Eighty Years and More; Reminiscences 1815-1897
Mrs. Chapman and her cohorts, was most artistically decorated. There one
could purchase whatever the fancy could desire, for English friends,
stimulated by the appeals of Harriet Martineau and Elizabeth Pease, used
to send boxes of beautiful things, gathered from all parts of the
Eastern Continent. There, too, one could get a most _recherché_ luncheon
in the society of the literati of Boston; for, however indifferent many
were to slavery _per se_, they enjoyed these fairs, and all classes
flocked there till far into the night. It was a kind of ladies' exchange
for the holiday week, where each one was sure to meet her friends. The
fair and the annual convention, coming in succession, intensified the
interest in both. I never grew weary of the conventions, though I
attended all the sessions, lasting, sometimes, until eleven o'clock at
night. The fiery eloquence of the abolitionists, the amusing episodes
that occurred when some crank was suppressed and borne out on the
shoulders of his brethren, gave sufficient variety to the proceedings to
keep the interest up to high-water mark.
There was one old man dressed in white, carrying a scythe, who imagined
himself the personification of "Time," though called "Father Lampson."
Occasionally he would bubble over with some prophetic vision, and, as he
could not be silenced, he was carried out. He usually made himself as
limp as possible, which added to the difficulty of his exit and the
amusement of the audience. A ripple of merriment would unsettle, for a
moment, even the dignity of the platform when Abigail Folsom, another
crank, would shout from the gallery, "Stop not, my brother, on the order
of your going, but go." The abolitionists were making the experiment, at
this time, of a free platform, allowing everyone to speak as moved by
the spirit, but they soon found that would not do, as those evidently
moved by the spirit of mischief were quite as apt to air their vagaries
as those moved by the spirit of truth.
However, the Garrisonian platform always maintained a certain degree of
freedom outside its regular programme, and, although this involved extra
duty in suppressing cranks, yet the meeting gained enthusiasm by some
good spontaneous speaking on the floor as well as on the platform. A
number of immense mass meetings were held in Faneuil Hall, a large,
dreary place, with its bare walls and innumerable dingy windows. The
only attempt at an ornament was the American eagle, with its wings
spread and claws firmly set, in the middle of the gallery. The gilt was
worn off its beak, giving it the appearance, as Edmund Quincy said, of
having a bad cold in the head.
This old hall was sacred to so many memories connected with the early
days of the Revolution that it was a kind of Mecca for the lovers of
liberty visiting Boston. The anti-slavery meetings held there were often
disturbed by mobs that would hold the most gifted orator at bay hour
after hour, and would listen only to the songs of the Hutchinson family.
Although these songs were a condensed extract of the whole anti-slavery
constitution and by-laws, yet the mob was as peaceful under these paeans
to liberty as a child under the influence of an anodyne. What a welcome
and beautiful vision that was when the four brothers, in blue broadcloth
and white collars, turned down _à la_ Byron, and little sister Abby in
silk, soft lace, and blue ribbon, appeared on the platform to sing their
quaint ballads of freedom! Fresh from the hills of New Hampshire, they
looked so sturdy, so vigorous, so pure, so true that they seemed fitting
representatives of all the cardinal virtues, and even a howling mob
could not resist their influence. Perhaps, after one of their ballads,
the mob would listen five minutes to Wendell Phillips or Garrison until
he gave them some home thrusts, when all was uproar again. The Northern
merchants who made their fortunes out of Southern cotton, the
politicians who wanted votes, and the ministers who wanted to keep peace
in the churches, were all as much opposed to the anti-slavery agitation
as were the slaveholders themselves. These were the classes the mob
represented, though seemingly composed of gamblers, liquor dealers, and
demagogues. For years the anti-slavery struggle at the North was carried
on against statecraft, priestcraft, the cupidity of the moneyed classes,
and the ignorance of the masses, but, in spite of all these forces of
evil, it triumphed at last.
I was in Boston at the time that Lane and Wright, some metaphysical
Englishmen, and our own Alcott held their famous philosophical
conversations, in which Elizabeth Peabody took part. I went to them
regularly. I was ambitious to absorb all the wisdom I could, but,
really, I could not give an intelligent report of the points under
discussion at any sitting. Oliver Johnson asked me, one day, if I
enjoyed them. I thought, from a twinkle in his eye, that he thought I
did not, so I told him I was ashamed to confess that I did not know what
they were talking about. He said, "Neither do I,--very few of their
hearers do,--so you need not be surprised that they are incomprehensible
to you, nor think less of your own capacity."
I was indebted to Mr. Johnson for several of the greatest pleasures I
enjoyed in Boston. He escorted me to an entire course of Theodore
Parker's lectures, given in Marlborough Chapel. This was soon after the
great preacher had given his famous sermon on "The Permanent and
Transient in Religion," when he was ostracised, even by the Unitarians,
for his radical utterances, and not permitted to preach in any of their
pulpits. His lectures were deemed still more heterodox than that sermon.
He shocked the orthodox churches of that day--more, even, than Ingersoll
has in our times.
