CHAPTER II
A Friend at Andover, Mass.—Hezekiah Butterworth—A Few of my Own Folks—Professor Putnam of Dartmouth—One Year at Packer Institute, Brooklyn—Beecher's Face in Prayer—The Poet Saxe as I Saw him—Offered the Use of a Rare Library—Miss Edna Dean Proctor—New Stories of Greeley—Experiences at St. Louis.
Next a few months at Andover for music lessons—piano and organ. A valuable friend was found in Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, who had just published her Gates Ajar. She invited me to her study and wanted to know what I meant to accomplish in life and urged me to write. "I have so much work called for now that I cannot keep up my contributions to The Youth's Companion. I want you to have my place there. What would you like to write about?"
"Don't know."
"Haven't you anything at home to describe."
"No."
"Any pets?"
"Why I have a homely, ordinary dog, but he knows a lot."
And so I was roused to try "Our Rab and His Friends," which was kindly mailed by Miss Phelps to Mr. Ford, the editor, with a wish that he accept the little story, which he did, sending a welcome check and asking for more contributions. I kept a place there for several years.
In Miss Phelps's case, one must believe in heredity and partly in Huxley's statement that "we are automata propelled by our ancestors." Her grandfather, Moses Stuart, was Professor of Sacred Literature at Andover, a teacher of Greek and Latin, and a believer in that stern school of theology and teleology. It was owing perhaps to a combination of severity in climatic and in intellectual environment that New England developed an austere type of scholars and theologians. Their mental vision was focused on things remote in time and supernatural in quality, so much so that they often overlooked the simple and natural expression of their obligation to things nearby. It sometimes happened that their tender and amiable characteristics were better known to learned colleagues with whom they were in intellectual sympathy, than to their own wives and children. Sometimes their finer and more lovable qualities were first brought to the attention of their families when some distinguished professor or divine feelingly pronounced a funeral eulogy.
It's a long way from the stern Moses Stuart, who believed firmly in hell and universal damnation and who, with Calvin, depicted infants a span long crawling on the floor of hell, to his gifted granddaughter, who, although a member of an evangelical church, wrote: "Death and heaven could not seem very different to a pagan from what they seem to me." Her heart was nearly broken by the sudden death of her lover on the battlefield. "Roy, snatched away in an instant by a dreadful God, and laid out there in the wet and snow—in the hideous wet and snow—never to kiss him, never to see him any more." Her Gates Ajar when it appeared was considered by some to be revolutionary and shocking, if not wicked. Now, we gently smile at her diluted, sentimental heaven, where all the happy beings have what they most want; she to meet Roy and find the same dear lover; another to have a piano; a child to get ginger snaps. I never quite fancied the restriction of musical instruments in visions of heaven to harps alone. They at first blister the fingers until they are calloused. The afflicted washerwoman, whose only daughter had just died, was not in the least consoled by the assurance that Melinda was perfectly happy, playing a harp in heaven. "She never was no musicianer, and I'd rather see her a-settin' by my tub as she used to set when I was a-wringin' out the clothes from the suds, than to be up there a-harpin'." Very different, as a matter of fact, were the instruments, more or less musical, around which New England families gathered on Sunday evenings for the singing of hymns and "sacred songs." Yet there was often real faith and sincere devotion pedalled out of the squeaking old melodeon.
Professor Stuart's eldest daughter, Elizabeth Stuart, married Austin Phelps in 1842; who was then pastor of Pine Street Church in Boston. Their daughter was born in Boston in 1844, and named Mary Gray Phelps. They moved to Andover in 1848, where two sons were born. Mrs. Phelps, who died when Mary was seven years old, was bright, interesting, unusual. She wrote Tales of New England, chiefly stories of clerical life; also Sunnyside Sketches, remarkably popular at the time. Her nom de plume was "Trusta." Professor Phelps married her sister Mary, for his second wife. She lived only a year, and it was after her death that Mary changed her name to that of her mother, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. Professor Phelps had a most nervous temperament, so much so that he could not sleep if a cricket chirped in his bedroom, and the stamping of a horse in a nearby stable destroyed all hope of slumber.
Miss Phelps inherited her mother's talent for writing stories, also her humour and her sensitive, loving nature, as is seen by her works on Temperance Reforms, Abuses of Factory Operators, and her arraignment of the vivisectionist. Later, when I was living at the "Abandoned Farm," she had a liking for the farm I now own, about half a mile farther on from my first agricultural experiment. She called on me, and begged me as woman for woman in case she bought the neighbouring farm, to seclude all my animals and fowls from 5 P.M. till 10 A.M. each morning, as she must get her sleep, for, like her father, she was a life-long sufferer from insomnia. I would have done this if it were possible to repress the daybreak cries natural to a small menagerie which included chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese, besides two peacocks and four guinea fowls.
