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AN ASTRONOMER’S WIFE
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[Illustration: ANGELINE HALL IN MATURE LIFE]
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AN ASTRONOMER’S WIFE
THE BIOGRAPHY OF ANGELINE HALL
BY HER SON
ANGELO HALL
BALTIMORE
NUNN & COMPANY
1908
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COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY
ANGELO HALL
The Lord Baltimore Press
BALTIMORE, MD., U.S.A.
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_TO MY DAUGHTER
PEGGY_
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CONTENTS.
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PAGE
PROLOGUE 11
CHAPTER I. A GRAND-DAUGHTER OF THE REVOLUTION 13
II. THE FATHERLESS CHILD 20
III. LADY ANGELINE 24
IV. TEACHING SCHOOL 30
V. THE NEXT STEP 33
VI. COLLEGE DAYS 38
VII. COLLEGE PRODUCTIONS 47
VIII. ASAPH HALL, CARPENTER 54
IX. COURTSHIP AND MARRIAGE 59
X. ANN ARBOR AND SHALERSVILLE 66
XI. STRENUOUS TIMES 70
XII. LOVE IN A COTTAGE 80
XIII. WASHINGTON AND THE CIVIL WAR 86
XIV. THE GAY STREET HOME 96
XV. AN AMERICAN WOMAN 104
XVI. A BUNDLE OF LETTERS 116
XVII. AUGUSTA LARNED’S TRIBUTE 127
EPILOGUE 130
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ILLUSTRATIONS.
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ANGELINE HALL IN MATURE FRONTISPIECE
LIFE
AN OLD DAGUERREOTYPE OPPOSITE CHAPTER V
THE GAY STREET HOME OPPOSITE CHAPTER XIV
PHOTOGRAPH OF 1878 OPPOSITE CHAPTER XV
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PROLOGUE.
_Dear Peggy_: As I tell you this story of the noble grandmother who,
dying long before you were born, would otherwise be to you a picture of
the imagination, I am going to let the public listen, for several
reasons:
_First._ The public will want to listen, for everybody is interested in
true stories of real folks.
_Secondly._ While your grandmother was not the most wonderful woman that
ever lived, she was a typical American. Her story possesses the charm
and fascination of a romance, for she was a daughter of the
pioneers—those ill-fed and ill-clothed people who, in spite of their
shortcomings, intellectual, moral, and physical, have been the most
forceful race in history.
_Thirdly._ This story vindicates the higher education of women. Your
grandmother, dear Peggy, was a Bachelor of Arts. Now it is maintained in
some quarters that women become bachelors so as to avoid having
children. But your grandmother had four sons, every one of whom she sent
through Harvard College.
_Finally._ This story will demonstrate conclusively that college-bred
women should not marry young men who earn less than three hundred
dollars a year. When you marry, dear Peggy, insist that your husband
shall earn at least a dollar a day. This precept will bar out the
European nobility, but will put a premium on American nobility.
Signed and sealed this 1st day of November, in the year of our Lord
1908, at Annapolis, Anne Arundel County, Maryland.
ANGELO HALL.
[Illustration:
1755 SONS OF MARS 1775
The Halls of Goshen
Qui transtulit sustinet.
MOONS OF MARS 1877]
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CHAPTER I.
––––––
A GRAND-DAUGHTER OF THE REVOLUTION.
One fine winter morning a little more than a hundred years ago the sun
peeped into the snow-clad valley of the Connecticut, and smiled
cordially upon the snug homes of the sons and daughters of the American
Revolution. The Yankee farmers had long been stirring. Smoke curled up
from every chimney in Ellington. The cattle had been fed and watered.
Pans of new milk stood on the pantry shelves, breakfast was over, and
the family was gathered about the fireside to worship God and to render
Him thanks for peace and plenty.
At Elisha Cook’s, on this particular winter morning, the simple Puritan
rites were especially earnest. The mother had gathered the children into
her arms, and the light of high resolve lit up her face; for this day
the family was to begin a long, hard journey westward—away from the town
of Ellington, away from Tolland County, away from Connecticut and New
England, beyond the Dutch settlements of New York State to Lake Ontario
and the Black River Country!
