1897
All that was long ago. It is nearing the end of the century, and the
little girl who thought it a great thing to see the half-century mark,
bids fair to shake hands with the new one. There have been many changes,
there have been sorrows and deaths, and such exquisite satisfying
happiness that she could say with the poet,--
"Let come what come may
I shall have had my day."
She is in the older generation now, and a grandmother. You may see her
in Central Park, or some of the surburban places, a fair, sweet small
personage, with a face more nearly beautiful than in her girlhood. Her
hair has that shining silvery tint, her complexion is clear and fine,
and her eyes, though they have wept bitter tears, still look out gladly,
serenely, on life.
In the carriage will be her twin granddaughters, and sometimes a young
man, her son. They are pretty children, and will be "summer girls" when
their time comes, and "winter girls" as well, clad in cloth and velvet
and furs. They will dance Germans instead of the bewildering Spanish
dance she had that first night with her lover. Even children have
changed in half a century. Beauty is no longer considered a delusion and
a snare. Physical culture gives strength and grace and growth.
The lover of her youth and the husband of her love, and her first-born
daughter, who was wedded, and who with her husband faced a railroad
tragedy and were its victims, have gone into that "goodly land and
large." It seems to many of us as we grow older that there is only a
thin wall between this and the other country where we shall see them
again. Sometimes she can almost fancy them leaning over the jasper
walls, like the Blessed Damosel, and smiling down on her. There are so
many of them now! And the children were given to her. They are spoiled,
all the aunts and cousins declare. But grandmamma lives another youth
over in them,--a delightful life, rich in love and interest.
For conditions have changed. The world, and all that therein is, has
changed. It is Greater New York now, and it stretches out everywhere.
What was Brooklyn, and Williamsburg, and many a pretty town up above the
city, have all been merged into one grand metropolis. What it will do in
the next fifty years passes conjecture.
As they drive around nothing interests them more than to have grandmamma
talk of what it was like when she was a little girl. They find the
places, and look at them through her eyes. There is no longer any
Bowling-Green, only in name, and though part of the Battery is left, the
elevated roads go winding about among the tree-tops; Castle Garden,
after many vicissitudes and debasements, is again a place of interest
and entertainment. Here was where she heard that sweet and wonderful
Jenny Lind, who, with Parepa Rosa, and many another divine voice, is
singing up in the New Jerusalem. And though hundreds in the glare of
light and blaze of diamonds listen to Patti, she wonders if the
enthusiasm is as deep and sincere.
Over opposite where modest Brooklyn lived its simple, friendly life
fifty years ago, stretching out into country ways and green fields,
there are miles of houses, and the great bridge is such an everyday
affair one hardly gives it a second thought. And all is business now,
with tall buildings that the glance can hardly reach. There is no City
Hall Park, but a great space of flagging, though the fountain remains.
Business crowds hurry to and fro where ladies used to sit and chat while
the young people strolled about.
Stewart's old marble building is common-place and dingy. Delmonico has
gone on up-town stride by stride, and people have forgotten the old
balcony where Jenny Lind sang, and Koenig played to a street packed with
people. And the Prince de Joinville was here; also Louis Napoleon, the
nephew of his uncle, who followed his steps as Emperor and loser of
crown and all, and exile. And the young Prince Imperial, whose birth, so
long desired and celebrated with state as was that of the young King of
Rome, met with as melancholy a fate and early death as the Duc de
Reichstadt. And here the young Prince of Wales dined. He came down
Broadway with his suite and procession, and the little wife thought it a
fine sight as she stood there to see.
Broadway stretches on and on. Union Square is really a thoroughfare; but
she came up here with father and the boys when it was a grand new thing.
Did she really live in First Street with Aunt Daisy for a playmate, and
Auntie Reed, and Nora, who was a much admired singer in her day, and who
married a Roman Count; and the little Tudie who died? Did she have that
splendid Christmas and the beautiful wax doll, that seems sacredly alive
to them both; only under some spell of enchantment laid upon her by
Merlin's clan?
Oh, how full the streets are now with their great high tenement-houses,
pouring out their myriads of children all day long, of every
nationality! But you still hear the old plays, "Open the Gates," and
"Scotland's Burning," and "Uncle John is very Sick," and "Ring around a
Rosy." Little Sally Waters still sits in the sun,--
"Crying and sighing for a young man,"
though modern poesy advises her to--
"Rise, Sally, rise,
Wipe your eyes out with your frock."