But to return to the Youth's Companion. When I found it impossible to write regularly for Mr. Ford, he made a change for the better, securing Mr. Hezekiah Butterworth, a poet, historian, and author of the Zigzag Series, which had such large sales. Happening to be in Boston, I called at the office and said to Mr. Ford: "It grieves me a bit to see my column taken by someone else, and what a strange pen name—'Hezekiah Butterworth.'"
"But that is his own name," said the editor.
"Indeed; I am afraid I shall hate that Hezzy."
"Well, just try it; come with me to his work-room."
When we had gone up one flight, Mr. Ford opened a door, where a gentle, sweet-faced young man of slender build was sitting at a table, the floor all around him literally strewn with at least three hundred manuscripts, each one to be examined as a possible winner in a contest for a five-hundred-dollar prize story. Both English and American authors had competed. He was, as De Quincey put it, "snowed up." Then my friend said with a laugh, "Miss Sanborn has come to see Hezzy whom she fancies she shall hate." A painfully awkward introduction, but Mr. Butterworth laughed heartily, and made me very welcome, and from that time was ever one of my most faithful friends, honouring my large Thanksgiving parties by his presence for many years.
I shall tell but two stories about my father in his classroom. He had given Pope's Rape of the Lock as subject for an essay to a young man who had not the advantage of being born educated, but did his best at all times. As the young man read on in class, father, who in later years was a little deaf, stopped him saying, "Sir, did I understand you to say Sniff?" "No, sir, I did not, I said Slyph."
In my father's Latin classes there were many absurd mistakes, as when he asked a student, "What was ambrosia?" and the reply was, "The gods' hair oil," an answer evidently suggested by the constant advertisement of "Sterling's Ambrosia" for the hair.
I will now refer to my two uncles on my father's side. The older one was Dyer H. Sanborn, a noted educator of his time, and a grammarian, publishing a text-book on that theme and honouring the parts of speech with a rhyme which began—
A noun's the name of anything,
As hoop or garden, ball or swing;
Three little words we often see
The articles, a, an, and the.
Mrs. Eddy, of Christian Science fame, spoke of him with pride as her preceptor. He liked to constitute himself an examining committee of one and visit the schools near him. Once he found only five very small children, and remarked approvingly, "Good order here." He, unfortunately, for his brothers, developed an intense interest in genealogy, and after getting them to look up the family tree in several branches, would soon announce to dear brother Edwin, or dear brother John, "the papers you sent have disappeared; please send a duplicate at once."
My other uncle, John Sewall Sanborn, graduated at Dartmouth, and after studying law, he started for a career in Canada, landed in Sherbrooke, P.Q., with the traditional fifty cents in his pocket, and began to practise law. Soon acquiring a fine practice, he married the strikingly handsome daughter of Mr. Brooks, the most important man in that region, and rose to a position on the Queen's Bench. He was twelve years in Parliament, and later a "Mr. Justice," corresponding with a member of our Federal Supreme Court. In fact, he had received every possible honour at his death except knighthood, which he was soon to have received.
My great-grandfather, on the paternal side, was always called "Grandsir Hook," and Dr. Crosby assured me that I inherited my fat, fun, and asthma from that obese person, weighing nearly three hundred pounds. When he died a slice had to be cut off, not from his body, but from the side of the house, to let the coffin squeeze through. I visited his grave with father. It was an immense elevation even at so remote a date. David Sanborn married his daughter Hannah Hook, after a formal courtship. The "love" letters to "Honoured Madam" are still preserved. Fortunately the "honoured madam" had inherited the sense of humour.
A few words about Mr. Daniel Webster. I remember going to Marshfield with my mother, his niece, and sitting on his knee while he looked over his large morning mail, throwing the greater part into the waste basket. Also in the dining-room I can still recall the delicious meals prepared by an old-time Southern mammy, who wore her red and yellow turban regally. The capital jokes by his son Fletcher and guests sometimes caused the dignified and impressive butler to rapidly dart behind the large screen to laugh, then soon back to duty, imperturbable as before.
