USA > New York > Onondaga County > Syracuse > Sixty-odd, a personal history > Part 6
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Molly ran ahead. "Papa," she called. "Who lives here?"
"Our next-door neighbor, General Leavenworth," answered the Bishop. "And here is our own; look!"
We had reached a shady yard with elms on either side of a smooth walk, at the farther end of which stood a large square house of dark red brick. It had a porch in front, and windows with churchly pointed arches above them. Not a grand mansion like the one we had just seen, but a comfortable and dignified one. To our eyes it was far more beautiful than the houses on Boylston Street.
Molly flitted off to make her own explorations. After a while she could be seen with a little girl, walking about under the bronzing oaks, examining a playhouse which was built with pillars to match the great mansion. When it was time to go back to the hotel we had to call her, and she came breathless, flushed with excitement.
"I've been to see her!" she cried. "Her name is Mary, just like mine, only she's called Minnie; and she's exactly as old as I am, and her birthday is the fifteenth of November, too, and everything; and we're going to be friends and go through the hole in the fence. She's got dolls, and so have I, and we'll play in the dog-house 'cause the dog doesn't sleep in it, and she doesn't go to school just now, and
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she has a mother and father and a great uncle; a great uncle, you know; what kind is that? Oh, I like it here!"
So Molly's social future was assured. She was an independent little person in her likes and dislikes, usually rather shy about mak- ing friends, but this one seemed to have been made on purpose. Harriet showed signs of a little jealousy; she was to be a second-maid pure and simple now; she could not be spared for the higher rank of nurse any more, with all the work of the large house. Beside that, freedom from close supervision was open to us; not organized free- dom, such as parents struggle to give their children today but free- dom in its widest sense. It was in the Syracuse air.
School soon had to be considered. James, or Jim, as the family now called him, was to be sent to a Church school at Manlius, one of the Bishop's new undertakings. Miss Mary Jackson, a Syracuse woman with excellent ideas for the training of girls, kept a small private school in her own house, and it was decided that the girls should be sent there. Miss Jackson had as assistant an enthusiastic young woman who loved children, and knew how to hold their in- terest. After we came in from play there was always singing, out of a book called The Silver Bell. The songs we sang were of senti- mental character, some hangovers from wartime, like The Vacant Chair and Marching Through Georgia, and some of the folksong order like How Can I Leave Thee? and O Where and O Where Does My Highland Laddie Dwell? Instead of a reading-lesson-book, we had Dickens' Child's History of England, which was far nicer.
That night, after my first day of school, there was something rather serious to think about. In the bay-window at Miss Jackson's a little girl of my own age, with a sweet happy face, had sat, in a wide chair with a cushion. When she got up to walk one saw her bend forward and twist painfully. One leg was paralysed, and hung like a dead weight, and on the foot below was a great laced boot with a sole three or four inches thick. She used no crutch, and the heavy leg had to be dragged at every step. But she was bright and full of fun; nobody was pitying her, and evidently she didn't want to be pitied. Somehow I perceived that my own lameness had been a mis- take. It had been very tiresome lately. Queer, when it had seemed so interesting at first.
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In the morning there was a hurry in getting off to school. I was not quite ready when the other children came. "Come on!" they cried. "We'll take hold of your hands; don't wait for the crutch. Come!" And with jacket half on, and hat askew, I joined them. The Bishop was looking from his study window.
"Hannah!" he called. "Look here."
His wife was not far away. She caught a glimpse of the little fly- ing figure between its two companions, running down the street.
"There she goes. She's forgotten herself."
Mother found the crutch-cane, lying crosswise on the back hall floor. She picked it up with a smile.
"Someone will break his neck over this, sooner or later," she ob- served, "if we don't look out. I think I'll put it away." It was never asked for, and never seen again.
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NEW PEOPLE
School was but one phase of the new world into which we had moved. Learning the plan of the city was another interest.
