"society manners;" the witty Phoebe was as willing to flash out her
brightest puns for Alice's enjoyment as she was for a drawing-room full
of appreciative listeners; while Alice's gentleness and sweetness were
shown constantly to her sister and were not reserved for company only.
Their great occasions were their Sunday evening receptions, and the
people who gathered then under their roof were far from an ordinary
company. Horace Greeley, Bayard Taylor, Richard and Elizabeth Stoddard,
Justin McCarthy, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Ole Bull, P. T. Barnum,
Elizabeth Cady Stanton--these were but a part of the brilliant company
which delighted to gather on Sunday evening and enjoy the sweetness and
womanliness of Alice, and the wit of Phoebe.
Interrupted by the death of the beloved younger sister Elmina, this
life in the Twentieth Street house went on for over twelve years, until
in 1868 Alice Cary became a confirmed invalid. After she was confined
to her room, however, she wanted life and brightness about her, and had
the door of her room always left open, that she might hear the cheerful
sounds of the household.
[Illustration: ALICE CARY 1820-1871]
During their life in New York, Phoebe had had numerous offers of
marriage, but it had never cost her anything to say, "I don't want to
marry anybody." Soon after the beginning of Alice's invalid days,
however, Phoebe received an offer of marriage from a man whom she felt
that she could love, and with whom she was sure she could be happy. She
had always felt that in the home she was second to Alice, and she
confessed once to a friend, "Sometimes I feel a yearning to have a life
of my very own; my own house and work and friends; and to feel myself
the center of all."
However, much as it cost her, she resolutely put away the thought of
this possible happiness because she knew that her sister could not
endure her absence in what were very clearly the last days of her life.
In February, 1870, Alice Cary died, and Phoebe from that time on seemed
but half a person. To one of her friends she said pathetically: "For
thirty years I have gone straight to her bedside as soon as I arose in
the morning, and wherever she is, I am sure she wants me now." She
tried to take up her work--indeed she felt that in her sister's absence
she had double work to do; but it was of no use, and in a little more
than a year after her sister's death she too died.
These two sisters, who were so constantly associated for so many years,
differed very decidedly in many respects. Alice, the frailer in body,
was much the stronger in will power; indeed her ability to force
herself to begin and to stick to anything which she thought was to be
done was the marvel of her friends. This intense energy often jarred on
the more easy-going Phoebe, just as Phoebe's refusal to do literary
work unless she were exactly in the right mood, often jarred upon
Alice. However, the two sisters never showed their irritation; they
were always sweet and gentle in their dealings with each other.
Naturally, Alice's superior energy resulted in an output of literary
work which was much larger than Phoebe's. There was a difference, too,
besides that of quantity in the work of the sisters. Alice possessed a
more objective imagination, that is, she could, in the ballads which
she was so fond of writing, place herself in the position of those whom
she was describing, and make their feelings her own. Phoebe, on the
other hand, in her serious poems held more closely to her own
experiences. Both the sisters were very fond of children, though in a
different way, Alice feeling for them a sort of mother-love, while
Phoebe always felt toward them as though they were comrades. It is the
genuine love for children which makes the children's stories and poems
of Alice and Phoebe Cary live.
Shortly after Phoebe died one of her friends wrote, "The wittiest woman
in America is dead;" and constantly on all sides was heard the saying,
"O, if I had only taken down the many wonderfully bright things that I
heard her say!" Her parodies have rarely been excelled, and some of her
humorous poems are irresistibly funny. The best known perhaps of her
parodies is the one on Longfellow's _The Day Is Done_, of which a
stanza may be quoted here. For the original stanza which runs:
"I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain,"
Phoebe Gary substituted the words:
"I see the lights of the baker
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of hunger comes o'er me,
That my soul cannot resist:
A feeling of sadness and longing
That is not like being sick
And resembles sorrow only,
As a brickbat resembles a brick."
However, more than for anything else, perhaps, Phoebe Cary will be
remembered for her lyric, _One Sweetly Solemn Thought_. Not long
before she died she heard a story of something which this little
poem had accomplished, which made her very happy. A gentleman going to
China was entrusted with a package for an American boy in China.