The large library occupied one ell of the house, with its high ceiling running in points to a finish. There hung the strong portraits of Lord Ashburton and Mr. Webster. At the top of his own picture at the right hung his large grey slouch hat, so well known. In the next room the silhouette of his mother, and underneath it his words, "My excellent mother." Also a portrait of Grace Fletcher, his first wife, and of his son Edward in uniform. Edward was killed in the Mexican War.
There is a general impression that Mr. Webster was a heavy drinker and often under the influence of liquor when he rose to speak; as usual there are two sides to this question. George Ticknor of Boston told my father that he had been with Webster on many public occasions, and never saw him overcome but once. That was at the Revere House in Boston, where he was expected to speak after dinner. "I sat next to him," said Ticknor; "suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered, 'Come out and run around the common.'" This they did and the speech was a success. There is a wooden statue of Daniel Webster that has stood for forty years in Hingham, Massachusetts. It is larger than life and called a good portrait. It was made more than sixty years ago as a figurehead for the ship Daniel Webster but never put on. That would have been appropriate if he was occasionally half seas over. Daniel's devotion to his only brother "Zeke" is pleasant to remember. By the way, there are many men who pay every debt promptly and never take a drop too much, who would be proud to have a record for something accomplished that is as worth while as his record. When Daniel Webster entered Dartmouth College as a freshman directly from his father's farm, he was a raw specimen, awkward, thin, and so dark that some mistook him for a new Indian recruit. He was then called "Black Dan." His father's second wife and the mother of Zeke and Dan had decidedly a generous infusion of Indian blood. A gentleman at Hanover who remembered Webster there said his large, dark, resplendent eyes looked like coach lanterns on a dark night.
Mrs. Ezekiel Webster told me that her husband asked her after their marriage to allow his mother to come home to them at Boscawen, New Hampshire. She said she was a strikingly fine-looking woman with those same marvellous eyes, long straight black hair, high cheekbones; a tall person with strong individuality. Mrs. Webster was sure where the swarthy infusion came from. This mother, who had been a hard worker and faithful wife, now delighted in sitting by the open fire evenings and smoking an old pipe she had brought with her.
Webster saved his Alma Mater, and after the favourable decision on the College Case, Judge Hopkinson wrote to Professor Brown of Dartmouth suggesting an inscription on the doors of the college building, "Founded by Eleazer Wheelock, refounded by Daniel Webster." These words are now placed in bronze at the portals of Webster Memorial Hall.
To go back, as I did, from Andover to Hanover, I pay my tribute to Professor John Newton Putnam, Greek Professor at Dartmouth. His character was perfect; his face of rare beauty shone with kind and helpful thought for everyone. I see him, as he talked at our mid-week meetings. One could almost perceive an aura or halo around his classic head; wavy black hair which seemed to have an almost purple light through it; large dark eyes, full of love. What he said was never perfunctory, never dull. He was called "John, the Beloved Disciple." Still he was thoroughly human and brimming over with fun, puns, and exquisitely droll humour, and quick in seeing a funny condition.
It is said that on one occasion when there happened to be a party the same night as our "Thursday evening meeting," he was accosted by a friend as he was going into the vestry with the inquiry, "Are you not to be tempted by the social delights of the evening?" To which he replied, "No, I prefer to suffer affliction with the people of God, rather than enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season." The college inspector reported to him that he was obliged to break into a room at college where a riot was progressing and described a negro's efforts to hide himself by scurrying under the bed.
"But how unnecessary; all he had to do was to keep dark."
Once he was found waiting a long time at the counter of a grocery store. A friend passing said, "You've been there quite a while, Putnam."
"Yes, I'm waiting all my appointed time until my change doth come."
Expecting "Help" from Norwich, he was gazing in that direction and explained, "I'm looking unto the hills whence cometh our help."
We often diverted ourselves at his home with "Rounce," the duplicate of euchre in dominoes. And we were startled by a Madonna dropping to the floor, leaving its frame on the wall. Instantly Professor Putnam remarked: "Her willing soul would not stay 'in such a frame as this.'" And when called to preside at the organ when the college choir was away, he whispered to me, "Listen to my interludicrous performance."
How sad the end! A delicate constitution conquered by tuberculosis. With his wife he sought a milder climate abroad and died there. But no one can compute the good accomplished even by his unconscious influence, for everything was of the purest, highest, best.
