Part 4

“Sallie, child, I beg you not to talk to the minister between prayers,” and then she suddenly turned, took my cheeks between her hands and kissed each of them, saying rather wildly I thought, “But I declare, _ma petite_, you are pretty enough to turn the head of any male creature.”

She is a strange person! So full of moods--and tenses I might say--but very very kind to thy simple Sallie.

Of course thee understands that I gave no clew whatever to the place of worship where I was in the way of going.

Nevertheless, last First-day night, when I walked to the “Vesper Service,” I think it is called, in company with our young friends, Anna, F. A., and Edward H., whom should I see standing in the vestibule, but the tall young man! I assure thee I wanted to ask him how it fared with the poor tipsy boy, but I dared not, particularly after what aunt had said to me. Still, I could not be unmindful of his presence all through the hour, for he followed us into the room and sat just where he could see us all the time. I resolved to banish worldly thoughts, but I am afraid I did not, so that I grew very uncomfortable, and was glad when the end came, but even then I was pained by Edward asking me where in the world I had met Jack D. I answered that I was not acquainted with any person so named.

“Well, that _is_ a puzzle,” he said, “for he has been in Europe six months, and this is the first time I have laid eyes on him, yet I could have declared [he really said _sworn_, but I don’t think he means evil by it] that he recognized you as we went in.”

I had to say something, so I inquired what class “Jack D.” belonged to, and this was his response:

“Great Jehosephat! Jack D. is the swellest senior on record. If once you get into his cave he sports his oak, and treats you like a nabob.”

The Harvard vernacular is sometimes hard to translate! But I am burning too much gas.

Affectionately, THY DAUGHTER.

Eleventh Mo., 3d.

MOTHER DEAR: Anna W. and I have just returned from what was in many respects a most interesting excursion, and yet it had its dark side.

Almost immediately after I had written to thee last week, aunt carried me to town and insisted upon my choosing several nice garments. It was wholly unnecessary, for my wardrobe, thee knows, was very comfortable, and I did not care to be under so great obligation to her, but I found that to do otherwise would hurt her feelings, so I chose, very reluctantly, a white merino that she said I must have to wear in the evening, and aunt herself selected a pretty pale blue silk. It seems gay for me, but she has promised that it shall be made in a plain way. I am afraid, however, that her ideas and mine concerning those things will not agree. Lastly, she bought a gown and cloak of a heavy texture, and trimmed with beautiful gray fur. There is a muff too. I submit rather than enjoy taking so much, pretty as the things are. I am not certain that I can trust my pride, which gets the better of poor mortals so soon, but thee told me to do as nearly as possible without troubling my conscience, as aunt desires, therefore I shall wear the expensive garments with less thought of the unnecessary outlay than I otherwise could. Uncle Joseph says the color of the fur is the only thing that reconciles me to the purchase. Indeed I am ashamed to tell thee that the making of each dress--for I saw the bill--has cost about seven dollars!

Well, I will add to this worldly record, that when the cloak and muff came home, there was also a round hat, with a long soft feather on it! _Of course_, I could not be comfortable in that, and as it is quite a new thing for me to wear aught but a bonnet, aunt was persuaded by dear Uncle Joseph to substitute a bit of ribbon and a band of the fur for the feather, but I almost wish thee could have seen it just as I first did, it was beautiful!

The young men come home from Harvard College every Seventh day at noon, and we mostly go together, Anna W., F. A., Edward H., and myself for a drive or a walk. It is getting rather cool for boating. Aunt seems to find it quite “_proper_” for four of us to be together. She says (I hate to tell thee this) that either of the boys would be a very desirable “parti!” Such suggestions drive away all the pleasure that would come from their companionship, so I try to turn a deaf ear when she approaches the subject.

To-day we went to Nahant, a beautiful rocky beach, where there is a large hotel in summer, and many charming seaside homes. One of the cottages is owned by a relative of F. A. and is still open, so we agreed to accept an invitation to dine.

