Sunday in the Country--Proximity of a Meeting-house--How we pass our
Sundays--The House in the Woods--Ida's Glen--Mrs. Greeley's Favorite
Spring--The Children's Play-house--Gabrielle's Pets--Travelling in
1836--New York Society--Mr. Greeley's Friday Evenings--Mrs. Greeley as
a Bride--Her Accomplishments--A Letter concerning Mr. Greeley's Wedding.
_June 16_.
Sunday is, I think, a very _triste_ day in the country (low be it
spoken). I cannot remain longer than an hour at church, for the Mass
is a low one, and the sermon consists of fifteen minutes of plain,
practical instruction, unembellished by rhetoric, to the congregation.
The church, it is true, is four miles distant, but Gabrielle's
aristocratic ponies, Lady Alice and The Duchess, fairly fly over the
ground--up or down hill, it is immaterial to them--and consequently, I
find myself, when my religious duties are over, with many idle hours
upon my hands.
The croquet balls and mallets, our "Magic Rings," and other out-of-door
games, are put away in the "children's play-house," a little white hut
on the borders of the croquet ground, where Ida and dear little Raffie
used to keep their toys, and where Gabrielle in later days housed her
menagerie of pets.
The piano, too, is not only closed, but locked, for the flesh is weak,
and I fear the temptation of the beautiful cold keys. It may be the
baneful effect of a foreign education, but I cannot see that there
would be any evil result from a little music on Sundays. However, we
have a Dissenting church for a next-door neighbor, and the residents of
Chappaqua are chiefly Quakers, who frown upon the piano as an ungodly
instrument; so with a sigh, I replace in my portfolio that grand hymn
that in 1672 saved the life of the singer, Stradella, from the
assassin's knife, and a beautiful Ave Maria, solemn and chaste in its
style as though written by St. Gregory himself, but composed and
dedicated to me by mamma's friend, Professor F. L. Ritter.
My pretty bits of fancy work with their bright-colored silks, the tiny
needle-book worked while in Munich in an especially pretty stitch, and
in the Bavarian colors--blue and white--and my Bavarian thimble--silver
and amethyst--are put away in a bureau drawer, for although a Catholic,
I do not imitate our Lutheran maid, who spends her Sundays in sewing
and knitting.
Plato and Kohlrausch, our week-day sustenance, do not come certainly
under the head of Sunday reading, although I see nothing objectionable
in them; but after all, one requires, I think, a change of literature
on Sundays as well as a different dress, and an extra course at dinner.
"What shall we do?" says Gabrielle.
We have each written a letter or two, for Sunday is, I am sure, every
one's letter-writing day, and now we put on our broad-brimmed garden
hats, with their graceful trimmings of gauze and crape, and stroll off
to the spicy pine grove, where we sit down on the dry spines, and
Arthur repeats to us quaint bits from some of the rare old books he
read in the British Museum three years ago, or entertains us with some
of his own adventures when travelling on foot over beautiful France and
Italy, and "Merrie England."
Ida and I, however, wandered away from the others this morning, and
strolled up to the dear old house in the woods where she passed her
childhood. This is, to my mind, the sweetest and most picturesque spot
upon the entire estate, and I do not wonder that Aunt Mary, with her
keen love for the beautiful in Nature, her indifference to general
society, and her devotion to her children, to study, and to reflection,
preferred the quiet seclusion of her home shut in by evergreens, with
the deep ravine, and the joyous little brook at her feet, to the most
superb mansion that graces our magnificent Hudson.
[Illustration: The House in the Woods.]
One of the purest springs on the place is in the ravine, or "Ida's
Glen," as uncle christened it long ago. Here at the foot of the long
wooden staircase is a basin of natural rock, and flowing into it is the
sweetest, coolest water in the world. This water Aunt Mary always
preferred to any other on the place--even to the spring at the foot of
the side-hill, so celebrated in the campaign times as the spot where
uncle and his visitors would stop to "take a drink," when returning
from a walk. Exquisite in her neatness, Aunt Mary would frequently
order the basin of her favorite spring to be well purified by a
thorough scrubbing with brush and soap, followed by a prolonged rinsing
with water. During her illness last fall, she frequently asked to have
a pitcher of water brought from this spring, which she always
especially relished.
That uncle shared his wife's partiality for this spring is evident by
his description of it in his "Recollections":
"In the little dell or glen through which my brook emerges from the
wood wherein it has brawled down the hill, to dance across a gentle
slope to the swamp below, is _the_ spring,--pure as crystal,
never-failing, cold as you could wish it for drink in the hottest day,
and so thoroughly shaded and sheltered that, I am confident, it was
never warm, and never frozen over. Many springs upon my farm are
excellent, but this is peerless."
