THE SCHUYLER MANSION, ALBANY, NEW YORK
THE RALLYING PLACE OF THE CONSTITUTIONALISTS
When Catherine Van Rensselaer married Philip Schuyler, on September 17, 1755, he was a soldier who had been engaged in the campaign against the French at Crown Point. She was glad when he resigned, in 1756, but he returned to army life in 1758 and at intervals for more than twenty years he continued his military service. Two days after the Battle of Bunker Hill Congress made him a major-general. During his three years in the army of the Colonies, he was the subject of continual abuse on the part of those who felt that he had conducted carelessly his expedition to Canada and the campaign against Burgoyne. He was able to stand up against the public clamor because Washington had confidence in him and because he was twice given a clean bill of health by a court of inquiry.
During this season of misunderstanding he was sustained by his wife, who was a remarkable assistant both in his home and in public affairs. During the years when he was frequently incapacitated by gout she carried on much of his work for him, and so enabled him to maintain his place in the councils of the nation.
It was in 1760 that Mrs. Schuyler first showed her great executive ability. While her husband was absent in England, where he had been sent by General Bradstreet, she superintended the erection of a new house, a spacious mansion of yellow brick that is to-day as staunch as when it was built.
From the beginning the Schuyler mansion, the home of the first citizen of Albany, was noted because of the boundless hospitality of its mistress. All were welcomed who sought its doors. One notable company was made up of nine Catawba warriors from South Carolina, who were on their way to ratify a covenant with the Six Nations at the close of the Cherokee War. They were met at the wharf by Major Schuyler and taken directly to the house.
Among the visitors to Albany in 1776 were three Commissioners appointed by Congress to visit the Army of the North, one of whom, Benjamin Franklin, was so wearied by the journey from Philadelphia that he was sincerely grateful for Mrs. Schuyler's care. One of the Commissioners said later of General Schuyler, "He lives in pretty style, and has two daughters, Betsey and Peggy, lively, agreeable gals." He was delighted to learn that the motto of Philip Schuyler and his household was, "As for me and my house, we will serve our country."
Another of the fortunate men who were privileged to be in the house for a season was Tench Tilghman, an aide-de-camp of General Washington. He wrote in his journal of "Miss Ann Schuyler, a very Pretty Young Lady. A brunette with dark eyes, and a countenance animated and sparkling, as I am told she is." Later he met "Miss Betsey, the General's 2nd Daughter." "I was prepossessed in favor of the Young Lady the moment I saw her," he said. "A Brunette with the most good natured dark lovely eyes I ever saw, which threw a beam of good temper and Benevolence over her entire countenance. Mr. Livingstone informed me that I was not mistaken in my Conjecture for she was the finest tempered Girl in the World."
Tench Tilghman was to renew the acquaintance in 1779, when Betsey and her parents spent a few months in Morristown, New Jersey. Alexander Hamilton also was there, and he secured Betsey's promise to be his bride.
The marriage took place at the Albany homestead on December 14, 1780. A few months later the young husband, having resigned from the army, was studying law in Albany and was a welcome addition to the Schuyler household.
Two years after the wedding came one of the incidents that has made the mansion famous. Because of the General's influence with the Indian allies of the British, a number of attempts were made to capture him; the British wished to put him where he could not interfere with their plans. One summer day, when Mrs. Carter, Mrs. Hamilton's sister Margaret, was in the house with her baby Philip, a party of Tories, Canadians, and Indians surrounded the house and forced an entrance. Mary Gay Humphreys, in "Catherine Schuyler," tells what followed:
"The house was guarded by six men. Their guns were in the hall, the guards being outside and the relief asleep. Lest the small Philip be tempted to play with the guns his mother had them removed. The alarm was given by a servant. The guards rushed for their guns, but they were gone. The family fled upstairs, but Margaret, remembering the baby in the cradle below, ran back, seized the baby, and when she was halfway up the flight, an Indian flung his tomahawk at her head, which, missing her, buried itself in the wood, and left its historic mark to the present time."
After the attack on the mansion Washington wrote to General Schuyler, begging him to strengthen his guard. The following year the Commander-in-chief was a guest at the mansion, while in 1784 he spent the night there, after an evening consultation with Schuyler, while Mrs. Washington visited with her friend Mrs. Schuyler.
