A Little Girl of Long Ago 14 – Douglas · Verses Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
A Little Girl of Long Ago 14Among Great Things
18
Literature · Historical Fiction
A Little Girl of Long Ago 14
Among Great Things
DouglasEnglish
Were people more enthusiastic in old New York than they are at the end of the century? We have done so much, we have had so many wonderful happenings since then. To be sure, Dickens had been over and made, people thought, a somewhat caustic return for the hospitable welcome; Harriet Martineau had made a tour, and gone home rather favourably impressed; and the winter before the intellectual circle--and it was getting to be quite notable--had honoured the Swedish novelist, Frederica Bremer, and been really charmed by her unaffected sweetness. If they were not quite ready to take up her theories for the advancement of women, they fell to reading the delightful "Neighbours" and "Home." And now there was to be another visitant, "The Swedish Nightingale."
For Mr. Barnum was still the prince of entertainers. Theatres waxed and waned, and new stars came to the front who had still their laurels to win; people strove for cards to the Steven's Terrace, just back of Columbia College on Park Place. Bleecker Street was not out of date, though Mrs. Hamilton Fish had gone up to Stuyvesant Square, and was gathering about her a political clique. There were card-parties and dances; there were Christy's Minstrels and the Hutchinson family; and some of the more intellectual circles had conversaziones where the best talent displayed itself. Still, Barnum could not be crowded out. No sarcasm withered him; and his variety was infinite. It was a safe place for mothers to go and take their children. The men had formed several ambitious clubs, and were beginning to entertain themselves.
Jenny Lind had already captivated Europe. Mr. Barnum judiciously brought interest up to fever heat. After the bargain was made known, and the young singer had taken her passage with her suite, a musical rage pervaded the very city. The streets leading to the wharf were thronged by crowds in the wildest enthusiasm. Triumphal arches were built across Canal Street, and as she came down the gang-plank of the steamer, shouts rent the very air.
The young traveller and poet, Bayard Taylor, had captured the prize offered for the finest ode to be sung at her first concert. Two hundred dollars seemed a large price at that time, as Tennyson had not been offered a thousand for a poem. So great was the inquiry for tickets, that they were sold at auction a few days previous. And Mr. Genin, a Broadway hatter, signalised himself by making the highest bid for a ticket,--two hundred and twenty-five dollars. Over one thousand tickets were sold on the first day.
The concert was to be at Castle Garden. At five, the doors were opened, and people began to throng in, though each seat had been secured to its proper owner; and by eight, the audience was in a perfect transport of expectation. It was said to be the largest audience assembled to listen to her. And when she was led on the stage by her manager, the enthusiasm was beyond description. It seemed to divine beforehand that the fair-haired Swedish songstress would meet all expectations; and she passed beyond it.
Ben had been caught by the enthusiasm, and squandered his savings on a ticket. He and Jim had been in the crowd around the hotel, that first night when the New York musical society had serenaded her, and she had bowed from the old stone balcony to the admiring crowds.
"There isn't any word to express it," declared Ben, at the breakfast-table the next morning. "Joe, you must hear her, and Hanny--all of you. Never mind the cost."
"Ben, you have lost your senses," said his mother, with a touch of her old sharpness. "As if we were all millionaires! And I have heard people sing before."
"Not anything like that. You can't imagine such melody. And the enthusiasm of the crowd is worth something!"
The little girl looked up wistfully. She was beginning to understand the value of money.
"Yes," returned Joe; "Hanny must hear her. I wouldn't have her miss it for anything. But the tickets won't be so high after a little."
They dropped to regular prices, but that was high for the times; and the rush continued unabated. New York broke out in a Jenny Lind furore. There were gloves, and hats, and shawls, and gowns, beautiful little tables, and consoles, and furniture of all sorts that bore her name. The bakers made Jenny Lind cake. What a time there was! Enthusiastic adorers took her carriage from its shafts, and dragged it from Castle Garden to the hotel. Was New York old in those days? Rather, it was the glowing, fervid impetuosity of early youth.
