In 1867 streets were so deserted—was not everybody in New York for the day?—that little children adopted them as a perfectly6 safe playground. There were no elevated railroads, no trolley7 cars, no automobiles8, no bicycles, no electric lights, no telephones.
Our move was signalized by a complication of 331difficulties. Four of my younger children found this an altogether suitable time to indulge in measles9. Hasty visits to a near-by auction10 room resulted in a few needful articles of furniture which were lent to us—for we could not purchase. The auctioneer was to own them, and reclaim11 them if not paid for in a certain time. A small room was shelved for the books that had survived the sacking of our house, and to our great satisfaction we found that the much-used books—books of reference—had proven too bulky or too shabby to be stolen. These and other well-worn, well-read books became the nucleus12 of a large library, and hold to-day in their tattered13 bindings places of honor denied newer lights of more creditable appearance. We were not aware when we moved to Brooklyn Heights that we had descended14 into the very centre of the wealthiest society of the city. Had we known this, it would have signified nothing to us. Our extreme poverty forbade any expectation of indulgence in social life, even had we felt we had the smallest right to recognition. We had never known anything about the social ambition of which in later years we hear so much—still less did we now regard it. We "asked our fellow-man for leave to toil," and asked nothing more.
We soon discovered that the people around us lived in affluent15 ease and elegance—but that was not our affair! We had no place in their world, nor did we desire it. To conceal16 our true condition was our instinctive17 impulse, and to that end we shunned18 notice. Sometimes a great wave of desolation 332and loneliness—a longing19 inexpressible for companionship—would possess me. At this time there was a bridge over Broadway below Cortlandt Street. I sometimes, at seasons of great depression, accompanied my husband to his office, and would ascend20 the steps to this bridge and look up and down the restless sea of passing crowds. Such a sickening sense of loneliness would come over me, I would feel that my heart was breaking. All seemed so desolate21, so hopeless, for us in this great unknown world. We knew ourselves not only strangers but aliens, outcasts.
Dear little Willy came to me one day and advised me to change his terrier's name, "Rebel,"—a name he had borne by reason of his own disposition22, and not at all in honor of the "lost cause." "The boys will stone him," said Willy; "I am going to call him 'Prince' in the street and 'Rebel' at home." On another day his younger sisters were decoyed into the garden of a neighbor, and there informed by the children of the house that we would not be allowed to live in the street—that we were "Rebels, and slave-drivers, and awful people!" These painful incidents were of everyday occurrence. "Mamma told me," said one of the little ones, "that God loves us. Will everybody else hate us?" Before very long, however, the little rebels made friends and were forgiven all their enormities.
The good people of Brooklyn at that time were taking up their cobblestones and laying a wooden pavement on Pierpont Street, and fascinating blocks of wood were piled at intervals23 in the street. Of 333course, the boys immediately built of them a village of tiny houses, and one day a committee of bright-eyed fellows—Tom and Charley Nichols and Dr. Schenck's boys—waited on me with a request that my little girls be permitted to "come out and keep house" for them. The little girls, they added gallantly25, would be allowed to choose the boys! That was not difficult. The small housekeepers26 walked off with Tom and Charley. "Say," said one of the proud owners of real estate, with a pristine28 recognition of woman's place in the household, "will your cook give you some potatoes and apples? We've got a splendid fire around the corner."
"Sure, an I'll not lave you do it," said Anne out of the basement window. "Is it burnin' down the place ye'll be afther doin'?"—but a "Please, Anne, dear," from the smallest housekeeper27 settled the matter. A fire in the street would be a strange spectacle in the Borough29 of Brooklyn to-day.
