assistance. On Saturday my webs were cut from the looms, examined and
pronounced of first quality, showing great care. I took my proud record
home. The next day (Sunday), Mr. Samuel Parsons, with the prudent care
that could not trust even the watchman too implicitly, went into the
mill by himself, ascending to the picker room in the top story, where
the light, oiled wool was piled in great quantities. He casually placed
his hand upon it in passing, and observing that it felt warm, he plunged
his arm in to lift it. The flames enveloped him. He ran at full speed
the length of the building to the bell rope. The fire was there almost
before him. He gave two strokes, when the flames drove him from the
room; they licked down the air shafts and belt holes, lapping up the oil
like so much food, as it was.
The perfection of the magnificent fire departments of the present day
was far in the future then. In three hours it was all over, and the new
North Oxford Satinet Mills were a smoking pile of rubbish, a thing of
the past. No heart was heavier than mine. The strong, energetic brothers
knew that rebuilding would commence at once, but I mourned without hope.
If ever there were lost or omitted a well-turned joke or a bit of humor
by the various members of the Barton family it was clearly an accident,
no such omission being ever intended; and thus it was suggested to me,
that, as the fire was manifestly a case of spontaneous combustion, could
it have been that I worked so fast that the friction set the mill on
fire? That joke on me lasted many years. The mill was rebuilt, as well
as several others, some to be burned, some to be sold; but I had found
other occupations more congenial to the other members of the household,
it is to be hoped, if not to me.
The recital of this incident by myself, or some one else, has given rise
to the bit of romance cropping out occasionally, in the sketches one
sees, that I was a factory girl and earned the money to pay off the
mortgage on my father’s farm. I wish the first statement might have been
true. Nothing to-day would gratify me more than to know that I had been
one of those self-reliant, intelligent, American-born girls like our
sweet poetess, Lucy Larcom, and like her had stood before the power
looms in the early progress of the manufactories of our great and
matchless country. I fear that my plain, simple facts will rob many a
fancy sketch of its brightest tints, as in this instance. I am compelled
to confess in regard to the second statement, that my father never had a
mortgage that I knew of, and, therefore, had no need of my brave help.
On the other hand, he had something to give to me.
I think it usually occurs in small communities that there is one family,
or one house, to which all strangers or new comers naturally gravitate.
Nothing was plainer than that ours was that house. All lecturers, upon
any subject, clergymen on trial, whoever had a new idea to expound and
was in need of an abiding place meanwhile, found one there. My father’s
active and liberal mind inclined him to examination and toleration, and
his cordial hospitality was seconded by my mother’s welcome to any one
who could bring new thought or culture to herself or her family.
These were the very earliest days of phrenology. The famous brothers, O.
S. and L. N. Fowler, worthy disciples of Spurzheim and Coombe, were
commencing their lifelong work. Young men of advanced ideas, thought,
energy and purpose.
The “Phrenological Journal,” if existing at all, was in its infancy. The
Fowler brothers were among the most interesting and popular lecturers in
the country. Two courses of lectures by L. N. Fowler were arranged for
our town; one for North and the other for South Oxford, or “Oxford
Plain,” as it is better known. He very naturally became the guest of my
father and mother.
