So, talking every minute, we went into the sitting-room, and drawing up rocking-chairs, we sat down cosily together. “I am going to have these photographs of these noble men all put into a frame together. I don’t want them in an album, for I have to turn and turn the leaves so much. I want them in a frame, so I can get the inspiration from them at a glance. This is Samuel Coit, who did so much last winter in my behalf, and this is S. A. Hubbard of the Courant. This is ——. Why I see you know all of these noble souls. Well, I want to read you a letter he sent me,” and she slowly picked out the words of the writer who said, among other generous things, that he would be only too glad to load her down with any number of his books, and would send her a complete file of them. The letter was signed Samuel L. Clemens.
“But,” she added, “he has never sent them. Probably so busy he forgot it. I do wish I could see them, for I had a chance once to read part of ‘Innocents Abroad,’ and I do like his beautiful style of expression. And here is Major Kinney, and George G. Sumner, and Rev. Mr. Twichell. What grand good men they are. And this—you say you have heard him preach! How much I would give to hear that great soul speak,” and she handed me Rev. Mr. Kimball’s photograph, and several others, every one of which is more precious to her than gold. In this collection also, were photographs of William Lloyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips, and other anti-slavery friends of hers, and I noticed several others of Garrison framed and hung about the house. When I expressed the opinion that the amount of her pension was too small in proportion to the injury inflicted, she said: “O, I am so thankful for that. It is so much better than nothing.”
During the evening, the collection was again displayed to a visitor, and it is plain to be seen, the sight of those faces does her a great amount of good. She and I went through them again the next day. After breakfast, I sat down to glance through a book I had seen her reading, “Is Darwin Right,” by William Denton of Massachusetts. Soon she came into the sitting-room with a pan of apples, and drawing a low rocking-chair up in front of me said, “Now you must stop reading, for I want to talk,” and we talked. In fact, she became as interested in the conversation, and so far forgot herself that, in cutting out the worm-holes from the apples, she once put the worthless portion into her mouth, and munched it thoroughly before she discovered her mistake. The conversation drifted from one subject to another, and on her part it was carried on in a clear, connected, and enlightened manner.
I can only give a few sentences of hers. “My whole life has been one of opposition. I never could find any one near me to agree with me. Even my husband opposed me, more than anyone. He would not let me read the books that he himself read, but I did read them. I read all sides, and searched for the truth whether it was in science, religion, or humanity. I sometimes think I would like to live somewhere else. Here, in Elk Falls, there is nothing for my soul to feed upon. Nothing, unless it comes from abroad in the shape of books, newspapers, and so on. There is no public library, and there are but one or two persons in the place that I can converse with profitably for any length of time. No one visits me, and I begin to think they are afraid of me. I think the ministers are afraid I shall upset their religious beliefs, and advise the members of their congregation not to call on me, but I don’t care. I speak on spiritualism sometimes, but more on temperance, and am a self-appointed member of the International Arbitration League. I don’t want to die yet. I want to live long enough to see some of these reforms consummated. I never had any children of my own to love, but I love every human being, and I want to do what I can for their good.”
After dinner while I was reading—for there is a host of good books in the house—she sat down to copy off a short account of my trip I had written at her request the night before for a local paper, but every few minutes she would stop to talk on some subject that had just entered her mind, and sometimes we would both commence speaking at the same instant. “Go ahead,” she would say, or “keep on, I have kept hold of that idea I had,” pressing her thumb and forefinger together, and then again she would say, “When you get another idea just let it out.” And so two days passed, very pleasantly, for me at least. There was no subject upon which I was conversant, but that she was competent to talk and even lead in the conversation, and she introduced many subjects to which I found I could only listen. At night Mr. Williams’s bed and my own were in the same room, and this gave him an opportunity to say of Mrs. Philleo, “I never knew a person of a more even temperament. She is never low spirited, never greatly elated. When things don’t go right she never frets.” And of him, when he was off at work, she said, “You don’t know how much comfort I get from my adopted son. We have lived together nearly four years, and my prayer is that he will grow up a noble man to do all the good he can in this world,” and I can add, judging from his conversation, he has a mind so broad and intelligent that he is fully abreast and even a little beyond her in mental growth, and that is saying a good deal. The last thing she said as I left them was, “if the people of Connecticut only knew how happy I am, and how thankful I am to them, it would make them happy too.”
Surely she has one of three graces, the greatest of the three, charity for every one. Of strong religious convictions, a thorough spiritualist herself, she respects the beliefs of others, and uttered in my presence not a word ill of any one. The State of Connecticut certainly is to be congratulated that it did not neglect its opportunity last winter. What a shame had this good woman, this great mind, gone to another world without having even that slight justice done it. Very few people in Connecticut realize what a narrow escape they had from a lasting disgrace.
The ride on the return to Emporia was uneventful, excepting that a break in the head of the machine obliged me to take the train sooner than I expected, and after a short stop in Kansas City, to keep on by rail to this place where there are facilities for repairing the break.
At Kansas City I met Mr. C. B. Ellis, dealer in bicycles, and one or two other wheelmen. In meeting, as I have on the trip, many Connecticut people who have settled in the West, it is pleasant to have them all or nearly all express the desire to return East to live, sometime, when they have made money enough. Some place that wished-for event ten years hence, others longer, but all show that the “good old State of Connecticut” occupies a prominent place in their future plans and prospects. It is their ideal of a place to live in. It is mine.
Miles traveled on the wheel, 3,627.
