston, a Benedictine monk, found his way up the back stairs of
Windsor Castle to King Charles the Second's bedroom, and gave the
dying monarch the last comforting rites of his church.
When they were not priests they were daring seamen and explorers. In
the seventeenth century India was governed by its native princes, and
was a land of romance, a land of obscure peril and malignant spells.
An enchanted veil hung like a mist over its sacred towns on the upper
Ganges, and the whole country, with its barbaric splendors and amazing
wealth, had a luring charm, remote and unsubstantial as an ancient
fable. In that century, there was likely always to be some Captain
Huddleston rounding the Cape, in a big, unwieldy Indiaman. That the
voyage occupied a year or two was no deterrent. Their real home was
the sea, their Millom home only a resting-place. By such men the
empire of England was builded. They gave their lives cheerfully to
make wide her boundaries, and to strengthen her power.
My father and his brother both chose theology, and they were suitably
educated for the profession. John Henry, on receiving orders, sailed
for Sierra Leone as one of the first, if not the first missionary of
the English Church to the rescued slaves of that colony. My father
finally allied himself with the Methodist Church, a decision for which
I never heard any reason assigned. But the reason must have been
evident to any one who considered the character and movements of
William Henry Huddleston. In that day the English Church, whatever she
may do now, did not permit her service to be read, in any place not
sanctified by a bishop with the proper ceremonies. My father found in
half a dozen shepherds on the bare fells a congregation and a church
he willingly served. To a few fishers mending their nets on the
shingly seashore, he preached as fine a sermon as he would have
preached in a cathedral. It was his way to stroll down among the tired
sailormen, smoking and resting on the quiet pier in the gloaming, and,
standing among them, to tell again the irresistible story of Christ
and Him Crucified.
He was indeed a born Evangelist, and if he had been a contemporary of
General Booth would certainly have enrolled himself among the
earliest recruits of his evangelizing army. In the Methodist Church
this tendency was rather encouraged than hindered, and that
circumstance alone would be reason most sufficient and convincing to a
man, who believed himself in season and out of season in charge of
souls. In this decision I am sure there was no financial question; he
had money enough then to give his conscience all the elbow-room it
wanted.
Soon after this change my father married Mary Singleton--
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To trust, to comfort, and command."
Physically she was small and delicately formed, but she possessed a
great spirit, a heart tender and loving as a child's, and the most
joyous temper I ever met. Every fret of life was conquered by her
cheerfulness. Song was always in her heart, and very often on her
lips. She brooded over her children like a bird over its nest, and was
exceedingly proud of her clever husband, serving and obeying him, with
that touching patience and fidelity which was the distinguishing
quality of English wives of that period.
And it was to this happy couple, living in the little stone house by
the old chapel in Ulverston, I came that blessed morning in March,
A.D. 1831. Yes, I will positively let the adjective stand. It was a
"blessed" morning. Though I have drunk the dregs of every cup of
sorrow,
"My days still keep the dew of morn,
And what I have I give;
Being right glad that I was born,
And thankful that I live."
I came to them with hands full of gifts, and among them the faculty of
recollection. To this hour I wear the key of memory, and can open
every door in the house of my life, even to its first exquisite
beginnings. The thrills of joy and wonder, of pleasure and terror I
felt in those earliest years, I can still recapture; only that dim,
mysterious memory of some previous existence, where the sandy shores
were longer and the hills far higher, has become fainter, and less
frequent. I do not need it now. Faith has taken the place of memory,
and faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of
things not seen."
Childhood is fed on dreams--dreams waking, and dreams sleeping. My
first sharp, clear, positive recollection is a dream--a sacred, secret
dream, which I have never been able to speak of. When it came to me, I
had not the words necessary to translate the vision into speech, and,
as the years went on, I found myself more and more reluctant to name
it. It was a vision dim and great, that could not be fitted into
clumsy words, but it was clearer and surer to me, than the ground on
which I trod. It is nearly seventy-eight years since I awoke that
morning, trembling and thrilling in every sense with the wonder and
majesty of what I had seen, but the vision is not dim, nor any part of
it forgotten. It is my first recollection. Beyond--is the abyss. That
it has eluded speech is no evidence of incompleteness, for God's
communion with man does not require the faculties of our mortal
nature. It rather dispenses with them.
When I was between three and four years old I went with my mother to
visit a friend, who I think was my godmother. I have forgotten her
name, but she gave me a silver cup, and my first doll--a finely gowned
wax effigy--that I never cared for. I had no interest at all in dolls.
I did not like them; their speechlessness irritated me, and I could
not make-believe they were real babies. I have often been aware of the
same perverse fretful kind of feeling at the baffling silence of
infants. Why do they not talk? They have the use of their eyes and
ears; they can feel and taste and touch, why can they not speak? Is
there something they must not tell? Will they not learn to talk, until
they have forgotten it? For I know
"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting
The soul that rises with us, our Life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting;
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter darkness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home."
At this house, overlooking the valley of the Duddon, I needed nothing
to play with. Every room in it was full of wonders, so also was the
garden, with its dark walls shaded by yews, and pines, and glistening
holly, the latter cut into all kinds of fantastic shapes. The house
had a large entrance hall, and, rising sheer from it, was the steep,
spiral stairway leading to the upper rooms. The stairs were highly
polished and slippery, but they were the Alps of my baby ambition.
Having surmounted them, there was in the corridor to which they led,
queer, dark closets to be passed swiftly and warily, and closed guest
rooms--obscure, indistinct, and shrouded in white linen. It gave me a
singular pleasure to brave these unknown terrors, and after such
adventures I returned to my mother with a proud sense of victory
achieved; though I neither understood the feeling, nor asked any
questions about it. Now I can accurately determine its why and its
wherefore, but I am no happier for the knowledge. The joy, of having
conquered a difficulty, and the elation of victory because of that
conquest had then a tang and a savor beyond the power of later
triumphs to give me. I know too much now. I calculate probabilities
and attempt nothing that lacks strong likelihoods of success.
Deservedly, then, I miss that exulting sense of accomplishment, which
is the reward of those who never calculate, but who, when an attempt
is to be made, dare and do, and most likely win.
There was also a closed room downstairs, and I spent much time there
when the weather was wet, and I could not get into the garden. It had
once been a handsome room, and the scene of much gaiety, but the
passage of the Reform Bill had compelled English farmers to adopt a
much more modest style of living; and the singing of lovers, and the
feet of dancing youths and maidens was heard no more in its splendid
space. But it was yet full of things strange and mysterious--things
that ministered both to the heaven and hell of my imagination;
beautiful images of girls carrying flowers and of children playing;
empty shells of resplendent colors that had voices in them, mournful,
despairing voices, that filled me with fear and pity; dreadful little
heathen gods, monstrous, frightful! with more arms and hands and feet
than they ought to have; a large white marble clock that was dead,
and could neither tick nor strike; butterflies and birds motionless,
silent, and shut up in glass cases; and what I believed to be a golden
harp, with strings slack or broken, yet crying out plaintively if I
touched them.
One afternoon I went to sleep in this room, and, as my mother was out,
I was not disturbed; indeed when I opened my eyes it was nearly dark.
Then the occult world, which we all carry about with us, was suddenly
wide awake, also; the place was full of whispers; I heard the passing
of unseen feet, and phantom-like men and women slipped softly about in
the mysterious light. My heart beat wildly to the visions I created,
but who can tell from what eternity of experiences, the mind-stuff
necessary for these visions floated to me? Who can tell?
It was, however, the long, long nights, far more than the wonderful
days, which impregnated my future--the dark, still nights full of
hints and fine transitions, shadowy terrors, fleeting visions and
marvelous dreams. I shall remember as long as I live, nights that I
would not wish to dream through again, neither would I wish to have
been spared the dreams that came to me in them. The impression they
made was perhaps only possible on the plastic nature of a child soul,
but, though long years lay between the dream and the event typified,
the dream was unforgotten, and the event dominated by its warning. All
education has this provisional quality. In school, as well as in
dreams, we learn in childhood a great deal that finds no immediate use
or expression. For many years we may scarcely remember the lesson,
then comes the occasion for it, and the information needed is suddenly
restored.
[Illustration: MRS. BARR'S BIRTHPLACE
Born in the parsonage next to the chapel]
There is then no wonder that, in the full ripeness of my mental
growth, I look back with wondering gratitude to these first apparently
uneventful years on the border land of being. In them I learned much
anteceding any reasoning whatever. There is nothing incredible in
this. Heaven yet lies around infancy, and we are eternally related to
heavenly intelligences "a little lower" that is all. Thus, in an
especial manner,
"Our simple childhood sits,
Our simple childhood sits upon a throne,
That hath more power than all the elements."
For it is always the simple that produces the marvelous, and these
fleeting shadowy visions and intimations of our earliest years, are
far from being profitless; not only because they are kindred to our
purest mind and intellect, but much rather because the soul
"Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
Remembering not; retains an obscure sense
Of possible sublimity."
I have a kind of religious reluctance to inquire too closely into
these almost sacred years. Yet when I consider the material education
of the children of this period, I feel that I have not said enough.
For a boy educated entirely on a material basis, is not prepared to
achieve success, even financial success. The work of understanding
must be enlightened by the emotions, or he will surely sink to the
level of the hewers of wood and drawers of water. The very best
material education will not save a child who has no imagination.
Therefore do not deprive childhood of fairy tales, of tales of
stirring adventure and courage, and of the wondrous stories of the old
Hebrew world. On such food the imagination produces grand ideals and
wide horizons. It is true we live in a very present and very real
world, and many are only too ready to believe that the spiritual world
is far-off and shadowy. On the contrary, the spiritual world is _here_
and _now_ and indisputably and preëminently real. It is the material
world that is the realm of shadows.
I doubt if any child is born without some measure of that vision and
faculty divine which apprehends the supernatural. This is "the light
within which lighteth every man that cometh into the world." If that
light be neglected, and left to smoulder and die out, how great is the
darkness it leaves behind! Precious beyond price are the shadowy
recollections of a God-haunted childhood,
"Which be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day;
Are yet the master light of all our seeing."
A child is a deep mystery. It has a life of its own, which it reveals
to no one unless it meets with sympathy. Snub its first halting
confidences concerning the inner life, or laugh at them, or be cross
or indifferent, and you close the door against yourself forever. Now
there is no faculty given us that the soul can spare. If we destroy in
childhood the faculty of apprehending the spiritual or supernatural,
as detrimental to this life, if there be left
"... no Power Divine within us,
How can God's divineness win us?"
CHAPTER II
AT SHIPLEY, YORKSHIRE
"Sweet childish days that were as long
As twenty days are now."
* * * * *
"A child to whom was given
So much of earth, so much of heaven."
Before I was three years old my father removed to Yorkshire, to
Shipley, in the West Riding. I never can write or speak those two last
words, "West Riding," without a sensible rise of temperature, and an
intense longing to be in England. For the West Riding is the heart of
England, and, whatever is distinctively English, is also distinctively
West Riding. Its men and women are so full of life, so spontaneously
cheerful, so sure of themselves, so upright and downright in speech
and action, that no one can for a moment misunderstand either their
liking or disliking. Their opinions hold no element of change or
dissent. They are as hearty and sincere in their religion, as their
business, and if they form a friendship with a family, it will likely
be one to the third and fourth generation. I correspond today with
people whom I never saw, but whose friendship for my family dates back
to a mutual rejoicing over the victory of Waterloo.
Of course I was not able to make any such observations on West Riding
humanity when I first went there, but I _felt_ the goodness of the
people then, and in later years I both observed and experienced it.
And it was well for me in my early childhood to live a while among
such a strong, happy people. They impressed upon my plastic mind their
confidant cheerfulness, and their sureness that life was a very good
thing.
Shipley was then a pretty country town, though it is now a great
manufacturing city, not far behind Bradford and Leeds. I was three
years there and during those years gradually dropped all remains of
infancy, and became a child, a child eager for work and for play, and
half-afraid the world might not last until I found out all about it.
At first I went to a dame's school. She did not take children over
five years of age, and to these babies she taught only reading and
needlework and knitting. We sat on very low benches in a room opening
into a garden, and we spent a good deal of time in the garden. But she
taught me to hem, and to seam, to fell and to gather, to stroke and to
backstitch, and when I left her I could read any of the penny chap
books I could buy. Most of them contained an abbreviated adventure
from the "Arabian Nights" collection.
Soon after we removed to Shipley a woman came into our lives, called
Ann Oddy, and my sister and I were told to be respectful to her and to
obey her orders. She was a clever housekeeper, a superior cook, and
had many domestic virtues; but she was authoritative, tyrannical, and
quite determined to have things her own way. Fortunately I won her
favor early, and for two simple reasons: first, my hair was easy to
curl, and Sister Jane's had to be carefully put in papers, and then
did not "keep in." Second, because she thought Jane was always ready
to go "neighboring" with Mother, and then was so secret as to where
she had been, and so "know nothing" of what was said; but I was better
pleased to stay in the children's room with a book and herself for
company.
Indeed I liked Ann's society. She had a grewsome assortment of
stories, chiefly about bad fellows and their young women, but
sometimes concerning bad children who had come to grief for disobeying
their good parents, or for breaking the Sabbath Day. There was
generally, however, an enthralling climax, relating to a handsome
young man, whom she _saw_ hanged at York Castle for murdering his
sweetheart. At this narration I usually laid down my book, and
listened with trembling interest to the awful fate of this faithless
lover, and Ann's warnings against men of all kinds who wanted helpless
women to marry them. In those days I felt sure Ann Oddy had the true
wisdom, and was quite resolved to look upon all handsome young men as
probable murderers.
The three years I spent at Shipley were happy years. I enjoyed every
hour of them, though the days were twenty times as long as days are
now. There was a great deal of visiting, and visiting meant privileges
of all kinds. We were frequently asked out to tea with our parents,
especially if there were children in the house to which we were going,
and there were children's parties nearly every week at somebody's
house.
It was a good thing, then, that our usual fare was very plain, and not
even the quantity left to our own desire or discretion. Breakfast was
always a bowl of bread and milk boiled, and a rather thick slice of
bread and butter after it. Fresh meat was sparingly given us at
dinner, but we had plenty of broth, vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding.
Our evening meal was bread and milk, rice or tapioca pudding, and a
thick slice of sweet loaf--that is, bread made with currants, and
caraway seeds, and a little sugar. But when we went out for dinner or
tea, we had our share of the good things going; and, if the company
was at our house, Ann Oddy usually put a couple of Christ Church
tarts, or cheesecakes, among our plain bread. She always pretended to
wonder where they came from; and, if I said pleadingly, "Don't take
them away, Ann," she would answer in a kind of musing manner, "I'll be
bound the Missis put them there. Some people will meddle." Then Jane
would help herself, and I did the same, and we both knew that Ann had
put the tarts there, and that she intended us to eat them. Yet this
same little pretense of surprise was kept up for many years, and I
grew to enjoy the making of it more perfect, and the changing of the
words a little.
The house at which I liked best of all to visit was that of Jonathan
Greenwood. He had a pretty place--with a fine strawberry bed--at
Baildon Green. He was then a handsome bachelor of about forty years of
age, and I considered him quite an old man. I knew also that he was
Miss Crabtree's sweetheart, and Ann's look of disapproval, and the
suspicious shake of her head made me anxious about both of them. What
if Miss Crabtree should have another sweetheart! And what if Jonathan
killed her because she had deceived him! Then there might be the York
tragedy over again. These thoughts troubled me so much that I
ventured to suggest their probability to Ann. She laughed my fears to
scorn.
"Martha Crabtree have another sweetheart! Nay, never my little lass!
It will be the priest, not the hangman, that will tie Jonathan up."
"Tie Jonathan up, Ann!" I ejaculated.
"To be sure," she answered. "Stop talking."
"But, Ann----"
"Do as I bid you."
Then I resolved to ask Jonathan that afternoon. It was Thursday, and
he would be sure to call for a cup of tea as he came from Leeds
market. I did not do so, because he asked permission for me to go to
Baildon Green with him, and stay until after the fair, and during the
visit I knew I should find many better opportunities for the question.
To go to Baildon Green, was the best holiday that came to me, unless
it was to go to Mr. Samuel Wilson's, at the village of Baildon. He had
a much finer house, and a large shop in which there were raisins and
Jordan almonds, and he had also a handsome little son of my own age,
with whom I loved to play. But one visit generally included the other,
and both were very agreeable to all my desires.
At Baildon Green I had many pleasures. I liked to be petted and
praised and to hear the women say, "What a pretty child it is! God
bless it!" and I liked to hang around them, and listen to their
conversation as they made nice little dinners. I liked in the evening
to look at the _Penny Magazine_, and to have Mr. Greenwood explain the
pictures to me, and I certainly liked to go with him in his gig to
Leeds on Leeds market day. Sometimes he took me with him into the
Cloth Hall; sometimes also men would say, "Why, Jonathan, whose little
lass is that?" And he would answer, "It is Mr. Huddleston's little
lass." "_Never!_" would be the ejaculation, but I knew the word was
not intended for dissent, but somehow for approval.
When I was at Baildon Green Saturday was the great day. Very early in
the morning the weavers began to arrive with the web of cloth they had
woven during the week. In those days there were no mills--all the
cloth was made in the weavers' homes. Baildon Green was a weaving
village. In every cottage there was a loom and a big spinning wheel.
The men worked at the loom, the women and children at the wheel. At
daybreak I could hear the shuttles flying, and the rattle of the
unwieldy looms in every house. On Saturday they brought their webs to
Jonathan Greenwood. He examined each web carefully, measured its
length, and paid the weaver whatever was its value. Then, giving him
the woolen yarn necessary for next week's web, he was ready to call
another weaver. There were perhaps twenty to thirty men present, and,
during these examinations many little disputes arose. I enjoyed them.
The men called the master "Jonathan," and talked to him in language as
plain, or plainer, than he gave them. Sometimes, after a deal of
threaping, the master would lose his temper, then I noticed he always
got the best of the argument. In the room where this business took
place there was a big pair of scales, and I usually sat in them,
swinging gently to and fro, and listening.
These weavers were all big men, the master bigger than any of them;
and they all wore blue-checked linen pinafores covering them from neck
to feet. Underneath this pinafore the master wore fine broadcloth and
high shoes with silver latchets. I do not know what kind of cloth the
men wore, but it was very probably corduroy, as that was then the
usual material for workingmen's clothes, and on their feet were heavy
clogs clasped with brass, a footgear capable of giving a very ugly and
even dangerous kick.
I have never seen a prouder or more independent class of men than
these home weavers; and just at this time they had been made
anxious and irritable by the constant reports of coming mills and
weaving by machinery. But their religion kept them hopeful and
confident, for they were all Methodists, made for Methodists, and
Methodism made for them. And it was a great sight on a Sabbath
morning to see them gathering in their chapel, full of that
incompatible spiritual joy which no one understands but those who
have it, and which I at that time, took for simple good temper. But I
know now that if I was a preacher of the Word, I would not ask to be
sent to an analyzing, argumentative, cold Scotch kirk; nor to a
complacent, satisfied English church; nor even to a meditative,
tranquil Quaker meeting-house; I would say, "Send me to an inspiring,
joyful, West Riding Methodist chapel."
This visit to Baildon Green was the last of my Shipley experiences.
During it Mr. Greenwood told me that he would have "a handsome wife"
when I came again, and that she would take me about a bit. I was not
much pleased at the prospect. Men were always kinder to me than women,
and not so fussy about my hair being in curl, and my frock clean. So I
did not speak, and he asked, "Are you not pleased, Milly?"
"No," I answered bluntly.
"But why?" he continued.
"Because I like you--all to myself." Then he laughed and was much
pleased, and I learned that day that you may wisely speak the truth,
if it is complimentary.
The event of this visit was Baildon Feast, a great public rejoicing on
the anniversary of the summer solstice. It had been observed beyond
the memory of man, beyond historical notice, beyond even the
traditions of the locality. There was no particular reason for its
observance that I could ever learn; it was just Baildon Feast, and
that was all anybody knew about it.
I was awakened very early on the first day of the feast by the bands
"playing the sun up," and before we had finished breakfast the
procession was forming. Now Baildon Green is flat and grassy as a
meadow, and when I was six years old it had a pond in the center,
while from the northwest there rose high hills. Only a narrow winding
path led to the top of these hills, and about half way up, there was a
cave which tradition averred had been one of Robin Hood's retreats--a
very probable circumstance, as this whole country-side was doubtless
pretty well covered with oak forests.
A numerous deputation from the village of Baildon, situated on the top
of the hill, joined the procession which started from Baildon Green at
an early hour. The sun was shining brightly, and I had on a clean
white frock, pretty white sandals, a new blue sash, and a gypsy hat
trimmed with blue ribbons. When the music approached it put a spirit
into my feet and my heart kept time to the exciting melody. I had
never walked to music before, and it was an enchanting experience.
The procession appeared to my childish apprehension a very great one.
I think now it may have consisted of five hundred people, perhaps
less, but the great point of interest was two fine young heifers
garlanded with flowers, and ornamented with streaming ribbons of every
color. Up the winding path they went, the cattle lowing, the bands
playing, the people singing and shouting up to the high places on
which the village of Baildon stood. There at a particular spot,
hallowed by tradition, the cattle garlanded for sacrifice were slain.
I do not know whether any particular method or forms were used. I was
not permitted to see the ceremony attending their death, and I confess
I was much disappointed.
"It isn't fit for a little lass to see," said my friend Jonathan, "and
I promised thy father and mother I wouldn't let thee see it, so there
now! Nay, nay, I wouldn't whimper about such a thing as that. Never!"
I said I wasn't whimpering, and that I didn't care at all about seeing
the animals killed, but I did care, and Baildon Fair without its
tragedy no longer interested me, yet I stayed to see the flesh
distributed among all who asked for it. There was an understanding,
however, that those who received a festival roast should entertain any
stranger claiming their hospitality. This ancient rite over, the
people gave themselves up to sports of all kinds.
But their Methodism kept them within the bounds of decency, for there
were favorite preachers invited from all the towns around, and if the
men and boys were busy in the cricket fields all day, they were sure
to be in the chapel at night. There was also a chapel tea party the
last afternoon of the feast, and after it a great missionary meeting
at which Bishop Heber's hymn, "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," was
sung with such mighty fervor as made me thrill and tremble with an
emotion I can yet recall. That night I solemnly determined to be a
missionary. I would go to the darkest of all heathen lands, and be the
first to tell the story of Jesus. I went home in a state of beatific
surrender, and whenever I think of that night, I am aware of a
Presence, and the face I wore when I was a little child turns to me.
And I am troubled and silent before that little ghost with its eager
eyes and loving enthusiasms, for I have done none of the things I
promised to do, and an intangible clutch of memory gives me a spell of
sadness keen and regretful.
This Baildon experience was one of those instances of learning in
childhood things of no immediate use. I was hardly six years old then;
I was seventy-six when it struck me, that I had perhaps taken part in
a non-intentional sacrifice to the God Baal. For four years ago I was
much interested in discovering that the Shetlanders, even to the close
of the nineteenth century, kept the same feast at the summer solstice,
and also made their children in some of the lonely islands pass
through the Beltane fires, in fact paying the old God Bel or Baal the
same services as the Hebrew prophets so often reproached the
Israelites with performing. But I believe that wherever Druidical
remains are found, relics of this worship may be traced either in
names, superstitions, signs or traditions. In a letter I received from
a Bradford lady dated September twenty-seventh, A.D. 1911, she says,
"It was rather strange but we had a man at our house from Thornton the
other day, and he was telling us how they paraded the cattle they were
going to kill at the feast through the streets, and I thought of you,
and what you remembered of it in Baildon."
These details may seem to the reader trivial and futile; on the
contrary, they were the very material from which life was building
character. For all that surrounds a child, all that it sees, hears,
feels or touches, helps to create its moral and intellectual nature.
See then how fortunate were my first six years. My physical being was
well cared for by loving parents in a sweet orderly home, and my
mental life well fed by books stimulating the imagination. Through the
"Arabian Nights" tales I touched the domestic life of the wonderful
East, China, India, Persia and Arabia; and at the missionary meetings,
and at my home, I met men who had been to these far away places, and
brought back with them curious and beautiful things, even the very
gods they worshipped. There had been hitherto in other respects a
good deal of judicious neglect in my education. Books had never been
anything but a source of wonder and delight to me. I had never heard
of a grammar and an arithmetic, and had never been deprived of a visit
or a holiday because if I did not go to school, I would miss a mark,
or lose my place in a class.
Fortunately this desultory education was marbled all through with keen
spiritual incidents and issues. For the spiritual sight of children
turns more sharply upon the world within the breast, than they show,
or that anyone imagines. They hold in their memories imperishable days
which all others have forgotten, visions beautiful and fearful, dreams
without name or meaning, and they have an undefined impression of the
awful _oldness_ of things. They see the world through doors very
little ajar, and they know the walking of God through their dreaming
sleep.
The happy and prosperous children are those, who had before all else
the education that comes by reverence. This education is beyond all
doubt the highest, the deepest, the widest and the most perfect of all
the forms of education ever given to man. A child that has not been
taught to reverence God, and all that represents God to man--honor,
honesty, justice, mercy, truth, love, courage, self-sacrifice, is sent
into the world like a boat sent out to sea, without rudder, ballast,
compass or captain.
But the education by reverence must begin early. Children of very
tender years may be taught to wander through those early ages of
faith, when God took Enoch, and no one was astonished; when Abraham
talked with God as friend with friend; when the marvelous ladder was
let down by Jacob's pillow; when Hagar carrying her dying child in the
desert saw without surprise the angel of the Lord coming to help her.
Nor is there any danger in permitting them to enter that dimmer world
lying about childhood, to which _Robinson Crusoe_ and _Scheherazade_
hold the keys. The multiplication table can wait, until the child has
been taught to reverence all that is holy, wise and good, and the
imagination received its first impulse. So I do not call such events
as I have chronicled trifling; indeed, I know that in the formation
of my character, they had a wide and lasting influence.
A few days after the fair, Jonathan Greenwood was going to Bradford so
he left me at my home as he passed there, and as soon as I came in
sight of our house, I saw my sister running to the gate to meet me.
"I have a little brother!" she cried. "I have a little brother,
Amelia."
"Mine, too," I asserted; and she answered, "Yes, I dare say."
"Is he nice?" I asked.
"Middling nice. You should see how everyone goes on about him."
"My word!" cried Jonathan, "you girls will be nobodies now. But, I
shall stick by you, Milly."
"Yes," I answered dubiously, for I had learned already that little
girls were of much less importance than little boys. So I shook my
head, and gave Jonathan's promise a doubtful "yes."
"Tell Ann Oddy," he said, "that I will be in for a cup of tea at five
o'clock." Then he drove away, and Jane and I walked slowly up the
garden path together.
"Father called him John Henry, first thing," said Jane, "and Mother is
proud of him, as never was."
"I want to see him," I answered. "Let us go to the children's room."
"He is in Mother's room, and Mother is sick in bed, and Ann is so busy
with the boy, she forgot my breakfast, so I had breakfast with
Father."
"Breakfast with Father! Never!"
"Yes, indeed, and dinner, too, for three days now. Perhaps as you have
come home, Ann will remember that girls need something for breakfast.
Father wasn't pleased at her forgetting me."
"What did she say?"
She said, "Mr. Huddleston, I cannot remember everything, and the
Mistress and the little lad _do_ come first, I should say."
"Was Father angry?" I asked.
"He said something about Mrs. Peacock."
"What is Mrs. Peacock doing here?"
"She is hired to help, but I think she never leaves her chair. Ann
sniffed, and told Father, Mrs. Peacock had all she could do to take
care of Mrs. Peacock. Then Father walked away, and Ann talked to
herself, as she always does, when she is angry."
This conversation and much that followed I remember well, not all of
it, perhaps, but its spirit and the very words used. It occurred in
the garden which was in gorgeous August bloom, full of splendid
dahlias and holly-hocks, and August lilies. I have never seen such
holly-hocks since. We called them rose-mallows then which is I think a
prettier name. The house door stood open, and the rooms were all so
still and empty. There was a bee buzzing outside, and the girl Agnes
singing a Methodist hymn in the kitchen, but the sounds seemed far
away, and our little shoes sounded very noisy on the stairway.
I soon had my head on my mother's breast, and felt her kisses on my
cheek. She asked me if I had a happy visit, but she did not take as
much interest in my relations as I expected; she was so anxious to
show me the new baby, and to tell me it was a boy, and called after
his father's brother. I was jealous and unhappy, but Mother looked so
proud and pleased I did not like to say anything disagreeable, so I
kissed Mother and the boy again, and then went to the children's room
and had a good cry in Ann Oddy's arms.
"Ann," I said, "girls are of no account;" and she answered, "No,
honey, and women don't signify much either. It is a pity for us both.
I have been fit to drop with work ever since you went away, Amelia,
and who cares? If any man had done what I have done, there would be
two men holding him up by this time."
"Ann, why do men get so much more praise than women, and why are they
so much more thought of?"
"God only knows child," she answered. "Men have made out, that only
they can run the world. It's in about as bad a state as it well can
be, but they are proud of their work. What I say is, that a race of
good women would have done something with the old concern by this
time. Men are a poor lot. I should think thou would want something to
eat."
I told her I was "as hungry as could be," but that Jonathan was coming
to tea at five o'clock.
"Then he'll make it for himsel'," she said. "Mr. Huddleston has gone
to Windhill to some sort of meeting. Mrs. Huddleston can't get out of
bed. I have the baby on my hands, and Mrs. Peacock makes her own tea
at five o'clock--precisely."
"Then Ann let me make Jonathan's tea. I am sure I can do it, Ann. Will
you let me?"
"I'll warrant thee." Then she told me exactly what to do, and when
Jonathan Greenwood came, he found a good pot of tea and hot muffins
ready, and he had given Agnes some Bradford sausage, with their fine
flavoring of herbs, to fry, and Agnes remembered a couple of Kendal
wigs[1] that were in the house and she brought them in for a finishing
dish. I sat in my mother's chair, and poured out tea; but I sent for
Jane when all was ready, and she gave me a look, still unforgotten,
though she made no remark to disturb a meal so much to her liking.
Later, however, when we were undressing for bed, and had said our
prayers, she reminded me that she was the eldest, and that I had taken
her place in making tea for Mr. Greenwood. Many a time I had been
forced to receive this reproof silently, but now I was able to say:
"You are not the oldest any longer, Jane. John is the oldest now.
Girls don't count."
In my childhood this eldest business was a sore subject, and indeed to
this day the younger children in English families express themselves
very decidedly about the usurpation of primogenital privileges, and
the undue consideration given to boys.
A few weeks after the advent of my brother, John Henry, we removed to
Penrith in Cumberland, and the night before leaving, a circumstance
happened which made a great impression on me. There was a circle of
shrubs in the garden, and a chair among them on which I frequently
sat to read. This night I went to meet Mother at the garden gate, and
as we came up the flagged walk, I saw a man sitting on the chair. "Let
us go quickly to the house," said Mother; but a faint cry of "_Mary!_"
made her hesitate, and when the cry was repeated, and the man rose to
his feet, my mother walked rapidly towards him crying out, "O Will!
Will! O my brother! Have you come home at last?"
"I have come home to die, Mary," he said.
"Lean on me, Will," she replied. "Come into the house. We leave for
Penrith to-morrow, and you can travel with us. Then we shall see you
safely home."
"What will your husband say?" the man asked.
"Only kind words to a dying man. Are you really so ill, Will?" And the
man answered, "I may live three months. I may go much sooner. It
depends----"
Then my mother said, "This is your uncle, Dr. Singleton, Milly;" and I
was very sorry for a man so near death, and I went and took his hand,
but he did not seem to care about me. He only glanced in my face, and
then remarked to Mother, "She seems a nice child." I felt slighted,
but I could not be angry at a man so sick.
When I went upstairs I told Ann that my uncle had come, and that he
said he was going home to Kendal to die. "He will travel with us
to-morrow as far as Kendal; Mother asked him to do so," I added.
"I dare say. It was just like her."
"Don't you like my uncle, Ann? I thought he was a very fine
gentleman."
"Maybe he is. Be off to your bed now. You must be up by strike-of-day
to-morrow;" and there was something in Ann's look and voice, I did not
care to disobey.
Indeed Ann had every one up long before it was necessary. We had
breakfast an hour before the proper time; but after all, it was well,
for the house and garden was soon full of people come to bid us
"good-bye." Some had brought lunches, and some flowers and fruits, and
there was a wonderful hour of excitement, before the coach came
driving furiously up to the gate. It had four fine horses, and the
driver and the guard were in splendid livery, and the sound of the
horn, and the clatter of the horses' feet, and the cries of the crowd
stirred my heart and my imagination, and I believe I was the happiest
girl in the world that hour. I enjoyed also the drive through the
town, and the sight of the people waving their handkerchiefs to Father
and Mother from open doors and windows. I do not think I have ever
since had such a sense of elation and importance; for Father and I had
relinquished our seats inside the coach to Uncle Will Singleton, and I
was seated between the driver and Father, seeing well and also being
well seen.
Never since that morning have I been more keenly alive in every sense
and more ready for every event that might come; the first of which was
the meeting and passing of three great wains loaded high with wheat,
and going to a squire's manor, whose name I have forgotten. There were
some very piquant words passed between the drivers about the coach
going a bit to the wrong side. On the top of the three wagons about a
dozen men were lying at their ease singing the prettiest harvest song
I ever heard, but I only caught three lines of it. They went to a
joyful melody thus:
"Blest be the day Christ was born!
We've gotten in the Squire's corn,
Well bound, and better shorn.
Hip! Hip! Hurrah!"
But as they sang the dispute between the drivers was growing less and
less friendly, and the driver of the coach whipped up his horses, and
took all the road he wanted, and went onward at such a rattling pace
as soon left Shipley forever behind me.
CHAPTER III
WHERE DRUIDS AND GIANTS DWELT
"... upon the silent shore
Of memory, we find images and precious thoughts,
That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed."
I was greatly delighted with Penrith. It was such a complete change
from Shipley, and youth is always sure that change must mean
something better. In the first place the town was beautiful, and
generally built of the new red sandstone on which it stands; but
our house was white, being I think of a rough stucco, and it stood on
one of the pleasantest streets in the town, the one leading up to the
Beacon. Its rooms appeared very large to me then; perhaps I might not
think so highly of them now. Its door opened directly into the
living-room, and it was always such a joy to open it, and step out
of the snow or rain into a room full of love and comfort. Since those
days I have liked well the old English houses where the front door
opens directly into the living-room. Ten or twelve years ago a lady
built in Cornwall-on-Hudson a handsome house having this peculiarity,
and I often went to see her, enjoying every time that one step from
all out doors, into the sweet home influence beyond it.
The sound of the loom and the shuttle were never heard in the broad
still streets of Penrith. Business was a thing rather pushed into a
corner, for Penrith was aristocratic, and always had been. The great
earls of Lonsdale lent it their prestige, and circling it were some of
the castles and seats of the most famous nobility. It had been often
sacked, and had many royal associations. Richard the Third had dwelt
in its castle when the Duke of Gloucester, and Henry the Eighth's last
wife, Catherine Parr, came from Kendal. The castle itself had been
built by Edward the Third, and destroyed by Cromwell. All these and
many more such incidents I heard the first day of my residence in the
town from a young girl we had hired for the kitchen, and she mingled
with these facts the Fairy Cup of Eden Hall, and the great Lord
Brougham, Long Meg and her daughters, and the giant's grave in Penrith
churchyard; and I felt as if I had stepped into some enchanted city.
Up to this time I had never been to what I called a proper school. The
dame's school at Shipley I had far outstepped, and I was so eager to
learn, that I wished to begin every study at once. There were two good
schools in Penrith, one kept by a Miss Pearson, and the other by a man
whose name I have forgotten. I wanted to go to Miss Pearson. She had
the most select and expensive school. The man's school was said to be
more strict and thorough, and much less expensive; but there was a
positive prejudice against boys and girls being taught together. I
could tell from the chatter of the girl in the kitchen, that it was
looked down upon, and considered vulgar by the best people. I was
anxious about the result. Jane and I whispered our fears to each
other, but we did not dare to express any opinion to our parents. At
last I talked feelingly to Ann Oddy about the situation, and was glad
to find her most decidedly on our side.
"I am for the woman," she said straight out, "and I shall tell the
Master so plainly. What does that man know about trembling shy little
girls?" she asked indignantly, "and I've heard," she continued, "that
he uses the leather strap on their little hands--even when they are
trying to do the best they know how. His own children look as if they
got plenty of 'strap.' I've told your mother what I think of him."
"What did Mother say, Ann?" we eagerly asked.
"She said such a man as that would never do. So I went on--'Mrs.
Huddleston, our society wouldn't like it. He teaches girls to write a
big, round man's hand. You may see it yourself, Mrs. Huddleston, if
you'll lift his letter to you--good enough for keeping count of what
money is owing you, but for young ladies, I say it isn't right--and
his manners! if he has any, won't be fit to be seen, and you know,
Mrs. Huddleston, how men talk, he won't be fit to be heard at times;
at any rate that is the case with most men--except Mr. Huddleston.'"
With such words Ann reasoned, and if I remembered the very words
used it would be only natural, for I heard them morning, noon and
night, until Mother went to see Miss Pearson, and came home charmed
with her fine manners and method of teaching. Then our dress had to
be prepared, and I shall never forget it; for girls did not get so
many dresses then as they do now, and I was delighted with the
blue Saxony cloth that was my first school dress. Dresses were all
of one piece then, and were made low with short baby sleeves, but
a pelerine was made with the dress, which was really an over-waist
with two little capes over the shoulders. My shoes were low and
black, and had very pretty steel buckles; my bonnet, a cottage one of
coarse Dunstable straw. It had a dark blue ribbon crossed over it,
and a blue silk curtain behind, and some blue silk ribbon plaited just
within the brim, a _Red Riding Hood_ cloak and French pattens for
wet weather completed my school costume, and I was very proud of it.
Yet it is a miracle to me at this day, how the children of that time
lived through the desperate weather, deep snows and bitter cold, in
such insufficient clothing. I suppose it was the survival of the
fittest.
My first school day was one of the greatest importance to me. I have
not forgotten one incident in all its happy hours. I fell in love with
Miss Pearson as soon as I saw her; yes, I really loved the woman, and
I love her yet. She was tall and handsome, and had her abundant black
hair dressed in a real bow knot on the top of her head; and falling in
thick soft curls on her temples, and partly down her cheeks. An
exceedingly large shell comb kept it in place. Her dress was dark, and
she wore a large falling collar finely embroidered and trimmed with
deep lace, and round her neck a long gold chain. She came smiling to
meet us, and as soon as the whole school was gathered in front of the
large table at which she sat, she rose and said,
"Young ladies, you have two new companions. I ask for them your
kindness--Jane and Amelia Huddleston. Rise."
Then the whole school rose and curtsied to us, and as well as we were
able, we returned the compliment. As soon as we were seated again,
Miss Pearson produced a large book, and as she unclasped it, said,
"Miss Huddleston will come here."
Every eye was turned on Jane, who, however, rose at once and went to
Miss Pearson's table. Then Miss Pearson read aloud something like the
following words, for I have forgotten the exact form, though the
promises contained in it have never been forgotten.
"I promise to be kind and helpful to all my schoolmates.
"I promise to speak the truth always.
"I promise to be honorable about the learning and repeating of my
lessons.
"I promise to tell no malicious tales of any one.
"I promise to be ladylike in my speech and manners.
"I promise to treat all my teachers with respect and obedience."
These obligations were read aloud to Jane and she was asked if she
agreed to keep them. Jane said she would keep them all, and she was
then required to sign her name to the formula in the book, which she
did very badly. When my turn came, I asked Miss Pearson to sign it for
me. She did so, and then called up two girls as witnesses. This
formality made a great impression on me, the more so, as Miss Pearson
in a steady positive voice said, as she emphatically closed the book,
"The first breaking of any of these promises may perhaps be forgiven,
for the second fault there is no excuse--the girl will be dismissed
from the school."
I was in this school three years and never saw one dismissed. The
promise with the little formalities attending it had a powerful effect
on my mind, and doubtless it influenced every girl in the same way.
After my examination it was decided that writing was the study to be
first attended to. I was glad of this decision, for I longed to write,
but I was a little dashed when I was taken to a long table running
across the whole width of the room. This table was covered with the
finest sea sand, there was a roller at one end, and the teacher ran
it down the whole length of the table. It left behind it beautifully
straight lines, between which were straight strokes, pothooks, and the
letter _o_. Then a brass stylus was given me, and I was told to copy
what I saw, and it was on this table of sand, with a pencil of brass,
I took my first lessons in writing. When I could make all my letters,
simple and capital, and knew how to join, dot, and cross them
properly, I was promoted to a slate and slate pencil. In about half a
year I was permitted to use paper and a wad pencil, but as wad, or
lead, was then scarce and dear, we were taught at once how to sharpen
and use them in the most economical manner. While I was using a wad
pencil I was practicing the art of making a pen out of a goose quill.
Some children learned the lesson easily. I found it difficult, and
spoiled many a bunch of quills in acquiring it.
I remember a clumsy pen in my father's desk almost as early as I
remember anything. It was a metal tube, fastened to an ivory handle,
and originated just before I was born. I never saw my father use it;
he wrote with a quill all his life. In 1832, the year after my birth,
thirty-three million, one hundred thousand quills were imported into
England, and I am sure that at the present date, not all the geese in
all the world would meet the demand for pens in the United States
alone. Penny postage produced the steel pen. It belonged to an age of
machinery, and could have belonged to no other age; for the great
problem to be solved in the steel pen, was to convert iron into a
substance as thin as the quill of a dove's wing, yet as strong as the
strongest quill of an eagle's wing. When I was a girl not much over
seven years old, children made their own pens; the steam engine now
makes them.
A short time before Christmas my mother received the letter from Uncle
Will Singleton she had been expecting. It came one Saturday morning
when the snow lay deep, and the cold was intense. Jane and I were in
the living-room with Mother. She had just cut a sheet down the middle,
where it was turning thin, and I had to seam the two selvedge edges
together, thus turning the strong parts of the sheet into the center.
This seam required to be very neatly made, and the sides were to be
hemmed just as neatly. I disliked this piece of work with all my
heart, but with the help of pins I divided it into different places,
for the pins represented the cities, and I made up the adventures to
them as I sewed. Jane, who was a better needlewoman than I, had some
cambric to hem for ruffling, but the hem was not laid, it had to be
rolled as it was sewn between the thumb and first finger of the left
hand. Jane was always conceited about her skill in this kind of
hemming, and as I write I can see her fair, still face with its smile
of self-satisfaction, as her small fingers deftly and rapidly made the
tiny roll, she was to sew with almost invisible needle and thread.
Mother was singing a song by Felicia Hemans, and Father was in the
little parlor across the hall reading a book called "Elijah, the
Tishbite;" for he had just been in the room to point out to Mother how
grandly it opened. "Now Elijah the Tishbite," without any weakening
explanations of who or what _Elijah_ was, and Mother had said in a
disconcerting voice, "Isn't that the way it opens in the Bible,
William?" There was a blazing fire above the snow-white hearth, and
shining brass fender, and a pleasant smell of turpentine and beeswax,
for Ann Oddy was giving the furniture a little rubbing. Suddenly there
was a knock at the door, and Ann rose from her knees and went to open
it. The next moment there was evident disputing, and Ann Oddy called
sharply, "Mr. Huddleston, please to come here, sir."
When Father appeared, Mother also went to the door, and Jane and I
stopped sewing in order to watch and to listen. It was the postman and
he had charged a shilling for a letter, that only ought to be eight
pence and while Ann was pointing out this mistake, my mother took the
letter from her hand and looked at it.
"William," she said, "it is a death message, do not dispute about that
toll." So Father gave the postman the shilling, and the door was shut,
and Mother went to the fireside and stood there. Father quickly joined
her. "Well, Mary," he said, "is it from your brother? What does he
say?"
"Only eight words, William," Mother answered; and she read them aloud,
"Come to me, Mary. The end is near."
Father was almost angry. He said she could not go over Shap Fells in
such weather, and that snow was lying deep all the way to Kendal. He
talked as though he was preaching. I thought Mother would not dare to
speak any more about going to Kendal. But when Father stopped talking,
Mother said in a strange, strong way,
"I shall certainly go to my brother. I shall try to get a seat in the
coach that passes through here at ten o'clock to-night." I had never
seen Mother look and talk as she did then, and I was astonished. So
was Father. He watched her leave the room in silence, and for a few
minutes seemed irresolute. Then Ann came in and lifted the beeswax,
and was going away when Father said,
"Where is your mistress, Ann?"
"In her room, Mr. Huddleston."
"What is she doing?"
"Packing her little trunk. She says she is going to Kendal."
"She ought not to go to Kendal. She must not go."
"She's right enough in going, Mr. Huddleston, and she is sure to go."
"I never heard anything like this!" cried Father. He really was
amazed. It was household rebellion. "Ann," he continued, "go upstairs
and remind your mistress that John Henry has been sickly for two
weeks. I have myself noticed the child looking far from well."
"Yes, sir, the child is sickly, but her brother is dying."
"Do you think the child should be left?"
"It would be worse if the brother died alone. I will look after John,
Mr. Huddleston."
Then Father went upstairs, and Mother went by the night mail, and we
did not see her again for nearly three weeks.
I do not apologize for relating a scene so common, for these simple
intimacies and daily events, these meetings and partings, these
sorrows and joys of the hearth and the family, are really the great
events of our life. They are our personal sacred history. When we have
forgotten all our labors, and even all our successes, we shall
remember them.
Mother was the heart and hinge of all our home and happiness, and
while she was away, I used to lie awake at nights in my dark, cold
room and think of death entering our family. In his strange language
he whispered many things to my soul that I have forgotten, but one
thing I am sure of--I had no fear of death. My earliest consciousness
had been a strong and sure persuasion of God's goodness to men. And I
had no enmity towards God; though a dozen catechisms told me so, I
would not admit the statement. I loved God with all my child heart. He
was truly to me "my Father who art in heaven." Well then, death whom
He sent to every one, even to little babies, must be something good
and not evil. Also, I thought, if the dead are unhappy, their faces
would show it, and I had never seen a dead face without being struck
by its strange quiet. The easiest way to my school lay through the
graveyard, and though it was in the midst of the town, I knew no quiet
like the quiet of the dead men in that churchyard. I have felt it like
an actual pressure on my ear drum.
In the day I talked to my sister of the changes Uncle's death would
make in our lives. When Christmas came, father would not permit us to
go to any parties, and Jane was sure we would have to wear mourning, a
kind of clothing I hated, I reminded her that the Pennants had not
worn black when Mary Pennant died, and Jane reminded me that the
Pennants were Quakers, and that when Frances and Eliza Pennant came
back to school wearing their brown dresses, it was all the girls could
manage, not to scorn them.
Of course we talked at school of our uncle, Dr. Singleton, and his
expected death, and I do not understand how this circumstance imparted
to us a kind of superiority, but it did. Jane put on airs, and was
always on the point of crying, and I heard Laura Patterson correct the
biggest pupil in the school for "speaking cross to a girl whose uncle
was dying." I dare say I had my own plan for collecting sympathy, for
some of my classmates asked to walk home with me, others offered to
help me with my grammer, and Adelaide Bond gave me the half of her
weekly allowance of Everton toffy.
At last Mother returned home and, oh, how glad we were to see her! She
came into the lighted room just as we were sitting down to supper,
and an angel from heaven would not have been as welcome. My father was
somewhere in the Patterdale country, where he went for a week or two
at regular intervals; and, oh, how good, how glorious a thing it was,
to have Mother home again!
The first thing Mother did the following day was to send for black
stuff and the dressmaker. I pleaded in vain, though Mother, being of
Quaker descent, was as averse to mourning dresses as I was, but she
was sure Father would insist on them, because of what the Society, and
people in general would say. Jane made no objections. She was very
fair, and had that soft pearly complexion which is rendered more
lovely by black. As for Ann, she could only look at the wastefulness
of putting new dresses away in camphor for a year. She said, "Girls
will grow long and lanky, and in a year the skirts will be short and
narrow, and the waists too small, and the armholes too tight, and the
whole business out of fashion and likelihood."
In a few days Father came home. The girl was pipeclaying the hearth
and building up the fire for the evening, and Ann laying the table for
Mother's tea as he entered. He was so delighted to find Mother at home
that he said to her, "Let the girls stay and have a cup of tea with us
tonight." Then when he had set down by the fire, Jane drew her stool
close to him, and I slipped on to his knee, and whispered something in
his ear I shall never tell to any one. Such a happy meal followed, but
little was said about Uncle Singleton. Father asked if all was well
with him? Mother answered almost joyfully, "All is well!"
"Poor fellow," continued Father. "His life was defeat from its
beginning to its end."
"No, William," cried Mother, "at the end it was victory!" and she
lifted her radiant face, and her eyes rained gladness, as she said the
word "victory" with that telling upward inflection on the last
syllable, common in the North Country. I can never forget either the
words or the look with which they were uttered. I thought to myself,
"How beautiful she is!"
I waited after tea, hoping that Mother would tell us more about
Uncle's death, but she talked of our black dresses and the bad
weather, and then some neighbors came in, and I went upstairs to Ann.
She had one of those high peaked sugar loaves before her, and was
removing the thick dark purple paper in which they were always
wrapped. The big sugar nippers were at her side, and I knew she was
going to nip sugar for the next day's use. It was, however, a kind of
work it was pleasant to loiter over, and after talking awhile Ann
said, "What did Mrs. Huddleston say about her brother?" Then I
repeated what Mother said, and involuntarily tried to imitate her look
and the tones of her voice. Ann asked if that was all, and I answered,
"Yes." Then I said, "Was he a bad man, Ann, or a good man, tell me;"
and she said, "He was bad and good, like the rest of men. Don't ask me
any questions. Your mother will tell you all about him when the right
time comes."
And the right time did not come until eleven years afterwards.
In a week our dresses were ready, and we went back to school. We met
with great sympathy. Jane looked beautiful, and received the
attentions shown her with graceful resignation. I looked unlike
myself, and felt as if I had somebody's else frock on. But I had a
happy heart, ready to make the best of any trouble, beside I knew I
was unreasonable, since Ann, who was generally on my side, told me
that I ought to be thankful I had any dress at all to wear, and so
many nicer little girls than myself without one to put on their backs.
And as for color, one color was just as good as another.
That was not true in my case, but I knew that it was no use telling
Ann that story. Yet it is a fact, that I am, and have always been
powerfully affected both by color and smell--the latter's influence
having a psychical or spiritual tendency. But how could I explain so
complex a feeling to Ann, when I could not even understand it myself?
Queen Victoria ascended the throne of England a few weeks before I
went to Penrith, but she was not crowned until a year afterwards. I
remember the very June day so bright and exquisite it was! The royal
and loyal town of Penrith was garlanded with roses, flags were waving
from every vantage point, and the musical bells of the ancient church
rang without ceasing from dawn until the long summer gloaming was
lost in the mid-summer night. Yet child as I was, I noticed and partly
understood, the gloom and care on the faces of so many who had no
heart to rejoice, and no reason to do so.
Without much explanation the story of ordinary English life at this
period would be incredible to us, and I shall only revert to it at
points where it touched my own life and character. Is it not all
written in Knight's and many other histories at every one's hand? But
I _saw_ the slough of despair, of poverty and ignorance, in which the
working class struggled for their morsel of bread. And the root of all
their trouble was ignorance. For instance, the wealthy town of Penrith
had not, when I first saw it, one National or Lancastrian school, nor
yet one free school of any kind, but the little Sunday school held in
the Methodist chapel two hours on Sunday afternoons. Fortunately it
was the kind of Sunday school Raikes intended. There were no daintily
dressed children, and fashionably attired teachers in it--not one. The
pupils were semi-starved, semi-clothed, hopeless, joyless little
creatures; their teachers were hard working men and women, who took
from their Sabbath rest a few hours for Christ's sake. For how could
such little ones come unto Him, if there were none to show the way?
There was even at this date, 1838, villages in England without either
church or school, though Methodism had swept through the land like a
Pentecostal fire half a century before; and at this same time, the big
cities of London, Liverpool, Manchester, Birmingham, Bristol had not
one ragged school in them. A parliamentary investigation two years
afterward found plenty of villages such as Dunkirk with one hundred
and thirteen children, of whom only ten could read and write; and
Boughton with one hundred and nineteen children, where only seven went
to a school that taught writing, and thirty-two to a Sunday school.
Learning and literature were not in fashion then, especially for
women. Yes, indeed, it is true that I knew in my youth, many women of
wealth, beautiful women who managed their large houses with splendid
hospitality and were keenly alive to public affairs, who looked on
books as something rather demoralizing, and likely to encroach in some
way upon works more in the way of their duty. I was very often
reproved for "wasting my time over a book" so that my reading had a
good deal of that charm which makes forbidden fruit "so good for food,
so pleasant to the eyes, so much to be desired to make one wise."
And in Penrith I began a new set of books which charmed me quite as
much as "Robinson Crusoe" and the "Arabian Nights" had done. On my
seventh birthday my father gave me Cook's "Voyages Round the World,"
and this volume was followed by Anson's "Voyage," by Mungo Park's
"Travels in Africa," and Bruce's "Travels in Abyssinia." Twenty-two
years ago I stood one afternoon at the grave of Bruce in a lonely kirk
yard a few miles outside Glasgow. It was a neglected mound with the
stone slanting down above it. I remembered then, as I do now, how
severely his book had been criticized and even discredited. But later
travellers substantiated all that Bruce had said and added to his
recital still more unlikely stories.