A family of healthy children well governed cannot be unhappy, even in the most depressing circumstances. My own little brood positively30 refused to be miserable31. They had literally32 nothing that must be acquired with money, but their own ingenuity33 supplied all deficiencies. In the vacant space in the rear of our house there was a cherry tree which never fruited, but bore a wealth of green leaves and blossoms. There the children elected to establish a menagerie. They soon stocked it from the "estray" animals in the street. They were "Rebel," the terrier; "Vixen," the dachshund; "Tearful Tommy," the cat; "Desdemona," a white rabbit; and "Othello," 334her black husband, purchased from a dealer34; and "Fleetwing," the pigeon, which had trustfully entered one of Roger's traps. As there were no stockades36, no cages, Fleetwing was tethered to the cherry tree, and as cord might wound her slender leg, a broad string of muslin was provided for her comfort.
One day I heard lamentation37 and excited barking in the menagerie. Fleetwing had vindicated38 her right to her name, and was calmly sailing in the blue ether, like a kite with a very long tail—her muslin fetter39 trailing behind her. We hoped she would return, but she never did. Othello and Desdemona were very interesting. They always came, like children, to the table with the dessert, hopping40 around on the cloth from corner to corner for bits of celery; but when the fires were kindled41, Desdemona breathed coal gas from the register, keeled over, and expired. Othello's mourning coat expressed suitable sorrow and respect, but very soon he too experimented with the register and followed his helpmate.
The time came (with these healthy children to feed) when, like Mrs. Cadwalader, I had to get my coals by stratagem42 and pray to heaven for my salad oil—with this difference, that my prayer was for daily bread, and that alone. Long and painfully did I ponder the dreadful problem—how to keep my family alive without driving the dear head of the house to desperation. Study, work, unremitting study and work from early morning until late at night was his daily portion. Not until the last expedient43 335had failed should he know aught of my household anxieties.
At last I resolved to go to a dignified44 old gentleman I had observed behind the desk at a neighboring grocery and tell him the truth. But I remembered my New York experience with the silver. So be it! I had borne rebuff more than once—I could bear it again.
I told Mr. Champney—for this was the name of the old gentleman—that I was the wife of General Pryor, that we had come North to live, that my husband's profession was not yielding enough for our support, nor had we any immediate24 ground upon which to build hope for better fortune; that I did hope, however, to pay for provisions for my family—sometime, not soon, but certainly if we lived; and that certainly, without food, we should not live!
He wished to know if I was the mother of the children he had seen in his store. I answered in the affirmative, and with no further parley45 he drew forth46 a little yellow pass-book and handed it to me. "Use this freely, madam," he said; "I shall never ask you for a penny! You will pay me. General Pryor is bound to succeed." He kept his word. His German porter, Fred, came to me every morning for my frugal47 orders, and gave me every possible attention. At every day of reckoning demanded by myself, my creditor48 politely remarked, there was "no occasion for hurry"! His name, "S. T. Champney," was, thenceforward, with my children, "the St."—and as such remains49 in my memory.
The city of Brooklyn had grown almost as rapidly 336as the Western cities—Chicago, Seattle, and others, and a great number of poor people were crowding into it, seeking homes. Perpetually recurring50 instances of distress51 and homelessness appealed to the good women of Brooklyn Heights—Mrs. Bulkley, Mrs. Packer, Mrs. Alanson Trask, Mrs. Eaton, wife of a professor of the Packer Institute, Mrs. Rosman, Mrs. Craig, and others, and they finally resolved to found a home for friendless women and children. They rented a small frame building on one of the upper streets, and in a few months the house was crowded. Mrs. Eaton, early sent by heaven to be my good angel, had longed for an opportunity to relieve my loneliness and isolation52, and she procured53 for me an invitation to join the society of women. I soon became interested, and spent part of every day with the wretched beneficiaries of the charity. Finally our small house was unwisely crowded, and the children became ill. Mrs. Packer took one of the poor little babies in a dying condition to her own home, and nursed it with the utmost tenderness. I gave shelter to one of the women, and others were taken by the different members of the society until we could command healthy quarters for them. We resolved to purchase a large house, and entered with great zeal54 upon our work. It was my good fortune to discover the present Home on Concord55 Street, the fine old Bache mansion56 about to be sold for a beer-garden. I was requested to draw up a petition to the legislature for an appropriation57, which I did in the most forceful language I could command. Mrs. Packer went to Albany with it, and $10,000 337was immediately granted us. Each of us (we were only fifteen), armed with a little collector's book, undertook to canvass58 the town. We needed $20,000 more to buy our home.
