The Story of a Summer Part 4

But in writing about Mr. Hempstead, I have neglected his sister. Miss Hempstead was a tall, fine-looking young girl, with, however, a strikingly foreign appearance for an American _pur sang_. She was born, she told me, in Belize, Central America, where her father was United States Consul. A tropical sun had given her a complexion of Spanish darkness, heightened by large black eyes and jet black hair--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 pere was over, he had become so much attached to Belize, that he decided to make it his future residence. His daughter said she could not imagine what he found to like in the place, for between earthquakes and yellow fever, one was in a continual state of terror; there was no society, the population being almost entirely negro, and no schools; consequently the children of the few white resident families were obliged to go to England or to the United States to be educated.

Miss Hempstead was sent to London, and five or six years of the discipline of a first-cla.s.s English school have made her quite different from the fully fledged society queens who graduate from our Murray Hill _pensionnats_ at sixteen or so. A little English reserve to tone down somewhat their sparkling natures is all that our bewitching American girls need to make them perfect, but I fear they will 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 pa.s.s our Sundays--The House in the Woods--Ida's Glen--Mrs. Greeley's Favorite Spring--The Children's Play-house--Gabrielle's Pets--Travelling in 1836--New York Society--Mr. Greeley's Friday Evenings--Mrs. Greeley as a 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 it spoken). I cannot remain longer than an hour at church, for the Ma.s.s is 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's aristocratic ponies, Lady Alice and The d.u.c.h.ess, fairly fly over the ground--up or down hill, it is immaterial to them--and consequently, I find myself, when my religious duties are over, with many idle hours upon my hands.

The croquet b.a.l.l.s and mallets, our "Magic Rings," and other out-of-door games, are put away in the "children's play-house," a little white hut on the borders of the croquet ground, where Ida and dear little Raffie used to keep their toys, and where Gabrielle in later days housed her menagerie 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 the baneful effect of a foreign education, but I cannot see that there would be any evil result from a little music on Sundays. However, we have a Dissenting church for a next-door neighbor, and the residents of Chappaqua are chiefly Quakers, who frown upon the piano as an unG.o.dly instrument; so with a sigh, I replace in my portfolio that grand hymn that in 1672 saved the life of the singer, Stradella, from the a.s.sa.s.sin's knife, and a beautiful Ave Maria, solemn and chaste in its style as though written by St. Gregory himself, but composed and dedicated to me by mamma's friend, Professor F. L. Ritter.

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

Plato and Kohlrausch, our week-day sustenance, do not come certainly under the head of Sunday reading, although I see nothing objectionable in them; but after all, one requires, I think, a change of literature on 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, every one's letter-writing day, and now we put on our broad-brimmed garden hats, with their graceful tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs of gauze and c.r.a.pe, and stroll off to the spicy pine grove, where we sit down on the dry spines, and Arthur repeats to us quaint bits from some of the rare old books he read in the British Museum three years ago, or entertains us with some of his own adventures when travelling on foot over beautiful France and Italy, and "Merrie England."

Ida and I, however, wandered away from the others this morning, and strolled up to the dear old house in the woods where she pa.s.sed her childhood. This is, to my mind, the sweetest and most picturesque spot upon the entire estate, and I do not wonder that Aunt Mary, with her keen love for the beautiful in Nature, her indifference to general society, and her devotion to her children, to study, and to reflection, preferred the quiet seclusion of her home shut in by evergreens, with the deep ravine, and the joyous little brook at her feet, to the most superb mansion that graces our magnificent Hudson.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The House in the Woods.]

One of the purest springs on the place is in the ravine, or "Ida's Glen," as uncle christened it long ago. Here at the foot of the long wooden staircase is a basin of natural rock, and flowing into it is the sweetest, coolest water in the world. This water Aunt Mary always preferred to any other on the place--even to the spring at the foot of the side-hill, so celebrated in the campaign times as the spot where uncle and his visitors would stop to "take a drink," when returning from a walk. Exquisite in her neatness, Aunt Mary would frequently order the basin of her favorite spring to be well purified by a thorough scrubbing with brush and soap, followed by a prolonged rinsing with water. During her illness last fall, she frequently asked to have a pitcher of water brought from this spring, which she always especially relished.

