The mellow glow of September lay upon green hills and purple mountains,
sleeping in serene content against a tender sky. Over quiet woods, and
gliding river, bordered with ribbons of rich meadows, brooded a sweet
peace, as if nature, after a busy and fruitful season, took her well
earned rest in mood of conscious thankfulness. The very grapes, hanging
in heavy amber clusters below the sloping roof of the low-eaved porch on
which I sat, suggested fruition and content, as if they had stored all
the sweetness possible within their bursting skins, and now rested
thankfully upon their strong stems.
I could see my father salting sheep in the meadow, watered by the
spring-run, below the house, and I smiled as presently he sought the
shade of a spreading elm, and stretched himself full length upon the
ground. The droning of the bees, and the sleepy humming of the flies
added to the lazy influence of the fondling fruit-scented breeze; I
almost nodded over my bullet molding for a moment, then roused myself
and went to work. Saturday was my only holiday, and I could not laze the
morning away unless I were content to miss my one chance during the week
for an afternoon in the forest.
"Good morning, nephew," spoke suddenly a high, strong voice which I knew
to be Aunt Martha's. "Spend you all your spare time polishing firearms,
molding bullets, and shooting animals?"
I turned in my chair, and looked up to see my mother's sister, who was
as unlike her as one sister could be from another--coming up the
sidewalk, and my father leading her pacing mare from the stile,
stable-ward. Aunt Martha's erect and well formed shoulders had a square
set which gave her a masculine air, and she held her somewhat sharp chin
and nose tilted a little upward, as if she felt very sure of her own
convictions. Her brown hair was brushed back severely from her square,
high brow, and her gray eyes met your gaze steadily with a look that was
not unkind, though it was certainly not sympathetic, nor confidence
inviting.
"Good morning, Aunt Martha," I answered, in undisturbed, and cheerful
tones--for I never allowed Aunt Martha to disconcert or overawe me, as
she did her own son, Thomas, and even Uncle Thomas himself--"I'll clear
the way for you in a moment," and I began to push back my chair, rifle
and implements from the middle of the porch.
"Your time might be better spent, nephew, in my opinion," continued Aunt
Martha, as she stood waiting on the step, looking with stern disapproval
first at me, and then at the cluttered floor of the porch. "Our lads, it
seems to _me_," (Aunt Martha always accented the _me_ or the _my_) "are
growing up to be a turbulent and bloodthirsty race, with but the most
carnal ideas of life. Did we but serve God more entirely, and trust Him
more fully, we would depend less upon our own strength and skill, and
more upon Him to defend and take care of us. And after all what is man's
puny strength against the dangers of this life? It is our all powerful
Heavenly Father who must save and protect us."
"True enow, Martha, true enow," broke in the voice of my grandmother,
who appeared just then in the front doorway, her ever busy fingers
picking up and knitting off the stitches from her shining needles with
steady click, "but God has naewhere promised to do His ain work, and
man's as weel. He led the children o' Israel to the Promised Land, and
then bade them fight for a' they wanted o' it, nor did they get ony more
than they could win an' hauld. There's yet need, plenty, for men who can
shoot in this colony, and likely to be for mony lang days to come. Let
the lad alone, Martha; he's fearless, an' sometimes rash, but neither
bloodthirsty nor a brawler," and as my aunt stepped into my mother's
room, adjoining, to lay aside her bonnet, I heard my grandmother add in
somewhat impatient tones,
"I'm glad enow to ken ye're sae pious, Martha, but dinna get to be
fanatical, nor in the way o' going about a' the time with reproof in
your een, an' a sairmon on your lips. You but cheapen our holy religion
sae, an' harden the young an' the unconverted."
My grandmother spoke with a rich Irish accent that it is impossible to
indicate, for it was not a brogue, nor a dialect; it was merely a
full-throated, and somewhat rolling sound which she gave to certain
words. Her language too, was freely sprinkled with Scotch words, and
these she pronounced with broad Scotch accent. The combination was
delightful, and her blended speech added a peculiar charm to the
fascinating stories she could sometimes be beguiled into telling.
"It is strange doctrine, mother, that one may be too pious," answered my
aunt, who certainly did not number meekness among her Christian virtues.