Soon after my return from St. Louis, I received a call from Packer Institute in Brooklyn, to teach English Literature, which was most agreeable. But when I arrived, the principal, Mr. Crittenden, told me that the woman who had done that work had decided to remain. I was asked by Mr. Crittenden, "Can you read?" "Yes, I think so." "Then come with me." He touched a bell and then escorted me to the large chapel capable of holding nearly twelve hundred, where I found the entire faculty assembled to listen to my efforts. I was requested to stand up in the pulpit and read from a large Bible the fourteenth chapter of John, and the twenty-third psalm. That was easy enough. Next request, "Please recite something comic." I gave them "Comic Miseries." "Now try a little pathos." I recited Alice Cary's "The Volunteer," which was one of my favourite poems. Then I heard a professor say to Mr. Crittenden, "She recites with great taste and expression; what a pity she has that lisp!" And hitherto I had been blissfully unaware of such a failing. One other selection in every-day prose, and I was let off. The faculty were now exchanging their opinions and soon dispersed without one word to me. I said to Mr. Crittenden, as I came down the pulpit stairs, "I do not want to take the place." But he insisted that they all wanted me to come and begin work at once. I had large classes, number of pupils eight hundred and fifty. It was a great opportunity to help young girls to read in such a way that it would be a pleasure to their home friends, or to recite in company, as was common then, naturally and without gestures. I took one more class of little girls who had received no training before in that direction. They were easy to inspire, were wholly free from self-consciousness, and their parents were so much pleased that we gave an exhibition of what they could do in reading and recitation in combination with their gymnastics. The chapel was crowded to the doors. A plump little German girl was the star of the evening. She stood perfectly serene, her chubby arms stuck out stiffly from her sides, and in a loud, clear voice she recited this nonsense:
If the butterfly courted the bee,
And the owl the porcupine;
If churches were built on the sea,
And three times one were nine;
If the pony rode his master,
And the buttercups ate the cows;
And the cat had the dire disaster
To be worried, sir, by a mouse;
And mamma, sir, sold her baby,
To a gypsy for half a crown,
And a gentleman were a lady,
This world would be upside down.
But, if any or all these wonders
Should ever come about,
I should not think them blunders,
For I should be inside out.
An encore was insisted on.
I offered to give any in my classes lessons in "how to tell a story" with ease, brevity, and point, promising to give an anecdote of my own suggested by theirs every time. This pleased them, and we had a jolly time. The first girl who tried to tell a story said:
I don't know how; never attempted any such thing, but what I am going to tell is true and funny.
My grandfather is very deaf. You may have seen him sitting on a pulpit stair at Mr. Beecher's church, holding to his ear what looks like a skillet. Last spring we went to the country, house-hunting, leaving grandfather to guard our home. He was waked, in the middle of the night as he supposed, by a noise, and started out to find where it came from. It continued; so he courageously went downstairs and cautiously opened the kitchen door. He reached out his skillet-trumpet before him through the partly opened door and the milkman poured in a quart of milk.
This story, I am told, is an ancient chestnut. But I used to see the deaf grandfather with his uplifted skillet on the steps of Beecher's pulpit, and the young lady gave it as a real happening in her own home. Did anyone hear of it before 1868 when she gave it to our anecdote class? I believe this was the foundation or starter for similar skillet-trumpet stories.
The girl was applauded, and deserved it. Then they asked me for a milk story. I told them of a milkman who, in answer to a young mother's complaint that the milk he brought for her baby was sour, replied: "Well, is there anything outside the sourness that doesn't suit you?" And Thoreau remarked that "circumstantial evidence is sometimes conclusive, as when a trout is found in the morning milk."
This class was considered so practical and valuable that I was offered pay for it, but it was a relief, after exhausting work.
We had many visitors interested in the work of the various classes. One day Beecher strolled into the chapel and wished to hear some of the girls read. All were ready. One took the morning paper; another recited a poem; one read a selection from her scrapbook. Beecher afterward inquired: "Whom have you got to teach elocution now? You used to have a few prize pumpkins on show, but now every girl is doing good original work." Mr. Crittenden warned me at the outset, "Keep an eye out or they'll run over you." But I never had anything but kindness from my pupils. I realized that cheerful, courteous requests were wiser than commands, and sincere friendship more winning than "Teachery" primness. I knew of an unpopular instructor who, being annoyed by his pupils throwing a few peanuts at his desk, said, "Young men, if you throw another peanut, I shall leave the room." A shower of peanuts followed.
So, when I went to my largest class in the big chapel, and saw one of my most interesting girls sitting on that immense Bible on the pulpit looking at me in merry defiance, and kicking her heels against the woodwork below, I did not appear to see her, and began the exercises, hoping fervently that one of the detectives who were always on watch might providentially appear. Before long I saw one come to the door, look in with an amazed expression, only to bring two of the faculty to release the young lady from her uneasy pre-eminence.