I will not attempt to describe that journey in January, 1806. Suffice it
to say that Elisha Cook and his wife Huldah, setting their faces bravely
westward, sought and found a home in the wilderness. They went to stay.
No turning back for those hardy pioneers. Children and household goods
went with them. With axe and plough, hammer and saw, spinning-wheel and
loom, they went forth to enlarge the Kingdom of God. There was no Erie
Canal in those early days. The red men had hardly quitted the unbroken
forests. Not many years had passed since Fort Stanwix resounded with the
warwhoops of St. Leger’s Indians. Indeed, Huldah Cook herself—she was
Huldah Pratt then, a little girl of ten years—had been in Albany when
Burgoyne surrendered.
No doubt as the emigrants entered the Mohawk Valley, little Electa Cook
heard from her mother’s lips something about Arnold and Morgan and their
victorious soldiers. Perhaps she saw in imagination what her mother had
actually seen—soldiers in three-cornered hats, some in uniform and some
in plain homespun, every man armed with powder horn and musket, hurrying
through the streets of the quaint old town to the American camp beyond.
Perhaps she saw the fiery Arnold himself, mounted on his fiery warhorse.
Perhaps she saw Daniel Morgan and his men—of all the heroes of the
Revolution none was braver and truer than he, and of all the soldiers in
Washington’s army none could shoot straighter than the men that
magnanimous general sent to Gates—Morgan’s riflemen.
* * * * *
Moses Stickney was a crack shot, too. I have seen a long-barreled musket
of fine workmanship which he carried in the Revolution, and have
listened to tales of his marksmanship still preserved in the Vermont
valley whither his sons treked westward from their New Hampshire home.
Between that snug little valley and the Connecticut River is a high
ridge, from the top of which Mt. Monadnock is clearly seen. And it was
by the side of that grand old mountain, in the town of Jaffrey, that
Moses Stickney, late of Washington’s army, provided a home for his
bride, Mary Hastings, whom he loved and cherished for sixty-nine years,
lacking four days. Tradition says this lady was descended from an
English earl. Certain it is she bore her husband four noble sons and
four fair daughters.
But who was Moses Stickney? Why, he bears the same relation to the
heroine of this story as does Elisha Cook. He was Angeline Stickney’s
grandfather—her paternal grandfather, of course. No child could have
wished better forebears than these—Moses Stickney and Mary Hastings,
Elisha Cook and Huldah Pratt. It is recorded of Moses Stickney that he
yoked up his oxen on the day he became one hundred years old. A
nonagenarian of Gill, Mass., by the name of Perry, who resided in
Jaffrey, N.H., from 1837 to 1847, used to tell me of this Revolutionary
ancestor, with whom he became well acquainted during those ten years.
The old soldier was fond of telling war stories, and tradition has it
that he carried his long-barreled musket at Bunker Hill. Though his eyes
were bloodshot, like the Moses of Scripture his natural force was
unabated. He was about five feet, ten inches tall, rather slender, and a
good walker even in extreme old age.
Now Moses Stickney had a daughter Mary, who was courted and won by a gay
young man of the name of Daniel Gilman. Just what the virtues and vices
of this gallant may have been I am unable to say; but he vexed his
father-in-law to such an extent that the old gentleman declared no more
young men should come to woo his daughters. “If they come,” said he,
“damn ’em, I’ll shoot ’em.” Being a crack shot, he simply needed thus to
define his position. His daughters Lois and Charlotte lived out their
days at home, maiden ladies. The oldest sister, Susan, had escaped the
parental decree, presumably, by marrying before its promulgation.
Young Gilman shortly left for parts unknown—though shrewdly guessed at.
The War of 1812 was going on, and the Black River Country, home of
Elisha Cook, was the scene of great activity. Thither, then, went young
Theophilus Stickney, brother to Mary, in search of her runaway husband.
Tradition says he unearthed him. However that may be, young Stickney,
himself a gay and handsome youth of four and twenty, found the country
pleasant, and its maidens fresh and blooming. Moreover, his skill in
carpentry, for he was an excellent workman, was much in demand. So
instead of returning home to New Hampshire, he wooed and wedded Electa,
daughter of Elisha Cook.