There was also another book which at this time thrilled and charmed me
beyond expression. I doubt if there is a single copy of it in America,
and not many in England, such as remain I dare say being hid away in
the old libraries of ancient farm or manor houses. It was called "News
From the Invisible World," by John Wesley. It was really a book of
ghostly visitations and wonderful visions. My father took it out of my
hands twice and then put it, as he supposed, out of my reach; but by
putting a stool upon a chair, and climbing upon the chair and then
upon the stool I managed to reach it. I can see myself today in a
little gingham frock, and a white pinafore performing this rather
dangerous feat. We were dressed very early in the morning, but never
so early as not to find a good fire in the study; and the coal used in
the north of England, is that blessed soft material, which gives in
its bright manifold blazes, the light of half a dozen candles. Lying
face downward upon the hearthrug, I could read with the greatest ease,
and often spent an hour in "the invisible world" very much to my
liking before the day really began.
One morning while thus engaged, Ann Oddy came in and I asked her to
put the book back in its place. She looked at me suspiciously, and
said, "Who put it up there?"
"My father," I answered.
"What for?" she continued.
"Because it is about ghosts, Ann, and such stories as you often tell
me. Put it up or Father will be cross with me."
"Well, Amelia," she said in a kind of dreamy way, "your father ought
to know, but he isn't a bit well lately, so I won't bother him at this
time."
Then I promised to tell her the stories, and added, "They are all
true, Ann, for John Wesley wrote them."
"True!" she ejaculated. "Well, well, I _am_ astonished at Mr.
Huddleston's putting anything John Wesley wrote out of the way. I am
that." About A.D. 1890 I asked a learned doctor connected with the
Methodist Book Concern, if they had a copy of it, and he answered very
sharply, "I never heard of the book." Yet I know it existed in my
childhood, and that during my seventh and eighth years, I read it
frequently.
The first year of my life in Penrith went happily onward in the
regularity of its duties and pleasures. At home I remember but few
changes. Soon after the Queen's coronation, I had another brother, who
was called William Henry, and when he was about two months old, my
father went to Manchester, and brought back with him the greatest of
household comforts of that day--a dozen boxes of Congreve or Lucifer
matches. Only those who have stood shivering over the old tinder box
on a bitter winter night, trying to get a spark while the baby
screamed in the darkness, can form any estimate of the pleasure which
these few boxes of matches made in our house. My father took us all
into a dark room, and then permitted each person to strike a light.
Laughter and exclamations of wonder and pleasure greeted every fresh
match as it burst into instantaneous flame, even Ann was enthusiastic.
"This time," she admitted, "Mr. Huddleston has brought home something
sensible and good for everybody"--a covert slur upon Father's gifts,
which usually took the form of books, or a bit of spar for the parlor
chimney piece, or perhaps a likeness of Mr. Wordsworth, or a view of
Derwentwater. We had both read and heard wonderful things of these
matches for nearly three years, but the first put upon the market were
intended only for the rich; for they were in more or less costly
caskets, the cheapest of which was sold for a guinea. In a short time
a phial full of matches were sold for five shillings, and when my
father bought our first "light boxes" they were a shilling each. Then
came the practical chemist and the factory system, and the penny box
of matches was in every home. Yet I have no doubt that in many a home
in England the empty five shilling box is affectionately preserved;
for during their vogue, they were sensible and highly prized wedding
gifts, among a large class of respectable people of limited means.
At the beginning of my second school year, I was promoted to a copy
book. I could write pretty well with wad, and did not very often spoil
a goose quill. That first copy book! Never shall I forget it. Its
cover was canary color, and on the front was a picture of a negro. He
was loaded with chains and hoeing cotton, while a white man stood over
him using an impossible whip, and there were four lines by Cowper
underneath the two figures:
"I would not have a slave to till my ground,
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth
That sinews bought and sold, have ever earned."
At that time I had never seen a negro, and my sense of amazement,
fright and repugnance was so great, that I feel sure I had not even
seen the picture of one. The tremendous excitement attending the
enfranchisement of the slaves belonging to England was over before I
was two years old, and after it, I think the nation must have repented
their extravagant sympathy, for I am sure that at this time I had
never heard either my father or any one else allude to the event.
Miss Pearson laid the book on my desk with evident pleasure, and I
looked at the picture, covered my eyes with my hands, and burst into
tears. I was never a crying child, and my teacher was astonished, and
asked me rather sternly, "What is the matter with you, Amelia? Are you
sick?"
"No," I whispered. "I am afraid. Take it away."
"Afraid?"
"I have not been bad," I continued. "I do not like that picture.
Please take it away."
Then she sat down by my side and told me a story about the black man,
and what England had just done for him. I hardly heard or understood
her, until she said, "I shall leave the book with you. You must look
at the picture every day until you at least feel pity for the slave.
See, this is your copy for today. Let me see how cleanly, and well you
can do it."
I had ceased crying. I was ashamed of my own emotion, and I went
courageously to work with a quill pen of my own cutting; but as soon
as I returned home, I went to my mother and told her all. She soothed
and petted me, but advised me to make no remarks about the picture.
"There has been a deal of hard feeling about the negro, Milly, and we
find it best to let that subject alone. No one talks of it now. Lucy
Lowthian was here this morning. She is going to have a party on
Saturday afternoon."
"Are we going to it, Mother?"
"Yes," she answered cheerily. "Look at this lace and white satin
ribbon. I am going to trim your dresses with it."
I instantly turned to the more personal and interesting subject, but I
could not forget, nor yet have I ever forgotten that picture on my
first copy book. Undoubtedly it was an exaggeration of even the Congo
type, but why did I cry at the sight of it? I was neither a fearful
nor a crying child. Why did I cry? It puzzled me then, but I know now,
that there was undoubtedly some sudden soul shock, some prophetic
apprehension, which my inner woman trembled before, and which my
physical woman could only interpret by tears.
In my studies I was progressing well, even my musical efforts were
beginning to make a little show. I had distinctly told my teacher that
I wished to learn "tunes" and "songs" and without regarding my wishes,
she had compelled me to make an astonishing study of what she called
_the gamut_. To the study of the gamut was added an hour's practice of
the scales daily, and as the necessary noise would have been
distracting to my father, I went to my teacher's home to make it. This
practicing often stood in the way of pleasures, and Jane, who had
urgently entreated _not_ to learn music, had many self-complacent
little observations to make on her own prudence. For while I was
studying scales, major and minor, she went with Mother to shop, or to
make calls. And she had a nice ladylike way of comparing things, that
was very discouraging. Yet I had not the slightest intention of
stopping my music lessons, and indeed I feel sure Father would not
have permitted me to do so, except for some good reason. Once only I
made a remark tending in that direction, and he answered,
"I allowed you to learn music, Milly, at your own eager request. Are
you going to give it up because it is difficult? I should feel ashamed
of you!" and he spoke with such scorn that I hastened to assure him,
"I would not give up music for anything."
My third year in Penrith remains very clearly in my memory. It was an
anxious year to all, for Chartism was keeping the country in constant
rioting and turmoil. I can remember well, the terror and hatred which
the very name "Chartist" called forth; for the scenes of the French
Revolution were yet red and flaming in the memories of men and women.
The very day Victoria was crowned, the military were compelled to put
down the rebellion led by John Thom, who claimed to be the Messiah,
and if the numbers who followed him had been larger and better
educated, the worst scenes of the French Days of Terror might have
been repeated.[2]
For ten years after the coronation Chartism was a living, constant
anxiety to the government and the people. Yet in the midst of this
general fear, and the decay of business which it entailed, there
occurred a serious quarrel agitating the whole country, about the
Ladies of the Queen's Bedchamber. The Melbourne government having lost
the confidence of both Houses, a new Administration was to be formed,
and Sir Robert Peel was entrusted with the duty. In performing it, Sir
Robert removed the Ladies who had been long in attendance on Her
Majesty, and gave their high positions, with the large emoluments
accruing therefrom, to the wives of the nobles who had assisted him in
forming the new government. The Queen was indignant and refused to
part with her old friends. Sir Robert visited her, and declared a
government could not be formed unless the high offices in her
household were filled by ladies of the ruling party. Her Majesty in a
firm, but polite letter told Sir Robert she could not agree to a
course so repugnant to her feelings.
The discussions in and out of Parliament on this question, were long
and violent. Every man and woman, every boy and girl in England, took
part in them. The women were largely in favor of the Queen, and a
great number of men, remembering her youth, thought she ought to be
humored in a matter so personal. But in political and administrative
circles, she was severely blamed, and that very often in unkind and
even disrespectful and disloyal terms.
For some reason my father strongly disapproved her conduct. He said
she was a child, and ought to be obedient to the advice given her by
the active heads of the government; and over and over he declared
there were far more important things to be attended to than the Ladies
of her Bedchamber. I heard him telling my mother that the planters in
the West Indies were ruined and asking relief from Parliament, the
freed negroes having absolutely refused to work; and then in a voice
full of anger he demanded why twenty millions of pounds had been spent
to give the negro a complete life of laziness, while clever English
mechanics were working twelve hours every day for a mouthful of
bread--starving as they worked. And Mother would shake her head and
answer, "It does seem hard, William."
"Mary," he would continue, almost in a whisper, "Mary! Mary! only
think of what twenty millions of pounds could have done for our own
poor men, and their starving, ignorant children! We had no right to
give it. It was not our duty, until we had done our duty to the needy
and oppressed of our own people."
And I wonder today, if Father knew that he was talking Chartism. At
any rate, it was the only time, and only way, I ever heard him name
the Great Emancipation of 1833.
None of these arguments moved my mother's loyalty; she was a warm--my
father called her a most unreasonable--advocate for the Queen's
rights. Ann was equally loyal, and greatly elated when Mother ranged
herself on the Queen's side.
"It is more than I expected," she said, "for Missis do always say
'Amen' to whatever Mr. Huddleston says. But the Queen is right!" she
added. "That I will declare and maintain;" and Ann, who was rolling
pastry struck the table a mighty blow with the rolling pin, which if
it intimated her way of "maintaining" would certainly be effective.
In our school the quarrel was a very simple one. There were only three
girls in it who were for Sir Robert Peel, and the father of one was in
the post office, the father of the other a supervisor in the excise,
and the third girl was called "Peel," and was, or thought she was, a
connection of the Peel family. Miss Pearson expressed no opinion on
the subject, except, that it was not to be named in school hours; but
as we walked to-and-from school, we talked only of the Queen, and of
any fresh news that might have come to us. By "news" I mean solely the
effects of this quarrel in the schools of Penrith, for in the man's
school, it had full swing. The boys had constant fisticuff fights, and
the master enjoyed and encouraged them. He said they were making good
soldiers for Her Majesty and that they ought to be proud of their
swollen eyes, and bruises.
So the quarrel went on, making a grim sort of amusement in days of
great public anxiety and alarm; until finally a specially called
meeting of the Cabinet, decided in a kind of half-and-half way, in
favor of the Queen retaining the Ladies of her Bedchamber, there
being a precedent in the case of Queen Anne, who retained the Ladies
of her Bedchamber a year and a half after their husbands had been
dismissed from office. Father was then satisfied. _There was a
precedent._ It was then and there I learned the word "precedent,"
and its meaning. I wondered then, and I wonder yet at the power vested
in these three syllables. It seems to settle constantly and
satisfactorily difficult questions in law, and other departments
of social affairs. In some way probably, every generation has
associated it with,
"A land of settled government,
A land of just and old renown,
Where freedom broadens slowly down
From precedent to precedent."
After the Cabinet decided the Bedchamber question, a dull quiet
settled over Penrith, and I suppose also over the whole country; for
even a little domestic dispute has usually this convalescent period of
silence. And as the holidays were on, and we were leaving Penrith in
August, Jane and I were set free from school for a short time. There
was some talk of a visit to Ambleside and Ulverston, but my brother
William was ill and suddenly became alarmingly worse, and after an
interval of great suffering he went away from us forever.
The child had died at midnight, but when I awoke in the morning I was
quite sensible of the change that had taken place. The presence of
death was felt all through the house, and not only in that dim chamber
veiled in white, where the dead boy lay. As I went down stairs, I
opened very softly the door of this room. My father was kneeling by
the little crib praying. His words fell wet with tears at God's feet,
as in low agonizing tones, he poured out his love and his grief. I
stole noiselessly away, feeling shocked and unhappy, lest I had
unlawfully witnessed a soul pleading with God. A little later, I went
with Mother to look at my dead brother. In a simple little night gown
he lay in his usual crib but, oh, how grandly tranquil, how distant,
how far, far different, he was!
He was buried in Penrith churchyard, and his funeral was after the
manner then prevalent in the North Country. A little table covered
with a white cloth, and holding salt, and sprigs of boxwood was placed
just within the open door. This was to notify all passers-by of the
presence of death in the house, and also to assure them, of the faith
of the living in the resurrection, and in eternal life. On the third
day after his death, the funeral took place, the coffin being carried
by six boys of about ten years of age, by means of white linen scarfs
passed through brass rings on the sides of the coffin, which was
uncovered, but strewn with pansies. As they went through the town, the
child-bearers sang a hymn very sweetly. Father and Mother, Jane and I,
and a large company of friends walked behind. Willie's small grave was
not far from the famous Grant's grave, and I think I could find my way
there without hesitation. A little grave was all the child of ten
months old asked, a little grave that we could step across, but it
separated him from us, further than all the starry space.
After this event I knew that I had done with Penrith. School opened in
July, but I did not go back to it, and I had a childish feeling of
offence because Miss Pearson did not ask me to do so. I thought it was
because she had many new pupils, and I had a heartache about it. Yes,
there are plenty of school girls who will understand me. A child's
love for a teacher is a very strong and pure love, and even a fancied
slight can hurt like a wound. Only two months since, I had a letter
from a little girl whom I taught fifty-six years ago. She was then
about nine or ten years old, she is now a very handsome woman,
white-haired but full of hope and pleasure, and large social interests
in the beautiful city of Los Angeles. And she loves me still, and has
never forgotten me. I think such a love as that is well worth the
winning.
I spent the next few weeks in wandering about the adjacent country,
with Father. We went first to Eden Hall, and got a sight of its
wonderful fairy cup, which carries the luck of the Musgraves; for if
it
"breek or fall,
Farewell to the luck of Eden Hall."
One never to be forgotten day I spent at Lowther Castle. The
magnificence of its furnishings amazed me, but after all I was more
interested in the three large caves near the castle, cut out of the
red sandstone, and said to have been the residence of Owen Cæsarius,
the giant whose grave is in Penrith churchyard. He was according to
tradition a man of colossal size, who ruled Cumberland before Saxon
times, when "there were giants in the land," and no giant killer had
appeared.
I had seen Long Meg and her daughters twice, but I begged Father to
take me once more to Little Salkeld near which she keeps her long,
long vigil. I cannot tell why these old Druid temples fascinate me,
why I both fear and like them, nor yet say to what feeling their charm
finds response in me. Long Meg is, however, one of the most important
Druid temples in England. Meg is a square column of red sandstone
eighteen feet high and fifteen feet in circumference, with no sign of
a tool having been used on it. Her daughters are sixty-seven in
number, some of them ten feet high, and they stand in a circle three
hundred and fifty yards in circumference. Wordsworth wrote a poem
about these stones, and Father taught me a few lines of it, all of
which I have long forgotten, except his questioning,
"At whose behest arose on British ground
That sisterhood in hieroglyphic round;
Forth-shadowing the infinite, the inviolable God?"
Long and earnestly I looked at these,
"stones of power,
By Druids raised in magic hour,"
for I knew I should never see them again. Will any one tell me what is
the influence they exert over many and widely different personalities?
No, it is a thing to be felt, and not explained.
Two days after the visit to Long Meg we left Penrith for Ripon, one of
the three great religious centres of Yorkshire, the other two being
York and Beverly. I was glad to leave Penrith, and yet no town in
which I have ever sojourned, has left on my memory such a clear and
beautiful picture. In its calm retirement all the charm of its storied
past, and its picturesque present were so appealing, for any day and
every day its streets were made notable by the people likely to be met
on them--the Earl of Lonsdale, the great Chancellor, Lord Brougham,
the fortunate Musgrave of Eden Hall, or the lordly Howards from their
Castle of Greystoke standing in a park of five thousand acres. Other
famous men of a different kind were also to be met there. Wordsworth
was frequently in Penrith, for he married his cousin a Miss Hutchinson
of Penrith. So were Coleridge, Southey, and other writers of that
period. Wordsworth in my time was a very old man, and I thought also a
very disagreeable one.
Young as I was, I noticed also the difference with which the two sets
of notables were regarded by the public. If the Earl, or Lord Brougham
appeared, every hat was lifted, every face was full of interest, and
many women curtsied if they had to pass them. For the men of the land
were easily recognized by their splendid equipages, and other insignia
of their rank. The men of the pen walked without notice, along the
streets until they settled in some book store.
And entirely apart from this living and present source of interest,
there was that sense of the occult world brooding over the town, which
I feel sure, few people staying long there, could escape. The old
Druid priests were not dead; unseen and afar, they could still
influence, and they who doubted this, had only to go and sit silent
and attent in one of their deserted temples. I know, that while I was
certainly impressed by Lonsdale and Brougham, I was far more so by the
"stones of power" in old sacrificial, holy places, and by the three
giant caves, close to Lowther Castle, wherein the giant Owen Cæsarius
had dwelt. He represented to me the mighty men of Old Britain, for
there _were_ "giants" in the land in his day. Mythical! No, he is no
more mythical than Julius Cæsarius. Have I not sat, and talked, and
played around his grave in Penrith churchyard?
CHAPTER IV
AT RIPON AND THE ISLE OF MAN
"My Memory is the frame of a thousand pictures."
* * * * *
"The blithe April weather of a child's life."
As soon as I saw Ripon, I disliked the place. There were no hills to
which I could lift up my eyes, it was a little town squatting among
fat green meadows, and by the still waters of three rivers, the Laver,
the Ure, and the Skell. The houses were generally small, and roofed
with red tiles, and the atmosphere of the place self-satisfied, and
decently prosperous. The theological element was distinctly ascendent
and I, though a daughter of Levi, did not like it. There were also at
that time many ancient customs prevailing, and the queer little place
only wanted a few monks strolling about the quiet streets, to make one
wonder if they had stepped back into the twelfth century. The modern
spirit touching so vividly the West Riding and other parts of England,
had not reached Ripon. It retained a monastic air, though there was
neither a monastery nor a monk in it. Still the people looked as if
they were always going to church, and indeed they did go to church a
great deal. I found out later that the whole history of Ripon was
blended with churchism, though its one famous manufacture was spurs.
"As true steel as Ripon rowels," is a proverb still applied to men of
mettle, trusty and faithful. When I was there it appeared to me that
all the craftsmen were saddle-makers.
The dominant power in Ripon was not, however, the bishop; it was the
Earl of Grey and Ripon, a man of immense wealth and of great political
influence. I saw him frequently, but somehow he lacked the romance
that fixed Lonsdale in my memory. I forgot him for nearly fifty years,
and then this thing happened. In 1891 I wrote to London for a full
set of the _Saturday Review_, stipulating that it should be
second-hand and in good condition. When it arrived at Cherry Croft, I
opened the boxes that contained the books eagerly, and lifted one out
to examine it. The set was fine and perfect, and contained a most
elaborate and beautiful book plate of the Earl of Grey and Ripon.
Nearly the whole sixty volumes were ornamented with the Earl's plate,
though in some it was more ornate, than in others. But by what chance
these volumes had been cast out of the magnificent library of Studley
Royal, the grandest residence in England, and found their way to my
little cottage on Storm King, New York, I do not know. Their once
lordly owner I had forgotten for fifty years, but now I often remember
the handsome, aristocratic George, Frederick, Samuel, Earl of Grey and
Ripon.
But withal it was a comfortable well-to-do place and Mother put away
cheerfully all fault-finding. Yet our house was not well situated and
was much too small. My father looked around dubiously. Ann Oddy
wondered if Ripon chapel people knew that Mr. Huddleston had three
children, and Jane cast her eyes down on the tesselated brick floor of
the living-room, and remarked in a general manner, "The floor is made
of brick."
"This will never do, Mary," Father said.
"Oh, yes, William!" Mother answered. "I will carpet the floor, and the
woman who was here waiting to receive us, pointed out the brick floor
and called it 'beautiful.' She said they are favorite floors in Ripon.
I shall make all pretty and comfortable in a few days."
Mother kept her promise. In a few days the little house was a pretty
place, and even Ann could find nothing against it, but its small size.
"There are three children," she said, "and God willing there may be
four, and where are we to sleep them all?"
"Plenty of room, Ann," answered Mother. "Mr. Huddleston is going to
make the parlor his study. His books will furnish the four bare walls
handsomely."
"And what about company, ma'am?" asked Ann. "There will be lots of
trouble, if they are put in the parlor, and the Master writing his
sermon."
"When Mr. Huddleston is writing a sermon, we will bring them in here,
Ann."
"And suppose we are just ready for dinner or tea? What then, ma'am?"
"Then Ann, we will ask them to join us," and Mother laughed
pleasantly, and added, "Your cooking, Ann, would be a great treat to
them."
In a fortnight the house being settled, the question was schools.
There was no choice on this subject, there being only one ladies'
school. It was kept by the Misses Johnston, three very handsome women
who were daughters of one of the old hunting, racing, drinking
squires, called "fine old English gentlemen." At his death, there was
nothing left for his daughters, and they opened a school. Jane and I
were entered as pupils there, but I did not find in any of the three,
another Miss Pearson. They were unfitted for teachers and appeared to
dislike the office, and though I learned the lessons set me, I made no
particular progress in anything but music. In this study my teacher
was a French emigrant, and I learned rapidly under his tuition.
We had not been half a year in this school, when a momentous question
arose. A girl called Mary Levine came one day, and she was entered for
all the senior classes, as well as for music, dancing, drawing and
French. We all concluded that her father must be very rich, but Miss
Grey, the daughter of one of the Canons of the Cathedral, said she had
never heard of the Levines, and she did not believe they were anybody
at all. For a few days suppositions as to Miss Levine's social
standing were rife. Then it was discovered that she was the daughter
of Daniel Levine, a Jewish jeweler and money lender. Instantly every
one drew away from the girl, and she was shocked and amazed at the
scorn and animosity shown towards her. I saw her tearfully talking to
Miss Johnston one evening as the dismissed school was leaving the
room, and when I reached home I told Mother what I had heard and
seen.
Mother advised us not to name the subject in my father's presence,
but this advice was rendered nugatory by events which had to be met
and decided on; for Mr. Downes, the banker, the Reverend Mr. Eamont,
Canon Grey and several others removed their daughters the next day
from school, pending Miss Johnston's decision as to opening her school
to Jewish children. Every day there were more defections, and the
distracted ladies sent a messenger to each patron of the school,
asking them to answer by "yes" or "no" the following question:
"Do you object to your daughters associating with the Jewess, Mary
Levine, in the classes of our school?
"The Misses Johnston."
The long roll of patron's names came to Father among the last, and
Mother noticed that the answer in every case had been a positive
"yes." Father took the roll, and without consulting any one, wrote
hurriedly but decidedly, "Yes, I object."
I do not believe there was one reply favorable to the Jewish girl, and
yet I could see no fault in her, nor any reason for her dismissal; and
the school was much thinned by the circumstances, and I disliked it
more than ever. Nor did her ejection from the school restore
confidence. Several of the older pupils went to a celebrated boarding
school at York, and others to Harrogate, and an air of dissatisfaction
pervaded the class rooms.
As the spring opened I was sick. Father said, "No wonder!" He himself
felt the change "from the clear, mountain air of Penrith, to the damp
heavy atmosphere of Ripon." The doctor said I had some kind of an
ague, and gave me Jesuit's bark. I had never been sick in all my life,
and the feeling of inertia, and the abominable Jesuit's bark, made me
miserable. I was taken from school, and told to "amuse myself." But
books had become uninteresting. I had a headache, and it hurt me to
read, and the Jesuit's bark made every day a sickening terror. We call
Jesuit's bark quinine now, and have it in little white capsules, and
are not conscious of its taste; but any one needing quinine in those
days had to take a decoction of the bark of the tree--a whole tumbler
full of the black, nauseous liquid three times a day. Jane had no
ague, and was quite happy at school; for she was fond of embroidery,
and was working a petticoat for Mother in a new kind of that art--the
same kind that has been fashionable for the last three or four years,
which is accomplished by cutting holes in the cloth and then seaming
them around.
One day in early June, I was lying on a sofa which stood in the
parlor-study, and Father was writing. I can listen now as I write, and
hear the scratching of his quill pen upon the paper. Suddenly a
gentleman came riding rapidly to our door, and asked for Mr.
Huddleston. My father lifted his head at the sound of the voice,
listened a moment, threw down his pen and rose to go out of the room,
but before he could do so the stranger entered, and then it was
"William!" "Thomas!" and they clasped hands and sat down together. I
had no mind to go away, unless sent, and I closed my eyes and lay
still as if asleep.
Their conversation soon became animated and argumentative, though it
was about people and places I had no knowledge of; but finally reached
a subject then interesting all clever and thoughtful minds--the
Tractarian or High Church Movement. As I had read to Father several
small pamphlets "Tracts for the Times" I was familiar with the names
they constantly quoted--Newman, Keble, Froude, et cetera, but it was
Newman they disputed over. The stranger seemed to dislike Newman. He
said he was no better than a Calvinist, and had been brought up by his
Calvinistic mother on Watts and Romaine and such teachers, that he was
pale and thin, had a poor presence, and was more like a Wesleyan
preacher than a pillar of the Church. Father spoke hotly, and said he
never thought of Newman's appearance, his influence was something like
magic, and that you could not be fifteen minutes in his company, and
not feel yourself invited to take an onward step. I liked the stranger
for not liking Newman, for Newman's writing was the hardest and least
interesting reading I did for Father.
I was enjoying the dispute, when Ann Oddy tapped at the door, and told
father he was wanted a few minutes. Then I stepped off the sofa, and
went to the stranger.
"Well now!" he cried, "who are you, my little maid?"
I said I was Mr. Huddleston's daughter, and my name was Amelia.
"And you were on the sofa all the time?" he continued.
"Yes," I replied, "I am sick."
"Nonsense!" he ejaculated, but I assured him the doctor said I had an
ague, and I had been obliged to take Jesuit's bark.
"Jesuit's bark! That is enough to make any one sick. Come with me to
Richmond farm, and I will give you new milk in place of it. You can
get up early, and go with the dawn maids and see the big Durhams
milked. I will have a pony saddled for you, and you can ride all over
the farm at my side. And the red Morella cherries are just ripe, and
the strawberries coming on, and the raspberries not a month behind.
And there are hundreds of hens, and you could go with Tabitha, the
hen-wife, and see her clear the nests, and feed the chickens--such a
lot of them! And I have the prettiest and kindest of house-keepers;
she is called Mary, and she will be good and kind to you. Will you
come to Richmond farm with me?"
I told him that I would like it better than anything else in the
world, and then I asked, "Would you like me to come?"
"That I would!" he answered heartily, and as he did so, my father
re-entered the room with Mother on his arm. Mother had put on her new
muslin gown; it was a white muslin, with a tiny pink rosebud in it,
and her black hair was beautifully dressed in that Madonna style
introduced by Queen Victoria. "I have the prettiest mother in all the
world," I thought, and I went to her side, and clasped her hand.
So the stranger, whom I heard introduced to my mother as Mr. Thomas
Richmond ate dinner with us, and this proposal to take me for a few
weeks to Richmond farm, was gladly accepted.
[Illustration: REV. WILLIAM HENRY HUDDLESTON]
I was to stay a few weeks, but I stayed most of my time at this farm
for two years and a half, and if to be innocently joyful and busy and
perfectly free from all care and anxiety is to be happy, then surely
these years were the happiest years of my life. A child in Paradise
may be as happy, but no earth child could have been more fortunate
than I was. Everything was so much better than I expected; yes, I can
see the widespreading house amid its trees and gardens as I write, and
when I go to Heaven, I would like my angel to pass it on the road, and
let me look once more into its sunny rooms.
I soon learned to manage my pony, and I usually rode into Ripon with
Mr. Richmond on market days, took my music lesson, and then went home
until I was called for. The housekeeper Mary taught me all about milk,
cream and butter. I pulled cherries, ate cherries, and made cherry
pies, and I knew every hen and chicken on the place. I was very
friendly with the gardener, and from him I learned all about
vegetables, fruits and flowers. If there was a superstition or story
about any flower, he knew it; and he told it to me, generally with the
flower in my hand. Thus a lady to whose house I often went to practice
my music, gave me one day a pot of myrtle, and I took it at once to
the old man. I said, "I want it planted."
"Well then, Missie, you must plant it yourself," he replied; "for when
myrtle is planted, you must spread out your skirt, and look as proud
as you can. I say put it in your window, for myrtle is the luckiest
plant for the window, and water it morning and night, looking as proud
as you can while doing so. Myrtle is a proud plant, and it loves proud
people." On another day, I was going into the house with a branch of
flowering white hawthorn.
"Nay! nay!" he cried to me, "you mustn't carry white hawthorn into the
house. You might go to sleep where it is, and then would come great
misfortune." He looked very differently on a handful of rosemary.
"That is all right, is all right," he said. "Rosemary stands for
success in everything." In the very centre of the garden he had a
little bed of grass, and he would not suffer tool of any kind to touch
it. He called it "good man's croft," and told me that in order "to
bring luck, we must always leave a bit of land unplanted for the
fairies."
After I had been about a month at the farm, Mr. Richmond said to me
one wet day, "Milly, I have had all my grandfather's books taken into
the library. I want you to sort and shelve them for me. Would you like
to do that?"
I knew of nothing I would like half as much, for, as soon as I was
well, the thought of books was again a joy to me. We went to the
library together, and men were unpacking large boxes of books, and
bringing a long table on which to sort them, and a set of library
steps, pens, ink, pencils, paper, and so forth. I promised only to
sort the books in the afternoon, or when too wet to take my usual
morning ride with him about the farm. Then he gave me the key of the
room, and left me among a thousand books.
I was so happy! I was so happy! So peacefully, innocently happy! I
read more than I sorted; I found so many wonderful books, that it was
impossible to pass over. I met _Ivanhoe_ first in that room, and
_Little Nell_, and _Pamela_, and the _Scottish Chiefs_, and in a pile
of unbound _Family Heralds_ I made acquaintance with the short love
story. Never shall I forget what thrilling hours I spent in that room
with the "Children of the Abbey." A year or two ago a lady to whom I
named this book, said she had a copy, and would send it to me. I sat
down, full of expectation, but alas! though the book was there, I
could not summon back the child heart to read it. The tale that stole
my heart away when I was eleven years old had nothing to say to me
when I was seventy-seven. Yet I touched it tenderly as I whispered,
"It charmed me once--I will not spoil that memory," and so closed it
forever.
I thank God that ere any change came over days so beautiful and
blessed, they ceased. The library was scarce finished, when I had to
leave it; the farm life was just as happy and desirable, when I
tearfully bade it good-bye forever. The pretty, clever Mary loved me
well, and I had become a real companion to my affectionate friend, who
liked me to call him "Uncle Thomas." It was well to part ere any
desire for parting came. Mr. Richmond said he would come for me the
following summer, but I knew he would not. I felt sure he would marry
Mary, and other interests would occupy him. I said good-bye to
Richmond Farm in a fortunate hour. Its memory has sweetened my long,
long life, and what I learned in its pleasant rooms, its hay fields,
and wheat fields, and cool, sweet dairy, has helped me in many a
stress of life, that I then never dreamed of.
The inevitable has always found me ready and hopeful, and I was glad
we were going to the Isle of Man. I had never consciously seen the
sea, but its tides were surely in my blood. I was much excited at the
prospect, and Father was as eager and restless as a boy. It called him
now, as it had called his fathers before him, and he was impatient of
delay. We went in a little steamer called _The King Orry_, sailing
from Liverpool. And, as I walked with him about the deck, we were both
silent with emotion. But I felt quite at home. The motion of the boat
was natural, and, when I walked to the wheel, I could scarcely keep my
hands off it. I knew I could manage it. The salt breeze, and the smell
of the sea, went to my head like wine.
"Oh, Father!" I cried. "I wish that I might live always on the
tide-top."
"The tide-top!" he echoed. "Who taught you those words, Milly?"
"Nobody," I answered. "They just came to me. Are they not right words,
Father?"
"Yes," he answered slowly. "Your grandfather used them frequently. The
last words he said to my mother were, 'Fear not, Milly! I shall try to
keep my ship on the tide-top.'"
"But he did not, Father."
"No--no! He found a sailor's grave. I will go and bring John here."
In a few minutes he returned with an armful of pillows, and then he
carried my brother in his arms to the deck. I have never seen since
such a transfiguration of Joy. The boy clapped his thin, white hands,
and cried out, "_The Sea! The Sea! The Sea!_" His face glowed and
shone, and he took deep breaths of the salt air. So he sat all day,
feeding his heart on the sight of the blue, tossing waves, and some
wild pageant of memories far far off, and hardly to be caught, as they
threw the accumulated past upon his consciousness, very much as that
last vision clangs and flashes for a drowning man.
A never-to-be-forgotten, quiet, thoughtful day, and in the autumn
gloaming we landed at Douglas, and the next morning took a carriage
for the ten-mile ride, which would take us to Castletown, then the
capital of Man, and the place of our destination. With a lavish hand
Nature has beautified this wonderful little island, thirty-three miles
long, by thirteen miles wide, with the most exquisite scenes of sylvan
loveliness, while the Gulf Stream laves all its rocky shores, giving
it a climate such as we may have in Paradise. In the hottest month of
the year the temperature is a little below sixty degrees, in the
coldest month it is a little above forty-one.
Our ride to Castletown was an enchanting one. It was on a day at the
end of August, sunny and pleasantly warm. Such wealth of flowers! such
multitudes of singing birds! I had never before seen or heard. And the
sea was on every side of us! As we approached the capital we saw first
the noble old fortress of the Lords of Man, lifting its huge bulk in
the very centre of the town. It was but a small place, built of gray
stone, in narrow winding streets, and so old that its very origin is
lost in the mists of antiquity. Certainly it is one of the oldest, if
not the oldest, town in Great Britain. It looked to me as if it had
_always_ existed.
As we passed through the square of which the castle forms one side, we
saw a fine regiment of Highlanders, in their picturesque costume,
drilling, and a few ladies and some old gentlemen were sauntering
along, stopping occasionally to watch some manoeuver that interested
them. An air of the utmost serenity pervaded the place, as we turned
into a long crooked street called Malew Street, and stopped finally at
a house whose door stood open to receive us. It was a large-roomed,
sunny house, of three stories, and had a fine garden at the back,
stretching almost to the river side. The rooms were comfortably
furnished, and full of peace, and I caught and answered my mother's
look of pleasure and satisfaction. In a few days all was in order, and
we settled down to what promised to be three years of delightful
life.
For two years all our hopes were amply satisfied. I was at a good
school: I was in the fishers' cottages. I was in a boat with John and
my father, or I was off with Father to the preachings at Ballasalla,
or Ballabeg. I had many friends, and among them was Chrisna, the
daughter of the master of Rushen Castle. With her I wandered about the
wonderful old palace, learning its history in the very rooms wherein
that history was made. The whole huge fabric was an historical romance
written in stone. Chrisna was a Manx girl, of long Manx descent, and
she knew all the traditions and superstitions of her people. She
believed in fairies as firmly as she believed in the Gospels, and
indeed I never met either a Manx man or a Manx woman who did not
believe in fairies. Chrisna told me with perfect honesty that she had
seen them often, and heard their music, and she quite convinced me
that she had.
Seventy years ago the Isle of Man was little more than a name to the
average Briton. It had its own government, its own laws, and its own
House of Parliament, which was called the "House of Keys." There were
no Custom Houses, and no duties. There were no Poor Laws. When I was
there those in need were empowered to knock at the door of every
householder, once a week, and receive what could be given. There was
no stipulated sum, but a penny and a few groceries, or a little
clothing, was cheerfully spared. The number of such callers were few,
and they were kindly treated.
The small sum it cost then to live in the Isle of Man was a great
temptation to retired army and naval officers, and Castletown was full
of these interesting gentry. They gave to the place an air of
refinement, which was still further increased by the professors and
students of King William's College. I saw this college burned to the
ground on the second of January, A.D. 1844, and I remember well that I
had no wrap on, and the night was so warm I did not miss it. Yet
January is the coldest month in the mild Manx winter.
We went to Castletown in the autumn, and the following spring two
events happened affecting our household. My mother had another
daughter, whom Father christened Alethia Mona. Alethia being, with
Jane or Joan, and Isabel, the three prominent names of the Huddleston
women, just as William, John, Thomas, and Henry are the family names
of the men. Mona was added, because it was the ancient name of the
island of her birth.
Soon after this event Ann Oddy left us. I am rather ashamed to say
that we were all privately very glad. She had become a kind of
household tyrant, whom we had to constantly conciliate, and we had
long ago discovered that the old family servant was just as serious a
problem as the modern monthly one. Our emancipation from Ann's rule
came very unexpectedly. She entered the parlor one afternoon, with a
letter in her hand, and, with great excitement, said: "Mrs.
Huddleston, I am sorry, but I must go back to England at once."
Mother told her she was not out of England, and asked why she must go
in such a hurry, and Ann answered:
"You see, ma'am, Adam Bradley wants me. We were to have been wed ten
years ago, but one night Adam he walked home from chapel with Sarah
Sykes, and I had words with him about Sarah, so he married Sarah to
spite me. But she's dead now, and Adam wants me. I think it is best to
go to him, Mrs. Huddleston."
So Ann went. We hardly said to each other how glad we were, and we all
pressed any gift we could spare on her. Mother even gave her one of
her silk gowns, which I am pretty sure she missed a little later. But,
until we knew Ann was safely away in the Douglas coach, we did not
talk about her; then I shall never forget Mother's smile, and sigh of
relief, and Jane's neatly expressed opinion, that "the Irish Sea was
always rough with the wind in the present direction." Jane had never
liked Ann; and she knew Ann was both sick and terrified, when at the
mercy of wind and waves. A middle-aged Manx woman was easily found to
take Ann's place, and Jane, who was now well grown and womanly, took
charge of many things relating to the household.
It was about this time I began to seriously try to write. I commenced
a tragedy which I called "Seneca." I do not remember anything about
the work, except that it was laid in ancient Rome, and that Seneca was
a philosopher and a senator. I showed the first act to Father, and he
gave it back to me with a smile, and the opinion that "it might have
been worse." I used to take pencil and paper and go out to Scarlet
Stack, and there alone, with the sun and the wind and the sea and the
sky, try to reconstruct the men and women and life of ancient Rome.
It was a presumptuous effort, but perhaps the gain to myself was in
the effort; for I had become very ambitious. I had abandoned the
missionary idea, and longed to write books, and to travel and to see
the great cities and the strange peoples I had read about.
We had fully expected to remain at Castletown for three years, but, at
the end of the second year, my Father was removed to the Whitehaven
Circuit. I shall never forget the morning the news came to us. Mother
was making sandwiches for Father, John and I were going to row as far
as Ballasalla, then land, and go to the Silverburn River for trout.
But Father was so shocked, he put off the trip. I wondered that he
should do so, and said:
"Whitehaven is your birthplace, Father; it will surely please you to
go there."
"I would rather go to the most desolate spot on the earth," he
answered with a passion that silenced me.
"It is a much larger circuit, William," said Mother, "and your income
will be larger, and you will have an assistant--a very popular young
man, your letter says."
"I have heard of him, Mary. Popular young men are not always nice
young men. He is a nephew of Sir William Morley, and his name is
William Morley Punshon."
Then I took an instant dislike to the popular young man called
Punshon. "Such a name!" I ejaculated.
That afternoon Father called Mother in a strange, thick voice of
alarm, and she found him looking ill and terrified. "I have had a
singular sensation all down my right side, Mary," he said. "It
frightens me." And my brave little mother said, "Nonsense, William! As
we grow old, we have such sensations. I have them myself now and then;
my father had them often. Come down and talk with me and the girls,"
and she laughed softly and took his arm. But I am sure she knew that
this "sensation" was the first touch of a hand that would finally
prevail.
As for me, I threw off the thought of trouble by a conscious effort,
just as I would throw off my clothes; for I was yet an easy-hearted
child, who could say to sorrow, "Let it go."
CHAPTER V
SORROW AND CHANGE
"The Leaves of Memory seem to make a mournful rustling in the
dark."
* * * * *
"We try in the darkness of Sorrow the wings that shall bear us out
of it."
We took leave of the Isle of Man with heavy hearts, and sailed direct
from Douglas to Whitehaven, landing there in the evening of a wet
August day. The town was finely situated, and the wide haven filled
with ships of all kinds. There was even a man-of-war lying at the long
new pier. But the scene was not cheerful; how could it be, after a
steady, soft rain from morning to night? Two officers of the church
met us, and, in a few minutes, we were at the dwelling which was to be
our home for the next three years. It was a handsome-looking house,
and stood midway in a block of similar ones. There was a table laid
for supper in the living-room, but the room itself was a dreary one. I
do not know why, unless it was the want of fire on the hearth, and the
dark-green moreen curtaining. A gray-haired woman served tea, and said
she was ready to stay with us, if so be Mr. and Mrs. Huddleston were
agreeable.
So in a few days the house was in order, and Mother professed to be
much pleased with our new quarters. She pointed out the large size and
number of the rooms, and the quiet of the locality, and, with a
pleasant laugh, said she supposed we were among the aristocrats of
Whitehaven.
"My cousin's curate lives two doors below us," Father said, and then,
for the first time, he spoke of his cousin, Dr. Andrew Huddleston, who
was at that time rector of the parish of Whitehaven, and also had the
living of another parish a few miles distant, both being the
presentation of the Earl of Lonsdale. He said he was a bachelor, of
about fifty years of age, and was seldom in England; his curates
performed his duties for him. But he was in Whitehaven when we arrived
there, for I saw him walking up Duke Street with Father, two or three
days after our arrival. There was a singular resemblance between them,
though Dr. Andrew Huddleston was portly and robust, and dressed in
extreme clerical fashion, while my Father was tall and thin, and
ascetic in appearance, with the slight stoop forward of one used to
looking into things invisible. But the tie was felt and acknowledged;
I knew it by the way they stood with clasped hands a moment or two at
our open door.
There were many other Huddleston families in Whitehaven, all of them
sailors, excepting one fine young man whom the Earl was educating, and
who was painting a portrait of Lonsdale the first time I saw him. It
happened that my father and mother received an invitation to dine at
Captain Thomas Huddleston's. Father said the thing was impossible,
that the company and the conversation alike, would be antagonistic to
his office, and his personal feelings; and the kindness which was
intended, would be turned into offence. So I was sent with a note of
regrets, and orders to make myself as agreeable as possible.
The latter injunction was easy to obey. I found that Captain
Huddleston's family consisted of his mother, and sister, and the youth
I have mentioned, who was the grandson of Captain Huddleston. Their
house was a large one, in a queer court close to the waters of the
harbor, and the big low rooms looked like museums; for it seemed as if
every rare and lovely thing from strange lands and strange seas were
there; and the footstool of the old lady was a living tortoise of
great size, which had an inscription on its shell, showing it to be
nearly ninety years old.
The old lady was dressed in a gown of gay colors, open very low in
front, and filled in with clear-starched muslin. Her apron was of
black silk, trimmed with black Spanish lace, and she had a cap of
white Spanish lace on her plentiful white hair, and a very long gold
chain around her neck. Her knitting lay on the table beside her, but
she was adding up a bill as I entered the room, and though she looked
at me, she did not speak until the total was satisfactorily reached.
With this family I became familiar, and I wish I had space to say more
about them. I spent much time in their company, and liked nothing
better; especially when young Tom Huddleston, a midshipman on _The
Royal George_, came home. This handsome young sailor was my first
dream of a lover. I cried when he went away, and was not comforted by
his promise to bring me "lots of lace from Malta." Poor lad! He never
came home, but died in the West Indies of yellow fever.
There was really a little sailor settlement around Captain Tom's home,
and I was soon welcome in it, a strange, happy-go-lucky company, full
of sharp transitions; for in their lives they knew not what a day or
an hour might bring forth. However unexpectedly my visits were made, I
was sure to find some gathering rejoicing over the return of a husband
or son, or perhaps mourning over his detention or death. And among
people so affectionate and emotional it was easy for me to rejoice
with those who did rejoice, and to weep with those who wept. They did
not attract Jane; they were too extravagant and reckless, and Jane
liked everything done decently and in order.
Perhaps this sailor society prevented me from making as high an
estimate of the Reverend William Morley Punshon as I ought to have
done. He came a great deal to our home, and used to recite for our
entertainment fine examples of prose and poetry from the great
writers. As long as John was able to bear it, he frequently read
aloud, and I considered him an extraordinarily clever man. And, if one
looked only at his fine eyes and forehead, he was also a very handsome
man. I am sure all the religious young women in Whitehaven thought so,
and he was much praised and courted, the chapel being crowded whenever
he preached. Young ladies wore white veils then, and I used to watch
them from the organ loft coming into the chapel, and compare them to
an army with white banners; for I played the organ, which was
immediately behind the pulpit, so that everything was before my
vision.
During the Christmas holidays of this year, 1844, my brother Henry was
born. We welcomed him as a gift and a compensation, and the shadow of
suffering and death passed gradually away. After the holidays I went
to a fashionable school kept by Miss Penelope Flinders. I only
remained there three months, and, as far as study was concerned, they
were of little service to me; for Miss Flinders had a lawsuit in
progress at this time, and she made me her confidant, and discussed
endlessly the pros and cons with me. I was very sorry for her, and
feverishly anxious that she might succeed. She told me that her lover
had been prevented from marrying her by the bitter opposition of his
mother; that he had left England in consequence, and, when dying in
India had made a will, leaving every shilling of his wealth to her.
The mother was fighting the carrying out of this will, and Miss
Flinders could not sleep or eat, and how, then, could she teach
pending the court's verdict? One morning I went to school a little
late, and found the class rooms empty. The school had been dismissed
forever. She had won her case. I sat and talked with her a long time,
and she told me she would never teach another hour, for she had now
five thousand pounds a year to be happy with.
I went to no other school, but I read a great deal, and kept up the
practice of my music and drawing. There was a good public library, and
there was my father's library, and the public one suited me best now;
for I wanted Scott, Dickens and Thackeray, and I also read many novels
by Mrs. Gore, a writer nearly forgotten, but whose pictures of the
lives led by the highest society of that day were interesting and
instructive. One day Mr. Punshon was sitting in our parlor when I came
in with my hands full of books. He looked at them and asked, "Does
your father know, Amelia?" I answered, "No, but Mother does. She says
it is right. We do not trouble Father about little things. He is not
very well lately."
"Amelia," he continued, "I want some books out of the library, but I
do not like to go for them."
"Novels?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"I will get them for you. I am sorry for people who want novels, and
do not feel able to ask for them."
He said something about his position, and my father not liking him to
go to a public library for novels, and I understood the situation. I
wonder now why I did not fall in love with him. He could be so
charming, and I certainly thought his recitations marvelous, and his
own poetry full of genius. But I liked Tom Huddleston in his open
collar, and sailor jacket, with a sailor's song on his lips, far
better. Once I wondered about it to Jane, and she looked at me
incredulously, if not scornfully, as she answered, "The idea of being
in love with Mr. Punshon!"
"Why not?" I demanded.
"For one thing, Milly, he does not wear straps." Gentlemen at that
time wore their trousers strapped down under their feet. "His trousers
are sloppy, and he looks quite common."
"He is handsome," I returned, "and he has fine eyes, and beautiful
brown hair; it is curly, too."
"I dare say he puts it in papers every night. Miss Annie Townley
thinks so. But if he was ten times as handsome, I would not marry him.
He is a Wesleyan preacher, and could never give his wife a home of her
own. I hate living in a Chapel House."
Under conditions and surroundings like these, our lives went on. John
was dying daily, and Mother was very anxious about Father, who seemed
possessed by a never ceasing passion for preaching. It appeared to
her, that he worked and preached as if he feared he would not have
time to say all he wanted to say. The "sensations" of which he had
complained at intervals, grew more frequent, and in the autumn of our
second year in Whitehaven, he partially lost the use of his right
hand. Then I wrote his letters and sermons as he dictated them to me.
But, oh, how it pained him! I could not bear to see the sorrow in his
eyes, and what was coming he knew not; for the doom that walks by our
side from the cradle to the grave, never warns us. At this time of my
life my thoughts turn to his memory with a great tenderness. His heart
was then given to all humanity, his soul was all God's, and his life
but a flesh and blood conductor of eternal spirit.
At the close of the second year, John died after great suffering, and
he was laid among his kindred in a small cemetery in Charles Street.
As a burial ground it was no longer used, except by the families who
had originated it more than one hundred years previously. It was a
neglected enclosure, over-grown with tall grasses and rank weeds, and
surrounded by the decaying untidy houses of poverty. A more dreary,
ghastly place I never saw, and my heart ached for the little lad laid
there. I was thankful my mother was too ill to go to the mournful
service, but Father was consoled by the fact, that he was among his
kindred; and it seemed to me, there was no one but Huddlestons buried
there. Every stone I read was in memoriam of a Huddleston, and always
that same persistence of the name "Henry."
Not more than a month afterwards, our baby Henry was laid beside his
brother in the desolate place. I have no heart to write of his death.
He was taken in the midst of health, and went laughing to seize the
bowl of boiling milk, from which he drank a cruel death. It is better
to be silent about such calamities; at the time we were all dumb with
grief. Yet it was an accident, and accident is always God's part in
any event; so to this knowledge we bowed our hearts in submission.
There is a difference, however, in silence. Mother's quiet was full of
heavenly hope and trust; Father's speechless, tearless grief, was
almost despair, and many times afterward, I heard Mother rejoice over
a trouble treading close upon Henry's death, because it roused the
physical man to wrath, and broke up the spiritual torpor into which
Father had fallen.
This trouble came in a letter, which was handed into the parlor where
we were together one afternoon three weeks after Henry's death. Mother
and Jane were sewing. I was copying music--a song of Balfe's, I
believe, and father was walking up and down--up and down the room. All
was so still I could hear the ashes dropping from the grate to the
hearth. Then came the postman's knock, and the delivery of the letter
to Father.
He read it without a word, growing every moment grayer and more angry.
As he finished, he slowly tore the paper into fragments, his passion
growing with every movement of his hands, and stamping on them, gave
way to an inconceivable rage, accompanied by words that shocked and
terrified us. It was not Father, it was some madman who had taken
possession of him. Mother went to him, put her hands on his
shoulders, and said softly, "William! William!"
"Mary! Forgive me!" he cried. "You see now, what I have to struggle
against. Every day I have this temper to fight; it will conquer me
some time, and then I shall be lost--but this trouble is my own fault.
You have warned me, and I would not listen to you. Yes, I have been
warned twice by dreams I understood, but would not obey. If I could
suffer alone! If I could suffer alone, I would not care. It is my
great punishment. You and the children must suffer with me."
"What punishment? What has happened, William?" asked Mother.
"I have lost every shilling. That scoundrel Philip Blackpool has gone
to Australia with my money, a month ago."
"My dear, we can live without it."
"We cannot live without it, Mary," he answered. "What is the good of
talking nonsense?"
Then Mother was silent. She sat down and lifted her work, Jane
followed her example, and I went on copying my song, while from the
next room came the faint sounds of Alethia and Mary playing. Before
our silence and assumed indifference his anger waned; he said again,
"Forgive me, Mary! I will go to my study now, and come down when I am
better. Disturb me for nothing."
Mother was wretched. She put down her work, and I went to her. "What
does Father mean?" I asked.
"He means that we shall now be poor, Milly. This money stolen from him
was the best part of our living. I do not know how much it was, for he
never told me the amount, and often I have advised him to put it in
some reputable bank. But Philip Blackpool was his friend, at least he
supposed so. I have always doubted it. We must send away one servant
to-morrow; we shall have to do with much less new clothing, and many
good things that we have thought necessary, we must learn to do
without. Great changes will have to be made; my dear girls, let us
make them cheerfully."
Then I spoke to Mother about turning my education into money, and she
was pleased with my readiness. "Father is ill," she said, "and I fear
he will not be able to preach much longer. I have thought of these
things often," she continued, "and wondered how we were to live, when
he had only his retiring income, and this idea has come to me--that if
we knew how to conduct a small ladies' boarding-school, it might
suffice. Jane and I could look after the house and children, and you,
Milly, could, with the help of teachers, conduct the school. Of course
you would have to be trained for such a task."
We were all pleased with this idea, and discussed it over our tea, in
which Father did not join us. Then it appeared that this school
project was an old thought with Mother. She asked us if we remembered
a certain Miss Sarah Berners who stayed a week with us when we were in
Penrith, adding, "She was my friend through all the years in which I
was at school, and we used to talk of starting a school together, and
being independent of our stepmothers; for we both had stepmothers, and
not very kind ones--but I married, you know."
"Yes," said Jane, "and what did Miss Berners do?"
"She opened a school at Downham Market, Norfolk, fifteen years ago,
and has done well. Suppose, Milly, you went to her for a year, and
learned how to manage a school."
I answered, "I would like to do so, Mother. I would like it very
much."
So Mother wrote to Miss Berners, and received a glad consent to her
wish. I was to go as second teacher, and assist in the music, drawing
and English classes; and she promised to give me twenty-five pounds a
year with my board and lodging, and the opportunity to study the
French language if I wished, as I would room with Miss Stromberg, a
Russian, who spoke it, and nearly every other European language,
perfectly.
