Eighty Years and More; Reminiscences 1815-1897
British officer on his way to Canada. When it was possible I walked on
deck with the captain, or sat in some sheltered corner, watching the
waves. We arrived in New York, by rail, the day before Christmas.
Everything looked bright and gay in our streets. It seemed to me that
the sky was clearer, the air more refreshing, and the sunlight more
brilliant than in any other land!
CHAPTER VII.
MOTHERHOOD.
We found my sister Harriet in a new home in Clinton Place (Eighth
Street), New York city, then considered so far up town that Mr. Eaton's
friends were continually asking him why he went so far away from the
social center, though in a few months they followed him. Here we passed
a week. I especially enjoyed seeing my little niece and nephew, the only
grandchildren in the family. The girl was the most beautiful child I
ever saw, and the boy the most intelligent and amusing. He was very fond
of hearing me recite the poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes entitled "The
Height of the Ridiculous," which I did many times, but he always wanted
to see the lines that almost killed the man with laughing. He went
around to a number of the bookstores one day and inquired for them. I
told him afterward they were never published; that when Mr. Holmes saw
the effect on his servant he suppressed them, lest they should produce
the same effect on the typesetters, editors, and the readers of the
Boston newspapers. My explanation never satisfied him. I told him he
might write to Mr. Holmes, and ask the privilege of reading the original
manuscript, if it still was or ever had been in existence. As one of my
grand-nephews was troubled in exactly the same way, I decided to appeal
myself to Dr. Holmes for the enlightenment of this second generation. So
I wrote him the following letter, which he kindly answered, telling us
that his "wretched man" was a myth like the heroes in "Mother Goose's
Melodies":
"DEAR DR. HOLMES:
"I have a little nephew to whom I often recite 'The Height of the
Ridiculous,' and he invariably asks for the lines that produced the
fatal effect on your servant. He visited most of the bookstores in
New York city to find them, and nothing but your own word, I am
sure, will ever convince him that the 'wretched man' is but a
figment of your imagination. I tried to satisfy him by saying you
did not dare to publish the lines lest they should produce a
similar effect on the typesetters, editors, and the readers of the
Boston journals.
"However, he wishes me to ask you whether you kept a copy of the
original manuscript, or could reproduce the lines with equal power.
If not too much trouble, please send me a few lines on this point,
and greatly oblige,
"Yours sincerely,
"ELIZABETH CADY STANTON."
"MY DEAR MRS. STANTON:
"I wish you would explain to your little nephew that the story of
the poor fellow who almost died laughing was a kind of a dream of
mine, and not a real thing that happened, any more than that an old
woman 'lived in a shoe and had so many children she didn't know
what to do,' or that Jack climbed the bean stalk and found the
giant who lived at the top of it. You can explain to him what is
meant by imagination, and thus turn my youthful rhymes into a text
for a discourse worthy of the Concord School of Philosophy. I have
not my poems by me here, but I remember that 'The Height of the
Ridiculous' ended with this verse:
"Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can."
"But tell your nephew he mustn't cry about it any more than because
geese go barefoot and bald eagles have no nightcaps. The verses are
in all the editions of my poems.
"Believe me, dear Mrs. Stanton,
"Very Truly and Respectfully Yours,
"OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES."
After spending the holidays in New York city, we started for Johnstown
in a "stage sleigh, conveying the United States mail," drawn by spanking
teams of four horses, up the Hudson River valley. We were three days
going to Albany, stopping over night at various points; a journey now
performed in three hours. The weather was clear and cold, the sleighing
fine, the scenery grand, and our traveling companions most entertaining,
so the trip was very enjoyable. From Albany to Schenectady we went in
the railway cars; then another sleighride of thirty miles brought us to
Johnstown. My native hills, buried under two feet of snow, tinted with
the last rays of the setting sun, were a beautiful and familiar sight.
Though I had been absent but ten months, it seemed like years, and I was
surprised to find how few changes had occurred since I left. My father
and mother, sisters Madge and Kate, the old house and furniture, the
neighbors, all looked precisely the same as when I left them. I had
seen so much and been so constantly on the wing that I wondered that all
things here should have stood still. I expected to hear of many births,
marriages, deaths, and social upheavals, but the village news was
remarkably meager. This hunger for home news on returning is common, I
suppose, to all travelers.
Our trunks unpacked, wardrobes arranged in closets and drawers, the
excitement of seeing friends over, we spent some time in making plans
for the future.
My husband, after some consultation with my father, decided to enter his
office and commence the study of the law. As this arrangement kept me
under the parental roof, I had two added years of pleasure, walking,
driving, and riding on horseback with my sisters. Madge and Kate were
dearer to me than ever, as I saw the inevitable separation awaiting us
in the near future. In due time they were married and commenced
housekeeping--Madge in her husband's house near by, and Kate in Buffalo.