On our own street we took great delight in the horses; most of our neighbors drove up and down the hill, but not in grandeur like that of Beacon Street. We soon learned the ownership of the many carriages. The solid, steady pair of bays, drawing a comfortable family coach in which sat a broad-faced, dignified gentleman, judicial in appearance, and a lovely gracious lady with gray hair who alighted often at our own door, were Judge Andrews' horses, and the whole equipment upheld the authority and precedence of its owners. The "fancy match," a black horse and a white one, with a high, smart vehicle in which a stylish lady and two pretty little girls accompanied him, was General Wood's turnout, and his fine house crowned the summit of the hill. Mr. Andrew D. White, later President of Cornell University, and afterward Ambassador to Ger- many, drove a couple of sorrel horses, finely paired, and his pleasant dwelling, with its valuable library built out from it, stood near us. Next door to him lived General Peck, who had been in the Mexican war and was a real General. The Peck horses were the most ro- mantic, as we put it, of any on the street: a cream-colored pair, which looked as if they might have come straight out of the Arabian Nights. They drew a low victoria in which the General and his stately wife drove of an afternoon, with three pretty girls, who turned out-wonderful discovery-to be our schoolmates and in- stant friends. Never shall I forget the rapture of our first drive with them behind the marvelous steeds, and the opportunities we had to see the horses groomed and to admire their manes and tails and arched necks.
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But processions, like constellations, were interrupted often by a comet: an open wagonette with two small horses, traveling at full speed, and driven by a stocky bearded gentleman beside whom rode a lady with a fine, picturesque sort of beauty for which I cannot find an adequate word; one of the faces which no one can forget. Breed- ing, sincerity, cordiality all shone from the bright eyes. The wagon was filled with pretty girls, and one caught glimpses of flying veils and clear complexions and bright tartan cloaks as it dashed up and down James Street. This was the Sedgwick family, from the other side of the hill. Mr. Charles Sedgwick was at once lawyer and farmer, owning broad acres, living in a hospitable and altogether charming dwelling, a low house with jutting wings and many windows, where fine minds came together from far and wide. A large family circle formed the centre of an independent but influential community- within-a-community. Mrs. Sedgwick was a New England woman, one of the Boston Gannetts; her husband a New Yorker, but in- digenous to the Onondaga hill-country
At the time of our arrival in Syracuse the second and third of the girls were my sister's age and among her first friends; the young- est of all was a dreamy, studious child, responding with a slow, ap- preciative smile to advances, a character which was one day to make itself a force in the world about her. What Dora Sedgwick Hazard has meant, and still means, to the life of the City of Syracuse needs no recital. Her unflinching sense of justice and her liberal progres- sive spirit have made her a leader in every forward movement, whether political, civic, or creative.
There were other old families in Syracuse; some with Dutch blood, some with a Huguenot strain. It was by no means a purely western community in the sense which our parents had imagined from what they heard in Boston. In fact I think it was my brother James who remarked that when his mother and sister particularly liked some new acquaintances they called them "New-England-y."
But our neighbors were by no means only of the privileged sort. One of the nearest was an old Irishman who had a complete farm inside the limits of an ordinary city lot; a tiny house, shed and barn, a diminutive garden with flourishing crops, a horse, cow and pig.
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We all recognized Mr. Sullivan as an agriculturist of parts. His cow was pastured largely on the grassy stretches of James Street, be- tween the sidewalk and the highway, and her nibblings kept the turf smooth and green. I don't recollect that we had lawn-mowers; at all events the city was under no obligation to provide them, so the Sullivan cow grazed peacefully in front of our houses, and other streets also boasted a wandering animal here and there. Now and then even a promenading pig would be discovered, or on rare occa- sions a horse. The neighbors took milk from Mr. Sullivan's farm, with no worries whatever as to its informal handling or the amount of bacteria that it might contain.
Our older sister was soon settled in the midst of a delightful group into which, with her social charm and alert mind, she fitted naturally. It was exciting to have the Sedgwick wagonette stop at our door, the active little horses pulled suddenly to a halt, and the crew of gay young people welcoming her to their midst as she climbed in beside them and the party started off on an excursion. We felt so proud of her. Mother had new friends as well and was busy with them, falling in with some established charity work and helping to make committees for new undertakings which the Bishop had set in motion. Molly had joined a placid group of little girls, who played dolls and had quiet times under the oak-trees.
