A VISIT TO PRUDENCE CRANDALL.
I reached Denver, and went to the bicycle club rooms one evening,
meeting Mr. Van Horne, and many other good fellows, but was sorry not
to again see Mr. C. C. Hopkins, fancy rider, whose acquaintance I made
on my other visit here. The prospect of wheeling across the State of
Kansas was not very encouraging, the country being fairly flooded with
water, and so I took the train again, and the next afternoon left it at
Emporia, a thriving town in Kansas, on the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe
Railroad, with the purpose of visiting Prudence Crandall Philleo (of
almost national renown), at her home at Elk Falls. Here the rainfall
had been very slight and the roads were in excellent condition, so
that after traveling so many days on the cars and taking no exercise
on the wheel, I returned to the saddle with the keenest enjoyment.
But the corduroy knickerbockers, which I then put on again, felt very
stiff and clumsy after wearing thinner ones so long, and they will
be the last corduroy trousers I shall ever have. The country south
of Emporia, for eighty or ninety miles, is a gentle rolling prairie,
which looks as fresh and green as in the spring, and the timber and
numerous farm-houses tend to break up what little monotony there is in
the prospect. But all the enjoyment of the trip was soon swept away by
a drizzling rain which set in on the second day of the ride, and I was
glad to find even a grassy place on the side of the road to walk on,
for in the road the sticky black clay would clog up under the saddle
and entirely stop the wheel. However, after pushing the machine along
in this manner for eighteen or twenty miles, I was made glad by the
sight of Elk Falls, a town of seven or eight hundred inhabitants,
situated within thirty miles of the northern border of the Indian
"Nation."
The town is surrounded by low hills, and a good patch of timber
is close by, so that the general appearance of the country is
very different from the level, treeless prairie, so common west
of the Missouri River. Inquiring at the first house I came to,
the man said, pointing to a house west of us on the brow of a hill,
"Mrs. Philleo lives out on that farm, about a mile and a half from
town. A Mr. Williams lives with her and takes care of the farm, but
she goes around lecturing some, talking on temperance, spiritualism,
and so on." I had ridden part way out there, when in answer to another
inquiry, I was told: "Mrs. Philleo, since she got her pension from
New Jersey, has bought a place in town, and lives next house to the
Methodist Church."
So turning about, riding through the place, and going around to the
back door of the house, which was a plain story and a half, with an
ell on the back side, I was pleasantly received by Mr. Williams,
a man of 35, with brown hair and mustache, large blue eyes, and
a most sympathetic, almost affectionate, manner. "Mrs. Philleo,"
he explained, "is at church. She enjoys excellent health, and it is
wonderful how much she, a woman of 84 years, can endure. Yesterday
she wanted to ride over to the farm and see about some things, and
before I was ready to come home she started on foot and got clear
home before I overtook her, and she didn't seem tired either." Just
then Mrs. Philleo came in, and said cordially, "I am glad to see any
one from good old Connecticut." As she removed her bonnet, it showed
a good growth of sandy gray hair, smoothed back with a common round
comb, and cut straight around, the ends curling around in under and
in front of her ears; of medium height, but somewhat bent and spare,
and with blue eyes, and a face very wrinkled, and rather long;
her chin quite prominent, and a solitary tooth on her upper jaw,
the only one seen in her mouth.
She smiled with her eyes, and with a pleasant voice, said: "Come,
you must be hungry, coming so far" (I had only told her then I
came from Connecticut on the bicycle), and she urged the apple pie,
ginger snaps, johnny-cakes, potatoes, ham, bread and butter, and tea,
upon me promiscuously, and in great profusion. "No; as my grandmother
used to say, I never break a cup, you must take another full one. Now
do you make yourself at home; I know you must be tired. Why, you
have seen enough to write a book. [This, after I had explained more
fully the extent of the trip.] When you get home you must write up
an account of your journey for some newspaper. [Further explanation
seemed unadvisable just then.] Now come into the other room; I want
to show you some pictures."
So, talking every minute, we went into the sitting-room, and drawing
up rocking-chairs, we sat down cosily together. "I am going to have
these photographs of these noble men all put into a frame together. I
don't want them in an album, for I have to turn and turn the leaves so
much. I want them in a frame, so I can get the inspiration from them
at a glance. This is Samuel Coit, who did so much last winter in my
behalf, and this is S. A. Hubbard of the Courant. This is ----. Why
I see you know all of these noble souls. Well, I want to read you a
letter he sent me," and she slowly picked out the words of the writer
who said, among other generous things, that he would be only too glad
to load her down with any number of his books, and would send her a
complete file of them. The letter was signed Samuel L. Clemens.
