CHAPTER XI.

HALF A CENTURY.

BY

JANE GREY SWISSHELM.

* * * * *

"God so willed:

Mankind is ignorant! a man am I:

Call ignorance my sorrow, not my sin!"

"O, still as ever friends are they

Who, in the interest of outraged truth

Deprecate such rough handling of a lie!"

ROBERT BROWNING.

1880.

PREFACE.

It has been assumed, and is generally believed, that the Anti-slavery

struggle, which, culminated in the Emancipation Proclamation of 1862,

originated in Infidelity, and was a triumph of Skepticism over

Christianity. In no way can this error be so well corrected as by the

personal history of those who took part in that struggle; and as most of

them have passed from earth without leaving any record of the education

and motives which underlay their action, the duty they neglected becomes

doubly incumbent on the few who remain.

To supply one quota of the inside history of the great Abolition war, is

the primary object of this work; but scarcely secondary to this object

is that of recording incidents characteristic of the Peculiar

Institution overthrown in that struggle.

Another object, and one which struggles for precedence, is to give an

inside history of the hospitals during the war of the Rebellion, that

the American people may not forget the cost of that Government so often

imperiled through their indifference.

A third object, is to give an analysis of the ground which produced the

Woman's Rights agitation, and the causes which limited its influence.

A fourth is, to illustrate the force of education and the mutability of

human character, by a personal narrative of one who, in 1836, would have

broken an engagement rather than permit her name to appear in print,

even in the announcement of marriage; and who, in 1850, had as much

newspaper notoriety as any man of that time, and was singularly

indifferent to the praise or blame of the Press;--of one who, in 1837,

could not break the seal of silence set upon her lips by "Inspiration,"

even so far as to pray with a man dying of intemperance, and who yet, in

1862, addressed the Minnesota Senate in session, and as many others as

could be packed in the hall, with no more embarrassment than though

talking with a friend in a chimney corner.

J.G.S.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. I FIND LIFE

II. PROGRESS IN CALVINISM, HUNT GHOSTS, SEE LA FAYETTE

III. FATHER'S DEATH

IV. GO TO BOARDING SCHOOL

V. LOSE MY BROTHER

VI. JOIN CHURCH, AND MAKE NEW ENDEAVORS TO KEEP SABBATH

VII. DELIVERER OF THE DARK NIGHT

VIII. FITTING MYSELF INTO MY SPHERE

IX. HABITATIONS OF HORRID CRUELTY

X. KENTUCKY CONTEMPT FOR LABOR

XI. REBELLION

XII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH

XIII. "LABOR--SERVICE OR ACT"

XIV. SWISSVALE

XV. WILLOWS BY THE WATER-COURSES

XVI. THE WATERS GROW DEEP

XVII. MY NAME APPEARS IN PRINT

XVIII. MEXICAN WAR LETTERS

XIX. TRAINING SCHOOL

XX. RIGHTS OF MARRIED WOMEN

XXI. PITTSBURG SATURDAY VISITER

XXII. RECEPTION OF THE VISITER

XXIII. MY CROOKED TELESCOPE

XXIV. MINT, CUMMIN AND ANNIS

XXV. FREE SOIL PARTY

XXVI. VISIT WASHINGTON

XXVII. DANIEL WEBSTER

XXVIII. FUGITIVE SLAVE LAW--THE TWO RIDDLES

XXIX. BLOOMERS AND WOMAN'S RIGHTS CONVENTIONS

XXX. MANY MATTERS

XXXI. THE MOTHER CHURCH

XXXII. POLITICS AND PRINTERS

XXXIII. SUMNER, BURLINGAME AND CASSIUS M. CLAY

XXXIV. FINANCE AND DESERTION

XXXV. MY HERMITAGE

XXXVI. THE MINNESOTA DICTATOR

XXXVII. ANOTHER VISITER

XXXVIII. BORDER RUFFIANISM

XXXIX. SPEAK IN PUBLIC

XL. A FAMOUS VICTORY

XLI. STATE AND NATIONAL POLITICS

XLII. RELIGIOUS CONTROVERSIES

XLIII. FRONTIER LIFE

XLIV. PRINTERS

XLV. THE REBELLION

XLVI. PLATFORMS

XLVII. OUT INTO THE WORLD AND HOME AGAIN

XLVIII. THE ARISTOCRACY OF THE WEST

XLIX. THE INDIAN MASSACRE OF '62

L. A MISSIVE AND A MISSION

LI. NO USE FOR ME AMONG THE WOUNDED

LII. FIND WORK

LIII. HOSPITAL GANGRENE

LIV. GET PERMISSION TO WORK

LV. FIND A NAME

LVI. DROP MY ALIAS

LVII. HOSPITAL DRESS

LVIII. SPECIAL WORK

LIX. HEROIC AND ANTI-HEROIC TREATMENT

LX. COST OF ORDER

LXI. LEARN TO CONTROL PYAEMIA

LXII. FIRST CASE OF GROWING A NEW BONE

LXIII. A HEROIC MOTHER

LXIV. TWO KINDS OF APPRECIATION

LXV. LIFE AND DEATH

LXVI. MEET MISS DIX AND GO TO FREDERICKSBURG

LXVII. THE OLD THEATER

LXVIII. AM PLACED IN AUTHORITY

LXIX. VISITORS

LXX. WOUNDED OFFICERS

LXXI. "NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP"

LXXII. MORE VICTIMS AND A CHANGE OF BASE

LXXIII. PRAYERS ENOUGH AND TO SPARE

LXXIV. GET OUT OF THE OLD THEATER

LXXV. TAKE BOAT AND SEE A SOCIAL PARTY

LXXVI. TAKE FINAL LEAVE OF FREDERICKSBURG

LXXVII. TRY TO GET UP A SOCIETY AND GET SICK

LXXVIII. AN EFFICIENT NURSE

LXXIX. TWO FREDERICKSBURG PATIENTS

LXXX. AM ENLIGHTENED

CONCLUSION

HALF A CENTURY.

CHAPTER I.

I FIND LIFE.

Those soft pink circles which fell upon my face and hands, caught in my

hair, danced around my feet, and frolicked over the billowy waves of

bright, green grass--did I know they were apple blossoms? Did I know it

was an apple tree through which I looked up to the blue sky, over which

white clouds scudded away toward the great hills? Had I slept and been

awakened by the wind to find myself in the world?

It is probable that I had for some time been familiar with that tree,

and all my surroundings, for I had been breathing two and a half years,

and had made some progress in the art of reading and sewing, saying

catechism and prayers. I knew the gray kitten which walked away; knew

that the girl who brought it back and reproved me for not holding it was

Adaline, my nurse; knew that the young lady who stood near was cousin

Sarah Alexander, and that the girl to whom she gave directions about

putting bread into a brick oven was Big Jane; that I was Little Jane,

and that the white house across the common was Squire Horner's.

There was no surprise in anything save the loveliness of blossom and

tree; of the grass beneath and the sky above; and this first indelible

imprint on my memory seems to have found this inner something I call me,

as capable of reasoning as it has ever been.

While I sat and wondered, father came, took me in his loving arms and

carried me to mother's room, where she lay in a tent-bed, with blue

foliage and blue birds outlined on the white ground of the curtains,

like the apple-boughs on the blue and white sky. The cover was turned

down, and I was permitted to kiss a baby-sister, and warned to be good,

lest Mrs. Dampster, who had brought the baby, should come and take it

away. This autocrat was pointed out, as she sat in a gray dress, white

'kerchief and cap, and no other potentate has ever inspired me with such

reverential awe.

My second memory is of a "great awakening" to a sense of sin, and of my

lost and undone condition. On a warm summer day, while walking alone on

the common which lay between home and Squire Horner's house, I was

struck motionless by the thought that I had forgotten God. It seemed

probable, considering the total depravity of my nature, that I had been

thinking bad thoughts, and these I labored to recall, that I might

repent and plead with Divine mercy for forgiveness. But alas! I could

remember nothing save the crowning crime--forgetfulness of God.

I seemed to stand outside, and see myself a mere mite, in a pink

sun-bonnet and white bib, the very chief of sinners, for the probability

was I had been thinking of that bonnet and bib. It was quite certain

that God knew my sin; and ah, the crushing horror that I could, by no

possibility conceal aught from the All-seeing Eye, while it was equally

impossible to win its approval. The Divine Law was so perfect that I

could not hope to meet its requirements--the Divine Law-giver so alert

that no sin could escape detection.

Under that cloud of doom the sunshine grew dark, and I did not dare to

move until a cheery voice called out something about my pretty bonnet,

and gave me a sense of companionship in this dreadful, dreadful world.

Rose, a large native African, had spoken to me from her place in Squire

Horner's kitchen, and I went home full of solemn resolves and sad

forebodings.

This is probably what evangelists would call my conversion, and it came

in my third summer. There was a fire in the grate when mother showed Dr.

Robt. Wilson, our family physician, a pair of wristbands and collar I

had stitched for father, and when they spoke of me as not being three

years old--but then I had in my mind the marks of that "great

awakening."

To me, no childhood was possible under the training this indicates, yet

in giving that training, my parents were loving and gentle as they were

faithful. Believing in the danger of eternal death, they could but guard

me from it, by the only means of which they had any knowledge.

Before the completion of that momentous third year of life, I had

learned to read the New Testament readily, and was deeply grieved that

our pastor played "patty cake" with my hands, instead of hearing me

recite my catechism, and talking of original sin. During that winter I

went regularly to school, where I was kept at the head of a

spelling-class, in which were young men and women. One of these, Wilkins

McNair, used to carry me home, much amused, no doubt, by my supremacy.

His father, Col. Dunning McNair, was proprietor of the village, and had

been ridiculed for predicting that, in the course of human events, there

would be a graded, McAdamized road, all the way from Philadelphia to

Pittsburg, and that if he did not live to see it his children would. He

was a neighbor and friend of Wm. Wilkins, afterwards Judge, Secretary

of War, and Minister to Russia, and had named his son for him. When his

prediction was fulfilled and the road made, it ran through his land, and

on it he laid out the village and called it Wilkinsburg. Mr. McNair

lived south of it in a rough stone house--the manor of the

neighborhood--with half a dozen slave huts ranged before the kitchen

door, and the gateway between his grounds and the village, as seen from

the upper windows of our house, was, to me, the boundary between the

known and the unknown, the dread portal through which came Adam, the

poor old ragged slave, with whom my nurse threatened me when I did not

do as she wished. He was a wretched creature, who made and sold hickory

brooms, as he dragged his rheumatic limbs on the down grade of life,

until he found rest by freezing to death in the woods, where he had gone

for saplings.

I was born on the 6th of December, 1815, in Pittsburg, on the bank of

the Monongahela, near its confluence with the Allegheny. My father was

Thomas Cannon, and my mother Mary Scott. They were both Scotch-Irish

and descended from the Scotch Reformers. On my mother's side were

several men and women who signed the "Solemn League and Covenant," and

defended it to the loss of livings, lauds and life. Her mother, Jane

Grey, was of that family which was allied to royalty, and gave to

England her nine day's queen.

This grandmother I remember as a stately old lady, quaintly and plainly

dressed, reading a large Bible or answering questions by quotations from

its pages. She was unsuspicious as an infant, always doubtful about

"actual transgressions" of any, while believing in the total depravity

of all. Educated in Ireland as an heiress, she had not been taught to

write, lest she should marry without the consent of her elder brother

guardian. She felt that we owed her undying gratitude for bestowing her

hand and fortune on our grandfather, who was but a yoeman, even if "he

did have a good leasehold, ride a high horse, wear spurs, and have

Hamilton blood in his veins." She made us familiar with the battle of

the Boyne and the sufferings in Londonderry, in both of which her

great-grandfather had shared, but was incapable of that sectarian

rancor, which marks so many descendents of the men who met on those

fields of blood and fought for their convictions.

In April, 1816, father moved from Pittsburg out to the new village of

Wilkinsburg; took with him a large stock of goods, bought property, built

the house in which I first remember him, and planted the apple tree

which imprinted the first picture on my memory. But the crash which

followed the last war with England brought general bankruptcy; the

mortgages on Col. McNair's estate made the titles valueless, and this,

with the fall of his real estate in Pittsburg, reduced father to

poverty, from which he never recovered.

CHAPTER II.

PROGRESS IN CALVINISM--HUNT GHOSTS--SEE LA FAYETTE.--AGE, 6-9.

My parents were members of the Covenanter Congregation, of which Dr.

John Black was pastor for forty-five years. He was a man of power, a

profound logician, with great facility in conveying ideas. To his pulpit

ministrations I am largely indebted for whatever ability I have to

discriminate between truth and falsehood; but the church was in

Pittsburg, and our home seven miles away, so we seldom went to meeting.

The rules of the denomination forbade "occasional hearing." Father and

mother had once been "sessioned" for stopping on their way home to hear

the conclusion of a communion service in Dr. Brace's church, which was

Seceder. So our Sabbaths were usually spent in religious services at

home. These I enjoyed, as it aided my life-work of loving and thinking

about God, who seemed, to my mind, to have some special need of my

attention. Nothing was done on that day which could have been done the

day before, or could be postponed till the day after. Coffee grinding

was not thought of, and once, when we had no flour for Saturday's

baking, and the buckwheat cakes were baked the evening before and warmed

on Sabbath morning, we were all troubled about the violation of the

day.

There was a Presbyterian "meeting-house" two miles east of Wilkinsburg,

where a large, wealthy congregation worshipped. Rev. James Graham was

pastor, and unlike other Presbyterians, they never "profaned the

sanctuary" by singing "human compositions," but confined themselves to

Rouse's version of David's Psalms, as did our own denomination. This

aided that laxness of discipline which permitted Big Jane, Adaline and

brother William to attend sometimes, under care of neighbors. Once I was

allowed to accompany them.

I was the proud possessor of a pair of red shoes, which I carried rolled

up in my 'kerchief while we walked the two miles. We stopped in the

woods; my feet were denuded of their commonplace attire and arrayed in

white hose, beautifully clocked, and those precious slices, and my poor

conscience tortured about my vanity. The girls also exchanged theirs for

morocco slippers. We concealed our walking shoes under a mossy log and

proceeded to the meeting-house.

It was built in the form of a T, of hewn logs, and the whole structure,

both inside and out, was a combination of those soft grays and browns

with which nature colors wood, and in its close setting of primeval

forest, made a harmonious picture. Atone side lay a graveyard; birds

sang in the surrounding trees, some of which reached out their giant

arms and touched the log walls. Swallows had built nests under the

eaves outside, and some on the rough projections inside, and joined

their twitter to the songs of other birds and the rich organ

accompaniment of wind and trees.

There were two sermons, and in the intermission, a church sociable, in

fact if not in name. Friends who lived twenty miles apart, met here,

exchanged greetings and news, gave notices and invitations, and obeyed

the higher law of kindness under protest of their Calvinistic

consciences. In this breathing-time we ate our lunch, went to the

nearest house and had a drink from the spring which ran through the

stone milk-house. It was a day full of sight-seeing and of solemn, grand

impressions.

Of the two sermons I remember but one, and this from the text "Many are

called but few are chosen," and the comments were Calvinism of the most

rigid school. On our way home, my brother William--three years older

than I--was very silent and thoughtful for some time, then spoke of the

sermon, of which I entirely approved, but he stoutly declared that he

did not believe it; did not believe God called people to come to him

while he did not choose to have them come. It would not be fair, indeed,

he thought it would be mean.

That evening, when we were saying the shorter catechism, the question,

"What are the decrees of God?" came to me, and after repeating the

answer, I asked father to explain it--not that I needed any explanation,

but that William might be enlightened; for I was anxious about his soul,

on account of his skepticism. Enlightened he could not be, and even to

father expressed his doubts and disapprobation. We renewed the

discussion when alone, and during all his life I labored with him; but

soon found the common refuge of orthodox minds, in feeling that those

especially loved by them will be made exceptions in the general

distribution of wrath due to unbelief.

One day I went with him to hunt the cow. We came to a wood just north of

the village, where the wind roared and shook the trees so that I was

quite awe-stricken; but he held my hand and assured me there was no

danger, until he suddenly drew me back, exclaiming:

"Oh see!" as a great tree came crashing down across the path before us,

and so near that it must have fallen on us if he had not seen it and

stepped back. Even then he refused to go home without the cow, and

taking up a daddy-long-legs, he inquired of it where she was, and

started in the direction indicated, when we were arrested by the voice

of Big Jane, who had come to search for us.

On reaching home, we found a new baby-sister, Elizabeth. Soon after her

birth, in April, 1821, father moved back to Pittsburg, and lived on

Sixth street, opposite Trinity Church, on property belonging to my

maternal grandfather. There was no church there at that time, but a

thickly peopled graveyard, which adjoined that of the First Presbyterian

Church, on the corner of Sixth and Wood. These were above the level of

the street, and were protected by a worm-fence that ran along the top of

a green bank on which we played and gathered flowers.

Grandmother took me sometimes to walk in these graveyards at night, and

there talked to me about God and heaven and the angels. I was

sufficiently interested in these, but especially longed to see the

ghosts, and often went to look for them. We had a bachelor uncle who

delighted in telling us tales of the supernatural, and he peopled these

graveyards with ghosts, in which I believed as implicitly as in the

Revelations made to John on the Isle of Patmos, which were my favorite

literature.