It was so cool that I wore my new gown and hat, but they all had so much to say concerning their perfections and becomingness that I felt pained, and told them so. Edward H. was quite serious over it and asked me _why_ I should not enjoy knowing I had fine eyes, unusual hair, and a bright color. Of course I could only answer that if God had given me _honest_ eyes and healthy color I was very glad, but that I believed he did not wish me to think too much about them--and Edward said, “Well, you need not. We will do the thinking.” So then I blushed more and more, but I managed to ask him not to do any more _talking_ about it.

We left Uncle Joseph’s at eight o’clock in the morning, F. A. driving his father’s horses, which are very fleet. I never had a more exhilarating ride. The air was delicious and we were a long time directly by the ocean. Oh, I wished for thee continually! Anna wanted to drive part way. So Edward got back in the seat with me, and presently our conversation drifted into politics. Thee knows I am no politician, and that I adhere to the belief of Garrison, that the Constitution of the United States is a “Covenant with Hell,” but I confess I am greatly interested in the Republican party. If Charles Sumner is right in his opinion of the Constitution, then through political action we may look for the final overthrow of slavery, but Edward is not even a Republican! He says the very foundations of our government will be shaken if they elect their president, and I am not sure that he is wrong! Let them be shaken, and relaid say I. He calls me a rebel, and warns me that if another Anthony Burrs appears in Boston, I may walk the streets in chains, as a conspirator against the peace and well-being of society. I can see that he goes to greater length than he otherwise might, because he thinks it teases me.

I asked F. A. to what party he belonged, and he quickly answered, “The Know Nothings.” I could not help joining in the laugh that followed, although it is a serious matter to me, and the levity with which these young men, of stanch old revolutionary blood, treat such questions astonishes me beyond measure.

Indeed I have as yet met no one whom I could characterize as other than “conservative.” One evening I said this in the parlor, and aunt quickly answered that to be erratic was always unpopular, and young people cannot afford to forego the pleasures of society. So she begged me not to say much even though I felt a great deal.

No doubt she intended to do me a kindness by this warning, but the contrast between this teaching and thine, dear mother mine, brought tears to my eyes. I think Uncle Joseph must have observed them, for when aunt was called out of the room, he patted me on the head and whispered, “Next week I am going to give my little girl a treat. We will not talk about it now, but she shall see and hear some Bostonians who are _not_ conservatives.” I kissed him, and then we both laughed; and when aunt came in again he proposed a game of authors, which we play very often. It is quite new, and I am sure they have learned it in kindness to me, since they have discovered that I do not play cards. Did I ever tell thee my experience on this matter? It was soon after my arrival that a party of friends came in to spend the evening, and cards were proposed. It seems that aunt is a great card player--whist I believe they call it--and prides herself not a little on teaching it to others. It needs a certain number to perfect the game, and including myself there was just enough for two parties. When I found how matters were I am afraid I felt cowardly about avowing my principles. It is so unpleasant to make others uncomfortable, but I did not hesitate long. I spoke quietly to Uncle Joseph and asked him please not to count me, as I could not play. Aunt heard me and answered before he had time to do so: “Oh, that does not amount to much. You shall be my partner, and as you are surprisingly quick to learn, I will guarantee that another time you can lead a game.” I know my poor cheeks burned, but I had to tell her more. “Dear aunt,” I said, “it is not that I am ignorant, for you are both ever ready to help me, but that I believe it is wrong.” I wish thee could have seen the astonishment on her face. Her tone changed at once, and she spoke rather harshly, “Come, come, child, let us have no whims. How often do you have to be told that the judgment of your elders is enough. This is no concern of yours save to do as you are bid; take your place.” I am sure I do not know what would have followed--for I _certainly_ could never have yielded and even for peace’ sake touched the pasteboard that is connected in my mind with all that is low and of evil report. But our struggles are never forgotten, and a friend was raised up. One of the ladies appealed to her brother to know if he had the new game in his pocket--authors--and then very graciously aunt permitted half of us to play this very simple and innocent amusement. Why is it to do right sometimes costs so much trouble to others? I think thee would say: We cannot solve all the problems of life; this is one that must rest with a higher intelligence than our own.

