LYDIA KNIGHT'S HISTORY.
THE FIRST BOOK OF THE NOBLE WOMEN'S LIVES SERIES
By "Homespun."
JUVENILE INSTRUCTOR OFFICE Salt Lake City, Utah.
1883.
PREFACE.
The growing demand for our own literature among the youth of this
people has induced us to undertake the publication of a new series of
books. The general satisfaction which the books of the Faith-Promoting
Series have given, encourages us in the hope that this new series,
which is designed to contain various items of interest and instruction
from the lives of our noble sisters, will also be worthy of the perusal
of the Saints.
We present, as the first book of the Noble Women's Lives Series, the
history of a lady who early joined the Church, and remained faithful
through the various trials and hardships to which the early Saints
were subjected. And now, when in the evening of life, her influence is
still being felt for good in Zion. The history of such persons should
be written that the young may be stimulated to emulate their noble
examples.
That this little work may prove both entertaining and instructive to
those into whose hands it may come is the earnest desire of
The Publisher.
LYDIA KNIGHT'S HISTORY.
CHAPTER I.
A little girl with light-blue eyes and fair hair sat under the shade
of the forest trees pulling a sheep-skin. One by one her brothers and
sisters, older and younger than she, had grown weary of the work and
wandered off to play.
"Oh, Lydia, how can you sit there over that tiresome work. Look at the
shadows under the trees, and the squirrels calling to us to come and
chase them from limb to limb. Let's have a play," said the last little
boy as his patience at length had ebbed away.
"No," replied the fair-haired maiden, and the firm little mouth took
another line of determination as she spoke, "I shall not leave the
sheepskin till the last lock is pulled."
A "clearing" in the forest of the western part of New York State, a
large comfortable cabin on a rise of ground near the center of the
space, with wide-open doors and floors of gleaming white, waving grain
on one side of the house and a large vegetable garden on the other side
constituted the scene of a home in the forest wilds, which was a common
one in those days--the years between 1810 and 1820. The circle of high
waving trees gave a grandeur and beauty to the view that nothing else
could possibly do.
The little girl who sat so steadily at work had been brought by her
parents two years previously to this wild western home.
She was born in 1812, in Sutton, Worcester Co., Mass., and eight happy
years had been spent in her earliest home.
Shall I tell you about her father, whose name was Jesse Goldthwait? He
was a medium-sized, well-built New Englander, prudent, industrious and
the possessor of a firm will. Her mother was a quiet-spoken woman, but
she bad an ardent temperament and a great deal of natural refinement.
She had had some scholastic advantages and was exceedingly ambitious
for her children. Five sisters and six brothers had Lydia, and a very
happy and peaceful family they were.
Don't you know what "wool-pulling" is? Well, while my little girl is
finishing her work I will tell you:
When the sheep was killed for family use, the skin was rolled up by
the thrifty farmers in ashes or lime and laid away for some time. Then
the wool could easily be separated from the hide. This last piece of
labor generally fell to the children. And in Jesse Goldthwait's family
none of the children would keep to the work but Lydia. So that it soon
passed into a proverb, when Lydia exhibited that determination in
anything which was so striking a point in her character, they would say
to each other:
"It's no use trying to make her give up her design. You know Lydia
never leaves till the last lock is pulled."
The years passed on and Lydia grew apace. But as she attained to early
womanhood, she did not lose the slender form, the quiet voice she had
inherited from her mother, or the firm will her father had bequeathed
to her. She was brought up to habits of work and she had also received
religious training from her parents.
When the girl was about fifteen years old, a council was held
concerning her by her father and mother:
"Let us send the girl to school, father: you are comfortable for means,
and Lydia is a good, obedient girl."
"That she is," replied the father, "and studiously inclined. I will
think it over, mother."
After some deliberation, a boarding-school was chosen, and the girl
placed under proper care.
Who cannot fancy the life of a school-girl of fifteen? Happy, careless
as to the future, mindful of the husking-bees and quiltings, and with
bright, shy glances for the youths who begin to "wish to see you home."
Among Lydia's acquaintances in the village where she was attending
school, was a young man whose name was Calvin Bailey. One who was a
stranger in the village, but his smart, dapper ways, and his smooth
address won him many friends among the thoughtless, the youth and the
pleasure-loving of the villagers.
"He is _so_ nice," said the girls.
"Calvin is the right sort of a fellow for a frolic," added the young
men.
Lydia admired the young man in common with the rest of her companions,
and was far too young, too much of a child to dread the very smoothness
which so often covers a wicked heart.
The Winter passed into Spring and Lydia returned to her home.
That Summer in her happy home was one long to be remembered by the girl
who was fast hastening to so different an experience in life.
The rides with her brothers, the hunts in the forest for nuts, for
cones, for flowers and for rare ferns, the quiet, happy talks with
her mother, the lovely Sabbath evenings when Father Jesse would
solemnly tell of the mysteries of God. All these home joys were hardly
appreciated at the time, but long after remembered with sharp pangs of
agony.
When the Winter came, she returned to her school, and now the
acquaintance already began with young Bailey, ripened into a mutual
attachment, and in the Fall of 1828 the couple were married.
For a little time all went well. But the old, old story was told again.
The story of a man's cruelty and a woman's suffering.
The young man was one who "drank occasionally." Had he been accused of
being a drunkard he would have been highly insulted! But the misery of
the poor girl was just as real as though things received their right
names and "a spade be called a spade." Shall I attempt to picture her
sufferings? The long, lonely hours of waiting, the longing dread to
hear the stumbling footsteps, the tortures of fear, the vile abuse, the
bitter cursings heaped upon her head, the vain regrets, the puny hopes
of a better life born but to be strangled by the next night's waiting
agony, the gradual benumbing, crushed feeling that life was made but
for suffering--shall I tell of this? No! for those who are waiting and
watching for the unsteady step know all I can tell, and they who have
never borne the dreadful burden would not understand me.
This firm, quiet wife endured it all in silence. The home they owned
was some distance from her father's, and she was too sensitive to
complain of one whom she called by the sacred name of husband.
In 1829, a little girl was born, and this great blessing soothed the
aching heart of the youthful mother.
The months and years went on, and one morning when Lydia had been
married about three years, she woke up to find herself alone, deserted
by her husband, poor and almost friendless. What should she do? What
could she do? The only course open to her was to return to her father's
home; but this was a little trial to her proud spirit. Still it was all
that was left for her to do; and taking her little girl by the hand,
she entered her parents' home and begged their sympathy and support.
She did not ask in vain; the farmer and his wife wept at her sorrow,
but gladly took her to their arms once more.
In six months after her return, a little boy was born to her, Feb.
1832, but died almost at its birth.
The girl was quieter, sadder and more subdued than ever. Her work was
well done but no light laughter went with it. Tears were often in her
eyes, and a constant aching was at her heart.
One year passed away, and in January, 1833, the little girl, her
mother's only comfort, was taken ill and died. The mother felt she had
indeed drank the last bitter drop from sorrow's cup. She little dreamed
of the grand drama of the future, in which she was to act so noble a
part. God alone could soothe or heal the wound, and He did.