<h2><SPAN name="Page_51"></SPAN>CHAPTER IV.</h2>
<h2>LIFE AT PETERBORO.</h2>
<p>The year, with us, was never considered complete
without a visit to Peterboro, N.Y., the home of Gerrit
Smith. Though he was a reformer and was very radical
in many of his ideas, yet, being a man of broad sympathies,
culture, wealth, and position, he drew around him
many friends of the most conservative opinions. He
was a man of fine presence, rare physical beauty, most
affable and courteous in manner, and his hospitalities
were generous to an extreme, and dispensed to all
classes of society.</p>
<p>Every year representatives from the Oneida tribe of
Indians visited him. His father had early purchased of
them large tracts of land, and there was a tradition
among them that, as an equivalent for the good bargains
of the father, they had a right to the son's hospitality,
with annual gifts of clothing and provisions.
The slaves, too, had heard of Gerrit Smith, the abolitionist,
and of Peterboro as one of the safe points <i>en
route</i> for Canada. His mansion was, in fact, one of the
stations on the "underground railroad" for slaves
escaping from bondage. Hence they, too, felt that
they had a right to a place under his protecting roof.
On such occasions the barn and the kitchen floor were
utilized as chambers for the black man from the southern
plantation and the red man from his home in the
forest.</p>
<p><SPAN name="Page_52"></SPAN>The spacious home was always enlivened with
choice
society from every part of the country. There one
would meet members of the families of the old Dutch
aristocracy, the Van Rensselaers, the Van Vechtens,
the Schuylers, the Livingstons, the Bleeckers, the
Brinkerhoffs, the Ten Eycks, the Millers, the Seymours,
the Cochranes, the Biddles, the Barclays, the Wendells,
and many others.</p>
<p>As the lady of the house, Ann Carroll Fitzhugh, was
the daughter of a wealthy slaveholder of Maryland,
many agreeable Southerners were often among the
guests. Our immediate family relatives were well represented
by General John Cochrane and his sisters,
General Baird and his wife from West Point, the Fitzhughs
from Oswego and Geneseo, the Backuses and
Tallmans from Rochester, and the Swifts from Geneva.
Here one was sure to meet scholars, philosophers, philanthropists,
judges, bishops, clergymen, and statesmen.</p>
<p>Judge Alfred Conkling, the father of Roscoe Conkling,
was, in his late years, frequently seen at Peterboro.
Tall and stately, after all life's troubled scenes, financial
losses and domestic sorrows, he used to say there was no
spot on earth that seemed so like his idea of Paradise.
The proud, reserved judge was unaccustomed to manifestations
of affection and tender interest in his behalf,
and when Gerrit, taking him by both hands would, in
his softest tones say, "Good-morning," and inquire how
he had slept and what he would like to do that day, and
Nancy would greet him with equal warmth and pin a
little bunch of roses in his buttonhole, I have seen the
tears in his eyes. Their warm sympathies and sweet simplicity
of manner melted the sternest natures and made
the most reserved amiable. There never was such an
<SPAN name="Page_53"></SPAN>atmosphere of love and peace, of freedom and good
cheer, in any other home I visited. And this was the
universal testimony of those who were guests at Peterboro.
To go anywhere else, after a visit there, was
like coming down from the divine heights into the valley
of humiliation.</p>
<p>How changed from the early days when, as strict
Presbyterians, they believed in all the doctrines of Calvin!
Then, an indefinite gloom pervaded their home.
Their consciences were diseased. They attached such
undue importance to forms that they went through
three kinds of baptism. At one time Nancy would read
nothing but the Bible, sing nothing but hymns, and play
only sacred music. She felt guilty if she talked on any
subject except religion. She was, in all respects, a
fitting mate for her attractive husband. Exquisitely refined
in feeling and manner, beautiful in face and form,
earnest and sincere, she sympathized with him in all
his ideas of religion and reform. Together they passed
through every stage of theological experience, from the
uncertain ground of superstition and speculation to the
solid foundation of science and reason. The position
of the Church in the anti-slavery conflict, opening as it
did all questions of ecclesiastical authority, Bible interpretation,
and church discipline, awakened them to
new thought and broader views on religious subjects,
and eventually emancipated them entirely from the old
dogmas and formalities of their faith, and lifted them
into the cheerful atmosphere in which they passed the
remainder of their lives. Their only daughter, Elizabeth,
added greatly to the attractions of the home circle, as
she drew many young people round her. Beside her
personal charm she was the heiress of a vast estate and
<SPAN name="Page_54"></SPAN>had many admirers. The favored one was Charles
Dudley Miller of Utica, nephew of Mrs. Blandina
Bleecker Dudley, founder of the Albany Observatory.