These two courses of lectures covered nearly a month of time. How can
the value of the results of that month, extending through a lifetime, be
put into words? How measure the worth of the ideas, the knowledge of
one’s self, and of others, growing out of it? Aside from this was his
aid and comfort to my mother in her perplexity concerning her
incomprehensible child. I recall the long, earnest talks, in which it
was evident that I was the prime subject, although not clearly realizing
it at the time. Upon one occasion there was no question. I was ill (of
mumps, I believe) and to avoid loneliness was permitted to lie on the
lounge in the large sitting room through the day. Forgetting my
presence, or believing me asleep, the conversation went on in my
hearing, portions of which at this late day I recall. My mother remarked
that none of her children had ever been so difficult to manage. “Was I
disobedient, exacting or wayward?” asked Mr. Fowler. Oh no! she often
wished I were, she would then know what to do, for I would make my wants
known, and they could be supplied. But I was so timid and afraid of
making trouble that they were in constant fear of neglecting me; I would
do without the most needed article rather than ask for it, and my
bashfulness increased rather than diminished as I grew older. As an
illustration, she stated that only last Sunday the child appeared with
bare hands when we were ready for church. Upon being asked where were
her gloves, she reluctantly replied that she “had none. They were worn
out.” Upon being asked why she had not said so and asked for others, the
reply was a burst of tears and an attempt to leave the room. “We would
not permit this unhappy day at home alone, and took her as she was,”
said my mother. All this sounded very badly to me as I heard it
rehearsed. It was all true, all wrong; would I, could I ever learn to do
better?
Mr. Fowler replied that these characteristics were all indicated; that,
however much her friends might suffer from them, she would always suffer
more. “They may be apparently outgrown, but the sensitive nature will
always remain. She will never assert herself for herself—she will suffer
wrong first—but for others she will be perfectly fearless.” To my
mother’s anxious question, “what shall I do?” he replied, “Throw
responsibility upon her. She has all the qualities of a teacher. As soon
as her age will permit, give her a school to teach.” I well remember how
this suggestion shocked me. I should not have remembered all these
advices, but years after they were found with much more among my
mother’s carefully preserved papers; some correspondence must have
followed. The depth and faithfulness of the interest felt, was shown in
the fact that the great reader of human character, through his long life
in foreign lands as well as his own, never forgot the troublesome child.
Occasional correspondence and valued meetings across the sea marked the
milestones of life, till one road came to an end. A great and true man
and friend of humanity had gone, and the world was better for his having
lived in it.
At the close of the second term of school, the advice was acted upon,
and it was arranged that I teach the school in District No. 9. My sister
resided within the district. How well I remember the preparations—the
efforts to look larger and older, the examination by the learned
committee of one clergyman, one lawyer and one justice of the peace; the
certificate with “excellent” added at the close; the bright May morning
over the dewy, grassy road to the schoolhouse, neither large nor new,
and not a pupil in sight.
On entering, I found my little school of forty pupils all seated
according to their own selection, quietly waiting with folded hands.
Bright, rosy-cheeked boys and girls from four to thirteen, with the
exception of four lads, as tall and nearly as old as myself. These four
boys naturally looked a little curiously at me, as if forming an opinion
of how best to dispose of me, as rumor had it that on the preceding
summer, not being _en rapport_ with the young lady teacher, they had
excluded her from the building and taken possession themselves. All
arose as I entered, and remained standing until requested to sit. Never
having observed how schools were opened, I was compelled, as one would
say, to “blaze my own way.” I was too timid to address them, but holding
my Bible, I said they might take their Testaments and turn to the Sermon
on the Mount. All who could read, read a verse each, I reading with them
in turn. This opened the way for remarks upon the meaning of what they
had read. I found them more ready to express themselves than I had
expected, which was helpful to me as well. I asked them what they
supposed the Saviour meant by saying that they must love their enemies
and do good to them that hated and misused them? This was a hard
question, and they hesitated, until at length a little bright-eyed girl
with great earnestness replied: “I think He meant that you must be good
to everybody, and mustn’t quarrel nor make nobody feel bad, and I’m
going to try.” An ominous smile crept over the rather hard faces of my
four lads, but my response was so prompt, and my approval so hearty,
that it disappeared and they listened attentively but ventured no
remarks. With this moderate beginning the day progressed, and night
found us social, friendly and classed for a school. Country schools did
not admit of home dinners. I also remained. On the second or third day
an accident on their outside field of rough play called me to them. They
had been playing unfairly and dangerously and needed teaching, even to
play well. I must have thought they required object lessons, for almost
imperceptibly either to them or to myself, I joined in the game and was
playing with them.