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3
GRANT AND COLFAX!
There was only one experience of political excitement in our Syracuse childhood. It came quite early, after we had been but a few weeks in school. A Presidential election was on, and not only the rival banners, but torchlight parades, newspaper pronounce- ments and various other signs of campaign activity were in progress. Children were adopting the catchwords, songs and slogans of their elders. All but two of the nice little girls at Miss Jackson's school were Republicans, and very highbrow Republicans at that. The lone Democrats were the daughters of General Peck, who had strong Southern sympathies. The Pecks were our most dearly loved friends, and I was much concerned over the jibes and insults heaped upon them by the opposition. I objected to hearing them called "Irish" and rowdies, and came home to my family one day in a state of extreme indignation.
"Papa," I burst out at the dinner-table, "why do they say that Republicans are better than Democrats? What's the difference?"
The Bishop was not in the mood for giving political definitions. He assured his young daughter that while there were arguments for both parties, the dispute at the moment was in the majority of cases merely a difference of opinion about the candidates, not the theories they represented, and that little girls would do better to leave the quarreling to grown-ups.
But I was not satisfied with any such evasion.
"Yes, but see here, papa. The girls say that all Democrats are on the side of the Irish, and that Seymour just stands for Irish votes, and anybody who votes for him will help to get a lot of dirty micks rul- ing the country. And they set on the Pecks, and talk horridly to them. Is Seymour Irish?"
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"Governor Seymour," said the Bishop sonorously, "is a high- minded Christian gentleman. I know him personally, and have stayed at his house in Utica. General Grant is a brave soldier, deserv- ing of credit for his services to his country. The Irish are an indus- trious people, entitled to their citizenship and their votes. We are all alike in the sight of God, whatever our politics may be. I trust you will never allow yourself to belittle a political rival because he does not share your views."
This put rather a solemn aspect on the controversy, but it settled the mind of the would-be combatant.
"Well," she declared, "I think I shall be a Democrat then; I might just as well, and I want to stand by the Pecks; they're only two against all the rest. If Governor Seymour is as nice as that I might as well be for him."
By recess-time next day feelings had been roused to a high pitch. The school was gathered on the sidewalk, each little girl with her ordinary lunch, a bunch of grapes.
"Yes, I'm a Democrat now," the shrill voice of the Bishop's child announced. "I wouldn't be Republican for anything."
"Grant and Colfax!" shouted an opponent. "Seymour is for the Irish. You're a paddy!"
"Seymour is a high-minded Christian gentleman!"
"He isn't! Grant is!"
"Grant?" I became derisive. "I heard a lady say that somebody went to speak to him in Washington once and found him with his hat on and his feet on the table smoking a cigar, and he didn't know enough to stand up and say how-de-do."
"How can anybody smoke a cigar with his feet?" asked a smart young Republican. Even the Democrats laughed at that. But an- other girl whose size and muscle equipped her admirably for aggres- sion called out.
"Let's put 'em off the sidewalk! That's what the boys do up at iny brother's school. Come on!"
Only a part of the girls joined her, but the mob was double the strength of the Democrats, who rushed for the inside edge of the sidewalk. The Pecks got something to cling to, probably an iron
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railing, and held fast in spite of attempts to dislodge their fingers. The belligerent Bishop's child, however, clutched with one hand, and with the other, and also feet, laid about her furiously, knocking one girl in the eye and kicking the shins of another. I felt myself a Joan of Arc, a Barbara Frietchie, a Boadicea, all the heroines of his- tory rolled into one. But unfortunately the din of conflict had reached Miss Jackson's ears. She came out just in time to save the self-appointed champion of Democracy from being dragged over to the gutter.
When we came out from lessons, all the children were shocked. The walk was gory and slippery from a mass of crushed grapes.
The fourth child picked her way across the smeary pavement. "Trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored," she sang, prancing along the street in the time and tune of the Battle- hymn, and setting her heels down at "God Is Marching On." When she reached home she gave an account of the fight to her shocked parents.