When the congregation concluded to abandon the "Round Church," which

stood on the triangle between Liberty, Wood and Sixth streets, and began

to dig for a foundation for Trinity, where it now stands, there was

great desecration of graves. One day a thrill of excitement and stream

of talk ran through the neighborhood, about a Mrs. Cooper, whose body

had been buried three years, and was found in a wonderful state of

preservation, when the coffin was laid open by the diggers. It was left

that the friends might remove it, and that night I felt would be the

time for ghosts. So I went over alone, and while I crouched by the open

grave, peering in, a cloud passed, and the moon poured down a flood of

light, by which I could see the quiet sleeper, with folded hands, taking

her last, long rest.

It was inexpressibly grand, solemn and sad. There were no gaslights, no

paved street near, no one stirring. Earth was far away and heaven near

at hand, but no ghost came, and I went home disappointed. Afterwards I

had a still more disheartening adventure.

I had gone an errand to cousin Alexander's, on Fifth street, stayed

late, and coming home, found Wood street deserted. The moon shone

brightly, but on the graveyard side were heavy shadows, except in the

open space opposite the church. I was on the other side, and there was

the office of the Democratic paper, and over the door the motto "Our

country, right or wrong." This had long appeared to be an uncanny spot,

owing to the wickedness of this sentiment, and I was thinking of the

possibility of seeing Auld Nick guarding his property, when my attention

was attracted to a tall, white figure in the bright moonlight, outside

the graveyard fence.

I stopped an instant, in great surprise, and listened for footsteps, but

no sound accompanied the motion. It did not walk, but glided, and must

have risen out of the ground, for only a moment before there was nothing

visible. I clasped my hands in mute wonder, but my ghost was getting

away, and to make its acquaintance I must hurry. Crossing the street I

ran after and gained on it. It passed into the shadow of the engine

house, on across Sixth street, into the moonlight, then into the shadow,

before I overtook it, when lo! it was a mortal woman, barefoot, in a

dress which was probably a faded print. Most prints faded then, and this

was white, long and scant, making a very ghostly robe, while on her head

she carried a bundle tied up in a sheet. She had, of course, come out of

Virgin alley, where many laundresses lived, and had just passed out of

the shadow when I saw her. We exchanged salutations, and I went home to

lie and brood over the unreliable nature of ghosts.

I was trying to get into a proper frame of mind for saying my prayers,

but I doubt if they were said that night, as we were soon aroused by the

cries of fire. Henry Clay was being burned, in effigy, on the corner of

Sixth and Wood streets, to show somebody's disapproval of his course in

the election of John Quincy Adams. The Democratic editor, McFarland, was

tried and found guilty of the offense, and took revenge in ridiculing

his opponents. Charles Glenn, a fussy old gentleman, member of our

church, was an important witness for the prosecution, and in the long,

rhyming account published by the defendant, he was thus remembered:

"Then in came Glenn, that man of peace,

And swore to facts as sleek as grease;

By all his Uncle Aleck's geese,

McFarland burnt the tar-barrel."

It was before this time that Lafayette revisited Pittsburg, and people

went wild to do him honor. The schools paraded for his inspection, and

ours was ranged along the pavement in front of the First Presbyterian

church, the boys next the curb, the girls next the fence, all in holiday

attire, and wearing blue badges. The distinguished visitor passed up

between them, leaning on the arm of another gentleman, bowing and

smiling as he went. When he came to where I stood, he stepped aside,

laid his hand on my head, turned up my face and spoke to me.

I was too happy to know what he said, and in all the years since that

day, that hand has lain on my brow as a consecration.

CHAPTER III.

FATHER'S DEATH.--AGE, 6-12.

In the city we went regularly to meeting, and Dr. Black seemed always to

talk to _me_, and I had no more difficulty in understanding his sermons,

than in mastering the details of the most simple duty. The first of

which I preserve the memory was about Peter, who was made to illustrate

the growth of crime. He began with boasting; then came its natural

fruit, cowardice, in following his master afar off; next falsehood, and

from this he proceeded to perjury. It did seem that a disciple of Christ

could go no further; but for falsehood and perjury there might be excuse

in the hope of reward, and Peter found a lower deep, for "he began to

curse and to swear." A profane swearer is without temptation, and serves

the devil for the pure love of the service. What more could Peter do to

prove that he knew not Jesus?

In the communion service is a ceremony called "fencing the tables,"

which consists of an appeal to the consciences of intended communicants.

Dr. Black began with the first commandment and forbade those living in

its violation to come to the table, and so proceeded through the

decalogue. When he came to the eighth, he straightened himself, placed

his hands behind him, and with thrilling emphasis said, "I debar from

this holy table of the Lord, all slave-holders and horse-thieves, and

other dishonest persons," and without another word passed to the ninth

commandment.

Soon after we returned to the city, sister Mary died of consumption, and

father's health began to fail. I have preserved the spinning wheel on

which mother converted flax yarn into thread, which she sold to aid in

the support of the family, but soon the entire burden fell on her, for

father's illness developed into consumption, from which he died in

March, 1823.

In spite of all the testamentary precautions he could take, whatever of

his estate might have been available for present support, was in the

hands of lawyers, and mother was left with her children and the debts.

There were the contents of his shop and warehouse, some valuable real

estate in Pittsburg, which had passed out of his possession on a claim

of ground-rent, and a village home minus a title.

William was a mechanical genius, so mother set him to making little

chairs, which he readily sold, but he liked better to construct fire

engines, which were quite wonderful but brought no money. He had a

splendid physique, was honorable and faithful, and if mother had been

guided by natural instinct in governing him, all would have been well;

but he never met the requirements of the elders of the church, who felt

it their duty to manage our family affairs. So he was often in trouble,

and I, who gloried in him, contrived to shield him from many a storm.

At this time there was a fashionable _furor_ for lace work. Mother sent

me to learn it, and then procured me pupils, whom I taught, usually

sitting on their knee. But lace work soon gave way to painting on

velvet. This, too, I learned, and found profit in selling pictures. Ah,

what pictures I did make. I reached the culminating glory of artist

life, when Judge Braden, of Butler, gave me a new crisp five dollar bill

for a Goddess of Liberty. Indeed, he wanted me to be educated for an

artist, and was far-seeing and generous enough to have been my permanent

patron, had an artistic education, or any other education, been possible

for a Western Pennsylvania girl in that dark age--the first half of the

nineteenth century.

Mother made a discovery in the art of coloring leghorn and straw

bonnets, which brought her plenty of work, so we never lacked comforts

of life, although grandfather's executors made us pay rent for the house

we occupied.

CHAPTER IV.

GO TO BOARDING-SCHOOL.--AGE, 12.

During my childhood there were no public schools in Pennsylvania. The

State was pretty well supplied with colleges for boys, while girls were

permitted to go to subscription schools. To these we were sent part of

the time, and in one of them Joseph Caldwell, afterwards a prominent

missionary to India, was a schoolmate. But we had Dr. Black's sermons,

full of grand morals, science and history.

In lieu of colleges for girls, there were boarding-schools, and

Edgeworth was esteemed one of the best in the State. It was at

Braddock's Field, and Mrs. Olever, an English woman of high culture, was

its founder and principal. To it my cousin, Mary Alexander, was sent,

but returned homesick, and refused to go back unless I went with her. It

was arranged that I should go for a few weeks, as I was greatly in need

of country air; and, highly delighted, I was at the rendezvous at the

hour, one o'clock, with my box, ready for this excursion into the world

of polite literature. Mary was also there, and a new scholar, but Father

Olever did not come for us until four o'clock. He was a small, nervous

gentleman, and lamps were already lighted in the smoky city when we

started to drive twelve miles through spring mud, on a cloudy, cheerless

afternoon. We knew he had no confidence in his power to manage those

horses, though we also knew he would do his best to save us from harm;

but as darkness closed around us, I think we felt like babes in the

woods, and shuddered with vague fear as much as with cold and damp. When

we reached the "Bullock Pens," half a mile west of Wilkinsburg, there

were many lights and much bustle in and around the old yellow tavern,

where teamsters were attending to their weary horses. Here we turned off

to the old mud road, and came to a place of which I had no previous

knowledge--a place of outer darkness and chattering teeth.

We met no more teams, saw no more lights, but seemed to be in an utterly

uninhabited country. Then, after an hour of wearisome jolting and

plunging, we discovered that the darkness had not been total, for the

line of the horizon had been visible, but now it was swallowed up. We

knew we were in a wood, by the rush of the wind amid the dried white oak

leaves--knew that the road grew rougher at every step--that our driver

became more nervous as he applied the brake, and we went down, down.

Still the descent grew steeper. We stopped, and Father Olever felt for

the bank with his whip to be sure we were on the road. Then we heard the

sound of rushing, angry waters, mingled with the roar of the wind, and

he seemed to hesitate about going on, but we could not very well stay

there, and he once more put his horses in motion, while we held fast and

prayed silently to the great Deliverer. After stopping again and

feeling for the bank, lest we should go over the precipitous hillside,

which he knew was there, he proceeded until, with a great plunge, we

were in the angry waters, which arose to the wagon-bed, and roared and

surged all around us. The horses tried to go on, when something gave

way, and our guardian concluded further progress was impossible, and

began to hallo at the top of his voice.

For a long time there was no response; then came an answering call from

a long distance. Next a light appeared, and that, too, was far away, but

came toward us. When it reached the brink of the water, and two men with

it, we felt safe. The light-bearer held it up so that we saw him quite

well, and his peculiar appearance suited his surroundings. He was more

an overgrown boy than a man, beardless, with a long swarthy face, black

hair and keen black eyes. He wore heavy boots outside his pantaloons, a

blouse and slouch hat, spoke to his companion as one having authority,

and with a laugh said to our small gentleman:

"Is this where you are?" but gave no heed to the answer as he waded in

and threw off the check lines, saying: "I wonder you did not drown your

horses."

He next examined the wagon, paying no more attention to Father Olever's

explanations than to the water in which he seemed quite at home, and

when he had finished his inspection he said:

"They must go to the house," and handing the light to the driver he took

us up one by one and carried us to the wet bank as easily as a child

carries her doll. He gave some directions to his companion, took the

light and said to us:

"Come on," and we walked after him out into the limitless blackness,

nothing doubting. We went what seemed a long way, following this

brigand-looking stranger, without seeing any sign of life or hearing any

sound save the roar of wind and water, but on turning a fence corner, we

came in sight of a large two-story house, with a bright light streaming

out through many windows, and a wide open door. There was a large stone

barn on the other side of the road, and to this our conductor turned,

saying to us: "Go on to the house." This we did, and were met at the

open door by a middle-aged woman, shading with one hand the candle held

in the other. This threw a strong light on her face, which instantly

reminded me of an eagle. She wore a double-bordered white cap over her

black hair, and looked suspiciously at us through her small keen, black

eyes, but kindly bade us come in to a low wainscoted hall, with broad

stairway and many open doors. Through one of these and a second door we

saw a great fire of logs, and I should have liked to sit by it, but she

led us into a square wainscoted room on the opposite side, in which

blazed a coal fire almost as large as the log heap in the kitchen.

She gave us seats, and a white-haired man who sat in the corner, spoke

to us, and made me feel comfortable. Up to this time all the

surroundings had had an air of enchanted castles, brigands, ghosts,

witches. The alert woman with the eagle face, in spite of her kindness,

made me feel myself an object of doubtful character, but this old man

set me quite at ease. We were no more than well warmed when the wagon

drove to the door, and the boy-man with the lantern appeared, saying,

"Come on."

We followed him again, and he lifted us into the wagon, while the

mistress of the house stood on the large flag-stone door-step, shading

her candle-flame, and giving directions about our wraps.

"Coming events cast their shadows before," when they are between us and

the light; but that night the light must have been between them and me;

for I bade good-bye to our hostess without any premonition we should

ever again meet, or that I should sit alone, as I do to-night, over half

a century later, in that same old wainscoted room, listening to the roar

of those same angry waters and the rush of the wind wrestling with the

groaning trees, in the dense darkness of this low valley.

When we had been carefully bestowed in the wagon, our deliverer took up

his lantern, saying to Father Olever:

"Drive on."

He was obeyed, and led the way over a bridge across another noisy

stream, and along a road where there was the sound of a waterfall very

near, then up a steep, rocky way until he stopped, saying,

"I guess you can get along now."

To Father Olever's thanks he only replied by a low, contemptuous but

good-humored laugh, as he turned to retrace his steps. All comfort and

strength and hope seemed to go with him. We were abandoned to our fate,

babes in the woods again, with only God for our reliance. But after a

while we could see the horizon, and arrived at our destination several

minutes before midnight, to find the great mansion full of glancing

lights and busy, expectant life.

The large family had waited up for Father Olever's return, for he and

his wagon were the connecting link between that establishment and the

outside world. He appeared to great advantage surrounded by a bevy of

girls clamoring for letters and messages. To me the scene was

fairy-land. I had never before seen anything so grand as the great hall

with its polished stairway. We had supper in the housekeeper's room, and

I was taken up this stairway, and then up and up a corkscrew cousin

until we reached the attic, which stretched over the whole house, one

great dormitory called the "bee-hive." Here I was to sleep with Helen

Semple, a Pittsburg girl, of about my own age, a frail blonde, who quite

won my heart at our first meeting.

Next day was Sabbath, and I was greatly surprised to see pupils walk on

the lawn. This was such a desecration of the day, but I made no remark.

I was too solemnly impressed by the grandeur of being at Braddock's

Field to have hinted that anything could be wrong. But for my own share

in the violation I was painfully penitent.

This was not new, for there were a long series of years in which the

principal business of six days of every week, was repentance for the

very poor use made of the seventh, and from this dreary treadmill of sin

and sorrow, no faith ever could or did free me. I never could see

salvation in Christ apart from salvation from sin, and while the sin

remained the salvation was doubtful and the sorrow certain.

On the afternoon of that first Sabbath, a number of young lady pupils

came to the Bee-hive for a visit, and as I afterwards learned to inspect

and name the two new girls, when I was promptly and unanimously dubbed

"Wax Doll." After a time, one remarked that they must go and study their

"ancient history lesson." I caught greedily at the words, ancient

history. Ah, if I could only be permitted to study such a lesson! No

such progress or promotion seemed open to me; but the thought interfered

with my prayers, and followed me into the realm of sleep. So when that

class was called next forenoon, I was alert, and what was my surprise,

to hear those privileged girls stumbling over the story of Sampson?

Could it be possible that was ancient history? How did it come to pass

that every one did not know all about Sampson, the man who had laid his

Lead on Delilah's wicked lap, to be shorn of his strength. If there is

any thing in that account, or any lesson to be drawn from it, with which

I was not then familiar, it is something I have never learned. Indeed, I

seemed to have completed my theological education before I did my

twelfth year.

One morning, Mrs. Olever sent for me, and told me she had learned my

mother was not able to send me to school, but if I would take charge of

the lessons of the little girls, she would furnish me board and tuition.

This most generous offer quite took my breath away, and was most gladly

accepted; but it was easy work, and I wondered my own studies were so

light. I was allowed to amuse myself drawing flowers, which were quite

a surprise, and pronounced better than anything the drawing master could

do--to recite poetry, for the benefit of the larger girls, and to play

in the orchard with my pupils.

With the other girls, I became interested in hair-dressing. I had read

"The Children of the Abbey," and Amanda's romantic adventures enchanted

me; but she was quite outside my life. Now I made a nearer acquaintance

with her. She changed her residence; so had I. She had brown ringlets; I

too should have them. So one Friday night, my hair was put up in papers,

and next morning, I let loose an amazing shower of curls.

The next thing to do was to go off alone, and sit reading in a romantic

spot. Of course I did not expect to meet Lord Mortimer! Miss Fitzallen

never had any such expectations. I was simply going out to read and

admire the beauties of nature. When I had seated myself, in proper

attitude, on the gnarled root of an old tree, overhanging a lovely

ravine, I proceeded to the reading part of the play, and must of course

be too much absorbed to hear the approaching footsteps, to which I

listened with bated breath. So I did not look up when they stopped at my

side, or until a pleasant voice said:

"Why you look quite romantic, my dear."

Then I saw Miss Olever, the head teacher, familiarly called "Sissy

Jane." In that real and beautiful presence Miss Fitzallen retired to her

old place, and oh, the mortification she left behind her! I looked up, a

detected criminal, into the face of her who had brought to me this

humiliation, and took _her_ for a model. My folly did not prevent our

being sincere friends during all her earnest and beautiful life.

She passed on, and I got back to the Bee-hive, when I disposed of my

curls, and never again played heroine.

CHAPTER V.

LOSE MY BROTHER.--AGE, 12-15.

Measured by the calendar, my boarding-school life was six weeks; but

measured by its pleasant memories, it was as many years. Mother wrote

for me to come home; and in going I saw, by sunlight, the scene of our

adventure that dark night going out. It was a lovely valley, walled in

by steep, wooded hills. Two ravines joined, bringing each its

contribution of running water, and pouring it into the larger stream of

the larger valley--a veritable "meeting of the waters"--in all of

nature's work, beautiful exceedingly.