Arriving at his destination, he failed to find the boy, but was told
that he might discover him in a certain gambling house. As he sat and
waited, he watched with disgust and loathing the dreadful scenes going
on about him. At a table near him sat a young boy and a man of perhaps
forty, drinking and playing cards; they were swearing horribly and
using the vilest language.
At length, while the older man shuffled and dealt the cards, the boy
leaned back in his chair and half unconsciously began to hum, finally
singing under his breath Phoebe Cary's hymn, _One Sweetly Solemn
Thought_.
"Where did you learn that hymn?" cried the older gambler abruptly.
"At Sunday School at home," replied the boy, surprised.
The older man threw the cards on the floor. "Come, Harry," he said,
"let's get out of this place. I am ashamed that I ever brought you
here, and I shall do my best to keep you from entering such a place
again."
Together the two passed from the gambling house, and the man who
watched them learned later that they were both true to their resolution
to live a different life.
NEARER HOME
_By_ PHOEBE CARY
One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father's house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm:
Closer Death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism.
Oh, if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think,
Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith!
PICTURES OF MEMORY
_By_ ALICE CARY
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;
Nor for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
[Illustration: IN THAT DIM OLD FOREST]
Nor for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
THE ESCAPE FROM PRISON
[Footnote: This selection is taken from _Cast Up By the Sea_. Paul
Grey, smuggler, and owner of a trim little smuggling boat, the _Polly_,
has come to the French coast to meet his French confederate, Captain
Dupuis. He expects merely to exchange cargoes, as he has done in the
past, and to run back, avoiding revenue cruisers; but Captain Dupuis,
who owes Captain Grey money which he has no desire to pay, and whose
fingers itch for the prize money to be gained by capturing a smuggler,
sends out in his boat a pilot who guides the _Polly_ into a harbor where
a French war vessel waits for her. Dick Stone, Grey's right-hand man,
advises fighting, but Captain Grey sees the uselessness of this and
allows himself and his men to be made prisoners. The selection begins at
this point.]
_By_ SIR SAMUEL W. BAKER
[Footnote: Sir Samuel W. Baker (1821-1893) was an English traveler and
explorer. Besides _Cast Up by the Sea_, Baker wrote _The Rifle and the
Hound in Ceylon_; _The Albert Nyansa_; _Wild Beasts and their Ways_, and
other books.]
In an hour after the arrival of the "Polly" in the deceitful port, Paul
and his entire crew were marched through the streets of a French
village, and were drawn up opposite the prison entrance.
Upon their arrival at the gate they were met by the governor and the
principal jailer, who allotted them to various cells in separate
parties. Paul, as their captain, was placed in a superior apartment,
together with Dick Stone, whom he had requested might be permitted to
accompany him.
As the door of the prison had closed upon their admittance to the
court-yard, Paul had noticed a remarkably pretty girl about eighteen
who had fixed her eyes upon him with extreme earnestness. As he was now
led with Dick Stone to the room that they were to occupy he observed
that she accompanied the jailer, and appeared to observe him with great
interest. Taking from his pocket a guinea that was pierced with a hole,
he slipped it into her hand; at the same time laughingly he told her in
a few words of broken French to suspend it as a charm around her neck
to preserve her from everything English.
Instead of receiving it with pleasure, as he had expected, she simply
looked at it with curiosity for an instant, and then, keeping it in her
hand, she asked in her native tongue with intense feeling, "Have you
seen Victor? My dear brother Victor, a prisoner in England?"
"Silly girl," said the jailer, her father, "England is a large place,
and there are too many French prisoners to make it likely that Victor
should be known"; at the same time the feelings of the father yielded
to a vague hope as he looked inquiringly at Paul.
"There are many fine fellows," answered Paul, "who have had the
misfortune to become prisoners of war, but they are all cared for, and
receive every attention in England. When was your brother taken?" he
asked, as he turned to the handsome dark-eyed girl who had just
questioned him.
