All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography Part 28

"Ladies, I'm picking my steps over an unkent road. I will not believe that anybody has traveled it afore me."

"It is the Major, of course!" sighed Mrs. Tannin, shaking her head sadly.

"Yes, Mrs. Tannin, it's the Major. The man is in perfect agony. He has been raving about his room for three days and nights, and Dr.

Alexander says the trouble is like to go on for weeks, or even months."

"Whatever is the matter, Mrs. R----?" I asked.

"That Comanche arrow, I reckon," said Mrs. Smith.

"Perhaps it is the dengue fever," suggested Mrs. East.

The little woman shook her head. "It is neither one, nor the other,"

she answered. "It is nothing natural, or ordinary. I'm sorry for the man. 'Deed am I, but I cannot for the life of me, help a quiet snicker when not seen. Ladies, the Major is cutting a whole set of new teeth."

"Impossible!"

"'Deed it is the very truth. The doctor lanced his gums this morning, as if he was a baby, and I saw the teeth all ready to be born, as it were. The Major was swearing and groaning, and the doctor, who is very religious, telling him 'to be quiet,' and me trembling with fear, and begging Ben for his pistol."

"Did he give it to you?"

"Finally he threw it down on the table, and told me to 'hobble the thing,' which I did by locking it up in my own drawer, and putting the key in my pocket," and she tapped her pocket significantly, to intimate that it was still there.

"Was it Dr. Litten," I asked, "who operated?"

"No," she answered. "It was Dr. Alexander, and he was very irritating, calling Ben an old baby, who made more fuss about cutting teeth than the whole twenty-two babies in Austin, whom he knew, that day, were sucking their mother's milk and cutting their teeth. I thought then the Major would strike him--sure! And again when he was wiping his lance, and said, very kind like, 'Major, I do pity you,' my man answered furiously, 'Be off with your pity, and don't come here again with it.'"

Some one remarked that it was a dreadful situation, and then the little wife declared, "It wasn't like Ben to make a fuss about pain.

He had come home one day," she said, "with a Comanche feather sticking out of his back, and had suffered everything but death, and been as meek and mild as any Christian could be. And yet _now_!" she continued, "he is raging around like a mad bull; he is smashing my china vases, and flinging his broth out of the window, and swearing at the new teeth till he hasn't another word left--forbye, he vows he will have the first and the last of them pulled out, as sure and quick as they come. O ladies, it is dreadful! Dreadful!" And then she looked at us with such a comical, lugubrious expression, that further restraint was out of the question. For Mrs. R---- was between laughing and crying, and I am afraid we all laughed a little with her. But the incident, though so unusual, was, however, a fact, though how it came to pa.s.s, let the doctors tell. We could do nothing but sympathize and offer to make all sorts of nice, soft, mushy dishes for the Major's sore gums. When Robert came home I did not try to keep the Major's condition from him, and I felt sure he was contemplating the effect the news would make in his office the next morning; for undoubtedly men love gossip, though they usually call it politics.

I do not know how far this pleasant, homely visiting was imitated by the women living on the outlying ranches and plantations, but I think it likely something of the same kind exists in all tropic countries, where the dwellings of friends are far apart. It was, however, only a superficial quality of the real Texan woman, who was, when I knew her, more than half a century ago, brave and resourceful, especially when her environment was anxious and dangerous. They were then nearly without exception fine riders and crack shots, and quite able, when the men of the household were away, to manage their ranches or plantations, and keep such faithful guard over their families and household, that I never once in ten years, heard of any Indian, or other tragedy occurring.

I have dwelt a little on the character of the Texan woman, because she was in superficial matters and in all her environments a new creation to me. No one knows better than I do, that woman, in all essential characteristics, is the same yesterday, today, and forever, yet the readiness with which she lends herself to the variations of race, climate, caste, creed, nationality, and conditions of every kind, is the greatest charm of her feminality. Thus, in detailing the scene with Mrs. R----, I was instinctively led to picture a group of Scotchwomen, sitting socially together and listening to a similar story. I could see them, not in comfortable lounging gowns, but corseted, collared, cuffed, and belted to the last point of endurance and sewing, of course, for a Ladies' Aid, or Dorcas Society. If, into the midst of such a group was flung the news of a man near ninety years old cutting a new set of teeth, I know it would be received with looks of frigid disapproval. If a.s.sured that it was not an unseemly joke, but an undoubted fact, they would still disapprove such a departure from the decorum of old age.

