THE STORY OF A SUMMER;

OR, JOURNAL LEAVES FROM CHAPPAQUA

BY

CECILIA CLEVELAND. 

NEW YORK:

G. W. Carleton & Co. , Publishers. 

LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. 

M. DCCC. LXXIV. 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by

G. W. CARLETON & CO. , In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 

To

MY DEAR COUSINS, IDA AND GABRIELLE, THIS

STORY OF A SUMMER

IS AFFECTIONATELY

Dedicated. 

This little volume is in no sense a work of the imagination, but asimple record of a pleasant summer's residence at Chappaqua, embracingmany facts and incidents heretofore unpublished, relating to one whoonce occupied a large portion of the public mind. Believing that itmay interest many who care to know more of that portion of his busylife which was not seen by the public, but which pertained to his homecircle, the author has been persuaded to print what was written merelyfor the amusement of herself and friends. 

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER I. 

Return to Chappaqua--A Walk over the Grounds--The Side-hill House--OurFirst Sunday at Chappaqua--Drive to Mount Kisco--A Country Church--ADame Châtelaine--Our Domestic Surroundings

CHAPTER II. 

Arrival of the Piano--Routine of a Day--Morning Toilettes--TheDining-room--Pictures--Ida and Gabrielle--How occupied--The EveningMail--Musical Evening

CHAPTER III. 

An Unexpected Visit--Morning Drives--Gabrielle's Ponies--A RepulsiveObject--A Visitor--The King of Sweden's Soup--Advantages of a RoyalKitchen--Startling Experience--Ida's Letters--Strange Contents--A LuckyStone--Request for a Melodeon--Offers of Marriage--Arrival of aSuitor--Reasons why he should marry Ida Greeley--He proves aLunatic--He is taken before a Magistrate--He is lodged in the CountyJail

CHAPTER IV. 

A Visit from Papa--A Musical Squirrel--Letters--Croquet--Extracts fromLetters--Visitors--The Loss of the _Missouri_--The True Story of Ida'sEngagement

CHAPTER V. 

Sunday in the Country--Proximity of a Meeting-house--How we pass ourSundays--The House in the Woods--Ida's Glen--Mrs. Greeley's FavoriteSpring--The Children's Play-house--Gabrielle's Pets--Travelling in1836--New York Society--Mr. Greeley's Friday Evenings--Mrs. Greeley asa Bride--Her Accomplishments--A Letter concerning Mr. Greeley's Wedding

CHAPTER VI. 

Visitors--Our Neighbors--The Chappaqua Croquet Club--Gabrielle'sLetter--A Riding Party--Summer Heat--The Music-room--Friends from theCity

CHAPTER VII. 

Midsummer Day--An Artist's Visit--Ida's Letter--Moonlight on CrotonLake--Morning Readings--Plato and Kohlrausch

CHAPTER VIII. 

Story-telling--Mr. Greeley's Father--His Personal Appearance--HisEducation--A Fine Voice--Mr. Greeley's Mother--A Handsome Woman--Howshe is remembered in Vermont--Field Labor--Bankruptcy--A Journey toVermont--School Days--The Boy Horace--How he entertained hisPlaymates--His First Ball--Separation from his Family

CHAPTER IX. 

A Picnic at Croton Dam--The Waterworks--A Game of TwentyQuestions--Gabrielle as a Logician--Evangeline'sBetrothal--Marguerite's Letter--Description ofChappaqua--Visitors--Edmonia Lewis

CHAPTER X. 

Cataloguing the Library--A Thousand Volumes--Contrasting Books--SomeRare Volumes--Mr. Greeley's Collection of Paintings--Authenticity ofthe Cenci Questioned--A Portrait of Galileo--Portrait of MartinLuther--Portrait of Mr. Greeley at Thirty--Powers' Proserpine--Hart'sBust of Mr. Greeley--Mosaics and Medallions

CHAPTER XI. 

The Fourth of July--A Quaker Celebration--The House in the Woods--Mrs. Greeley's Life there--Pickie--Mary Inez--Raffie--Childhood of Ida andGabrielle--Heroism of Mrs. Greeley--The Riots of 1863--Mrs. Greeleydefends her House against the Mob

CHAPTER XII. 

Pen Portraits--Lela--Majoli--Guerrabella and Celina--TheirCharacteristics

CHAPTER XIII. 

Biography of Mr. Greeley--Gabrielle's Questions--Mrs. Cleveland'sCorrections--The Boy Horace not Gawky, Clownish, or a Tow-head--HisParents not in Abject Want--Mr. Greeley's Letter about his FormerPlaymates--Young Horace and his Girl Friends--He Corrects their Grammarand Lectures them upon Hygiene--He disapproves of Corsets

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Morning Mail--A Letter to Mrs. Cleveland--Strange Contents--Ida'sLetter Bag--Appeals for Money, for Clothing, and for her Hand--AnOriginal Letter from a Trapper

CHAPTER XV. 

Life in the Woods of Pennsylvania--Journey from Vermont to Pennsylvaniain 1826--Travelling on Canal-boats--Incidents by the Way--Home in theWilderness--Aggressions of Bears and Wolves

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Birthday--A Surprise--The Day celebrated by a Dinner--An AwkwardMistake--A Queen of Fashion--A Drive to Tarrytown--A Poem to Ida

CHAPTER XVII. 

Gabrielle and her Embroidery--Life in Pennsylvaniacontinued--Sugar-making--Horrible Incident--A Woman devoured byWolves--A Domestic Picture--Evening Readings--The Library of Mr. Greeley's Father--Mr. Greeley's Mother intellectually considered--HerEducation--Mr. Greeley's Eldest Sister--She teaches School at the Ageof Twelve

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Visitors--A Sunday Drive--Croton Lake by Daylight--A Sail--A SuddenSquall--Anxiety about our Fate--Miraculous Escape fromDrowning--Arrival of a Pretty Cousin--A Child Poetess

CHAPTER XIX. 

Mr. Greeley visits his Family in Pennsylvania--He expounds Mathematicsand Philosophy to his Brother and Sisters--Fishing and BeeHunting--Forest Fires--A Subsequent Visit--He returns as Editor of the_New Yorker_--He writes the 'Faded Stars'--Characteristics of Mr. Greeley's Brother--His Children--Mr. Greeley's Younger Sisters--TheirEducation

CHAPTER XX. 

A Quiet Household--Absence of Marguerite and Gabrielle--Amusing Lettersfrom them--A Gypsy Fortune-teller--Marguerite returns with aVisitor--The Harvest Moon--Preparing for Company--Arranging the BlueRoom--Intense Anticipation--"'He Cometh Not, ' She Said"

CHAPTER XXI. 

The Story of Mr. Greeley's Parents continued--He accompanies his Motherto New Hampshire--Her Sisters--Three Thanksgivings in One Year--Pickieas a Baby--His Childhood--Mrs. Greeley's Careful Training--HisPlaythings--His Death--A Letter from Margaret Fuller

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Friends' Seminary--The Principal ChappaquaResidences--Reminiscences of Paris during the War--An AccomplishedLady--Her Voice--Festivities--A Drive to Rye Lake--Making Tea on theBeach--A Sail at Sunset--Fortune-telling by Firelight--The DriveHome--Sunday Morning--A Row on the Pond--Dramatic Representations inthe Barn--A Drive to Lake Wampus--Starlight Row

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Marriage of a Cousin--A Pretty Bride--Letters--Home Circle Complete--ALetter of Adventures--Wedding Cards--A Musical Marriage--Housekeepingunder Difficulties--Telegraphic Blunders--A Bust of Mr. Greeley--MoreVisitors

CHAPTER XXIV. 

"All that's Bright must Fade"--Departures--Preparing the House for theWinter--Page's Portrait of Pickie--Packing up--Studious Habits of theDomestics--The Cook and her Admirers--Adieu to Chappaqua

ILLUSTRATIONS

The Side-Hill House

The Spring

The Rail-Road Station

The House in the Woods

The Children's Play House

The Stone Barn

THE STORY OF A SUMMER;

OR, JOURNAL LEAVES FROM CHAPPAQUA. 

CHAPTER I. 

Return to Chappaqua--A Walk over the Grounds--The Sidehill House--OurFirst Sunday at Chappaqua--Drive to Mount Kisco--A Country Church--ADame Châtelaine--Our Domestic Surroundings. 

CHAPPAQUA, WESTCHESTER Co. , _New York_, May 28, 1873

Again at dear Chappaqua, after an absence of seven months. I have notthe heart to journalize tonight, everything seems so sad and strange. What a year this has been--what bright anticipations, what overwhelmingsorrow!

_May 30_. 

I have just returned from a long ramble over the dear old place; firstup to the new house so picturesquely placed upon a hill, and downthrough the woods to the cool pine grove and the flower-garden. Here Ifound a wilderness of purple and white lilacs, longing, I thought, fora friendly hand to gather them before they faded; dear littlebright-eyed pansies, and scarlet and crimson flowering shrubs, asouvenir of travel in England, with sweet-scented violets striped blueand white, transplanted from Pickie's little garden at Turtle Bay longyears ago. 

[Illustration: The Side-Hill House. ]

Returning, I again climbed the hill, and unlocked the doors of the newhouse; that house built expressly for Aunt Mary's comfort, but whichhas never yet been occupied. Every convenience of the architect's artis to be found in this house, from the immense, airy bedroom, with itsseven windows, intended for Aunt Mary, to _a porte cochère_ to protecther against the inclemency of the weather upon returning from a drive. But this house, in the building of which she took so keen an interest, she was not destined to inhabit, although with that buoyancy of mindand tenacity to life that characterized her during her long years ofweary illness, she contemplated being carried into it during the earlydays of last October, and even ordered fires to be lighted to carry offthe dampness before she tried her new room. By much persuasion, however, she was induced to postpone her removal from day to day; andfinally, as she grew weaker and weaker, she decided to abandon thatplan, and journey to New York while she could. In two weeks more shehad left us forever. 

_June 1_. 

Our first Sunday at Chappaqua. We have a little church for a next-doorneighbor, in which services of different sects are held on alternateSundays, the pulpit being hospitably open to all denominationsexcepting Papists. Three members of our little household, however--mamma, Marguerite, and I--belong to the grand old Church ofRome; so the carriage was ordered, and with our brother in religion, Bernard, the coachman, for a pioneer, we started to find a church orchapel of the Latin faith. At Mount Kisco, a little town four milesdistant, Bernard thought we might hear Mass, "but then it's not thesort of church you ladies are used to, " he added, apologetically; "it'sa small chapel, and only rough working people go there. "

I was quite amused at the idea that the presence of poor people was anyobjection, for is it not a source of pride to Catholics that _their_church is open alike to the humblest and richest; so with a suggestiveword from Bernard, Gabrielle's spirited ponies flew

 "Over the hills, and far away. "

A perpetual ascent and descent it seemed--a dusty road, for we aresadly in want of rain, and few shade-trees border the road; but once inMount Kisco, the novelty of the little chapel quite compensated for thedisagreeable features of our journey there. A tiny chapel indeed--aplain frame building, with no pretence to architectural beauty. It wasintended originally, I thought, for a Protestant meeting-house, as thecruciform shape, so conspicuous in all Catholic-built churches waswanting here. The whitewashed walls were hung with small, rudepictures, representing the _Via Crucis_ or Stations of the Cross, andthe altar-piece--not, I fancy, a remarkable work of art in itsprime--had become so darkened by smoke, that I only _conjectured_ itssubject to be St. Francis in prayer. 

Although it was Whit-Sunday the altar was quite innocent of ornament, having only six candles, and a floral display of two bouquets. Theseats and kneeling-benches were uncushioned, and the congregation wascomposed, as Bernard said, entirely of the working class; but thepeople were very clean and respectable in their appearance, and ferventin their devotions as only the Irish peasantry can be. 

The pastor, an intelligent young Irishman, apparently under thirty, hadalready said Mass at Pleasantville, six miles distant, and uponarriving at Mount Kisco he found that about twenty of his smallcongregation wished to receive Communion, as it was a festival;consequently, he spent the next hour not _literally_ in theconfessional, for there was none, but in the tiny closet dignified bythe name of a vestry. From thence, the door being open, we could withease, had we had nothing better to do, have heard all of the priest'sadvice to his penitents. 

This ceremony over, the young Father came out in his black cassock, andtaking up his vestments which lay upon the altar-steps, he proceededwith the utmost nonchalance to put them on, not hesitating to display along rent in his surplice, and a decidedly ragged sleeve. 

The Mass was a Low one, and the congregation were too poor to have anorgan or organist. Quite a contrast to a Sunday at St. Stephen's orSt. Francis Xavier's, but the _Mass_ is always the same, however humblethe surroundings. 

_June 3_. 

We are unusually fortunate, I think, in our domestic surroundings. Servants are proverbially the _bête noire_ of American ladies, and theprospect of having to train some unskilled specimens of foreignpeasantry weighed heavily, I fancy, upon our beautiful Ida in her newresponsibility of a young _Dame Châtelaine_. However, we have been, asI said, singularly successful in obtaining servants. 

To my great delight, there is not one ugly name in our littlehousehold, although composed of eight members, commencing with _Queen_Esther as mamma has been named; then we four girls--_la DameChâtelaine_, with her fair face, dark, pensive eyes, and modestdignity; Gabrielle, or _Tourbillon_, our brilliant pet, and theyoungest of our quartette, although her graceful figure rises above therest of us; my sister Marguerite, _la Gentille Demoiselle_; and I, Cecilia. 

Then come the household retinue: Bernard, the coachman, alreadyintroduced, a smart-looking young Irishman, whom the maids always findvery beguiling; Lina, the autocrat of the kitchen, a little, wiry-looking woman from Stockholm, formerly cook, so _she_ says, toKing Charles of Sweden; and Minna, the maid. 

Minna is a pretty young Bavarian, who has been only fifteen days in theLand of Liberty, but she has already learnt, I am amused to see, _not_to address a lady as "_gnädige_ Frau, " or "Fräulein"--a style ofaddress imperative in South Germany from a maid to her mistress. Minnahas not, however, imbibed all of the democratic principles that will, Ifear, come to her only too soon, for she has not yet learnt to emulateher mistress in dress. It is really quite refreshing to see a servantdressed as a servant. Minna is the perfection of neatness, and herplain stuff or print gowns are _sans reproche_ in their freshness. Inthe matter of aprons she must be quite reckless, for they always lookas if just from the ironing-table. They are made, too, in anespecially pretty fashion that I have never before seen out of Munich. Scorning chignons, Minna appears with her own luxuriant hair in massivebraids wound about her well-shaped head, and as to-day is Sunday and a_Fest-tag_, she adorns herself with a large shell-comb. She has verypretty, coquettish ways, that have already melted the heart of ourhitherto unsusceptible Bernard, and it is quite charming to hear herattempts to converse with him in her broken English. 

Minna came to me this morning directly after breakfast, and said, "Where shall I go to church, Fräulein Cecilia?"

"I do not really know, Minna, " I replied. "You are a Lutheran, Isuppose?"

"Yes, Fräulein Cecilia. "

"There is no church of that sort here, " I said, "but there is aReformed Church next door. "

With a very doubtful expression, she said: "I will see, Fräulein. And_bitte_, is not the _Pfingsten_ a Fest-tag in America? In our country, you know, it is _more_ than Sunday, and the people always amusethemselves. "

I explained to her as clearly as I could, that Pfingsten (Whit-Sunday)was only a Fest-tag in her church, mine, and the Church of England, andthat it was never in this country a Fest-tag, outside of the religiousobservance. 

A very perplexed face was the result of my explanations; why Pfingstenshould not be Pfingsten the world over, and a public holiday with allsorts of merry-makings, she could not understand. 

CHAPTER II. 

Arrival of the Piano--Routine of a Day--Morning Toilettes--TheDining-room--Pictures--Ida and Gabrielle--How occupied--The EveningMail--Musical Evenings. 

_June 4_. 

Yesterday the piano was sent up from Steinway's, where it has beenstored since last fall, and now we have all settled to our differentoccupations, and are as methodical in the disposition of our time asthough we were in school. 

None of us are very early risers, for mamma, who should naturally setus a good example, has been too long an invalid to admit of it, and wegirls have become habituated to the luxury of breakfasting in bed, fromresidence abroad and in the tropics. Not that we breakfast in bed atthe "Villa Greeley, " however; we are much too sociable, and ourdining-room is too attractive, for that. But we gratify our taste forreasonable hours by assembling around the table at half-past eight. 

"Shocking!" I fancy I hear Katie exclaim. "I breakfast _at least_ twohours earlier. How can you bear to lose so much of the beautifulmorning?"

Don't imagine, dear Katie, that I _sleep_ till half-past eight: youmust know the wakeful temperament of our family too well for that. Ifind it, however, very poetic and delightful to listen to the matins ofthe robins, thrushes, and wrens, from my pillows; and by merely liftingmy head I have as extended a panorama of swelling hills and emeraldmeadows, as though promenading the piazza. 

I have been in my day as early a riser as any one--even you, dearKatie, have not surpassed me in this, respect; for you recollect thosecold winter days when I arose at "five o'clock in the morning, " not, however, to meet Corydon, but to attack the Gradus ad Parnassum ofClementi by gaslight, in my desire to accomplish eight hours ofpractice undisturbed by visitors. At seven, however, I used to meetwith an interruption from my German professor. Poor man! I now pityhis old rheumatic limbs stumbling over the ice and snow to be with meat that unreasonable hour of the morning. But I then was ruthless, andwould not allow him even five minutes grace, for my time was thenregulated like clockwork, and a delay of a few moments would cause anunpardonable gap in my day. Now, however, that my education isnominally finished, I feel that I may without self-reproach indulge insome extra moments of repose, for it is impossible for one to work_all_ the time; and a quiet hour of reflection is often, I think, asuseful as continual reading or writing. 

We indulge in very simple morning toilettes here, as we have nogentleman guests for whom to dress, nor ladies to criticise us;consequently a few brief moments before the mirror suffice to make uspresentable. A black print wrapper made Gabrielle-fashion, with ourhair brushed off plain from our faces, and flowing loosely _à la bellesauvage_, or in cool braids, is the order of the day. Even Marguerite, who is the most conventional of our quartette, has conformed to thefashion reigning here, and no longer coiffed in the stylish_Impératrice_ mode, her sunny brown hair floats over her shouldersunconfined by hair-pins, cushions, or rats. Truly we live in Arcadiansimplicity, for under our roof there are neither curling nor crimpingirons, nor even a _soupçon_ of the most innocent _poudre de riz_. 

At half-past eight a little hand-bell, silver in material and tone, summons us to the breakfast-room. This room is on the ground floor, and is one of the prettiest in the house. Four windows give us anextended view of our Dame Châtelaine's sloping meadows and woodedhills, and the carriage road winding off towards the pine grove and thehouse in the woods. We have several pictures on the walls--first aportrait of my dear uncle; a boyish face with fair hair, deep blueeyes, and an expression angelic in sweetness. No one would imagine itto be the face of a married man, but it was painted, mamma says, whenhe was thirty years old. Two large and admirable photographs, takenearly last summer, hang opposite it. A striking contrast they are tothe pensive, fragile, blonde boy; these are impressed with the vigorand mental and physical activity of his busy life, but the broadintellectual brow, and the almost divine expression that plays aboutthe mouth, are the same in each. 

An engraving from a picture by Paul Delaroche, the ArchangelGabriel--the "patron, " in Catholic parlance, of our littleGabrielle--hangs between the windows, and over the comfortable sofa isa copy of Liotard's celebrated pastel "la belle Chocolatière" in theDresden Gallery. This copy Aunt Mary bought in that city when theresome years ago, and it is considered wonderfully fine. Very pretty andcoquettish she looks in her picturesque Vienna dress, with the small, neatly-fitting cap, ample apron, and tiny Louis Quinze shoes. In hercase

 "My face is my fortune, "

was exemplified, and so pretty and modest is her demeanor that it is nowonder that Count Dietrichstein, haughty nobleman though he was, married her. She is very different, however, from the chocolatevendors whom I have seen in the streets of Paris. I don't think anobleman would ever raise one of them from their original station, forthey are as a rule past fifty, and ugly and withered as only aFrenchwoman of that age can be. 

Breakfast is followed by a turn upon the piazza, a little stroll to thespring, near which delicious wild strawberries nestle in a backgroundof sweet clover, bright buttercups, and field daisies, or a game ofcroquet under the grand old oak-trees

 "After the sun has dried the dew. "

Then we separate, each to our own room, and our different occupations. 

[Illustration: The Spring. ]

Ida is very busy now, for she is preparing a volume for publication inthe fall--her dear father's manuscript lectures and letters. 

Gabrielle throws herself upon a sofa, and lies there motionless, absorbed in the fascinating pages of some favorite book; indeed, she isso quiet that in my periodical fits of tidiness I often seize a printor bombazine frock, thrown, as I suppose, carelessly upon the bed orsofa, and only by its weight do I discover that it is animated. Lastyear, Gabrielle's favorite site for reading was in the dear oldapple-tree close beside the house; but since she has attained thedignity of sixteen and train dresses, she has abjured the apple-tree. 

Marguerite is translating a volume from the German, _MusikalischeMärchen_, and I divide my time between the piano and occasionalnewspaper articles. 

But it is already one o'clock and dinner hour. The afternoon passesmuch like the morning. We have letters to write, and much readingaloud. I have two books in progress--Plato's "Dialogues, " and Madamede Stäel's incomparable "Germany:" the latter I read aloud while inMunich, but it is a work that cannot be too often studied. 

At half-past six we dress and go down to the postoffice (about ahundred yards distant) for the evening mail. Half an hour later wesup, and then follows, as L. E. L. Would say, "a struggle and asacrifice. " What could be more delicious than a game of croquet, or adrive in the cool twilight? But Chappaqua, lovely though it is, possesses a malaria that is dangerous after sunset, they say, and muchas I love to drive when Nature is bathed in the last ruddy flush ofday, and during the soft gray hour that succeeds it, I must heed theprediction of _chills_ to all who indulge. 

The evening is always devoted to music. Both Ida and Gabrielle arevery fond of the piano, and Ida is rapidly becoming quite proficient inthe divine art. She commenced the study of music when a little child, under an excellent teacher, and also took lessons while inboarding-school; but one studies the piano under difficulties while inthe routine of a _pensionnat_, for the hour devoted to it must be takenfrom one's recreation time, or from some other lessons. Our friendswill remember, too, that dear Ida was taken out of school while yetvery young, to become the devoted nurse that she has since shownherself to her mother, and from the time she left the _Sacré Coeur_until this spring she has never opened the piano. Now, however, shepractises regularly and conscientiously, and brings to her music allthe enthusiasm of her loving nature, and the intelligence of hersuperior mind; consequently, when her fingers are well trained, I shallexpect to see her a thoughtful and brilliant pianist. 

Gabrielle is still in the tedious preliminary steps, for Geometry andLatin, rather than the _Rhythme des Doigts_ and the _Ecole de laVelocité_, have hitherto engaged her attention; but time will show. 

CHAPTER III. 

An Unexpected Visit--Morning Drives--Gabrielle's Ponies--A RepulsiveObject--A Visitor--The King of Sweden's Soup--Advantages of a RoyalKitchen--Startling Experience--Ida's Letters--Strange Contents--A LuckyStone--Bequest for a Melodeon--Offers of Marriage--Arrival of aSuitor--Reasons why he should marry Ida Greeley--He proves aLunatic--He is taken before a Magistrate--He is lodged in the CountyJail. 

_June 5_. 

As unexpected visit yesterday from Mr. O'Dwyer, a member of _TheTribune_ staff, and for several years dear uncle's private secretary. 

Mamma had invited Mr. O'Dwyer to come out and pass a quiet day with us, and had appointed Wednesday for the visit. Desirous of a littleexcitement, and already somewhat weary of our nun-like simplicity oftoilette, we decided to do honor to our guest by dressing our hairquite elaborately, and attiring ourselves, despite the heat, in ourbest bombazines with their weight of crape. We were assembled in thedining-room after our early dinner, discussing, in our plain printwrappers and Marguerite braids, our plans for the morrow, when Minnaannounced:

"A visit, Madame; a gentleman. "

"Probably a neighbor upon business, " said mamma to us; "show him inhere, Minna. "

The door opened, and enter the guest for whom, in imagination, we weremaking such extensive preparations. 

A very expressive glance was telegraphed around our circle. I wasengaged in the domestic occupation of hemming one of papa'shandkerchiefs, and although Hawthorne draws so pretty a picture of thebeautiful Miriam while engaged in "the feminine task of mending a pairof gloves, " with all deference to the poet's taste, I consider thebeguiling little scraps of canvas or kid which I produce when companyis present, much more attractive than plain sewing. 

In a moment the surprise was explained. Mr. O'Dwyer had receivedorders to represent _The Tribune_ somewhere, the following day, just intime to catch the Pleasantville express, and run out to tell us that hecould not come at the time appointed. 

"The circumstances were trying, " we said to each other, after hisdeparture; but imagine, girls, how much worse they would have been, hadthe visitor been a lady! As long as a wrapper is black, I very muchdoubt if a gentleman would know it from an afternoon dress. 

_June 8_. 

The usual routine of our morning occupations has been somewhat brokenof late, for these June days are too perfect to be spent within doors, even with such grand companions as Plato or Beethoven. We plancharming hours to be spent in the pine grove, where Marguerite willread to us a chapter or two of Kohlrausch's "Germany, " and Ida willgive us a few pages of Taine's brilliant "Angleterre;" but as we arestarting with camp chairs, books, and work, Bernard approaches:

"Any orders, Miss?"

Frail mortals are too weak to resist, and in a few moments we areseated in Ida's stylish new phaeton; and Gabrielle's irrepressibleponies, under the guidance of Tourbillon herself, are dashing away at apace that terrifies our sober Quaker neighbors beyond expression. Mamma has been solemnly warned against allowing Gabrielle to drive"those fearful horses;" but we all share our pretty Tourbillon'sfondness for a _tourbillon_ pace, and know well the strength shepossesses in her little wrists, and the coolness she could exercisewere there any danger. 

While returning from a charming drive upon the Sing Sing road, a day ortwo since, the horses, whose spirits were unusually high, shiedsuddenly at something dark by the roadside. By a dexterous managementof the reins, Gabrielle quickly subdued them, and we all looked to seewhat had startled them. An object was crouching in the grass, evidently human, but of what sex or nationality it was impossible inone swift glance to determine; and it was quite amusing to hear ourdifferent opinions as we drove on. 

"I think, " said mamma, "that it was an enormous woman, with a baby inher arms, but I really cannot be sure, for I only looked at theface--such a hideous, repulsive face. I shall dream of it to-night, Iam convinced. "

"A woman!" said Marguerite. "My impression was of a verymurderous-looking man--an Indian, I thought, he was so very dark. "

Gabrielle's view of the case differed from the others. The creaturehad, she said, a heavy black beard, which, was un-Indian-like, and wasgarbed in a dark calico gown with open sleeves, through which sheplainly perceived a pair of unmistakably muscular, masculine arms. Inthe words of Macbeth--

 "You should be woman, And yet your beard forbids me to interpret That you are so. "

Neither Marguerite nor Gabrielle had seen the baby, and Gabrielle'sconclusion that this frightful being was a convict who had escaped fromSing Sing disguised as a woman, was quite logical. 

"Chappaqua is certainly in unpleasant proximity to Sing Sing, " I saidwith a shudder, for I have not many elements of a heroine about me. 

"Yes, " was mamma's cheerful rejoinder, "and you know we were toldyesterday that one or two of the most dangerous convicts had recentlyescaped, and had entered several houses in Chappaqua--to say nothing ofMr. O'Dwyer's report that that dreadful Captain Jack has escaped, andis known to be lurking in the neighborhood of our peaceful littlevillage. "

"Pray let us change the subject, " I entreated, "or between convicts andModocs I shall have the nightmare for a month. "

_June 9_. 

We have just said good-by to Señor Delmonte, of Hayti, who has gonedown on the 4. 45 train, after passing, I hope, a pleasant day with us. 

[Illustration: The Train Station. ]

We have led such a quiet life since last fall, that a visit from afriend is a very pleasant excitement, and with the assistance of ourinvaluable Minna and Lina, there is nothing to be dreaded in thepreparations. Then, too, it is so pleasant to unpack the superb linenthat Aunt Mary bought abroad--the heavy damask table-cloths with theirbeautiful designs, and the immense dinner napkins, protecting one'sdress so admirably against possible accident--and to take out theexquisite silver and Sèvres; everything is perfection, even to thelittle gold, lily-shaped hand-bell. Afterwards we go to gather flowersin all their morning freshness, and if it is ten o'clock, we walk downto the station to meet the New York train. 

Señor Delmonte is a very agreeable gentleman, and quite a favorite inNew York circles. In figure he rises far above ordinary humanity, sixfeet two inches being, I believe, his exact height--and his very darkcomplexion and stately gravity render him quite conspicuous in adrawing-room. He is reported extremely wealthy. 

Upon returning from a drive on the Pleasantville road with SeñorDelmonte, Ida ran down to the kitchen for a moment, to see if harmonyreigned there (for Lina and Minna are not, I regret to say, becomingwarm friends; but more of that to-morrow). Ida rarely troubles thecook with her presence, for Lina, like all _cordons bleus_, is a greatdespot, and impatient of _surveillance_; but as she can be trusted toarrange an entire _menu_ without any hints from Ida, la Dame Châtelainegladly leaves the responsibility to her. What therefore was mysurprise to see Ida return from her visit downstairs with anunmistakable look of anxiety upon her pretty face, and beckon me out ofthe music room where we were sitting. 

"What _do_ you think, Cecilia?" she announced, in despairing accents. "Lina has made a soup of sour cream, which is now reposing in theice-box!"

"Of _what_?" I said, scarcely crediting her words, and running down tothe kitchen. 

Lina's feelings were considerably ruffled that her young mistress didnot appreciate the soup, which she considered a triumph of art, andwhich consisted of sour cream, spices, and a little sugar--to be eaten, of course, cold. 

"Nice soup, " she said, in the most injured tones; "King of Sweden thinkexcellent, but Miss no like it. "

It was, however, too late to make another soup, so we consoledourselves with the thought that a king approved of it, and we wouldshow a plebeian taste if we did not also appreciate it. However, somewry faces were made over the unlucky soup at the table, and the King ofSweden's taste was the subject of much merriment. 

I was somewhat sceptical at first that Lina had ever been in the royalhousehold at Stockholm, notwithstanding that she did cook so admirably;but she managed yesterday evening to tell me, in her broken English, about her residence in the palace. 

It seems that inexperienced cooks can, by paying a certain sum, beadmitted into the royal kitchen to learn from the chief cook. Afterthey have perfected themselves in their profession, they receive wages, and upon leaving, are presented with a diploma. Why could not asomewhat similar institution--omitting the sovereign--becomepracticable in our own country? Both housekeepers and newspapers groanover the frightful cooking of our Bridgets; Professor Blot lecturesupon the kitchen scientifically and artistically considered, and ourfashionable ladies go to his classes to play at cooking; but thenovelty soon wears off, and home matters continue as badly as ever. 

I do not know if the President would consent to imitate the Swedishsovereign, by throwing open the kitchen of the White House in the sameliberal fashion, but surely he ought to be willing to make somesacrifices for the common good--perhaps even to submit occasionally toa dinner spoilt by the experiments of young apprentices to the culinaryart. Three months' training ought to suffice to make a very good cook, and with a diploma from the White House, situations would be plentiful, wages higher than ever, and employers would have the satisfaction ofknowing that their money was not thrown away. 

_June 11_. 

We may pass some sad hours at Chappaqua this summer, but I do not thinkwe shall suffer from _ennui_--that is, if the startling events of thepast week are to be repeated often during the summer. 

I have already spoken of the escaped convict whom we saw in the grassthe other day. It is unnecessary to say that we carefully barricadedour doors that night; for, in case of danger, our situation would notbe a cheerful one--a household of seven helpless women, save duringpapa's weekly visit, and Bernard, our only protector, asleep in theside-hill house. Our precautions, however, were superfluous; theconvict did not favor us with a visit, but something far more thrillingthan the loss of the family silver was in store for us. 

Dear Ida has received since last fall scores of letters from, I think, every State in the Union, and even from Europe, from people of whom shehad never heard before, and upon all sorts of subjects. Some of hercorrespondents are interested in her spiritual, others in her temporal, welfare; some advise change of air as beneficial after her affliction, and alternately she is offered a home in Colorado and Maine. But suchletters form the exception; usually the writer has a favor to request. The most modest of the petitions are for Ida's autograph or photograph, while others request loans of different sums from units to thousands. She is occasionally informed that the writer has a baby named IdaGreeley, and it is intimated that a present from the godmother would beacceptable. Again she is asked to assist in building a church, or toclothe and educate some poor girl--her own cast-off wardrobe of coloredclothes will be accepted, the writer graciously says, although newdresses would be preferable. 

One letter dated Lebanon is chiefly upon the virtues of a _luckystone_, which the writer will as a great favor sell to Miss Greeley fortwenty-five dollars. All further misfortune will, she says, be avertedfrom Ida if she becomes its owner; the stone is especially recommendedas beneficial in love-affairs, and, the writer kindly adds, it is notto be taken internally. 

Another letter is from the mother of a young invalid girl, begging MissGreeley, whom she knows by report to be very wealthy and charitablyinclined, to make her daughter a present of a melodeon, as music, shethinks, might help to pass away the tedious hours of illness. 

Sometimes Ida is solicited to open a correspondence for the improvementof her unknown friend, or to dispose of some one's literary wares, while offers of marriage from her unseen admirers are of almost dailyoccurrence. I think I would not exaggerate in saying she might reckonby the bushel these letters, written generally in very questionablegrammar, and worse chirography. In very few instances has she everreplied to them, for they have been usually from people possessing solittle claim upon her, that the favors they so boldly requested couldonly be viewed in the light of impertinence. 

One letter, couched in somewhat enigmatical terms, was dated fromBaltimore, and was explicit upon one point only--that it was themanifest will of Providence that Ida should marry him--S. M. Hudson. We read the letter together, laughed a little over it, and threw itinto the waste basket. Time passed, and we came out here. Ida wasgreeted upon her arrival by another letter from the mysterious Hudson, who, not at all discomfited by the cool reception, of his proposal, addressed her as his future wife, and announced that he had come onfrom Baltimore to marry her, that he was now in New York, and wouldwait there to hear from her. 

"The man is certainly crazy!" exclaimed Marguerite. 

"Indeed he is!" said mamma, reading his rambling sentences very slowly:"I should judge him to be perfectly insane, and I only hope he will notcome out here to pay his _fiancée_ a visit. "

"You know he requests me to send him funds to defray his expenses, AuntEsther, " said Ida quietly; "perhaps the lack of money will avert such acalamity. "

"What an unromantic conclusion to a love-letter!" said Gabriellescornfully. 

The conversation turned to the depredations of the neighbors andneighbors' children upon the property. "Mr. Greeley's place" hadalways been looked upon in the light of public property, and intruderswalked and drove through the grounds quite as a matter of course, andhelped themselves freely to whatever they liked in the floral, fruit, or vegetable line. The young ladies, however, decided that they hadsubmitted to such conduct quite long enough, and we sent to Sing Singfor some printed handbills warning trespassers off the place. 

Two or three days passed, and we had entirely forgotten Ida's erraticadmirer, when Gabrielle returned from a morning walk with theinformation that an intoxicated man was sitting upon the steps of theside-hill house. She met mamma and Ida starting for a little stroll, and communicated this unpleasant news to them. Mamma, however, is nottimid, and she walked on with Ida, determined to view the invader fromafar, and then summon Bernard to dismiss him. 