At the close of his college life Mr. Miller had not only
mastered the languages, mathematics, rhetoric, and
logic, but had learned the secret windings of the human
heart. He understood the art of pleasing.</p>
<p>These were the times when the anti-slavery question
was up for hot discussion. In all the neighboring
towns conventions were held in which James G.
Birney, a Southern gentleman who had emancipated his
slaves, Charles Stuart of Scotland, and George Thompson
of England, Garrison, Phillips, May, Beriah Greene,
Foster, Abby Kelly, Lucretia Mott, Douglass, and
others took part. Here, too, John Brown, Sanborn,
Morton, and Frederick Douglass met to talk over that
fatal movement on Harper's Ferry. On the question
of temperance, also, the people were in a ferment. Dr.
Cheever's pamphlet, "Deacon Giles' Distillery," was
scattered far and wide, and, as he was sued for libel, the
question was discussed in the courts as well as at every
fireside. Then came the Father Matthew and Washingtonian
movements, and the position of the Church
on these questions intensified and embittered the conflict.
This brought the Cheevers, the Pierponts, the
Delevans, the Nortons, and their charming wives to
Peterboro. It was with such company and varied discussions
on every possible phase of political, religious,
and social life that I spent weeks every year. Gerrit
Smith was cool and calm in debate, and, as he was
armed at all points on these subjects, he could afford
to be patient and fair with an opponent, whether on
the platform or at the fireside. These rousing argu<SPAN name="Page_55"></SPAN>ments
at Peterboro made social life seem tame and
profitless elsewhere, and the youngest of us felt that
the conclusions reached in this school of philosophy
were not to be questioned. The sisters of General
Cochrane, in disputes with their Dutch cousins in
Schenectady and Albany, would end all controversy by
saying, "This question was fully discussed at Peterboro,
and settled."</p>
<p>The youngsters frequently put the lessons of freedom
and individual rights they heard so much of into practice,
and relieved their brains from the constant strain of
argument on first principles, by the wildest hilarity in
dancing, all kinds of games, and practical jokes carried
beyond all bounds of propriety. These romps generally
took place at Mr. Miller's. He used to say facetiously,
that they talked a good deal about liberty over the way,
but he kept the goddess under his roof. One memorable
occasion in which our enthusiasm was kept
at white heat for two hours I must try to describe,
though words cannot do it justice, as it was pre-eminently
a spectacular performance. The imagination
even cannot do justice to the limp, woe-begone appearance
of the actors in the closing scene. These romps
were conducted on a purely democratic basis, without
regard to color, sex, or previous condition of servitude.</p>
<p>It was rather a cold day in the month of March, when
"Cousin Charley," as we called Mr. Miller, was superintending
some men who were laying a plank walk in the
rear of his premises. Some half dozen of us were invited
to an early tea at good Deacon Huntington's.
Immediately after dinner, Miss Fitzhugh and Miss Van
Schaack decided to take a nap, that they might appear
as brilliant as possible during the evening. That they
<SPAN name="Page_56"></SPAN>might not be late, as they invariably were,
Cousin Lizzie
and I decided to rouse them in good season with a
generous sprinkling of cold water. In vain they struggled
to keep the blankets around them; with equal force
we pulled them away, and, whenever a stray finger or
toe appeared, we brought fresh batteries to bear, until
they saw that passive resistance must give place to active
hostility. We were armed with two watering pots.
They armed themselves with two large-sized syringes
used for showering potato bugs. With these weapons
they gave us chase downstairs. We ran into a closet
and held the door shut. They quietly waited our forthcoming.
