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LOVE IN A COTTAGE.
Miss Sarah Waitt, a Cambridge school-teacher of beautiful character, and
firm friend of Angeline Hall, once said, after an acquaintance of thirty
years or more, that she had never known of a happier married life than
that of Mr. and Mrs. Hall. And yet these lovers quarreled!
The husband was opposed to woman suffrage. He opposed his wife’s writing
poetry—not from an aversion to poetry, but because poetry inferior to
the best is of little value. The wife, accustomed as an invalid to his
thoughtful attentions, missed his companionship as health returned. What
were her feelings the first night she found herself obliged to walk home
alone! But thereafter, like a more consistent apostle of woman’s rights,
she braved the night alone wherever duty led. She undertook to help her
husband in his computations, but, failing to persuade him that her time
was worth as much as his, she quit work. He could, indeed, compute much
faster than she, but she feelingly demanded a man’s wages.
However, this labor trouble subsided without resort to boycott. The most
serious quarrel—and for a time it was very dreadful—arose in this way:
It is well known that Boston is the intellectual and moral centre of the
country, in fact of the world; the hub of the universe, as it were.
There in ancient times witchcraft and the Quaker superstition were
gently but firmly discouraged (compare _Giles Corey_, Longfellow’s fine
drama, long since suppressed by Boston publishers). There in modern
times descendants of the Puritans practice race-suicide and Irishmen
practice politics. There a white man is looked upon as the equal of a
negro, though somewhat inferior, in many ways, to the Boston woman. Now
it so happened that some Boston and Cambridge ladies of Angeline Hall’s
acquaintance had resolved beyond equivocation that woman should
thenceforth be emancipated from skirts. They were delighted to find that
Mrs. Hall, in college days, had worn the “bloomer” costume. So they very
generously suggested that she have the honor of inaugurating bloomers in
Boston and vicinity. Truly it showed a self-sacrificing spirit on the
part of these ladies to allow this comparatively unknown sister to reap
the honor due her who should abolish skirts. They would not for one
moment think of robbing her of this honor by donning bloomers
themselves. They could only suggest that the reform be instituted
without delay, and they were eager to see how much the Boston public
would appreciate it.
Mrs. Hall was enthusiastic. Mr. Hall was not. Sordid considerations
biased his judgment. He reminded his wife that they were just struggling
to their feet, and the bloomers might ruin their prospects. Mrs. Hall
was furious! A pure-minded woman to be interfered with in this manner!
And worse than that, to think that she had married a coward! “A
coward”—yes, that is what she called him. It so happened, shortly
afterward, that the astronomer, returning home one night, found his wife
by the doorstep watching a blazing lamp, on the point of explosion. He
stepped up and dropped his observing cap over the lamp. Whereupon she
said, “You _are_ brave!” Strange she had not noticed it before!
Asaph Hall used to aver that a family quarrel is not always a bad thing.
It may serve to clear the atmosphere. Could he have been thinking of his
own experience? It is possible that the little quarrels indicated above
led to a clearer understanding of the separate duties of husband and
wife, and thence to a division of labor in the household. The secret of
social progress lies in the division of labor. And the secret of success
and great achievement in the Hall household lay in the division of
labor. At an early date Mr. Hall confined his attention to astronomy,
and Mrs. Hall confined hers to domestic cares. The world gained a worthy
astronomer. Did it lose a reformer-poetess? Possibly. But it was richer
by one more devoted wife and mother.
From the spring of 1859 to the end of their stay in Cambridge, that is,
for three years, the Halls occupied the cozy little Bond cottage, at the
top of Observatory Hill. Back of the cottage they had a vegetable
garden, which helped out a small salary considerably. There in its
season they raised most delicious sweet corn. In the dooryard, turning
an old crank, was a rosy-cheeked little boy, who sang as he turned:
Julee, julee, mem, mem,
Julee, julee, mem, mem;
then paused to call out:
“Mama, don’t you like my sweet voice?”
Asaph Hall, Jr., was born at the Bond cottage, October 6, 1859. If we
may trust the accounts of his fond mother, he was a precocious little
fellow—played bo-peep at four months—weighed twenty-one pounds at six
months, when he used to ride out every day in his little carriage and
get very rosy—took his first step at fourteen months, when he had ten
teeth—was quite a talker at seventeen months, when he tumbled down the
cellar stairs with a pail of coal scattered over him—darned his stocking
at twenty-six months, and demanded that his aunt’s letter be read to him
three or four times a day—at two and a half years trudged about in the
snow in his rubber boots, and began to help his mother with the
housework, declaring, “I’m big enough, mama.” “Little A.” was a general
favorite. He fully enjoyed a clam bake, and was very fond of oranges.
One day he got lost, and his terrified mother thought he might have
fallen into a well. But he was found at last on his way to Boston to buy
oranges.
Love in a cottage is sweeter and more prosperous when the cottage stands
a hundred miles or more from the homes of relatives. How can wife cleave
unto husband when mother lives next door? And how can husband prosper
when father pays the bills? It was a fortunate piece of hard luck that
Angeline Hall saw little of her people. As it was, her sympathy and
interest constantly went out to mother and sisters. This is seen from
her letters. In one she threatened to rescue her mother from the irate
Mr. Woodward by carrying her off bodily to Cambridge. By others it
appears that she was always in touch with her sisters Ruth and Mary.
Indeed, during little A.’s early infancy Mary visited Cambridge and
acted as nurse. In the summer of 1860, little A. and his mother visited
Rodman. Charlotte Ingalls was on from the West, also, and there was a
sort of family reunion. Charlotte, Angeline and Ruth, and their cousins
Huldah and Harriette were all mothers now, and they merrily placed their
five babies in a row.
In the fall of the same year Angeline visited her aunts, Lois and
Charlotte Stickney, who still lived on their father’s farm in Jaffrey,
New Hampshire. The old ladies were very poor, and labored in the field
like men, maintaining a pathetic independence. Angeline was much
concerned, but found some comfort, no doubt, in this example of Stickney
grit. She had found her father’s old home, heard his story from his
sisters’ lips, learned of the stalwart old grandfather, Moses Stickney;
and from that time forth she took a great interest in the family
genealogy. In 1863 she visited Jaffrey again, and that summer ascended
Mt. Monadnock with her little boy. Just twenty-five years afterward,
accompanied by her other three sons, she camped two or three weeks on
her grandfather’s farm; and it was my own good fortune to ascend the
grand old mountain with her. What a glorious day it was! Great white
clouds lay against the blue sky in windrows. At a distance the rows
appeared to merge into one great mass; but on the hills and fields and
ponds below the shadows alternated with the sunshine as far as eye could
reach. There beneath us lay the rugged land whose children had carried
Anglo-Saxon civilization westward to the Pacific. Moses Stickney’s farm
was a barren waste now, hardly noticeable from the mountain-top. Lois
and Charlotte had died in the fall of 1869, within a few days of each
other. House and barn had disappeared, and the site was marked by
raspberry bushes. We drew water from the old well; and gathered the dead
brush of the apple orchard, where our tent was pitched, to cook our
victuals.
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