I hardly knew my own name at the Packer Institute. The students called me "Canary," I suppose on account of my yellow hair and rather high treble voice; Mr. Crittenden always spoke to me as Miss "Sunburn," and when my laundry was returned, it was addressed to "Miss Lampoon."
Beecher was to me the clerical miracle of his age—a man of extraordinary personal magnetism, with power to rouse laughter and right away compel tears, I used to listen often to his marvellous sermons. I can see him now as he went up the middle aisle in winter wearing a clumsy overcoat, his face giving the impression of heavy, coarse features, thick lips, a commonplace nose, eyes that lacked expression, nothing to give any idea of the man as he would look after the long prayer. When the audience reverently bowed their heads my own eyes were irresistibly drawn toward the preacher. For he prayed as if he felt that he was addressing an all-powerful, omnipresent, tender, loving Heavenly Father who was listening to his appeal. And as he went on and on with increasing fervour and power a marvellous change transfigured that heavy face, it shone with a white light and spiritual feeling, as if he fully realized his communion with God Himself. I used to think of that phrase in Matthew:
"And was transfigured before them,
And his face did shine as the sun."
I never heard anyone mention this marvellous transformation. But I remember that Beecher once acknowledged to a reporter that he never knew what he had said in his sermon until he looked at the résumé in Monday's paper.
During the hard days of Beecher's trial a lady who was a guest at the house told me she was waked one morning by the merry laughter of Beecher's little grandchildren and peeping into their room found Mr. Beecher having a jolly frolic with them. He was trying to get them dressed; his efforts were most comical, putting on their garments wrong side out or buttoning in front when they were intended to fasten in the back, and "funny Grandpa" enjoying it all quite as sincerely as these little ones. A pretty picture.
Saxe (John Godfrey) called during one recess hour. The crowds of girls passing back and forth interested him, as they seemed to care less for eating than for wreathing their arms round each other, with a good deal of kissing, and "deary," "perfectly lovely," etc. He described his impressions in two words: "Unconscious rehearsing."
Once he handed me a poem he had just dashed off written with pencil, "To my Saxon Blonde." I was surprised and somewhat flattered, regarding it as a complimentary impromptu. But, on looking up his poetry in the library, I found the same verses printed years before:
"If bards of old the truth have told,
The sirens had raven hair;
But ever since the earth had birth,
They paint the angels fair."
Probably that was a habit with him.
When a friend joked him about his very-much-at-home manner at the United States Hotel at Saratoga, where he went every year, saying as they sat together on the upper piazza, "Why, Saxe, I should fancy you owned this hotel," he rose, and lounging against one of the pillars answered, "Well, I have a 'lien' on this piazza."
His epigrams are excellent. He has made more and better than any American poet. In Dodd's large collection of the epigrams of the world, I think there are six at least from Saxe. Let me quote two:
AN EQUIVOCAL APOLOGY
Quoth Madame Bas-Bleu, "I hear you have said
Intellectual women are always your dread;
Now tell me, dear sir, is it true?"
"Why, yes," answered Tom, "very likely I may
Have made the remark in a jocular way;
But then on my honour, I didn't mean you!"
TOO CANDID BY HALF
As John and his wife were discoursing one day
Of their several faults, in a bantering way,
Said she, "Though my _wit_ you disparage,
I'm sure, my dear husband, our friends will attest
This much, at the least, that my judgment is best."
Quoth John, "So they said at our marriage."
When Saxe heard of a man in Chicago who threw his wife into a vat of boiling hog's lard, he remarked: "Now, that's what I call going too far with a woman."
After a railroad accident, in which he received some bruises, I said: "You didn't find riding on the rails so pleasant?" "Not riding on, but riding off the rail was the trouble."
He apostrophized the unusually pretty girl who at bedtime handed each guest a lighted candle in a candlestick. She fancied some of the fashionable young women snubbed her but Saxe assured her in rhyme:
"There is not a single one of them all
Who could, if they would, hold a candle to you."
He was an inveterate punster. Miss Caroline Ticknor tells us how he used to lie on a couch in a back room at the Old Corner Bookstore in Boston, at a very early hour, and amuse the boys who were sweeping and dusting the store until one of the partners arrived. I believe he never lost a chance to indulge in a verbal quibble. "In the meantime, and 'twill be a very mean time."