When this news came, Father was told of our plans. There was some
opposition, but not much, and I began with a hopeful heart to prepare
for the change before me. This event appeared to break up the storm of
sorrow and ill fortune which had assailed us. We had feared Father's
next appointment lest it should be some large manufacturing city,
demanding more strength than he had to give, but when it came, it was
to Kendal. Nothing could have been better. It was my mother's
birthplace; she had many friends there, and my father was a great
favorite with Kendal Methodists; and there was a pleasant preacher's
house in a pretty garden, surrounded by poplar trees.
It was a joyful removal. We bid farewell to the little graves we
had to leave behind us, and then turned our faces, as it were,
homeward. And as I was not wanted in Norfolk, until early in
September, I went to Kendal with my family, and helped to settle them
in their new home. I was very happy in my own prospects. I had no
fears, and I had a great many hopes and pleasant expectations. My
life was yet to me like a book of uncut leaves. I had finished the
preface, and the first chapter was to open in Norfolk. I put
behind me all past sorrows, and was just an eager girl leaning
over the narrow rim of my small world, and gladly anticipating the
wide, wide world into which I was going. And I was made strangely
happy, because on the night before I left home, when I lifted the
little red Bible that lay upon my dressing-table, my eyes lighted
on this verse, "Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called
thee by thy name; thou art mine." (Isaiah, 43:1.)
CHAPTER VI
IN NORFOLK
"No one knows what capacities they have for doing and suffering
till the occasion comes. When water is ice, we have no idea what
latent heat is in it."
* * * * *
"Life--all things here are but beginnings."
I was sixteen years and five months old, when I left home to go to
Downham Market, and take my place among the workers of the world. The
thought pleased me. I was tired of being a mere looker-on at life's
great game, and wanted my share in it. It was on the fourth of
September, A.D. 1847, and my father was to go as far as Hull with me.
There he would see me on board a little steamer sailing down the Wash
to Lynn Regis, from which place a carriage would carry me the few
miles inland to Downham Market.
I had put on long dresses that morning, and coiled my hair in a knot
under my bonnet, and looked quite eighteen; and I think Father was
proud of me. I certainly was very proud of Father's company; not
entirely because of his beautiful countenance, I valued far more, that
air of distinction which never left him, and to which every one
deferred. We had a pleasant journey to Hull, where we arrived soon
after noon. I had wondered why this way to Downham Market had been
chosen for me, but as soon as we reached Hull, I knew why. It was a
large seaport, excepting London and Liverpool, the largest in England;
and Father wanted me to see the ancient town, and its wonderful
docks.
We went to an hotel and had lunch, and then to the Queen's and Humber
docks, and I got my first glimpse of what a great commercial city must
be on its water side. I heard all the languages of Northern Europe on
those great walls. I saw woolpacks from Germany; hides, hemp and
tallow from Russia; corn from Dantzic, and other Baltic ports; and
strange _thin_ bars of iron from Sweden. Father told me this metal
would all go to Sheffield to be made into steel. On the Humber dock I
saw great bales of cotton and woolen cloth from Manchester and the
West Riding of Yorkshire; and other bales of lace and net, from
Nottingham. They were going to France and Germany, and all over
Northern Europe.
After the docks, we went to the famous Trinity House, a very rich and
powerful guild, that supports disabled seamen of the merchant service
and their widows, and has been doing this good work for nearly five
hundred years. For it is not only wealthy in bequeathed property, but
receives a shilling a month from the wages of all seamen leaving the
port. We went through the wonderful old place, and were told there
were nearly one hundred inmates, and nearly one thousand outside
pensioners. The whole place was as clean and neat as the decks of a
man-of-war and every apartment, even the council room, was strewn with
fresh green rushes, after the fashion of the days of its erection.
I noticed in the entrance hall a Greenland kayak hung from the
ceiling. It was picked up at sea with a man in it in A.D. 1613. The
man refused to eat, and died in a few days; but the figure in the
kayak wears his clothes, et cetera. I made some remark to Father
afterwards about Hull sailors being in such a latitude at that date,
and he said "they were commonly there then, and indeed were famous
whalers as early as A.D. 1590."
"Are they whalers now?" I asked.
"They are not extinct as whalers even now, though they are fast
passing away. Why, Milly," he added, "it was the whaler _Isabella_,
Captain Humphries, from the port of Hull, that found and saved Sir
John Ross and his company of Arctic explorers, after they had been
shut up in the ice for four years. He brought them home with him to
Hull, and Hull gave them a grand triumph, opened their hearts and
homes to them, and the whole nation went into rejoicing. You were only
two years old then, Milly, and do not remember, but I do. They had
won nothing; they had lost every thing, but they had _endured
cheerfully_ till their deliverance came; and _endurance_ is _victory_.
Don't forget that, Milly."
We visited the Charter House next, and saw many curious things, but I
have forgotten them. I saw too much, and Hull remains in my memory
like an amazing dream of masts a-rake, intertangled rigging, black
barges, ponderous black hulls floating silently past, as if they had
no weight. Influences from times long past, and places far off, found
their way unerringly to me. The streets and the gray afternoon seemed
unreal--like a dream all floated away.
I have a far clearer memory of the dinner we had on our return to the
hotel. In my long life, I am sure there are not a dozen dinners I
recollect as accurately as this one. Yet it was a very simple
meal--just hare soup, and roast duck, and green peas. My father also
had celery and cheese, and a glass of port wine, and I had two small
raspberry tartlets. But I have that dinner over again today as I
write, have it in the same little dingy parlor, with its two open
windows. I hear the noise of the streets; I see the picture of
Victoria above the chimney piece, and the colored, fancifully cut
tissue papers, screening the empty grate; I am sitting at the neatly
set table, with its daisy pattern damask cloth and napkins, its
old-fashioned knives and forks, and queer-shaped drinking-glasses,
and cruet stand. I have never happened to taste hare soup since
that day, but I can taste it now. It was a well-cooked meal, eaten
with smiles and pleasant conversation and little happy glances at each
other. It is dinner number one in my book of memory, though there
were neither flowers nor finger bowls on the table. Indeed I do not
remember having ever seen a finger bowl at this time and I am not
sure, but what I should have considered them as an unpleasant,
unmannerly introduction.
Presently we heard a church clock strike, and Father took out his
watch and looked at me. "It is time we were going, Milly," he said
cheerfully and I rose and put on my bonnet and gloves. At the wharf we
found all in confusion, and _The Queen of the Wash_ ready to sail.
There was only time for Father to see me safely on board; then with a
few cheerful words and a smiling face he put me in God's care, and
bid me good-bye. I watched him as long as I could see his tall,
straight figure among the moving crowd, but he never looked back. I
should have been astonished if he had. It was always onward and upward
and forward with Father; there was no looking back in his nature, and
his physical attitude generally illustrated the feelings and desires
of the inner man.
I went at once to my cabin, and being thoroughly weary with my day's
travel and sightseeing I fell asleep, and did not awaken until a woman
roused me with the information, that we were near Lynn Regis. It was
barely light when I stepped on to the pier, and the ancient place
seemed to be fast asleep. No one was in sight, and I asked the captain
to send a boy to bring me a carriage. He did so, and I was shortly at
The Cross Keys, a hotel standing in the Tuesday Market Place; but
feeling still tired and only half-awake I asked for a bedroom, and
slept until ten o'clock. This day I had a sense of the most absolute
freedom. I could do as I liked; there was no one to obey, and no one
to please but myself, and sleep appeared to me at that hour, the most
desirable of luxuries. But when I awoke at ten, I was satisfied and
fully refreshed, and I dressed myself prettily, and went down stairs
and ordered breakfast. After it, I made inquiries about reaching
Downham Market, and found there was a kind of stage running between
Lynn Regis and Downham Market. The next would leave at noon, which
would hurry me, and the last one at three o'clock, and this I resolved
to take. For it seemed a great waste of opportunity, not to see
something of the old town, when I had the day at my disposal.
I was tired of ships and of water, and wandered up the High Street
looking at the shops, and when I came upon a church in Black Goose
Street with the door standing open, I went inside. It contained
nothing attractive and I was about to leave the building, when an old
gentleman led me back to make me notice its three aisles, and the rich
and peculiar tracery of the windows and clerestory, and many other
things of that kind. But I was not much interested, until he showed me
a slab in the pavement, "In memoriam of Thomas Hollingsworth, an
eminent bookseller, a man of strictest integrity in his dealings, and
much esteemed by gentlemen of taste, for the neatness and elegance of
his bindings."
At this point I remember asking my guide if that inscription was good
grammar, adding it does not sound right to me, but then I do not
understand grammar.
"Do you know what it means?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, yes!" I answered.
"Then it's good grammar," he said decisively.
This remark about grammar, however, brought on me a little lecture
concerning a Dominican friar called Galfridus Grammaticus, who lived
in Lynn Regis, and compiled and printed the first English and Latin
dictionary; and this learned monk introduced another, who may have a
rather general interest at this date--Nicholas of Lynn, a Carmelite
monk, who in A.D. 1330 sailed to the most northern land in the
world--the first Polar expedition on record. Friar Nicholas says, that
at the Pole he discovered four indraughts of the ocean, from the four
opposite quarters of the world; and I have had good reason during the
last three years to retell this story of the first Polar visitor, and
to point out that he discovered more than the two latest visitors, and
that his narrative is better authenticated.
After leaving St. Nicholas' Church I sauntered up a street leading me
back to the hotel and in doing so passed a jeweler's shop. My eyes
fell upon a bracelet--an old-fashioned bracelet very wide and
illuminated by a large stone. I had never possessed a piece of jewelry
in all my life, but now I had some money, and I longed for this
bracelet. Many times I left the tempting window, but always returned,
and finally I went into the shop and asked its price. It was five
shillings, and I had twenty shillings. Why not buy it? I hesitated,
but at last paid the five shillings and went proudly out of the shop,
with the bauble in my pocket. When I reached the hotel, I put it on my
arm and felt just a little disappointed at the result. However, I
fancied myself wearing it with my silk dress, and thought it would
give me an air of great gentility. Then the stage was ready, and I and
my silly bracelet went together to Downham Market.
It was perhaps well, that I saw nothing but St. Nicholas' Church for
the mental notes I made there were so few, and so individual, that
they settled themselves persistently in my memory. Also, as I had
adopted the profession of a teacher, it was creditable to know who
made our first dictionary. The Polar expedition lay dormant in my
remembrance, until the disputing of the last three years made me
recall the information given me so many years ago. Then I came to the
conclusion, that any one of the three claims would be just as good as
the other, so that if England should stand by her monk's discovery, it
would be hard to disprove her claim; but--
"The fault of the English is the fault of the Dutch,
They never know when they are claiming too much."
It was about half-past four when I reached Downham Market. The ride
was interesting, for the country was quite different from any that I
had ever seen. Such green, such deep, living green of the pastures!
Such tall strong trees, garlanded at this time of the year with hop
vines, twining from branch to branch, and dropping down from their
tips, so that the hand could reach them. I saw two fine old manor
houses and many lovely cottages. A small, sweet, purple grape climbed
over the front, and over the thatched roofs of most of them, and this
astonished me, for I had never before known that grapes would grow in
the open air in any part of England.
When we approached Miss Berners', I knew the place. I had dreamed of
it when I was a child--a large double-Georgian house, standing amid
lawns and trees, and surrounded by a hedge higher than a man. As we
came closer I saw from my point of vantage on the top of the coach,
about twenty girls of varying ages, scattered about the grounds; some
were playing battledore and shuttlecock, others reading, others
walking about in pairs, and a couple of nearly grown girls, were
taking riding lessons in a paddock, at the side of the house. It was a
pretty scene, and the whole party struck me as freely and genuinely
happy. I felt a little nervous at the prospect of walking through
this bevy of scrutinizing girls, but I saw Miss Berners come to the
front door, and I went forward with as much confidence as I could
assume; and as soon as I clasped her hand, and looked into her smiling
face, I was quite at ease.
After a cup of tea I was taken to my room. My trunk was already there,
and Miss Stromberg, my room-mate, was sitting at the open window
darning her stockings. She was an odd-looking woman, small and very
thin, with slant black eyes, and a great quantity of very coarse black
hair. Her face had a flat look, but was full of fire; and her
complexion was bad and dark beyond belief.
But if one notices the circumstances, people of nearly the same age
readily fraternize with each other. Two old men will sit down in a car
and in a few minutes open a conversation, but an old man and young man
sitting together, have no courtesies or conversation for each other.
It is much the same with women; two mothers will talk of their
children, two girls of their lovers, two old women of their past, but
an old woman and a young girl sit far apart, no matter how close they
may be together.
So when Miss Berners left Miss Stromberg and I alone, we had plenty to
say to each other. I asked her if she liked the school and she
answered, "I have been here one week, but that is long enough for an
opinion. Yes, I like it."
"What is it that you teach?" I continued.
"I teach the elegant French language to these slow, stupid English
girls. It is incredible, but it is the truth, that they can not
understand that French is to be spoken with the eyes, the shoulders,
and the hands, as well as the tongue. One impertinent little girl as
fat as an ox, told me it was not decent to talk in such a way, and
that people would call her a mountebank, if she did so. I wish to
swear a little, when I think of such stupidity."
"French!" I ejaculated. "Is that all?"
"That is all. Many other things I could teach, but I keep quiet about
them. I have seen that it is wise _to do_, but a very great folly to
_overdo_. Maria Stromberg has learned many things since she began to
teach. Will you not dress a little for the evening? Put on a white
dress if you have one. White is your color."
"Will you not dress first?" I asked. "In this small room, two cannot
dress together."
"Dress, while I finish my stockings. I wish that the Strombergs of
Riga and Uleaborg could take notice that their daughter is compelled
to darn her stockings. Is there any more plebeian occupation? And my
feet abhor a darned stocking. They will pinch me all the time I wear
them."
As I dressed we chattered, yet when I had finished my toilet, I was
rather pleased with the result. But Miss Stromberg rose impetuously,
threw down her darning, and pushing me into a chair, uncoiled the hair
I had so carefully arranged.
"_Mon Dieu!_" she cried. "It is impossible. Look here!" and in a
few minutes she had it raised in puffs, and knots, that added two
inches or more to my height, and imparted to me an air of great
intellectuality.
"How can it be?" I cried. "I do not look like the same girl."
"No, but you look as you ought to look. You were masquerading in a
madonna front, and a Grecian knot at the nape of your neck. Do you not
know that throwing back the hair from the brow, reveals whatever is
good in you?"
Then I lifted my bracelet and asked her to fasten it. An expression of
pity, or contempt, flashed over her face, but she said kindly, "Ah!
but you can not wear it here. Jewelry is forbidden. Put it at the
bottom of your trunk; it will be safe there."
She did not resume her darning, but slipped into a silver gray dress
of lustrous silk. A pair of gray slippers stood on a table, and I was
sure no full grown human foot could get its toes into them, but she
stepped into them with the greatest ease. Then we went down stairs,
and Miss Berners introduced me to the girls, and after tea we had a
pleasant evening together.
I shall not detain my readers with any account of this school. It was
the usual boarding school of its date, under very delightful
surroundings and conditions. I remained until the following June in
Downham Market, working hard, but willingly, and forming many
agreeable acquaintances, but not one among them, that had any
influence or bearing upon my future life. I remember their names, and
their personalities, and can go all through their simple or splendid
homes, but that is all. Doubtless we were merely introduced to each
other for our next reincarnation. Then we may have a more fortunate
meeting.
I liked all the people I was brought into constant contact with, but
if I had not liked them, Miss Stromberg would have been sufficient. I
really loved the clever little woman. She spoke five languages; she
played with the magical tang and touch of a gypsy with a violin; she
danced like a fairy; and when she sang her North Russian songs, you
wept with pity for the lonely souls, on the great snow plains, who out
of their own deep sadness, caused their very music to weep. She made
all her dresses, and we envied their cut and style, and she knew
perfectly all the feminine arts of the toilet.
It was not her fault that I did not become a creditable French
scholar. She did her best with me but I had no aptitude for languages;
and like the other "stupid English girls" I found it silly to talk
with four of my members at once; my eyes at that time had not learned
speech, my shoulders I had been told from my childhood, to keep down
and well back, and my hands had a hundred duties of their own. But for
many, many other things, I thank her even to this day. I kissed her
good-bye in June. I was sure we would meet in September, but I never
saw her again--never, never, even heard from her. But I remember yet,
how patiently she rubbed off the crudities of my insular education,
and how day by day her kind tactful ways, led me to a far lower
estimate of my own attainments; for measuring myself by Maria
Stromberg, I could not but see how little I knew, how unpolished I
really was, and especially how far behind the mark in that control of
temper and sweetness of thought and intention, that made all Maria
Stromberg said and did, agreeable and welcome. I have never forgotten
her; I wonder if she still lives! Wherever in God's universe she now
dwells, I hope she is happy, and still remembers me.
On the last evening of my stay in Downham Market, Miss Berners asked
me to walk with her in the garden, and while doing so, she told me she
intended to remove her school to some London suburb. She thought
probably to Richmond. I was glad to hear this. The thought of London
was an enchantment, and I promised to come to her as soon as I could
in any way help the settlement of the new home. We parted mutually
pleased and hopeful, and the next morning I took a train for London,
and from thence one direct to Kendal.
I had twenty pounds in my pocket book, and I felt that my ten months'
faithful work had given me a right to turn homeward, and then as soon
as I did so, I was impatient of any delay. I found the whole family at
tea, and how happily I joined the party, any one can imagine. I had so
much to tell about the school, and was so proud that we were going to
remove it to London. Downham Market had become almost contemptible,
and I spoke of it as a dull, country village, where nothing ever
happened but a horse or a cattle fair. After tea, Father went to his
study, and I followed and laid the twenty sovereigns beside him.
"They are yours, dear Father," I said. "I do not need them, and they
will help Mary's and Alethia's school bills."
He looked at them, and at me, and his eyes filled. "Milly! Milly!" he
answered, "you are a good child, and I thank God for you, but you must
keep your money; Father does not need it. You know about your Uncle
Bell, do you not?"
"I know nothing of Uncle Bell, Father. I wrote to him once, but he
never answered my letter."
"Then I must tell you, that on the fifth of last February, your
mother's birthday, he called on Mother and gave her the row of
cottages standing on Tenter Fell. Now, Milly, the income from there,
just about balances the loss I made through that villain, Blackpool.
So, my dear, we have enough, and even a little to spare; what more
does a child of God want?" and as he spoke, he gently pushed the
sovereigns towards me.
"No one told me about Uncle Bell," I said. "I wish I had known."
"I remember, we thought it best not to name it. You would not have
saved twenty pounds if you had known of the gift, and you might have
missed some fine lessons, that only a sense of poverty teaches."
I soon went back to Mother. I found her sitting quiet in the gloaming.
I told her about the twenty pounds, and said, "Dear Mother, you and I
will divide it. Will you take half?"
"I will take it gladly," she answered. "There are so many little
things a woman wants, that I do not like to ask Father for."
"I know that, Mother," I answered. "Have I not seen you alter the
dressing of your hair, because you broke one of your side combs, and
did not wish to trouble Father about a new pair. I can recall twenty
things, that were a distress to you to want, and which you did without
rather than----"
"Milly, that ten pounds puts all right. I shall get what I want out of
it."
"Did not Uncle Bell leave you some money, Mother?"
"Did Father tell you so?"
"Yes, he said it covered the loss he made. Now you will have a small
income, Mother. Will it begin soon?"
"It began at once. The cottages were a gift. Father went the next
morning and drew February's rents."
"How much did they amount to, Mother?"
"I do not know, Milly. He never told me. He has drawn them now for
five months, but I have never seen a farthing of the money. I have
felt sometimes, as if it would be pleasant--just to see it, and have
it in my hands," and the tears welled slowly into her soft brown
eyes.
"But I do not understand," I continued. "Father would not touch my
money, yet he takes all of yours without leave or license. What does
it mean?"
"It means that I am a wife. All I had, or might have, became your
father's as soon as I was his wife. You are yet a spinster, and have
some rights in your own earnings."
"But suppose you have no legal rights, all the more Father ought to
give your every right. It is unkind, unjust, utterly contemptible!" I
cried in something of a passion. "I am ashamed of Father!"
"No! No! All men do as he does, and many do a great deal worse. Father
has never seen, or heard of wives treated any differently. If he
_knew_ better, he would do better."
"Then, Mother," I said, "he ought to know better for he will not
escape punishment on the plea of ignorance. I have often wondered why
John Bunyan makes _Ignorance_ go into hell by the back door. He is
right. Such ignorance as you make an excuse for Father is a sneaking
sin. It suits back doors. I would rather be a brazen thief, and go in
swearing by the main entrance. Father ought to be told the truth, and
you ought to ask for your money."
"It is too late, Milly. Say no more. I have got so far through life
without money. Until I was married, I had to go to my father for every
shilling--since then, I have gone to your father. But I have ten
pounds now. I never had as much money before, to spend as I liked. I
feel quite rich."
This conversation sunk into my soul. A great pity for this sweet,
patient, penniless mother, suffering so unnoticed and uncomplaining
the need of many womanly trifles, made me childishly angry. The next
day I went to Father with "Pilgrim's Progress" in my hand, and asked
him what Bunyan meant "by putting _Ignorance_ into hell in such an
ignominious manner?" I followed this question with others, which made
him look at me with a queer, thoughtful expression, and then relapse
into a silence so marked, as to be virtually a dismissal.
It is a joy to me this day to remember that on this visit, I was able
to do many little things for Mother which made life pleasanter to her;
for Father was certainly much worse, and it appeared almost wrong to
permit him to preach. Yet I could see that in the pulpit the spiritual
man had not lost control; for the same lucid, telling sentences
followed each other with a fiery eloquence, as in the past years. "Mr.
Huddleston isn't sick in the pulpit," people would say as they walked
thoughtfully home, from one of those last passionate exhortations.
CHAPTER VII
OVER THE BORDER
"The latest Gospel is, know thy work, and do it."
Late in August I had a letter from Miss Berners saying, she was now at
home in Richmond, and wished me to come to her, as soon as I could.
This summons to duty was pleasant, although I left home with a heavy
heart. A presentiment of sorrow was on me, and I could not help
following my soul back and forward, in endless ways of reminiscence
and foreboding. About my father especially, I had a sort of sacred
terror. And if any of my readers think that I was too much bound to my
family, let me remind them that _our families are the chief thing_,
except in societies like Lacedæmon, which went in for "efficiency" and
righteously perished from the face of the earth. Father! Mother!
Child! Is there any holier Trinity than this?
I arrived in Richmond after a hard day's travel, late in the evening.
It was almost dark when my cabman found the house in a rather
out-of-the-way suburb. It did not jump to my eyes pleasantly, as did
the house in Downham Market. It was a lonely place, and there was no
sign of light or habitation about it. But Miss Berners welcomed me
gladly, and as I drank a cup of tea beside her, she spoke to me of her
prospects. They were far from hopeful, for only three of her old
pupils were coming to Richmond.
"Miss Stokes has opened a school in my old home," she said mournfully,
"and the girls have just gone back there."
"She was their principal teacher when you were there," I answered.
"I know. It was very clever of her to step into my shoes, but I fear
it will ruin me."
"It is a wonder you did not anticipate this move," I ventured. "It was
so natural."
"It was very unkind and dishonorable, if that is natural," she
answered, nor was she able to see the matter in any other light.
It was an uncomfortable settling to work. The furniture of the old
home did not look as if it belonged to this mournful relic of a once
splendid mansion, and there ought to have been many things bought,
which Miss Berners would not spend money for, while the result of her
speculation was uncertain. For the new scholars came in so slowly,
that I took on myself all the teaching there was to do, excepting
French. The busy school, the public recitals and receptions, we had
been promised, were very far off; and the days were set to notes of
constant disappointment. The work was hard, for I taught individually;
the school hours were lengthened, and music lessons were to be given
when their work was over.
I was not happy, but I had a letter to deliver, which I believed would
bring me a little change and pleasure; and on the second Sunday
afternoon after the service in the Wesleyan Chapel was over, I waited
for the preacher, who was the famous Dr. Farrar, and gave him the
following note from my father:
DEAR BROTHER FARRAR,
My daughter Amelia is likely to be teaching in Richmond this
winter. I know you will give her counsel, and show her kindness,
if needed. Your brother in Christ,
WILLIAM HENRY HUDDLESTON.
Dr. Farrar read the note with a pleasant countenance, and then smiled
at me. "So you are Amelia?" he asked, and I answered, "Yes, sir." Then
he called three ladies who were standing a little apart, and said,
"Esther, this is Amelia Huddleston. You remember my correspondence
with her father, I am sure."
"Oh, yes, about that weary Tractarian Movement. I remember it very
well," she answered, and then turning to me continued, "I am glad to
see you, Amelia. Come home with us, and spend the evening with my
girls." This was the beginning of a friendship that enabled me to
endure cheerfully the weariness and monotony of my duties. For amid
many outside annoyances I built silently on my trust in God, and I did
my day's work loyally.
Richmond was then, and may be yet, the seat of a great Wesleyan
college for the preparation of young men for the ministry; and of this
college Dr. Farrar was the principal. His family consisted of his wife
and two lovely daughters, the eldest being just my own age. We were
friends at once, our mutual knowledge of Mr. Punshon, forming an
excellent basis for our intimacy. And after this introduction, I spent
all my spare hours at Dr. Farrar's, where I was always made freely
welcome.
Joyful or sorrowful the days go by, and at the end of October we had
eight pupils, but only three of these eight were boarders, and the
great empty house that should have been full of youth and happiness,
was a lonely anxious place. And it was at this time I heard that the
sorrow so long expected had arrived. My father after preaching to a
crowded chapel had hurried home, and fallen across the threshold in a
strong, and not to be disputed epileptic fit. Then with heart-breaking
reluctance, he had signed his resignation from the active ministry,
and had seen another take his place. In great anguish he had prayed
that this cup might pass from him; but, no, he had to drink it to the
very dregs. Yet Mother wrote me, that he had not missed the vision of
the comforting angel; for _vision_ is the cup of strength only given
in some great calamity.
I felt severely the grief that I knew filled every room in my home,
but God had sent it, and He knew what was best. This trust was not a
mere formula of words; it was a veritable and active faith with me. I
trusted God. I leaned my child heart upon the everlasting Love of "our
Father in heaven" and the days went on, and I did my work, and
believed that all would come right.
Miss Berners' affairs, however, grew every week worse and worse, and
just before Christmas, I went into her room one morning, and found her
lying on the bed weeping bitterly. She opened her eyes, and looked
sadly at me and I asked, "Is it worth while continuing the fight? You
are growing thin and gray, and you have not gained a step."
"O Amelia!" she answered, "I have made a great mistake."
"Every day is making it worse. Why not stop it?"
"My expenses are double my income."
"Then it is robbery to continue them."
"What would you do? Tell me truly, Amelia."
"I would close the school this very hour," I answered. "I would tell
those three Downham Market girls to pack their trunks, and send them
home by the noon train. At nine o'clock I would send those five
unhappy-looking day scholars home also. Give all you have to your
creditors, and go home yourself, and rest awhile. Then you can
doubtless retrieve this great mistake."
"And what will you do, Amelia?" she asked.
"I do not know yet," I answered. "I must think."
After the Downham Market girls had been sent home, I went to my room
and began to consider my own affairs. I remembered first, the loss in
my father's income. That was an irreparable loss. I thought of all the
expenses incident to constant sickness in a house, of the education of
Mary and Alethia, of the necessity of Jane's presence to assist Mother
and I said to myself, "You, Amelia, are the one person _not_ needful,
and you must in some way provide for yourself." I opened my purse, and
found I had fourteen shillings. How was I to provide for myself? I was
a stranger in Richmond. I knew no one but the Farrars. Perhaps Mr.
Farrar might--and then I tried to imagine what Mr. Farrar might do for
me. I thought until my head burned, but thank God! there was no fear
in my thoughts. That paltering, faltering element, was not among my
natural enemies. Far from it, I found something magnetic in
extremities. If I was ever indifferent to events, it was because they
were only moderate. To possess my soul in patience was a difficulty;
to possess it in _resistance_ and _struggle_ was more natural, and
more agreeable.
I bathed my hot head and face, and then did what I ought to have done
at first--I went to my Father in heaven, and told Him all my sorrow
and perplexity. And as I talked with Him, tears like a soft rain fell
upon my prayer, and I rose up full of strength and comfort, whispering
as I dressed myself for the street, "Why art thou cast down, O my
soul, and why art thou disquieted within me? The Lord is thy refuge,
and underneath are the everlasting arms."
I went quickly to Dr. Farrar, and I found him at home; then without
hesitation I told him all that troubled me. He answered, "You are
right, Amelia, and I can find work for you, if you are not too proud
to take it."
"Pride has nothing to do with my duty," I replied.
"Then listen," he continued. "You must have noticed that during the
last ten years there has been a tremendous output of national energy
and wealth for the education of the lower classes. National schools,
and Bell and Lancaster schools, are going up all over England; and we
Wesleyans, could not sit still when all other churches were working.
Indeed we are going to build a school in all towns where the chapel
membership is able to support one."
"I believe there is such a school in Kendal," I said.
"Our wisest men have decided, that a certain form of teaching called
the Stowe method, will be best for the class of children we wish to
reach; and this method is taught in the Normal School at Glasgow,
where we have now nearly forty young men and women studying it. Now,
Amelia, if you will go to Glasgow to learn this method, I will promise
you a good school, and a good salary, and you could bring your father
and mother to wherever you are located, and make your homes
together."
Then with the daring decision of young fresh faculties, I cried out,
"O Dr. Farrar! I should like that better than anything else."
"The children may be mostly poor children," he added.
"I used to long to be a missionary. I can call it a mission work. Oh,
I should enjoy it! But--" and I looked doubtfully at him--"but this
course of instruction, will it cost much money?" I asked.
"Our Board of Education will look after that," he answered. "They pay
the Normal School so much for every pupil, and they will also give you
one pound every week for your rooms and food. You can live on that, I
should say?"
"Very well indeed."
"The Board will also allow you five pounds for traveling expenses,
but----"
"Yes, Dr. Farrar, but what?"
"When you have won your diploma, and have been appointed to a school,
the Board will expect you to gradually pay back what it spends for
your education."
"That is right," I answered. "I should like to pay it back, but if I
should die, would my father have to pay it for me?"
"No, no, child! Death pays all debts. You are more likely to marry,
than to die."
"And what then, Doctor?"
"If you marry well, the Board will not count its loss in your gain."
We talked over this subject thoroughly, and I assured him of my
perfect satisfaction, and even pleasure, in the proposition. "If that
is so," he said, "go and pack your trunk, take it in the morning to
the Easton Square Railway Station, and leave it in the baggage room;
then come to me at this address," and he wrote a few lines for my
direction. "The Board meets there to-morrow at ten o'clock to examine
applicants, and you will be questioned a little, no doubt, but I think
they will not puzzle you."
"Not unless they are grammarians, and ask me to parse a sentence."
As I was leaving he asked, "Have you money enough to take you to
London?"
"I have fourteen shillings," I said. "Miss Berners can give me
nothing."
"Fourteen shillings is enough. The rest of your traveling expenses
will be provided."
So I went back to the defunct school, and packed my clothes, and
helped Miss Berners to pack all her personal belongings. We talked
very little. The past was done with, the future uncertain, but she
promised to send the money due me to my mother as soon as she saw her
friends in Reading.
"Will you remain in Reading?" I asked.
"No!" she answered. "I will take passage on a good ship, that intends
to be at sea for a year, or more. I wish to be where I can never get a
bill, or a dunning letter, or hear the postman's knock."
We rose early in the morning, and had a hurried cup of coffee and then
said good-bye. It was an uneasy and uncomfortable parting, and I was
astonished that I could not feel any regret in it. There was only a
sense of something finished and done with, and I believe Miss Berners
forgot me, as soon as my cab was out of sight. But within a week she
sent the money owing me, and said she was going to Louisiana. At that
time Louisiana was as little known to the average Englishman or woman,
as Timbuctoo. We asked a young man who had been shooting game in
Canada, "Where is Louisiana?" and he answered, "It is one of the West
Indian Islands, belonging to France." Then I reflected that Miss
Berners spoke French pretty well, and could probably take care of
herself.
I left my luggage as directed by Dr. Farrar, and went to the Wesleyan
Board of Education. It had begun to rain by this time, and the place
looked mean and unhappy. But there was a good fire in the small
waiting-room, and three young men, and one young woman already there.
For a moment I had a sickening terror of what I was doing, but I
quickly put my foot upon it. "Why art thou cast down, O my soul?" I
asked almost angrily, and my soul knew better than to shirk, or shrink
before that question.
All was more favorable than I expected. Dr. Farrar had evidently
spoken to the Board, which consisted of six or eight nice, clerical
old gentlemen. Probably all of them had daughters of their own, for
they were very kind, and before considering my case, spoke in the most
sympathetic manner of my father's affliction. Every one had some
pleasant memory of him, or some particular message to send. And they
were so cheerful, that I looked into the faces of my inquisitors with
confiding smiles. Upon the whole, the examination was an easy one,
and nobody named grammar. I came off with flying colors, and I really
think the Board believed themselves to have secured an unusually
bright and clever teacher. There was nothing more to do, except sign a
paper enrolling myself among the Wesleyan pupils at the Glasgow Normal
School, which paper also contained the Board's obligation to pay me
one pound weekly. My traveling expenses were given to me in hand, and
then I bid all good morning, feeling truly in my heart the sweetest
and strongest gratitude, for their kindness towards me.
I got a train for Kendal about one o'clock, but did not arrive there
until late. The door had been locked, and Mother unlocked it with such
a joyful cry of "Milly! Milly! Milly!" as brought every one to meet
me. I shall never forget that home-coming. Father came down stairs
again, the fire was rebuilt, and a nice little meal prepared, while
Jane, Mary and Alethia hung round me as if I had been lost and found
again.
The best part of that happy meeting was the pleasure it gave Father to
hear of the sympathy and praise, that had followed the mention of his
name to the Board of Education. I repeated every pleasant word twice
over. He did not ask me to do so, but I knew the friendly messages
were the sweetest music in his ears. And when I finally told them I
was going to Glasgow, Father said,
"It is a Providence, Milly! I had a letter not a month ago from my old
friend John Humphreys, who is now Collector of Excise for the port of
Glasgow. Either he, or Mrs. Humphreys, will look for proper rooms for
you. They will know just what you want."
The letter to the Humphreys asking this favor was written at once, and
in four days we received something like the following answer to it:
DEAR WILLIAM,
We have rented your daughter a parlor and bedroom with the sister
of my grocer. His shop is in Sauchiehall Street, and they live
above it. They are most respectable people, and have no other
boarders. It is also near the school. She will be very comfortable
there. Let us know exactly when she is coming, and either Mrs.
Humphreys or I will meet her train, and see her safely housed.
Your true friend,
JOHN HUMPHREYS.
Then it was decided I should go to Glasgow on the third of January,
1849, by the ten o'clock morning train, which would allow me to reach
my destination before it was dark. Until that day I rested myself body
and soul in the sweetest influences of love and home, and when the
third of January came, I was full of new strength and new hope, and
ready for whatever had been appointed to happen unto me.
My dear mother went with me as far as Penrith. She intended to visit
my brother Willie's grave, and perhaps spend a night with her friend,
Mrs. Lowther. Fortunately we had the railway carriage to ourselves
and, oh, how sweet were the confidences that made that two hours'
drive ever memorable to me! At Penrith we parted. Penrith is a mile or
more from the Caledonian Line, but there were vehicles there to meet
the train, and I watched Mother pass from my sight with smiles, and
the pleasant flutter of her handkerchief.
Then by a real physical effort I cast off the influences I had
indulged for a week, and began to allow my nature to imbibe the
strength of the hills through which I was passing--hills beyond hills,
from blue to gray--hills sweeping round the horizon like a great host
at rest. Down their sides the living waters came dancing and glancing,
and, oh, but the lift of His hills, and the waft of His wings, filled
my heart with joy and strength. Now and then we passed a small stone
house, rude and simple, with a moorland air, and I felt that the
pretty English cottages with their thatched roofs and blooming
gardens, would have been out of place in the silent spaces of these
mountain solitudes.
It grew very cold as we neared Carlisle. Every one I saw was
buttoned-up and great-coated, and I was sensible of as great a change
in humanity as in nature. I had missed all the way from Kendal the
workingman's paper cap, the distinctive badge of labor in those days.
If there were workingmen around Carlisle they did not wear it. All
the men I saw wore large caps of heavy blue flannel, sometimes
bordered with red--an ugly head-gear, but apparently just the thing
wanted by the big, bony men who had adopted it. I saw a crowd of them
at Gretna Green, where a woman got into the train, and rode with me as
far as Ecclefechan. She was not a pleasant woman, but I asked her
about this big blue cap, and with a look of contempt for my ignorance,
she answered, "They are just the lad's bonnets. Every one wears them.
Where do _you_ come from?"
"London," I replied with an "air."
"Ay, I thought so. You're a queer one, not to know a blue bonnet, when
you see it."
Then I had the clue to a dashing, stirring song which had always
puzzled me a little, "All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border." It
meant, that these blue-bonneted giants, were over the English border,
raiding and harrying the shepherds and farmers of the northern
counties. And I smiled to myself, as I remembered the kind of welcome
always waiting for them, whenever the slogan passed from fell to
fell:
"Cumberland hot,
Westmoreland hot,
Prod the Scot!
For all the blue bonnets are over the Border!"
CHAPTER VIII
LOVE IS DESTINY
"Love is the secret of life. Love redeemeth. Love lifts up. Love
enlightens. Love advances the soul. Love hath everlasting
remembrance. Love is a ransom, and the tears thereof are a prayer.
Oh, little Soul, if rich in Love thou art mighty.
"Love is Destiny. The heart is its own fate."
In the cold, hard light of the winter afternoon, we reached Glasgow;
entering the city by the Buchanan Street Station. I stepped quickly
out of the carriage, and saw Mr. Humphreys looking for me. He was
about fifty-six years old, tall, and rather stout, with a pleasant
face, and snow-white hair. I walked towards him, and the moment he saw
me, he smiled, and nodded his head.
"I was looking in the first-class carriages," he said.
"I was in the second-class," I answered. "I could not waste money on
the first, just for a short ride." Then he laughed, and, clasping my
hand, asked, "How many trunks have you?"
"One," I answered.
"Any parcels, valises, or bandboxes?"
"Nothing of the sort."
"I never heard the like. What kind of a girl are you? Stand right here
until I bring a carriage; then I will take both you, and your one
trunk, to Miss Pollock's."
In a few minutes he came with a carriage, and we were driven rapidly
up Sauchiehall Street, until we came to an Arcade. Here we stopped,
and, as there was a large grocer's shop there, I knew it was at the
end of my journey.
"Pollock," said Mr. Humphreys, "let a couple of your big lads carry
Miss Huddleston's trunk upstairs;" and then I was introduced, and told
Miss Pollock had been looking for me, and my rooms were ready and
comfortable.
I thought I would go through the shop, but no, Mr. Humphreys took me
to a stone stairway in the Arcade--a stairway pipe-clayed white as
snow--and, after climbing three flights, I saw an open front door and
a nice-looking woman, about forty years old, waiting to receive me.
Mr. Humphreys would not go into the house, but told me to be dressed
at five o'clock the next day. "Mrs. Humphreys wishes you to dine with
us," he said, "and we shall also have a few friends, so you must make
yourself smart. Five o'clock!"
Then I heard him going rapidly down the stairway, and I turned to Miss
Pollock with a smile. She took me into a little parlor, plainly
furnished, but clean and neat. There was a bright fire in the grate,
and a small, round table, set for one person, before it. She brought
me tea and lamb chops, and some orange marmalade, and delicious rolls,
and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The next morning I unpacked my trunk,
put my clothing in convenient places, and took my books into the
parlor. I had a silver lamp that Miss Berners gave me, and many pretty
little knick-knacks, and I was delighted with my sitting-room, when I
had arranged these ornaments.
At four o'clock I had a cup of tea, and then dressed myself in
readiness for Mr. Humphreys' call. I was a little at a loss to know
how to dress, but white could not be out of place on a girl, so I put
on a white lustrous alpaca, trimmed with narrow bands of white satin.
My hair was well and becomingly arranged, and I had my satin slippers,
and long, white, lace mitts, in a bag over my arm. I thought I looked
very pretty, and Mr. Humphreys said so, as he gave me a fresh camilla
to pin in front of my dress.
As I entered the Humphreys' house Mrs. Humphreys gave me a hearty
welcome, and, as soon as I was ready, introduced me to a number of
middle-aged ladies and gentlemen, who were sitting or walking about in
the large parlors. I wondered at seeing no young people, but every one
was so kind, I never thought of disappointment. I was particularly
attracted by a Mrs. Semple, a tall, dark woman, with unmistakable
signs of having been a great beauty. The moment I was introduced to
her, she said,
"You can leave the lassie wi' me, Mistress Humphreys. I'll make her as
wise as mysel' anent the notables in the room. I'm feared there's few
to brag about, but there's nae use in letting strangers ken we're just
common folk."
In pursuance of this intention, she said, as I was seated beside her,
"Look at Peter McIntosh. Do you see the man?"
"I do not know him," I answered.
"Then I'll make you acquaint. Peter is a good man to know, and his
wife is weel worthy o' him. Peter is a notable shoemaker. He makes
shoes by the thousands, and sends them to America for sale."
"Really?"
"Yes. His factory is in the Goose Dubs. He'll take you to see it
willingly. Ship loads o' his shoes go to the Yankees, but they are
getting on to his ways, and he had better make shoes while he can, for
they'll beat him at his own game soon. The little body in violet silk
is his wife; she is aye trotting after him. How long have you known
John Humphreys?"
"A few hours, but he is an old friend of my father's."
"Weel, that's a fine beginning. John is another Glasgow notable. He's
only an exciseman, if you come dawn to facts, but they ca' him a
Supervisor. It's a grand place for John, and he fills it wi' great
credit to himsel'. The big man he is talking to is called Sage. His
wife hasna' ta'en her e'en off you since you came into the room.
She'll be telling hersel' that you will make a braw wife for her son
Alick. Alick will be here anon. Tak' care, or you'll lose your heart
to him. Thanks be! there's the dinner bell at the last, but it is
three minutes past ordered time. Annie Humphreys ought to be
reprimanded--only her husband daurna do it," and she lifted her long
velvet train, and took Mr. Sage's arm as she expressed this opinion.
I never was at such a dinner before, and I never saw such dinners
outside of Scotland. I do not remember a thing we had to eat, except
ice cream, and, as it was the first time I ever saw, or tasted ice
cream, there is no wonder it has a place in my memory. It was a
lingering pleasure of food eaten with constant merriment that charmed
me. Then, when there was nothing on the shining mahogany but the nuts
and fruits and the big toddy bowl, then, indeed, if it was not the
feast of reason, it was the flow of soul. Song followed song, and
story followed story. At first the songs were comic, such as the
"Laird o' Cockpen," or "O Johnnie Cope, Are You Waking Yet?", but, as
the music opened their hearts, these easily passed into the most
passionate national songs; and, in an hour, there were only
sentimental Scotchmen present. Every one was then tearful about Prince
Charlie. Two generations previously, the dinner would have been broken
up as a Jacobite meeting. But, oh, how I enjoyed it! A little later I
said so to Mrs. Semple, and she answered,
"Dinna delude yoursel' anent thae men wiping their eyes, as they sing,
they are only specimens of the after-dinner Scot."
"They are full of patriotic feeling," I said.
"To be sure, after dark, and over the toddy, but they have been in
Union Street, and Buchanan Street, Virginia Street, and the Cowcaddens
all day long, doing what? Getting their shilling's worth for their
shilling, ay, their farthing's worth for their farthing. Where was
their patriotism then? Wait till the Sawbath Day, and I'll show you
the Scot who is a Son of the Covenant, and who wouldn't lose his
soul--on that occasion--for the whole world."
Just as she said these words, she rose hurriedly to her feet, crying
pleasantly, "There's my Willie! We'll hae the dancing now," and
immediately a bevy of girls and young men pushed aside the portières,
and curtsied to the company. Then the elder men and women went into
the out-of-the-way corners, and played "Catch the Ten" or "Bagatelle,"
though some men of fifty years old, or even more, danced with great
spirit in the national reels and strathspeys. I danced once with Mr.
Humphreys, and was stepping a pretty measure with Mrs. Semple's
Willie, when Mrs. Sage's son, Alick, entered. Immediately I caught his
look of pleasure and admiration, and something I knew not what, passed
between us, so that, when he was introduced to me, we both felt it to
be a supernumerary ceremony.
I have been a little diffuse concerning this dinner, because it
represented fairly the household hospitality of that time. I dare say
that they have a more stylish mode now, but I doubt if, with the
elegant restraint of later days, they have preserved the old
delightful flow of song and story, and that intense national spirit,
which made one involuntarily listen for the bagpipes, though the music
was all in the imagination. Many such entertainments I went to that
winter; always on Saturday nights to the McIntoshes', where there was
sure to be a boiled turkey stuffed with oysters and served with oyster
sauce. In another house, to which I went frequently, they had roast
turkey stuffed with plum pudding, and an old negro cook in Texas told
me his old master always had his turkeys stuffed in the latter way. If
any one thinks it could not be good, I advise them just to try the
recipe.
The two following days being Saturday and Sunday I rested, looked over
my clothing, and wrote long letters home. I also wrote Dr. Farrar, and
told him how comfortably all had been arranged for me. I was a little
nervous about my entry into the Normal School, but when Monday morning
came, I was ready for what it demanded, and more curious than
frightened. It was a foggy morning, and the big building amid the
small, poor buildings around it, loomed up gray and forbidding in its
bare black yard, where a lot of children were trying to be playful, in
the most discouraging surroundings. The janitor took me to the
recitation hall, opened the door, and left me. There were groups of
men and groups of women standing about, talking in an unconstrained
way; others sat alone on the benches of the great gallery, which rose,
bench above bench, nearly to the ceiling. No one spoke to me, and I
sat down and looked curiously at the women, who could be guilty of
such unkindness. I am sure many of them wished to speak, but did not
know how to take the initiative. If they would only have trusted their
hearts, and said a word of welcome, they need not have feared they
were breaking any social law. Kindness is always fashionable, and
always welcome.
In a few minutes an exceedingly tall, fair, thin man slowly entered,
and every one went instantly to their places. I presented to him Dr.
Farrar's letter of introduction, and he threw it on a small table,
and said irritably, "Third row, left corner." Somehow I walked
straight to the place indicated.
I am not going to describe this school, or the method of teaching
used there. I have but an imperfect remembrance of all concerning it,
and the system is likely superseded long ago by something better.
Yet, I was much interested in the hall recitations and exercises;
and the teaching of men and women together, on the basis of perfect
mental equality, was then a great novelty, and far from being
universally approved. My own impression was that in every department
the women excelled the male students. Certainly Professor Hyslop
appeared to think so, and to please himself hugely and frequently,
by illustrations of the fact.
During my first hour in that room, I saw him call a young man to the
blackboard, and give him an algebraic problem to solve. He failed
completely. Another young man was called, and also failed. Then the
Professor said, with an air of assurance, "Miss Grace Laing," and a
girl of about eighteen stepped lightly forward, made a few figures,
and, to me, cabalistic signs. The Professor's face brightened, and he
said decidedly, "correct," and Miss Grace Laing walked back to her
place. The men, however, were not ungenerous, for a half-audible
murmur of admiration followed the Professor's verdict of "correct."
The theological lessons were exceedingly interesting, for theology
touches the average Scot on both his weakest and strongest side, and a
barely veiled dispute was always lingering between the Calvinistic and
Arminian students. Every lesson, however, in that school turned to
argument; the system provoked it, and was intended to do so.
I liked the life at the school, but very early felt within myself that
it was only a stepping-stone to my real destiny; and the remembrance
we give to stepping-stones, is washed out by every other tide. But I
did all my duty and enjoyed doing it, so the days were full of
pleasant work, the evenings of pleasant company, and the time went
swiftly by, though it left none of those sharp, indelible etchings on
memory which direct personality gives. I was in a crowd there, and all
my recollections of the place are evasive and uncertain.
With the advent of June I began to look forward to home and home
influences; then I received an invitation to join an excursion party,
going with Captain Scott on his own steamer to "Fife and all the lands
about it," north as far as St. Andrews, and then further north, even
to the Orkneys and Shetland Islands. I could not bear to think of
missing such an opportunity, and I wrote Dr. Farrar and asked him to
obtain liberty for me to accept the invitation. He sent me a kind
permission to do so, saying he had no doubt many would afterward see
the places I visited through my eyes. And, as I have written "Jan
Vedder's Wife," "A Daughter of Fife," "Prisoners of Conscience," "Paul
and Christina," "Thyra Varrick," "Sheila Vedder," "The Heart of Jessie
Laurie," and so forth, from material and impressions gathered on this
voyage, Dr. Farrar's estimate has brought forth fruit a thousand-fold.
I need not enter into details here: the above books will amply reveal
to their readers the noble men and women of "the ancient kingdom," and
of the Ultima Thule of the Shetlands.
When the trip was over I did not return to Glasgow; we landed at
Leith, and from Edinburgh I got a train direct to Kendal, where I
arrived about tea time. I found all better than I expected. My father
had assumed the duty of visiting the poor and the sick in their
affliction, of comforting the broken in heart, and of going as far as
a mortal man may go with the dying. Mother thought he was happy in his
self-imposed charge, but he must have had terrible hours among the
books he no longer used; for he was only fifty-five years old at this
time, and still retained much physical strength and beauty.
I had two weeks of perfect peace and happiness, and then, just as I
was thinking of returning to Glasgow, I received a letter from Mrs.
Humphreys, telling me that the government had removed Mr. Humphreys to
Liverpool, and that they were on the point of leaving for that city.
She said further, that she had had a conversation with Mrs. Semple
about me, and that Mrs. Semple was anxious I should stay with her; she
pointed out the advantages of living in such respectable care and
surroundings, and urged me to accept Mrs. Semple's offer.
Here was another stepping-stone towards destiny: where would it lead
me? Mrs. Semple had a large circle of friends, and entertained and
went out frequently. I should meet at her house a different class of
people; traders, perhaps, but traders with gentry behind them;
ministers, lawyers, and men who had to do with books and literature,
and doubtless women who might be more stylish, and perhaps less kind,
than Mrs. Humphreys or Mrs. McIntosh. It looked pleasant enough in
prospect, and, I may as well say, it proved pleasant enough in
reality.
I found, on my return to Glasgow, that Miss Pollock and her brother
were on their way to Australia; then, my course being quite clear, I
went to Mrs. Semple. She received me joyfully, and at first would not
hear of my paying a farthing for my board; but I soon convinced her
that she would have to take the sum it had cost me to live with Miss
Pollock. Of course, even then, I had greatly the best of the
bargain--handsome rooms to dwell in, an excellent table, and ready
sympathy in all my perplexities, likes and dislikes. In a way I made
the balance more even by giving to my hostess those little helps and
personal attentions I would have given to my mother, if in her place,
and we were mutually pleased and satisfied.
When I returned to the school, Professor Hyslop looked glumly at me,
and hoped I had "enough of stravaging," and was ready to attend to my
duty. I assured him I was glad to do so, but I was not glad in my
heart. A kind of dissatisfaction lurked in all my plans. I wanted, I
knew not what. I worked steadily, but with a kind of eager looking
forward to something beyond the work.
One morning Mrs. Semple and I were eating a luxurious little
breakfast. The sunshine and the fresh air came in through the open
window, and some working men were going up West Regent Street,
whistling delightfully. I was happy, but thoughtful, and Mrs. Semple
said, "You're thinking lessons, and that isna in our bargain--lovers
would be mair wise-like. What did you dream last night?"
"Why," I answered, "I had a singular dream. I was thinking about it,
when you said lessons."
"Tell me, then."
[Illustration: MRS. BARR AT 18]
"I dreamed of going into a large warehouse, full to the roof of
bundles of gray and white wool. Many men were at desks writing, but no
one spoke, and I walked forward, until I came to a door covered with
green baize, and pushed it open. Then a young man, who sat writing at
a handsome desk, turned and looked at me, saying in a pleasant,
authoritative way, 'Come in, Milly. I have been waiting for you.' The
dream passed away as he spoke."
"What kind of a young man? Handsome?"
"Yes, very handsome. He was dressed in a suit of shepherd tartan."
"That is likely enough. Every other man you meet, is wearing shepherd
tartan. It is precious few that look decent in it."
"My dream-man looked well in it."
"A red or green necktie with it, of course."
"No, a black one."
"Wonderful! It is either red or green wi' most men. My Willie would
have naething but white. He thinks he looks ministerial in the black
and white, and he is trying to behave accordingly. You must have
noticed him?"
"Yes, I have. Perhaps Willie's dress gave me my queer dream."
"Reason the dream awa', of course. That's what fools do wi' a dream. I
think you dreamed of the man who will be your husband."
"Then," I said, "my husband is not among the men I know. I never saw
the young man of my dream before."
"There's few people in town yet," explained Mrs. Semple. "They are at
Arran, or Bute, or somewhere down the water. It will be September ere
they get back to Glasgow." At these words she lifted the morning
paper, but in a few moments threw it down in great excitement, crying,
"Milly! Milly! the Queen, and Prince Albert, and the Prince o' Wales
are coming to Glasgow; every blessed wife, and mother, and maid, will
be here to see the Royalties. We, also, we must see them! We must hae
a window; some one must get one for us!"
"Do you know any one who can?"
"Yes. When you come back from school, we will go and ask him."
"Need I go?"
"I'll not go a step wanting you."
So I came home without delay, put on a clean white frock, and went
with Mrs. Semple to a street called Virginia Street. The warehouse we
entered was so old that the stone steps at its entrance were nearly
worn away. A kind of porter stood at the door, and Mrs. Semple told
him she wished to see his master. He led us through a long room piled
to the ceiling with bundles of wool, and through a green baize door
into a handsome office, where the young man of my dream sat writing.
