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Title: Colonial dames and good wives
Author: Alice Morse Earle
Release date: August 31, 2023 [eBook #71532]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston & New York: Houghton, Mifflin & Company, 1895
Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COLONIAL DAMES AND GOOD WIVES ***
COLONIAL DAMES
AND
GOOD WIVES
WRITTEN BY
ALICE MORSE EARLE
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS CAMBRIDGE
Copyright, 1895,
BY ALICE MORSE EARLE.
_All rights reserved._
_TO
THE MEMORY OF THE COLONIAL DAMES_
_Whose blood runs in my veins
Whose spirit lives in my work_
_Elizabeth Morse_, _Joanna Hoar_, _Esther Mason_, _Deborah
Atherton_, _Sarah Wyeth_, _Anne Adams_, _Elizabeth
Browne_, _Hannah Phillips_, _Mary Clary_, _Silence
Heard_, _Judith Thurston_, _Patience Foster_,
_Martha Bullard_, _Barbara Sheppard_,
_Seaborn Wilson_
_CONTENTS_
_Chapter_ _Page_
_I. Consorts and Relicts_ _1_
_II. Women of Affairs_ _45_
_III. “Double-Tongued and Naughty Women”_ _88_
_IV. Boston Neighbors_ _109_
_V. A Fearfull Female Travailler_ _135_
_VI. Two Colonial Adventuresses_ _160_
_VII. The Universal Friend_ _173_
_VIII. Eighteenth-Century Manners_ _189_
_IX. Their Amusements and Accomplishments_ _206_
_X. Daughters of Liberty_ _240_
_XI. A Revolutionary Housewife_ _238_
_XII. Fireside Industries_ _276_
COLONIAL DAMES AND GOODWIVES.
CHAPTER I.
CONSORTS AND RELICTS.
In the early days of the colony of Massachusetts Bay, careful lists
were sent back to old England by the magistrates, telling what “to
provide to send to New England” in order to ensure the successful
planting and tender nourishing of the new settlement. The earliest
list includes such homely items as “benes and pese,” tame turkeys,
copper kettles, all kinds of useful apparel and wholesome food; but
the list is headed with a most significant, a typically Puritan item,
_Ministers_. The list sent to the Emigration Society by the Virginian
colonists might equally well have been headed, to show their most
crying need, with the word _Wives_.
The settlement of Virginia bore an entirely different aspect from that
of New England. It was a community of men who planted Jamestown. There
were few women among the early Virginians. In 1608 one Mistress Forrest
came over with a maid, Anne Burraws, who speedily married John Laydon,
the first marriage of English folk in the new world. But wives were
few, save squaw-wives, therefore the colony did not thrive. Sir Edwin
Sandys, at a meeting of the Emigration Society in London, in November,
1619, said that “though the colonists are seated there in their persons
some four years, they are not settled in their minds to make it their
place of rest and continuance.” They all longed to gather gold and
to return to England as speedily as possible, to leave that state of
“solitary uncouthness,” as one planter called it. Sandys and that
delightful gentleman, the friend and patron of Shakespeare, the Earl
of Southampton, planned, as an anchor in the new land, to send out a
cargo of wives for these planters, that the plantation might “grow in
generations and not be pieced out from without.” In 1620 the Jonathan
and the London Merchant brought ninety maids to Virginia on a venture,
and a most successful venture it proved.
There are some scenes in colonial life which stand out of the past with
much clearness of outline, which seem, though no details survive, to
present to us a vivid picture. One is this landing of ninety possible
wives--ninety homesick, seasick but timidly inquisitive English
girls--on Jamestown beach, where pressed forward, eagerly and amorously
waiting, about four hundred lonely emigrant bachelors--bronzed,
sturdy men, in leather doublets and breeches and cavalier hats, with
glittering swords and bandoleers and fowling-pieces, without doubt in
their finest holiday array, to choose and secure one of these fair
maids as a wife. Oh, what a glorious and all-abounding courting, a
mating-time, was straightway begun on the Virginian shore on that
happy day in May. A man needed a quick eye, a ready tongue, a manly
presence, if he were to succeed against such odds in supply and
demand, and obtain a fair one, or indeed any one, from this bridal
array. But whosoever he won was indeed a prize, for all were asserted
to be “young, handsome, honestly educated maids, of honest life and
carriage”--what more could any man desire? Gladly did the husband pay
to the Emigration Company the one hundred and twenty pounds of leaf
tobacco, which formed, in one sense, the purchase money for the wife.
This was then valued at about eighty dollars: certainly a man in that
matrimonial market got his money’s worth; and the complaining colonial
chronicler who asserted that ministers and milk were the only cheap
things in New England, might have added--and wives the only cheap
things in Virginia.
It was said by old writers that some of these maids were seized by
fraud, were trapanned in England, that unprincipled spirits “took up
rich yeomans’ daughters to serve his Majesty as breeders in Virginia
unless they paid money for their release.” This trapanning was one
of the crying abuses of the day, but in this case it seems scarcely
present. For the girls appear to have been given a perfectly fair
showing in all this barter. They were allowed to marry no irresponsible
men, to go nowhere as servants, and, indeed, were not pressed to marry
at all if against their wills. They were to be “housed lodged and
provided for of diet” until they decided to accept a husband. Naturally
nearly all did marry, and from the unions with these young, handsome
and godly-carriaged maids sprang many of our respected Virginian
families.
No coquetry was allowed in this mating. A girl could not promise to
marry two men, under pain of fine or punishment; and at least one
presumptuous and grasping man was whipped for promising marriage to two
girls at the same time--as he deserved to be when wives were so scarce.
Other ship-loads of maids followed, and with the establishment of these
Virginian families was dealt, as is everywhere else that the family
exists, a fatal blow at a community of property and interests, but the
colony flourished, and the civilization of the new world was begun.
For the unit of society may be the individual, but the molecule of
civilization is the family. When men had wives and homes and children
they “sett down satysfied” and no longer sighed for England. Others
followed quickly and eagerly; in three years thirty-five hundred
emigrants had gone from England to Virginia, a marked contrast to the
previous years of uncertainty and dissatisfaction.
Virginia was not the only colony to import wives for its colonists. In
1706 His Majesty Louis XIV. sent a company of twenty young girls to
the Governor of Louisiana, Sieur de Bienville, in order to consolidate
his colony. They were to be given good homes, and to be well married,
and it was thought they would soon teach the Indian squaws many useful
domestic employments. These young girls were of unspotted reputation,
and upright lives, but they did not love their new homes; a dispatch of
the Governor says:--
The men in the colony begin through habit to use corn as an article of
food, but the women, who are mostly Parisians, have for this kind of
food a dogged aversion which has not been subdued. Hence they inveigh
bitterly against his Grace the Bishop of Quebec who they say has
enticed them away from home under pretext of sending them to enjoy the
milk and honey of the land of promise.
I don’t know how this venture succeeded, but I cannot fancy anything
more like the personification of incompatibility, of inevitable
failure, than to place these young Parisian women (who had certainly
known of the manner of living of the court of Louis XIV.) in a wild
frontier settlement, and to expect them to teach Western squaws any
domestic or civilized employment, and then to make them eat Indian
corn, which they loathed as do the Irish peasants. Indeed, they were
to be pitied. They rebelled and threatened to run away--whither I
cannot guess, nor what they would eat save Indian corn if they did run
away--and they stirred up such a dissatisfaction that the imbroglio was
known as the Petticoat Rebellion, and the governor was much jeered at
for his unsuccessful wardship and his attempted matrimonial agency.
In 1721 eighty young girls were landed in Louisiana as wives, but these
were not godly-carriaged young maids; they had been taken from Houses
of Correction, especially from Paris. In 1728 came another company
known as _filles à la cassette_, or casket girls, for each was given by
the French government a casket of clothing to carry to the new home;
and in later years it became a matter of much pride to Louisianians
that their descent was from the casket-girls, rather than from the
correction-girls.
Another wife-market for the poorer class of wifeless colonists was
afforded through the white bond-servants who came in such numbers to
the colonies. They were of three classes; convicts, free-willers or
redemptioners, and “kids” who had been stolen and sent to the new
world, and sold often for a ten years’ term of service.
Maryland, under the Baltimores, was the sole colony that not only
admitted convicts, but welcomed them. The labor of the branded hand
of the malefactor, the education and accomplishments of the social
outcast, the acquirements and skill of the intemperate or over-competed
tradesman, all were welcome to the Maryland tobacco-planters; and the
possibilities of rehabilitation of fortune, health, reputation, or
reëstablishment of rectitude, made the custom not unwelcome to the
convict or to the redemptioner. Were the undoubted servant no rogue,
but an honest tradesman, crimped in English coast-towns and haled off
to Chesapeake tobacco fields, he did not travel or sojourn, perforce,
in low company. He might find himself in as choice companionship, with
ladies and gentlemen of as high quality, albeit of the same character,
as graced those other English harbors of ne’er-do-weels, Newgate or the
Fleet Prison. Convicts came to other colonies, but not so openly nor
with so much welcome as to Maryland.
All the convicts who came to the colonies were not rogues, though
they might be condemned persons. The first record in Talbot County,
Maryland, of the sale of a convict, was in September, 1716, “in the
third Yeare of the Reign of our Sovereign Lord King George.” And it
was for rebellion and treason against his Majesty that this convict,
Alexander MacQueen, was taken in Lancashire and transported to America,
and sold to Mr. Daniel Sherwood for seven years of service. With him
were transported two shiploads of fellow-culprits, Jacobites, on the
Friendship and Goodspeed. The London Public Record Office (on American
and West India matters, No. 27) records this transportation and says
the men were “Scotts Rebells.” Earlier still, many of the rebels
of Monmouth’s rebellion had been sold for transportation, and the
ladies of the court of James had eagerly snatched at the profits of
the sale. Even William Penn begged for twenty of these rebels for the
Philadelphia market. Perhaps he was shrewd enough to see in them good
stock for successful citizens. Were the convict a condemned criminal,
it did not necessarily follow that he or she was thoroughly vicious.
One English husband is found petitioning on behalf of his wife,
sentenced to death for stealing but three shillings and sixpence, that
her sentence be changed to transportation to Virginia.
The redemptioners were willing immigrants, who contracted to serve for
a period of time to pay the cost of their passage, which usually had
been prepaid to the master of the ship on which they came across-seas.
At first the state of these free-willers was not unbearable. Alsop, who
was a redemptioner, has left on record that the work required was not
excessive:--
Five dayes and a halfe in the summer is the allotted time that they
worke, and for two months, when the Sun is predominate in the highest
pitch of his heat, they claim an antient and customary Priviledge to
repose themselves three hours in the day within the house. In Winter
they do little but hunt and build fires.
and he adds, “the four years I served there were not to me so slavish
as a two-year’s servitude of a handicraft apprenticeship in London.”
Many examples can be given where these redemptioners rose to respected
social positions. In 1654, in the Virginia Assembly were two members
and one Burgess who had been bond-servants. Many women-servants married
into the family of their employers. Alsop said it was the rule for them
to marry well. The niece of Daniel Defoe ran away to escape a marriage
entanglement in England, sold herself on board ship as a redemptioner
when but eighteen years old, was bought by a Mr. Job of Cecil County,
Maryland, and soon married her employer’s son. Defoe himself said that
so many good maid-servants were sold to America that there was a lack
for domestic service in England.
Through the stealing of children and youths to sell in the plantations,
it can plainly be seen that many a wife of respectable birth was
furnished to the colonists. This trade, by which, as Lionel Gatford
wrote in 1657, young people were “cheatingly duckoyed by Poestigeous
Plagiaries,” grew to a vast extent, and in it, emulating the noble
ladies of the court, women of lower rank sought a degrading profit.
In 1655, in Middlesex, England, one Christian Sacrett was called to
answer the complaint of Dorothy Perkins:--
She accuseth her for a spirit, one that takes upp men women and
children, and sells them a-shipp to be conveyed beyond the sea, having
inticed and inveigled one Edward Furnifall and Anna his wife with her
infant to the waterside, and putt them aboard the ship called the
Planter to be conveied to Virginia.
Sarah Sharp was also asserted to be a “common taker of children and
setter to Betray young men and maydens to be conveyed to ships.”
The life of that famous rogue, Bamfylde-Moore Carew, shows the method
by which servants were sold in the plantations. The captain, with his
cargo of trapanned Englishmen, among whom was Carew, cast anchor at
Miles River in Talbot County, Maryland, ordered a gun to be fired,
and a hogshead of rum sent on board. On the day of the sale the men
prisoners were all shaved, the women dressed in their best garments,
their neatest caps, and brought on deck. Each prisoner, when put up for
sale, told his trade. Carew said he was a good rat-catcher, beggar, and
dog-trader, “upon which the Captain hearing takes the planter aside,
and tells him he did but jest, being a man of humour, and would make an
excellent schoolmaster.” Carew escaped before being sold, was captured,
whipped, and had a heavy iron collar, “called in Maryland a pot-hook,”
riveted about his neck; but he again fled to the Indians, and returned
to England. Kidnapped in Bristol a second time, he was nearly sold on
Kent Island to Mr. Dulaney, but again escaped. He stole from a house
“jolly cake, powell, a sort of Indian corn bread, and good omani, which
is kidney beans ground with Indian corn, sifted, put into a pot to
boil, and eaten with molasses.” Jolly cake was doubtless johnny cake;
omani, hominy; but powell is a puzzle. He made his way by begging to
Boston, and shipped to England, from whence he was again trapanned.
In the _Sot-Weed Factor_ are found some very coarse but graphic
pictures of the women emigrants of the day. When the factor asks the
name of “one who passed for chambermaid” in one planter’s house in
“Mary-Land,” she answered with an affected blush and simper:--
In better Times, ere to this Land
I was unhappily Trapanned,
Perchance as well I did appear
As any lord or lady here.
Not then a slave for twice two year.
My cloaths were fashionably new,
Nor were my shifts of Linnen blue;
But things are changed, now at the Hoe
I daily work, and barefoot go.
In weeding corn, or feeding swine,
I spend my melancholy time.
Kidnap’d and fool’d I hither fled,
To shun a hated nuptial Bed.
And to my cost already find
Worse Plagues than those I left behind.
Another time, being disturbed in his sleep, the factor finds that in an
adjoining room,--
... a jolly Female Crew
Were Deep engaged in Lanctie Loo.
Soon quarreling over their cards, the planters’ wives fall into abuse,
and one says scornfully to the other:--
... tho now so brave,
I knew you late a Four Years Slave,
What if for planters wife you go,
Nature designed you for the Hoe.
The other makes, in turn, still more bitter accusations. It can
plainly be seen that such social and domestic relations might readily
produce similar scenes, and afford opportunity for “crimination and
recrimination.”
Still we must not give the _Sot-Weed Factor_ as sole or indeed as
entirely unbiased authority. The testimony to the housewifely virtues
of the Maryland women by other writers is almost universal. In the
_London Magazine_ of 1745 a traveler writes, and his word is similar to
that of many others:--
The women are very handsome in general and most notable housewives;
everything wears the Marks of Cleanliness and Industry in their
Houses, and their behavior to their Husbands and Families is very
edifying. You cant help observing, however, an Air of Reserve and
somewhat that looks at first to a Stranger like Unsociableness, which
is barely the effect of living at a great Distance from frequent
Society and their Thorough Attention to the Duties of their Stations.
Their Amusements are quite Innocent and within the Circle of a
Plantation or two. They exercise all the Virtues that can raise Ones
Opinion of too light a Sex.
The girls under such good Mothers generally have twice the Sense and
Discretion of the Boys. Their Dress is neat and Clean and not much
bordering upon the Ridiculous Humour of the Mother Country where the
Daughters seem Dress’d up for a Market.