It would be agreeable to me to record that they lived happily ever
after. But they did not. No couple could have started life under more
favorable auspices: the bride, a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked maiden of
eighteen years, daughter of a prosperous farmer; the groom a handsome,
curly-haired man of twenty-six, of proved ability in his calling, and a
prize for any country girl. They were married on Washington’s birthday,
1816—at a time when this country had finally declared her emancipation
from the tyranny of foreign kings, when the star-spangled banner had
been vindicated by Old Hickory at New Orleans, and hallowed by Francis
Scott Key at Baltimore. So these young patriots needed only to conquer
themselves; but herein they failed—at least, Theophilus Stickney did.
It is delightful to contemplate how Americans of those days, clinging to
the songs of Merrie England, to the English Bible, and to English
learning, defied the political authority of the Old World, and realized
the dream of eighteen Christian centuries by establishing on a new soil
the Brotherhood of Man. But it is sad to see how many Americans of those
days and of these days, too, have failed to overcome the weaknesses
inherent in human nature. The only free man is he who is master of
himself, whether the person at the head of the government be called King
or President.
But do not form the impression that Theophilus Stickney was guilty of
unpardonable sins. He was an altogether lovable man. In fact, I half
suspect he won his father-in-law as readily as his bride. Both men were
fond of music, and sang well. They were generous, large-hearted, as
befits the pioneer. Resolved to win a home on the shores of the Great
Lakes, they yet loved New England and Old England, too. Little
pertaining to my unfortunate grandfather, Theophilus Stickney, has come
down to me, except the songs he sang. One of them begins:
’Twas on the fourteenth day of May
Our troops set sail for America.
Perhaps the best stanza of this homely ballad is the following:
We saw those bold American sons
Deal death and slaughter with their guns.
Bold British blood runs thro’ their veins,
While proud old England sinks in chains.
The best of his ballads, to my mind, was this—the music of which I have
tried to preserve, for a little old lady of seventy years, his daughter,
sang it to me long ago:
[Music
On yonder high mountain there the castle doth stand,
All decked in green ivy from the top to the strand;
Fine arches, fine porches, and the limestone so white—
’Tis a guide for the sailor in the dark stormy night.
’Tis a landscape of pleasure, ’tis a garden of green,
And the fairest of flowers that ever was seen.
For hunting, for fishing, and for fowling also—
The fairest of flowers on this mountain doth grow.
At the foot of this mountain there the ocean doth flow,
And ships from the East Indies to the westward do go,
With the red flags aflying and the beating of drums—
Sweet instruments of music and the firing of guns.
Had Polly proved loyal I’d have made her my bride,
But her mind being inconstant it ran like the tide;
The king can but love her, and I do the same—
I’ll crown her my jewel and be her true swain.
]
Trouble was in store for the young carpenter and his bride. He
contracted to build a house for a neighbor, finding all the lumber
himself, and going into the woods with his men to hew out the timbers.
The work done, the pay for it was not forthcoming, and his own little
home, with a farm of eighty-five acres, nearly paid for, was swallowed
up. So the family moved to the Genesee Country to seek a better fortune.
Here the children—for there were children now—suffered from fever and
ague; and humbling his pride, Theophilus Stickney accepted his
father-in-law’s invitation to return to the Black River Country and live
on a piece of the Cook farm. Here it was, in the town of Rodman,
Jefferson County, that Chloe Angeline Stickney, the carpenter’s sixth
child, was born. There were three older sisters, and two little brothers
had died in infancy.
The soil of Rodman is to this day very productive. In those early days
grain grew abundantly, there were no railroads to ship it away, and
distilleries were set up everywhere. The best of good whisky was as free
as water; and Theophilus Stickney became a drunkard. It is the sin of
many a fine nature, but like other sins it is visited upon the third and
fourth generations. Especially was it visited upon little Angeline, a
child of a very fine and sensitive organization. For sixty-two years, in
a weakened nervous system, did she pay the penalty of her father’s
intemperance. To her that father was but a name. Before she was three
years old he had left home to become a wanderer. And in February, 1842,
he died among strangers in a hospital at Rochester.
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