As soon as we opened the door to peep out,
Miss Fitzhugh, who was large and strong, pulled it
wide open and showered us with a vengeance. Then
they fled into a large pantry where stood several pans
of milk.</p>
<p>At this stage Cousin Charley, hearing the rumpus,
came to our assistance. He locked them in the pantry
and returned to his work, whereupon they opened the
window and showered him with milk, while he, in turn,
pelted them with wet clothes, soaking in tubs near by.
As they were thinly clad, wet to the skin, and the cold
March wind blew round them (we were all in fatigue
costume in starting) they implored us to let them out,
which we did, and, in return for our kindness, they gave
us a broadside of milk in our faces. Cousin Lizzie and
I fled to the dark closet, where they locked us in.
After long, weary waiting they came to offer us terms of
capitulation. Lizzie agreed to fill their guns with milk,
and give them our watering pots full of water, and I
agreed to call Cousin Charley under my window until
they emptied the contents of guns and pots on his
<SPAN name="Page_57"></SPAN>head. My room was on the first floor, and Miss
Fitzhugh's
immediately overhead. On these terms we accepted
our freedom. Accordingly, I gently raised the
window and called Charley confidentially within whispering
distance, when down came a shower of water. As
he stepped back to look up and see whence it came, and
who made the attack, a stream of milk hit him on the
forehead, his heels struck a plank, and he fell backward,
to all appearance knocked down with a stream of milk.
His humiliation was received with shouts of derisive
laughter, and even the carpenters at work laid down
their hammers and joined in the chorus; but his revenge
was swift and capped the climax. Cold and wet
as we all were, and completely tired out, we commenced
to disrobe and get ready for the tea party. Unfortunately
I had forgotten to lock my door, and in walked
Cousin Charley with a quart bottle of liquid blacking,
which he prepared to empty on my devoted head. I
begged so eloquently and trembled so at the idea of being
dyed black, that he said he would let me off on one
condition, and that was to get him, by some means,
into Miss Fitzhugh's room. So I ran screaming up the
stairs, as if hotly pursued by the enemy, and begged her
to let me in. She cautiously opened the door, but when
she saw Charley behind me she tried to force it shut.
However, he was too quick for her. He had one leg
and arm in; but, at that stage of her toilet, to let him
in was impossible, and there they stood, equally strong,
firmly braced, she on one side of the door and he on the
other. But the blacking he was determined she should
have; so, gauging her probable position, with one desperate
effort he squeezed in a little farther and, raising
the bottle, he poured the contents on her head. The
<SPAN name="Page_58"></SPAN>blacking went streaming down over her face, white
robe, and person, and left her looking more like a
bronze fury than one of Eve's most charming daughters.
A yard or more of the carpet was ruined, the
wallpaper and bedclothes spattered, and the poor victim
was unfit to be seen for a week at least. Charley
had a good excuse for his extreme measures, for, as we
all by turn played our tricks on him, it was necessary to
keep us in some fear of punishment. This was but one
of the many outrageous pranks we perpetrated on each
other. To see us a few hours later, all absorbed in an
anti-slavery or temperance convention, or dressed in
our best, in high discourse with the philosophers, one
would never think we could have been guilty of such
consummate follies. It was, however, but the natural
reaction from the general serious trend of our thoughts.</p>
<p>It was in Peterboro, too, that I first met one who was
then considered the most eloquent and impassioned
orator on the anti-slavery platform, Henry B. Stanton.
He had come over from Utica with Alvin Stewart's
beautiful daughter, to whom report said he was engaged;
but, as she soon after married Luther R. Marsh,
there was a mistake somewhere. However, the rumor
had its advantages. Regarding him as not in the
matrimonial market, we were all much more free and
easy in our manners with him than we would otherwise
have been. A series of anti-slavery conventions was
being held in Madison County, and there I had the
pleasure of hearing him for the first time. As I had
a passion for oratory, I was deeply impressed with his
power. He was not so smooth and eloquent as
Phillips, but he could make his audience both laugh and
cry; the latter, Phillips himself said he never could do.