Wives were just as eagerly desired in New England as in Virginia, and
a married estate was just as essential to a man of dignity. As a rule,
emigration thereto was in families, but when New England men came
to the New World, leaving their families behind them until they had
prepared a suitable home for their reception, the husbands were most
impatient to send speedily for their consorts. Letters such as this,
of Mr. Eyre from England to Mr. Gibb in Piscataquay, in 1631, show the
sentiment of the settlers in the matter:--
I hope by this both your wives are with you according to your desire.
I wish all your wives were with you, and that so many of you as desire
wives had such as they desire. Your wife, Roger Knight’s wife, and
one wife more we have already sent you and more you shall have as you
wish for them.
This sentence, though apparently polygamous in sentiment, does not
indicate an intent to establish a Mormon settlement in New Hampshire,
but is simply somewhat shaky in grammatical construction, and erratic
in rhetorical expression.
Occasionally, though rarely, there was found a wife who did not long
for a New England home. Governor Winthrop wrote to England on July 4,
1632:--
I have much difficultye to keepe John Gallope heere by reason his wife
will not come. I marvayle at her womans weaknesse, that she will live
myserably with her children there when she might live comfortably with
her husband here. I pray perswade and further her coming by all means.
If she will come let her have the remainder of his wages, if not let
it be bestowed to bring over his children for soe he desires.
Even the ministers’ wives did not all sigh for the New World. The
removal of Rev. Mr. Wilson to New England “was rendered difficult by
the indisposition of his dearest consort thereto.” He very shrewdly
interpreted a dream to her in favor of emigration, with but scant and
fleeting influence upon her, and he sent over to her from America
encouraging accounts of the new home, and he finally returned to
England for her, and after much fasting and prayer she consented to
“accompany him over an ocean to a wilderness.”
Margaret Winthrop, that undaunted yet gentle woman, wrote of her at
this date (and it gives us a glimpse of a latent element of Madam
Winthrop’s character), “Mr. Wilson cannot yet persuade his wife to go,
for all he hath taken this pains to come and fetch her. I marvel what
mettle she is made of. Sure she will yield at last.” She did yield, and
she did not go uncomforted. Cotton Mather wrote:--
Mrs. Wilson being thus perswaded over into the difficulties of an
American desart, her kinsman Old Mr. Dod, for her consolation under
those difficulties did send her a present with an advice which had in
it something of curiosity. He sent her a _brass_ counter, a _silver_
crown, and a _gold_ jacobus, all severally wrapped up; with this
instruction unto the gentleman who carried it; that he should first
of all deliver only the counter, and if she received it with any
shew of discontent, he should then take no notice of her; but if she
gratefully resented that small thing for the sake of the hand it came
from, he should then go on to deliver the silver and so the gold, but
withal assure her that such would be the dispensations to her and the
good people of New England. If they would be content and thankful with
such little things as God at first bestowed upon them, they should,
in time, have silver and gold enough. Mrs. Wilson accordingly by her
cheerful entertainment of the least remembrance from good old Mr. Dod,
gave the gentleman occasion to go through with his whole present and
the annexed advice.
We could not feel surprised if poor homesick, heartsick, terrified
Mrs. Wilson had “gratefully resented” Mr. Dod’s apparently mean gift
to her on the eve of exile in our modern sense of resentment; but the
meaning of resent in those days was to perceive with a lively sense of
pleasure. I do not know whether this old Mr. Dod was the poet whose
book entitled _A Posie from Old Mr. Dod’s Garden_ was one of the first
rare books of poetry printed in New England in colonial days.
We truly cannot from our point of view “marvayle” that these consorts
did not long to come to the strange, sad, foreign shore, but wonder
that they were any of them ever willing to come; for to the loneliness
of an unknown world was added the dread horror of encounter with a
new and almost mysterious race, the blood-thirsty Indians, and if the
poor dames turned from the woods to the shore, they were menaced by
“murthering pyrates.”
Gurdon Saltonstall, in a letter to John Winthrop of Connecticut, as
late as 1690, tells in a few spirited and racy sentences of the life
the women lead in an unprotected coast town. It was sad and terrifying
in reality, but there is a certain quaintness of expression and
metaphor in the narrative, and a sly and demure thrusting at Mr. James,
that give it an element of humor. It was written of the approach of a
foe “whose entrance was as formidable and swaggering as their exit was
sneaking and shamefull.” Saltonstall says:--
My Wife & family was posted at your Honʳˢ a considerable while,
it being thought to be ye most convenient place for ye feminine
Rendezvous. Mr James who Commands in Chiefe among them, upon ye
coast alarum given, faceth to ye Mill, gathers like a Snow ball as he
goes, makes a Generall Muster at yor Honʳˢ, and so posts away with
ye greatest speed, to take advantage of ye neighboring rocky hills,
craggy, inaccessible mountains; so that Wᵗᵉᵛᵉʳ els is lost Mr James
and yᵉ Women are safe.
All women did not run at the approach of the foe. A marked trait of
the settlers’ wives was their courage; and, indeed, opportunities
were plentiful for them to show their daring, their fortitude, and
their ready ingenuity. Hannah Bradley, of Haverhill, Mass., killed one
Indian by throwing boiling soap upon him. This same domestic weapon was
also used by some Swedish women near Philadelphia to telling, indeed
to killing advantage. A young girl in the Minot House in Dorchester,
Mass., shovelled live coals on an Indian invader, and drove him off. A
girl, almost a child, in Maine, shut a door, barred, and held it while
thirteen women and children escaped to a neighboring block-house before
the door and its brave defender were chopped down. Anthony Bracket and
his wife, captured by savages, escaped through the wife’s skill with
the needle. She literally sewed together a broken birch-bark canoe
which they found, and in which they got safely away. Most famous and
fierce of all women fighters was Hannah Dustin, who, in 1697, with
another woman and a boy, killed ten Indians at midnight, and started
for home; but, calling to mind a thought that no one at home, without
corroborative evidence, would believe this extraordinary tale, they
returned, scalped their victims, and brought home the bloody trophies
safely to Haverhill.
Some Englishwomen were forced to marry their captors, forced by torture
or dire distress. Some, when captured in childhood, learned to love
their savage husbands. Eunice Williams, daughter of the Deerfield
minister, a Puritan who hated the Indians and the church of Rome worse
than he hated Satan, came home to her Puritan kinsfolk wearing two
abhorred symbols, a blanket and crucifix, and after a short visit, not
liking a civilized life, returned to her Indian brave, her wigwam, and
her priest.
I have always been glad that it was my far-away grandfather, John Hoar,
who left his Concord home, and risked his life as ambassador to the
Indians to rescue one of these poor “captivated” English wives, Mrs.
Mary Rowlandson, after her many and heart-rending “savage removes.” I
am proud of his “very forward spirit” which made him dare attempt this
bold rescue, as I am proud of his humanity and his intelligent desire
to treat the red men as human beings, furnishing about sixty of them
with a home and decent civilizing employment. I picture him “stoutly
not afraid,” as he entered the camp, and met the poor captive, and
treated successfully with her savage and avaricious master, and then
I see him tenderly leading her, ragged, half-starved, and exhausted,
through the lonely forests home--home to the “doleful solemn sight”
of despoiled Lancaster. And I am proud, too, of the noble “Boston
gentlewomen” who raised twenty pounds as a ransom for Mary Rowlandson,
“the price of her redemption,” and tenderly welcomed her to their
homes and hearts, so warmly that she could write of them as “pitiful,
tender-hearted, and compassionate Christians,” whose love was so
bountiful that she could not declare it. If any one to-day marvels
that English wives did not “much desire the new and doleful land,” let
them read this graphic and thrilling story of the _Captivity, Removes,
and Restauration of Mary Rowlandson_, and he will marvel that the ships
were not crowded with disheartened settlers returning to their “faire
English homes.”
A very exciting and singular experience befell four dignified Virginian
wives in Bacon’s Rebellion, not through the Indians but at the hands of
their erstwhile friends. It is evident that the women of that colony
were universally and deeply stirred by the romance of this insurrection
and war. We hear of their dramatic protests against the tyranny of
the government. Sarah Drummond vowed she feared the power of England
no more than a broken straw, and contemptuously broke a stick of wood
to illustrate her words. Major Chriesman’s wife, “the honor of her
sex,” when her husband was about to be put to death as a rebel, begged
Governor Berkeley to kill her instead, as he had joined Bacon wholly
at her solicitation. One Ann Cotton was moved by the war to drop into
literary composition, an extraordinary ebullition for a woman in her
day, and to write an account of the Rebellion, as she deemed “too
wordishly,” but which does not read now very wordishly to us. But for
these four dames, the wives of men prominent in the army under Governor
Berkeley--prime men, Ann Cotton calls them--was decreed a more stirring
participation in the excitements of war. The brilliant and erratic
young rebel, Bacon, pressed them into active service. He sent out
companies of horsemen and tore the gentlewomen from their homes, though
they remonstrated with much simplicity that they were “indisposed” to
leave; and he brought them to the scene of battle, and heartlessly
placed them--with still further and more acute indisposition--on the
“fore-front” of the breastworks as a shield against the attacks of
the four distracted husbands with their soldiers. We read that “the
poor Gentlewomen were mightily astonished at this project; neather
were their husbands void of amazements at this subtill invention.” The
four dames were “exhibited to the view of their husbands and ffriends
in the towne upon the top of the smalle worke he had cast up in the
night where he caused them to tarey till he had finished his defence
against the enemy’s shott.” There stood these four innocent and
harmless wives,--“guardian angells--the white gardes of the Divell,”
shivering through the chill September night till the glimmering dawn
saw completed the rampart of earth and logs, or the leaguer, as it
was called by the writers with that exactness and absolute fitness of
expression which, in these old chronicles, gives such delight to the
lover of good old English. One dame was also sent to her husband’s
camp as a “white-aproned hostage” to parley with the Governor. And
this hiding of soldiers behind women was done by the order of one who
was called the most accomplished gentleman in Virginia, but whom we
might dub otherwise if we wished, to quote the contemporary account, to
“oppose him further with pertinances and violent perstringes.”
I wish I could truthfully say that one most odious and degrading
eighteenth century English custom was wholly unknown in America--the
custom of wife-trading, the selling by a husband of his wife to
another man. I found, for a long time, no traces or hints of the
existence of such a custom in the colonies, save in two doubtful
cases. I did not wholly like the aspect of Governor Winthrop’s note of
the suggestion of some members of the church in Providence, that if
Goodman Verin would not give his wife full liberty to go to meeting on
Sunday and weekly lectures as often as she wished, “the church should
dispose her to some other man who would use her better.” I regarded
this suggestion of the Providence Christians with shocked suspicion,
but calmed myself with the decision that it merely indicated the
disposition of Goodwife Verin as a servant. And again, in the records
of the “Pticuler Court” of Hartford, Conn., in 1645, I discovered
this entry: “Baggett Egleston for bequething his wyfe to a young man
is fyned 20 shillings.” Now, any reader can draw his conclusions as
to exactly what this “bequething” was, and I cannot see that any of
us can know positively. So, though I was aware that Baggett was not
a very reputable fellow, I chose to try to persuade myself that this
exceedingly low-priced bequeathing did not really mean wife-selling.
But just as I was “setting down satysfyed” at the superiority in
social ethics and morality of our New England ancestors, I chanced,
while searching in the _Boston Evening Post_ of March 15, 1736, for
the advertisement of a sermon on the virtues of our forbears, entitled
_New England Tears and Fears of Englands Dolours and Horrours_, to find
instead, by a malicious and contrary fate, this bit of unwelcome and
mortifying news not about old England but about New England’s “dolours
and horrours.”
Boston. The beginning of last Week a pretty odd and uncommon Adventure
happened in this Town, between 2 Men about a certain woman, each one
claiming her as his Wife, but so it was, that one of them had actually
disposed of his Right in her to the other for Fifteen Shillings this
Currency, who had only paid ten of it in part, and refus’d to pay the
other Five, inclining rather to quit the Woman and lose his Earnest;
but two Gentlemen happening to be present, who were Friends to Peace,
charitably gave him half a Crown a piece, to enable him to fulfil his
Agreement, which the Creditor readily took, and gave the Woman a modest
Salute, wishing her well, and his Brother Sterling much Joy of his
Bargain.
The meagre sale-money, fifteen shillings, was the usual sum which
changed hands in England at similar transactions, though one dame of
high degree was sold for a hundred guineas. In 1858 the _Stamford
Mercury_ gave an account of a contemporary wife-sale in England, which
was announced through the town by a bellman. The wife was led to the
sale with a halter round her neck, and was “to be taken with all her
faults.” I am glad to say that this base British husband was sharply
punished for his misdemeanor.
It seems scarcely credible that the custom still exists in England, but
in 1882 a husband sold his wife in Alfreton, Derbyshire; and as late
as the 13th July, 1887, Abraham Boothroyd, may his name be _Anathema
maranatha_, sold his wife Clara at Sheffield, England, for five
shillings.
A most marked feature of social life in colonial times was the
belleship of widows. They were literally the queens of society. Fair
maids had so little chance against them, swains were so plentiful for
widows, that I often wonder whence came the willing men who married
the girls the first time, thus offering themselves as the sacrifice at
the matrimonial altar through which the girls could attain the exalted
state of widowhood. Men sighed sometimes in their callow days for
the girl friends of their own age, but as soon as their regards were
cast upon a widow, the girls at once disappear from history, and the
triumphant widow wins the prize.
Another marked aspect of this condition of society was the vast number
of widows in early days. In the South this was accounted for by one
of their own historians as being through the universally intemperate
habits of the husbands, and consequently their frequent early death.
In all the colonies life was hard, exposure was great to carry on any
active business, and the excessive drinking of intoxicating liquors
was not peculiar to the Southern husbands any more than were widows.
In 1698 Boston was said to be “full of widows and orphans, and many
of them very helpless creatures.” It was counted that one sixth of
the communicants of Cotton Mather’s church were widows. It is easy
for us to believe this when we read of the array of relicts among
which that aged but actively amorous gentleman, Judge Sewall, found so
much difficulty in choosing a marriage partner, whose personal and
financial charms he recounted with so much pleasurable minuteness in
his diary.
A glowing tribute to one of these Boston widows was paid by that
gossiping traveller, John Dunton, with so much evidence of deep
interest, and even sentiment, that I fancy Madam Dunton could not have
been wholly pleased with the writing and the printing thereof. He
called this Widow Breck the “flower of Boston,” the “Chosen exemplar
of what a Widow is.” He extols her high character, beauty, and
resignation, and then bridles with satisfaction while he says, “Some
have been pleas’d to say That were I in a single state they do believe
she wou’d not be displeas’d with my addresses.” He rode on horseback
on a long journey with his fair widow on a pillion behind him, and if
his conversation on “Platonicks and the blisses of Matrimony” was half
as tedious as his recounting of it, the road must indeed have seemed
long. He says her love for her dead husband is as strong as death, but
Widow Breck proved the strength of her constancy by speedily marrying a
second husband, Michael Perry.
As an instance of the complicated family relations which might arise in
marrying widows, let me cite the familiar case of the rich merchant,
Peter Sergeant, the builder of the famous Province House in Boston. I
will use Mr. Shurtleff’s explanation of this bewildering gallimaufrey
of widows and widowers:--
He was as remarkable in his marriages as his wealth; for he had three
wives, the second having been a widow twice before her third venture;
and his third also a widow, and even becoming his widow, and lastly
the widow of her third husband.
To this I may add that this last husband, Simon Stoddart, also had
three wives, that his father had four, of whom the last three were
widows,--but all this goes beyond the modern brain to comprehend, and
reminds us most unpleasantly of the wife of Bath.
These frequent and speedy marriages were not wholly owing to the
exigencies of colonial life, but were the custom of the times in Europe
as well. I read in the diary of the Puritan John Rous, in January,
1638, of this somewhat hasty wooing:--
A gentleman carried his wife to London last week and died about eight
o’clock at night, leaving her five hundred pounds a year in land. The
next day before twelve she was married to the journeyman woolen-draper
that came to sell mourning to her.