And the strange Chinatown, with its cabalistic signs, its men in blue
shirts and pigtails, and often snowy white stockings and queer pointed
slippers!
They wind slowly about Central Park. Was the Crystal Palace here? And no
park? To them it seems as if New York must have been born this way, with
electric lights, and push-buttons, and telephones, and cars, and
telegraphs, and everything. And did grandmamma come up here to the Fair;
and was it anything like the Museum of Art? And wasn't there any
menagerie, or playground, or donkey-riding or bicyclers?
Here is Washington Arch, with its memory of a great anniversary. Over on
the west side there is a curious spot fenced in with wooden palings,
where Alexander Hamilton planted thirteen trees for the Union, when
there were only thirteen States, and named them all. Even before his sad
death, South Carolina was braced to keep her from growing crooked; but
she went awry in spite of it all. They have moved the house in which he
lived, across the street, to save it from destruction; and it is in the
shadow of a church. And here is the old mansion where Aaron Burr lived a
brief while with Madame Jumel for his wedded wife,--a beautiful old
place on a hill.
They go on up to the grand Washington Bridge. They are very fond of the
story of Anthony Woolf swimming across the Harlem that dark night to get
away from the Hessian regiment, and begging shelter of kindly hearts.
They turn into a shaded road, and pass by lovely grounds, where wealth
has made gardens and terraces akin to those of Paradise. And winding
down the old road leading to the vale, they find a little dark-eyed girl
whose great-great-grandfather was this same Anthony Woolf. And the
Revolutionary War was a century and a quarter ago! Here they have lived
for generations. The Cousin Jennie has gone, but the tall bright-eyed
man who married her is still hale and hearty, with snowy hair and beard.
Yes, it is all New York up to Kingsbridge. There are many historic
spots, and several old manor houses still standing. But it has a city
aspect in spite of some wildness. They go around to Fordham; the old
house perched on the hill is there, though it has been enlarged, and the
street widened and straightened. Up on the old porch grandmamma sat and
read; and it still hangs out with a tempting aspect, just as when she
watched the pedestrians and the reverend fathers, who yet go up and
down. And here is the little old Poe Cottage, about which such a flavor
of romance lingers, though the place has been modernised into a
"Terrace," and built about with city pretentiousness. It is still the
same little low place, not a bit changed since she sat there on the
door-sill and talked over her heroes with the poet. She can still see
the tall spare figure of Mrs. Clemm in her rocking-chair doing her bit
of mending and casting anxious glances at the son of her love, about
whom so much has been written in later days. People still quote the
"Raven" and "Ullalume," but all she cares to remember is "Annabel Lee,"
and the weird stories are not to her taste.
The old Odell house at West Farms was swept away long ago; Janey is a
grandmother on a big farm that is crowded with summer boarders. Polly
is in Oregon, her sons coming up with the country. And up a short
distance, Jerome Park used to be thronged by the beauty and fashion of
the city on racing days. And that has gone, too.
A little to the eastward is the beautiful Bronx Park, that is going to
tread closely on its down-town rival. Oh, is Central Park really
down-town? There are woods and wilds, ravines and the leisurely stream,
trees that have been brought from everywhere, walks and drives, hills
clothed with verdure, and the old Lorillard mansion still grand, with
its legend of love and tragedy. Its gardens have changed indeed.
Grandmamma remembers the small old man, who used to gather his rose
leaves day by day from the fragrant beds,--Lorillard's rose-snuff was a
great thing two generations ago.
"Did they really take snuff?" asks Ethel, in disgust. "How queer!"
"And you know," says Rose, "that Uncle Herman told us of a man who
declined to take snuff, because if nature had intended his nose for a
dust-pan, she would have put it the other side up."
How they both laugh at that!
They have a governess friend at home, but they are continually picking
up knowledge in their rides and rambles about. They know the old city
that was afraid to stray above Union Square, they know the modern city
with its fifty years of improvements, and they will grow up to womanhood
in Greater New York, the Star City of the Continent.
Here in one of the pleasant streets overlooking the park, they live.