Uncle Joseph has just brought me a card of invitation to a party at the house of John B.’s mother. A queer little dark woman full of learning! With the card was a penciled note: “Our liberal entertainment will not take place until the week following Thanksgiving.” I suppose uncle wrote this, rather than talk about it before my aunt. But how sad it must be for two really well-meaning people not to agree in their principles.

Dear mother, I have kept this letter until after the party in order to tell thee about it, but I am afraid neither of us will quite enjoy my relation of it.

In the first place aunt insisted upon dressing my hair and arranging some flowers about my blue silk frock. She is really an artist in those things, and with the help of the maid I scarcely knew myself! Forgive me, if I say I could but admire the creature they had constructed. And yet it made me cry, I looked like a stranger! I thought best not to say a word but to go just as I was, in order to please her. Every time I passed a glass I felt like an imposter! Dear Uncle Joseph drove with me in the carriage and came after me at what _they_ regard as an early hour, eleven o’clock. On the way he said, “Little girl, try and forget your furbelows, and next time I will persuade aunt to let you go in your simple white frock.” So I was comforted. And indeed I _tried_ hard to forget, but I could not. People looked at me on every hand, and I thought it must be because it was as if I was trying to be someone else than a Friend. Then came another trial. There was a large room with a linen cover over the rich carpet, and dancing going on. The musicians sat in the upper hall, and supper was served from ten on. I had no sooner gone through with the ceremony of various introductions, than I was surrounded by young men, who asked me to dance. I suppose they did so out of kindness to a stranger, but Anna W. helped me in my trouble, by saying “Yes” to each one that asked me, and then I explained that Friends did not think it right to dance, and one young man made us laugh heartily by saying:

“Why, I thought you were a Quaker or a Shaker, or something that dances all the time, even when they go to church!” Did not that show gross ignorance?

The supper, too, tried me, for everyone, almost without an exception, took a glass of wine! Anna told me it was a “light wine,” but _that_ could make no difference to me.

Edward H. was my escort, and when I declined taking it, he put his glass down untouched. I thought it was very wise in him. Perhaps the thought of its injurious influence was new to him. We did not talk about it, but half a dozen times we were urged to drink. It really made me sad, for these young men are not proof, always, against temptation, and indeed I had reason to fear before I left, that the wine had affected one of them at least; for as I stood waiting to say Good-night, he asked if he might accompany me home, and when I told him uncle was coming for me, he added: “I do not blame him for trying to keep such a beauty to himself as long as possible!”

During the evening a young matron living near here told me some of their friends had proposed to have a series of “sociables,” meeting at their houses alternately, and wished me to join. I am sure it is very kind, although I do not know what sort of entertainments these are to be, but I thanked her and said I would ask aunt’s permission, and to my surprise, as she threw my shawl about my shoulders, she stooped and kissed me, “Good-by for the present!” That is what they use here as the form of farewell.

THY LOVING DAUGHTER.

Eleventh Mo., 24th.

DEAR MOTHER: Oh, what a treat I have had! Nothing that Uncle Joseph could have done would have given me more pleasure than attending the Anti-Slavery Fair, held in Music Hall last week. I think thee cannot estimate aright the effort which it cost him, unless thee calls to mind all that I have told thee concerning the real relation of the business men of Boston to the comparatively small number belonging to the A. S. Society. Of course aunt knew about our attendance, although I doubt whether she had an invitation to join us, and she made merry continually over what she called our “escapade.”

When I went upstairs to get my cloak, she called to me, “Girly, put on all your _outré_ garments; you must look odd, or you will not be in harmony with your surroundings. Only _queer_ people belong.”

