We walked first to the flower-garden, where we gathered flowers to dress the table for dinner, and then visited the pine grove, the romantic dell, and the stone barn of which uncle was always so proud, where we spent an hour amid the sweet hay.

For the evening a drive was proposed, as we have now quite recovered from our former dread of malaria. Ida held the ribbons on this occasion, and as I was not one of the party, I will insert her graceful description of the pleasant evening.

"CHAPPAQUA.

"DEAR JULIA: I was so sorry to get your letter saying you could not come. I wish you had not let your tiresome old dressmaker deprive me of the pleasure of your company on our expedition to Croton Lake.

"I must tell you all about the delightful time we had. Two of the numerous friends of our blue-eyed Marguerite, Colonel Rogers and Mr.

Hows, whose exquisite pictures you and I have so often enjoyed together, were our cavaliers on this occasion. As our light carriage only has room for four, I drove the ponies myself. We started just about sundown, and the pleasant coolness of evening came on while there was still daylight enough to light up the constantly changing panorama of hill and dale, and forest and distant river, beyond which the blue mountain range dimly seen, now seemed to emerge into bolder relief, and again to fade back into cloud-land.

"Mr. Hows' delight in the scenery was certainly equalled by mine in listening to its praises. I am very fond of this part of Westchester, and when people talk of the beauties of the Adirondacks, I listen with the silent conviction that we have everything here but the musquitoes and the bad cooking, with both of which I cheerfully dispense.

"But to return to our drive. The last mile the road ran through a dark forest, following the course of a stream called Roaring Brook, which generally makes good its t.i.tle to the name, but now, owing to the recent drouth, was reduced to roaring as gently as Bottom's Lion promised to do. At last the lake was reached, and turning to the right, we were soon skimming along at a great pace on the wide boulevard that skirts the water as far along as Pine's Bridge. There we put up our ponies at a hotel with an impossible and unp.r.o.nounceable Indian name, and accepted the Colonel's kind invitation for a row. We all regretted there was no moon, with as much self-reproach as if it had been accidentally left behind, but were glad enough to get into our little white boat, that looked quite silvery against the dark current.

"The gentlemen, who had been dying to hear Marguerite sing ever since coming out here, now suggested that her voice was all that was needed to make the hour perfect; so Marguerite, who is as sweet and unaffected about her singing as if she hadn't the most exquisite soprano ever heard off the stage, consented without any tiresome urging, and asked what it should be. We were evenly divided between 'Robin Adair' and Mario's 'Good-bye, Sweetheart,' so our pretty songstress kindly gave us both.

"I cannot recall the delicious effect of her singing as we were drifting along in the sombre twilight, better than by quoting Buchanan Read's charming lines, which I dare say you have seen before:

"'I heed not if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.

"'Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals; At peace I lie, Blown softly by A cloud upon this liquid sky.

"'No more, no more The worldly sh.o.r.e Upbraids me with its load uproar: With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.'

"I. L. G."

_June 24_.

The week commenced with a dash of rain, but this morning it was again as hot as though no clouds had darkened the sky. Croquet was out of the question, and not even for the sake of trying my new beaver and stylish habit, so becoming to a slight figure, could I confront the dust and the sun's blazing rays upon Nancy's back (for such is the unromantic name of the horse that oftenest has the honor of bearing me when we ride). No one seemed inclined to drive, so Lady Alice and the d.u.c.h.ess, that had been for some time impatiently stamping, and arching their pretty necks, evidently impatient to be off, were sent back to the stables, much amazed, I doubt not, at our capricious conduct; while we--mamma, Marguerite, and I--sauntered up to the cool pine grove, accompanied by Arthur, bearing a camp-chair for mamma, and a couple of wise-looking tomes, in whose society we were to spend the morning.

But I have not yet introduced Arthur. He is neither brother, cousin, nor _fiance_, but bound to us by almost brotherly ties, having been our playmate when we were little children; and after the death of his parents (our eminent historian Richard Hildreth, and his gifted artist wife), he became mamma's ward, and was our constant companion in Italy and France. Arthur has come on from Cambridge, where he has just taken his degree as a lawyer, to make us a visit of some weeks, and we have had much pleasure talking over with him those poetic days that we pa.s.sed together in Florence and Venice.