He turned as we entered, and Mrs. Semple said, "Weel, Robert, how's a'
with you?"
For a moment he did not answer. He was looking at me--perhaps
expecting an introduction, but his smiling face appeared to be saying,
just the words I heard in my sleep, "Come in, Milly! I have been
waiting for you."
Really what he said was an effusive welcome to Mrs. Semple, and a
polite offer of his chair to me. It was a large office chair, but I
took it; after a little while he asked me if I was comfortable, and
then laughing lowly added, "Now I shall forever dream dreams in that
chair."
"Weel," answered Mrs. Semple, "maybe the dreams will come true." Then
she explained the reason for our call, magnifying very much my desire
to see the Queen. And Mr. Barr assured her there would be tickets for
a good window at her house before nine o'clock that night, if it was
possible to get them. It was a pleasant call, a fateful call, for I
knew I had met the man whose fate--good or bad--I must share. A
feeling of deep sadness overcame me. I said I was sick, lay down on my
bed, and fell into a deep sleep.
Before nine o'clock Mr. Barr brought the tickets, and, on the day
appointed, went with us to see what there was to see. It was not much.
Her Majesty disappointed me. Prince Albert was not as handsome as his
pictures represented him to be, and the Prince of Wales was in a bad
temper, and showed it as plainly as a boy nine years old could do. The
Queen wore a royal Stuart tartan shawl; it was heavy and cumbersome,
and she looked ungraceful in it. But this bit of sightseeing was the
beginning of a new order of things. My life took a turn then and
there, and, as I look back, I could weep at the memory of that fateful
royal visit; but through the years that hour had been fixed, and the
dormant love in my soul needed but a look to awaken it.
Until the New Year Mr. Barr was all the most devoted lover could be,
then there was a pause in his attentions. It would be folly to say I
did not care. I did care. I went about my duties with a heavy heart.
"It is his mother," said Mrs. Semple. "She is a hard, old soul, and
she wouldna be willing for Robert to marry an angel from heaven, if
she hadna plenty o' siller. Forbye, you are English and an Arminian,
when you should be a Calvinist, and, worse than that, you are
over-educated."
"I thought the Scotch believed in education."
"They do--for men--not for women. They prefer them to watch cheese
parings and candle-ends. It doesna need an educated woman to sweep,
and darn, and cook, and save a farthing, wherever it can be saved."
One evening in February Mr. Barr called. He said he had been "on a
long business journey through the West Riding," and those two words
softened my heart, and we began to talk of some mutual acquaintance
there. Then, before he knew it, without his will or effort, love broke
into audible words. It was the healing love, the comforting love, and
one little word, and one long kiss, made all things fast and sure. But
that night I knew the old troubler and heartache of the world had me
in his power, and would have, until life with all its troubles and
heartaches was over.
* * * * *
I had told Robert that the first thing was to get my father's and my
mother's consent to our marriage, and he went to Kendal the following
day for this purpose, arriving there about four in the afternoon.
Father was out visiting the sick, Mary and Alethia were at school, and
Jane had been recently married, and had gone to live in Manchester.
Mother was making some school pinafores for Alethia, and Robert's
knock did not interest her at all. Lots of people in those days came
after Mr. Huddleston, and she thought it was some case of sickness or
trouble. But when the girl opened the parlor door and Robert entered
she was astonished. However, my name and the letter he brought from me
put him at once in Mother's favor, and in a few minutes he was telling
her how dear I was to him, and that I had promised to be his wife in
July, if my father and mother approved it. He stayed to tea with my
parents, and had a long conversation with them, and they were
thoroughly satisfied that I had chosen well and wisely. As if I had
had any choice in the matter! The event had been destined, even when I
was born, and Robert Barr only a lad of seven years old.
In my mother's letter to me on the subject, she said, "I will tell you
something, Milly, that I suspect neither Mr. Barr nor your father will
tell you, yet you will be glad to know it, and you ought to know it.
It is this. Your father told Mr. Barr about your indebtedness to the
school board, and Mr. Barr asked how much it was. When Father said he
thought about seventy pounds, Mr. Barr laughed, and answered,
'Suppose, Father, we sent a donation of two hundred pounds to the
school board. Won't that be best?' Then Father laughed, and Mr. Barr
took from his valise a small book, and wrote a check for two hundred
pounds, asking Father to send it the next day, which Father did."
In this letter I was urged to come home at once, and so I went next
day to the school to remove my name from the list of Wesleyan
students. Professor Hyslop looked angrily at me.
"You will get no diploma," he said.
"I am going to be married, sir," I answered.
"I have heard--I have heard!" he continued, "and I think a marriage
certificate will be the best diploma for you--Reverend Dr. Barr's son,
is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then, Miss, where will your Arminianism be? You will become a
Calvinist!" And, with this Parthian fling, he left the room so quickly
I had no opportunity for a denial.
After this event I returned home, and the days went by in a dream of
happiness. Robert came every Friday or Saturday to Kendal, and we rode
over to Windermere, if it was fine weather, and strolled about its
laurel woods, whispering to each other those words which lovers have
always said, and always will say, even till time shall be no
more--unless, the march of what is called "progress and efficiency"
put love out of the question altogether. It was a wooing that fitted
wonderfully into my happy girlhood, blending itself with my
childhood's memories, with the wind and the sun, and the mountains and
lakes I loved. And I took with a grateful heart the joy sent me--a joy
glorified by all the enchanting glamours and extravagant hopes of
youth and love. It was always the old antiphony of love:
"I love you, sweet, how can you ever learn
How much I love you?" "You I love even so,
And so I learn it." "Sweet, you cannot know
How fair you are." "If fair enough to earn
Your love, so much is all my love's concern."
"My love grows hourly sweet." "Mine, too, doth grow,
Yet love seemed full so many hours ago."
Thus lovers speak.--ROSSETTI.
If the weather was wet we discussed damasks and cretons and books
about furniture, which Robert brought with him every week--the colors
to be dominant in various rooms--and every trifle of housekeeping; and
were as happy as birds building their first nest. Or, I showed any new
addition to my wardrobe, about which I had been very fortunate. For it
happened that thirty years previously my mother's uncle had spent four
years in Glasgow, and had been very happy there; so he was pleased I
was going to marry a Glasgow man. When he met Robert he liked him, and
he liked me "for choosing so fine a fellow," and as a reward gave me a
hundred pounds to buy things for the wedding. I went to Bradford for a
couple of weeks, had my wedding frock made there, and brought home
with me alpacas and mozambiques, baréges and chantilly muslins, and
lots of other pretty things. But what pleased me more than anything
were the full sets of ready-made underclothing which Mrs. Humphreys
sent. I had never even heard of ready-made clothing, and I was
delighted with the beautifully trimmed slips and gowns, and so forth,
which far exceeded anything I had ever seen. Indeed they were talked
about so much that many Kendal ladies asked to look at them.
My sister Jane had married quietly, almost secretly, only my father
and sisters and a friend of the groom being present; but Robert would
hear of no such privacy. He wished the whole town to witness his
happiness, and I was not averse to his desire. So the dawn of our
wedding-day, the eleventh of July, 1850, was ushered in by the
beautiful chimes of Kendal church, and the ringers, being well paid,
marked, every hour of the day by a carillon until night covered the
earth. The ceremony was nine o'clock in the morning, but the church
was full, and the sidewalks full, and every one had a smile and a good
wish for us.
Robert looked exceedingly handsome, and his sister and brother-in-lave,
David Colville, the great iron and steel manufacturer of Glasgow,
were at his side. I had only one bridesmaid, a lovely Yorkshire girl,
who had been my playmate in childhood. Robert had one attendant also, a
young Scot, called James Sinclair. I wore the usual white satin dress
consecrated to brides, but it was not made as bridal dresses are made
now. It was of ordinary length, and had three deep ruffles of lace
on the skirt. A small polka jacket--they were just coming in
then--made of white lace, and trimmed with white satin, covered my
neck and arms, and a very small bonnet of white lace, trimmed with
orange flowers, was on my head. My sandals were of white satin, and
my gloves of white kid, but I had no veil. I walked to the altar on my
father's arm; I left it leaning on my husband's. That seems but a small
change, but it typified the wrench of life and destiny. For that hour
had broken the continuity of life. I could never! never! go back to
where I stood before it.
There was a pretty wedding breakfast at my father's house, where
everything was profusely adorned with large white pansies; for, in
Kendal there was, and likely yet is, a miraculous profusion and
perfection of this exquisite flower in July and August. My father
blessed the breakfast, which was happily and leisurely taken, then
Robert glanced at me, and I went upstairs to put on a pale blue dress,
a white silk India shawl, and a little bonnet trimmed with blue
flowers. The shawl was of wonderful beauty and of great value, but
what girl of nineteen would now wear a shawl? Yet, it was far from
unbecoming, and it shared my fortunes in a remarkable manner.
It was considered proper and elegant in those days for brides to show
great emotion, and even to weep as they left their home and father and
mother. I could not do so. I loved my home and my kindred with a deep
and strong attachment, but I knew from that moment when I first saw
the man who was now my husband that, among the souls allied to mine,
he was of
"... nearer kindred than life hinted of;
Born with me somewhere that men forget,
And though in years of sight and sound unmet,
Known for my soul's birth-partner well enough."
CHAPTER IX
THE HOME MADE DESOLATE
"There is a warm impression, an instinctive sagacity, by which we
anticipate future events."
* * * * *
"Life is filled with issues."
With renunciation life begins. For nineteen years I had been a
receiver: I was now to learn the grace of surrender, and of giving up.
I was to drink the cup of pain, and to go through the valley of
humiliation. As far as my home and kindred were concerned, we had
counted the price together, and accepted the inevitable toll of
marriage, understanding well, that marriage, as well as death, makes
barren our lives. This fact was soon illustrated by the attitude
assumed by my old friends in Glasgow. I thought I should be treated
even with additional _éclat_, and they had apparently cut me out of
their lives. I met Mrs. Sage one morning, soon after my return from my
wedding journey, and greeted her with glad excitement. She was polite,
but restrained, and when I asked her to call on me, regretted she had
no time. The girls were going off to school, and her son Alick was
going to Australia as representative of the Western Bank of Scotland.
She gave me this information with a great deal of pride, and just a
tone of resentment, then said, "Good morning," and virtually passed
out of my life.
I was much troubled by her behavior for a week, then I went one
morning to Campbell's for some muslin, and there I saw Mrs. McIntosh.
She was such a good-hearted, sweet-tempered soul, I never doubted her
kindness; but she, also, was changed. Civil, of course, but she never
once spoke of their Saturday evenings, or asked, "When are you coming
to see us?" I told Robert of these meetings, and he smiled and said
that the behavior of my friends was quite natural. I was no longer
available for young parties. I was out of the race, as it were, and
my presence among the youths and girls was restraining and unpleasant
to them. "You will have to be contented with the married women, now,
Milly, and I think the girls are glad of your absence." That was all
his comment, and he did not seem to think it a matter of any
importance.
Now I had always held my own with the girls--with the married women it
was different. I thought them cold and critical, and, unfortunately, I
gave them plenty of opportunities for criticism. I was ignorant of
many things that were only to be learned by years of social
experience, unless one was to the manner born. My dress, though
handsome and becoming, was not like unto theirs, and I was innocently,
but constantly, offending some national feeling or tradition. Thus,
when I went to Campbleton to pay a week's visit to my sister-in-law, I
wore at a special entertainment a satin gown of the Royal Stuart
tartan. I thought I was paying Scotland a compliment, but I could
hardly have done anything more offensive to every Campbell in
Campbleton. They could not believe any one was so densely ignorant, as
not to know that the Campbells hated the Stuarts. To the local dominie
I was an ignoramus, because I was not familiar with the smallest fact
regarding the Great Disruption, and the founding of the Free Kirk. He
wondered where I had been born, "not to have heard of Chalmers and
Guthrie and the Highland Host they led to a great spiritual victory."
Yet, honestly, never even in Dr. Farrar's, where embryo clergy
congregated, had I heard of the Scottish Disruption. And this
ignorance was astounding to them, if it was real, and impertinence, if
it was only pretended.
I dislike to make the acknowledgment, but even Mrs. Semple was
changed. She was offended because she was not asked to be present at
our wedding. I explained to her the circumstances making her visit
impossible--the smallness of my father's house, and the likelihood of
sickness at any hour, and she appeared quite satisfied at the time;
but, when Robert brought his sister and brother-in-law to Kendal, she
thought she ought to have been included in his party. I think she
ought, and I would have been glad of her presence. There was somehow a
mistake, and the fault was said to be mine; and I saw that Robert
would be annoyed if I made a question about it, so I accepted the
wrong and the blame.
Three months after my marriage I should have been quite disheartened
but for the kindness of two admirable women, who had the intelligence
to divine the whole situation. They were Marion, the wife of Walter
Blackie, and her sister, Isabel Brodie. John Blackie, the father of
Walter Blackie, had been the guardian of my husband, and the
publishers of my husband's father's books, consequently there was an
old tie of friendship between the families. But, in spite of this,
Marion Blackie warmly and openly stood my friend. She advised me in
private, and defended me in public. Indeed, she told my critics that
they and herself, also, must appear as peculiar to me as I did to
them. "Of course," she continued, "the Barr women don't like her. She
has not a feeling in common with them, and how can she defend herself
against innuendoes? I only hope they will not sneer and shrug her
husband's love away." Only these two women remain in my memory to
sweeten the story of my three years' residence in Glasgow, as a wife
and mother.
These were the social conditions in which I found myself, and I did
not long struggle against them. Those who should have been kind to me
were irreconcilable enemies; and they were old leaders of public
opinion, and understood thoroughly the people with whom they lived. I
felt that my case was hopeless, because victory in it might bring
defeat in a nearer and dearer relation; for Robert would have
certainly stood by me, if my attitude demanded his support; but I was
sure I could not prevent a sense of anger and injury, if his
interference was called for. It was not worth while provoking such a
danger; I resolved to retire and make myself happy in other ways. I
had a very handsome home to care for, and in it there was a library of
about two hundred of the latest books in fiction, poetry, and travel.
I began to use my needle, and grew expert in embroidery. I ran down to
Kendal now and then for a day, and Father paid me one visit, and
Mother several. In two or three months I had forgotten society, and it
held its regular sessions without remembering me.
But the time passed happily--long sweet days in which I thought as I
sewed, or read, or sang, or sometimes took a walk up to the old
cathedral, or even through the busy thoroughfares of Argyle and
Buchanan Streets. In the evenings I read aloud to Robert, or he taught
me how to sing the Scotch songs he loved. We had a copy of Hamilton's
large edition of them, and I began with the initial lyric of "Braw
Braw Lads of Gala Water," and then went straight through the book,
which took us about a month. Then we began it over again, and I do not
remember wearying, at least not of the older songs, for they were
never written: they sprung from the heart and went direct to the
heart.
Sometimes we walked quietly to Glover's Theatre, especially if there
was a play like "Rob Roy," with the great Mackay in the title rôle. I
shall never forget the night I saw this play. The theatre was
decorated with Rob Roy tartan, and every woman wore conspicuously some
ornament of Rob Roy ribbon--a large bow, long streamers from her fan,
or a handsome satin scarf of the red and black checks, and I think
there was not a man present without a Rob Roy rosette on the lapel of
his coat. If there was, he must have been some benighted Englishman
who had no acquaintance with Walter Scott and his famous robber hero.
The human stir and enthusiasm was wonderful; the players moved and
spoke as if they were enchanted, and they carried every soul in the
theatre with them. It was good to feel, if only for a couple of hours,
something of the intense emotion of which the soul is capable. No
wonder the Scotch are so Scotch; they nurse their patriotism
continually, feed it with song and story, music and dancing, and the
drama, and they regard the Sabbath Day as peculiarly a Scottish
institution. Surely all this was better than exchanging suspicious
courtesies with critical acquaintances.
As the days lengthened and grew warmer, we went at the week ends to
Bute, or Arran, or Stirling, and very often to Edinburgh; for, at the
latter place, we always heard a fine sermon at the old Greyfriar's
Kirk. The first anniversary of our marriage we spent in Kendal and
Windermere, and somehow, after that event, there was a shadow I could
feel, but could not see or define. Things appeared to go on as usual,
but a singular sense of uncertainty troubled them; and, though I have
said, "things went on as usual," they did not quite do so. There was
one change--it was in Robert's movements. A few months previously he
had gone into partnership with a man in Huddersfield, who had large
woolen mills, and he left his business in Glasgow for two days every
two weeks to go to Huddersfield. At first he always returned buoyant,
and apparently well contented. I supposed, therefore, the woolen mill
was doing well; but, true to his Scotch instincts, natural and
educated, he had never explained anything about the transaction to me.
It was, of course, necessary to say _why_ he took this regular journey
to England, but, beyond that information, the subject was not named,
and I do not know unto this day, what kind of woolen goods were made
in the Huddersfield mills.
This reticence about their business, is, I think, a Scotch trait of
the most pronounced kind. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say, that
no Scotchman ever tells his wife the truth, and the whole truth, about
his affairs. Robert in this respect only followed out his strongest
inherited instincts, the example set before him on every hand, and the
precepts inculcated by parents and guardians. When we were first
married, I tried to win his confidence and share his hopes and plans,
and I was kindly but decisively made to understand that I was going
beyond my sphere. And, as I write, and remember the position occupied
by English and Scotch wives of sixty years ago, my heart burns with
indignation, and I wonder not at _any_ means they now take to
emancipate themselves. I knew women at this time who spent weeks and
months in fears and anxieties, that could have been dispelled by one
word plainly and honestly spoken. But, when a husband says only,
"Yesterday I was rich, today I am poor; you must do as well as you
can," his silence about his position has been not only cruel, but
humiliating. He might make just such a speech to an affectionate and
faithful dog. This is a digression, but it will not be lost, if it
makes one man reflect, or one woman resolve.
As for myself, I was not destitute of rebellious thoughts. Once Robert
had brought his Huddersfield partner home with him to dinner, and I
had carefully scrutinized the man, and his speech, and manner. After
he had left, Robert, in a kind of incidental way, as if it was a
matter of no consequence, asked me what I thought of Mr. P.
"Do you wish me to tell you the truth, Robert," I answered, "or shall
I only say pleasant words?"
"Tell the truth, Milly, by all means," he replied, "though I suppose
you are going to say unpleasant words."
"I am, but they are true words, be sure of that, Robert. I think Mr.
P. is a rascal, from his beard to his boots. Nature has set his eyes
crooked; she has put her mark on the man, and said plainly, 'Beware of
him!' His voice is false. I watched his feet, he turned them out too
much, and he had trod his shoes down at the sides. 'He could not tread
his shoes straight,' is a Yorkshire proverb for a rogue. I would not
trust him with a penny piece, further than I could see him."
"You saw all this, Milly, while he was here a short hour or two?" And
Robert laughed and drew me to his side. So the subject dropped, but I
could see that my suspicions had allied themselves to similar ones in
his own mind.
One incident of this year I must not forget--the meeting with Mrs.
Stowe and Mr. Beecher. I saw them first on the platform of the City
Hall, where I had a seat with some friends on the invitation
committee. I was not attracted by Mrs. Stowe, who was quiet, and
apparently bored or tired; but Mr. Beecher won every heart.
Afterwards, at a reception, I had a long talk with him about America.
Once more I saw him, and the conversation was renewed, and finally Mr.
Beecher said, "I think you will come to America. If you come to New
York, hunt me up; I shall not be hard to find. You will want help in
seeing New York, and I will do anything I can for you." Seventeen
years afterwards I reminded Mr. Beecher of this promise, and he
cheerfully and helpfully redeemed it.
So the time went on, and I was happy, for the pleasure of "use and
wont" of things tried and confidential was mine. I found myself
constantly singing, for I was busy about a very diminutive wardrobe. I
delighted in making some of the tiny articles with my own hands,
sewing into them prayers and hopes and blessings for the child who was
to wear them, and whose advent was expected about the New Year. In
these days I thought a great deal about my own infancy. I recalled its
first exquisite beginnings, its wonder and joy in the mere fact of
living. I thought of the dream I had, when I was too young to find
words to tell it, and blessed God I was not too young for Him to think
of me.
Even the dark November days, with their thick yellow fogs, and muffled
melancholy sounds, could not sadden me. Nor was I much depressed by
that haunting fear, which all women--however often they are
mothers--are subject to before the birth of a child. I might die; many
mothers did. What then? I answered my heart fearlessly, "I shall have
had a perfect life, a happy childhood, a true love, a blessed
marriage. The finite over, the infinite will begin. I shall be
satisfied." And I am sure I could then have trod the common road into
the great darkness, without fear and with much hope.
But one day in this November I awoke both fearful and sad. It was with
difficulty I preserved the cheerful morning face, that I had been
taught from early childhood was the first duty of every day and, as
soon as Robert left for his office, and I knew I should be alone until
evening, I lay down upon my bed and wept with an unreasonable passion.
I knew not why I wept, but my soul knew. She heard what was coming
from afar, and knew that I was now to leave the walled garden of my
happiness, and to take my share in those great sorrows, which are
needed to give life its true meaning.
I had noticed, when at breakfast, that Robert was unusually silent,
and I had not felt able to rise above the atmosphere of gloom and
worry; but in the afternoon it struck me, that perhaps I only was to
blame, and I resolved to dress prettily and be ready to carry the
evening through with songs and smiles. So I rose and put on a gown
that Robert liked to see me wearing, a handsomer garment than I
usually wore, but I told myself that if trouble should be coming, I
would meet it dressed like one who meant to conquer. And I remember
that all the time I was brushing out my hair, I was saying over and
over a few lines that came ready to my lips, though I knew not when,
or where, I had learned them:
"Empire o'er the land and main,
Heaven who gave, can take again;
But a mind that's truly brave,
Stands despising,
Storms arising,
And defies the wind and wave."
I had forgotten the last line, but my mind involuntarily supplied it.
And at that moment I felt able to defy sorrow, and to shut the door
against it. But alas! how poorly we love those whom we love most. Our
love sinks below our earthly cares, and we bruise ourselves against
the limitations of our own love, as well as against the limitations of
others.
I was sitting very still, thinking these things out, and talking
reproachfully to my soul--who has always been a talkative soul, fond
of giving me from the little chest wherein she dwells, reproofs and
admonitions more than I like--when I heard Robert put his latch-key in
the lock, and enter the house. He was an hour before his time, and I
wondered at the circumstance. Generally he came to me in the parlor
first, and then went to dress for dinner, but this night he went
straight to his room. I stood up and considered. Fear tormented me
with cruel expectations, and I would not give place to that enemy, so
I went quickly down the passage, singing as I went, and at the door
asked cheerfully,
"Are you there, Robert?"
"Yes," he answered; "come in, Milly."
Then I entered smiling, and he looked at me with all his soul in his
eyes, and, without speaking, covered his face with his hands.
"Robert!" I cried. "Dear Robert, are you sick?"
"No, no!" he answered. "Sit down here at my side, and I will tell you.
Milly, I have lost nearly all I possess. The Huddersfield mills have
failed."
"Never mind them," I said; "your business here is sufficient, and you
can pay it more attention."
"It has today been sequestered by the English creditors."
"What is 'sequestered'?" I asked. I had never heard the word before.
"It means that I cannot have any use of my business here, until the
court decides, whether it can be made to pay the debts of the
Huddersfield concern. O my dear, dear Milly, forgive me!"
"My love, you have done me no wrong."
"I have. I have taken risks that I ought not to have taken. You
thought you were marrying a rich man, Milly."
"I married you, yourself, Robert. Rich or poor, you are dearer than
all to me. I do not count money in the same breath with you."
"You love me, dear?"
"Better tonight, than ever before."
"I am sick with anxiety."
"Let me share it. That is all I ask. And you must be brave, Robert.
Things are never as bad as you think they are. You are only
twenty-seven years old; you have health and friends. We can half the
expenses. Let the English place go. You will get your business here
back soon, will you not?"
"I hope so. I cannot tell. I must leave you, and go to England
tomorrow and you ought not to be alone now."
"Nothing will harm me. Go, and find out the worst, then you know what
you have to fight. Dinner is ready. You need a good meal; you will
feel better after it."
"How can I? I fear that I am ruined."
"Now, Robert," I said, "that depends on _yourself_. No man was ever
ruined from _without_; the final ruin comes from _within_, when you
turn hopeless and lose courage. I have heard my father tell young men
that, many times."
I suppose that most American husbands and wives would have spent the
evening in talking over this trouble, and considering what steps were
wisest to take. Robert did not speak of it again. During the meal,
when the girl was coming in and out with the various dishes, he talked
of a big fire in the High Street, and the appearance of Harrison in
"The Bohemian Girl," saying he was sorry I could not hear him sing "I
Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls." When dinner was over, he asked me to
go on with the book I was reading to him. It was "The Newcomes," and I
lifted it, and he lay down on the sofa with his cigar. But I did not
know what I was reading. The lights seemed dim, my voice sounded far
away, there was a tumult in my senses that was prelusive of fainting.
"I am not well, Robert," I murmured, "I must stop," and I laid "The
Newcomes" down, and have never touched a book of Thackeray's since.
Robert rose immediately. "I must leave for England very early in the
morning," he said. "I will try and get some sleep first."
The next morning he went away before daylight, and I had to bear the
uncertainty and suspense as well as I could; and these journeys
continued until the twentieth of December, when all court business
stopped until after the twelfth day in January. I did not write home
about this trouble. Father had been ill, and Mother was coming to me,
on the second or third day of the New Year; and I hoped afresh every
morning, that some good news would come to brighten the sad story. But
all I heard was that professional accountants were going over the
books of both the Glasgow and the Huddersfield business, and that it
was tedious work, and required Robert's presence constantly to explain
transactions. This appeared sensible and necessary, and I made the
best of the week ends, when Robert usually hurried home, traveling all
night, so as to reach me early Saturday morning.
So Christmas came and went, the saddest Christmas I ever spent in all
my life; but Christmas was not Christmas in Scotland, at that date. It
had too strong a likeness to Episcopacy, yes, even to Popery, for the
Calvinistic Scot; and savored of monkish festivals, and idolatrous
symbols. I never saw a nativity pie in Glasgow, but those I made; and
I really think they caused Robert a twinge of conscience to have them
on the table. He certainly never tasted them. But the New Year was a
modest kind of saturnalia, kept very much as the Calvinistic Dutch
settlers of New York kept it in the days of the Dutch governors. It
was a quiet day with us, and I could not help contrasting it with the
previous New Year's when we had our minister, and the Blackies and
Brodies, and a few others to dinner, and all drank the New Year in,
standing with full glasses. At the moment we did so, my conscience
smote me. I was cold and trembled as the clock slowly struck twelve,
for I had always been used to solemnly keep the Watch Night, and, if
not on my knees in the chapel, I was certain to be praying in my own
room. "The ill year comes in swimming," says an old proverb, and I
have proved its truth.
On the third day of the New Year, Robert's mother called in the
afternoon. Robert had gone to Stirling, and I was alone and much
astonished to see her; but I said, as cheerfully as possible, "Good
afternoon, Mother, and a Happy New Year to you." Then, noticing that
she was much agitated, I grew frightened about Robert, and said
anxiously, "You look troubled, Mother; is anything wrong with
Robert?"
"Is there anything right with the man now? I got this letter from him
on New Year's Day--a nice-like greeting it was to send me."
I looked at her inquiringly, but did not speak, and she asked, "Do you
know what is in it?"
"No; Robert did not tell me he had written to you at all."
"Of course, he didn't! Mother may be heartbroken with shame and
sorrow, but you! You must not have your precious feelings hurt."
"Robert," I answered, "would not willingly hurt a hair of your head,
Mother. I know that. If he has told you of more trouble, I wish to
share it with you."
"You shall," she replied. "He writes me that he fears the
creditors--sorrow take them!--are trying to attach the furniture of
this house, and he asks me, if they do, to buy it for him, at their
valuation. That is a modest request to make, on the first of the
year!"
"Mother, no one can touch this furniture. It is mine. It was given to
me before my marriage, made legally over to me in my antenuptial
contract. The furniture, silver, napery, books, and every item in the
house is especially and carefully named, as the property of Amelia
Huddleston."
"Where is the contract?"
"With John Forbes, the writer. Go and see it."
"I am thinking that the English law makes all that was yours, on your
marriage day, become Robert's, and all that is Robert's belongs to his
creditors, until the creatures are satisfied. But I came on a kind
errand, if you will take it so. I came to tell you that, though you
have been the ruin of my son, I will not see you put on the street. I
will buy the furniture and rent it to you."
"I would not rent it from any one. It is mine. If I am robbed of it, I
will not countenance the robbery, by renting it."
"What will you do with yourself?"
"I shall come to no harm."
"You can maybe find a boarding-house?"
"I shall not need one."
"And there is your own home."
"I shall not go there."
"I think Robert might have told you of this sore strait."
Then, in a sudden passion of anger, I cried out, "I think so, too. He
treats me as if I was a doll or a dog. He tells me nothing. I have the
cruelest part of every sorrow to bear--the part not sure. It is a
shame! It is a great wrong! My heart is sick with anxiety that does no
good. At the last, he has to tell. I cannot bear it!"
"All the women have it to bear."
"Then shame to the men who lay on them such a useless burden."
"We have a saying that women's counsel is ill luck."
"It is the want of it that is ill luck. I never saw that Huddersfield
man but once, yet I told Robert to beware of him."
"People say that you have been a gey, extravagant wife, Amelia."
"People lie!" I answered hotly. "I have saved two hundred and eight
pounds in eighteen months, out of the money given me for housekeeping
expenses."
"Then Robert has been extravagant, and given you too much money."
"He gave me exactly what he gave you, for the same purpose. He told me
so."
"And you have saved two hundred and eight pounds! Well, well! Where is
it?"
"In my bank."
She looked at me not unkindly, and I said, "Mother! Mother! If you and
Jessy would have only directed me, I would gladly have obeyed your
desires. If you would have only stood by me, no one would have seen
any faults in my way of dressing, and doing things. Amelia Barr is no
different from Amelia Huddleston, and under that name every one loved
and praised me."
"Well, well, married women are little thought of--except by the one
man--and not always much thought of by him."
"Try to like me, Mother. I could so easily love you, and I will do all
as you wish it," and, as I spoke, I went to her side and lifted her
hand.
"Please God," she answered, "there is plenty of time to put wrong
right. Will you give me a cup of tea now?"
"Forgive me, I forgot."
"That is just it," she answered. "You forget. You should have offered
it to me, when I first came in."
Then I did all I could to redeem the forgetting, and she said, "Take a
cup yourself; it will do you good, and tomorrow send for John
Forbes."
"I do not trust John Forbes."
"Neither do I," she answered quickly, "it is little he knows of the
English law about any matter. What will you do then?"
"Go to a Councillor, who never yet deceived me."
"I understand, but I'm not sure if that is right, Amelia. Going to God
about chairs and tables, and the like of such things is not at all
respectful."
"We are told to pray about our bread and clothing, because 'God knows
we have need of such things.'"
"Your own way, be it. Tell Robert I am willing to help--if needs be."
"There will be no need, Mother."
"You're a queer woman." She rose as she spoke, and said it would soon
be dark, and she must hurry, for lots of drunken men and women would
be on the streets seeing it was the New Year. Then I fastened her
cloak and furs, and said,
"Kiss me, Mother."
A look of the uttermost discomfiture and confusion came into her face.
She hesitated, and fingered her bonnet strings, but finally bent her
head slightly, and allowed me to kiss her. Then suddenly I recollected
that the family kiss was a thing practically unknown in Scotch
households, and that Robert had more than once told me that he never
remembered his mother kissing him, in all his life. But the momentary
disconcertion passed, and I believed I had won a step in the old
lady's favor, and I was glad of it, for she had some excellencies, and
her faults were the faults of race, education, and life-long habit and
experiences.
Within an hour after her departure, my own dear mother came to me, and
two days later, my daughter Mary was born, "a bonnie wee lassie,
world-like, and wise-like," said the old nurse pleasantly. She kept
her sixtieth birthday a week ago, and may God spare her to keep her
eightieth as well, and as joyfully. After the birth of Mary, her
father's affairs began to settle, and it was not necessary for him to
travel so constantly between Glasgow and Huddersfield. And the
furniture question gave me neither trouble nor anxiety. I took it to
the Highest Court, and the Best Councillor known to man, and I never
heard of it again. Robert did not speak of it to me, and I asked him
no questions. There are times in life when it is wisest to let
sleeping dogs lie, and I thought this subject was one of such
occasions. About May Robert received his certificate of just and
lawful bankruptcy, and was free to reopen his warehouse and recommence
his business.
But I could see it was hard and discouraging work. An American can
hardly estimate how cruel an English bankruptcy is. On its business
side, I could only form opinions from Robert's depression and remarks;
but I could see, and feel, and hear on every hand, the social
ostracism it entails. The kindest heart quickly drops the friend who
has failed. The man is never forgiven by his family. Years cannot
efface the stain, nor future success give back his former social
position, or ever dispel the uncertainty of his business reputation.
Now bankruptcy is not the unpardonable sin in the United States that
it is--or was--in England and Scotland, and one of the things which
struck me most forcibly, when I came to America, was the indifference
with which men spoke of "being broke," or having failed here or there,
or in this, or that line of business, taking misfortune as cheerily as
good fortune, and beginning again and again until they at last
succeeded.
With small economies, small anxieties, and one man's ceaseless
struggle against misfortune, the next year passed away. Hitherto, I
had always felt a contempt for struggling men; I had told myself, that
their opportunities were so many, there was no excuse for the strife.
If one thing, or one place was unfavorable, they could go elsewhere;
the whole world was a market-place for their hands, or their brains.
But during this year I discovered my mistake. Robert was tied by
invisible bonds, and he had not the strength--perhaps not the will--to
burst them asunder.
As for myself, I was busy with my house, and my child, my music, and
books, my needle, and my correspondence with my home, and I could have
been quite content with these sources of pleasure, if Robert had been
in any measure satisfied and successful. But he could not hide from me
the anxiety which was making his life a burden hard to bear. It was
then the idea of exile, of a new country, new surroundings, and an
entirely new effort, unhampered by the débris of an old failure, took
possession of my mind; for this one year's dismaying results satisfied
me that nothing but the most radical changes would be of any use. But
I was daily expecting the birth of my second child, and I told myself
that nothing could be done for another month. I was, however,
mistaken. Robert came home one night in such evident distress, that I
was sure it arose from some social slight, and I asked, "Whatever has
vexed you so much today, Robert?"
"Why, Milly," he said, "three things: My old Sunday school teacher, to
whom I am much attached, passed me without a word, and then turned
back and said angrily, 'Man Robert! I'm disappointed in you. I'm sair
disappointed! I thought you were going to be a rich man, and a pillar
o' the Kirk.' I said, 'It is not my fault, Deacon.' 'It is your
fault,' he continued, 'whatna for, did you buy Alexander Hastie's
business, if you didna ken how to run it? Hastie is now our member to
Parliament, and you hae disgraced the whole city o' Glasgow, by
letting a business so weel kent in his name, go to the dogs. I wonder
me, what your good father would say to the disgrace you hae brought on
his name, and I am sorry, _Dod_! I'm heart sorry for your poor
mother.'"
"O Robert! How cruel! How unjust!"
"I cannot live down such prejudice, Milly. It is impossible. He had
scarcely left me, when I saw Mrs. Semple coming towards me. She
hesitated a moment, then went into a small jeweler's shop to avoid the
meeting. This afternoon Mother came to my office, and we had some very
hard words, about a piece of property that is solely and entirely my
own."
"Have you anything left, that is your own?"
"This piece of property is. Once, when I had plenty of money, I helped
Donald McLeod to save it, and when he died, three months ago, he left
it to me."
"Hold to it fast, Robert," I said. "I beg you not to touch it for
anything."
"Donald told me he had left it for an 'emergency,' and I am keeping it
till that time arrives."
"That time is now here, dear Robert. As soon as my trouble is past,
let us go far away from Scotland, and begin a new life. You are not
twenty-nine years old, and I am only twenty-two. Shall we give up our
lives to a ceaseless, contemptible struggle, that brings us neither
money nor respect? Somewhere in the world, there is peace and good
fortune for us. We will go and find it."
"Are you really willing to leave Scotland, Milly?"
"I will go to the end of the earth with you, Robert."
Then he leaped to his feet, and his face was shining, and he kissed me
tenderly, "Where shall we go?" he asked. "Canada? India? Australia?"
"What do you say to the United States?" I answered. "Tomorrow I will
send to the library for books on all these countries. We will read and
consider, and try to be ready to leave Scotland, about the middle of
August."
"At the middle of August? Why that date?"
"Because, about any new movement, it is good to have some one point
decided. That is a foundation. We are going to seek good fortune about
the middle of August. Let us regard that date as positive, Robert. It
is our first step."
He was by this time in an enthusiasm of fresh hope, and we sat talking
till nearly three in the morning, and, if any acquaintance met him
that day, they must have thought "Robert Barr has had some good luck.
He was like his old self today." Indeed the prospect of this new life
brought back again the old cheerful Robert. Every day he came home
with some fresh idea on the subject, or told me of something done to
forward our plans. Among other incidental arrangements, he insisted on
keeping our intention from the knowledge of his family. He feared his
mother's influence and interference. John Blackie had been urging his
release from any further care of the Barr estate, and Robert's name
would be necessary to many papers in connection with this change, and
unavoidable delays result. It also gave an air of romance to the
flitting, which took it out of the rôle of ordinary emigration. And I
will be truthful, and confess, that it pleased me to think of his
mother's and sister's futile dismay, when they discovered we had
escaped forever the shadows and petty humiliations of a conventional
Scotch life.
On the twenty-second of May, 1853, my daughter Eliza was born, a
bright, beautiful girl, who certainly brought her soul with her--a
girl who all her life has been the good genius of extremities--never
quailing before any calamity, but always sure there was a road over
the mountains of difficulty, which we could find, as soon as we
reached them. And, I may add, she always found the road.
I recovered rapidly, for I was fed daily on fresh hopes, and, in spite
of the uncertainty surrounding these hopes, I was happy, for I
believed in my dreams. Then there came a letter from Father, asking in
his modest, unselfish way, for the return of Mother. It was enough to
alarm us, for we knew well he had felt the necessity, though he
voiced it with so little urgency; and, as this letter is the only
scrap of my Father's writing that has survived the constant chances
and changes of nearly half a century, I will transcribe it:
MY DEAR AMELIA,
I can assure you the very sight of your letter afforded us
unspeakable delight. Yes, we do feel grateful to that Divine and
attentive Providence, which has been with you the last few weeks.
We may, and do, attribute much to means, but what are all means
without His sanction, and His blessing? To Him be all the praise!
I hope, my dear, if spared, you will evince your gratitude by a
devotion of all to Him. Give yourself, give your dear little ones
to Him. You know well what is meant by that. God bless you! God
bless the little stranger! She has come into a cold world; still
she has friends who love and pray for her. Kiss her for me.
As to Mother, I am sure she has done all in her power, and she
would do it so differently to any one else. I can assure you, at
the time she left me, it was no small trial; but it was _for
Amelia_, and only on this ground could I have been induced to make
the sacrifice. Now, that you are so far improved, do not detain
her. I fear another painful visitation. Think of Father. He has
thought of Amelia. Give my love to dear Mother. The little girls
are going to school, and send their love to you, and to dear Mr.
Barr.
Amelia, I am what I ever was to you,
FATHER.
O Father! Father! If, in the stress of my labors and sorrows, I have
forgotten your lovely, patient, helpful life, forgive me this day. Let
my tears wash away my fault, and be still to me, what you ever were,
Father!
* * * * *
As soon as it was possible for me to do so, I faithfully read all I
could read about Australia, India, Canada, and the United States, and
very early came to the conclusion, that we must sail westward. I held
in reserve a possible Canadian settlement, but I was sure that we must
first go to New York. Australia, I had no hesitation in putting out
of consideration; its climate, its strange natural conditions, and its
doubtful early population, as well as its great distance from England,
were definitely against it. But India to me was a land of romance.
There were inconceivable possibilities in India. Anything wonderful
could happen in those rich cities of the upper Ganges. The Huddleston
ships had been early fond of Indian voyages, and Robert had several
friends in Calcutta and Benares, who were making fortunes rapidly. We
could not put India summarily out of our desires and calculations. My
notes about it lay side by side with those of the United States, and
for some time neither Robert nor I could honestly say "I prefer this
or that, before the other."
One night we had swiveled a great deal between New York and Calcutta
as points of landing, Robert having had that day a letter from Andrew
Blair, an old school friend, who was doing well in Delhi, and I went
to sleep thinking that the children would require nothing in the way
of an outfit but some white muslin. Then I dreamed a dream, and when I
awakened from it I said softly, "Are you sleeping, Robert?" And he
answered at once. "No. I heard you cry out in your sleep, and I was
going to speak to you, if you cried again. What frightened you?"
"I thought we were in Calcutta, and we stood alone on a silent street,
knowing not where to go. The sky was black as pitch, the air hot and
heavy, and red as blood, and a great cry, like a woman's cry, rang
through it, and seemed to be taken up by the whole earth. Then a voice
at my side said, 'Look!' and I saw that Calcutta was built entirely of
great blocks of coal, and that, in the center of each block, there was
a fierce fire burning. I must then have cried out, and awakened
myself."
For a few moments Robert did not speak, then he said in a hushed
voice, "We cannot go to India. Blair told me in his letter that the
whole country was restless, and the army mutinous, and that he felt a
little uneasy. But that is such an old complaint, I did not heed it,
and did not think it wise to trouble your decision by just a say-so."
"Well, then, Robert," I said, "you got the word, both for you and
yours, and, as you did not heed it, another messenger was sent. I
wonder if putting our own judgment first of all, and not delivering
the entire message, will be counted as answering 'No' to the heavenly
command."
"Don't say unpleasant things, Milly," was Robert's reply, and I was
silent until he added, "We cannot go to India now, I suppose?"
"I would not go, for the whole wide world."
"Then it must be America."
"Yes, somewhere in America."
In a very positive voice, Robert said, "It must be Canada. I am not
going to give up my English citizenship for anything."
"That is right," I answered. "You can keep it anywhere. It is fine in
you to guard your English citizenship. I have none to guard. It makes
no difference to me where I live."
"My citizenship is yours."
"Oh, no! I do not exercise any of your citizenship rights, and they do
not protect me."
"I exercise them for you."
"Well and good, but I am glad you do not eat, and drink, and sleep for
me, and I would not like you to dream for me. You would not likely
tell me the whole dream."
"Now you are cross, Milly, and I will go to sleep."
But I lay long awake, and felt anew, all through the silent hours, the
horror and terror of that prophetic dream. For I need hardly remind my
readers, that it was awfully verified in the unspeakable atrocities of
the Sepoy rebellion, barely two years afterwards. And I do not believe
Robert slept, but he could not endure allusions to the wrongs of
women--a subject then beginning to find a voice here and there, among
English women "who dared."
CHAPTER X
PASSENGERS FOR NEW YORK
"The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee,
But I'll win back--O never,
To my ain countree!
"But I am leal to heaven,
Where soon I hope to be,
And there I'll meet the loved,
From my ain countree!"
Events that are predestined require but little management. They manage
themselves. They slip into place while we sleep, and suddenly we are
aware that the thing we fear to attempt, is already accomplished. It
was somewhat in this way, all our preparations for America were
finished. We did not speak of our intentions to any one, neither did
we try to conceal them, excepting in the case already mentioned. But
somehow they went forward, and that with all the certainty of
appointed things.
A month after Mother left us, Robert brought home one day the tickets
for our passage from Liverpool to New York, in the steamship
_Atlantic_, then the finest boat sailing between the two ports. "You
have now, Milly," he said, "nearly four weeks to prepare for our new
life. We shall sail on the twentieth of August"; and his face was
glad, and his voice full of pleasure.
"And what of your preparations, Robert?" I asked.
"They go well with me. I have today made an arrangement for the
closing up of my business on the twenty-second of August. And that day
Forbes takes possession. He will sell my stock, and pay all I owe,
which, thank God, is not much! Mother and Jessy will be in Arran; we
shall be on the Atlantic. I shall have all I love and all I possess
with me, and I will cast these last miserable two years out of my
memory forever."
"But, Robert," I asked timidly, "have you money enough for such a
change?"
"Quite sufficient. Donald's legacy has turned out much better than I
dared to hope. A syndicate has bought the land for building purposes.
I expected three thousand pounds for it; they have paid me five
thousand, and I have already transmitted it to the Bank of New York.
Next," he continued, "I will sell this furniture, and we will take the
proceeds with us."
"But we must get rid of Kitty first," I answered. "If Kitty saw an
article leave the house, she would write to your mother, and she, with
David and Jessy, would be here by the next boat."
"Listen!" he replied, with a confident smile. "On Monday, the
fifteenth, you will tell Kitty that you and the children are going to
Kendal. Let her help you pack your trunk, give her a sovereign, and
bid her take a month's holiday. She will be glad enough to get away.
On Tuesday morning let her go to the Kendal train with you, bid her
good-bye there, and advise her to take the next train for Greenock,
from which place she can easily get passage to Campbeltown. She will
not hurry out of Greenock, if she has money, and it may be two weeks
before she sees Mother."
"I shall reach Kendal on Tuesday afternoon, and you, Robert, when?"
"I will come for you on Thursday. On Friday we will go to Manchester,
stay all night there, as you wish to see your sister, and early on
Saturday morning take the train for Liverpool. The _Atlantic_ sails
about four in the afternoon; do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand what I am to do. What are your own plans?"
"As soon as you have left on Tuesday morning, I will bring home the
large packing cases already ordered. These I will fill with our
personal belongings, which you must quietly place in your own
wardrobe, and the drawers and presses in the spare room. The boxes are
very large, and you need not deny yourself anything that is
comfortable, or dear to you."
"I know the boxes; I have seen them."
"Impossible! They are not yet made."
"I saw them last night. They were of rough, unpainted wood, and very
large, and, as I looked, a man came in and soldered thin iron bands
around them."
"Upon my soul, Amelia, what do you mean!"
"What I say. They were standing in this room."
"You dreamed this?"
"Yes. Then I saw you, and the children, and we were on a ship sailing
up a wide river, and we passed an island with many drooping willow
trees close by the water side, and southward there were the outlines
of a great city before me, and I knew the city was New York."
"It is no wonder you dream of New York. You think and read and talk of
it so much. But the packing cases, and the man soldering on the thin
iron bands! That puzzles me. I never told you anything about them."
"No, you never told me, but Some One who knew all about them, showed
them to me. After you have packed the boxes on Tuesday, what then?"
"I shall go with them to Liverpool. A steamer leaving here on Tuesday
night is in Liverpool Wednesday morning. A dray will take them to the
_Atlantic's_ pier, and put them with her freight, after which duty
done, I will start at once for Kendal. I may be there on Wednesday
night, but allow something for detentions, and say some time
Thursday."
Robert's plans appeared to be well considered and not difficult to
carry out, and I began that day to go through my girlhood's treasures,
choosing some and leaving others. And, when Kitty was out marketing or
walking with Mary I placed them ready for the big packing cases, that
I knew were coming for them. Was I happy while thus busy? No. I knew
that I was on the road appointed me to travel, but it was a new road,
and a far distant one from the father and mother and sisters I loved
so sincerely. Nor was I a woman who liked change and adventure. My
strongest instincts were for home, and home pleasures, and the tearing
to pieces of the beautiful home given me with so much love was a great
trial. But to have shown this feeling might have saddened and
discouraged Robert. In those days I was learning some of the hardest
lessons wives have to become acquainted with, notably, to affect
pleasure and satisfaction, when they are not pleased and satisfied; to
hold up another's heart, while their own heart faints within them; to
give so lavishly of their vitality, hope, and confidence that they
themselves are left prostrate; and yet, to smilingly say, "It is only
a little headache," and to make no complaint of their individual loves
and losses, lest they should dash the courage or cool the enthusiasm
of the one who, at all costs, must be encouraged and supported.
For I did not forget that all Robert's energies at this time were
required for one end and object, and that the smaller asides of
individual feelings must not be allowed to interfere with that
purpose. So I made no remark about the sale of my furniture. It was my
contribution to our new life, and I resolved to give it cheerfully.
Robert had told me I had four weeks, but, in reality, I had only
three, for I was to leave on Tuesday, the sixteenth of August, for
Kendal, and the fifteenth was to be spent in packing. But the three
weeks felt too long. What I had to do, I did quickly; and then there
was the weary waiting on others. Life became agitated and exigent, and
the atmosphere of the house restless and expectant. Every room was
full of _Presence_, evidently the wraiths of the departed were
interested in what was going on; for,
"All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floor."
During the whole three weeks of preparation I was singularly prescient
both by day and night, but only once did I mention this condition to
Robert. I had lain down on my bed in the afternoon, weary with thought
and feeling, and had fallen fast asleep. Then I heard a commotion in
the house, the moving of furniture, the voices of men calling to each
other, and, above all, I heard one strident voice of command,
accompanied by a kind of stamp upon the floor. Presently my room door
was opened, and a remarkable man entered. He was tall and rather
stout, his face was large and white, his dress clerical, his whole
manner intensely authoritative. He walked round my room, and stood a
moment and looked at me. It was an inquisitive look, quite without
interest or kindness. Then he began to give orders, and I awoke.
To Robert I said that night, "I saw your father this afternoon," and I
described the man who was directing the moving of the furniture;
laying particular stress upon the stamp in his walk. Robert looked at
me with amazement, then told me that the peculiarity in the walk was
caused by his father having a false leg. "He received an injury to his
knee while playing golf," he said, "and his walk with the artificial
limb, was of the character you observed. But I never told you of it."
"No, you never told me, Robert, but there are tiding bringers whom we
do not summon. 'God also speaks to his children in dreams, and by the
oracles that dwell in darkness.' We do not realize it, yet there is no
doubt that our daily life is the care of angels, and the theme of
their conversation. Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth
to minister to those who are the heirs of salvation?"
"Then what of those who are not heirs of salvation?"
"There are no such unfortunates. God is 'not willing that _any_ should
perish, but that _all_ should come to repentance.' Once I heard my
father quote that verse in the pulpit, and after a moment's pause he
cried out, 'a great _all_ that,' and a very old man spoke out loudly,
'Glory be to God! A great _all_. It covers every soul.' Then Father
quoted the words again, and there was a wonderful happiness, and the
dull old chapel seemed to glow, and the faces of the people were
lifted heavenward."
And Robert called me a dear little Methodist, and drew me close to his
side, and kissed me. "No wonder!" he continued, "my father felt no
interest in you--but that was a strange dream, Milly."
"Dreams are large possessions, Robert," I answered; "they are an
expansion of life, an enlightenment, and a discipline. I thank God for
my dream life; my daily life would be far poorer, if it wanted the
second sight of dreams. The dreams I have had during this movement of
ours have kept me serene and satisfied. They have shown me what is
appointed, and things appointed come to pass."
"In three weeks we shall see if your dreams come to pass."
"Yes, but three weeks is a long time."
Indeed I felt it to be almost a cruel lengthening of suspense; for I
did not understand at the time I was learning one of the most
difficult lessons the soul has to master--that of "waiting patiently
for the Lord." It is easy to ask, but to wait patiently for the
answer, is a far more difficult duty. However, when I had carefully
arranged in the places indicated our household treasures of napery,
clothing, silver, and so forth, I wished I could go to Kendal. But I
saw Robert's face change as soon as I mentioned Kendal.
"We made a plan for our movements, Milly," he said, "and I do not wish
a single point altered. It might disarrange all I have been working
for."
Then I declared I was quite content, but I was not always content. In
spite of my undoubted confidence in the wisdom of the change we were
making, I had days of utter weariness. My life, with all its orderly
habits and duties, seemed to be the same; but I knew that its
foundation was destroyed; reading had ceased to interest me; I had no
more sewing to do; my soul often sank back upon itself, and sometimes
even retired from sympathy and affection. All have had such hours, and
know what they mean. As for me, when this dark mental and spiritual
inertia attacked me, and I could not pray, I just told God so, and
waited until some blessed wind of Heaven unlocked the mood, which
bound me like a chain.
One afternoon, about a week before I was to go to Kendal, Robert's
mother called, and the moment she entered the room, a look of
amazement and anger came over her face.
"Amelia!" she cried, "Amelia, what are you doing? Do stop that
foolishness at once. It is fairly sinful, and nothing less."
What I was doing, was spinning some half-crowns on the polished table
for the amusement of Mary, who was sitting in her high chair and
laughing with delight. I looked up at Mother, and explained how I had
given Kitty a sovereign for some marketing, and she had brought the
change in silver pieces, so I was just showing Mary how prettily the
crowns and half-crowns could dance.
"Don't you see that you are teaching the child, before she is two
years old, that money is a _thing to play with_? And, what is more,
suppose she puts one of those shilling bits in her mouth, and it gets
into her throat; nothing could save her. And it would be your fault,
and not God's will, at all."
"Thank you, Mother," I said, as I rapidly gathered up the coins. "It
was very thoughtless of me; I will never do the like again. Will you
have a cup of tea, and will you stay all night?"
"No," she answered, "I just came to see if Robert was at home. It is
not possible to find him in his office lately, and I want a few words
with him."
"I have not seen him since early this morning," I said; and I ordered
her tea, and tried to introduce a more pleasant conversation. But the
incident of the coins mortified me, and I could see Mother anxiously
glancing at them, as they lay on the chimney-piece; so I carried them
to my desk, locked the desk, and put the key in my pocket. As I was
doing this, I was thinking that it might be the last time I should see
her, and was trying to find some homely, sympathetic subject, that
would bring us, at least for this hour, closer together.