A figure was sitting, as Gabrielle said, upon the piazza of the newhouse, but was so motionless that Ida exclaimed laughingly:

"It is a scarecrow placed there by some one in retaliation for ournotice to trespassers to keep off the grounds. "

As they passed it, however, the scarecrow slowly lifted its head andaddressed them with:

"Is this Mr. Greeley's place?"

"Yes, " said mamma. 

"And is this young lady Miss Ida?"

"Yes. "

"You have received, I believe, a few letters from me, Miss Ida: my nameis Hudson. "

Fortunately our family are not of a fainting disposition, for a_tête-à-tête_ with a lunatic was a situation requiring some nerve andperfect self-control; so, although mamma and Ida were much alarmed uponlearning the name of their visitor, they neither screamed nor fainted, and mamma invited him quite courteously to walk up to the house. 

Mr. Hudson was a tall, powerful man, with cunning, restless, gray eyes, was well dressed, and wore a linen duster. He had come, he said, sevenhundred miles to see Ida. Upon reaching the house, he followed mammainto the dining-room where Marguerite, Gabrielle, and I were sitting atwork. 

"Ah, Miss Gabrielle!" he said, "I supposed you were at school. "

One or two other rational remarks of the sort, and mamma's perfect_sang-froid_ so deceived me that I decided the supposed lunatic must beperfectly sane. In a moment, however, he looked somewhat uneasy, andsaid:

"I have a long story to tell your niece, ma'am, but I feel a littlebashful about speaking before so many young ladies. "

"Would you like to see me alone, then?" said mamma promptly; "you wouldnot object to telling your story to a married woman. "

Then signing to us to leave the room, she followed us to the door, and_breathing_ rather than whispering, "Run for Bernard, " returned. 

It appears that the man grew more excitable when alone with mamma, andthe story he told her was not a cheerful one to hear. 

"It began, " he said, "five years ago, by my father cutting his throatwith a razor. They say he was crazy, and, " with a fiendish chuckle, "some people say I am crazy too. "

"Indeed!" said mamma, sympathetically, "how sad!"

"This we may call the first scene in the story, " he added, althoughwhat connection there was between suicide and his proposed marriagewith Ida, poor mamma could not imagine. 

I could half fill my journal with the rambling, senseless, and menacingremarks that Hudson made to mamma, adding emphasis to his discourse bywhirling a pair of very long and sharp scissors close to her eyes (hewas further armed with two razors, we subsequently learnt). Ida, hesaid, first appeared to him in a vision--a beautiful young girl indistress, who appealed to him for aid, but some one seemed to standbetween them--a tall woman dressed as a Sister of Charity (evidentlymamma, in her mourning dress and long crape veil). He then enlargedupon the awful punishment that inevitably overtook those who opposedthe Will of Providence (i. E. , his marriage with Ida): death by someviolent means being unavoidable. At this point, the scissors werewhirled more excitedly than ever, and Hudson's eyes glared with rage. I need not say that mamma feared every moment would be her last; butstill preserving a calm exterior, she never took her eyes off him foran instant, and merely remarking, "It is quite warm here; shall we notsit upon the piazza?" accompanied him there, and sat down close besidehim, that he might not suspect she feared him. The moments seemedendless until Bernard's heavy tread was heard upon the kitchen stairs. 

"Excuse me a moment, " said mamma, with a most innocent face; and in aninterview of _half_ a minute explained to Bernard that Hudson was adangerous lunatic who must be taken away immediately; then waiting tillthe valorous Bernard was safely out on the piazza, she unceremoniouslyshut and locked the door. Hudson, apparently much surprised at suchinhospitable conduct, pulled the door-bell half a dozen times. When hewas quite wearied with his exertions, Bernard suggested that theyshould take a little walk together. Much coaxing was requisite, forHudson was quite determined to effect an entrance; but finally Bernardtook his arm, and bore him off to the tavern. 

"I had much more to say to Mrs. Cleveland, " he remarked, _en route_, "but I fear it has already been too much for her nerves. "

At the tavern, Bernard found a constable, who immediately arrested theunhappy victim of misplaced affection, and telegraphed to Mount Kiscofor a magistrate. Then ensued endless hours of waiting. Mamma layupon the sofa whiter than any ghost, now that the strain upon hernerves was relaxed, and Mrs. L----, a loquacious neighbor, ran in fromtime to time with reports of what people were saying, and how theprisoner looked and felt. 

At 7 P. M. The magistrate, Mr. Clarence Hyatt, arrived, and we all wentdown to the improvised court-house in the tavern. Ida and mamma wereshown into a private room, where Mr. Hyatt, a very polite and agreeablegentleman, took their affidavits before they were confronted with theenemy. The news had by this time spread far and near, and allChappaqua was assembled. The wildest reports were now circulated, tothe effect that Hudson had pointed a pistol at Ida, and vowed to killher instantly if she did not promise to marry him, and mamma and Idawere advised to keep their veils down, that he might not becomefamiliar with their faces, and to remain at a respectful distance fromhim. 

Hudson was sitting between two constables, and was being inspected by alarge crowd. He looked very quiet, and upon listening to theaffidavits, remarked that Mr. Hyatt must have misunderstood the ladies, for he was perfectly incapable of having alarmed them to the extentindicated; that he certainly admired Miss Ida, and desired to marryher, but that he would not willingly injure or alarm the humblestcreature--adding reproachfully that those affidavits would suffice tocondemn him to State prison for life. He appeared so perfectlyrational and calm, that the magistrate was perfectly dumbfoundered, andfor the moment thought him sane; and even we commenced to reproachourselves, and doubt which was the insane party. 

"Well, " said Mr. Hyatt, "I will now hear your story. "

"I will read it to you, " said Hudson, drawing a book from his pocket, and then commenced again the same incoherent nonsense with which he hadalready favored mamma. The object now was to show the chain ofevidence that pointed out Ida as his bride. The most important linkwas the fact that he had once seen a flock of white geese sailingthrough the air. He put up his finger, and one fluttered down to him;and as G stood both for goose and Greeley, it was a clear manifestationof the Divine Will (at this point, the audience burst into a roar oflaughter). Besides, he liked our family, we suited him in everyrespect; and especially because we so much reminded him of John theBaptist (we inwardly hoped that the resemblance would not extend todecapitation). If Miss Greeley would not marry him, he kindly added, he would take her cousin Marguerite instead, but he must positivelymarry one of the family. He was now perfectly wild, and when heremarked, with a reproachful glance at Ida, that he disliked_ko-kwettes_, and liked a girl who would say in answer to an offer, "Yes sir-ee, " or "No sir-ee, " the magistrate brought the evidence to aconclusion. He gave him to the constable to be taken to the countyjail, where he was to be detained until the Court sat, if, in themeantime, his relatives did not appear from Massachusetts to claim him(for his place of residence varied--at first Baltimore, then Michigan, it was now Massachusetts). 

Hudson spent the night at the tavern, and appeared at times sorational, that he was not strictly guarded; consequently, when theconstable looked for him after breakfast, the bird had flown. He wasinstantly followed, and discovered walking on the railway track abouttwo miles off, swinging his little bundle quite unconcernedly. Inreply to the questions of his captors, he said that he had justintended to make a little circuit about the country, and then return tomarry Ida. He is now, thank fortune, safely lodged _in jail_. 

CHAPTER IV. 

A Visit from Papa--A Musical Squirrel--Letters--Croquet--Extracts fromLetters--Visitors--The Loss of the Missouri--The True Story of Ida'sEngagement. 

_June 13_. 

Papa came up late last night with a supply of the latest periodicals, weekly journals, etc. , and my pet squirrels in a new and spacious cage. These little creatures were presents to me this spring, and are verypretty, and partially tame. I remember, however, one escapade oftheirs shortly before we left the city. 

My balcony at home is enclosed with glass, and there I frequentlyallowed the squirrels to play. A game of _cache-cache_, of half anhour or so, was generally necessary before I could induce FliegendeHolländer, the livelier of the pair, to return to the narrow limits ofhis cage. One day, however, through some carelessness, the door fromthe balcony into my room was left open, and the squirrels were missing. Senta (christened after the heroine of Wagner's clever opera) wascaptured after some little difficulty, but not the Dutchman. Being aflying squirrel, he was so very tiny that he could easily concealhimself in a dark corner, and although I descended upon my knees topeer under my sofa, bureau, writing-table, and _chiffonnière_, mysearch was fruitless--the Flying Dutchman had evidently vanished tojoin the Phantom Ship. I felt very uneasy, fearing he might fall aprey to my two cats, who would no doubt find cold squirrel a verytempting _entremet_; or if he escaped this Scylla, the Charybdis ofdeath by starvation lay before him. The hours passed, and FliegendeHolländer did not appear. Senta was cheerful, and reigned mistress ofthe revolving wheel--always the bone of contention between the pair. Once, during the afternoon, I fancied I heard a scratching as if oftiny claws, but could not obtain even a glimpse of his vanishing, fan-shaped tail. 

In the evening two or three gentlemen were present, and Marguerite sangfor them. After the song (Gounod's "Naïade, " a lovely _salon_ piece), we were speaking of the loss of dear little Holländer, when one of ourfriends exclaimed:

"Why, that squirrel was perched over the register while Miss Clevelandwas singing, but he was so quiet that I thought he was stuffed. "

"He evidently is fond of music, " said another; "pray sing somethingmore, Miss Cleveland, and perhaps he may again come out. "

He had travelled down from the third story to the parlor through theflue (fortunately there was no fire), and was now commencing to desiresociety and food again. 

"Since he is fond of music, " said Marguerite, "I will sing the balladof the Flying Dutchman from Wagner's opera--that ought certainly todraw him out again. "

A music-loving squirrel evidently, and one versed in the art; for withthe first strains of those curious harmonies and chromatic runs, descriptive of the howling winds that herald the coming of the PhantomShip, Holländer's tiny head peered out, followed, after a furtiveglance about, by his little body. Two gentlemen started to capturehim, and then a chase ensued. Holländer tried to scamper up a picture, but tripped upon its glass, and fell. At last, the Colonel capturedhim in an attempt to scale the curtains, and after much struggling, kicking, biting, and other vigorous protestations from Holländer, landed him safely in his cage. 

The squirrels evidently enjoy country life very much. Early thismorning Minna took them out of doors, and removed the bottom of thecage that they might play upon the grass, which so much exhilaratedthem that I am convinced they fancied they were entirely free. Then Iremoved the hot cotton from their little nest, and filled it with freshclover-leaves, which I am sure they much prefer. They run no risk ofbeing devoured here, for Aunt Mary always disliked cats, so that thereis not one upon the place, and Gabrielle's pet dog, a native ofBordeaux, has viewed them from afar, and snuffed at the cage, but isevidently too well-bred a Frenchman to desire even to tease them. 

_June 14_. 

A letter to-day from one of my Paris friends, Jennie Ford. She says:

"How divine it must be at Chappaqua! I am glad you are enjoyingyourself, and are well. But you do not say a word of your Westerntrip. I hope you have not given it up. "

Then follows a cordial invitation for me to visit her in her beautifulhome upon Lake Erie, now looking its prettiest in the leafy month ofJune. All sorts of pleasant inducements are held out: a croquet-lawnof velvet softness, long drives, and charming rides in which to displaymy stylish new beaver and habit, moonlight excursions upon Lake Erie, and no lack of handsome cavaliers, including naval officers. However, despite all these attractions, I do not think I shall care to leaveChappaqua this summer. 

Jennie enclosed a photograph of the lady who reigned as belle of theAmerican colony in Paris, some four or five years ago--Mrs. HoraceJenness, then Miss Carrie Deming. Three years of married life havechanged the beautiful Carrie somewhat, if this picture is a truthfulone. The perfect outline of her face is unaltered, but the haughtyexpression that "La Princesse" wore in former days has vanished, andthe fond young mother, grouped with her two little children is prettierthan ever. 

_June 15_. 

I feel singularly indolent, and indisposed to journalize this evening. Perhaps it is the result of two hours spent in croquet, a game in whichI am very unproficient and therefore find decidedly wearisome; butGabrielle, who is the best croquet player in Chappaqua, is in the cityto-day, and my feeble assistance was necessary to make up the quartette. 

Two entire hours spent in this game seem quite an unwarrantable loss oftime, but we have had a guest from New York to-day, and therefore bothPlato and Kohlrausch have remained under lock and key in the library. 

I think no one enjoys the country more thoroughly than a physician whenhe can escape from his patients for a holiday, and Dr. Howe, ourvisitor of to-day, was not an exception. This gentleman is, I fancy, quite young in his profession, for his figure is of almost boyishslenderness; his face, too, which reminds one somewhat of Shelley inits delicacy and brightness, and its dark eyes and luxuriant curls, isquite youthful for a fully fledged M. D. 

Dr. Howe returned from Europe some months since, and brought us aletter of introduction from a friend of mamma's in Florence; but owingto mamma's long illness and the seclusion in which we lived lastwinter, we have not seen him many times. 

I have in my lap a number of letters received in this evening's mail. One is from my dear friend, Mrs. Knox, the charming contralto of ChristChurch. We had expected her to visit us this week, but her unexpecteddeparture for the West has prevented her from doing so. She says:

"You must truly be enjoying Chappaqua these heavenly June days. I hopethat the fresh air and rest are putting roses into your pale cheeks andgiving you health and strength for your literary labors. My suddendeparture compels me to forego the pleasure I had anticipated in seeingyou at Chappaqua--at least until the fall. I am appreciative of thecourtesy of your dear mamma in inviting me to spend a day in thatlovely retreat, already made sacred to me by my high regard andadmiration for your most noble uncle, whose home it was. "

Another letter is written upon most dainty stationery, bearing theimpress of Tiffany, and adorned with a prettily devised monogram inlavender and gold (handsome stationery is one of my weaknesses). Thisletter I know to be sprightly and amusing before I open it, for myfriend Lela has been for two or three years one of my most entertainingcorrespondents. We were intimate friends in Paris three or four yearsago, when Lela was a school-girl, and I an _enfant de Marie_, andalthough we have been separated by hundreds of miles, by the ocean, andfinally, by Lela's marriage, our attachment continues; so, noreproaches upon school-girl friendships, I beg. 

Lela was married last winter, but she and her handsome French husbandare yet in the honeymoon, which will last, I fancy, forever--certainlythe former Queen of Hearts seems now to care for only _one_ heart. Shesays:

"You must be having a lovely time in such a charming place. We havebeen to Saratoga. It was stupid enough to send your worst enemy there. "

_June 17_. 

This week has been quite lost, so far as study is concerned, for nearlyevery day has been interrupted by visitors. 

Looking out of the window this morning, I saw a carriage containing twostrange young ladies stop before the house. In answer to their inquiryfor Miss Greeley and Miss Gabrielle, Minna informed them, in her brokenEnglish, that they were both in the city for the day. They lookedquite aghast upon receiving this information, for they had alreadydismissed their carriage, in which they had driven from Pleasantville, and knew probably that there was no down train till 4. 45, so quitehelplessly they inquired if _no_ members of the family were at home. Learning that Mrs. Cleveland and her daughters were here, one of theyoung ladies, a stylish girl in mourning, desired Minna to announceMiss Hempstead and her cousin. I puzzled a little over the name whileglancing in the mirror to see that my crape ruffle was properlyadjusted, and my hair in tolerable order. The name seemed familiar, and yet I knew that no friend of mine bore it. 

I found the young ladies in the music room. Miss Hempstead introducedherself by saying:

"Perhaps you may have heard my name, although you do not know me. Mybrother was a friend of Mrs. And Miss Greeley, and was purser of the_Missouri_. "

I was then somewhat surprised that I had not divined Miss Hempstead'sidentity from the name and her black dress; but the burning of the_Missouri_ made scarce any impression upon me at the time, surroundedas I was last fall by such heavy family afflictions; and the name ofthe young purser, whose tragic fate then filled the newspapers, hadsince then almost entirely passed from my memory. 

An ordinary passenger ship is wrecked or burned, "Extras" are issued, athree days' excitement follows, and it is then a thing of the past; butas the _Missouri_ bore, on this memorable voyage, not indeed Caesar andhis fortunes, but the supposed _fiancé_ of dear Ida, its loss is anevent still interesting to the gossiping public. It was useless to tryto convince any one that no engagement had ever existed between Mr. Hempstead and Ida: no one would credit my most solemn protestations. Many people not personally acquainted with us, but who knew the facts"upon the best authority, " as outsiders usually do, said that themarriage was to have taken place before the election, but after AuntMary's death it was postponed for three months. Before two weeks hadelapsed, however, Mr. Hempstead was, in the poetic language of thejournals, "sleeping beneath the coral wave, " and poor Ida received asmany well-meant condolences over his death as over Aunt Mary's. 

When the tragedy of last autumn was all over, the interest of thepublic was greater than ever, and Ida, "who had within four short weekslost mother, lover, and father, " formed the subject of many a patheticeditorial and sermon. A London journal styled Ida the "maiden widow, "spoke of uncle's fond attachment to Mr. Hempstead, and announced thatthe loss of his prospective son-in-law was an affliction thatprecipitated Mr. Greeley's death. 

I first heard of Mr. Hempstead in the winter of 1869-70. Aunt Mary, who was then commencing to fail, went with Ida to Nassau to spend thecold months. Her state-room, engaged at the last moment, was a veryuncomfortable one, and Mr. Hempstead, then purser of the _Eagle_, gaveup for her use a large deck state-room with three windows--a greatcomfort to Aunt Mary, who was always so partial to an airy bedroom. The voyage proved, however, a very stormy one, and the waves dashed inthrough these three windows, quite drenching poor Ida, who suffered somuch from sea-sickness as to be quite indifferent to danger ordiscomfort. 

In writing to me after reaching Nassau, Ida mentioned Mr. Hempstead ina few words:

"The purser was an agreeable and gentlemanly officer, and so kind tomamma. "

She did not, however, mention his name, and I never knew it till lastsummer. 

After their return to New York, in the spring of 1870, Aunt Maryinvited Mr. Hempstead to visit them at Chappaqua, as she felt undersome obligations to him for having given her his state-room, andsubsequently executed some little commissions for her, between New Yorkand Nassau. He came out here, and made a visit of a week. In July ofthe same year. Aunt Mary and Ida went abroad, and from that time theacquaintance dropped. That he admired Ida know, but how any one couldmanufacture an engagement from such slight material, I cannot imagine. 

One day last summer, during the excitement of the campaign, I had takenup a rose-tinted society journal as a little respite from politics, when my eyes fell upon a paragraph announcing Ida's engagement to Mr. William Hempstead, Purser of the _Missouri_; and then I for the firsttime learnt the officer's name. My astonishment can be imagined; andto this day it remains an enigma who invented that little society item. If a fertile-minded reporter had desired to head his column ofEngagements in High Life with Ida's name, and had announced that shewould shortly be led to the hymeneal altar (I believe that is thecorrect phrase in newspaper parlance) by any one in our circle ofacquaintances with whom she was at all intimate, it would not have beensurprising; but why a person whom she had not seen or heard of for twoyears should have been selected, is a mystery worthy of G. P. R. James. 

But in writing about Mr. Hempstead, I have neglected his sister. MissHempstead was a tall, fine-looking young girl, with, however, astrikingly foreign appearance for an American _pur sang_. She wasborn, she told me, in Belize, Central America, where her father wasUnited States Consul. A tropical sun had given her a complexion ofSpanish darkness, heightened by large black eyes and jet blackhair--the exact counterpart, Ida afterwards told me, of her brother, who was often mistaken for a Cuban. 

When the period of the consulate of Mr. Hempstead père was over, he hadbecome so much attached to Belize, that he decided to make it hisfuture residence. His daughter said she could not imagine what hefound to like in the place, for between earthquakes and yellow fever, one was in a continual state of terror; there was no society, thepopulation being almost entirely negro, and no schools; consequentlythe children of the few white resident families were obliged to go toEngland or to the United States to be educated. 

Miss Hempstead was sent to London, and five or six years of thediscipline of a first-class English school have made her quitedifferent from the fully fledged society queens who graduate from ourMurray Hill _pensionnats_ at sixteen or so. A little English reserveto tone down somewhat their sparkling natures is all that ourbewitching American girls need to make them perfect, but I fear theywill for several years yet bear the stigma of, "Charming, but too wild. "

CHAPTER V. 

Sunday in the Country--Proximity of a Meeting-house--How we pass ourSundays--The House in the Woods--Ida's Glen--Mrs. Greeley's FavoriteSpring--The Children's Play-house--Gabrielle's Pets--Travelling in1836--New York Society--Mr. Greeley's Friday Evenings--Mrs. Greeley asa Bride--Her Accomplishments--A Letter concerning Mr. Greeley's Wedding. 

_June 16_. 

Sunday is, I think, a very _triste_ day in the country (low be itspoken). I cannot remain longer than an hour at church, for the Massis a low one, and the sermon consists of fifteen minutes of plain, practical instruction, unembellished by rhetoric, to the congregation. The church, it is true, is four miles distant, but Gabrielle'saristocratic ponies, Lady Alice and The Duchess, fairly fly over theground--up or down hill, it is immaterial to them--and consequently, Ifind myself, when my religious duties are over, with many idle hoursupon my hands. 

The croquet balls and mallets, our "Magic Rings, " and other out-of-doorgames, are put away in the "children's play-house, " a little white huton the borders of the croquet ground, where Ida and dear little Raffieused to keep their toys, and where Gabrielle in later days housed hermenagerie of pets. 

The piano, too, is not only closed, but locked, for the flesh is weak, and I fear the temptation of the beautiful cold keys. It may be thebaneful effect of a foreign education, but I cannot see that therewould be any evil result from a little music on Sundays. However, wehave a Dissenting church for a next-door neighbor, and the residents ofChappaqua are chiefly Quakers, who frown upon the piano as an ungodlyinstrument; so with a sigh, I replace in my portfolio that grand hymnthat in 1672 saved the life of the singer, Stradella, from theassassin's knife, and a beautiful Ave Maria, solemn and chaste in itsstyle as though written by St. Gregory himself, but composed anddedicated to me by mamma's friend, Professor F. L. Ritter. 

My pretty bits of fancy work with their bright-colored silks, the tinyneedle-book worked while in Munich in an especially pretty stitch, andin the Bavarian colors--blue and white--and my Bavarian thimble--silverand amethyst--are put away in a bureau drawer, for although a Catholic, I do not imitate our Lutheran maid, who spends her Sundays in sewingand knitting. 

Plato and Kohlrausch, our week-day sustenance, do not come certainlyunder the head of Sunday reading, although I see nothing objectionablein them; but after all, one requires, I think, a change of literatureon Sundays as well as a different dress, and an extra course at dinner. 

"What shall we do?" says Gabrielle. 

We have each written a letter or two, for Sunday is, I am sure, everyone's letter-writing day, and now we put on our broad-brimmed gardenhats, with their graceful trimmings of gauze and crape, and stroll offto the spicy pine grove, where we sit down on the dry spines, andArthur repeats to us quaint bits from some of the rare old books heread in the British Museum three years ago, or entertains us with someof his own adventures when travelling on foot over beautiful France andItaly, and "Merrie England. "

Ida and I, however, wandered away from the others this morning, andstrolled up to the dear old house in the woods where she passed herchildhood. This is, to my mind, the sweetest and most picturesque spotupon the entire estate, and I do not wonder that Aunt Mary, with herkeen love for the beautiful in Nature, her indifference to generalsociety, and her devotion to her children, to study, and to reflection, preferred the quiet seclusion of her home shut in by evergreens, withthe deep ravine, and the joyous little brook at her feet, to the mostsuperb mansion that graces our magnificent Hudson. 

[Illustration: The House in the Woods. ]

One of the purest springs on the place is in the ravine, or "Ida'sGlen, " as uncle christened it long ago. Here at the foot of the longwooden staircase is a basin of natural rock, and flowing into it is thesweetest, coolest water in the world. This water Aunt Mary alwayspreferred to any other on the place--even to the spring at the foot ofthe side-hill, so celebrated in the campaign times as the spot whereuncle and his visitors would stop to "take a drink, " when returningfrom a walk. Exquisite in her neatness, Aunt Mary would frequentlyorder the basin of her favorite spring to be well purified by athorough scrubbing with brush and soap, followed by a prolonged rinsingwith water. During her illness last fall, she frequently asked to havea pitcher of water brought from this spring, which she alwaysespecially relished. 

That uncle shared his wife's partiality for this spring is evident byhis description of it in his "Recollections":

"In the little dell or glen through which my brook emerges from thewood wherein it has brawled down the hill, to dance across a gentleslope to the swamp below, is _the_ spring, --pure as crystal, never-failing, cold as you could wish it for drink in the hottest day, and so thoroughly shaded and sheltered that, I am confident, it wasnever warm, and never frozen over. Many springs upon my farm areexcellent, but this is peerless. "

The house in the woods was built by uncle to suit Aunt Mary's taste, and very comfortable and complete it is. Uncle says of it:

"It is not much--hastily erected, small, slight, and wooden, it has atlength been almost deserted for one recently purchased and refitted onthe edge of the village; but the cottage in the woods is still my home, where my books remain, and where I mean to garner my treasures. "

The house consists of two stories with that most necessary addition toa country house, a broad piazza. To the right stands a white cottage, built for the servants. Almost in front of the house is a largeboulder, moss-grown and venerable. This, Aunt Mary would not haveremoved, for she loved Nature in its wildest primeval beauty, and nowthe rock is associated with loving memories of Raffie's little handsthat once prepared fairy banquets upon it, with acorn-cups for dishes;but now those baby hands have long since been folded quietly in thegrave. 

The little play-house, that has since been removed to thecroquet-ground, once stood not far from this rock, and has been used, as I said, by Gabrielle as a menagerie for her pets. A strangeassortment they often were for a little girl. Inheriting her mother'sexquisite tenderness of feeling towards helpless animals, Gabriellewould splinter and bandage up the little legs of any baby robin orsparrow that had met with an accident from trying its wings too early, would nurse it till well, and then let it fly away. At one time shehad in the play-house a little regiment of twelve toads, a redsquirrel, and a large turtle. Aunt Mary never wished her to cage herpets, as she thought it cruel; consequently they had the range of theplay-house, and Gabrielle fed them very conscientiously. She ought, however, to have followed the example of St. Francis, who used topreach to animals and insects when he had no human audience, and givenher pets a daily dissertation upon brotherly love and tolerance, forthey did not, I regret to say, live together in the Christian harmonythat distinguished Barnum's Happy Family. The result was, that one daywhen Gabrielle went to minister to their physical wants, she found onlya melancholy _débris_ of little legs. Her supposition was that theturtle had consumed the toads and then died of dyspepsia, and that thesquirrel had by some unknown means escaped from the play-house, andreturned to primeval liberty. 

[Illustration: The Children's Play House. ]

Forgetting this sad experience, Gabrielle endeavored at another time tobring up a snake and a toad in the way they should go (this time in anempty hen-coop); but the snake certainly did depart from it, andastonished the family much by gliding into the kitchen with the unhappytoad in his mouth. Poor Gabrielle's feelings can be imagined. Sheendeavored courageously to wrest the toad from its enemy's jaws, butall in vain; she was obliged to see the hapless creature consumed bythe snake. 

Mamma has often described Aunt Mary to me as she looked when she firstmet her. The portrait mamma draws of her as a bride would scarcely berecognized by those who only knew her after long years of weary illnesshad

 "Paled her glowing cheek. "

I will give it in mamma's own words:

"Immediately after your uncle's marriage, he sent for me to come frommy parents' quiet farm in Pennsylvania, to spend the winter in the citywith himself and his wife. A great event this was to me--far greaterthan your first visit to Europe, for the journey occupied double thetime that is now spent between New York and Liverpool, and I was ayoung girl whose acquaintance with the world was confined to the narrowlimits of the little village of Clymer; I had never even been sent awayto boarding-school. 

"One bright September morning I started upon my eventful journey. Youruncle Barnes drove me in a buggy to Buffalo, a distance of three daysat that time. At this city--the first large one that I had ever seen, my brother left me in charge of a party going through, as he supposed, to New York. Then ensued two weeks upon a canal boat; very slowtravelling you children would consider it, accustomed as you are towhirling over the country in an express train; but at my romantic age, this dreamy, delicious style of boat travel was the perfection ofhappiness. 

"At Rochester my friends left me, first placing me under the care ofthe captain of the canal-boat, who promised to put me upon thesteamboat when we should reach Albany. 

"The prospect of the day to be spent upon the Hudson possessed nocharms for me, but on the contrary, untold terror. I had never beforeseen a steamboat, but they had been introduced upon Lake Erie, nearenough to my home for me to hear, with alarm, of all the accidents thathad so far befallen them upon that very turbulent sheet of water;consequently, I embarked upon the 'Washington, ' in the full convictionthat I was about to meet with my doom. 

"All that day I sat motionless in a corner of the promenade deck, reading my Bible. Perfectly oblivious alike to the magnificent scenerythat I was passing, and to the elegant toilettes such as mycountry-bred eyes had never before beheld, by which I was surrounded; Ineither spoke to nor looked at any one, nor dared to leave my seat evento go to dinner; but endeavored to gain, from the sacred volume in myhands, strength for the terrible fate that I was confident awaited me. I have often since wondered what my fellow-travellers thought of thestill, shy little figure whose eyes were never once lifted from herBible. 

"About four o'clock a terrible explosion was heard, the boat was thrownviolently upon her side, and a scene of confusion, shrieks, andfainting-fits then ensued. I did not faint--I was much too alarmed forthat; I merely turned very white, and trembled from head to foot. Thewheel-house had been blown away, I learnt before long, but no onefortunately was injured, and after a delay of an hour or so the boatwas righted, and we proceeded upon our journey, at a snail's pace, however. 

"Owing to the accident, we did not reach New York until ten o'clock. No one was at the pier to meet me, for brother had supposed that Iwould arrive before sunset. As I did not appear, however, he concludedthat I had not left Albany at the time appointed. But my adventures ofthe day were not yet over. I secured a cab, and drove to the addresshe had given me, 123 Hudson Street, which in 1836 was by no means theplebeian locality it is at present, but a fashionable street, devotedexclusively to elegant residences. Upon inquiring for Mr. Greeley, myconsternation was great to learn that although he had looked at roomsin that house, he had not engaged them, and the landlady had no idea ofhis address. I was almost as timid about cabs as I had been about thesteamboat; for I had heard stories of young girls being robbed andmurdered by New York cab-drivers, and here I was, late at night, in allthe whirl and excitement of the metropolis, driving I knew not where, and entirely at the mercy of an assassin. However, my modest trunk didnot look very inviting, I suppose, for I reached _The New Yorker_office--the only other address I knew in the city--without furtheradventure, where I ascertained that brother was now living at 124Greenwich Street--a most beautiful situation close by the Battery--thenthe fashionable promenade of New York. He had written to tell me ofhis change of residence, but the letter failed to reach me. 

"It was half-past eleven when I finally reached my home. The largeparlor was ablaze with lights, and crowded with people; for it wasFriday, the night that _The New Yorker_ went to press, and brother'sreception evening. I was trembling with fatigue and excitement, andvery faint, for I had not eaten since early in the morning; but allthese emotions vanished when I was introduced to my new sister. I hadseen no pictures of her, and knew her only through brother'sdescription, and a few letters she had written me since her marriage, and I was quite unprepared for the exquisite, fairy-like creature I nowbeheld. A slight, girlish figure, rather _petite_ in stature, dressedin clouds of white muslin, cut low, and her neck and shoulders coveredby massive dark curls, from which gleamed out an Oriental-looking_coiffure_, composed of strands of large gold and pearl beads. Hereyes were large, dark, and pensive, and her rich brunette complexionwas heightened by a flush, not brilliant like Gabrielle's, but delicateas a rose-leaf. She appeared to me like a being from another world. "

To continue mamma's reminiscences of uncle's first year of married life:

"I found my sister-in-law's tastes, " she said, "quite different fromthose of the majority of young ladies. In literature her preferencewas for the solid and philosophic, rather than the romantic class ofreading; indeed, I may say that she never read, she _studied_; goingover a paragraph several times, until she had fully comprehended itssubtleties of thought, and stored them away in her retentive memory forfuture use. During that year, I never knew her to read a work offiction; but philosophy or science formed her daily nourishment; whilstbrother, whenever he had a free evening, read aloud to Mary and I fromGibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, sweetened now and thenwith a selection from Lord Byron or Mrs. Hemans--the two poets that atthat time he preferred. 

"But although your Aunt Mary had such severe literary tastes, she wasby no means gloomy in her disposition, as you might perhaps infer. Your uncle being at that time editor of a weekly journal, he wascomparatively a man of leisure, and he and Mary went frequently to thetheatre, and to hear lectures--a source of great enjoyment to both ofthem. They also mingled considerably in general society, for Mary wasthen very fond of dancing, although there was rarely or never any ather Friday evenings, for literary people then, as now, eschewed thegoddess Terpsichore. 

"I told you that I arrived in New York upon brother's reception-night. Those Friday evenings wore a great source of pleasure to me, introducing me as they did to the literary coterie of the metropolis. Nearly all the men and women of note at that time met in our parlors onGreenwich Street, and many of them were regular or occasionalcontributors to brother's journal. Among the names that I can recall, were Gen. Morris, then editing the _New York Mirror_; the two Clarkbrothers, editors of the _Knickerbocker_, one of whom, Willis GaylordClark, was at that time writing his clever 'Ollapodiana;' Fitz-GreeneHalleck, the poet; George M. Snow, who later in life became financialeditor of _The Tribune_, and is now deceased; Professor A. C. Kendrick, of Hamilton College, the translator of Schiller's 'Victor's Triumph, 'which subsequently appeared in _The New Yorker_, and which, you willremember, your uncle has occasionally read for us at our own Tuesdayevening receptions; Mrs. O. M. Sawyer, the accomplished wife ofbrother's pastor, then making her _débût_ in the literary world withpoems and occasional translations from the German; Elizabeth JessupEames, who was writing stories and poems for _The New Yorker_, underthe signature of 'Stella;' Mrs. E. F. Ellet, in 1836 a handsome youngbride, who had come up from the South, and was contributingtranslations from the French and German to the same journal; Anne CoraLynch, now Madame Botta; and many others. 

"I must not forget to mention Fisher, the sub-editor of _The NewYorker_, and, in his own estimation, the most important person uponthat journal. He was what might be called a literary fop, and was muchgiven to the production of highly-wrought, Byronic poems and sketches. I remember hearing that some one called one day at the office, andasked to see the editor. Fisher immediately presented himself. 

"'What!' said the visitor, somewhat surprised, 'are you Mr. Greeley?'

"'No, ' said Fisher, running his fingers nonchalantly through his curls, 'I am not Mr. Greeley, but, ' drawing himself up, 'I am the editor of_The New Yorker_. Mr. Greeley is only the printer. '

"This incident having got out among brother's friends, it wasconsidered so good a joke that for years he was called in the officeand by the literary fraternity, 'The Printer. '

"The entertainment at these Friday evenings was mainly conversation, varied by the occasional reading of a poem. Your Aunt Mary was muchadmired that winter, both for her exquisite beauty and the charm of herwinning, artless manners. As I said, she was very fond of dancing; butbrother never had time to accomplish himself in the art. I remember, however, that at a Christmas party given by his partner, Mr. Wilson, hewas induced to dance a quadrille. His mathematical accuracy enabledhim to go through the figures perfectly, when he had once seen themdanced; and he enjoyed it so thoroughly, and wore such an air ofunconscious happiness, that an old Quaker lady (the mother-in-law ofMr. Wilson) who was looking on remarked to me, 'I didn't think theecould find so beautiful a sight as thy brother's dancing this side ofheaven. '

"I have described your Aunt Mary as beautiful, and perhaps you wouldinfer that she was also over-fond of dress. She was no devotee tofashion, and her toilet was, even at that period, characterized bygreat simplicity, but was noted, at the same time, for picturesqueness. "

Ida showed me, the other day, a very interesting letter written to herfather by a friend, Mr. Yancey, who was present at his marriage, and asit confirms what mamma has said of Aunt Mary's beauty, I will make someextracts from it. Mr. Yancey was the son-in-law of Squire Bragg, atwhose house Aunt Mary resided while teaching school in North Carolina. 

