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

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

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



CHAPTER VIII.

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

June 25.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause of a moment or two.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'—might have been.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER IX.

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

June 26.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 27.

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

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

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

"CHAPPAQUA, June 27.

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

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

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

"'With steadfast daisies pure and white.'

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

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

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

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

"Your loving cousin,

"MARGUERITE."

June 29.

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

June 30.

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

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

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

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

July 1.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER X.

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

July 2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

July 3.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XI.

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

July 5.

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

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

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

July 6.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

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

July 8.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIII.

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

July 10.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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