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 pass 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 circumstances; 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 rehearse imaginary escapes from fire or midnight attacks.
Besides a devoted love for her children, a passion 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 assistance: 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 entitled 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 entitled 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."