All my sisters were peculiarly fortunate in their marriages; their
husbands being men of fine presence, liberal education, high moral
character, and marked ability. These were pleasant and profitable years.
I devoted them to reading law, history, and political economy, with
occasional interruptions to take part in some temperance or anti-slavery
excitement.
Eliza Murray and I had classes of colored children in the Sunday school.
On one occasion, when there was to be a festival, speaking in the
church, a procession through the streets, and other public performances
for the Sunday-school celebration, some narrow-minded bigots objected to
the colored children taking part. They approached Miss Murray and me
with most persuasive tones on the wisdom of not allowing them to march
in the procession to the church. We said, "Oh, no! It won't do to
disappoint the children. They are all dressed, with their badges on, and
looking forward with great pleasure to the festivities of the day.
Besides, we would not cater to any of these contemptible prejudices
against color." We were all assembled in the courthouse preparatory to
forming in the line of march. Some were determined to drive the colored
children home, but Miss Murray and I, like two defiant hens, kept our
little brood close behind us, determined to conquer or perish in the
struggle. At last milder counsels prevailed, and it was agreed that they
might march in the rear. We made no objection and fell into line, but,
when we reached the church door, it was promptly closed as the last
white child went in. We tried two other doors, but all were guarded. We
shed tears of vexation and pity for the poor children, and, when they
asked us the reason why they could not go in, we were embarrassed and
mortified with the explanation we were forced to give. However, I
invited them to my father's house, where Miss Murray and I gave them
refreshments and entertained them for the rest of the day.
The puzzling questions of theology and poverty that had occupied so much
of my thoughts, now gave place to the practical one, "what to do with a
baby." Though motherhood is the most important of all the
professions,--requiring more knowledge than any other department in
human affairs,--yet there is not sufficient attention given to the
preparation for this office. If we buy a plant of a horticulturist we
ask him many questions as to its needs, whether it thrives best in
sunshine or in shade, whether it needs much or little water, what
degrees of heat or cold; but when we hold in our arms for the first
time, a being of infinite possibilities, in whose wisdom may rest the
destiny of a nation, we take it for granted that the laws governing its
life, health, and happiness are intuitively understood, that there is
nothing new to be learned in regard to it. Yet here is a science to
which philosophers have, as yet, given but little attention. An
important fact has only been discovered and acted upon within the last
ten years, that children come into the world tired, and not hungry,
exhausted with the perilous journey. Instead of being thoroughly bathed
and dressed, and kept on the rack while the nurse makes a prolonged
toilet and feeds it some nostrum supposed to have much needed medicinal
influence, the child's face, eyes, and mouth should be hastily washed
with warm water, and the rest of its body thoroughly oiled, and then it
should be slipped into a soft pillow case, wrapped in a blanket, and
laid to sleep. Ordinarily, in the proper conditions, with its face
uncovered in a cool, pure atmosphere, it will sleep twelve hours. Then
it should be bathed, fed, and clothed in a high-necked, long-sleeved
silk shirt and a blanket, all of which could be done in five minutes. As
babies lie still most of the time the first six weeks, they need no
dressing. I think the nurse was a full hour bathing and dressing my
firstborn, who protested with a melancholy wail every blessed minute.
Ignorant myself of the initiative steps on the threshold of time, I
supposed this proceeding was approved by the best authorities. However,
I had been thinking, reading, observing, and had as little faith in the
popular theories in regard to babies as on any other subject. I saw
them, on all sides, ill half the time, pale and peevish, dying early,
having no joy in life. I heard parents complaining of weary days and
sleepless nights, while each child, in turn, ran the gauntlet of red
gum, jaundice, whooping cough, chicken-pox, mumps, measles, scarlet
fever, and fits. They all seemed to think these inflictions were a part
of the eternal plan--that Providence had a kind of Pandora's box, from
which he scattered these venerable diseases most liberally among those
whom he especially loved. Having gone through the ordeal of bearing a
child, I was determined, if possible, to keep him, so I read everything
I could find on the subject. But the literature on this subject was as
confusing and unsatisfactory as the longer and shorter catechisms and
the Thirty-nine Articles of our faith. I had recently visited our dear
friends, Theodore and Angelina Grimke-Weld, and they warned me against
books on this subject. They had been so misled by one author, who
assured them that the stomach of a child could only hold one
tablespoonful, that they nearly starved their firstborn to death. Though
the child dwindled, day by day, and, at the end of a month, looked like
a little old man, yet they still stood by the distinguished author.
Fortunately, they both went off, one day, and left the child with Sister
"Sarah," who thought she would make an experiment and see what a child's
stomach could hold, as she had grave doubts about the tablespoonful
theory. To her surprise the baby took a pint bottle full of milk, and
had the sweetest sleep thereon he had known in his earthly career. After