_The Beautiful Valley.—The Crawford Children.—“Yellers’ Day.”—“Vaucluse”
and the Hazards.—The Midshipmen Visit Us.—Dances on Board the
Frigate “Constitution.”—Parties in the Valley.—George Bancroft.—A
Party at His House.—Rev. Charles T. Brooks._
THE lovely island of Rhode Island is indented with a number of ravines
on either shore. The most beautiful of these is Lawton’s Valley—a deep
cut between the hills, running a mile into the land, from the waters of
Narragansett Bay. The entrance into the valley is so masked with trees,
the descent into it is so steep, that it lies securely hidden from the
world above. You suddenly find yourself in a wooded gorge, the trees
rising high above it on either side, and a brook running along the base
of the cliff, leaping over waterfalls as it goes down to the sea. When
my father bought the place, a grist-mill with a great terrifying wooden
wheel stood at the head of the largest waterfall. My father, to whom
gardening was a delight, greatly improved the appearance of the valley.
The mill was converted into a school-house containing also one or two
chambers for the bestowal of masculine guests, when the house was full
to over-flowing. There is a family legend that brother Harry, when a
lad, once slept upon the grand piano, no other place being available! We
were sometimes obliged to arise in the night and give up our rooms to
make way for relatives arriving unexpectedly.
Some sudden emergency brought our especially beloved Aunt Annie
Mailliard and her family to us in this way—for Lawton’s Valley is six
miles from the post and telegraph offices. Telegrams then cost three
dollars to deliver, and frightened us badly!
Aunt Annie was the very soul of hospitality, and did her full share of
it by entertaining us all delightfully at her home in Bordentown, New
Jersey.
Uncle Sam once occupied the mill-chamber and reported in the morning
that the perpetual tap of the hydraulic ram sounded like a constant
knocking at the door, causing him to murmur in his sleep, “Come in! Come
in!” We could not do without the ram, however, as it supplied the house
with water. It was sad when an eel got into the pipe, or some other
accident stopped the water-supply. The pump, whence we obtained our
drinking-water, was of a pattern calculated to drive one to the
wine-cup. You turned the handle round and round furiously, and after a
long time a refreshing stream appeared, borne in some mysterious way on
two endless parallel chains. Then, if you went on pumping like mad, you
could fill the pail. But if you stopped for one single second a horrible
gurgling sound informed you that the water had retreated to the bottom
of the well! Then you had to begin all over again the treadmill task of
bringing it up! It was supposed to be remarkably fresh and pure when it
appeared—for evidently it had not lingered in any pipe, as no pipe
existed.
Sometimes food was hung down the well, country fashion, to keep cool. It
was a sad day when the leg of mutton dropped in, since herculean efforts
were required to bring it up. It was naturally mutton which made this
unlucky descent, for at that time the local butcher kept little else.
Sometimes my father had beef sent down by freight from Boston—only to
have it seized by the agents of Kinsley’s express and carried to their
office. This delayed the meat in transit and obliged us to pay express
charges without express benefit. For this company did not deliver goods
at Lawton’s Valley, nor did we desire to have them do so. Hence much
friction between Kinsley’s express and my father.
Rhode Island mutton and lamb are, or were, very good. One day an old
friend of my mother’s drove out from Newport and was invited to stay to
midday dinner.
The feelings of the hostess can be imagined when the guest oracularly
observed, “My grandfather Gray could never eat lamb, and I never can!”
Fortunately there was a little chicken to help out the situation. The
words of Grandfather Gray became a byword in our family. Our house was
not in the valley itself but stood half-way down the slope of a hill,
being thus protected from the wind that blows constantly over the
island. Mr. C——, who sold the place to my father, was the victim of the
drink habit. Finding him lying prostrate on the ground, much the worse
for liquor, father poured away the contents of the jug standing near,
and led away the man’s horse, so that he would be obliged to sober up
before starting to get a fresh supply of rum.
Some Lowestoft ware marked with the family initials and some good old
furniture, which we bought, showed that the family had seen better days.