[Illustration: HE SLIPPED A GUINEA INTO HER HAND]
"A year ago next Christmas," she replied; "and we have only once heard
from him; he was then at a place called Falmouth, but we do not know
where that is."
"Falmouth!" said Paul; "why, I know the place well; with a fair wind
the 'Polly' would make it in a few hours from the spot where I live.
Your brother then is imprisoned only half a day's sail from my house!"
"Oh! what good fortune, _mon Dieu,_" exclaimed the excited girl, as she
clasped her hands in delight, as though the hour of her brother's
deliverance was at hand. "How can we reach him? surely you can help us?"
"Alas! I am also a prisoner," replied Paul. "At this moment my wife is
sorrowing alone in our cottage on the cliff, and she is looking vainly
upon the sea expecting my return. How can I help you? Believe me, if it
were possible, I would." At the recollection of Polly's situation Paul
hastily brushed a tear from his eye with the back of his rough hand,
which instantly awoke the sympathy of the sensitive girl before him.
"Ha! you are married," she exclaimed. "Is she young, and perhaps
beautiful?"
"Young enough for me, and handsomer than most women," replied Paul.
At this moment Dick Stone had lighted his pipe, and as he gave two or
three tremendous puffs he screwed his face into a profoundly serio-
comic expression and winked his right eye mysteriously at Paul.
"I know the young man," said Dick, who now joined in the conversation,
and addressed the jailer whom he had been scrutinizing closely; "I saw
him once at the prison in Falmouth. Rather tall?" said Dick, as he
surveyed the six-foot form of the jailer.
"Yes," said the jailer, eagerly, "as tall as I am."
"Black hair?" continued the impassive Dick, as he cast his eyes upon
the raven locks of both father and daughter.
"Yes, as dark as mine," exclaimed the now excited jailer.
"Roman nose?" said Dick, as he looked at the decided form of the
parent's feature that was shared by the handsome girl.
"Precisely so, well arched," replied the father.
"Had not lost an arm?" said Dick.
"No, he had both his arms," said the jailer.
"And his name," said Dick, "was Victor?"
"Victor Dioré!" exclaimed the jailer's daughter.
"Precisely so--that's the man," replied the stoical Dick Stone; "that's
the man. I know'd him soon after he was captured; and I believe he's
now in Falmouth Jail. I'd almost forgotten his name, for you Mounseers
are so badly christened that I can't remember how you're called."
The jailer and his daughter were much affected at this sudden
intelligence; there could be no doubt that their new prisoner had seen
their lost relative, who appeared to be imprisoned not far from Paul's
residence, and their hearts at once warmed toward both the captives.
They were led into a large but rather dark room, scantily furnished,
with two trestle-beds, a table, and a couple of benches.
"We must talk of this again," said Paul to the jailer's daughter;
"perhaps an exchange of prisoners may be arranged at some future time
that may serve us all."
"Yes," added Dick Stone, "I think we can manage it if we're all true
friends; and may I ask your name, my dear? for you're the prettiest
Mounseer that I've ever set eyes on."
"Léontine," replied the girl.
"Well, Leonteen," continued Dick, "if you'll come and have a chat
sometimes up in this cold-looking room I dare say we'll be able to hit
off some plan that'll make us all agreeable. I've got a secret to tell
you yet, but I don't want to let it out before the old 'un," said Dick,
mysteriously, as he winked his eye at her in masonic style; then,
putting his lips very close to her pretty ear, he whispered, "I can
tell you how to get your brother out of prison; but you must keep it
close."
The door had hardly closed upon the jailer and his daughter, who had
promised to return with breakfast, when Paul turned quickly toward Dick
Stone and exclaimed, "What do you mean, Dick, by such a romance as you
have just composed? Surety all is false; you never met the French
prisoner at Falmouth?"