I do not believe John Rous made special note of this marriage simply
because it was so speedy, but because it was unsuitable; as a landed
widow was, in social standing, far above a journeyman draper.
As we approach Revolutionary days, the reign of widows is still
absolute.
Washington loved at fifteen a fair unknown, supposed to be Lucy Grimes,
afterward mother of Gen. Henry Lee. To her he wrote sentimental poems,
from which we gather (as might be expected at that age) that he was too
bashful to reveal his love. A year later he writes:--
I might, was my heart disengaged, pass my time very pleasantly as
there’s a very agreeable Young Lady Lives in the same house; but as
thats only adding fuel to the fire it makes me more uneasy; for by
often and unavoidably being in Company with her revives my former
Passion for your Lowland Beauty; whereas was I to live more retired
from young women, I might in some measure eliviate my sorrows by
burying that chast and troublesome passion in the grave of oblivion or
eternal forgetfulness.
The amorous boy of sixteen managed to “bury this chast and troublesome
passion,” to find the “Young Lady in the house” worth looking at, and
when he was twenty years old, to write to William Fantleroy thus of his
daughter, Miss Bettie Fantleroy:--
I purpose as soon as I recover my strength (from the pleurisy) to
wait on Miss Bettie in hopes of a reconsideration of the former cruel
sentence, and to see if I cannot obtain a decision in my favor. I
enclose a letter to her.
Later he fell in love with Mary Phillipse, who, though beautiful,
spirited, and rich, did not win him. This love affair is somewhat
shadowy in outline. Washington Irving thinks that the spirit of the
alert soldier overcame the passion of the lover, and that Washington
left the lists of love for those of battle, leaving the field to his
successful rival, Colonel Morris. The inevitable widow in the shape
of Madam Custis, with two pretty children and a fortune of fifteen
thousand pounds sterling, became at last what he called his “agreeable
partner for life,” and Irving thinks she was wooed with much despatch
on account of the reverses in the Phillipse episode.
Thomas Jefferson was another example of a President who outlived
his love-affair with a young girl, and married in serenity a more
experienced dame. In his early correspondence he reveals his really
tumultuous passion for one Miss Becca Burwell. He sighs like a furnace,
and bemoans his stammering words of love, but fair Widow Martha Skelton
made him eloquent. Many lovers sighed at her feet; two of them lingered
in her drawing-room one evening to hear her sing a thrilling love-song
to the accompaniment of Jefferson’s violin. The love-song and music
were so expressive that the two disconsolate swains plainly read the
story of their fate, and left the house in defeat.
James Madison, supposed to be an irreclaimable old bachelor, succumbed
at first sight to the charms of fair Widow Dorothy Todd, twenty years
his junior, wooed her with warmth, and made her, as Dolly Madison,
another Mrs. President. Benjamin Franklin also married a widow.
The characteristic glamour which hung round every widow encircled Widow
Sarah Syms, and Colonel Byrd gives a spirited sketch of her in 1732:--
In the evening Tinsley conducted me to Widow Syms’ house where I
intended to take up my quarters. This lady at first suspecting I was
some lover put on a gravity that becomes a weed, but as soon as she
learned who I was brightened up with an unusual cheerfulness and
serenity. She was a portly handsome dame, of the family of Esau, and
seemed not to pine too much for the death of her husband. This widow
is a person of lively and cheerful conversation with much less reserve
than most of her country women. It becomes her very well and sets off
her other agreeable qualities to advantage. We tossed off a bottle
of honest port which we relished with a broiled chicken. At nine I
retired to my devotions, and then slept so sound that fancy itself was
stupefied, else I should have dreamed of my most obliging land-lady.
This “weed” who did not pine too much for her husband, soon married
again, and became the mother of Patrick Henry; and the testimony of
Colonel Byrd as to her lively and cheerful conversation shows the
heredity of Patrick Henry’s “gift of tongues.”
Hie! Betty Martin! tiptoe fine,
Couldn’t get a husband for to suit her mind!
was a famous Maryland belle, to whom came a-courting two friends, young
lawyers, named Dallam and Winston. It was a day of much masculine
finery and the two impecunious but amicable friends possessed but one
ruffled shirt between them, which each wore on courting-day. Such
amiability deserved the reward it obtained, for, strange to say,
both suitors won Betty Martin. Dallam was the first husband,--the
sacrifice,--and left her a widow with three sons and a daughter.
Winston did likewise, even to the exact number of children. Daughter
Dallam’s son was Richard Caswell, governor of South Carolina, and
member of Congress. Daughter Winston’s son was William Paca, governor
of Maryland, and member of the Continental Congress. Both grandsons
on their way to and from Congress always visited their spirited old
grandmother, who lived to be some say one hundred and twenty years old.
There must have been afforded a certain satisfaction to a dying
husband--of colonial times--through the confidence that, by unwavering
rule, his widow would soon be cared for and cherished by another.
There was no uncertainty as to her ultimate settlement in life, and
even should she be unfortunate enough to lose her second partner,
he still had every reason to believe that a third would speedily
present himself. The Reverend Jonathan Burr when almost moribund,
piously expressed himself to “that vertuous gentlewoman his wife with
confidence” that she would soon be well provided for; and she was, for
“she was very shortly after very honourably and comfortably married
unto a gentleman of good estate,” a magistrate, Richard Dummer, and
lived with him nearly forty years. Provisions were always made by
a man in his will in case his wife married again; scarcely ever to
remove the property from her, but simply to re-adjust the division or
conditions. And men often signed ante-nuptial contracts promising not
to “meddle” with their wives’ property. One curious law should be noted
in Pennsylvania, in 1690, that a widow could not marry till a year
after her husband’s death.
There seem to have been many advantages in marrying a widow--she might
prove a valuable inheritance. The second husband appeared to take a
real pride in demanding and receiving all that was due to the defunct
partner. As an example let me give this extract from a court record.
On May 31st, 1692, the governor and council of Maryland were thus
petitioned:--
James Brown of St Marys who married the widow and relict of Thomas Pew
deceased, by his petition humbly prays allowance for Two Years Sallary
due to his Predecessor as Publick Post employed by the Courts, as also
for the use of a Horse, and the loss of a Servant wholly, by the said
Pew deputed in his sickness to Officiate; and ran clear away with his
Horse, some Clothes &c., and for several months after not heard of.
Now we must not be over-critical, nor hasty in judgment of the manners
and motives of two centuries ago, but those days are held up to us as
days of vast submissiveness and modesty, of patient long-suffering,
of ignorance of extortion; yet I think we would search far, in
these degenerate days, for a man who, having married a relict,
would, two years after his “Predecessor’s” death, have the colossal
effrontery to demand of the government not only the back salary of
said “Predecessor,” but pay for the use of a horse stolen by the
Predecessor’s own servant--nay, more, for the value of the said servant
who elected to run away. Truly James Brown builded well when he chose a
wife whose departing partner had, like a receding wave, deposited much
lucrative silt on the matrimonial shore, to be thriftily gathered in
and utilized as a bridal dower by his not-too-sensitive successor.
In fact it may plainly be seen that widows were life-saving stations in
colonial social economy; one colonist expressed his attitude towards
widows and their Providential function as economic aids, thus:--
Our uncle is not at present able to pay you or any other he owes money
to. If he was able to pay he would; they must have patience till God
enable him. As his wife died in mercy near twelve months since, it may
be he may light of some rich widow that may make him capable to pay;
except God in this way raise him he cannot pay you or any one else.
It certainly must have been some satisfaction to every woman to feel
within herself the possibility of becoming such a celestial agent of
material salvation.
I wish to state, in passing, that it is sometimes difficult to judge as
to the marital estate of some dames, to know whether they were widows
at the time of the second marriage or not, for the prefixed Mrs. was
used indifferently for married and single women, and even for young
girls. Cotton Mather wrote of “Mrs. Sarah Gerrish, a very beautiful and
ingenious damsel seven years of age.” Rev. Mr. Tompson wrote a funeral
tribute to a little girl of six, which is entitled and begins thus:--
A Neighbors Tears dropt on ye grave of an Amiable Virgin, a pleasant
Plant cut down in the blooming of her Spring viz; Mrs Rebecka Sewall
Anno Aetatis 6, August ye 4ᵗʰ 1710.
I saw this Pritty Lamb but t’other day
With a small flock of Doves just in my way
Ah pitty tis Such Prittiness should die
With rare alliances on every side.
Had Old Physitians liv’d she ne’er had died.
The pious old minister did not really mean by this tribute to the
old-school doctors, that Mrs. Rebecka would have achieved earthly
immortality. He modestly ends his poetic tribute thus:--
Had you given warning ere you pleased to Die
You might have had a Neater Elegy.
These consorts and relicts are now but shadows of the past:--
their bones are dust,
Their souls are with the saints, I trust.
The honest and kindly gentlemen who were their husbands, sounded their
virtues in diaries and letters; godly ministers preached their piety
in labored and dry-as-dust sermons. Their charms were sung by colonial
poets in elegies, anagrams, epicediums, acrostics, threnodies, and
other decorous verse. It was reserved for a man of war, and not a very
godly man of war either, to pæan their good sense. Cervantes says that
“womans counsel is not worth much, yet he who despises it is no wiser
than he should be.” With John Underhill’s more gallant tribute to the
counsel of a consort, we may fitly end this chapter.
Myself received an arrow through my coat sleeve, a second against my
helmet on the forehead; so as if God in his Providence had not moved
the heart of my wife to persuade me to carry it along with me (which
I was unwilling to do) I had been slain. Give me leave to observe two
things from hence; first when the hour of death is not yet come, you
see God useth weak means to keep his purpose unviolated; secondly let
no man despise advice and counsel of his wife though she be a woman.
It were strange to nature to think a man should be bound to fulfil the
humour of a woman, what arms he should carry; but you see God will
have it so, that a woman should overcome a man. What with Delilahs
flattery, and with her mournful tears, they must and will have their
desire, when the hand of God goes along in the matter, and this to
accomplish his own will. Therefore let the clamor be quenched that I
hear daily in my ears, that New England men usurp over their wives and
keep them in servile subjection. The country is wronged in this matter
as in many things else. Let this precedent satisfy the doubtful, for
that comes from the example of a rude soldier. If they be so courteous
to their wives as to take their advice in warlike matters, how much
more kind is the tender affectionate husband to honor his wife as the
weaker vessel. Yet mistake not. I say not they are bound to call
their wives in council, though they are bound to take their private
advice (so far as they see it make for their advantage and good).
Instance Abraham.
CHAPTER II.
WOMEN OF AFFAIRS.
The early history of Maryland seems singularly peaceful when contrasted
with that of other colonies. There were few Indian horrors, few bitter
quarrels, comparatively few petty offences. In spite of the influx
of convicts, there was a notable absence of the shocking crimes and
equally shocking punishments which appear on the court records of other
provinces; it is also true that there were few schools and churches,
and but scanty intellectual activity. Against that comparatively
peaceful background stands out one of the most remarkable figures of
early colonial life in America--Margaret Brent; a woman who seemed more
fitted for our day than her own. She was the first woman in America to
demand suffrage, a vote, and representation.
She came to the province in 1638 with her sister Mary (another shrewd
and capable woman), her two brothers, and nine other colonists. The
sisters at once took up land, built manorhouses, and shortly brought
over more colonists; soon the court-baron and court-leet were held
at Mary Brent’s home, St. Gabriel’s Manor, on old Kent Island. We at
once hear of the sisters as active in business affairs, registering
cattle marks, buying and selling property, attending with success to
important matters for their brothers; and Margaret soon signed herself
“Attorney for my brother, &c., &c.,” and was allowed the right so to
act. The Brents were friends and probably kinsfolk of Lord Baltimore,
and intimate friends, also, of the governor of Maryland, Leonard
Calvert. When the latter died in 1647, he appointed by nuncupation one
Thomas Greene as his successor as governor, and Margaret Brent as his
sole executrix, with the laconic instruction to “Take all and Pay all,”
and to give one Mistress Temperance Pypott a mare colt. His estate
was small, and if he had made Greene executor, and Mistress Margaret
governor, he would have done a much more sensible thing; for Greene was
vacillating and weak, and when an emergency arose, he had to come to
Margaret Brent for help. The soldiers, who had assisted the government
in recent troubles, were still unpaid, and Governor Calvert had pledged
his official word and the property of Lord Baltimore that they should
be paid in full. After his death an insurrection in the army seemed
rising, when Mistress Brent calmly stepped in, sold cattle belonging
to the Proprietary, and paid off the small but angry army. This was
not the only time she quelled an incipient mutiny. Her kinsman, Lord
Baltimore, was inclined to find bitter fault, and wrote “tartly” when
the news of her prompt action and attendant expenditure reached his
ears; but the Assembly sent him a letter, gallantly upholding Mistress
Brent in her “meddling,” saying with inadvertent humour, that his
estate fared better in her hands than “any man elses.”
Her astonishing stand for woman’s rights was made on January 21,
1647-48, two centuries and a half ago, and was thus recorded:--
Came Mrs Margaret Brent and requested to have vote in the House for
herself and voyce allsoe, for that on the last Court 3rd January it
was ordered that the said Mrs Brent was to be looked upon and received
as his Ldp’s Attorney. The Governor deny’d that the s’d Mrs Brent
should have any vote in the house. And the s’d Mrs Brent protested
against all proceedings in this present Assembly unlesse she may be
present and have vote as afores’d.
With this protest for representation, and demand for her full rights,
this remarkable woman does not disappear from our ken. We hear of her
in 1651 as an offender, having been accused of killing wild cattle and
selling the beef. She asserted with vigor and dignity that the cattle
were her own, and demanded a trial by jury.
And in 1658 she makes her last curtsey before the Assembly and
ourselves, a living proof of the fallacy of the statement that men do
not like strong-minded women. For at that date, at the fully ripened
age of fifty-seven, she appeared as heir of an estate bequeathed to her
by a Maryland gentleman as a token of his love and affection, and of
his constant wish to marry her. She thus vanishes out of history, in a
thoroughly feminine rôle, that of a mourning sweetheart; yet standing
signally out of colonial days as the most clear-cut, unusual, and
forceful figure of the seventeenth century in Maryland.
Another Maryland woman of force and fearlessness was Verlinda Stone. A
letter from her to Lord Baltimore is still in the Maryland archives,
demanding an investigation of a fight in Anne Arundel County, in which
her husband was wounded. The letter is businesslike enough, but ends
in a fiery postscript in which she uses some pretty strong terms. Such
women as these were not to be trifled with; as Alsop wrote:--
All Complemental Courtships drest up in critical Rarities are meer
Strangers to them. Plain wit comes nearest to their Genius, so that he
that intends to Court a Maryland girle, must have something more than
the tautologies of a long-winded speech to carry on his design.
Elizabeth Haddon was another remarkable woman; she founded Haddonfield,
New Jersey. Her father had become possessed of a tract of land in
the New World, and she volunteered to come alone to the colony, and
settle upon the land. She did so in 1701 when she was but _nineteen
years old_, and conducted herself and her business with judgment,
discretion, and success, and so continued throughout her long life. She
married a young Quaker named Esthaugh, who may have been one of the
attractions of the New World. Her idealized story has been told by L.
Maria Child in her book _The Youthful Emigrant_.
John Clayton, writing as early as 1688 of “Observables” in Virginia,
tells of several “acute ingenious gentlewomen” who carried on thriving
tobacco-plantations, draining swamps and raising cattle and buying
slaves. One near Jamestown was a fig-raiser.
In all the Southern colonies we find these acute gentlewomen taking up
tracts of land, clearing them, and cultivating their holdings. In the
settlement of Pennsylvania, Mary Tewee took two thousand five hundred
acres in what is now Lancaster County. She was the widow of a French
Huguenot gentleman, the friend of William Penn, and had been presented
at the court of Queen Anne.