The house, which stood in the center of a large, green meadow, through

which the road ran, was built in two parts, of hewn logs, with one great

stone chimney on the outside, protected by an overshot in the roof, but

that one in which the log-heap burned that night was inside. One end had

been an Indian fort when Gen. Braddock tried to reach Fort Pitt by that

road. The other end and stone barn had been built by its present

proprietor. A log mill, the oldest in Allegheny county, stood below the

barn, and to it the French soldiers had come for meal from Fort

Duquesne. The stream crossed by the bridge was the mill-race, and the

waterfall made by the waste-gate. It was the homestead of a soldier of

the Revolution, one of Washington's lieutenants--the old man we had

seen. The woman was his second wife. They had a numerous family, and an

unpronounceable name.

At home I learned that, on account of a cough, I had been the object of

a generous conspiracy between mother and Mrs. Olever, and had been

brought home because I was worse. Our doctors said I was in the first

stage of consumption, that Elizabeth was to reach that point early in

life, and that our only hope lay in plenty of calomel. Mother had lost

her husband and four vigorous children; there had been no lack of

calomel, and now, when death again threatened, she resolved to conduct

the defense on some new plan.

She had gained legal possession of our village home, and moved to it.

Our lot was large and well supplied with choice fruit, and the place

seemed a paradise after our starved lives in the smoky city. My apple

tree still grew at the east end of the house. There was a willow tree

mother had planted, which now swept the ground with its long, graceful

branches. There were quantities of rose and lilac bushes, a walled

spring of delicious water in the cellar, and a whole world of wealth;

but the potato lot looked up in despair--a patch of yellow clay. Mother

put a twelve years' accumulation of coal ashes on it, and thus proved

them valuable both as a fertilizer and a preventive of potato-rot,

though at first her project met general opposition.

William did the heavy work and was proud of it. He was in splendid

health, for his insubordination had, from a very early age, saved him

from drugging either mental or physical. The lighter gardening became

part of my treatment for consumption. By having me each day lie on the

floor on my back without a pillow, and gentle use of dumb-bells, mother

straightened my spine and developed my chest--my clothes being carefully

adapted to its expansion. Dancing was strictly forbidden by our church,

but mother was educated in Ireland and danced beautifully. She had a

class of girls and taught us, and with plenty of fresh air, milk and

eggs, effectually disposed of hereditary consumption in her family. But

while attending to us, she must also make a living, so she bought a

stock of goods on credit, opened a store, and soon had a paying

business. In this I was her special assistant. But the work supplied to

William did not satisfy the holy men of the church, who furnished us

advice. He still made fire engines, and a brook in a meadow presented

irresistible temptation to water-wheels and machinery. One of his

tilt-hammers made a very good ghost, haunting the meadow and keeping off

trespassers. He had a foundry, where he cast miniature cannon, kettles

and curious things, and his rifle-practice was a neighborhood wonder. He

brought water from the cellar, and did other chores which Pennsylvania

rules assigned to women, and when boys ridiculed him, he flogged them,

and did it quite as effectually as he rendered them the same service

when they were rude to a girl. He was a universal favorite, even if he

did hate catechism and love cake.

So mother's conscience was worked upon until she bound him to a cabinet

maker in the city. To him, the restraint was unendurable, and he ran

away. He came after dark to bid me good-bye, left love for mother and

Elizabeth, and next morning left Pittsburg on a steamboat, going to that

Eldorado of Pittsburg boys--"down the river."

For some time letters came regularly from him, and he was happy and

prosperous. Then they ceased, and after two years of agonizing suspense,

we heard that he had died of yellow fever in New Orleans. To us, this

was dreadful, irreparable, and was wholly due to that iron-bedstead

piety which permits no natural growth, but sets down all human loves and

longings as of Satanic origin.

Soon after our removal to the village, grandfather's estate was

advertised for sheriff's sale. Mother had the proceedings stayed, the

executors dismissed, and took out letters of administration, which made

it necessary for her to spend some portion of every month in the city.

This threw the entire charge of house and store on me. As soon,

therefore, as possible, she sent me to the city to school, where I

realized my aspiration of studying ancient history and the piano, and

devoured the contents of the text-book of natural philosophy with an

avidity I had never known for a novel.

In April, 1830, I began to teach school, the only one in Wilkinsburg,

and had plenty of pupils, young men and women, boys and girls, at two

dollars and one dollar and a half a term. Taught seven hours a day, and

Saturday forenoon, which was devoted to Bible reading and catechism. I

was the first, I believe, in Allegheny Co., to teach children without

beating them. I abolished corporeal punishment entirely, and was so

successful that boys, ungovernable at home, were altogether tractable.

This life was perfectly congenial, and I followed it for nearly six

years. Mother started a Sabbath School, the only one in the village, and

this, too, we continued for years.

One of the pupils was a girl of thirteen, daughter of a well-to-do

farmer, who lived within a mile of the village. Her father had been

converted at a camp-meeting and was a devout Methodist. The first day

she attended, I asked her the question:

"How many Gods are there?"

She thought a moment, and then said, with an air of satisfaction:

"Five."

I was shocked, and answered in the language of the Catechism:

"O Margaret! 'There is but one only living and true God.'"

She hung her head, then nodded it, and with the emphasis of a judge who

had weighed all the evidence, said:

"I am sure I ha' hearn tell o' more nur one of em."

A young theological student came sometimes to stay over Sabbath and

assist in the school. He led in family worship, and had quite a nice

time, until one evening he read a chapter from the song of songs which

was Solomon's, when I bethought me that he was very much afraid of

toads. I began to cultivate those bright-eyed creatures, so that it

always seemed probable I had one in my pocket or sleeve. The path of

that good young man became thorny until it diverged from mine.

I was almost fifteen, when I overheard a young lady say I was growing

pretty. I went to my mirror and spent some moments in unalloyed

happiness and triumph. Then I thought, "Pretty face, the worms will eat

you. All the prettiest girls I know are silly, but you shall never make

a fool of me. Helen's beauty ruined Troy. Cleopatra was a wretch. So if

you are pretty, _I_ will be master, remember that."

CHAPTER VI.

JOIN CHURCH AND MAKE NEW ENDEAVORS TO KEEP SABBATH.--AGE, 15.

In the year 1800, the Covenanter church of this country said in her

synod: "Slavery and Christianity are incompatible," and never relaxed

her discipline which forbade fellowship with slave-holders--so I was

brought up an abolitionist. I was still a child when I went through

Wilkins' township collecting names to a petition for the abolition of

slavery in the District of Columbia. Here, in a strictly orthodox

Presbyterian community, I was everywhere met by the objections: "Niggers

have no souls," "The Jews held slaves," "Noah cursed Canaan," and these

points I argued from house to house, occasionally for three years, and

made that acquaintance which led to my being sent for in cases of

sickness and death, before I had completed my sixteenth year. In this, I

in some measure took the place long filled by mother, who was often a

substitute for doctor and preacher.

Looking back at her life, I think how little those know of Calvinists

who regard them merely as a class of autocrats, conscious of their own

election to glory, and rejoicing in the reprobation of all others; for I

have never known such humble, self-distrustful people as I have found in

that faith. Mother, whose life was full of wisdom and good works,

doubted, even to the last, her own acceptance with God. She and I

believed that "a jealous God," who can brook no rivals, had taken away

our loving husband and father; our strong and brave son and brother,

because we loved them too much, and I was brought up to think it a great

presumption to assume that such a worm of the dust as I, could be aught

to the Creator but a subject of punishment.

During the spring of 1831, mother said to me:

"Sabbath week is our communion, and I thought you might wish to join the

church."

I was startled and without looking up, said:

"Am I old enough?"

"If you feel that the dying command of the Savior, 'do this in

remembrance of me' was addressed to you, you are old enough to obey it."

Not another word was said and the subject was never again broached

between us, but here a great conflict began. That command was given to

me, but how could I obey it without eating and drinking damnation to

myself? Was mine a saving faith, or did I, like the devils, believe and

tremble? I had been believing as long as I could remember, but did not

seem to grow in the image of God.

The conflict lasted several days. Sleep left me. The heavens were iron

and the earth brass. I turned to Erskine to learn the signs of saving

faith, but found only reason to suspect self-deception. I could not

submit to God's will--could not be willing that William should be

lost--nay, I was not willing that any one should be lost. I could not

stay in heaven, and know that any one was enduring endless torments in

some other place! I must leave and go to their relief. It was dreadful

that Abraham did not even try to go to poor Dives, or to send some one.

My whole soul flew into open revolt; then oh! the total depravity which

could question "the ways of God to man." I hated Milton. I despised his

devils; had a supreme contempt for the "Prince of the Power of the Air;"

did not remember a time when I was afraid of him. God was "my refuge and

my shield, in straits a present aid." If he took care of me, no one else

could hurt me; if he did not, no one else could; and to be accepted by

him was all there was or could be worth caring for; but how should I

find this acceptance with my heart full of rebellion?

One afternoon I became unable to think, but a white mist settled down

over hell. Even those contemptible devils were having their tongues

cooled with blessed drops of water. The fires grew dim, and it seemed as

if there was to be a rain of grace and mercy in that region of despair.

Then I preferred my petition, that God would write his name upon my

forehead, and give me that "new name" which should mark me as his; that

he would bring William into the fold, and do with me as he would. I

would be content to spend my whole life in any labor he should appoint,

without a sign of the approval of God or man, if, in the end, I and

mine should be found among those "who had washed their robes, and made

them white in the blood of the Lamb."

I fell asleep--slept hours--and when the sun was setting, woke in

perfect peace. My proposition had been accepted, and wonderful grace,

which had given what I had not dared to ask, assurance of present

acceptance. I should have all the work and privation for which I had

bargained--should be a thistle-digger in the vineyard; should be set to

tasks from which other laborers shrank, but in no trial could I ever be

alone, and should at last hear the welcome "well done."

I arose as one from a grave to a joyous resurrection; but kept all these

things in my heart. Personal experiences being altogether between God

and the soul, were not considered fit subjects for conversation, and

when I came before the session applying for church, membership, no

mention was made of them, except as a general confession of faith.

Rev. Andrew Black addressed the table at which I sat in my first

communion, and said:

"The Lord's Supper has been named the Eucharist, after the oath taken by

a Roman soldier, never to turn his back upon his leader. You, in

partaking of these emblems, do solemnly vow that you will never turn

your back upon Christ, but that you will follow him whithersoever he

goeth. Let others do as they will, you are to follow the Lamb, through

good and through evil report, to a palace or to a prison; follow him,

even if he should lead you out of the church."

This was in perfect harmony with my private agreement, and no other act

of my life has been so solemn or far-reaching in its consequences, as

that ratification of my vow, and it is one I have least cause to repent.

However, it brought a new phase to an old trouble. How should I follow

Christ? I could not do as he had done. I could not go to meeting every

Sabbath, and society every Friday; and if I did, was that following

Christ who never built a meeting-house, or conducted any service

resembling those now held? I read the life of Jonathan Edwards, and

settled back into the old Sabbath-keeping rut. Resolving to do my best,

I prayed all week, for grace to keep the next Sabbath. I rose early that

trial-morning, prayed as soon as my eyes were open, read a chapter,

looked out into the beautiful morning, thought about God and

prayed--spent so much time praying, that Elizabeth had breakfast ready

when I went down stairs. While I ate it, I held my thoughts to the work

of the day, worshiping God; but many facts and fancies forced themselves

in and disturbed my pious meditations. After breakfast, I went back to

my room to continue my labor; but mother soon came and said:

"Do you intend to let Elizabeth do all the work?"

I dropped my roll of saintship, and went and washed the dishes. Had I

been taught that he who does any honest work serves God and follows

Christ, what a world of woe would have been spared me.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DELIVERER OF THE DARK NIGHT.--AGE, 19-21.

Quiltings furnished the principal amusement, and at these I was in

requisition, both for my expertness with the needle, and my skill in

laying out work; but as I had no brother to come for me, I usually went

home before the evening frolic, which consisted of plays. Male and

female partners went through the common quadrille figures, keeping time

to the music of their own voices, and making a denouement every few

moments by some man kissing some woman, perhaps in a dark hall, or some

woman kissing some man, or some man kissing all the women, or _vice

versa_. Elders and preachers often looked on in pious approbation, and

the church covered these sports with the mantle of her approval, but was

ready to excommunicate any one who should dance. Promiscuous dancing was

the fiery dragon which the church went out to slay. Only its death could

save her from a fit of choler which might be fatal, unless, indeed, the

dancing were sanctified by promiscuous kissing. If men and women danced

together without kissing, they were in immediate danger of eternal

damnation; but with plenty of kissing, and rude wrestling to overcome

the delicacy of women who objected to such desecration, the church gave

her blessing to the quadrille.

My protest against these plays had given offense, and I chose to avoid

them; but one evening the host begged me to remain, saying he would see

that I was not annoyed, and would himself take me home. The frolic was

only begun, when he came and asked permission to introduce a gentleman,

saying: "If you do not treat him well, I will never forgive you."

There was no need of this caution, for he presented a man whose presence

made me feel that I was a very little girl and should have been at home.

He was over six feet tall, well formed and strongly built, with black

hair and eyes, a long face, and heavy black whiskers. He was handsomely

dressed, and his manner that of a grave and reverend seignior. A Russian

count in a New York drawing room, then, when counts were few, could not

have seemed more foreign than this man in that village parlor, less than

two miles from the place of his birth.

He was the son of the old revolutionary soldier, with the unpronouncable

name, who lived in the beautiful valley. This I knew at once, but did

not, for some time, realize that it was he who rescued us from the black

waters on that dark night, carried us to safety and light, and left us

again in darkness. This incident, so much to me, he never could

distinguish among the many times he had "helped Olever and his seminary

girls out of scrapes," and he never spoke of these adventures without

that same laugh which I noticed when Father Olever thanked him.

He had elected me as his wife some years before this evening, and had

not kept it secret; had been assured his choice was presumptuous, but

came and took possession of his prospective property with the air of a

man who understood his business. I next saw him on horseback, and this

man of giant strength in full suit of black, riding a large spirited

black horse, became my "black knight."

My sister hated him, and my mother doubted him, or rather doubted the

propriety of my receiving visits from him. His family were the leading

Methodists of the township; his father had donated land and built a

meeting-house, which took his name, and his house was the headquarters

of traveling preachers. There was a camp-meeting ground on the farm; his

mother "lived without sin," prayed aloud and shouted in meeting, while

the income and energy of the family were expended in propagating a faith

which we believed false. A marriage with him would be incongruous and

bring misery to both. These objections he overruled, by saying he was

not a member of any church, would never interfere with my rights of

conscience, would take or send me to my meeting when possible, and

expect me to go sometimes with him. He proposed going up the Allegheny

to establish saw-mills, and if I would go into the woods with him, there

should be no trouble about religion. So there seemed no valid objection,

and two years after our introduction we were married, on the 18th of

November, 1836.

Then all was changed. I offended him the day after by shedding tears

when I left home to go for a visit to his father's house, and his sister

had told him that I cried while dressing to be married. These offenses

he never forgave, and concluded that since I cared so little for him, he

would not leave his friends and go up the Allegheny with me. His

services were indispensable at home, since his brother Samuel had gone

into business for himself, and the next brother William was not

seventeen, and could not take charge of the farm and mills. His mother

was ready to take me into the family,--although the house was not large

enough to accommodate us comfortably--the old shop in the yard could be

fitted up for a school-room. I could teach and he could manage the

estate.

In this change, he but followed that impulse which led the men of

England, centuries ago, to enact, that "marriage annuls all previous

contracts between the parties," and which now leads men in all civilized

countries to preserve such statutes. It is an old adage, "All is fair in

love as in war," but I thought not of general laws, and only felt a

private grievance.

By a further change of plan, I was to get religion and preach. Wesley

made the great innovation of calling women to the pulpit, and although

it had afterwards been closed to them generally, there were still women

who did preach, while all were urged to take part in public worship. My

husband had been converted after our engagement and shortly before our

marriage, and was quite zealous. He thought me wonderfully wise, and

that I might bring souls to Christ if I only would. I quoted Paul: "Let

women keep silence in churches, and learn of their husbands at home." He

replied, "Wives, obey your husbands." He laughed at the thought of my

learning from him and said: "What shall I teach you? Will you come to

the mill and let me show you how to put a log on the carriage?"

It was a very earnest discussion, and the Bible was on both sides; but I

followed the lead of my church, which taught me to be silent. He quoted

his preachers, who were in league with him, to get me to give myself to

the Lord, help them save souls, by calling on men everywhere to repent;

but I was obstinate. I would not get religion, would not preach, would

not live in the house with his mother, and stayed with my own. His

younger brothers came regularly to me for lessons with my sister, and I

added two idiotic children bound to his sister's husband, to whose

darkened minds I found the key hidden from other teachers. His brothers

I adopted from the first, in place of the one I had lost, and they

repaid my love in kind; but books soon appeared as an entering wedge

between their souls and religion, which formed the entire mental pabulum

of the family.