The entertainment began at half-past seven with a tea; that is, small tables were scattered about, where one could sit down, and the ladies handed around tea and cakes. My pleasure began at once, for we had scarcely entered the hall, which, by the way, is _very_ large, when we met Uncle Joseph’s old friend, Daniel K. I had seen him before, and he told me how much I was like grandmother. So now, as soon as he saw us, he tucked my hand under his arm and bore me across the room, where, behind one of the tables sat a stout elderly woman, in a very queer cap. I have seen pictures like it, and does thee remember Elizabeth Jones, who did our laundry work one summer? She wore a similar one. It was not thin like thine, but rather heavy in texture, with a wide frill about the face. But the woman beneath it was very attractive. She had such bright eyes and a most winning smile.

She spoke with Friend Daniel, and I did not catch his words, but immediately she came around to us, stroked my hair and invited me to pour tea. Then someone else came and called her by name, and who does thee think it was? Lydia Maria Child. When I realized that I was helping the writer of those beautiful stories, I had to turn and look at her more closely and I could not help saying, “Did thee ever know David and Jonathan?” We laughed together, and she seemed pleased that I had read her works. For an hour or more we waited on the cake and tea, and then Uncle Joseph took me over to the other side where articles were exposed for sale. I bought a few trifles, which uncle insisted upon paying for, but thee knows just about what Philadelphia fairs are, so I will not repeat. One thing however I must speak of. I selected a tiny package of visiting cards tied together with a bit of ribbon, and each one was inscribed with the name of a prominent Abolishionist written by himself. William Loyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips, Charles Remond, Stephen Foster, and so on. I thought I should like to keep them until I am old, and tell my children how I came to have them. I also bought a pocket pincushion with alternate black and white pins.

Presently there was some music, for which I did not care, and then a gentleman announced Wendell Phillips as a speaker. My! but I wish thee had been there! Such enthusiasm! and with good reason. I do not believe I ever saw a finer looking man. He has a _little_ look of a man of the world, but one forgets that as soon as he opens his lips. Then came forth no uncertain sounds, but genuine thunderbolts of truth and eloquence. Oh, it was grand! Uncle says he spoke over half an hour, but it seemed short to me, and as he left the platform I sighed. Uncle Joseph inquired what I would like next, and I answered “Either Sumner or Emerson,” and lo! as if I had touched a magic spring, _both_ of them appeared. The former, thee is aware, is not able to do duty, but his magnificent presence was enough, and he smiled down at the audience with a great friendliness as he said he “wanted to _introduce_ Ralph Waldo Emerson.” Everybody laughed and cheered, and the gentle philosopher spoke only a little time, about human rights and human wrongs. I was much impressed by his manner, which is that of one who soliloquizes rather than of an orator. He is a great contrast in appearance too, to those who preceded him--tall and slender, his head bowing just a little, as if it was heavy with great thought, but there is not much fire about him, and thee would undoubtedly like him the better for it. He is very genial, for I saw him talking and smiling with all who approached. I hear that he has a great reverence for the _individual_, and looks not for the foibles, but the majesty of the man.

I asked Uncle Joseph if he thought it would be right for me to speak with William Lloyd Garrison, of whom dear grandfather had so much to say, and I soon found that the very name of my good ancestor was a passport everywhere in the room. I was introduced to the Garrison young people, three sons at least; and the mother asked me to come and see her, which I should like to do, but it is scarcely probable. I do not wish to offend aunt’s prejudices, unnecessarily, and my visit there could be of no real use.

I saw Elizabeth Peabody, who is trying to interest people in the kindergarten methods of teaching young children, by playing and talking with them, rather than through books, and it certainly seems a most reasonable system.

It seems to me now as if I had seen Boston, for the people who were at the Fair were the very people I have heard about, and read about all my life--the people indeed, whom _I_ supposed constituted Boston, and yet outside their own circle, few know or care whether they exist. I am wrong. They have been raised up for a holy purpose, and if, as it seems, the busy mart is deaf to their entreaties for universal liberty, unconditional emancipation, the sin will lie at its own door should bloodshed follow.