New England magistrates did not encourage such independence. In the
early days of Salem, “maid-lotts” were granted to single women, but
stern Endicott wrote that it was best to abandon the custom, and
“avoid all presedents & evil events of granting lotts vnto single
maidens not disposed of.” The town of Taunton, Mass., had an “ancient
maid” of forty-eight years for its founder, one Elizabeth Poole; and
Winthrop says she endured much hardship. Her gravestone says she was
a “native of old England of good family, friends and prospects, all
of which she left in the prime of her life to enjoy the religion of
her conscience in this distant wilderness. A great proprietor of the
township of Taunton, a chief promoter of its settlement in 1639. Having
employed the opportunity of her virgin state in piety, liberality and
sanctity of manners, she died aged 65.”
Lady Deborah Moody did not receive from the Massachusetts magistrates
an over-cordial or very long-lived welcome. She is described as a
“harassed and lonely widow voluntarily exiling herself for conscience’
sake.” Perhaps her running in debt for her Swampscott land and her
cattle had quite as much to do with her unpopularity as her “error
of denying infant baptism.” But as she paid nine hundred or some say
eleven hundred pounds for that wild land, it is no wonder she was
“almost undone.” She was dealt with by the elders, and admonished by
the church, but she “persisted” and finally removed to the Dutch,
against the advice of all her friends. Endicott called her a dangerous
woman, but Winthrop termed her a “wise and anciently religious woman.”
Among the Dutch she found a congenial home, and, unmolested, she
planned on her Gravesend farm a well-laid-out city, but did not live
to carry out her project. A descendant of one of her Dutch neighbors
writes of her:--
Tradition says she was buried in the north-west corner of the
Gravesend church yard. Upon the headstone of those who sleep beside
her we read the inscription _In der Heere entslapen_--they sleep in
the Lord. We may say the same of this brave true woman, she sleeps in
the Lord. Her rest has been undisturbed in this quiet spot which she
hoped to make a great city.
It seems to be plain that the charge of the affairs of Governor John
Winthrop, Jr., in New Haven was wholly in the hands of Mrs. Davenport,
the wife of the minister, Rev. John Davenport. Many sentences in her
husband’s letters show her cares for her friends’ welfare, the variety
of her business duties, and her performance of them. He wrote thus to
the Governor in 1658:--
For your ground; my wife speedily, even the same day she received your
letter, spake with sundry about it, and received this answer, that
there is no Indian corne to be planted in that quarter this yeare.
Brother Boykin was willing to have taken it, but saith it is overrun
with wild sorrell and it will require time to subdue it, and put it
into tillage, being at present unfit to be improved. Goodman Finch was
in our harbour when your letter came, & my wife went promptly downe,
and met with yong Mr Lamberton to whom she delivered your letter. He
offered some so bad beaver that my wife would not take it. My wife
spake twise to him herself. My wife desireth to add that she received
for you of Mr Goodenhouse 30s worth of beaver & 4s in wampum. She
purposeth to send your beaver to the Baye when the best time is, to
sell it for your advantage and afterwards to give you an account what
it comes to. Your letter to Sarjiunt Baldwin my wife purposeth to
carry to him by the 1st opportunity. Sister Hobbadge has paid my wife
in part of her debt to you a bushel of winter wheate.
The letters also reveal much loving-kindness, much eagerness to be of
assistance, equal readiness to welcome new-comers, and to smooth the
rough difficulties in pioneer housekeeping. Rev. Mr. Davenport wrote in
August, 1655, from New Haven to Gov. Winthrop at Pequot:--
HON’ᵈ SIR,--We did earnestly expect your coming hither with Mrs.
Winthrop and your familie, the last light moone, having intelligence
that a vessel wayted upon you at Pequot for that end, and were thereby
encouraged to provide your house, that it might be fitted in some
measure, for your comfortable dwelling in it, this winter.
My wife was not wanting in her endeavors to set all wheeles in going,
all hands that she could procure on worke, that you might find all
things to your satisfaction. Though she could not accomplish her
desires to the full, yet she proceeded as farr as she could; whereby
many things are done viz. the house made warme, the well cleansed, the
pumpe fitted for your use, some provision of wood layed in, and 20
loades will be ready, whensoever you come; and sundry, by my wife’s
instigation, prepared 30 bush. of wheate for the present and sister
Glover hath 12 lb of candles ready for you. My wife hath also procured
a maid servant for you, who is reported to be cleanly and saving, her
mother is of the church, and she is kept from a place in Connectacot
where she was much desired, to serve you....
If Mrs. Winthrop knew how wellcome she will be to us she would I
believe neglect whatsoever others doe or may be forward to suggest for
her discouragement. Salute her, with due respect, in my name and my
wife’s, most affectionately.
Madam Davenport also furnished the rooms with tables and “chayres,”
and “took care of yor apples that they may be kept safe from the frost
that Mrs. Winthrop may have the benefit of them,” and arranged to send
horses to meet them; so it is not strange to learn in a postscript
that the hospitable kindly soul, who thus cheerfully worked to “redd
the house,” had a “paine in the soles of her feet, especially in the
evening;” and a little later on to know she was “valetudinarious,
faint, thirsty, of little appetite _yet cheerful_.”
All these examples, and many others help to correct one very popular
mistake. It seems to be universally believed that the “business woman”
is wholly a product of the nineteenth century. Most emphatically may
it be affirmed that such is not the case. I have seen advertisements
dating from 1720 to 1800, chiefly in New England newspapers, of women
teachers, embroiderers, jelly-makers, cooks, wax-workers, japanners,
mantua-makers,--all truly feminine employments; and also of women
dealers in crockery, musical instruments, hardware, farm products,
groceries, drugs, wines, and spirits, while Hawthorne noted one
colonial dame who carried on a blacksmith-shop. Peter Faneuil’s account
books show that he had accounts in small English wares with many
Boston tradeswomen, some of whom bought many thousand pounds’ worth of
imported goods in a year. Alice Quick had fifteen hundred pounds in
three months; and I am glad to say that the women were very prompt in
payment, as well as active in business. By Stamp Act times, the names
of five women merchants appear on the Salem list of traders who banded
together to oppose taxation.
It is claimed by many that the “newspaper-woman” is a growth of
modern times. I give examples to prove the fallacy of this statement.
Newspapers of colonial times can scarcely be said to have been
edited, they were simply printed or published, and all that men did
as newspaper-publishers, women did also, and did well. It cannot be
asserted that these women often voluntarily or primarily started a
newspaper; they usually assumed the care after the death of an editor
husband, or brother, or son, or sometimes to assist while a male
relative, through sickness or multiplicity of affairs, could not attend
to his editorial or publishing work.
Perhaps the most remarkable examples of women-publishers may be found
in the Goddard family of Rhode Island. Mrs. Sarah Goddard was the
daughter of Ludowick Updike, of one of the oldest and most respected
families in that State. She received an excellent education “in both
useful and polite learning,” and married Dr. Giles Goddard, a prominent
physician and postmaster of New London. After becoming a widow, she
went into the printing business in Providence about the year 1765,
with her son, who was postmaster of that town. They published the
_Providence Gazette and Country Journal_, the only newspaper printed
in Providence before 1775. William Goddard was dissatisfied with his
pecuniary profit, and he went to New York, leaving the business wholly
with his mother; she conducted it with much ability and success under
the name Sarah Goddard & Company. I wish to note that she carried on
this business not under her son’s name, but openly in her own behalf;
and when she assumed the charge of the paper, she printed it with her
own motto as the heading, _Vox Populi Vox Dei_.
William Goddard drifted to Philadelphia, where he published the
_Pennsylvania Chronicle_ for a short season, and in 1773 he removed
to Baltimore and established himself in the newspaper business anew,
with only, he relates, “the small capital of a single solitary guinea.”
He found another energetic business woman, the widow Mrs. Nicholas
Hasselbaugh, carrying on the printing-business bequeathed to her by
her husband; and he bought her stock in trade and established _The
Maryland Journal and Baltimore Advertiser_. It was the third newspaper
published in Maryland, was issued weekly at ten shillings per annum,
and was a well-printed sheet. But William Goddard had another bee in
his bonnet. A plan was formed just before the Revolutionary War to
abolish the general public post-office and to establish in its place a
complete private system of post-riders from Georgia to New Hampshire.
This system was to be supported by private subscription; a large sum
was already subscribed, and the scheme well under way, when the war
ended all the plans. Goddard had this much to heart, and had travelled
extensively through the colonies exploiting it. While he was away on
these trips he left the newspaper and printing-house solely under the
charge of his sister Mary Katharine Goddard, the worthy daughter of
her energetic mother. From 1775 to 1784, through the trying times of
the Revolution, and in a most active scene of military and political
troubles, this really brilliant woman continued to print successfully
and continuously her newspaper. The _Journal_ and every other work
issued from her printing-presses were printed and published in her
name, and it is believed chiefly on her own account. She was a woman of
much intelligence and was also practical, being an expert compositor of
types, and fully conversant with every detail of the mechanical work
of a printing-office. During this busy time she was also postmistress
of Baltimore, and kept a bookshop. Her brother William, through his
futile services in this postal scheme, had been led to believe he
would receive under Benjamin Franklin and the new government of the
United States, the appointment of Secretary and Comptroller of the Post
Office; but Franklin gave it to his own son-in-law, Richard Bache.
Goddard, sorely disappointed but pressed in money matters, felt forced
to accept the position of Surveyor of Post Roads. When Franklin went to
France in 1776, and Bache became Postmaster-General, and Goddard again
was not appointed Comptroller, his chagrin caused him to resign his
office, and naturally to change his political principles.
He retired to Baltimore, and soon there appeared in the _Journal_
an ironical piece (written by a member of Congress) signed Tom Tell
Truth. From this arose a vast political storm. The Whig Club of
Baltimore, a powerful body, came to Miss Goddard and demanded the
name of the author; she referred them to her brother. On his refusal
to give the author’s name, he was seized, carried to the clubhouse,
bullied, and finally warned out of town and county. He at once went
to the Assembly at Annapolis and demanded protection, which was given
him. He ventilated his wrongs in a pamphlet, and was again mobbed
and insulted. In 1779, Anna Goddard printed anonymously in her paper
_Queries Political and Military_, written really by General Charles
Lee, the enemy and at one time presumptive rival of Washington. This
paper also raised a tremendous storm through which the Goddards passed
triumphantly. Lee remained always a close friend of William Goddard,
and bequeathed to him his valuable and interesting papers, with the
intent of posthumous publication; but, unfortunately, they were sent to
England to be printed in handsome style, and were instead imperfectly
and incompletely issued, and William Goddard received no benefit or
profit from their sale. But Lee left him also, by will, a large and
valuable estate in Berkeley County, Virginia, so he retired from public
life and ended his days on a Rhode Island farm. Anna Katharine Goddard
lived to great old age. The story of this acquaintance with General
Lee, and of Miss Goddard’s connection therewith, forms one of the
interesting minor episodes of the War.
Just previous to the Revolution, it was nothing very novel or unusual
to Baltimoreans to see a woman edit a newspaper. The _Maryland Gazette_
suspended on account of the Stamp Act in 1765, and the printer issued
a paper called _The Apparition of the Maryland Gazette which is not
Dead but Sleepeth_; and instead of a Stamp it bore a death’s head with
the motto, “The Times are Dismal, Doleful, Dolorous, Dollarless.”
Almost immediately after it resumed publication, the publisher died,
and from 1767 to 1775 it was carried on by his widow, Anne Katharine
Green, sometimes assisted by her son, but for five years alone. The
firm name was Anne Katharine Green & Son: and she also did the printing
for the Colony. She was about thirty-six years old when she assumed the
business, and was then the mother of six sons and eight daughters. Her
husband was the fourth generation from Samuel Green, the first printer
in New England, from whom descended about thirty ante-Revolutionary
printers. Until the Revolution there was always a Printer Green in
Boston. Mr. Green’s partner, William Rind, removed to Williamsburg and
printed there the _Virginia Gazette_. At his death, widow Clementina
Rind, not to be outdone by Widow Green and Mother and Sister Goddard,
proved that what woman has done woman can do, by carrying on the
business and printing the _Gazette_ till her own death in 1775.
It is indeed a curious circumstance that, on the eve of the Revolution,
so many southern newspapers should be conducted by women. Long ere
that, from 1738 to 1740, Elizabeth Timothy, a Charleston woman, widow
of Louis Timothy, the first librarian of the Philadelphia Library
company, and publisher of the _South Carolina Gazette_, carried on
that paper after her husband’s death; and her son, Peter Timothy,
succeeded her. In 1780 his paper was suspended, through his capture by
the British. He was exchanged, and was lost at sea with two daughters
and a grandchild, while on his way to Antigua to obtain funds. He had
a varied and interesting life, was a friend of Parson Whitefield, and
was tried with him on a charge of libel against the South Carolina
ministers. In 1782 his widow, Anne Timothy, revived the _Gazette_,
as had her mother-in-law before her, and published it successfully
twice a week for ten years till her death in 1792. She had a large
printing-house, corner of Broad and King Streets, Charleston, and was
printer to the State; truly a remarkable woman.
Peter Timothy’s sister Mary married Charles Crouch, who also was
drowned when on a vessel bound to New York. He was a sound Whig and set
up a paper in opposition to the Stamp Act, called _The South Carolina
Gazette and Country Journal_. This was one of the four papers which
were all entitled Gazettes in order to secure certain advertisements
that were all directed by law “to be inserted in the South Carolina
Gazette.” Mary Timothy Crouch continued the paper for a short time
after her husband’s death; and in 1780 shortly before the surrender
of the city to the British, went with her printing-press and types
to Salem, where for a few months she printed _The Salem Gazette and
General Advertiser_. I have dwelt at some length on the activity and
enterprise of these Southern women, because it is another popular but
unstable notion that the women of the North were far more energetic and
capable than their Southern sisters; which is certainly not the case in
this line of business affairs.
Benjamin and James Franklin were not the only members of the Franklin
family who were capable newspaper-folk. James Franklin died in Newport
in 1735, and his widow Anne successfully carried on the business for
many years. She had efficient aid in her two daughters, who were quick
and capable practical workers at the compositor’s case, having been
taught by their father, whom they assisted in his lifetime. Isaiah
Thomas says of them:--
A gentleman who was acquainted with Anne Franklin and her family,
informed me that he had often seen her daughters at work in the
printing house, and that they were sensible and amiable women.
We can well believe that, since they had Franklin and Anne Franklin
blood in them. This competent and industrious trio of women not only
published the _Newport Mercury_, but were printers for the colony,
supplying blanks for public offices, publishing pamphlets, etc. In
1745 they printed for the Government an edition of the laws of the
colony of 340 pages, folio. Still further, they carried on a business
of “printing linens, calicoes, silks, &c., in figures, very lively and
durable colors, and without the offensive smell which commonly attends
linen-printing.” Surely there was no lack of business ability on the
distaff side of the Franklin house.
Boston women gave much assistance to their printer-husbands. Ezekiel
Russel, the editor of that purely political publication, _The Censor_,
was in addition a printer of chap-books and ballads which were sold
from his stand near the Liberty Tree on Boston Common. His wife not
only helped him in printing these, but she and another young woman
of his household, having ready pens and a biddable muse, wrote with
celerity popular and seasonable ballads on passing events, especially
of tragic or funereal cast; and when these ballads were printed with a
nice border of woodcuts of coffins and death’s heads, they often had a
long and profitable run of popularity. After his death, Widow Russel
still continued ballad making and monging.
It was given to a woman, Widow Margaret Draper, to publish the
only newspaper which was issued in Boston during the siege, the
_Massachusetts Gazette and Boston News Letter_. And a miserable little
sheet it was, vari-colored, vari-typed, vari-sized; of such poor print
that it is scarcely readable. When the British left Boston, Margaret
Draper left also, and resided in England, where she received a pension
from the British government.