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

"In the little dell or glen through which my brook emerges from the wood wherein it has brawled down the hill, to dance across a gentle slope 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 was never warm, and never frozen over. Many springs upon my farm are excellent, 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 at length been almost deserted for one recently purchased and refitted on the 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 to a country house, a broad piazza. To the right stands a white cottage, built for the servants. Almost in front of the house is a large boulder, moss-grown and venerable. This, Aunt Mary would not have removed, for she loved Nature in its wildest primeval beauty, and now the rock is a.s.sociated with loving memories of Raffie's little hands that once prepared fairy banquets upon it, with acorn-cups for dishes; but now those baby hands have long since been folded quietly in the grave.

The little play-house, that has since been removed to the croquet-ground, once stood not far from this rock, and has been used, as I said, by Gabrielle as a menagerie for her pets. A strange a.s.sortment they often were for a little girl. Inheriting her mother's exquisite tenderness of feeling towards helpless animals, Gabrielle would splinter and bandage up the little legs of any baby robin or sparrow 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 she had in the play-house a little regiment of twelve toads, a red squirrel, and a large turtle. Aunt Mary never wished her to cage her pets, as she thought it cruel; consequently they had the range of the play-house, and Gabrielle fed them very conscientiously. She ought, however, to have followed the example of St. Francis, who used to preach to animals and insects when he had no human audience, and given her pets a daily dissertation upon brotherly love and tolerance, for they did not, I regret to say, live together in the Christian harmony that distinguished Barnum's Happy Family. The result was, that one day when Gabrielle went to minister to their physical wants, she found only a melancholy _debris_ of little legs. Her supposition was that the turtle had consumed the toads and then died of dyspepsia, and that the squirrel had by some unknown means escaped from the play-house, and returned to primeval liberty.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Children's Play House.]

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

Mamma has often described Aunt Mary to me as she looked when she first met her. The portrait mamma draws of her as a bride would scarcely be recognized by those who only knew her after long years of weary illness had

"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 from my parents' quiet farm in Pennsylvania, to spend the winter in the city with himself and his wife. A great event this was to me--far greater than your first visit to Europe, for the journey occupied double the time that is now spent between New York and Liverpool, and I was a young girl whose acquaintance with the world was confined to the narrow limits of the little village of Clymer; I had never even been sent away to boarding-school.

"One bright September morning I started upon my eventful journey. Your uncle Barnes drove me in a buggy to Buffalo, a distance of three days at 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 ca.n.a.l boat; very slow travelling you children would consider it, accustomed as you are to whirling over the country in an express train; but at my romantic age, this dreamy, delicious style of boat travel was the perfection of happiness.

"At Rochester my friends left me, first placing me under the care of the captain of the ca.n.a.l-boat, who promised to put me upon the steamboat when we should reach Albany.

"The prospect of the day to be spent upon the Hudson possessed no charms for me, but on the contrary, untold terror. I had never before seen a steamboat, but they had been introduced upon Lake Erie, near enough to my home for me to hear, with alarm, of all the accidents that had so far befallen them upon that very turbulent sheet of water; consequently, I embarked upon the 'Was.h.i.+ngton,' in the full conviction that 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 scenery that I was pa.s.sing, and to the elegant toilettes such as my country-bred eyes had never before beheld, by which I was surrounded; I neither spoke to nor looked at any one, nor dared to leave my seat even to go to dinner; but endeavored to gain, from the sacred volume in my hands, strength for the terrible fate that I was confident awaited me.

I have often since wondered what my fellow-travellers thought of the still, shy little figure whose eyes were never once lifted from her Bible.

"About four o'clock a terrible explosion was heard, the boat was thrown violently upon her side, and a scene of confusion, shrieks, and fainting-fits then ensued. I did not faint--I was much too alarmed for that; I merely turned very white, and trembled from head to foot. The wheel-house had been blown away, I learnt before long, but no one fortunately was injured, and after a delay of an hour or so the boat was 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 I would arrive before sunset. As I did not appear, however, he concluded that I had not left Albany at the time appointed. But my adventures of the day were not yet over. I secured a cab, and drove to the address he had given me, 123 Hudson Street, which in 1836 was by no means the plebeian locality it is at present, but a fas.h.i.+onable street, devoted exclusively to elegant residences. Upon inquiring for Mr. Greeley, my consternation was great to learn that although he had looked at rooms in that house, he had not engaged them, and the landlady had no idea of his address. I was almost as timid about cabs as I had been about the steamboat; for I had heard stories of young girls being robbed and murdered by New York cab-drivers, and here I was, late at night, in all the whirl and excitement of the metropolis, driving I knew not where, and entirely at the mercy of an a.s.sa.s.sin. However, my modest trunk did not look very inviting, I suppose, for I reached _The New Yorker_ office--the only other address I knew in the city--without further adventure, where I ascertained that brother was now living at 124 Greenwich Street--a most beautiful situation close by the Battery--then the fas.h.i.+onable promenade of New York. He had written to tell me of his change of residence, but the letter failed to reach me.

