The Fourth of July--A Quaker Celebration--The House in the Woods--Mrs.
Greeley's Life there--Pickie--Mary Inez--Raffie--Childhood of Ida and
Gabrielle--Heroism of Mrs. Greeley--The Riots of 1863--Mrs. Greeley
defends her House against the Mob.
_July 5_.
Yesterday was the pleasantest Fourth I ever experienced in America.
Last year at this time I was upon the Catskill Mountains, and was
aroused at an unearthly hour by the discharge of a cannon, whose
reverberation was something appalling, and made me doubt if I was not
shot. The hotel was graced with the presence of some thirty or forty
children, whose fond parents had invested largely in fire-crackers and
toy cannon for them, and no place upon the grounds, it seemed, was so
favorable for the ebullition of youthful patriotism as the spot
directly under my window. Consequently, as I was already weak from the
effect of a prolonged attack of nervous fever, I was before nightfall
in a state akin to distraction, and filled with anything but patriotic
sentiments. I could not then but think with regret of a previous
Fourth spent upon the steamship _St. Laurent_, where fire-crackers were
tabooed, and the celebration consisted entirely of a magnificent
dinner, and speeches--during the latter I made my escape to the deck.
This year was pleasanter still. I do not know if the Chappaqua people
are less patriotic than other citizens of the Union, but our nerves
were only disturbed by the occasional popping of a fire-cracker in the
garden of our neighbor, the train-master over the way; and when we
strayed off to the Glen after dinner, we were as free from disturbing
noise as though our country had not been born ninety-seven years ago.
But although noisy demonstrations do not seem the fashion here (perhaps
owing to the predominance of Quakers in the neighborhood), the dormant
enthusiasm of the people for the Fourth was aroused at sundown, when a
mass meeting was held at the tavern, or "Chappaqua Hotel" as it is
grandly styled, and lengthy and energetic speeches were delivered.
From our piazza we could hear the orators' voices ascending to a very
high key as they warmed with their topic, and quite congratulated
ourselves that we were not obliged to be of the audience.
After dark there was a small display of Roman candles and sky-rockets;
and so ended the glorious Fourth.
_July 6_.
I have again dreamed away an entire morning upon the piazza of the
house in the woods--to me the stillest, sweetest spot in the world. I
have described this dear old house and its romantic surroundings again
and again since I have been here this summer. I can scarcely turn over
half a dozen leaves of my journal without finding some allusion to it;
but it is a subject possessing such fascination for me that I must
again revert to it. I like to pass a quiet hour upon the steps of the
piazza, or upon the large moss-grown boulder in front of the house
where Ida, Raphael, and Gabrielle have all played; and while my fingers
are busily employed with some fanciful design wrought with gold thread
or emerald-green silk,
"My thoughts wander on at their own sweet will,";
oftenest returning, however, to Aunt Mary's life here in the woods with
her little children. A lonely, comfortless life many women would have
deemed it, so entirely shut in as she was from the outer world; and to
any one less self-reliant and self-sustained than Aunt Mary it would
have been so. For that there were discomforts in her country life I do
not doubt, although they were much lessened by uncle's easy
circumstances; and the house itself was finished off with all the city
improvements and conveniences practicable to introduce into a building
of its size and situation. Still, the house was distant from good
markets, and the trees encircled it so closely that the sun's rays did
not penetrate the rooms until ten o'clock; but Aunt Mary loved her
trees as though they were human, and at that time would not allow one
to be cut down, notwithstanding the dampness that they created. An
idle woman would have regretted the distance at which the house stood
from the public road, as no distraction ensued from looking out of the
windows; and a timid or nervous one would have dreaded the long nights
in that solitary house when uncle was in the city or absent upon
lecturing tours, and no neighbor was within calling distance in case of
danger.
Occasionally, too, Aunt Mary would be left without servants, for all
American ladies know how difficult it is to retain them in the country,
especially in so small and lonely a place as Chappaqua was then, and
although she frequently had some friend making her long visits of
months, still there were days when she would be alone with only the sad
memory of her buried darlings, her splendid Pickie, the pride and hope
of both parents, and sweet little Mary Inez, and her two living
children, too young to be very companionable.
Raphael, mamma says, was a beautiful boy, although not perhaps so
noticeable as Pickie, for he had not his brilliant color, and his hair,
too, was not so dazzling in shade, but very much like his father's.
His features, however, were quite as finely cut as those of his much
admired brother, and his temperament was gentle and loving. Ida
cherishes very tender memories of him, for he was the only brother whom
she knew, and her constant playfellow before Gabrielle's birth. There
were seven years difference in the ages of the brothers. Pickie died
at five, of cholera; and Raffie at seven years old, of croup.
But although Aunt Mary had such sad memories in the past, she had two
beautiful children left to her, and for them she lived this life of
seclusion at Chappaqua, remaining here six months of every year that
they might acquire a fine physical development from walking, driving,
and riding in the pure country air. Ida has often told me of the wild
games of play she used to have when a child with Osceola, a little
Indian boy, and dwelt especially upon her prowess in racing down hill
in emulation of him. The parents of this boy then occupied the
roadside house, which did not at that time belong to uncle.
Gabrielle's stories are different. She loved to ride the unbroken
colts, and tend her menagerie in the play-house. She has, too, much to
tell about the way her mother used to train her to be as fearless in
case of fire or thieves as she was when seated upon a bare-backed
horse, and often she has made me smile, though fully recognizing the
wisdom of Aunt Mary's lessons, when telling me how she was obliged to
rehearse imaginary escapes from fire or midnight attacks.
