These two children, Gordon and her brother, Theodorick, fourteen months younger, were blessed in having my own dear aunt's care and teaching from their infancy until they were aged respectively nine and ten years. They were not at first "remarkable" children. They were not infant phenomena, subjected to the perilous applause of admiring friends and kindred. They were normal in every respect—clean-blooded, sturdy, and wholesome; with good appetites, cool heads, and quick perceptions. They became, under the care of their wise preceptor, unusually interesting and intelligent children. My aunt adored the children, firmly believing that, however degeneracy might have impaired the human race in its progress of evolution,—these two at least had been made in God's image. In the words of their nurse, she "tuned them as if they were little harps—just to see how sweet the music could be!" They studied together—Gordon understanding that she must encourage the little brother, and read to him until he could read himself. In summer the schoolroom was sometimes al fresco, even drawing upon the knotted branches of the cherry tree for desks!
Gordon read very well at the age of three. She was also taught, before she could read, to point out rivers and cities on a map. Before he was four, Theodorick could read also. The children never had a distasteful task. I heard a great scholar say that all learning could be made charming to a young mind. The aunt of these children made their lessons a reward. "Now be good when you dress, and you may have a lesson," or "if Gordon and Theo don't ask for anything, I will give them a lesson right after dinner." The lessons, through the teacher's skill and patience, were made delightful. At once they were given paper and pencils, colored and plain, and both wrote before they were five. Their teacher disapproved of gory tales of giants and hobgoblins. Instead of these, they had histories quite as thrilling, and stories of the animal kingdom, with which they lived in perfect amity and kinship. They never had caged birds, but ducks and chickens, dogs small and great, cats and kittens, were all regarded as part of the family, and bore historic names. Theo once picked up (he was three) a small chicken, whereupon the mother hen rose to his shoulders and administered a good spanking with her wings. A servant, with great heat, belabored the hen; and Theo checked his sobs to entreat for her, explaining, "she didn't like for me to love her little white chicken." The hen, forsooth, was jealous! He once caught a bee in his hand and received a stinging rebuke. "How could you be so silly?" exclaimed his little sister. "Not at all," said Theo; "I have often done the same thing—but this little fellow," he added affectionately, "this little fellow had a brier in his tail!"
Their aunt hesitated whether she should tell them harrowing stories from history, but experiment proved, however, that the heroic held for them such fascination that they lost sight completely of the pain or suffering attending it. They adored the men and women who died bravely, but had their favorites. Lady Jane Grey was not one, nor Mary Queen of Scots (perhaps because of their ruffs), but they worshipped Marie Antoinette and Charles I. They had a very high regard for honor and fair dealing. Theo was a little over three years when he complained to me of his little sister, "I just laid my head on the stool and let her chop it off—because I am Charles I—and now she is Marie Antoinette, and when I am ready to cut off her head, she screams and runs away." His sense of justice was outraged, but the little sister's vivid imagination made her nervous, notwithstanding the fact that a cushion was the guillotine! Having observed that a large knotted stick was treated with respect, and travelled, to my inconvenience, with Theo on several journeys, I essayed to throw it away. With great dignity he gravely informed me, "This is Rameses III." Not only was it one of the Egyptian kings, but the richest of them all. I wish I could follow these two fascinating children beyond their babyhood, but I cannot venture! I dare not!
Late in the autumn I left Rock Hill to visit my uncle at the Oaks in Charlotte. I had travelled alone from Richmond to Mossingford, ten or twelve miles from my uncle's house, and there old Uncle Peter met me with the great high-swung chariot and a hamper well filled with broiled partridges, biscuits, cakes, and fruit. The rain had poured a steady flood for several days, but to my joy the clouds were now rolling away in heavy masses, and the sun shining hotly on the water-soaked earth.
"We got to hurry, Mistis," said the old coachman, as we prepared to enjoy an al fresco luncheon; "the cricks was risin' mighty fas' when I come along fo' sun-up dis mornin'."
"But we don't have to cross the river, Uncle Peter?"
"Gawd A'mighty, no," exclaimed the old man. "Ef'n I had to cross Staunton River, I'd done give clean up, fo' I see you! When we git home, we'll fine out what ole Staunton River doin'. I lay she's jes' a'bilin'!"
"Well, then there is some danger?"
"Who talkin' 'bout danger? De kerridge sets mighty high. No'm, der ain't no danger, but I ain't trustin' dem cricks. I knows cricks! Dee kin swell deeself up as big's a river in no time!"
We had not gone far before we were overtaken by a mud-splashed horseman, who arrested our horses and spoke in a low tone to the driver. Presently he appeared at the carriage window. "This is Mrs. Pryor? You remember Mr. Carrington? I hope I see you well, Madam. I am on my way to vote for your husband—or rather, help elect him. We have a fine day; the polls need not be kept open to-morrow. But I must hasten on. We will soon have the pleasure of congratulating our congressman."