They are not rich; no one is now who doesn't go up in the millions.
There is a pretty house looking like a hotel, an apartment house,--very
moderate since it only accommodates three families. Joseph, the eldest
son, who should have been a doctor, but is a fine architect, is married,
and with his wife and two babies, and a dear friend who is an artist,
has one side, and the other is grandmamma's. It is quite like a house by
themselves, only there is a beautiful square hall, and a handsome
stairway one could hardly have space for in a small house. Herman, the
second son, lives with them, and is a scientist, and wields the pen of a
ready writer. He has no taste for the toil and moil of money-getting,--a
refined, studious, thoughtful young man.
They have all had their share of happiness. Dolly and Stephen are really
old people, and have a flock of grandchildren. Hanny can see her own
father again in Stephen, and Dolly, since she has grown stout and
white-haired, suggests her mother. Stephen's sons are promising young
business-men. There is only one little grave marking their prosperous
pathway,--a baby girl, who went so soon they have hardly missed her.
Margaret is still handsome and aristocratic. Dr. Hoffman long ago gave
up practice, his property interests increased so rapidly. Their sons and
daughters are of the higher society order, intellectual, fine and noble,
and a power in the land. One daughter has married an Englishman of
rank, the other is the wife of a Bishop. Margaret is serene and
satisfied, and still very fond of her little sister.
Dear Doctor Joe lectures mostly, and attends to hospital surgery, still
keeping his tender sympathy for suffering humanity. After Grandmother
Van Kortlandt went away, he brought Daisy Jasper home, to help fill the
vacant spaces. And presently, when Mrs. Jasper was left alone, she came,
too, the house being so large. Two mothers-in-law, according to the
rules of family lore, ought to have quarrelled and sulked, but they
didn't. And the babies that came were a source of delight. Though there
was suffering in Daisy's life, there was so much joy that, to her, it
was the unalloyed delight of living.
And Jim outgrew his fancy, and had many another one that did not strike
deep enough in the soil to lead him to ask a woman to marry him. But he
and Daisy were fast friends, and he saw that no one could ever have
cared for her as well and wisely as dear Doctor Joe, with his wonderful
tenderness.
Jim, brilliant and gay and witty, was a fine, fluent speaker, studying
such eloquent models as Webster and Choate, and the vanished Clay. Did
Hanny remember, when they had lost his election, and he, Jim, had turned
out with the Democratic boys? There are grave questions now, on wider
than party lines, and sometimes the hearts of thoughtful statesmen beat
with an undefined fear.
The fun-loving, dancing side of his nature often asserts itself. Women
adore him. Though he is not rich, the mothers smile on him for the
"promise yet to be." Even Lily Williamson tries her arts; admiration is
what she lives for now. She is one of the handsome, fascinating society
vampires, who make great capital out of matrimonial infelicities, to
appeal to the sympathies of really good and generous men, who are the
more easily caught in the silken nets. One day she leaves her worthless
drunken husband, when his money is all spent, and elopes with a young
fellow of excellent family who has just come into a fortune, and later
becomes one of the adventuresses that disgrace Americans in the eyes of
European propriety.
Ben and Delia go abroad,--Ben in the interest of his paper, which is
next to his wife; Delia to write travel letters for a weekly, and find
material for her novel. It is quite a picnic, and they enjoy the
economies.
Then the clouds that have been gathering a long, long while, break over
the country, and all is tumult from end to end. The Seventh Regiment
"boys" go down to Washington, with brave, laughing, high-hearted Jim,
who understands that it is no child's play, but a bitter struggle that
will call forth the best energies of the country, and who enlists for
"three years or the whole war." Ben hurries home, and takes his place in
the ranks. When things are at their lowest ebb, and men's hearts are
sinking with fear, quiet, grave John buckles on a soldier's haversack
and marches away. The others have substitutes.
Ah, what times they were! It is well that flowers can spring up on a
battlefield. The little girl keeps track of her heroes. Kearny, who has
seen Magenta and Solferino, meets his fate at Chantilly. Many another
one who has come up to fame, many new ones, who are on the march to win
or die.
John is wounded, patched up in a hospital, and honorably discharged,
lamed for life. But he has done good work. Ben has a slight mishap, and
Delia sends her two babies and their nurse to her sister's, and goes to
the hospital, and remains. Women of brains and kindly impulses are much
needed.