<SPAN name="Page_59"></SPAN>Mr. Stanton was then in his prime, a
fine-looking,
affable young man, with remarkable conversational
talent, and was ten years my senior, with the advantage
that number of years necessarily gives.</p>
<p>Two carriage-loads of ladies and gentlemen drove
off every morning, sometimes ten miles, to one of these
conventions, returning late at night. I shall never forget
those charming drives over the hills in Madison
County, the bright autumnal days, and the bewitching
moonlight nights. The enthusiasm of the people in
these great meetings, the thrilling oratory, and lucid
arguments of the speakers, all conspired to make these
days memorable as among the most charming in my
life. It seemed to me that I never had so much happiness
crowded into one short month. I had become
interested in the anti-slavery and temperance questions,
and was deeply impressed with the appeals and arguments.
I felt a new inspiration in life and was enthused
with new ideas of individual rights and the basic principles
of government, for the anti-slavery platform was
the best school the American people ever had on which
to learn republican principles and ethics. These conventions
and the discussions at my cousin's fireside I
count among the great blessings of my life.</p>
<p>One morning, as we came out from breakfast, Mr.
Stanton joined me on the piazza, where I was walking
up and down enjoying the balmy air and the beauty of
the foliage. "As we have no conventions," said he,
"on hand, what do you say to a ride on horseback this
morning?" I readily accepted the suggestion, ordered
the horses, put on my habit, and away we went. The
roads were fine and we took a long ride. As we were
returning home we stopped often to admire the
<SPAN name="Page_60"></SPAN>scenery and, perchance, each other. When walking
slowly through a beautiful grove, he laid his hand on
the horn of the saddle and, to my surprise, made one of
those charming revelations of human feeling which
brave knights have always found eloquent words to
utter, and to which fair ladies have always listened with
mingled emotions of pleasure and astonishment.</p>
<p>One outcome of those glorious days of October,
1839, was a marriage, in Johnstown, the 10th day of
May, 1840, and a voyage to the Old World.</p>
<p>Six weeks of that charming autumn, ending in the
Indian summer with its peculiarly hazy atmosphere, I
lingered in Peterboro. It seems in retrospect like
a beautiful dream. A succession of guests was constantly
coming and going, and I still remember the daily
drives over those grand old hills crowned with trees
now gorgeous in rich colors, the more charming because
we knew the time was short before the cold winds of
November would change all.</p>
<p>The early setting sun warned us that the shortening
days must soon end our twilight drives, and the moonlight
nights were too chilly to linger long in the rustic
arbors or shady nooks outside. With the peculiar
charm of this season of the year there is always a touch
of sadness in nature, and it seemed doubly so to me, as
my engagement was not one of unmixed joy and satisfaction.
Among all conservative families there was a
strong aversion to abolitionists and the whole anti-slavery
movement. Alone with Cousin Gerrit in his
library he warned me, in deep, solemn tones, while
strongly eulogizing my lover, that my father would
never consent to my marriage with an abolitionist. He
felt in duty bound, as my engagement had occurred
<SPAN name="Page_61"></SPAN>under his roof, to free himself from all
responsibility by
giving me a long dissertation on love, friendship, marriage,
and all the pitfalls for the unwary, who, without
due consideration, formed matrimonial relations. The
general principles laid down in this interview did not
strike my youthful mind so forcibly as the suggestion
that it was better to announce my engagement by letter
than to wait until I returned home, as thus I might
draw the hottest fire while still in safe harbor, where
Cousin Gerrit could help me defend the weak points in
my position. So I lingered at Peterboro to prolong
the dream of happiness and postpone the conflict I
feared to meet.</p>
<p>But the Judge understood the advantage of our position
as well as we did, and wasted no ammunition on
us. Being even more indignant at my cousin than at
me, he quietly waited until I returned home, when I
passed through the ordeal of another interview, with
another dissertation on domestic relations from a financial
standpoint. These were two of the most bewildering
interviews I ever had. They succeeded in making
me feel that the step I proposed to take was the most
momentous and far-reaching in its consequences of any
in this mortal life. Heretofore my apprehensions had
all been of death and eternity; now life itself was filled
with fears and anxiety as to the possibilities of the
future. Thus these two noble men, who would have
done anything for my happiness, actually overweighted
my conscience and turned the sweetest dream of my
life into a tragedy. How little strong men, with their
logic, sophistry, and hypothetical examples, appreciate
the violence they inflict on the tender sensibilities of a
woman's heart, in trying to subjugate her to their will!