My four lads soon perceived that I was no stranger to their sports or
their tricks; that my early education had not been neglected, and that
they were not the first boys I had seen. When they found that I was as
agile and as strong as themselves, that my throw was as sure and as
straight as theirs, and that if they won a game it was because I
permitted it, their respect knew no bounds. No courtesy within their
knowledge was neglected. Their example was sufficient for the entire
school. I have seen no finer type of boys. They were faithful to me in
their boyhood, and in their manhood faithful to their country. Their
blood crimsoned its hardest fields, and the little bright-eyed girl with
the good resolve, has made her whole life a blessing to others, and
still lives to follow the teaching given her. Little Emily has “made
nobody feel bad.”
My school was continued beyond the customary length of time, and its
only hard feature was our parting. In memory I see that pitiful group of
children sobbing their way down the hill after the last good-bye was
said, and I was little better. We had all been children together, and
when, in accordance with the then custom at town meetings, the grades of
the schools were named and No. 9 stood first for discipline, I thought
it the greatest injustice, and remonstrated, affirming that there had
been no discipline, that not one scholar had ever been disciplined.
Child that I was, I did not know that the surest test of discipline is
its absence.
If the published school report, so misunderstood by me, had given me
displeasure, it had also given me a local reputation, quite as
unexpected. I soon found myself the recipient of numerous invitations to
teach in the nearby towns, especially such schools as required the
“discipline” so largely accredited to, and so little deserved, by me.
Declination, on my part, was not to be thought of. All members of the
family were only too grateful for the progress I had made towards proper
self-assurance to permit any backsliding, and it was early settled that
I accept the application of the honorable committee, to teach the next
summer school at what was known as the “Mill-ward” in the adjoining town
of Charlton, commencing on the first Monday in May of the following
year—a “master” teaching the winter term.
One day, early in September, my brother David, now one of the active,
popular business men of the town, nearly took my breath away by inviting
me to accompany him on a journey to the state of Maine, to be present at
his wedding and with him bring back the wife who was to grace his home
and share his future life.
There was now more lengthening of skirts, and a rush of dressmaking such
as I had never known before; and when, two weeks later, I found myself
with my brother and a rather gay party of ladies and gentlemen, friends
of his, at one of the most elegant hotels in Boston (where I had never
been) waiting the arrival of a delayed steamer, I was so overcome by the
dread of committing some impropriety or indiscretion which might
embarrass my brother that I begged him to permit me to go back home. I
was not distressed about what might be thought of _me_. I did not seem
to care much about that; but how it might reflect upon my brother, and
the mortification that my awkwardness could not fail to inflict on him.
I had never set foot on a vessel or seagoing craft of any kind, and
when, in the glitter of that finely equipped steamer, I really crossed
over a corner of the great Atlantic ocean, the very waves of which
touched other continents as well, I felt that my world was miraculously
widening.
It was another merry party, and magnificent spans of horses that met and
galloped away with us over the country to our destination.
But the crowning astonishment came when I was informed that it was the
desire and decision of all parties, that I act as bridesmaid. That I
assist in introducing the younger of the guests, and stand beside the
tall, handsome young bride who was to be my sister, while she pledged
her troth to the brother dearer to me than my own life.
This responsibility seemed to throw the whole world wide open to me. How
well I remember the tearful resolution with which I pledged myself to
try to overcome my troublesome propensities and to strive only for the
courage of the right, and for the fearlessness of true womanhood so much
needed and earnestly desired, and so painfully lacking.
[Illustration:
DAVID BARTON.
MY YOUNGER BROTHER AND RIDING MASTER.
]
November found us home again. Under the circumstances, there must
naturally be a share of social gayeties during the winter, and some
preparations for my new school duties; and I waited with more or less
apprehension for what would be my first life among strangers, and the
coming of my anticipated “First of May.” With slight variation I could
have joined truthfully in the dear old child refrain:
“Then wake and call me early,
Call me early, mother dear,”
For that will be the veriest day
“Of all the glad New Year.”
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.