I went forth with a heavy heart—for I was the only one who had not headed her subscription59 with $500. I collected a few pitiful sums only. Nobody would listen to me—nobody knew me! I bore it as long as I could, and one evening I announced to my astounded60 general that I intended to give a concert. He informed me in strenuous61 English that he considered me a lunatic.
However, I went to work. I engaged a professional reader, who agreed to give his services; persuaded a German music teacher to lend me her pupils; and then looked around for a "star." Investigation62 resulted in my learning that Madame Anna Bishop63 was living in New York. Once a very famous prima donna, she was now "shelved," although her voice was still good. She had grown stout64, and could no longer create a sensation in "The Dashing Young Sergeant65" that "marched away" so gallantly fifteen years before.
I hunted up Madame Bishop. She received my proposition graciously. Would she give an evening for the poor friendless women? "Give, my dear lady! I give nothing. Am I not a friendless woman myself! But I'll come for $100, and bring my accompanist. He shall give his evening. But I never sing for nothing."
I engaged madame—and then I was a busy woman indeed. I hired a hall and two pianos, wrote 338programmes and advertisements and had rose-colored cards painted, "Soirée, Musical and Literary." I discovered a florist66 near my hall, and persuaded him to lend me all his plants,—I wrote invitations to my ushers67 and presented each one with a crystal heart for a badge,—and then I went home, on the great evening, tired to death, and perfectly sure it would end in failure. My general, fully35 of the same opinion, tried to comfort me by saying that I would know better next time. He went early to the hall, and when I arrived he was pacing the street in front of the door. "The place is crammed68 full," he announced; "there is hardly standing69 room."
It wanted but eight minutes to the hour announced for commencing, and Madame Bishop had not arrived. Mrs. Gamp's fiddle-string illustration would have again been a feeble expression of mine. My heart almost failed me. But at last the expected carriage arrived,—madame, her maid, and her accompanist. To my exclamation70 of relief, she threw back her head and laughed heartily71: "Oh, you amateurs! Now, you just go and get a seat and enjoy the music. We'll go on by the programme all right."
Advance sale of tickets had yielded $100. This I handed madame in an envelope. All went well. She was very good indeed—very spirited. The dashing young sergeant marched away with all the fire of earlier days. Everybody was pleased. When I thanked madame, she slipped into my hand her own donation—$50. The next day I entered $500 upon my collection book and, thus vindicated, I was able to face my colleagues. 339 A great and useful charity is this Home for friendless women and children in Brooklyn. And noble were the women I learned to know and love who worked with me there. They made me their corresponding secretary, and liked everything I did for them.
Some women formerly72 of high position in the South found temporary refuge in this Home. The world would be surprised if I should give their names! In the depth of winter I once found a woman bearing one of Virginia's oldest names. She was sitting upon a box beside a fireless stove, warming her baby in her bosom. Her husband had gone out to hunt for work! She had no fire, no furniture, no food! Another, belonging to a proud South Carolina family, I found in an attic73 in New York. She had had no food for two days! These, and more, I was enabled by the lovely women of Brooklyn to relieve, delicately and permanently74. Better, truer, more cultivated women I have nowhere known. Of the extent of my own anxieties and privations they never knew. Something within me proudly forbade me to complain. My dear Mrs. Eaton alone knew the true condition of my own family. She lives to bear testimony75 to the truth of the strange story I am telling—the story of a Southern general and his wife, who showed smiling, brave faces to the world, and suffered for ten years the pangs76 of extreme poverty in their home, working all the time to the utmost limit of human endurance. Not one moment's recreation did we allow ourselves—our 340"destiny was work, work, work"—and patiently we fulfilled it. Hard study filled my husband's every waking hour, and few were his hours of sleep. Excessive use of his eyes night and day so injured them that at one time he found reading impossible. Gordon read his law aloud to him for many weeks. I once copied a book of law forms for him as we had no money to buy the book—the hardest work I have ever done! It was my custom to retire at night with my family and, after all were quietly sleeping, to rise and with my work-basket creep down to the library, light a lamp, and sew until two or three o'clock in the morning. There were seven children. All must be clothed. I literally made every garment they wore, even their wraps in winter. Through the kindness of Professor Eaton arrangements were made that enabled my little girls to attend the Packer Institute, founded by the most gracious and beautiful of women, Mrs. Harriet Packer. When they went forth in the morning to their school, they all presented a fresh, well-groomed appearance—the result of the midnight lamp and work-basket!
