USA > New York > Onondaga County > Syracuse > Sixty-odd, a personal history > Part 9
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Now sixteen, I had led far too easy a life to be conscious of the heroism which characterized those early days of woman's struggle for independence. A typical product of the Victorian Age, I believed that the destiny of woman was to rule over a domestic kingdom as queen and mistress; man's guiding star, a beneficent influence, a wise mother, a gifted teacher or writer or musician if possible, but at least, failing more striking attainments, a contented housewife. To do my parents justice, this lofty vision had not been set forth in our own domestic circle, where the elders were absorbed in com- munity life. Our conception of a great woman concerned itself with her attitude quite as much as with her achievement.
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The much-anticipated Congress opened on an October day. settled ourselves upon the back-slanting seats of the Wieting Op house with a sense of surrender to the forces of expansion progress. We were kept busy before the meeting opened in hav the celebrities pointed out to us. Foremost was Mrs. Mary A. Li more, a friend of my mother; an ample figure, who "might be a body," as one reflected, so far as the effect of a well-fitted black . gown and a fichu of white net was concerned.
Beside Mrs. Livermore sat Miss Maria Mitchell, whom we l especially desired to see-the woman who had discovered a con and was now teaching astronomy at Vassar. She was regarded as ( of the most interesting women in America, and through her put various descriptions of original teaching methods and princip reached the public. She had exhorted her groups from the grad ating class to abstein from sewing and making their own cloth for example-a most radical piece of advice. She told them tl there were plenty of women to do that sort of thing, and that was taking the bread out of the mouths of the laboring class i privileged students to waste their time in needlework, because t large amount of money spent to fit them for a higher order of e ployment should be justified by useful activity in the profession
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, one of the most valiant members of tl Equal Suffrage group, had curls as did Miss Mitchell, but they we arranged in even rows upon a very shapely crown, above an attra tive face. She was manifestly a woman of the world and an orn ment to society. She and Mrs. Gerritt Miller of Geneva, trying 1 introduce bloomers, had appeared at a New York theatre in bloon ers concealed by elegant evening cloaks, which they removed in th box. It had created some sensation, and was coldly received by the: society friends, so there were no bifurcated garments visible on th platform at Syracuse. But reform garments were on exhibition in an ante-room, and various matrons were seen going to this exhibi after the meeting.
There were all sorts of live topics. Dr. Antoinette Blackwell speaking for the medical profession, quoted a French professor who had said that "there was no more danger for a woman in the dis
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secting-room than the ball-room." A woman agriculturist, Mrs. Thomas of Philadelphia, made a persuasive plea for that occupa- tion, giving pleasant sketches of rural life and achievement. Mrs. Bohn, a Boston watchmaker, surprised the audience by recounting her achievements in manufacture.
Miss Catherine Beecher, a sister of Mrs. Stowe and of Henry Ward Beecher, who was then a sensational Brooklyn pastor, opened the education symposium with a paper entitled Suggestions and Reminiscences. Her coming as a delegate to the conference had made some stir in the Bishop's household, because she had been wont to appear at ninety-eight Boylston Street years before, carry- ing a little black bag and announcing her intention of spending the night. I can hear my older sister saying "Oh dear, there's Miss Cath- crine Beecher getting out of a hack: now I must go and make the guest-room bed up for her." She did not care for children, was al- ways nervously on edge, and was quite a talker, which perhaps ex- plained our reluctance to entertain her. Some one else spoke on Un- sectarian Schools, urging that steps be taken to include advantages for Hebrews in the public school system. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe commended preparation in teaching and the familiarizing of par- ents with educational projects through mothers' clubs and neighbor- hood associations. We were excited at seeing Mrs. Howe, for her Battle Hymn of the Republic had virtually become a National Hymn in wartime. And she was a most attractive personality, in a soft dull-blue gown which set off her red-gold hair. She spoke briefly, but with conviction.
Journalism was represented by Mrs. Jennie Croly, long editor of a newspaper in Newport, Rhode Island, once published by the widow of Benjamin Franklin's brother, whose two daughters set type while their maid worked the press. That example of sheer pluck touched the audience.