The inhabitants of the island, with some notable exceptions have
suffered from an insular habit of intermarriage. This has, we will hope,
lessened with the invasion of Rhode Island by outlanders, bringing
prosperity with them. Not long ago, however, when a man or woman married
“off the island,” it was mentioned with a certain regret, as being not
quite the thing to do. The methods of cultivating the soil were
surprisingly primitive. It was very much run down, the principal
fertilizer being deceased fish. Car-loads of menhaden were scattered
broadcast over the fields, and left there to rot. Oh, how they smelled
to heaven! We did not cultivate our land after this fashion, but, alas!
our neighbors did! Fortunately, menhaden became valuable for other
purposes and their use as a fertilizer was abandoned.
As Rhode Island was founded by excellent but visionary people, refugees
from the stern, logical rule of the Puritans, its laws are peculiar. On
a Fourth of July in the ’Sixties, I inquired for brandy at an apothecary
shop in Newport.
“I’m sorry I can’t let you have any, but the laws of the state forbid
the sale of liquor to females,” said the salesman. My mortification may
be imagined! On my explaining that the brandy was wanted, not for
“reveling,” but for covering preserves, he kindly sold me some alcohol,
declaring it to be “just as good” for my purpose.
Shortly afterward, my purse disappeared, and by the advice of friends I
had the loss proclaimed by the town crier—a quaint old figure with his
long beard and prehistoric hat. He alternately rang an immense bell and
“cried” the lost article. His fee was a modest one, but I never
recovered the purse. Was he recommended to me as a joke?
Summers at Lawton’s Valley were always delightful, but we especially
enjoyed them when Aunt Louisa Crawford brought her children to stay at a
neighboring farm-house. Marion Crawford, the novelist, was about two
years old when they first came. With his three elder sisters, Annie,
Jennie, and Mimoli, we had many merry times. Wading in the valley brook
was a favorite pastime. As the stones were very slippery, we frequently
fell down, and then appeared at the valley home a dripping crowd of
little girls. As the farm where the Crawfords lived was some little
distance away, our mother felt it to be her duty to provide raiment for
her nieces as well as for her own children. She found these double
drafts upon our wardrobe rather trying. Annie, the eldest daughter, was
full of talent. We were inseparable companions and had a studio where we
painted dolls and sets of jewelry—all on paper.
When she grew older she painted lovely designs in flowers. She also
published anonymously at least one volume of stories which possessed
merit. She had quite as much talent as her brother Marion, but lacked
his power of application. Her Prussian Junker husband, Baron von Rabe,
considered any literary activities as _infra dig._ for his wife. My aunt
had the unspeakable sorrow of losing her second daughter, Jennie, when
the latter was a young and lovely girl of nineteen. Mimoli, the third
daughter, became the wife of Hugh Fraser, of the English diplomatic
service. She is well known as a writer and is a woman of much personal
charm. One of her sons and one of Marion Crawford’s have been killed in
the present war.
According to family tradition I may claim the honor of inventing
“Yellers’ Day.” The observance of the day flourished in full vigor only
during our sojourn at Lawton’s Valley. We were accustomed to celebrate
it on top of the hill behind the house, whence we had a view of
Narragansett Bay. Our elders did not join us, but wisely permitted our
activities. Hence “Yellers’ Day,” having no flavor of forbidden fruit,
fell gradually into innocuous desuetude. The celebration described in
the following letter has a melancholy interest as being in all
probability the last of its kind.
_August 3, 1860._
DEAR PAPA,—Wednesday we had some young ladies to spend the day
and had a jolly time. At sunset we all went up on the rocks to
yell, for it was the 1st of August, “Yellers’ Day.” We made a
terrible noise and finally Mamma came to the door and said she
thought “St. Yeller was satisfied.” We had a very nice tea, and
in the evening, after looking at the moon, danced till we were
fairly worn out. The evening was wound up by Mr. Turner’s (the
brother of one of the young ladies, who came out about 6½)
knocking one-half of the gate off its hinges, which accident
gave us an opportunity of hopping onto the carriage steps and
renewing our vows of eternal friendship besides a great deal of
hugging and kissing.
Thomas Crawford, our uncle by marriage, came to the valley during one of
these summers. He was one of the foremost American sculptors of his day,
having designed some of the bronze doors at the Capitol, also the statue
of Liberty that crowns the dome of the building. This is familiar to all
Americans, since it has been reproduced on our five-dollar bills.