I often regret that I did not preserve his comical letters, and those of Richard Grant White and other friends who were literary masters. Mr. Grant White helped me greatly when I was doubtful about some literary question, saying he would do anything for a woman whose name was Kate. And a Dartmouth graduate, whom I asked for a brief story of Father Prout, the Irish poet and author, gave me so much material that it was the most interesting lecture of my season. He is now a most distinguished judge in Massachusetts.
Saxe, like other humourists, suffered from melancholia at the last. Too sad!
After giving a lecture in the chapel of Packer Institute at the time I was with Mrs. Botta in New York, I was surprised to receive a call the next morning from Mr. Charles Storrs of 23 Monroe Place, Brooklyn, asking me to go to his house, and make use of his library, which he told me Horace Greeley had pronounced the best working and reference library he had ever known. A great opportunity for anyone! Mr. Storrs was too busy a man to really enjoy his own library. Mrs. Storrs and Miss Edna Dean Proctor, who made her home with them, comprised his family, as his only daughter had married Miss Proctor's brother and lived in Peoria, Illinois. Mr. Storrs had made his own fortune, starting out by buying his "time" of his father and borrowing an old horse and pedlar's cart from a friend. He put into the cart a large assortment of Yankee notions, or what people then called "short goods," as stockings, suspenders, gloves, shoestrings, thread and needles, tape, sewing silk, etc. He determined to make his own fortune and succeeded royally for he became a "merchant prince." His was a rarely noble and generous nature with a heart as big as his brain. Several of his large rooms downstairs were crammed with wonderfully beautiful and precious things which his soul delighted in picking up, in ivory, jade, bronze, and glass. He was so devotedly fond of music that at great expense he had a large organ built which could be played by pedalling and pulling stops in and out, and sometimes on Sunday morning he would rise by half-past six, and be downstairs in his shirt sleeves hard at work, eliciting oratorio or opera music for his own delectation. A self-made man, "who did not worship his creator." He was always singularly modest, although very decided in his opinions. Men are asking of late who can be called educated. Certainly not a student of the ancient Assyrian or the mysteries of the Yogi, or the Baha, or the Buddhistic legends, when life is so brief and we must "act in the living present." But a man who has studied life and human nature as well as the best form of books, gained breadth and culture by wide travel, and is always ready for new truths, that man is educated in the best sense, although entirely self-educated. Greeley used to say, "Charles Storrs is a great man."
Greeley used to just rest and enjoy himself at Mr. Storrs's home, often two weeks at a time, and liked to shut himself into that wonderful library to work or read. Once when he returned unexpectedly, the maid told Miss Proctor that Mr. Greeley had just come in from the rain and was quite wet, and there was no fire in the library. He did not at first care to change to Mr. Storrs's special den in the basement. But Miss Proctor said "It is too cold here and your coat is quite wet." "Oh, I am used to that," he said plaintively. But his special desk was carried down to a room bright with an open fire, and he seemed glad to be cared for.
Whitelaw Reid was photographed with Greeley when he first came on from the West to take a good share of the responsibility of editing the Tribune. He stood behind Greeley's chair, and I noticed his hair was then worn quite long. But he soon attained the New York cut as well as the New York cult. Both Reid and John Hay were at that time frequent guests of Mr. Storrs, who never seemed weary of entertaining his friends. Beecher was one of his intimate acquaintances and they often went to New York together hunting for rare treasures.
I have several good stories about Mr. Greeley for which I am indebted to Miss Proctor who told them to me.
1. He used to write way up in a small attic in the Tribune building, and seldom allowed anyone to interrupt him. Some man, who was greatly disgusted over one of Greeley's editorials, climbed up to his sanctum, and as soon as his head showed above the railing, he began to rave and rage, using the most lurid style of profanity. It seemed as if he never would stop, but at last, utterly exhausted and out of breath and all used up, he waited for a reply.
Greeley kept on writing, never having looked up once. This was too much to be endured, and the caller turned to go downstairs, when Greeley called out: "Come back, my friend, come back, and free your mind."
2. Mr. Greeley once found that one of the names in what he considered an important article on the Board of Trade had been incorrectly printed. He called Rooker, the head man in the printing department, and asked fiercely what man set the type for this printing, showing him the mistake. Rooker told him, and went to get the culprit, whom Greeley said deserved to be kicked. But when he came, he brought Mr. Greeley's article in his own writing, and showed him that the mistake was his own. Mr. Greeley acknowledged he was the guilty one, and begging the man's pardon, added, "Tom Rooker, come here and kick me quick."