The house in the woods was built by uncle to suit Aunt Mary's taste,
and very comfortable and complete it is. Uncle says of it:
"It is not much--hastily erected, small, slight, and wooden, it has at
length been almost deserted for one recently purchased and refitted on
the edge of the village; but the cottage in the woods is still my home,
where my books remain, and where I mean to garner my treasures."
The house consists of two stories with that most necessary addition to
a country house, a broad piazza. To the right stands a white cottage,
built for the servants. Almost in front of the house is a large
boulder, moss-grown and venerable. This, Aunt Mary would not have
removed, for she loved Nature in its wildest primeval beauty, and now
the rock is associated with loving memories of Raffie's little hands
that once prepared fairy banquets upon it, with acorn-cups for dishes;
but now those baby hands have long since been folded quietly in the
grave.
The little play-house, that has since been removed to the
croquet-ground, once stood not far from this rock, and has been used,
as I said, by Gabrielle as a menagerie for her pets. A strange
assortment they often were for a little girl. Inheriting her mother's
exquisite tenderness of feeling towards helpless animals, Gabrielle
would splinter and bandage up the little legs of any baby robin or
sparrow that had met with an accident from trying its wings too early,
would nurse it till well, and then let it fly away. At one time she
had in the play-house a little regiment of twelve toads, a red
squirrel, and a large turtle. Aunt Mary never wished her to cage her
pets, as she thought it cruel; consequently they had the range of the
play-house, and Gabrielle fed them very conscientiously. She ought,
however, to have followed the example of St. Francis, who used to
preach to animals and insects when he had no human audience, and given
her pets a daily dissertation upon brotherly love and tolerance, for
they did not, I regret to say, live together in the Christian harmony
that distinguished Barnum's Happy Family. The result was, that one day
when Gabrielle went to minister to their physical wants, she found only
a melancholy _débris_ of little legs. Her supposition was that the
turtle had consumed the toads and then died of dyspepsia, and that the
squirrel had by some unknown means escaped from the play-house, and
returned to primeval liberty.
[Illustration: The Children's Play House.]
Forgetting this sad experience, Gabrielle endeavored at another time to
bring up a snake and a toad in the way they should go (this time in an
empty hen-coop); but the snake certainly did depart from it, and
astonished the family much by gliding into the kitchen with the unhappy
toad in his mouth. Poor Gabrielle's feelings can be imagined. She
endeavored courageously to wrest the toad from its enemy's jaws, but
all in vain; she was obliged to see the hapless creature consumed by
the snake.
Mamma has often described Aunt Mary to me as she looked when she first
met her. The portrait mamma draws of her as a bride would scarcely be
recognized by those who only knew her after long years of weary illness
had
"Paled her glowing cheek."
I will give it in mamma's own words:
"Immediately after your uncle's marriage, he sent for me to come from
my parents' quiet farm in Pennsylvania, to spend the winter in the city
with himself and his wife. A great event this was to me--far greater
than your first visit to Europe, for the journey occupied double the
time that is now spent between New York and Liverpool, and I was a
young girl whose acquaintance with the world was confined to the narrow
limits of the little village of Clymer; I had never even been sent away
to boarding-school.
"One bright September morning I started upon my eventful journey. Your
uncle Barnes drove me in a buggy to Buffalo, a distance of three days
at that time. At this city--the first large one that I had ever seen,
my brother left me in charge of a party going through, as he supposed,
to New York. Then ensued two weeks upon a canal boat; very slow
travelling you children would consider it, accustomed as you are to
whirling over the country in an express train; but at my romantic age,
this dreamy, delicious style of boat travel was the perfection of
happiness.
"At Rochester my friends left me, first placing me under the care of
the captain of the canal-boat, who promised to put me upon the
steamboat when we should reach Albany.
"The prospect of the day to be spent upon the Hudson possessed no
charms for me, but on the contrary, untold terror. I had never before
seen a steamboat, but they had been introduced upon Lake Erie, near
enough to my home for me to hear, with alarm, of all the accidents that
had so far befallen them upon that very turbulent sheet of water;
consequently, I embarked upon the 'Washington,' in the full conviction
that I was about to meet with my doom.