The first newspaper in Pennsylvania was entitled _The American Weekly
Mercury_. It was “imprinted by Andrew Bradford” in 1719. He was a
son of the first newspaper printer in New York, William Bradford,
Franklin’s “cunning old fox,” who lived to be ninety-two years old, and
whose quaint tombstone may be seen in Trinity Churchyard. At Andrew’s
death in 1742, the paper appeared in mourning, and it was announced
that it would be published by “the widow Bradford.” She took in a
partner, but speedily dropped him, and carried it on in her own name
till 1746. During the time that Cornelia Bradford printed this paper
it was remarkable for its good type and neatness.
_The Connecticut Courant_ and _The Centinel_ were both of them
published for some years by the widows of former proprietors.
The story of John Peter Zenger, the publisher of _The New York Weekly
Journal_, is one of the most interesting episodes in our progress to
free speech and liberty, but cannot be dwelt on here. The feminine
portion of his family was of assistance to him. His daughter was
mistress of a famous New York tavern that saw many remarkable visitors,
and heard much of the remarkable talk of Zenger’s friends. After his
death in 1746, his newspaper was carried on by his widow for two years.
Her imprint was, “New York; Printed by the Widow Cathrine Zenger at the
Printing-Office in Stone Street; Where Advertisements are taken in, and
all Persons may be supplied with this Paper.”
The whole number of newspapers printed before the Revolution was
not very large; and when we see how readily and successfully this
considerable number of women assumed the cares of publishing, we know
that the “newspaper woman” of that day was no rare or presumptuous
creature, any more than is the “newspaper-woman” of our own day,
albeit she was of very different ilk; but the spirit of independent
self-reliance, when it became necessary to exhibit self-reliance,
was as prompt and as stable in the feminine breast a century and a
half ago as now. Then, as to-day, there were doubtless scores of good
wives and daughters who materially assisted their husbands in their
printing-shops, and whose work will never be known.
There is no doubt that our great-grandmothers possessed wonderful
ability to manage their own affairs, when it became necessary to do
so, even in extended commercial operations. It is easy to trace in
the New England coast towns one influence which tended to interest
them, and make them capable of business transactions. They constantly
heard on all sides the discussion of foreign trade, and were even
encouraged to enter into the discussion and the traffic. They heard the
Windward Islands, the Isle of France, and Amsterdam, and Canton, and
the coast of Africa described by old travelled mariners, by active
young shipmasters, in a way that put them far more in touch with these
far-away foreign shores, gave them more knowledge of details of life
in those lands, than women of to-day have. And women were encouraged,
even urged, to take an active share in foreign trade, in commercial
speculation, by sending out a “venture” whenever a vessel put out to
sea, and whenever the small accumulation of money earned by braiding
straw, knitting stockings, selling eggs or butter, or by spinning and
weaving, was large enough to be worth thus investing; and it needed not
to be a very large sum to be deemed proper for investment. When a ship
sailed out to China with cargo of ginseng, the ship’s owner did not own
all the solid specie in the hold--the specie that was to be invested in
the rich and luxurious products of far Cathay. Complicated must have
been the accounts of these transactions, for many were the parties in
the speculation. There were no giant monopolies in those days. The
kindly ship-owner permitted even his humblest neighbor to share his
profits. And the profits often were large. The stories of some of the
voyages, the adventures of the business contracts, read like a fairy
tale of commerce. In old letters may be found reference to many of the
ventures sent by women. One young woman wrote in 1759:--
Inclos’d is a pair of Earrings. Pleas ask Captin Oliver to carry them
a Ventur fer me if he Thinks they will fetch anything to the Vally of
them; tell him he may bring the effects in anything he thinks will
answer best.
One of the “effects” brought to this young woman, and to hundreds
of others, was a certain acquaintance with business transactions, a
familiarity with the methods of trade. When the father or husband died,
the woman could, if necessary, carry on his business to a successful
winding-up, or continue it in the future. Of the latter enterprise many
illustrations might be given. In the autumn of 1744 a large number of
prominent business men in Newport went into a storehouse on a wharf
to examine the outfit of a large privateer. A terrible explosion of
gunpowder took place, which killed nine of them. One of the wounded
was Sueton Grant, a Scotchman, who had come to America in 1725. His
wife, on hearing of the accident, ran at once to the dock, took in
at a glance the shocking scene and its demands for assistance, and
cutting into strips her linen apron with the housewife’s scissors she
wore at her side, calmly bound up the wounds of her dying husband. Mr.
Grant was at this time engaged in active business; he had agencies in
Europe, and many privateers afloat. Mrs. Grant took upon her shoulders
these great responsibilities, and successfully carried them on for many
years, while she educated her children, and cared for her home.
A good example of her force of character was once shown in a court
of law. She had an important litigation on hand and large interests
at stake, when she discovered the duplicity of her counsel, and her
consequent danger. She went at once to the court-room where the
case was being tried; when her lawyer promptly but vainly urged her
to retire. The judge, disturbed by the interruption, asked for an
explanation, and Mrs. Grant at once unfolded the knavery of her counsel
and asked permission to argue her own case. Her dignity, force, and
lucidity so moved the judge that he permitted her to address the
jury, which she did in so convincing a manner as to cause them to
promptly render a verdict favorable to her. She passed through some
trying scenes at the time of the Revolution with wonderful decision and
ability, and received from every one the respect and deference due to a
thorough business man, though she was a woman.
In New York the feminine Dutch blood showed equal capacity in business
matters; and it is said that the management of considerable estates
and affairs often was assumed by widows in New Amsterdam. Two noted
examples are Widow De Vries and Widow Provoost. The former was married
in 1659, to Rudolphus De Vries, and after his death she carried on
his Dutch trade--not only buying and selling foreign goods, but going
repeatedly to Holland in the position of supercargo on her own ships.
She married Frederick Phillipse, and it was through her keenness and
thrift and her profitable business, as well as through his own success,
that Phillipse became the richest man in the colony and acquired the
largest West Indian trade.
Widow Maria Provoost was equally successful at the beginning of the
eighteenth century, and had a vast Dutch business correspondence.
Scarce a ship from Spain, the Mediterranean, or the West Indies, but
brought her large consignments of goods. She too married a second time,
and as Madam James Alexander filled a most dignified position in New
York, being the only person besides the Governor to own a two-horse
coach. Her house was the finest in town, and such descriptions of its
various apartments as “the great drawing-room, the lesser drawing-room,
the blue and gold leather room, the green and gold leather room, the
chintz room, the great tapestry room, the little front parlour, the
back parlour,” show its size and pretensions.
Madam Martha Smith, widow of Colonel William Smith of St. George’s
Manor, Long Island, was a woman of affairs in another field. In an
interesting memorandum left by her we read:--
Jan ye 16, 1707. My company killed a yearling whale made 27 barrels.
Feb ye 4, Indian Harry with his boat struck a whale and called for my
boat to help him. I had but a third which was 4 barrels. Feb 22, my
two boats & my sons and Floyds boats killed a yearling whale of which
I had half--made 36 barrels, my share 18 barrels. Feb 24 my company
killed a school whale which made 35 barrels. March 13, my company
killed a small yearling made 30 barrels. March 17, my company killed
two yearlings in one day; one made 27, the other 14 barrels.
We find her paying to Lord Cornbury fifteen pounds, a duty on “ye 20th
part of her eyle.” And she apparently succeeded in her enterprises.
In early Philadelphia directories may be found the name of “Margaret
Duncan, Merchant, No. 1 S. Water St.” This capable woman had been
shipwrecked on her way to the new world. In the direst hour of that
extremity, when forced to draw lots for the scant supply of food, she
vowed to build a church in her new home if her life should be spared.
The “Vow Church” in Philadelphia, on Thirteenth Street near Market
Street, for many years proved her fulfilment of this vow, and also bore
tribute to the prosperity of this pious Scotch Presbyterian in her
adopted home.
Southern women were not outstripped by the business women of the
north. No more practical woman ever lived in America than Eliza Lucas
Pinckney. When a young girl she resided on a plantation at Wappoo,
South Carolina, owned by her father, George Lucas. He was Governor
of Antigua, and observing her fondness for and knowledge of botany,
and her intelligent power of application of her knowledge, he sent to
her many tropical seeds and plants for her amusement and experiment
in her garden. Among the seeds were some of indigo, which she became
convinced could be profitably grown in South Carolina. She at once
determined to experiment, and planted indigo seed in March, 1741. The
young plants started finely, but were cut down by an unusual frost. She
planted seed a second time, in April, and these young indigo-plants
were destroyed by worms. Notwithstanding these discouragements,
she tried a third time, and with success. Her father was delighted
with her enterprise and persistence, and when he learned that the
indigo had seeded and ripened, sent an Englishman named Cromwell--an
experienced indigo-worker--from Montserrat to teach his daughter
Eliza the whole process of extracting the dye from the weed. Vats
were built on Wappoo Creek, in which was made the first indigo formed
in Carolina. It was of indifferent quality, for Cromwell feared the
successful establishment of the industry in America would injure the
indigo trade in his own colony, so he made a mystery of the process,
and put too much lime in the vats, doubtless thinking he could impose
upon a woman. But Miss Lucas watched him carefully, and in spite of his
duplicity, and doubtless with considerable womanly power of guessing,
finally obtained a successful knowledge and application of the complex
and annoying methods of extracting indigo,--methods which required
the untiring attention of sleepless nights, and more “judgment” than
intricate culinary triumphs. After the indigo was thoroughly formed by
steeping, beating, and washing, and taken from the vats, the trials of
the maker were not over. It must be exposed to the sun, but if exposed
too much it would be burnt, if too little it would rot. Myriads of
flies collected around it and if unmolested would quickly ruin it. If
packed too soon it would sweat and disintegrate. So, from the first
moment the tender plant appeared above ground, when the vast clouds
of destroying grasshoppers had to be annihilated by flocks of hungry
chickens, or carefully dislodged by watchful human care, indigo culture
and manufacture was a distressing worry, and was made still more
unalluring to a feminine experimenter by the fact that during the weary
weeks it laid in the “steepers” and “beaters” it gave forth a most
villainously offensive smell.
Soon after Eliza Lucas’ hard-earned success she married Charles
Pinckney, and it is pleasant to know that her father gave her, as
part of her wedding gift, all the indigo on the plantation. She saved
the whole crop for seed,--and it takes about a bushel of indigo seed
to plant four acres,--and she planted the Pinckney plantation at
Ashepoo, and gave to her friends and neighbors small quantities of
seed for individual experiment; all of which proved successful. The
culture of indigo at once became universal, the newspapers were full of
instructions upon the subject, and the dye was exported to England by
1747, in such quantity that merchants trading in Carolina petitioned
Parliament for a bounty on Carolina indigo. An act of Parliament was
passed allowing a bounty of sixpence a pound on indigo raised in the
British-American plantations and imported directly to Great Britain.
Spurred on by this wise act, the planters applied with redoubled vigor
to the production of the article, and soon received vast profits as the
rewards of their labor and care. It is said that just previous to the
Revolution more children were sent from South Carolina to England to
receive educations, than from all the other colonies,--and this through
the profits of indigo and rice. Many indigo planters doubled their
capital every three or four years, and at last not only England was
supplied with indigo from South Carolina, but the Americans undersold
the French in many European markets. It exceeded all other southern
industries in importance, and became a general medium of exchange. When
General Marion’s young nephew was sent to school at Philadelphia, he
started off with a wagon-load of indigo to pay his expenses. The annual
dues of the Winyah Indigo Society of Georgetown were paid in the dye,
and the society had grown so wealthy in 1753, that it established a
large charity school and valuable library.
Ramsay, the historian of South Carolina, wrote in 1808, that the indigo
trade proved more beneficial to Carolina than the mines of Mexico or
Peru to old or new Spain. By the year of his writing, however, indigo
(without waiting for extermination through its modern though less
reliable rivals, the aniline dyes) had been driven out of Southern
plantations by its more useful and profitable field neighbor, King
Cotton, that had been set on a throne by the invention of a Yankee
schoolmaster. The time of greatest production and export of indigo was
just previous to the Revolution, and at one time it was worth four
or five dollars a pound. And to-day only the scanty records of the
indigo trade, a few rotting cypress boards of the steeping-vats, and
the blue-green leaves of the wild wayside indigo, remain of all this
prosperity to show the great industry founded by this remarkable and
intelligent woman.
The rearing of indigo was not this young girl’s only industry. I will
quote from various letters written by her in 1741 and 1742 before her
marriage, to show her many duties, her intelligence, her versatility:--
Wrote my father on the pains I had taken to bring the Indigo, Ginger,
Cotton, Lucern, and Casada to perfection and had greater hopes from
the Indigo, if I could have the seed earlier, than any of ye rest of
ye things I had tried.
I have the burthen of 3 Plantations to transact which requires much
writing and more business and fatigue of other sorts than you can
imagine. But lest you should imagine it too burthensome to a girl in
my early time of life, give me leave to assure you I think myself
happy that I can be useful to so good a father.
Wont you laugh at me if I tell you I am so busy in providing for
Posterity I hardly allow myself time to eat or sleep, and can but
just snatch a moment to write to you and a friend or two more. I am
making a large plantation of oaks which I look upon as my own property
whether my father gives me the land or not, and therefore I design
many yeer hence when oaks are more valuable than they are now, which
you know they will be when we come to build fleets. I intend I say
two thirds of the produce of my oaks for a charity (Ill tell you my
scheme another time) and the other third for those that shall have
the trouble to put my design in execution.
I have a sister to instruct, and a parcel of little negroes whom I
have undertaken to teach to read.
The Cotton, Guinea Corn, and Ginger planted was cutt off by a frost.
I wrote you in a former letter we had a good crop of Indigo upon the
ground. I make no doubt this will prove a valuable commodity in time.
Sent Gov. Thomas daughter a tea chest of my own doing.
I am engaged with the Rudiments of Law to which I am but a stranger.
If you will not laugh too immoderately at me I’ll trust you with a
Secrett. I have made two Wills already. I know I have done no harm for
I conn’d my Lesson perfect. A widow hereabouts with a pretty little
fortune teazed me intolerably to draw a marriage settlement, but it
was out of my depth and I absolutely refused it--so she got an able
hand to do it--indeed she could afford it--but I could not get off
being one of the Trustees to her settlement, and an old Gentⁿ the
other. I shall begin to think myself an old woman before I am a young
one, having such mighty affairs on my hands.
I think this record of important work could scarce be equalled by any
young girl in a comparative station of life nowadays. And when we
consider the trying circumstances, the difficult conditions, in which
these varied enterprises were carried on, we can well be amazed at the
story.
Indigo was not the only important staple which attracted Mrs.
Pinckney’s attention, and the manufacture of which she made a success.
In 1755 she carried with her to England enough rich silk fabric,
which she had raised and spun and woven herself in the vicinity of
Charleston, to make three fine silk gowns, one of which was presented
to the Princess Dowager of Wales, and another to Lord Chesterfield.
This silk was said to be equal in beauty to any silk ever imported.
This was not the first American silk that had graced the person of
English royalty. In 1734 the first windings of Georgia silk had been
taken from the filature to England, and the queen wore a dress made
thereof at the king’s next birthday. Still earlier in the field
Virginia had sent its silken tribute to royalty. In the college library
at Williamsburg, Va., may be seen a letter signed “Charles R.”--his
most Gracious Majesty Charles the Second. It was written by his
Majesty’s private secretary, and addressed to Governor Berkeley for the
king’s loyal subjects in Virginia. It reads thus:--
Trusty and Well beloved, We Greet you Well. Wee have received wᵗʰ
much content ye dutifull respects of Our Colony in ye present lately
made us by you & ye councill there, of ye first product of ye new
Manufacture of Silke, which as a marke of Our Princely acceptation
of yoʳ duteys & for yoʳ particular encouragement, etc. Wee have been
commanded to be wrought up for ye use of Our Owne Person.
And earliest of all is the tradition, dear to the hearts of Virginians,
that Charles I. was crowned in 1625 in a robe woven of Virginia silk.
The Queen of George III. was the last English royalty to be similarly
honored, for the next attack of the silk fever produced a suit for an
American ruler, George Washington.