I believe there was not at that time a member of the Pittsburg

Conference who was a college graduate, few who had even a good, common

school education, while two of those who preached in our meetinghouse

and were frequent guests in the family, were unable to read.

My husband's father was old and feeble, and had devised his property to

his wife, to be divided at her death between her sons. My husband, as

her agent, would come into possession of the whole, and they thought I

might object to the "prophet's chamber;" but it required no worldly

motive to stimulate these fiery zealots to save a sinner from the toils

of Calvinism. It is probable many of them would have laid down his life

for his religion, and when they got on the track of a sinner, they

pursued him as eagerly as ever an English parson did a fox, but it was

to save, not to kill. In these hot pursuits, they did not stand on

ceremony, and in my case, found a subject that would not run. My kith

and kin had died at the stake, bearing testimony against popery and

prelacy; had fought on those fields where Scotchmen charged in solid

columns, singing psalms; and though I was wax at all other points, I was

granite on "The Solemn League and Covenant." With the convictions of

others I did not interfere, but when attacked would "render

a reason." My assailants denounced theological seminaries as

"preacher-factories"--informed me that "neither Dr. Black nor any of his

congregation ever had religion," and that only by getting it could any

one be saved. My husband became proud of my defense, and the boys grew

disrespectful to their religious guides. Their mother became anxious

about their souls, so the efforts for my conversion were redoubled.

From the first the preachers disapproved of my being permitted to go to

my meeting, and especially to my husband accompanying me. He refused to

go, on the ground that he had not been invited to commune, and as I sank

in the deep waters of affliction, I did so need the pulpit teachings of

my old pastor, which seemed to lift me and set my feet upon a rock. One

day I walked the seven miles and back, when the family carriage went to

take two preachers to an appointment; three horses stood in the old

stone barn, and my husband at home with his mother. This gave great

offense as the advertisement of a grievance, and was never repeated.

During all my childhood and youth, I had been spoiled by much love, if

love can spoil. I was non-resistant by nature, and on principle,

believed in the power of good. Forbearance, generosity, helpful service,

would, should, must, win my new friends to love me.

Getting me into the house with my mother-in-law, was so important a part

of the plan of salvation, that to effect it, I was left without support

or compensation for my services as teacher, tailor, dress-maker, for my

husband's family. He visited me once or twice a week, and ignored my

mother's presence, while she felt that in this, as in any church-joining

conflict, only God could help me, and stood aloof.

To me the sun was darkened, and the moon refused her light. I knew "that

jealous God" who claimed the supreme love of his creatures, was

scourging me for making an idol and bowing down before it--for loving my

husband. I knew it was all just and clung to the Almighty arm, with the

old cry, "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him." To my husband I

clung with like tenacity, and could not admit that my suffering was

through any fault of his.

The summer after my marriage, mother went for a long visit to Butler,

and left us in possession of her house. My husband bought a village

property, including a wagon-maker's shop, employed a workman and sent

him to board with me. He also made some additions to a dwelling on it,

that we might go there to live, and the workmen boarded with me, while

my mother-in-law furnished provisions and came or sent a daughter to see

that I did not waste them. Her reproofs were in the form of suggestions,

and she sought to please me by saying she had "allowed James" to get

certain things for me; but he did not visit me any oftener than when

mother was at home, and when she returned in the autumn, the potatoes

were frozen in the ground, the apples on the trees, and the cow stood

starving at the stable door.

Then I learned that I had been expected to secure the fall crops on

mother's lot, and this was not unreasonable, for I had married a

Pennsylvania farmer, and their wives and sisters and daughters did such

work often, while the "men folks" pitched horseshoes to work off their

surplus vitality. Lack of strength was no reason why a woman should fail

in her duty, for when one fell at her post, there was always another to

take her place.

Up to this time mother had left me to settle my troubles, but now, she

told me I must turn and demand justice; that generosity was more than

thrown away; that I never could live with my husband and bear his

neglect and unkindness and that of his family. I must leave him, defend

myself, or die. That I should have been expected to gather apples and

dig potatoes, filled her with indignation. She advised me to stay with

her and refuse to see him, but I shuddered to think it had come to this

in one short year, and felt that all would yet be well. So I went to

live in the house he provided for me, his mother furnished my supplies,

and he came once a week to see me.

Here let me say, that in my twenty years of married life, my conflicts

were all spiritual; that there never was a time when my husband's strong

right arm would not be tempered to infantile gentleness to tend me in

illness, or when he hesitated to throw himself between me and danger.

Over streams and other places impassible to me, he carried me, but could

not understand how so frail a thing could be so obstinate.

CHAPTER VIII.

FITTING MYSELF INTO MY SPHERE.--AGE, 22, 23.

During all my girlhood I saw no pictures, no art gallery, no studio, but

had learned to feel great contempt for my own efforts at picture-making.

A traveling artist stopped in Wilkinsburg and painted some portraits; we

visited his studio, and a new world opened to me. Up to that time

portrait painting had seemed as inaccessible as the moon--a sublimity I

no more thought of reaching than a star; but when I saw a portrait on

the easel, a palette of paints and some brushes, I was at home in a new

world, at the head of a long vista of faces which I must paint; but the

new aspiration was another secret to keep.

Bard, the wagon-maker, made me a stretcher, and with a yard of

unbleached muslin, some tacks and white lead, I made a canvas. In the

shop were white lead, lampblack, king's yellow and red lead, with oil

and turpentine. I watched Bard mix paints, and concluded I wanted brown.

Years before, I heard of brown umber, so I got umber and some brushes

and begun my husband's portrait. I hid it when he was there or I heard

any one coming, and once blistered it badly trying to dry it before the

fire, so that it was a very rough work; but it was a portrait, a daub, a

likeness, and the hand was his hand and no other. The figure was

correct, and the position in the chair, and, from the moment I began it,

I felt I had found my vocation.

What did I care for preachers and theological arguments? What matter who

sent me my bread, or whether I had any? What matter for anything, so

long as I had a canvas and some paints, with that long perspective of

faces and figures crowding up and begging to be painted. The face of

every one I knew was there, with every line and varying expression, and

in each I seemed to read the inner life in the outer form. Oh, how they

plead with me! What graceful lines and gorgeous colors floated around

me! I forgot God, and did not know it; forgot philosophy, and did not

care to remember it; but alas! I forgot to get Bard's dinner, and,

although I forgot to be hungry, I had no reason to suppose he did. He

would willingly have gone hungry, rather than give any one trouble; but

I had neglected a duty. Not only once did I do this, but again and

again, the fire went out or the bread ran over in the pans, while I

painted and dreamed.

My conscience began to trouble me. Housekeeping was "woman's sphere,"

although I had never then heard the words, for no woman had gotten out

of it, to be hounded back; but I knew my place, and scorned to leave it.

I tried to think I could paint without neglect of duty. It did not occur

to me that painting was a duty for a married woman! Had the passion

seized me before marriage, no other love could have come between me and

art; but I felt that it was too late, as my life was already devoted to

another object--housekeeping.

It was a hard struggle. I tried to compromise, but experience soon

deprived me of that hope, for to paint was to be oblivious of all other

things. In my doubt, I met one of those newspaper paragraphs with which

men are wont to pelt women into subjection: "A man does not marry an

artist, but a housekeeper." This fitted my case, and my doom was sealed.

I put away my brushes; resolutely crucified my divine gift, and while it

hung writhing on the cross, spent my best years and powers cooking

cabbage. "A servant of servants shall she be," must have been spoken of

women, not negroes.

Friends have tried to comfort me by the assurance that my life-work has

been better done by the pen, than it could have been with the pencil,

but this cannot be. I have never cared for literary fame; have avoided,

rather than sought it; have enjoyed the abuse of the press more than its

praise; have held my pen with a feeling of contempt for its feebleness,

and never could be so occupied with it as to forget a domestic duty,

while I have never visited a picture gallery, but I have bowed in deep

repentance for the betrayal of a trust.

Where are the pictures I should have given to the world? Where my record

of the wrongs and outrages of my age; of the sorrows and joys; the

trials and triumphs, that should have been written amid autumn and

sunset glories in the eloquent faces and speaking forms which have

everywhere presented themselves, begging to be interpreted? Why have I

never put on canvas one pair of those pleading eyes, in which are

garnered the woes of centuries?

Is that Christianity which has so long said to one-half of the race,

"Thou shalt not use any gift of the Creator, if it be not approved by

thy brother; and unto man, not God, thou shalt ever turn and ask, 'What

wilt thou have me to do?'"

It was not only my art-love which must be sacrificed to my duty as a

wife, but my literary tastes must go with it. "The husband is the head

of the wife." To be head, he must be superior. An uncultivated husband

could not be the superior of a cultivated wife. I knew from the first

that his education had been limited, but thought the defect would be

easily remedied as he had good abilities, but I discovered he had no

love for books. His spiritual guides derided human learning and depended

on inspiration. My knowledge stood in the way of my salvation, and I

must be that odious thing--a superior wife--or stop my progress, for to

be and appear were the same thing. I must be the mate of the man I had

chosen; and if he would not come to my level, I must go to his. So I

gave up study, and for years did not read one page in any book save the

Bible. My religions convictions I could not change, but all other

differences should disappear.

Mother moved to the city in the spring of 1838, and my health was

rapidly failing. I had rebelled against my mother-in-law, returned her

supplies, and refused to receive anything from her. This brought on a

fearful crisis, in which my husband threatened suicide; but I was firm,

and he concluded to rent the mills and take me away. This he did. His

father lived but a few months, and died on the second anniversary of our

marriage. He lies buried in the ground he donated as "God's acre," with

only this inscription at his head: "John Swisshelm, aged 86." No sign

that he was one of the world's heroes--yet, when our revolution broke

out, his parents had but two children. The oldest enlisted and was

killed, when John caught up his rifle, took his place, and kept it until

the close of the war. He spent the winter in Valley Forge, and once, in

the darkest time, discovered Washington on his knees in a lonely

thicket, praying aloud for his country. This gave him hope, when hope

was well-nigh dead, and he followed his commander across the Jerseys,

one of the two thousand who wrote in blood, from their shoeless feet,

their protest against British rule on the soil they thus consecrated to

Freedom.

CHAPTER IX.

HABITATIONS OF HORRID CRUELTY.--AGE, 23, 24.

On the 6th of June, 1838, the white frost lay on the west side of

Pittsburg roofs as we steamed away from her wharf, bound for Louisville,

where my husband proposed going into a business already established by

his brother Samuel.

On the boat, all the way down the river, the general topic of

conversation was the contrast between the desolate slave-cursed shores

of Kentucky, and the smiling plenty of the opposite bank; but Louisville

was largely settled by Northern people, and was to prove an oasis in the

desert of slavery.

It lay at the head of the Falls of the Ohio, and the general government

had lately expended large sums in building a canal around them. Henry

Clay was in the zenith of his power, slavery held possession of the

national resources, Louisville might count on favors, and she was to be

Queen City of the West. There was an aspiring little place which fancied

itself a rival, a little boat-landing, without natural advantages,

called Cincinnati, where they killed hogs; but it was quite absurd to

think of her competing with the great metropolis at the head of the

canal.

I was quite surprised to find there were a good many houses and folks in

Cincinnati; but our boat did not stop long, and we soon reached our

Eldorado. Before we effected a landing at the crowded wharf, I fell to

wondering if a Pittsburg drayman could take a Louisville dray, its load,

its three horses and ragged driver, pile them on his dray, and with his

one horse take them to their destination--and I thought he could.

Samuel met us, and as we went in a hack to the boarding place he had

engaged. I wondered what had happened that so many men were off work in

the middle of the forenoon. Who or what could they be, those fellows in

shining black broadcloth, each with a stove-pipe hat on the side of his

head, his thumbs in the armholes of a satin vest, displaying a wonderful

glimmer of gold chain and diamond stud, balancing himself first on his

heels and then on his toes, as he rolled a cigar from one side of his

mouth to the other? How did they come to be standing around on corners

and doorsteps by the hundred, like crows on a cornfield fence?

It was some time before I learned that this was the advance guard of a

great army of woman-whippers, which stretched away back to the Atlantic,

and around the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, and that they were out on

duty as a staring brigade, whose business it was to insult every woman

who ventured on the street without a male protector, by a stare so

lascivious as could not be imagined on American free soil. I learned

that they all lived, in whole or in part, by the sale of their own

children, and the labor of the mothers extorted by the lash. I came to

know one hoary-haired veteran, whose entire support came from the

natural increase and wages of nineteen women, one of whom, a girl of

eighteen, lived with him in a fashionable boarding-house, waited on him

at table, slept in his room, and of whose yearly wages one hundred and

seventy-five dollars were credited on his board bill.

I learned that none of the shapely hands displayed on the black vests,

had ever used other implement of toil than a pistol, bowie-knife or

slave-whip; that any other tool would ruin the reputation of the owner

of the taper digits; but they did not lose caste by horsewhipping the

old mammys from whose bosoms they had drawn life in infancy.

Our boarding-house was on Walnut street, one block west of the theatre,

and looked toward the river. On the opposite side of the street stood a

two-story brick house, always closed except when a negress opened and

dusted the rooms. I never saw sadness or sorrow until I saw that face;

and it did not appear except about her work, or when she emerged from a

side gate to call in two mulatto children, who sometimes came out on the

pavement.

This house belonged to a Northern "mudsill," who kept a grocery, and

owned the woman, who was the mother of five children, of whom he was the

father. The older two he had sold, one at a time, as they became

saleable or got in his way. On the sale of the first, the mother "took

on so that he was obliged to flog her almost to death before she gave

up." But he had made her understand that their children were to be sold,

at his convenience, and that he "would not have more than three little

niggers about the house at one time."

After that first lesson she had been "reasonable."

Our hostess, a Kentucky lady, used to lament the loss of two boys--"two

of the beautifulest boys!"

They were the sons of her bachelor uncle, who had had a passion for

Liza, one of his father's slaves, a tall, handsome quadroon, who

rejected his suit and was in love with Jo, a fellow slave. To punish

both, the young master had Jo tied up and lashed until he fainted, while

Liza was held so that she must witness the torture, until insensibility

came to her relief. This was done three times, when Jo was sold, and

Liza herself bound to the whipping-post, and lashed until she yielded,

and became the mother of those two beautiful boys.

"But," added her biographer, "she never smiled after Jo was sold, took

consumption and died when her youngest boy was two months old. They were

the beautifulest boys I ever laid eyes on, and uncle sot great store by

them. He couldn't bear to have them out of his sight, and always said he

would give them to me. He would have done it, I know, if he had made a

will; but he took sick sudden, raving crazy, and never got his senses

for one minute. It often took three men to hold him on the bed. He

thought he saw Jo and Liza, and died cursing and raving."

She paused to wipe away a tear, and added: "The boys were sold down

South. Maybe your way, up North, is best, after all. I never knew a

cruel master die happy. They are sure to be killed, or die dreadful!"

She had an old, rheumatic cook, Martha, who seldom left her basement

kitchen, except when she went to her Baptist meeting, but for hours and

hours she crooned heart-breaking melodies of that hope within her, of a

better and a happier world.

She had a severe attack of acute inflammation of the eyelids, which

forcibly closed her eyes, and kept them closed; then she refused to

work.

Her wages, one hundred and seventy-five dollars a year, were paid to her

owner, a woman, and these went on; so her employer sent for her owner,

and I, as an abolitionist, was summoned to the conference, that I might

learn to pity the sorrows of mistresses, and understand the

deceitfulness of slaves.

The injured owner sat in the shaded parlor, in a blue-black satin dress,

that might almost have stood upright without assistance from the flesh

or bones inside; with the dress was combined a mass of lace and jewelry

that represented a large amount of money, and the mass as it sat there,

and as I recall it, has made costly attire odious.

This bedizzoned martyr, this costumer's advertisement, sat and fanned as

she recounted her grievances. Her entire allowance for personal

expenses, was the wages of nine women, and her husband would not give

her another dollar. They, knowing her necessities, were so

ungrateful!--nobody could think how ungrateful; but in all her sorrows,

Martha was her crowning grief. She had had two husbands, and had behaved

so badly when the first was sold. Then, every time one of her thirteen

children were disposed of, she "did take on so;" nobody could imagine

"how she took on!"

Once, the gentle mistress had been compelled to send her to the

workhouse and have her whipped by the constable; and that cost fifty

cents; but really, this martyr and her husband had grown weary of

flogging Martha. One hated so to send a servant to the public

whipping-post; it looked like cruelty--did cruelty lacerate the feelings

of refined people, and it was so ungrateful in Martha, and all the rest

of them, to torture this fine lady in this rough way.

As to Martha's ingratitude, there could be no doubt; for, to this, our

hostess testified, and called me to witness, that she had sent her a cup

of tea every day since she had complained of being sick; yes, "a cup of

tea with sugar in it," and yet the old wretch had not gone to work.

When they had finished the recital of their grievances they came down to

business. The owner would remit two week's wages; after that it was the

business of the employer to pay them, and see that they were earned. If

it were necessary now to send Martha to the whipping-post, the lady in

satin would pay the fifty cents; but for any future flogging, the lady

in lawn must be responsible to the City of Louisville.