"GERMANTOWN, TENNESSEE, _July 6, 1847_. 

"MR. GREELEY:

"DEAR SIR:--Sitting to-night 'all solitary and alone, ' my mind haswandered back upon scenes that have past eleven years ago, though vividnow even as yesterday. It was about that time that I saw you first, and indeed saw you last. 

"Little did I then dream that I beheld in that modest personage one whois now acknowledged as the 'distinguished and accomplished HoraceGreeley. '

"You well remember your first visit to the South, I dare say. Youcannot have forgotten many incidents that occurred at a little villageof North Carolina, called Warrenton? No, there is _one_ circumstance Ifeel assured you never can forget while memory lasts, and there areothers to which I claim the right to call your attention: for instance, do you remember your first meeting with a certain Miss Cheney at thehouse of Squire Bragg, the father of Capt. Bragg, who latelydistinguished himself at Monterey and Buena Vista? Do you now rememberto whom you related the secret of your visit, who procured the parson, and what persons accompanied you to church, and then with yourbeautiful bride returned to breakfast? We saw you take the solemnvows, we witnessed the plighted betrothal, and when you bore away fromus this prize, you also carried our best wishes that you might be everblessed, and she be made always happy. May it not have been otherwise. "

. . . . "I would, my dear sir, be pleased to hear from you, and tolearn something of the results and changes which time has brought aboutin your own family. 

"Be pleased to remember me to your sweet wife, and if there be any, ormany little G------s, my kind regards to them also. 

"Very respectfully, "A. L. YANCEY. "

CHAPTER VI. 

Visitors--Our Neighbors--The Chappaqua Croquet Club--Gabrielle'sLetter--A Hiding Party--Summer Heat--The Music-room--Friends from theCity. 

_June 18_. 

While out on the croquet ground this afternoon, a lady and gentlemanalighted from a carriage, and walked up to join us. They proved to beour friends, Mr. And Mrs. Charles E. Wilbour, of New York, who haddriven over from White Plains to make us an afternoon call. Mrs. Wilbour is a charming, intellectual woman, the president of Sorosis, and a friend of many years of both mamma and Aunt Mary. In appearanceshe is tall, handsome, and queenly, dressing in perfect taste, and agraceful hostess. Her pretty daughter Linny is a school friend ofGabrielle's at St. Mary's. 

Mr. And Mrs. Wilbour spend much time during the summer, driving aboutfrom one town to another; certainly the most comfortable and agreeablemode of travelling that one could adopt. 

We have some agreeable neighbors here, who contribute somewhat to thegeneral entertainment. The aristocracy of Chappaqua are chiefly Quakerfamilies who have lived here since the days of the Indians, and wholook down quite doubtfully upon the New York families who come out herefor the summer only, and of whose ancestry they know nothing. Thefathers and mothers wear the Quaker dress, and use the "Friends"phraseology, which I think very pretty and caressing, but the youngpeople depart somewhat from the way of grace, in speech, costume, andhabits. The young girls wear whatever color of the rainbow best suitstheir fresh complexions, are skilled in flirting, and with theassistance of the young gentlemen, have organized a club for weeklycroquet parties and private theatricals at the residences of thedifferent members, whilst picnics and riding-parties to Croton and RyeLakes, and other pretty points of interest, are of frequent occurrence. But of the riding-parties Gabrielle has just written a sprightlydescription to a school friend, and before the letter goes to the post, I will transcribe it. 

CHAPPAQUA, _June 18_. 

"DEAR MOLLIE: I received your charming letter and photograph last week. Many thanks for both. You ask me how do I pass my time, and what isthe latest excitement?

"Well, to begin with, you must know that we have just started a club inChappaqua for mutual amusement, but as I have been indisposed for sometime, I certainly have not yet derived much benefit from it, but spendmost of my time reading. 

"Last Saturday I was just longing for something to happen, andapostrophizing the world as a hollow sham, when Minna came up to saythat we had all been invited to an equestrian party, to start aftertea. You would have imagined I had been offered several kingdoms by mydelight. I gave two or three screams of condensed joy, while dancingwildly around the room, much to Aunt Esther's surprise. 

"But on second thoughts, what _was_ I to do for a horse? My ponies hadnever been broken to the saddle, but having made up my mind to go, go Iwould, if I had to ride a wild buffalo; so I ordered Lady Alice aroundan hour before the time to start. When she arrived, the balcony wasfilled with a large and anxious audience, and rather than fail beforeso many, I was determined that either I should break the horse in, orshe should break me. I sprang into the saddle, but before I could seatmyself or put my foot in the stirrup, she jerked her head away fromBernard, and commenced a series of exciting manoeuvres, rearing, plunging, and kicking. For about five minutes I defied all the laws ofgravitation. But when the coachman tried to seize her bridle, sheshied so suddenly that I was surprised to find myself on terra firma. I jumped up directly and assured every one that I had not hurt myselfin the least, in fact had never felt better; but between you and me, Ifelt very like the dog that was tossed by the cow with the crumpledhorn. I am afraid that by this time I had let my little angry passionsrise--in other words, I was decidedly angry. 

"I got on splendidly this time, and was quite ready to start with mycousins when the time came, although my Lady Alice evinced seriousobjections to the gate, and preferred ambling gently along sideways upthe hill. After a while I intimated kindly with my whip a desire togallop. I fear that, like some of our friends, she is hard to take ahint, for she progressed by the most wonderful plunges, garnished withlittle kicks; but I kept her head well up, and clawed out severalhandfuls of her mane. When we came to the rendezvous, my cavalierproposed running her for two or three miles to take down her spirits alittle, after which she went beautifully, and I never enjoyed a ride somuch before. 

"We rode to Lake Wampus, and everything looked so lovely, for the fullmoon lighted it up like a mirror, and we had singing and thrillingghost stories. 

"Dear me, how awfully long this letter is! Be sure you answer it soon. 

"Yours lovingly, "GABRIELLE. "

_June 19_. 

The heat and dust are becoming insufferable, for we have had no rain, save in very homoeopathic doses, during the three weeks that we havebeen here. The shrubs and bushes by the roadside look so piteous undertheir weight of dust, that I feel half inclined to try the effect of afeather brush upon their drooping leaves; and Bernard, who is neverprone to take cheerful views of anything, grows daily more gloomy whenwe inquire after the progress of the kitchen-garden. But, although weare sighing under the heat, it is nothing, we are told, to what the NewYorkers are now enduring, and our friends, Mrs. Acheson and Dr. Taylor, who came out yesterday from the city to spend the day with us, congratulated us upon the coolness of the temperature at Chappaqua. 

The morning was passed out of doors playing croquet and walking

 "Sotto i pini del boschetto, "

to use the words of the coquettish Countess and her arch waiting-maidin the "Marriage of Figaro" (that Letter Duo contains, I think, some ofthe most delicious music that the joyous Mozart ever wrote). 

The sun was too hot after our early dinner, for us to find muchpleasure in croquet; so we sat in the music-room, and upon the piazza, and listened to a few songs from Marguerite, and watched the skill ofpapa and the handsome blond doctor in the "Magic Rings, "--a very easygame, to all appearance, but one which really requires much dexterityof hand. 

The music-room is, I think, the coolest and pleasantest room in thehouse. It is one of the additions built by uncle after he hadpurchased this house--a large, square room on the ground floor, withcurtained windows opening upon the balcony, and upon the oldapple-tree. It is singularly favorable for music, for it contains noheavy furniture, and the floor is uncarpeted. We had intended toremove all the pictures from the walls, that they might not deaden thesound of the music, but we could not resist an exquisite "Mary in theDesert, " purchased by uncle in Florence, in 1851; so this painting isnow hung over the piano. 

Our sprightly brunette friend with the merry black eyes, Mrs. Acheson, looked unusually pretty and charming yesterday. I love to describestylish toilettes as well as any fashion-writer; so here is hers in allits details: steel-colored silk trimmed with turquoise blue, demi-traine, her hair beautifully dressed (or _coiffured_, to use thefashionable newspaper word) in puffs and rolls, and finished with alittle blue feather; while an elegant fan attached to half a yard ofgold chain depended from her belt. 

When the 4. 45 train was at hand, Ida and I walked down to the stationwith our friends. Quite luckily there was a drawing-room car attachedto the train, although such luxury is generally confined to theexpress, which does not stop here. I learnt, however, from thestation-master, that this car had borne some happy pair as far asAlbany the day before, had stayed there over-night for repairs, and wasnow returning in a leisurely manner to New York. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Midsummer Day--An Artist's Visit--Ida's Letter--Moonlight on CrotonLake--Morning Readings--Plato and Kohlrausch. 

_June 21_. 

In honor of Midsummer Day, Marguerite and I have spent the morning atthe piano, playing Mendelssohn's delicious fairy music from theMidsummer Night's Dream. 

We have had little time to practise or read this week, for company hasbeen of almost daily occurrence; Marguerite returned yesterday morningfrom a flying visit to the city, accompanied by our friends, ColonelRogers and Mr. Hows, the artist, who is a neighbor of ours in our ruralpart of the city--Cottage Place. Colonel Rogers was dressed entirelyin gray, a costume that looked delightfully cool, and was a perfectmatch for his eyes. 

The morning was spent in playing croquet, and in showing our guestsover the place, whose wild beauty delighted Mr. Hows' artistic eyes. We walked first to the flower-garden, where we gathered flowers todress the table for dinner, and then visited the pine grove, theromantic dell, and the stone barn of which uncle was always so proud, where we spent an hour amid the sweet hay. 

For the evening a drive was proposed, as we have now quite recoveredfrom our former dread of malaria. Ida held the ribbons on thisoccasion, and as I was not one of the party, I will insert her gracefuldescription of the pleasant evening. 

"CHAPPAQUA. 

"DEAR JULIA: I was so sorry to get your letter saying you could notcome. I wish you had not let your tiresome old dressmaker deprive meof the pleasure of your company on our expedition to Croton Lake. 

"I must tell you all about the delightful time we had. Two of thenumerous friends of our blue-eyed Marguerite, Colonel Rogers and Mr. Hows, whose exquisite pictures you and I have so often enjoyedtogether, were our cavaliers on this occasion. As our light carriageonly has room for four, I drove the ponies myself. We started justabout sundown, and the pleasant coolness of evening came on while therewas still daylight enough to light up the constantly changing panoramaof hill and dale, and forest and distant river, beyond which the bluemountain range dimly seen, now seemed to emerge into bolder relief, andagain to fade back into cloud-land. 

"Mr. Hows' delight in the scenery was certainly equalled by mine inlistening to its praises. I am very fond of this part of Westchester, and when people talk of the beauties of the Adirondacks, I listen withthe silent conviction that we have everything here but the musquitoesand the bad cooking, with both of which I cheerfully dispense. 

"But to return to our drive. The last mile the road ran through a darkforest, following the course of a stream called Roaring Brook, whichgenerally makes good its title to the name, but now, owing to therecent drouth, was reduced to roaring as gently as Bottom's Lionpromised to do. At last the lake was reached, and turning to theright, we were soon skimming along at a great pace on the wideboulevard that skirts the water as far along as Pine's Bridge. Therewe put up our ponies at a hotel with an impossible and unpronounceableIndian name, and accepted the Colonel's kind invitation for a row. Weall regretted there was no moon, with as much self-reproach as if ithad been accidentally left behind, but were glad enough to get into ourlittle white boat, that looked quite silvery against the dark current. 

"The gentlemen, who had been dying to hear Marguerite sing ever sincecoming out here, now suggested that her voice was all that was neededto make the hour perfect; so Marguerite, who is as sweet and unaffectedabout her singing as if she hadn't the most exquisite soprano everheard off the stage, consented without any tiresome urging, and askedwhat it should be. We were evenly divided between 'Robin Adair' andMario's 'Good-bye, Sweetheart, ' so our pretty songstress kindly gave usboth. 

"I cannot recall the delicious effect of her singing as we weredrifting along in the sombre twilight, better than by quoting BuchananRead's charming lines, which I dare say you have seen before:

 "'I heed not if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. 

 "'Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals; At peace I lie, Blown softly by A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

 "'No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its load uproar: With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. '

 "I. L. G. "

_June 24_. 

The week commenced with a dash of rain, but this morning it was againas hot as though no clouds had darkened the sky. Croquet was out ofthe question, and not even for the sake of trying my new beaver andstylish habit, so becoming to a slight figure, could I confront thedust and the sun's blazing rays upon Nancy's back (for such is theunromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing mewhen we ride). No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and theDuchess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and archingtheir pretty necks, evidently impatient to be off, were sent back tothe stables, much amazed, I doubt not, at our capricious conduct; whilewe--mamma, Marguerite, and I--sauntered up to the cool pine grove, accompanied by Arthur, bearing a camp-chair for mamma, and a couple ofwise-looking tomes, in whose society we were to spend the morning. 

But I have not yet introduced Arthur. He is neither brother, cousin, nor _fiancé_, but bound to us by almost brotherly ties, having been ourplaymate when we were little children; and after the death of hisparents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artistwife), he became mamma's ward, and was our constant companion in Italyand France. Arthur has come on from Cambridge, where he has just takenhis degree as a lawyer, to make us a visit of some weeks, and we havehad much pleasure talking over with him those poetic days that wepassed together in Florence and Venice. 

But _our_ life is never made up of talking and dreaming, delightfulthough it may be, and we have a certain amount of reading to do everyday, which we despatch as conscientiously as we do our prayers. Thereis no rule, however, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthuroften relieves us of that duty. I enjoy his reading very much, especially when one of Plato's "Dialogues" is the lesson of the day, for into them he throws so much enthusiasm and dramatic force, thatthey are quite a revelation to me. I was amused this morning, uponturning over the leaves of my journal of last winter, to find my firstimpressions of the "Dialogues" thus laconically expressed:

"I have to-day commenced to read Plato aloud. I cannot say that I findhim very refreshing as yet; still I try to admire him as much as Iconscientiously can. "

I must confess that at first the abstruse subtleties of Socrates andhis brother logicians were too much for my little brain, but now that Iam more familiar with them, I quite delight in following theirarguments. These "Dialogues" remind me of a fugue in musicalcomposition; only melody is wanting to make the resemblance perfect, for here, as in the "Well-tempered Harpsichord, " one train of thoughtis taken up, viewed from every side and in every light--that is to say, pursued through every possible key only to return and end at theoriginal starting-point. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Story-telling--Mr. Greeley's Father--His Personal Appearance--HisEducation--A Fine Voice--Mr. Greeley's Mother--A Handsome Woman--Howshe is remembered in Vermont--Field Labor--Bankruptcy--A Journey toVermont--School Days--The Boy Horace--How he entertained hisPlaymates--His First Ball--Separation from his Family. 

_June 25_. 

"What a delightful evening for story-telling!" said Gabrielle, as shelistened to the heavy rain-drops falling upon the leaves of the oldapple-tree; "will you not give us one, Aunt Esther?"

"Yes, " said Ida and Marguerite, drawing their chairs closer to mamma'ssofa. "Do tell us about yourself when you were a young girl, and aboutgrandpapa and grandmamma!"

"Ah, " said mamma, with a sigh, "you children have never known my dearparents!"

Marguerite was the only one of the young quartette who rememberedhaving seen grandpapa, and her recollections of him were confused withmemories of people in Europe, where our childhood was spent. 

"How did he look when you were a little girl, mamma?" I inquired. "Ithink he is quite imposing in your little picture taken the year beforehe died, and he must have been very handsome when he was young. "

"He was not only handsome: he was an unusual man, " said mamma, decidedly. "No biographer, in speaking of our family, has everestimated him correctly, and even dear brother himself does not givesufficient importance to father's fine character and mental qualities;but you know that he left home when a boy of fifteen, and after thattime he only saw father at long intervals. 

"You remember, Cecilia, that all the foreign sketches you have everread of brother, announce that his parents were 'common peasants, 'while many American writers, although they do not use the word'peasant, ' convey a similar impression. Father was by no means acommon man, for to be 'common' one must be vulgar or ignorant, andfather was neither. He was not uneducated, although his schooling wasvery slight; but he was a good reader, was very skilful in arithmetic, and wrote an excellent hand--an accomplishment for which our family arenot celebrated--beside possessing a hoard of self-acquired informationupon different subjects. During the long winter evenings in our lonelyPennsylvania home, he taught us younger children arithmetic, and wasvery fond of giving us long sums to puzzle out. I have often, heardhim say to brother Barnes, "'You must store your mind with useful knowledge, that when you go outinto the world you will have something to talk about as well as otherpeople. '

"A poor farmer in those days did not have much opportunity to acquireaccomplishments, as you may well imagine; but father possessed onetalent that, if properly directed, might have made his fortune andours. I have never yet heard a natural voice that excelled yourgrandfather's; a high, clear, powerful tenor, with unsurpassed strengthof lungs, which, added to his handsome presence, would have made himone of the finest singers that has yet trodden the boards. Of coursehis voice was uncultivated, with the exception of the slight trainingof country singing-classes, and the songs that he knew were simpleballads; but his memory was very retentive, and his singing was ingreat demand when company was present. At husking-parties andapple-bees, when supper was over and the young people wished to dance, if no fiddler was present, father would be petitioned to sing. I haveoften known him to sing country dances for hours, and he sung soheartily, and marked the time so well, that the young people enjoyedthe dancing as much as if the music had been furnished by the mostskilful violinist. 

"I told you that father was a handsome man. He had large blue eyes, soft, silky, brown curls clustering around a magnificent brow, a setcolor in his cheeks, and a hand that the hardest field labor could notdeprive of its beauty--long, tapering fingers, and pointed nails, suchas novelists love to describe, but in real life are rarely seen outsideof the most aristocratic families. His teeth were small, white andeven, and at the time of his death, when eighty-seven years old, he hadonly lost one. His figure, though less than six feet, gave theimpression of a much taller man; for he was slenderly built withoutbeing thin, and his carriage was almost military. To this finepresence was added an air of dignity and almost _hauteur_, that wasvery unusual in a poor farmer. But father was proud to an unparalleleddegree. Indeed, it was his pride that caused him to plunge into thewild forests of Pennsylvania. His haughty nature could not bear thelife of subordination that he led in Vermont, where he did not own anacre of land, and was obliged to work under the orders of others, oftenfar inferior to him, and where he fancied the story of his flight fromNew Hampshire was known to every one. Smarting with mortification, hetoiled until he could save a few hundred dollars to buy some acres inthe wilderness, far from all his former associates, and there he buriedhimself with my dear mother and their five little children. But thesemorose feelings were somewhat subdued as the years rolled on. 

"With his children he was affectionate, but, like an old-school father, very distant. He never struck one of us in his life--a glance beingsufficient to enforce obedience, or subdue the wildest spirits. He wasalways as particular about the etiquette of the table as though we wereserved by footmen in livery; and in our poorest days, when cups andsaucers were scant and spoons still more so, we were obliged to observethe utmost decorum till we were helped; and any laughing or chatteramong the younger ones was immediately quelled by the emphatic descentof father's fork upon the coverless table, with the words, 'Children, silence!'

"Father was highly respected by our neighbors in Pennsylvania, and wasoften urged to accept some county office. However, he always declined. "

"Do you think, mamma, " said Marguerite, "that grandmamma was ashandsome as grandpapa?"

A pause of a moment or two. 

"They were very different, " was her reply. "Mother had neitherfather's brilliant face, nor his imposing presence, but she was a veryhandsome woman. She had soft blue eyes, a perfectly straight nose, amouth rather large, perhaps, for beauty, but full of character, brownhair tinged with red, and a transparent, though not pallid complexion. If you wish more minute details, look at your uncle's picture. No manever resembled a woman more strikingly than he did our dear mother. "

"In a recently published life of uncle, " said I, "the author speaks ofgrandmamma as often working in the fields, and describes her as largeand muscular, and possessing the strength of a man. Is not that anexaggeration?"

"Mother was above medium height, " was mamma's reply, "but her figurewas slender, with small and well-shaped hands and feet. It was herpride that water could flow under the arch of her instep; and herfingers, notwithstanding the hard toil of daily life, remained soflexible, that, when fifty years old, she could still bend them_backwards_ to form a drinking-cup. "

"Let me tell you, Aunt Esther, " interposed Ida, "how grandmamma isremembered in Vermont. When Gabrielle and I were quite small children, we went there on a visit, and papa took us to see some old lady (whosename I have forgotten) residing in Westhaven. This lady had knowngrandmamma very well, and, after contemplating Gabrielle and I for sometime, remarked curtly, 'Neither of you children are as handsome as yourgrandmother was. '"

This uncomplimentary remark caused us all to laugh heartily. Mammathen resumed her story. 

"As for field labor, your grandmother may, while we were in NewHampshire, have sometimes assisted father for a day or two during thepressure of haying or harvesting time; but never, since I was oldenough to observe, can I recollect seeing her work in the fields. Certainly mother was not a woman to hesitate to do cheerfully whatevernecessity required. But she had quite enough to occupy herself at homewith the entire duties of a house, with the spinning, weaving, andmaking up of all the linen and woollen cloth that the household used;and the care and early instruction of her little ones--for it was herpride that all of her children learned to read before going to school. I remember that when I was first sent to school, at the age of four, the teacher, with a glance at my tiny figure (for I was a small, delicate child), called me up to read to her, and opened the book atthe alphabet. Deeply injured, I informed her that I knew my letters, and could read over in 'An old man found a rude boy in one of hisapple-trees, '--a fable that all familiar with Webster's Spelling-bookwill remember. 

"My first distinct recollection of mother is in the dark days in NewHampshire. Father, as you know, had lost everything that he possessed, and was obliged to fly into the next State to escape imprisonment fordebt. After he left, his furniture was attached and sold. I rememberseeing strange, rough men in the house, who pulled open all the trunksand chests of drawers, and tossed about the beautiful bed and tablelinen that mother had wrought before her marriage. Another picture, too, is impressed indelibly upon my mind--how mother followed thesheriff and his men about from room to room with the tears rolling downher face, while brother Horace, then a little white-haired boy, nineyears old, held her hand and tried to comfort her, telling her not tocry--he would take care of her. 

"But mother, although humiliated and heart-sore at the poverty anddisgrace that lay before her so early in her married life, was not awoman to fold her hands and think sadly of what

 "'--might have been. '

She wiped away her tears, and her busy fingers were soon preparing warmhoods and dresses to protect her little ones from the bitter coldduring the journey that lay before us, for in the course of two orthree months father had by hard toil earned money sufficient to sendfor us. I remember very well that journey over the mountains coveredwith snow into the State of Vermont, and our establishment in what wascalled the 'small house by the ledge' in the little neighborhood ofhouses clustering on and about the old Minot estate. 

"You children, accustomed as you have been from your infancy to theattractive text-books of the present day, would quite scorn the systemof instruction at the school I attended in Westhaven. I went therethree winters, but although I soon rose to the first class in readingand spelling, in which branches I was unusually precocious, myeducation was confined entirely to those two departments of learning. Few text-books were then used in the school, for the parents of thechildren were generally too poor to pay for many, and the musty oldGrammar and Arithmetic were kept in reserve for the older scholars. Onaccount of my youth the teacher did not advance me, and I went againand again through the old Spelling-book, and learnt by heart what wascalled the 'fore part of the book'--some dry rules of orthography, which never conveyed the slightest idea to my mind, although I repeatedthem, parrot-like, without missing a word, and which the teacher neverthought of explaining to me. From the spelling-book I was in timepromoted to the New Testament (not as easy reading as might have beenselected, by the way). This was followed by the American Preceptor, and subsequently by Murray's 'English Reader, ' a work reserved for themost advanced scholars. 

"My brothers did not go to school during the summer months, for theirservices were then required to assist father in his work; and I, too, had to leave school every day at eleven o'clock to carry their dinnerto them at the place, a mile and a half distant, where they wereclearing a portion of the Minot estate. 

"When brother Horace was thirteen years old he was taken out of school, as the teacher could instruct him no longer. I was kept at home also, and brother taught me, giving me lessons in arithmetic and penmanship, which studies had been prohibited me at school. Here commenced a mosttender attachment and sympathy between brother and I. As there weretwo children--Barnes and sister Arminda--between us, our difference ofyears had hitherto kept us somewhat apart; but after brother had beenfor several months my instructor we were from that time the nearest inheart in our large household. 

"I think that mother must have entirely regained her spirits during thefour years that we lived in Vermont, for I remember that men, women, and children alike delighted in her society, and our house was thecentre of the little neighborhood. We resided very near theschool-house, and rarely did a morning pass without a visit from someof the girls, to have a few words of greeting from mother on their wayto their lessons. When recess time came, they would arrive in numbersto spend the time with her, and beg for a song or a story from theinexhaustible supply with which her memory was stored, and there theywould remain, fascinated by her sweet, low voice until she would beobliged to playfully chase them out of the house to compel them toreturn to school. From the teacher, for tardiness, punishment was avery frequent occurrence, but it made slight impression upon the girlsin comparison with the enjoyment of listening to one of mother'sthrilling or romantic stories, for the following day they would returnto our house to again risk the penalty. 

"I told you that brother taught me after we were taken out of school. He was the gentlest and kindest of instructors, and was always ready tolay down his own book to help me out of any difficulty that my lessonpresented, although it was by no means easy to make him close his bookunder other circumstances; such as the solicitations of his youngfriends to join them in a game. 

"I have described father to you as a stern man in his every-dayintercourse with us, but although his motto was 'Work, ' he was alwayswilling to grant us a holiday or a play-hour, when he thought we hadearned it. He would relax his dignity, too, somewhat when young peoplecame to pass the evening with us; would encourage us to play games anddance, and would often join us; for, although he never played cardshimself, nor would he allow them to be played in his house, he himselftaught us how to dance. 

"When our young friends came to see us, there was much rejoicing frombrother Barnes, who was full of life and spirits, and always ready toplay, and from Arminda and myself; but brother Horace, not at allallured by blind-man's-buff or a dance, would retire to a corner with apine knot (for in those days candles were few), preferring thecompanionship of his book to our merry games. Coaxing was all in vain:the only means of inducing him to join us was to snatch away his bookand hide it; but even then he preferred to gather us quietly about himand tell us stories. I remember that before he left home he hadrelated to us, among other things, the thousand and one stories of the'Arabian Nights, ' and 'Robinson Crusoe. ' This gift of story-telling heinherited from mother, whose talent in that line certainly equalledthat of the beautiful Sultana Scheherazade herself. At this time, although I had never seen a copy of Shakespeare, I was familiar withthe names and plots of all his imaginative, and many of his historicalplays, which mother would relate to us in her own words, embellishednow and then with bits of the original verse, as she sat at herspinning-wheel, or busied herself about the household work. 

"It was, I think, at this same time--our last year in Vermont--that alarge ball, for young people only, was given in our neighborhood. Muchspeculation was excited among our young friends as to whether Horacewould dance at this ball, and especially if he would fetch a partnerwith him. It was the general opinion that he would not, as he did notbear a high reputation for gallantry. Great, then, was theastonishment of all present when Horace entered the ballroom with AnneBush, the prettiest girl in the neighborhood, upon his arm. He openedthe ball with her, and his deportment quite silenced those who hadquestioned his appearance. 

"Before long, preparations for another journey were in progress. Father had earned money sufficient to buy some land, and I heard thatwe were going to Pennsylvania. I was, however, too young to be muchimpressed by this news, and it was not until I saw mother once more intears that its importance was apparent to me. This time mother wept asbitterly as before, for not only was she to be separated by a greaterdistance from her family in New Hampshire, to whom she was fondlyattached, and from the pleasant circle of friends she had made inWesthaven, but her darling among us children, her beautiful eldest boy, of whom she was so proud, was to be left in Vermont. "

CHAPTER IX. 

A Picnic at Croton Dam--The Waterworks--A Game of TwentyQuestions--Gabrielle as a Logician--Evangeline'sBetrothal--Marguerite's Letter--Description ofChappaqua--Visitors--Edmonia Lewis. 

_June 26_. 

Gabrielle and I have just returned from spending the day at Croton Dam. A large party from the prominent families of Chappaqua was organized byMiss Murray, the pretty daughter of one of our neighbors, and at nineo'clock a number of carriages, packed to overflowing with young peopleand lunch-baskets, and led off by a four-horse wagon, startedcaravan-wise from the place of rendezvous, Mr. Murray's elegant grounds. 

The drive was a very pretty one, skirting for some distance thebeautiful little lake that supplies the great thirsty city of New York;and the spot chosen for the picnic--shady, terrace-like heights, with agradual slope to meet the water, and a rough bench here and there--wasdeclared the most suitable place in the world to lay the cloth. One ortwo members of the party remained behind to unload the carriages, countthe broken dishes, and estimate the proportion of contributions--manypeople fetching salt in abundance but forgetting sugar, whilst othersfurnished elaborately frosted cakes, but omitted such necessaries asknives and forks. Meantime, we climbed the stone steps leading to thewaterworks, and after a glimpse of the seething dark-green waterthrough the heavy iron grating, we hunted up the overseer and asked himto unlock the doors for us, that we might have a nearer view. Heassented, and admitted us very obligingly, giving us meantime a graphicdescription of the yearly journey of the Inspector in a boat down thedark passage to New York, and pointing out the low narrow place ofentry from the water-house where they must lie down in the boat. 

Dinner hour is generally a most interesting moment in a picnic, andthis was the time when the young gentlemen showed their gallantry bypartaking only of such viands as had come from the baskets of theirfavorites among the young ladies. 

A cloth was spread upon the ground; seats were extemporized for theladies out of carriage cushions, waterproofs and wraps; the knives, forks and plates were dealt out as impartially as possible, and wepassed a very merry hour. 

When the repast was over, the party dispersed--some to play croquet, others to row upon the lake, or to stroll about under the trees; someyoung ladies produced books and bright bits of fancy-work, whileGabrielle, Arthur and I, with our pretty captain, Miss Murray, and oneof her attendant cavaliers, decided to pass away the time by playing agame--no trivial game, however; neither "consequences" norfortune-telling, but an eminently scientific one entitled "TwentyQuestions. " For the benefit of the uninitiated I will remark that theoracle chooses a subject (silently), and the others are allowed to puttwenty questions to him to enable them to divine it--usually commencingwith "Is the object that you have in your mind to be found in theanimal, vegetable, or mineral kingdom?"

Gabrielle is very clever in this somewhat abstruse game, for shepossesses her mother's spirit of inquiry and love of reasoning, and shepasses entire evenings with Arthur, pursuing the most perplexing andintangible subjects. She and Arthur are admirably matched in thisgame; for if she is unparalleled in the quickness with which she willfollow up a clue and triumphantly announce the mysterious object, afterasking eighteen or nineteen questions, Arthur is no less adroit inselecting unusual subjects, and so artfully parrying her questions asto give her the least possible assistance. I often hear them call toeach other--

"I have chosen a subject; you will never in the world guess it!"

Then follows an hour of questions and reasoning, with inferences drawnand rejected, and a display of sophistry that would do credit to a morefully fledged lawyer than Arthur is at present. 

Yesterday, after dinner, they launched into one of their games, andGabrielle guessed after eighteen questions what would have requiredforty, I am sure, from any one else--the eighty-eighth eye of a fly!

Another was even more puzzling. The object belonged, Arthur assuredher, to the vegetable kingdom, the color was white, and he had oftenmet it within a dozen yards of the railway station. "A daisy, " was thefirst and natural solution, but she was, he assured her, very faradrift. "A telegraph post, " she next announced, but she was againunsuccessful. At this point I left them; but after an hour had passedGabrielle ran up to my room to tell me that she had guessed it--a polkadot upon one of her morning dresses!

The object chosen by Arthur at the picnic was the right horn of themoon. Gabrielle, this time, sat beside me and enjoyed the perplexityof the questioners, for not until we were about to step into thecarriage to return home did they guess it. 

_June 27_. 

A letter this morning from our pretty cousin Evangeline, announcingthat she is engaged to a Dr. Ross of Chautauqua county, where shelives. Evangeline is the only daughter of mamma's youngest sister, Margaret. She is eighteen years old, of medium height, and wellformed, with a fair complexion, the chestnut hair that is peculiar tothe younger members of the Greeley family, and brown eyes inheritedfrom her father's family, for the Greeley eye _par excellence_ is blue. Although Evangeline has been brought up in the quiet little village ofClymer, she has been well educated, and besides being uncle's favoriteamong his nieces, she was much admired in general society during thewinter that she spent with us in New York two years ago. At uncle'sbirthday party, which she attended, she was by many pronounced thehandsomest young lady present. 

We have never seen Dr. Ross, but mamma remembers his family well, andsays that "he comes of a good stock. " He is not wealthy, but he is ina good profession, is of unexceptionable character, and very devoted toour dear Evangeline; so they have _my_ blessing. The marriage will nottake place until December, when Evangeline will have laid off hermourning. 

Marguerite's portfolio is open upon her writing-table, and a letter toEvangeline, not yet sealed, lies between the blotting-sheets. As itspeaks of Evangeline's betrothal, I will insert it here:

"CHAPPAQUA, _June 27_. 

"DEAREST EVANGELINE:--You complain in your last letter that I do notwrite enough about Chappaqua and 'the farm. ' You wish particulars. Mysweet cousin, I thought that you were familiar with descriptions ofthis dearest spot on earth, as I remember that dear uncle gave each ofus a copy of his 'Recollections' the last Christmas that you were withus--the last Christmas indeed that he spent upon this earth. Perusethat volume, dear, for in it you will find a more vivid picture, a morepoetic description of his dearly loved home and surroundings, thananything that I can say. 

"As to Chappaqua being a large or small village--it is small, verysmall, not half so large as Clymer, where you live; but it is far morepicturesque. There are only a dozen or two houses in all, including acouple of stores, a post-office, a 'wayside inn, ' and a church withouta bell. There are, however, many fine residences scattered over thetownship; whichever way we drive, we see elegant mansions nestling in acopse of wood, or crowning some hill-top. 

"The valley through which we approach Chappaqua is faced on either sideby a succession of beautiful undulating hills that are thickly coveredwith dark-green foliage. This farm, consisting of eighty-four acres(for you know that there is another lying adjacent of nearly the samesize), presents very beautiful and varied scenery. Near the house inthe woods, where uncle and aunt lived so many years, a pretty brookwinds down by the lower barn, and goes singing away through the meadowsbright

 "'With steadfast daisies pure and white. '

But this is not all; this lovely, babbling brook fills a large pond, high up in the woods, then flows over a stone dam, and comes rushingdown in a succession of waterfalls, stopping for breathing-space in oneof the wildest story-telling glens I ever saw. 

"And here, in the gloom of the forest-trees, where the birds love tocongregate, and a thousand perfumes of clover and new-mown hay, and thearoma of the evergreen grove, come up, Ida and I spend many an hour, forgetful of city life, and heedless about ever returning to it. 

"This year we are occupying the roadside house, which, although not sobeautiful as the new one on the side-hill, nor so retired and romanticas the one in the woods still is lovely and has a very charmingprospect. It stands on sloping ground that is skirted by forest andfruit trees. Some of them throw their grateful shade on the piazza andbalcony that run the width of the front of the house. My room opens onthe balcony by three French windows, and here I often walk to catch thelast gleam of departing day, or linger after nightfall to see thefar-away stars come out. The moonrise here is perfectly enchanting, climbing up as it does over the eastern hills, and throwing its pensivelight over the silent meadows, and distant, dark woods. 