And the serenade, when Broadway was jammed for blocks, and lighted by torches in the street, and illuminations in the houses and stores. There was a wonderful cornetist, Koenig, who could have won another Eurydice from the shades with his playing. Out on the balcony he stood and moved the crowd with his melody. Then she came out beside him, and, in the hush, a thousand times more appreciative than the wildest applause, the magnificent voice sang to its large, free audience, "Home, Sweet Home," as no one will ever hear it sung again. That alone would be fame enough for any writer of song!
The furore did not abate. But they must all go,--Stephen and Dolly, Margaret and her husband, Joe and the little girl, and her father.
"It is nonsense for an old fellow like me," he declared, half humourously.
"But I shall like it so much better, and then we can talk it over afterward. That's half the pleasure."
She looked so wistful out of her soft eyes, and patted his hand with her caressing little fingers, of course he couldn't say No.
It was so much harder to persuade Mrs. Underhill. "It certainly was wicked to spend so much money just to hear one woman sing. She had heard the 'Messiah,' with Madame Anna Bishop in it; and she never again expected to hear anything so beautiful this side of heaven."
They carried the day, however, in spite of her objections. Castle Garden looked like fairyland, with its brilliant lights, its hundred ushers in white gloves and rosettes, their wands tipped with ribbon as if for some grand ball. The quiet was awe-inspiring. One did not even want to whisper to his neighbour, but just sit in fascinated silence and wonder what it would be like.
Then Jenny Lind was led on the stage, and the entire audience rose with one vast, deafening cheer,--a magnificent one, as hearty as on her first night. It seemed as if they would never stop. There was a cloud of waving handkerchiefs, shaking out fragrance in the air.
A simple Swedish maiden in her gown of soft, white silk, with no blaze of diamonds, and just one rose low down in her banded hair, only her gracious sweetness and simplicity, a thousand times finer and more effective than flashing beauty. She has heard the applause many a time before, in audiences of crowned heads; and this from the multitude is just as sweet.
When all is listening, attentive silence, she begins "Casta Diva." "Hark to the voice," and every one listens with such intensity that the magnificent sound swells out and fills the farthest space. There is no striving for effect. A woman singing with a God-given voice, in simple thanks for its ownership, not a queen bidding for admiration. Had any voice ever made such glorious melody, or so stirred human souls?
The applause has in it an immensity of appreciation, as if it could never get itself wholly expressed.
Then another favourite, which everybody sang at for years afterward: "I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls." In some of the sorrows of her womanhood, the little girl was to recall the sweet refrain--
"That you loved me still the same."
Then "Comin' thro' the Rye," with a lilt and dainty deliciousness that one never can forget. But "Home, Sweet Home," moves to tears and enthusiasm. Surely, no voice ever put such pathos, such marvellous sweetness, into it!
And sometimes now, when the little girl looks over to the other country, one of the many joys she thinks will be hearing such blessed voices as Jenny Lind's and Parepa Rosa's. You could not shake her faith in immortality and all these precious joys to come.
She was quite a heroine at school for many days to come. People did not think it worth while to spend so much money on children at that time.
Margaret and her mother had compromised on the school question, or rather Margaret had yielded.
Hanny would graduate at the end of the year. Margaret preferred a stylish boarding-school after that. The Hoffmans were quite in the swim of that period. The Doctor's connections, and Margaret's beauty, made them welcome in circles that were beginning to grow a little exclusive, and demand grandfathers for vouchers. There was a little talk, even then, about nouveaux riches; but, after all, no one seemed to absolutely despise wealth.
Margaret was really very ambitious for the younger members of the family. Jim, with his good looks and the brightness that was akin to wit, was her favourite. Then he took naturally to elegance.
Dolly was very happy and jolly with her husband and children. They lived in a very pleasant manner; and society courted Dolly as well. Stephen was prospering wonderfully, and had a fine standing among business-men.
Hanny was extravagantly fond of the children. Stevie called her Auntie Nan, now; but Annie said simply Nan. Margaret had adopted it as well. Hannah was rather awkward and old-fashioned. Even Ben sometimes warbled,--
"Nannie, wilt thou gang wi' me?"