Perhaps some one might suggest there was a mistake, "it being a circ.u.mstance clean beyond the bounds of probability"; then, if told the medical man had seen the new teeth, the question would be, what medical man? And, if he was not one attending their family, his skill would be as certainly doubted, as would be the orthodoxy of any minister, they did not "sit under." If, finally, the incident got a tardy, grudging admission, some one would "suppose the fact--if it was a fact--ought to be reported to the Royal Society of Surgeons and Physicians in London"; and some one else would be certain to answer, "The Royal Society is already well acquainted with the like of such cases. It has published accounts of them more often than you think. My mother has read the same--whiles."

This a.s.sertion, not being deniable, would elicit the reflection that there was then nothing beyond the ordinary in the circ.u.mstance, except that such a thing should happen to the Major, "who had always been the most proper of men, a member of St. Jude's Kirk, and of the very best society"; and this reflection would probably end the matter. There would be no sympathetic words, and no offers of nice, soft, mushy things to eat for a man nearly ninety, who could so flagrantly violate the ordinary Scotch traditions with regard to teething. How women of other nationalities would receive such a piece of news, I leave my readers to decide. One thing is certain, no two groups of different race and environments, creed or education, would take even such a simple household matter in quite the same spirit and manner. Let men be thankful for the variableness of women. It provides them continually with something to admire, or to wonder over.

Among such scenes and people as I have been describing I spent nearly ten years; and the first three or four of these ten were, in some respects, the happiest years of my life. Their very memory is a blessing unto this day, for often, when I am heart and brain weary, it steals upon me, swift and sweet and sure as a vision. I smell the China trees and the pine. I hear the fluting of the wind, and the tinkling of guitars. I see the white-robed girls waltzing in the moonshine down the broad sidewalks of the avenue, and the men, some in full evening dress, and others in all kinds of picturesque frontier fashion, strolling leisurely down its royally wide highway. I am sitting in the little wood house, with its whitewashed ceilings and unpainted stairway and one sits at my side, who left me forty-five years ago. Oh, believe me! He who raised the shade of Helen, had no greater gift than mine!

About the middle of October Robert finished the work intrusted to him by the Ways and Means Committee of the Session of 1856, and finished it so well, and so completely, that Senator J. W. Throckmorton, Chairman of the Senate Committee, and the Honorable C. W. Buckley, Chairman of the House Committee, entered in their report to the House, the following acknowledgment:

The balance sheet will show the exact pecuniary condition of the affairs of the Board in every point, and it is unnecessary to say more upon the subject, than to invite an inspection of it. The Committee were extremely fortunate in procuring the services of a gentleman to act as their Secretary, so well qualified to perform the duties, and so thoroughly versed in book-keeping as Mr. Barr.

His qualifications have lightened their labors, and an inspection of the exhibit prepared by him, is only necessary to prove how fortunate we have been in procuring his services.

I was exceedingly proud of this notice, and it was very fortunate for Robert, for Mr. Shaw, the comptroller, immediately offered him the second desk in his office, so that he had his friend, George Durham, for his confrere. I had not even an hour's time to be anxious, for Robert went at once from the committee room to the comptroller's office, and in all probability the future was settled for many years.

That was what I thought, and I put out of my memory all the sorrowful past, and counted the present as its compensation.

CHAPTER XIV

THE BEGINNING OF STRIFE

"Pride in their port, Defiance in their eye, I see the lords of humankind pa.s.s by."

I had written home many times since we left Memphis, and had fully described all that we had seen and heard, as well as all that had happened to us, and I had received several letters in reply to mine.

But all had made me a little anxious about my mother's health, and I knew that she was fretting about our being so far from England. "Death cannot so completely separate us, Milly," she wrote; "indeed, when I am dead, I shall often be close to you." She was right. Time and distance are two sharp swords. Distance cuts apart, and time teaches forgetfulness.

Now trouble of all kinds is voluble, and has plenty of words, but happiness was never written down. Happiness is like religion; it is a mystery, and should not be explained or reasoned about. I find it difficult to put into words the pictures of the life full of all things good, which G.o.d gave me for the next four years, and I am glad that it had the little shadows necessary for its full flavor and strength. For it is a poor, weak happiness that is devoid of small worries and disagreeables; these things being the tonic bitters without which we should weary even of our pleasures.

So I had differences of opinion with my hired slaves. I did not understand the negro woman then, any better than I understand the Finnish or Irish woman now. I thought right was always right, and that all women, of whatever race, ought to do right; and Robert's advice about "making allowances" was not agreeable. Robert himself did not always deserve, or, at least obtain, my approval; and my friends did and said things I thought they ought not to do and say. The children would play down at the creek, soil and tear their dresses, and then be sure to show themselves when they were not fit to be seen. Sometimes the dinner was a failure, sometimes the weather was all wrong for my purposes, sometimes I did not get the letter I was expecting.