Uncle Crawford had worked beyond his strength and complained, that
summer, of trouble in one of his eyes. I remember an excursion to the
shores of the Bay, when Albert Sumner, the donor of our donkey, Uncle
Crawford and my father were of the party. The gentlemen amused
themselves with throwing sticks or stones into the water. This trivial
scene impressed itself upon my memory because of the tragic death, not
long afterward, of two of the actors in it. Albert Sumner, his wife and
daughter were at this time planning a trip to Europe. Mr. Summer was a
stout man, and some one jokingly remarked that fat people make good
swimmers. This speech was sadly recalled to our minds when the steamer
in which they sailed, the _Lyonnaise_, went to the bottom with all on
board.
No particulars of their fate were known. It was said that in cases of
shipwreck the law considered that the man would live longer than the
woman, being stronger physically. Hence he and his heirs would inherit
property. I notice that the law always has some very wise reason for
favoring the man rather than the woman. The heirs of Albert Sumner and
his daughter could thus have laid claim to such share of Mrs. Sumner’s
property as he would have inherited, as the supposititious survivor.
Charles Sumner and his family were not the sort of people to take
advantage of any such legal quibble. Mrs. Albert Sumner was a woman of
means and left heirs by a former husband, who very properly inherited
her fortune.
Uncle Crawford also crossed the ocean, leaving his wife and children in
America. The slight trouble in his eye grew gradually worse. In the
midst of a winter of unprecedented severity Aunt Louisa started to
rejoin him. Boston Harbor, whence all Cunard steamers then sailed, was
frozen solid. It was necessary to postpone the start until a patch could
be cut for the ship through the solid ice. In those days nothing was
supposed to prevent the sailing of a Cunarder, but Jack Frost did delay
it this once.
Mr. Crawford’s illness proved to come from a cancer behind the eye. He
died after a long period of suffering.
Aunt Louisa, a woman of a most affectionate and sympathetic nature, was
much worn with the long nursing and overcome with deep sorrow. She
returned to America, dressed in mourning so deep that her sisters
thought it excessive and unwholesome. It was said that her widow’s crape
veil reached the ground, being double up to the eyes, and that her back
never recovered from the bad effects of sustaining this load of
mourning. A photograph of her taken at this time was marked “The
over-solemn look.”
And yet, after a suitable interval of time, she married again, as the
inconsolable usually do. Instead of smiling at the fickleness of the
human mind, we should remember that for persons of a highly sympathetic
nature the loneliness caused by the loss of a beloved helpmeet is almost
insupportable. They must, for their own happiness, find another mate.
The woman who can live alone, after the loss of her husband, is made of
sterner stuff.
Lawton’s Valley is on the west side of the island of Aquidneck. On the
east side lived Mr. Thomas R. Hazard—“Shepherd Tom,” as he was
familiarly called—in the historic mansion of “Vaucluse,” the finest
example of Colonial architecture north of Virginia. The grounds were
worthy of the house. They were adorned with a labyrinth of box
surrounding a sun-dial, and with a number of summer-houses scattered
through groves of trees.
Mr. Hazard was a remarkable but eccentric person. He had a genuine love
for his fellow-man and a hatred of tyranny and oppression. He did great
service in securing better treatment for the insane in Rhode Island, as
Dorothea Dix and my father did in Massachusetts.
After the death of his beautiful wife he became much absorbed in
spiritualism. When we first made his acquaintance he was a widower with
a delightful family of four daughters and one little boy.
The eldest, Fannie, kept house for her father, while a governess
instructed the children. Mr. Hazard was the very soul of hospitality.
Relations, young and old, made “Vaucluse” their headquarters for long
stays during the summer, while friends also paid copious visits.
“Vaucluse” was liable to sudden inroads of aunts bringing their six
children, even though there were already visitors in the house. The
hospitality of those days was not confined to the South. My mother once
jestingly said to our nearest neighbor that she kept a boarding-house.
“Well, if you do, then I keep a hotel,” replied Mrs. Anderson, whose
large house was well filled by the family connection. To take high tea
at “Vaucluse” was always delightful. I should be afraid to say how many
people sat around the long, well-polished mahogany table. Yet there were
always plenty of hot Indian-meal griddle-cakes, as well as other good
things, for every one. When there were many guests, it was necessary to
set the table a second time. Fannie, who presided over the household,
was as hospitable as her father, but the strain of this heavy
entertaining was too much for her strength. Her housekeeping ideals were
high, and servants hard to get and to keep. In one of his crusades Mr.