The lectures, however, were so soul-satisfying to me that I was
surprised at the bitter criticisms I heard expressed. Though they were
two hours long, I never grew weary, and, when the course ended, I said
to Mr. Johnson:
"I wish I could hear them over again."
"Well, you can," said he, "Mr. Parker is to repeat them in
Cambridgeport, beginning next week." Accordingly we went there and heard
them again with equal satisfaction.
During the winter in Boston I attended all the lectures, churches,
theaters, concerts, and temperance, peace, and prison-reform conventions
within my reach. I had never lived in such an enthusiastically literary
and reform latitude before, and my mental powers were kept at the
highest tension. We went to Chelsea, for the summer, and boarded with
the Baptist minister, the Rev. John Wesley Olmstead, afterward editor of
_The Watchman and Reflector_. He had married my cousin, Mary Livingston,
one of the most lovely, unselfish characters I ever knew. There I had
the opportunity of meeting several of the leading Baptist ministers in
New England, and, as I was thoroughly imbued with Parker's ideas, we had
many heated discussions on theology. There, too, I met Orestes Bronson,
a remarkably well-read man, who had gone through every phase of
religious experience from blank atheism to the bosom of the Catholic
Church, where I believe he found repose at the end of his days. He was
so arbitrary and dogmatic that most people did not like him; but I
appreciated his acquaintance, as he was a liberal thinker and had a
world of information which he readily imparted to those of a teachable
spirit. As I was then in a hungering, thirsting condition for truth on
every subject, the friendship of such a man was, to me, an inestimable
blessing. Reading Theodore Parker's lectures, years afterward, I was
surprised to find how little there was in them to shock anybody--the
majority of thinking people having grown up to them.
While living in Chelsea two years, I used to walk (there being no public
conveyances running on Sunday) from the ferry to Marlborough Chapel to
hear Mr. Parker preach. It was a long walk, over two miles, and I was so
tired, on reaching the chapel, that I made it a point to sleep through
all the preliminary service, so as to be fresh for the sermon, as the
friend next whom I sat always wakened me in time. One Sunday, when my
friend was absent, it being a very warm day and I unusually fatigued, I
slept until the sexton informed me that he was about to close the doors!
In an unwary moment I imparted this fact to my Baptist friends. They
made all manner of fun ever afterward of the soothing nature of Mr.
Parker's theology, and my long walk, every Sunday, to repose in the
shadow of a heterodox altar. Still, the loss of the sermon was the only
vexatious part of it, and I had the benefit of the walk and the
refreshing slumber, to the music of Mr. Parker's melodious voice and the
deep-toned organ.
Mrs. Oliver Johnson and I spent two days at the Brook Farm Community
when in the height of its prosperity. There I met the Ripleys,--who
were, I believe, the backbone of the experiment,--William Henry
Channing, Bronson Alcott, Charles A. Dana, Frederick Cabot, William
Chase, Mrs. Horace Greeley, who was spending a few days there, and many
others, whose names I cannot recall. Here was a charming family of
intelligent men and women, doing their own farm and house work, with
lectures, readings, music, dancing, and games when desired; realizing,
in a measure, Edward Bellamy's beautiful vision of the equal conditions
of the human family in the year 2000. The story of the beginning and end
of this experiment of community life has been told so often that I will
simply say that its failure was a grave disappointment to those most
deeply interested in its success. Mr. Channing told me, years after,
when he was pastor of the Unitarian church in Rochester, as we were
wandering through Mount Hope one day, that, when the Roxbury community
was dissolved and he was obliged to return to the old life of
competition, he would gladly have been laid under the sod, as the
isolated home seemed so solitary, silent, and selfish that the whole
atmosphere was oppressive.
In 1843 my father moved to Albany, to establish my brothers-in-law, Mr.
Wilkeson and Mr. McMartin, in the legal profession. That made Albany the
family rallying point for a few years. This enabled me to spend several
winters at the Capital and to take an active part in the discussion of
the Married Woman's Property Bill, then pending in the legislature.
William H. Seward, Governor of the State from 1839 to 1843, recommended
the Bill, and his wife, a woman of rare intelligence, advocated it in
society. Together we had the opportunity of talking with many members,
both of the Senate and the Assembly, in social circles, as well as in
their committee rooms. Bills were pending from 1836 until 1848, when the
measure finally passed.
My second son was born in Albany, in March, 1844, under more favorable
auspices than the first, as I knew, then, what to do with a baby.
Returning to Chelsea we commenced housekeeping, which afforded me
another chapter of experience. A new house, newly furnished, with
beautiful views of Boston Bay, was all I could desire. Mr. Stanton
announced to me, in starting, that his business would occupy all his
time, and that I must take entire charge of the housekeeping. So, with
two good servants and two babies under my sole supervision, my time was
pleasantly occupied.
When first installed as mistress over an establishment, one has that
same feeling of pride and satisfaction that a young minister must have
in taking charge of his first congregation. It is a proud moment in a
woman's life to reign supreme within four walls, to be the one to whom
all questions of domestic pleasure and economy are referred, and to hold
in her hand that little family book in which the daily expenses, the
outgoings and incomings, are duly registered. I studied up everything