But it was not a pleasant visit, and Robert was troubled and silent
for a long time, after I told him about it. Then I was troubled, for I
knew so little of Robert's family affairs, that I was like a woman
walking in the dark any step might be a false one; any moment I might
stumble. But often, I had heard my father say, "When you do not know
what to do, then stand still." So I was still, and appeared to be
puzzling over a new pattern of crochet work.
For I was determined that Robert should take the initiative, and after
a little while he did so. "Milly," he said, "I have been trying to
discover what makes Mother and you always at swords' points. If you do
not quarrel, you come so near it, that you might as well, perhaps
better, do so. You do not quarrel with any one else, why cannot you
two agree?"
"The disagreement is probably behind, and beyond us, Robert," I
answered. "We are not responsible for it. You have heard me speak of
Ann Oddy?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, Ann would say, that your mother's angel and my angel did
not agree. I think Mother's angel is probably a wise, stern spirit,
who has made Mother look well after her own interests, and despise
frivolities; and I am sure my angel is one easily entreated, and
anxious to give me everything I want--when she can--but she cannot
always manage it."
Robert laughed and said, "Then I suppose your angel and mine are good
friends."
"Yes," I answered; "they both approved our marriage, and did all they
could to forward it."
"Suppose they had not approved it?"
"Then your mother's angel would have had her way, and we should have
been separated."
"If you hold such opinions, Milly, you must also believe that angels
still retain human feelings?"
"Why not?" I answered. "They are not perfect. They are still going
forward, even as we are."
"Then they cannot be equal."
"Far from it. Some are in authority, some under authority. Some are
tidings bringers, others are invisible helpers of all kinds. Some
minister to little children, others to men fainting in the van of a
hard life, and many console the dying. I have heard it said that 'we
come into the world alone, and we die alone.' We do neither. No,
indeed!"
"You little preacher! Where do you get such ideas?" asked Robert.
"Ideas do not float about in the air, so then some intelligent being
sends them to me. They are the fruits of some soul. A good message
will always find a messenger."
"Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth,
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep."
Every one knows that in times of great anxiety, conversation is sure
to turn either on some trivial occurrence, or else on some speculative
subject. It was so with Robert and myself. We did not talk more than
was necessary about our own affairs; as long as they were in
uncertainty and transition, they were at the mercy of contingencies,
which we could neither alter nor hurry. A few words every evening
informed me of any progress made and then I knew it was wise to turn
the conversation upon some irrelevant subject, that would provoke
argument.
But joyful or sorrowful time goes by, and at last it was the fifteenth
of August. I saw the dawn breaking, and I whispered to myself,
"_Awake, Amelia! There is a charge for your shield today!_" and with
this cheerful exhortation I rose. After breakfast, I called Kitty, and
she helped me to pack the trunk that was to go with me, wherever my
destiny led. Kitty thought Kendal was its limit, and she made a remark
about the quantity of the children's clothing, and the small number
and plainness of my own gowns. I made no explanation, but said,
"Now, Kitty, look after your own things. You must be ready to leave
the house with me by ten o'clock tomorrow morning. After my train has
left, you can then take the carriage direct to the Greenock Station
for your own journey."
There was very little more for me to do, and the day threatened to be
sixty hours long. So about noon I resolved to take a walk up Argyle
Street, go through the Arcade to Buchanan, and get my luncheon at
McLaren's. It was to be a kind of farewell walk over the well known
pavements and I thought if I saw a pretty brooch or bracelet made of
Scotch pebbles, I would buy it as a memorial of the happy days, I had
spent in Glasgow. The unhappy ones, I was determined to forget. I went
into a jeweler's on Buchanan Street, and turned over a lot of those
queer ornaments made of various colored agates set in silver. They
were all heavy and ungraceful, but I paid a pound for a pair of
bracelets, and I wonder even today what made me do it. I have no love
for what is called jewelry, it always looks barbaric to me, and this
Scotch jewelry is neither pretty nor rare, nor had I ever before
thought of buying it. We do queer things in those hours of anxious
suspense, that can find no natural outlet or relief.
As I came out of the jeweler's with my purchase in my hand, I met Mrs.
McIntosh face to face. She smiled, and put out her hand, and I could
have cried with pleasure:
"Oh, how glad, how glad I am to see you!" I exclaimed. "Let us go into
McLaren's, and have a hot pie and a cup of tea, and talk about old
times."
So we did, and I told her how I had fretted over their desertion, and
how pleasantly I remembered the dances with both old and young Peter,
and that I never, never, had such happy evenings in any other house in
Glasgow. We laughed, talked, recalled this and that, and ate our pies
and drank our tea to delightful memories, that neither of us had
forgotten. More than thirty-five years after this happy lunch, I was
in Glasgow again, and I had a call from Mrs. McIntosh's grandson, and
an invitation from his family to come down to their seaside home to
spend a few days with them. For an unavoidable reason I could not
accept the invitation, but I was glad to think they had remembered me
so long, because they were still young and fresh in my memory, and
never will be old.
My meeting with Mrs. McIntosh made me very happy, and the day got over
better than I expected, although Robert was half an hour later than
usual. Every wife knows what that unusual half-hour means. It is as
long as half a dozen hours; it is filled with fears and shadows of
fears, about accidents possible and impossible. For it is not the
troubles we are fighting, that weary and depress us; it is the ills we
fear, and that never come, that give us our worst hours--the ills that
have no message for us, that are passing by our dwelling even while we
wait for them. I doubt if there lives a man or a woman who cannot
say,
"Oh, the anxious hours I've spent,
For ills that never came!"
Indeed when Robert did come he was more cheerful than I expected, and
after dinner he told me that he had sold the furniture just as it
stood to the man who made it, adding, "he will not remove it until
Monday, the twenty-second."
I smiled faintly, but could not speak, and there was a little silence.
Then Robert said, "Sing us a song, Milly."
"I can not sing tonight, Robert."
"Try 'The Kail Brose of Old Scotland.'"
"No," I answered, "there is only one song that fits tonight--'Lochaber
No More.'"
"Sing it then."
I shook my head, saying, "It's overwhelming sadness, would be
intolerable. You must be happy, if you dare to sing 'Lochaber No
More.' If you are not, its broken-hearted melody will haunt you for
weeks."
Then we were silent again, until I suddenly looked up, and found
Robert regarding me with eyes so full of love and pity, that I dropped
my crochet and covered my face with my hands. I could not bear it. He
tenderly took my hands in his, and with kisses and affectionate words,
told me that he was not insensible to the generous manner with which I
had surrendered all his gifts to me.
"Let the gifts go," I answered; "I have you."
"My darling!" he said, "let us take a last walk through the rooms, and
bid them farewell. We will fix every item in our memories, and I
promise you an American home far more beautiful than this."
I believed him. Without doubt he would keep his word. So I was
comforted; and we went together into every room, recalling how we had
decided on the creton and papering for one room in the Windermere
woods, and for another, sitting on the grassy slope of Kendal Castle.
There was some incident of our love, or home, connected with every
picture, with every bronze, with every chair and table. We smiled and
wept together. Yes, we both wept, and I am not ashamed of the fact. Of
course it was intensely sentimental, but in that quality lay our
salvation. If we could have gone through those rooms at this farewell
hour, without tears and reminiscent smiles, ours would have been a
hopeless case; for it is the men and women who are steeped in
sentiment and religion, that _do_ things. They are the high-hearted
and hopeful, they can face every emergency, and conquer every
situation. It is the materialist and the atheist, who flinch and fail,
and who never succeed, because they have lost the Great Companion who
alone could give permanence and value to whatever they have done.
The next morning we were up with the dawn, and after a leisurely
breakfast reached the Caledonian Line in good time. Here we dismissed
Kitty, and Robert stayed with me, until the train was ready to start.
"You need not be anxious about your trunk, Milly," he said. "I will
speak to the guard about it, and also about your dinner at Carlisle."
Very soon I saw him talking to that official, as if they were old
friends, and the two men came to the carriage door together. Then
Robert bid me good-bye, and with a bright smile promised to see me in
Kendal Wednesday or Thursday. The next moment the door was locked, and
the comfortable English guard cry, "_All's Right!_" ran along the line
until it reached the engineer, who answered it at once by starting the
train.
The journey was an easy and pleasant one. I was well cared for, the
children were quiet and sleepy, and I found Mother and Alethia waiting
for me. About this my last visit to my home, I shall say little. A
multitude of words could not reach the heart of it, and indeed we were
all less disposed to talk than usual. I was exceedingly anxious. I had
a fear of Robert's mother, and while I was taking a walk the next day
with Father, I told him a good deal about her. I thought he did not
listen with his usual sympathy, and I asked "if he thought we had done
wrong to come away without her knowledge?"
"Was it your doing, Milly?" he asked.
"Partly," I answered. "Yes, Father, it was mainly my doing."
"I don't approve it, Milly," he said. "A mother is a sacred relation.
It is a kind of sacrilege to wound her feelings. You would need good
reasons to excuse it."
"We had good reasons, Father. Ask Robert when he comes tomorrow."
"Yes, I will." Then he gave me some personal advice, not necessary to
write here, but which I hold in everlasting remembrance.
That night when all the house was asleep, and I was sitting with
Mother, I told her Father's opinion about our deceiving Robert's
mother. She was quietly angry.
"Do not mind what he said on that subject, Milly," she said. "Your
father thinks a deal more of mothers than he does of wives. Ever since
we were married, he has gone into mourning about his mother on certain
days, and he wanted the whole house to mourn and fast with him. I
would not hear of such nonsense. We none of us knew the woman. Ann
Oddy flatly refused; she was well aware I would stand by her. As for
you children, I told your father plainly, you would, if you lived,
have plenty of live troubles to fret you without mourning for a dead
one, you knew nothing about. But all the same he never forgets certain
days--you remember?"
"Yes, Mother, I remember very well."
"I hope none of you will keep my birthday, or death day, in any such
sorrowful way. Try to make happiness out of it, and if you can not,
let it be forgotten."
As we sat talking very softly at the open window of the dark room
there was a knock at the door. I hoped it was Robert, and I waited
breathlessly for his voice and step. But it was not Robert.
"It is a man from The King's Arms. He has brought a letter. I think it
is for you, Milly," said Mother.
She was striking a light as she spoke, and I took the letter from her
hand.
"It is from Robert," I said. "He is at the King's Arms. He would not
disturb us so late tonight, but he will be with us after breakfast
tomorrow morning."
"That was thoughtful and kind all round," answered Mother, and she
continued, "we had better try to sleep, Milly. There are three hard
days before you." Then she suddenly turned to me, and said in a little
eager way, "O Milly, I do want to go to Liverpool with you! I do want
to go so much! Do you think Father will spare me?"
"Mother, dear Mother! He must spare you! I will ask him in the
morning."
In the morning Robert came in like sunshine, just as we were finishing
breakfast, and in the pleasant stir of his advent, I asked Father for
Mother's company to Liverpool. "We shall be off before noon,
Saturday," I said, "and she can return to Manchester, stay with Jane
over Sunday, and go to Kendal on Monday. Let her go with us, Father."
Father was easily entreated, and then Mother was as excited as a
little child. She wanted new strings to her best bonnet, fresh laces
for her gray bombazine dress, and there was a button off her best
gloves. So in these and kindred duties for the children, the day
passed. We smiled and made believe we were pleasantly occupied, but
Father knew, and I knew, it was the last day we should ever spend
together. The heart-breaking pathos of those three words--_the last
day_, lay underneath all our pleasant words and smiles. We were really
dying to each other every hour of that last day. In after years when
the fire of life has cooled down, we wonder why we felt so keenly, and
how we endured it!
Fortunately the strain was in a measure lifted early the next morning.
We were to leave at nine o'clock and every one was busy dressing or
breakfasting. When the carriage was at the door, and I had kissed my
sisters, I looked around for Father. "He is in his room," said
Alethia, and as she spoke, I heard him walking about. I went to him,
and when he saw me enter, he knew the parting moment had come. He
stood still and stretched out his arms, and I clung to him whispering
"Father! My Father! I must go!"
Tenderly he stooped and kissed me, saying, "Dear, my dear! My Milly! I
know not where you are going, and Robert could not tell me. But this I
know, wherever your lot may be cast, '_your bread shall be given, and
your water sure_.'"
Then Mother called us, and we went down together. Mother and the
children were in the carriage. Robert was waiting for me. Without a
word Father kissed us both, and the carriage went hurriedly away but I
watched as far as I could, the white lifted head, and eager eyes of
the dear soul I was never to see again in this world. He lived about
nine years after our parting, and died as he wished to die--"on a
Sabbath morning, when the bells are ringing for church." Perhaps he
had some primitive idea of the glory of the Church Celestial, and some
hope that he might serve in it. Only to be a doorkeeper in His House,
would be heaven to his adoring love.
"O Strong Soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? In some far shining sphere,
Conscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the Word
Of the Spirit, in whom thou didst live."
* * * * *
We reached Manchester in the afternoon, and Robert went to see some
old business friends to bid them good-bye, while Mother, I, and the
children were thankful to lie down and sleep a little for we expected
Jane to dinner, and I was anxious to have a pleasant evening with her.
I had not seen her since her marriage, and I wondered what change it
had made.
She was the same quiet, authoritative woman I remembered so well, and
it being a warm evening she was dressed in a lilac muslin, which was
very becoming to her. Her plentiful pale brown hair was neatly
arranged; I am sure there was not one hair out of its proper place. I
was glad she was not changed; above all I relished the rather advisory
manner of "eldest sister" which she still retained. I would have been
disappointed if Jane had not found something to counsel, or censure,
or warn me about. She looked into my face with the kindest blue eyes,
and remarked,
"You are still very pretty, Amelia, and quite young in appearance,
too; almost too girlish for a married woman."
I laughed a little and asked, "Did you expect marriage to make me ugly
and old, Jane?"
"I have known it to do so."
"Not in your case, any more than in mine," I answered. "You are
handsomer than I ever saw you."
"Yes, I dare say that is so. I was worn out when I married. Poor
Father's affliction is most trying on those who have to witness it,
and assist him."
"Alas!" I said, "Mother feels it much. She will not live long, unless
she has some help."
"Father will have no one but Mother near him. Men are selfish always,
and particularly selfish when they are sick. Their wives have to be
Providence to them. I pity you, Amelia."
"What for, Jane?"
"Of course it is to please your husband you are going to America. You
never would have thought of such a piece of folly."
"When I was six years old, I thought of going to India and China and
many other places."
"As a missionary. That makes all the difference. If I understood
Mother, you and Mr. Barr are going to America, in order to make more
money; leaving a Christian land, to live among pagans for a little
money. I do not think that is a justifiable cause, Amelia."
"But Jane, we are not going among pagans. The United States is a
Christian country, and----"
"Oh, I have read the missionary reports! In the big cities, like New
York, I suppose the people are Christianized, but on what they call
the frontier, I am told there are few churches. Will you go to the
frontier?"
"I think so."
"Well, dear, do not lose your _assurance_. Among Indians, negroes,
cowboys, and atheists of all kinds, hold fast your _assurance_. Let
all see that you are a child of God."
"You need not fear for me, Jane. I will be good, or at least try to be
so."
Then Mother and Robert came into the parlor together, and a servant
followed them with dinner. Robert was in high spirits. He had spent
three or four happy hours among old business friends. Jane looked at
him with evident pleasure and he drew her out in her best vein, which
was a kind of humorous criticism; she gave him personally its first
clever shafts. We had a cheerful meal, and I wondered how Mother and I
could laugh, when these were probably--and as time proved--our last
hours together. Ah! I have learned since then, how often women laugh
when care or poverty or cruel pain, fiercer than the Spartan fox, is
gnawing their trembling, suffering hearts.
I do not remember whether Jane's husband or any of her three children
were with her. If they were, I have totally forgotten them, which
under the circumstances is very likely. When it was time for her to
go, I went with her to the dressing-room, and as she was tying her
bonnet, she said approvingly, "I like your husband, Amelia, but I fear
he is just a little 'gay.' Is he not?"
"Yes," I answered, "he is a little gay, but I like it. Jane are you
going to Liverpool to see us off. If so, you could bring Mother back
with you."
"I asked Mother about the time of sailing," she replied. "Mother said
it would be about noon. That renders it impossible. I have so many
duties at home, and I am a late riser. I think it is a great folly to
make a parting that is a grief to both of us, hours longer than it
need be."
"You are right, Jane," I answered. "We will say good-bye here," and I
kissed her fondly; for I loved her. We had a thousand memories in
common, and she was inextricably bound up with my happy early life. I
did not see her again for nearly forty years, and I have sometimes
wished I had not seen her then; for the long slow years had brought
her many sorrows, and had dealt hardly with the beautiful Jane of my
youthful memories. But it was evident to me that she lived among
things unseen, as well as things seen, and that the mystical appetite
for religious service, which she possessed in her youth, had grown
steadily. She valued things at their eternal, not their temporal
worth. I was then in the first flush of my literary success, but I
felt humbled before her. She was still my eldest sister.
After Jane had gone, we talked the midnight away but I was very weary
and fell fast asleep in my chair, Mother's low, soft monotone in my
ears. For the last time, she had charmed me to sleep. I slept that
night until the daylight woke me. Then there was a little hurry, and
we only reached the _Atlantic_ half an hour before she sailed. We
were all cheerful; Mother had set that tone for our last hours
together. "I shall not shed a tear," she said. "Robert has promised me
that you shall come to visit us in two years, and he always keeps his
word." Like a little child she accepted a promise; she never thought
of its being broken. She was delighted with our cabin, and delighted
with the ship, and was talking comfortably to me about the quickness
with which two years would pass, when there was the ringing of a bell
and an officer politely reminded her, that the call was for those
going on shore. She started to her feet with a little cry--a cry like
that of a wounded animal--I shall never forget it, and then sobbed,
"Milly! Milly! Two years, dear!"
I could not speak. I cannot write it. They led her away. In a few
moments we were parted forever in this world.
I stumbled down to my cabin, and found Robert with the children. There
were tears in his eyes, but none in mine. I bowed down heavily as one
that mourneth for his mother, but I did not find tears till I was
alone with God, and had my baby at my breast. For Fate or Force seemed
closing around me, and but one way stood before me--the way this man I
had chosen for my husband, should choose to go. He had already taken
me from my father, my mother, my sisters, and my home; the friends of
my youth, the land of my birth, what, and where next? Then I glanced
at the babe in my arms, and she smiled at me, and with that love and
hope counseled me, for in my soul I knew:
"'Twould all be well, no need to care,
Though how it would, and when, and where,
I could not see, nor yet declare.
In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,
'Tis not in vain, and not for naught,
The good wind blows, the good ship goes,
Though where it takes me, no one knows."
Very soon Robert, who had carried Mary to the deck with him, returned
and I was able to meet him with a smile. "It will be lunch time in ten
minutes, Milly," he said.
"I will not go to lunch today," I answered. "They will bring me
something for Mary and myself, and after lunch we shall try to sleep.
So, Robert, do not disturb us till four o'clock." However, after lunch
I was far from sleep, though the children were good enough to let it
take care of them. Then I sent for the stewardess and asked her to
hire me a woman from among the steerage passengers, who could assist
me in nursing and caring for them. She said, "That can be quickly
done;" then she pointed out a siding for the sofa, which slipped
easily into places prepared for it, and so made a safe cot for Mary to
sleep in.
In two or three hours I had a proper nurse, had put the cabin into
comfortable order, and had made all other necessary arrangements for
as regular a life as was possible on shipboard. Then I was tired, too
tired to dress for dinner, but when the gloaming came I went to the
deck with Robert. The blessed sea breeze, full of the potent magic
savors of ozone and iodine, soon lifted up my weary body, and my soul
and my flesh caught hope and courage, and I talked bravely with Robert
of the new life before us.
An hour later I saw a little company gathering near us, and as they
turned their faces to the vanishing land, a clear vibrant voice full
of pathos started Thomas Haynes Bayly's unforgettable song, "Isle of
Beauty, Fare Thee Well." They sang it with wonderful feeling, and drew
a silent crowd of listeners around them. And as they sang my sorrow
seemed to escape on the sweet, sad melody, to vanish, to flutter away,
and I went back to our cabin, saying softly as I went:
"Land where all my loved ones dwell,
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!"
I found Mary sleeping, but the baby was awake, and I thought it would
then be well to carry out an intention I had cherished for some time.
I sent away the nurse, and asked Robert to unfasten the small trunk
which we had with us. As soon as this was done I said, "I want some
night clothing out, Robert; will you hold _Lilly_ for a few minutes?"
He looked at me inquiringly, and said, "_Lilly!_ Is it to be that? She
was baptized Eliza."
"I know," I answered, "but think a moment, Robert. That name would
soon become a trial. It is too full of unhappy memories. The child
might suffer in more ways than one from being linked with it, and your
mother will never know."
"Perhaps you are right. We might love her too much, or go to the other
extreme. But why Lilly?"
"Because Lilly is the Scotch abbreviation for both Elizabeth and
Eliza. So she will retain her baptismal name."
"Very well," he replied, "that is a good reason for Lilly."
So from that hour to this, my second daughter has been called Lilly.
CHAPTER XI
FROM CHICAGO TO TEXAS
"Our Happiness foundered by one evil Soul."
* * * * *
"God accomplishes that which is beyond expectation."
"Whatever we gain through suffering is good; we have bought it; we
have paid the price."
One voyage across the ocean is very much like another, and the
majority of my readers have doubtless taken several. Some may even
remember the old steamship _Atlantic_, for I think she was making her
regular trips when the war of 1860 began. The great difference between
voyages rests not with the ships, but with the people you meet on
them. We met good and evil fortune on the Atlantic, and Robert
perversely chose the latter. The good fortune came in a Mr. and Mrs.
Curtis of Boston. They had been to Geneva, Switzerland, to place their
sons in some famous school there, and were returning home. It is
fifty-nine years since we traveled together, but I have the clearest
and pleasantest remembrance of them. Mr. Curtis and Robert were much
together, and Mrs. Curtis sat a great deal with me and my children,
helping me to take care of them, and telling me about Boston
housekeeping and social life. I was charmed with her descriptions, and
longed to settle in Boston beside her.
Our evil fortune was represented by a man of about sixty years of age
whose name I will not write. He had a military title and reputation,
had been Governor of his state, was very rich, and had great political
influence. He sat opposite to us at the dining-table, and I noticed
him the first meal that I ate in the saloon. For he watched Robert
with eyes like those the evil angels may look out with, and Robert
appeared quite unconscious of the hatred in their glances. But I said
nothing about my observations, for within the past few days I had
discovered that there was one phase of life, in which my husband was a
stranger to me. I had known him hitherto in a very narrow domestic and
social circle. I saw him now among business men, lawyers, financiers,
and men of the world and fashion. I was astonished. I wondered how I
had dared to contradict and advise, and even snub a man whom every one
appeared to court and admire; for I can truly say, he held the crowd
in his open hand.
For several days his enemy watched him, then I saw them frequently
together and apparently on the most friendly terms. One afternoon when
I was on deck and watching them in eager conversation, Mrs. Curtis sat
down at my side. She looked at them, and then at me, and asked, "Do
you like that acquaintanceship?"
"No," I answered. "He is a bad man."
"The Governor?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you should not say that--you may not be right."
"I am right," I replied. "I think he knows every sin that has a
name."
"I wish," she continued, "that Mr. Barr did not listen so eagerly to
him. We were in hopes of your coming to Boston, but now that he has
caught the Western fever, nothing will cure him but an experience of
the West. Mr. Curtis thinks you are both unfit for Chicago."
"I know we are."
"Poor child!" she exclaimed. "I intended to have taken such good care
of you."
Then tears sprang to my eyes. I leaned my head against her breast, and
if she had been an Englishwoman, she would have kissed me.
It was, alas, quite true that Robert had fallen completely under the
spell of his enemy. His lure had been the wonderful West, which Robert
was now determined to visit, before we definitely settled, "We will go
as far as Buffalo, Milly," he said to me, "see Niagara, and cross into
Canada. We may find just what we like in Canada. If so, we shall still
be under the British flag. If we do not like Canada, then we will go
westward to Chicago."
I pleaded for a trial of Boston, but Robert would not listen to me.
"Every one on the ship says, 'Go west,'" he replied. "Let us see with
our own eyes, and judge for ourselves."
I was grieved and offended at the time, but I can understand now the
influence primarily working against Boston. He longed for rest and
travel and change. All his life he had been kept strictly to his
lessons, and his business. He had never had a holiday, unless his
mother and sister and her children were with him, and this going where
he liked, seeing what he liked, doing what he liked, and resting
whenever he wished to rest, possessed irresistible charms. He could
not deny himself. He could not go to Boston and settle at once to
business of some kind. I do not blame him. He had had no youth. He was
naturally poetic and romantic, but
"Even his childhood knew nothing better,
Than bills of creditor and debtor----"
while the modern spirit of travel and recreation was just beginning to
make both age and youth restless and expectant.
Yet at that time I could not reason thus, and the refusal of the kind
offers made us by Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, appeared to me a wilful
flinging away of good fortune. Also, I apprehended nothing but danger
and sorrow from any step taken on the advice of a man, whom nothing
could make me trust. Alas! an apprehended danger can not always be a
defended one. I believed firmly that heaven chalked the line that
brought us to New York. I saw no white road leading us to Chicago. I
felt that in turning away from Boston we had lost opportunity's golden
tide.
On the fifth of September, A.D. 1853, we landed in New York. The
_Atlantic's_ dock was on the East River, and we went to a large hotel
some where in the lower part of the city. I think just below Trinity
Church. Robert was like a boy out on a holiday. Everything delighted
him. We rode about seeing what there was to see, and among other
things the Crystal Palace; but as we had spent three weeks at the
original in London in 1851, we were disappointed. However, I was
greatly pleased with the dry goods stores and astonished to find
dresses ready made, more so when I discovered I could slip comfortably
into them, and that they looked as if they had been expressly made for
me. It was always such a labor to have a dress made in England, that I
laughed with delight at this sensible convenience, and bought many
more than I needed. I was afraid I might never have such another
opportunity.
As I call to remembrance the events of those few days in New York of
1853, I smile and sigh over our ignorance and our happiness. For
instance when driving about the city one day, I saw exposed for sale
what appeared to me some wonderfully large plums. I asked Robert to
buy some, and he did so but when I tasted them, I was astonished and
disappointed. They did not taste like plums; they did not taste nice
at all. In fact they were tomatoes, and I was about to throw them away
when the Irishman who was driving us asked for them, saying, "They
would be fine with his supper's beefsteak." Then I laughed, for I
remembered _Mr. Pickwick_ and what came of his beefsteak and tomato
sauce. But I had really never before seen a tomato, for in the North
of England they could not ripen, and I think it is only under glass
they ripen in the southern counties. At this day they are plentiful in
all parts of England, but they are imported from the Channel Islands
and the Continent.
Such small blunders were common enough, and gave us much amusement;
for seeing that I could not alter Robert's arrangements, I entered
into all that interested him with that simplicity of heart, which
accepts the inevitable and enjoys it. Besides, I was then only
twenty-two years old, and twenty-two has hopeful eyes, and sees things
on their best side. But in less than a week, we had exhausted the New
York of 1853, and we went to Buffalo. I remember our ride up the banks
of the Hudson very well, but no kind angel whispered me then, that I
should, after thirty-five years had come and gone, make my home
there.
I was delighted with Buffalo, especially with the picturesque beauty
of its frame residences. A house made of wood was a wonder to me, and
their balconies and piazzas, their little towers and pinnacles, and
their green outside blinds, made me long for such a home. But we only
remained two days in Buffalo, and then went to Niagara, which
disappointed me at first, though the roar of its waters remained in my
ears for many days. The change into Canada was remarkable. I know that
in England the crossing of the Tweed, makes you immediately sensible
that you are in Scotland; but this sensation of passing rapidly from
one country to another, was much stronger in stepping from the United
States into Canada, and the Scottish atmosphere was intensified as
soon as you entered a house or spoke to any one.
"Well, Robert," I said, "we did not cross the Atlantic for this kind
of thing. Let us go back to New York."
"This kind of thing, seems very comfortable and respectable," answered
Robert, a little piqued, "but as you do not like it, we will go on to
Chicago. You know, Milly, we have come into an unknown world, and we
must take it as we find it."
It would be tedious to follow our wanderings from place to place for
the next six weeks, but at last I rebelled against any more travel. "I
am tired to death, Robert," I said. And he smiled and told me, that I
never looked better. "And the children are too tired to sleep; Mary is
crying to stop," I added. That was a thing to be looked after. For to
an English and Scotch husband--and for anything I know to the
contrary, to all kinds of husbands, the children are sacred objects,
and of far greater importance than the wife. The children are his;
they are flesh of his flesh, and blood of his blood. They represent
his family, and if they were lost, there is no positive certainty of
there being more. But wives are only relatives by marriage, and wives
are certain and plentiful. At least I never saw a man, however old and
ugly, that did not consider himself eligible for any woman he fancied.
So when Robert heard the children were weary, he blamed himself--and
me, at once.
"We have been very thoughtless," he said. "We ought to have considered
their youth. Of course they could not endure the travel we enjoyed.
What do you think? Shall we stay in Chicago? It appears to me as
likely a place as any I have seen."
"Very well," I answered. "Only, dear Robert, let us have a home, one
of those dear little wooden cottages. Four or five rooms to begin
with, will do."
He laughed at what he called my "primitive ideas" and went to look for
a cottage, while we stayed in the Sherman House. But for two days he
found nothing "fit to live in" and on the third day, said he was going
to the North Side. "They tell me," he added, "it is the aristocratic
part of the city, and I suppose rents will be high."
"Well," I replied, "we have a saying in England, that we should choose
a house beyond our means, dress up to our means, and live below our
means."
About noon he came home satisfied. He had found exactly what he
liked--"a new house, just finished, the only brick house on the North
Side."
"Brick!" I exclaimed.
"Yes. So comfortable. Mr. Wadsworth's big house is just a little
nearer the lake, General Butterfield's directly opposite, and the
Ogdens' not far away. You will like it, Milly."
"Have you decided to rent it, Robert?"
"I have rented it. After lunch, leave the children with Nora, and let
us go to buy the furniture."
In going through this house, I saw that it was large enough for a
family of fourteen, and I proposed that we only furnish at present
the rooms we were going to use. Reluctantly Robert agreed to this
proposal, and reluctantly also, he submitted to my "primitive
ideas" regarding the furnishing. But in two or three days, we had at
last a comfortable home, though the little wood cottage had not
materialized.
Then Robert rented a small office on Lake Street, and advertised
himself as an accountant, and soon appeared to be very busy and very
happy. Every night when we were sitting together, he told me wonderful
stories about the big fortunes made so rapidly in Chicago, and was so
excited over them, I could not help an anxious look at his shining
eyes and flushed face. Generally I discredited these reports, and
answered, "There is no easy way to wealth, Robert. Don't believe in
impossibilities."
"They happen every day in Chicago," he would reply. "I wish that I had
come here ten years ago. I should have been a rich man now."
It was in this exaggerated spirit he met his new life, and there was
no Mr. Curtis near to check his impetuosities. I wonder whether I was
happy at this time. I have no doubt I appeared so, but I must have
been very lonely. It was different with Robert. Every day he made
fresh friends and he began to join societies for this and that
purpose, and seemed to be in constant request. But it was Thanksgiving
Day when I received my first caller, a Miss Dagget, the sister of the
principal grocer in Chicago. She lived so close to me, that we could
stand at our doors and converse without raising our voices.
From her conversation, however, I learned that I had been thoroughly
discussed. Mrs. Nicholson had thought from our taking such a large
house, that I might be going to keep boarders, and Mrs. Ogden had said
she had heard, I was very well educated, and what a charity to the
North Side it would be, if I opened a school and saved the children,
the danger of crossing the dreadful draw-bridge. I said nothing at the
time about Mrs. Ogden's idea, but it took possession of me, and the
result was that I opened a ladies' school on the second of January,
1854. I limited the number of pupils to four boarders, and twelve day
scholars, and made the terms prohibitive to all but the class, whose
patronage I desired. They were indeed the cause of much conversation,
but those paying them were proud of the circumstance, and liked to
make it known by their complaints. It was their privilege, and did me
more good, than harm.
A week before school opened, my number was complete, the spare rooms
were furnished for the four boarders, and I had written to a New York
Agency to send me a resident teacher who could speak French and teach
music. My first pupil was one of the boarders, a Miss Sarah Morgan, a
lovely affectionate girl about fifteen years old. I have not thought
of her for many a year, but as soon as I began this sentence, she
came smiling into my memory, and I see her childish face with its
apple bloom complexion, and her fair brown hair, just as I saw her the
first day she came to me.
After the opening of my school there was no lack of callers and social
invitations, but as it was impossible to accept all, I declined all;
yet in many other ways, I received constant tokens of appreciation and
good will. I began to be really happy. My children, my house, and my
pupils kept every moment busy; and when the session closed early in
June, the school had proved itself a financial success, and there were
few women on the North Side more popular than myself. Of course I
enjoyed it. Work was always a necessity to me and it is my belief,
that when people work hard, they like to do it.
One afternoon during the vacation a brother of one of my pupils
passed, and asked me if I had "read today's paper;" I said, "I have
not;" and he replied, "Then I will leave you mine." After he had gone,
I opened it without interest, but instantly saw Robert's name in large
type. It was above an account of a Know Nothing meeting; he had been
speaking against the society, and the man I feared, in favor of it.
The speeches did not concern me, it was the fact that this man was
in Chicago, and associated with Robert, that filled my whole
consciousness. I looked backward a few weeks, put this and that
together, and was then sure he had been in Chicago a long time.
Robert's silence troubled my very soul. Confused intuitions,
obscure presentiments, took possession of me. My mind reached
backward and forward, and began to foresee and foretell, and I had a
cold shudder at my own thoughts.
Then I went into the house, for my anxiety usually runs into motion.
If I sit still and bear it, I have become stupefied, while motion
calls up whatever comfort or strength I can lay hold of. But during
the last busy half-year, I had lost something of my general spiritual
aptitude, at least the stream of that life ran deeper and darker, and
I could remember nothing that had any message for me. For I had not
then read, or I should not have forgotten John Milton's fine advice
against an unhappy looking forward to doubtful or questionable
misfortunes:
"Be not o'er exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils,
For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
Why need a man forestall his day of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?"
I said nothing to Robert until after supper, then when he was placidly
smoking, I told him what I had read. Was it true, I asked.
"Yes, Milly, it was true," he replied.
"Then that man is here? In Chicago?"
"Yes."
"Has he been here long, Robert?"
"About three months."
"And you never told me?"
"You hate him so bitterly. Why should I annoy you by speaking of
him?"
"But, Robert, if talking about him, was also talking about yourself?"
"I did not say it was."
"Have you anything to do with him? Tell me truly, Robert."
"Yes, I have unavoidably found myself compelled to have a great deal
to do with him."
"How?" I persisted.
"You have read 'how' in one way, Milly. He himself asked me to answer
his speech. He thought that I, being an alien, would make a proper
opponent. I am a fair speaker, and I think I have learned a little
about American politics."
"Robert!" I said, "you have no more knowledge of American politics,
than a Hindoo has of skating."
He did not contradict me; he never did that, but he changed the
conversation, and I had hard work to keep my temper under control.
Perhaps I did not succeed very well; for when he bid me good night he
said, "Milly, we will not be cross about nothing. I do not interfere
with your scholars, and you must give me the same freedom. I have to
transact business with men I do not personally like, and the man you
hate so unnecessarily, has never done me any harm."
"Robert!" I answered, "listen to me this once, and I will say no more.
Remember what Peter Grey told you. He said, 'I have escaped from him,
as a bird from the fowler'--furthermore, that he hated young men, and
found his pleasure in their destruction--that he stalked them as a
Highland Chief stalks stags for his amusement. Such a man must either
be insane, or have a fiendish disposition. Are you going to be his
next victim?"
"My dear Milly," he answered, "you let your imaginations and
superstitions rule you too much. I have often heard you say, that we
only meet the people in this world, we are meant to meet." Then he
kissed me, and I felt that I had done more harm than good. I had
promised not to speak on this subject again, so I had virtually
released him from any similar confidence. In the dark I went over and
over our conversation, and wrung my hands miserably at the mistake I
had made. Yet perhaps it was a fatality. Perhaps I was too imaginative
and superstitious. Well then, there was nothing to be had, and nothing
to be saved by interfering with destiny. I tried to dismiss the
subject, and to take my life day by day and be happy.
In September the school opened with a full roll, and the session was a
remarkably pleasant one. On the following Christmas Day I had a third
daughter whom we called Edith. After this event, all went well until
the extreme heat compelled the closing of the school a few days before
the usual time. Both I and my children felt it severely and Edith was
very ill. She never quite recovered, but slowly withered away like a
plucked flower. In August a terrible fear came into my heart, and on
August the twentieth, while my dear mother was watching every mail for
some word of my promised visit, I was watching my dying daughter.
But much as I suffered, Robert suffered more. He was devotedly
attached to this child, for she showed from her earliest consciousness
a singular love for him. She was never quite happy but in his arms.
She wept whenever he left her. How ever sick or sleepy she was if he
entered the room she entreated him with smiles and little happy cries
to take her in his arms; and when all was nearly over, at the last
moment, she opened her eyes, looked at him, and with a smile passed
away forever.
We were broken-hearted. I know not how I endured the next few days. It
was a new sorrow. I would hear of no comfort. Robert bore his grief
trustfully and manfully, but I would not listen to anything he could
say. I could not pray. I could only think of the little soul
struggling through the nameless woe with the angel of the river, and
of the multitude of little children at the same hour passing with
her,
"... as a stream across the stream,
Or as visions across a dream,
For as clouds of doves to their windows fly,
The clouds of souls unto God flit by."
She was such a tender little soul, if she stumbled in the river who
would care for her? Numberless mothers must have had such fears, and
the sweetest and tenderest of singers, answered them a few years ago:
"Day and night Christ standeth,
Scanning each soul as it landeth;
Over the floods He bendeth,
With a face that hath once been dead.
* * * * *
"And when the children come
To pass through the dreary River,
Christ stretcheth forth His hand,
A gentle piercèd hand,
And draws them safe to Land."
To those who know nothing of this loss, my grief may seem unreasonable;
but the fathers and mothers who have turned away from an open grave,
blind with tears, and with heart and flesh failing them, _they_ will
understand.
Yet I had not been left without intelligence of the coming sorrow.
Three nights before her death, at the midnight, as I lay thinking
with the child asleep in my arms, the warning notice came. I knew
then, that some of my family were called, and my thoughts went at once
to my father. I either did not, or would not associate it with my
child, until the symptoms of her dissolution were at hand. If it was
an inimical Presence that predicted such relentless, inexorable doom,
who would carry my little child safe through the river of death, and
up to the celestial city? And as I mused on these things, a sweet
Spanish tradition read years before came into my memory--that an angel
sat outside the gate of heaven with shoes for the barefooted babies,
who came there unshod--and I remembered that Edith had been laid to
rest unshod, and had a passionate fit of weeping.
But comfort was at hand. The thought of the _gate of heaven_ made me
remember that heaven had twelve gates, and that they were _always
open_. So then, when God took from us our beloved, He did not shut
them up in the heavenly city. Its twelve gates stand open, and the
angels ascend and descend; and go in and out on their heavenly
messages. Jacob saw them; weeping mothers and good and suffering souls
have seen them. No doubt, the child would be safely carried home. And
I blessed God for the smile with which she went. Surely
"The Shepherd from His Fold,
Had smiled and drawn her unto Him."
It was this thought which enabled me to dry my eyes, and to set my
hands to the duty they had to perform. For the school was to meet late
in September, and I had not done anything, as yet, towards the welfare
of the next session. Yet I knew that if it was to be successful, I
must set the key-note of enthusiasm and delight in the work, or all
would be done with the left hand only; knew that if I went into the
school room alert, and smiling, and with the air of a teacher
expecting great things, I would have cheerful, busy, ardent girls
around me; while if I showed depression and indifference, my attitude
would have the same effect upon their spirits and ardor, that the
putting down of the soft pedal has on the tones of a piano. For it is
not what a teacher does, it is what _she makes her scholars do_, that
is of lasting value.
Knowing these things well, because taught by experience, I tried to
give myself to my duties with all my heart, and
"So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, '_Thou must_,'
The Soul replies, '_I can_.'"
The school opened well, so well, that the proprietor of the house we
rented, asked me if I would like him to build a larger house with
suitable school room attached. And this question revealed to me my
innermost and as yet unacknowledged feeling--_that we should not
remain much longer in Chicago_. I told myself that the climate was too
cruel, the summer heat and the winter cold were alike dangerous. Croup
lurked in the nursery all the time; I never went to bed without its
remedies at hand; and again the school had unavoidably out-stripped
its limits. At present it was too large; its demands exhausted even my
young, fresh faculties, and physical strength. If I increased it, I
should require more room and more assistance. I told myself these were
my reasons for desiring a change, but down in my soul I knew they were
only the reasons I should assign to the world at large--the deep,
underlying motive beyond all others, and above all others, was
Robert's evident and constant anxiety. He came home every night
mentally exhausted. It was not his grief for Edith's loss; no, he
sought me in that trouble, and we comforted each other. It was no
God-sent trouble of any kind, or he would have done the same thing and
I thought, and feared, but knew nothing certain.
One day about the middle of November, he returned home in such evident
distress, that I could no longer keep silence. "Are you ill, dear
Robert?" I asked.
"No, Milly," he replied. "I am as well as a man can be, who is worried
to death nearly."
He was lying on the sofa, and I went close to him, and with kisses and
sweet words begged to share his worry.
"Is it business?" I asked.
"Yes, and no. I could manage the business end, if it was not for that
man. You know who I mean?"
"Yes, I know. What is the matter now? Tell me, dear."
"I must. You will have to know, for in that quarter it is now kill, or
be killed. He has made life too intolerable--and I struck him today.
He promised me full payment, and he is able to keep his promise."
"Then you must go away. He provoked that blow, _because his revenge is
ready_. You must go at once--tonight--do not wait for the morning."
"I have no money. I cannot go. I will not be driven away by him."
"You do not want that creature to spill your life in the dust of
Chicago! You do not want to commit murder! That part of the subject is
settled. Where then will you go? You must have thought of this
necessity as certain."
"I have. I will say I am going to Kansas City, and go a little way in
that direction--then cross to a line by which I can reach Cairo, and
at Cairo take a boat down the Mississippi to some southern town. There
I will wait for you, and we will go forward to Texas."
"Wait at Memphis," I said.
"Why Memphis?"
"I do not know, Robert. The word came inadvertently to my lips. It is
therefore a word from Intelligence beyond mine. Say Memphis, Robert."
"Very well."
"Go tomorrow night," I urged, "at the latest."
"I will try. I must see Peter Grey in the morning, and leave my
affairs with him."
"Do you trust him?"
"Not much. As for money----"
"I have one thousand dollars saved, Robert. Take half of it. With the
rest I will close up the house and school affairs, and come to you. Be
ready for Texas when I come."
"God be thanked for you, Milly! You have given me a new life!" he said
lovingly. We talked the matter over in every light, found out the best
trains, and I promised to have a small valise packed for him. He was
to come home to get it and the five hundred dollars at six in the
evening.
All day I went about like a woman in a dream. When the clock struck
six, every stroke was on my heart. Then I waited for the turn of the
key in the lock, and the sound of footsteps. All was strangely silent.
I was sick with fear. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven o'clock struck,
but Robert did not come--did not even send any message. I could wait
no longer. Something must be done, but what? Whom must I go to now,
that it was near midnight? My own household was fast asleep. Peter
Grey was not now at his office. I did not know where he lived. There
were no telephones in those days. I watched and watched for a
policeman, but none came to this quiet corner of the North Side; and I
could not leave a house full of girls, and my own children alone. I
slept none all night. I was on the alert for any call that might come.
It was bitterly cold. I went down stairs and brought up coal, and
sitting down by the fire, suddenly found my dress, which was of silk,
burning. I put the fire out, and then saw it was six o'clock. The
servants began to move about; I went to my room. Oh, if the daylight
would come! And I had to go to the breakfast table, and give the
orders for the day's work. I do not know how I did it. I was dressing
to go to Peter Grey's office when he called.
The thing that I feared had come to me. Robert was in the power of his
enemy, and there followed an interval of ten days of supreme agony and
suspense; then Robert was triumphantly justified in the sight of all
men. But I will not, can not, enter into details. The men are both
dead--dying almost at the same moment, though Robert was in Texas, and
the other one in a far northwestern state; but I have no doubt
whatever, that Robert's soul in passing called his soul, for he told
him he would do so. I will go into no details of this tragedy, for
there is no good to be gained by compelling myself to live over again
those terrible ten days and nights. Time cancels, and I have forgiven.
But if anything could make me do this thing, it would be solely and
entirely, that I might glorify the wonderful way, in which the Great
and Holy One wrought out our salvation, and that by means so
insignificant, that even the hatred of hell had overlooked them. "We
were brought low, and He helped us." He raised up also a host of
unknown friends, and the way that had seemed impossible was made clear
and easy. I did things at that time that appear incredible to me now,
and all I did prospered.
In those days I did not think of tears, but it was then I learned to
pray, to take heaven by assault, to press forward and upward, bent on
prevailing. Such prayer is the gift of God, and when He gives it, He
gives all it asks with it. This was one of those chasms of life, for
which we must have wings--the wings of prayer.
The day after our victory was Thanksgiving Day. The scholars had all
gone home, and Robert and I were sitting still and almost speechless
in our parlor with the children playing quietly beside us. We were
both weary, and looked very much like two strong swimmers who had
just--and only just--escaped the treacherous under-current carrying
them to destruction. I was hardly able to open my eyes, and too tired
to lift the hands that hung by my side. Robert was more restless.
Finally he rose and walked about, saying softly, and in a kind of
rapture, "A wonderful Thanksgiving! We won a great victory, Milly--by
God's help!"
"Yes, God won it for us. A great victory, Robert, but after a victory,
the new situation will bring the new struggle. We must be ready for
it. What will you do now?"
"We must remain here for the present."
Just as he said these words, his assumed friend Peter Grey entered. He
had come to congratulate Robert in the first instance, but when he had
spoken of the enthusiastic partizanship of every one, he asked, "How
soon can you get away, Robert, for your life is not worth a cent
here."
"I have made up my mind to stay here, Grey."
"Let me tell you something--in fact, I came here specially to tell
you; better get away tonight. Tomorrow there will be an attempt to
arrest you for debt."
"Debt?"
"Yes, if that does not work, you will go out some day, and never come
back."
"I will go armed."
"A pistol will not help you. Some rough in the crush of the North
River Bridge, will push you into the black Illinois River, and you
will not be seen again till the ice breaks up. Then it will be an
accident. Such accidents happen too frequently to be all accidents,
and there are plenty of men--among our low aliens, who would give you
'the push' for a dollar. If you stay here, you must not leave the
house."
Grey only voiced my own fears, and I seconded his advice as urgently
as I could. Robert was unusually calm and answered, "It may be as you
say, Grey, and I will go tomorrow night."
"West, I suppose?"
"I think of Kansas City."
"That is a good place."
When he went away, I looked steadily at Robert and asked, "Will you
wait until tomorrow?"
"No, love, I will go tonight. There will be no crush on the bridge
tonight. It will be as empty as it is on Sunday."
"Why did you tell him tomorrow?"
"It is a case of life and death. I will trust no one."
"Oh!"
"He is a black Highland Celt. He would sell his brother for a bawbee.
I believe he is a spy for my enemies. Take care of him--talk as you do
_not_ mean before him."
Then we went upstairs together, and I repacked his valise, and showed
him the one thousand dollars I had saved. "I call it my emergency
fund," I said, and I counted out five hundred dollars. He quietly
pushed four hundred dollars back to me. "One hundred is sufficient for
me," he said. "It will take me to Memphis, and there I shall find work
and friends."
It was then five o'clock, and I had tea brought to the parlor
fireside, and saw that Robert had a good meal. There was no necessity
for hurrying it, and without tears, and with sad little efforts to be
hopeful and cheerful, we ate what might be our last meal together. As
we finished it, the children came in to say good night and I turned
away until that loving ceremony was over. Then I brought him his hat
and coat, and we were both silent as he put them on. Indeed there was
no room for words. All had been said. And equally it was no time for
tears. We looked at each other and parted. Until his strong, swift
steps were no longer audible on the wooden pavements, I stood at the
open door. When I could neither see nor hear him, I went in, called a
servant, and had the children's cots removed to my room and when the
fire had been rebuilt, and plenty of wood brought, I locked myself in.
That night I went to bed without prayer. I only told God, as I
undressed, that I was too tired and too sorrowful. And God knew, knew
all about it, and gave me the sweetest night's sleep I ever remember.
For while I had sunk even below the tide of dreams, some power removed
all the miserable débris of the late calamity, swept away seemingly
insurmountable obstacles, and made the way before me clear and
straight. When I opened my eyes, the old cheerful morning call of my
girlhood came pealing through my memory, "_Awake, Amelia! There is a
charge for thy shield today!_" And I knew instantly that all my old
fearlessness had come back to me. In that deep tide of unconscious
sleep I had renewed myself. I looked young and cheerful, and felt able
to manage all I had to do.
The first thing was to write to every pupil, thank them for their
sympathy and support, and bid them a final farewell. It was not likely
I should meet any of them again, and I never have; though from time to
time in later years, I have had many refreshing words from dear old
ladies, once my pupils. I wrote to each girl and enclosed a bill for
the sum due me for two months' teaching et cetera. I had small hopes
of these bills being honored in time for me to receive them, but I was
pleasantly surprised to find them, with but one exception, immediately
and generously answered. Five out of the number sent me the price of
the whole session. Three offered pecuniary assistance, if I needed it,
and every remittance was accompanied by affectionate wishes and
remembrances. The one letter of refusal, ran as nearly as I can
remember thus:
MISSISS BARR,
As you have not kept your bargains about your teaching, I shall
not keep my bargains about paying for same.
The things to be taken, and the things to be left, was my next
consideration, and I went out and bought two large trunks for the
household and personal belongings, that were to go with us to Texas.
My great perplexity was to get something small enough for one person
to carry, and yet large enough to hold such clothing for myself and
children as would be necessary while traveling. The miraculous
contrivances for women's comfort in such circumstances, common enough
today, were then unknown; and I found myself left to a choice between
carpet bags, tin band boxes, and small trunks. Considering that I
would in any case be obliged to hire a man to carry either bag, box or
trunk, I chose the latter, buying also a small bag I could hang over
my arm, to carry medicines, comb and brush, and such trifles as it
might be necessary to reach quickly, or to use frequently.
Then I went through the house, room by room, selecting what was worth
while, leaving everything not likely to be of practical value in the
making of a new home. Many a heartache this task gave me; and after
the trunks had been packed, I pushed into odd corners all kinds of
pretty mementoes; one I specially remember--a tortoise shell box,
mounted and trimmed elaborately with silver. It had been given me by
my bridesmaid, and she was now dead. Somehow, I could not let her gift
go into the hands of strangers.
When the packing was finished, I began to look for a letter from
Robert. It came long before I expected it, for he had found when he
reached Cairo, that there was no boat going South for two days, and so
had taken a train for Memphis. We had not thought of this contingency,
but I was glad of it, for I immediately dispatched the two large
trunks to Memphis by train, notifying Robert to look out for their
arrival. In his letter, a very cheerful hopeful letter, he said that
he was delighted with Memphis, and was busy opening a new set of
books for the great cotton house of Calvin Fackler and Company.
I was now happy and busy, but there was much yet to be done; much that
was very difficult and hard for me to face. One thing was the little
chest of silver. It would be out of all place in our new home, and the
money it would bring more useful. I had also some jewelry I should
hardly care to wear on the frontier. It also could be turned into
money. I did not care to ask Peter Grey, or any one I knew to sell
these things for me. So I wrote to the best jeweler and silversmith in
Chicago, told him what I had for sale, and asked him to come and see
the goods. He answered my letter in person, looked at the silver and
made me an offer which I accepted. Then he asked for the jewelry, and
I showed him what I possessed. It was beautiful, but not very
valuable, the best pieces being a set of white cameos, necklace,
bracelets, and brooch. Robert gave them to me the day before our
marriage, and I had to bite my under lip as I laid them beside the
silver. I had not worn them a dozen times, and as jewelry I did not
care for them, yet--well, it was only sentiment, gold would be better.
All my pretty trifles of rings and brooches and bracelets went without
much regret. I reserved nothing but the diamond hoop guarding my
wedding ring, and those Scotch agate bracelets, which I considered
valueless and threw into a corner of my trunk. That was the end of
these things for me. I wonder who wears the white cameos today, and I
hope the silver brightens the family table of some happy and
prosperous home.
This was the hardest duty I had to do; after it, all went easily to
its appointed end. I was afraid I should have to tolerate a public
auction of my furniture, but the house was suddenly rented, and the
new comers were glad to buy all I wished to sell, and to settle at
once in a home unknowingly prepared for them. I was by this time
nearly ready to shake the dust of Chicago from my feet, and I gave
place to the new tenants cheerfully and went to the Richmond House for
a couple of days.
It was on Christmas Day, 1856, that I began my new exodus, a bitterly
cold gray day. The train left at two o'clock, and the streets were
quiet and almost deserted, save for a few pedestrians hurrying to
their homes or friends. My thoughts were full of the child I was
leaving behind me in that desolate, sandy place of graves, outside the
city, where I had suffered and lost so much.
