The Story of a Summer Part 9

Consequently the bust was the most perfect likeness that had ever been made of brother, and as his face was then delicate and his features so cla.s.sic in their cut, it was, I thought, the most beautiful piece of sculpture that I had ever seen. It was quite a revelation to dear brother, 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 intimate friends, but as none of them were ever put into marble, they have all, I believe, with the exception of this one, been destroyed. Mamma's copy was overthrown by Marguerite's little hands when a child; another belonging to one of our cousins was broken by her little son; and although Ca.s.sius Clay's copy was buried, Mr. Hart told me, during the war to save it from the hands of the soldiers, he had no reason to suppose that it finally had escaped the fate of the others. Aunt Mary, however, in her anxiety to preserve her copy, at once enveloped it in linen, and packed it in a box. Consequently it is now as perfect as the day it left the studio; but mamma had never seen it from that time until this spring, when Ida exhumed it from the store-room.

Mr. Hart and uncle were always warm friends, although Mr. Hart left for Europe 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 ("Glances at Europe," page 217):

"I saw something of three younger sculptors now studying and working at Florence--Hart of Kentucky, Galt of Virginia, and Rogers of New York.

I believe all are preparing to do credit to their country. Hart has been hindered by a loss of the models at sea from proceeding with the statue of Henry Clay, which he is commissioned by the ladies of Virginia to fashion and construct; but he is wisely devoting much of his time to careful study, and to the modelling of the ideal, before proceeding to commit himself irrevocably by the great work which must fix his position among sculptors, and make or mar his destiny. I have great confidence that what he has already carefully and excellently done 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 and Gabrielle--Heroism of Mrs. Greeley--The Riots of 1863--Mrs. Greeley defends 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 was aroused at an unearthly hour by the discharge of a cannon, whose reverberation was something appalling, and made me doubt if I was not shot. The hotel was graced with the presence of some thirty or forty children, whose fond parents had invested largely in fire-crackers and toy cannon for them, and no place upon the grounds, it seemed, was so favorable for the ebullition of youthful patriotism as the spot directly under my window. Consequently, as I was already weak from the effect of a prolonged attack of nervous fever, I was before nightfall in a state akin to distraction, and filled with anything but patriotic sentiments. I could not then but think with regret of a previous Fourth spent upon the steamship _St. Laurent_, where fire-crackers were tabooed, and the celebration consisted entirely of a magnificent dinner, and speeches--during the latter I made my escape to the deck.

This year was pleasanter still. I do not know if the Chappaqua people are less patriotic than other citizens of the Union, but our nerves were only disturbed by the occasional popping of a fire-cracker in the garden of our neighbor, the train-master over the way; and when we strayed off to the Glen after dinner, we were as free from disturbing noise as though our country had not been born ninety-seven years ago.

But although noisy demonstrations do not seem the fashion here (perhaps owing to the predominance of Quakers in the neighborhood), the dormant enthusiasm of the people for the Fourth was aroused at sundown, when a ma.s.s meeting was held at the tavern, or "Chappaqua Hotel" as it is grandly styled, and lengthy and energetic speeches were delivered.

From our piazza we could hear the orators' voices ascending to a very high key as they warmed with their topic, and quite congratulated ourselves 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 the house in the woods--to me the stillest, sweetest spot in the world. I have described this dear old house and its romantic surroundings again and again since I have been here this summer. I can scarcely turn over half a dozen leaves of my journal without finding some allusion to it; but it is a subject possessing such fascination for me that I must again revert to it. I like to pa.s.s a quiet hour upon the steps of the piazza, or upon the large moss-grown boulder in front of the house where Ida, Raphael, and Gabrielle have all played; and while my fingers are busily employed with some fanciful design wrought with gold thread or emerald-green silk,

"My thoughts wander on at their own sweet will,";

oftenest returning, however, to Aunt Mary's life here in the woods with her little children. A lonely, comfortless life many women would have deemed it, so entirely shut in as she was from the outer world; and to any one less self-reliant and self-sustained than Aunt Mary it would have been so. For that there were discomforts in her country life I do not doubt, although they were much lessened by uncle's easy circ.u.mstances; and the house itself was finished off with all the city improvements and conveniences practicable to introduce into a building of its size and situation. Still, the house was distant from good markets, and the trees encircled it so closely that the sun's rays did not penetrate the rooms until ten o'clock; but Aunt Mary loved her trees as though they were human, and at that time would not allow one to be cut down, notwithstanding the dampness that they created. An idle woman would have regretted the distance at which the house stood from the public road, as no distraction ensued from looking out of the windows; and a timid or nervous one would have dreaded the long nights in that solitary house when uncle was in the city or absent upon lecturing tours, and no neighbor was within calling distance in case of danger.

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

Raphael, mamma says, was a beautiful boy, although not perhaps so noticeable 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 much admired brother, and his temperament was gentle and loving. Ida cherishes very tender memories of him, for he was the only brother whom she knew, and her constant playfellow before Gabrielle's birth. There were seven years difference in the ages of the brothers. Pickie died at five, of cholera; and Raffie at seven years old, of croup.

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

Gabrielle's stories are different. She loved to ride the unbroken colts, and tend her menagerie in the play-house. She has, too, much to tell about the way her mother used to train her to be as fearless in case of fire or thieves as she was when seated upon a bare-backed horse, and often she has made me smile, though fully recognizing the wisdom of Aunt Mary's lessons, when telling me how she was obliged to rehea.r.s.e imaginary escapes from fire or midnight attacks.