We adjourned to the kitchen where old Martha stood before her judge,

clutching the table with her hard hands, trembling in every limb, her

eyelids swollen out like puff-balls, and offensive from neglect, her

white curls making a border to her red turban, receiving her sentence

without a word. As a sheep before her shearers she was dumb, opening not

her mouth. Those wrinkled, old lips, from which I had heard few sounds,

save those of prayer and praise, were closed by a cruelty perfectly

incomprehensible in its unconscious debasement. Our hostess was a

leading member of the Fourth St. M.E. Church, the other feminine fiend a

Presbyterian.

I promised the Lord then and there, that for life, it should be my work

to bring "deliverance to the captive, and the opening of the prison to

them that are bound," but all I could do for Martha, was to give her

such medical treatment as would restore her sight and save her from the

whipping-post, and this I did.

While I lived on that dark and bloody ground, a man was beaten to death

in an open shed, on the corner of two public streets, where the sound of

the blows, the curses of his two tormentors, and his shrieks and

unavailing prayers for mercy were continued a whole forenoon, and sent

the complaining air shuddering to the ears of thousands, not one of whom

offered any help.

A brown-haired girl, Maria, the educated, refined daughter of a Kentucky

farmer, was lashed by her brutal purchaser, once, and again and again

for chastity, where hundreds who heard the blows and shrieks knew the

cause. From that house she was taken to the work-house and scourged by

the public executioner, backed by the whole force of the United States

government. Oh! God! Can this nation ever, ever be forgiven for the

blood of her innocent children?

Passing a crowded church on a Sabbath afternoon, I stepped in, when the

preacher was descanting on the power of religion, and, in illustration,

he told of two wicked young men in that state, who were drinking and

gambling on Sunday morning, when one said:

"I can lick the religion out of any nigger."

The other would bet one hundred dollars that he had a nigger out of whom

the religion could not be licked. The bet was taken and they adjourned

to a yard. This unique nigger was summoned, and proved to be a poor old

man. His master informed him he had a bet on him, and the other party

commanded him to "curse Jesus?" on pain of being flogged until he did.

The old saint dropped on his knees before his master, and plead for

mercy, saying:

"Massa! Massa! I cannot curse Jesus! Jesus die for me! He die for you,

Massa. I no curse him; I no curse Jesus!"

The master began to repent. In babyhood he had ridden on those old bowed

shoulders, then stalwart and firm, and he proposed to draw the bet, but

the other wanted sport and would win the money. Oh! the horrible details

that that preacher gave of that day's sport, of the lashings, and

faintings, and revivals, with washes of strong brine, the prayers for

mercy, and the recurring moan!

"I no curse Jesus, Massa! I no curse Jesus; Jesus die for me, Massa; I

die for Jesus?"

As the sun went down Jesus took him, and his merciful master had sold a

worthless nigger for one hundred dollars. But, the only point which the

preacher made, was that one in favor of religion. When it could so

support a nigger, what might it not do for one of the superior race?

For months I saw every day a boy who could not have been more than ten

years old, but who seemed to be eight, and who wore an iron collar with

four projections, and a hoop or bail up over his head. This had been put

on him for the crime of running away; and was kept on to prevent a

repetition of that crime. The master, who thus secured his property, was

an Elder in the Second Presbyterian church, and led the choir.

The principal Baptist preacher owned and hired out one hundred slaves;

took them himself to the public mart, and acted as auctioneer in

disposing of their services. The time at which this was done, was in the

Christmas holidays, or rather the last day of the year, when the slaves'

annual week of respite ended.

A female member of the Fourth St. Methodist church was threatened with

discipline, for nailing her cook to the fence by the ear with a

ten-penny nail. The preacher in charge witnessed the punishment from a

back window of his residence. Hundreds of others witnessed it, called by

the shrieks of the victim; and his reverence protested, on the ground

that such scenes were calculated to injure the church.

CHAPTER X.

KENTUCKY CONTEMPT FOR LABOR.--AGE, 23, 24.

To a white woman in Louisville, work was a dire disgrace, and one

Sabbath four of us sat suffering from thirst, with the pump across the

street, when I learned that for me to go for a pitcher of water, would

be so great a disgrace to the house as to demand my instant expulsion.

I grew tired doing nothing. My husband's business did not prosper, and I

went to a dressmaker and asked for work. She was a New England woman,

and after some shrewd questions, exclaimed:

"My dear child, go home to your mother! What does your husband mean?

Does he not know you would be insulted at every step if you work for a

living? Go home--go home to your mother!"

I was homesick, and the kindness of the voice and eyes made me cry. I

told her I could not leave my husband.

"Then let him support you, or send you home until he can! I have seen

too many like you go to destruction here. Go home."

I said that I could never go to destruction, but she interrupted me:

"You know nothing about it. You are a mere baby. They all thought as you

do. Go home to your mother!"

"But I never can go to destruction! No evil can befall me, for He that

keepeth Israel slumbers not nor sleeps."

She concluded to give me work, but said:

"I will send it by a servant. Don't you come here."

I never thrust my anti-slavery opinions on any one, but every Southerner

inquired concerning them, and I gave true answers. There were many

boarders in the house, and one evening when there were eighteen men in

the parlor, these questions brought on a warm discussion, when one said:

"You had better take care how you talk, or we will give you a coat of

tar and feathers."

I agreed to accept such gratuitous suit, and a Mississippi planter, who

seemed to realize the situation, said gently:

"Indeed, madam, it is not safe for you to talk as you do."

"When reminded of constitutional guarantees for freedom of speech, and

his enjoyment of it in my native State, he replied:

"There is no danger in Pennsylvania from freedom of speech, but if

people were allowed to talk as you do here, it would overthrow our

institutions."

There were mobs in the air. The mayor closed a Sunday-school, on the

ground that in it slaves were taught to read. The teacher, a New England

woman, denied the charge, and claimed that only free children had been

taught, while slaves were orally instructed to obey their masters, as

good Presbyterians, who hoped to escape the worm that never dies. Her

defense failed, but seemed to establish the right of free colored people

to a knowledge of the alphabet, but there was no school for them, and I

thought to establish one.

Jerry Wade, the Gault House barber, was a mulatto, who had bought

himself and family, and acquired considerable real estate. In the back

of one of his houses, lived his son with a wife and little daughter. We

rented the front, and mother sent me furniture. This was highly genteel,

for it gave us the appearance of owning slaves, and Olivia, young Wade's

wife, represented herself as my slave, to bring her and her child

security. As a free negro, she labored under many disadvantages, so

begged me to claim her.

In this house I started my school, and there were no lack of pupils

whose parents were able and willing to pay for their tuition, but

ruffians stood before the house and hooted at the "nigger school."

Threatening letters were sent me, and Wade was notified that his house

would be burned or sacked, if he permitted its use for such purpose. In

one day my pupils were all withdrawn.

After this, I began to make corsets. It was a joy to fit the superb

forms of Kentucky women, and my art-love found employment in it, but my

husband did not succeed, and went down the river.

A man came to see if I could give work to his half-sister, for whose

support he could not fully provide. She was a Fitzhugh,--a first

Virginia family. Her father had died, leaving a bankrupt estate. She had

learned dressmaking, and had come with him to Louisville to find work,

but she was young and beautiful, and he dare not put her into a shop,

but thought I might protect her, so she came to live with me.

One evening an old and wealthy citizen called about work I was doing for

his wife, became interested in me, as a stranger who had seen little of

Louisville, and tendered the use of his theatre-box and carriage to the

young lady and myself. I declined, with thanks. When he had taken leave,

Miss Fitzhugh sprang to her feet, and with burning cheeks and flashing

eyes, demanded to know if I knew that that man had insulted us both. I

did not know, but she did, and would tell Edward, who should cowhide him

publicly. I told her that if Edward attempted that, he would probably

lose his life, and we would certainly be dragged into a police court.

Even if we had been insulted, it only proved that the old man thought we

were like himself--that we were told in the Psalms that wicked men

thought God was like themselves, and did approve their sin, and he did

not have them cowhided. After a moment's reflection she sat down,

exclaiming:

"Well, you are the strangest woman I ever did see!"

We never again saw the man, and I hope the incident helped the honest

Edward in his loving task of protecting the fiery Fitzhugh.

My husband's trip down the river was a failure, and he went back home.

Remembering he had heard me say I could do so much better at

corset-making if I could buy goods at wholesale, he sold his Wilkinsburg

property and turned the proceeds into dry goods. To me this seemed very

unwise, but I tried to make the best of it, and we took a business house

on Fourth street. I cut and fitted dresses, and with a tape-line could

take a measure from which I could make a perfect fit without trying on.

I soon had more work than I could do, and took two new girls, but the

goods were dead stock. My Husband was out of employment, and tried to

assist in my business. He was out most of the day, and in the evening

wanted to retire early. I was busy all day, and could not go out alone

after dark, so came to be a prisoner.

One warm evening I was walking back and forth in front of our house,

though I knew it a great risk, when a man overtook me, cleared his

throat as if to speak, and passed on to the lamp-post, which had made

one limit of my walk. I did not shorten my path, and when I came up to

the post he again cleared his throat as if to speak, and next time

stepped out, lifted his hat, and remarked:

"A very pleasant evening, Miss."

I stopped, looked at him, and said:

"It is a very pleasant evening; had you not better walk on and enjoy

it?"

He bowed low, and answered:

"I beg your pardon, madam. I was mistaken."

"Pardon for what, sir? It _is_ a very pleasant evening; please to pass

on."

He did, and I walked till I was tired, thinking of all the sacrifices I

had made to be my husband's housekeeper and keep myself in woman's

sphere, and here was the outcome! I was degrading him from his position

of bread-winner. If it was my duty to keep his house, it must be his to

find me a house to keep, and this life must end. I would go with him to

the poorest cabin, but he must be the head of the matrimonial firm. He

should not be my business assistant. I would not be captain with him for

lieutenant. How to extricate myself I did not see, but extricated I

would be.

We needed a servant. A Kentucky "gentleman," full six feet three, with

broad shoulders and heavy black whiskers, came to say: "I have a woman I

can let you have! A good cook, good washah and ionah, fust rate

housekeepah! I'll let you have ah for two hundred dollahs a yeah; but

I'll tell you honest, you'll have to hosswhipah youahself about twice a

week, for that wife of youahs could nevah do anything with ah."

While he talked I looked. His suit was of the finest black broadcloth,

satin vest, a pompous display of chain, seals, studs and rings, his

beaver on the back of his head, his thumbs in the arms of his vest, and

feet spread like the Collossus of Rhodes.

This new use for Pennsylvania muscle seemed to strike my husband as

infinitely amusing, for he burst out laughing, and informed the

"gentleman" that he did not follow the profession of whipping women,

and must decline his offer. But I wanted to be back on free soil, out of

an atmosphere which killed all manhood, and furnished women-whippers as

a substitute for men.

CHAPTER XI.

REBELLION.--Age, 24.

During the late spring and early summer, my letters from home spoke

often of mother's failing health, and in July one came from her saying

her disease had been pronounced cancer, and bidding me come to her. The

same mail brought a letter from Dr. Joseph Gazzam, telling me she was

certainly on her death-bed, and adding: "Let nothing prevent your

coming to your mother at once."

I was hurt by this call. Was I such a monster that this old family

friend thought it necessary to urge me to go to my dying mother? Stunned

and stupified with grief, I packed my trunk.

My husband came in at noon, and I handed him the letters. He read them

and expressed surprise and sorrow, and I told him to hurry to the wharf

and see when the first boat started. He thought I should not go until I

heard again. It might not be so bad. Then, after reflecting, said, why

go at all, if there was no hope? Of what use could I be? If there was

hope, he would agree to my going, but as there was none, he must object.

In fact, he did not see how I could think of leaving him with those

goods on his hands. How could I be so ready to drop all and not think of

the consequences, for what could he do with that stock of dry goods. My

mother pretended to be a Christian, but would take me away from my duty.

I, too, read the Bible, but paid little heed to its teachings. He

brought that book and read all of Paul's directions to wives, but rested

his case on Ephesians, v, 22: "Wives submit yourselves unto your own

husbands as unto the Lord. For the husband is head of the wife even as

Christ is head of the church; therefore, as the church is subject unto

Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in everything."

While he continued his comments, I buried my head in pillows, saying,

"Lord what wilt thou have me to do?"

Milton epitomized Paul when he made Eve say to Adam, "Be God thy law,

thou mine;" but was that the mind and will of God? Had he transferred

his claim to the obedience of half the human family? Was every husband

God to his wife? Would wives appear in the general judgment at all, or

if they did, would they hand in a schedule of marital commands?

If the passage meant anything it meant this: One might as well try to

be, and not to be, at the same time, as own allegiance to God and the

same allegiance to man. I was either God's subject or I was not. If I

was not, I owed him no obedience. Christ as head of the church was her

absolute lawgiver, and thus saith the Lord, was all she dare demand. Was

I to obey my husband in that way? If so, I had no business with the

moral law or any other law, save his commands. Christian England had

taken this view, and enacted that a wife should not be punished for any

crime committed by command, or in presence of her husband, "because,

being altogether subject to him, she had no will of her own;" but this

position was soon abandoned, and this passage stamped as spurious. Every

Christian church had so stamped it, for all encouraged wives to join

their communion with or without the consent of their husbands. Thousands

of female martyrs had sealed their testimony with their blood, opposing

the authority of their husbands, and had been honored by the church. As

for me, I must take that passage alone for my Bible, or expunge it.

Then and there I cast it from me forever, as being no part of divine

law, and thus unconsciously took the first step in breaking through a

faith in plenary inspiration.

I next turned to the book in general for guidance: "Wives, obey your

husbands;" "Children obey your parents;" "Honor thy father and thy

mother." What a labyrinth of irreconcilable contradictions! God, in

nature, spoke with no uncertain sound, "Go home to your mother," and my

choice was made while my husband talked.

I said that if he did not see about a boat I would. When he told me that

he had a legal right to detain me, and would exercise it, I assured him

the attempt would be as dangerous as useless, for I was going to

Pittsburg.

He went out, promising to engage my passage, but staid so long that I

went to the wharf, where respectable women were not seen alone, saw a

boat with a flag out for Pittsburg, engaged a berth, and so left

Louisville.

CHAPTER XII.

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.--AGE, 24, 25.

Mother was suffering when I reached her, as I had not dreamed of. After

a consultation, Drs. Gazzam and Fahnestock thought she could not live

more than four weeks; but Spear said she might linger three months. This

blanched the cheek of each one. Three months of such unremitting pain,

steadily on the increase, was appalling; but mother faced the prospect

without a murmur, willing to bear by God's grace what He should inflict,

and to wait His good time for deliverance. I was filled with

self-reproach, for I should have been with her months before.

In a few days my mother-in-law and one of her daughters came to see how

long I proposed to stay, why I had left James with the goods, and when I

would go and take charge of them. They had had a letter from him, and he

was in great trouble. She was gentle and grave--inquired minutely about

our nursing, but thought it expensive--dwelt at length on the folly of

spending time and money in caring for the sick when recovery was

impossible. Mother could not see them, and they were offended, for they

proposed helping to take care of her, that I might return to my duty.

Some time after the visit of my mother-in-law, her son-in-law--who was a

class-leader and a man of prominence in the community--came with solemn

aspect, took my hand, sighed, and said:

"I heard you had left James with the goods." Here he sighed again,

wagged his head, and added:

"But I couldn't believe it!" and without another word turned and walked

away.

They chose to regard mother's illness as a personal grievance. "The way

of the transgressor is hard;" and she, having sinned against the saints,

must bear her iniquity, and thus suffer the just reward of her deeds.

I had frequent letters from my husband, and he was waiting on the wharf,

watching every boat for my appearance. I told him before leaving

Louisville, that I never would return--never again would try to live in

a slave State, and advised him to sell the goods at auction, and with

the money start a sawmill up the Allegheny river, and I would go to him.

This advice he resented. At length he grew tired waiting, and came for

me. It is neither possible nor necessary here to describe the trouble

which ensued, but I would not nor did not leave mother, and she at last

remembered the protection to which she was entitled by the city

government.

With all mother's courage, her moans were heartbreaking. No opiate then

known could bring one half-hour of any sleep in which they ceased, and

in her waking hours the burden of her woe found vent in a low refrain:

"My Father! is it not enough?"

Our principal care was to guard her from noise. The click of a knife or

spoon on a plate or cup in the adjoining room, sent a thrill of pain to

her nerve centres. Only two friends were gentle enough to aid Elizabeth

and me in nursing her, as she murmured, constantly: "If my husband were

only here!"

She could bear no voice in reading save Gabriel Adams' and my own. I

read to her comforting passages of Scripture, and said prayers which

carried her soul up to the throne, and fell back on mine in showers of

dust and ashes. A great black atheism had fallen on me. There was no

justice on earth, no mercy in heaven.

Her house was in Pittsburg, on Sixth street, a little cottage built for

her father and mother when they were alone. It stood back in a yard, and

rough men in passing stepped lightly--children went elsewhere with their

sports--friends tapped on the gate, and we went out to answer inquiries

and receive supplies--prayers were offered for her in churches,

societies and families. The house was a shrine consecrated by suffering

and sorrow.