The culture of silk in America was an industry calculated to attract
the attention of women, and indeed was suited to them, but men were not
exempt from the fever; and the history of the manifold and undaunted
efforts of governor’s councils, parliaments, noblemen, philosophers,
and kings to force silk culture in America forms one of the most
curious examples extant of persistent and futile efforts to run counter
to positive economic conditions, for certainly physical conditions are
fairly favorable.
South Carolina women devoted themselves with much success to
agricultural experiments. Henry Laurens brought from Italy and
naturalized the olive-tree, and his daughter, Martha Laurens Ramsay,
experimented with the preservation of the fruit until her productions
equalled the imported olives. Catharine Laurens Ramsay manufactured
opium of the first quality. In 1755 Henry Laurens’ garden in
Ansonborough was enriched with every curious vegetable product from
remote quarters of the world that his extensive mercantile connections
enabled him to procure, and the soil and climate of South Carolina to
cherish. He introduced besides olives, capers, limes, ginger, guinea
grass, Alpine strawberries (bearing nine months in the year), and many
choice varieties of fruits. This garden was superintended by his wife,
Mrs. Elinor Laurens.
Mrs. Martha Logan was a famous botanist and florist. She was born
in 1702, and was the daughter of Robert Daniel, one of the last
proprietary governors of South Carolina. When fourteen years old,
she married George Logan, and all her life treasured a beautiful and
remarkable garden. When seventy years old, she compiled from her
knowledge and experience a regular treatise on gardening, which was
published after her death, with the title _The Garden’s Kalendar_. It
was for many years the standard work on gardening in that locality.
Mrs. Hopton and Mrs. Lamboll were early and assiduous flower-raisers
and experimenters in the eighteenth century, and Miss Maria Drayton, of
Drayton Hall, a skilled botanist.
The most distinguished female botanist of colonial days was Jane
Colden, the daughter of Governor Cadwallader Colden, of New York. Her
love of the science was inherited from her father, the friend and
correspondent of Linnæus, Collinson, and other botanists. She learned
a method of taking leaf-impressions in printers’ ink, and sent careful
impressions of American plants and leaves to the European collectors.
John Ellis wrote of her to Linnæus in April, 1758:--
This young lady merits your esteem, and does honor to your system. She
has drawn and described four hundred plants in your method. Her father
has a plant called after her Coldenia. Suppose you should call this
new genus Coldenella or any other name which might distinguish her.
Peter Collinson said also that she was the first lady to study the
Linnæan system, and deserved to be celebrated. Another tribute to her
may be found in a letter of Walter Rutherford’s:--
From the middle of the Woods this Family corresponds with all the
learned Societies in Europe. His daughter Jenny is a Florist and
Botanist. She has discovered a great number of Plants never before
described and has given their Properties and Virtues, many of which
are found useful in Medicine and she draws and colours them with great
Beauty. Dr. Whyte of Edinburgh is in the number of her correspondents.
N. B. She makes the best cheese I ever ate in America.
The homely virtue of being a good cheese-maker was truly a saving
clause to palliate and excuse so much feminine scientific knowledge.
CHAPTER III.
“DOUBLE-TONGUED AND NAUGHTY WOMEN.”
I am much impressed in reading the court records of those early
days, to note the vast care taken in all the colonies to prevent
lying, slandering, gossiping, backbiting, and idle babbling, or, as
they termed it, “brabling;” to punish “common sowers and movers”--of
dissensions, I suppose.
The loving neighborliness which proved as strong and as indispensable a
foundation for a successful colony as did godliness, made the settlers
resent deeply any violations, though petty, of the laws of social
kindness. They felt that what they termed “opprobrious schandalls
tending to defamaçon and disparagment” could not be endured.
One old author declares that “blabbing, babbling, tale-telling, and
discovering the faults and frailities of others is a most Common and
evill practice.” He asserts that a woman should be a “main store house
of secresie, a Maggazine of taciturnitie, the closet of connivence,
the mumbudget of silence, the cloake bagge of rouncell, the capcase,
fardel, or pack of friendly toleration;” which, as a whole, seems
to be a good deal to ask. Men were, as appears by the records, more
frequently brought up for these offences of the tongue, but women were
not spared either in indictment or punishment. In Windsor, Conn., one
woman was whipped for “wounding” a neighbor, not in the flesh, but in
the sensibilities.
In 1652 Joane Barnes, of Plymouth, Mass., was indicted for
“slandering,” and sentenced “to sitt in the stockes during the Courts
pleasure, and a paper whereon her facte written in Capitall letters
to be made faste vnto her hatt or neare vnto her all the tyme of her
sitting there.” In 1654 another Joane in Northampton County, Va.,
suffered a peculiarly degrading punishment for slander. She was “drawen
ouer the Kings Creeke at the starne of a boate or Canoux, also the
next Saboth day in the tyme of diuine seruis” was obliged to present
herself before the minister and congregation, and acknowledge her
fault, and ask forgiveness. This was an old Scotch custom. The same
year one Charlton called the parson, Mr. Cotton, a “black cotted
rascal,” and was punished therefor in the same way. Richard Buckland,
for writing a slanderous song about Ann Smith, was similarly pilloried,
bearing a paper on his hat inscribed _Inimicus Libellus_, and since
possibly all the church attendants did not know Latin, to publicly beg
Ann’s forgiveness in English for his libellous poesy. The punishment
of offenders by exposing them, wrapped in sheets, or attired in foul
clothing, on the stool of repentance in the meeting-house in time of
divine service, has always seemed to me specially bitter, unseemly, and
unbearable.
It should be noted that these suits for slander were between persons
in every station of life. When Anneke Jans Bogardus (wife of Dominie
Bogardus, the second established clergyman in New Netherlands), would
not remain in the house with one Grietje van Salee, a woman of doubtful
reputation, the latter told throughout the neighborhood that Anneke had
lifted her petticoats when crossing the street, and exposed her ankles
in unseemly fashion; and she also said that the Dominie had sworn
a false oath. Action for slander was promptly begun, and witnesses
produced to show that Anneke had flourished her petticoats no more than
was seemly and tidy to escape the mud. Judgment was pronounced against
Grietje and her husband. She had to make public declaration in the Fort
that she had lied, and to pay three guilders. The husband had to pay a
fine, and swear to the good character of the Dominie and good carriage
of the Dominie’s wife, and he was not permitted to carry weapons in
town,--a galling punishment.
Dominie Bogardus was in turn sued several times for slander,--once
by Thomas Hall, the tobacco planter, simply for saying that Thomas’
tobacco was bad; and again, wonderful to relate, by one of his
deacons--Deacon Van Cortlandt.
Special punishment was provided for women. Old Dr. Johnson said gruffly
to a lady friend: “Madam, there are different ways of restraining
evil; stocks for men, a ducking-stool for women, pounds for beasts.”
The old English instrument of punishment,--as old as the Doomsday
survey,--the cucking-stool or ducking-stool, was in vogue here, was
insultingly termed a “publique convenience,” and was used in the
Southern and Central colonies for the correction of common scolds. We
read in Blackstone’s _Commentaries_, “A common scold may be indicted
and if convicted shall be sentenced to be placed in a certain engine
of correction called the trebucket, castigatory, or cucking-stool.”
Still another name for this “engine” was a “gum-stool.” The brank, or
scold’s bridle,--a cruel and degrading means of punishment employed
in England for “curst queans” as lately as 1824,--was unknown in
America. A brank may be seen at the Guildhall in Worcester, England.
One at Walton-on-Thames bears the date 1633. On the Isle of Man,
when the brank was removed, the wearer had to say thrice, in public,
“Tongue, thou hast lied.” I do not find that women ever had to “run the
gauntelope” as did male offenders in 1685 in Boston, and, though under
another name, in several of the provinces.
Women in Maine were punished by being gagged; in Plymouth, Mass., and
in Easthampton, L. I., they had cleft sticks placed on their tongues
in public; in the latter place because the dame said her husband “had
brought her to a place where there was neither gospel nor magistracy.”
In Salem “one Oliver--his wife” had a cleft stick placed on her tongue
for half an hour in public “for reproaching the elders.” It was a high
offence to speak “discornfully” of the elders and magistrates.
The first volume of the _American Historical Record_ gives a letter
said to have been written to Governor Endicott, of Massachusetts, in
1634 by one Thomas Hartley from Hungar’s Parish, Virginia. It gives a
graphic description of a ducking-stool, and an account of a ducking in
Virginia. I quote from it:--
The day afore yesterday at two of ye clock in ye afternoon I saw this
punishment given to one Betsey wife of John Tucker, who by ye violence
of her tongue had made his house and ye neighborhood uncomfortable.
She was taken to ye pond where I am sojourning by ye officer who was
joyned by ye magistrate and ye Minister Mr. Cotton, who had frequently
admonished her and a large number of People. They had a machine for
ye purpose yᵗ belongs to ye Parish, and which I was so told had been
so used three times this Summer. It is a platform with 4 small rollers
or wheels and two upright posts between which works a Lever by a
Rope fastened to its shorter or heavier end. At the end of ye longer
arm is fixed a stool upon which sᵈ Betsey was fastened by cords, her
gown tied fast around her feete. The Machine was then moved up to ye
edge of ye pond, ye Rope was slackened by ye officer and ye woman
was allowed to go down under ye water for ye space of half a minute.
Betsey had a stout stomach, and would not yield until she had allowed
herself to be ducked 5 severall times. At length she cried piteously
Let me go Let me go, by Gods help I’ll sin no more. Then they drew
back ye machine, untied ye Ropes and let her walk home in her wetted
clothes a hopefully penitent woman.
I have seen an old chap-book print of a ducking-stool with a “light
huswife of the banck-side” in it. It was rigged much like an
old-fashioned well-sweep, the woman and chair occupying the relative
place of the bucket. The base of the upright support was on a
low-wheeled platform.
Bishop Meade, in his _Old Churches, Ministers, and Families of
Virginia_, tells of one “scolding quean” who was ordered to be ducked
three times from a vessel lying in James River. Places for ducking
were prepared near the Court Houses. The marshal’s fee for ducking was
only two pounds of tobacco. The ducking-stools were not kept in church
porches, as in England. In 1634 two women were sentenced to be either
drawn from King’s Creek “from one Cowpen to another at the starn of a
boat or kanew,” or to present themselves before the congregation, and
ask forgiveness of each other and God. In 1633 it was ordered that a
ducking-stool be built in every county in Maryland. At a court-baron
at St. Clements, the county was prosecuted for not having one of these
“public conveniences.” In February, 1775, a ducking-stool was ordered
to be placed at the confluence of the Ohio and Monongahela Rivers,
and was doubtless used. As late as 1819 Georgia women were ducked in
the Oconee River for scolding. And in 1824, at the court of Quarter
Sessions, a Philadelphia woman was sentenced to be ducked, but the
punishment was not inflicted, as it was deemed obsolete and contrary to
the spirit of the times. In 1803 the ducking-stool was still used in
Liverpool, England, and in 1809 in Leominster, England.
One of the last indictments for ducking in our own country was that of
Mrs. Anne Royall in Washington, almost in our own day. She was a hated
lobbyist, whom Mr. Forney called an itinerant virago, and who became so
abusive to congressmen that she was indicted as a common scold before
Judge William Cranch, and was sentenced by him to be ducked in the
Potomac. She was, however, released with a fine.
Women curst with a shrewish tongue were often punished in Puritan
colonies. In 1647 it was ordered that “common scoulds” be punished
in Rhode Island by ducking, but I find no records of the punishment
being given. In 1649 several women were prosecuted in Salem, Mass.,
for scolding; and on May 15, 1672, the General Court of Massachusetts
ordered that scolds and railers should be gagged or “set in a
ducking-stool and dipped over head and ears three times,” but I do not
believe that this law was ever executed in Massachusetts. Nor was it in
Maine, though in 1664 a dozen towns were fined forty shillings each for
having no “coucking-stool.” Equally severe punishments were inflicted
for other crimes. Katharine Ainis, of Plymouth, was publicly whipped on
training day, and ordered to wear a large B cut in red cloth “sewed to
her vper garment.” In 1637 Dorothy Talbye, a Salem dame, for beating
her husband was ordered to be bound and chained to a post. At a later
date she was whipped, and then was hanged for killing her child, who
bore the strange name of Difficulty. No one but a Puritan magistrate
could doubt, from Winthrop’s account of her, that she was insane.
Another “audatious” Plymouth shrew, for various “vncivill carriages” to
her husband, was sentenced to the pillory; and if half that was told of
her was true, she richly deserved her sentence; but, as she displayed
“greate pensiveness and sorrow” before the simple Pilgrim magistrates,
she escaped temporarily, to be punished at a later date for a greater
sin. The magistrates firmly asserted in court and out that “meekness is
ye chojsest orniment for a woman.”
Joane Andrews sold in York, Maine, in 1676, two stones in a firkin of
butter. For this cheatery she “stood in towne meeting at York and at
towne meeting at Kittery till 2 hours bee expended, with her offense
written upon a paper in capitall letters on her forehead.” The court
record of one woman delinquent in Plymouth, in 1683, is grimly comic.
It seems that Mary Rosse exercised what was called by the “painful”
court chronicler in a triumph of orthographical and nomenclatory art,
an “inthewsiastickall power” over one Shingleterry, a married man, who
cringingly pleaded, as did our first father Adam, that “hee must doo
what shee bade him”--or, in modern phrase, that she hypnotized him.
Mary Rosse and her uncanny power did not receive the consideration that
similar witches and works do nowadays. She was publicly whipped and
sent home to her mother, while her hypnotic subject was also whipped,
and I presume sent home to his wife.
It should be noted that in Virginia, under the laws proclaimed by
Argall, women were in some ways tenderly regarded. They were not
punished for absenting themselves from church on Sundays or holidays;
while men for one offence of this nature had “to lie neck and heels
that night, and be a slave to the colony for the following week; for
the second offence to be a slave for a month; for the third, for a year
and a day.”
It is curious to see how long and how constantly, in spite of their
severe and manifold laws, the pious settlers could suffer through
certain ill company which they had been unlucky enough to bring over,
provided the said offenders did not violate the religious rules of the
community. We might note as ignoble instances, Will Fancie and his
wife, of New Haven, and John Dandy and his wife, of Maryland. Their
names constantly appear for years in the court records, as offenders
and as the cause of offences. John Dandy at one time swore in court
that all his “controversies from the beginning of the World to this
day” had ceased; but it would have been more to the purpose had he
also added till the end of the world, for his violence soon brought
him to the gallows. Will Fancie’s wife seemed capable of any and every
offence, from “stealing pinnes” to stealing the affections of nearly
every man with whom she chanced to be thrown; and the magistrates of
New Haven were evidently sorely puzzled how to deal with her.
I have noted in the court or church records of all witch-ridden
communities, save in the records of poor crazed and bewildered Salem,
where the flame was blown into a roaring blaze by “the foolish breath
of Cotton Mather,” that there always appear on the pages some plain
hints, and usually some definite statements, which account for the
accusation of witchcraft against individuals. And these hints indicate
a hated personality of the witch. To illustrate my meaning, let me
take the case of Goody Garlick, of Easthampton, Long Island. In
reading the early court records of that town, I was impressed with the
constant meddlesome interference of this woman in all social and town
matters. Every page reeked of Garlick. She was an ever-ready witness
in trespass, boundary, and slander suits, for she was apparently on
hand everywhere. She was present when a young man made ugly faces
at the wife of Lion Gardiner, because she scolded him for eating up
her “pomkin porage;” and she was listening when Mistress Edwards
was called a base liar, because she asserted she had in her chest a
new petticoat that she had brought from England some years before,
and had never worn (and of course no woman could believe that). In
short, Goody Garlick was a constant tale-bearer and barrator. Hence it
was not surprising to me to find, when Mistress Arthur Howell, Lion
Gardiner’s daughter, fell suddenly and strangely ill, and cried out
that “a double-tongued naughty woman was tormenting her, a woman who
had a black cat,” that the wise neighbors at once remembered that Goody
Garlick was double-tongued and naughty, and had a black cat. She was
speedily indicted for witchcraft, and the gravamen appeared to be her
constant tale-bearing.