"All that day I sat motionless in a corner of the promenade deck,
reading my Bible. Perfectly oblivious alike to the magnificent scenery
that I was passing, and to the elegant toilettes such as my
country-bred eyes had never before beheld, by which I was surrounded; I
neither spoke to nor looked at any one, nor dared to leave my seat even
to go to dinner; but endeavored to gain, from the sacred volume in my
hands, strength for the terrible fate that I was confident awaited me.
I have often since wondered what my fellow-travellers thought of the
still, shy little figure whose eyes were never once lifted from her
Bible.
"About four o'clock a terrible explosion was heard, the boat was thrown
violently upon her side, and a scene of confusion, shrieks, and
fainting-fits then ensued. I did not faint--I was much too alarmed for
that; I merely turned very white, and trembled from head to foot. The
wheel-house had been blown away, I learnt before long, but no one
fortunately was injured, and after a delay of an hour or so the boat
was righted, and we proceeded upon our journey, at a snail's pace,
however.
"Owing to the accident, we did not reach New York until ten o'clock.
No one was at the pier to meet me, for brother had supposed that I
would arrive before sunset. As I did not appear, however, he concluded
that I had not left Albany at the time appointed. But my adventures of
the day were not yet over. I secured a cab, and drove to the address
he had given me, 123 Hudson Street, which in 1836 was by no means the
plebeian locality it is at present, but a fashionable street, devoted
exclusively to elegant residences. Upon inquiring for Mr. Greeley, my
consternation was great to learn that although he had looked at rooms
in that house, he had not engaged them, and the landlady had no idea of
his address. I was almost as timid about cabs as I had been about the
steamboat; for I had heard stories of young girls being robbed and
murdered by New York cab-drivers, and here I was, late at night, in all
the whirl and excitement of the metropolis, driving I knew not where,
and entirely at the mercy of an assassin. However, my modest trunk did
not look very inviting, I suppose, for I reached _The New Yorker_
office--the only other address I knew in the city--without further
adventure, where I ascertained that brother was now living at 124
Greenwich Street--a most beautiful situation close by the Battery--then
the fashionable promenade of New York. He had written to tell me of
his change of residence, but the letter failed to reach me.
"It was half-past eleven when I finally reached my home. The large
parlor was ablaze with lights, and crowded with people; for it was
Friday, the night that _The New Yorker_ went to press, and brother's
reception evening. I was trembling with fatigue and excitement, and
very faint, for I had not eaten since early in the morning; but all
these emotions vanished when I was introduced to my new sister. I had
seen no pictures of her, and knew her only through brother's
description, and a few letters she had written me since her marriage,
and I was quite unprepared for the exquisite, fairy-like creature I now
beheld. A slight, girlish figure, rather _petite_ in stature, dressed
in clouds of white muslin, cut low, and her neck and shoulders covered
by massive dark curls, from which gleamed out an Oriental-looking
_coiffure_, composed of strands of large gold and pearl beads. Her
eyes were large, dark, and pensive, and her rich brunette complexion
was heightened by a flush, not brilliant like Gabrielle's, but delicate
as a rose-leaf. She appeared to me like a being from another world."
To continue mamma's reminiscences of uncle's first year of married life:
"I found my sister-in-law's tastes," she said, "quite different from
those of the majority of young ladies. In literature her preference
was for the solid and philosophic, rather than the romantic class of
reading; indeed, I may say that she never read, she _studied_; going
over a paragraph several times, until she had fully comprehended its
subtleties of thought, and stored them away in her retentive memory for
future use. During that year, I never knew her to read a work of
fiction; but philosophy or science formed her daily nourishment; whilst
brother, whenever he had a free evening, read aloud to Mary and I from
Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, sweetened now and then
with a selection from Lord Byron or Mrs. Hemans--the two poets that at
that time he preferred.
"But although your Aunt Mary had such severe literary tastes, she was
by no means gloomy in her disposition, as you might perhaps infer.
Your uncle being at that time editor of a weekly journal, he was
comparatively a man of leisure, and he and Mary went frequently to the
theatre, and to hear lectures--a source of great enjoyment to both of
them. They also mingled considerably in general society, for Mary was
then very fond of dancing, although there was rarely or never any at
her Friday evenings, for literary people then, as now, eschewed the
goddess Terpsichore.
"I told you that I arrived in New York upon brother's reception-night.
Those Friday evenings wore a great source of pleasure to me,
introducing me as they did to the literary coterie of the metropolis.