The third month passed, and still she lingered. For seven weeks she took

no nourishment but half a cup of milk, two parts water, per day. Then

her appetite returned and her agony increased, but still with no lament

save: "My Father! Is it not enough?"

In the sixth month, January 17th, 1840, relief came. As I knelt for her

last words, she said: "Elizabeth?"

I replied, "She is here, dear mother, what of her?"

Summoning strength she said:

"Let no one separate you!" then looked up and said, "It is enough," and

breathed no more.

As her spirit rose, it broke the cloud, and the divine presence fell

upon me. The room, the world was full of peace. She had been caught up

out of the storm; and "he who endureth unto the end shall be saved."

By her request, I and a dear friend, Martha Campbell, prepared her body

for burial, and we wrapped her in a linen winding-sheet, as the body of

Christ was buried--no flowers, no decorations; only stern, solemn Death.

On the last day of father's life he had said to her, "Mary you are

human, and must have faults, but whatever they are I never have seen

them."

She had been his widow seventeen years, and by her desire we opened his

grave and laid her body to mingle its dust with his, who had been her

only love in the life that now is, and with whom she expected to spend

an eternity.

CHAPTER XIII.

"LABOR--SERVICE OR ACT."--AGE, 25.

Mother's will left everything to trustees, for the use of Elizabeth and

myself. She had wished my husband to join her in a suit for the recovery

of father's city property, and he refused, but signed a deed with me

conveying my interest to her. This claim she also willed to her trustees

for my use. He felt himself wronged and became angry, but had one

remedy. Being the owner of my person and services, he had a right to

wages for the time spent in nursing mother, and would file his claim

against her executors.

I do not know why I should have been so utterly overwhelmed by this

proposal to execute a law passed by Christian legislators for the

government of Christian people--a law which had never been questioned by

any nation, or state, or church, and was in full force all over the

world. Why should the discovery of its existence curdle my blood, stop

my heart-beats, and send a rush of burning shame from forehead to

finger-tip? Why should I have blushed that my husband was a law-abiding

citizen of the freest country in the world? Why blame him for acting in

harmony with the canons of every Christian church--aye, of that one of

which I was a member, and proud of its history as a bulwark of civil

liberty? Was it any fault of his that "all that she (the wife) can

acquire by her labor-service or act during coverture, belongs to her

husband?" Certainly not. Yet that law made me shrink and think of

mother's warning, given so long ago. But marriage was a life-contract,

and God required me to keep it to the end, and said, "When thou passeth

through the fire I will be with thee, and the floods shall not overflow

thee." I could not bear to have a bill sent to mother's executors for my

wages, but I could compromise, and I did.

He returned to Louisville, sold the goods, went on a trading-boat, and

joined Samuel in Little Rock. While he was there Samuel died--died a

Presbyterian, and left this message for me:

"Tell sister Jane I will meet her in heaven."

This my husband transmitted to me, and was deeply grieved and much

softened by his brother's death.

Rev. Isaiah Niblock, of Butler, Pa., a distant relative and very near

friend, asked me to take charge of the Butler Seminary and become his

guest. My salary would be twenty-five dollars a month, and this was

munificent. Elizabeth went to Pittsburg to school, and I to Butler,

where my success was complete and I very happy. Among my pupils were two

daughters of my old patron, Judge Braden. One of these, little Nannie,

was full of pleasant surprises, and "brought down the house" during

examination, by reciting a country girl's account of her presentation at

court, in which occurs this stanza:

"And there the King and I were standing

Face and face together;

I said, 'How is your Majesty?

It's mighty pleasant weather!'"

By Nannie's way of giving the lines, they were so fixed on my memory as

to be often mingled with solemn reveries in after years.

Petitions were presented in the Pennsylvania Legislature for the

abolition of capital punishment. Senator Sullivan, chairman of the

committee to which they were referred, wrote to Mr. Niblock for the

scripture view. He was ill and requested me to answer, which I did, and

Mr. Sullivan drew liberally from my arguments in his report against

granting the petitions. The report was attacked, and I defended it in

several letters published in a Butler paper--anonymously--and this was

my first appearance in print, except a short letter published by George

D. Prentiss, in the Louisville _Journal_, of which I remember nothing,

save the strangeness of seeing my thoughts in print.

CHAPTER XIV.

SWISSVALE.--AGE, 26, 27.

In April, 1842, my husband took possession of the old home in the

valley, and we went there to live. There were large possibilities in the

old house, and we soon had a pleasant residence. I had the furniture

mother left me, and a small income from her estate. The farm I named

"Swissvale," and such is the name thereof. When the Pennsylvania

railroad was built it ran through it, but not in sight of the house, and

the station was called for the homestead.

In the summer of '42 I began to write stories and rhymes, under the _nom

de plume_ of "Jennie Deans," for _The Dollar Newspaper_ and _Neal's

Saturday Gazette_, both of Philadelphia. Reece C. Fleeson published an

anti-slavery weekly in Pittsburg, _The Spirit of Liberty_, and for this

I wrote abolition articles and essays on woman's right to life, liberty,

and the pursuit of happiness. My productions were praised, and my

husband was provoked that I did not use my own name. If I were not

ashamed of my articles, why not sign them? He had not given up the idea

that I should preach. Indeed, he held me accountable for most of the

evils in the world, on the ground that I could overthrow them if I

would.

Elizabeth was married in June, and went to Ohio. In the autumn, my

husband's mother and the boys came to live with us, to which I made no

objection, for "honor thy father and mother" was spoken as much to him

as to me. Maybe I had some spiritual pride in seeing that she turned

from her converted daughters, who were wealthy and lived near, to make a

home with unregenerate me. She liked my housekeeping, and "grandmother,"

as I always called her, with her white 'kerchiefs and caps, sitting by

the fireplace plying her knitting-needles, became my special pride.

My husband had converted the Louisville goods into one panther, one

deer, two bears, and a roll of "wildcat" money. It was not very good

stock with which to begin life on a farm, but the monotony was relieved

by a hooking, kicking cow, and a horse which broke wagons to splinters.

Tom, the panther, was domiciled in the corner made by the old stone

chimney and the log wall of the house, close to the path which led to

the garden. The bears were chained in the meadow behind the house and

Billy, the deer, ranged at will. Tom and the bears ate pigs and poultry

so fast that we gave up trying to raise any, while Billy's visits to the

garden did not improve the vegetables. I tried to establish some control

over Tom, as a substitute for the fear he felt for his master, who was

not always within call, and who insisted that Tom could be tamed so as

to serve the place of a watchdog. Tom had been quite obedient for Tom,

and my terror for him had abated.

I was interested in the heathen of India, and was president of a society

which met in Pittsburg. Coming home from a meeting, I was thrown out of

a buggy and so badly hurt that I was kept in bed six weeks. When I began

to go out on crutches, I started to go to the garden, and forgot Tom

until I heard him growl. He lay flat, with his nose on his paws, his

tail on the ground straight as a ramrod, save a few inches at the tip,

which wagged slowly, his eyes green and fiery, and I not three feet from

his head, and just in reach, even if his chain held; but I had seen it

break in one of those springs which he was now preparing to make. There

was no help near! He would spring for my head and shoulders. If these

were out of his way, he could not hold me by my dress which, was a thin

muslin wrapper. He was not likely to leap until something moved, and

might lie there sometime. I had heard that a panther will not jump under

the gaze of a human eye, so I looked steadily into his, while I talked

to him.

"Tom! Tom! Down sir," and so tried to recall his knowledge of me.

Fortunately my feet were a little in advance of my crutches, and while I

looked and talked, holding my body motionless, I was planting my

crutches and throwing my weight on my well foot. I heard the girl coming

out of the house and knew the time had come. With all my strength I

swung myself backward as he made the leap. His hot breath rushed into my

face, his fiery eyes glared close to mine, but his chain was too short.

Then I knew I had no mission for taming panthers. From the first I had

feared that he would kill some child, and it was impossible to prevent

them trooping to see him. After my own narrow escape I protested so

strongly against keeping him, that my husband consented to sell him to a

menagerie; but those which came were supplied with panthers, and,

although he was a splendid specimen, full nine feet long, no sale was

found for him.

That adventure supplied memory with a picture, which for long years

breathed and never was absent. If it was not before me it was in some

corner, and I knew Tom was crouched to spring on me; his fiery eyes

glared, the tip of his tail wagged, and he was waiting, only waiting for

me to move. Often when I woke at night, he was on my bed or in a corner

of the room. He was hidden in fence corners and behind bushes on the

roadside, and Mary's little lamb was never half so faithful as my

phantom panther.

My husband could not understand the fear I felt, nor realize the danger

of keeping him. He enjoyed his own mastery over him, and with a box on

the side of the head he made Tom whine and crouch like a spaniel. I have

often wondered that in all the accounts I have ever read of lights with

wild animals, no one ever planted a good fist-blow under the ear of his

four-legged antagonist, and so stretch it out stiff to await his

leisure in disposing of it.

CHAPTER XV.

WILLOWS BY THE WATER-COURSES.--AGE, 27.

Pennsylvania customs made it unmanly for a man or boy to aid any woman,

even mother or wife, in any hard work with which farms abounded at that

time. Dairy work, candle and sausage making were done by women, and any

innovation was met with sneers. I stubbornly refused to yield altogether

to a time-honored code, which required women to perform outdoor

drudgery, often while men sat in the house, and soon had the sympathy of

our own boys; for it was often impossible to obtain any domestic help,

though Pittsburg "charitable" people supported hundreds of women in

idleness who might have had homes and wages in farmhouses.

Much of the natural beauty of Swissvale had been destroyed by pioneer

improvements, which I sought in some degree to replace. I loved the

woods, and with my little grubbing-hoe transplanted many wild and

beautiful things. This my mother-in-law did not approve, as her love for

the beautiful was satisfied by a flower border in the garden. One day

she said:

"James, I would not have that willow in that corner. The roots will get

into the race. It is the real basket willow, and if you cut it into

stubs and stick them in the swamp, you can sell enough willow to buy all

your baskets."

I replied:

"Grandmother, you forget that is my tree; I want it to drape that bare

knoll. The roots will run below the bed of the race. The boys can get

plenty of stubs at Flemming's."

She only replied by a "humph!" and next day I discovered my tree had

been sawed into pieces and planted in the swamp. Words would not restore

it, and I wasted none; but next morning rose early, and, hatchet in

hand, went to the parent tree, climbed on a fence and cut off a limb,

which I dragged home, feeling glad that anything had brought me a walk

on such a glorious morning. I planted the main stock in that corner,

then put about a hundred twigs in the swamp for basket willow. In a few

days my second tree disappeared, and I brought another, for a tree there

was indispensable, and I hoped to make my husband see as I did, and

thought I had won his consent to willows. So I went up and down the race

and runs, putting in twigs, and thinking of the "willows by the

watercourses," and Israel's lament:

"By Babel's streams we sat and wept

When Zion we thought on,

In midst thereof we hanged our harps

The willow trees upon."

I was banished from my Zion, never permitted to hear the teachings of my

old pastor, for which my soul panted as the thirsty hart for the water

brooks, and in my Babylon I wanted willows. Some of my plantings were

permitted to remain, and Swissvale is now noted for its magnificent

willows; but that main tree was chopped up and burned. In its stead I

planted a young chestnut, where it still stands, a thing of beauty and

joy to the boys.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE WATERS GROW DEEP.--AGE, 29.

The plans for my conversion seemed to be aided by our coming to the

farm, as I fitted up the "prophet's chamber" to entertain my husband's

friends in his house. There were two preachers in the circuit. The

eldest, a plain, blunt man, began on his first visit to pelt me with

problems about "man-made ministers" and Calvinism. I replied by citing

the election of Abraham, Jacob, and the entire Jewish nation, and by

quoting the 8th chapter of Romans, until he seemed to despair and came

no more, for they could not accept my hospitality while I refused their

religion. The other circuit rider was young, handsome and zealous, and

was doing a great work in converting young girls. On his first visit I

thought him rude. On his second, he inquired at table:

"Is this the place where they put onions into everything?"

I replied that we used none in tea or coffee. When I joined him and my

husband in the parlor, he waved his hand around the room to point out

its decorations and said:

"Brother James tells me that this is all your work. It is quite

wonderful, and now, sister, what a pity it is that you will not turn

your attention to religion. You seem to do everything so well."

He motioned as if to lay his hand on my shoulder. I drew back and said:

"Excuse me, sir, but I am not your sister; and as for your religion you

remind me with it of Doctor Jaynes and his hair tonic."

"How so, sister?"

"Again pardon, but I am not your sister. Doctor Jaynes uses a large part

of his column to persuade us that it is good to have good hair. No one

disputes that, and he should prove that his tonic will bring good hair.

So you talk of the importance of religion. No one disputes this, and it

is your business to prove that the nostrum you peddle is religion. I say

it is not. It is a system of will worship. Religion is obedience to

God's law. You teach people that they can, and do, obey this law

perfectly, while they do not know it. Your church has no bibles in her

pews, few in her families, and these unread. Preachers and all, not one

in twenty can repeat the ten commandments. You are blind leaders of the

blind, and must all fall into the ditch, destroyed for lack of

knowledge!"

That week he proposed to abandon the Swissvale meeting-house, and build

one in Wilkinsburg, giving as a reason the impossibility of keeping up

a congregation with me on the farm.

Next Conference sent Rev. Henderson as presiding elder, who brought in a

new era. He slept in the "prophet's chamber," admired my pretty rooms,

and said nothing about my getting religion. The circuit preacher was of

the same mind, an earnest, modest, young man, wrestling with English

grammar, who on his first visit sought my help about adverbs, while my

mother-in-law looked on in evident displeasure.

To her this was the dawn of that new day, in which the Methodist church

rivals all others in her institutions of learning. The good time of

inspiration was slipping away. What wonder that she clutched it as Jacob

did his angel? There in that house she had for long years been an oracle

to inspired men, and now to see God's Spirit displaced by Kirkham's

grammar was rank infidelity. The Wilkinsburg meeting-house was being

built, and that one which had been to her all that the temple ever was

to Solomon, would be left to the owls and bats--her Zion desolate. Those

walls, made sacred by visions of glory and shouts of triumph, would

crumble to ruin in the clinging silence. How could she but think that

the influence was evil which could bring such result?

The new building was consecrated with much ceremony. The two Hendersons

staid with, us, and on Sabbath morning consulted me as to the best way

of taking up subscriptions. Mother-in-law looked on till she could bear

it no longer, and said:

"Brother Henderson, if you mean to be in time for love feast, you must

not stay fooling there."

Both men sprang to their feet, hurried away and never returned.

General Conference at its session in Baltimore, in 1840, passed the

"Black Gag" law, which forbade colored members of the church to give

testimony in church-trials against white members, in any state where

they were forbidden to testily in courts. Four members of the Pittsburg

Conference voted for it, and when my husband returned from the

dedication, I learned that three of them had figured prominently in the

exercises, and he had refused to commune on account of their

ministrations.

Everything went smoothly for ten days, when my husband came to our room,

where I sat writing, threw himself on the bed and poured out such a

torrent of accusations as I had not dreamed possible, and of which I

refrain from giving any adequate description. I looked up and saw that

he was livid with rage. His words appeared the ravings of a mad man, yet

there was method in them, and no crime in the calendar with which they

did not charge me. Butter money was not accounted for, pickles and

preserves missing, things about the house were going to destruction, the

country was full of falsehoods and I had told them all. It was all a

blur of sound and fury, but in it stood out these words:

"You ruined Samuel, and now you are trying to ruin the boys and those

two fool preachers. People know it, too, and I am ashamed to show my

face for the talk."

When he seemed to have finished, I asked:

"How long since you learned my real character?"

This spurred him to new wrath, and he exclaimed:

"There now, that's the next of it. You will go and tell that I've abused

you. It's not me. I never suspected your honesty, but my mother, yes, my

poor old mother. I would not care, if you could only behave yourself

before my mother!"

I sat leaning my elbows on my table with my head in my hands, and the

words "ruined Samuel" became a refrain. I thought of the danger out of

which I had plucked him while in Louisville, of the force with which I

had grappled him with hooks of steel, as he hung on the outer edge of

that precipice of dissipation, while I clung to the Almighty Arm for

help. I thought of the tears and solemnity with which this man had given

to me the dying message of that rescued brother. Earth seemed to be

passing away, and to leave no standing room. I was teaching school in

the abandoned meeting-house. It was noon recess and I must hurry or be

late. I passed into the hall and out of the house, with the thought "I

cross his threshold now for the last time;" but I must remain near and

finish my school, when I would be present to meet those monstrous

charges before the world. My reveries did not interfere with my school

duties, and when they were over I sat in the old meeting-house or walked

its one aisle, with the quiet dead lying all around me, thinking of that

good fight which I should fight, ere I finished my course, and lay down

to rest as they did. But the sun went down, the long twilight drew on

the coming night, and I was homeless. Where should I go?

I thought of the Burkhammers, whose little son lay among the dead beside

me. I had tended him in his last illness and prepared his body for

burial. They were German tenants of Judge Wilkins and to reach their

house I must pass through the dark valley over which now lay a new pall.