In 1706 a Virginian goody with a prettier name, Grace Sherwood, was
tried as a witch; and with all the superstition of the day, and the
added superstition of the surrounding and rapidly increasing negro
population, there were but three Virginian witch-trials. Grace
Sherwood’s name was also of constant recurrence in court annals,
from the year 1690, on the court records of Princess Anne County,
especially in slander cases. She was examined, after her indictment,
for “witches marks” by a jury of twelve matrons, each of whom testified
that Grace was “not like yur.” The magistrates seem to have been
somewhat disconcerted at the convicting testimony of this jury, and
at a loss how to proceed, but the witch asserted her willingness to
endure trial by water. A day was set for the ducking, but it rained,
and the tenderly considerate court thought the weather unfavorable for
the trial on account of the danger to Grace’s health, and postponed the
ducking. At last, on a sunny July day, when she could not take cold,
the witch was securely pinioned and thrown into Lyn Haven Bay, with
directions from the magistrates to “but her into the debth.” Into the
“debth” of the water she should have contentedly and innocently sunk,
but “contrary to the Judgments of all the spectators” she persisted in
swimming, and at last was fished out and again examined to see whether
the “witches marks” were washed off. One of the examiners was certainly
far from being prepossessed in Grace’s favor. She was a dame who eight
years before had testified that “Grace came to her one night, and rid
her, and went out of the key hole or crack in the door like a black
cat.” Grace Sherwood was not executed, and she did not die of the
ducking, but it cooled her quarrelsome temper. She lived till 1740. The
point where she was butted into the depth is to this day called Witches
Duck.
Grace Sherwood was not the only poor soul that passed through the
“water-test” or “the fleeting on the water” for witchcraft. In
September, 1692, in Fairfield, Conn., the accused witches “Mercy
Disburrow and Elizabeth Clauson were bound hand and foot and put into
the water, and they swam like cork, and one labored to press them
into the water, and they buoyed up like cork.” Many cruel scenes were
enacted in Connecticut, none more so than the persistent inquisition of
Goodwife Knapp after she was condemned to death for witchcraft. She was
constantly tormented by her old friends and neighbors to confess and to
accuse one Goody Staples as an accomplice; but the poor woman repeated
that she must not wrong any one nor say anything untrue. She added:--
The truth is you would have me say that goodwife Staples is a witch
but I have sins enough to answer for already, I know nothing against
goodwife Staples and I hope she is an honest woman. You know not
what I know. I have been fished withall in private more than you are
aware of. I apprehend that goodwife Staples hath done me wrong in her
testimony but I must not return evil for evil.
Being still urged and threatened with eternal damnation, she finally
burst into bitter tears, and begged her persecutors to cease, saying
in words that must have lingered long in their memory, and that still
make the heart ache, “Never, never was poor creature tempted as I am
tempted! oh pray! pray for me!”
The last scene in this New England tragedy was when her poor dead body
was cut down from the gallows, and laid upon the green turf beside her
grave; and her old neighbors, excited with superstition, and blinded to
all sense of shame or unwomanliness, crowded about examining eagerly
for “witch signs;” while in the foreground Goodwife Staples, whose
lying words had hanged her friend, kneeled by the poor insulted corpse,
weeping and wringing her hands, calling upon God, and asserting the
innocence of the murdered woman.
It is a curious fact that, in an era which did not much encourage the
public speech or public appearance of women, they should have served on
juries; yet they occasionally did, not only in witchcraft cases such as
Grace Sherwood’s and Alice Cartwright’s,--another Virginia witch,--but
in murder cases, as in Kent County, Maryland; these juries were not
usually to render the final decision, but to decide upon certain
points, generally purely personal, by which their wise husbands could
afterwards be guided. I don’t know that these female juries shine as
exemplars of wisdom and judgment. In 1693 a jury of twelve women in
Newbury, Mass., rendered this decision, which certainly must have been
final:--
Wee judge according to our best lights and contients that the Death
of said Elizabeth was not by any violens or wrong done to her by any
parson or thing but by some soden stoping of hir Breath.
In Revolutionary days a jury of “twelve discreet matrons” of Worcester,
Mass., gave a decision in the case of Bathsheba Spooner, which was
found after her execution to be a wrong judgment. She was the last
woman hanged by law in Massachusetts, and her cruel fate may have
proved a vicarious suffering and means of exemption for other women
criminals.
Women, as well as men, when suspected murderers, had to go through
the cruel and shocking “blood-ordeal.” This belief, supported by the
assertions of that learned fool, King James, in his _Demonologie_,
lingered long in the minds of many,--indeed does to this day in poor
superstitious folk. The royal author says:--
In a secret murther, if the dead carkas be at any time thereafter
handled by the murtherer, it will gush out of blood.
Sometimes a great number of persons were made to touch in turn the dead
body, hoping thus to discover the murderer.
It has been said that few women were taught to write in colonial days,
and that those few wrote so ill their letters could scarce be read. I
have seen a goodly number of letters written by women in those times,
and the handwriting is comparatively as good as that of their husbands
and brothers. Margaret Winthrop wrote with precision and elegance. A
letter of Anne Winthrop’s dated 1737 is clear, regular, and beautiful.
Mary Higginson’s writing is fair, and Elizabeth Cushing’s irregular and
uncertain, as if of infrequent occurrence. Elizabeth Corwin’s is clear,
though irregular; Mehitable Parkman’s more careless and wavering;
all are easily read. But the most beautiful old writing I have ever
seen,--elegant, regular, wonderfully clear and well-proportioned, was
written by the hand of a woman,--a criminal, a condemned murderer,
Elizabeth Attwood, who was executed in 1720 for the murder of her
infant child. The letter was written from “Ipswitch Gole in Bonds”
to Cotton Mather, and is a most pathetic and intelligent appeal for
his interference to save her life. The beauty and simplicity of her
language, the force and directness of her expressions, her firm
denial of the crime, her calm religious assurance, are most touching
to read, even after the lapse of centuries, and make one wonder that
any one--magistrate or priest,--even Cotton Mather--could doubt her
innocence. But she was hanged before a vast concourse of eager people,
and was declared most impenitent and bold in her denial of her guilt;
and it was brought up against her, as a most hardened brazenry, that
to cheat the hangman (who always took as handsel of his victim the
garments in which she was “turned off”), she appeared in her worst
attire, and announced that he would get but a sorry suit from her. I do
not know the estate in life of Elizabeth Attwood, but it could not have
been mean, for her letter shows great refinement.
CHAPTER IV.
BOSTON NEIGHBORS.
Accounts of isolated figures are often more interesting than chapters
of general history, and biographies more attractive than state records,
because more petty details of vivid human interest can be learned; so,
in order to present clearly a picture of the social life of women in
the earliest days of New England, I give a description of a group of
women, contiguous in residence, and contemporary in life, rather than
an account of some special dame of dignity or note; and I call this
group Boston Neighbors.
If the setting of this picture would add to its interest, it is easy
to portray the little settlement. The peninsula, but half as large as
the Boston of to-day, was fringed with sea-marshes, and was crowned
with three conical hills, surmounted respectively with the windmill,
the fort, and the beacon. The champaign was simply an extended pasture
with few trees, but fine springs of water. Winding footpaths--most
interesting of roadways--connected the detached dwellings, and their
irregular outlines still show in our Boston streets. The thatched clay
houses were being replaced by better and more substantial dwellings.
William Coddington had built the first brick house.
On the main street, now Washington Street, just east of where the
Old South Church now stands, lived the dame of highest degree, and
perhaps the most beautiful personality, in this little group--Margaret
Tyndal Winthrop, the “loving faythfull yoke-fellow” of Governor John
Winthrop. She was his third wife, though he was but thirty when he
married her. He had been first married when but seventeen years old.
He writes that he was conceived by his parents to be at that age a man
in stature and understanding. This wife brought to him, and left to
him, “a large portion of outward estate,” and four little children.
Of the second wife he writes, “For her carriage towards myselfe, it
was so amiable and observant as I am not able to expresse; it had only
this inconvenience, that it made me delight in hir too much to enjoy
hir long,”--and she lived with him but a year and a day. He married
Margaret in 1618, and when she had borne five children, he left her
in 1630, and sailed to New England. She came also the following year,
and was received “with great joy” and a day of Thanksgiving. For the
remaining sixteen years of her life she had but brief separations
from her husband, and she died, as he wrote, “especially beloved of
all the country.” Her gentle love-letters to her husband, and the
simple testimony of contemporary letters of her relatives and friends,
show her to have been truly “a sweet gracious woman” who endured the
hardships of her new home, the Governor’s loss of fortune, and his
trying political experiences, with unvarying patience and “singular
virtue, modesty and piety.”
There lived at this time in Boston a woman who must have been well
known personally by Madam Winthrop, for she was a near neighbor,
living within stone’s throw of the Governor’s house, on the spot
where now stands “The Old Corner Bookstore.” This woman was Anne
Hutchinson. She came with Rev. John Cotton from Boston, England,
to Boston, New England, well respected and well beloved. She went
an outcast, hated and feared by many she left behind her in Boston.
For years her name was on every tongue, while she was under repeated
trials and examinations for heresy. In the controversy over her and
her doctrines, magistrates, ministers, women, soldiers, the common
multitude of Boston, all took part, and took sides; through the
pursuance of the controversy the government of the colony was changed.
Her special offences against doctrines were those two antiquated
“heresies,” Antinomianism and Familism, which I could hardly define if
I would. According to Winthrop they were “those two dangerous errors
that the person of the Holy Ghost dwells in a justified person, and
that no sanctification can help to evidence to us our justification.”
Her special offences against social and religious routines were thus
related by Cotton Mather:--
At the meetings of the women which used to be called gossippings
it was her manner to carry on very pious discourses and so put the
neighborhood upon examining their spiritual estates by telling them
how far a person might go in “trouble of mind,” and being restrained
from very many evils and constrained into very many duties, by none
but a legal work upon their souls without ever coming to a saving
union with the Lord Jesus Christ, that many of them were convinced of
a very great defect in the settlement of their everlasting peace, and
acquainted more with the “Spirit of the Gospel” than ever they were
before. This mighty show and noise of devotion made the reputation of
a non-such among the people until at length under pretence of that
warrant “that the elder women are to teach the younger” she set up
weekly meetings at her house whereto three score or four score people
would report....
It was not long before it was found out that most of the errors then
crawling like vipers were hatch’d at these meetings.
So disturbed was the synod of ministers which was held early in the
controversy, that this question was at once resolved:--
That though women might meet (some few together) to pray and edify
one another, yet such a set assembly (as was then the practice in
Boston) where sixty or more did meet every week, and one woman (in a
prophetical way by resolving questions of doctrines and expounding
scripture) took upon her the whole exercise, was agreed to be
disorderly and without rule.
As I read the meagre evidences of her belief, I see that Anne
Hutchinson had a high supernatural faith which, though mystical at its
roots, aimed at being practical in its fruits; but she was critical,
tactless, and over-inquisitive, and doubtless censorious, and worst of
all she “vented her revelations,” which made her seem to many of the
Puritans the very essence of fanaticism; so she was promptly placed
on trial for heresy for “twenty-nine cursed opinions and falling into
fearful lying, with an impudent Forehead in the public assembly.” The
end of it all in that theocracy could not be uncertain. One woman,
even though her followers included Governor Sir Henry Vane, and a
hundred of the most influential men of the community, could not stop
the powerful machinery of the Puritan Church and Commonwealth, the
calm, well-planned opposition of Winthrop; and after a succession of
mortifying indignities, and unlimited petty hectoring and annoying,
she was banished. “The court put an end to her vapouring talk, and
finding no hope of reclaiming her from her scandalous, dangerous, and
enchanting extravagancies, ordered her out of the colony.”
In reading of her life, her trials, it is difficult to judge
whether--to borrow Howel’s expression--the crosier or the distaff were
most to blame in all this sad business; the preachers certainly took an
over-active part.
Of the personal appearance of this “erroneous gentlewoman” we know
nothing. I do not think, in spite of the presumptive evidence of the
marked personal beauty of her descendants, that she was a handsome
woman, else it would certainly be so stated. The author of the _Short
Story of the Rise Reigne and Ruine of the Antinomians, Familists, and
Libertines that infected the Churches of New England_ calls her “a
woman of a haughty and fierce carriage, of a nimble wit and active
spirit, and a very voluble tongue, more bold than a man, though in
understanding and judgment inferior to many women.” He also termed
her “the American Jezebel,” and so did the traveller Josselyn in his
_Account of Two Voyages to New England_; while Minister Hooker styled
her “a wretched woman.” Johnson, in his _Wonder-Working Providence_,
calls her the “masterpiece of woman’s wit.” Governor Winthrop said she
was “a woman of ready wit and bold spirit.” Cotton Mather called her a
virago, cunning, canting, and proud, but he did not know her.
We to-day can scarcely comprehend what these “double weekly
lectures” must have been to these Boston women, with their extreme
conscientiousness, their sombre religious belief, and their timid
superstition, in their hard and perhaps homesick life. The materials
for mental occupation and excitement were meagre; hence the spiritual
excitement caused by Anne Hutchinson’s prophesyings must have been to
them a fascinating religious dissipation. Many were exalted with a
supreme assurance of their salvation. Others, bewildered with spiritual
doubts, fell into deep gloom and depression; and one woman in utter
desperation attempted to commit a crime, and found therein a natural
source of relief, saying “now she was sure she should be damned.”
Into all this doubt and depression the wives--to use Cotton Mather’s
phrase--“hooked in their husbands.” So; perhaps, after all it was well
to banish the fomenter of all these troubles and bewilderments.
Still, I wonder whether Anne Hutchinson’s old neighbors and gossips did
not regret these interesting meetings, these exciting prophesyings,
when they were sternly ended. I hope they grieved for her when they
heard of her cruel death by Indian massacre; and I know they remembered
her unstinted, kindly offices in time of sickness and affliction; and
I trust they honored “her ever sober and profitable carriage,” and I
suspect some of them in their inmost hearts deplored the Protestant
Inquisition of their fathers and husbands, that caused her exile and
consequent murder by the savages.
Samuel Johnson says, “As the faculty of writing is chiefly a masculine
endowment, the reproach of making the world miserable has always been
thrown upon women.” As the faculty of literary composition at that day
was wholly a masculine endowment, we shall never know what the Puritan
women really thought of Anne Hutchinson, and whether they threw upon
her any reproach.
We gain a slight knowledge of what Margaret Winthrop thought of all
this religious ecstasy, this bitter quarrelling, from a letter written
by her, and dated “Sad-Boston.” She says:--
Sad thoughts possess my sperits, and I cannot repulce them; wch makes
me unfit for anythinge, wondringe what the Lord meanes by all these
troubles among us. Shure I am that all shall worke to the best to them
that love God, or rather are loved of hime, I know he will bring light
out of obcurity and make his rituusnesse shine forth as clere as the
nounday; yet I find in myself an aferce spiret, and a tremblinge hart,
not so willing to submit to the will of God as I desyre. There is a
time to plant, and a time to pull up that which is planted, which I
could desyre might not be yet.
And so it would seem to us to-day that it was indeed a doubtful
beginning to tear up with such violence even flaunting weeds, lest the
tender and scattered grain, whose roots scarce held in the unfamiliar
soil, might also be uprooted and wither and die. But the colony endured
these trials, and flourished, as it did other trials, and still
prospered.
Though written expression of their feelings is lacking, we know
that the Boston neighbors gave to Anne Hutchinson that sincerest
flattery--imitation. Perhaps her fellow-prophets should not be called
imitators, but simply kindred religious spirits. The elements of
society in colonial Boston were such as plentifully to produce and
stimulate “disordered and heady persons.”