Besides a devoted love for her children, a pa.s.sion for the beautiful in Nature, and fondness for solitude and books, or the companionship of some one person of congenial tastes and highly cultured mind, Aunt Mary possessed a fund of moral strength and heroism that one might indeed read in the flash of her black eyes, but which a casual observer would think incompatible with her frail figure. It was, however, many times severely tested during uncle's absence when she had no male protector to whom to look for a.s.sistance: but then she proved all-sufficient in herself. At one time a number of workmen were employed upon the place--rough, sullen creatures--who used to come to her to receive their pay; and knowing her, a delicate, sickly woman, to be there alone, they would often clamor for more wages than they were ent.i.tled to receive, but never could they frighten her into granting it, for though generous and charitable, nothing was more repugnant to her feelings than an attempt to take an unfair advantage of her.

Upon one occasion, a man with whom she had had some business transactions came to claim a payment that was not due him. Aunt Mary explained to him that he was not ent.i.tled to it, and refused to see him again. He returned another day, and she would not allow the door to be opened. He then remained outside pulling the bell and thumping for admittance. Aunt Mary spoke to him from the balcony above, and requested him to leave. He vowed he would not stir without his money, and tried to coerce her by the most frightful threats and oaths. "When his imprecations were at their highest, Aunt Mary descended, and throwing 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 returned again to annoy her. In relating this incident to me, Gabrielle said:

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

But this exhibition of cool courage paled in contrast with the true heroism of Aunt Mary displayed at the time of the terrible anti-draft riots in July, 1863. Living in the retirement of the woods, she was not in the habit of going down to the village or a.s.sociating with the neighbors; 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 the mails, she went about her ordinary occupations, perfectly unconscious of the peril she was in. Finally, Mr. Quinby, a Quaker neighbor, came to the house by a long circuit, and informed her that a mob of about three hundred men, who had collected from Sing Sing and other parts of the country, were drinking at the tavern, and threatening to sack "Greeley's house," and hang the family to the nearest trees. It was at the risk of his life that Mr. Quinby had come to warn Aunt Mary, and he implored her to escape as quickly as possible, and offered to conceal her and the children in his house.

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

First of all, the valuables were to be moved, but without exciting the suspicions of the servant or workmen, as they might inform the rioters.

The men were accordingly sent off to a distant part of the farm to work, and the maid kept busy, while twelve trunks were lowered into a wagon standing at the back of the house. Mr. Quinby immediately covered them with hay, and drove to his own house, where he stored them until the trouble should be over, and then sent his son back to help the family.

To Gabrielle's surprise, her mother and Ida now appeared in very voluminous and housewifely looking ap.r.o.ns, and were constantly going up and down stairs. At last an untimely draught blew Aunt Mary's ap.r.o.n aside, and Gabrielle, who had not been informed of the danger, caught a glimpse of the picture of the Archangel Gabriel. All of the pictures and pieces of sculpture were then removed to a little hut in the orchard near the stables, built in the side of a hillock, half under ground, and quite overgrown by vines; and when both pictures and the precious books were safely out of the house Aunt Mary felt that she could breathe. By that time Clark had returned from Sing Sing, where he 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 the preparations were then completed. When the rioters should come Aunt Mary 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 out of the house by the back window, which was but a step to the top of a low woodshed, from which they could easily get to the ground. Then, while the rioters were storming the barricaded doors, Aunt Mary was to make her escape, and when she and the children were at a safe distance a match was to be applied to the gunpowder, blowing up alike house and rioters.

Mr. Quinby, being a Quaker, had looked on reluctantly while the mine was being laid, and when he had done all he could to help Aunt Mary, he returned to the tavern to see the state of affairs there. He found the mob still drinking, and uttering horrible threats against the family.

His conscience then obliged him to give the wretches a hint of the doom that awaited them, ending with these words:

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

After dark, the rioters came to the gates and howled, and uttered threats, but dared not approach very close to the fortress armed by a sick woman and two children; and when weary of exercising their lungs went peacefully away. Meantime, Aunt Mary, being fatigued by the exertions of the day, laid down, Ida said, when everything was in readiness to meet the rioters, and slept peacefully till morning.

CHAPTER XII.

Pen Portraits--Lela--Majoli--Guerrabella and Celina--Their Characteristics.

_July 8_.

While looking over a box of old letters and newspapers this morning I came across a little sketch descriptive of our quartette, written last winter for a New York journal. This sketch, or "Pen Portraits," as it was styled, veils our ident.i.ty under fict.i.tious names, the initials only being preserved, and although it pa.s.ses over our imperfections and very much exaggerates our accomplishments, still it contains, I think, so much that is characteristic that I will preserve it by copying it into my journal. The writer commenced with a description of mamma's room in Cottage Place, and dwelt particularly upon a picture of uncle hanging over the mantelpiece, but that portion of the sketch has been torn off and lost.

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

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

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

"Lela's head is large, though not unfeminine, and the magnificent wealth of tawny-colored hair reminds one of Guercino's Holy Magdalen.

She has pretty, modest ways of looking down under those pale, drooping lids 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 nose is straight and slender, and suggests the chisel of Phidias, and from the expansive brow we infer a broad culture and comprehensive understanding. It is the seat of Philosophy, as well as the throne of the Muses.

"Majoli's head is smaller than Lela's, but its pose is aristocratic and graceful. The blonde hair is artistically coiffed, and though the features are not strikingly regular, there is sympathy and great sweetness in the face, and art and refinement are expressed even by the slim, pale hands. An airy, lithesome figure she has, and the beat of her footfall is cadenced to the measure of joyous music. Frail she seems compared with Lela's well-rounded figure, but if she has not equal strength, she has elasticity; and if more energy and power is indicated by the physiognomy of Lela, Majoli has ambition and judgment to 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 a court lady with the simplicity and _navete_ of a church devotee. Half belle, half _religieuse_ we may style her.