There were lights in the house as I passed, and Tom rattled his chain

and gave forth one of those shrieks which pierced the air for a mile. I

was glad to know that he was not loose, and that it was only my phantom

which crouched in every available place, ready to spring. The bears

bellowed a response to his shriek, but I did not hasten. The stream, so

loud and angry on that night of my first entrance into this vale of

tears, was now low, and sang a lullaby of angelic music as I crossed it

on stepping stones. On the hillside it was almost as dark as that night

when Father Olever stopped and felt for the bank with his whip.

The Burkhammers asked no questions, and I went to sleep without giving

any account of my strange visit, but about midnight I awoke myself and

the whole family by my sobs. They gathered around my bed, and I must

tell. What I said I do not know, but the old man interrupted me with:

"Oh tamm Jim. You stay here mit us. My old woman und me, we has blenty.

We dakes care of you. Nopody never said nodding bad about you. Everypody

likes you, caus you is bleasant mit everypody."

As he talked he drew his sleeve across his eyes, while his wife and

daughter comforted me. I would board there and finish my school, then go

to Butler and take the seminary, or a place in the common school.

I saw no one as I passed my late home next morning. In school the first

exercise was bible, reading verse about with the pupils. The xxv (25)

chapter of Matthew came in order, and while reading its account of the

final judgment, I saw as by a revelation why this trouble had been sent

to me, and a great flood of light seemed thrown across my path before

me.

Christ's little ones were sick and in prison, and I had not visited

them! Old Martha, standing before her judges, rose up to upbraid me! I

was to have followed the Lamb, and had been making butter to add to an

estate larger now than the owner could use. No wonder she thought I

stole the money. I, who had failed to rebuke man-stealing, might steal

anything. That meeting-house which I had been helping to build by

entertaining its builders and aiding them about subscriptions, it and

they were a part of a great man-thieving machine. I had been false to

every principle of justice; had been decorating parlors when I should

have been tearing down prisons! _I_, helping Black Gagites build a

church!

"When thou a thief didst see

Thou join'st with him in sin."'

Thinking, reaching out for the path to that bastile which I must attack,

I went on with my school duties until my husband walked in and asked why

I had not been at home. I was worn with intense strain, and at the word

home, burst into a passion of tears. I told the pupils to take their

books, and leave, there would be no more school, and I could hear them

go around on tip-toe and whisper. Twice a pair of little arms were

thrown around me, and the sound of the retreating footsteps died away

when my husband laid his hand all trembling on my head. I threw it off

and begged him to go away, his presence would kill me. He would not go,

and I went out into the woods. He followed, and said he had never

charged me with an evil thought, much less an action, was the most

loving of husbands and the most injured in that I had thought he had

found fault with me. He might have spoken a hasty word, but was it right

to lay it up against him? I still begged him to leave--that I should

die if he did not. He went, and I crossed the fields to the house of

Thomas Dickson, thinking that from it I could get to the city by the

river road and fly any where.

Mrs. Dickson made me go to bed, as I was able to go no where else, and

here my husband's brother-in-law found me. He had come as peace-maker,

and could not think what it all meant; some angry words of James about

his mother, who would now go back to live with him. The Dicksons joined

him with entreaties. If my husband had injured me, he was very, very

sorry, was quite overwhelmed with grief for the pain he had cost me.

Then they brought down the lever of scripture and conscience: "If thy

brother offend thee seventy times seven," and I yielded.

My husband came and I went home with him that evening, expecting that my

mother-in-law was installed in her new home on the hill; but she met and

kissed me at the door, and I did not care. Nothing could add to the

shudder of going into the house, and she seemed so grieved and

frightened that my heart was touched, and I was sorry for her that we

had ever met.

CHAPTER XVII.

MY NAME APPEARS IN PRINT.--AGE, 29.

It was the third morning after my return, that my head would not leave

the pillow. Dr. Carothers came and blistered me from head to feet, and

for three weeks I saw no one but my attendants and my phantom panther.

He never left me. There was one corner of the room in which he stayed

most, and sometimes there was not room for his tail to wag, and then he

moved forward where I could not see his head. This troubled me, for then

I could not hold him with my eyes. At night they were two balls of green

fire; but they had always been, only when I was well I could turn my

head away, now I could not move it. I knew most of the time it was a

shadow from my brain, but was glad to hear Tom's chain rattle and feel

sure it was not his very self.

They nursed me carefully, and I lay thinking of the "little ones sick

and in prison." Old Martha came and plead with me. I saw Liza and Maria

under the lash for the crime of chastity, and myself the accomplice of

their brutal masters. I pictured one of them a member of the M.E.

Church, appealing to that church for redress and spurned under the

"Black Gag," and I? why I had been helping men who voted for it to build

a meeting-house! What was Peter's denial compared to mine?

The case arranged itself in my mind. I had writing materials brought,

and there, with my head fast on the pillow, I wrote a hexameter rhyme

half a column long, arraigning by name those Black Gag preachers,

painting the scene, and holding them responsible. I signed my initials,

and sent it to Mr. Fleeson, with a note telling him to give my name if

it was inquired for.

Our "Spirit" did not come that week; but soon my husband came to my room

with a copy of "The Pittsburg Gazette," in which was an editorial and

letter full of pious horror and denunciation of that article, and

giving my name as the author; so that we knew Mr. Fleeson had published

the name in full. This was my first appearance in print over my own

signature, and while I was shocked, my husband was delighted, even

though he knew a libel suit was threatened. I soon went to Pittsburg,

saw William Elder and John A. Wills, the only anti-slavery lawyers in

the city. They said the article was actionable, for it had brought those

men into contempt. Elder added: "They are badly hurt, or they would not

cry out so loud."

Both tendered their gratuitous services for my defense. In a civil suit

we could prove the truth of the charge, and they could get nothing, for

my husband owned no property--everything belonged to his mother--and my

trustees could not be held for my misdeeds. Their action would doubtless

be criminal, and I would probably be imprisoned. I went home and wrote a

reply to the _Gazette_, which it refused to publish, but it appeared in

the _Spirit_. I reiterated, urged and intensified my charges against

these false priests, until they were dumb about their injuries and libel

suit, but of that original article I never could get a copy. Every one

had been sold and resold, and read to rags, before I knew it was in

print.

I continued to write for the "Spirit," but still there did not seem to

be anything I could do for the slave. As soon as I was able to be about

the house, I fell into my old round of drudgery, but with hope and pride

shut out of it. Once my burden pressed so that I could not sleep, and

rose at early dawn, and sat looking over the meadow, seeing nothing but

a dense, white fog. I leaned back, closed my eyes and thought how like

it was to my own life. When I looked again, oh, the vision of glory

which, met my sight!

The rising sun had sent, through an opening in the woods, a shaft of

light, which centred on a hickory tree that stood alone in the meadow,

and was then in the perfection of its golden autumn glory. It dripped

with moisture, blazed and shimmered. The high lights were diamond

tipped, and between them and the deepest shadow was every tint of orange

and yellow, mingled and blended in those inimitable lines of natural

foliage. Over it, through it, and around it, rolled the white fog, in

great masses, caressing the earth and hanging from the zenith, like the

veil of the temple of the Most High. All around lay the dark woods,

framing in the vision like serried ranks encompassing a throne, to which

great clouds rolled, then lifted and scudded away, like couriers coming

for orders and hastening to obey them.

John's New Jerusalem never was so grand! No square corners and

forbidding walls. The gates were not made of several solid pearls, but

of millions of pearletts, strung on threads of love, offering no

barriers through which any soul might not pass. My Patmos had been

visited and I could dwell in it, work and wait; but I would live in it,

not lie in a tomb, and once more I took hold of life.

I organized a society at which we read, had refreshments and

danced--yea, broke church rules and practiced promiscuous dancing minus

promiscuous kissing. Of course this was wicked. I roamed the woods,

brought wild flowers and planted them, set out berry bushes, and

collected a large variety of roses and lilies.

CHAPTER XVIII.

MEXICAN WAR.--AGE, 30-32.

James G. Birney was the presidential candidate of the "Liberty Party" in

1844, as he had been in '40. During the campaign I wrote under my

initials for _The Spirit of Liberty_, and exposing the weak part of an

argument soon came to be my recognized forte. For using my initials I

had two reasons--my dislike and dread of publicity and the fear of

embarrassing the Liberty Party with the sex question. Abolitionists were

men of sharp angles. Organizing them was like binding crooked sticks in

a bundle, and one of the questions which divided them was the right of

women to take any prominent part in public affairs.

In that campaign, the great Whig argument against the election of Polk

was, that it would bring on a war with Mexico for the extension of

slavery, and when the war came, Whigs and Liberty Party men vied with

each other in their cry of "Our Country, right or wrong!" and rushed

into the army over every barrier set up by their late arguments. The

nation was seized by a military madness, and in the furore, the cause of

the slave went to the wall, and _The Spirit of Liberty_ was

discontinued. Its predecessor, _The Christian Witness_, had failed under

the successive management of William Burleigh, Dr. Elder, and Rev.

Edward Smith, three giants in those days, and there seemed no hope that

any anti-slavery paper could be supported in Pittsburg, while all

anti-slavery matter was carefully excluded from both religious and

secular press. It was a dark day for the slave, and it was difficult to

see hope for a brighter. To me, it seemed that all was lost, unless some

one were especially called to speak that truth, which alone could make

the people free, but certainly I could not be the messenger.

For years there had ran through my head the words, "Open thy mouth for

the dumb, plead the cause of the poor and needy." The streams sang them,

the winds shrieked them, and now a trumpet sounded them, but the words

could not mean more than talking in private. I would not, could not,

believe they meant more, for the Bible in which I read them bid me be

silent. My husband wanted me to lecture as did Abbey Kelley, but I

thought this would surely be wrong. The church had silenced me so

effectuately, that even now all my sense of the great need of words

could not induce me to attempt it; but if I could "plead the cause"

through the press, I must write. Even this was dreadful, as I must use

my own name, for my articles would certainly be libelous. If I wrote at

all, I must throw myself headlong into the great political maelstrom,

and would of course be swallowed up like a fishing-boat in the great

Norway horror which decorated our school geographies; for no woman had

ever done such a thing, and I could never again hold up my head under

the burden of shame and disgrace which would be heaped upon me. But what

matter? I had no children to dishonor; all save one who had ever loved

me were dead, and she no longer needed me, and if the Lord wanted some

one to throw into that gulf, no one could be better spared than I.

_The Pittsburg Commercial Journal_ was the leading Whig paper of western

Pennsylvania, Robert M. Riddle, its editor and proprietor. His mother

was a member of our church, and I thought somewhere in his veins must

stir anti-slavery blood. So I wrote a letter to the _Journal_, which

appeared with an editorial disclaimer, "but the fair writer should have

a hearing." This letter was followed by another, and they continued to

appear once or twice a week during several months.

I do not remember whom I attacked first, but from first to last my

articles were as direct and personal as Nathan's reproof to David. Of

slavery in the abstract I knew nothing. There was no abstraction in

tying Martha to a whipping-post and scourging her for mourning the loss

of her children. The old Kentucky saint who bore the torture of lash and

brine all that bright Sabbath day, rather than "curse Jesus," knew

nothing of the abstraction of slavery, or the finespun theories of

politeness which covered the most revolting crimes with pretty words.

This great nation was engaged in the pusillanimous work of beating poor

little Mexico--a giant whipping a cripple. Every man who went to the

war, or induced others to go, I held as the principal in the whole list

of crimes of which slavery was the synonym. Each one seemed to stand

before me, his innermost soul laid bare, and his idiosyncrasy I was sure

to strike with sarcasm, ridicule solemn denunciations, old truths from

Bible and history and the opinions of good men. I had a reckless

abandon, for had I not thrown myself into the breach to die there, and

would I not sell my life at its full value?

My style I caught from my crude, rural surroundings, and was familiar to

the unlearned, and I was not surprised to find the letters eagerly read.

The _Journal_ announced them the day before publication, the newsboys

cried them, and papers called attention to them, some by daring to

indorse, but more by abusing Mr. Riddle for publishing such unpatriotic

and "incendiary rant." In quoting the strong points, a venal press was

constrained to "scatter the living coals of truth." The name was held to

be a _nom de plume_, for in print it looked so unlike the common

pronunciation of that of one of the oldest families in the county that

it was not recognized. Moreover, it must be a disguise adopted by some

man. Wiseacres, said one of the county judges. No western Pennsylvania

woman had ever broken out of woman's sphere. All lived in the very

centre of that sacred enclosure, making fires by which, husbands,

brothers and sons sat reading the news; each one knowing that she had a

soul, because the preacher who made his bread and butter by saving it

had been careful to inform her of its existence as preliminary to her

knowledge of the indispensable nature of his services.

But the men whom I ridiculed and attacked knew the hand which, held the

mirror up to nature, and also knew they had a legal remedy, and that to

their fines and imprisonment I was as indifferent as to their opinions.

One of these, Hon. Gabriel Adams, had taken me by the hand at father's

funeral, led me to a stranger and introduced me as:

"The child I told you of, but eight years old, her father's nurse and

comforter."

He had smoothed my hair and told me not to cry; God would bless me for

being a good child. He was a member of the session when I joined church;

his voice in prayer had soothed mother's hard journey through the dark

valley; and now, as mayor of the city, had ordered its illumination in

honor of the battle of Buena Vista, and this, too, on Saturday evening,

when the unholy glorification extended into the Sabbath. Measured by the

standards of his profession as an elder in the church, whose highest

judicatory had pronounced slavery and Christianity incompatible; no one

was more valuable than he, and of none was I so unsparing, yet as I

wrote, the letter was blistered with tears; but his oft repeated comment

was:

"Jane is right," and he went out of his way to take my hand and say,

"You were right."

Samuel Black, a son of my pastor, dropped his place as leader of the

Pittsburg bar and rushed to the war. My comments were thought severe,

even for me, yet the first intimation I had that I had not been cast

aside as a monster, came from his sister, who sent me a message that her

father, her husband and herself, approved my criticism. Samuel returned

with a colonel's commission, and one day I was about to pass him without

recognition, where he stood on the pavement talking to two other

lawyers, when he stepped before me and held out his hand. I drew back,

and he said: "Is it possible you will not take my hand?"

I looked at it, then into his manly, handsome face, and answered:

"There is blood on it; the blood of women and children slain at their

own altars, on their own hearthstones, that you might spread the

glorious American institution of woman-whipping and baby-stealing."

"Oh," he exclaimed, "This is too bad! I swear to you I never killed a

woman or a child."

"Then you did not fight in Mexico, did not help to bombard Buena Vista."

His friends joined him, and insisted that I did the Colonel great wrong,

when he looked squarely into my face and, holding out his hand, said:

"For sake of the old church, for sake of the old man, for sake of the

old times, give me your hand."

I laid it in his, and hurried away, unable to speak, for he was the most

eloquent man in Pennsylvania. He fell at last at the head of his

regiment, while fighting in the battle of Fair Oaks, for that freedom he

had betrayed in Mexico.

When Kossuth was on his starring tour in this country, he used to create

wild enthusiasm by "Your own late glorious struggle with Mexico;" but

when he reached that climax in his Pittsburg speech a dead silence fell

upon the vast, cheering audience.

The social ostracism I had expected when I stepped into the political

arena, proved to be Bunyan lions. Instead of shame there came such a

crop of glory that I thought of pulling down my barns and building

greater, that I might have where to store my new goods. Among the press

notices copied by the _Journal_ was this:

"The _Pittsburg Commercial Journal_ has a new contributor who signs her

name 'Jane G. Swisshelm,' dips her pen in liquid gold, and sands her

paper with the down from butterflies' wings."

This troubled me, because it seemed as though I had been working for

praise; still the pretty compliment gratified me.

CHAPTER XIX.

TRAINING SCHOOL.

Paul fought with beasts at Ephesus, as a part of his training for that

"good fight" with principalities and powers and iniquity in high places,

and I think that Tom and the bears helped to prepare me for a long

conflict with the southern tiger. I had early come to think that Tom

would kill some of the children who trooped to see him, and that I

should be responsible as I alone saw the danger. This danger I sought to

avert, but how to dispose of the beautiful creature I could not

conjecture. There was usually a loaded gun in the house, but I was

almost as much afraid of it as of Tom. All our neighbors were delighted

with him and loath to have him killed. I had once tried to poison a cat

but failed, and I would not torture Tom. I wanted Dr. Palmer to give me

a dose for him, but he declined. I tried in vain to get some one to

shoot him. Then I thought of striking the great beast on the head with a

hatchet, while he had hold of some domestic animal. The plan seemed

feasible, but I kept my own council and my hatchet, and practiced with

it until I could hit a mark, and thought I could bury the sharp blade

in Tom's skull.