"Well," replied Dick, "may be I didn't; but perhaps I did. Who knows?--
You see, captain, all's fair in love or war, and it struck me that it's
as well to make friends as enemies; now you see we've made friends all
at once by a little romance. You see the Mounseers are very purlite
people, and so it's better to be purlite when you're in France. You see
the pretty little French girl says her brother's in jail in Falmouth;
well, I've seen a lot of French prisoners in Falmouth with black hair,
and two arms apiece, and a Roman nose; so very likely I've seen her
brother. Well, you see, if we can make friends with the jailer, we may
p'r'aps get the key of the jail! At all events, it ain't a bad
beginning to make friends with the jailer's daughter before we've had
our first breakfast in the French prison."
As Dick Stone finished speaking he looked out of the narrow grated
window that in the thick stone wall appeared as though it had been
intended for musketry; from this aperture he had a beautiful view of
the bay and the French corvette, near to which the unfortunate "Polly"
was now lying at anchor with the French colors flying at the mizzen.
"Well, that's a bad lookout, I must say," said Dick. "Look here,
captain, there's the 'Polly' looking as trim and as saucy, bless her
heart! as though we were all on board; and there's the ugly French flag
flying, and she don't seem to care more about it than a woman with new
ribbons in her bonnet."
Paul looked at his beautiful lugger with bitter feelings. He had sailed
in her for many years, and she had become like a member of his family.
Although fifteen years old, she had been built of such well-seasoned
timber, and had been kept in such excellent repair, that she was better
than most vessels of half her age, and he sighed as he now saw her at
anchor with the French flag fluttering at her masthead. For a long time
he gazed intently upon her without speaking a word; at length he turned
sharply 'round, and in a quick, determined voice, he said, "Dick, I'll
never live to see the 'Polly' disgraced. If you'll stick by me, Dick,
we'll retake her yet, or die!"
For some moments Dick Stone stared Paul carelessly in the face without
a reply; he then tapped the bowl of his empty pipe upon the prison
wall, and carefully refilling it with tobacco, he once more, lighted
it, and puffed for about a minute in perfect silence; he then spoke,
after emitting a dense volume of smoke.
"If I'll stick to you, captain? Well, p'r'aps I never have, and p'r'aps
Dick Stone's a coward? Well, you see, of course I'll stick to yer; but
there's other things to be thought of. What's your plan, captain? It's
of no use doing anything without thinking well first. Now if you'll
tell me what you mean I'll have a little smoke, just half a pipe, and
I'll tell you my opinion."
"My plans are not absolutely defined," said Paul, "but I think that by
making friends with the jailer's daughter we may induce her to risk
much in the endeavor to rescue her brother. We might prevail upon her
to assist in our escape--she might even accompany us to England. Could
we only free ourselves from these prison walls on a dark night, when
the wind blows strong from the south, why should we not surprise the
French crew, and carry off the 'Polly'? Once at sea, there is nothing
that could touch her!" Paul's eyes glistened as he spoke, and the
muscles stood out on his brawny arm as he clinched his fist, and added,
"If I could only once lay hold of Dupuis's throat, and save the
'Polly,' I ask no greater fortune!"
Puff, puff, puff, came in rapid succession from Dick's pipe at these
words; at last, the long exhaustive suck arrived in its turn, and the
usual cloud of smoke enveloped his head, which always exhilarated his
brain.
"Well, captain, d'ye see," replied Dick, "I'll stick to you in
anything, and there's no doubt that there's a chance of success if the
pretty little Mounseer will only help us. But, you see, from what I
know of womankind, they're very fond and very purlite for their
brothers, but they won't run much risk for 'em. Now if they're in love
they're as good as bulldogs; and so I think it's a pity as how you told
her that you'd got a wife a-looking out for you at home! If you'd have
told her that you were a single man, and p'r'aps given her a kiss when
you gave her the lucky guinea, we might have got a little love to help
us, and then we'd have had a better chance, as she'd have gone off with
us all of a heap."
"Dick, you have no conscience," replied Paul; "you surely would not
deceive the girl in such a heartless manner? No!" continued Paul, "I
have told her the truth, and if she can help us I'll do my best to save
her brother; but, on the other hand, why should not you, Dick, make
yourself agreeable to her? You're not a bad-looking fellow, why should
you not do the love-making?"