Travel was travail then. There were no Pullman cars, and few
conveniences, and even something to eat was not always to be counted
on for long distances. But I was young and full of life and spirit,
and everybody was eager to help me. The first night I got the porter
to bring me pillows and I laid my children on the sofa at the end of
the car, and then sat down opposite to watch them. I could hardly
keep my eyes open; indeed I think I was dropping asleep, when a
kindly-looking man said, "Let me watch your children. I am used to
waking all night, and sleeping all day. I will take good care of
them."
So I left them in his care, and slept as soundly as the children did.
All the way to Cairo he looked after food, and fresh food, and fresh
milk, and anything needed for our comfort. I do not remember how long
we were in reaching Cairo. I think two days and two nights, but it
might be nearly three days, for it was dusk when we came to the place.
At that time it was not much of a place, and Dickens' description of
it, under the name of _Eden_ in "Martin Chuzzlewit" was not, I dare
say, much, if in any way, an exaggeration. It stood at the junction of
the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers down in the mud of their overflowing
waters.
My friend looked troubled as we approached the place. "You have a hard
bit to get over here," he said. "I will help you as far as possible,
but we must hire a couple of negroes to help us."
There were plenty of negroes loafing about the little station, and he
called a big black man and said, "Uncle, give this lady your arm, and
be sure to keep her on her feet." Another negro was called to carry
the trunk. Then I asked anxiously,
"The children?"
"I will take care of the children," he said; "now follow me."
It was the hardest feat I ever performed. The road was down a steep
hill, ankle deep in liquid mud of the stickiest description. The
steamer lay at the foot of this hill, and the flaming pine knot
lights, the shouts of the negro stevedores, and the swearing,
quarreling teamsters, the screams of men and women fast in the mud,
and the escaping steam and ominous ringing of a bell, were but items
in the hellish confusion. Almost fainting, and wanting one shoe, I
reached the boat at last, and sat down with a feeling of slipping
away. But the children were all right, and the trunk was there, too,
and the man who had helped me so bravely and kindly smiled, and said,
"Now you will be comfortable, and I must go, or I shall miss my
train."
I have always had a fear that I thanked him very badly, but so good a
man would forgive me for being frightened and unable to find the best
words. I never asked his name, and I do not remember that he asked
mine, but if we meet in any other life, I shall know him by the
kindness in his eyes, and the gentleness of his voice and manner.
In a few minutes the purser gave me a nice roomy cabin, and a kind
helpful old negro woman took me and the children to its comfortable
seclusion. She knew just what I needed, and just what to do for me;
and after I had put on clean clothing, she brought us a delicious
dinner in our cabin. It was one of the dinners I remember in my life.
I think I never tasted food so delicately and tastefully cooked, and
the children thought so with me. We ate and laughed and talked about
the journey, until we were satisfied and sleepy; then I just whispered
the last verse of the fourth Psalm, and lay down and slept until
bright sunshine was flooding every corner of our little chamber.
I was thoroughly refreshed and arose with all the vivid senses of a
new life. The children also rose full of excitement and expectation,
and after I had dressed them prettily, we went to the saloon and had a
wonderful breakfast, and then to the deck of the steamer. One of the
dreams of my childhood had come true. I was afloat on the Mississippi,
"The Father of Waters," as I was politely informed at least
half-a-dozen times within the first hour of my voyage. But what a
misnomer! Rolling on amid virgin forests, and young cities just
emerging from primeval mud, I silently wondered what such venerable
streams as the Euphrates and Scamander would say to this assumption of
paternity. Of the Mississippi River itself, I brought away no idea
except a dream of interminable woods, clothed in solemn gray moss,
scrambling cities perched on red or yellow bluffs, and miles of flat
dreary land baking in the blazing sunshine. I was, however, repeatedly
assured that the land was amazingly fertile, and my faith being
naturally strong, I believed it in spite of appearances.
But if nature was monotonous and uninteresting, I was surrounded by
humanity offering abundance of material for delightful speculation. I
never before saw such handsome, courtly men, such lovely, languorous,
beautifully dressed women. I never before saw women treated as if they
were angels and children as if they were cherubims, and what could I
think of men who appeared to serve every woman upon their knees. It
was not only the young and beautiful who were thus adored. There were
several aged women present, and they received the same attentions,
affectionately mingled with a respect that was almost veneration. It
bewildered me. I longed for all the Scotchmen and Englishmen I ever
knew to be on the Mississippi with me. I took great pains when I wrote
my next letter home to enlarge on this peculiarity of Southern
gentlemen, and to give it all the praise it merited. The journey
lasted more than a week I think, but in its pleasant monotony I have
forgotten the exact number of days.
We reached Memphis during the night and cast anchor in the river,
landing early in the morning. Robert was watching and waiting for us,
and looking younger and better than I had seen him for a long time; as
it was a charming morning, we walked with him to our new home, a
little cottage pretty and comfortable, which he had rented furnished
from a couple who were going to New York for four months. Memphis
seemed familiar to me. Surely I must have dreamed of that brick city,
and of those large white houses set in such roomy gardens, even then
beautiful with snowdrops and many colored crocus flowers. But the
thing that perplexed my memory was the great number of peacocks. They
seemed everywhere present--perching in every big tree, trailing their
resplendent feathers over the lawns, and spreading them out by the big
gates open to the highway, as if to arouse the envy and admiration of
the featherless creatures passing. Where had I seen this kind of
exhibition before? Never in England, never in Scotland, never in
Chicago. Well, then, I must have dreamed it.
We did not intend to remain in Memphis, and I was quite pleased with
the furnished cottage for a resting place. For I needed rest of body,
mind, and feeling, and it was a luxury to lie in the sweet warm air,
and be conscious of a daily renewing of flesh and spirit. I was happy
to see Robert so happy and free of care, so satisfied with the work he
was doing, so at one with Calvin Fackler, his employer. And as the
spring came, Memphis grew more and more lovely; it was a city of
flowers and blossoming shrubs, swaying willow trees, and gorgeous
peacocks. The inhabitants darkly handsome, gentle in manner, and never
in a hurry, seemed born for such a soft luxurious home.
Only one dark spot was in this charming city, and Robert strictly
charged me not to approach it. Of course I promised to obey him, and
of course as soon as I had done so, I began to look for some excuse to
enable me to break my promise. Every time I passed that forbidden
street the desire to go through it became stronger, and finally I
began to find pretexts for passing it, when I had no occasion to do
so. One day as I sauntered by the forbidden place, I saw two women go
down it; instantly I resolved to follow them, for they appeared to be
of the highest respectability.
I had not gone far, before I understood why the restriction had been
laid on me. The forbidden street led directly into a kind of dull,
open place, surrounded by small dark houses. There was a slight
elevation about the center made of wood, and on this sort of table a
negro woman was standing. I knew instinctively that I was in the slave
market. There was no need to go further. I stood still and looked
around. On the doorstep of most of the cabins, women were sitting
silent and apathetic. They were not talking or singing or even
sewing. Their hands lay idle or were clasped together. They paid no
attention to me, asked no favor, and appeared to be in most cases
stolidly indifferent. They were women who had lost all hope, and I
said fearfully to myself, "Just so, women will sit in hell when they
have lost their souls." And I was ashamed and repentant for the
curiosity that had led me into such a piteous place.
I resolved to confess my fault to Robert that night, but I did not do
so; something made the confession undesirable at the time, and the
longer I put it off, the less inclined I felt to be sorry about it;
the result being that I never found a convenient season for an
acknowledgment of my fault. A confession to God is so easy--you have
nothing to explain. He understands all. He accepts your contrition,
and forgives you freely. But, if we confess to man, we must be
questioned and make explanations, and very likely be led to
prevaricate, to make things better or worse, as suits the case, and so
the confession becomes as bad or worse than the fault.
In March, the dearest wish of my heart was granted me. We brought from
that desolate place of graves in Chicago, to the garden-like cemetery
in Memphis, the small coffin holding the remains of our dead child,
and laid them under a shadowy elm tree. Blue-birds were singing on its
branches as we planted the roses above her, and the sunshine fell with
a softened glory over this flowery city of the dead. After this event
the days came and went in an easy, happy way that has left few
memories; but in May, and the first days of June the heat became
unbearable, a damp, sunless heat prostrating beyond expression. I
noticed that dwelling-houses were closed rapidly, and heard every day
of some acquaintance going to the mountains, but the real cause of
this movement was not named to me until early in June. Then one
morning Robert came home an hour after leaving it, and his face was
white and grave, and he spoke too seriously to be doubted, or argued
with.
"Milly, we must leave here at sunset. Cholera has broken out in the
little town north of us, and is said to be already epidemic; here, in
Memphis, there are at least a dozen known cases of yellow fever. Last
summer there was a dreadful epidemic of it, and this summer its
recurrence seems certain."
"In Memphis, Robert?" I asked.
"Yes, here in Memphis. Mr. Fackler says we are not safe twenty-four
hours, and he told me to come home and prepare to leave by tonight's
boat. He has had the fever, and is, he thinks, immune, but he takes
his family to the mountains tomorrow. Is there much to pack, Milly?"
"Very little," I answered. "One trunk has never been opened, and from
the other I have only taken a little clothing."
Indeed, before one o'clock all we possessed, except what would go with
us, was on its way to the pier, where the goods for the _Natchez_ were
lying. Then I told Cinda, the negress who had served us ever since our
arrival, the state of the case, and gave her permission, after cooking
our dinner, to pack all the groceries left, for her own use, taking
her promise to go home the next morning. So, after our meal, there was
nothing to do but to put the house in order, turn the key in the door,
and give it to my neighbor. Before five o'clock we were ready to leave
Memphis forever, and I could not help turning my face towards the spot
where we had laid the dust of our dear Edith. In this silent farewell
I was inadvertently joined by Robert. Our eyes met, but for a few
moments we were silent. Then Robert said, "_She_ is not there!" and I
bent my head, and turned to the living. Cinda was carrying Lilly, and
Mary walked with us, holding her father's hand. In twenty minutes we
were on board the _Natchez_. I did not like her. She was not a nice
boat, and there was an atmosphere that I resented, though I knew not
_why_ I should do so. She seemed to have very few passengers, and I
only saw three women among them. There was a lack of the usual stir in
her leaving. I missed the negro songs and shouts and laughter. All was
too still. I missed the crowds usually on the bluff or pier, when a
boat was going to sail. Why were they not present? We had a large,
comfortable cabin, but it did not please me. I said to Robert the
sheets and pillow cases were not clean, but he would not let me ask
for different ones. And the heat was terrible.
We had a fairly good meal, just as the sun sunk, and, while eating
it, I heard great confusion, and the noise of many people coming on
board. They were not accompanied by any of the pleasant sounds usual
on such an event--no merry good-byes, no loving messages, no eager
calls for recognition. On the contrary, there was sobbing and crying,
and one long-drawn wail, inexpressibly mournful and savage, from a
number of voices together. I looked at the purser, who sat at the head
of the table; he seemed unconscious of the disturbance; none of the
passengers appeared to be astonished, and Robert kept his eyes on his
plate and would not look at me.
After supper I went on deck. A few men were scattered about; the
captain and officers appeared to be busy and watchful; there was an
air of constraint; and oh, the heat! The damp, foggy, suffocating
heat! There was no comfort outside, and I went in and undressed the
children. As I was doing so, Robert looked into the cabin, and said,
"I am going to the upper deck to smoke."
"Robert," I asked, "what kind of a ship is this? On the lower deck I
saw quite a crowd of people."
"What kind of people?"
"How could I tell? All was dark. I just saw that the crowd consisted
of men and women--mostly women."
"Well, dear, the boat is, I am sorry to say, a slaver; that is, it
carries the negroes collected in the states of Virginia, Tennessee,
and Kentucky down to the New Orleans slave market for sale."
"Why? There is a market in Memphis."
"It pays to send them to New Orleans. Mr. Fackler told me it was a
slaver, but advised us to take it, rather than to wait for the next
boat, which, under the circumstances, might be delayed. We are fleeing
for our lives, Milly, do not forget that, and we cannot be too
particular, lest we lose them."
I said only, "_Oh!_" but Robert understood my dissatisfaction, and
went to the deck unhappy.
I was too cross to care. Never in all my life, before or since, have I
been so long and so willingly ill-tempered. I asked myself for no
reason; I never tried to make an excuse for the mood. I just gave way
to the feeling, and rather enjoyed my wickedness. Mary looked at me
with strange questions in her gray eyes. Lilly crept into my arms, or
clung to my skirts. I petted them when Robert was not present; when he
was, it pleased me to speak sharply, or not answer their questions at
all. Evidently, then, it was Robert who had offended me. Poor fellow!
He tried being cheerful and bringing me little bits of ship gossip. I
perfectly scorned to see there was anything in life worth smiling at.
Then he tried being a little aloof, and only looked at me with hasty
glances, and I was troubled. I could not gaze into his sorrowful eyes,
and not see in them "Love's philtred euphrasy." But one day pitiful
love, nay loving pity, bid the tides of memory cast on my soul a
little spray of tears. It happened thus:
I had dressed the children, gone to the deck with them, and been
compelled to come back to the cabin immediately. The air quivered
with heat; the river, rolling rapidly onward, was like a river of
death; there was no whirr of bird's wings over it, no sound of a
bird's song on its banks, and vegetation there was apparently
withered. The blacks on the lower deck were absolutely silent and
motionless, except for a woman's long drawn wail, always quickly
stopped by a man's passionate command. The captain spoke to no one;
the officers passed constantly to and fro, always bent on some duty;
in fact, even my short observations convinced me, that every man on
the ship was watching the lower deck. I said to Mary, "Let us go to
our room, dear," and she answered, "Please, Mamma, and put on my
nightgown; these things"--pointing to her dress and shoes and
stockings--"they hurt Mary so much."
I was granting the child her request, when Robert looked into the
cabin. "I heard you and the children were on deck," he said. "I was
glad you were taking a little change. Why did you come in?"
"I could not endure the sight of the river."
"It is a grand river, Milly; you should not speak ill of it."
"It is like the river of sorrows--' Acheron sad and black and deep.' I
hate it with my whole soul," and I spoke with passionate force,
throwing down Mary's coral necklace to emphasize my words, and
scattering its scarlet and gold beads on the floor.
The child uttered a cry, and Robert said, "Hush, Mary! Papa will pick
them up for you."
"The Acheron, Milly?" he queried, as he gathered the scattered beads;
"I have heard of it, but I cannot place it. Where is it?"
"In hell," I answered.
I said no more, for Robert dropped the beads he had gathered into
Mary's pinafore, and then went to the door. As he stood with it open
in his hand, he said, "Forgive me, Milly. I have brought you much
sorrow, an Acheron of it! Poor child! I meant to make you happier than
all our dreams. God help us both!"
As he spoke I lifted my eyes to his face, and an instantaneous
penetrating sense of my sin made my soul tremble. For it was a
handsome, loving face, though it looked, after all, as one made for
suffering; half-pleading and half-defiant--the face of a man I could
hurt, but could not move.
"_Robert!_" I said, and I knew that my voice had its old loving
tones.
"Milly!" And he closed the door, opened his arms, and I buried my
contrition in his tender words and kisses. It was he, and not me, who
made excuses for my behavior; then he told me, that we should be in
New Orleans the next day, and would take as long a rest as possible at
the St. Charles Hotel.
At that time I wondered, and was ashamed and sorry for the temper I
had not been able to control, but I was far from understanding its
cause, and perhaps blamed myself a little more than I deserved. For I
am sure now, that my mind was infected by the anger, grief, and misery
with which I was traveling; that my soul had retired from her
surroundings, and so left me to the tyranny of physical emotions. The
mind, as well as the body, is subject to malignant diseases, and, in
some fretful moment, when I had surrendered myself to disaffection,
deposed will, and given all power to feeling, I had caught the mental
malady so rife a few yards away from me.
Mental, or spiritual crowding, is just as injurious as physical
crowding--perhaps more so; and, as people are made ill, or money-mad
in a great city by breathing sickly, cast-off commercial atoms, so I
was made angry, moody, sullen or passionate, by the cast-off thoughts
of the wrathful, miserable crowd of sufferers almost at my elbow. Had
I known then, what I know now, I would have called constantly for the
help of Him who was able to say to such spiritual invasions, "_Retro
me, Sathana_," "Get thee behind me, Satan," and drawn from the simple
exercise of this power, the love that is omnipotent against all evil.
And, if this excuse does not seem rational to my readers, let all who
have never been cross under the suffering caused by excessive heat or
cold, or the strain of things known and unknown, reprove me. The
number of such accusers will be few, and their words mildly
uncertain.
Two days after this explanation we were resting in the cool shadowy
rooms of the St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans. I saw nothing of this
city. Fever was present in many quarters, and Robert was anxiously
looking for some ship ready to leave the port. He found a fine bark
bound for New York, and also a small steamer going to Galveston, early
on our third day in New Orleans.
"Which shall it be, Milly?" he asked.
"Have you any doubt, Robert?" I replied.
"A little. It seems I made a great mistake in not going to Boston. Is
it too late now?"
"Yes, dear. Fortune does not stand twice on a man's threshold. New
York was our point of turning, and we turned to the West, instead of
the North."
"Mr. Curtis would not renew his offer, I suppose?"
"If he did, you would have to tell him all that has taken place."
"That would be foolish."
"It would be honorable."
"Milly, I have seen all my life, that it is very near as bad to be
accused as it is to be guilty. In a few words, a man is accused of
some cruel or dishonorable deed--four or five words will do that
wrong--but the accused, however innocent, cannot go about with the
proofs of his innocence in his pocket, and expect people to take an
interest in them. That unspeakable man knew this; he calculated on its
influence, even if his plot failed."
"Do not let us speak of him. His very name is malign on our lips.
Robert, we have been traveling thousands of miles towards Texas. Shall
we turn back now? Or shall we go on?"
"To go to New York, Milly----"
"Is to turn back."
"Then we had better go forward to Texas."
"It seems the only road open to us."
So Robert took passage for us on _The Lone Star_, bound for Galveston,
and I had a singular failure of heart and hope. I had longed so to go
to Boston, but that prayer had fallen from out my prayers and had come
to nothing. Chicago had been our first station on a wrong road; all it
promised had turned to failure, and it had taken the hand of God to
lift us out of the ruth and ruin we met in places to which we were not
sent. Yellow fever and cholera had driven us down that dreary,
steaming, terrible river. Would Texas indeed give a future to our
mistaken past? Then my eyes fell upon my children playing with such
careless sweet content in the cool, dusky room. They had no fear as to
where their father and I were going to take them. They believed in our
love and wisdom. Would God be less kind to us than we were to them?
Impossible! Then why not give Him the same child-like confidence and
affection? For, if I did not know where we were going, I did know
"We could not drift,
Beyond God's love and care."
That surely was sufficient.
CHAPTER XII
A PLEASANT JOURNEY
"... all that is most beauteous imaged there
In happier beauty; more pellucid streams
In ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams."
We left New Orleans that evening, and, on the second morning
thereafter, we were far out on the Gulf of Mexico. The blessed north
wind was gently rocking _The Lone Star_. I could smell the sea, and
hear the beating of its great heart, as deep called unto deep. Then,
raising myself in my berth, I could see the white horses chasing each
other over the blue waters. The port hole being open, I had been
drinking oxygen all night, and I was a new woman, fit for anything,
and afraid of nothing that could come to me.
I dressed myself and the children as quickly as possible, and we went
to the saloon for breakfast. Then I sent for Robert to join us, but he
had breakfasted with the captain; so we ate the good meal leisurely,
and then went on deck. Oh, what a joy it was! How the children ran and
played in the cool, fresh breeze! How happy, and how well Robert
looked! And how heavenly it was, just to lie on the mattress the
captain had placed for me in a snug corner, and shut my eyes, and let
the wind, and the sea, and the sun revivify and remake me. I could
hear my soul laugh low within me, and, when I was a little more
rested, I knew it would break into song. In the meantime, I slept, and
slept, and the wind and the waves sung me some lullaby of my
fathers--some ancient song of love and courage, such as I used to hear
Tom Huddleston sing in the Huddleston quarter in Whitehaven. It seemed
years and years ago; though, when I tried to count them, I could only
make out that it might be six or seven, since I heard the gay sailor
lad singing to me,
"Round the world and home again,
That is the sailor's way."
_The Lone Star_ was a slow ship, and the wind was a little contrary,
but we were not troubled by delay. For a short space it was good to be
out of the world, and away from all its cares and obligations; we were
growing younger and stronger with every hour's respite. The passengers
were few in number, and consisted mainly of a respectable party of
German emigrants bound for the beautiful colony of New Braunfels. They
kept to themselves, but, in the still moonlit evenings, sung the folk
songs of their native land in the most delightful manner.
This pleasant journeying soon came to an end. One morning when I
awoke, the ship was as still as "a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
We were lying at anchor off Galveston bar, and, after breakfast, the
captain told us if we wished to land at Galveston we had better get
all our trunks ready. I was in favor of our landing at Galveston. From
the sea the city had a tropical and most attractive appearance. "It is
a city in a garden," I said to Robert, and he was equally pleased with
its pretty white houses, and flowery beauty, for the perfume of its
gardens was distinctly felt on the ship.
It was nearly noon ere our captain's signal received any attention,
then a small boat arrived, and every man in it was dressed in white
linen. They held a very serious conversation with our captain, and I
was sure, from his air of annoyance and perplexity, that there was
some trouble to be met; and, in a few minutes, we were made aware of
its nature.
"Gentlemen," he said, to a little group of passengers, of which Robert
and I were a part, "gentlemen, we are in an almighty fix. There is
yellow fever in Galveston--plenty of it, already--and likely to be
much more, and that's a fact. So none of us will be allowed to land
there, unless we have homes in the city, and have been made immune by
a previous attack."
The gentlemen in white then examined the passengers, and only four
were permitted to land. Our case was hopeless: we were Europeans, and
particularly liable to become infected, as were also the body of
emigrants on board. What were we to do? There were two alternatives.
We could return to New Orleans on _The Lone Star_ for the chance of
some ship going to New York, or we could continue our journey into the
interior of Texas.
"How can the journey be continued?" asked Robert.
"A small steamer will be sent this afternoon," was the answer. "It
will convey all wishing to go inland up the Buffalo Bayou to
Harrisburg. The leader of the German emigrants tells me they will be
met at Harrisburg with vehicles to carry them and their baggage to New
Braunfels."
"But we are traveling alone," continued Robert, "and how can we
proceed?"
"Where are you going to?"
"To Austin."
"Well, then, the railway goes some distance beyond Harrisburg--a few
miles--and it may yet be in service. If so, you will take it to its
terminus. There the mail coach for Austin and San Antonio will call
for mail, and no doubt it will have room for you. Travel is not very
lively at present."
"Do you know the days and hours when the mail coach is due at this
terminus?" Robert asked.
"No, indeed!" was the smiling reply. "Bud Terry makes his own hours.
But he's sure to come along sooner or later. I did hear that Bud was
down, but I don't take any stock in that report. There's a deal of
business just now between Washington and Austin, and Bud knows his
duty, and, gen'rally speaking, does it."
All this was very uncertain consolation, and Robert looked at me in
bewildered anxiety. I had a singular satisfaction in the affair. It
had been taken out of our hands. We were shut up to one road, and,
unless we were willing to go back, and gaze after our life and work
and will sailed by, we must take it. If we refused, I did not dare to
search through what hopeless, desultory ways our path might lie; for
so it happeneth to those who fear to follow the one road open to
them.
"You see, Robert," I said with a smile, "there is nothing left for us
to do, but to go to Harrisburg. Have we sufficient money to return to
New York?"
"No."
"Is it safe to return to New Orleans?"
"No; and the captain says he will not go back to New Orleans. He is
going to Pensacola."
"Where is that?"
"In Florida, I think."
I did not then know where Florida was, but knew that it was an
aggravating thing to question an anxious, undecided man about trifles,
not relevant, so I checked my desire for information and remarked
cheerfully, "Then, dear, it is Harrisburg. That far is certain. When
we reach Harrisburg, the way will open, that also is certain. One of
the German women emigrants told me, that there would be a number of
wagons waiting for them at Harrisburg. If we can do no better, they
will let us travel with them."
So we waited for the boat to take us to Harrisburg. It did not arrive
until late in the afternoon. Then, with a little effort to be merry
over our adventures, we were transferred to the small, very narrow
steamer, that was to take us up the Buffalo Bayou. And, as soon as I
was on her deck, I threw off all care and responsibility. I felt that
we were in charge of some power, who knew all about our affairs, and
who was quite able to manage them--especially as we were not.
That sail up the Buffalo Bayou was well worth while. No one taking it
in those early days can ever forget it. Certainly it is part of my
everlasting remembrances. We reached the Bayou shortly before dark, at
least it was light enough to see the famous plain of San Jacinto, on
which Houston and his eight hundred gentlemen, wiped out the Spanish
army under Santa Anna, and gave to the American settlers in Texas that
religious and civic liberty which was their right. I noticed that the
captain bared his head as he passed it, and, during the evening, he
told me the gallant, stirring story, which I have retold in my novel,
"Remember the Alamo." It made a wonderful impression on me, and I
thought how grand it would be to live among men who had at least once
in their lives scorned the mean god Mammon, and, for the faith of
their fathers, and the civil liberty without which life was of no
value, offered themselves willingly for their God and their country.
"We are going to live among heroes," I said; "and, O Robert, after a
life among weavers and traders, will not that be a great experience?"
Robert, who had been listening to the same story, answered, "I suppose
it may, Milly, but there are heroes at the loom and at the counter
both. I have known them."
Then we were actually in the dense shadows of the Buffalo Bayou, and
no one felt like talking. It was a narrow, very narrow, still, black
water. A thick growth of trees on both banks of it met above our
heads, and shut out all light, but that from the pine flambeaus,
burning not only on board, but at intervals along the shore, showing
us, with lurid, smoky lights, that we were forging our way through a
water full of alligators. Their ugly black eyes dotted it, and they
lay along the banks of the stream, barking at us, as we passed. It was
the most unearthly sail the imagination can picture, in no way made
more human by the half-clothed negroes managing the flaming torches,
and the hot, heavy atmosphere, sickly with the scent of magnolias.
Landing at Harrisburg, we found there was fever in every house. Under
the very roof which sheltered us from the poisonous night air, a man
was dying of the vomìto. Though he was at the other end of the long
building, we could only too distinctly hear the awful struggle of the
suffering soul to escape from its tortured body. I know not how it
was, but I had not then the slightest fear of the sickness. The
children slept soundly, and Robert and I sat by them, talking in
whispers, and praying silently for the poor soul crying out in its
piteous extremity. Soon after midnight a dreadful silence stole
through the house, and we fell asleep. For I knew, and was sure, that
the agony of the strong man was over; that
"Pale from the Passion of Death,
Cold from the cold, dark River,
Staggering blind with Death,
With trembling steps yet fleet,
Over the stones of darkness,
He had stumbled to _His feet_.
For day and night Christ standeth,
Scanning each soul as it landeth,
With a face that hath once been dead,
With a mouth which once did cry
From that River in agony,--
'The waters go over my head.'"
In the morning we were awakened by a pale, sorrowful woman,
barefooted, and in the simplest garment, bringing us fresh water, some
biscuits just out of the oven and a cup of tea. But she brought us
neither milk or butter. "They hev been in the way of it all night,"
she said; "they're full of death. Sure!"
She had wept till she had no tears left, and the worst was over. "He
is gone," she added. "Jim, he's gone! Eat a mouthful and get away. It
isn't safe here--and you be strangers, too."
We did as she advised, and found a queer little empty train ready to
start for a terminus some twenty miles further inland. Here there was
a rude shanty of unpainted wood, the last station of a line only just
being built; but, to our great delight, we found a large coach drawn
by four horses waiting for us. It was driven by a Mexican, beautifully
dressed in black velvet, adorned with silver lace and silver buttons.
Moreover, he had the manners of a Spanish grandee, and his way of
addressing us as _Señor_ and _Señorita_, and the nonchalant skill with
which he managed those four wild mustangs, were things to see and to
never forget. He asked me to take the box seat beside him, but Robert
insisted on my going inside with the children. He did not believe in
the safety of our charioteer.
But never again in this life, never, never again, shall I have such a
glorious ride. For to one coming from the old world at that time,
Texas was a new world. That afternoon, after mounting a steep hill,
and then thundering down it at lightning speed, the horses were
allowed to rest and draw breath for ten minutes. Then I got out of the
coach, and was transported by the wonderful beauty and majesty of the
scene before me. The flowery prairie rolled away magnificently to the
far-off horizon, here and there jumping into hills, over which
marched myriads of red cattle. Masses of wild honeysuckle scented the
air for miles and miles, and a fresh odor of earth and clover, mixed
with the perfume of wild flowers, was the joy we breathed. But, best
of all was the clear, sweet atmosphere. It went to the heart like
wine. It made us laugh, it made us sing, and I never heard on any
other spot of earth such melodious fluting as the winds of Texas made
all around us.
Surely it was the giants of the unflooded world, who cleared off and
leveled these boundless plains as a dwelling place for liberty.
Looking back to that charmed drive over them, I thank God, even as I
write, that I was then permitted to see earth as it may be, when He
shall make "His tabernacle with men." And I remember this hour that,
when I could find no words fit to express the delight with which my
heart was filled, that wonderful Old Book that is the interpreter of
all human feeling came to my help, and I touched Robert's arm, as we
stood together, and said, "How beautiful is this place! This is none
other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven." I have no
doubt it is much changed now, settled and improved; but it lives in my
memory green and sweet as the fields of Paradise, with the fresh wild
winds gurgling melodiously through all its lovely spaces.
The moon was full that night, and we took advantage of the light and
the cool breezes to go as far as the horses were able. I think it must
have been eight o'clock, when we stopped at a planter's house standing
on the edge of a creek or bayou. The moonlight sifted down on its
white walls, its slender pillars, and flowering vines, and there was a
little company of men and women sitting on a broad piazza. Late as it
was, we were served with a good meal, and a large, cool bedroom. I
went to rest with the children, as soon as I had eaten, but Robert sat
till midnight with the men, smoking and talking on the moonlit
piazza.
The children were soon asleep; then I lifted the window shade and
looked out. I saw before me a long avenue of sweet gum and chinquâpin,
magnolia, and tulip trees, and all through them were the whitewashed
cabins of the negro slaves. Some of the women were sewing, though,
for the most part, men and women were huddled in little ebony squads,
around the doors of their quarters. They were talking softly in their
abbreviated patois, or humming their sad minor melodies, while the
moon far up in the zenith--calm, bright, worshipful--cast a softened
radiance which gave sufficient light for young eyes either to sew, or
to read. The living picture filled me with melancholy, and I went in
dreams to some lonely desolate place, where all was sand and silence.
We were off early in the morning, and our road lay through pine woods;
a very primitive road, as yet, and a very hard one on both travelers
and horses; however, horses are not expected to be particular about
roads in Texas. At one o'clock we stopped, and spread the lunch
brought with us on the ground; some negroes, who were cutting down
trees, brought us fresh water and attended to our horses. One of these
negroes, a young black Hercules, whose soul Nature had forgotten to
make bond, took me a few yards into the wood to show me the fairest
picture--a little natural clearing with a pretty piece of water in the
center, and, standing all round it, motionless as statues, a flock of
white cranes! Speaking of the circumstance afterwards, a passenger who
had joined us that morning, and who was also going to Austin, told me,
that the home of the crane is on the Texas prairies. He said nothing
could traverse the prairies without being challenged by their tocsin
shout of _Kewrrook! Kewrrook! Kewrrook!_ which he likened to a pistol
shot in the rare air. Furthermore, that the Comanche and Apache hated
the note, which gave both man and beast warning that they were on the
murder path. Strange sights and sounds these guardians of the prairies
must see and hear, as with slow and stately tread, they pace their
rounds, as much a part of the prairie as the ostrich is of the desert;
for when the deer have fled to the timber, and the buffalo gone west,
and the wolves are on their trail, the cranes still flock on the
prairies.
We were among the pines all afternoon, and in the gloaming came to a
much larger settlement than I had hitherto seen. If I remember
rightly, it was called Bastrop. With a great rush and clatter we drove
to a large house or hotel, and found good food and comfortable rooms,
and many signs of drawing near to civilization. One of these signs was
a release from the continuous meal of bacon. Throughout our journey
there had been myriads of cattle around us, but nothing except bacon
to eat--hundreds of thousands of milk cows, but rarely, indeed, either
milk, butter, or cheese on the table. Here we found a fine roast of
beef, and some venison steaks, both deliciously cooked; also young
corn ears and early squash. I returned thanks for these things with
all my heart, for a good meal and a good book deserve not only a
blessing, but a thanksgiving.
After we had eaten I went with the children to the room assigned us,
and was hearing their evening prayers when a woman softly entered. She
respected the duty that engaged me, and sat down almost noiselessly.
"I'm kind of lonesome," she said, when I turned to her. "Mollie is
away, and I wanted to see your little girls. They are mighty pretty,
well-behaved young ones, and they do mind what you say to them!
Sure!"
I was pleased with her remarks, and I put Lilly in her out-stretched
arms, and, though the child was very weary, she behaved beautifully,
and fell asleep in them.
"My children were sot on their own way from the jump," she continued,
"so contrary-minded that their hair grew upward, instead o' downward.
That's a fact! Look at my Jack's hair in the morning, and you'll see
it stands straight up. And babies are hard to raise in Texas; you
don't like to put them out o' their way, it might be the death o'
them, for you can never call your child your own in Texas, until it
has passed its second year."
"And by that time they have got used to having their own way," I
commented.
"So they have, and they will scream you blind and deaf, until they get
it. But you are feared to lose them. I've lost five outen my seven.
That is so. I've only Jack and Mollie left, but they keep me
considering day and night. They are not bad; they are real good, only
they are sot on havin' what is not good for them. And, nat'rally, I
know what is best, or else the Great Master above us has made a
mistake in sending them to me. That's how I look at it."
By the time this sentence was finished, Lilly was so fast asleep that
I lifted her from my visitor's arms, and laid her upon the bed beside
her sister. Then we continued the conversation about the natural
inclination of all children to have their own way, until I was quite
convinced the children of my companion had kept up a guerrilla fight
with her, from their birth until the present hour.
"There's Mollie," she continued, "smart and pert as a cricket, and
nothing would do her but a New York school. Her father was alive,
then, and I asked him to interfere; what he said was, 'Let her go to
New York. I don't see from the samples of New York women sent us, that
they are a picayune cleverer than ours are, but, if Mollie wants to
go, she's going. I can back her with all the gold she needs.' That's
the way her father interfered. He just let her go to aggravate and
contradict me. His hair stood straight up. I have told Mollie ever
since she put shoes on never to marry a man whose hair grows up, but
I'll just bet she does that same thing, even if she goes all the way
to New York to find him."
"Then she went to New York, I suppose?"
"Yes, she went, and she stayed more than two years, and got what they
call a diploma. Mollie is always drawing people's attention to it, but
it kind o' shames me. It looks like there was somebody better than
Mollie that thought they could give her a character, or a certif'cate
that she had done about right while at school. Now Mollie is as good a
girl as breathes, and as smart as girls can be made, and there's
nobody better than Mollie on this planet, and I just can't bear this
certif'cate business. How would you like it?"
I made this matter clearer to her, and she said, "I wish you had come
here 'fore Jake died. This same thing bothered him above a bit, and he
used to say if any man thought his Mollie needed a certif'cate of
doing well, he would tell him Mollie was the best woman God ever made,
and, if he contradicted, he'd bore a few holes into him. I reckon he
would have done it! Sure! But he took ill and died suddent one night,
just after Mollie came home. I miss Jake whiles, though he left me
well-to-do, and a full sorrow is easier borne than an empty one."
"What do you call well-to-do?" I asked.
"Jake had twelve thousand horned cattle, and a herd of eight hundred
horses, land enough for horses and cattle to get lost in, and a very
comfortable lump of spizerinctum in New Orleans Bank."
"_Spizerinctum!_" I ejaculated.
She nodded, and explained in one better known word, "specie."
"Then Mollie is rich?"
"Richer than rights be, for Jake left her half of all he had, and the
other half he left to me."
"And Jack?" I asked.
"He left Jack nothing. Jack and his father were not comfortable
together. They never had the same notion about anything. They had
contradicted each other for twenty years, and in course they could not
agree concerning money. I have heard them toss a dime between them for
an hour, and then fling it to the devil; that is, where no man could
find it. But Jack is real good. He is, sure! As I say, he will
contradict, but he's as straight a man as lives, between here and
anywhere; and he would not let a mortal touch a hair of my head, if it
was to wrong me. No, ma'am, he would make any man forever silent, who
said _no_ to his Mammy's _yes_. Come, and I will show you my parlor."
I did not like to refuse the invitation, and I did not like to leave
the children, but, after being assured of their perfect safety, I felt
some curiosity about a Texan parlor. So I went with her through an
adjoining room, where a number of men were sitting at a table playing
cards--very tall, wiry men, with prominent features, long hair, and a
fierce, determined expression on their thin, sallow faces. They did
not even glance at us as we walked past them, but I saw the gleam of
ornamented knife handles in their belts, and was pretty certain that
revolvers kept them company and that derringers lay handy, either in
breast or hip pockets. Yet they sat still and speechless, holding some
little bits of paper in their long, strong hands. There were two
candles on the table, but the rest of the room was in semi-darkness,
and the strange gathering in that patch of gloomy light made a picture
I have never forgotten. If it had been a painted picture, its gloom
and its suggestions of quarrel and bloodshed, might have labeled it,
"A Scene in Hades."
Out of this room we went into the parlor. The first object I saw was a
handsome grand square piano. "It is Mollie's!" said Mollie's mother,
"and she can make it talk, you may just bet on that." The walls were
adorned with pictures of Mollie's drawing, and the upholstered chairs
and sofa shielded by crochet lace of Mollie's handiwork. I was
expected to be astonished at this display of wealth and culture, and I
tried to make good this expectation. Indeed I really felt a great
respect for the girl who had lifted herself so far above her
surroundings. I asked where she was, and said I should like to see
her, and was told she was in New Orleans, and that her brother Jack
was going in a few days to bring her home.
"Jack's powerful fond of his sister," she continued; "he thinks all
creation of Mollie. I am feared he will never find a man good enough
to marry her. He has run two young fellows off the place, who he
thought were sneaking 'round after her. He is going to Orleans in a
few days. I wish she had been home. She would have fancied you."
I said I was sorry she was in New Orleans, but I did not mention
yellow fever's presence in that city. All nature and all humanity
hates the carrier of bad news. It is the feet of those that bring glad
tidings that are blessed and beautiful upon the mountains.
The next morning we were called early, but found quite a number of
people at the plentiful breakfast-table--some were going with us to
Austin, others were boarders belonging to the place. My kind hostess
had saved seats beside herself for us, and I noticed that Robert
nodded and spoke familiarly to a handsome youth assisting her to serve
the meal. Of course it was Jack. I knew instinctively it was Jack,
though he was amiable looking, and wore his pale yellow hair parted
down the middle of his head.
At first I thought his mother had been romancing about his "sot,
determined ways, and quarrelsome temper," but, towards the end of the
meal, I noticed him lift his steel-gray eyes, and look at a man who
was noisily relating one of his own adventures. Nothing more was
necessary, not only to confirm all his mother had said, but to rouse
the imagination concerning the likelihoods and probabilities a man
with such passionate eyes could summon. For, if the eyes are the
windows of the soul, I saw a soul of tremendous will and temper
looking through them. However, he was polite, and even kind to us, and
I left a message with him for his sister Mollie; then Mollie's mother
put into my hands something good for luncheon, because, she said,
there was no nooning place, and it would be four o'clock, as like as
not, before we reached Austin. "And I hope that is the end of your
journeying," she added, "for to go further is to fare worse. You keep
that fact in your mind. Maybe I'll be up to see you some day. I want
Jack in the legislature. He is the very man to get on there,
considering the way it is put up at present."
As we talked we were standing just within the store door, waiting for
the coach, and though it was so early a number of sallow, long-haired,
fiercely whiskered men were stalking up and down, the tinkle of their
great bell spurs, the ring of coins on the counter, and the kindly
tones of my companion's voice chiming softly together. Even at this
moment I seem to be trying to disentangle them, until the whole is
lost in the clatter of the coach, and the beating of the horses' feet
upon the hard road. So we left the hospitable lady with many kind
words and wishes. At last she kissed the children, and I, remembering
my own mother, kissed her; for about a good woman, who has taken the
sacrament of maternity, there is the odor and sense of sacrifice. We
may touch her lips, and do her honor, and be sure that we are honoring
ourselves in the homely rite.
At noon we stopped on the banks of a great river. There were large
troughs here, full of water, and a couple of negroes sitting on the
grass and playing cards. Evidently they were waiting for our arrival,
for, as the coach approached them, they stepped quickly to the heads
of the horses, unharnessed, fed, and watered them, while we had the
hour to eat our lunch and rest. I looked around, but saw no house;
yet there was a very large one, belonging to a sugar planter, hidden
away among the trees; and, just as we were preparing to go forward, I
saw a negro lad running with frantic speed towards a closed gate near
the troughs. I walked towards this gate and watched his approach. He
was spent of breath, and could hardly speak, but, after a mouthful of
water, he gasped out,
"How--long--'fore Chris'mas, Missis?"
I told him, and then asked, "Why do you want to know?"
"I'se gwine home at Chris'mas!" he cried. "I ain't 'long to dese
people--I'se only hired to them." These last remarks he uttered with
all the childish scorn and dislike imaginable, and then sobbed out
once more, "I'se gwine home at Chris'mas!"
"Where is your home?" I asked.
"In Austin," he answered. "There's people in Austin--there's Mammy and
Mass'r Tom, and Miss Mary, in Austin. I want to go home. I don't 'long
here!"
"Whom do you belong to?" I asked.
He told me, and then I had to hurry away, but I carried with me the
piteous face of that unhappy child, peering through the gate palings,
with no hope in his heart but Christmas, and Christmas five months
away.
The last twenty miles of our drive gave no indications that we were
approaching the capital of the state. On the banks of the creeks there
were sheep and cattle ranches, and here and there rough farm houses,
but the country was uncultivated, open prairie, or cedar covered
hills. People now going to Austin will reach the beautiful city by the
railway, and I have no doubt it has chosen the ugliest entrance it
could find. But we had almost an idyllic introduction to what was then
one of the loveliest dwelling-places of men in the whole world. It was
about four o'clock in the afternoon that we came to the Colorado
River, and our horses walked leisurely across its clear, limpid
waters. Then we mounted a hill, and a scene of unwritable beauty was
before us on every side. Other portions of Texas are lovely as
Paradise, but nowhere had I ever seen such exquisite and picturesque
arrangement of wood and mountains, grassy stretches, and silvery
waters, and crowned hills. From every mouth, there was an instant and
spontaneous cry of delight.
The city was built on hills, surrounded by a rampart of higher hills,
crowned with the evergreen cedar, and the shining waters of the
Colorado wound in and out among these hills, and then swept
grandly round the southern part of the city. For a minute or two
Señor Tomas--as if compelled by his own innate love of what was
picturesque--drew reins on the top of the hill on which there stood a
little church. It was painted a pale pink color, and did not look
inconsistent. It must have been full of the perfume of the China
berry trees, and it stood at the gate of the town like a visible
prayer. I have no doubt it has been replaced by a much grander
structure, but there must be many living yet, who remember, with me,
those happy Sabbaths when we went up together to the little pink
church on the hill, and served the Lord with gladness, and came before
His presence with a song.
For that short pause I must always thank Señor Tomas Sandobel, though
it may have been neither prayer nor a sense of beauty that was his
compelling motive. For I noticed, that as soon as the horses were full
breathed he gathered up the reins tightly, and, with a peculiarly
exciting cry, began his descent at the highest possible speed to the
main avenue. Fortunately it was but a transient trial. In a few
minutes we stopped at the Smith Hotel, a rather large wooden building
standing on Congress Avenue and Pecan Street, I think. Under the
wooden awning in front of the building there were a number of men
sitting in tilted-up chairs, and, as Señor Tomas stopped the coach, a
pleasant-looking gentleman was opening the door. He lifted Mary and
Lilly out in his arms, and then, removing his hat with his left hand,
offered me his right hand to assist in my descent. It was just such a
kind, respectful greeting as an English landlord of that time would
have given his coming guests, and it went straight to my heart. Robert
asked him if we could have rooms, and he said he would show us the
best he had in a few minutes.
He had a pleasant word for every passenger, and a few directions to
give, then he lifted Lilly in his arms, and we followed him to a
large, low room, directly above the entrance. It was spotlessly clean,
and, though the floors were bare, they were scrubbed until they looked
like ivory. The chairs were of unpainted wood, and their seats of
rawhide--not at all handsome--but very comfortable; and the large bed
looked so white and cool it made me drowsy.
"This room is delightful, Robert," I said. "I hope Mr. Smith can spare
it." Then a sudden thought came to me, and I continued, "The children!
We must have a room for them that opens into our room."
Mr. Smith smiled benignly. "We can do better for you than that,
Madame," he said; "there is a trundle bed, you know."
"A trundle bed!" I repeated. "What is that?"
Then he stooped and drew from under the bed a very low bedstead, and
showed me that it had a good spring and mattress, and clean, soft
linen; and I was astonished and delighted. I thought I had never seen
any contrivance equal to it for convenience and comfort, and I told
Robert that I must have trundle beds under all our large beds when we
furnished. And both men smiled broadly at my enthusiasm.
So we took the room, and my little trunk was brought to me, and I
began to bathe and dress and make ready for dinner, which I was told
would be at six promptly. A Chinese gong summoned us to the meal--a
gong in the hands of a negro boy, whose face shone with delight in the
noise he was making. But his grinning and gesticulating brought a
laughing company into the dining-room. There was nothing in this room
but what was absolutely necessary. The floor was bare but clean, the
chairs of a plain wooden variety, and the china, glass, and damask
very suitable to the room. The only extravagance about the service was
an arrangement like an East India _punka_ above the whole length of
the table--a movable wood frame, hung with clean towels, and kept in
motion by two negro boys. It certainly made the room cool, and
prevented the intrusion of a single fly.
The dinner itself was excellent, though the courses were left to every
one's taste and capacity. There was roast beef, and chicken pie, bear
meat, and antelope steaks, and I noticed that some old men who ate
bear meat ate honey with it, so I resolved to try the luxury some day
when I was quite alone. I did so, and found it very good, but an old
Texan told me, that the most aristocratic dainty of the Spanish Texan
was bear's paws preserved in Madeira wine, and a little brandy. The
paws then look like walnuts, but are said to excel any tidbit known to
epicures. I am sorry that I never had an opportunity of verifying this
statement by personal experience. The dessert to our dinner is not
worth naming; it was a pudding of some kind, but the majority left it
alone, and seemed very well contented with the bowl of delicious
clabber and fresh milk. There were no liquors of any kind on the
table, but plenty of tea and coffee, and I do not think any one ate
their dinner without drinking their tea at the same time. I took
kindly to the custom, and have never quite resigned it, except under
medical advice, which I follow with that desultory reluctance usually
given to ordinances with which we are not quite satisfied.
After dinner the children were eager to go to the trundle bed, and
their delight with it would have made any looker-on believe the little
ungrateful ones had never had a decent bed in all their lives before.
It was so "nice," so "soft," so "easy to get into," so "cool," so
"sleepy." I felt almost angry at their unreasonable pleasure in this
very ordinary convenience, and was quite "short" with the offenders
before they found the "sleepy" part of their new bed. Then I sat down
at the open window and began to think. Very quickly I discovered that
I had been guilty in the same kind. Had I not been lauding this bit of
Texas as an outskirt of Paradise all afternoon? No one could have
supposed I had lived in Kendal, and Penrith, wandered in the laurel
woods of Windermere, and walked the storied streets of Edinburgh. I
smiled contemptuously at my raw enthusiasm, and felt as if my native
land had been wronged by it.
* * * * *
So I began to write a poem to Mother England, and had got the three
first lines to my satisfaction, when Robert entered the room. He was
smoking a huge cigar, and the odor of it was strange and unpleasant.
But he was as pleased about his cigar as the children about their
trundle bed, and I listened rather coolly to his praises of the men he
had been talking with. "A new kind of humanity, Milly," he said. "I
never saw men like them. I think I will go and talk to them an hour or
two longer."
And, when I looked into his buoyant, happy face, and remembered that
he would have to live and work with this new kind of humanity, I
understood at once the necessity of sympathy and agreement. I told him
that I felt inclined to write poetry, and would doubtless go to sleep
about the sixth line, "so go, and talk, and enjoy yourself, Robert,
dear," I added. "I am glad you have such good company."
"Better company there could not be, Milly," and, with these words, he
kissed me, and ran lightly down stairs. Did I write any more poetry?
No, I went to sleep. But I have not yet forgotten two lines of the
poem to Mother England I began that night, and have never yet
finished,
My heart is like a weaning child,
That never can be weaned:
I did not dream at that date of a time when Robert Bonner would pay me
ten dollars every week for a poem, and that for a period of nearly
fifteen years. When that time arrived, I had outgrown the longing and
the need--I had been adopted by New York.
CHAPTER XIII
IN ARCADIA
"'Tis not for nothing that we Life pursue.
It pays our hopes with something still that's new;
Each day's a gift we ne'er enjoyed before,
Like travelers, we're pleased with seeing more."
There are no little events in life, those we think of no consequence
may be full of fate, and it is at our own risk if we neglect the
acquaintances and opportunities that seem to be casually offered, and
of small importance. And, as for what we call "accidents," they are
God's part in every occurrence so called. I am led to this reflection
by a circumstance that happened just at this time. When the coach
which brought us to Austin was on the point of leaving Bastrop, a man
rode rapidly up to it, and, flinging his bridle to a bystander, made a
leap to the outside seats, and landed close to Robert. Robert
smilingly made room for him, saying as he did so, "That was a clever
jump. It is a jump you mustn't make a miss of--if you try it."
This introduction preceded a day of pleasant conversation together,
and, when the coach stopped at Smith's Hotel, the Honorable William
Bentley stopped there, and at the dinner table we found him again at
Robert's side. The big cigar Robert was smoking when he came to tell
me he was going to sit and talk an hour or two, was made from tobacco
grown on the Bentley plantation; and, in the course of that evening's
conversation, he told Robert he was the member for his county, and had
come to Austin to take his seat in the legislative hall.
"When I got religion," he continued, "the folks began to talk of
sending me to Austin. I was not onto the thing at first, but got sort
of dragged into it and at last I gave up, as any Christian might do,
specially one new to the business. Now I like it, and there's no one
more ready to devote himself to his country than William Bentley. I
want you to know that. So come to the Capitol with me in the morning,
and you will see and hear something worth while. If you don't you may
call me short stock, even if I am six feet three in my stockings."
Robert repeated this speech to me with certain Texan interjections I
need not insert, and I asked, "Will you go with him?"
"Certainly, Milly. I expect to enjoy it very much. He says he will
show me legislators who are alive, and not a lot of respectable graven
images, like they have in Washington. He told me, that young Terry was
going to speak for the Rangers, and that the men who did not like
plain truths would have to get up and squander, for they would be sure
to have the _bleeding frontier_ served up to them, in every
heartbreaking style, Terry could manage; and they say he can tell
Indian tales that make men shiver, and shout, '_Shut up, Terry!_'
Milly, I have had one of the pleasantest days that I have known in all
my life. Is it not strange, dear?"
"Not at all, Robert," I answered. "The land is so lovely, and the
people so friendly, that any good thing seems possible."
In the morning I watched him, as he dressed with more than usual
care, though he was always particular on this subject, more so than I
could patiently endure when "hurry" was the order, and I had the
children to dress as well as myself, and yet was always kept
waiting for some trifling adjustment that seemed to me unnecessary.
Comparing notes on this subject with numberless other women, I have
come to a fixed and solid conviction that vanity and love of dress
is a male, and not a female, foible, and I think, moreover, that
Nature in all her departments supports this theory. I am at least
quite sure that any woman still young and beautiful would have
prepared herself for a possible interview with a Texan legislator,
in much less time than my young and still handsome husband found
necessary. But the result was perhaps worth the labor, and I watched
the Honorable William Bentley and Robert walking up the avenue
together, with smiles of satisfaction.
Robert had the English air of reserve, and of entire complacency with
his apparel and appearance. His high silk hat typified the quality and
fashion of all the garments beneath it, and I have no doubt that he
was the only man in Austin wearing gloves that day. His honorable
companion was at least a picturesque contrast. He was tall, and thin,
and aquiline, loosely and carelessly dressed in a white flannel shirt,
dark tweed trousers, and a broad leather belt _without furnishings_.
Gentlemen then wore Wellington boots--no amount of vanity could have
made women put on such affairs--but the Honorable Bentley wore very
low-cut shoes, and I hardly think his hands had ever dreamed of
gloves. However, he wore on his head a handsome black sombrero, with a
silver cord and tassel round it.
Looking at the two figures, as they slowly trailed up the avenue, I
was forcibly impressed with the fitness of the Texan dress for the
Texan climate, and I decided that it would be proper for Robert to
adopt as much of it as was suitable to him. I thought he would be
pleased to do so. I was as much mistaken when I named the subject. I
found Robert wedded to his waistcoat, ashamed to go to the street
without a proper coat, and quite sure he would not feel respectable
without his suspenders. As for a belt taking their place, that idea
was out of the question.
Occupied with such thoughts, I sat sewing at the open window,
unconsciously inhaling the sweet air, and bathing myself in the warm,
brilliant sunshine. The children were playing with Mrs. Smith's little
daughter in a shady yard at the back of the hotel, and I was alone and
full of thought and speculation. The small white dress I was making, I
had begun on that morning when Robert returned home with the news that
drove us from Memphis so hastily. I had thrown it and my sewing
materials into the trunk that was going with me, thinking I should
certainly find many hours in which I could finish the garment. But on
that dreadful sail down the Mississippi I could not have touched a
needle, and ever since the travel had been so continuous, and so
unrestful, that sewing had been impossible.