She had another great and unexpected treat a few weeks later. She had gone on Friday to make a real visit at Dolly's, and go from there to school on Monday morning. And, fortunately for her, she had taken her best Sunday frock, which she was wearing a good deal lest she might outgrow it.
And who should drop in but Delia Whitney. Whether Dolly suspected all was not clear sailing for the young people, no one could have told from her friendly manner. She had taken quite a liking to Delia, and was much interested in her success.
They talked over the Jenny Lind concert. Delia had attended two. She was going about quite a good deal among literary people.
"And to-morrow night, The. and I are going to take Ben to the Osgoods. Oh, Hanny, that's the author of the little song you sing:--
"'I love you, I adore you; but
I'm talking in my sleep.'
And she's just lovely."
"Oh," cried Hanny, "I should like to see her, truly. You know I told you about seeing her in the carriage when she went up to Mr. Poe's."
"Well, can't you go? The. has a standing invitation to bring friends. Why, Nora has gone! She sang up there one evening, and did wonderfully well. Her teacher thinks in a year or two she can try concerts; only it isn't best to strain her voice now. And you may see some famous people, and some yet to be famous, myself among them."
"Oh, I don't care about the others," said Hanny, naively. "And if you are quite sure--Dolly, ought I to go?"
"Why not?" answered Dolly. "It's fortunate that you brought your best frock; though we could have sent for it. Why, yes, if you would like to."
Hanny drew a long breath. Twice of late her mother had found excuses when she had asked to go down to Beach Street. She, too, had a vague feeling there was something in the air; but her simple nature was not suspicious. And it wasn't like going to the Whitney's. She couldn't do such a thing without asking permission.
Delia finished her call, kissed the babies and Hanny, and said they would all be up at eight, sharp.
"I'll have Hanny in apple-pie order," answered Dolly, with her bright smile.
Stephen was delightful in his family; and he had the same odd little look in his eye as her father, suggestive of fun. He was teaching her to play checkers; and, although Dolly helped sometimes, she found it hard work to beat him. Dolly sat by embroidering.
The next morning they drove down-town and did some shopping, and called on Annette, who made them stay to luncheon. Mrs. Beekman was quite poorly now, and had grown very, very stout. She said, "she had lost all her ambition. It was a great thing to be young, and have all your life before you."
It was so delightful; and Dolly was sure they wouldn't have many more such Indian summery days, so they went over to Washington Parade-ground, where the style promenaded on Saturday afternoon. Hanny wore her best dress and a pretty cloth cape trimmed with a little edge of fur. They took Stevie, who was delighted of course, and who ran about, very proud of his new jacket and trousers.
Many of the promenaders nodded to young Mrs. Stephen Underhill. Belles and beaux went by; prettily dressed children; stylish little boys, who carried canes, and had long tassels drooping over one side of their caps. Hanny enjoyed it all very much.
Then after supper, Dolly put a fine lace tucker over the edging at the neck of her frock, and found a blue sash, and curled her hair so as to make it all wavy at the edge of her forehead; and there was a very sweet, attractive girl, if she wasn't a beauty.
Mr. Theodore Whitney seemed very much amused and pleased, and politely inquired if he might be Miss Underhill's escort. Delia looked unusually nice in her new brown silk and some beautiful old lace Aunt Clem had given her.
People did not wait until ten o'clock for "functions" to begin; neither did they give them that uneuphonious name. Hanny had read and heard a good deal since her first visit to genius in the plain, poor, little cottage; and this certainly had more of the true aspect one connects with poesy. The two rooms were daintily furnished; pictures everywhere. Mr. Osgood was a painter, and his portraits were quite celebrated. The curtains fell with a graceful sweep. The light brocade of the chairs threw out glisteny shades; the little tables set about held books and engravings, and great portfolios leaned against the wall. There was a case of choicely-bound books, and an open piano. Flowers were in vases on brackets, and low, quaint china bowls. It was like a lovely picture to the little girl; but she felt afraid of the people talking so earnestly, and wondered if they were all poets and authors.