Besides a devoted love for her children, a passion for the beautiful in
Nature, and fondness for solitude and books, or the companionship of
some one person of congenial tastes and highly cultured mind, Aunt Mary
possessed a fund of moral strength and heroism that one might indeed
read in the flash of her black eyes, but which a casual observer would
think incompatible with her frail figure. It was, however, many times
severely tested during uncle's absence when she had no male protector
to whom to look for assistance: but then she proved all-sufficient in
herself. At one time a number of workmen were employed upon the
place--rough, sullen creatures--who used to come to her to receive
their pay; and knowing her, a delicate, sickly woman, to be there
alone, they would often clamor for more wages than they were entitled
to receive, but never could they frighten her into granting it, for
though generous and charitable, nothing was more repugnant to her
feelings than an attempt to take an unfair advantage of her.
Upon one occasion, a man with whom she had had some business
transactions came to claim a payment that was not due him. Aunt Mary
explained to him that he was not entitled to it, and refused to see him
again. He returned another day, and she would not allow the door to be
opened. He then remained outside pulling the bell and thumping for
admittance. Aunt Mary spoke to him from the balcony above, and
requested him to leave. He vowed he would not stir without his money,
and tried to coerce her by the most frightful threats and oaths. "When
his imprecations were at their highest, Aunt Mary descended, and
throwing open the door, told him to come in; then turning to Gabrielle,
who stood beside her, said:
"Go upstairs and fetch my pistol off from the bureau."
Upon hearing these words the man left very quickly, and never returned
again to annoy her. In relating this incident to me, Gabrielle said:
"Of course I knew perfectly well that I would find no pistol upon the
bureau, but I had been too well trained by mamma to show the slightest
surprise, and promptly went upstairs in quest of imaginary firearms."
But this exhibition of cool courage paled in contrast with the true
heroism of Aunt Mary displayed at the time of the terrible anti-draft
riots in July, 1863. Living in the retirement of the woods, she was
not in the habit of going down to the village or associating with the
neighbors; consequently, she was rarely informed upon the local news.
She wondered that no letters or papers had arrived for a day or two,
but merely supposing that some accident upon the road had delayed the
mails, she went about her ordinary occupations, perfectly unconscious
of the peril she was in. Finally, Mr. Quinby, a Quaker neighbor, came
to the house by a long circuit, and informed her that a mob of about
three hundred men, who had collected from Sing Sing and other parts of
the country, were drinking at the tavern, and threatening to sack
"Greeley's house," and hang the family to the nearest trees. It was at
the risk of his life that Mr. Quinby had come to warn Aunt Mary, and he
implored her to escape as quickly as possible, and offered to conceal
her and the children in his house.
Aunt Mary did not shriek or fall down in a fainting fit upon learning
that hundreds of desperate men were threatening her life. Although she
had been very ill and was still weak, perfectly cool and collected, she
considered what was best to be done. Her husband was in New York, and
of the dozen or so Irish laborers employed upon the place, two or three
had already been seen drinking amicably with the rioters, and the
others, as well as the Irish servant, she feared to trust Clark, the
overseer, a very competent Englishman, was an excellent shot; but what
could one man do against three hundred? As for saving herself by
deserting her house, Aunt Mary scorned to do it; but immediately
devised a plan that reminds one of the heroism of a Dame Châtelaine of
the Middle Ages.
First of all, the valuables were to be moved, but without exciting the
suspicions of the servant or workmen, as they might inform the rioters.
The men were accordingly sent off to a distant part of the farm to
work, and the maid kept busy, while twelve trunks were lowered into a
wagon standing at the back of the house. Mr. Quinby immediately
covered them with hay, and drove to his own house, where he stored them
until the trouble should be over, and then sent his son back to help
the family.
To Gabrielle's surprise, her mother and Ida now appeared in very
voluminous and housewifely looking aprons, and were constantly going up
and down stairs. At last an untimely draught blew Aunt Mary's apron
aside, and Gabrielle, who had not been informed of the danger, caught a
glimpse of the picture of the Archangel Gabriel. All of the pictures
and pieces of sculpture were then removed to a little hut in the
orchard near the stables, built in the side of a hillock, half under
ground, and quite overgrown by vines; and when both pictures and the
precious books were safely out of the house Aunt Mary felt that she
could breathe. By that time Clark had returned from Sing Sing, where
he had purchased a large amount of gunpowder by Aunt Mary's direction.
This he arranged in a train from the house to a distant point, and the
preparations were then completed. When the rioters should come Aunt
Mary was to speak to them from the balcony and warn them to go away,
and in the meantime Mr. Quinby and Clark were to take the children out
of the house by the back window, which was but a step to the top of a
low woodshed, from which they could easily get to the ground. Then,
while the rioters were storming the barricaded doors, Aunt Mary was to
make her escape, and when she and the children were at a safe distance
a match was to be applied to the gunpowder, blowing up alike house and
rioters.
Mr. Quinby, being a Quaker, had looked on reluctantly while the mine
was being laid, and when he had done all he could to help Aunt Mary, he
returned to the tavern to see the state of affairs there. He found the
mob still drinking, and uttering horrible threats against the family.
His conscience then obliged him to give the wretches a hint of the doom
that awaited them, ending with these words:
"Heed my warning, my brethren; Horace Greeley is a peace man, but Mary
Greeley _will_ fight to the last!"
After dark, the rioters came to the gates and howled, and uttered
threats, but dared not approach very close to the fortress armed by a
sick woman and two children; and when weary of exercising their lungs
went peacefully away. Meantime, Aunt Mary, being fatigued by the
exertions of the day, laid down, Ida said, when everything was in
readiness to meet the rioters, and slept peacefully till morning.