"But I have filled my sheet before speaking of your engagement. As Ihave not seen your handsome doctor, you will not expect me to beenthusiastic. I hear that he is intelligent, clever in his profession, and of excellent character, but not rich. Well Evangeline, you know Iapprove of wealth, combined with other good qualifications; but if Ihad to choose between a man of mind and a man of money, I don't think Iwould hesitate long which to take; so you are sure of my approbation, and you have my best wishes for your future happiness. 

"Your loving cousin, "MARGUERITE. "

_June 29_. 

A visit yesterday from our friend Mrs. Sarah L. Hopper, the clevercontributor to several Southern journals. Among them the _WashingtonGazette_, and the _True Woman_--the latter an anti-suffrage journal. Mrs. Hopper not only writes well; she is also a woman of varied andexcellent reading, and the appreciation of the modern classics isdisplayed in one of her poems--an admirable apostrophe to the characterand works of Dante. This poem, which was published some time since, Mrs. Hopper once recited to us, and both mamma and I were struck withthe true ring of poesy so apparent in it. 

_June 30_. 

Upon returning from church yesterday, we found the front door standingopen, a couple of arm-chairs upon the piazza, and a newspaper or two inlieu of the occupants--proof unmistakable of a masculine invasion. Whoit was we could not imagine; that it was not a neighbor we wereconvinced by seeing the morning _Herald_ and _Times_, for the Sundaypapers cannot be obtained here, save by being at the depot when theinterminable way-train comes up from New York, and waylaying thenewsboy who accompanies the cars; and for this our neighbors are rarelysufficiently enterprising. Unmistakably our visitors had come from thecity. 

Upon questioning Minna, she gave us a graphic description of thegentlemen. One was "tall, oh so tall! with dark hair and redcheeks"--in him we recognized Mr. Walworth Ward--the other was a blondegentleman whom she had seen here before. 

"Lina has already made wine _padding_, " she said, seeing Ida about todescend and inspect the larder. "Miss no fret--all right. "

Ida and I then started to walk to the grove, where we thought we wouldprobably find our guests awaiting our return. Not there, indeed, butin the vegetable garden we found them, where they were kindly lookingafter the interests of the family by weeding the strawberry-beds, regardless of the Sabbath, and notwithstanding one of the gentlemen wasa grandson of a D. D. In answer to our regrets that we should have beenabsent when they arrived, they mildly intimated some surprise, onehaving telegraphed his proposed coming, and the other sent a messagethrough papa the day previous; dear papa, however, had as usualforgotten to deliver the message, and whither the telegram went, no onecould imagine. 

_July 1_. 

A visit yesterday from the little colored sculptress, Edmonia Lewis. Miss Lewis was accompanied by a box of formidable size, containing, shetold us, a marble bust of Mr. Greeley, which she had brought out herefor the opinion of the family; but as Ida was in the city where she hadgone for a day's shopping, we reserved our judgment until she shouldreturn and see it with us. 

I was very glad to learn that Miss Lewis was prospering in both apecuniary and an artistic point of view. She had, she told me, received two orders for busts of uncle--one from the Lincoln Club, andone from a Chicago gentleman. She intends returning to Rome beforelong. 

Miss Lewis had already opened a studio while we were in Rome four orfive years ago, and I heard much talk about her from her brother andsister artists. I intended at one time to visit her studio and see herwork, but several sculptors advised me not to do so; she was, theydeclared, "queer, " "unsociable, " often positively rude to her visitors, and had been heard to fervently wish that the Americans would not cometo her studio, as they evidently looked upon her only as a curiosity. When, therefore, I did see her for the first time (last summer), I wasmuch surprised to find her by no means the morose being that had beendescribed to me, but possessed of very soft and quite winning manners. She was amused when I told her what I had heard of her, and remarked, quite pertinently:

"How could I expect to sell my work if I did not receive visitorscivilly?"

Miss Lewis expressed much gratitude to Miss Hosmer and Miss Stebbinsfor their kindness to her in Rome, and of Miss Cushman she saidenthusiastically, "She is an angel!"

She is, I have been told, very well received in society abroad, andwhen baptized a Catholic in Rome, two ladies of high position, CountessCholmondeley and Princess Wittgenstein, offered to stand godmother forher. Edmonia chose Lady Cholmondeley, whom I remember well in Rome asa great belle and a highly accomplished woman. She wrote poetry, I wastold, and modelled in clay with much taste, and her finely trainedvoice and dainty playing of the harp I well remember as one of theattractions of Miss Cushman's receptions. 

Edmonia has, beside her somewhat hard English appellation, two prettybaptismal names--Maria Ignatia. 

CHAPTER X. 

Cataloguing the Library--A Thousand Volumes--Contrasting Books--SomeRare Volumes--Mr. Greeley's Collection of Paintings--Authenticity ofthe Cenci Questioned--A Portrait of Galileo--Portrait of MartinLuther--Portrait of Greeley at Thirty--Powers' Proserpine--Hart's Bustof Mr. Greeley--Mosaics and Medallions. 

_July 2_. 

This morning we have had a family picnic at the side-hill house, wherethe amusement was, however, neither "Twenty Questions, " gossip, norcroquet; but arranging and cataloguing uncle's large library. Thebooks had hitherto been kept in the house in the woods, with theexception of those in daily use, filling three good-sized bookcases inour present residence; but as the house in the woods had been twicebroken into last winter, Ida thought it safer to move them all downthis summer to the side-hill house, where Bernard sleeps. Accordingly, a wagon-load or two was brought down the other day and deposited in thedining-room, and this morning, as we had no guests, and no verypressing occupations, we all, including Minna, went up there directlyafter breakfast to look them over. 

"I am resolved, " Ida had said, "to have the books catalogued, that Imay know in future how many I yearly lose by lending them to myfriends. " Consequently the work was doubled by the necessity ofwriting down the names, and we had unluckily chosen the hottest daythat we had so far experienced for this laborious task. We all went towork, however, with as much energy as though the temperature was at areasonable degree, and I felt quite proud of my achievements when thework was done, having catalogued, myself, over three hundred volumes. 

Our work was divided: mamma read off the names of the books, andMarguerite and I wrote them down, and Minna then dusted and carriedthem into the next room to Ida, who placed them upon the shelves, dividing the library into compartments for poetry, biography, science, fiction, etc. An endless task it seemed at first to sort the books, for more than one thousand volumes of all sizes and in every variety ofbinding from cloth to calf, had been thrown promiscuously on the floor, and the hottest antagonists in the political and religious world werenow lying side by side in the apparent enjoyment of peace andgood-will. "Slavery Doomed" and "Slavery Justified" composed oneexternally harmonious group, while "Footfalls on the Boundary ofAnother World, " "How I became a Unitarian, " and Strauss' "Life ofJesus, " lay beside their rigidly orthodox neighbors, the "Following ofChrist, " by Thomas à Kempis, Cardinal Wiseman's "Doctrines of theChurch, " and a Jesuit Father's idea of the Happiness of Heaven. 

Uncle's fondness for his country home was manifested by thirty or morelarge volumes upon Agriculture, and several others upon RuralArchitecture, while his literary and aesthetic taste was displayed by asuperb edition of Macaulay, in eight octavo volumes, combining thewhitest of paper and the largest and clearest type, with richestbinding; Lord Derby's translation of the Iliad, Mackay's "Thousand andOne Gems, " a large and elegant volume of Byron's complete works, andBryant's "Library of Poetry and Song"--the two latter beautifully boundand illustrated. Xenophon, Herodotus, Josephus, and Caesar lay off atan aristocratic distance from their neighbors, and looked down withscorn upon anything so modern as Noel's "Rebellion, " or Draper's "CivilWar in America;" while memories of the buried "Brook Farm" arose fromthe past as mamma took up a volume or two upon Co-operativeAssociations. 

Uncle's strict temperance principles were illustrated by half a dozenvolumes upon the "Effects of Alcohol, " including "Scriptural Testimonyagainst Wine;" and a work or two upon the Tariff Question recalled manya _Tribune_ editorial penned by the dear, dead hand. 

A large dark pile of some twenty volumes loomed up from a distantcorner--Appleton's useful Cyclopaedia--and beside them lay an enormousWebster's Dictionary, handsomely put up in a chocolate-colored librarybinding. 

Many elegantly bound volumes were presentation copies from theirauthors--among them a magnificent album of languages, beautifullyilluminated, and bound in scarlet morocco, containing the Lord's Prayerin one hundred different tongues. This book sold, Ida said, for onehundred dollars a copy. 

In striking contrast with this gorgeous volume were two littleyellow-leaved, shabbily bound books, valued, however, at one hundreddollars each, and treasures which no money could have bought fromuncle--one a copy of Erasmus, dated Basle, 1528, and the other "Thetvvoo Bookes of Francis Bacon on the Proficience and Aduancement ofLearning, diuine and humane, " printed, the fly-leaf states, at London, in 1605. 

_July 3_. 

I have not yet, I believe, spoken of more than one or two of thepictures that uncle bought while in Europe the first time. He thenspent ten thousand dollars on paintings, a piece or two of sculpture, and a few little curiosities of art in the way of mosaics andantiquities from different ruins of Italy, which, for a man who was byno means a Stewart or an Astor, showed great liberality. Uncle couldnot afford, like ostentatious millionnaires, to dazzle the public withpaintings bought by the yard; but for a man of his means he displayed, I think, a true love for art and a strong desire to encourage it. Hispurchases, too, were very different from the second-rate pictures sooften purchased abroad by uncultivated eyes, for instead of dependingmerely upon his own judgment, he asked the assistance of the sculptorStory in choosing his souvenirs; and his collection, though small, isadmirable, containing two or three _bonâ-fide_ old masters, purchasedat the sales of private galleries in Florence and Rome. 

The pictures, like the books, have been kept hitherto in the house inthe woods, but this spring Ida moved them all to the roadside housethat we might constantly enjoy them, and the parlor now presents quitethe appearance of a museum. It is over the music-room, and its longFrench windows open upon a balcony, from which we daily admire ourtender, Italian-like sunsets. To the right it is overhung by thebranches of our favorite apple-tree, from whose clusters of tiny fruitwe each chose an apple some days since. Gabrielle then marked themwith the owner's initial cut out of paper, the form of which we willfind in the autumn indelibly impressed in the apple's rosy cheek. 

But to return to our museum. Upon ascending the stairs one's eyesfirst rest upon the "very saddest face ever painted or conceived, " asHawthorne describes the beautiful Cenci. While in Rome I resided uponthe Piazza Barberini, opposite the palace containing this exquisitepainting, and I visited it with a devotion almost equalling Hilda's. Much excitement prevailed that winter in art circles concerning theauthenticity of this picture, and hot discussions took place whereverthe believers and unbelievers chanced to meet. No possible proofexisted, one party would declare, that Guido had ever painted BeatriceCenci; and no one had thought of it as other than a fancy head untilShelley had aroused the interest of the public in the half-forgottentragedy of poor Beatrice's sad life by the sombre drama, "The Cenci. "From that time, they say, caprice has christened this picture BeatriceCenci, and Hawthorne has added much to its interest by the prominencehe gives it in the "Marble Faun. " They, however, are unable to findthe traces of sorrow, the "tear-stained cheeks" and "eyes that havewept till they can weep no more, " so eloquently described by allwriters and art-critics of the present day; and so far I agree withthem--the face does not impress me with such depths of woe. 

Their opponents, however, hold the time-honored tradition that Guidopainted Beatrice in her cell upon the morning of her execution, or asshe stood upon the scaffold--for there are two versions of thestory--and that the gown and turban which she wears were made by herown hands on the night preceding the fatal day. But no words of minecan give a fair idea of this celebrated painting: I will transcribeHawthorne's description of it. 

"The picture represented simply a female head; a very youthful, girlish, perfectly beautiful face, enveloped in white drapery, frombeneath which strayed a lock or two of what seemed a rich though hiddenluxuriance of auburn hair. The eyes were large and brown, and metthose of the spectator, but evidently with a strange, ineffectualeffort to escape. There was a little redness about the eyes, veryslightly indicated, so that you would question whether or no the girlhad been weeping. The whole face was quiet; there was no distortion ordisturbance of any single feature, nor was it easy to see why theexpression was not cheerful, or why a single touch of the artist'spencil should not brighten it into joyousness. But in fact it was thevery saddest picture ever painted or conceived; it involved anunfathomable depth of sorrow, the sense of which came to the observerby a sort of intuition. It was a sorrow that removed this beautifulgirl out of the sphere of humanity, and set her in a far-off region, the remoteness of which--while yet her face is so close beforeus--makes us shiver as at a spectre. "

Next to the Cenci a St. Francis hangs, his hands devoutly folded andhis head bowed in pious meditation upon the sufferings of his Redeemer, whose figure bound upon the Cross lies before him. The skull at hisfeet and the dreary landscape surrounding him indicate his hermit-lifeof isolation and penance. The Saint is dressed in the coarse brownhabit of a mendicant friar, and his face is luminous with thatgentleness that distinguished his character after his conversion; forit is recorded of him that he would step aside rather than harm thesmallest insect. 

Above St. Francis is one of the most precious gems, historically andintrinsically considered, of the collection. The picture issmall--only cabinet size; but it is none the less valuable on thataccount, when we reflect that it dates from the sixteenth or early inthe seventeenth century. It is a portrait of Galileo painted from lifeby Andrea Bartone, and was bought at a sale of the Santi Gallery. Onlythe head and bust are represented--the latter clothed in a dark-brownopen vest, with a scarlet mantle thrown over the shoulders; but theface is one that would not easily be forgotten--a rugged, powerfulface, with great, earnest eyes, scant hair well sprinkled with gray, and deep furrows lining the dark brow. 

Over the doorway, opening into the room that was formerly Aunt Mary's, is an antique marble medallion of Juno, the haughty Mother of the gods;this was dug up near Tusculum. 

Next comes an exquisite Madonna and Child by Carlo Dolce (a copy). Themother's face is youthful and radiant with divine beauty: the InfantJesus stands upon her knee, and extends a plump little hand inbenediction. 

Next, a portrait of uncle painted in 1839--two years earlier than theone that hangs in the dining-room. This picture, mamma says, was anexcellent likeness of him when he was twenty-eight years old; and thebiographers who are so prone to describe him in his younger days ashaving been "uncouth" and "awkward, " would be, I think, much startledif they could see it. His coat is black, with a black tie, like othergentlemen, and his air, instead of being "rustic" or "gawky, " isexpressive of gentle dignity, while his face, so often described asplain, is to me beautiful enough to have represented a young saint. 

Next these pictures is another medallion--the "Mother of the Gracchi, "and under them a small table upon which stand several marblecuriosities: a model of the tomb of Scipio, Minerva issuing from thehead of Jupiter, and two busts of Roman soldiers in the time ofTitus--antiques, and quite yellow and valuable. 

In the centre of the parlor is a round table bought in Rome, and madeof variegated marble taken from the ruins of the palace of the Caesars. 

In a corner, upon a handsome pedestal, stands Powers' bust ofProserpine, of which uncle was especially proud. He speaks of it inhis "Glances at Europe, " in these words:

"I defy Antiquity to surpass--I doubt its ability to rival--Powers'Proserpine and his Psyche with any models of the female head that havecome down to us; and while I do not see how they could be excelled intheir own sphere, I feel that Powers, unlike Alexander, has stillrealms to conquer, and will fulfil his destiny. "

A very prominent picture, and one that was a great favorite with uncle, is an original portrait of Luther, by Lucas Cranach, one of the greatlights of the Flemish school of painting. I have seen in the DresdenGallery the counterpart to this picture, painted by the same artist, but representing Luther after death. I much prefer the animatedexpression of the _living_ picture, for it is hard to think of thefiery reformer as dead, even at this late day. 

Over the sofa is a large Holy Family, a painting in the school ofRaphael, and underneath it hangs one of our most valuable pictures--averitable Guercino, painted in 1648. The subject is St. Mary Magdalen. 

I wish that I had time to write in detail of all the beautiful thingsin the parlor--a card-table made like the centre-table of classicmarble from the ruins of Rome, an exquisite moonlight view of aBenedictine Convent upon the Bay of Naples, with a young girl kneelingbefore the shrine of the Madonna; a Venetian scene--the Doge's palacewith its graceful, Moorish architecture; St. Peter and St. Paul; theCumaean Sybil, a beautiful female figure whose partly veiled faceseemed full of mystery; St. Agatha, and an Ecce Homo. There are stillsome more marble medallions that I have not mentioned; several valuableantiques, portraits of Alexander the Great and Tacitus, and abas-relief representing the flight of Aeneas--the former found near theAppian Way--and two others that are comparatively modern--likenesses ofPope Clement XI. , and Vittoria Colonna, the gifted Italian poetess ofthe fifteenth century. 

But I have not yet spoken of the pearl of our museum. This piece ofsculpture was not one of uncle's Italian purchases, nor does it dateback for centuries, but it is priceless to us, especially as it is, webelieve, the only copy now existing. I allude to the bust made ofuncle in 1846 by Hart, the Kentucky sculptor. This bust was the firstwork of importance that Mr. Hart had ever executed, for he was then inthe first flush of manhood, and the early vigor of that genius that hassince wrought out so many beautiful creations. Then, however, he hadnot modelled his fine statue of Henry Clay, ordered by the ladies ofVirginia, nor had he even dreamed of his lovely "Triumph of Woman" thatwhen finished will send his name down to posterity, as our greatest_creative_ American sculptor. 

Mamma was living with uncle when Mr. Hart arrived in New York with acommission from Cassius M. Clay to make this bust, and she has oftentold me all the circumstances of the sittings. Uncle was then, asever, extremely busy, and it was very difficult for him to give Mr. Hart an occasional half hour for a sitting. As ordinary means failed, Mr. Hart brought his clay and instruments to _The Tribune_ office, andthere he worked whilst uncle rested from his daily editorial labors;but even while "resting, " his lap was full of newspapers, and he couldnot afford the time to "pose, " for his eyes were rapidly scanning theircolumns. 

"I never, " said mamma, "knew an artist to make such a study ofanother's face as Mr. Hart did of brother's. He was not content with amere sitting from him now and then; he visited him at the house; hewatched his face in company, and attended every occasion when he spokein public, that he might model him, he said, in his best mood. Consequently the bust was the most perfect likeness that had ever beenmade of brother, and as his face was then delicate and his features soclassic in their cut, it was, I thought, the most beautiful piece ofsculpture that I had ever seen. It was quite a revelation to dearbrother, who in his modesty had never had an idea of his own beauty. "

Ten plaster busts were struck off for the family and a few intimatefriends, but as none of them were ever put into marble, they have all, I believe, with the exception of this one, been destroyed. Mamma'scopy was overthrown by Marguerite's little hands when a child; anotherbelonging to one of our cousins was broken by her little son; andalthough Cassius Clay's copy was buried, Mr. Hart told me, during thewar to save it from the hands of the soldiers, he had no reason tosuppose that it finally had escaped the fate of the others. Aunt Mary, however, in her anxiety to preserve her copy, at once enveloped it inlinen, and packed it in a box. Consequently it is now as perfect asthe day it left the studio; but mamma had never seen it from that timeuntil this spring, when Ida exhumed it from the store-room. 

Mr. Hart and uncle were always warm friends, although Mr. Hart left forEurope soon after completing this bust, where he has since remained, with the exception of a flying visit to America about twelve years ago. Uncle speaks of visiting his studio in 1851, in these words ("Glancesat Europe, " page 217):

"I saw something of three younger sculptors now studying and working atFlorence--Hart of Kentucky, Galt of Virginia, and Rogers of New York. I believe all are preparing to do credit to their country. Hart hasbeen hindered by a loss of the models at sea from proceeding with thestatue of Henry Clay, which he is commissioned by the ladies ofVirginia to fashion and construct; but he is wisely devoting much ofhis time to careful study, and to the modelling of the ideal, beforeproceeding to commit himself irrevocably by the great work which mustfix his position among sculptors, and make or mar his destiny. I havegreat confidence that what he has already carefully and excellentlydone is but a foretaste of what he is yet to achieve. "

CHAPTER XI. 

The Fourth of July--A Quaker Celebration--The House in the Woods--Mrs. Greeley's Life there--Pickie--Mary Inez--Raffie--Childhood of Ida andGabrielle--Heroism of Mrs. Greeley--The Riots of 1863--Mrs. Greeleydefends her House against the Mob. 

_July 5_. 

Yesterday was the pleasantest Fourth I ever experienced in America. Last year at this time I was upon the Catskill Mountains, and wasaroused at an unearthly hour by the discharge of a cannon, whosereverberation was something appalling, and made me doubt if I was notshot. The hotel was graced with the presence of some thirty or fortychildren, whose fond parents had invested largely in fire-crackers andtoy cannon for them, and no place upon the grounds, it seemed, was sofavorable for the ebullition of youthful patriotism as the spotdirectly under my window. Consequently, as I was already weak from theeffect of a prolonged attack of nervous fever, I was before nightfallin a state akin to distraction, and filled with anything but patrioticsentiments. I could not then but think with regret of a previousFourth spent upon the steamship _St. Laurent_, where fire-crackers weretabooed, and the celebration consisted entirely of a magnificentdinner, and speeches--during the latter I made my escape to the deck. 

This year was pleasanter still. I do not know if the Chappaqua peopleare less patriotic than other citizens of the Union, but our nerveswere only disturbed by the occasional popping of a fire-cracker in thegarden of our neighbor, the train-master over the way; and when westrayed off to the Glen after dinner, we were as free from disturbingnoise as though our country had not been born ninety-seven years ago. But although noisy demonstrations do not seem the fashion here (perhapsowing to the predominance of Quakers in the neighborhood), the dormantenthusiasm of the people for the Fourth was aroused at sundown, when amass meeting was held at the tavern, or "Chappaqua Hotel" as it isgrandly styled, and lengthy and energetic speeches were delivered. From our piazza we could hear the orators' voices ascending to a veryhigh key as they warmed with their topic, and quite congratulatedourselves that we were not obliged to be of the audience. 

After dark there was a small display of Roman candles and sky-rockets;and so ended the glorious Fourth. 

_July 6_. 

I have again dreamed away an entire morning upon the piazza of thehouse in the woods--to me the stillest, sweetest spot in the world. Ihave described this dear old house and its romantic surroundings againand again since I have been here this summer. I can scarcely turn overhalf a dozen leaves of my journal without finding some allusion to it;but it is a subject possessing such fascination for me that I mustagain revert to it. I like to pass a quiet hour upon the steps of thepiazza, or upon the large moss-grown boulder in front of the housewhere Ida, Raphael, and Gabrielle have all played; and while my fingersare busily employed with some fanciful design wrought with gold threador emerald-green silk, "My thoughts wander on at their own sweet will, ";

oftenest returning, however, to Aunt Mary's life here in the woods withher little children. A lonely, comfortless life many women would havedeemed it, so entirely shut in as she was from the outer world; and toany one less self-reliant and self-sustained than Aunt Mary it wouldhave been so. For that there were discomforts in her country life I donot doubt, although they were much lessened by uncle's easycircumstances; and the house itself was finished off with all the cityimprovements and conveniences practicable to introduce into a buildingof its size and situation. Still, the house was distant from goodmarkets, and the trees encircled it so closely that the sun's rays didnot penetrate the rooms until ten o'clock; but Aunt Mary loved hertrees as though they were human, and at that time would not allow oneto be cut down, notwithstanding the dampness that they created. Anidle woman would have regretted the distance at which the house stoodfrom the public road, as no distraction ensued from looking out of thewindows; and a timid or nervous one would have dreaded the long nightsin that solitary house when uncle was in the city or absent uponlecturing tours, and no neighbor was within calling distance in case ofdanger. 

Occasionally, too, Aunt Mary would be left without servants, for allAmerican ladies know how difficult it is to retain them in the country, especially in so small and lonely a place as Chappaqua was then, andalthough she frequently had some friend making her long visits ofmonths, still there were days when she would be alone with only the sadmemory of her buried darlings, her splendid Pickie, the pride and hopeof both parents, and sweet little Mary Inez, and her two livingchildren, too young to be very companionable. 

Raphael, mamma says, was a beautiful boy, although not perhaps sonoticeable as Pickie, for he had not his brilliant color, and his hair, too, was not so dazzling in shade, but very much like his father's. His features, however, were quite as finely cut as those of his muchadmired brother, and his temperament was gentle and loving. Idacherishes very tender memories of him, for he was the only brother whomshe knew, and her constant playfellow before Gabrielle's birth. Therewere seven years difference in the ages of the brothers. Pickie diedat five, of cholera; and Raffie at seven years old, of croup. 

But although Aunt Mary had such sad memories in the past, she had twobeautiful children left to her, and for them she lived this life ofseclusion at Chappaqua, remaining here six months of every year thatthey might acquire a fine physical development from walking, driving, and riding in the pure country air. Ida has often told me of the wildgames of play she used to have when a child with Osceola, a littleIndian boy, and dwelt especially upon her prowess in racing down hillin emulation of him. The parents of this boy then occupied theroadside house, which did not at that time belong to uncle. 

Gabrielle's stories are different. She loved to ride the unbrokencolts, and tend her menagerie in the play-house. She has, too, much totell about the way her mother used to train her to be as fearless incase of fire or thieves as she was when seated upon a bare-backedhorse, and often she has made me smile, though fully recognizing thewisdom of Aunt Mary's lessons, when telling me how she was obliged torehearse imaginary escapes from fire or midnight attacks. 

Besides a devoted love for her children, a passion for the beautiful inNature, and fondness for solitude and books, or the companionship ofsome one person of congenial tastes and highly cultured mind, Aunt Marypossessed a fund of moral strength and heroism that one might indeedread in the flash of her black eyes, but which a casual observer wouldthink incompatible with her frail figure. It was, however, many timesseverely tested during uncle's absence when she had no male protectorto whom to look for assistance: but then she proved all-sufficient inherself. At one time a number of workmen were employed upon theplace--rough, sullen creatures--who used to come to her to receivetheir pay; and knowing her, a delicate, sickly woman, to be therealone, they would often clamor for more wages than they were entitledto receive, but never could they frighten her into granting it, forthough generous and charitable, nothing was more repugnant to herfeelings than an attempt to take an unfair advantage of her. 

Upon one occasion, a man with whom she had had some businesstransactions came to claim a payment that was not due him. Aunt Maryexplained to him that he was not entitled to it, and refused to see himagain. He returned another day, and she would not allow the door to beopened. He then remained outside pulling the bell and thumping foradmittance. Aunt Mary spoke to him from the balcony above, andrequested him to leave. He vowed he would not stir without his money, and tried to coerce her by the most frightful threats and oaths. "Whenhis imprecations were at their highest, Aunt Mary descended, andthrowing open the door, told him to come in; then turning to Gabrielle, who stood beside her, said:

"Go upstairs and fetch my pistol off from the bureau. "

Upon hearing these words the man left very quickly, and never returnedagain to annoy her. In relating this incident to me, Gabrielle said:

"Of course I knew perfectly well that I would find no pistol upon thebureau, but I had been too well trained by mamma to show the slightestsurprise, and promptly went upstairs in quest of imaginary firearms. "

But this exhibition of cool courage paled in contrast with the trueheroism of Aunt Mary displayed at the time of the terrible anti-draftriots in July, 1863. Living in the retirement of the woods, she wasnot in the habit of going down to the village or associating with theneighbors; consequently, she was rarely informed upon the local news. She wondered that no letters or papers had arrived for a day or two, but merely supposing that some accident upon the road had delayed themails, she went about her ordinary occupations, perfectly unconsciousof the peril she was in. Finally, Mr. Quinby, a Quaker neighbor, cameto the house by a long circuit, and informed her that a mob of aboutthree hundred men, who had collected from Sing Sing and other parts ofthe country, were drinking at the tavern, and threatening to sack"Greeley's house, " and hang the family to the nearest trees. It was atthe risk of his life that Mr. Quinby had come to warn Aunt Mary, and heimplored her to escape as quickly as possible, and offered to concealher and the children in his house. 

Aunt Mary did not shriek or fall down in a fainting fit upon learningthat hundreds of desperate men were threatening her life. Although shehad been very ill and was still weak, perfectly cool and collected, sheconsidered what was best to be done. Her husband was in New York, andof the dozen or so Irish laborers employed upon the place, two or threehad already been seen drinking amicably with the rioters, and theothers, as well as the Irish servant, she feared to trust Clark, theoverseer, a very competent Englishman, was an excellent shot; but whatcould one man do against three hundred? As for saving herself bydeserting her house, Aunt Mary scorned to do it; but immediatelydevised a plan that reminds one of the heroism of a Dame Châtelaine ofthe Middle Ages. 

First of all, the valuables were to be moved, but without exciting thesuspicions of the servant or workmen, as they might inform the rioters. The men were accordingly sent off to a distant part of the farm towork, and the maid kept busy, while twelve trunks were lowered into awagon standing at the back of the house. Mr. Quinby immediatelycovered them with hay, and drove to his own house, where he stored themuntil the trouble should be over, and then sent his son back to helpthe family. 

To Gabrielle's surprise, her mother and Ida now appeared in veryvoluminous and housewifely looking aprons, and were constantly going upand down stairs. At last an untimely draught blew Aunt Mary's apronaside, and Gabrielle, who had not been informed of the danger, caught aglimpse of the picture of the Archangel Gabriel. All of the picturesand pieces of sculpture were then removed to a little hut in theorchard near the stables, built in the side of a hillock, half underground, and quite overgrown by vines; and when both pictures and theprecious books were safely out of the house Aunt Mary felt that shecould breathe. By that time Clark had returned from Sing Sing, wherehe had purchased a large amount of gunpowder by Aunt Mary's direction. This he arranged in a train from the house to a distant point, and thepreparations were then completed. When the rioters should come AuntMary was to speak to them from the balcony and warn them to go away, and in the meantime Mr. Quinby and Clark were to take the children outof the house by the back window, which was but a step to the top of alow woodshed, from which they could easily get to the ground. Then, while the rioters were storming the barricaded doors, Aunt Mary was tomake her escape, and when she and the children were at a safe distancea match was to be applied to the gunpowder, blowing up alike house andrioters. 

Mr. Quinby, being a Quaker, had looked on reluctantly while the minewas being laid, and when he had done all he could to help Aunt Mary, hereturned to the tavern to see the state of affairs there. He found themob still drinking, and uttering horrible threats against the family. His conscience then obliged him to give the wretches a hint of the doomthat awaited them, ending with these words:

"Heed my warning, my brethren; Horace Greeley is a peace man, but MaryGreeley _will_ fight to the last!"

After dark, the rioters came to the gates and howled, and utteredthreats, but dared not approach very close to the fortress armed by asick woman and two children; and when weary of exercising their lungswent peacefully away. Meantime, Aunt Mary, being fatigued by theexertions of the day, laid down, Ida said, when everything was inreadiness to meet the rioters, and slept peacefully till morning. 

CHAPTER XII. 

Pen Portraits--Lela--Majoli--Guerrabella and Celina--TheirCharacteristics. 

_July 8_. 

While looking over a box of old letters and newspapers this morning Icame across a little sketch descriptive of our quartette, written lastwinter for a New York journal. This sketch, or "Pen Portraits, " as itwas styled, veils our identity under fictitious names, the initialsonly being preserved, and although it passes over our imperfections andvery much exaggerates our accomplishments, still it contains, I think, so much that is characteristic that I will preserve it by copying itinto my journal. The writer commenced with a description of mamma'sroom in Cottage Place, and dwelt particularly upon a picture of unclehanging over the mantelpiece, but that portion of the sketch has beentorn off and lost. 

. . . . . . "But let us regard the _living_ pictures. You see thatyouthful group! A group to inspire a poet or painter! They arefour--they are cousins. Two are orphans; you see a resemblance to theface in the frame wreathed in _immortelles_. We will first observethose two that sit with arms entwined, smiling up into each other'seyes. It is the gentle Lela[1] and her cousin Majoli, _belle_ Majoliwe may call her. These cousins are nigh the same age, and their heartsbeat in sweet accord. And there is a certain likeness, spiritual morethan physical--for Majoli is taller and slighter, and fairer, too, ifwe reckon by the hue of the hair and color of the eyes. 

"Lela has soft, soliciting, brown eyes; Majoli is azure-eyed, laughingor languid according to her varying mood. Lela's face is pale asmoonbeams; filial solicitude and divine sorrow have left theirchastening impression upon her exquisite lineaments. Her countenanceis Madonna-like in purity, ingenuousness, and self-abnegation. 

"Majoli's delicate features are untouched by pain or care, and thoughher spiritual countenance is often tinged with melancholy, no harshexperience has traced those pensive lines. 'Tis but the soul'slimning--a musical nature is hers, emotional and imaginative. 

"Lela's head is large, though not unfeminine, and the magnificentwealth of tawny-colored hair reminds one of Guercino's Holy Magdalen. She has pretty, modest ways of looking down under those pale, droopinglids with her calm, confiding eyes, and if the mouth is somewhat large, the teeth are white and even, and the lips are coral-tinted. The noseis straight and slender, and suggests the chisel of Phidias, and fromthe expansive brow we infer a broad culture and comprehensiveunderstanding. It is the seat of Philosophy, as well as the throne ofthe Muses. 

"Majoli's head is smaller than Lela's, but its pose is aristocratic andgraceful. The blonde hair is artistically coiffed, and though thefeatures are not strikingly regular, there is sympathy and greatsweetness in the face, and art and refinement are expressed even by theslim, pale hands. An airy, lithesome figure she has, and the beat ofher footfall is cadenced to the measure of joyous music. Frail sheseems compared with Lela's well-rounded figure, but if she has notequal strength, she has elasticity; and if more energy and power isindicated by the physiognomy of Lela, Majoli has ambition and judgmentto compensate. 

"We have compared Lela's face to the rich portraiture of Guercino;Majoli's suggests the pencil of that famous old Spanish master, Ribera, whose pictures of women were always a blending of the elegance of acourt lady with the simplicity and _naïveté_ of a church devotee. Halfbelle, half _religieuse_ we may style her. 

"And on what have these dainty minds been nurtured, and who have beentheir intellectual mentors? Lela has been bred within a cloister'swalls, and foreign travel has polished both mind and manners. 

"In no school has Majoli's mind been formed, nor is she greatlyindebted to learned professors for her mental attainments. A mother'slove has quickened the budding intellect, a mother's intelligence hastrained and directed the unfolding powers. The grace of foreign speechis on her tongue, and scenes and pictures of distant lands areenshrined in her memory. Ancient lore has for her a peculiar charm;history is her delight; Plutarch, Josephus, Gibbon, Macaulay, she hasconned well. Poesy she loves much. The poetry of the Bible, Dante, Schiller, Herbert, Browning, are her favorites. In sacred books shefinds sweet enjoyment. The Fathers of the Church afford her greatpleasure; St. Augustine, St. Basil, Thomas à Kempis, etc. She has thegrace of devotion, but her love of the Church is affected more by itsaesthetical qualities than its theological dogmas. 

"Lela is a passionate book-lover. There are few modern writers thathave not furnished entertainment to her accomplished mind, and she isnot unacquainted with the best Latin and Greek authors. English, German, and French literature are alike open to her. Biography, essays, dramas, poetry, with more serious reading, occupy her time. Virgil and Horace, Bacon, Shakespeare, Racine, Victor Hugo, Heine andGeorge Eliot may be mentioned as among her preferences. 

"But while we are attempting to portray some noticeable characteristicsin Lela and Majoli, how are Celina and Guerrabella occupied? You seeGuerrabella has a pencil in her hand. She is sketching a head; if welook closely, we shall probably recognize our own, grotesquely drawn, for there is no denying that our young genius is fond of caricaturingher friends. Celina sits by a table; her large, open eyes have adistant, dreamy expression. Her pen moves rapidly across the page; sheis writing a Musical Recollection, we may presume. 