For my twenty-sixth birthday Robert had bought me a piano, and it did not arrive in Austin until two weeks after it was due. I had not touched a piano for more than a year, and my fingers ached for the ivory keys. Those two weeks were hard to bear. I forgot all my other blessings. I knew that if hope brightened life, patience strengthened it, but I did not want to exercise patience at this time, and I worried all the pleasure out of the gift before I received it. I was sorry enough afterwards, but I could not undo the wrong. I had spoiled the gift by those self-inflicted wounds, which are always lost griefs.

The piano has gone, I know not where, but the memory of my fretful unreasonableness is still with me, and can still cause me moments of keen sorrow and chagrin.

On July the second, A.D. 1857, I had a son, and all other joys were forgotten in the delight of this event. Early in the morning I had sent Mary and Lilly to the hotel to spend the day with Jenny Smith, and neither Robert nor I remembered them, till the negro woman, at eight o'clock at night, reminded us of their absence. Then I laughed and looked at the boy lying at my side, and Robert laughed and said that he had "forgotten"; my thoughts flew back to the birth of my eldest brother at Shipley, and to my jealousy of the attentions he received. It was my mother then. Now it was I. I looked again at the boy, but I resolved to be particularly affectionate to the two girls when they reached home, which they did about nine o'clock, weary and sleepy, and wondering why they had been neglected so long. Nor were they any more impressed with their first brother, than my sister Jane and I had been with ours. Mary asked what he was called; and when I answered, "His name is to be Calvin," she said, "Oh!" and Lilly said, "What a queer name!" Then I asked if they did not remember Calvin Fackler, their father's friend in Memphis, and they went sleepily to their bed, without any further notice of their new brother.

Soon after this event I received my first copy of _Harper's Weekly_.

It had no ill.u.s.trations then, but I have never forgotten a story I read in its pages, called "The White Cat." A few numbers later the ill.u.s.trations began--the clever but terrible ones relating to the Sepoy rebellion. These ill.u.s.trations were reproduced from a prominent London paper, and I had no intimation then of a coming day when the arrival of the regular pictures from London papers at Harper Brothers, would mean to me a respectable part of my income. These first pictured scenes of the mutiny had, however, to Robert and myself a powerful personal interest. Often we recalled the dream which had prevented us from going to Calcutta, and sent us westward to New York instead. For, when we cannot be guided by the ordinary course of events, the bars of the body are unlocked at dark, sleep falleth on the sensitive soul, and it is warned, or taught by dreams, which are the walking of G.o.d through sleep.

After Calvin's birth I began to be very uneasy about my mother's health. She no longer spoke of our meeting again; she wrote shorter and shorter letters, and her clear, fine writing was shaken and changed. It had always had one marked peculiarity--a frequent disconnection of letters that should have been united--a signal and exclusive sign, occultists say, of a spiritual nature ever ready to detach itself from the material, and endowed with high psychic powers.

This diagnosis would be very true in my mother's case: she lived in the visible, but was always ready for the invisible. Such tendencies, however, were in her day unrecognized, and those who possessed them were shy of admitting the fact. The church universally considered all phenomena it did not promulgate as a new kind of sin. Even John Wesley's psychic intelligence was regarded as a lapse of his usual wisdom, and his book embodying it carefully consigned to oblivion. So Mother told me visions and warnings she never named to Father and rarely to my sister Jane, who was not mystical in any form. If a vision or dream was in the Bible, Father and Jane believed it firmly, if it was not in the Bible, they had serious doubts. And I have always felt that this want of spiritual confidence between my father and mother was a great wrong to their love. It wounded it in its n.o.blest attributes; it denied it expansion in its purest aspirations; it ignored too often the spiritual bond between them, which, if given its due regard, is far, far stronger than any tie mere flesh and blood can form. But we cannot cross a stile till we come to it, and the world is even now only just beginning to seek after that sixth sense, lost in the abyss of some great moral fall.

At this time Mother was not fifty-two years old, and an Englishwoman of that age should be in the plent.i.tude of her beauty and vigor. But she had worn life away in an unbroken service of love, for which she was physically most unfit; for, in those days there were no trained nurses, no anodyne to ease severe pain, except laudanum; no alleviations, either for the sick, or for those whose affection bound them to help and comfort the sick. She was not fifty-two and dying, and she knew it. But many afflictions and one Love had made strong her faith, and she said in her last letter to me, "I am no longer anxious about your dear father. The everlasting arms are his support and refuge. My watch is nearly over, your little sisters must take my place. They know _who_ will help them. We shall meet again, Milly, but not in this world, darling, not in this world."