I am afraid this meeting with those in whom I am so much interested will rather spoil me for our everyday routine. It is pleasant enough, but it seems selfish to devote so large a share of time to one’s entertainment. I sometimes long for active _work_; but aunt says it spoils the domestics (servants is her word) to help them, and it spoils a “lady’s hands”! I never heard thee complain in that way, and there are no dearer or daintier hands than thine, which are ready for pot or pan, needle or butter mold. Perhaps it is a little Pharisaical to thank God we are “not like other men,” but I am thankful that I was sent into thy arms!

I have been tempted to say that I had a _complete_ pleasure at the Anti-Slavery Fair, but as I was about to write it thus, a reminder came to me of _one_ thing that I wanted and did not get, and that was a piece of _temperance mince pie_; for I heard it said that there were such in an adjoining room, and much as I like pies, I have steadfastly declined tasting those that looked so nice at uncle’s table, for I know full well they are made with a strong infusion of brandy.

We came out home by the horse railroad again, and I somehow could not help thinking about the poor tipsy boy and the tall young man, and strange enough, the latter got into our car! I did not lift my eyes once, on the whole route, for he sat directly opposite me, and I thought it would be discourteous not to acknowledge his presence, and to do so would trouble my uncle. So I was especially weary when we got out, and I thought the young man went on further, but just as we stopped he sprang up as though he had been asleep and in hurrying out he jostled me, and begged me to excuse it. He has a fair voice, manly, and direct, and--but what does thee think? after he had passed, there was a scrap of paper lying on my muff! Perhaps I ought to have thrown it away without reading, but I _did_ want to know about the poor lad, and so I crumpled it up in my glove, until I got into my quiet chamber, and then I saw that it was a bit torn from a newspaper border, and beautifully written with a lead pencil. It said: “I took him home and have talked with him since about the wrong he has done. I think it will not happen again.”

Was it not kind in “Jack D.” to let me know in this way, without intruding upon me, or even signing his name?

I intended to bring home the little cushion I bought at the fair, but when I told Edward H. all about it, he said that he would like a memento to recall what I have told him about the sin of slavery, which I really believe he had never been taught to consider. So I gave him the pinball.

I must tell thee about my French lessons next time. Aunt speaks with a fine accent, they tell me; and she thinks I have been well taught.

I wish I could kiss thy dear cheek. Farewell,

SALLIE.

PHILADELPHIA,

Fourth Mo., 26th.

MOTHER DEAR: Thy presence has been roundabout me throughout the day, and I cannot sleep until I have availed myself of this poor medium, my pen, to convey to thee some of the thoughts that fill my mind.

Cousin Henry went with me to attend the morning meeting at Race Street, where we listened to words of warning and words of comfort from the lips of Friend B. and Friend T., and I was quite lost in meditation following the discourse of the latter, whose fine voice I ofttimes fear has an influence over me that should only be the result of his spiritual teaching. Then Lucretia Mott arose and spoke very acceptably, as she has ever done, to me. Yet it was not the words that fell from her lips that so greatly affected me, it was the memory of a strange scene that I have recently witnessed that endeared her to me, and it is of this that I am anxious thee should know.

On Second day, while we were awaiting Cousin Henry at the customary dinner hour, a lad brought in a note asking aunt to excuse his non-appearance and begging her to bring some friends and join him at the office of the U. S. Commissioner on Fourth Street as soon after two o’clock as possible.

It seems that a colored man had been claimed as a fugitive slave by a Southerner staying in the city, and this reaching the ears of a prominent Abolitionist, a few persons resolved to make a strenuous effort to have the case publicly tried.

Such, as thee knows, is not the usual proceeding, for the poor creatures are generally given over to the hands of their taskmasters with very little noise or show of justice.