"Guerrabella is the youngest of the group. She is tall, picturesque, imposing. Her face is radiant with blushes, dimples, and smiles. Shelooks so fresh and beautiful that she might have set for Greuze'spicture of 'Sweet Sixteen. ' A sense of thorough enjoyment flashes fromthe bright, blue-gray eyes, and is indicated by the rose-bloom on cheekand lips. There is an air of strength and courage perceptible, and acertain dash in her manner that associates her with Scott's favoriteheroine, Di Vernon. She has great mimic powers, and might adorn thehistrionic stage. Towards art and literature she seems equallyattracted, and what she will eventually decide to follow we cannot nowpredict. She will fail in nothing for want of talent. 

"Celina's height scarce reaches to Guerrabella's shoulder; her figureis fragile and dainty; and though her cheek lacks bloom, the lines aresoft and graceful, and the face pensive and poetic. The mouth is smalland well curved, and the air of repose that rests upon the imaginativebrow resembles the Muse of Meditation. The serenity that is uniformlyspread over her unique countenance is in strong contrast to theanimated, vivacious features of her cousin. Celina's head is fashionedafter a classic model, and the mass of amber-hued hair which crowns itmight be taken for an aureola. Her pansy-like eyes are full of sweet, poetic vision. The brow is marked by delicately defined eyebrows, andthe eyelashes are long and silken. 'Tis a melodic countenance, foreshadowing that dream-world from which our young heroine has neverfor a moment awakened. Too _petite_, some might deem her, for womanlyperfection; but physical symmetry, ease, and a dignified bearingelevate the fairy figure to the true standard. She moves about with anairy grace, and nothing earthly is lighter than her footfall. Hersmall, delicate hands grace the keyboard, and music in her has anenchanting interpreter. 

"Guerrabella participates in the family passion for literature. Shepossesses great intellectual independence, and her preferences aredecided, usually inclining to the bold and strong. She is fond ofMacaulay's 'Heroic Lays of Many Lands;' she rejoices in Becky Sharp;and there is a tradition that she learned to read in the works ofThackeray, spelling out the words of that magnificent novel, HenryEsmond. 

"Celina has explored the treasures of classic lore in music andliterature. Homer, Herodotus, Plato, she has read, with Tasso and hischivalrous lays, and Spenser and his stately verse. In music, Glückand Grétry, Beethoven and Boieldieu's dulcet tones have helped tofashion her musical mind. 

"But we must not dismiss our heroines without indicating the toilettesthat most become them. Velvets and rich brocade befit the Lady Lela'ssuperb figure. Scarlet is her color, and diamonds her essentialornament. The moss-rose should be her favorite flower. 

"Soft gray or pale azure of light fabrics do best agree with Majoli'ssylph-like form. Pearls and feathers are consonant to her artistictaste. Her emblematic flower is the lily, of sacred and legendary lore. 

"All shades and fabrics of whatever texture harmonize withGuerrabella's style. Ample should be the folds that habit her majesticfigure, and brilliant the gems that are to rival her flashing, sparkling eyes: yet we might indicate _couleur de rose_ as bestblending with her own exquisite tints, and the opal with its mysteriouslight as in some way prefiguring her genius and high destiny. 

"And how shall we vest our _mignonne_--Celina? Gossamer tissues, fabrics of airy texture--a magic web for the daintiest Lady in ourLand. No color of human invention; their dyes would oppress her. _White_ with a gleam of moonlight upon it; a reflection of the aura ofher hair, or the first pale beams of the morning. Other gems would Inot but those wondrous starlike eyes, to light up a face radiant withthought and sensibility. "

[1] For Lilian, Ida's second name. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Biography of Mr. Greeley--Gabrielle's Questions--Mrs. Cleveland'sCorrections--The Boy Horace not Gawky, Clownish, or a Tow-head--HisParents not in Abject Want--Mr. Greeley's Letter about his FormerPlaymates--Young Horace and his Girl Friends--He Corrects their Grammarand Lectures them upon Hygiene--He disapproves of Corsets. 

_July 10_. 

"Auntie, is it possible, " said Gabrielle, indignantly running intomamma's room with an open volume in her hand, "that papa was as homelyand awkward when a boy and young man as this writer describes him?'Tow-head, ' 'gawky, ' 'plain, ' and 'clownish, ' are some of the mostuncomplimentary epithets applied to him. He is described as having'white hair with a tinge of orange at the ends, ' and as 'eating as iffor a wager;' while grandpapa, the writer says, was so poor that papahad to walk barefooted over the thistles, without a jacket, and introusers cut with an utter disregard of elegance or fit, and it wasremarked that they were _always_ short in the legs, while one wasinvariably shorter than the other. Was it possible that grandpapacould not afford an inch more of cloth to make poor papa's trousers ofequal length, and was it true that papa never had but two shirts at atime until he came to New York, and that he never had any gloves? Whenhe was an apprentice in Portland every one used to pity him, Mr. ------says, as he walked shivering to the _Spectator_ office on cold winterdays, thinly clad, and with his gloveless hands thrust into his pocketsto protect them from being frost-bitten!"

"My child, you overwhelm me with your questions, " said mamma. "Let metake them singly, and I will do my best to refute this writer'sunpleasant statements. 

"First as to personal appearance. You say he styles your papa 'plain'as a boy. That is absurd, for his features, like mother's, were asperfect as a piece of Grecian sculpture. 'Tow-head' is also amis-statement. Brother's hair never was at any time tow-color, and thetinge of orange at the ends existed only in the author's imagination. Tow-color, you know, is a sort of dirty white or gray; whereasbrother's hair, until he was thirty years old, was like Raffie's, purewhite. After that time, it commenced to change to a pale gold-color, which never, however, deepened into orange. What was your nextquestion, my dear?"

"About papa's wardrobe, " said Gabrielle, her cheeks still flushed withexcitement; "were you indeed so miserably poor, auntie?"

"We were certainly very poor after father failed, " said mamma firmly, "but we were by no means reduced to abjectness. I can never rememberthe time, in our poorest days, when the boys had not, besides theirbrown linen work-day shirts, cotton shirts for Sunday, and father his'fine shirt' to wear to church and for visiting. Your papa was dressedsuitably for our station in life--neither better nor worse than thesons of neighbors in our circumstances. As for going barefoot, allcountry boys at that time did so during the summer months; your papawas not an exception. 

"You speak of his gloveless hands. I never saw a pair of kid glovesworn by farmers while we lived in Vermont or Pennsylvania; andcertainly they would have been very inappropriate for a boy-farmer or aprinter's apprentice to wear; but brother was always, both at home andat Poultney, supplied with warm woollen mittens of mother's knitting. As for the cut of his trousers, I am surprised that any sensible authorshould use so unfit a word as 'elegance' in speaking of a poor farmer'sclothing. I told you the other day that our wardrobe for every-daywear was spun, woven, and made by mother, and it is not to be expectedthat home-made coats and trousers should have the cut of a fashionableNew York tailor; but they were, at all events, warm and comfortable. That brother's trousers were always short, and especially in one leg, is an absurd fabrication. The story may perhaps have risen from someone who remembers his lameness in Poultney, when he acquired the habitof dragging one leg a little after the other, and that style of walkingmay have apparently shortened one of the trouser legs. Have youanything else to ask, little one?"

"Yes, auntie, " said Gabrielle, smiling at mamma's methodical way ofanswering: "was papa an awkward boy, and did he eat vulgarly?"

"I have told you, dear, " mamma replied, "how we were brought up. Inever saw your papa eat ravenously while he was at home; for father wasa despot at table, and any appearance of gluttony would have beenquickly checked by the dreaded descent of his fork upon the table. Ithink it probable that later in life, when your papa became adistinguished man, and every moment was of value, that he did eatquicker than was consistent with the laws of etiquette, but not when hewas a boy. 

"As for his awkwardness, I can readily imagine that a boy so intenselypreoccupied would not appear in so favorable a light to strangers asone who should seek the society of people rather than books, and asuperficial observer might have mistaken his air of abstraction forrustic bashfulness. You know that he was always absorbed in a bookfrom the time he was three years old. Father would often send him todo an errand--to fetch wood or the like; he would start veryobediently, but with his eyes upon his book, and by the time he hadreached the door he would have completely forgotten everything outsidethe page he was reading, and it was necessary to send some one afterhim to remind him of his errand. He certainly was very unlikeevery-day boys, not only in appearance, but in habits and moralqualities. Never did I hear a coarse or profane word pass his lips;the purity of his soul was radiant in his beautiful modest countenance;while his slender, boyish figure, with the ponderous white head poisedupon his long, slim neck, always reminded me of a lovely, swaying lily. "

"I have seen recently in some book, " said Marguerite, "that uncle wasnever at his ease in polite society. This I think very absurd. To besure he had not the manners of a dancing-master, but--"

"Yes, " interrupted mamma; "this statement is another of the usualexaggerations current about brother. As you say, he had not themanners of a dancing-master, and when importuned and annoyed by shallowpeople, may often have been abrupt with them; but when in society, Ihave always seen his company as much or more courted than that of anyother person present, and have never known him to shrink or beembarrassed in the presence of people of distinction or rank. Few menhave, I think, been more misrepresented, though often with the kindestintentions, than my dear brother. "

"You spoke of papa's lameness while at Poultney, Aunt Esther, " saidIda, looking up from a letter that she was reading; "pray how did hebecome lame? Was it serious? I do not remember hearing him mentionit. "

"It occurred, I believe, in this way, " said mamma. "Whilst your papawas in the _Spectator_ office, he chanced one day to step upon a roughbox, which turned over, and hitting him upon the leg, inflicted a cutbelow his knee. At first, brother thought it a mere scratch not worthnoticing; but when he subsequently took cold in it, he found it verytroublesome, and although he then consulted several medical men, theywere unable to cure it, I do not remember hearing that he was everconfined to the house with it--probably because he could not afford togive up his work long enough to have it properly treated; but for twoor perhaps three years he limped to and from the office. When he wentsubsequently to Erie, Pennsylvania, to work as a journeyman printer, the wound, which had partially healed, had again opened, and was verypainful. Some old woman residing there, however, gave him a simpleremedy which soon cured it permanently. "

"From whom is the letter that you are reading, Ida?" inquiredGabrielle, putting up her father's biography in a bookcase; "does itcontain a request for a loan of $500, or is it an offer of a home in aChristian family?"

"Neither, for once, " answered Ida. "It is from _The Tribune_ office, and contains a slip cut from the Omaha _Bee_, headed, 'Horace Greeleyupon Girls. ' It appears that a lady, Miss Hewes, who did not know papapersonally, wrote to him to ask if he recollected his firstschool-house, and a former playmate of his, named Reuben Nichols, whoseacquaintance Miss Hewes had just made. Here is papa's answer, datedWashington, 1856. Let me read it to you, Aunt Esther, and tell me ifyou think it is genuine. "

"'MISS HEWES:--As I do not know you, and am little interested in anybut a part of your letter, you will allow me, in my terriblehurry--having two days' work that ought to be done to-day, while I mustleave at evening for a journey to our Pittsburg Convention--to speakonly of that. 

"'I very well remember the red school-house in which I first began tolearn (the paint was worn off long since, and it was very far from redwhen I last saw it); I remember the Nichols children, who lived, justbelow the school-house, in a large house. But I was very young then, and I do not make out a clear mental picture of Reuben Nichols. Ithink he must have been considerably older than I. But I recollect oneAseneth Nichols, one of two girls not much older than I, whom I thoughtvery pretty, so that while I was a very good speller, and so one of thetwo at the head of the first class in spelling, who were entitled to"choose sides" for a spelling match; I used to begin by choosing thesetwo pretty girls who couldn't spell hokee to save their souls. Well, this was found not to answer; I knew enough to spell but not to choosesides; so the _rôle_ had to be altered, and the two next to the one atthe head had the honor of "choosing sides. " Ask Mr. Nichols if he hada sister Aseneth, and if he remembers any such nonsense as this. Mykind regards to him. 

"'Yours, "'HORACE GREELEY. '"

"I don't believe, " said Gabrielle, "that papa ever wrote that letter. "

"It does not sound much like him, " rejoined Marguerite, "with theexception of 'Yours, Horace Greeley'; what do you think, mamma?"

"The letter is characteristic, " was mamma's reply; "the style is his, but there are several words that I have never known him to use;however, they may have been illegible in the original, and their placesupplied by the printer's ingenuity. I remember hearing father andmother often speak of Reuben Nichols who lived near grandfather inLondonderry, and I believe that he had a son named Reuben, and adaughter named Aseneth, so the letter must be genuine, I suppose. "

"Was it true, mamma?" inquired Marguerite, "that uncle was fond oflittle girls? You know it has been said of him that he was as a manquite indifferent to women. "

"Yes, he was very partial to little girls, " was mamma's reply, "whenthey were pretty and gentle. Not, however, in the love-making way ofthe present precocious generation, but he liked to talk to them, andrelate stories from the books he had read. Perhaps the secret of hispreference lay in the fact that they made more attentive andsympathetic listeners than his rough boy-friends. 

"I told you the other day that at the ball he attended when thirteenyears old, he was the escort of Anne Bush, the prettiest girl in thevillage. She was perhaps a year younger than he, and as I rememberher, extremely pretty--a slender figure, cheeks like roses, blue eyes, dark hair, and very gentle, ladylike ways. She had a sister Sophie, who was as plain as Anne was pretty; and a wild, mischievous girl, butmy inseparable and dearest companion. 

"There were two other girls of whom brother was very fond at that time;Cornelia Anne Smith and Rebecca Fish. Cornelia Anne was older than theother girls, about fourteen, I think, and was the fondest of learningof the trio. I remember that she often used to bring her school-booksto brother when some difficulty had arisen in her lessons, and he wouldexplain the hard points. I think that he always corresponded withthese girls, and visited them occasionally after they became women, foryou know with what tenacity he clung to his early associations. He hasoften spoken to me of Rebecca Fish, who is now Mrs. Whipple, ofFairhaven. 

"You would be amused if I were to tell you how he used to pass the timethat he spent with these three girls. A city-bred boy of thirteen orfourteen would have been quite capable of arranging an elopement withthe prettiest one, but brother's style of courtship was quite unique;he used to correct their grammar when they conversed, and gravelylecture them upon the folly of wearing stays!

"The corsets which so aroused his ire were quite different from thoseof the present day. At that time, you must know, the Empire dress, that you have seen in portraits of the time of the first Napoleon, wasall the fashion; no crinoline, skirts so extremely scant and gored thatthey clung to the figure like drapery upon a statue, and waists afinger and a half in depth, with inch-wide bands instead of sleeves. This style of dress was very graceful and becoming when worn by a womanof slender figure, and those who were not thus favored by Nature madethe best of their figures by wearing what was then called 'busks, ' ormore popularly 'boards. ' The corsets worn in those days did not claspin front, but merely laced behind, and inserted in the lining of thefront was the 'busk, ' a piece of steel, or (among poorer people) woodtwo inches wide, and the depth of the corset. This busk, with theaddition of very tightly drawn lacing-strings, was supposed to givegreat symmetry to the figure. No village belle ever liked to own thatshe laced tightly, or that she wore a board; as it was a tacitadmission that her figure could not bear unaided the test of the Empiredress; consequently brother's remarks would be received by his youngfriends with an injured air, and a vehement protest against such afalse accusation. Brother would then test their truth by dropping hishandkerchief and requesting them to pick it up; if they 'wore a board, 'stooping would be impossible, or, at all events, very difficult; anordeal that would cover them with confusion, when the philosopher ofthirteen years old would resume his moral lecture upon the laws ofhygiene, and the follies of fashion. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Morning Mail--A letter to Mrs. Cleveland--Strange Contents--Ida'sLetter Bag--Appeals for Money, for Clothing, and for her Hand--AnOriginal Letter from a Trapper. 

_July 13_. 

Going to the post-office for the morning mail is, I think, our greatestdaily pleasure. For some reason, we seldom have many letters by oursecond mail, the 6. 30 P. M. Train, but in the morning our box is alwayswell filled, for we receive regularly the dear daily _Tribune_, sixweekly journals, and the leading magazines, and as we all have quite anumber of correspondents, we feel deeply aggrieved if our box is notfilled to repletion at least _once_ a day. 

Ida, of course, is blessed with the greatest number of letters in thefamily, for besides those from her own and her father's friends, "The cry is, still they come!"

in shoals from unknown people of high and low degree, sometimescontaining merely poems, or expressions of sympathy and interest in thesad history of our beautiful cousin, but varied occasionally by some ofthe extraordinary appeals for help which I have already mentioned. 

This morning I went down to the office when the mail came in. Therewas the usual number of expectant faces--Miss Murray and Miss Cox intheir carriages, and our more rural neighbors standing about thepigeon-hole; however, every one makes way for us in Chappaqua, and Iapproached nearer, and asked for our letters. A very rough-looking manstanding near by, looked on with interest while the postmaster handedout letter after letter, and finally said:

"You belong to the family, do you not?"

"Yes, " I said, for I always answer the rustic salutations of the peopleabout here, knowing them to have had a sort of feudal attachment touncle. 

"I thought a great deal of the old gentleman, " he said with a rudepathos in his voice that was very touching. "I used to see him veryoften, for I live in these parts, and he always used to saygood-morning so pleasant, and was never ashamed to shake my dirty, hardhand!"

This reminds me of a little incident that mamma related yesterday. Shewas standing upon the balcony when an old gentleman who was drivingpast, seeing mamma, stopped his horses, looked up and bowed, hesitated, and then said:

"Excuse me, but is thee the sister of Horace Greeley that was?"

Mamma assented. 

"I thought so, " he said, "I saw it in thy countenance. "

He then told mamma his name, and, after making a few remarks aboutuncle that showed thoroughly good feeling, drove on. 

It is not uncommon for those driving past to slacken their horses andgaze earnestly at the house, and, if any of us are upon the piazza orat the windows, they always bow--a mark of respect that is also shownus by all the farmers and working people about here. 

But I am forgetting Ida's letters. I brought her this morning as manyas six or eight, some of which were put up in yellow-brown envelopes, and directed in very questionable chirography. In a few moments sheknocked at mamma's door and said, "I have brought you a few letters from some of my extraordinarycorrespondents, Aunt Esther. "

"We will compare notes, my dear, " said mamma, looking up from arose-colored sheet embellished with decidedly scrawly writing. "I havejust received one that is quite astounding. "

"From Tennessee, " said Ida, looking at the postmark. "I know thewriting; that man has sent me as many as half a dozen letters, wishingto enter into correspondence. I suppose that finding me sounresponsive he thinks he will try another member of the family. "

"He comes to the point in a most emphatic manner this time, " saidmamma, "by asking me for your hand; and as the letter is really acuriosity in a literary point of view, I will read it to you. " [1]

"NASHVILLE, TENN. 

"MRS. JOHN F. CLEVELAND:--I reckon I am one of the spoilt children ofthe South, similar to what Mr. Greeley says of South Carolina. I wantto Marry Miss Ida, because she is the daughter of the most powerful Manthat has yet appeared on the American Continent. Mr. Greeley turnedfour millions of slaves loose with the Pen can't I win his daughterwith the same facile weapon? Now Mrs. Cleveland won't you help me? Iam not a Humbug, I have too many bullet holes through my body to beclassed with that tribe of insects. I begin to feel a little skittishabout my age, 35 and not yet Married. Yet I have always been rather afatalist and incline to Worship some star. The Greeks Worshiped thesun, And moon under the Name of Isis and Osiris, but I am more like theArab look to the stars for something sublime and unchanging among allthe bright lights that hang and move in the firmament. The North StarAppears to be the most important. The Axis on which our Earth dailyturns. The point from which all Mariners calculate their course in midocean, and safely guides Them from continent to continent. Without theNorth Star there would be no Magnetic Meridian by which Governmentscould be surveyed and divided equitably to its inhabitants andcivilization would lose its strong hold in being based on Justice. Ifthere is any South Star that plays such an important part on thiscontinent or Europe I have never heard of it. Miss Ida is the NorthStar made so by the fact her father was the great center around WhichThe whole country swung. And As she is the oldest the crown ofgreatness ought to rest on her head. And if she will Marry Me I willdo as hard fighting as Caesar did to put it there. With great respectsyours Truly

"------ ------. "

This letter would have excited more astonishment than it did, had itnot been only a fair specimen of what Ida has been daily receivingsince her father's death. She then read us one from Indiana, addressedto herself, and written, as the newspapers would say, with a view tomatrimony, but couched in quite a business-like strain:

"MISS IDA GREELEY:

"May I not surprise you by the fact that I desire an acquaintance withyou. I send you my photograph (which however is too light to beperfect), hoping yours in return. If answered, I in my next will givemy age and history generally. 

"Yours truly

"------ ------. "

Another was from a widow with a son at college, who was very badly indebt. The mother appealed to Ida as a lady of fortune and generosity, and the only person to whom they could look for aid, to pay the son'sdebts, "And, " Ida added with mock indignation, "she does not evenpromise that I shall be ultimately rewarded with the young man's hand. "

A third was dated Illinois, and bore the sonorous signature of GreeleyBarnum M------. This epistle was extremely prolific, inasmuch as itgave the occupations, ages, and a personal description of not only theimmediate members of the writer's family, but even extended to cousinsonce or twice removed. He had also much to say about his name ofGreeley; sometimes he was proud of it, and sometimes the reverse, according to the company he was in. Passing over all this prelude, wediscovered that Greeley Barnum M------'s object in writing was torequest a complete outfit for his sister who was about to go to school. "You are a young Lady, Miss greeley, " the writer touchingly said, "andknow everything that my sister would be likely to want. " The clothes, he kindly intimated, could be put up in a box, and sent by express, prepaid; and having done so, Ida was requested to notify his sister andalso an uncle and aunt at some distant point, that they might not bedistressed by thinking their niece was going to school without asuitable outfit. 

The next letter that Ida took up was from a Kansas man, more modest inhis requests than the others, for he neither asked for her hand nor aloan, but being anxious for self-improvement, solicited a littleassistance from her in that line. This letter was written in an even, flowing hand, with very few mis-spelt words. 

"WICHITA, KANSAS. 

"MISS IDA GREELY:

"Well, here is another fool, will no doubt be the first thought thatwill pass through your mind, and it is quite likely that you may in themain be correct. 

"I have a very high regard for all womankind. I have read so muchabout your sympathetic nature, I thought perhaps our sympathies mightbe mutual in some respects. 

"I am always desirous of improving, and have heretofore looked to muchto persons no better qualified than myself to instruct or improve incorrespondence of any kind. Knowing that you are educated and refinedI apply to you as a perfect Gentleman for a small portion of your timesay one half-hour in four weeks as a time set aside to answer anyletter I might write, at same time corract misspell'd words etc. Anddo it unreservedly. I am formerly from the east: come west less thanone year ago, have lost my wife, am thirty years old, and like youwithout friends. In return for your favor I can write you adescription of this great Arkansas Valley and county beyond, of therapid growth of the country etc. Which may in part repay you for yourtrouble to please one lonely heart far from home. Will not give youany description of Self or business unless I receive some answer butwill say that I am of good family, in good business, and doing well. 

"With respect

"------ ------. "

"Here is another letter that at all events is short, " said Ida, continuing to read:

"MISS GREELEY:

"For some years past your father very kindly gave me assistance duringthree months of the year; if you can continue this, it will be a greatcharity, as I am very much in need of it. 

"Yours respectfully

"------ ------. "

"Have you not yet exhausted your mail?" enquired Gabrielle. 

"No, " said Ida, "I have still two or three letters to read to AuntEsther. Here is one in which you will be interested, Gabrielle. Thewriter calls you familiarly 'Elite': I think he must have read thatvery accurate description of you that went the rounds of the paperslast summer, in which you remember you are a shy and shrinkingflaxen-haired fawn. He would be quite surprised, I think, if he couldsee what a majestic 'Elite' you are. "

"ALLEGHANY CO. PENN. 

"_To whom it may concern_:

"Know ye that I have had a desire to know more about the Greeley girlsfor several months, and that the desire for acquaintance became sostrong after meeting your father and sister a few nights since (whilesleeping) that I concluded to write. 

"It seems to be Gabrielle's acquaintance I particularly desire, but shebeing young and inexperienced I address you as her natural guardian, allowing you to dispose of my communication as you think best. 

"Being what some folks call an eccentric individual; feeling _lonely_in the world, and believing, from what I know of the laws of HereditaryDescent and your parents that you and your sister must possess thenoblest natures; and believing that no harm but good--_at least tome_--can come from our acquaintance, I write to ask a correspondence. 

"If you or 'Ellie' feel like sending a reply--well; if not, there shallbe no hard feelings, but it would be a satisfaction to me to know thatmy letter had been received. 

"Sincerely wishing you and all the world all happiness, I close. Accept my warmest sympathy in your bereavement, and believe me to bethe friend of Humanity. 

"VICTOR MELVIN. 

"P. S. For reasons not necessary to mention, I write under an assumedname. _Write_, PLEASE. "

The next one was from Chicago, addressed to Miss ida greeley. Thewriter said:

"I am about to pen you a few lines, hopeing you will not receive themin a contemptious manner, but rather in a business than a formal way. 

"Pleas to put the form of introduction and society regulations aside, and consider your future happiness, pleasure and welfare only. I amwell aware that you are very much anoid and persecuted, thereby I meanpersistant attentions from undesirable persons; now my obgect atpresent is to aid you in a manner that you can soon and forever shutdown on all disagreeable attentions. 

"now I would suggest some beautiful locality in California or orogonthere to live a quiet retired life free from former acquaintances andcontinnad anoyances. Now if you think you could accept my services, they are honorably tendered and would be kindly and heartily given. Pleas to inform me at the earliest conveniance. Pleas to notmisinterpret my intentions. 

"yours in sincerity

"pleas to

"Address -------- --------. "

After listening to this extraordinary epistle, mamma said dryly:

"I think, my dear, that that is the strangest letter you have yetreceived. "

"It is nothing, auntie, " was the reply, "to one I have in reserve, inwhich the writer not only has a request to make, but actually proposesmaking me a present; it is _not_, however, his hand, for a wonder!"

"DEERLODGE, MONTANA. 

"To MISS IDA GREELY:

"Young lady I suppose you will be surprised at receiving a letter fromthe frontier, my motive for writing is this. I am a mountaineer--thatis a trapper a good many years ago I met with your father Horace Greelyon the plains, and greatly admired the old gentleman. The way I cameto make his acquaintance is this. A drunken, unruly Cuss seeing thatyour father appeared quiet and peaceable thought it safe to play thebully at his expence so he commenced to insult and threaten Mr. Greelyin a pretty rough manner. Seeing that your father was quiet andpeaceable and did not wish to quarrel with the Cuss I took the Cuss inhand, and spoiled his beauty for him, and taught him a lesson to mindhis own business. Mr. Greely greatly overated the trifleing service Ihad done, he thanked me warmly, he became very friendly with me andgave me good advice. Among other things he advised me to do was to geta breach loading rifle instead of my muzlle loading rifle. I laughedat the idea I supposed my old muzlle loader was the best. Since then Ihave found out that Mr. Greely was right and that I was rong. Mr. Greely at the time offered to purchase one and give it to me I refusedto accept it. He then told me any time I changed my mind to let himknow, and he would send me a good breech loading rifle. I have oftenthought about it since, but never wrote to him. My reasons for writingto you now are these; I and my partner Beaver Bob started down theYellow Stone last fall to trap near the Big Horn river. We were prettysuccessful and made the Beaver mink martin and other vermin suffer--butone day we were attaced by a hunting party of 15 or 20 Ogallala Sioux. In the fight my old partner Beaver bob was wiped out I was wounded butmanaged to make my escape and after a pretty hard time reached theMission on the head of the Yellow Stone--I mean near the head. I lostmy horses all my outfit in fact almost everything. When my ammunitionwas expended--I mean used up--I threw my rifle away and took to thebrush and ran for it--I mean the chance of life. Lately I have heardthat Mr. Greely has handed in his chips--that is passed in hischecks--I mean gone to limbo you know. I'm sorry for the old man butwe must all go some time you know. And now miss what I want to know iswill you instead of your father send me a breech loading rifle. If youdo I shall be much obliged to you and if you don't I hope there is noharm done. The kind of rifle I want is one of Sharps new improvedshooting rifles with a barrell 36 inches in length and a barrell 16pound weight Calibre 44. They are mad in Sharps factory Connetticot ina place called Hartford. If one was sent to me by Wells and Fargoesexpress to Deerlodge city Montana Territory, I should get it. The nameor rather the nickname by which I am known among mountain men is DeathRifle. The redskins I mean the Indians gave me that name many years inDacotah Territtory and it stuck to me ever since. My right name isHugh De Lacey so when you wish to adress or direct any thing to medirect to Hugh De Lacey, Deerlodge City, Montana. Miss Greely a greatmany eastern men we remarked seem to think that we mountaineers are toblame for having trouble with the redskins I can assure you we neverbother the infernal vermin only when they bother us and that is prettyoften for when they get a chance to go for our hair they take it nomore at present I remain

"Yours respectfully

"HUGH DE LACEY. 

"N. B. I have heard you eastern ladies are in the habit of useing adeal of false hair in your toilets if you choose miss Greely I willsend you a lot of Indians hair any time you want it. I remain yoursrespectfully

"HUGH DE LACEY. "

"It reads like a chapter from one of Cooper's novels, " said mamma, "andthe romantic name of Hugh De Lacey would be more appropriate to thehandsome young descendant of some old Huguenot refugee family than sucha rough trapper as your correspondent 'Death Rifle;' but the present heoffers you is most singularly inappropriate; no one who had ever seenyour wealth of hair, my child, would think of presenting you with achignon;" and as she spoke she loosened and shook out Ida's heavyclusters of hair, which, released from their orderly Marguerite braids, swept over her black dress like a tawny mantle. 

[1] I insert this and the subsequent letters precisely as they arewritten, merely withholding some of the signatures. 

CHAPTER XV. 

Life in the Woods of Pennsylvania--Journey from Vermont to Pennsylvaniain 1826--Travelling on Canal-boats--Incidents by the Way--Home in theWilderness--Aggressions of Bears and Wolves. 

_July 14_. 

"Aunt Esther, in all the stories of your early days that you have toldus, you have not yet described your life in Pennsylvania, " said Ida oneevening, when we were gathered about the piano. "Do tell us about it. You have once or twice merely alluded to living in the woods, and mycuriosity is quite excited. Were they veritable forests? I do notremember hearing papa say much about them. "

Mamma smiled sadly. 

"What makes you think of Pennsylvania to-night, my child?" she asked. 

"I do not know, auntie, " was the reply, "unless perhaps it was hearingCecilia sing 'My love is like the red, red rose. ' You told me, Iremember, that grandmamma used often to sing that pretty little Scotchballad. "

"Yes, it was one of mother's favorite songs, " said mamma. "I canremember perfectly the way she used to sing it. Not in your Englishversion, Cecilia, but with Burns' own Scotch words, and in her sweet, low voice, with a ring of passion that one rarely hears in adrawing-room at the present day. As Charles Reade says of one of hisheroines, 'She sung the music for the sake of the words, not the wordsfor the sake of the music--which is something very rare. '

"I am not surprised that you have never heard your papa say much of ourlife in Pennsylvania, for you remember that he did not accompany usthere, but only made us occasional visits. Before we left Vermontfather had already apprenticed him, at his earnest desire, to thepublishers of the _North American Spectator_, at Poultney, and brotherBarnes (who is fifteen months his junior) then took his place in thehousehold. I think that your papa had been some time in the_Spectator_ office before our departure for the woods, in September. "

"Yes, " said Marguerite, who always remembers dates; "he was apprenticedthe April before you left, and came over to Westhaven to bid you allgood-by. I remember what he says of the parting in his'Recollections:' [1]

"'It was a sad parting. We had seen hard times together, and were veryfondly attached to each other. I was urged by some of my kindred togive up Poultney (where there were some things in the office notexactly to my mind), and accompany them to their new home, whence, theyurged, I could easily find in its vicinity another and better chance tolearn my chosen trade. I was strongly tempted to comply, but it wouldhave been bad faith to do so; and I turned my face once more towardsPoultney, with dry eyes but a heavy heart. A word from my mother, atthe critical moment, might have overcome my resolution. But she didnot speak it, and I went my way, leaving the family soon to travel muchfarther and in an opposite direction. After the parting was over, andI well on my way, I was strongly tempted to return; and my walk back toPoultney (twelve miles) was one of the slowest and saddest of my life. '

"Do commence at the beginning, mamma, " Marguerite continued, "and tellus all about the journey to Pennsylvania, and how your new home lookedwhen you arrived. How large was the family then? Aunt Margaret wasborn in Vermont, was she not?"

"Yes, and a very pretty little creature she was, " said mamma, with asister's pride in the youngest of the family. "She was extremely smallfor her age--indeed, she weighed only three pounds and a half at herbirth, and I recollect hearing some one say that the nurse put her intothe family coffee-pot and shut down the lid. "

"The coffee-pot!" we all exclaimed, in chorus. "Pray how large was it?Somewhat over the ordinary size, I trust. "

Mamma laughed. "Yes, it was larger than coffee-pots of the presentday, " she said; "an old-fashioned tin coffee-pot, broad at the bottomand gradually narrowing towards the top. But still it wasextraordinary that a baby could be put in it, and the lid shut down. "

"What induced grandpapa to select Pennsylvania for a residence, AuntEsther?" inquired Ida. "Was land cheaper there than elsewhere?"

"You have answered your question yourself, dear, " was mamma's reply. "Land was very cheap there, and through our careful economy in Vermont, father had saved enough money to buy about two hundred acres, to whichhe subsequently added, from time to time, so that the old Greeleyhomestead now consists of between three and four hundred acres. Thentwo of father's brothers, Uncle Benjamin and Uncle Leonard, had settledin Wayne township three or four years previous, and, to use your papa'swords, had 'made holes in the tall, dense forest that covered nearlyall that region for twenty to fifty miles in every direction. ' Fatherwent to Pennsylvania in advance of us, bought his land, and thenreturned to fetch us to our new home. 

"I remember seeing mother weep bitterly when she left Vermont; but, asever through her brave life, she made no complaint. As for myself, Iremember no regrets, save at parting with dear brother; for I was tooyoung to feel other than childish exultation at the prospect of makinga long journey; and that journey from Vermont to our new home upon the'State line, ' between New York and Pennsylvania, I must here remark, occupied a month. Locomotion, you see, was not so rapid in the year1826 as it is now. "

"I should think not!" exclaimed Gabrielle. "Pray, auntie, in what waydid you travel to advance at such a snail's pace? I should think youcould almost have walked the distance in that length of time. "

"You will be amused when I tell you the length of the first day'sjourney, " replied mamma. "Father hired a large wagon, and stowed awayour trunks, furniture, and all of his family in it, and we went as faras Whitehall, a distance of about nine miles. Here we stopped overnight, and the next day took the boat for Troy, where we again brokethe journey after travelling, I believe, two days. At that time therewere no regular ferry-boats to cross the river from East to West Troy, and passengers were taken over in row-boats. I remember that theboatmen stood by the river-side and called all day and night:

"'Over, over, over, going o-o-o-o-ver!' to attract custom. 

"Now came the most delightful part of the journey--going from Troy toBuffalo upon the canal-boat. There were two different kinds of boatsthat went between those cities; the packet-boats, carrying the mailsand passengers but no freight, and the line-boats, which took bothfreight and passengers, and were consequently cheaper. These were usedby people like ourselves, who were moving from one part of the countryto the other, with furniture, who wished to economize, and to whom timewas no object; for the packet-boats travelled twice or thrice asrapidly as the line-boats. 