<SPAN name="Page_62"></SPAN>The love of protecting too often degenerates into
downright tyranny. Fortunately all these sombre pictures
of a possible future were thrown into the background
by the tender missives every post brought me,
in which the brilliant word-painting of one of the most
eloquent pens of this generation made the future for
us both, as bright and beautiful as Spring with her verdure
and blossoms of promise.</p>
<p>However, many things were always transpiring at
Peterboro to turn one's thoughts and rouse new interest
in humanity at large. One day, as a bevy of us
girls were singing and chattering in the parlor, Cousin
Gerrit entered and, in mysterious tones, said: "I have
a most important secret to tell you, which you must
keep to yourselves religiously for twenty-four hours."</p>
<p>We readily pledged ourselves in the most solemn
manner, individually and collectively.</p>
<p>"Now," said he, "follow me to the third story."</p>
<p>This we did, wondering what the secret could be.
At last, opening a door, he ushered us into a large room,
in the center of which sat a beautiful quadroon girl,
about eighteen years of age. Addressing her, he said:</p>
<p>"Harriet, I have brought all my young cousins to
see you. I want you to make good abolitionists of
them by telling them the history of your life—what you
have seen and suffered in slavery."</p>
<p>Turning to us he said:</p>
<p>"Harriet has just escaped from her master, who is
visiting in Syracuse, and is on her way to Canada.
She will start this evening and you may never have another
opportunity of seeing a slave girl face to face, so
ask her all you care to know of the system of slavery."</p>
<p>For two hours we listened to the sad story of her
<SPAN name="Page_63"></SPAN>childhood and youth, separated from all her
family and
sold for her beauty in a New Orleans market when but
fourteen years of age. The details of her story I need
not repeat. The fate of such girls is too well known to
need rehearsal. We all wept together as she talked,
and, when Cousin Gerrit returned to summon us away,
we needed no further education to make us earnest
abolitionists.</p>
<p>Dressed as a Quakeress, Harriet started at twilight
with one of Mr. Smith's faithful clerks in a carriage for
Oswego, there to cross the lake to Canada. The next
day her master and the marshals from Syracuse were
on her track in Peterboro, and traced her to Mr. Smith's
premises. He was quite gracious in receiving them,
and, while assuring them that there was no slave there,
he said that they were at liberty to make a thorough
search of the house and grounds. He invited them to
stay and dine and kept them talking as long as possible,
as every hour helped Harriet to get beyond their
reach; for, although she had eighteen hours the start
of them, yet we feared some accident might have delayed
her. The master was evidently a gentleman,
for, on Mr. Smith's assurance that Harriet was not
there, he made no search, feeling that they could not
do so without appearing to doubt his word. He was
evidently surprised to find an abolitionist so courteous
and affable, and it was interesting to hear them in conversation,
at dinner, calmly discussing the problem of
slavery, while public sentiment was at white heat on
the question. They shook hands warmly at parting
and expressed an equal interest in the final adjustment
of that national difficulty.</p>
<p>In due time the clerk returned with the good news
<SPAN name="Page_64"></SPAN>that Harriet was safe with friends in a good
situation in
Canada. Mr. Smith then published an open letter to
the master in the New York <i>Tribune</i>, saying "that he
would no doubt rejoice to know that his slave Harriet,
in whose fate he felt so deep an interest, was now a free
woman, safe under the shadow of the British throne. I
had the honor of entertaining her under my roof, sending
her in my carriage to Lake Ontario, just eighteen
hours before your arrival: hence my willingness to have
you search my premises."</p>
<p>Like the varied combinations of the kaleidoscope, the
scenes in our social life at Peterboro were continually
changing from grave to gay. Some years later we had
a most hilarious occasion at the marriage of Mary
Cochrane, sister of General John Cochrane, to Chapman
Biddle, of Philadelphia. The festivities, which
were kept up for three days, involved most elaborate
preparations for breakfasts, dinners, etc., there being
no Delmonico's in that remote part of the country.