The party greeted their hostess, and Hanny was introduced. Was it the glamour of the summer and the blue gown that had made Mrs. Osgood so lovely sitting there in the carriage? Now she was thin, and her hair was banded down in the fashion of the day; then it had been flying in ringlets. Her gown was black silk, and that made her look rather grave; but when she smiled, all the old sweetness was there. Hanny knew her then.
Delia took charge of Hanny, and seated her by a table with a book of choice engravings. Ben had found some one he knew, and Mr. Whitney had gone to talk to General Morris. A tall young lady came over and began complimenting Miss Whitney on her story in Godey's, and Delia flushed up with pleasure. Then she begged to introduce her to a friend. She wrote verses only, and her friend had composed music for them.
Hanny kept watching her hostess. She knew some of the guests, from having had them pointed out to her in the street. There was Mr. Greeley, thin of face and careless of attire in those early days. In the street he could always be told by a shaggy light coat that he wore.
A very sweet-looking elderly lady came up presently and spoke to Delia, who was in full flow of eager talk with the young musical composer.
"Isn't that your sister, or your niece,--the one who sang here some time ago? I saw her come in with Mr. Whitney."
"Oh, no," returned Delia. "But she is a very dear friend,--Mr. Underhill's sister."
"Mr. Stephen Underhill?"
"Yes, she is his sister; but it is Mr. Ben Underhill who is here."
"I know Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Underhill very well. She was a Beekman. And Dr. Hoffman's wife belongs to the family."
Delia turned and introduced Mrs. Kirtland.
She had such an attractive face, framed in with rows of snowy puffs, quite gone out of date, but becoming to her nevertheless.
"I feel that I almost know you," she said sweetly, "though I half mistook you for Miss Whitney; but she is dark, and you are fair, so I ought not to have made the blunder. I know your brother Stephen and his wife."
"Oh!" Hanny gave it a glad little sound, and smiled, as she put out her small hand.
Mrs. Kirtland took the unoccupied seat.
"I suppose you have hardly begun life, you look so young. But no doubt you are a genius of some sort. Mrs. Osgood is so extraordinarily good to young geniuses."
"No, I haven't any genius," and Hanny flushed, as she gave a beguiling smile that lighted up her face. "And though there are a good many of us, we have not even a family genius."
"That depends upon whether you restrict the word to painting a picture or writing a poem or a story. Mr. Stephen Underhill is very highly spoken of as one of the promising young business-men. And is it your brother who was in the office of old Dr. Fitch, and in the hospital?"
"Yes, ma'am," returned Hanny, with a glow of pleasure. Young people were still expected to say "Yes, sir," and "Yes, ma'am," to their elders, out of respect.
"That does very well for one family, though the Whitneys seem to have a good share. Miss Delia is quite a success, I hear. And we always find Mr. Whitney very entertaining. Have you known them long?"
"Oh, for years, seven almost. And we used to be neighbours."
"A friendship is said to be certain when you have held it seven years. Have you met Mrs. Osgood before?"
"No, ma'am; but I saw her quite a long while ago at Fordham."
"At Fordham! Then you must have known the poet Edgar Allan Poe."
"A little," returned Hanny, timidly.
"There's such a romance to his life at that place,--his lovely young wife dying, and the devotion of Mrs. Clemm. Oh, tell me about your episode!"
Hanny told the story, very simply, charmingly as well.
"Oh," exclaimed Mrs. Kirtland, "Frances must hear that!" Then she glanced around. Mrs. Osgood was no longer receiving guests, but mingling with the company. Some one was going to the piano; and everybody listened to an exquisite voice singing a beautiful Italian melody. When that was finished, a young man who was to be famous in after years read a sweet, simple poem that touched every one's heart. Then the talk began in little groups again.
Mrs. Kirtland signalled to her hostess, who came over to them.
"Frances," she said, "here is a youthful worshipper who remembers you as a lovely lady all in cerulean blue, and with long curls, going up to the Poe cottage. See how you have lived in the child's memory. And she sings a song of yours."