It was agreed by the speakers that women lacked financial abil- ity; at all events participation in banking or brokerage was not hinted at. But Mrs. Miller, the charming lady from Geneva, gave a fine paper on Chemistry in the Kitchen. Mrs. Phoebe Hanaford, a Baptist preacher, spoke for that profession, and reminded us that
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in the seventeenth century the Quakers permitted women to prea and pray in public, mentioning the name of Lucretia Mott, at whi the whole andience applauded. She also alluded to another Bapti exhorter who laid her baby on the pulpit stairs while delivering h. sermon. This produced somewhat mixed emotions and murmurs "Poor little creature!" Miss Eastman of Tewksbury sounded rath a belligerent note in making the suggestion that no woman shoul give any money to Harvard College because President Eliot ha said that a two-thousand-dollar school was good enough for girl Someone else then cited the fact that Oberlin College had opened in doors not only to women but to Indians and negroes, at which ther was some applause, but no real enthusiasm, from the audience.
Then there was a spicy debate on the subject of distinctive cos tumes. Miss Swazey, a clever delegate speaking on The Ethics ant Aesthetics of Dress, held health, comfort and decency to be the paramount considerations. Any dress that violated these, she main tained was unbecoming. Mrs. Edna Cheney took issue with Mis. Swazey on the subject of religious dress, and Miss Abby May o: Boston, a fine-looking woman with the rugged features of New Eng land and the plainest of clothes, warned against extravagance in attire, and felt that economy should have a place on the list of qualifications.
A recommendation for the formation of art-groups brought out some interesting comments. The wife of an artist defended cheap chromos, to the amazement of the high-brows. She pronounced them a medium, imperfect but useful, for an acquaintance with treasures of art otherwise impossible to the poorly educated. But this theory conflicted with the standards of the progressive element, and met with protest.
Miss Anna Brackett, her voice always authoritative, urged bet- ter classical instruction and more complete outfits for scientific re- search in girls' schools. And Miss Churchill, of Providence, pleaded for the teaching of political economy to girls as well as boys. But there was no stressing of special causes or grievances. A local news- paper said that the subject of equal suffrage was "admirably shaded" during the sessions of the congress. It was not intended to be a
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gathering of radicals, but of awakened and intelligent minds; a preparation for the tackling of greater issues to come. Some one did say of women, "The vote is waiting for them just ahead."
The most brilliant speech of all, however, was Mrs. Livermore's address on Superfluous Women. That was unforgettable. I can quote only a few of the aphorisms which were applauded by even the conservatives in her audience, but she captured it by the very weight and dignity of her oratory. She considered the various phases of celibacy, both forced and voluntary, going back to the School of Pythagoras and the women to whom it gave inspiration for the sacrifice of life to the virtue of chastity. We youngsters who had ab- sorbed the idea that matrimony was the chief end of feminine ex- istence, and that the "old maid" of history represented failure, if not tragedy, were quite aroused by the reminder that nearly half the girls of gentle birth in medieval England were consecrated from their cradles to religious celibacy, since the monastery offered the sanctity of perfect continence and holy life to tens of thousands. This seemed to us a very large order, but we realized that it was a reaction from the scandalous social conditions of the time and the depletion of the male population by war.
She recounted the achievements of the "social failures," as Henry James called them, in nursing, as attendants in prisons, heal- ers on battle-fields, doctors, priestesses, mothers in orphan homes, and so forth, "carrying civilization to far lands, earning money to put brothers through college and into professions; like the cary- atides of architecture, holding the roof over dependent households." She disposed of the expression, "Man is the head of the woman," with the remark, "The head of the woman is the head on her own shoulders."
She made us feel a deep respect for the brave woman who had gone through the fire of ridicule and satire when fighting her first battle for equality and justice to her sex. In fact she convinced us, in our adolescent enthusiasm, that there need be no such thing as a "superfluous" woman, but that the gentler sex could answer com- pletely to the needs of the nation and its men, whether in or out of the matrimonial state. I think we came away with such a heroic en-
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thusiasm for the glorious possibilities of spinsterhood that we : most reached the point of abjuring marriage altogether.
One other high spot was touched when Mrs. Howe recited he Battle Hymn. She put into it all the fire, reverence, and spiritu. intensity of the vision to which it had owed its inspiration. Th other girls laughed at me for talking about her "intellectual voice' but one did catch the tones of the scholar and thinker, and he slender figure and delicate features added to the effect. The vivi imagery of the poem never seemed an answer to one's sentiments i later wars, somehow, yet even today I find that its ringing stanza stir the heart.