3. Once when Greeley was making one of his frequent visits to Mr. and Mrs. Storrs, the widow of the minister who used to preach at Mansfield, Connecticut, when Mr. Storrs was a boy, had been invited by him to spend a week. She was a timid little woman, but she became so shocked at several things that Greeley had said or written in his paper that she inquired of Miss Proctor if she thought Mr. Greeley would allow her to ask him two or three questions.
Miss Proctor found him in the dining-room, the floor strewn with exchange papers, and having secured his consent, ushered in the lady. She told me afterward that she heard the poor little questioner speak with a rising inflection only two or three times. But Mr. Greeley was always ready to answer at length and with extreme earnestness. He said afterwards: "Why that woman is way back in the Middle Ages."
When she came away from the interview, she seemed excited and dazed, not noticing anyone, but dashed upstairs to her room, closed the door, and never afterward alluded to her attempt to modify Mr. Greeley's views.
4. A little girl who was visiting Mr. Storrs said: "It would never do for Mr. Greeley to go to Congress, he would make such a slitter-slatter of the place."
Miss Proctor published A Russian Journey after travelling through that country; has published a volume of poems, and has made several appeals in prose and verse for the adoption of the Indian corn as our national emblem. She is also desirous to have the name of Mount Rainier changed to Tacoma, its original Indian name, and has a second book of poems ready for the press.
When I first met her at the home of Mrs. Storrs, I thought her one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen—of the Andalusian type—dark hair and lustrous starry eyes, beautiful features, perfect teeth, a slender, willowy figure, and a voice so musical that it would lure a bird from the bough. She had a way all her own of "telling" you a poem. She was perfectly natural about it, a recitative semi-tone yet full of expression and dramatic breadth, at times almost a chant. With those dark and glowing eyes looking into mine, I have listened until I forgot everything about me, and was simply spellbound. Mr. Fields described Tennyson's reciting his own poems in much the same way. Whittier once said to a friend, "I consider Miss Proctor one of the best woman poets of the day," and then added, "But why do I say one of the best; why not the best?"
Miss Proctor has always been glad to assist any plan of mine, and wrote a poem especially for my Christmas book, Purple and Gold. Mr. Osgood, the publisher, when I showed him the poem, said, "But how do I know that the public will care for your weeds?" (referring to the asters and goldenrod). He said later: "The instant popularity and large sale of that booklet attested the happiness of Miss Sanborn's selection, and the kind contributions from her friends." Miss Proctor's contribution was the first poem in the book and I venture to publish it as it has never been in print since the first sale. My friend's face is still beautiful, her mind is as active as when we first met, her voice has lost none of its charm, and she is the same dear friend as of yore.
GOLDENROD AND ASTERS
The goldenrod, the goldenrod,
That glows in sun or rain,
Waving its plumes on every bank
From the mountain slope to the main,—
Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine,
Nor buttercups, gems of summer,
Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white,
Can rival this latest comer!
On the plains and the upland pastures
Such regal splendour falls
When forth, from myriad branches green,
Its gold the south wind calls,—
That the tale seems true the red man's god
Lavished its bloom to say,
"Though days grow brief and suns grow cold,
My love is the same for aye."
And, darker than April violets
Or pallid as wind-flowers grow,
Under its shades from hill to meadow
Great beds of asters blow.—
Oh plots of purple o'erhung with gold
That need nor walls nor wardens,
Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen,
Her Babylonian gardens!
On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay,
And England's lanes and fallows
Are decked with broom whose winsome grace
The hovering linnet hallows;
But the robin sings from his maple bow,
"Ah, linnet, lightly won,
Your bloom to my blaze of wayside gold
Is the wan moon to the sun!"
And were I to be a bride at morn,
Ere the chimes rang out I'd say,
"Not roses red, but goldenrod
Strew in my path today!
And let it brighten the dusky aisle,
And flame on the altar-stair,
Till the glory and light of the fields shall flood
The solemn dimness there."
And should I sleep in my shroud at eve,
Not lilies pale and cold,
But the purple asters of the wood
Within my hand I'd hold;—
For goldenrod is the flower of love
That time and change defies;
And asters gleam through the autumn air
With the hues of Paradise!
Edna Dean Proctor.
Shortly before the Civil War, I went with father to St. Louis, he to take a place in the Washington University, while I was offered a position in the Mary Institute to teach classes of girls. Chancellor Hoyt of the university had been lured from Exeter, New Hampshire. He was widely known in the educational world, and was one of the most brilliant men I ever knew, strong, wise, witty, critical, scholarly, with a scorn of anything superficial or insincere.