Hanny's face was scarlet for a moment; but Mrs. Osgood sat down beside her, and they talked of the poet and Mrs. Clemm, and touched lightly upon the sad after-happenings. He had at one time been a frequent guest. There was even yet a deep interest in him, though opinion was sharply divided. And Mrs. Osgood had known the beautiful Virginia, whose sad fate even then was hardly realised. They talked a little about "Annabel Lee" and the "high-born kinsman;" and Hanny thought she had a delightful time.
There was coffee and chocolate and lemonade, with plates of dainty cakes and confectionery, in an ante-room. Then a gentleman sang a hunting-song in a fine tenor voice; and another paper on Art was read.
If people came early, they also dispersed at a reasonable hour. It was not quite ten when Delia, Hanny, and Ben made their adieus to the hostess, who stooped and kissed Hanny for "old remembrance' sake," she said.
Mr. Whitney was going down with some of the older men. Ben saw his little sister safe in Stephen's hands, and then went on with Delia.
"I've had such a splendid time!" exclaimed Hanny. "I wouldn't have missed it for the world."
When she told the home-folks about it, her mother made no comment; but Joe and her father were very much interested. And when, not long after that, "the high-born kinsman" came for the charming woman who had given much pleasure in her brief way through the world, and who had not disdained to write a verse and her name in many a society album, Hanny felt quite as if she had lost a dear friend.
Two other poets, sisters, Alice and Ph[oe]be Cary, came to New York, and held receptions that were quite famous as time went on. To be sure, there was the old name of blue-stocking applied to them now and then; for people, women especially, were taking a wider interest in other affairs beside literature, prefiguring the new woman. Miss Delia Whitney was very much interested. They were not quite up to clubs in those days, or she would have been a charter-member.
But the child Hanny had enough to do to study her lessons, practise her music, and make her visits, with a little sewing in between. She did make her father a set of shirts; but underclothing of all kinds was being manufactured; and though the older-fashioned women sneered at it, as rather poor stuff, the men seemed to like it. At gentlemen's furnishing stores, you could buy shirts cut and made in the latest style, the neckbands of which always seemed to fit, or else the men discreetly refrained from grumbling when they had spent so much money. And women began to find it eased their burdens.
No one wanted home-knit stockings, the English and French and Germans sent us such perfect ones. White was still all the style, unless you wore black, or blossom-coloured silk. Of course there were common people who put slate-colour on their children, because white made so much washing. And as for pantalets, there were none left.
There were other people called away beside poets, and changes made in families. Grandmother Underhill went to the country wherein the faithful abide, and Aunt Katrina. Grandmother Van Kortlandt came to make her home with her daughter. Aunt Crete and Cousin Joanna Morgan, and here and there some of the old people, as well as the young, passed over the narrow river.
But there seemed new babies all around. Dolly and Margaret had little sons, and Cleanthe a daughter. John was quite jealous of Hanny's notice; for his little girl was fair, and had light hair, and they were quite sure it looked like her. John wanted to call her Hannah Ann.
"Oh, no," said Hanny; "there are so many beautiful names now!" Then she laughed. "I shall not promise her a hundred dollars, nor my string of gold beads. I am not sorry, for I have loved both grandmothers; and one is gone--"
"Why don't we name her after her grandmothers?" exclaimed Cleanthe. "One of hers is gone," and she sighed. "It seems such a long name for a wee baby."
"Margaret Elizabeth,--it is a beautiful name," said Hanny, with delight. "Mother will give her something, I know. And I will be her godmother, and endow her for the Elizabeth."
"With all your worldly goods?" asked John.
"Not quite all--"
"You'll be impoverished, Hanny," interrupted John, with a glint of humour. "Six nephews and nieces already! And there are four of us still to marry, if George ever comes back. He hasn't made his fortune yet. He was crazy to go. The good times here suit me well enough."
Grandmother Underhill put fifty dollars in the bank for the new baby, and gave it a silver spoon. Hanny gave her a silver cup with her name engraved on it, and, with Dolly's help, made her a beautiful christening robe, which Cleanthe saved up for her, the sewing and tucking on it was so exquisite. She used to show it to visitors with a great deal of pride.
