The Story of a Summer Part 19

Never before was papa so long in walking up from the station--I suppose for the reason that he came laden with messages, notes, and telegrams.

His "young chief" was detained in the editorial rooms by affairs of great moment; another gentleman had been summoned to the bedside of his father, who was in a dying condition; two other gentlemen had plunged rashly into the preliminary steps to matrimony, and were, I suppose, engaged in serenading their _fiancees_, while the other two had apparently been made way with, for from them we had no message of any sort.

The crowning injury was the receipt of a book from a friend who is in the habit of supplying me with the latest novels. Usually I am pleased with the books she sends me, but a glance at the t.i.tle, "'He Cometh Not,' 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 appet.i.tes to the elaborate dinner that Lina had prepared, and went gloomily to bed at an early hour.

CHAPTER XXI.

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

_August 31_.

"Mammi," said I, waking from a deep reverie as I sat beside our bright wood-fire (for we have had two days of dashing rain, and fires have not been at all disagreeable), "did grandpapa ever return to New Hampshire after he left it in 1821?"

"No, my dear," was the reply; "he never returned, nor did he manifest any desire to see his former home and his old friends again. I suppose that all of his pleasant recollections of New Hampshire were superseded by the thought that it was the scene of his bankruptcy, and his proud spirit shrunk from meeting those who might remember that he had left Amherst a fugitive. He was deeply attached to his forest home, and I do 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 the forest' become an extensive farm, and the vast wilderness that had surrounded him disappear, while the little tavern and cl.u.s.ter of log-houses across the State line from us grew to be the village of Clymer.

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

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

"Brother Horace accompanied us from New York to New Hampshire, where we spent several weeks visiting mother's old friends and relatives. The meeting between mother and her sister, Aunt Margaret d.i.c.key, was especially tender, for they had been separated many years, and did not expect to meet again.

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

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

"From New Hampshire we went to Fitchburg, Ma.s.sachusetts, where mother's half-sister, Sally, resided. Aunt Sally was doubly my aunt, having married father's brother, Dustin Greeley. She was a slender, handsome woman, with blue eyes and light hair, and possessed mother's happy temperament, which all the trials of her hard life had not been able to change.

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

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

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

"When we returned to New York, we stopped for a short visit at Turtle Bay. Pickie was then eight months old, and as sweet and poetic-looking as one of Correggio's cherubs. Your mamma was then in the first flush of her maternal enthusiasm. She and your papa were desirous that mother should remain in New York and spend the winter with them; but fondly as she loved your papa, and dear as her daughter-in-law and her little grandson were to her, she felt that her duty and her strongest love recalled her to her husband and her home in the woods. She returned to Pennsylvania, and took up again her life of daily care, but she brought back little joy with her, although no word of discontent escaped her. Her favorite seat was by the window looking east, and there 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 was looking, she would say with a startled expression, 'Oh, no one;' but we always fancied that she was thinking of her early home that she had now left forever.

"A year or two later, slowly, silently, and peacefully she pa.s.sed away."

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

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

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

"Your Aunt Mary," mamma replied, "looked upon Pickie's birth as much in the 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 for the better development of Pickie's individuality, or, to use the language of the reformers of those days, in 'ill.u.s.trating the independence of the child's self-hood.' Nothing could have been more boundless than her enthusiasm for her baby; and it was night and day her study to guard his health, and to watch and cherish his opening intellect. No child prince could have been more tenderly and daintily nurtured than he was; as his father often said, 'Pickie is a dear boy in every sense of the word;' for nothing was too rare or too costly for him.

"You have heard of the brilliancy of his complexion: this was owing in part to his mother's watchful care of his diet, and to his bathing. An hour was allowed for his daily bath, and for brushing out his luxuriant, silken hair. This was one of my duties, and no doubt it was that 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 oatmeal cake--while candies, or indeed sugar in any form, b.u.t.ter, and salt were rigidly excluded from his diet; but white grapes, and every choice fruit that this or foreign markets afforded, he was allowed to eat in abundance, and the result of this system was a st.u.r.dy const.i.tution, and a complexion unparalleled for beauty.