But _our_ life is never made up of talking and dreaming, delightful though it may be, and we have a certain amount of reading to do every day, which we despatch as conscientiously as we do our prayers. There is no rule, however, limiting the reading to any one person, and Arthur often relieves us of that duty. I enjoy his reading very much, especially when one of Plato's "Dialogues" is the lesson of the day, for into them he throws so much enthusiasm and dramatic force, that they are quite a revelation to me. I was amused this morning, upon turning over the leaves of my journal of last winter, to find my first impressions of the "Dialogues" thus laconically expressed:

"I have to-day commenced to read Plato aloud. I cannot say that I find him very refreshing as yet; still I try to admire him as much as I conscientiously can."

I must confess that at first the abstruse subtleties of Socrates and his brother logicians were too much for my little brain, but now that I am more familiar with them, I quite delight in following their arguments. These "Dialogues" remind me of a fugue in musical composition; only melody is wanting to make the resemblance perfect, for here, as in the "Well-tempered Harpsichord," one train of thought is taken up, viewed from every side and in every light--that is to say, pursued through every possible key only to return and end at the original starting-point.

CHAPTER VIII.

Story-telling--Mr. Greeley's Father--His Personal Appearance--His Education--A Fine Voice--Mr. Greeley's Mother--A Handsome Woman--How she is remembered in Vermont--Field Labor--Bankruptcy--A Journey to Vermont--School Days--The Boy Horace--How he entertained his Playmates--His First Ball--Separation from his Family.

_June 25_.

"What a delightful evening for story-telling!" said Gabrielle, as she listened to the heavy rain-drops falling upon the leaves of the old apple-tree; "will you not give us one, Aunt Esther?"

"Yes," said Ida and Marguerite, drawing their chairs closer to mamma's sofa. "Do tell us about yourself when you were a young girl, and about grandpapa and grandmamma!"

"Ah," said mamma, with a sigh, "you children have never known my dear parents!"

Marguerite was the only one of the young quartette who remembered having seen grandpapa, and her recollections of him were confused with memories of people in Europe, where our childhood was spent.

"How did he look when you were a little girl, mamma?" I inquired. "I think he is quite imposing in your little picture taken the year before he died, and he must have been very handsome when he was young."

"He was not only handsome: he was an unusual man," said mamma, decidedly. "No biographer, in speaking of our family, has ever estimated him correctly, and even dear brother himself does not give sufficient importance to father's fine character and mental qualities; but you know that he left home when a boy of fifteen, and after that time he only saw father at long intervals.

"You remember, Cecilia, that all the foreign sketches you have ever read of brother, announce that his parents were 'common peasants,'

while many American writers, although they do not use the word 'peasant,' convey a similar impression. Father was by no means a common man, for to be 'common' one must be vulgar or ignorant, and father was neither. He was not uneducated, although his schooling was very slight; but he was a good reader, was very skilful in arithmetic, and wrote an excellent hand--an accomplishment for which our family are not celebrated--beside possessing a h.o.a.rd of self-acquired information upon different subjects. During the long winter evenings in our lonely Pennsylvania home, he taught us younger children arithmetic, and was very fond of giving us long sums to puzzle out. I have often, heard him say to brother Barnes,

"'You must store your mind with useful knowledge, that when you go out into the world you will have something to talk about as well as other people.'

"A poor farmer in those days did not have much opportunity to acquire accomplishments, as you may well imagine; but father possessed one talent that, if properly directed, might have made his fortune and ours. I have never yet heard a natural voice that excelled your grandfather's; a high, clear, powerful tenor, with unsurpa.s.sed strength of lungs, which, added to his handsome presence, would have made him one of the finest singers that has yet trodden the boards. Of course his voice was uncultivated, with the exception of the slight training of country singing-cla.s.ses, and the songs that he knew were simple ballads; but his memory was very retentive, and his singing was in great demand when company was present. At husking-parties and apple-bees, when supper was over and the young people wished to dance, if no fiddler was present, father would be pet.i.tioned to sing. I have often known him to sing country dances for hours, and he sung so heartily, and marked the time so well, that the young people enjoyed the dancing as much as if the music had been furnished by the most skilful violinist.