Nor was my grandmother meek spirited, and a warm argument would likely
have followed had not my mother, whose sweet and placid temper was the
oil ready, at all times, to be poured on the threatening argument,
entered the back door at that moment.
With Dulce, the cook woman, to help her she had been making candles all
morning, in the back kitchen--my father having killed a fat beef but a
few days before--and on seeing Aunt Martha's horse led to the stable she
had but waited to hang up the last dipping, and to tidy herself before
coming in to welcome her sister.
"How do you do, Sister Martha," she began cheerily, "I'm more glad than
ordinarily to see you; indeed I was just wishing I could send for you to
eat some of the suet pudding we are boiling for dinner; I know you are
fond of it."
"Yes, suet pudding is a favorite dish of mine," said my aunt, solemnly
and with a deep sigh, "but I am little in the mood to enjoy anything
this morning, Rachael."
"And what troubles you noo, daughter?" asked grandmother kindly, but
with no note of anxiety in her cheery voice.
"I thought you looked pestered, child," added my mother in soothing
tones; "take this chair, it sits easier than that one, and tell us
what's on your mind."
"'Tis about the letter that came yesterday to Thomas," and Aunt Martha
paused, to whet still further her listeners' curiosity, and meantime,
heaved another deep sigh.
"Well, Martha, who writ the letter, an' what was't writ aboot?" somewhat
impatiently from grandmother.
"'T'was writ by a cousin of Thomas', in Baltimore, to bring him news of
his Sister Mary's death, and of her husband's, Owen O'Niel, of the small
pox plague within three days of each other," and again Aunt Martha
sighed.
"But you ken but little o' Mary O'Niel, child, and 'tis near fifteen
years syne you ha'e seen her," remarked my grandmother, a touch of
impatience still audible in her voice.
"They left an only daughter," continued my aunt, "and made dying request
that the child, Ellen, might be sent to Virginia to the care of Mary's
brother. And now Thomas says there's naught else to do but that he must
start at once to bring her to our house."
"Thomas is right, Martha; there's naught else to be doon;--the child
canna weal come sae far alone, e'en by the stages. But I see nae sic
sair trouble in that, though I'm nae denyin' 'twill be something of a
trial to you to spare Thomas for four or five weeks. At the same time
'twill be a welcome opportunity to get some muslins, cap laces, and sic
like things; and Martha, you micht hae him fetch you the table and bed
linens you hae wanted for sae lang," and grandmother's voice sounded as
cheery as a bird's morning carol, while she suggested these substantial
compensations.
"And William will be glad to come over every few days, sister, to advise
with Thomas, who, though he's but a boy yet, is a sensible, steady lad,
and can see that the negroes carry out his father's directions."
"'Tis not the sparing Thomas I am most troubled about, Rachael, though I
like not the prospect of his absence, and son Thomas is in all things a
child yet. That which kept me awake last night was the thought of having
an O'Niel and a Catholic in my household. 'Tis bitter, indeed, after all
our people have suffered from that name and that religion."
"Tut, tut, Martha; you fret me," said my grandmother, almost shrilly,
only shrillness was not possible to her rich voice. "I'd ne'er keep an
old sore running that I micht hae the nursing o' it. And was na' the
great, great grandmaither of yourself an O'Niel and a Catholic? 'Tis nae
fact we hae reason to be greatly proud of, I weel ken, yet O'Niel is nae
low Irish name, nor is the Catholic religion, though it be full of
superstition, sae bad as some folks believe. I hae known, indeed,
charitable and pious Catholics, and there was a time when an O'Niel
stood staunch friend to our family, else I misdoubt me there'd hae been
nae McElroys in America to-day."
"And Ellen is only a child, sister," put in my mother; "we'll make a
good Presbyterian of her in no-time."
"Ne'er by driving," said grandmother; "an O'Niel was ne'er yet driven to
do anything."
"She's fourteen or more, thinks Thomas, and knowing the bigoted and
stubborn spirit of the O'Niels I doubt not she is set in her idolatrous
religion by this time," sighed Aunt Martha.
"But she may be a sweet, tractable child, sister, and since you've no
daughter of your own, and I've always been sorry you did not
have--Jean's such a pleasure to us--this Ellen'll doubtless grow up to
be a great comfort to you."