Lafayette, Count de Rochambeau, Baron Steuben, Charles Carroll of Carrollton, John Jay, and Aaron Burr had a taste of the delights of life at the mansion. The latter was destined to defeat General Schuyler for reëlection to the Senate, as he was to be in turn defeated by the General. The British General Burgoyne and his staff also were entertained in the mansion, after General Schuyler's victory at Saratoga, and this in spite of the fact that much of the General's property had been destroyed by Burgoyne's order.
For many years the house was famous as the meeting place of the friends of the young nation. Frequent conferences were held in the library on the proposed constitution. It is said that many sections of the document were written there by Hamilton, and the steps of the campaign for the ratification of the document were outlined within the historic walls. When, at last, the victory was complete, General Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton walked at the head of the gay procession that hailed the news with joy. The whole town was illuminated, but the most brilliantly lighted building was the old mansion.
During the years that followed General Schuyler's health failed gradually, and he became more than ever dependent on his wife. When she died, in 1803, he did not know what to do without her. To Hamilton he wrote:
"My trial has been severe. I shall attempt to sustain it with fortitude. I hope I have succeeded in a degree, but after giving and receiving for nearly a half a century, a series of mutual evidences of affection and friendship which increased as we advanced in life, the shock was great and sensibly felt, to be thus suddenly deprived of a beloved wife, the Mother of my children, and the soothing companion of my declining years. But I kiss the rod with humility. The Being that inflicted the stroke will enable me to sustain the smart, and progressively restore peace to my wounded heart, and will make you and Eliza and my other children the instruments of my Consolation...."
General Schuyler died in November, 1804, four months after the duel with Burr in which Hamilton was slain.
The mansion in which he spent so many happy years was long an orphan asylum, but in 1911 it was purchased by the State. On October 17, 1917, it was dedicated as a State Monument.
Photo by Halliday Historic Photograph Company
WENTWORTH HOUSE, PORTSMOUTH, N. H.
XC
THE WENTWORTH HOUSE, PORTSMOUTH,
NEW HAMPSHIRE
THE SCENE OF THE ROMANCE OF LADY WENTWORTH
When, in 1750, Governor Benning Wentworth began to rebuild for his mansion at Little Harbor, two miles from the business centre of Portsmouth a farm-house which dated from the latter part of the sixteenth century, he thought more of comfort than of architecture. Evidently those who later added to the house thought as little of architecture as the original builder; the product became such a strange conglomeration of wings and "L's" that it is difficult to see which is the original portion. Once the house contained fifty-two rooms, but a portion has been torn away, and the structure as it stands is not quite so spacious, though still large enough for a hotel. Even the cellar is tremendous, for Governor Wentworth provided there a place for his horses, to be used in time of danger. Thirty animals could be accommodated there.
Many of the rooms are small, but some are of impressive size, notably the Council Chamber, where meetings that helped to make history were held, and the billiard room, where the owner and his associates were accustomed to go when the strain of business became too great.
Longfellow thus describes the house:
"It was a pleasant mansion, an abode
Near and yet hidden from the great high-road,
Sequestered among trees, a noble pile,
Baronial and colonial in its style;
Gables and dormer-windows everywhere,
And stacks of chimneys rising high in air—
Pandæan pipes, on which all winds that blew
Made mournful music the whole winter through.
Within, unwonted splendors met the eye,
Panels, and floors of oak, and tapestry;
Carved chimney-pieces, where on brazen dogs
Revelled and roared the Christmas fire of logs;
Doors opening into darkness unawares,
Mysterious passages, and flights of stairs,
And on the walls, in heavy gilded frames,
The ancestral Wentworths with Old-Scripture names."
While Governor Wentworth was an important figure during the days preceding the Revolution, the mansion is celebrated not so much because of his political service as because of the romance of his second marriage.
Martha Hilton, the heroine of the romance, was "a careless, laughing, bare-footed girl." One day a neighbor saw her, in a short dress, carrying a pail of water in the street. "You, Pat! You, Pat! Why do you go looking so? You should be ashamed to be seen in the street!" was the shocked comment. But the answer was not what the neighbor expected. "No matter how I look, I shall ride in my chariot yet, Marm."