And one night some wounded are brought in. There has been a fateful
reconnoisance, but it has saved the regiment from destruction on the
next day. This limp figure in a captain's uniform is laid tenderly on a
cot; but the surgeon, after a brief examination, shakes his head. Oh,
surely, she knows that handsome face with the clustering dark curls!
He opens his eyes, and after an instant says in a faint voice, "Oh,
Dele, is that you?" then lapses into insensibility. There is nothing to
be done; that is the cruelest of all. Once again, after a long while, he
moves his head, and opens his eyes again, brave and clear even in death.
"Delia," in a strange, strong voice that surprises her, "kiss them all
good-night for me;" and James Odell Underhill has gone to the land of
everlasting morning.
The war ends; and Ben comes home none the worse. He has reached his
ambition, and is a "newspaper man" in every sense of the word. Delia
sets up housekeeping, takes home the babies, and in the course of time
adds two more to them.
But there is another ferment, and women are coming to the fore. There
are clubs and suffrage meetings, lectures; women have even invaded
churches, and preach; and colleges for higher education are springing up
everywhere. There are poets and philosophers, there are teachers and
orators; some of them ill-judged, because they are fond of notoriety;
but there are always some wry sheep in the best of flocks. Have men
always been honest and wise and honourable and grand?
Delia lectures and writes, and is one of the able women of the day. Mrs.
Hoffman on her serene heights _is_ mortified. Mother Underhill is sure
Ben has to go to a restaurant, that his stockings are never mended, his
buttons always off. But patent buttons are invented, and collar-buttons
that cannot be ironed off by the "washerwoman," supply a long-felt want.
Ben is stout and comfortable-looking, and the same grave, affectionate
fellow. The children seem to come up without much sickness or trouble.
When Mother Underhill feels disposed to cavil and criticise, for she
_is_ shocked by the new woman's heresies, she recalls the "last
good-night kiss," and is silent. What if there had been no one at hand
to bring it home?
Delia's girls grow up into "modern women." It is true they do not spend
half a day a week darning stockings, neither have they learned to put
the exquisite over and under darns in tablecloths that the little girl
could do by the time she was ten. But they sing and play; they are ready
speech-makers, and clubs are glad to get them. They know about Greek
antiquities and Central American wonders; they can take up the questions
of the day intelligently; one paints really very well, and has entered
pictures at the Academy. One is interested in industrial schools for
girls, and the doctor, who is "Daisy Jasper," a tall, bright,
good-looking woman, has a big, tender heart for all babies who are
suffering, and trains many a poor mother how to care judiciously for her
offspring.
But all the nieces think Aunt Nan just the loveliest and sweetest body
in the world. They send her flowers and bric-a-brac; they beg her to
come here and there to receptions and charity bazaars, and reunions of
all sorts. She is so small and dainty, and they are all growing up to
the new stature.
George has come home at last, after varying fortunes. He has seen San
Francisco built and destroyed by fire, and rebuilt, and at last planned
into a handsome city. He has mined and been in the wild life known only
to the few remaining "forty-niners." He has gained and lost, been burned
out and robbed, been one of the heads of a Vigilance Committee, and
mayor of a town; and at last, when all is serene and prosperous, a great
wave of homesickness overtakes him.
It is twenty years since he went away, though he has been home once in
the time. He is spare, and has a weather-beaten look, and is old for his
years. Is the money worth all the sacrifice?
He will build a house on their part of the old farm at Yonkers, where
his heart has turned in many a weary hour; but Uncle Faid and Aunt Crete
are dead. Barton Finch and Retty are living in town, and Barton is a
thriving manufacturer. Yonkers has stretched out; and the suburbs are in
that ugly transition state of new unworked streets and dingy cottages,
for property has been cut up and lots sold cheaply. Father Underhill is
offered a great price for his, and sells it. It is no longer George's
ideal home.
Mrs. Eustis begs him to come up to Tarrytown. All the other Morgans are
gone, and she is left alone. The place shall belong to George if he will
give her a home her few remaining years.
He will not listen to this, but buys it, and builds on a new part. Then
he marries a nice girl whose youth is past, and who is delighted with
her kindly, indulgent husband. They have no children; but the nieces and
nephews flock hither for rest and recreation, and are always fascinated
with Uncle George's adventures.