"I said that he never ate b.u.t.ter; but cream and milk were given him instead."

"What sort of toys did he have, mamma?" I inquired. "I can never imagine him playing with dolls like an ordinary child."

"He never did," replied mamma; "his toys, like his meals, were peculiar. One of the largest rooms in the house was chosen for his nursery, and as his mother would not have a carpet upon the floor, it was scrubbed daily. Here his playthings were kept--a singular a.s.sortment one would think them, but your aunt seldom gave him what would simply amuse him for the moment, but sought rather to surround him by objects that would suggest ideas to his mind--on a plan somewhat like that of the _Kindergarten_ system, but more poetic, and entirely original 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 children even of our best families, for he never had children for playfellows, and those friends whom his mother permitted to be near him were of the most cultivated and n.o.ble character. His language consequently was as choice as that of the minds who surrounded him, and very quaint it sounded from a child's lips. At this time Margaret Fuller was with us, and Pickie lived in most intimate relations to this pure, high-minded woman.

"In her care to prevent Pickie from knowing of the existence of wickedness and cruelty in this world, your Aunt Mary would rarely permit him to converse long with any save the chosen few that I have mentioned, lest the innocence of his child-mind should be shocked by hearing of war, or murder, or cruelty to animals, while she was ever guarding him lest his eyes might rest upon some painful or disagreeable object."

"Don't you think, mamma," said Marguerite, "that that letter of Margaret Fuller's upon Pickie's death shows remarkable feeling for a child 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 has never 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 those words--_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 on me, also, always looked with love and trust. But I always thought of small-pox. Now how strangely s.n.a.t.c.hed from you, oh poor mother; how vain all your feverish care night and day to ward off the least possible ill from that fair frame. Oh, how pathetic it seems to think of all that was done for dear, dear Pickie to build up strong that temple from which the soul departed so easily.

"You say I left him too soon to know him well, but it was not so. I had spiritual sight of the child, and knew his capacities. I hoped to be of use to him if he lived, for sweet was our communion beside the murmuring river, and when he imitated the low voices of the little brook, or telling him stories in my room, which even then he well understood. A thousand times I have thought of the time when he first said the word _Open_ to get into my room, and my heart always was open to him. He was my consolation in hours sadder than you ever guessed--my spring-flower, my cheerful lark. None but his parents could love him so well; no child, except little Waldo Emerson, had I ever so loved. In both I saw the promise of a great future: its realization is deferred to some other sphere; ere long may we follow and aid it there.

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

"My mother wrote me he said sometimes he would get a boat and carry yellow flowers to his Aunty Margaret. I suppose he had not yet quite forgotten that I used to get such for him. I often thought what I should carry him from Europe--what I should tell him--what teach? He had 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. The conditions 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. Let us, 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 sweet Pickie was when I was with him most; and I have thought much of the one in the dawning graces of the other. But I accept the lesson, and will strive to prepare myself to resign him. Indeed, I had the warning before; for, during the siege of Rome, when I could not see him, my mind, agonized by the danger of his father, as well as all the overpowering and infamous injuries heaped upon the n.o.ble, sought refuge in the thought of him safe, in his green nook, and, as I thought, in care of worthy persons. When at last we left, our dearest friends laid low, our fortunes finally ruined, and every hope for which we struggled, blighted, I hoped to find comfort in his smiles. I found him wasted to a skeleton; and it is only by a month of daily and hourly most anxious care (in which I was often a.s.sisted by memories of what Mrs. Greeley did for Pickie) that I have been able to restore him. But I hold him by a frail tenure; he has the tendency to cough by which I was brought so low.

"Adieu. You say, pray for you; oh, let us all pray together. I hope we shall yet find dear Pickie where he is; that earthly blemishes will be washed out, and he be able to love us all. Till then, G.o.d help and guide us, dear friend. Amen.

"M. F. O.

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