Hazard, who had been brought up in the Society of Friends or Quakers,
attacked the Roman Catholic Church. This made it more difficult for him
to procure servants, who, at that time, were almost all Roman Catholic
Irishwomen.
So Fannie and her sisters did a great deal of the housework themselves.
Mr. Hazard was a most devoted father, but, being extremely vigorous
himself, he failed to realize that his daughters were of a less robust
type. All four died before reaching the age of forty, three of
tuberculosis.
He himself held various singular beliefs upon which he loved to
expatiate to his friends. Chief among his hobbies was spiritualism. He
would quote to my mother, as remarkable new truths, views with which
she, a student of philosophy, was perfectly familiar. We were all
gathered at the Anderson mansion one evening, to witness a clever
exhibition of legerdemain by Mr. Elbert Anderson. After witnessing the
various conjuror’s tricks, Mr. Hazard declared that they were done by
spiritualism! When he was with difficulty convinced that they were not,
he naïvely observed that just such things were done by spiritualists!
Toward the end of his life, when his wife appeared to him as a
materialized spirit, he gladly received some cotton lace from her
celestial robe!
In the efficacy of Brandreth’s pills for typhoid fever and minor ills he
was a fervent believer. Even calves he dosed with them. He scorned the
aid of surgeons, holding that the only persons who could properly attend
to broken bones were a certain family of Sweets, “natural bone-setters,”
as they were called. In spite of all these eccentricities, he was a very
intelligent man. His extreme credulity was due, in part, to lack of
early education.
Many were the merry picnics that the Howes, Hazards and sometimes the
Andersons had at the “Glen” and at “Paradise.” Lawton’s Valley itself
was a favorite place for picnics when my father bought it. It was soon
evident, however, that we and the public could not jointly use it,
because the latter were so extremely inconsiderate. To have your place
treated like an inn, to have strange omnibuses loaded with unknown
people arrive without warning at your back door, destroys all privacy.
The tendency of Americans to leave behind unpleasant mementoes in the
shape of the débris of the feast, and to carry off floral tributes, is a
thing to be deplored. It is to be hoped that our new Anglo-French
alliance will teach our people to respect private property.
When the Civil War came, the Naval Academy was moved from Annapolis to
Newport. The older classes were sent to take their part in the conflict,
the younger remaining at Newport. Their coming brought gay doings for
the young girls. Weekly hops were held on Saturday afternoons, aboard
the famous old frigate _Constitution_. To these we all repaired, being
rowed over in the ship’s boats. The dancing took place between decks
where a very tall man might easily have bumped his head. The naval band
furnished the music, a certain tune giving us a gentle hint to depart
when the dance was over.
The midshipmen were extremely young, but so were we! I myself was nearly
sixteen, but some of my partners looked to me like mere children. Others
were old enough to be “real beaux.” However, we entered their names on
our cards impartially and danced with them, young or old, as they came
along. The gallant and ill-fated De Long was at Newport that summer, but
I do not remember him among my partners.
A few young men who were not navy officers came to these hops. I
remember among the dancers a tall, handsome fellow with fair hair. Some
of the girls disapproved of him, thinking him dandified, because he wore
a white tie. I, however, admired him and learned later, from one of the
older girls, that he had said complimentary things about me. She did
not, however, offer to introduce us, nor did I have the skill to manage
an introduction. Whether dandified or not, W—— T—— was no slacker, but
fought for his country on land, as the midshipmen did on the sea.
The next time I met him was on the New York boat. As my mother and I
boarded it, to go to Boston, a figure shrouded in shawls emerged from
the darkness of the boat, on his way to the shore. It was W—— T——
returning wounded to his aunt’s home in Newport, which we had just left.
I never saw him again, for he went back to the army and was killed. So
ended this shadow of a war romance!