But now! now, I should be at rest, and, as soon as the wagons with the
emigrants for New Braunfels reached Austin, we should receive our
trunks, for they had taken charge of them at Harrisburg, and could
then rent a house and make a new home. Of course, this idea at once
recalled our first home in Glasgow, then my mind went reluctantly to
Chicago and the pitiful home-breaking there, then to Memphis and the
"flee-for-your-lives" hurry with which we had abandoned the home made
there. But I was still hopeful. This place was so different. The
people were so different. Life itself was different. No one was in a
hurry, and I had already caught the spirit of the place, for my needle
was taking its time, and going leisurely down a seam it would have
once run rapidly over.
"I am going to be happy at last!" I whispered, and then I perversely
added, "_Perhaps_." Have we not all of us, at some time in our lives,
said ill-omened words, which we would gladly have recalled, if it had
been possible? The Greeks prayed Demeter not to permit them to use
such words, and I instantly prayed to be forgiven the doubting
syllables, while within me I heard distinctly the sorrowful spirit's
reproach, "O thou of little faith." So I dropped my work, and sat
silent as a chidden child, a little sorry, a little afraid, and
beneath all some hot anger at whatever influence prompted the
ill-boding expression.
As I sat I heard the gong announcing lunch, and I wondered why Robert
had not returned in time for the meal. He did not come at all, and I
went to my room cross and disappointed. I told myself, that however
much Robert had been interested, he ought to have remembered the
difficulty I had in attending to both children during a meal. He knew
how anxious I was, and also how lonely. There was always the little
company of men on the sidewalk for him to join, but there was no
similar provision for women in the house. Oh, I had a score of small
grievances to complain of, and, I am sorry to admit, that I took the
hour after lunch to interview every one of them.
Then Mrs. Smith came to my room, and she had a letter in her hand, "It
is for you," she said pleasantly, "and, what do you think? It was
brought by one of the House messengers."
"The House messengers!" I repeated.
"Yes; by one of the boys who wait upon the members. I hope Mr. Barr is
all right."
I had opened the letter, as she was speaking, and I answered
cheerfully, "All is well. He says he will be here before five
o'clock." Then we had a little conversation, and, when she was going,
I asked her to send the children to me, in order that I might dress
them for the afternoon.
Then I read my letter over and over again. It contained only two or
three lines, but Oh, how good they were!
MILLY, DARLING,
Do not expect me until near five o'clock. I have met the most
extraordinary good fortune. Be happy, dear. All is well.
ROBERT.
I stood with this blessed piece of paper in my hands a few minutes,
speechless, my heart brimming over. Then I spread it open on my bed,
and kneeling down beside it, I let my tears of contrition and
gratitude wet the happy message. The gift of prayer is not always in
our power, and at that hour it was far from me, but I thanked God with
repentant tears, and then rising with a glad spirit, I put under my
feet every doubtful complaining thought.
About five o'clock I heard Robert's footsteps on the pavement, and
also his voice answering those who spoke to him, and his steps were
light and firm, and his voice had those happy inflections that only
hope realized can utter--sweet and thrilling and full of promise. I
was at the door of our room to meet him, and he took me in his arms
and whispered, "Dearest, I am so happy to bring you good news."
"Tell me, Robert. Tell me all about it," I said, and we sat down
together, and he continued, "You know, Milly. I went away with Bentley
this morning soon after nine, and we had walked barely two blocks when
he said, 'We will shake up Lawyer Scot for half-an-hour. I want his
advice, and you might find his acquaintance a mighty good thing.' So
we entered a small building and were evidently in the lawyer's office,
though no one was visible. Bentley told me to 'have off my hat and
take a chair,' and he would hunt up Scot. There was a New York paper
lying on the table, and also a copy of the _Scotchman_. I lifted the
latter and Bentley went into another room, where I soon heard him
talking with great emphasis. In twenty minutes he came back to me
accompanied by a man about forty years of age, a man so visibly and
plainly Scotch that I could not help smiling when he looked at me."
"Did he return the smile?" I asked.
"He walked to the table, poured out a glass of water, and gave it to
me, then filling one for himself, he touched my glass and said,
'_Here's to the men o' Glasgo!_' Then I touched his glass and
answered, '_Fife and all the lands about it!_'"
"Was he Fife, Robert? What did he say?"
"He said, 'O man, you're right! You're right! I am Fife! Bone and
blood, nerve and brain, I am Fife!'"
"Then, Robert?"
"I offered my hand, and he clasped it between his two large brown
hands, and said, 'Sit a few minutes. I want a word with you.' So he
asked my name and what I was in Texas for. I told him that we had been
driven from Memphis by fever and the threat of cholera, and had not
escaped the terror either in New Orleans, Galveston or Harrisburg. He
readily understood the position, and inquired next if we intended to
return to Memphis, as soon as it was safe to do so? I told him we
intended to remain in Austin if I could find any way in which it would
be possible to make a living.
"'How did you make it in Memphis?' he asked and I answered, 'As a
professional accountant.'
"'Accountant!' he cried, leaping to his feet. 'Great Scot, you are the
very man now wanted! Come, Bentley. I must go to the House with this
news. And I must see Raymond before he goes to his office.'
"He was so impetuous, that it was impossible to question him, and in
such a hurry that I had hardly time to put my hat on properly; so in a
few minutes we were mounting the long flight of steps leading to the
Capitol entrance. Here we met Mr. Raymond, who is state treasurer, and
Mr. Scot almost shouted, 'Here's your accountant, Raymond! Here's a
leal Scot from the city o' Glasgo, and later from the city o'
Memphis! Here's the very man you and your legislators are wanting!'"
"And then what, Robert?"
"Then Bentley laughed heartily, and introduced me to Mr. Raymond, and
while Scot and Bentley sat down on the top step, and fanned themselves
with their Panama hats, I had a talk with Mr. Raymond, the result of
which was that he took me to a committee room, and showed me its long
table piled high and higher with bills and papers.
"'We have had three men here,' said Mr. Raymond, 'and all of them have
thrown up the job. Will you try it?' I told him I would gladly do so,
and then he hoped I would manage it; and I answered, I had never yet
seen the tangle of figures I could not manage.
"'I believe you will clear up this mess,' he said, 'and if you do the
House will be grateful. In the meantime we will pay you five dollars a
day--hours from ten to four including an hour for lunch. Will that be
satisfactory?' I said it would, and he replied, 'Then do get to work
at once.' I then asked permission to remove my coat while working, and
he laughed like a boy and said, 'Sure! I shall wonder if you don't
take off your waistcoat, and your necktie, also.' Then I was left to
study the laws governing my work and explaining what I had to do."
"Can you explain it to me, Robert?" I asked.
"I think perhaps you might understand it, if----"
"Of course I can understand it; that is not what I mean. Is it
interesting? Is it worth while? Or is it all dollars and cents?"
"It is all dollars and cents--commissions paid to certain men for
buying goods for the military board, advances made by different
houses, et cetera. You see, Milly," he continued, "the Republic of
Texas has just been bought by the United States. Some of her debts the
United States assumes, some she must pay, or has paid herself; and
there are agreements covering a score of points of this kind. It is a
very intricate piece of business, I assure you."
"But you can do it, Robert?" I asked.
"Quite easily, when I get the agreements clearly in my mind. I shall
do that in a few days, and I like such work. I like it, Milly, as
other men like sport, or scientific experiments. Now, Milly, you can
look for a house; the trunks will surely be here in a week or ten
days, and then we will make another home."
If I have made friends with my readers by this time they will not need
to be told how happy I was, how grateful in my heart of hearts to God,
the Giver of all good things, how sure I felt that this wonderful
stepping into a fine position was only His doing. I recalled Mr.
Bentley's jump to the roof of the coach, and the little scornful
feeling with which I regarded it as a bit of "show off." I recalled my
own shyness at all his kind advances during the "nooning" and my
petty, angry wonder that Robert should find him so entertaining. Yet
the Honorable Mr. Bentley had been the road to Lawyer Scot, Councillor
to the House, and Scot the road to State Treasurer Raymond; and quite
independent of my approval the way prepared had been strictly followed
to the end proposed, and with that rapidity of events which can only
spring from intelligence and power beyond human foresight. Nothing in
all my life has so irresistibly convinced me, that the steps of a good
man are ordered of the Lord, and that He delighteth in His ways, as
this wonderful preparation made ready for us, when we arrived at the
place appointed. No intimation of it had been given us, which was
fortunate, for if we had been expecting something of the kind, we
might have worried and interfered, and tied the hands, or delayed in
some way those beyond who were arranging our affairs. For this reason
the big events of life are rarely announced beforehand, but when least
looked for, the thing we have vainly sought, steals quietly into our
possession.
In ten days we heard that the trunks were at Bastrop, and I
immediately began to look for a small house. Empty houses, however,
were not plentiful, almost everybody owned their own home, and such as
were to rent, were few and far between. All of them were in the hands
of Lawyer Scot, and I called on him one morning to ask about a little
place that seemed suitable. Because he had taken so kindly to Robert,
I tried to look as pretty as possible. I put on a clean white frock,
with blue satin belt and bows, and a very pretty white sunbonnet. For
the white sunbonnets of the Texan girl were things of beauty, and as
they were removed on entering a room, I soon learned that the very act
of removal communicated a pleasant surprise and a revelation of
unsuspected charm. I was wishful to win the good will of one who had
been so readily a friend to us. I succeeded very well. He looked up a
little glumly as I entered, but when I lifted my sunbonnet, made him a
curtsey, and said with a smile, "I am Robert Barr's wife," he was
delighted. He offered me his chair, and his fan, he had fresh drinking
water drawn, he put up windows, he pulled down shades, he was all
smiles and graciousness. And I permitted his attentions. I knew that
every one made him like me better, and I wished that he might praise
me to Robert, for it does the best of husbands good to be reminded by
other men, that they have somehow managed to win a paragon.
Then I told him about the house and he said, "It was not good enough."
He told me to remember I would have many calls from the ladies
connected with the Administration; and I answered I did not want a
house that lady callers might approve, but one suitable for a home for
Robert and my children. This sentiment agreed with his natural,
primitive ideas of wifehood, and he heartily approved my views, but
still he would not hear of the cottage I had selected. Finally he
admitted that its water supply was poor, and that the house itself had
not a good name. "People who mind freets," he continued, "talk about
it being unlucky, and point out that every one that lives in it, comes
to grief of some kind." But he was willing to warrant that I was above
noticing things of that kind.
"Indeed, Mr. Scot," I answered, "you would lose your warranty. I
notice them very much. The atmosphere of a house tells me plainly,
what kind of people live in it."
"Of an empty house?" he asked.
"There are very few empty houses," I answered, "very few indeed. I
knew of one on the busiest corner of a busy street in Chicago. It
looked empty. It looked _dead_. You felt sure neither mortals, nor the
bodiless were in its vacant rooms."
We continued this conversation until the lawyer appeared to remember
with a shock, that we were talking of things startlingly foreign to a
lawyer's office, and he ended his next sentence with the information
that he had the McArthur place to rent--"a clean, nice house in good
company, and without an ugly past to reckon with. I will go with
Robert," he added, "and we will look it over together."
Robert subsequently took the house. He said I could make any shelter
look homelike, and though small, I also saw that it possessed some
possibilities. It was a wood building of two stories. There was one
large room into which we entered at once, a thing so English that it
won my instant approval. It was well lighted by four large windows,
and had a little stoop at the front door with a balcony above it. The
roof of this room was unplastered, but the want was partly hidden by a
ceiling of strong domestic. The walls were covered with the same
material, and then papered. On one side there was a wide fireplace,
and a door leading into a room beyond.
This room was smaller and no attempt had been made in it to hide the
boarding and shingling, except that they had been whitewashed, and of
course that decoration could be again applied. An unpainted stairway
in this room led to two large rooms above, and a door opened into a
yard containing the kitchen, and a small stable. Robert saw all the
inconveniences in their unvarnished literalness. I saw them as
picturesque irregularities to be accepted with the rest of their
environment. Indeed when our trunks arrived, and I stood once more on
my own hearth, I liked the idea of bringing a pretty home out of such
apparently incongruous materials. I knew that I could do it. With
great and repeated suffering I had bought this knowledge. I had paid
the price. Good! What we buy, and pay for, is part of ourselves.
[Illustration: MR. ROBERT BARR]
Chairs and tables and such things were to be purchased and I chose the
home made articles. Among them was a high four-poster bedstead, that
reminded me of the century-old bedsteads in English farmhouses. But I
liked it because it could be draped with white netting to exclude
flies and mosquitoes. But I did not get a trundle bed to roll under
it. My enthusiasm concerning trundle beds had cooled, and Mary and
Lilly had their individual cots in the room going out of mine.
I remember the three weeks in which I was making a pretty home out of
these four rooms of boarding and shingles as one of the happiest
periods of my life. I had plenty of fine bedding, and table damask,
china and plate, some favorite books, and bits of bric-a-brac, a few
pictures and rugs, and a good deal of Berlin wool work, and fancy
needlework. At night when we had had dinner, and talked over Robert's
experiences at the Capitol, Robert put up shelves here and there for
me, hung mosquito nets and shades, and with paint and brush beautified
many rough and soiled corners.
Never before had I been so proud of my handsome, clever husband, and I
am sure that with elbows bare, and an apron on, I was more charming to
him, than I had ever been before. On looking back I find one sure
evidence of our perfect love at this time--we hung a number of
pictures, and did not have one frown, or cross word about the work.
Now if anything will make two people certain of each other's want of
taste, or incorrect eyesight, it is hanging pictures; and if any two
doubt this, I advise them to spend an afternoon together in the
employment. Robert and I, in these perfect days, never had a doubtful
word about any picture, unless his request that a water color portrait
of himself, might be turned to the wall when he was in the house, may
be taken as coming from some dissatisfaction. It is only necessary to
say, I pretended not to hear his request, and that the cherubic boy in
a short jacket and square cap disappeared in a way beyond my finding
out.
Some weeks of pure happiness followed our settlement, calm-hearted
weeks, full of rich content. I made a great many acquaintances, and a
few intimate friends. In such a community as the Austin of that date,
this result was unavoidable. For _color_ not money was the dividing
line, and the consequence was a real democracy. Every good white man
was the social equal of every other good white man, but one drop of
negro blood put its owner far below social recognition.
And women are never democrats. There is always in their societies an
exclusive set. This set in Austin was not as I expected composed
mainly of the families connected with the Administration. It was a
much more mixed affair. Its leaders were Mrs. Tom Green, and Mrs.
George Durham. Mrs. Green was young, clever, and intimately and
decidedly Texan. She was witty and sarcastic, and many were afraid of
her criticisms. She dressed well, and entertained delightfully, in
Texan fashion, the ladies she chose to honor.
Mrs. Durham was the wife of George Durham, an Englishman from my own
North Country, and an attaché of the comptroller's office. Robert was
his associate, and they were excellent friends. I saw little of him,
but he frequently sent me birds, venison, and other spoils of his
rifle. For he was a fine sportsman, and spent his hours of recreation
hunting on the prairie, "shooting for glory" as Texans say of a man,
who hunts not for food, but for amusement. The Durhams lived in a
small log house on the road to the ferry. Every one coming into town,
and every one going out of town passed Mrs. Durham's. Her sitting-room
was as entertaining as the local news in the weekly paper. There was
no restraint in Mrs. Durham's company; people could be themselves
without fear of criticism. She was not pretty, not stylish, not
clever, not in the least fashionable, but she was the favorite of
women, who were all of these things. There were no carpets on her
floors, and there was a bed in the room wherein her friends
congregated. She did not go to entertainments, and I never saw a cup
of tea served in her house, yet she was the most popular woman in
Austin, and not to be free of Mrs. Durham's primitive log house, was
to be without the hall mark of the inner circle.
Taking all things together, the life lived by the women of Austin at
that date was a joyous, genial existence. All had plenty of servants,
and they could not then give notice, nor yet pack their little parcel
and go without notice so then houses once comfortably ordered,
remained so for lengthy periods. Their chief employment appeared to be
an endless tucking of fine muslin, and inserting lace in the same.
Very little but white swiss or mull was worn, and morning and evening
dresses were known by the amount of tucking and lace which adorned
them. Some of the women chewed snuff without cessation, and such
women, neither "tucked," nor "inserted." They simply rocked
to-and-fro, and put in a word occasionally. It must be remembered,
that the majority of women who "dipped" had likely formed the habit,
when it was their only physical tranquilizer, through days and nights
of terror, and pain, and watchfulness; and that the habit once formed
is difficult to break, even if they desired to break it, which was not
a common attitude.
In 1856, I knew of only two pianos in the city of Austin, one was in
the Governor's mansion, the other belonged to a rich Jewish family
called Henricks. I think there were certainly more scattered in the
large lonely planter's houses outside the city, but in the city
itself, I remember only these two. There was no book store in the
city, and books were not obvious in private houses; and if there had
been any literary want felt, there was wealth enough to have satisfied
it.
How did the women amuse themselves? I often asked myself this
question. There was no theatre, no hall for lectures or concerts, no
public library, no public entertainments of any kind, except an
occasional ball during the sitting of the legislature. Yet for all
this, and all this, I reiterate my statement that the women of Austin
fifty-six years ago lived a joyous and genial life. It was their
pleasant and constant custom to send word to some chosen lady, that
they, with Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. were coming to spend the following day
with her. If the day was hot, they arrived soon after nine o'clock,
got quickly into loose garments and slippers, took out their tucking,
and palm leaf fans, and subsided into rocking-chairs. They could all
talk well, and by noon were all ready for the delicious dinner sure to
be prepared. It consisted usually of young chicken fried in butter,
venison roasted with sweet herbs, or the broiled breasts of quails,
which cost them about ten cents a dozen, or, if later in the season, a
pot-pie of wild turkey. Strong coffee always accompanied the meal, and
if any lady could by good luck, or good management, secure milk or
cream for a tapioca pudding, or a dish of cup custard, the occasion
was memorable. About four o'clock they began to dress, and the
carryall arrived; because after half-past-four the invasion of the
male might be expected, and it was a point of honor to throw a little
mystery around these meetings. Robert once asked me how we had passed
the time.
"In different ways," I answered.
"You talk of course?" he continued.
"Yes, we talk."
"What about?"
"Many things."
"Can you not tell me some of them?"
"It is not worth while, Robert."
"You do not wish to tell me?"
"Perhaps."
"It might be, that you are afraid to tell."
"It might be."
"Tell me, Milly. Don't be provoking."
"You never tell me, Robert, what George Durham, and Mr. Simcox, and
Wash Hill, and the rest of your companions talk about. You always say,
if I ask you, 'It is not worth telling.'"
But when the evening shadows fell, and we sat outside under the great
planets shining above us--and apparently twice the size they appear in
more northern latitudes--the sweet influences of the Pleiades were too
powerful to resist, and I generally then confided to Robert any
touching or amusing incident, that had been talked over by us. But
sometimes Orion was in the ascendant, and his binding virtues helped
me to keep silence, and to be provoking. It must have been Orion at
these times, for there is naturally nothing secretive about me.
Our topics were nearly always strictly local, and men dearly love
local topics, for instance there was a very pretty old lady frequently
present, no matter where the meeting was held. She was a Mrs. R----,
aged about sixty-five, the wife of an old Texan Major who had been in
every scrimmage that had occurred between the Trinity and the Rio
Grande. He was a hale, handsome man far in his eighties, and had
virtually lived with his rifle in his hand--on the whole a rather
unmanageable human quantity, except in the hands of his pretty little
wife. Being near neighbors she was in my house nearly every day, and
perhaps the most welcome visitor we had. She was a Highland Scotch
woman, from the city of Perth, still beautiful, and always dressed
with piquant suggestion of her native land. Robert paid her great
attention, and she sent Robert, three or four days every week, a basin
of the Scotch broth he loved so naturally, and to which I had never
been able to impart the national flavor.
One day when there was a small gathering in my parlor she joined it.
Every one immediately noticed that the pretty pink color of her cheeks
had vanished, and that she looked jaded and half-angry. For a moment I
thought she was going to cry. Not at all! She flushed pinker than
ever, and in an hysterical voice, blended of anger and pity, and the
faintest suggestion of laughter, said,
"Ladies, I'm picking my steps over an unkent road. I will not believe
that anybody has traveled it afore me."
"It is the Major, of course!" sighed Mrs. Tannin, shaking her head
sadly.
"Yes, Mrs. Tannin, it's the Major. The man is in perfect agony. He has
been raving about his room for three days and nights, and Dr.
Alexander says the trouble is like to go on for weeks, or even
months."
"Whatever is the matter, Mrs. R----?" I asked.
"That Comanche arrow, I reckon," said Mrs. Smith.
"Perhaps it is the dengue fever," suggested Mrs. East.
The little woman shook her head. "It is neither one, nor the other,"
she answered. "It is nothing natural, or ordinary. I'm sorry for the
man. 'Deed am I, but I cannot for the life of me, help a quiet snicker
when not seen. Ladies, the Major is cutting a whole set of new
teeth."
"Impossible!"
"'Deed it is the very truth. The doctor lanced his gums this morning,
as if he was a baby, and I saw the teeth all ready to be born, as it
were. The Major was swearing and groaning, and the doctor, who is
very religious, telling him 'to be quiet,' and me trembling with fear,
and begging Ben for his pistol."
"Did he give it to you?"
"Finally he threw it down on the table, and told me to 'hobble the
thing,' which I did by locking it up in my own drawer, and putting the
key in my pocket," and she tapped her pocket significantly, to
intimate that it was still there.
"Was it Dr. Litten," I asked, "who operated?"
"No," she answered. "It was Dr. Alexander, and he was very irritating,
calling Ben an old baby, who made more fuss about cutting teeth than
the whole twenty-two babies in Austin, whom he knew, that day, were
sucking their mother's milk and cutting their teeth. I thought then
the Major would strike him--sure! And again when he was wiping his
lance, and said, very kind like, 'Major, I do pity you,' my man
answered furiously, 'Be off with your pity, and don't come here again
with it.'"
Some one remarked that it was a dreadful situation, and then the
little wife declared, "It wasn't like Ben to make a fuss about pain.
He had come home one day," she said, "with a Comanche feather sticking
out of his back, and had suffered everything but death, and been as
meek and mild as any Christian could be. And yet _now_!" she
continued, "he is raging around like a mad bull; he is smashing my
china vases, and flinging his broth out of the window, and swearing at
the new teeth till he hasn't another word left--forbye, he vows he
will have the first and the last of them pulled out, as sure and quick
as they come. O ladies, it is dreadful! Dreadful!" And then she looked
at us with such a comical, lugubrious expression, that further
restraint was out of the question. For Mrs. R---- was between laughing
and crying, and I am afraid we all laughed a little with her. But the
incident, though so unusual, was, however, a fact, though how it came
to pass, let the doctors tell. We could do nothing but sympathize and
offer to make all sorts of nice, soft, mushy dishes for the Major's
sore gums. When Robert came home I did not try to keep the Major's
condition from him, and I felt sure he was contemplating the effect
the news would make in his office the next morning; for undoubtedly
men love gossip, though they usually call it politics.
I do not know how far this pleasant, homely visiting was imitated by
the women living on the outlying ranches and plantations, but I think
it likely something of the same kind exists in all tropic countries,
where the dwellings of friends are far apart. It was, however, only a
superficial quality of the real Texan woman, who was, when I knew her,
more than half a century ago, brave and resourceful, especially when
her environment was anxious and dangerous. They were then nearly
without exception fine riders and crack shots, and quite able, when
the men of the household were away, to manage their ranches or
plantations, and keep such faithful guard over their families and
household, that I never once in ten years, heard of any Indian, or
other tragedy occurring.
I have dwelt a little on the character of the Texan woman, because she
was in superficial matters and in all her environments a new creation
to me. No one knows better than I do, that woman, in all essential
characteristics, is the same yesterday, today, and forever, yet the
readiness with which she lends herself to the variations of race,
climate, caste, creed, nationality, and conditions of every kind, is
the greatest charm of her feminality. Thus, in detailing the scene
with Mrs. R----, I was instinctively led to picture a group of
Scotchwomen, sitting socially together and listening to a similar
story. I could see them, not in comfortable lounging gowns, but
corseted, collared, cuffed, and belted to the last point of endurance
and sewing, of course, for a Ladies' Aid, or Dorcas Society. If, into
the midst of such a group was flung the news of a man near ninety
years old cutting a new set of teeth, I know it would be received with
looks of frigid disapproval. If assured that it was not an unseemly
joke, but an undoubted fact, they would still disapprove such a
departure from the decorum of old age.
Perhaps some one might suggest there was a mistake, "it being a
circumstance clean beyond the bounds of probability"; then, if told
the medical man had seen the new teeth, the question would be, what
medical man? And, if he was not one attending their family, his skill
would be as certainly doubted, as would be the orthodoxy of any
minister, they did not "sit under." If, finally, the incident got a
tardy, grudging admission, some one would "suppose the fact--if it was
a fact--ought to be reported to the Royal Society of Surgeons and
Physicians in London"; and some one else would be certain to answer,
"The Royal Society is already well acquainted with the like of such
cases. It has published accounts of them more often than you think. My
mother has read the same--whiles."
This assertion, not being deniable, would elicit the reflection that
there was then nothing beyond the ordinary in the circumstance, except
that such a thing should happen to the Major, "who had always been the
most proper of men, a member of St. Jude's Kirk, and of the very best
society"; and this reflection would probably end the matter. There
would be no sympathetic words, and no offers of nice, soft, mushy
things to eat for a man nearly ninety, who could so flagrantly violate
the ordinary Scotch traditions with regard to teething. How women of
other nationalities would receive such a piece of news, I leave my
readers to decide. One thing is certain, no two groups of different
race and environments, creed or education, would take even such a
simple household matter in quite the same spirit and manner. Let men
be thankful for the variableness of women. It provides them
continually with something to admire, or to wonder over.
Among such scenes and people as I have been describing I spent nearly
ten years; and the first three or four of these ten were, in some
respects, the happiest years of my life. Their very memory is a
blessing unto this day, for often, when I am heart and brain weary, it
steals upon me, swift and sweet and sure as a vision. I smell the
China trees and the pine. I hear the fluting of the wind, and the
tinkling of guitars. I see the white-robed girls waltzing in the
moonshine down the broad sidewalks of the avenue, and the men, some in
full evening dress, and others in all kinds of picturesque frontier
fashion, strolling leisurely down its royally wide highway. I am
sitting in the little wood house, with its whitewashed ceilings and
unpainted stairway and one sits at my side, who left me forty-five
years ago. Oh, believe me! He who raised the shade of Helen, had no
greater gift than mine!
About the middle of October Robert finished the work intrusted to him
by the Ways and Means Committee of the Session of 1856, and finished
it so well, and so completely, that Senator J. W. Throckmorton,
Chairman of the Senate Committee, and the Honorable C. W. Buckley,
Chairman of the House Committee, entered in their report to the House,
the following acknowledgment:
The balance sheet will show the exact pecuniary condition of the
affairs of the Board in every point, and it is unnecessary to say
more upon the subject, than to invite an inspection of it. The
Committee were extremely fortunate in procuring the services of a
gentleman to act as their Secretary, so well qualified to perform
the duties, and so thoroughly versed in book-keeping as Mr. Barr.
His qualifications have lightened their labors, and an inspection
of the exhibit prepared by him, is only necessary to prove how
fortunate we have been in procuring his services.
I was exceedingly proud of this notice, and it was very fortunate for
Robert, for Mr. Shaw, the comptroller, immediately offered him the
second desk in his office, so that he had his friend, George Durham,
for his confrère. I had not even an hour's time to be anxious, for
Robert went at once from the committee room to the comptroller's
office, and in all probability the future was settled for many years.
That was what I thought, and I put out of my memory all the sorrowful
past, and counted the present as its compensation.
CHAPTER XIV
THE BEGINNING OF STRIFE
"Pride in their port,
Defiance in their eye,
I see the lords of humankind pass by."
I had written home many times since we left Memphis, and had fully
described all that we had seen and heard, as well as all that had
happened to us, and I had received several letters in reply to mine.
But all had made me a little anxious about my mother's health, and I
knew that she was fretting about our being so far from England. "Death
cannot so completely separate us, Milly," she wrote; "indeed, when I
am dead, I shall often be close to you." She was right. Time and
distance are two sharp swords. Distance cuts apart, and time teaches
forgetfulness.
Now trouble of all kinds is voluble, and has plenty of words, but
happiness was never written down. Happiness is like religion; it is a
mystery, and should not be explained or reasoned about. I find it
difficult to put into words the pictures of the life full of all
things good, which God gave me for the next four years, and I am glad
that it had the little shadows necessary for its full flavor and
strength. For it is a poor, weak happiness that is devoid of small
worries and disagreeables; these things being the tonic bitters
without which we should weary even of our pleasures.
So I had differences of opinion with my hired slaves. I did not
understand the negro woman then, any better than I understand the
Finnish or Irish woman now. I thought right was always right, and that
all women, of whatever race, ought to do right; and Robert's advice
about "making allowances" was not agreeable. Robert himself did not
always deserve, or, at least obtain, my approval; and my friends did
and said things I thought they ought not to do and say. The children
would play down at the creek, soil and tear their dresses, and then be
sure to show themselves when they were not fit to be seen. Sometimes
the dinner was a failure, sometimes the weather was all wrong for my
purposes, sometimes I did not get the letter I was expecting.
For my twenty-sixth birthday Robert had bought me a piano, and it did
not arrive in Austin until two weeks after it was due. I had not
touched a piano for more than a year, and my fingers ached for the
ivory keys. Those two weeks were hard to bear. I forgot all my other
blessings. I knew that if hope brightened life, patience strengthened
it, but I did not want to exercise patience at this time, and I
worried all the pleasure out of the gift before I received it. I was
sorry enough afterwards, but I could not undo the wrong. I had spoiled
the gift by those self-inflicted wounds, which are always lost griefs.
The piano has gone, I know not where, but the memory of my fretful
unreasonableness is still with me, and can still cause me moments of
keen sorrow and chagrin.
On July the second, A.D. 1857, I had a son, and all other joys were
forgotten in the delight of this event. Early in the morning I had
sent Mary and Lilly to the hotel to spend the day with Jenny Smith,
and neither Robert nor I remembered them, till the negro woman, at
eight o'clock at night, reminded us of their absence. Then I laughed
and looked at the boy lying at my side, and Robert laughed and said
that he had "forgotten"; my thoughts flew back to the birth of my
eldest brother at Shipley, and to my jealousy of the attentions he
received. It was my mother then. Now it was I. I looked again at the
boy, but I resolved to be particularly affectionate to the two girls
when they reached home, which they did about nine o'clock, weary and
sleepy, and wondering why they had been neglected so long. Nor were
they any more impressed with their first brother, than my sister Jane
and I had been with ours. Mary asked what he was called; and when I
answered, "His name is to be Calvin," she said, "Oh!" and Lilly said,
"What a queer name!" Then I asked if they did not remember Calvin
Fackler, their father's friend in Memphis, and they went sleepily to
their bed, without any further notice of their new brother.
Soon after this event I received my first copy of _Harper's Weekly_.
It had no illustrations then, but I have never forgotten a story I
read in its pages, called "The White Cat." A few numbers later the
illustrations began--the clever but terrible ones relating to the
Sepoy rebellion. These illustrations were reproduced from a prominent
London paper, and I had no intimation then of a coming day when the
arrival of the regular pictures from London papers at Harper Brothers,
would mean to me a respectable part of my income. These first pictured
scenes of the mutiny had, however, to Robert and myself a powerful
personal interest. Often we recalled the dream which had prevented us
from going to Calcutta, and sent us westward to New York instead. For,
when we cannot be guided by the ordinary course of events, the bars of
the body are unlocked at dark, sleep falleth on the sensitive soul,
and it is warned, or taught by dreams, which are the walking of God
through sleep.
After Calvin's birth I began to be very uneasy about my mother's
health. She no longer spoke of our meeting again; she wrote shorter
and shorter letters, and her clear, fine writing was shaken and
changed. It had always had one marked peculiarity--a frequent
disconnection of letters that should have been united--a signal and
exclusive sign, occultists say, of a spiritual nature ever ready to
detach itself from the material, and endowed with high psychic powers.
This diagnosis would be very true in my mother's case: she lived in
the visible, but was always ready for the invisible. Such tendencies,
however, were in her day unrecognized, and those who possessed them
were shy of admitting the fact. The church universally considered all
phenomena it did not promulgate as a new kind of sin. Even John
Wesley's psychic intelligence was regarded as a lapse of his usual
wisdom, and his book embodying it carefully consigned to oblivion. So
Mother told me visions and warnings she never named to Father and
rarely to my sister Jane, who was not mystical in any form. If a
vision or dream was in the Bible, Father and Jane believed it firmly,
if it was not in the Bible, they had serious doubts. And I have always
felt that this want of spiritual confidence between my father and
mother was a great wrong to their love. It wounded it in its noblest
attributes; it denied it expansion in its purest aspirations; it
ignored too often the spiritual bond between them, which, if given its
due regard, is far, far stronger than any tie mere flesh and blood can
form. But we cannot cross a stile till we come to it, and the world is
even now only just beginning to seek after that sixth sense, lost in
the abyss of some great moral fall.
At this time Mother was not fifty-two years old, and an Englishwoman
of that age should be in the plentitude of her beauty and vigor. But
she had worn life away in an unbroken service of love, for which she
was physically most unfit; for, in those days there were no trained
nurses, no anodyne to ease severe pain, except laudanum; no
alleviations, either for the sick, or for those whose affection bound
them to help and comfort the sick. She was not fifty-two and dying,
and she knew it. But many afflictions and one Love had made strong her
faith, and she said in her last letter to me, "I am no longer anxious
about your dear father. The everlasting arms are his support and
refuge. My watch is nearly over, your little sisters must take my
place. They know _who_ will help them. We shall meet again, Milly, but
not in this world, darling, not in this world."
With the Holy Name on her lips, she went away simply and solemnly, as
if fulfilling some religious rite. I received the news of her
departure one day when the house was full of company. I put the letter
in my breast and said no word about it, for it was only to God I could
speak of this sorrow; the common words of sympathy the news would have
evoked, could not have comforted me. Even when Robert's tears mingled
with mine, for he loved her dearly, I was not consoled. For a long
time, daily life felt thin and haggard. I had no mother to write to,
and my heart was troubled because I knew that I might have written to
her oftener. I might have given her hopes that would have made death
easier. Oh, why had I not done these things? For it is not the flowers
on the coffin, but the flowers we strew on the daily life of our dear
ones that show the true affection. And it was too late! O daughters of
good mothers, give while God permits you, the kind words, the smiles
of understanding affection, the little attentions and gifts, that
will brighten your mother's last days. I do not know why I should have
written "daughters of _good_ mothers." God makes no exceptions in his
positive command to "Honor thy Father and thy Mother."
I might have done more! that was the bitter refrain that for a long
time made all my memories of the sweetest, tenderest mother sorrowful.
But she has forgiven me long ago, and the vast breadth and depth of
the river of death is now constantly bridged by our thoughts of each
other. We walk far apart, but when I think of her, I know that she is
thinking of me, and I wave my hand in greeting to her. Does she see
the lifted hand? I believe she does. Why do I believe it? Because the
soul is a diviner, and the things it knows best are the things it was
never told. Whatever it divines, is revealed truth. Whatever it is
told, may either be doubted or received.
For nearly a year after the birth of Calvin, there was not much change
in the domestic life of Austin. The days slipped into weeks and
months, and were, as the waves of the ocean, all alike, and yet all
different. But early in 1859 changes so great were present, that it
was impossible any longer to ignore them. There were bitter disputes
wherever men were congregated, and domestic quarrels on every
hearthstone, while feminine friendships melted away in the heat of
passionate arguments so well seasoned with personalities. There were
now three distinct parties: one for remaining in the Union; a second
which demanded a Southern Confederacy, and a third which wished Texas
to resume her independence and to fly the _Lone Star_ flag again. It
was a quarrel with three sides, and the women universally entered into
it, with so much temper, that I could not help thinking they had all
exercised too much long suffering in the past, and were now glad of a
lawful opportunity to be a little ill-natured.
It may be strange, but it is the truth, that I seldom heard slavery
named as a reason for secession. The average Texan had but a slight
security for his slaves. The journey to the Rio Grande was not long or
difficult for a man bent on freedom, who was sure to be succored and
helped by every party of Indians or Mexicans he met. Arriving at the
river, he had only to walk across some one of its shallow fords, and
touch land on the other side a free man. The number of slaves who
freed themselves by this way was considerable every year, and I heard
many slave owners say that they would be well satisfied to give their
slaves freedom on such terms as the English slave owners obtained.
What really excited them was the question of state rights. They were
furious with the United States Government's interference in their
state's social and domestic arrangements. They would not admit its
right to do so, and were mad as their own prairie bulls, when
compulsion was named. I heard arguments like these, both from men and
women constantly; they talked of nothing else, and the last social
gathering at my house was like a political arena.
So I was not sorry when on April the sixteenth, my daughter Alice was
born, and I could retire for a few weeks into comparative solitude,
and peace. Robert brought me the news from the Capitol every day, and
it was as uncertain and changeable as the wind. One day war was
inevitable, and Houston was coming from Washington to lead the
Unionist party; and perhaps the next day it was the pen, and not the
sword, that would settle the matter. I began to grow indifferent. "The
quarrel is all bluster," I said to Robert, "and their talk of war will
fizzle out, some way or other, into a question of dollars and cents."
And I was vexed because Robert shook his head at my opinion, and
replied, "Well, Milly, I heard George Durham say something like that
this morning, and an old Texan in the crowd told him he was all wrong.
'We are against seceding just now,' he said, 'but we shall be drug
into it, and then we'll be so all-fired mad, we'll fight like a lobos
wolf, who, the longer he fights, the better he fights.'"
"You always look at the dark side, Robert," I complained; and he
sighed and answered wearily, "It is generally the right side, Milly."
One night, after a long, anxious day, I was conscious of that peculiar
disturbance of heart and body, which warns of latent enmity or coming
danger. My flagging soul felt
"As if it were a body in a body,
And not a mounting essence of fire."
and though Robert was near me, I thought myself the most forlorn of
women. All the sorrow of the world seemed to surround me, unseen, yet
full of motion, and the terror of the dark grew, and my soul trembled
in all her senses. Then I fell asleep--the dreary sleep of an unhappy,
fearful woman. I was on a vast plain, dark and lonely, with the black
clouds low over it, and the rain falling in a heavy, sullen downpour;
and, as I stood with clasped hands, but without the power to pray, a
great white arch grew out of the darkness. It seemed high as heaven,
and wide as the horizon, and I wondered at its beauty and majesty.
But, as I looked, I saw a black line down the center of it grow to a
visible break, and this break grow wider and wider, until one-half of
the arch fell to the ground, amid groans and cries, far off, but
terrible. At the same moment I saw a _Presence_ of great height, dim
and shadowy, standing beside the ruined arch, and he cried for the
_birds of prey_ in a voice that filled all space. Turning north, and
south, and east, and west, he cried, "_Come! and I will give you flesh
to eat!_"
From this dream I awoke in a maze of awe and wonder. I rose and went
to the open door, and stood leaning against its lintel, carefully
thinking over every detail of what I had seen and heard. It was hardly
dawn, and that most pathetic of all objects, the waning moon, was
sinking low to the horizon, and the whole world was wrapped in a gray
mystery. For a few moments I saw Nature in those ineffable moments
when she was asleep--so still, so cool, so soft and vapory in all her
tints--her very face shrouded in a mist-like veil. I turned to Robert;
he also was asleep, but I felt that I must tell him the message given
me, while the spirit of it was still on me. I awakened him, and he
listened in silence to what I had to say; but when I ceased speaking,
he sighed and answered,
"It is war, then, Milly, and may God help us!"
"It is war, long and cruel war, Robert. What shall we do? Will you
return to England? You know Sister Mary told us in her last letter,
that your mother wished you to come home, and would do all she could
to help you."
"Nothing could induce me to go back to Scotland," he answered
positively.
"Then where shall we go?" I asked.
"Let us remain here, in Austin. I like the people, and I like the
country. I am willing to share its fortune, war or peace--if you will
share it with me."
"Robert!" I said fervently, "your country is my country, and your
friends are my friends."
"Well, then, dear, we have been warned, and we must not neglect the
warning. We must make all the preparation possible."
"You must have a good deal of money saved, Robert?" I asked.
"No, Milly, I have not. I have invested all the extra money I made in
land," he answered. "I was working for our own little plantation some
day."
Then I asked if, in the changes likely to occur, he would be in danger
of losing his position in the comptroller's office, and he said, "It
is possible. The United States Government has been kind and generous
to me," he added, "and I have no intention of taking any oath against
it."
"But if Texas should become a republic again?"
"She will not. Her enormous wealth is yet undeveloped. She has no
money to carry on a government. I know that positively."
We sat talking of probabilities until the dawn grew to sun-rising, and
then we rode out to Mr. Illingworth's place, and had our cup of coffee
with him and his wife. And one of the first things he said was, "I
tell you, Barr, there will be a turning up and out in the government
offices when Houston comes home."
"He is coming, then?" asked Robert.
"Yes. You will see him some morning soon, sitting in front of Tong's
grocery, looking like a lion, and wearing a Serape Saltillero[3] like
a royal mantle. I can't help admiring the man, though I do not like
him. In a far-off way he reminds me of Oliver Cromwell."
"Where is he now?"
"In some small room in a Washington hotel, faithfully attending every
session of the Senate, and every meeting of the Baptist church, and
unceasingly whittling hearts and anchors, and other such toys out of a
bit of pine wood."
"Whittling in church, and the Senate House?"
"In both places, in every place, and you will see him soon whittling
in front of Tong's grocery."
We did not see him until the fall, when he ran for the governorship of
Texas against his old enemy, Governor Runnels, whom he quickly talked
out of political existence, and then seated himself in the Governor's
chair. I do not intend to trouble my readers with the political events
of that date, excepting as they affected my own life; and, although
General Houston is the grandest and most picturesque figure in
American history, I shall refrain myself from magnifying either his
exploits, character, or personality. Are they not written in the books
of the historians, and in my own novel, "Remember the Alamo"? However,
for a short space it will be necessary to note the conditions of
affairs in Austin; for it was then the background of my story, but I
shall do this without prejudice, and without unnecessary length of
words.
An immense crowd came into Austin to witness Houston's inauguration,
and for long it did not altogether leave the city. The sweet, quiet,
flower-scented streets were no longer haunted on moonlight nights by
white-robed girls, and lovers singing "Juanita" to their tinkling
guitars. They were full of rangers and frontiersmen, of deserting
United States soldiers, waiting to join the Confederate army, and of
little squads of Lipan or Tonkaway Indians, who were the spies and
scouts of the United States army in their constant warfare against the
cruel and hostile Comanche and Apache tribes. Yet a very handsome
party of Apaches, under the watchful eyes of an Indian agent, visited
Houston; for, over all Indians, Houston had an extraordinary
influence. I do not remember being told that they had come with offers
of peace and alliance, but I think they would not have been permitted
to enter Austin under any other pretext. For there was speaking, and
often quarreling at every gathering point, and not unfrequently the
warning sound of a rifle or pistol shot. And, if a real scrimmage had
arisen among the white men of the three parties, it would have been an
enjoyable circumstance to either Apache or Comanche.
So I also kept quietly at home, teaching my two eldest girls and a few
others, for about three hours daily. I did not in any respect keep a
school as I did in Chicago, but I had always about four or five girls
whose education I looked a little after. I did this first, for the
sake of teaching, which was then, as it is to this day, a delight to
me, provided I have a bright, eager scholar. Secondly, I retained my
friends of all parties through their daughters. Thirdly, I loved then,
as I do yet, the company of girls. I was their confidant and friend,
as well as their teacher. They brought me intelligence from all
quarters, and they told me their sweet, little personal secrets. I
have never forgotten some of these girls, and they have never
forgotten me.
Thus I passed three or four hours every day in a manner I particularly
liked, and for the rest it went in looking after my dear children's
physical necessities, in humoring and pleasing Robert, and seeing that
his special comforts were attended to, and in bearing, as well as
human nature could do, the laziness, ignorance, and cunning diableries
of the negroes in the kitchen. There was little visiting, the proud,
retiring nature of the Southern woman showing itself as soon as
strangers and crowds became common in Austin. In these days the pretty
young girls in their white frocks and white sunbonnets vanished from
the streets; and the men who strutted about them, or loafed on chairs
a-tilt under the trees, moving round with the shadow all day, showed
plainly the daily deterioration of masculine humanity left to its own
devices and desires.
Houston's complete defeat of Runnels was considered a great triumph
for the Unionist party, and his influence undoubtedly put off
secession for another year. This was the year 1860, during the whole
of which there was the same restless looking forward to the war, every
one felt was inevitable, if Mr. Lincoln was elected President. I kept
quietly at home. Robert brought me the news and not infrequently a
visitor whom he thought would interest me. One afternoon he wrote,
saying, "The Indian agent and three of the chiefs in town will take
supper with us," and I was asked to set a plentiful table. In this
visit I took the greatest possible interest. I brought out my best
damask, and the richly gilded china that Robert's mother had given me
for a wedding present. She regarded it as almost too splendid to use,
and I could not help a little laugh, when I imagined her sensations,
if she could see these half-clothed savages drinking tea out of them.
Then I regretfully sighed, "Poor Mother!" For my heart had turned a
little towards her, since she had wished Robert to come home. I
adorned the table with flowers, and saw that chicken in every form was
prepared, and cakes, and pies in profusion. The party arrived
promptly, and I was introduced to the members who composed it. The
agent was a charming young man, full of all kinds of information, but
in the Indians I was much disappointed.
They were uncivil, self-centered, and could speak no English. And they
did not know how to eat the good things provided for them, for they
ate and drank every item of the meal _by itself_--vegetables alone,
meat alone, bread alone, and the only dish that appeared to please
them, was some cream and white of egg savored with vanilla and whipped
as stiff as possible. They laughed over this delicacy, exchanged
grunts of satisfaction, and handed me their glasses to be refilled.
After supper I played and sang for them. They watched me curiously,
but without pleasure, and were more interested in finding out where
the music came from than in the music itself. So Robert opened the
instrument, let them inspect the interior to see how the hammers
struck the wires, and they watched with fear and wonder, and exchanged
looks and interjections that expressed these emotions. To me there was
something pathetic, and yet obscene, in this shameless exhibition of
big, strong men clad like warriors, showing the fear and wonder of
little children. I told Robert to bring no more friendly savages to
see me, and that night I prayed with all my heart for any white woman
who might fall into their power.
During the summer of this year, 1860, there was a sudden lull in
events, but it was only the lull of warriors breathlessly watching. On
the election of Mr. Lincoln to the Presidency, they sprang as one man
to arms. Secession was now certain, and Houston found himself
compelled to summon a general convention, which met in Austin on the
twenty-seventh of January, 1861. It submitted secession to a popular
vote, and adjourned. I was present at this decision, and wondered at
the crowd of excited men submitting to the delay.
"We are _laggards_! _Laggards_ in duty!" cried an old frontiersman;
and Houston replied with calm dignity,
"Sir, we are acting as trustees for posterity. It becomes us to do all
things decently, and in order."
A loud, confused rattle of side arms was the only audible reply. It
might have been an assent to Houston's opinion, but it was more likely
to be a promise, that the duty would be fully redeemed.
I did not wonder at the old man calling Texans "laggards," for,
immediately after the election of Mr. Lincoln, South Carolina seceded;
Mississippi followed her in three weeks; Florida went out on January
the tenth, 1861; Alabama, on January the eleventh; Georgia, on January
the nineteenth; Louisiana, on January the twenty-fifth; so that, when
Houston called the Texas convention, six states had already made
preparations for meeting on February the fourth, at Montgomery,
Alabama, to organize a provisional Congress of Confederate States.
Robert told me that, in a conversation in the Governor's office, some
one spoke scornfully of this meeting, and Houston replied,
"Sir, it is an unlawful meeting, but it cannot be a contemptible one,
with such men as ex-President Tyler, Roger A. Pryor, and our own
Wigfall leading it."
"Is that all, Robert?" I asked, for I was always delighted to hear
anything about Houston.
"Very nearly. Some one added, 'There is Jefferson Davis, also.'"
"Oh! What did Houston say?"
"He said, 'I know Jefferson Davis, and I did not mention him, because
I know him. He is proud as Lucifer and cold as a lizard.'"
Then I had one of those unreasonable certainties, that are all-convincing
to the people who have them, and sheer foolishness to all ignorant of
their irresistible testimony; and I said, "Houston is right; my lips
shiver if they utter his name. He will bring ill-luck to any cause."
On the eighteenth of February, General Twiggs, the United States
commandant, surrendered to Houston all the national forces in
Texas--twenty-five hundred men, and national property valued at
$1,200,000. Five days afterwards, the vote on secession was taken.
There were forty thousand for secession and fourteen thousand against
it. These were anxious, eager days, and it was impossible to avoid
catching the popular fever. The convention met again on the second of
March, and on the fifth it at once adopted measures for entering the
Southern Confederacy, to which new government all state officers were
commanded to take the oath of allegiance on the fourteenth of March.
With two friends I went to the Capitol to witness the ceremony, and,
as we had seats in the front of the gallery, we looked down directly
upon a desk just below us, on which the Ordinance of Secession was
spread out. One of my companions was a most passionate Unionist, and
she pointed out the document with an unspeakable scorn and contempt.
The House was crowded; it was really electrified with the fiery
radiations of men tingling with passion, and glowing and burning with
the anticipation of revengeful battle. And the air was full of the
stirring clamor of a multitude of voices--angry, triumphant, scornful,
with an occasional oath or epithet of contempt.
But when Houston appeared there was a sudden silence. It was the
homage involuntarily paid to the man himself, not to his office.
Firmly and clearly, he refused to take the oath of allegiance to the
Confederate States; but the Lieutenant-Governor, a certain Edward
Clarke, was eager to do so. He was an insignificant creature, whose
airy conceit was a direct insult to Houston's sad countenance and
dignified manner; and I remember well how contemptible he appeared, as
spry and pert, he stepped up to the bar of the House to take the
oath. Just as he reached the desk, on which the Ordinance of Secession
lay, my Unionist friend, a bright, clever girl, of about sixteen years
old, leaned forward and spit directly on the centre of it. There was a
little soft laughter from the women sympathizers who saw the action,
and Clarke's handkerchief lay for a moment on the historical
parchment, but there was no remark, and the incident caused not the
slightest interruption.
"Why did you do that, Lucille?" I asked.
"To express my opinion. Did you see Clarke's handkerchief?"
"Yes."
"Then I suppose he got what I sent. And it is in Clarke's handkerchief!
In Clarke's pocket! Poor spittle! _What an ignominy!_"
Two days afterwards Clarke was made Governor in place of Houston.
Changes in all the government offices were likely to follow, and I
could not help feeling anxious concerning Robert's position. About
certain things he could be so stubborn. Men are made that way. They
have prejudices, and they call them principles, and then--sink or
swim, they stick to them.
Now an unreasonable detestation of slavery was one of Robert's
prejudices or principles. He would not allow that under any
circumstance it could be right, and all his sympathies were with the
slave. The majority of our small matrimonial frets were on this
subject. If he had been compelled to tew with, and to bear every hour
of the day the thieving, lying, and laziness of the three in our
kitchen, his pity for their condition would have been much modified. I
used to tell him this whenever the subject came up, but I could not
make him understand my position, because he lifted his argument out of
the personalities in our kitchen, and laid all their sins on the
condition of slavery. If he had been an unmarried man, I am sure he
would have gone to the Union army, but, being caught by circumstances
in a southern city, where he had been generously and kindly treated,
he felt, I think, much like Naaman, the Syrian, when he begged God's
pardon because circumstances compelled him to bow down in the house of
Rimmon.
But, if the question of slavery became a test question, there was no
telling what might happen, especially if it became a case of
conscience, for Scotchmen have an historical record for enjoying
"persecution for righteousness' sake." Then there was his English
citizenship. He had always refused to give it up, and how could he
expect a new government to pass by his allegiance, for the sake of his
financial knowledge. These questions troubled me much, as I sat sewing
through the long, sweet spring days.
One morning I walked to Henrick's store very early. They were just
opening it, and I sat down and waited. Suddenly through the clear,
cool air came the sound of military music, and the tramp of marching
men. It was the Second Texas, mustering for their march to the seat of
war. What a sight it was! Not one man in it weighed under one hundred
and eighty pounds, and the majority made the scale beam kick at two
hundred pounds. They were all very tall, wiry men, with not one ounce
of superfluous flesh on their big frames--straight as their own gun
barrels, with up-head carriage and full of that kind of spirit we call
"mettle" in a horse. My eyes filled with tears, and involuntarily I
prayed for the men as they passed. Alas, the Second Texas has a record
unsurpassed for bravery and misfortune! Its fine young captain was
killed at Corinth, and not a single man ever returned to Texas. Some
years after all of this splendid band of men had passed from life and
almost from memory, I had an opportunity of reading a letter which
contained the following passage,
"On the second night of the fight at Gettysburg, I was roused from
my sleep to help a friend look for his missing comrade. We went to
the battlefield and stepping among the shattered wrecks of
humanity, we turned up the dead faces to the moonlight. Suddenly
we heard a broken voice muttering, '_Second Texas! Second Texas!_'
It was the man we wanted. A cruel minie ball had ploughed out both
his eyes, and he was otherwise fatally wounded. He was almost
dead, and among the last of the gallant company, that I had
watched march so proudly and joyfully to meet their fate."