"I think I never enjoyed myself so thoroughly when a child, as at thattime. My sisters and I were much petted by the captain and thepassengers; and the excitement of being on the water, and the constantchange of scene, kept up our spirits to the highest pitch. Margaret, who was then four years old, was, I remember, an especial favorite onthe boat; for she was extremely pretty, with her fragile, doll-likefigure, her clear complexion, bright blue eyes, and reddish gold curls. She inherited the family talent for spelling, and was very fond ofdisplaying her accomplishments in that line; for sister Margaret was avery self-possessed little creature, and was afraid of no one--not evenof father himself. I recollect that when the boat stopped at any smalltown to take on passengers, Margaret's bright eyes would if possiblediscover a shop with the sign 'Grocery;' and then, going up to some oneof her new friends, would gravely spell 'G-r-o, gro, c-e, ce, groce, r-y, ry, grocery;' followed usually by an intimation that a reward ofmerit would be acceptable. She was so extremely small for her age, that her achievement of spelling a three-syllable word was looked uponas something marvellous by the passengers, and some one wouldimmediately take her ashore, and buy her some candy or fruit from thegrocery. 

"Another incident that impressed itself strongly upon me during thisjourney, was eating a peach for the first time. I had never seen apeach in either New Hampshire or Vermont. 

"But, during those long September days that we children spent runningover the boat, and indulging in all sorts of wild mischief, poor motherhad by no means an easy life. It was impossible for her to keep ustogether and under her eyes; and what with the fear that we might falloverboard, or meet with some accident from the bridges, I know that sheonly looked forward to the time when the journey should be over, and wesafe on land again. "

"The bridges, mamma!" said Marguerite, "to what danger were you exposedfrom them?"

"The bridges crossing the canal, " explained mamma, "were so extremelylow, that no one upon the boat could stand upright; often the boatcould barely glide under them without grazing the rails of the deck. The captain used to keep on the lookout, and as we approached one, would call, 'Bridge ahead. ' Then the women and children would rushdown the staircase to the little cabin, and the gentlemen would usuallythrow themselves at full length upon the dock until the bridge waspassed. That was always a moment of terrible anxiety for poor motherif we were out of sight; for accidents and even loss of life had beenknown to occur; indeed, on father's previous journey, he witnessed anaccident of a most terrible character. A woman, who was going only ashort distance in the boat, was very much afraid that she would betaken past the town where she wished to stop, and paid no attention tothe warning to go below as they approached a bridge. The captain, seeing the danger she was in, seized her by the arm, and thrust herdownstairs. She rushed up, and he again pulled her down. Confidentthat she was about to be taken past her destination, the poor woman forthe third time broke away from him, and reached the deck just in timeto be struck by the bridge and instantly killed. "

"Frightful!" said Marguerite with a shudder. "Tell us about the restof your journey, mamma. How did you travel after you left Buffalo?Upon Lake Erie, I suppose?"

"No, indeed!" replied mamma, "although there were at that timesteamboats upon the lake; but father had had so terrible an experienceupon his previous journey, that he would not subject his family to thecaprices of Lake Erie. He had started from Buffalo upon a schooner, but a dreadful storm arose, in which the boat struggled for three daysand was then obliged to put back to Buffalo a complete wreck. Fatherdeclared at that time that he would never expose his family to thehair-breadth escape from death that he had undergone; consequently, hehired a strong wagon at Buffalo, and we travelled along what was calledthe 'Lake Shore Road' to the town of North East, whence we took asouthern course to Wattsburgh. 

"When at Wattsburgh, we were only eight miles distant from ourdestination, but as we were now to leave the main road and plunge intothe deep forest, father exchanged his horses and wagon for a heavywooden sled and a yoke of oxen. Then we commenced to realize what ournew life was to be. There was no road through the woods, and the onlyindication of the route was blazed or marked trees. Huge logs, so highthat the oxen could barely step over them, lay occasionally across ourpath, and from time to time we had to stop while father and brotherBarnes hewed down the trees that obstructed the way. We childrenthought this pioneer episode even preferable to our experience upon theboat, but I remember that dear mother sighed often and deeply. 

"At the close of the second day, the eight miles were accomplished, andwe reached father's property. He had bought with the land a roughlittle log-house, or rather hut, as it had but one room, and in this wewere to live until he could build a better one. At the sight of herdreary home, mother's heart fairly sunk, and I shall never forget hertears. "

Mamma paused for a moment; then steadying her voice, said:

"I am prouder than ever of my mother when I think how nobly she borethe separation from her darling son, and her exile from her family, and, you may almost say, from civilization. She could not, at first, it is true, restrain her tears, but from that moment never a murmur ofcomplaint crossed her brave lips, and we children never dreamed, tillyears later, how keenly she felt the sacrifice that she had beencompelled to make. "

"But were you really so far out of the world, Aunt Esther?" inquiredIda. "Did you have no neighbors at all? We had two uncles there, Ithought. Surely they must have been some society for grandmamma?"

"I do not believe, " mamma replied, "that any other spot upon the globe, not even Robinson Crusoe's island, could now seem so desolate and shutoff from all communication as our home in the woods did then. You mustremember that there were no railways in 1826, which fact made us stillmore remote from the rest of the world. Now, with the railwaysspreading in every direction over our vast Republic, you can scarcelyimagine what it was to live with an almost impenetrable forest betweenyourself and your nearest neighbor. Uncle Benjamin occupied what wascalled the 'next lot, ' and had the ground been cleared, the distancefrom us would still have been three-quarters of a mile; but when thedistance was increased three-fold by the darkness of the forest, andthere was in addition every probability of meeting a bear or two on theway, you can imagine that being neighborly was scarcely practicable. "

"Bears!" exclaimed Gabrielle, her eyes sparkling with excitement; "howlovely! Darling auntie, do tell us more about them. It must have beenlike one of Captain Mayne Reid's stories, to live in that delightfulPennsylvania!"

"Our life there, " said mamma, "certainly equalled the wildest tales ofadventures experienced by early settlers that I have ever read, and wechildren found it quite as 'lovely' as you imagine it to have been. Wenever felt isolated, although our entire 'clearing' consisted of onlyfour acres, upon which our house stood, and any further prospect wasshut out by the woods. To us it was delightful to realize theadventures of Robinson Crusoe, which, as I told you, brother had readto us in Vermont, merely changing tropical animals and scenery for thatof the North. I do not remember ever being afraid, but the wolves, whonightly howled in gangs about our slightly built house, the bears whoate up the corn in our little patch, the porcupines who gnawed thehoops off our pork barrels, and the frightful, screaming owls, struckterror to poor mother's heart. 

"I recollect that one night father went out to drive away a porcupinewhose teeth and claws he heard busily at work upon a barrel hoop, butthe creature rushed into the house through the open door, and ranacross the trundle bed where sister Arminda and I slept. I need nottell you how dangerous it would have been had one of his quillspenetrated our flesh. "

"Do go on, auntie; this is delightful, " said Gabrielle. 

"When father had paid for his land, " said mamma, "and bought a yoke ofoxen and a cow--two essential things for a farmer--he had very little, if any, money left. There was no danger, however, that we shouldsuffer from want, for the woods were so full of game that father wouldtake his gun in the morning and go out to shoot something for dinnerwith the same confidence that he would have gone to a market to buy it. Partridges and pigeons in the greatest abundance formed our daily fare, while the deer used to walk into our corn-patch and almost offerthemselves as targets for father's or brother Barnes' gun. Venison, Irecollect, was so plentiful that a farmer, after shooting a deer, wouldonly trouble himself to fetch home the hind-quarters and hide--thelatter being marketable. In the spring there were cowslips and otherwood plants in abundance, which made a delicious substitute forspinach. Tea was very scarce with us, and was kept for Sundays; butbeech nuts, burnt and ground, made a very palatable coffee, that formedour daily beverage. Butter must have been an unmarketable article, forI remember that during the first three years we spent there, it soldfor six cents a pound. "

"Did you grow anything on the farm to sell, mamma?" I inquired. "Isuppose not, during the first years. "

"'No, " said mamma; "and if we had, there would have been no market forit. "

"Then what did you do for money, Aunt Esther?" said Ida. "Grandpapahad very little, you say. "

"I must not forget, " said mamma, "that we had one marketableproduction, and one that you would not easily guess. 

"I wonder, Gabrielle, if your favorite chemistry goes back so far intoelementary principles, as to tell you from what black salts are made?School-books seldom, I think, trouble themselves with the origin ofthings, so I will tell you that after the great logs were burnt thatfather had felled in clearing, the ashes were collected and leeched, and the lye boiled down in immense cauldrons till it became granulatedlike sugar. It then formed what was called 'black salts, ' and thesesalts are the basis of potash, soda, etc. The salts could always finda ready market, and with them we paid our taxes, and bought whatnecessaries we could not raise ourselves. "

[1] Page 62. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Birthday--A Surprise--The Day celebrated by a Dinner--An AwkwardMistake--A Queen of Fashion--A Drive to Tarrytown--A Poem to Ida. 

_July 16_. 

An air of mystery has pervaded the house for the past week. My offersto take Ida's letters to the post, or to go and fetch home the mail, have been met with a hasty negative, and Minna despatched forthwith toattend to them; and whenever I might enter Ida's room, it would appearto be at a most inopportune moment, for the earnest conversation thathad been going on between herself and Gabrielle would instantly stop, and their countenances assume a most transparent expression ofindifference. Long whispered conversations with mamma were continuallytaking place, and Ida seemed to be more frequently called to thekitchen by Lina than I had ever before known her to be, that autocratbeing ordinarily by no means tolerant of her presence there. Finally, Ida was summoned to New York upon important business--to meet herlawyer, I supposed, but wondered why she did not simply authorize papato represent herself, as well as Gabrielle, whose guardian he is, andthus spare herself a tedious day in the city in such sultry weather. 

Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is Marguerite's. As the fêtesoccur in midsummer, we are usually--if in America--upon the CatskillMountains, or some equally inaccessible place, so that a celebration isnot practicable; indeed, our birthdays have not been celebrated since1869, when some friends in Paris took us all to St. Germain, where wepassed a most delightful week at the Pavilion Henri Quatre (a hotelbuilt upon the spot where Louis XIV. Was born), and daily drove andpicniced in the grand old forest for which St. Germain is noted. Theevents of yesterday were therefore most unexpected and agreeable. 

Ida and Gabrielle, after congratulating Marguerite and I, and giving ussome elegant presents (for we usually receive our presents upon thesame day, as less than twenty-four hours separate our anniversaries), asked us to drive down to the station with them to meet the train, andgently intimated that as some one might come up from New York withpapa, we had better put on our best bombazines. Quite obediently Iwent upstairs, put on the dress with its weight of crape, clasped on mynew black velvet _ceinture_, with its buckles of oxidized silver indelicate filagree work, (Marguerite's gift), and obtuse to theinappropriateness of a dress fan for morning use, suspended from thechâtelaine another birthday gift--a black lace fan. Then, when I hadput the finishing touch, in the shape of dear Ida's present--avinaigrette of oxidized silver formed like a half-furled fan--I wasquite satisfied with my toilette; before the day was over, however, my_ceinture_ was adorned with a tortoise-shell châtelaine, whistle, andtablets, as well as a dainty riding-whip--papa's present--and I deeplymourned the impossibility of wearing two beautiful pictures, a newnovel, and a large box of Iauch's best bonbons. 

When the train arrived, papa emerged, followed by our artist neighbor, Mr. John Hows. 

"Why, papa has brought up Mr. Hows!" I said. "How very--" myexclamation of pleasure was checked by surprise at the appearance ofhis brother, the musical editor of the _Express_, followed by ourfriends, Dr. Taylor and Colonel Rogers. 

"Is this a surprise party?" Marguerite and I inquired blankly. 

My dear friend Lela Paraf then tripped out, assisted by her eleganthusband, and followed by Mr. Eugene Durkee and his brother, two Parisfriends of ours. Then the car door opened once more, and "our youngchief, " as papa calls Mr. Reid, and Colonel Hay issued--a surpriseparty indeed. 

Ida had intended to invite only a few young gentlemen to spend the daywith us, fearing that if she sent out invitations to ladies to dinner, some enterprising reporter might announce that she had given at least a_fête champêtre_, if not a _bal masqué_, which in our deep mourningwould not be an agreeable report to be in circulation; but Lela is socharming and dear to us all, and has remained so faithfully my mostintimate friend for the last six months, notwithstanding the rival thatI dreaded in her husband, that Ida made an exception for her. 

As we were marshalling our regiment to return to the house, a tall, dark, distinguished-looking gentleman, elegantly dressed, hastenedtowards us. Who he was I could not imagine, but as his face seemedfamiliar, I welcomed him with a beaming smile. He must, however, bevery near-sighted, I thought, for he overlooked my extended hand, merely bowing very low, and going on towards the house. 

"Who is he, Ida?" I said in a whisper; "I don't remember his name. "

"I suppose not, " said Ida, laughing; "though you have seen him oftenenough. It is Emile, from Delmonico's. I sent for him to help Minnaserve the table. "

I was no longer surprised that my distinguished-looking gentleman didnot shake hands with me. 

When we were upon the croquet ground, I had an opportunity to admireLela's toilette. A born Queen of Fashion, her dresses even when as aschool-girl were my admiration, and her toilette for my birthday showedthe refinement of delicacy and taste: for, not wishing to be the onlylady present in colors, she wore a black grenadine, with black bows anda black lace hat; her diamond ear-drops and one half-blown deep redrose alone testifying that her mourning robe was only worn throughsympathy. 

We had sat three hours at the table, and were lingering over the icesand awaiting the coffee and fruit, when a shrill whistle, warning theguests that the train was nigh, caused a flight more rapid than that ofCinderella. Farewells were left unspoken, and "French leave" taken ingood earnest, as our friends made a short cut through the garden ofBischoff, the trainmaster, who lives opposite us. Their departurecould scarcely be said to be graceful, but as they had only threeminutes' time to meet the train, it was obligatory. 

Lina had exercised all of her art in preparing the birthday dinner, andas Ida gave her _carte blanche_ in her most extravagant demands--suchas twenty pounds of beef for gravies, and an entire bottle of Madeirafor the soup, the dinner was very elegant and satisfactory. Linawould, I fancy, have been much aggrieved, had she known that herartistic dishes were supposed to have been sent up from Delmonico's. 

_July 20_. 

A drive to Tarrytown to-day. After two months of inland air, thechange to the exhilarating salt breeze blowing up from the Hudson wasvery refreshing, and made us quite regret, during the few hours wespent there, that Chappaqua could not be occasionally transported tothe seaside. 

"I am especially fond, " said Ida, "of living by the sea, although I donot enjoy an ocean voyage; but a cottage at Newport is my ideal homefor the summer. "

"Newport air, " said mamma, "would, I think, be too strong for me. Themost agreeable sea air that I ever experienced was upon the Isle ofWight. There the climate was so mild as to be very beneficial to me. But you must know as much or more than I do about the Isle of Wightair, for you spent several months there with your mother when last inEurope, did you not?"

"Yes, we spent a winter and spring at Ventnor, " said Ida; "that town, you know, is especially recommended to people with lung troubles, although I could never see that it did poor mamma much good. "

"Did you ever see, Aunt Esther, " inquired Gabrielle, "the poem that wasaddressed to Ida while she was at Ventnor?"

Mamma had not before heard of it; therefore, upon our return, Ida tookit out of her portfolio, and showed it to us. It was written by a NewYork editor and poet, and was, we all thought, very beautiful andappropriate. As it was in MSS. , Ida allowed me to copy it into myjournal. 

 A FAMILIAR IDYL. 

 FOR IDA LILLIAN GREELEY. 

 Dear friend! If I could step to-day Upon your cosey English isle, Victoria's chosen home erewhile, And hallowed by the Laureate's lay;

 Though beauty breaks from every view, And one long splendor edge the shore, I should not pause an hour before I touched the terrace graced by you. 

 For what's a Queen's or Poet's worth? The light that lies on land and sea Resplendent? Dearer far to me The friendship which outweighs the earth. 

 Should I not find you--happy chance-- Just where your ivied cottage stands, Dreaming with hope of western lands, Or facing torn and tortured France?

 And you could tell of sunny days? Of chalky cliffs and spreading downs; Nature is more than bustling towns, And country life than city ways. 

 But hearing now a robin sing, I wonder if his English mate May not be hopping near your gate, A harbinger, with ours, of Spring. 

 I know the precious charge you hold; But now, when comes the budding year, I wish the rather you were here To see our leafy months unfold. 

 To watch the coming choir of birds, And note the lengthening twilight hours, The miracles of buds and flowers, And tender shows too sweet for words. 

 But you who hear the throstle sing, And greet the lark's high ecstasies, May learn to care no more for these, And spurn each weaker voice and wing. 

 I will not think it--home is home; And much as other skies may do, Ours will not reach its sweetest blue, Nor May seem perfect, till you come. 

_March 1, 1871_. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Gabrielle and her Embroidery--Life in Pennsylvaniacontinued--Sugar-making--Horrible Incident--A Woman devoured byWolves--A Domestic Picture--Evening Readings--The Library of Mr. Greeley's Father--Mr. Greeley's Mother intellectually considered--HerEducation--Mr. Greeley's Eldest Sister--She teaches School at the Ageof Twelve. 

_July 25_. 

"It is some time, auntie, " said Gabrielle, from the sofa, "since youhave told us any stories. Now I wish that this evening, while I amworking upon my pin-cushion, you would relate some more episodes ofyour Pennsylvania life;" and she opened her work box, and took out alittle roll of canvas, upon which she was busy delineating in paleyellow wool a stiff little canary, with a surprising eye, and animpossible tail. 

"I have forgotten what I have already related, dear, " replied mamma;"you must tell me where to take up my story. "

"You left off at the manufacture of black salts, " said Gabrielle, "andI want you to commence at that very point, and not forget anything thatoccurred. "

"Perhaps you would like to hear about sugar making, " said mamma; "thatwas one of father's yearly enterprises, and great sport we young peoplethought it. "

"Oh, do tell us about it, " said Gabrielle, with sparkling eyes; "thatwill be delightful; almost as good as meeting a bear. "

"Although not so exciting, I fear, " said mamma, laughing; "I am sorrythat I have no encounters with bears to meet your demands for thrillingadventures to-night; but if, as I suppose, you have never seen theprocess of sugar making, you will find an account of it quiteinteresting. "

"Father had upon his extensive acres hundreds of grand old forestmaples, which, growing as they did, in patches in the wilderness, formed what were called in country parlance 'sugar bushes, ' or, in themore elegant language of books, 'sugar orchards. ' Early in the spring, when the sun stood high, and the snow began to melt, the maples wouldbe 'tapped, ' as the farmers say; sometimes by boring into them, andoften by driving in a chisel; then a wooden spout would be insertedthrough which the sweet sap would begin to trickle down into thetroughs placed there to receive it. From these troughs it wascollected and carried in buckets and pails to an immense receptaclehollowed out of the trunk of some great tree; usually selecting whatwas called the 'cucumber tree, ' as its soft wood could be more easilyexcavated than that of other trees. The men used to wear a yoke upontheir shoulders with hooks from which the pails were suspended; andthus equipped they would traverse to and fro with the sap. I wellremember lending my assistance to father by trudging valiantly throughsnow that reached my knees, to carry buckets of sap, but without theassistance of a yoke. 

"The process of making sugar is very like that I described in themanufacture of black salts. The sap is poured into immense cauldrons, and boils sometimes for several days. As fast as it evaporates, freshsap is poured in until the syrup becomes thick, and then followsgranulation, or, as the farmers call it, 'sugaring off. ' These periodsof sugaring off, which occurred usually once or twice a week during thesugar season, were participated in by the neighbors from far and near, who would come to eat sugar and make merry. 

"I forgot, however, to tell you that while the sap was boiling, someone had to spend the night in the woods to refill the cauldron, and tokeep up the fire. In our family this duty fell to brother Barnes, whotook much delight in it. With some boy friend he would camp out upon abundle of straw before the fire, and with a nice supper, and songs andstories, diversified by rising every half hour to stir up the fire, andwatch the cauldron, and to have a private sugaring off for their ownbenefit, the boys would pass away the night. 

"But were they in no danger from wild animals, mamma?" inquiredMarguerite. 

"Not much, " replied mamma; "the boys always took their guns with them, but although the deer would rustle over the leaves, and bears andwolves would creep softly up to the little encampment, the fire wasusually sufficient protection, and the wolves would content themselveswith howling, and with a dissatisfied grunt the bears would move slowlyaway. 

"Often the boys would see through the darkness a pair of fiery eyesglaring at them, and seizing their rifles they would shoot; but if theymissed aim, the bears or wolves would have been sufficiently alarmed bythe noise to make their escape whilst they could. Boys accustomed to apioneer's life feared nothing; such adventures were as great sport tothem in the woods, as they are to you, Gabrielle, while listening tothem safely housed. "

"But in novels, and books of travel in new countries, auntie, " saidGabrielle with a dissatisfied shake of her pretty head, "when you fireat a bear or other wild animal and do not kill him, he instantly turnsand kills you. Were the bears and wolves of Pennsylvania lessferocious than those of other countries?"

"They did not often seem bloodthirsty, " replied mamma, "for the reason, I suppose, that the woods were full of smaller animals on which theycould prey, and consequently they did not need to attack human beingsfor sustenance. I remember, however, one incident that may perhapssatisfy your desire for more thrilling adventures. 

"An old woman living near what was called 'the Carter settlement, ' somesix miles from us, started to pay a visit to a friend in the next'clearing. ' To reach her destination she had to pass through thedensest part of the forest, with no indication of a path to guide her:but she never thought of danger as she started upon her long, lonelywalk. 

"Several days elapsed before it was fairly realized that the old ladywas missing; and then the neighbors started en masse through the forestwith tin pans, tin horns, and stalwart lungs, to look for her. Theirshouts met with no response, but after a long search they met a pack ofwolves who fled rapidly past them. Fairly alarmed now lest the oldwoman should have perished from fatigue and exposure, they pursued thesearch with desperate haste, and not far from the spot where they hadmet the wolves, found some scraps of a dress that was recognized ashers, a few bones, and her feet, which, encased as they were in stoutboots, the wolves had disdained to devour. Whether the old woman hadfallen a live victim to the wolves, or had died of hunger and fatigueand then furnished a repast to them, we never knew; this lattersupposition, however, seemed hardly probable, for she could have foundin the woods wild berries, succulent roots, and water sufficient tosubsist upon for several days. "

A shiver of horror went around our little circle, and even Gabrielle'slove for the terrible was satisfied. 

After a short pause, Marguerite said:

"You must often have felt lonely, mamma, did you not, living so faraway from all places of amusement, lectures, and the like? Indeed, Isuppose that buried as you were in the woods, you did not even have theexcitement of going to church. "

"No, " said mamma; "we were dependent for entertainment entirely uponour own resources and the few books we had brought with us fromVermont; but we children were never conscious of a lonely hour, and ifdear mother felt sad and weary of our uneventful life, we never knew it. 

"We worked hard all day, every one of us, even little Margaret havingsomething to do; but in the evening we had a change of occupation. Attwilight, when father and brother Barnes had come home, and our earlysupper was over, father would say:

"'Mary, what have you to read to us to-night?'

"Immediately fresh logs would be piled up in the great open fireplace, the candles lighted, we girls would draw up to the table with ourknitting or sewing, Barnes would throw himself down before the fire, and mother would take up a book for the evening's reading. Thisreading was as much a part of the routine of the day as dinner orsupper, and was indeed our only means of culture that winter, distantas we were from schools and all other educational advantages. Motheralways monopolized the position of reader; indeed, until after herdeath, father seldom read a book, but contented himself with being alistener. "

"And was he a good listener, mamma?" I inquired, "or did he stopgrandmamma from time to time to comment upon the author and the events?"

"Father's intentions were the best in the world, " replied mammasmiling, "but you must remember that he would sit down to listen, completely exhausted from a day's work that had commenced with thefirst tinge of dawn, and before very long, soothed by mother's musicalvoice, his breathing would become more and more audible, and his headcommence to nod. Quite patiently mother would continue her chapter, feigning not to be conscious of the heavy breathing that proceeded fromthe arm-chair, and often from the boyish figure stretched before thefire, until their slumber would become _too_ apparent, when, closingthe book, she would call them severely to task for their inattention. 

"Rubbing his eyes, father would rouse up, and indignantly refuting theaccusation, declare that he had heard every word. 

"Instantly putting him to the test, mother would inquire what she hadbeen reading about?

"After a moment of deep reflection, father would say penitently:

"'Well, Mary, if you will just read back a page or two, I will rememberall about it. '

"Very indulgently mother would turn back, but often before she hadreached the former stopping-place, father's breathing would announcethat he was again resting from the hard day's toil. 

"Barnes was somewhat better as a listener, but he, like father, workedhard, and it was often difficult for him to keep awake during thereading of history or novels; but we three girls were a most interestedaudience, and somewhat compensated for masculine inattention. 

"But father was not always drowsy; at times he would listen with keeninterest to the evening reading, and very much vexed he would be if thearrival of any neighbor should put a stop to it. 

"'My wife is reading something extremely interesting to us, ' he wouldartfully say; 'perhaps you would like to listen to it also?'

"'By all means, ' the unsuspecting visitor would reply, and not anotheropportunity would he have to speak until it was time to take leave. "

"What books did grandmamma read to you?" inquired Marguerite. "Youhave mentioned both history and novels, but without giving any names. "

"Your uncle, " replied mamma, "supplied us with light literature fromthe resources of the _Spectator_ office--newspapers, pamphlets, periodicals, etc. , and mother's own little library was sterling in itsquality as her own old-fashioned ballads; it was quite varied, too, considering how few volumes it contained. 

"One of the books that I remember was Butler's 'History of the UnitedStates;' a ponderous tome that I presume you children have never seen. 

"Another volume from which we derived much information and pleasure wasa large 'Universal History;' the name of its author I have forgotten. 

"The 'History of the Jews, ' by Josephus, was also a great favorite withmother; this work did not, however, belong to us, but was lent us byyour other grandfather, Marguerite. Mr. Cleveland, a neighbor of ours, you know, had, like us, a small library of standard books, which he wasalways glad to lend to an _appreciative_ reader. 

"The 'Wonders of Nature and Providence' was another book that Iremember well, and a 'Life of Napoleon, ' by what author I do not know, but which was a source of endless delight both to father and mother. The emperor, you know, had been dead only since 1821, consequently hisexploits were fresh in every one's memory, and some of mother's moststirring songs were about 'General Bonaparte. ' You four children comelegitimately by your devotion to Napoleon, for both father and motherwere enthusiastic in their admiration for the great French hero. 

"Among our smaller books was a life of Prince Eugene of Savoy, and thememoirs of Baron Trenck, whose romantic history we enjoyed as much asthe most thrilling novel. 

"As for novels, we had not many at that time, although the newspaperswith which brother furnished us usually contained serial stories thatmother used to read aloud. I remember, however, that mother owned'Waverley, ' 'Rob Roy, ' and 'Francis Berrian, ' a romance of which fatherwas especially fond, and all of which she read to us. 

"For poetry, we had a volume of selections from English poets, accompanied with brief sketches of their lives, a volume abouttwo-thirds the size of Dana's 'Household Book of Poetry, ' a copy ofCowper, whose poems mother particularly liked, especially 'The Task'; asmall, unbound copy of Byron's 'Corsair, ' and a volume of Englishsongs, a collection that I have never since seen. This list refers, you know, to our first years in the woods, and everything that I havementioned was read aloud to us by mother. 

"On Sundays we had a change of literature. Father, although not whatwould be called a religious man, as he was not a member of any church, had a great respect for the observance of the Sabbath, and unlike hisless scrupulous neighbors, rested from work on that day. The morningwas devoted to reading the Bible, and in the evening father would singwith his splendid voice, 'God of Israel, ' the 'Rock of Ages, ' and otherfine old psalm tunes. One hymn of which he was especially fond, Iremember commenced, "'The day is past and gone, The evening shades appear; Oh, may we all remember well The day of Death draws near. '

"This he used to sing with great expression of devotion. 

"I have often wished that I had had the advantage of living in New Yorkwhen a child, but I would not now exchange a city education for thesweet memory of our quiet evenings at home, and the sphere ofintelligence and affection in which I was nurtured. "

Mamma paused a moment, then continued:

"These books that I have mentioned were not new to mother: she had readand knew them almost by heart long before she commenced reading them tous, and her mind was an inexhaustible source of knowledge. Althoughher school-days were limited, she was not ignorant of the commonbranches. She had studied, she told me, the 'Ladies' Lexicon, ' fromwhich she had obtained a very thorough knowledge of English grammar. She wrote a trim hand, she had a practical knowledge of arithmetic, andgeography had claimed a portion of her time in school; but what she hadlearnt there was but a commencement. She must subsequently havestudied astronomy, for she taught me without books to recognize theplanets and trace the constellations, and at any hour of the night shecould tell the time by looking at the position of the stars. She hadthe talent for dates that you have inherited, Marguerite, and wasauthority for the neighborhood upon all disputed points in politicssince the days of Washington; indeed, it was quite amusing to see themen all come to consult 'Aunt Mary' rather than father, when a knottyquestion arose. "

"As you have described grandmamma, " said Marguerite, "she appears to besuperior to grandpapa. Do you so consider her?"

"Mother was father's superior, " replied mamma, "intellectually andmorally. Father was rather cold in his nature, but mother had a warmheart. She was an enthusiastic friend, and she loved every livingthing. I do not remember ever hearing her speak an ill word of aneighbor, and I am sure she never had an enemy in her life. 

"Though I do not call father warm-hearted, he certainly had greataffection for mother, and was sincerely attached to his family. I haveheard him say that he would walk all night, rather than stop short ofhis home. 

"Father was sometimes called by our neighbors a hard parent. He neverwas, it is true, demonstrative in his affection, but he was strictlyjust, and never harsh in his treatment of us. As I have often toldyou, he believed in work for himself and his family, and I have heardhim say that sooner than have a child of his grow up idle, he wouldmake him pick up stones in one lot, and throw them over into the nextone. He considered that he had been generous in allowing brotherHorace to leave home, or, as country people call it, 'giving him histime, ' six years before he became of age, and he was willing at anytime to allow his daughters to seek their fortunes away from home, should they desire to do so. 

"This winter of 1826-27 was the last one that we four children spent athome together. The next year sister Arminda, although only twelveyears old, opened a school in the little log-house upon our west farm--"

"When only twelve years old!" we interrupted in chorus; "pray whom didshe teach? Babies?"

"No, " replied mamma, "she had a dozen or fourteen pupils, little boysand girls, some of whom were older than herself, for very youngchildren could not have walked that distance--three and four miles. "

"But I should think, " interposed Gabrielle, "that the scholars wouldhave felt more inclined to play with Aunt Arminda, than to learn thelessons she gave them; she was such a child. "

"Your aunt was tall and well-developed, " replied mamma, "and had anatural air of dignity that gave her the appearance of being older thanshe really was. She did not find it difficult to impress her pupilswith respect, or to enforce obedience. "

"What did she teach them, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida; "only theelementary branches, I suppose?"

"Reading, writing, and spelling, " replied mamma; "arithmetic andgrammar, geography, sewing and knitting. "

"And how much did she make?" I inquired, being of a practical turn ofmind at that moment. 

"She was paid by the week, " said mamma, "and received the same salaryas the majority of school-mistresses in those primeval days;seventy-five cents and her board. She 'boarded around, ' as the phrasewas, among her pupils. This may seem very little to you, but you mustremember that in those days a good milch cow cost only ten dollars, andeverything else was proportionately cheap. 

"The next two winters, sister Arminda was in school herself, and thefollowing year, when she was fifteen, she was married to our handsomecousin Lovel, Uncle Benjamin's son. "

Another exclamation of amazement from the little group, and a chorusof--

"Married at fifteen! How surprising! And did she make a pretty bride?"

"She was a very handsome girl, " replied mamma, and made a strikingcontrast to her blonde brothers and sisters, for she had a richbrunette complexion, large, dark-blue eyes, glossy dark hair, and setroses in her cheeks, which, even now that she is a great-grandmotherhave not entirely faded. She was womanly far beyond her years; not soromantic, perhaps, as sister Margaret and I were at her age, but thatshe possessed talent, enterprise, and ambition, is shown by the successof her school, established at an age when most girls are contentedlydressing their dolls. 

"Sister Arminda is a woman of superior character, and a devoted wifeand mother. She has had many severe trials to contend with during herlong married life. Her heart has known bitter sorrow, for of herfamily of eleven beautiful children only four are now living; but shehas borne all these afflictions with enduring heroism. The devotion ofherself and her husband is something people of the world would considerquite Arcadian in these days of matrimonial infelicity, for until yourAunt Arminda paid me that visit three years ago, she had never, sinceher marriage, left her husband two successive nights. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Visitors--A Sunday Drive--Croton lake by Daylight--A Sail--A SuddenSquall--Anxiety about our Fate--Miraculous Escape from Drowning--Arrivalof a Pretty Cousin--A Child Poetess. 

_August 4_. 

A gap in my journal of several days, during which time I have found itimpossible to write. I have now several events to record. 

Papa came out Saturday afternoon to make us his weekly visit, accompaniedby Mr. Reid. 

Papa's "young chief" looked as well as though he had not the weight ofthe new nine-story Tribune building upon his shoulders this hot weather, and was exceedingly agreeable. Those who have only known Mr. Reid in NewYork _salons_ and in editorial rooms can have no idea what a differentman he is when enjoying the relaxation of the country. Never could Ihave imagined that the haughty young proprietor of _The Tribune_ wouldcondescend to participate in "ring toss, " croquet, and similarfrivolities; but I have found this summer that, besides being an adept inthe masculine accomplishments of driving and riding, he is anenthusiastic champion of croquet, taking apparently the same pleasure insending an adversary's ball to the extreme limits of the croquet-groundthat he would in refuting a _Times_ editorial. 

The evening was devoted to cards and ballad-singing, for, although soprominent a member of New York literary society, Mr. Reid does not, I amglad to say, think it necessary to dislike music. 

For the next day an expedition to Croton Lake had been planned. Whenalone, we never drive on Sunday, except to church, lest our sober Puritanneighbors should be shocked; but as we had a guest for that day, we madean exception to our usual severe rules; for a Sunday in Chappaqua issomewhat gloomy to a visitor. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, the carriage came, and Ida and I, with papa and Mr. Reid, started on thispleasant little excursion, papa mischievously suggesting that we should_look_ pious, and the neighbors would never know that we were _not_ goingto church. 

One little _contretemps_ marked our departure. The Duchess had been lamefor a day or two, and another horse had been hired for the day to replaceher. The strange horse was evidently the property of a Quaker, and moreaccustomed to going to meeting than on frivolous pleasure parties, forshe was a very staid and subdued animal, and strongly _dis_inclined tokeep up with the lively pace adopted by spirited little Lady Alice. Thedrive, therefore, was decidedly an interesting one. Papa held the reins, and Mr. Reid devoted himself to whipping up the laggard beast. In thisstyle we proceeded over the country at a moderate pace, and finallyreached the beautiful lake and the hotel upon its banks. The shade ofthe broad piazza formed a very pleasant relief from the heat overhead, and we were glad to rest a little while. We had not been there manyminutes before some one recognized Mr. Reid, and informed the portlylandlord, who immediately hastened upon the scene, and welcomed him toCroton Lake with enthusiasm. 

In the parlor the piano was open, and half a dozen children were drummingupon it; therefore, seeing that "music" on Sundays was not prohibited bythe rules of the house, I went to the piano when the children wearied ofit, and sung, at Ida's request, an Ave Maria, and grandpapa's favorite"Rock of Ages. " We had some little amusement over the necessity of goingfour miles from home in order to enjoy music on Sundays. 

