_Nursery Days.—The Family of a New Jersey Commuter.—Sorrows of the
Country Housekeeper.—Death of My Father.—A Memorial Meeting.—The
Story of Sister Constance.—A Division of Heirlooms._
THE first six years of our married life were spent in New York City.
Here we shared with my husband’s brother, Rowland Minturn Hall, and his
two sisters, Elizabeth Prescott Hall and Frances Minturn Hall, the
family home at No. 208 Second Avenue.
During this period our three older children were born, hence my time was
much occupied with them. As my husband cared little for society, our
life was extremely quiet, our social gaieties being for the most part
confined to a pleasant family circle.
Our eldest son, Samuel Prescott, was born at “Green Peace,” South
Boston.
My mother thus recorded the event in her journal:
_September 13_.—Before I open even my New Testament to-day I
must make record of the joyful birth of Flossy’s little son,
which took place soon after 1 A.M.... The boy is a handsome
infant.... I quieted him until 5 A.M., when I slept two hours.
God bless this dear little child. May he bring new peace and
love to the house where he comes a little too soon for
convenience—I mean for his uncle and aunts Hall. His father and
mother will bless God for him, as I do.
When I heard the baby’s first cry it seemed to me the sweetest music to
which I had ever listened. The nurse had formerly been a Shaker, and
soothed the child with quaint melodies of that sect.
He hears the ravens when they cry,
He clothes the shining mead,
And shall He not my wants supply
With everything I need?
The air was old, having little quavers savoring of the “tie-wig” period.
Sammy was a nervous child and required much quieting. He took his daily
nap out of doors, winter and summer. He was the first grandson, sister
Laura’s first child, born a month or two before, being a daughter.
We named him for the two families, Samuel after my father, and Prescott
for my husband’s great-grandmother, Elizabeth Prescott, wife of the Rev.
David Hall. She was descended from the Rev. Peter Bulkley, the founder
of Concord, Massachusetts, and the lineal descendant of stout old Baron
Bulkley, one of the men who wrested Magna Charta from King John and thus
laid the foundations of the liberties of England and America.
Samuel Prescott, my husband’s great-greatuncle, accompanied Paul Revere
on his famous ride. It must be confessed, however, that his errand was
in part, at least, one of sentiment, as he was going to see his
sweetheart in Concord. When Paul Revere was captured, Prescott escaped
and carried the news of the coming of the British to Concord. His name
is duly inscribed on one of the sign-posts which indicate to the
passer-by all the historic spots of the ancient town. I dislike this
excess of labeling which leaves nothing to the imagination.
When I told my father that we should name our boy for him, substituting
Prescott for Gridley because the latter was such an ugly name, he
replied very quietly that it belonged to a good old New England family.
Boasting about one’s ancestry was so repugnant to him that he did not
think proper to tell us that Richard Gridley had been a distinguished
engineer during the Revolution, while Samuel, his grandfather and
namesake, had served as captain in the former’s artillery regiment.
Many times have I regretted not giving my son his grandfather’s full
name. He has atoned for my failure to do so by calling _his_ son “Samuel
Gridley.”
I had an excellent nurse to take care of the children, but the youngest
always slept in our room. With Sam we had some terrible moments, owing
to our extreme zeal in tucking him up. As he disliked the process, he
often waked up and gave tongue. One night my husband grew so desperate
that he proposed taking the baby down to the dining-room, two flights
below, and allowing him to cry until he was tired! In reality, he was a
most affectionate parent, but this wild utterance relieved his feelings!
I did groan sometimes about the loss of sleep. I remember with a blush
that I foolishly made a complaint to a kinswoman of my husband’s, wife
of the Mr. Grinnell who financed the Arctic Expedition. She was a calm,
elderly lady who had borne nine children. It is to be feared that she
thought David Hall’s wife was a grumbling young woman!
At the time of our marriage my husband and I were not aware of any
relationship existing between us. Some years later old General Greene, a
devoted genealogist, proved to us that a distant kinsmanship existed
through the Greenes. People of Rhode Island descent almost inevitably
have ancestors belonging to this family. Like the Legion of Honor, it is
hard to escape from.
We had, also, a number of mutual relations, for two of his aunts, the
Misses Eliza and Maria Hall, had married two of my greatuncles, Henry
and William Ward. Evidently the families possessed mutual attraction.
This did not prevent the two clans from taking a high attitude of
impartial criticism each toward the other. I found, to my surprise, the
traits which we had supposed to be Hall—and which we mildly criticized,
were, on the contrary, Ward. They had been acquired by the Halls on
their marriage with the latter family, so I was told!
These mutual relatives welcomed me very kindly to New York. Just across
the way lived two cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Charles H. Ward, to whom we were
much attached. Cousin Mary was only related to us by marriage, but her
husband’s relatives were delighted to adopt her as their own. To her
joyous and generous soul it was a great pleasure to make other people
happy. In her youth she had had so many admirers that it was jokingly
said she had gone through the alphabet and stopped at “W” because that
was as far as she could go! One young man fell so much in love with her
that he disguised himself as a gardener and entered her father’s employ.