It was decided in family council that we had sufficient
culinary talent under the roof to prepare the entire <i>menu</i>
of substantials and delicacies, from soup and salmon to
cakes and creams. So, gifted ladies and gentlemen
were impressed into the service. The Fitzhughs all
had a natural talent for cooking, and chief among them
was Isabella, wife of a naval officer,—Lieutenant Swift
of Geneva,—who had made a profound study of all
the authorities from Archestratus, a poet in Syracuse,
the most famous cook among the Greeks, down to our
own Miss Leslie. Accordingly she was elected manager
of the occasion, and to each one was assigned the
specialty in which she claimed to excel. Those who
had no specialty were assistants to those who had. In
<SPAN name="Page_65"></SPAN>this humble office—"assistant at large"—I labored
throughout.</p>
<p>Cooking is a high art. A wise Egyptian said, long
ago: "The degree of taste and skill manifested by a
nation in the preparation of food may be regarded as to
a very considerable extent proportioned to its culture
and refinement." In early times men, only, were
deemed capable of handling fire, whether at the altar
or the hearthstone. We read in the Scriptures that
Abraham prepared cakes of fine meal and a calf tender
and good, which, with butter and milk, he set before
the three angels in the plains of Mamre. We are told,
too, of the chief butler and chief baker as officers in the
household of King Pharaoh. I would like to call the
attention of my readers to the dignity of this profession,
which some young women affect to despise. The fact
that angels eat, shows that we may be called upon in the
next sphere to cook even for cherubim and seraphim.
How important, then, to cultivate one's gifts in that
direction!</p>
<p>With such facts before us, we stirred and pounded,
whipped and ground, coaxed the delicate meats from
crabs and lobsters and the succulent peas from the pods,
and grated corn and cocoanut with the same cheerfulness
and devotion that we played Mendelssohn's
"Songs Without Words" on the piano, the Spanish
Fandango on our guitars, or danced the minuet, polka,
lancers, or Virginia reel.</p>
<p>During the day of the wedding, every stage coach was
crowded with guests from the North, South, East, and
West, and, as the twilight deepened, carriages began
to roll in with neighbors and friends living at short distances,
until the house and grounds were full. A son
<SPAN name="Page_66"></SPAN>of Bishop Coxe, who married the tall and stately
sister
of Roscoe Conkling, performed the ceremony. The
beautiful young bride was given away by her Uncle Gerrit.
The congratulations, the feast, and all went off
with fitting decorum in the usual way. The best proof
of the excellence of our viands was that they were all
speedily swept from mortal view, and every housewife
wanted a recipe for something.</p>
<p>As the grand dinner was to come off the next day,
our thoughts now turned in that direction. The responsibility
rested heavily on the heads of the chief
actors, and they reported troubled dreams and unduly
early rising. Dear Belle Swift was up in season and her
white soup stood serenely in a tin pan, on an upper shelf,
before the town clock struck seven. If it had not taken
that position so early, it might have been incorporated
with higher forms of life than that into which it
eventually fell. Another artist was also on the wing
early, and in pursuit of a tin pan in which to hide her
precious compound, she unwittingly seized this one,
and the rich white soup rolled down her raven locks
like the oil on Aaron's beard, and enveloped her in a
veil of filmy whiteness. I heard the splash and the
exclamation of surprise and entered the butler's pantry
just in time to see the heiress of the Smith estate standing
like a statue, tin pan in hand, soup in her curls, her
eyebrows and eyelashes,—collar, cuffs, and morning
dress saturated,—and Belle, at a little distance, looking
at her and the soup on the floor with surprise and disgust
depicted on every feature. The tableau was inexpressibly
comical, and I could not help laughing
outright; whereupon Belle turned on me, and, with
indignant tones, said, "If you had been up since four
<SPAN name="Page_67"></SPAN>o'clock making that soup you would not stand
there like
a laughing monkey, without the least feeling of pity!"