I remember but one occasion when any member of the family indulged in outside amusements. Just across the river were the brilliant theatres and opera-houses of the great metropolis77. Here in Brooklyn were plays, concerts, balls, evening parties. The children for five or six years after our coming North never supposed these things possible for them. I cannot say the fate of Tantalus was ours. True, the rivers of delight were around us, but we never 341"bent to drink"—never gave the "refluent waters" an opportunity to shrink from our lips. We simply ignored them. But Gordon and Roger had one great pleasure in 1868. It would be hard to make this generation understand the emotions with which they saw and heard Dickens. His books had for a time made the very atmosphere of their lives! They talked Dickensese to each other, and fitted his characters into the situations of their own lives. Now they were to look upon the man himself. Of this experience my daughter writes me:—
"I remember as I awaited his appearance how my heart beat. I doubt whether the recrudescence of Shakespeare would move me as much now. At the appointed hour he ascended78 the little platform of Plymouth Church with a rapid gait, almost running up the few steps, as I remember; but truly my heart was thumping79 so, and there was such a mist of agitation80 before my eyes, that I did not at once clearly discern the great magician. When my brain cleared with a jerk and I could make myself believe that Dickens was really before me, what did I see? A very garish81 person with a velvet82-faced coat and a vast double watch chain—all, as well as his rather heavy-nosed unspiritual face perfectly presented in the photograph of the time. He had an alert, businesslike way with him, no magnetism83, as I recollect84. But his reading impressed me then as now, as perfection of elocution—natural, spontaneous, as if he himself enjoyed every word of it and had never done it before. He read the trial scene from Pickwick inimitably. I think I have since seen the criticism that he did not give us the Sam Weller of our imagination, but certainly it did not so impress me then. I was absolutely satisfied. He followed Pickwick with Dr. Marigold, for which I cared much less. 342Dickens's pathos85, even in my days of thraldom86, almost always struck me as mawkish87. Somehow, in looking at the man, it was hard to believe in his sentiment—though I still think much of it sincere. But truly, in appearance, he is what is now called 'a bounder.' I never read Forster's life of him: I know him only through his own books, but my impression of him from his appearance is that he was not exactly a gentleman. Yet I forgot everything except delight in the reading—after my initial shock of the velvet coat, the ponderous88 watch chains, the countenance89 to match. And to this day one of my most cherished memories is that I saw and heard Dickens."
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1
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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7
trolley
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| n.手推车，台车；无轨电车；有轨电车 | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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housekeepers
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| n.（女）管家( housekeeper的名词复数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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pristine
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| adj.原来的，古时的，原始的，纯净的，无垢的 | |
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borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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stockades
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| n.（防御用的）栅栏，围桩( stockade的名词复数 ) | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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48
creditor
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| n.债仅人，债主，贷方 | |
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49
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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50
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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51
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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52
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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53
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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54
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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55
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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56
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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57
appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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58
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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60
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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61
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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62
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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63
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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65
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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florist
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| n.花商；种花者 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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magnetism
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| n.磁性，吸引力，磁学 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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mawkish
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| adj.多愁善感的的；无味的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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