One day, all the men were in the meadow making hay, and I alone getting

dinner. John McKelvey came with his great dog, Watch. He went up into

the meadow, and Watch staid in the kitchen. I started to go to the

garden for parsley, and found Tom crouched to spring on a cow. He made

the leap, came short of the cow, which ran away bellowing with terror,

and Tom had but touched the ground when Watch sprang upon him. It was a

sight for an amphitheatre. The two great creatures rolled in a struggle,

which I knew must be fatal to Watch, but thought he could engage Tom's

attention until I got my hatchet. I ran back for it, took the

dinner-horn and blew a blast that would bring one man, and I did not

want a thousand. Then I ran back to the scene of conflict, horn in one

hand, hatchet in the other, and lo! no conflict was there. No Tom! no

dog! nothing but the torn and bloody ground. Horror of horrors, there

was a broken chain! Tom loose! Tom free! Now some one would be murdered.

I turned to look, and there on a log not a rod from me, he stood with

head erect and tail drooping, his white throat, jaws and broken chain

dripping with blood, and with my first thankfulness that he had not

escaped, came admiration for the splendid sight: the bold, sweeping

curves and graceful motion as he turned his head to listen. Then I

learned panthers went by sound, not scent. I blew another blast on the

horn and went toward him, for I must not lose sight of him. If he

attacked me, could I defend myself with the hatchet? When they found me

I would be horrible to look upon, and it would kill Elizabeth. Will my

peas burn? The flies will get into that pitcher of cream. If I am

killed, they will forget to put parsley in the soup. Tom changed his

weight from one fore-claw to the other, and gnashed his teeth. "Here,

the king and I are standing face and face together; King Tom, how is

your majesty, it's mighty pleasant weather."

So ran my thoughts in the intense strain of that waiting. It must be

full ten minutes before Tom's master could get to the house after that

first blast, and if he did not hear that, must be too late; but Tom kept

his place and my husband rushed by me, carrying the pitchfork with which

he had been at work, and I saw no more until Tom was in his cage. Watch

had dragged himself to his master's feet to die, and I went into the

house and finished getting dinner, more than ever afraid of Tom and more

than ever at a loss to know how to get rid of him. Yet he still lived

and rattled his chain by the garden path, but it was a year before our

next adventure.

One summer morning at sunrise I was shocked out of sleep by shrieks and

shouts and scurrying feet. I sprang out of bed and rushed into the hall

in time to see Tom dash out of it into the dining-room, mother-in-law

and the girl disappearing up stairs and the two hired men through the

barn door. My husband soon followed Tom, who had taken refuge under a

large heavy falling-leaf table, and seemed inclined to stay there. This

time his collar was broken and feeling the advantage he paid no heed to

the hand or voice of his quandom master. He would not move, but growled

defiance, and the table protected him from a blow under the ear, so his

late master became utterly nonplussed. If the cage were there, the great

beast would probably go into it, but how get it there? The wealth of

India would not have induced one of those men to come out of that barn,

or one of those women to come down those stairs.

Something must be done, and I proposed to hold Tom while my husband

brought the cage. He hesitated. I was not in good fighting trim, for my

hair which was long and heavy had fallen loose, but preparation could

avail nothing. The only hope lay in perfect coolness and a steady gaze.

I knelt and took hold of Tom by the back of the neck, talked to him and

thought that cage was long in coming. He shifted his weight and seemed

about to get up. This meant escape, and I held him hard, commanding him

to "lie down, sir." He blinked at me, seemed quite indifferent and

altogether comfortable. By and by, the man who had ceased to be master

returned without the cage, utterly demoralized; and was here without a

weapon, without a plan. I resigned my place and told him I would bring a

rope. This I intended to do, and also my hatchet.

I had but gotten half way to the front door when there was a scuffle,

the loud voice of my husband, shrieks up stairs, rattling of furniture

and crashing of glass, and when I got back to the room I saw the tip of

Tom's tail disappearing. He had gone through the window and taken the

sash with him. He ran into his cage, and that was his last taste of

liberty; but he lived a year after, chained in a corn crib. Every

evening in the gloaming he would pace back and forth, raise his kingly

head, utter his piercing shriek, then stop and hark for a response; walk

again, shriek and listen, while the bears would bellow an answer.

The bears, too, were often exciting and interesting. Once I rescued a

toddling child when running towards "big bear," and not more than two

feet from where he stood waiting with hungry eyes. At another time, they

both broke loose, on a bitter cold day when I was alone in the house. I

defended myself with fire, meeting them at every door and window with a

hickory brand. I wondered as they went round and round the house, if

they would stop in the chimney corner, and make the acquaintance of Tom;

but they took no notice of him, and after they had eaten several buckets

of porridge, they concluded there was nothing in the house they wanted,

so became good natured and went and climbed a tree.

Such schoolmasters must have imparted a flavor of savagery to my Mexican

war letters, which attracted readers as they did visitors.

CHAPTER XX.

RIGHTS OF MARRIED WOMEN.

After mother's death, I prosecuted to a successful issue a suit for the

recovery of the house in which I was born. It stood on Water street,

near Market, and our lawyer, Walter Lowrie, afterwards supreme judge,

was to have given us possession of the property on the 1st of July,

1845, which would add eight hundred dollars a year to the income of my

sister and myself. But on the 10th of April, the great fire swept away

the building and left a lot bearing ground rent. Property rose and we

had a good offer for the lease. Every one was willing to sell, but the

purchasers concluded that both our husbands must sign the deed. To this

no objection was made, and we met, in William Shinn's office, when my

husband refused to sign unless my share of the purchase money were paid

to him.

Mother's will was sacred to me. The money he proposed to put in

improvements on the Swissvale mills. These, in case of his death before

his mother, would go to his brothers. I had not even a dower right in

the estate, and already the proceeds of my labor and income from my

separate estate were put upon it. I refused to give him the money, and

on my way alone from the lawyer's office it occurred to me that all the

advances made by humanity had been through the pressure of injustice,

and that the screws had been turned on me that I might do something to

right the great wrong which forbade a married woman to own property. So,

instead of spending my strength quarreling with the hand, I would strike

for the heart of that great tyranny.

I borrowed books from Judge Wilkins, took legal advice from Colonel

Black, studied the laws under which I lived, and began a series of

letters in the _Journal_ on the subject of a married woman's right to

hold property. I said nothing of my own affairs and confined myself to

general principles, until a man in East Liberty furnished me an

illustration, and with it I made the cheeks of men burn with anger and

shame.

The case was that of a young German merchant who married the daughter of

a wealthy farmer. Her father gave her a handsome outfit in clothes and

furniture. She became ill soon after marriage, her sister took her place

as housekeeper and nursed her till she died, after bequeathing the

clothes and furniture to the sister; but the sorrowing husband held fast

to the property and proposed to turn it into money. The father wanted it

as souvenirs of his lost child, and tried to purchase of him, but the

husband raised the price until purchase was impossible, when he

advertised the goods for sale at vendue. The father was an old citizen,

highly respected, and so great contempt and indignation was felt, that

at the vendue no one would bid against him, so the husband's father came

forward and ran up the price of the articles. When her riding dress, hat

and whip were held up, there was a general cry of shame. The incident

came just in time for my purpose, so I turned every man's scorn against

himself, said to them:

"Gentlemen, these are your laws! Your English ancestors made them! Your

fathers brought them across the water and planted them here, where they

flourish like a green bay tree. You robbed that wife of her right to

devise her own property--that husband is simply your agent."

Lucretia Mott and Mary A. Grew, of Philadelphia, labored assiduously for

the same object, and in the session of '47 and '48, the legislature of

Pennsylvania secured to married women the right to hold property.

Soon after the passage of the bill, William A. Stokes said to me: "We

hold you responsible for that law, and I tell you now, you will live to

rue the day when you opened such a Pandora's box in your native state,

and cast such an apple of discord into every family in it."

His standing as a lawyer entitled his opinion to respect, and as he went

on to explain the impossibility of reconciling that statute with, the

general tenor of law and precedent, I was gravely apprehensive. The

public mind was not prepared for so great a change; there had been no

general demand for it; lawyers did not know what to do with it, and

judges shook their heads. Indeed, there was so much doubt and opposition

that I feared a repeal, until some months after Col. Kane came to me and

said:

"There is a young lawyer from Steubenville named Stanton who would like

to be introduced to you."

I was in a gracious mood and consented to receive the young lawyer named

Stanton. As he came into the room and advanced toward me, immediately I

felt myself in the presence of a master mind, of a soul born to command.

When introduced he gravely took my hand, and said:

"I called to congratulate you upon the passage of your bill. It is a

change I have long desired to see."

We sat and talked on the subject some time, and my fears vanished into

thin air. If this man had taken that law into favor it would surely

stand, and as he predicted be "improved and enlarged." I have never been

so forcibly impressed by any stranger. His compactness of body and soul,

the clear outlines of face and figure, the terseness of his sentences,

and firmness yet tenderness of his voice, were most striking; and as he

passed down the long room after taking leave my thought was:

"Mr. Stanton you have started for some definite point in life, some high

goal, and you will reach it."

This was prophetic, for he walked into the War Department of this nation

at a time when it is probable no other man in it, could have done the

work there which freedom demanded in her hour of peril, for this young

man was none other than Edwin M. Stanton, the Ajax of the great

Rebellion.

CHAPTER XI.

THE PITTSBURG SATURDAY VISITER.

After the war, abolitionists began to gather their scattered forces and

wanted a Liberty Party organ. To meet this want, Charles P. Shiras

started the _Albatross_ in the fall of '47. He was the "Iron City Poet,"

author of "Dimes and Dollars" and "Owe no Man a Dollar." He was of an

old and influential family, had considerable private fortune, was

courted and flattered, but laid himself and gifts on the altar of

Liberty. His paper was devoted to the cause of the slave and of the free

laborer, and started with bright prospects. He and Mr. Fleeson urged me

to become a regular contributor, but Mr. Riddle objected, and the

_Journal_ had five hundred readers for every one the _Albatross_ could

hope. In the one I reached the ninety and nine unconverted, while in the

other I must talk principally to those who were rooted and grounded in

the faith. So I continued my connection with the _Journal_ until I met

James McMasters, a prominent abolitionist, who said sorrowfully: "Well,

the last number of the _Albatross_ will be issued on Thursday."

"Is it possible?"

"Possible and true! That is the end of its first quarter, and Shiras

gives it up. In fact we all do. No use trying to support an abolition

paper here."

While he spoke a thought struck me like a lightning flash, and he had

but finished speaking, when I replied:

"I have a great notion to start a paper myself."

He was surprised, but caught at the idea, and said:

"I wish you would. You can make it go if anybody can, and we'll do all

we can to help you."

I did not wait to reply, but hurried after my husband, who had passed

on, soon overtook and told him the fate of the _Albatross_. For this he

was sorry, for he always voted a straight abolition ticket. I repeated

to him what I had said to Mr. McMasters, when he said:

"Nonsense!" then reflected a little, and added, "Well, I do not know

after all but it would be a good idea. Riddle makes lots of money out of

your letters."

When we had talked about five minutes, he turned to attend to business

and I went to the _Journal_ office. I found Mr. Riddle in his sanctum,

and told him the _Albatross_ was dead; the Liberty Party without an

organ, and that I was going to start the _Pittsburg Saturday Visitor;_

the first copy must be issued Saturday week, so that abolitionists would

not have time to be discouraged, and that I wanted him to print my

paper.

He had pushed his chair back from his desk, and sat regarding me in

utter amazement while I stated the case, then said:

"What do you mean? Are you insane? What does your husband say?"

I said my husband approved, the matter was all arranged, I would use my

own estate, and if I lost it, it was nobody's affair.

He begged me to take time to think, to send my husband to him, to

consult my friends. Told me my project was ruinous, that I would lose

every dollar I put into it, and begged, entreated me to take time; but

all to no purpose, when a bright idea came to him.

"You would have to furnish a desk for yourself, you see there is but one

in this room, and there is no other place for you. You could not conduct

a paper and stay at home, but must spend a good deal of time here!"

Then I suddenly saw the appalling prospect thus politely presented. I

had never heard of any woman save Mary Kingston working in an office.

Her father, a prominent lawyer, had employed her as his clerk, when his

office was in their dwelling, and the situation was remarkable and very

painful; and here was I, looking not more than twenty, proposing to come

into the office of the handsome stranger who sat bending over his desk

that he might not see me blush for the unwomanly intent.

Mr. Riddle was esteemed one of the most elegant and polished gentlemen

in the city, with fine physique and fascinating manners. He was a man of

the world, and his prominence had caused his name to become the target

for many an evil report in the bitter personal conflicts of political

life. I looked the facts squarely in the face and thought:

"I have been publicly asserting the right of woman to earn a living as

book-keepers, clerks, sales-women, and now shall I shrink for fear of a

danger any one must meet in doing as I advised? This is my Red Sea. It

can be no more terrible than the one which confronted Israel. Duty lies

on the other side, and I am going over! 'Speak unto the children of

Israel that they go forward.' The crimson waves of scandal, the white

foam of gossip, shall part before me and heap themselves up as walls on

either hand."

So rapidly did this reflection pass through my mind, or so absorbed was

I with it, that there had been no awkward pause when I replied:

"I will get a desk, shall be sorry to be in your way, but there is

plenty of room and I can be quiet."

He seemed greatly relieved, and said cheerfully:

"Oh yes, there is plenty of room, I can have my desk moved forward and

take down the shutters, when there will be plenty of light. Heretofore

you have been Jove thundering from a cloud, but if you will come down to

dwell with mortals we must make a place for you."

Taking down the shutters meant exposing the whole interior of the room

to view, from a very public street; and after he had exhausted every

plea for time to get ready, he engaged to have the first copy of the

_Visiter_ printed on the day I had set. He objected to my way of

spelling the word, but finding I had Johnson for authority, would

arrange the heading to suit. I was in a state of exaltation all

forenoon, and when I met my husband at dinner, the reaction had set in,

and I proposed to countermand the order, when he said emphatically:

"You will do no such thing. The campaign is coming, you have said you

will start a paper, and now if you do not, I will."

The coming advent was announced, but I had no arrangements for securing

either advertisements or subscribers. Josiah King, now proprietor of the

_Pittsburg Gazette_ and James H. McClelland called at the _Journal_

office and subscribed, and with these two supporters, the _Pittsburg

Saturday Visiter_, entered life. The mechanical difficulty of getting

out the first number proved to be so great that the forms were not on

the press at 3 P.M. By five the streets were so blocked by a waiting

crowd, that vehicles went around by other ways, and it was six o'clock,

Jan. 20th, 1848, when the first copy was sold at the counter. I was in

the editorial room all afternoon, correcting proof to the last moment,

and when there was nothing more I could do, was detained by the crowd

around the doors until it was after eleven.

Editors and reporters were gathered in the sanctum, and Mr. Riddle stood

by his desk pointing out errors to some one who should have prevented

them, when I had my wraps on ready to start. Mr. Fleeson, then a clerk

on the _Journal_, stepped out, hat in hand, and bowing to the

proprietor, said:

"Mr. Riddle, it is your privilege to see Mrs. Swisshelm to her lodgings,

but as you seem to decline, I hope you will commission me."

Mr. Fleeson was a small man and Mr. Riddle had drawn himself to his full

height and stood looking down at him, saying:

"I want it distinctly understood that Mrs. Swisshelm's relations in this

office are purely those of business. If she requires anything of any man

in it, she will command him and her orders shall be obeyed. She has not

ordered my attendance, but has kept her servant here all the evening to

see her to her friend's house, and this should be sufficient notice to

any gentleman that she does not want him."

During the ten years we used the same editorial-room. Mr. Riddle was

often absent on the days I must be there, and always secured plenty of

light by setting away the shutters when I entered. He generally made it

necessary for me to go to his house and settle accounts, and never found

it convenient to offer his escort to any place unless accompanied by his

wife.

The _Visiter_ was three years old when he turned one day, examined me

critically, and exclaimed:

"Why do you wear those hideous caps? You seem to have good hair. Mrs.

Riddle says she knows you have, and she and some ladies were wondering

only yesterday, why you do make yourself such a fright."

The offending cap was a net scarf tied under the chin, and I said, "You

know I am subject to quinsy, and this cap protects my tonsils."

He turned away with a sigh, and did not suspect that my tonsils had no

such protection outside the office, where I must meet a great many

gentlemen and make it apparent that what I wanted of them was votes!

votes!! Votes for the women sold on the auction block, scourged for

chastity, robbed of their children, and that admiration was no part of

my object.

Any attempt to aid business by any feminine attraction was to my mind

revolting in the extreme, and certain to bring final defeat. In nothing

has the church of Rome shown more wisdom than in the costume of her

female missionaries. When a woman starts out in the world on a mission,

secular or religious, she should leave her feminine charms at home. Had

I made capital of my prettiness, I should have closed the doors of

public employment to women for many a year, by the very means which now

makes them weak, underpaid competitors in the great workshop of the

world.

One day Mr. Riddle said:

"I wish you had been here yesterday. Robert Watson called. He wanted to

congratulate us on the relations we have for so long maintained. We have

never spoken of it, but you must have known the risk of coming here. He

has seen it, says he has watched you closely, and you are an exception

to all known law, or the harbinger of a new era in human progress."

Robert Watson was a retired lawyer of large wealth, who watched the

world from his study, and philosophized about its doings; and when Mr.

Riddle had given me this conclusion, the subject was never again

referred to in our years of bargaining, buying and selling, paying and

receipting.