On the anniversary of my birth, our only daughter, Caroline Minturn
Hall, was born at Portsmouth, near Newport, Rhode Island. One of her
pictures exhibited at the Paris Salon shows the beloved landscape of
“Oak Glen,” which adjoins her birthplace.
When our second son, Henry Marion Hall, was born, we moved to the
country, in order to give our three children greater liberty and more
fresh air than they could enjoy in the city. For fifteen years we lived
in Scotch Plains, a pretty, quaint old New Jersey town lying at the foot
of the Watchung Mountains. The countryside in 1878 was still in a
primitive condition. Scotch Plains was almost destitute of “modern
conveniences,” the gods of the servant-girl. A delusive bath-tub
appeared very effective until you found that it was necessary to drag
all the hot water up-stairs. We had a series of pumps indoors and out,
but no set wash-tubs.
There was neither gas, electricity, nor steam heat. We burned
kerosene-oil and my husband wrestled with the hot-air furnace, which
required such devotion that he christened it his black wife.
Gradually all these things were improved, by persistent effort. Our
landlord, young Doctor Coles, was our good friend, whom we persuaded to
make many improvements. But in the beginning housekeeping was very
difficult. Cooks looked upon us with an unfavorable eye, especially as
there was no Roman Catholic Church in the town.
My visits to the intelligence office were frequent and plaintive. Our
neighbor, Mr. B——, grew desperate over the situation. When he was asked
the searching question, “How many in fam’ly, sir?” he replied: “Seven
children. But I will make away with some of them if you think that is
too many!”
Some of our adventures were very funny—in the retrospect. One green cook
was much disturbed in mind about the asparagus. She could not wait for
my promised help, but prepared the vegetable by neatly whittling off the
tops. Great was the grief of our children, as this was the first
asparagus of the season.
Another cook of an ingenious turn of mind saved herself the trouble of
going down one flight of stairs to fill her bedroom pitcher by immersing
it in the tank in the attic. My husband could not understand why it took
comparatively few strokes of the pump to fill the tank—which soon became
empty again.
One night our little daughter was disturbed by plaster falling on her
face as she lay in bed. A glance at the ceiling revealed the cause. The
stalwart foot and leg of the cook protruded from it! In going to dip her
pitcher into the tank she had unwarily deviated from the narrow pathway
which led to it, putting her foot through the unprotected lath and
plaster!
Perhaps the most singular Irish bull was that of the functionary who had
been directed to make the sandwiches “half jelly and half mutton.” When
we were well started on our travels we tasted the luncheon. It was
horribly queer. Suddenly the truth flashed upon me! The literal-minded
cook had combined these warring materials in every sandwich!
The mistress made some mistakes as well as the cook. Seeing a material
of the color of the gingerbread often made in New England, I
unhesitatingly mixed it with the batter. When the supposititious
gingerbread came on the table it was very heavy and quite uneatable.
Something must have been wrong with the oven! The next time I began to
make gingerbread the cook caught my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Hall! Don’t put that
in! _That’s mustard._” My family were mercilessly merry over this
mistake.
I described the misadventure in _Demorest’s Magazine_, receiving five
dollars for the article. Thus every time any one poked fun at me about
the mustard gingerbread I countered with the five dollars! Better still,
by persistent efforts I learned—from Marion Harland’s excellent
receipt-book—to make gingerbread that appeared seraphic to my children.
When my husband once heartlessly observed that our sons could never twit
their wives with mother’s cooking, a chorus went around the table, “Oh,
but Mamma makes such lovely gingerbread!” And so I was honorably
avenged.
Fortunately we had a tower of strength in the children’s faithful nurse,
Mary Thompson. When cooks periodically failed us she valiantly walked
into the kitchen and did their work, as well as her own.
It must be confessed that Mary did not get along very well with the
various cooks. She was greatly their superior in intelligence and
character, as she well knew. Hence she did not always take enough pains
to be agreeable to the reigning queen of the kitchen. One woman
complained to me of this. “There we sit at table like two dumb
_brutes_!” she indignantly remarked.
In spite of all the troubles and trials of suburban life my husband and
I greatly enjoyed having a house of our own.
I was very anxious that my old friend, Sister Constance, should visit us
during her summer vacation. She was at this time established at the head
of a branch sisterhood in Memphis, Tennessee. Her parents had
unavailingly remonstrated with the authorities over this change of
domicile, for a Southern climate did not agree with her.
In reply to my letter of invitation, she wrote me she was so tired that
it was an effort to get up and walk across the room! A violent epidemic
of yellow fever suddenly broke out in her home district. Exhausted as
she was, she did not hesitate, but returned at once to the post of duty.
In ten days she was dead!
When she lay dying they asked if she was ready to go. “Aye, glad!” she
replied. So died, at the age of thirty-two, a woman who gave her life
for her people as truly and as nobly as any hero of the modern war!
I have always blamed the Mother Superior for permitting this useless
sacrifice. It was self-evident that in Sister Constance’s exhausted
condition she would at once fall a prey to the dreaded scourge. She
should have been detained at the North long enough to recruit her
strength before exposing her to an ordeal for which she was physically
unfit.
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