"It was half-past eleven when I finally reached my home. The large parlor was ablaze with lights, and crowded with people; for it was Friday, the night that _The New Yorker_ went to press, and brother's reception evening. I was trembling with fatigue and excitement, and very faint, for I had not eaten since early in the morning; but all these emotions vanished when I was introduced to my new sister. I had seen no pictures of her, and knew her only through brother's description, and a few letters she had written me since her marriage, and I was quite unprepared for the exquisite, fairy-like creature I now beheld. A slight, girlish figure, rather _pet.i.te_ in stature, dressed in clouds of white muslin, cut low, and her neck and shoulders covered by ma.s.sive dark curls, from which gleamed out an Oriental-looking _coiffure_, composed of strands of large gold and pearl beads. Her eyes were large, dark, and pensive, and her rich brunette complexion was heightened by a flush, not brilliant like Gabrielle's, but delicate as 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 from those of the majority of young ladies. In literature her preference was for the solid and philosophic, rather than the romantic cla.s.s of reading; indeed, I may say that she never read, she _studied_; going over a paragraph several times, until she had fully comprehended its subtleties of thought, and stored them away in her retentive memory for future use. During that year, I never knew her to read a work of fiction; but philosophy or science formed her daily nourishment; whilst brother, whenever he had a free evening, read aloud to Mary and I from Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, sweetened now and then with a selection from Lord Byron or Mrs. Hemans--the two poets that at that time he preferred.

"But although your Aunt Mary had such severe literary tastes, she was by no means gloomy in her disposition, as you might perhaps infer.

Your uncle being at that time editor of a weekly journal, he was comparatively a man of leisure, and he and Mary went frequently to the theatre, and to hear lectures--a source of great enjoyment to both of them. They also mingled considerably in general society, for Mary was then very fond of dancing, although there was rarely or never any at her Friday evenings, for literary people then, as now, eschewed the G.o.ddess Terpsich.o.r.e.

"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 on Greenwich Street, and many of them were regular or occasional contributors to brother's journal. Among the names that I can recall, were Gen. Morris, then editing the _New York Mirror_; the two Clark brothers, editors of the _Knickerbocker_, one of whom, Willis g.a.y.l.o.r.d Clark, was at that time writing his clever 'Ollapodiana;' Fitz-Greene Halleck, the poet; George M. Snow, who later in life became financial editor 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 will remember, your uncle has occasionally read for us at our own Tuesday evening receptions; Mrs. O. M. Sawyer, the accomplished wife of brother's pastor, then making her _debut_ in the literary world with poems and occasional translations from the German; Elizabeth Jessup Eames, who was writing stories and poems for _The New Yorker_, under the signature of 'Stella;' Mrs. E. F. Ellet, in 1836 a handsome young bride, who had come up from the South, and was contributing translations from the French and German to the same journal; Anne Cora Lynch, now Madame Botta; and many others.

"I must not forget to mention Fisher, the sub-editor of _The New Yorker_, and, in his own estimation, the most important person upon that journal. He was what might be called a literary fop, and was much given to the production of highly-wrought, Byronic poems and sketches.

I remember hearing that some one called one day at the office, and asked 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 was considered so good a joke that for years he was called in the office and 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 much admired that winter, both for her exquisite beauty and the charm of her winning, artless manners. As I said, she was very fond of dancing; but brother never had time to accomplish himself in the art. I remember, however, that at a Christmas party given by his partner, Mr. Wilson, he was induced to dance a quadrille. His mathematical accuracy enabled him to go through the figures perfectly, when he had once seen them danced; and he enjoyed it so thoroughly, and wore such an air of unconscious happiness, that an old Quaker lady (the mother-in-law of Mr. Wilson) who was looking on remarked to me, 'I didn't think thee could find so beautiful a sight as thy brother's dancing this side of heaven.'