"I told you that father was a handsome man. He had large blue eyes, soft, silky, brown curls cl.u.s.tering around a magnificent brow, a set color in his cheeks, and a hand that the hardest field labor could not deprive of its beauty--long, tapering fingers, and pointed nails, such as novelists love to describe, but in real life are rarely seen outside of the most aristocratic families. His teeth were small, white and even, and at the time of his death, when eighty-seven years old, he had only lost one. His figure, though less than six feet, gave the impression of a much taller man; for he was slenderly built without being thin, and his carriage was almost military. To this fine presence was added an air of dignity and almost _hauteur_, that was very unusual in a poor farmer. But father was proud to an unparalleled degree. Indeed, it was his pride that caused him to plunge into the wild forests of Pennsylvania. His haughty nature could not bear the life of subordination that he led in Vermont, where he did not own an acre of land, and was obliged to work under the orders of others, often far inferior to him, and where he fancied the story of his flight from New Hampshire was known to every one. Smarting with mortification, he toiled until he could save a few hundred dollars to buy some acres in the wilderness, far from all his former a.s.sociates, and there he buried himself with my dear mother and their five little children. But these morose feelings were somewhat subdued as the years rolled on.

"With his children he was affectionate, but, like an old-school father, very distant. He never struck one of us in his life--a glance being sufficient to enforce obedience, or subdue the wildest spirits. He was always as particular about the etiquette of the table as though we were served by footmen in livery; and in our poorest days, when cups and saucers were scant and spoons still more so, we were obliged to observe the utmost decorum till we were helped; and any laughing or chatter among the younger ones was immediately quelled by the emphatic descent of father's fork upon the coverless table, with the words, 'Children, silence!'

"Father was highly respected by our neighbors in Pennsylvania, and was often urged to accept some county office. However, he always declined."

"Do you think, mamma," said Marguerite, "that grandmamma was as handsome as grandpapa?"

A pause of a moment or two.

"They were very different," was her reply. "Mother had neither father's brilliant face, nor his imposing presence, but she was a very handsome woman. She had soft blue eyes, a perfectly straight nose, a mouth rather large, perhaps, for beauty, but full of character, brown hair tinged with red, and a transparent, though not pallid complexion.

If you wish more minute details, look at your uncle's picture. No man ever resembled a woman more strikingly than he did our dear mother."

"In a recently published life of uncle," said I, "the author speaks of grandmamma as often working in the fields, and describes her as large and muscular, and possessing the strength of a man. Is not that an exaggeration?"

"Mother was above medium height," was mamma's reply, "but her figure was slender, with small and well-shaped hands and feet. It was her pride that water could flow under the arch of her instep; and her fingers, notwithstanding the hard toil of daily life, remained so flexible, that, when fifty years old, she could still bend them _backwards_ to form a drinking-cup."

"Let me tell you, Aunt Esther," interposed Ida, "how grandmamma is remembered in Vermont. When Gabrielle and I were quite small children, we went there on a visit, and papa took us to see some old lady (whose name I have forgotten) residing in Westhaven. This lady had known grandmamma very well, and, after contemplating Gabrielle and I for some time, remarked curtly, 'Neither of you children are as handsome as your grandmother was.'"

This uncomplimentary remark caused us all to laugh heartily. Mamma then resumed her story.

"As for field labor, your grandmother may, while we were in New Hampshire, have sometimes a.s.sisted father for a day or two during the pressure of haying or harvesting time; but never, since I was old enough to observe, can I recollect seeing her work in the fields.

Certainly mother was not a woman to hesitate to do cheerfully whatever necessity required. But she had quite enough to occupy herself at home with the entire duties of a house, with the spinning, weaving, and making up of all the linen and woollen cloth that the household used; and the care and early instruction of her little ones--for it was her pride that all of her children learned to read before going to school.

I remember that when I was first sent to school, at the age of four, the teacher, with a glance at my tiny figure (for I was a small, delicate child), called me up to read to her, and opened the book at the alphabet. Deeply injured, I informed her that I knew my letters, and could read over in 'An old man found a rude boy in one of his apple-trees,'--a fable that all familiar with Webster's Spelling-book will remember.

"My first distinct recollection of mother is in the dark days in New Hampshire. Father, as you know, had lost everything that he possessed, and was obliged to fly into the next State to escape imprisonment for debt. After he left, his furniture was attached and sold. I remember seeing strange, rough men in the house, who pulled open all the trunks and chests of drawers, and tossed about the beautiful bed and table linen that mother had wrought before her marriage. Another picture, too, is impressed indelibly upon my mind--how mother followed the sheriff and his men about from room to room with the tears rolling down her face, while brother Horace, then a little white-haired boy, nine years old, held her hand and tried to comfort her, telling her not to cry--he would take care of her.

"But mother, although humiliated and heart-sore at the poverty and disgrace that lay before her so early in her married life, was not a woman to fold her hands and think sadly of what

"'--might have been.'