Getting no response to this cheerful doctrine but another sigh, my
mother got up, and said briskly:
"Come, Martha, I want you to see my cheeses. I never made finer ones,
I'm sure."
The invitation proved too tempting to resist, and Aunt Martha followed
mother into the back entry, wearing still the look of a much burdened
woman. She would forget her role, presently, however, in the interest of
inspecting jellies, and butters, and sampling the new cheeses. My mother
was a famous housewife, and her domestic products were the admiration of
the neighborhood.
"Grandmother," I said, joining her as soon as they were out of hearing,
"who is this Ellen O'Niel who is niece to Uncle Thomas?"
"Well, laddie, 'tis a tangled story, but I will e'en try to unravel it
for you, if you'll hold this hank of yarn till I wind me a good ball."
There was nothing, save hunting, I liked so well as my grandmother's
stories; so I drew my chair in front of her and held my arms as still as
I could, while she wound dexterously, and told me the origin of Ellen
O'Niel.
To-day I can shut my eyes and call up the picture of the "big room" in
the comfortable log house where I was born and raised. Its walls of hewn
logs, brown from smoke and age, and chinked with yellow plastering, were
almost covered with wild skins, and stag antlers; these last used as
rests for muskets, and powder horns. Over its small paned, deep silled
windows hung speckless muslin curtains; upon its floor was spread a
gayly striped rag carpet; and the wooden rocking-chairs were made soft
with skins or feather cushions. The high mantel-shelf was ornamented, at
either end, with squat wide-lipped blue pitchers, and between them two
shining brass candle-sticks, having trays and snuffers to match. In
winter these pitchers were filled with dried grasses and "everlastings;"
in summer with flowers of the marigold, poppy, heartsease or
love-in-mist, and the great fireplace below with feathery asparagus
branches. At all times it was a homely, comfortable room, but cosier
perhaps on winter evenings, when great logs blazed high above the
dog-irons; when between the candles on either end of the long table
against the wall, sat plates of ginger bread, and pitchers of persimmon
beer; when apples sputtered on the stone hearth, filling the room with
spicy fragrance, and roasting chestnuts popped in the hot ashes.
Especially were we merry on such winter evenings as guests joined the
hearth circle around the blazing logs. Nor were they so infrequent as
you may suppose, for my father, being justice of the county and a man of
substance, kept open house for travelers of all degrees, and, since they
brought us all our news from the outside world, they were always
welcome. On such evenings I was bid to hurry with my lessons, that I
might play a tune for our guests on my fiddle--for music was so rare a
treat in our settlement that even my poor, self-taught efforts were
appreciated.
But I am wandering, as garrulous old age is apt to do, and meantime my
reader waits for my grandmother's story.
"The O'Niels, lad," she began, "lang syne, were a great family in
Ireland, the Earls O'Niel, or the Earls O'Tyrone, as they were called,
being hereditary chiefs o' a powerful clan, in the northern part o'
Ireland. But always they were a turbulent people, an' as was the custom
with mony o' the Scotch an' Irish lads in those days, lived for the
maist part by pillaging their neighbors. Continually, too, they were the
leaders in insurrection against the English power, and as far back as
the reign of King James part o' their lands were forfeited to the croon,
an' were granted or sold to English an' Scotch Protestants, with the
hope that a loyal an' peaceful settlement in the heart o' brawling
Ireland micht help to civilize the people, an' keep them quiet, or at
warst, help to subdue them. 'Twas then our ancestor came to Ulster frae
Scotland, though your father's people not until half a century later.
Our people were sheep graziers an' wool manufacturers, and always
thrifty and prosperous. The Irish, for the maist part, e'en the great
lairds, were idle and shiftless, and lived in a sort of squalid splendor
within their castles, surrounded by bands of clansmen and swarms o'
unpayed retainers.
"Our lands were close to the castles o' Sir Phelim O'Neil, an' I hae
heard my grandmaither say that mony's the time my great grandmaither wad
send welcome gifts o' cheese, an' meat to the maither o' Sir Phelim,
when he would be absent on one of his lang maraudin' expeditions.