"I am ashamed of you," said the Bishop. "You have entirely misunderstood the whole matter. You must never do anything of the sort again. I am only too glad you did not injure any of your companions."
"Oh, papa!" she insisted, "it was awfully exciting; just a kind of game. We all want to play it again tomorrow."
The Bishop was obdurate. At family devotions the next morn- ing, he prayed that "patience and prayer might prevail over partisan- ship." His fourth child admired this alliteration, and while still on her knees, she thought of more words beginning with p, which might increase the effect, such as patriotism, petitions, perseverance, and politics. The significance of the actual situation did not dawn upon the children, but their spasms of party spirit continued all through the autumn, until Grant and Colfax at last came out victorious.
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MUSIC IN SYRACUSE
The Bishop had on his mind a little mission at the Indian Res- ervation for the Onondaga tribe, not far from the city. There was a chapel, with services, but at the moment no organist. One of the chiefs, a Christian, had a young daughter who was fond of music, and had been able to pick out one or two hymn-tunes by ear. If she could learn to read notes and use both hands, she might help out at the chapel later on. With the reserve of his race, the chief gave no idea whether she would be amenable to lessons, but he nodded when the representative of the Great Father suggested his bringing her to town every Saturday morning, and leaving her for an hour with his own child. I was called into his study, and asked if I would like to show a little Indian girl how to play the piano, since I had had such good instruction myself.
I received the idea with enthusiasm. Why, showing-how was teaching, whether dignified with that name or not. A music-teacher; like Mademoiselle de la Motte; like Miss Jones, perhaps, only with no knitting-needles for prodding. And the daughter of an Indian Chief! Really too delightful. I experienced some slight disappoint- ment at the fact that the Indian wore coats and trousers instead of war-paint and feathers, but the women of the tribe as they appeared in Syracuse streets were rather picturesque in their straight skirts of bright cloth, and the blankets over their heads. They made very ordinary, unsalable beadwork, and sold bows and arrows, also of mediocre quality. They had made for Father a strange cane with a highly colored snake carved about it, emblem of the original sub- jugation of the serpent. The Reservation itself was wild country, a tract some miles long, with hills, valleys and a dashing stream; beau-
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tiful with a touch of loneliness and aloofness which befitted the home of an isolated people. The Christians came to the Mission Sunday-School; the pagans had barbaric dances and other strange rites, and roasted the meat of animals in their fires. Their habita- tions were huts in the woods. One or two chiefs had built real homes on the road by the stream, and had pianos or melodeons in their parlors. But many of their customs were still aboriginal, un- touched by civilization. They were reputed to be lazy and shiftless, and often dishonest, stigmatized as "no good" by the fol !: living near their borders. They were exploited by saloon-keepers and Gov- ernment agents, but not so systematically robbed, perhaps, as some other tribes farther west.
The Indian girl appeared promptly for her lessons. She was tall and lithe, without the gawkiness of thirteen, but with a poise which the white does not develop so early; with long coarse black hair, piercing eyes, and a marvelous complexion nourished by wind and sun, bright brown with something of the lustrous tinge of the horse-chestnut. Undernourishment had not preyed upon her physique. She was so much taller than her ten-year-old teacher that the latter had to stand up in order to have hands level with the key- board when the pupil was seated on the piano-stool.
Mother had provided a large pink instruction-book with a de- piction on its cover of two detached hands on a row of black and white keys. The course was grounded as far as possible on the meth- ods of the Boston music-school. Indians are good imitators, and Mattie Hill-this name was the unromantic translation of a far more striking one-could copy accurately the motions of the grubby hand presented her as a model.
It was a somewhat erratic form of musical education, without doubt; various essentials were overlooked, and I insisted consci- entiously on her committing to memory the names of the older composers, written out for her in round hand. There was little con- versation between us, yet somehow we managed to understand one another pretty well, and never noticed that members of the family peeped at us from time to time, and came away smiling at our in- tense seriousness. I have no recollection of how long these lessons
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lasted, or just what was achieved; but Mattie did actually learn to play the melodeon at the chapel without any other instruction, and kept it up for twenty years. I met her a while ago at an anniversary celebration there; a hale and capable old person in a spotless Hoover apron, serving a delicious lunch with some of her col- leagues. She insisted upon calling me "teacher", and beckoned to her grown-up son, an entirely civilized Indian and a United States citizen, saying, "Come here, Joe; I told you I'd show you my teacher today; she taught me to play the organ."