"But," she added, "he has never sent them. Probably so busy he
forgot it. I do wish I could see them, for I had a chance once to
read part of 'Innocents Abroad,' and I do like his beautiful style
of expression. And here is Major Kinney, and George G. Sumner,
and Rev. Mr. Twichell. What grand good men they are. And this--you
say you have heard him preach! How much I would give to hear that
great soul speak," and she handed me Rev. Mr. Kimball's photograph,
and several others, every one of which is more precious to her than
gold. In this collection also, were photographs of William Lloyd
Garrison, Wendell Phillips, and other anti-slavery friends of hers,
and I noticed several others of Garrison framed and hung about the
house. When I expressed the opinion that the amount of her pension
was too small in proportion to the injury inflicted, she said: "O,
I am so thankful for that. It is so much better than nothing."
During the evening, the collection was again displayed to a visitor,
and it is plain to be seen, the sight of those faces does her a great
amount of good. She and I went through them again the next day. After
breakfast, I sat down to glance through a book I had seen her reading,
"Is Darwin Right," by William Denton of Massachusetts. Soon she
came into the sitting-room with a pan of apples, and drawing a low
rocking-chair up in front of me said, "Now you must stop reading, for
I want to talk," and we talked. In fact, she became as interested in
the conversation, and so far forgot herself that, in cutting out the
worm-holes from the apples, she once put the worthless portion into her
mouth, and munched it thoroughly before she discovered her mistake. The
conversation drifted from one subject to another, and on her part it
was carried on in a clear, connected, and enlightened manner.
I can only give a few sentences of hers. "My whole life has been one of
opposition. I never could find any one near me to agree with me. Even
my husband opposed me, more than anyone. He would not let me read the
books that he himself read, but I did read them. I read all sides,
and searched for the truth whether it was in science, religion, or
humanity. I sometimes think I would like to live somewhere else. Here,
in Elk Falls, there is nothing for my soul to feed upon. Nothing,
unless it comes from abroad in the shape of books, newspapers, and so
on. There is no public library, and there are but one or two persons
in the place that I can converse with profitably for any length of
time. No one visits me, and I begin to think they are afraid of me. I
think the ministers are afraid I shall upset their religious beliefs,
and advise the members of their congregation not to call on me, but I
don't care. I speak on spiritualism sometimes, but more on temperance,
and am a self-appointed member of the International Arbitration
League. I don't want to die yet. I want to live long enough to see
some of these reforms consummated. I never had any children of my
own to love, but I love every human being, and I want to do what I
can for their good."
After dinner while I was reading--for there is a host of good books
in the house--she sat down to copy off a short account of my trip I
had written at her request the night before for a local paper, but
every few minutes she would stop to talk on some subject that had
just entered her mind, and sometimes we would both commence speaking
at the same instant. "Go ahead," she would say, or "keep on, I have
kept hold of that idea I had," pressing her thumb and forefinger
together, and then again she would say, "When you get another idea
just let it out." And so two days passed, very pleasantly, for me
at least. There was no subject upon which I was conversant, but that
she was competent to talk and even lead in the conversation, and she
introduced many subjects to which I found I could only listen. At
night Mr. Williams's bed and my own were in the same room, and this
gave him an opportunity to say of Mrs. Philleo, "I never knew a person
of a more even temperament. She is never low spirited, never greatly
elated. When things don't go right she never frets." And of him,
when he was off at work, she said, "You don't know how much comfort
I get from my adopted son. We have lived together nearly four years,
and my prayer is that he will grow up a noble man to do all the good
he can in this world," and I can add, judging from his conversation,
he has a mind so broad and intelligent that he is fully abreast and
even a little beyond her in mental growth, and that is saying a good
deal. The last thing she said as I left them was, "if the people of
Connecticut only knew how happy I am, and how thankful I am to them,
it would make them happy too."
Surely she has one of three graces, the greatest of the three, charity
for every one. Of strong religious convictions, a thorough spiritualist
herself, she respects the beliefs of others, and uttered in my presence
not a word ill of any one. The State of Connecticut certainly is
to be congratulated that it did not neglect its opportunity last
winter. What a shame had this good woman, this great mind, gone to
another world without having even that slight justice done it. Very
few people in Connecticut realize what a narrow escape they had from
a lasting disgrace.
The ride on the return to Emporia was uneventful, excepting that a
break in the head of the machine obliged me to take the train sooner
than I expected, and after a short stop in Kansas City, to keep on by
rail to this place where there are facilities for repairing the break.
At Kansas City I met Mr. C. B. Ellis, dealer in bicycles, and one or
two other wheelmen. In meeting, as I have on the trip, many Connecticut
people who have settled in the West, it is pleasant to have them all
or nearly all express the desire to return East to live, sometime,
when they have made money enough. Some place that wished-for event
ten years hence, others longer, but all show that the "good old State
of Connecticut" occupies a prominent place in their future plans and
prospects. It is their ideal of a place to live in. It is mine.
Miles traveled on the wheel, 3,627.