"Twas in the year 1641, that the massacre of Protestants took place, and
the besotted, cruel Sir Phelim was thought to be at the head of the
dreadful plot. At first Protestants were only driven from their homes to
wander, starving an' shiverin', aboot the country, refused shelter or
food everywhere, till mony a woman and her bairns perished from hunger
and exposure, and all suffered cruelly.
"Presently the killing began, an' no Protestant in a' that part o'
Ireland escaped save the verra few who found refuge with Catholic
friends. My great grandmaither an' her two young children were amangst
those few fortunate ones, though my great grandfaither was killed. She
lay concealed for weeks in a disused wing o' the O'Niel castle itself,
an' was carefully guarded, an' provided for by old lady O'Niel.
"Afterwards when Cromwell an' his men marched into Ulster to take
revenge, my great grandmaither begged successfully for the lives o' Lady
O'Niel an' her two grandsons. They were not, tho' I am glad to say, the
children o' Sir Phelim, but o' a younger son, who had died before the
massacre. My grandmaither, when she grew up, married Owen O'Niel, an'
'tis there that the one strain o' Irish cooms into our bluid. But this
Owen died young, an' my grandmaither went back to her ain people, with
naithin' to show the Irish in her children, but the name an' accent. My
maither, Jeannie, married, as you know, a full blooded Scotchman,
William Irvine, an' I anaither, Douglas McIlwaine--yet they tell me the
Irish accent has descended as far as me," and my grandmother looked at
me with a half merry, half serious question in her eye.
"Just enough to make your speech roll musically, grandmother. So then I
am a cousin of Ellen O'Niel's as well as Thomas Mitchell?"
"Yes, but verra deestant. She's a direct descendant o' James, a brother
of the Owen who was my ancestor, an' who also married a Scotch lass as
his brother did, in spite of the law an' the custom. The grandson o'
James was amangst the first o' the Scotch Irish settlers who came with
the McElroys, an' aithers to Pennsylvania in the year 1729, in the good
ship, _George and Ann_. The Mitchells came a few years later, an' your
Uncle Thomas' sister married the youngest son o' this first emigrant,
some sixteen years syne."
"They moved from Pennsylvania to Baltimore?"
"Yes; James O'Niel was a shrewd man, and whilst made money in the ship
traffic; but when Thomas was last on, he brought news that James had
lost his ship, and that his business was being taken frae him by richer
traders. Thees child Ellen has nae aither heritage, I suppose, than her
name, an' mayhap beauty--her race are a comely people."
"Poor child!" said I, "'Tis a pity she must come here."
"The purposes o' God in His providences are inscrutable, lad; but that
He maun work final good out o' this event you need nae meesdoot.
Martha's a pious woman, an' her intentions are good, though without doot
she is overly selfrighteous, an' has nae understanding o' the feelings
o' the young. But remember, my son, 'twere better to hae o'er mooch
religion than not enow, an' what e'er experience life may bring you
ne'er lose reverence, lad, for the earnest and beautiful faith of your
forefaithers. Because there be some who pervert its solemnity to
sternness--do not conclude that Presbyterianism is a hard and narrow
faith. There be some, lad, that wad make it appear so, but 'tis in their
perverted minds, an' not in those lofty an' consoling doctrines which
turn life into a joyful though toilsome pilgrimage to a blissful
eternity."
"Should I ever be inclined to think Presbyterianism a cold, hard faith,
grandmother," I answered, "I shall but need to think of you."
"Aye, laddie, think o' your old grandmaither, an' that she told you
thees--that during a pilgrimage o' seventy-five years,--an' my life has
known mony vicissitudes, Donald, an' mooch hardship an' danger--nae
trouble e'er came to her that her religion dinna gie her strength to
endure calmly, and hopefully; and nae joy that her faith dinna make the
sweeter an' brighter--as being but a faint foretaste o' that perfect an'
eternal happiness to which she felt assured she was journeying."
As grandmother spoke these words, there grew upon her face a rapt and
absent look, and her lips parted in a smile of perfect satisfaction. I
like to remember her thus--the silky bands of her white hair shining
beneath her soft cap, her wrinkled hands crossed upon the finished ball,
her alert brown eyes dreamy and tender, and over all her kind, bright
face, that look of pure content--as of faith assured, and Heaven already
realized.