The story of what followed is told by Charles W. Brewster, a historian of old Portsmouth:
"Martha Hilton afterwards left home, and went to live in the Governor's mansion at Little Harbor, doing the work of the kitchen, and keeping the house in order, much to the Governor's satisfaction.... The Governor has invited a dinner party, and with many other guests, in his cocked hat comes the beloved Rev. Arthur Brown, of the Episcopal church. The dinner is served up in a style becoming the Governor's table.... There is a whisper from the Governor to a messenger, and at his summons Martha Hilton comes in from that door on the west of the parlor, and, with blushing countenance, stands in front of the fireplace. She seems heedless of the fire—she does not appear to have brought anything in, nor does she seem to be looking for anything to carry out—there she stands! a damsel of twenty summers—for what, no visitor can tell.
"The Governor, bleached by the frosts of sixty winters, rises. 'Mr. Brown, I wish you to marry me.' 'To whom?' asks his pastor, in wondering surprise. 'To this lady,' was the reply. The rector stood confounded. The Governor became imperative. 'As the Governor of New Hampshire I command you to marry me!' The ceremony was then duly performed, and from that time Martha Hilton became Lady Wentworth."
Longfellow's record of the incident is given in the poem, "Lady Wentworth":
"The years came and ... the years went, seven in all,
And all these years had Martha Hilton served
In the Great House, not wholly unobserved:
By day, by night, the silver crescent grew,
Though hidden by clouds, the light still shining through;
A maid of all work, whether coarse or fine,
A servant who made service seem divine!
Through her each room was fair to look upon;
The mirrors glistened, and the brasses shone,
The very knocker at the outer door,
If she but passed, was brighter than before."
Then came the strange marriage scene:
"Can this be Martha Hilton? It must be!
Yes, Martha Hilton, and no other she!
Dowered with the beauty of her twenty years,
How ladylike, how queenlike she appears;
The pale, thin crescent of the days gone by
Is Dian now in all her majesty!
Yet scarce a guest perceived that she was there
Until the Governor, rising from his chair,
Played slightly with his ruffles, then looked down
And said unto the Reverend Arthur Brown:
'This is my birthday: it shall likewise be
My wedding-day, and you shall marry me!'"
Governor Wentworth died in 1770, three years after the coming to America of Michael Wentworth, a retired colonel in the British Army. Mrs. Wentworth married him, and he became the second lord of the mansion. During his residence there Washington was welcomed to the house, one day in 1789.
Martha Wentworth, the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Michael Wentworth, married Sir John Wentworth, an Englishman, and they lived in the old house until 1816, when the property passed to a family of another name.
Photo by Frank Cousins Art Company
WARNER HOUSE, PORTSMOUTH, N. H.
There are a number of houses in Portsmouth which tell of the ancient glories of different branches of the Wentworth family. Perhaps the most famous is the Warner house, which was begun in 1718 by Captain Archibald Macpheadris, and was finished in 1723, at a cost of £6,000. Mrs. Macpheadris was Sarah Wentworth, one of the sixteen children of Lieutenant Governor John Wentworth, and sister of Governor Benning Wentworth. Their daughter, Mary, married Hon. Jonathan Warner, who was the next occupant of the house. The property is known by his name, rather than that of the builder—perhaps because it is so much easier to pronounce! The house is now occupied by Miss Eva Sherburne, a descendant of the original owner.
The Warner house has a lightning rod, which was put up in 1762, under the personal supervision of Benjamin Franklin. It is said that this was the first lightning rod erected in New Hampshire.
Photo Copyright by Detroit Photographic Company
WADSWORTH-LONGFELLOW HOUSE, PORTLAND, ME.
THE WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW HOUSE,
PORTLAND, MAINE
WHERE HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SPENT
HIS BOYHOOD
The old house by the linden
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the linden,
They played not in the hall;
But shadow and silence, and sadness
Were hanging over all.
The birds sang in the branches,
With sweet familiar tone;
But the voices of the children
Will be heard in dreams alone!
And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why close in mine, ah! closer,
I pressed his little hand!
When Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote these lines perhaps he was thinking of the home of his boyhood in Portland, which his grandfather, General Peleg Wadsworth, built in 1785.
The house was the wonder of the town, for it was the first brick building erected there. The brick had been brought from Virginia. Originally there were but two stories; the third story was added when the future poet was eight years old.
Longfellow was born in the house at the corner of Fourth and Hancock streets, but he was only eight months old when he was carried within the inviting front doors of the Wadsworth house, and the mansion was home to him for at least thirty-five years.
He was only five years old when he declared that he wanted to be a soldier and fight for his country. The War of 1812 was then in progress. His aunt wrote one day, "Our little Henry is ready to march; he had his gun prepared and his head powdered a week ago."
But, agreeing with his parents that school was a better place for him than the army, he began his studies when he was five years old. A year later his teacher gave him a certificate which read:
"Master Henry Longfellow is one of the best boys we have in school. He spells and reads very well. He also can add and multiply numbers. His conduct last quarter was very correct and amiable."
Life in the Longfellow home was delightful. Samuel Longfellow, the poet's brother, has given a pleasing picture:
"In the evenings the children gathered with their books and slates round the table in the family sitting room. The silence would be broken for a minute by the long, mysterious blast of a horn announcing the arrival in town of the evening mail, then the rattle of its passing wheels, then silence again, save the singing of the wood fire. Studies over, there would be games till bedtime. If these became too noisy, or the father had brought home his law papers from the office, enjoining strictest quiet, then there was flight to another room—perhaps, in winter, to the kitchen, where hung the crane over the coals in the broad old fireplace, upon whose iron back a fish forever baked in effigy.
"When bedtime came, it was hard to leave the warm fire to go up into the unwarmed bedrooms; still harder next morning to get up out of the comfortable feather beds and break the ice in the pitchers for washing. But hardship made hardihood. In summer it was pleasant enough to look out from the upper windows; those of the boys' room looked out over the Cove and the farms and woodlands toward Mount Washington, full in view on the western horizon; while the eastern chambers commanded a then unobstructed view of the bay, White Head, Port Prebble, and the lighthouse on Cape Elizabeth."
One day in 1820, when the family was gathered about the fire, Henry was on tiptoe with eager excitement. He had written a poem and had sent it to The Portland Gazette. Would it be in the paper which his father had in his hand as he seated himself before the fire? Robertson, in his life of the poet, has described those anxious moments:
"How carefully his father unfolded the damp sheet, and how carefully he dried it at the fire ere beginning to read it! And how much foreign news there seemed to be in it! At last Henry and a sympathetic sister who shared his secret, obtained a peep over their parent's shoulder—and the poem was there!"
There are sixteen rooms in the old house. In Henry's day these rooms were heated by eight fireplaces, which consumed thirty cords of wood during the long winter. On the first floor are the great living-room, the kitchen with its old fireplace, and the den, once the dining-room. On the desk still shown in this room Longfellow wrote, in 1841, "The Rainy Day," whose opening lines are:
"The day is cold, and dark, and dreary,
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary."
Into the ground floor rooms have been gathered many relics of the days when the poet was a boy. The four rooms of the second floor are also full of mementoes. But the most interesting part of the house is the third story, where there are seven rooms. To this floor the four children made their way on summer nights when the long hours of daylight invited them to stay up longer, and on winter evenings, when the fire downstairs seemed far more inviting than the cold floors and the colder sheets.
One of these rooms is pointed out as the poet's chamber. Here he wrote many of his earlier poems. Among these was "The Lighthouse." In this he described sights in which he delighted, sights the lighthouse daily witnessed:
"And the great ships sail outward and return
Bending and bowing o'er the billowing swell,
And ever joyful as they see it burn,
They wave their silent welcome and farewell.
"'Sail on,' it says, 'sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard the light from all eclipse,
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man.'"
During the years after 1843, when Longfellow bought the Craigie House at Cambridge, his thoughts turned back with longing to the old home and the old town, and he wrote:
"Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of the dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me."
For nineteen years after the poet's death his sister Ann, Mrs. Pierce, lived in the old home. When she died, in 1901, she deeded it to the Maine Historical Society, that the place might be made a permanent memorial of the life of The Children's Poet.