The speeches made at the Congress of Women left us with a few suggestive quotations which we schoolgirls discussed among our selves with special ardor, such as:
"Personal ability is the limit of personal responsibility." Som of us did not think it was; we thought riches, beauty, opportunity had to do with that limitation. One thing we did not quite appreci ate-I think Mrs. Howe had said it-that "it is sheer waste of humar energy to persuade women that they ought to become superannu ated before seventy-five or eighty." I have a much better compre. hension of that remark today. Then another statement-"The best mothers are something more than mothers"; curiously enough it was a spinster who said that, so we did not get the real force of it.
I had now gone in, head over heels, for the Cause of Woman, and spent the next few weeks debating it with my comrades. I was quite sure I wanted to be a suffragist, and also a big person of one sort or another; I even dreamed of studying law or medicine. But a talk with Mother-a great privilege because it was rare in those busy days-straightened out my vague projects somewhat.
"You will find out in time, you know," Mary Lincoln's daughter said with the same calm judgment which had on many occasions cooled the ardor of the little sea-captain, "just what you are built for. To train for the law, or for medicine, takes years of intensive study. I wonder if you are quite persevering enough for that? I'm glad you have taken Mary Livermore for a model; you know what she said about putting your education into whatever occupation
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you take up. There are very few women who have achieved great- ness without scholarliness. But I do hope you'll be a large-hearted character, no matter what else you are."
Spring brought back, that year and others, more intimate con- cerns than the Women's Congress. The white violets clustered un- der the elms in our yard; thickets of snowy trillium blossomed on the east side of Round Top. There were picnics, moonlit nights when our choral club wandered about serenading. Then June warmth, anxious examination-days, and school graduations; heavy odors of syringa and roses; soirées on whose programmes appeared gems like the Chopin Nocturne in G, Mendelssohn's Rondo Capric- cioso, Weber's Invitation to the Dance, Liszt's transcription of Hark, hark, the Lark, even the Moonlight Sonata with its ascend- ing broken chords of the finale played in rampant and desperate prestissimo after days of dogged practice. Boys of a neighboring 'prep" school as eager admirers in melting collars; white frocks and bouquets; Mr. Held with a rose in his buttonhole to present to the most successful pianist of the evening; the Bishop giving a stimulat- ing talk on good manners.
Then the year was over, and we packed up and departed, in the limpid dawn of a summer morning, for Hadley.
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Forty Acres
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THE FARM
As far back as I can remember, we went to Forty Acres every summer, and spent the entire vacation there; Father, Mother, five children, Harriet and the cook. It took practically all day to go from Boston then. We enjoyed a stopover in Springfield, with a noon dinner at the Massasoit House. Those journeying days were hot, and I remember the shady coolness of the dining-room, the refreshing clink of ice in our glasses, and the little mounds of ice- cream deposited before us by a colored waiter. We were impressed by the stiff napkins, crimped into plaits and spread out like fans. We were polite for the moment, trying to behave as if we had dined in state all our lives. Mother did not spoil our sense of importance by making corrections. We could even order the Massasoit spe- cialty, waffles, in addition to a full meal. Afterward we sat around in the high-ceilinged parlor, bouncing gently on the springy plush sofas, while she, a little fatigued, would rest and read. The wait always seemed long, because we were bubbling with impatience to collect our baggage again and run to the station.
Then came the last lap of the journey from Springfield to Northampton, by the easy-going four o'clock train. We knew all the stops: Chicopee-Junction, which we pronounced as the con- ductor did with the greatest possible rapidity, and Willimansett; Holyoke, where the glimpse of the falls, a veritable Niagara to us, gave us a first sight of our river! The mountains, the little green islands, the very sky, were our unquestioned property, only waiting to be recognized by their ecstatic owners.