Delia is at middle life when she writes her book, but then it is no
young girl's story with an imperious Rochester-like hero, that we used
to shiver over and adore. It is a serious, inspiriting woman's book, and
carries weight in spite of the flood of new literature.
Charles Reed has followed a manly, pure, and high-minded Christian
course, and left an impress on the hurrying world. Josie has grown
broader and more intelligent, and made a delightful household mother.
There have been children enough to satisfy Grandmamma Reed.
These old friends meet now and then, and talk as people will when they
begin to go down the decline on the other side of the hill that they
climbed with such a light step and high heart. How simple life was then
compared with the ramifications of to-day!
The old songs, the old poets, the old novelists are gone. "Jane Eyre" no
longer holds us spell-bound, though the three sisters in the bleak old
Haworth Rectory will never be forgotten; nor that strange "Rosemary,"
and Huntingdon's "Lady Alice," thought to be so unsettling to the faith.
We read "Robert Elsmere," and "John Ward, Preacher," and go our way
tranquilly. Education has become almost a synonym for genius.
The gold of the Pacific Coast, the oil wells, the rich spoils of the
earth, have been touched with the wand of industry and science.
Railroads run to and fro; vessels dot the ocean; we cross it now in less
than a week. Cables bring us hour-old news from everywhere. We go abroad
for seasons and touch elbows with royalty, and are not abashed. We
gather the beauty and wisdom of the old world. We build palaces, and
spend on an evening's entertainment what would have been a fortune fifty
years ago. We have private palace-cars, and luxurious yachts for
pleasure, and others for speed, so swift that the "America's Cup" has
remained in our keeping all these years.
Will we presently utter the old cry of the wise man who "gat him
everything," "that all is vanity"?
When the children are asleep the little grandmother goes down to her
son's study. He is not ambitious for show or wealth, but he has a rather
luxurious side. The rugs are soft; the chairs are easy, the library is
filled with choice books. Sometimes she sits and reads, and brave old
Thackeray is one of her favourites. It is as her lover said,--it takes
years and experience to see all the tender, hidden mysteries of his best
speech.
Then she puts aside her book, and he his work, and they talk. "What your
father said" and "your father thought this way," always has a charm for
him, and he misses his father more than any one can imagine. He knows
about the trip to Germany, and the visit to grandfather, with Paris at
its highest estate and the beautiful Empress Eugenie. And London with
its Queen, who has reigned sixty years, and who, like his mother, has
made part of the pilgrimage with a great sorrow buried in her heart.
Some day he is going over it all; but he will not see the handsome,
golden-haired empress, who is but a pale, sorrowful ghost, and perhaps
not the Queen. He would go to-morrow, if he could take the little
mother.
They talk, too, of the future. There have been fifty magical years when
you look back,--years of discovery, of perfection in art and invention,
of nations making rapid strides, of Africa illumined by explorers, of
Japan coming to the front when hardly fifty years have elapsed since she
first opened her gates to strangers.
And of the great City that has gathered the little towns of children who
went out from her again in her arms,--will she be beautiful and grand
and wise, and a power among men and cities? She has gathered heroes,
living and dead, in her bosom, and for the greatest of all reared a
marble temple. Oh, what will she be in fifty more years?
"You may live to see it," the little mother says, and smiles.
For herself there is the other country, and the loves she holds most
dear. And because they go, when the worst sorrow is spent, one knows
they will be found again, and that immortality is no myth, but the crown
and seal of God's love to human love.
THE END
* * * * *
The "Little Girl" Series
By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
In Handsome Cloth Binding
A Little Girl in Old New York
A Little Girl of Long Ago A sequel to "A Little Girl in Old New York"
A Little Girl in Old Boston
A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia
A Little Girl in Old Washington
A Little Girl in Old New Orleans
A Little Girl in Old Detroit
A Little Girl in Old St Louis
A little Girl in Old Chicago
A Little Girl in Old San Francisco
A Little Girl in Old Quebec
A Little Girl in Old Baltimore
A Little Girl in Old Salem
A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52, 58 Duane Street New York
End of Project Gutenberg's A Little Girl of Long Ago, by Amanda Millie Douglas