The most intimate friend of my girlhood, Louise Darling, had preceded me
to New York. She had entered the Protestant Episcopal Sisterhood of
Saint Mary, and was now Sister Constance. Her friends and parents had in
vain remonstrated against this step. Yet we might have seen that it was
in accord with her natural bent of mind. Brought up as a Unitarian, she
had always been very devout, and while still very young had contemplated
becoming a missionary. Not long after leaving school she became a
convert to the Episcopal faith, devoting herself enthusiastically to
church work.
When she entered the convent her heavy, beautiful blond hair was all cut
off, for St. Mary’s is a High Church sisterhood. In her girdle of black
rope were tied three knots, representing the three vows of poverty,
chastity and obedience. The late Rev. Morgan Dix, at that time a single
man, was the Father Confessor of the establishment. I never could
understand by what process of logic he could reconcile his encouragement
of celibacy in such a young, enthusiastic woman as my friend, with his
own later entrance into matrimony. Perhaps he changed his mind—but
Sister Constance had taken the vows!
The sisterhood did not spend all their time in devotional exercises, but
engaged also in good works. Sister Constance painted religious pictures
and taught in the school. She seemed entirely happy in her new life. I
went to see her whenever I could, but she could not call upon us—or she
thought she could not. She was one of those persons who carry out
thoroughly whatever they had undertaken.
After our marriage Uncle Richard Ward kindly invited us to come and live
with him. Although we did not accept the offer, it was gratifying.
The furniture and effects of No. 8 Bond Street belonged to Uncle John
Ward, who had died some years before. On the death of Uncle Richard they
were divided among the eight heirs of the former. The uncles had
occupied the roomy, old-fashioned house for many years. Not only their
own possessions, but those of their relatives, had accumulated.
Furniture, busts and pictures which were not wanted for the moment were
left under the hospitable care of Uncle John. The result was a perfect
maze of possessions, some of them belonging to the estate of my
grandfather, who had died thirty-five years before, some to Aunt Louisa
Terry, who was living in Rome.
What we should have done without my mother I do not know. Her excellent
memory gave us the history of each doubtful piece. That set of furniture
was bought by Grandfather Ward when Uncle Sam married Emily Astor and
the young couple came to live with him at the corner house. Those
pictures belonged to grandfather’s gallery; the Copley portraits of our
ancestors had been purchased by Uncle John. The other heirs wisely left
these details to her judgment. The main division took a little time, but
was accomplished without much difficulty. The heirs or their
representatives had several meetings and chose what they wanted. My
aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who was living in California, gave her share as a
weddingpresent to her three married Howe nieces, Julia, Florence, and
Laura. Hence I attended the meetings, as representing one of the eight
heirs.
The other heirs, the main business over, departed with light hearts. It
was left for Cousin John Ward and me to attend to the final details.
Days and weeks passed over our devoted heads and found us still at our
task. A faithful old retainer lived in the house and aided us in our
work.
I noticed one singular fact—articles of furniture which no one wanted in
the division assumed a priceless value when they were gone beyond
recall. Did Cousin John and I, in solemn conclave, agree to sell, for
the benefit of the eight heirs, a mahogany bedstead, then every one
regretted our rash act.
Over Aunt Phebe’s knitting we pondered long and earnestly. It was a
half-finished stocking and the wool was moth-eaten, for Greataunt Phebe
had been dead for years. We decided to run the risk of sacrilege and
destroy it. When Cousin John counted the great piles of plates he shut
his eyes, saying it was easier for him to count in that way.
A death-mask found in the attic was hard to identify. When Uncle Sam
called at No. 8 Bond Street, it was shown to him. “That is Maddie’s
mother,” he said. I was grieved to have asked unwittingly such a painful
question, for Maddie’s mother was his first wife, Emily Astor, who had
died many years before. “Maddie” was their daughter, Margaret Astor
Ward, afterward Mrs. Winthrop Chanler. Uncle Sam’s phrasing of his
answer showed his tact and desire to avoid making me feel I had
committed a stupid blunder.
My aunt’s present to us was a handsome one, even a third of an eighth
representing quite a share of silver, furniture, etc. I also figured as
a sort of residuary legatee, the heirs making me a number of presents
ranging from a great mahogany bedstead down to small domestic articles
of furniture. Hence I was well repaid for the trouble involved.
My father still walked with a light, quick step and maintained his
gallant bearing till he was seventy-two years old. Soon afterward his
health began to fail, but in spite of pain and weakness he kept at work.
In 1874 he wrote a brief report of his life-work for the blind, of which
it has been said:
“Were there no other monument to his memory, this would suffice.”
He still enjoyed his favorite exercise, riding on horseback, and took
great pleasure in his grandchildren. In spite of his extremely busy life
he had always found time to write to his children—were it only a few
affectionate lines. Two notes to sister Julia lie before me.
CONTINENTAL, PHILADELPHIA,
_April 13, Sunday_.
DARLING DUDIE,—Journeying homeward from Washington I was obliged
to lie over here by sick headache, which, however, is passing
away.
I have seen dear Sumner, who lies stranded for life I fear—a
magnificent but mournful wreck.
Washington is looking beautifully in the full bloom of spring.
It is not cheering to leave it for the cold and still wintry
north, except when one thinks of the sunlight of dear faces and
the warmth of loving hearts.
Love to Michael.