The train sped along by the waterside, round a curve beyond the South Hadley dam, into the shadow, out again, and there was
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Mount Holyoke with the house on top and the steep railway mounting to it: safe, unchanged, gleaming in the sunshine of late afternoon. The same ferry-boat at Smith's Ferry; after it Mt. Tom station, with little Nonotuck rising behind it. More and more ex- citement. The meadows, Northampton in the distance-hurry, train! "Hats on!" The shady straws were clapped on above our moist foreheads and white elastics hastily snapped under our chins. There we were, and sharp eyes spied three vehicles drawn up by the platform: two carriages and a wagon for the trunks. We tumbled down steps and rushed to pat the horses, Major, Max, Dolly, Robin, and they whinnied a recognition. The baggage was piled on a big haycart which two men were to drive. Jamie, Arria and the maids went in one carriage; Father took Mother, Molly and me in his own special vehicle, an odd little two-seated one with the front seat folding over toward the dashboard when the occupants of the back seat got in.
Then came the drive of six miles across the turnpike to Hadley. Ahead of us went the stage, loaded with big mailbags and drawn by four galloping horses, carrying a crowd of guests bound for the Orient Hotel in Amherst. In it were young men in straw hats and pretty girls with long blue veils floating from their bonnets. Away it went, the horn sounding, the group on its top swaying as it rounded the curve below the station. Now then, forward Major, forward Max, and set us in motion! After one spurt the horses settled down into the jog-trot of farm custom and we were presently busy recognizing old landmarks, spotting new barns in the tobacco fields, nodding our greetings to friends as we passed them.
"Hello, Doctor! Glad to see you back," shouted a farmer from the edge of his field. The "Doctor" waved his hat. We smiled and nodded along the way, like parading monarchs. The two-mile turn- pike across the meadows was dry and dusty; at our right lay the Holyoke range stretching eastward; before us old Hadley village with its broad street, the river at either end of it, and the hotel made out of a house where our great-great-grandmother's second husband, Parson Russell, sheltered the regicides, and the meeting- house which great-grandfather Phelps planned and built, crowned
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by a Christopher Wren spire. And now the Post Office, where Mr. Shipman, the postmaster, with a face which recalled our Cruik- shank pictures of Mr. Pickwick, beamed benevolently, and handed a pile of mail to Father. Up Middle Street the younger elms grew in graceful promise; beyond it the Connecticut finished its ox-bow.
Finally we passed the buttonwood tree, the limit allowed for horseback rides, to the row of dark, clean-limbed maples along either side of the road, and the white picket-fence of Forty Acres. Our House, our big gate opening wide, our elms stretching their canopies far over the roofs and lawns, our south door flung wide open and the figure of Aunt Bethia, erect, serious, but with kin- dling eyes, standing on the doorstep in her gray gown and white kerchief. We sprang from the wagons and rushed under the lilac- trees to embrace her. Everybody talked at once; the scent of new- mown grass, cut that very morning, blew across the lawn and into the house where we raced from room to room investigating, recog- nizing, shouting, unearthing old treasures and discovering new ones, until we were called by Aunt Bethia into the cool dining room with its mysterious high cupboards.
We always knew just what Aunt Bethia would have ready for that first supper: thin sliced ham in a long blue platter, raised bis- cuit, big and light, with pats of fresh butter. There was a bowl of strawberries ripened in the Hadley sun, a pitcher of yellow cream, a harvest-cake of yeast batter sweetened and baked with raisins, and baked custards in old Lowestoft cups, flavored ever so slightly with nutmeg. We drank warm Jersey milk out of our silver mugs and cold water from the depths of the well dug by forefathers.
Supper finished, we continued our rediscovery of the house. We went through the narrow hall, past the oars, walking sticks and guns, into the Long Room on the right, with its graceful wedding arch under which seven brides had been married, and its low spin- ning-wheel which had been used by the Elizabeths. At the ends of the broad fireplace there were deep cupboards, one for the best china, and the other partly given up to a collection of Indian relics from our own ground. Nearly every summer the plough would turn up some curious implement that had been used by aboriginal
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warriors or farmers in the meadows west of the house. It was Father's delight to exhibit to visitors the arrow and spear-heads we had found, the mortar and pestle for grinding corn, and the primi- tive bowl. (The collection, which was given to Amherst College after Father's death, is now in its museum.) The fireplace and these cupboards were fitting background for the Puritan severity of the Long Room furniture, which was created for use, not luxury.