The water looked very inviting, rippling up to the beach, and a row toCroton Dam was proposed. After some little delay, a boat and a verygood-natured negro boatman were procured, and we departed. 

The sun, I must own, was rather hot at that hour of the day, and struckwith peculiar force upon our hot bombazine dresses, and heavy crapeveils. Ida and I looked with a sigh at Mr. Reid's cool white flannelsuit. Sam, the boatman, ceased to row, and let the boat drift, beingovercome by the heat, while papa sat in the bow, and looked disconsolatethat he had not the morning news to read. 

We were now at quite a distance from the shore, and as there was no onepresent but the boatman to be shocked by hearing secular music, Iventured to sing a few simple ballads, for music and water I think blendmost harmoniously. 

Soon light, fleecy clouds commenced to shield us from the sun's scorchingrays; we closed our parasols, and played with the deliciously cool water, wondering meantime like Miss Helen, in that exquisite "Atlantic" story, if we could call up a mermaid front below. But while we were driftingalong so charmingly, the clouds had become heavier and blacker, andseizing the oars, Sam commenced to row with desperate haste. We were, however, beaten in our race with the storm, and reached Croton Dam in aperfect tempest of thunder, and lightning, and dashing rain. Unfortunately Ida and I had worn slippers, not having expected to walk, and there was only one umbrella in the party--our little parasols withtheir crape borders and bows being more suitable for ornament thanservice; however, we scrambled up the steep bank as best we could, andran to the protecting doorway of the water-house (the house itself waslocked as it was Sunday). Here we stowed ourselves away like so manysardines, and waited patiently under the umbrella for an hour. Finallythe sun broke out, and we made our way over deep ponds of water back toour boat. Sam looked up with a dejected expression as we approached, andfeared the boat wasn't fit for the ladies to go home in; he was bailingit out as fast as he could, but it was very wet. 

Wet indeed! Why Sam had not drawn the boat up on the beach and turned itover during the rain, no one could imagine; but that brilliant idea hadnot occurred to him. Therefore we were obliged to row back with our feetreposing in little pools of water. 

Before long, down came the rain again in torrents, but stimulated by theprospective fee, Sam rowed with giant strokes. About a mile from thehotel, we met the landlord rowing with desperate haste. It seems thatthe rain had been even more violent at _his_ end of the lake, having beenmagnified into a squall upon the water, and a tornado upon land, blowingdown trees, and breaking away the lattice-work of the hotel piazza;consequently he supposed our boat must have been ingulfed, and had cometo look for the corpses. His amazement at finding us alive, and, thoughvery wet, in excellent spirits, was great. 

An entrée into the hotel in our wet dresses was rather a formidableaffair for Ida and myself, as all the boarders were assembled upon thepiazza to see, I suppose, how we looked after our "miraculous escape fromdrowning. " Hastening past them into a private room, we took off ourdripping wraps, and supplied their places with brilliant plaid shawlslent us by the landlady, in which we drove back to Chappaqua--to thewonder, I doubt not, of all who recognized us on the way. The horsesthis time went more evenly, and the entire strain of propelling thecarriage did not fall upon poor Lady Alice. But when we reached home, Mr. Reid's white suit, and our dresses, veils, and even faces, were asight to behold from the liquid mud with which we were bespattered. Wehad to turn out of our way for a couple of miles, as a tree blown down bythe storm lay across the main road, and this second detention did notincrease the enthusiasm of our welcome from Lina, for dinner had beenordered at half-past three, and it was five when we reached the house. Her pet dessert, a lemon _soufflée_, intended to be eaten as soon asbaked, was not, I must own, improved by standing so long; but otherwiseno serious damage was done to the dinner, and we were thankful that ouradventures when indulging in pleasure parties on Sunday were over. 

The evening passed quietly, but very agreeably. Mr. Reid went down tothe city in the six o'clock train, and papa read aloud to us Byron'ssplendid, stirring "Isles of Greece, " and portions of "Childe Harold. "Reading poetry is quite an accomplishment of papa's, and although he isvery happy in sentimental and heroic verse, he has also a keen sense ofhumor, and his reading of comic and dialect poems, especially those ofHans Breitmann, have been much complimented; indeed, in "our circle" heis the reader par excellence of Bret Harte, John Hay, and Hans Breitmann. 

_August 7_. 

Marguerite and Ida went down yesterday to the city for a day's shopping, a relaxation of which we are all quite fond. I walked down to thestation to meet them upon their return, and was not a little surprised tosee a third black-robed figure emerge from the cars with them. Too_petite_ to be Gabrielle, who has been visiting a school-friend for thelast week, it was not until the second glance that I recognized theabundant golden-brown hair and romantic eyes of our pretty cousin, Theresa Walling. 

Theresa is Aunt Arminda's granddaughter, and although only eighteen, isentitled to pass through a door in advance of Marguerite, Ida and I, andto occupy the back seat in a carriage, for she is married, and has hadtwo sweet little girls, one of whom died during that sad month ofNovember, last year, and the oldest, her pretty Theresa Beatrice, only aweek ago. Quite delicate from her childhood, the loss of her babies hasbeen a great affliction to their poor little mother, and Ida brought herout to visit us, hoping that change of scene might bring back the formerrose-flush to her pale cheeks. 

Early marriages appear hereditary in that branch of the family, for AuntArminda was married at fifteen, and Theresa's mother at fourteen;consequently, Aunt Arminda found herself a great-grandmother when someyears short of sixty. 

I said that Theresa lost her youngest child within the thirty days thatelapsed between uncle's and Aunt Mary's deaths; but those were not theonly bereavements in our family that sad winter; before the spring came, Theresa's father and a little girl, our cousin Victoria's child, had alsodied. 

Theresa's beauty is not the true Greeley type--blonde, with blue eyes. Her complexion is somewhat like her grandmother's--a delicate olive withan exquisite flush, when in health. The contour of her face is a perfectoval; her eyes are dark and pensive, and although her hair is almostgolden in its brightness, both her eyebrows and lashes are of a darkchestnut brown. In figure she is, as I said, very _petite_; she and Iare the two "little ones" of the family. 

Theresa displays considerable taste for literature; and, notwithstandingthe demand that her children made upon her time, has written someromantic stories that have been published in New York journals. 

She has a bright little brother, and three sisters--Fannie, Jessie, andLillian; all pretty and clever children. Fannie, who is now onlyfourteen, will, I hope, when older, become a graceful poetess; for theverses that she has already had published under her pretty signature, "Fannie Fawn, " are very musical, and promise well for the future. 

CHAPTER XIX

Mr. Greeley visits his Family in Pennsylvania--He expounds Mathematicsand Philosophy to his Brother and Sisters--Fishing and BeeHunting--Forest Fires--A Subsequent Visit--He returns as Editor of the_New Yorker_--He writes the 'Faded Stars'--Characteristics of Mr. Greeley's Brother--His Children--Mr. Greeley's Younger Sisters--TheirEducation. 

_August 9_. 

"Mamma, " said Marguerite, looking up from the tea-table where we wereall assembled, "did uncle visit you often in Pennsylvania? I supposeso, for I know what an affectionate family you wore, and how very fondhe was of his parents. "

"He visited us as often as he could, " replied mamma, "but you know thatthe distance was great, and during the four years that he spent inPoultney, his time was not at his command. I can only remember twovisits that he made us during that period; each one, however, lasted amonth. 

"It was, I think, during our second year in the woods that he came homefor the first time. I well remember, after the first joy of thereunion was over, examining his trunk to see what books he had broughtwith him. Those that I found there were quite different from what manyboys of seventeen would have chosen, when going home for a vacation. Ido not recollect meeting any books of adventure or romance; but worksupon the higher mathematics and philosophy were there to show that dearbrother's education was by no means at a standstill, although he wasworking hard to earn his own living. 

"During the evenings, he would gather us about him, and illustrate somemathematical problem, or, giving us a dissertation upon naturalscience, would expound the laws of gravitation, etc. 

"In the daytime, when not fishing or bee hunting, he would work in thefields with father and brother Barnes. There was excellent troutfishing, I remember, in the brooks; and that, with bee hunting andwatching the forest fires, was his only amusement; for shooting was apastime in which he never indulged. "

"I thought, " said Marguerite, "that boys in the country were alwaysfond of shooting. "

"As a rule they are, " replied mamma; "but your uncle was not. Hisdelicate, sensitive nature was always shocked by the sharp report of agun. I remember that when we were in Vermont he and brother Barneswould go out together to hunt squirrels, Barnes carrying the gun; andthat when the game was found, brother Horace would cover his ears withhis hands, to soften the noise of the discharge. 

"I suppose, my dears, that you do not know how hunters find wild honey?"

We knew little of wild honey save that John the Baptist used to eat it, so mamma continued:

"The bees, having no hives provided for them, made their honey in thehollow trunks of trees; and as it was one of the luxuries of our table, it was quite important to trace out their hiding-places. BrotherBarnes would go out with a little box of syrup or honey, and when hefound a bee upon a flower would imprison it in the box, detaining itthere until it had had time to load itself with sweetness. When it wasreleased, it would make a 'bee line' for its home in the tree; neverpausing by the way, even for the sweetest flowers. Barnes would notethe direction it had taken, and follow it as well as he could; butoften he would be obliged to capture several bees, and sometimes passdays in the pursuit, before he would be rewarded by hearing in sometree a buzzing that could almost be called roaring. The next step wasto fell the tree, which would cause the bees to quickly disperse; not, however, without stinging the intruder; but the result compensated fora sting or two, for it was not unusual for Barnes to find from twentyto thirty pounds in a tree, often, however, so mixed with the soft woodthat we were obliged to strain it before it was fit to put upon thetable. "

"You spoke of the forest fires, mamma, " said Marguerite; "pray, whatwere they? The woods were never literally on fire, I suppose. "

"Oh yes, " replied mamma, "and the fire often lasted a long time. Onemeans of clearing the ground to make a farm was to fell the trees, while in full leafage, in what were called 'winrows. ' They lay ingreat piles for a year and sometimes longer; then when quite dry theywould be ignited, and a glorious bonfire on a gigantic scale wouldensue. The fire would burn up not only all the logs and dead leavesupon the ground, but, spreading its way through the forest, would doconsiderable damage to the living trees, burning as it often did forweeks. It was, however, a grand sight to watch it through the darknessof the night, and when the fire running up the hollow trunk of somedead tree would burst out in a blaze at the top, we children werefilled with enthusiasm, and used to call them 'our beacon lights. 'Never did brother Horace seem happier than during that fiery season, and often he and brother Barnes spent the greater portion of the nightamong the burning log-piles, stirring up the fires when theysmouldered, and throwing on brush and fresh logs. 

"During the year that he worked at his trade upon the shores of LakeErie, we saw him more frequently; but the visit that I remember withthe greatest pleasure was one that he made us just after establishinghis _New Yorker_. I was much impressed during this last visit with amarked change in brother's taste and character--a change indicated asmuch by his reading as by his external appearance. His trunk was nowfilled with standard works and volumes of poems, instead of treatisesupon science, and he appeared in a perpetual rose-dream. He seemed tome the embodiment of romance and poesy, and now as I think of him withhis pure, unselfish nature, so early devoted to what was noblest andbest, I can only compare him to the high-minded boy-saint, the chaste, seraphic Aloysius. 

"It was while at home this time that he wrote his poem 'The FadedStars, ' that was published in the _New Yorker_, and copied into severalleading journals--"

"Oh, I am so fond of that poem, " interrupted Ida, "that I have copiedit into my album of poetical selections. Papa wrote it, you say, whilevisiting you?"

"Yes, he wrote it in the room where the family were all assembled. Irecollect sitting beside him and watching his face as line after lineflowed from his pen. I had never before seen any one write a poem, andit seemed to me quite wonderful. Read it to me, Ida, if your album isat hand; I do not recollect all the stanzas. "

"THE FADED STARS. "

BY HORACE GREELEY. 

 I

 "I mind the time when Heaven's high dome Woke in my soul a wondrous thrill-- When every leaf in Nature's tome Bespoke Creation's marvels still; When morn unclosed her rosy bars, Woke joys intense; but naught e'er bade My soul leap up like ye bright stars! [1]

 II. 

 "Calm ministrants to God's high glory! Pure gems around His burning throne! Mute watchers o'er man's strange, sad story Of crime and woe through ages gone! 'Twas yours, the wild and hallowing spell, That lured me from ignoble glens-- Taught me where sweeter fountains Than ever bless the worldling's dreams. 

 III. 

 "How changed was life! A waste no more Beset by Pain, and Want, and Wrong, Earth seemed a glad and fairy shore, Made vocal with Hope's impassioned song. But ye bright sentinels of Heaven! Far glories of Night's radiant sky! Who when ye lit the brow of Even Has ever deemed man born to die?

 IV. 

 "'Tis faded now! That wondrous grace That once on Heaven's forehead shone: I see no more in Nature's face A soul responsive to mine own. A dimness on my eye and spirit Has fallen since those gladsome years, Few joys my hardier years inherit, And leaden dulness rules the spheres. 

 V. 

 "Yet mourn not I! A stern high duty Now nerves my arm and fires my brain. Perish the dream of shapes of Beauty! And that this strife be not in vain To war on fraud intrenched with power, On smooth pretence and specious wrong, This task be mine tho' Fortune lower-- For this be banished sky and song. "

"How did it happen, mamma, " inquired Marguerite, "that Uncle Barnes hasnot become a distinguished man? Is he not clever like Uncle Horace, orwas he not fond of learning? It seems strange that he never left hometo seek his fortune in the world. "

"Brother Barnes has quite as much genius, " mamma quickly replied, "asyour Uncle Horace, and under equally favoring circumstances would havemade as brilliant a man. A farmer's life was distasteful to him, andit was for years his dream to go away from home, and receive aneducation that would fit him for the bar or the pulpit, towards both ofwhich 'callings' he was strongly attracted. It would, however, havebeen impossible for father to have hewn a farm unaided out of thewilderness, and he could not afford to hire any assistance, so brotherBarnes generously sacrificed all his own aspirations and preferences, and devoted his life, which might have been a brilliant and successfulone, to the dull routine of farm acres. "

"Did Uncle Barnes resemble papa much, as a boy?" inquired Ida. 

"Your uncle was of a very different temperament, " replied mamma; "hewas as gay and loquacious as your papa was silent and abstracted. Hewas very fond of reading and of study, but he lacked your papa'sperseverance; he was more awake to the outer world and itsdistractions, whereas brother Horace was oblivious to everything else, when he once held a book in his hand. 

"I have told you what a splendid voice your grandfather had. BrotherBarnes was the only one of the five children who inherited it, and withit a very quick ear for music. I remember hearing mother say, thatwhen he was three and four years old, he was often called upon to singfor our friends, who not unfrequently rewarded his talent withpresents; however, at the time when his voice changed, it completelylost its musical qualities, to our great regret. 

"As he grew older, he developed a taste for argument, that would havedone him good service had he been able to follow out his darlingproject of becoming a lawyer; indeed, as it was, he was always calledupon, unprofessionally, to settle the neighbors' disputes, and wasrenowned for making all the love-matches of the neighborhood. In hisreading he had rather a peculiar taste; he delighted in theological andcontroversial books, and I never knew any one who was more thoroughlyacquainted with the Bible. He could not only give the precise chapterand verse from which any text was taken, but was able to detect theslightest verbal error in the quotation. 

"He had a passion for preaching, and although unordained, was alwaysready to deliver a sermon whenever he could find a vacant church and anaudience. 

"Every one in America has heard of your papa's benevolent disposition, and the amount he used to spend in private charities. Your UncleBarnes was, if possible, more generous. I have known him to part withhis last dollar to relieve another from want or embarrassment, and thiswas not done through weakness or inability to refuse, but from agenuine impulse of sympathy with those in need. 

"I am very proud to say of my only surviving brother, that although hehas never had the advantage of a good education, he has lived to theage of sixty without indulging in tobacco, wine, or profane language, and has brought up his boys in the same temperate habits. "

"How many children has Uncle Barnes, Aunt Esther?" inquired Ida. "Ihave, I think, seen only three. "

"There are ten living, " replied mamma. "Brother Barnes, you know, hasbeen twice married. His first wife was a woman of fine character, butbecame, soon after her marriage, a confirmed invalid, and brotherBarnes' constant attention and care of her during her years of illnesswas almost unparalleled for devotion. 

"Victoria is the oldest of the children: she was a very bright, cleverlittle girl, and a great pet with mother, as she was the firstgrandchild born at home. Sister Arminda's children, living at somedistance, were not so available for instruction, and in that occupationconsisted mother's happiness. She taught Victoria to read when she wastwo years and a half old, and I remember seeing her stand, a few yearslater, at mother's knee, reading one of Hans Christian Andersen'sstories, with the tears streaming down her cheeks at the pathos--aproof of appreciation that delighted mother's heart. 

"Victoria is married, and lives in Kansas. She is a fine, intelligentwoman, and since the loss of her little girl, last winter, has shown astrong disposition to write. She has the ability to do so, and if herhealth and her home duties permit, I am sure she will make a cleverwriter. 

"Horace, whom you have seen, is next Victoria in age; he is alsomarried, and lives in New Jersey. 

"Two married daughters, Mary and Esther, follow. Mary's mind resemblesmother's in her grasp for politics and history, but she inherits herown mother's feeble health, which unfits her for giving expression toher masculine intellect. Esther, who was named for me, is a sweet andlovely woman, and a devoted wife and mother. 

"Poor Woodburn came next on the list--a sensitive, silent youth, moreresembling his Uncle Horace than any of the other children. You allrecollect his sad death three years ago. 

"Oscar and Clarence are the youngest of Sally's, the first wife's, children. Clarence is the cleverest of the family among the boys. Heis very well educated, and now supports himself as a land surveyor, although not yet twenty years old. "

"Where does he live, Aunt Esther?" inquired Gabrielle, "With hisfather?"

"No; in Kansas with Victoria, " was the reply. "I must not forget totell you that he taught school in Indiana when only sixteen years old, and received a diploma from the State. His half-sister, Eugenia, whois only fourteen, has had very pretty verses published in different NewYork journals. "

"Did Aunt Margaret receive as good an education as you did, when ayoung girl, mamma?" inquired Marguerite. "I remember hearing you saythat you were sent away to school for two or three years. "

"No, " replied mamma, "her advantages for learning were not so good asmine; indeed, I was her principal teacher. As I have told you, I wentto school very little as a child, and the village school at Vermontgave only the most meagre and elementary instruction, but I was alwaysan eager reader of whatever came in my way, as well as an attentivelistener, and thus I contrived while in the woods to pick upconsiderable information. I remember seeing at that time in aneighbor's house, a little, cheaply bound volume, 'Blair's Rhetoric, 'which so interested me that I offered to take care of the owner's babyfor two weeks, if she would give me the book. A bargain wasaccordingly made; I 'tended baby' for fifteen days, and received inexchange the precious volume, which I studied until I learnt it byheart. 

"Then I saved pennies until I had collected a sufficient number to sendto Erie and purchase a copy of Comstock's Natural Philosophy--the firstone by the way that had ever been brought into our township--and thesetwo books, together with my self-acquired knowledge, and my ownexperience of two years as a teacher, sufficed to fit me to enter theFredonia Academy, and to compete fairly with the other girls whoseinstruction had not been so dearly bought. 

"I spent four of the happiest years of my life in school at Fredonia, and only regretted that sister Margaret could not have shared myadvantages. 

"Meantime, Margaret commenced to teach school at the age of fifteen, and continued to do so, until she was married, when twenty years old, giving great satisfaction to every one. She has, you know, threechildren. Her two boys, Eugene and Arthur, are promising young men, and are both employed in _The Tribune_ office. Arthur is married, andhas several children. We all know how pretty his sister Evangeline is;she, you know, is to become Mrs. Dr. Ross this winter. "

[1] Here a line is missing. 

CHAPTER XX. 

A Quiet Household--Absence of Marguerite and Gabrielle--Amusing Lettersfrom them--A Gypsy Fortune-teller--Marguerite returns with aVisitor--The Harvest Moon--Preparing for Company--Arranging the BlueRoom--Intense Anticipation--"'He Cometh Not, ' She Said. "

_August 14_. 

Our little household has been unusually quiet for the past week, owingto the absence of the two lively members of the family, Marguerite andGabrielle, who are visiting friends by the seaside and upon the shoresof Seneca Lake. Their absence makes a great change in the ways of thehousehold, for Ida and I have not the high spirits and constant flow ofwords that distinguish our sisters, and we spend our time as quietlyand busily as two little nuns, not even dreaming of asking any one tocome up from the city and pass Saturday with us. We miss them verymuch, especially at the table, and in the half hour after tea, when wealways gather about mamma's sofa for a little chat, before separatingfor our evening's work--writing, practising, or whatever it may be. 

Ida and I usually form the audience upon these occasions, and listenwith great interest to Marguerite's entertaining stories of adventuresat home and abroad, or Gabrielle's droll mimicry of the strongly markedcharacteristics of some one she has met or dreamed of. Sometimes thecandles are extinguished, and a ghost story is told, for Gabrielle isfond of the supernatural, and her dramatic style of narration adds muchto our enjoyment; indeed, chancing the other day to read in a magazineone of her pet stories, I was astonished to find how tame it sounded. 

Ida and I find, however, some compensation for our sisters' absence intheir sprightly letters, which arrive while we are at the tea-table. Marguerite writes every day, and her letters are inimitable in theirhumor and _esprit_, for she writes exactly as she talks. She isvisiting some friends whose acquaintance we made in Paris, and who havea beautiful country-seat upon Long Island. Her letters are filled withaccounts of drives, fishing-parties, and excursions in yachts androw-boats, and, lastly, of meeting a _real_ gypsy encampment (not thetime-honored one in "Trovatore") and having her fortune told. 

A gypsy woman, it seems, stopped the carriage as Marguerite was drivingpast, and expressed so strong a desire to "unveil the future for theyoung lady, " that Marguerite consented, and held out her hand. Quitescornfully the gypsy said that her _own_ palm must first be crossedwith money. Marguerite accordingly gave her a dollar bill, thinkingthat would be the full value of any fortune she would receive from awandering gypsy, but the money was indignantly returned--the oracle didnot tell one-dollar fortunes. 

Somewhat astonished at so extensive a demand upon her purse, Margueritegave her another dollar, whereupon the gypsy at once declared that theyoung lady had a lucky face, and would never want for anything duringher life. The usual dark and fair gentlemen figured largely in herfortune, and--with a glance at Marguerite's blonde complexion--she wasto beware the treachery of a brunette rival; however, she was destinedto triumph in the end, and would indeed succeed in all herundertakings. I am sure the gypsy could have promised no less, considering the high price she placed upon her predictions. 

Gabrielle's experience is very different. She is visiting a formerschoolmate, a young girl of her own age. Bessie is now a pupil ofVassar College, and enthusiastic over her studies: consequently theamusements of the two girls are of a very sedate nature: in Gabrielle'swords, "A hermit in his cell, my dear Cecilia, never had a more quietlife than I at present enjoy. "

She and Bessie had commenced, Gabrielle told me, to write a storytogether. The _débût_ was most brilliant, and for a time they workedvery harmoniously, but unluckily the two little authoresses haddifferent views respecting the _proposal_ (not drawn from life, Iimagine, considering their years), and in Gabrielle's letter ofyesterday no mention was made of the progress of the story. 

The letter, which was very vivacious, was chiefly devoted to the girls'exploits while taking a buggy drive. Gabrielle, who is so fearlesswith her own ponies, quite scorned the lamb-like animal that was sentup from the livery stable, but she appears to have had much diversion, nevertheless, to judge from her letter. She says:

"Yesterday I tried to break the monotony of life at Seneca Lake byhiring a buggy and horse for Bessie and me to drive. You should haveheard the shriek of horror that rent the air at the approach of thepeaceful old nag. Miss Carpenter exclaimed:

"'Oh mercy, he points his ears!'

"Poor beast, his ears were pointed by nature, and _he_ could not helpit. Mrs. Brown burst forth to the astonished stableman:

"'Does he kick, roll, rear, bite, or shy? Tell me quick, for I know hemust do some of them. '

"We did have our drive though, and an adventure too, for we were caughtin the rain, and entered a barn where a handsome young man acted thepart of host, and generously bestowed hay upon our horse. "

_August 16_. 

A telegram last night from Marguerite, saying, "Will come on the earlytrain with the Honorable Francis"--a very pleasant surprise, for, knowing the habits of that gentleman, we had supposed him to be, if notat the Antipodes, at least in Europe; accordingly, we went down to meetthe train in quite a flutter of excitement. 

Mr. Colton is "honorable" from having represented his government forfour years at Venice. In appearance he is tall and swarthy, with aforeign and picturesque cast of features not unlike the Italian type: a"lovely brigand" we sometimes call him. Notwithstanding his easy andsomewhat nonchalant air, he is a true American in his active andrestless disposition and his love for travelling. I would be afraid tostate the number of miles he has travelled since we made hisacquaintance in Paris four years ago, and I have known him to start atforty-eight hours' notice to make a tour of the world. 

Mr. Colton made us a visit of two days, and was sufficientlyenthusiastic over dear Chappaqua to satisfy even our exacting demands. 

We had some sport over the probable speculations of the telegraphoperators concerning our visitor. Out of mischief, Marguerite hadmentioned him in her telegram merely as "the Honorable Francis;" for sodeep an interest is taken in the messages we receive and send, that weenjoy puzzling the operators a little; indeed, we may say that ourtelegrams are common property here, for seldom do we receive them untilthey have been carefully read by the telegraph and railroad officials, and then handed to any interested outsider who may chance to be in theoffice. I will give a little scene that occurred not long ago, by wayof illustration. 

Our friend Mr. A---- alights from the morning train, and is welcomed bya friend of his who is stopping for a week or so in Chappaqua. 

"Delighted to see you, A----. Knew you were coming up this morning, sothought I would run down to the train and meet you. "

"How in the world did you know I was coming, my dear fellow?" inquiresthe astonished A----. "You don't know Mrs. Cleveland or her niece, doyou?"

"No, I don't know them, " is the prompt reply, "but I was in thetelegraph office yesterday, and saw your acceptance when it arrived. "

TABLEAU. 

_August 19_. 

I am not partial to Friday, as it is often an unlucky day for me--asuperstition that has come down to me from grandmamma; but, although Itry to think it absurd, our experience of yesterday proved a singularconfirmation. 

Ida and I had thought to celebrate the return of Marguerite andGabrielle by inviting several friends from the city to enjoy thedelicious moonlight with us. Mamma accordingly wrote the invitations, and we at once commenced our preparations. The _fête_ we decidedshould last three days, and was to commence Friday afternoon--ominousday! We were to have moonlight walks and drives; we were to kindle afire of pine cones and charcoal upon the beach at Rye Lake, and boilthe kettle and make tea; a boat was to be placed upon our own littlepond, and a tent pitched near by; and, last and most brilliant, Ida'slovely Southern friend, Miss Worthington, and Gabrielle, were to occupythe tent, dressed as gypsies, and tell the fortunes of the company. 

We could scarcely wait for Friday to arrive, but there were manypreparations to be made, so we curbed our impatience and worked veryindustriously. As we were now seven in the household, not counting theservants, and had invited quite a number of guests, the resources ofour house were not extensive enough to stow them all away, consequentlywe spent a lively morning at the side-hill house fitting up threerooms, with Minna's assistance. 

The blue room, with its pretty outlook upon the meadows, was ourfavorite, and upon it we bestowed the most attention. The carpet wasgray and blue, of an especially pretty pattern, and the handsomemarble-topped bureau, exhumed from the never-failing resources of thehouse in the woods, looked as fresh as though purchased yesterday. Wemade the bed with our own hands, touching with reverent care the superbblankets with their inscription:

"To Horace Greeley, the Protector of American Industry. "

Then, when the blue silk eider-down counterpane was adjusted to oursatisfaction, and one or two little ornaments added to the bureau andchimney-piece--"Cupid" in the Naples Gallery, and my dear Lela'sportrait, both framed in blue velvet, and a beautiful Sèvres vase whichmamma calls "the one that Pickie _didn't_ break" (his little handsdestroyed its mate)--we congratulated ourselves upon the effect of theroom. 

_Apropos_ of the Cupid, Ida sent it last winter with Annibal Caracci's"Magdalen" and one or two other religious pictures to be framed atSchaus'. When they were sent home, to our surprise, the frames wereall surmounted by crosses--an emblem that, although quite _en règle_for the Holy Magdalen, was, we thought, singularly inappropriate forCupid. Stopping in at Schaus' a day or two later, I inquired of youngMr. Schaus, to whose taste we had left the selection of the frames, hisreason for this extraordinary innovation. His reply was as naïve asunexpected:

"But, mademoiselle, does Cupid, then, never meet with crosses?"

Having done our best for the blue room, we walked over the grounds tosee that they were all in order, and when we had admired the prettyblue boat, the white tent, and the water-lilies in full bloom (plantedthat morning), and gone down to the express office to receive a packagedue by the ten o'clock train--a copy of the poems of one of theexpected guests, which was to be left carelessly in his room with amark at one of the ballads, --we congratulated ourselves that we haddone all in our power to make the rooms look tasteful and pretty. 

Lina was in her glory, having had an unrestricted order to do her best. I had a slight foreboding of disappointment, as it was Friday, remembering, too, that the dining-room was lighted by three candles theprevious night (a French superstition); but we all dressed in goodspirits. 

The somewhat spectral appearance of five ladies in mourning wassomewhat relieved by the recent addition to our little circle, MissWorthington, whose dress, though black, was enlivened by a little dashof pale blue--a most becoming match for her fair complexion and goldencurls. 

We did not wish to ruffle our hair unnecessarily by playing croquet orwalking, so we all sat very sedately in the music-room watching for the5. 15 train to arrive. It came at last. We rushed out on the piazza, but recognized no one among the few passengers who alighted. 

Disappointment number one. However, they will surely come at half-pastsix, we argued, and taking up some books and work, we waited patientlyuntil the next train arrived. Again we ran out upon the piazza. Papawas upon the platform at the depot, but we saw no other figure thatlooked familiar. 

"What did I tell you, Ida, " said I solemnly, "when, against myentreaties, three candles were lighted last night?"

Never before was papa so long in walking up from the station--I supposefor the reason that he came laden with messages, notes, and telegrams. His "young chief" was detained in the editorial rooms by affairs ofgreat moment; another gentleman had been summoned to the bedside of hisfather, who was in a dying condition; two other gentlemen had plungedrashly into the preliminary steps to matrimony, and were, I suppose, engaged in serenading their _fiancées_, while the other two hadapparently been made way with, for from them we had no message of anysort. 

The crowning injury was the receipt of a book from a friend who is inthe habit of supplying me with the latest novels. Usually I am pleasedwith the books she sends me, but a glance at the title, "'He ComethNot, ' She Said, " made me hurl it to the farthest corner of the room;that was too much for any one to bear. 

We sat down with small appetites to the elaborate dinner that Lina hadprepared, and went gloomily to bed at an early hour. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The Story of Mr. Greeley's Parents continued--He accompanies his Motherto New Hampshire--Her Sisters--Three Thanksgivings in One Year--Pickieas a Baby--His Childhood--Mrs. Greeley's Careful Training--HisPlaythings--His Death--A Letter from Margaret Fuller. 

_August 31_. 

"Mammi, " said I, waking from a deep reverie as I sat beside our brightwood-fire (for we have had two days of dashing rain, and fires have notbeen at all disagreeable), "did grandpapa ever return to New Hampshireafter he left it in 1821?"

"No, my dear, " was the reply; "he never returned, nor did he manifestany desire to see his former home and his old friends again. I supposethat all of his pleasant recollections of New Hampshire were supersededby the thought that it was the scene of his bankruptcy, and his proudspirit shrunk from meeting those who might remember that he had leftAmherst a fugitive. He was deeply attached to his forest home, and Ido not think he ever had an hour of discomfort after he came there. Father always expressed the wish that he might be buried upon his farm. His old age was very serene and happy; he lived to see his 'hole in theforest' become an extensive farm, and the vast wilderness that hadsurrounded him disappear, while the little tavern and cluster oflog-houses across the State line from us grew to be the village ofClymer. 

"Father died in 1867, at the age of eighty-seven. 

"As for mother, she had the happiness before her death of seeing herfondly loved relatives once more. In the autumn of 1843, mother and Iwent to New Hampshire to visit the old home and friends. Father wasurged to accompany us, but he chose to cling to his Western home. Forthe third time I now travelled in a canal-boat, but this time it was apacket, and not one of the slow 'line-boats' that I described to you inspeaking of our journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania. 

"Brother Horace accompanied us from New York to New Hampshire, where wespent several weeks visiting mother's old friends and relatives. Themeeting between mother and her sister, Aunt Margaret Dickey, wasespecially tender, for they had been separated many years, and did notexpect to meet again. 

"Aunt Margaret is still living, although now in her ninetieth year. Iremember hearing that she read your uncle's 'Recollections, ' as theyappeared in the _Ledger_, with the liveliest interest. She was at thattime eighty-four years old. 

"In her youth Aunt Margaret was a decided beauty, with luxuriant hairof the real golden shade, neither flaxen, ash-color, nor red. She wasnaturally refined and amiable. 

"From New Hampshire we went to Fitchburg, Massachusetts, where mother'shalf-sister, Sally, resided. Aunt Sally was doubly my aunt, havingmarried father's brother, Dustin Greeley. She was a slender, handsomewoman, with blue eyes and light hair, and possessed mother's happytemperament, which all the trials of her hard life had not been able tochange. 

"That year I celebrated three Thanksgivings within as many weeks. "

"Pray how did that happen, auntie?" inquired Gabrielle, who had justentered the room. 

"Thanksgiving Day was not then restricted to the last Thursday in themonth, " was the reply, "but was appointed by the Governor of each Stateat any time that he saw fit between harvest and the holidays;therefore, being in three different States within a month, I had threeThanksgiving dinners. 

"When we returned to New York, we stopped for a short visit at TurtleBay. Pickie was then eight months old, and as sweet and poetic-lookingas one of Correggio's cherubs. Your mamma was then in the first flushof her maternal enthusiasm. She and your papa were desirous thatmother should remain in New York and spend the winter with them; butfondly as she loved your papa, and dear as her daughter-in-law and herlittle grandson were to her, she felt that her duty and her strongestlove recalled her to her husband and her home in the woods. Shereturned to Pennsylvania, and took up again her life of daily care, butshe brought back little joy with her, although no word of discontentescaped her. Her favorite seat was by the window looking east, andthere we often surprised her gazing with an intent look down the road. When we would ask her if she was expecting any one, or for whom she waslooking, she would say with a startled expression, 'Oh, no one;' but wealways fancied that she was thinking of her early home that she had nowleft forever. 

"A year or two later, slowly, silently, and peacefully she passed away. "

"I thought, auntie, " said Gabrielle, "that you lived with mamma whenPickie was a baby. I am sure I have heard her say that you helped herto take care of him. "

"That is true, dear, " replied mamma, "but I did not remain in New Yorkat the time of which we are now speaking. I accompanied mother home toPennsylvania, and the following spring, when Pickie was a year old, your mamma wrote to ask me to come back, and assist her in the care ofher beautiful boy. I remained with her until my marriage, consequentlyPickie became very near to me, and his death was almost as great ashock to me as it was to his parents. "

"Do tell us, mamma, " said Marguerite, "about Pickie's childhood. Ihave always heard that he was brought up in a very remarkable way, butbeyond the fact of Aunt Mary's great devotion to him, I know verylittle concerning him. "

"Your Aunt Mary, " mamma replied, "looked upon Pickie's birth as much inthe light of a miracle as if no other child had ever before been born. He was Heaven-sent to her, and she sacrificed herself completely forthe better development of Pickie's individuality, or, to use thelanguage of the reformers of those days, in 'illustrating theindependence of the child's self-hood. ' Nothing could have been moreboundless than her enthusiasm for her baby; and it was night and dayher study to guard his health, and to watch and cherish his openingintellect. No child prince could have been more tenderly and daintilynurtured than he was; as his father often said, 'Pickie is a dear boyin every sense of the word;' for nothing was too rare or too costly forhim. 