Poor Lizzie was very sorry, and would have shed tears,
but they could not penetrate that film of soup. I tried
to apologize, but could only laugh the more when I
saw Belle crying and Lizzie standing as if hoping that
the soup might be scraped off her and gathered from
the floor and made to do duty on the occasion.</p>
<p>After breakfast, ladies and gentlemen, alike in white
aprons, crowded into the dining room and kitchen, each
to perform the allotted task. George Biddle of Philadelphia
and John B. Miller of Utica, in holiday spirits,
were irrepressible—everywhere at the same moment,
helping or hindering as the case might be. Dear Belle,
having only partially recovered from the white-soup
catastrophe, called Mr. Biddle to hold the ice-cream
freezer while she poured in the luscious compound she
had just prepared. He held it up without resting it on
anything, while Belle slowly poured in the cream. As
the freezer had no indentations round the top or rim
to brace the thumbs and fingers, when it grew suddenly
heavier his hands slipped and down went the whole
thing, spattering poor Belle and spoiling a beautiful
pair of gaiters in which, as she had very pretty feet, she
took a laudable pride. In another corner sat Wealthea
Backus, grating some cocoanut. While struggling in
that operation, John Miller, feeling hilarious, was annoying
her in divers ways; at length she drew the grater
across his nose, gently, as she intended, but alas! she
took the skin off, and John's beauty, for the remainder
of the festivities, was marred with a black patch on that
prominent feature. One can readily imagine the fun
that must have transpired where so many amateur
<SPAN name="Page_68"></SPAN>cooks were at work round one table, with all
manner
of culinary tools and ingredients.</p>
<p>As assistant-at-large I was summoned to the cellar,
where Mrs. Cornelia Barclay of New York was evolving
from a pan of flour and water that miracle in the
pie department called puff paste. This, it seems, can
only be accomplished where the thermometer is below
forty, and near a refrigerator where the compound can
be kept cold until ready to be popped into the oven.
No jokes or nonsense here. With queenly dignity the
flour and water were gently compressed. Here one
hand must not know what the other doeth. Bits of butter
must be so deftly introduced that even the rolling
pin may be unconscious of its work. As the artist gave
the last touch to an exquisite lemon pie, with a mingled
expression of pride and satisfaction on her classic features,
she ordered me to bear it to the oven. In the
transit I met Madam Belle. "Don't let that fall," she
said sneeringly. Fortunately I did not, and returned
in triumph to transport another. I was then summoned
to a consultation with the committee on toasts,
consisting of James Cochrane, John Miller, and myself.
Mr. Miller had one for each guest already written, all
of which we accepted and pronounced very good.</p>
<p>Strange to say, a most excellent dinner emerged from
all this uproar and confusion. The table, with its silver,
china, flowers, and rich viands, the guests in satins,
velvets, jewels, soft laces, and bright cravats, together
reflecting all the colors of the prism, looked as beautiful
as the rainbow after a thunderstorm.</p>
<p>Twenty years ago I made my last sad visit to that
spot so rich with pleasant memories of bygone days.
A few relatives and family friends gathered there to
<SPAN name="Page_69"></SPAN>pay the last tokens of respect to our noble
cousin. It
was on one of the coldest days of gray December that
we laid him in the frozen earth, to be seen no more.
He died from a stroke of apoplexy in New York city,
at the home of his niece, Mrs. Ellen Cochrane Walter,
whose mother was Mr. Smith's only sister. The journey
from New York to Peterboro was cold and dreary,
and climbing the hills from Canastota in an open sleigh,
nine hundred feet above the valley, with the thermometer
below zero, before sunrise, made all nature look as
sombre as the sad errand on which we came.</p>
<p>Outside the mansion everything in its wintry garb
was cold and still, and all within was silent as the grave.
The central figure, the light and joy of that home, had
vanished forever. He who had welcomed us on that
threshold for half a century would welcome us no
more. We did what we could to dissipate the gloom
that settled on us all. We did not intensify our grief
by darkening the house and covering ourselves with
black crape, but wore our accustomed dresses of chastened
colors and opened all the blinds that the glad
sunshine might stream in. We hung the apartment
where the casket stood with wreaths of evergreens, and
overhead we wove his favorite mottoes in living letters,
"Equal rights for all!" "Rescue Cuba now!" The
religious services were short and simple; the Unitarian
clergyman from Syracuse made a few remarks,
the children from the orphan asylum, in which he was
deeply interested, sang an appropriate hymn, and
around the grave stood representatives of the Biddles,
the Dixwells, the Sedgwicks, the Barclays, and Stantons,
and three generations of his immediate family.
With a few appropriate words from General John
<SPAN name="Page_70"></SPAN>Cochrane we left our beloved kinsman alone in his
last
resting place. Two months later, on his birthday, his
wife, Ann Carroll Fitzhugh, passed away and was laid
by his side. Theirs was a remarkably happy union of
over half a century, and they were soon reunited in the
life eternal.</p>
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