But there was one interesting occasion which transcended all the pleasure of the music-lesson; a day when the old chief, who was apt to make convivial contacts on his visits to town, did not appear to claim his daughter at the appointed time. So Mother cordially invited her to lunch with us-her first meal with a white family, and perhaps her first with a knife and fork. She made not one slip, even under the watchful eye of Harriet, who visibly, though re- spectfully, disapproved of the necessity for waiting upon a savage, as she would have put it, and confidently expected a jar in the eti- quette of the Bishop's dining-room. But barring her utter silence during the meal save for a "yes" or "no" now and then, no smallest breach of manners was discernible. Her bright observant eyes, quietly busy, took in each motion of her hosts in wielding the un- familiar tools. She copied faithfully, and ate normally of strange food. After lunch her father arrived in the light wagon, himself in a mood of somewhat uncertain gayety, and they went swaying and careening down James Street, the old horse breaking into its usual canter, the typical sure-footed gait of horses used to fitful urging.
My own music lessons were revived under the instruction of an interesting character who had been teaching for years in Syracuse: a German gentleman, then about forty years old. He had a charm- ing wife, American-born but of German lineage. Ernst Held is still revered and loved by the pupils who remember him, and whose musical careers he moulded. Up to the time of our arrival he had been obliged to struggle against a certain amount of popular prej- ndice with regard to the quality of productions studied by his
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pupils. That did not become evident until the interview in which my mother arranged for lessons with him, and told him that the condition thereof was his teaching her little daughter only the best music, in the strictest sense. She was to study with him, to be in- structed regardless of popular demand in what was then called "classical" composition.
Mother liked to describe the conversation afterwards, telling how, when he had said good-bye and opened the front door, he came back again into the drawing-room to ask, "Are you sure you want the best? You will not change your mind?" He afterwards told her, with tears in his eyes, what a relief it was to have had that as- surance, and how it had cheered him on his way. I can well re- member that it was a trial, however, to be given pieces of a more serious order than my young friends, who at soirées performed wonders in the line of colloratur; deftly executing the Maiden's Prayer or the Shepherd Boy or Silvery Waves, all of which were favorites with the average audience. But our teacher began with the Nel Cor Piu variations of Beethoven, and took me on into Men- delssohn's Songs without Words, and those things were looked upon as severe.
Then came to visit the Helds a charming little niece who played with unquestioned talent. And at the next children's musicale her number was a quiet, unaffected rendering of some of the Schumann Kinderstiicke, which she did with an interpretation that made her the star performer. That attractive child later became Mrs. Philip Hale, wife of the renowned music critic of Boston. She was the little Irene Baumgras who helped convert her uncle's pupils to appreciation of the greater music. She and I had now a bond in common, and our contemporaries began to care for better com- positions. Mr. Held always spoke with gratitude of our mother's help in bringing about this change.
He was himself a fascinating teacher. His facility in drawing was often turned to account in amusing ways. I have an old copy of Mozart's sonatas containing a passage in which I stubbornly re- peated a wrong note. After he had stopped me several times he said, "I cannot always be telling you of this; I shall have to make a re-
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minder for you." He seized his pencil, and im Nu as the Germans say, had sketched on the margin of the page the head of an old- school teacher in a high stock, frowning as he looked over his spectacles at an imaginary pupil.
His contribution to the cultural progress of the city can never be fully realized, but the foundations he laid were solid. He made the study of music a lasting joy to his scholars, and that is certainly the harvest of the really gifted teacher. Music and the love of good music had made real progress by the seventies, and brought about of happy companionships. Ernst Held's pupils were nearly all good sight-readers. We played four-hand, sometimes eight-hand, arrange- ments of the great symphonies, overtures and quartettes, and fa- miliarized ourselves with them.
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