"You have heard of the brilliancy of his complexion: this was owing inpart to his mother's watchful care of his diet, and to his bathing. Anhour was allowed for his daily bath, and for brushing out hisluxuriant, silken hair. This was one of my duties, and no doubt it wasthat scrupulous care that gave it so rare a shade. 

"As for his food, it was quite peculiar. He never ate baker's bread, nor indeed any bread prepared by other hands than his mother's or mine, and he was not given meat or cake--with the exception of oatmealcake--while candies, or indeed sugar in any form, butter, and salt wererigidly excluded from his diet; but white grapes, and every choicefruit that this or foreign markets afforded, he was allowed to eat inabundance, and the result of this system was a sturdy constitution, anda complexion unparalleled for beauty. 

"I said that he never ate butter; but cream and milk were given himinstead. "

"What sort of toys did he have, mamma?" I inquired. "I can neverimagine him playing with dolls like an ordinary child. "

"He never did, " replied mamma; "his toys, like his meals, werepeculiar. One of the largest rooms in the house was chosen for hisnursery, and as his mother would not have a carpet upon the floor, itwas scrubbed daily. Here his playthings were kept--a singularassortment one would think them, but your aunt seldom gave him whatwould simply amuse him for the moment, but sought rather to surroundhim by objects that would suggest ideas to his mind--on a plan somewhatlike that of the _Kindergarten_ system, but more poetic, and entirelyoriginal with herself. He had lovely pictures, and a real violin, while the shops were constantly searched for whatever was curious, instructive, or beautiful. 

"Pickie's mind and conversation were very unlike those of the childreneven of our best families, for he never had children for playfellows, and those friends whom his mother permitted to be near him were of themost cultivated and noble character. His language consequently was aschoice as that of the minds who surrounded him, and very quaint itsounded from a child's lips. At this time Margaret Fuller was with us, and Pickie lived in most intimate relations to this pure, high-mindedwoman. 

"In her care to prevent Pickie from knowing of the existence ofwickedness and cruelty in this world, your Aunt Mary would rarelypermit him to converse long with any save the chosen few that I havementioned, lest the innocence of his child-mind should be shocked byhearing of war, or murder, or cruelty to animals, while she was everguarding him lest his eyes might rest upon some painful or disagreeableobject. "

"Don't you think, mamma, " said Marguerite, "that that letter ofMargaret Fuller's upon Pickie's death shows remarkable feeling for achild unrelated to her?"

"Which letter?" inquired Ida. 

"The one that is copied in the 'Recollections, '" was the reply. 

"I think, " returned Ida, "that the one she wrote to papa which hasnever been published is much finer. "

"Oh, do read it to us, " said Marguerite. So, unlocking a little box, Ida took out a sheet quite yellow and worn, and read it to us:

"RIETI, _August 25, 1848_. 

"MY BELOVED FRIEND:--Bitterest tears alone can answer thosewords--_Pickie is dead_. My heart has all these years presaged them. I have suffered not a few sleepless hours thinking of our darling, haunted with fears never again to see his sweet, joyous face which onme, also, always looked with love and trust. But I always thought ofsmall-pox. Now how strangely snatched from you, oh poor mother; howvain all your feverish care night and day to ward off the leastpossible ill from that fair frame. Oh, how pathetic it seems to thinkof all that was done for dear, dear Pickie to build up strong thattemple from which the soul departed so easily. 

"You say I left him too soon to know him well, but it was not so. Ihad spiritual sight of the child, and knew his capacities. I hoped tobe of use to him if he lived, for sweet was our communion beside themurmuring river, and when he imitated the low voices of the littlebrook, or telling him stories in my room, which even then he wellunderstood. A thousand times I have thought of the time when he firstsaid the word _Open_ to get into my room, and my heart always was opento him. He was my consolation in hours sadder than you everguessed--my spring-flower, my cheerful lark. None but his parentscould love him so well; no child, except little Waldo Emerson, had Iever so loved. In both I saw the promise of a great future: itsrealization is deferred to some other sphere; ere long may we followand aid it there. 

"Ever sacred, my friend, be this bond between us--the love andknowledge of the child. I was his aunty; and no sister can so feelwhat you lose. My friend, I have never wept so for grief of my own, asnow for yours. It seems to me _too_ cruel; you are resigned; you makeholy profit of it; the spear has entered and forced out the heart'sblood, the pure ichor follows. I know not yet how to feel so; I havenot yet grieved away the bitter pang. 

"My mother wrote me he said sometimes he would get a boat and carryyellow flowers to his Aunty Margaret. I suppose he had not yet quiteforgotten that I used to get such for him. I often thought what Ishould carry him from Europe--what I should tell him--what teach? Hehad a heart of natural poetry; he would have prized all that was best. 

"Oh, it is all over; and indeed this life is over for me. Theconditions of this planet are not propitious to the lovely, the just, the pure; it is these that go away; it is the unjust that triumph. Letus, as you say, purify ourselves; let us labor in the good spirit here, but leave all thought of results to Eternity. 

"I say this, and yet my heart is bound to earth as never before; for I, too, have a dearer self--a little son. He is now about the age sweetPickie was when I was with him most; and I have thought much of the onein the dawning graces of the other. But I accept the lesson, and willstrive to prepare myself to resign him. Indeed, I had the warningbefore; for, during the siege of Rome, when I could not see him, mymind, agonized by the danger of his father, as well as all theoverpowering and infamous injuries heaped upon the noble, sought refugein the thought of him safe, in his green nook, and, as I thought, incare of worthy persons. When at last we left, our dearest friends laidlow, our fortunes finally ruined, and every hope for which westruggled, blighted, I hoped to find comfort in his smiles. I foundhim wasted to a skeleton; and it is only by a month of daily and hourlymost anxious care (in which I was often assisted by memories of whatMrs. Greeley did for Pickie) that I have been able to restore him. ButI hold him by a frail tenure; he has the tendency to cough by which Iwas brought so low. 

"Adieu. You say, pray for you; oh, let us all pray together. I hopewe shall yet find dear Pickie where he is; that earthly blemishes willbe washed out, and he be able to love us all. Till then, God help andguide us, dear friend. Amen. 

"M. F. O. 

"You may address me in future as Marchioness Ossoli. "

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Friends' Seminary--The Principal ChappaquaResidences--Reminiscences of Paris during the War--An AccomplishedLady--Her Voice--Festivities--A Drive to Rye Lake--Making Tea on theBeach--A Sail at Sunset--Fortune-telling by Firelight--The DriveHome--Sunday Morning--A Row on the Pond--Dramatic Representations inthe Barn--A Drive to Lake Wampas--Starlight Row. 

_August 24_. 

A visit last night from Mr. Collins, the Principal of ChappaquaInstitute. This gentleman is one of our neighbors; so when the dutiesof school hours are over, he frequently calls in to play a game ofcroquet, or to join in the evening rubber of whist, of which Margueriteand Gabrielle are so fond. I had often heard his name before he wasintroduced to us, and imagined, from his responsible position, that hemust be some staid, gray-haired Quaker; but, upon meeting him, I wassurprised to discover that, although Principal of the "Friends'Seminary, " he belonged to the "world's people"; and was quite youngenough to impress the more susceptible among his young lady pupils. 

_August 27_. 

In speaking of the handsome residences about and near Chappaqua, I haveunintentionally overlooked one of the finest among them. It issituated about half-way between Chappaqua and Mount Kisco; and so faras I can judge by a view from the road, the grounds are both extensiveand well cultivated. The house stands back from the road, and is quiteimbedded in trees, and the lawn and flower-beds are very prettily laidout. 

Upon asking Bernard one day, as we were driving to Mount Kisco, to whomthis place belonged, he said that he had forgotten the owner's name, but believed he was now in Europe; and it was not until quite recentlythat I ascertained it was the property of Mr. Elliott O. Cowdin, of NewYork City, Paris, or Westchester County. I really do not know whichplace to accredit to him as his residence. 

Yesterday Mr. Cowdin dined with us, and we had quite a merry timerecalling our adventures upon leaving Paris in 1870. It was only threedays before the battle of Sedan, when every one was rushing away fromthe doomed city, that we also decided to leave; and Mr. Cowdin was verykind in helping us off. We had many tribulations and delays inprocuring our tickets, and having our luggage registered, for thousandswere waiting in the Gare St. Lazare to escape from the range ofPrussian shells; but between the energy of Mr. Cowdin and his servantHarry, and the talismanic name of Washburne (for our ambassador hadkindly given us his card to present at the ticket and freight offices), we succeeded in running the blockade much easier than we hadanticipated. Once in the waiting-room, we seated ourselves upon ourbags, for every chair had been taken hours before, and waited for thetwelve o'clock train. We sat patiently for an hour, and were theninformed it would not start until six, for what reason we could notlearn; for French officials can never be induced to give you anyinformation. 

At the close of another hour, we were not only white with alarm, supposing the Prussians were at the city gates, but were also in astarving condition, having eaten nothing since our eight o'clockbreakfast of chocolate and rolls. What to do we did not know; thedoors of the waiting-room were closed, and despite the shrieks andfrantic kicks of the terrified and penned-up passengers, no egress waspermitted. Finally, our party of five helpless women decided to appealto Mr. Cowdin, feeling confident that he would devise some means torelieve our forlorn condition. A piteous note was accordingly written, informing him that we should be prisoners until six o'clock, andappealing to his American chivalry to come and share our confinementwith us, and to fetch some bread and butter, of which we stood sorelyin need. 

Among the employees of the station a messenger was found, and in lessthan an hour Mr. Cowdin's friendly face was seen, as he made his waythrough the crowd, followed by the invaluable Harry with a basket. Animpromptu table-cloth, consisting of newspapers, was spread upon thefloor, and we gathered about our feast, the other passengers meantimeeying us hungrily, as roast chicken, Bordeaux, and a four-pound loafappeared from the basket. 

That was my last meal in Paris, and although the circumstances appearedvery amusing as we talked them over with Mr. Cowdin yesterday, theywere anything but entertaining at that time, expecting momentarily aswe did that a shell would explode among us. 

_August 31_. 

I have just returned from a walk to the station to meet our friend, Mrs. George Gilman, whom we expected would spend the day with us, butfound instead a note from her saying that ill-health would prevent herfrom visiting us at present. 

Mrs. Gilman is a dear friend of ours, and a charming and accomplishedwoman. Her elegant drawing-rooms upon Lexington Avenue are a resortfor not only the fashionable world, but a favorite rendezvous for theprincipal vocalists and pianists of the city, for Mrs. Gilman isperhaps the only amateur in New York society whose voice equalsCarlotta Patti's in extent, and the ease with which her flute-liketones reach G in alt. Her voice has been carefully trained by many ofthe great New York masters, and has also had the advantage of Parisinstruction. Therefore we may congratulate ourselves that we possessin private life, one who would make so admirable a prima donna. 

_September 6_. 

My journal, about which I am usually so conscientious, has beenneglected for nearly a week, for we have had a succession of visitors, and my time has been entirely taken up with drives, games of croquet, and starlight walks. 

On Saturday, several friends came up with papa in the morning train;some merely to pass the day, and others to make a longer stay with us. Mr. James Parton, the well-known author, had not visited dear Chappaquain twenty years, and was desirous of seeing the changes that time hadeffected in this lovely spot. Others, too, were visiting us for thefirst time, and preferred to see the wild, picturesque beauties of theplace, rather than to drive, ride, or play croquet; consequently thecompany soon divided. One party strolled off through the woods, andfollowed the course of the brook up to our tiny cascade--now, however, swollen by the heavy rains we have recently had into quite a noisy andimpetuous waterfall, while others who had earlier in the season spentlong mornings with us under the pines and beneath the oaks on theside-hill, now enrolled themselves in Gabrielle's regiment, confidentthat she would lead them to a glorious victory on the field of croquet. 

We did not assemble again until our two o'clock dinner, and as soon asthat meal was over, we started upon the long-contemplated picnic to RyeLake. A large six-seated carriage and a pair of stout horses had beenhired, and Ida's own phaeton and ponies were also at the door to conveyour party to that most romantic sheet of water. 

Every seat in the two conveyances was occupied, and all the availablecorners were filled with tightly packed baskets, containing charcoaland pine-cones to kindle a fire upon the smooth beach, tea-kettles andteapots, table linen, dishes and provisions. The drive was one of themost delightful that we have yet had, and was heightened by the dreamyhaze of autumn, that is now faintly perceptible. 

The lake is private property, and picnics are frowned upon; however, the most attractive gentleman in our party was sent to ask permissionfor us to pass the afternoon there, and a cordial assent was quicklygranted. 

A well-trimmed sward, shaded by fine old oaks, was selected as the mostsuitable place to lay the cloth, and then, to pass away the time untilsix o'clock, several of the party went out in a row-boat. 

"We were absent an hour or more, playing cards, singing, and driftingabout; now and then grazing a rock, or narrowly escaping an upset, owing to the disproportion of weight among the passengers, and atsunset returned to our encampment. Here we found a blazing fire, andthe tea-kettle singing joyously. An extensive meal was spread upon aneat white cloth, and we grouped about it upon our bright carriagerugs, so like leopard skins with their black spots upon a yellowground. Hot tea was a very agreeable substitute for the lemonade thatgenerally forms the beverage at picnics, and as we all had excellentappetites, the meal passed off very pleasantly. 

"What are we to do now!" inquired one restless being, as we walked downto the beach, leaving Bernard to consume the _débris_ of the feast andcollect the dishes. 

"I think this fire so comfortable, " said one of the young ladies, "thatI mean to remain beside it, as it is now dark and rather chill. "

"Let us play whist by the firelight, " was suggested by those who hadnot been out in the boat. 

"Or, better still, have our fortunes told by its light, " said Ida, throwing a couple of branches upon the burning coals. 

"Delightful!" exclaimed Marguerite. "I have not forgotten that we haveamong us a Gypsy Queen, whose predictions are always realized;" turningto a pretty blonde, whose delicate features and sunny curls testifiedthat she was only a gypsy through her talent for unveiling the futureto her friends. 

The rugs were accordingly spread out upon the beach, and we gatheredabout the fire whilst the cards were being shuffled and cut for thepast, present, and future. A weird sight it was, and one that thegreat Rembrandt would have delighted to paint: a background of dark, silent trees, before us the motionless lake, illumined by the silvercrescent then setting, while the faint glimmer of starlight, and thefiery glow of the burning wood, lit up the face of our young seeress, as with a puzzled brow, but a pretty air of faith, she bent over thetalismanic cards. 

In turn our fortunes were all told, and not a little wonder was excitedwhen some hidden page of the past, as a former engagement, or anever-mentioned marriage, was disclosed. 

One young man was told that he would live happily, but always bepoor--a destiny that he received with a droll air of resignation andphilosophy; while another was warned to beware of a blonde enemy, causing him to recoil with a look of mock terror from the fair-hairedPhilippe Hubert who sat beside him. 

An elegant young Englishman was alternately inspirited and depressed, by hearing that an uncle in India was about to leave him a legacy, andthat a tailor's bill of many years' standing was now upon its way tohim, whilst for all the young ladies a brilliant future was predicted. 

My fortune was, however, quite mysterious. I was told to beware of amale enemy, and two rivals, a blonde and a brunette, and was inimminent danger of poison. I was soon to be engaged to a poor man, butwas to marry a millionnaire, who would leave me a widow at the end offive years' time. Whether I was then to

 "--marry my own love, "

the oracle did not disclose. 

Then ensued the long drive home. The air was chill but exhilarating, and we sung and told ghost stories, and were astonished, when at lastwe dashed through a white gate, to find ourselves at home once more. It was ten o'clock the next morning before we were all assembled at thebreakfast-table, and we had scarcely risen from our last cups ofcoffee, when a couple of friends arrived upon the slow Sunday train. How we were now to amuse ourselves was the question for the proximityof a church compelled very quiet demeanor. Finally we had a brilliantidea: the stone barn which had been filled only a few days previouswith fresh, sweet hay, would be just the place to spend the morning. Accordingly we walked up there, pausing, however, on the way for a rowon the pond in our pretty blue boat, and then ensued two charminghours. We mounted the hay-loft, and nestled down in the soft mounds(to the detriment of our black dresses, by the way, for upon emergingwe were covered with burrs and straws), and being far from reprovingears we sung both sacred and secular music, and laughed at a drollimpersonation, of Fechter's Claude--

 "Ah! false one, It is ze Prince zow lovest, not ze man, " etc. , and an equally comic burlesque upon Forrest, and were very sorry tolearn that the carriages were waiting to take us to Lake Wampas. 

[Illustration: The Stone Barn. ]

"A new lake?" inquired a friend who had already accompanied us to Ryeand Croton Lakes; "pray how many does Westchester County possess?"

Each new one is of course the prettiest, and beautiful as Rye Lake hadbeen the previous night under the influence of the setting sun, andstarlight, we all decided that Lake Wampas was simply perfect. 

Dinner was ready upon our return, and before the dessert was placedupon the table a warning whistle was heard, and several of our friendswere obliged to bid us a hasty adieu, and rush through Bischoff'sgarden to catch the train. 

In the evening we walked up to the pond for a row among thewater-lilies by starlight. There we found the bonny blue boat awaitingus, but the oars had disappeared. Whether Bernard disapproved ofwater-parties on Sunday, or had merely put the oars away for safety, wecould not tell, but having gone so far, we were determined not to bedisappointed, so we embarked, and with an old garden-rake, and a longpole to propel the boat, we succeeded, at all events, in having a verylaughable row. 

The next morning our friends left us; the play-days were over, and weonce more settled ourselves to study. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Marriage of a Cousin--A Pretty Bride--Letters--Home Circle Complete--ALetter of Adventures--Wedding Cards--A Musical Marriage--Housekeepingunder Difficulties--Telegraphic Blunders--A Bust of Mr. Greeley--MoreVisitors. 

_September 10_. 

A letter yesterday from our cousin Estelle Greeley, signed, however, bya new name, for she was married last week. Estelle is Aunt Arminda'syoungest daughter, and although not yet eighteen, was before the deathof Theresa's children a great-aunt. She sent us her picture, takenwith her husband. She is a very pretty girl, with large, dreamy, blueeyes, and lashes so long and dark as to cast deep shadows--alanguishing effect often produced on city belles by artificial means. Her hair is of that sunny brown shade peculiar to so many of ourcousins, and she has hitherto worn it floating over her shoulders _à labelle sauvage_; but now I suppose she thinks so _negligée_ and girlisha coiffure incompatible with her new dignity as a married woman, for Iobserved in her picture that it was wreathed into an imposing diadembraid. 

Although Estelle is rather young to have married, the match hasreceived the cordial approbation of tho entire family. She was marriedat home, but has now gone to live at Columbus, Pennsylvania, where herfather-in-law is a prominent merchant. Her letter was full ofenthusiasm over her happiness, but I was glad to learn that she did notintend, like so many young brides, to give up her music in theexcitement of her new married life. 

Our mail was not large this morning, for our friends are now returningto the city, and are busy with the demands of upholsterers anddress-makers in anticipation of the gayeties of the coming season; somefew, however, are still enjoying this delicious September weather bythe seaside or inland. 

Our friend, Mrs. Cutler, the pretty Virginia novelist and society star, is now in Westchester County, and promises us a visit very soon. Shespeaks with deep feeling of the pleasure it will afford her to visitdear uncle's loved home, and in conclusion sends many kind messages tomamma's "bouquet of girls. "

One of my most intimate friends, Marguerite Aymar, after having visitedseveral watering-places, and contributed sparkling letters to differentNew York journals this summer, has now come to Westchester County topass away quietly the remainder of the season, and gather up strengthfor her literary labors during the coming winter. I learn by a letterreceived from her yesterday, that she is boarding within drivingdistance of Chappaqua--a very agreeable prospect for me, for Margueriteand I are much given to long talks together, and are very fond of anexchange of ideas over our many literary plans. 

Miss Aymar is a clever young writer, by no means confining herself tothe graceful poems, stories, and sketches that she dashes off with suchease, but evincing talent and tact in her more thoughtful magazinearticles. She is now, she tells me, at work upon a novel. 

_September 13_. 

Our home circle is once more complete, for Mrs. Lamson, who left ussome weeks ago to visit friends in Connecticut, has now returned toremain with us until we go down to the city. 

Mrs. Lamson was one of dear uncle's earliest friends, theiracquaintance dating back indeed to the days of Poultney--and we are alldeeply attached to her. 

_September 15_. 

Arthur's name, I believe, has not yet been mentioned in my journalsince he left us early in August. He is a very tormentingcorrespondent, for he never writes with the promptitude that would beagreeable, but his letters when they do come are always entertaining, and one that arrived this morning, detailing his adventures since hisdeparture from Chappaqua, we found especially so. Before making someextracts from it, I must explain that he left us to join a number ofyoung men from Chappaqua, headed by our neighbor, Mr. Carpenter, whowere to camp out at Rye Beach, and indulge in unlimited fishingparties. This out-of-doors life delighted Arthur, accustomed as he hadbeen to foot journeys in Europe, and when the party broke up he boughta waterproof suit, hired a boat and a tent, and rowed up the Sound toBoston, where he lives, sleeping meantime on land or in his boat, asbest suited his caprice. I will now give his exploits in his own words. 

"I remained on the beach some time after Mr. Carpenter and the othersleft, caught and made food of many fishes, and came near making myselffood for them, for in hauling up anchor in a rough sea I tipped out ofthe boat, but luckily saved myself by clutching its side, and liftingmyself in at imminent risk of turning the whole concern bottom upwards. 

"Being wrapped in slumber on the rocks one night with a big fireburning beside me, my bed of dry seaweed caught fire, and woke me byits fierce breath; but escaping an evil fate for the present, I camesafely home to Boston, which I felt keen joy to see once more. 

"I have gone into the office of a lawyer here, and am engaged in thedelightful occupation of 'sooing folks' (as the old fellow pronouncesit). You may imagine me seated on the extreme top of a high stool, forging like a young Cyclops with malignant pleasure, the writs andsummonses which are presently to be flourished by the Sheriff in theface of the astonished Defendant. "

Among our other letters this morning was a package from Londoncontaining the dainty wedding-cards of a beautiful young Americanpianist (Teresa Carreño) and her handsome violinist husband, accompanied by a long letter from the bride. The letter wasoverflowing with happiness, and the naïveté with which she describedall the little annoyances of her new married life, and especially thetrials of a young housekeeper, was quite delicious. Her furniture hadnot yet come from Paris, and there were but two chairs in the parlor;consequently, when a visitor came, her husband was obliged to stand, she said, with the greatest ceremony. She sat by the kitchen table towrite to me, and the cook overturned her ink, making a blot upon thepage: all of these little details made up a perfect picture of herlife. Of course the letter was full of "my husband, " and the signaturewas no longer the impulsive, girlish--"With a thousand kisses, mydarling, ever your own Teresita, " but a decorous and matronly ending:"Yours affectionately, Teresa Carreño Sauret. "

Two more letters by the evening mail; one having the features of the"Re Galantuomo" upon the postage stamps, is from a young American musicstudent in Florence, a pupil of Hans Von Bülow, who will, upon herreturn to her own country, be known as one of our finest amateurpianists. 

There is also a letter from our estimable friend, Miss Booth, theaccomplished Editress of Harper's Bazar. She will spend next Saturdaywith us, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wright. 

_September 20_. 

Ida went down to the city yesterday, to see both her lawyer anddress-maker, saying that she would return by the half past six o'clocktrain. We went down accordingly to meet the cars, but she did notarrive upon them; a telegram, however, was shortly sent up to thehouse, announcing that she would come on the eight o'clock train, accompanied by Mrs. And Miss Wiss. 

"Mrs. Wiss!" exclaimed mamma, upon reading the telegram, "who can shebe? I do not know any such person. "

Gabrielle could not remember any one by the name of Wiss among Ida'sfriends, and suggested that the ladies might be old friends of herfather's, whom Ida had never before seen; so remarking that the eighto'clock train was a late one for ladies to travel upon alone, mammarang for Minna, and told her to delay our tea an hour and a half longer. 

When we heard the footsteps of the travellers upon the piazza, we allwent out with some curiosity to meet our unknown visitors. For amoment we were speechless, as we recognized in the matron of the party, Ida's charming Southern friend, Mrs. Ives, and in the tall young man(her son) who accompanied her, the supposed Miss Wiss. How thetelegraph operator could have so confused the names, no one couldimagine. 

Mrs. Ives is a brilliant talker, and a woman of great polish and highfamily connections. She has lived North for several years, but willreturn to Baltimore this winter to our great regret, for herpicturesque home near the Manhattanville Convent was a most delightfulplace to spend an hour, while listening to the entertainingconversation of the hostess, and the exquisite harp-playing of hersister. 

_September 25_. 

A letter this morning from the little sculptress, Vinnie Ream. She isat Washington, and writes me that she has sold her bust of dear uncleto the Cornell University. I have not seen the bust since it was putinto marble, but when I saw it in clay at her New York studio two yearsago, I considered it a spirited and excellent likeness. Vinnie is fullof the high courage that never deserts her through all of her trialsfrom public and private criticism, and she has my best wishes for abright and successful future. 

_September 28_. 

Two arrivals by the morning train: Mrs. Gibbons, a friend of many yearsof dear uncle, Aunt Mary, and mamma, and a lady at whose hospitableresidence uncle often found a pleasant home, when his family wereabsent, and Lucy White, an intimate friend of Ida and myself. 

Miss White has just returned from a three months' visit to Europe, andshe gave us a very lively account of her gay season in London, and hervisit to Paris. I was glad to learn from her that my favorite Italianand Spanish pictures again occupied their accustomed places in the_Salon Carré_ at the Louvre, and that the diadem mode of dressing thehair, so becoming to my tiny figure, was by no means out of style inParis, but was, on the contrary, more fashionable than ever. 

_September 30_. 

A letter this morning from Katie Sinclair. I rejoice to learn that herhealth is improving, for, when we visited her some weeks ago, hercheeks were almost as white as the pillows upon which they rested. 

We were disappointed that we could not hear Katie sing that day, for wehad anticipated quite a little musical matinée; but her sister Mary, who is an enthusiastic pianoforte student, made amends by playing withmuch taste and expression, a dreamy "Melody, " by Rubenstein. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

"All that's Bright must Fade"--Departures--Preparing the House for theWinter--Page's Portrait of Pickie--Packing up--Studious Habits of theDomestics--The Cook and her Admirers--Adieu to Chappaqua. 

_October 1_. 

"All that's bright must fade. "

This long, delightful summer is now over, and the time approaches forus to return to the din and whirl of city life. 

Miss Worthington left us this morning to return to her beautifulSouthern home, and Gabrielle, too, has gone back to the quiet of herconvent school, guided by the Protestant Sisters of St. Mary. 

Ida is busily counting, and packing away the dainty china and silver, suggestive of so many pleasant gatherings of friends that we have hadthis summer, and Minna has brought down from the store-room largechests to contain the heavy linen sheets with Aunt Mary's initialsbeautifully embroidered in scarlet. 

The guest-room and the parlors commence to wear a dismantled look, forone by one the pretty trifles that ornamented them are being removed, and although many of the pictures still hang upon the walls, dearlittle Pickie's portrait stands in an unoccupied bedroom swathed inlinen, and ready to journey to the city when we do, for Ida prizes itso highly that she will not box it up and send it by express, butintends to have one of the servants carry it under her supervision, lest some harm may befall it. I do not wonder that it is priceless toher; I also think it of inestimable value, for not only is it aportrait of the beautiful little cousin whom I never saw, but even oneuninterested in Pickie would, I am sure, be attracted by it as a rarework of art. It is a full-length picture: the child holds in his handsa cluster of lilies--a fit emblem of his spotless purity, and hisundraped limbs are perfectly moulded as those of an infant St. John. His hair, of the line that Titian and Tintoretto loved to paint, fallsupon his shoulders like a shower of ruddy gold, and for depth of toneand richness of color the picture more resembles the work of one of theold Venetian Masters than a painting by modern hands. 

Whilst in town the other day, I called in the Tenth Street StudioBuildings to ask Mr. Page when he could give a few days of his time torestoring Pickie's portrait, as it has been somewhat affected by thedampness during the years that it has stood in the house in the woods. Mr. Page gave me a very amusing account of the difficulty heexperienced in obtaining sittings from Pickie. 

"Young children, " he said, "are always averse to having their portraitspainted, and there is usually a struggle to induce them to submit tothe confinement of posing for me; but in Master Pickie's case, thechild was so full of life that I might almost as well have tried toobtain sittings from a butterfly as from him. "

Pickie's rapid illness and sudden death occurred before the picture wascompleted, and although Mr. Page worked upon it for some time frommemory and from daguerrotypes of the child, a few finishing touchesremain to be added. 

_October 3_. 

This morning I at last realized what I have been endeavoring to banishfrom my mind--that the day of our departure from dear Chappaqua is athand. This fact was brought home to me in a very practical manner bythe arrival of our immense French trunks from the side-hill house, where they have been stored this summer, and the necessity of packingthem, coupled with an intimation from mamma that it would be as well toput my books and music in the bottom, and my dresses in the top of mytrunk. I am somewhat of a novice in packing, for during thepreparations for our eight ocean voyages that duty never once fell tomy lot; however I flatter myself that such _very_ elementaryinstructions were not necessary. 

Quite tenderly I took down from the shelves the books that I hadbrought from New York for summer reading, for mingled with every pagewas some pleasant association. One chapter in Kohlrausch's "Germany"seemed still to retain the faint perfume of the pale primroses that Igathered in the meadow that day to mark my stopping-place, and mylittle volume of Voltaire's "Charles Douze" recalled an interestingargument upon the relative claims to greatness of that hero, and myhero par excellence, the first Napoleon. 

My ponderous volumes of Plato brought before my mind Arthur's reading, and the life with which he invested the words of these old-timephilosophers that had so keen an interest for him; while Madame deStaël's "Allemagne, " and my little copy of Ehlert's "Letters on Music"were associated with almost every hour of the day. They had lain uponmy writing-table the entire summer, and it was my habit whenever I laiddown my pen for a moment to take up one book or the other, and glanceat a page of Ehlert's criticisms upon opera, symphony, or song, orMadame de Staël's profound essays upon art, morals, and politics. 

This long summer has been one of great sweetness and content to us all. A tinge of sadness has, it is true, been mingled with our daily life, but we have felt the spiritual presence of our loved ones always nearus, urging and encouraging us to persevere and fit ourselves to jointhem hereafter. With this feeling we have worked constantly andclosely, and our record of improvement has been somewhatsatisfactory--to ourselves at least. We have gone through the weightyvolumes that we had given ourselves as summer tasks; we have writtenand practised; and, although Minna constantly exclaims upon our closeattention to study, a desire for improvement has extended(unconsciously to ourselves) from the parlor to the kitchen. Goingdown there one night to give some orders for the next day, I was amusedby overhearing Lina say, "It is time to go to school now. " ImmediatelyMinna's bright-colored knitting was laid aside, and the two women drewup to the table with their books. After studying their English lesson, they recited it to each other, followed by a brief reciprocal lesson ofSwedish and German. 

Bernard also had his book, and was studying with great apparentindustry, although in what foreign tongue he was accomplishing himselfI do not know. Perhaps he was trying to master the intricacies of theGerman language, that he might offer himself to Minna through themedium of her own tongue. I was amused to see that he occupied whatmight be called the neutral ground, at a table lighted by a flickeringcandle, and at an equal distance from his sweetheart and his foe; forsince Bernard has commenced to take moonlight strolls with Minna, Linahas taken deadly umbrage, which she manifests by giving himcandle-ends, cutting off his supply of coffee, and reducing hiscomforts generally. 

At first I felt quite sorry for Lina, so completely excluded as she wasat one time from the society of the other two, especially as she wasmuch older than Minna, and not at all prepossessing in appearance; butsince I have learned that she has in the village four Swedish admirerswho make her weekly visits, I have ceased to waste any sympathy uponher. We were quite amazed one Sunday afternoon to see four stalwartblond men wending their way kitchen-wards, and inquiring in brokenEnglish for "Swedish girl;" for of all places our quiet littleChappaqua is the last one where we would have thought of seeing any ofLina's compatriots. These men, it seems, are employed in repairing therailroad track; and learning that they had a countrywoman in thevillage, called to make her acquaintance; so Lina can now triumph overMinna. I have heard from Minna that each one of the four men hasalready offered himself to Lina, and that she refused them, remarking, however, that she knew a girl in New York who would like to marry oneof them. The men thanked her, but thought the distance rather toogreat to go for a wife. 

Despite their little difference over Bernard, the two women have livedtogether quite amicably this summer; and it has been a great relief todear Ida, while so gracefully presiding as mistress of the house, tofeel that harmony reigned in the kitchen. 

_October 5_. 

Our last day in dear Chappaqua; we go down to the city to-morrowmorning. How dread is the thought of leaving the poetic quiet of ourcountry home, to return to the confusion and excitement of city life;that city, too, that will be fraught with such sad memories for usduring the last days of October and November. 

How quickly it has gone, this long, sweet summer. I cannot realizethat near five months have passed since that bright May morning that wearrived here, and found dear Chappaqua in all her tender springfreshness. Imperceptibly the days have flown; the delicate hues ofleafy May have deepened and gone; the summer is over, and autumn withher glowing tints has stolen upon us. Now in vain do we hunt fordaisies to pull apart petal by petal with the old French rhyme thatevery schoolgirl knows, "Il m'aime un peu--beaucoup, Passionément, --pas du tout!"

The daisies have gone with the sweet double violets and roses, and thefragrant heliotrope and mignonette, of which we used to make bouquetsto dress the table and adorn the rooms; whilst brilliant, scentlessflowers now fill our garden beds, and the maples with their aureolas offlame color and molten cold tell the same sad story--summer has fled. 

For the last time I have walked up to the pine grove, and have takenleave of that spot where dear uncle's feet have so often trodden, andsaid farewell, too, to the forest trees whose trunks still bear theimpress of the axe once wielded by that hand now forever at rest; Ihave drunk once more from the spring that Aunt Mary so dearly loved, and which is far sweeter to me than the vaunted waters of Trevi, andentered for the last time her loved home in the woods over whosethreshold her weary feet will never pass again. 

 "Tempo passato, perche non ritorni a me?"

Adieu to Chappaqua and to my journal. My daintily bound volume, solarge that I feared not easily to fill its pages, is closely covered, and only a few blank lines remain whereon to take leave of it forever. Adieus are always saddening, and I close it with the words unspoken. 

And for dear, dear Chappaqua, I can find no words more fitting toexpress my love than those verses written, it is true, in honor ofanother Westchester Home, but so appropriate that I will insert themhere, trusting their author, Mr. JOHN SAVAGE, will pardon me for sodoing. 

OUR DEAR WESTCHESTER HOME. 

 Where'er my hopeful fancy dares, Or toiling footstep falls-- Through ancient cities' thoroughfares Or Fortune's festal halls; O'er mountains grand, through forests deep, Or crest the yielding foam, I find no spot Like that dear cot, My own Westchester Home!

 * * * *

 Bedecked with every sylvan charm, By loving Nature blest, Embraced between the ocean's arm And Hudson's bounteous breast, Westchester, in her beauty smiles To Heaven's protecting dome, For all the good. By field or flood That crowns our happy home!

THE END