I came home from Henrick's store much depressed. The brooding
calamities of the Second Texas had affected me. I felt the doom that
hung over them, though I would not entertain it. Near home I met two
girls whom I knew. Their brothers were in the company; they had driven
them into it, and they were now crying because they had succeeded in
doing so. "What unreasonable creatures women are!" I thought. However,
in a great many cases, it was the women of a family who compelled the
men to enlist as soldiers, by a course of moral suasion no man with
any feeling could endure. They would not eat with them, speak to them,
or listen if spoken to. They ignored all their personal necessities,
or met them with constant tears and voiceless reproaches, and what man
could bear his family weeping over him, as if he was already dead to
their love and respect? The middle-aged, and the old men needed no
such treatment; they were generally hot and ready to fight for their
ideas. The young fellows wanted a tangible fact, and the saving of
their slaves did not tempt them easily to risk their own lives.
On April the fifteenth, 1861, my daughter Ethel was born. She was the
loveliest babe I ever saw, and I was so proud of her beauty, I could
hardly bear her out of my sight. Before she was two months old, she
showed every sign of a loving and joyous disposition. If I came into
the room she stretched out her arms to me; if I took her to my breast
she reached up her hand to my mouth to be kissed. She smiled and loved
every hour away, and the whole household delighted in her. Robert
could refuse her nothing; no matter how busy he was, if she sought his
attention, he left all and took her in his arms. I forgot the war, I
forgot all my anxieties, I let the negroes take their own way, I was
content for many weeks to nurse my lovely child, and dream of the
grand future she was sure to have.
Yet during this apparently peaceful pause in my life, the changes I
feared were taking place. The new Governor was dismissing as far as he
could all Houston's friends, and Robert had been advised to resign
before his sentiments concerning slavery, state rights, and his own
citizenship came to question.
"As things stand," Mr. Durham said to him, "your good will is taken
for granted. You have been prudent, and no one has been curious
enough to make inquiries. Better retire for a while; you will be
wanted when things are more settled."
So Robert "retired," but he did not tell me so, until Ethel was two
months old and I was in more radiant health and spirits than I had
been for some months. Of course I was shocked at first, but easily
convinced all had been done for the best, especially as Robert had all
the private accounting business he could do, and he had never yet
failed me. In all the changes I had seen, I had never wanted anything
necessary for comfort. So I said cheerfully to myself, "God and Robert
are a multitude," and my bread will be given, and my water sure.
The summer came on hot and early, and was accompanied by a great
drought. Pitiful tales came into town of the suffering for water at
outlying farms, the creeks having dried up, and even the larger rivers
showing great depletion. Then the cattle and game began to die of
thirst, and of some awful disease called "black tongue." Thousands lay
dead upon the prairies, which were full of deep and wide fissures,
made by the cracking and parting of the hot, dry earth.
The suffering so close at hand made me indifferent to what was going
on at a distance, and also all through that long, terrible summer, I
was aware that Robert was practicing a very strict personal economy.
So I was sure that he was not making as much money as he expected to
make, and when he asked me, one day, if I could manage with two
servants, I was prepared to answer,
"Dear, I can do with one, if it is necessary." And I was troubled when
he thankfully accepted my offer.
To be poor! That was a condition I had never considered, so I thought
it over. We could never want food in Texas, unless the enemy should
drive his cannon wheels over our prairies, and make our old pine woods
wink with bayonets. Then, indeed, the corn and the wheat and the
cattle might be insufficient for us and for them, but this event
seemed far off, and unlikely. Our clothing was in far less plentiful
case. My own once abundant wardrobe was considerably worn and
lessened. Robert's had suffered the same change, and the children's
garments wanted a constant replacing. But then, every one was in the
same condition; we should be no poorer than others. A poverty that is
universal may be cheerfully borne; it is an individual poverty that is
painful and humiliating.
Slowly, so slowly, the hot blistering summer passed away. It was all I
could do, to look a little after my five children. I dressed myself
and them in the coolest manner, and the younger ones refused anything
like shoes and stockings; but that was a common fashion for Texan
children in hot weather. I have seen them step from handsome carriages
barefooted, and envied them. People must live day after day where the
thermometer basks anywhere between 105 degrees and 115 degrees, to
know what a luxury naked feet are--nay, what a necessity for a large
part of the time.
Not a drop of rain had fallen for many weeks, and, when the drought
was broken, it was by a violent storm. It came up unexpectedly one
clear, hot afternoon, when all the world seemed to stand still. The
children could not play. I had laid Ethel in her cot, and was sitting
motionless beside her. The negroes in the kitchen were sleeping
instead of quarreling, and, though Robert and I exchanged a weary
smile occasionally, it was far too hot to talk.
Suddenly, the sky changed from blue to red, to slate color, and
then to a dense blackness, even to the zenith. The heavens seemed
about to plunge down upon the earth, and the air became so tenuous,
that we sighed as men do, on the top of a high mountain. Then on the
horizon there appeared a narrow, brassy zone, and it widened and
widened, as it grew upward, and with it came the fierce rush and moan
of mighty winds, slinging hail-stones and great rain-drops, from far
heights--swaying, pelting, rushing masses of rain fell, seeming to
displace the very atmosphere. But, Oh, the joy we felt! I cried for
pure thankfulness, and Robert went to a shaded corner of the piazza,
and let the rain pour down upon him.
When the storm was over, there was a new world--a fresh, cool,
rejoicing world. It looked as happy as if just made, and the children
were eager to get out and play in the little ponds. Robert and I soon
rallied. The drop in the temperature was all Robert needed, and I had
in those days a wonderful power--not yet quite exhausted--of
recuperation. If a trouble was lifted ever so little, I threw it from
me; if a sickness took but a right turn, I went surely on to recovery.
So as soon as the breathless heat was broken, I began to think of my
house and my duties. The children's lessons had been long neglected,
and my work basket was full to overflowing with garments to make and
to mend.
Very quickly I was so busy that I had no time for public affairs, and
then the war dragged on so long, that my enthusiasm was a little
cooled. Also I was troubled somewhat by Robert's continued lack of
employment. Food and clothing was dearer, and money scarcer than I had
ever before known them, and Robert had become impatient and was
entertaining a quite impossible idea--he wanted to rent a farm and get
away from the fret and friction of the times. I pointed out the fact
that neither of us knew anything about farming, and that Texas farming
was _special_ in every department. But in those days it was generally
supposed that any man could naturally farm, just as it was expected
that every girl naturally knew how to cook and to keep house. At any
rate, the idea had taken possession of him, and not even the
probability of prowling savages was alarming.
"All that come near the settlements are friendly," he said, "or if not
they are too much afraid of the Rangers to misbehave themselves."
"But, Robert," I answered, "very few of them think killing white women
and children 'misbehavior.'"
There is however no use in talking to a Scotchman who has made up his
mind. God Almighty alone can change it, so I took to praying. Perhaps
it was not very loyal to pray against my husband's plans, but
circumstances alter cases, and this farming scheme was a case that had
to be altered.
Events which no one had foreseen put a stop to this discussion at
least for a time. In the soft, hazy days of a beautiful November, a
single word was whispered which sent terror to every heart. It was a
new word--the designation of what was then thought to be a new
disease, which had been ravaging portions of the Old World, and had
finally appeared in the New. I had seen it described in _Harper's
Weekly_, and other New York papers, and I was afraid as soon as I
heard of it. Robert came home one day and told me Mrs. Carron's eldest
daughter was dead, and her other daughter dying. Every hour its
victims seemed to increase, and by December all of my friends had lost
one or more of their families. I remained closely at home, and kept my
children near me. Though they did not know it, I watched them day and
night.
On the eighth of December near midnight, I noticed that Ethel had
difficulty in nursing and appeared in great distress, and I sent for
the doctor with fear and trembling.
"_Diphtheria!_" he said; and the awful word pierced my ears like a
dart, and my spirit quailed and trembled within me. For no cure and no
alleviations had then been found for the terrible malady, and indeed
many people in Austin contended that the epidemic from which we
suffered, was not diphtheria, but the same throat disease which had
slain the deer and cattle by thousands during the summer.
In the chill gray dawn of the ninth, as the suffering babe lay
apparently unconscious on my knees, the Angel of Death passed by, and
gave me the sign I feared but expected--a warning not unkind but
inexorable. The next twenty-four hours are indescribable by any words
in any language. A little before they ended, the doctor led me into
another room. Then I fell on my face at the feet of the Merciful One,
and with passionate tears and outcry pleaded for her release--only
that the cruel agony might cease--only that--dear, and lovely, and
loving as she was, I gave her freely back. I asked now only for her
death. I asked Christ to remember his own passion and pity her. I
asked all the holy angels who heard me praying to pray with me. If a
mortal can take the kingdom of heaven by storm, surely my will to do
so at that hour stood for the deed. Breathless, tearless, speechless,
I lay at last at His Mercy. And it faileth not! In a few minutes
Robert entered. He looked as men look who come out of the Valley of
the Shadow of Death. I thought he also was dying. I stood up and
looked anxiously into his face, and he drew me to his heart, and said
softly, "All is over, Milly. She has gone."
What I suffered for many weeks only God knows, but at last he took
pity on my grief, and comforted me. One night Robert had gone to some
public meeting, the children were asleep, and I was walking up and
down the parlor floor, whispering to my heart my dead baby's name.
There was a lamp on a small marble table which I had pushed aside, in
order to get the full length of the room for my restless feet. On this
table there were a few books, and one small one was lying open, face
down upon the marble. Without thought I lifted it, and finding a leaf
crumpled, I mechanically began to straighten it. In doing so, my eyes
fell on two lines; from the rest of the page they stood out as if
illumined, and this was the message they brought me,
"Weep not for her, she is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise."
I saw nothing but these two lines. I wanted nothing more. They held a
strange and heavenly comfort for me. I kissed them reverently and put
the book in my bosom. Later I saw that they were part of a poem by a
prominent writer for _Blackwood's Magazine_, called Moir, a name well
known in the early part of the nineteenth century, and always dear to
my memory. I never learned the whole poem; I just took with a grateful
heart the two lines given me.
CHAPTER XV
THE BREAK-UP OF THE CONFEDERACY
"The little feet that never trod
Earth, never strayed in fields or street,
What hand leads upward back to God
The little feet?"
My readers must now be familiar with my surroundings, and after a lot
of consideration I have decided to relate much of my future experience
from the diaries I wrote in the very atmosphere of the times I am
depicting. Day by day the notes were made, short because I only wanted
them to stimulate memory and gratitude in the future. They have no
pretense whatever to being literature, even of the simplest kind, for
I never imagined that it could be possible, I should let any one but
God and myself see them. They are commonplace, but they are truth
itself. They are about household things, and the war is but
transiently mentioned, but they are human documents, and there are the
history books for those who want to know about the war.
I thought at first I would not copy the religious sentiments so
constantly interwoven, but when I tried to omit them, it felt like
putting God out of my life and book, and I could not do that, no, not
for the whole world. My first thought was that in this era of godless
youth, and material age, these spiritual aspirations and regrets
mingling with common daily life would provoke laughter. My second
thought refuted this opinion; there are plenty of good men and women
yet, I concluded, and to such a sincere religious sentiment, whether
expressed by mouth or pen, is respected. It may not always be
acceptable, but it is never ridiculous.
NOTES FROM MY DIARY OF 1862
_Jan. 1st._ Sat up to see the New Year in, and earnestly asked the
love and blessing of God on it. Mary poorly, and I sat by her making a
sacque for Lilly, and a little slip dress for Alice. Then I read an
hour to the children in "Nicholas Nickleby." Dr. and Jenny Alexander
called at night. Robert bought a hog, and had it cut up--must be
salted tomorrow.
_Jan. 10th._ A month ago today dear Ethel entered into rest. Robert
and I walked out to her grave, and strewed it with mignonette. When we
came back, Robert dug some potatoes out of the garden, and in the
evening I read "Nicholas Nickleby" to the children.
_Jan. 12th._ Sunday again. Ah, how little like Sundays that are past!
I feel no interest in church. I am afraid this is wrong. I went out to
Ethel's grave, and while there saw Mrs. Walker's baby buried. Died of
throat trouble. Lucy Goodrich walked home with me.
_Jan. 21st._ Robert had a conversation about changing this house for a
farm with a man I did not like. I have left this matter with God. I
was sewing and hearing children's lessons all day. In the evening I
read to them "Darius the Great."
_Jan. 27th._ Could not sleep, and got up soon after one o'clock and
sewed for two hours. Very high south wind, which always makes me
uncomfortable. All day long I was nervous and cross and alas! I may
say it was a lost day, for I neither made myself nor any one else
happy.
_Jan. 31st._ Teaching and sewing. Read "Cyrus" to Robert at night,
children at Mrs. Palm's for a candy pulling.
_Feb. 1st._ Teaching and sewing; Robert looking anxiously for a home
in the country. I do not say anything against it to him, but I have my
daily talks with God about it.
_Feb. 26th._ Bad political news. Fort Donelson and Nashville taken. It
has made us very low and anxious. Still, though much discouraged, I am
not hopeless. In some way or other, God always provides.
_Mar. 3rd._ Borrowed Mrs. Henrick's carriage, and drove out to see
the Bishop and Mrs. Gregg. Called on Mrs. Gillette coming back. Jenny
Alexander spent the evening with us.
_Mar. 13th._ Nashville and Columbus evacuated. Robert trying to sell
our house, and working for Palm balancing books. We went in the
evening to Ethel's grave, and planted jessamine and roses. Jenny
Alexander came out to us.
_Mar. 16th._ Sewing and hearing children's lessons, and at night
reading to them and Robert "Fortunes of Nigel." About eleven o'clock
we were awakened by the shouts of the Pony Post; Robert said they
meant good news, and he began to dress himself. Then all the bells in
town started ringing, and there was the greatest excitement. The
children were all awake, and I threw on my double gown and we went on
to the piazza to watch and listen until Robert came home. It was such
a lovely night, the mocking birds were singing rapturously, and I
think every dog in town was barking. When Robert came home, he said
Price and McCulloch had whipped the enemy in Missouri, and taken
thirty thousand prisoners, and Beauregard had taken fourteen regiments
in Tennessee. Texas may well rejoice, if it be so, but the Lord of
Hosts only knows.
_Mar. 29th._ I was doing some fine ironing all day; the negro in the
kitchen too sulky to trust. Jenny Alexander came in and helped me.
Bishop Gregg called in the afternoon, and I had a pleasant talk with
him. This is my thirty-first birthday. My birthday wish is, that I may
daily grow in grace. Robert was sad because he could give me no gift.
Poor fellow, I told him I would remember all the dear old ones, and I
asked God to bless me, and to direct all my way.
_Mar. 30th._ Thomas bought our house, and signed all the papers
relative to the sale.
_Mar. 31st._ A very unhappy day. I was in a bad temper, Robert was
miserable, and the children wondered at me. Dear God, forgive me!
_Apr. 9th._ Sewing and teaching; made a delicious beefsteak pie for
dinner. Went to see Mrs. Henrick's in the afternoon; in the evening to
Mrs. Durham's. Poor little Sally, whom I suckled for nearly two months
when her mother had fever, just dead of diphtheria!
_Apr. 10th._ Went to see Sally for the last time. It was Ben
McCulloch's funeral, also. The cemetery was crowded. When we got back
from Sally's funeral, her sister Leanore was dying. She breathed her
last at five o'clock.
_Apr. 19th._ A Mr. Stockton and his wife came to close with Robert for
their farm. I was glad the wife came. Women are so much harder to
please than men when they are buying. Everything went to pieces. I
knew it would from the woman's face. I wonder how it is that men like
women--at least, some women. Dear Robert tried to comfort me; he
thought I was disappointed, and I honestly tried to comfort him, for
he was very much disappointed. He smiled at my brave words, and said
of course all was for the best. I wonder if he really thought so--for
it has been a very hard, anxious week.
_Apr. 24th._ Made a shirt for Robert, and heard children's lessons.
Robert far from well, and hope sometimes dies within me. Dear God,
forget not that it is in Thee, in Thee only, I hope and trust.
_Apr. 28th._ Robert has gone with a Mr. Spenser to see his place on
the Brushy. I know it is all useless expense, but I dare not say so to
Robert. He seems to have no hope but in this direction, and I must not
take his last hope from him. Despondent men have bad temptations. He
must have his dream until he gets work. Make no tarrying, O my God!
David knew all about "waiting on God." He durst even ask God to hurry.
That is the way I feel this morning.
_May 3rd._ Gun boats at New Orleans; all gloom here in consequence.
Robert still looking for a farm. I asked him today what kind of farm
he wanted, and he said, a dairy farm, and then told me what Thaxton
made every week from his butter alone, and all gold. Butter! That
makes me still more set against farming. Who is to make the butter?
_May 4th._ Very, very anxious. I have hardly spirit left to attend to
the children. For many months I have been fighting this weary
bug-a-boo of a farm. I think a change of trouble would be a little
relief. This day I am "out" with life.
_May 5th._ I am so happy! God is so good! I knew He would be good.
Robert is to go back to his desk in the comptroller's office. Mr.
Durham called today and told him so. He has forgotten all about
farming. He went this afternoon and rented the Cook place, and
tomorrow we remove there. I have been singing all afternoon. God has
visited me with a blessing in both hands, for not only has Robert got
back his old desk, but I have been given the very desire of my heart.
Ever since I came to Austin, I have longed to live in the Cook place,
but never until now has it been to rent.
It was a big rambling log house on the top of a hill. The town, the
capitol and state offices were below it, and the river and the
mountains surround it. It stood in an enclosure full of forest trees
in front, and behind there was a yard shaded with mulberry trees,
ending in a meadow running down to a beautiful creek, and beside this
creek there was a stable. The main part of the house was built of
immense square cut logs in old Texan fashion, opposite doors to every
room, and no windows. It had cupboards and pantries to my heart's
content, and a little roofed passage way connected it with the kitchen
and servant's quarter. The parlor and one other room were of modern
construction, and I made the public welcome to them. I chose for
myself a large log room, with a fireplace one could burn a cord of
cedar in. It was always delightfully cool in the hottest weather; it
was always warm and cheerful in winter. If I had the money I would
build me a log house today. I would cover it with vines, and among the
leaves put gourds for the martins to build in, and I would say to the
swifts, "Sister swallows, you are welcome to my chimney."
For eighteen months I lived in this beautiful place, the life of a
completely happy woman. Time went back for me, and I grew young again
and joyous and hopeful as my own children. Robert made sufficient for
our necessities, and now that we had a stable he bought a couple of
mustang ponies. They were beautiful creatures, fine pacers, and cost
ten dollars in "specie" each. Robert and I rode out before breakfast
nearly every morning to Billingsley's garden, and bought cantaloupes
and tomatoes for the day, and Mary and Lilly soon became clever
horsewomen. Mary rode swiftly and gracefully; Lilly was very daring,
and took wood or water or anything that came in her way.
I followed my usual duties, attending first of all to my children's
lessons--then sewing, knitting, reading aloud to them, and to Robert,
cooking special dishes et cetera. My diary shows that I had an
extraordinary amount of company, and that, some way or other, I found
time to call upon a large number of friends, and moreover that for
days and weeks together, I helped Robert with the tax rolls of the
different counties. The following are a few illustrating notes:
_June 23rd._ Rode before breakfast with Robert to Billingsley's,
afterwards attended to the children. They went riding, and I was
checking rolls for Robert all day. Heard that Memphis had fallen.
Called on the Durhams in the evening.
_July 2nd._ Calvin's birthday. He is five years old. God bless the
boy. I thank God for him. Mary Gregg spent the day with us. I gave the
children a holiday, and was sewing, and tatting, and listening to Mrs.
Illingworth's troubles. After supper, Robert and I had a walk, and
then I played and sang an hour for him.
_July 11th._ This is my wedding anniversary. Twelve years ago Robert
and I were married. That was a happy day, this is twelve times
happier. Mr. Durham sent me a basket of grapes, and a pair of ducks
for dinner. Robert and I had a walk in the evening, and he said many
good and tender words to me. Oh, what a happy woman I am!
_July 18th._ Rode out to Illingworth's, and brought Mollie in to spend
the day. When I got home found Mollie Beadles, Mollie Peck, and Betty
Elgin were waiting. They brought the news of McClellan's defeat, and
surrender. The town seemed drunk with excitement. There was shouting
and bell ringing, and the continual cracking of firearms. I managed to
find dinner enough for everybody, and we had a merry meal. In the
evening Robert and I walked to Ethel's grave. Truly it is better to go
to the House of Mourning, than to the House of Mirth.
_Aug. 20th._ Have been working hard on the tax rolls every day for a
week, and a Mr. Bell worked till after midnight with Robert on his
roll. Robert has made a deal of money this month, but somehow it has
not been as happy as it should have been.
_Sept. 21st._ A pleasant day for Robert was at home, but I am not
happy. I have been drifting away from God, while I have been so busy.
I went to Ethel's grave in the afternoon, but felt no better. No swift
word of prayer or love leaped from my heart. There was no call for me,
and no word, or even thought for me. I was cold and lonely. The Great
Companion had left me. Well, I deserved it. I have neglected my
private reading and prayer for some weeks. I had no time. I made a few
dollars, and have lost what no money can buy. Dear Christ, forgive
me.
_Sept. 29th._ All day making over my hoop.
_Sept. 30th._ Heard lessons, and then went to Mrs. Millican's to learn
how to turn the heel of a stocking properly. Helping Robert at night
till very late.
_Nov. 3rd._ Sewing and knitting all day. Read to Robert at night from
Porte Crayon's work on Virginia.
_Nov. 7th._ Wrote long letters home, having an opportunity to send
them by a Mr. Ruthven.
_Nov. 15th._ My usual duties; baking cake, and went to sit with Mrs.
Durham an hour or two. Took Robert's sock I am knitting with me.
_Dec. 25th._ Christmas Day. My darling Edith would enter her ninth
year to-day if she had lived. The children were delighted with such
presents as we could get them. Most of their toys were of Robert's
making. We had a good breakfast all together. Plenty of chicken and
sausage and coffee for everybody, even for Crazy Billy,[4] who came as
usual to say "Merry Christmas!"
_Dec. 31st._ Had a severe cold but knit all day. We are all out of
stockings. Let Mary and Lilly sit up till ten o'clock, then they had
pecan nuts and home made wine; but Robert and I wanted to watch the
New Year in. I am going to be a better woman next year. I have
promised, and with God's help I will keep my promise. Amen.
For another year I was permitted to rest body and soul in this
pleasant home, and everything in the main events of life kept a very
even tenor. I taught my children, sewed, knit, read aloud to them, and
helped Robert with the tax rolls; went to see my friends, and
generally had one or more of them in my company. Yet no life is
without an almost daily variation; there was plenty of change to keep
me watchful, and sometimes a little anxiety, for the future had never
looked so dark and so uncertain.
On the thirteenth of March, I had another son, a fine boy whom we
called Alexander Gregg after the Bishop. We were very proud and happy
in his birth, and his brother Calvin took him to his child heart with
a passionate affection. From the first hour of his life he watched
over him. His care lasted a little over four years, and then in death,
they were not divided.
After Alexander's birth, any soul at all prescient might feel the end
of many things approaching. The stores of all kinds were nearly empty,
and I noticed that no stocks were renewed: I could not get an inch of
flannel for the new born child, and Mr. Illingworth sent me three of
his fine English undershirts to make barrow coats for him. With this
gentleman and his wife and children, we had been on the most familiar
terms for two years. He was the youngest son of an English family of
old and noble lineage, and had run away from college in his
twenty-second year. In some way he reached the Creek Indians, and
incorporated himself with the tribe, remaining seventeen years with
them. On his return to civilization he married a beautiful girl, and
had three children. His knowledge of Indian affairs made him of great
value to the government, and his desk in the Capitol was close to
Robert's.
Soon after Alexander's birth, an English lawyer came to Austin seeking
Mr. Illingworth. His father was dead, and there was a large fortune
waiting his identification. That night he and the lawyer took supper
with us, and we talked about England, until I went to bed with a pain
in my heart. At this time Mr. Illingworth was separated from his
wife, but in the morning I rode to her house, about two miles away,
and told her what had happened, advising her, for her children's sake,
to make up her quarrel with her husband. I was sorry that I had been
her confidant in the matter, for no one has any business to say a word
this way, or that way, between a man and his wife. The confidence
however had been forced on me, and I thought then, and I think yet,
that she was not much to blame. Given an Englishman inheriting all the
authoritative, stubborn qualities and prejudices of an aristocratic
family, the same carefully cultivated by the traditional education of
his class, and superinduced upon it the education of an American
Indian Chief, and you have a variety of the animal called man, any
woman might fail to please. I saw him on his return from England, and
he was, in spite of his quarter of a century in America, the most
English of all the Englishmen I had ever seen. What the cradle rocks,
the spade buries. But he was excellent company, and among other things
he related the following bit of conversation between himself and Lady
C---- at a dinner given to him by his mother's family, the high,
well-born Carews.
"Are you married yet, Mr. Illingworth?"
"I am, Lady C----.
"To an American?"
"Yes, to an American."
"Is she _very_ dark?"
This question illustrates well the amount of knowledge the noble
Englishwoman had of American woman, half a century ago.
Very soon I began to really feel the pinch of war. It seemed an
incredible thing not to be able to buy a little domestic or print,
when I had money to do so, but I could not. Many people were without
shoes, moccasins were commonly worn in the house. Pins and needles
were extraordinarily scarce, some were compelled to use mesquite
thorns for pins. I once gave a lady three needles number six, number
eight, and number ten, and she was so grateful she sent me a fine ham,
and two pounds of coffee; _real_ coffee that her husband had brought
from Mexico. Alas, there was no more real coffee in Austin, and a
majority of people were using the dried leaves of the beautiful Yupon
tree instead of real tea. Somehow or other, I cannot tell how, I never
wanted either tea or coffee; the Bishop sent me some, and also about
twenty pounds of rice. Mr. Durham sent me a little box of English
Breakfast tea, and I was just out of that, when Dr. Bacon of the
United States Sixth Cavalry sent me a fresh supply. And upon my honor,
I do not think there is anything that so firmly and pleasantly cements
friendship, as little courtesies of something good to eat. Though I am
in my eighty-first year now, I remember how delighted I was with these
things, and to go back no further than last Christmas, though I had
many gifts of many kinds, the one that gave me the most pleasure of
all, was a plum pudding and a dish of Nativity tarts, that an aged
Yorkshire lady visiting in Cornwall made for me with her own hands.
One of the symptoms speaking badly for the Confederate cause, was the
fact that the government was out of materials for the use of its
officers, which it could not manage to supply. Thus the printed and
ruled tax rolls were all used. There was paper of a kind, but it
needed a certain form of ruling, and Mr. Durham asked Robert if he
could rule it. Robert said he had not the time, but that I would do it
as well as anybody. So paper and rulers and pencils came to me, and
from henceforward until the break up, I ruled the sheets for the
assessors. Soon after the envelopes of three necessary sizes gave out,
and I made the envelopes. And Mr. Durham laughed when I sent in my
bill for "specie" payment.
"Barr," he said, "you would have taken Blue Williams,[5] but the
Confederacy can't fool women with them. I don't know a woman who has
done anything for it, that has not sent her modest little bill for
'specie.'"
These employments broke in upon my regular life very much, but the
"specie" was our domestic salvation. In the household also we were
obliged to help ourselves. No candles were to be bought, and we made
our own candles. We were as badly off for soap also, that is the soap
for washing clothes and kitchen use. I had yet a few boxes of Old
Brown Windsor which I had brought with me from England, and also
perhaps half a dozen of those semi-transparent balls made, I think, by
Pears. Among other utilities I painted a very respectable pack of
playing cards. I had bought, with my Newman's box of water colors, a
dozen large sheets of bristol board, which was just the proper
thickness. Robert with a sharp shoemaker's knife cut them even, and
exact, and then I painted them. I was quite pleased with this
achievement and sent word to Pat O'Gorman and Mr. Simcox, we could
have our game of whist once more. I have forgotten what became of this
pack, but I think one of these gentlemen took it as a memorial of the
evenings in the old log house.
Thus nearly every day there was a makeshift of some kind to devise,
and we found out, often with real happiness, that "necessity is the
mother of invention." Robert said it was like living in a Texas log
house the island life of the Swiss Family Robinson.
One day when the year was drawing close to Christmas, Robert came home
early. As soon as I saw him, I knew there was trouble, and I said,
"What is it, Robert?"
"Why, Milly, dear, this house has been sold, and we must leave it
before the first. Oh, my dear, I am so sorry!"
I was giving the Sally Lunns their second kneading, and I let the
dough fall to the floor. The tears sprang to my eyes, but I tried to
bear the loss as well as I could. Indeed I had been half afraid of
this very thing, for three nights previously I had dreamed of seeing
my furniture on a wagon. I sat down. Robert put his arm round me, and
whispered a few hopeful words, and I answered, "It is all right, dear.
We have had a fine rest here. We shall never forget it. Do you know
where we can rent anything as comfortable?"
"Not yet. Allen tells me, General Haney's place, just beyond the
Capitol will be for rent very soon, but there is nothing at present
but the Cartmel place, and if that will not do, we must store our
things, and go to the hotel."
"Then the Cartmel place must do. How can we go into two or three
rooms with five little children? Gracious Robert! It was not at all
pleasant with two. Where is the Cartmel place?"
"Just above Mrs. Green's."
"Not that little house with a Spanish dagger in the strip of ground
before it?"
"Yes."
"O Robert! It stands in a hole, down on the flat, too. I never could
bear living in a valley. I look unto the hills always. From the hills
cometh my strength, soul and body strength. And there is no stable to
it, and what about the ponies?"
"We must sell them, of course. There is a large corn field with the
house. It grew a famous crop this year."
"But what is the use of growing corn, when we cannot have horses?"
"No. Well, dear, I thought you had better know at once. Mr. Durham
advised me to come home and to help you pack. If we must go, the
sooner the better."
"You are right, we will begin this hour."
So we did, but there were delays about one thing or another that we
had not anticipated, and the twenty-ninth of December found us just
ready to move, in the very teeth of one of the most dreadful northers
I had ever experienced. But Robert had had negroes in the Cartmel
place for a week, cleaning and keeping the big fires night and day. So
with Alice and Alexander wrapped in blankets, we moved down there, the
people who had bought the log house, having invaded it with six
children, a dozen negroes, and all kinds of baggage, three days before
their legal tenure began.
Well, like all other troubles, the flitting came to an end, and things
were not as uncomfortable as I had expected. The ponies had to go, but
there was a shed close to the kitchen for a cow, and Robert said he
would try to get one as soon as he could. That put all right. To have
a cow and lots of milk and cream and butter! We could turn her into
the field and there was the shed to milk her in. I could hardly wait
for the creature.
Next day a man called Abner Blair called to see Robert about his
taxes, and I was repacking a trunk with trifles, I did not wish to use
in so small a house. He watched me, and lifted some of the books and
tartan things. His fingers clung to them, and I could see that he was
in a great mental tumult.
"Are you Scotch, Mr. Blair?" I asked.
"Scotch!" he cried. "I'm nothing else. Highland Scotch, from Aberdeen
way! Scotch for a thousand years! Scotch from the creation itself! My
wife is Scotch, and my children are Scotch, and there's nothing in
Blair house that isn't Scotch."
"Then," I said, "if you are from Aberdeen way, you will know what this
is;" and I held up the Scotch pebble bracelet I had bought on that
last walk I took up Buchanan Street, Glasgow.
He looked for a moment at the ornament, then he touched it, and asked,
"What will you take for it, I have a little lassie that would go crazy
to wear it. She will be twenty-one on Sunday next. Sell me the pretty
thing. My certie! I used to go gathering the stones--I did that--I
wanted them to pay my way through St. Andrews. What will you take for
it?"
"I will give it to you for your daughter's birthday," I answered.
"I'll give it to her with all kinds of good wishes."
"I take you at your word," he said in a perfect enthusiasm of
pleasure. "And I'll tell you what! I'll give you the best milch cow on
Abner Blair's ranch, and I'll bring her in to you on Saturday."
"Come back in half an hour," I said, "and I will clean the silver
settings and make them bright." He came back and went off with the
bawble proud and happy, and on Thursday brought me a milk cow which
justified all his promises. But as I rubbed bright the silver setting,
and very often since, I have wondered what power had prompted me in
1853, to buy a bracelet which I did not want, which I was rather
ashamed of buying, in order that it might get me and my children
plenty of milk and butter in 1863, when such things were scarce and
dear, and under ordinary circumstances beyond procuring.
My life in the Cartmel place was only a variation and accentuation of
what it had been in the Cook place. I did more and more work for the
government, and at the end of the year I confessed, that it had been
money in the purse, and not so well for me in other ways. The
children's lessons had been much neglected, and the half-hour I had
given daily to private prayer, ever since I was twelve years old, had
been put aside for ruling tax papers, or something else that seemed
more important. But this putting aside was neither happiness nor true
prosperity. It implied a trust in myself, rather than in God; and I do
believe at this day, as I did really then, that if I had gone on doing
my own duties, God would have sent the necessary money in some easier
and better way.
I notice in my diary, that soon after the New Year, Robert was often
on guard most of the night. There was at this time a great terror of
negro insurrections, and often I put the children to bed fully
dressed, in case there was a necessity to flee for life. We had all
our plans made for this emergency, the first and most surely safe one
being, a quick retreat to the grave yard, for no negro would venture
within its ghostly precinct. The nights Robert was on guard, I always
had company, very often a Miss Sophia Richardson, the daughter of the
editor of the _Austin Gazette_. She was a beautiful woman, well read,
witty and yet good-natured, and a singer of great power and sweetness.
She married after I left Austin the editor of the _New Orleans
Picayune_, and if this remembrance ever reaches her eyes, I want her
to think of me, as she knew me when we used to be happy together in
the old log house on the hill. It stood next to her own home. Here are
two notes on this life:
_Feb. 18th._ Sewing and hearing lessons, then ruling for Mr. Durham.
But I am weary and sleepy. Alexander is teething, and he does not let
me sleep an hour at a time. Sophy Richardson all day with me.
_Feb. 19th._ Had a bad night with Alexander, got up early and made hot
rolls for breakfast. Made sweet bread afterwards, also a chicken pie
for dinner. Heard lessons, sewing and knitting. Sophy Richardson came
in. Glad to see her. Betty Elgin called to borrow a book. Robert home
early, going on guard. There is a guard of well-armed citizens set
every night now. Robert told me it was necessary, for a devilish
negro plot had been discovered.
Plots and rumors of plots kept every one unhappy, and as we entered
the last year of the war, the air was full of miserable reports. It
was a brave heart that kept any hope now for the Confederate cause.
The weary ruling of paper, and making envelopes ceased. The Governor,
the Comptroller and George Durham all knew well, there would be no
need of them. On the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday I wrote:
_Mar. 28th, 1865._ None but the good God knows the history of the
coming year, but it is in His loving hands. I have had many cares and
sorrows, many pains and deprivations this past year, but not one too
many, because all is for the best. Every one is gloomy, for every one
is anticipating invasion. We have no money, and very little clothing
in the house--neither have I anything ready, either for myself or the
child I am expecting; but God is sufficient, and He will be sure to
provide.
_May 14th._ Robert went early up town. Heard of Lee and Johnson's
surrender. Jeff Davis said to be flying to the Trans-Mississippi. Many
say the Confederate cause is lost.
_May 25th._ The dream is over. No Southern independence now. Robert
thinks it will be Southern slavery. I have been ironing hard all day,
and sewing, but I heard no lessons. I was too troubled and anxious,
for Confederate soldiers, without officers or order, are coming in
every hour, and there is nothing but plunder and sack going on--and
the citizens are as bad as the soldiers.
_May 26th._ I had a very bad night, and feel headachey and sleepy. Had
to iron; the negro won't work; indeed Robert says both men and women
have deserted their homes, and are hanging about the streets, watching
the white men plundering, but too much afraid of the white man, to
take a hand in the work. I heard no lessons, but did a little sewing,
and all the housework that the negroes ought to do. In the evening
Robert went to a public meeting about protecting the town.
_May 27th._ Very anxious and unsettled. The town and all the adjacent
country is in a dreadful condition. From a man going north, Robert
bought seven bushels of meal, thirty-six pounds of salt, and fifty
pounds of sugar. Thankful to God for it, for in these days we know not
what may happen from hour to hour. Tried to sew in the afternoon, but
impossible; there is too much looting and quarreling going on. It
seems as if every one had a claim against the Confederacy, and were
paying themselves.
_June 2nd._ Everything in confusion. Everyone suspicious and watchful,
and there is no law. Governor Lubbock and the state officers have fled
to Mexico.
_June 11th._ The Rio Grande soldiers reached Austin today. I could not
help crying as they passed my door, and Robert lifted his hat to honor
them. These men were victors, though their cause was lost. Through
every deprivation and suffering, through hunger and thirst, through
heat and cold, weary, ragged, weather-beaten and battle-scarred, they
had carried aloft their flag with the single star. And they carried it
proudly that day through the streets of Austin. No one dared to forbid
it. Robert told me he saw many men weep as it passed them, and turn
away, but it floated fitly enough above the heads of those who had
given up everything for the ideals it typified. They went straight to
the Capitol, and demanded payment either in gold or government
property for their long service. And as no one had a right to pay
them, they paid themselves. The scene was indescribable, and Robert
slipped away and came home.
_June 14th._ Today the soldiers are looting the government stables.
They are dividing the mules and horses and saddlery among themselves.
The noise and tumult is indescribable. I was sewing, and ironing, and
cooking all day, and sewing again until midnight, for I must work hard
now, in order to have all comfortable for the children and Robert,
while I am sick. We keep quietly in doors, and are as happy as we can
be under the circumstances; but the poor country! My heart aches for
Texas, subjugated and all lost, even honor.
_June 15th._ Hot windy weather, but feel pressed to work, for I have
still much to do. But how thankful I ought to be for the health and
strength given me. God be near me for Christ's sake. My negro servant
comes home to eat, then she runs into the city again. I have all her
work to do, but she is waiting for her _freedom_. I cannot blame her.
_June 23rd._ The Emancipation Proclamation arrived. Robert said he was
glad of it, because the negroes knew they were free, and were
impatient for its public acknowledgment.
_June 24th._ The sheriff read the Emancipation Proclamation. He read
it with no more ceremony than if he was giving notice of a forced sale
of land, or a new city ordinance about negro passes, or any other
every day occurrence. He was surrounded by white men, who listened
without interest or remark, and the negroes were shocked and dismayed.
They had been sure that the news of their freedom would come with the
calling of trumpets, the firing of cannon, and the triumphant entry of
a victorious army. Robert said they were sick and silent with
disappointment, and vanished from the streets. I went into the kitchen
to tell Harriet. She was leaning against the open door, looking
intently eastward. Freedom was to come from the east, and she was
always listening and watching for its approach. Her child, a girl
about a year old, was sitting on the floor playing with some empty
spools. I had always thought her indifferent to it. "Harriet," I said,
and she turned her eyes upon me but did not speak, "you are free,
Harriet! From this hour as free as I am. You can stay here, or go; you
can work or sleep; you are your own mistress, now, and forever." She
stepped forward as I spoke, and was looking at me intently, "Say dem
words again, Miss Milly!" she cried, "say dem again." I repeated what
I had told her, making the fact still more emphatic; and as I did so,
her sullen black face brightened, she darted to her child, and
throwing it shoulder high, shrieked hysterically, "_Tamar, you'se
free! You'se free, Tamar!_" She did not at that supreme moment think
of herself. Freedom was for her child; she looked in its face, at its
hands, at its feet. It was a new baby to her--a free baby. Actually
the mother love in her face had humanized its dull, brutish
expression. I said again, "You are also free, Harriet. You are your
own mistress now. Will you hire yourself to me?" I asked.
"When dem Yankees coming, Miss Milly?"
"Nobody knows."
"How I free then?"
"They sent word."
"Mighty poor way to set folks free."
"Will you hire yourself to me, Harriet? I will give you six dollars a
month."
"Six dollars too little, Miss Milly."
"It is what I paid your master."
"Thank de Lord, I'se got no master now. I 'long to myself now. I want
eight dollars now. When a nigger free, they worth more."
So I agreed with the freed negro for eight dollars, but I noticed
three days later, I had a fresh free nigger at one dollar fifty cents
a day. Harriet had gone forever.
In this uncertain condition of affairs, it was perhaps astonishing
they worked at all. In fact it was only the women who made any
pretense of doing so, but they were generally mothers, and old master
was the only sure provider for the children until the Yankees came.
The men loafed about the streets, or made little camps in the corn
fields, for the young ears were then ripe and milky and good to eat.
But all were alike watching with weary impatience for the arrival of
the military.
_July 17th._ This was Robert's last day's work for the Confederacy. He
was working on his balance sheet. He has been three years, two months,
and twelve days in the employ of the late Confederate government--days
of goodness and mercy, every one of them. And I am not going to worry
about the future. God's arm is not shortened; it is as able to save
and to provide as it ever was. There was nearly two months due Robert,
which was of course paid in "specie." I shall use every cent
carefully, and more is sure to come, for God carries the purse for a
wise spender.
_July 20th._ Robert working for the Military Board. I suffer
constantly night and day trying to keep up my regular duties. Robert
helps all he can, but he is the best part of his day at the Military
Board. The weather is hot and very exhausting, even the children get
cross in it.
_July 25th._ About two hundred soldiers came into town. They hoisted
the Stars and Stripes on the Capitol, and went to work to prepare
tents, stabling, et cetera, for the troops to follow. They hardly
noticed the negroes, and showed no disposition whatever to affiliate
with them. On the contrary they were friendly with the white men, took
drinks with them, and passed around their tobacco bags, tobacco being
one thing our men were suffering for.
_July 27th._ About three thousand soldiers came in today. I was able
to iron a little, though I did not sleep an hour last night.
_July 28th._ Wagons and soldiers pouring into the town. Some of the
earliest troops raised the flag at the corner of Hancock's store. The
children went to see the ceremony. After it was raised, the troops
saluted it, and Judge Hancock called for cheers. The children said
there were a few weak little cheers, and the Judge was angry, and the
men walked away. Tried to iron and to bake; after Robert came home,
finished a pair of socks for him.
_Aug. 7th._ My dear Archibald was born at half past six this morning.
Robert stayed with me all day. Mrs. Carlton and Mrs. Green and Jenny
Alexander came and sat with me a little. I was very proud and happy
with my new son, and very grateful to God for all the love that
surrounded me. There is old Aunt Patsy in the kitchen; Mary, Lilly and
Calvin do all they can, and what they cannot do, Robert somehow
manages.
The daily record of my life at this time is chiefly remarkable for the
wonderful way in which it represents men of all ages, and all sorts
and conditions, taking hold of the heavy housework, thrown upon the
hands of the women by the refusal of negroes to work. They accepted it
with a kind of pride, and refused to feel any shame in relieving their
wives of labor beyond their strength. I went into a friend's house one
day and found her husband, with board and bathbrick, cleaning the
table knives. I knew men who "fired" all the food, for the cooking was
then done in skillets on the hearth, with hot coals underneath, and
upon the lid. I knew others who turned the mattresses and made the
beds, and though I was seldom quite without help, Robert found plenty
of housework to do, which he would not permit either Mary, or Lilly,
or myself to attempt. As illustrating the time, I insert here two
records, taken without option or choice, but reflecting the life of
the period so well, that I will not change them:
_Oct. 27th._ Been up and down all night with Archie, who is teething
and very restless. Robert had kindled the fire, and I made coffee and
muffins, and fried some bacon. After breakfast I attended to children,
then baked six loaves of light bread, cooked steak and mashed potatoes
for dinner. Mary and Lilly set the table very nicely. After dinner I
cleaned up, and when Robert came home about four o'clock, he parched
some coffee, and then helped me make candles. We had a pleasant
supper, and after the little ones were in bed, I read "Ivanhoe" to
Robert until bedtime.
_Nov. 1st._ Got up dull and tired, and made breakfast, then washed up,
and tidied the house. Robert gone up town to see what he can do about
a house. We must leave this place, and I would be glad to do so, if we
could find another. Robert hopes Major Pierce will pay him today, I
put no confidence in the man. I heard Mary and Calvin read, examined
them in other studies. Lilly is sick in bed yet. Robert came home
disappointed about both house and money. Well, God has both in store.
We must pay for them with faith and patience, and in the meantime, the
good Father sets my table, and provides for all my wants.
_Nov. 27th._ Robert rented the Morris place, just back of the Capitol.
I am delighted. I hated the house we are in, as soon as I heard of it;
and we have had nothing but trouble, while living under its roof.
Perhaps our moving may make a break in the long roll of anxious days
and nights, just as a nightmare is gone, the moment we stir under it.
The Morris place, to which I made all haste to remove, was almost in
the center of the camp of the Sixth Cavalry, and their tents were all
round our enclosure. A little behind them were the wigwams of the
Tonkaway and Lipan guides, but I had no fear of either white men or
Indians. And we soon found that we had come among the most courteous
and friendly people. A little offering of cream and new milk opened
the way for much mutual kindness; the officers came familiarly to our
house. Colonel Morris had the use of our stable, and the girls had the
use of horses when they wanted them.
I must notice here, that this kind treatment of "rebels" was not
specially for our case. Almost as soon as the Sixth Cavalry arrived in
Austin, its officers gave a Reconciliation Ball, and to their regular
afternoon promenade and concert, there was a hearty welcome for all
who chose to come. It was a great pleasure once more to feel myself
surrounded by happy, hopeful people; the atmosphere round the camp was
lighter and brighter than what I had been breathing for years, and my
nature responded gladly to its stimulus.
Nevertheless, the half year following this removal was full to the
brim of every sorrow that humanity can suffer. We were hardly settled
when Lilly fell very sick with camp measles, and one after the other
the whole family followed her. What we should have done without Dr.
Bacon of the Sixth Cavalry at this time, I cannot imagine. He watched
over every sick child with a care and tenderness that probably saved
their lives. There were but few ladies in the camp, but those present
were kind and sympathetic and Mrs. Madden, the wife of Captain Madden,
helped me nurse through many critical nights.
During these hard weeks of suffering and utter weariness, there was
always the haunting fear of poverty. At first, after the break-up
Robert was not anxious. The three richest men in Austin, Mr. Swenson,
Mr. Swisher and Mr. Raymond were intending to open a bank as soon as
affairs would warrant the project. They had engaged Robert as cashier,
and in the meantime he was putting the affairs of the Military Board
in order for Major Pierce. But the Military Board work was now
finished, and there was no prospect as yet for a bank in Austin.
Moreover, word had just come that Mr. Swenson had gone into the
banking business in New York. So we were anxious and uncertain, for
with six children it would not be as easy to move, as when we came to
Austin with two.
But money trials are not the hardest, and somehow or other, they are
always overcome. I have been constantly amazed in reading my diary for
this year, to see how wonderfully, and from what strange and
unlooked-for sources our purse was kept adequate to our wants. It was
my intention to burn this diary as soon as I had taken from its pages
the story it has so many years preserved, but after reading the record
of these sad weeks, I can never do it. As long as I live, it shall be
a witness between God and myself that in every trial and in every
sorrow He was sufficient. The stones of Bethel were not more sacred,
than this little book wet with my tears, and holding my prayers. For
over and over it acknowledges, "Thou drewest near in the day that I
called upon thee: thou saidst, Fear not!" (Lamentations, 3:57.)
Robert had just made up his mind to go to San Antonio to see what
business opportunities were there, when Archie was taken sick. He was
only a child of ten months old, but he had crept close into all our
hearts. I sent for Dr. Bacon, and his attitude from the first was one
of anxiety. The next day he told Robert he had better not leave home.
"The child is very sick," he said, "and his illness has taken a turn
that is nearly always fatal."
Three nights after this advice, Robert lay down to sleep and rest a
little, for he had been holding the child all day. It was then near
midnight, and Archie appeared to be sleeping. I sat down beside his
cot, and was knitting a stocking, and watching his every movement.
Suddenly a large picture of Lake Windermere, heavily framed, which was
hanging over the chimney piece crashed to the floor. No one moved, no
one heard the crash, and I went and looked at the picture. Nothing
about it was in any way injured. Then I bowed my head, and clasped my
hands. There was One present, and I saluted him. The words I expected
came.
From that hour Archie grew steadily worse and when Dr. Bacon called
the following afternoon, I said,
"He is very ill, Doctor?"
"Very."
"Dying?"
"Yes. Look at his small hands. See how firmly he has clasped his four
fingers over his thumbs. That is a very sure sign of death. Why do
they do it? Who can tell?"
Soon after midnight Archie died. It was a glorious night, and after I
had washed and dressed the dear child for his grave, I went out and
cut handfuls of white altheas, and strewed them over the little form.
All that day he lay thus, and his brothers and sisters came and kissed
him, and he was yet one of the household. The next morning the little
coffin was ready, I laid him in it, and then Robert gathered the
children and read the burial service over it. Colonel Morris had
loaned us the officer's carryall, and there was plenty of room in it,
not only for the whole family, but also for the little coffin. It was
in this way, we went to the graveyard, and laid him beside his sister
Ethel.
God accomplishes that which is beyond expectation. The next morning
Robert got an offer from a large cotton house in Galveston, which he
accepted. Of course this meant, that he must leave me and the children
in Austin until October; before that, there might be some danger from
yellow fever. But we both knew, that in the United States camp, there
was every security, and that the kindness already given would not be
withdrawn.
After a few days' preparation Robert went away one morning. We watched
him until he mounted the last step, leading over the Capitol wall.
There he stood a moment, and waved his hat, and we turned quickly into
the house because it is not lucky to watch the traveler out of sight.
And as I entered the sitting-room, the pendulum of the clock fell to
the floor, and I picked it up and said, "It is ten minutes past
eleven. We shall see that something will happen at that time." I was
not worried about the circumstance. I merely thought it prefigured
some unusual event.
The three months that followed were very happy ones. Colonel Morris
sent the bandmaster to sleep in the house, and to watch the Indians,
and I threw off all care, and gave myself and the children a holiday.
All lessons were dropped, and the girls rode every day to their
heart's content. I wrote cheerful, loving letters to Robert, and had
cheerful, loving letters in return. And the weeks went quickly away,
until the last one came. Then having sold all our furniture, and also
the good cow bought with the Scotch pebble bracelet, I was ready to
depart. Ten years previously I had come to Austin, and thought it a
city in fairy land. I had seen every charm vanish away. It was a dead
city that I was leaving. The dead houses and dead streets might live
again, but nothing could restore unto them the glory of the past. I
was not sorry to leave them.
_Sept. 24th._ This is my last entry in Austin. Went with Mary to the
graveyard and planted some more shrubs on the two little graves. Then
I knelt down and bid them farewell forever. Came home and had some
ironing and packing to do; old Anna was doing the last cleaning. In
the afternoon had a house full of callers, the Reverend Mr. Rogers,
Mrs. Henricks, the Beadles, et cetera; in the evening Lieutenant
Kramer, and Major Starr, and Mr. Blackwell. It has been a restless,
heart-achey day, and Galveston does not call me pleasantly, but
"Manifold are the changes,
Which Providence may bring;
Many unlooked-for things,
God's power hath brought about.
What seemeth likely happeneth not,
And for unlikely things,
God findeth out a way."
O little book, I shut up in you many sacred sorrows! But where on this
earth shall the mortal be found, who is free of all trouble? Even the
happy have secret griefs, they never utter:
"But anywhere, or everywhere,
If I fulfil God's will,
And do my Life's work bravely,
I shall be happy still."
CHAPTER XVI
THE TERROR BY NIGHT AND BY DAY
"A place
Before his eyes appeared, sick, noisome, dark,
A Lazar house it seemed, wherein were laid
Numbers of those diseased;
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans, despair
Tended the sick, busy from couch to couch;
And over them triumphant Death, his dart
Shook."--MILTON.
All changes are more or less tinged with melancholy, for what we are
leaving behind is part of ourselves. The last night I spent in Austin
was full of fears and sorrowful memories. The Sixth Cavalry had left
the week previous, and I was in terror of the negroes who hungry and
angry were going to-and-fro in the darkness, seeking whom they could
injure or rob. I dared not sleep. But about two o'clock a severe
thunder storm came on and relieved me from any fear of negroes; for I
knew that they were terrified by thunder and lightning, and, moreover,
that they seriously objected to getting wet.
The storm troubled me, because I dreaded detention. If we were to
leave, then the sooner the better. I did not like plans to be delayed,
they always seemed to lose something in the interval, and to come to
the point at last but half-heartedly. So I wandered about the house,
or sat musing in spirit by the two little graves in that lonely suburb
of the dead, which I should never, in this life, see again. When the
dawn began to break I fell asleep, and on awakening found that it was
an exquisite morning, cool and bright, with a refreshing little wind
stirring the tree tops.
We had a pleasant breakfast, and then made our last preparations. I
had sold the furniture, but it was in some confusion, and had such a
hopeless look of hurry and dispersion, that I felt angry at the
senseless things. I did not expect the coach until eleven o'clock, but
I knew there would be many callers, and I wished to be able to give
them my whole time. And at this hour of parting all differences were
forgotten and forgiven; acquaintances I had not spoken to for five or
six years came to bid me farewell, girls I had helped and taught, men
and women of later acquaintance, all alike came with farewell gifts
and good wishes.
So the house was full until the coach was driven up to the door; then
I ran into the living-room to stop the clock. I did not wish to leave
"my time" for I knew not whom, and as I touched the pendulum, I
remembered its fall, and glanced at the dial plate. It was ten minutes
past eleven.