Then came Father's study in which we so often watched him working, his north window open toward the garden, where two rows of brilliant hollyhocks bordered the path to the grape arbor. Beyond his study was the room where he was born, with its portraits of our grandfather and grandmother, Dan and Elizabeth Hunting- ton. This was Aunt Bethia's room, its contents a fitting expression of the deep reserve which overlay her responsiveness to the people she loved. Upstairs the high beds, mirrors, and bureaus in the nu- merous bedrooms through which our explorations led us, would dazzle the eyes of a collector, as would the spindle-legged desk in a tiny library which held the theological works belonging to our grandfather. Here was a copy of the death warrant of Charles the First, which had been signed by two of our Puritan ancestors, and in the hall hung a portrait of a continental soldier who was painted with that mysterious dot in the eyeball which made his gaze follow us wherever we turned. Often on the first day of our return to Forty Acres we would run to a corner to escape his scrutiny, and shout gleefully, "He's looking at me! He's looking at me still!"
Finally we scrambled through a little door into the lower attic, past the chimney closet, where the mellow odor of cured hams blended with the faint scent of herbs, into the "prophet's chamber." There on the window-frame my next older brother, whose sleeping room it was, had copied the familiar quotation from Clough, in whose poems we all had our periods of absorption:
And not through Eastern windows only When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward look !- the land is bright.
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The little window in the prophet's chamber framed a lovely picture: green meadows in the foreground, then a line of soft wil- lows and bright water, beyond that the peaceful dwellings of Hat- field under trees, and the plain white spire topped by a friendly weathercock; rising behind it all, hills upon hills. When the river- fog enshrouded it on a dog-day morning, the first mists lifted and floated away in long streamers down the valley. Autumn sunrises touched all the roofs of Hatfield village with their glow, giving an old red barn the hue of an American Beauty rose. One could see thunderstorms mass their battalions of cloud to sweep down upon the valley, or catch the first strip of clear blue in the northwest after a shower. Purple windclouds swept across a primrose sky to portend fair weather for tomorrow. Yet the room had plain whitewashed board walls and the furniture of a cell; such a setting befitted him who lifted up his eyes unto the hills.
But we were a joyous returning family, and there was much re- visiting to be done in barn and garden. Father might be seen lead- ing a tour of inspection, with a skipping child holding either hand. The older ones strolled along more slowly across the broad spaces of the farmyard, its turf kept soft by the croppings of cows and sheep, allowed to linger and nibble on their way to and from pas- ture. The sheds, carriage-houses and granary extended almost to the barn, running to the left as one drove down from the road.
The great barn doors were open on these warin June nights and through them one caught a glimpse of the mountains in the south, with the white spire of Hadley meetinghouse thrown out in relief against its dark background, where the sunset often left a deep rose-colored afterglow on Mount Holyoke.
The barn* was a splendid place. There stood the row of beauti- ful fawn-like Jerseys, one of the first imported herds in the coun- try. Every cow had her own name; there were always four or five new calves waiting to be named when we reached the farm. We each had an opportunity to bestow these names according to fancy:
* The old barn is still intact. It has been moved to Hadley village and made into a museum.
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Stella, Cordelia, Jessica, Chloe, Bess, from classical or fictional sources. A heifer with a perfect white heart on her forehead was especially loved. The younger calves were often tied in the yard, and were such ornaments to the landscape that passing strangers re- marked upon them. We lingered in the barn, salting each cow and enjoying the tickle of her rough tongue on our hands. Their owner went proudly along the line, greeting each one as if she were a lady of quality.
It is sometimes necessary to revise our childish notions of the bigness of things, but those haymows, reaching to the cobwebbed rafters, are still in recollection vast heights. We scaled them by a ladder of rough pegs driven into an upright beam, and slid down, tumbling deep into a pile of sweet-smelling dry clover and emerg- ing, flushed with the swiftness of descent, ready to do it all over again. The cows raised their heads for a moment to look at us, then plunged their dark nozzles once more into the mangers. The bull lowered in his pen, and sometimes gave a vexed toss of the head but was restrained by his nose-ring; the horses whinnied at us, for they were personal friends. Old Max, a trustworthy brown cob whom we were allowed to harness and ride, turned his long neck around to look at us with a puzzled air, wondering if we planned to make him the victim of our perennial circus.
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