Nearly all the men and women of note at that time met in our parlors on
Greenwich Street, and many of them were regular or occasional
contributors to brother's journal. Among the names that I can recall,
were Gen. Morris, then editing the _New York Mirror_; the two Clark
brothers, editors of the _Knickerbocker_, one of whom, Willis Gaylord
Clark, was at that time writing his clever 'Ollapodiana;' Fitz-Greene
Halleck, the poet; George M. Snow, who later in life became financial
editor of _The Tribune_, and is now deceased; Professor A. C. Kendrick,
of Hamilton College, the translator of Schiller's 'Victor's Triumph,'
which subsequently appeared in _The New Yorker_, and which, you will
remember, your uncle has occasionally read for us at our own Tuesday
evening receptions; Mrs. O. M. Sawyer, the accomplished wife of
brother's pastor, then making her _débût_ in the literary world with
poems and occasional translations from the German; Elizabeth Jessup
Eames, who was writing stories and poems for _The New Yorker_, under
the signature of 'Stella;' Mrs. E. F. Ellet, in 1836 a handsome young
bride, who had come up from the South, and was contributing
translations from the French and German to the same journal; Anne Cora
Lynch, now Madame Botta; and many others.
"I must not forget to mention Fisher, the sub-editor of _The New
Yorker_, and, in his own estimation, the most important person upon
that journal. He was what might be called a literary fop, and was much
given to the production of highly-wrought, Byronic poems and sketches.
I remember hearing that some one called one day at the office, and
asked to see the editor. Fisher immediately presented himself.
"'What!' said the visitor, somewhat surprised, 'are you Mr. Greeley?'
"'No,' said Fisher, running his fingers nonchalantly through his curls,
'I am not Mr. Greeley, but,' drawing himself up, 'I am the editor of
_The New Yorker_. Mr. Greeley is only the printer.'
"This incident having got out among brother's friends, it was
considered so good a joke that for years he was called in the office
and by the literary fraternity, 'The Printer.'
"The entertainment at these Friday evenings was mainly conversation,
varied by the occasional reading of a poem. Your Aunt Mary was much
admired that winter, both for her exquisite beauty and the charm of her
winning, artless manners. As I said, she was very fond of dancing; but
brother never had time to accomplish himself in the art. I remember,
however, that at a Christmas party given by his partner, Mr. Wilson, he
was induced to dance a quadrille. His mathematical accuracy enabled
him to go through the figures perfectly, when he had once seen them
danced; and he enjoyed it so thoroughly, and wore such an air of
unconscious happiness, that an old Quaker lady (the mother-in-law of
Mr. Wilson) who was looking on remarked to me, 'I didn't think thee
could find so beautiful a sight as thy brother's dancing this side of
heaven.'
"I have described your Aunt Mary as beautiful, and perhaps you would
infer that she was also over-fond of dress. She was no devotee to
fashion, and her toilet was, even at that period, characterized by
great simplicity, but was noted, at the same time, for picturesqueness."
Ida showed me, the other day, a very interesting letter written to her
father by a friend, Mr. Yancey, who was present at his marriage, and as
it confirms what mamma has said of Aunt Mary's beauty, I will make some
extracts from it. Mr. Yancey was the son-in-law of Squire Bragg, at
whose house Aunt Mary resided while teaching school in North Carolina.
"GERMANTOWN, TENNESSEE, _July 6, 1847_.
"MR. GREELEY:
"DEAR SIR:--Sitting to-night 'all solitary and alone,' my mind has
wandered back upon scenes that have past eleven years ago, though vivid
now even as yesterday. It was about that time that I saw you first,
and indeed saw you last.
"Little did I then dream that I beheld in that modest personage one who
is now acknowledged as the 'distinguished and accomplished Horace
Greeley.'
"You well remember your first visit to the South, I dare say. You
cannot have forgotten many incidents that occurred at a little village
of North Carolina, called Warrenton? No, there is _one_ circumstance I
feel assured you never can forget while memory lasts, and there are
others to which I claim the right to call your attention: for instance,
do you remember your first meeting with a certain Miss Cheney at the
house of Squire Bragg, the father of Capt. Bragg, who lately
distinguished himself at Monterey and Buena Vista? Do you now remember
to whom you related the secret of your visit, who procured the parson,
and what persons accompanied you to church, and then with your
beautiful bride returned to breakfast? We saw you take the solemn
vows, we witnessed the plighted betrothal, and when you bore away from
us this prize, you also carried our best wishes that you might be ever
blessed, and she be made always happy. May it not have been otherwise."
. . . . "I would, my dear sir, be pleased to hear from you, and to
learn something of the results and changes which time has brought about
in your own family.
"Be pleased to remember me to your sweet wife, and if there be any, or
many little G------s, my kind regards to them also.
"Very respectfully,
"A. L. YANCEY."