Parties were given for the midshipmen both at Lawton’s Valley and at
“Vaucluse.” The ice-cream for our entertainment missed connections, so
David Hall, always obliging, was commissioned to drive to Newport and
bring it out. Meantime the lady of his affections, the present writer,
was left to philander about with the midshipmen. The feelings of the
boy, who was not yet sixteen, as he drove the ice-cream, a chilling
passenger, out in his buggy may be imagined!
Our cousin, Louisa Mailliard, a tall, slender girl of fourteen, very
pretty and very mischievous, was then with us. One of the midshipmen,
Mr. N——, became desperately infatuated with her. When the omnibus
containing the young men was starting for Newport, he could not refrain
from turning and gazing fondly at her.
“Eyes right!” sang out his mates, who made very merry over the lovesick
swain.
The landsmen were jealous of the embryo sailors, and could not
understand the attraction of the latter for the young girls. Some of our
youthful friends arranged an expedition to Fort Adams, where a drill of
the midshipmen was to be held. Cousin Louisa and I were the girls of the
party, while the mother of one of the boys acted as matron. All went
well during the sail across the harbor. But no sooner had we reached the
landing than midshipmen appeared and we paired off quite happily,
without paying the smallest attention to the boys who had brought us
over.
This was not polite to our escorts, but we were very young and uniforms
are ever attractive. Serenely we walked over the fort, the discarded
boys grumbling ominously in our rear. We were too late for the drill,
but we had a pleasant promenade, returning peacefully to our sail-boat.
As she drew away from the landing, one of the boys could contain his
feelings no longer. He shouted his views of their conduct after the
midshipmen on the wharf, in language sufficiently abusive. It was the
same boy, David Hall, my future husband, who was obliged to conduct the
ice-cream party! He _did_ have a hard time with the midshipmen!
The girls were extremely indignant. Of course we walked with the
middies! What did they think we went over for? etc., etc. The return
voyage was rather stormy. It transpired that _one_ of the boys,
possessed of a meaner spirit than the others, had proposed sailing away
without us!
The midshipmen were transferred later to the Atlantic House, one of the
chief hotels of Newport in the early days. Here also were hops given,
but they could not compare in fascination with the dances on board ship.
In the following letter sister Julia describes some of our “civilian”
gaieties:
_Tuesday Morning, Aug. 13, 1861._
DEAR PAPA,— ... We have enjoyed Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Pratt[8]
exceedingly. What little jewels they are! Mrs. Dorr was to have
a party for the governor (Andrew) in the evening. Mamma decided
that it would not be very interesting for us girls, so we stayed
at home, expecting to entertain Woody, who we supposed would
arrive in the evening. What was our surprise when, at about half
past eight o’clock, a carriage arrived whose driver bore a
message from Mamma to the effect that we were to dress and go
into town to Mrs. Dorr’s house. What cogitation and agitation
followed can be only pictured by those who have a thorough
knowledge of young girls.
Mrs. Dorr had told Mamma, I believe, that the party would be
pleasant for us, and that she wished to have us come. So there
was a confusion and indecision, and brushing, braiding, and
curling, in our one little room, quite amusing to behold. How
the best white skirts were whisked about! How poor Ann and Mary
frisked up and down stairs! How much had to be done before,
fully prinked, we squeezed our crape and piña selves into the
little rockaway! But it makes even careless _me_ blush to think
of the state in which we left our room. What mountains of
skirts, sleeves, and gowns, with here and there a stray comb or
pomatum-pot, met the eye of the astonished bystander. And
yet,—would you believe it?—when we returned next day we found
the apartment in order. (Oh dear, Papa! I _never_ shall finish
this letter. Mamma is in the room, and she is so witty that I
write my words wrong.) Mrs. Pratt and Mrs. Bell looked finely,
as the graceful diminutive darlings always do.... In order that
they might all get into the carriage poor Mamma slipped
up-stairs and slipped off her crinoline. You cannot imagine how
droll her figure looked without it. Floss and I slept together
and a merry time we had. Of course we were somewhat excited by
the party, and the clock struck half past twelve before we
slept. Just think of us, your bread-and-butter nine o’clock
girls, being so dissipated! Mamma was to have had a party this
afternoon, but the weather is so stormy that no one has come. We
all dressed ourselves out in our best, but silks would not bring
visitors, so they have made a pleasant little circle down
stairs, and are chatting gaily.