With the Holy Name on her lips, she went away simply and solemnly, as if fulfilling some religious rite. I received the news of her departure one day when the house was full of company. I put the letter in my breast and said no word about it, for it was only to G.o.d I could speak of this sorrow; the common words of sympathy the news would have evoked, could not have comforted me. Even when Robert's tears mingled with mine, for he loved her dearly, I was not consoled. For a long time, daily life felt thin and haggard. I had no mother to write to, and my heart was troubled because I knew that I might have written to her oftener. I might have given her hopes that would have made death easier. Oh, why had I not done these things? For it is not the flowers on the coffin, but the flowers we strew on the daily life of our dear ones that show the true affection. And it was too late! O daughters of good mothers, give while G.o.d permits you, the kind words, the smiles of understanding affection, the little attentions and gifts, that will brighten your mother's last days. I do not know why I should have written "daughters of _good_ mothers." G.o.d makes no exceptions in his positive command to "Honor thy Father and thy Mother."

I might have done more! that was the bitter refrain that for a long time made all my memories of the sweetest, tenderest mother sorrowful.

But she has forgiven me long ago, and the vast breadth and depth of the river of death is now constantly bridged by our thoughts of each other. We walk far apart, but when I think of her, I know that she is thinking of me, and I wave my hand in greeting to her. Does she see the lifted hand? I believe she does. Why do I believe it? Because the soul is a diviner, and the things it knows best are the things it was never told. Whatever it divines, is revealed truth. Whatever it is told, may either be doubted or received.

For nearly a year after the birth of Calvin, there was not much change in the domestic life of Austin. The days slipped into weeks and months, and were, as the waves of the ocean, all alike, and yet all different. But early in 1859 changes so great were present, that it was impossible any longer to ignore them. There were bitter disputes wherever men were congregated, and domestic quarrels on every hearthstone, while feminine friendships melted away in the heat of pa.s.sionate arguments so well seasoned with personalities. There were now three distinct parties: one for remaining in the Union; a second which demanded a Southern Confederacy, and a third which wished Texas to resume her independence and to fly the _Lone Star_ flag again. It was a quarrel with three sides, and the women universally entered into it, with so much temper, that I could not help thinking they had all exercised too much long suffering in the past, and were now glad of a lawful opportunity to be a little ill-natured.

It may be strange, but it is the truth, that I seldom heard slavery named as a reason for secession. The average Texan had but a slight security for his slaves. The journey to the Rio Grande was not long or difficult for a man bent on freedom, who was sure to be succored and helped by every party of Indians or Mexicans he met. Arriving at the river, he had only to walk across some one of its shallow fords, and touch land on the other side a free man. The number of slaves who freed themselves by this way was considerable every year, and I heard many slave owners say that they would be well satisfied to give their slaves freedom on such terms as the English slave owners obtained.

What really excited them was the question of state rights. They were furious with the United States Government's interference in their state's social and domestic arrangements. They would not admit its right to do so, and were mad as their own prairie bulls, when compulsion was named. I heard arguments like these, both from men and women constantly; they talked of nothing else, and the last social gathering at my house was like a political arena.

So I was not sorry when on April the sixteenth, my daughter Alice was born, and I could retire for a few weeks into comparative solitude, and peace. Robert brought me the news from the Capitol every day, and it was as uncertain and changeable as the wind. One day war was inevitable, and Houston was coming from Washington to lead the Unionist party; and perhaps the next day it was the pen, and not the sword, that would settle the matter. I began to grow indifferent. "The quarrel is all bl.u.s.ter," I said to Robert, "and their talk of war will fizzle out, some way or other, into a question of dollars and cents."

And I was vexed because Robert shook his head at my opinion, and replied, "Well, Milly, I heard George Durham say something like that this morning, and an old Texan in the crowd told him he was all wrong.

'We are against seceding just now,' he said, 'but we shall be drug into it, and then we'll be so all-fired mad, we'll fight like a lobos wolf, who, the longer he fights, the better he fights.'"

"You always look at the dark side, Robert," I complained; and he sighed and answered wearily, "It is generally the right side, Milly."

One night, after a long, anxious day, I was conscious of that peculiar disturbance of heart and body, which warns of latent enmity or coming danger. My flagging soul felt

"As if it were a body in a body, And not a mounting essence of fire."

and though Robert was near me, I thought myself the most forlorn of women. All the sorrow of the world seemed to surround me, unseen, yet full of motion, and the terror of the dark grew, and my soul trembled in all her senses. Then I fell asleep--the dreary sleep of an unhappy, fearful woman. I was on a vast plain, dark and lonely, with the black clouds low over it, and the rain falling in a heavy, sullen downpour; and, as I stood with clasped hands, but without the power to pray, a great white arch grew out of the darkness. It seemed high as heaven, and wide as the horizon, and I wondered at its beauty and majesty.