Dick made no reply, but thoughtfully puffed at-his pipe; then laying
down his smoking counselor upon the window-sill he thrust his right
hand into a deep breeches pocket, and extracted a black-horn pocket
comb, with which he began at once, most carefully to arrange his hair.
Despite the loss of the "Polly" and the misery of his situation Paul
burst out laughing as he witnessed Dick's cool determination to prepare
for love-making.
"I don't know how these Mounseers begin," said the methodical Dick;
"they're a very purlite people, and so they mayn't like our customs. In
England we take 'em round the waist with both arms, and give 'em a
kiss; but p'r'aps it's better not to begin all at once. I'll just ask
her to sit on my knee at first, so as not to frighten her."
"Better not, Dick," said Paul, laughing; "I'm afraid she wouldn't
understand your modesty. Only make yourself agreeable, but don't touch
her, and let time do the rest."
They were interrupted in their conversation by the turning of the
creaking door-lock, and the jailer and his daughter entered with a loaf
of black bread and two jars of water and of milk, which they placed
upon the table. Léontine had already strung the guinea upon a cord,
which was now suspended from her neck.
"Ha! that looks very well!" said Paul; "few French girls wear the
English king's image round their necks."
"I know an Englishman who wears a French girl's picture in his heart,"
said Dick, who, with a sly wink at Paul as a preface, thus made his
first bold advance. "A what?" inquired Léontine.
"A poor devil," replied Dick, "who doesn't care how long he's shut up
in a French prison with such a pretty little Mounseer for a jailer."
"Ha! ha! you English know how to pay compliments," answered Léontine,
who knew just sufficient English to understand Dick's attempt at
French.
"Yes, we're considered a very purlite people," replied Dick, "and we
have a purlite custom when we go to prison of shaking hands with the
jailer and kissing the hand of his pretty daughter." As Dick said these
words he first grasped the hand of the jailer, and then raised to his
lips, redolent of tobacco, the hand of Léontine; at the same time he
whispered, "Don't forget that I have a secret."
Far from being disconcerted at Dick's politeness, Léontine naively
remarked, "You can't tell a secret before three persons; but we shall
have plenty of opportunities, for you may pay us a longer visit than
may be agreeable."
Dick in reply to this remark suddenly assumed one of his most
mysterious expressions, and winking one eye at Léontine, he placed his
forefinger upon his lips as though to enjoin silence, and whispered in
her ear, "Make an opportunity: the secret's about your brother."
More than two months had passed wearily in the French prison, during
which both Paul and Dick Stone had been buoyed up in inaction by the
hope of carrying into execution a plan for their escape. The only view
from the prison windows was the sea, and the street and beach in the
foreground. The "Polly" still lay at anchor in the same spot, as some
difficulty had arisen between Captain Dupuis and the captain of the
corvette that had to be settled in the law courts.
In the meantime both Paul and Dick Stone had not only become great
friends of the jailer, Jean Dioré, and his daughter, but Dick had
quickly found an opportunity to disclose his secret, which succeeded in
winning the heart of the enterprising Léontine. Dick had made a
declaration of love, and to prove his sincerity he proposed that he
should conduct her direct to her brother in the English prison, whose
release should be effected by an exchange; and he had persuaded her
that, if she should aid in the escape of Paul and the entire crew of
the "Polly," there would be no difficulty in obtaining her brother's
release when the facts should become known to the English authorities.
Paul had added his persuasions to those of Dick Stone; he had excited
the sister's warmest feelings by painting the joys he would feel in
rescuing her brother from a miserable existence, and he had gained her
sympathy by a description of the misery and suspense that his own wife
must be suffering in her ignorance of all that had befallen him.
Léontine was won. She was brave as a lion, and, her determination once
formed, she was prepared to act without flinching.
Many times Dick Stone had lighted his pipe, and puffed and considered
as he took counsel with Paul on the plan that the latter had proposed.
All was agreed upon.