I had thought of omitting my experience in this city, to me so really tragic. Just before we were to leave Hanover, a guest brought five of us a gift of measles. I had the confluent-virulent-delirious-lose-all-your-hair variety. When convalescent, I found that my hair, which had been splendidly thick and long, was coming out alarmingly, and it was advised that my head be shaved, with a promise that the hair would surely be curly and just as good as before the illness. I felt pretty measly and "meachin" and submitted. The effect was indescribably awful. I saw my bald pate once, and almost fainted. I was provided with a fearsome wig, of coarse, dark red hair, held in place by a black tape. Persons who had pitied me for having "such a big head and so much hair" now found reason for comment "on my small head with no hair." The most expensive head cover never deceived anyone, however simple, and I was obliged to make my début in St. Louis in this piteous plight.
We then had our first taste of western-southern cordiality and demonstrativeness. It occurred to me that they showed more delight in welcoming us than our own home folks showed regret at our departure. It was a liberal education to me. They all seemed to understand about the hideous wig, but never showed that they noticed it. One of our first callers was a popular, eloquent clergyman, who kissed me "as the daughter of my mother." He said, "I loved your mother and asked her to marry me, but I was refused." Several young men at once wanted to get up a weekly dancing class for me, but I was timid, fearing my wig would fall off or get wildly askew. Whittier in one of his poems has this couplet, which suggests the reverse of my experience:
"She rose from her delicious sleep,
And laid aside her soft-brown hair."
At bedtime my wig must come off and a nightcap take the place. In the morning that wig must go on, with never one look in the glass. Soon two persons called, both leaders in social life, one of them a physician, who had suddenly lost every spear of hair. I was invited by the unfortunate physician and his wife to dine with them. And, in his own home, I noticed in their parlour a portrait of him before his experience. He had been blessed with magnificently thick black hair, a handsome face, adorned with a full beard and moustache. It was an April evening and the weather was quite warm, and after dinner the doctor removed his wig, placing it on a plaster head. He was now used to his affliction. He told me, as he sat smoking, looking like a waxwork figure, how several years ago he awoke in the dead of the night to find something he could not understand on his pillow. He roused his wife, lit the gas, dashed cold water on his face to help him to realize what had happened and washed off all the rest of his hair, even to eyebrows and eyelashes. That was a depressing story to me. And I soon met a lady (the Mayor's wife) who had suffered exactly in the same way. She also was resigned, as indeed she had to be. I began to tremble lest my own hair should never return.
But I should be telling you about St. Louis. We were most cordially received by clergymen from three churches and all the professors at the university, and the trustees with their wives and daughters. Wyman Crow, a trustee, was the generous patron of Harriet Hosmer, whose Zenobia was at that time on exhibition there. The Mary Institute was founded in remembrance of Rev. Dr. Eliot's daughter Mary, who while skating over one of the so-called "sink-holes," then existing about the city, broke the ice, fell in, and the body was never recovered. These sink holes were generally supposed to be unfathomable.
Since I could not dance, I took to art, although I had no more capacity in that direction than a cow. I attempted a bunch of dahlias, but when I offered the result to a woman cleaning our rooms she looked at it queerly, held it at a distance, and then inquired: "Is the frame worth anything?"
I acknowledge a lifelong indebtedness to Chancellor Hoyt. He was suffering fearfully with old-fashioned consumption, but he used to send for me to read to him to distract his thoughts. He would also criticize my conversation, never letting one word pass that was ungrammatical or incorrectly pronounced. If I said, "I am so glad," he would ask, "So glad that what? You don't give the correlative." He warned against reliance on the aid of alliteration. The books read to him were discussed and the authors praised or criticized.
St. Louis was to me altogether delightful, and I still am interested in that city, so enlarged and improved. I used to see boys riding astride razor-back hogs in the street, where now stately limousines glide over smooth pavements.
I have always had more cordiality towards strangers, homesick students at Dartmouth, and the audiences at my lectures, since learning a better habit. Frigidity and formality were driven away by the sunshine that brightened my stay at St. Louis.
I do not wish to intrude my private woes, but I returned from the West with a severe case of whooping-cough. I didn't get it at St. Louis, but in the sleeping-car between that city and Chicago. I advise children to see to it that both parents get through with all the vastly unpleasant epidemics of childhood at an early age. It is one of the duties of children to parents.