Among them was Mary Dyer, thus described by Winthrop:--
The wife of William Dyer, a milliner in the New Exchange, a very
proper and fair woman, notoriously infected with Mrs Hutchinsons
errors, and very censorious and troublesome. She being of a very proud
spirit and much addicted to revelations.
Another author called her “a comely grave woman, of a goodly personage,
and of good report.”
Some of these Boston neighbors lived to see two sad sights. Fair comely
Mary Dyer, after a decade of unmolested and peaceful revelations in
Rhode Island, returned to her early home, and persistently preached
to her old friends, and then walked through Boston streets hand in
hand with two young Quaker friends, condemned felons, to the sound of
the drums of the train band, glorying in her companionship; and then
she was set on a gallows with a halter round her neck, while her two
friends were hanged before her eyes; this was witnessed by such a
multitude that the drawbridge broke under the weight of the returning
North-enders. And six months later this very proper and fair woman
herself was hanged in Boston, to rid the commonwealth of an intolerable
plague.
A letter still exists, written by William Dyer to the Boston
magistrates to “beg affectionately the life of my deare wife.” It is
most touching, most heart-rending; it ends thus, “Yourselves have
been husbands of wife or wives, and so am I, yea to one most dearlye
beloved. Oh do not you deprive me of her, but I pray you give me her
out againe. Pitye me--I beg it with teares.”
The tears still stain this poor sorrowful, appealing letter,--a missive
so gentle, so timid, so full of affection, of grief, that I cannot now
read it unmoved and I do indeed “pitye” thee. William Dyer’s tears have
not been the only ones to fall on his beautiful, tender words.
Another interesting neighbor living where Washington Street crossed
Brattle Street was the bride, young Madam Bellingham, whose marriage
had caused such a scandal in good society in Boston. Winthrop’s account
of this affair is the best that could be given:--
The governour Mr Bellingham was married. The young gentlewoman was
ready to be contracted to a friend of his who lodged in his house, and
by his consent had proceeded so far with her, when on a sudden the
governour treated with her, and obtained her for himself. He excused
it by the strength of his affection, and that she was not absolutely
promised to the other gentleman. Two errors more he committed upon
it. 1. That he would not have his contract published where he dwelt,
contrary to the order of court. 2. That he married himself contrary to
the constant practice of the country. The great inquest prosecuted him
for breach of the order of the court, and at the court following in
the fourth month, the secretary called him to answer the prosecution.
But he not going off the bench, as the manner was, and but few of the
magistrates present, he put it off to another time, intending to speak
with him privately, and with the rest of the magistrates about the
case, and accordingly he told him the reason why he did not proceed,
viz., that being unwilling to command him publicly to go off the
bench, and yet not thinking it fit he should sit as a judge, when he
was by law to answer as an offender. This he took ill, and said he
would not go off the bench except he were commanded.
I think the young English girl, Penelope Pelham, must have been
sadly bewildered by the strange abrupt ways of the new land, by her
dictatorial elderly lover, by his autocratic and singular marriage with
her, by the attempted action of the government against him. She had
a long life thereafter, for he lived to be eighty years old, and she
survived him thirty years.
A very querulous and turbulent neighbor who lived on Milk Street was
Mistress Ann Hibbins, the wife of one of Boston’s honored citizens.
Her husband had been unsuccessful in business matters, and this “so
discomposed his wife’s spirit that she was scarce ever well settled
in her mind afterwards,” and at last was put out of the church and by
her strange carriage gave occasion to her superstitious neighbors to
charge her with being a witch. She was brought to trial for witchcraft,
convicted, sentenced, and hung upon a Thursday lecture day, in spite
of her social position, and the fact that her brother was Governor
Bellingham. She had other friends, high in authority, as her will
shows, and she had the belongings of a colonial dame, “a diamond ring,
a taffety cloke, silk gown and kirtle, pinck-colored petticoat, and
money in the deske.” Minister Beach wrote to Increase Mather in 1684:--
I have sometimes told you your famous Mr Norton once said at his own
table before Mr Wilson, Elder Penn and myself and wife who had the
honour to be his guests--that the wife of one of your magistrates, I
remember, was hanged for a witch only for having more wit than her
neighbors. It was his very expression; she having as he explained it,
unhappily guessed that two of her prosecutors, whom she saw talking
in the street were talking about her--which cost her her life,
notwithstanding all he could do to the contrary.
It would naturally be thought, from the affectionate and intense
devotion of the colonists to the school which had just become
“Harvard-Colledge,” that Mr. Nathaniel Eaton, the head-master of the
freshly established seat of learning, would be a citizen of much
esteem, and his wife a dame of as dignified carriage and honored
station as any of her Boston and Cambridge neighbors. Let us see
whether such was the case. Mr. Eaton had had much encouragement to
continue at the head of the college for life; he had been offered a
tract of five hundred acres of land, and liberal support had been
offered by the government, and he “had many scholars, the sons of
gentlemen and of others of best note in the country.” Yet when he fell
out with one of his ushers on very slight occasion, he struck the usher
and caused two more to hold the poor fellow while he beat him two
hundred stripes with a heavy walnut cudgel; and when poor Usher Briscoe
fell a-praying, in fear of dying, Master Eaton beat him further for
taking the name of God in vain. When all this cruelty was laid to him
in open court “his answers were full of pride and disdain,” and he said
he had this unvarying rule, “that he would not give over correcting
till he had subdued the party to his will.” And upon being questioned
about other malpractices, especially the ill and scant diet provided
by him for the students, though good board had been paid by them, he,
Adam-like, “put it off to his wife.”
Her confession of her connection with the matter is still in
existence, and proves her accomplishments as a generous and tidy
housewife about equal to his dignity and lenity as head of the college.
It is a most curious and minute document, showing what her duties were,
and the way she performed them, and also giving an interesting glimpse
of college life in those days. It reads thus:--
For their breakfast that it was not so well ordered, the flower not so
fine as it might, nor so well boiled or stirred at all times that it
was so, it was my sin of neglect, and want of care that ought to have
been in one that the Lord had intrusted with such a work.
Concerning their beef, that was allowed them, as they affirm, which
I confess had been my duty to have seen they should have had it, and
continued to have had it, because it was my husbands command; but
truly I must confess, to my shame, I cannot remember that ever they
had it nor that ever it was taken from them.
And that they had not so good or so much provision in my husbands
absence as presence, I conceive it was, because he would call
sometimes for butter or cheese when I conceived there was no need of
it; yet for as much as the scholars did otherways apprehend, I desire
to see the evil that was in the carriage of that as in the other and
to take shame to myself for it.
And that they sent down for more, when they had not enough, and the
maid should answer, if they had not, they should not. I must confess
that I have denied them cheese, when they have sent for it, and it
have been in the house, for which I shall humbly beg pardon to them,
and own the shame, and confess my sin.
And for such provoking words which my servants have given, I cannot
own them, but am sorry any such should be given in my house.
And for bad fish, they had it brought to table, I am sorry there was
that cause of offence given; I acknowledge my sin in it.... I am much
ashamed it should be in the family, and not prevented by myself or my
servants, and I humbly acknowledge my negligence in it.
And that they made their beds at any time, were my straits never so
great, I am sorry they were ever put to it.
For the Moor, his lying in Sam Hough’s sheet and pillow-bier, it hath
a truth in it; he did so at one time and it gave Sam Hough just cause
for offence; and that it was not prevented by my care and watchfulness
I desire to take the shame and the sorrow for it.
And that they eat the Moor’s crusts, and the swine and they had share
and share alike; and the Moor to have beer, and they denied it, and
if they had not enough, for my maid to answer they should not, I am
an utter stranger to these things, and know not the least foot-steps
for them so to charge me; and if my servants were guilty of such
miscarriages, had the boarders complained of it unto myself, I should
have thought it my sin, if I had not sharply removed my servants and
endeavored reform.
And for bread made of sour heated meal, though I know of but once that
it was so since I kept house, yet John Wilson affirms that it was
twice; and I am truly sorry that any of it was spent amongst them.
For beer and bread that it was denied them by me betwixt meals, truly
I do not remember, that ever I did deny it unto them; and John Wilson
will affirm that, generally, the bread and beer was free for the
boarders to go to.
And that money was demanded of them for washing the linen, tis true
that it was propounded to them but never imposed upon them.
And for their pudding being given the last day of the week without
butter or suet, and that I said, it was a miln of Manchester in old
England, its true that I did say so, and am sorry, that had any cause
of offence given them by having it so.
And for their wanting beer betwixt brewings, a week or half a week
together, I am sorry that it was so at any time, and should tremble to
have it so, were it in my hands to do again.
And whereas they say, that sometimes they have sent down for more
meat and it hath been denied, when it have been in the house, I must
confess, to my shame, that I have denied them oft, when they have sent
for it, and it have been in the house.
Truly a pitiful tale of shiftless stinginess, of attempted extortion,
of ill-regulated service, and of overworked housewifery as well.
The Reverend Mr. Eaton did not escape punishment for his sins. After
much obstinacy he “made a very solid, wise, eloquent, and serious
confession, condemning himself in all particulars.” The court, with
Winthrop at the head, bore lightly upon him after this confession, and
yet when sentence of banishment from the college, and restriction from
teaching within the jurisdiction, was passed, and he was fined £30,
he did not give glory to God as was expected, but turned away with a
discontented look. Then the church took the matter up to discipline
him, and the schoolmaster promptly ran away, leaving debts of a
thousand pounds.
The last scene in the life of Mrs. Eaton may be given in Winthrop’s
words:--
Mr. Nathaniel Eaton being come to Virginia, took upon him to be a
minister there, but was given up to extreme pride and sensuality,
being usually drunken, as the custom is there. He sent for his wife
and children. Her friends here persuaded her to stay awhile, but she
went, notwithstanding, and the vessel was never heard of after.
So you see she had friends and neighbors who wished her to remain in
New England with them, and who may have loved her in spite of the sour
bread, and scant beer, and bad fish, that she doled out to the college
students.
There was one visitor who flashed upon this chill New England scene
like a brilliant tropical bird; with all the subtle fascination of
a foreigner; speaking a strange language; believing a wicked Popish
faith; and englamoured with the romance of past adventure, with the
excitement of incipient war. This was Madam La Tour, the young wife
of one of the rival French governors of Acadia. The relations of
Massachusetts, of Boston town, to the quarrels of these two ambitious
and unscrupulous Frenchmen, La Tour and D’Aulnay, form one of the most
curious and interesting episodes in the history of the colony.
Many unpleasant and harassing complications and annoyances had arisen
between the French and English colonists, in the more northern
plantations, when, in 1643, in June, Governor La Tour surprised his
English neighbors by landing in Boston “with two friars and two women
sent to wait upon La Tour His Lady”--and strange sights they truly
were in Boston. He came ashore at Governor Winthrop’s garden (now Fort
Winthrop), and his arrival was heralded by a frightened woman, one Mrs.
Gibbons, who chanced to be sailing in the bay, and saw the approach
of the French boat, and hastened to warn the Governor. Perhaps Mrs.
Gibbons had a premonitory warning of the twenty-five hundred pounds
her husband was to lose at a later date through his confidence in
the persuasive Frenchman. Governor and Madam Winthrop and their two
sons and a daughter-in-law were sitting in the Governor’s garden in
the summer sunshine, and though thoroughly surprised, they greeted
the unexpected visitor, La Tour, with civilities, and escorted him
to Boston town, not without some internal tremors and much deep
mortification of the Governor when he thought of the weakness and
poverty of Boston, with Castle Island deserted, as was plainly shown to
the foreigner by the lack of any response to his salute of guns; and
the inference was quick to come that the Frenchman “might have spoiled
Boston.”
But La Tour’s visit was most friendly; all he wished was free mercature
and the coöperation of the English colony. And he desired to land
his men for a short time, that they might refresh themselves after
their long voyage; “so they landed in small companies that our women
might not be affrighted with them.” And the Governor dined the French
officers, and the New England warriors of the train-band entertained
the visiting Gallic soldiers, and they exercised and trained before
each other, all in true Boston hospitable fashion, as is the custom
to this day. And the Governor bourgeoned with as much of an air of
importance as possible, “being regularly attended with a good guard of
halberts and musketeers;” and thus tried to live down the undignified
heralding of a fellow-governor by a badly scared woman neighbor. And
the cunning Frenchman, as did another of his race, “with sugared
words sought to addulce all matters.” He flattered the sober Boston
magistrates, and praised everything about the Boston army, and “showed
much admiration professing he could not have believed it, if he had
not seen it.” And the foreigners were so well treated (though Winthrop
was blamed afterwards by stern Endicott and the Rome-hating ministers)
that they came again the following summer, when La Tour asked material
assistance. He received it, and he lingered till autumn, and barely
eight days after he left, Madam La Tour landed in Boston from London;
and strange and sad must the little town have seemed to her after her
past life. She was in a state of much anger, and at once brought suit
against the master of the ship for not carrying her and her belongings
to the promised harbor in Acadia; for trading on the way until she
nearly fell into the hands of her husband’s enemy, D’Aulnay. The
merchants of Charlestown and Salem sided with the ship’s captain. The
solid men of Boston gallantly upheld and assisted the lady. The jury
awarded her two thousand pounds damages, and bitterly did one of the
jury--Governor Winthrop’s son--suffer for it, for he was afterwards
arrested in London, and had to give bond for four thousand pounds to
answer to a suit in the Court of Admiralty about the Boston decision in
favor of the Lady La Tour.
In the mean time ambassadors from the rival Acadian governor,
D’Aulnay, arrived in New England, and were treated with much honor
and consideration by the diplomatic Boston magistrates. I think I can
read between the lines that the Bostonians really liked La Tour, who
must have had much personal attraction and magnetism; but they feared
D’Aulnay, who had brought against the Massachusetts government a claim
of eight thousand pounds damages. The Governor sent to D’Aulnay a
propitiatory gift of “a very fair new sedan chair (of no use to us),”
and I should fancy scarcely of much more use in Acadia; and which
proved a very cheap way of staving off paying the eight thousand pounds.
Madam La Tour sailed off at last with three laden ships to her husband,
in spite of D’Aulnay’s dictum that “she was known to be the cause of
all her husband’s contempt and rebellion, and therefore they could not
let her go to him.” La Tour’s stronghold was captured shortly after
“by assault and scalado” when he was absent, and his jewels, plate,
and furniture to the amount of ten thousand pounds were seized, and
his wife too; and she died in three weeks, of a broken heart, and “her
little child and gentlewomen were sent to France.”
I think these Boston neighbors were entitled to a little harmless
though exciting gossip two or three years later, when they learned that
after D’Aulnay’s death the fascinating widower La Tour had promptly
married Widow D’Aulnay, thus regaining his jewels and plate, and both
had settled down to a long and peaceful life in Nova Scotia.
CHAPTER V.
A FEARFULL FEMALE TRAVAILLER.
In the autumn and winter of the year 1704, Madam Sarah Knight, a
resident of Boston, made a journey on horseback from Boston to New
York, and returned in the same manner. It was a journey difficult
and perilous, “full of buggbears to a fearfull female travailler,”
and which “startled a masculine courage,” but which was performed by
this woman with the company and protection only of hired guides, the
“Western Post,” or whatever chance traveller she might find journeying
her way, at a time when brave men feared to travel through New England,
and asked for public prayers in church before starting on a journey of
twenty miles. She was probably the first woman who made such a journey,
in such a manner, in this country.
Madam Knight was the daughter of Captain Kemble, of Boston, who was
in 1656 set two hours in the public stocks as a punishment for his
“lewd and unseemly behavior,” which consisted in his kissing his wife
“publicquely” on the Sabbath Day, upon the doorstep of his house, when
he had just returned from a voyage and absence of three years.
The diary which Madam kept on this eventful trip contains the names
of no persons of great historical interest, though many of historical
mention; but it is such a vivacious and sprightly picture of the
customs of the time, and such a valuable description of localities as
they then appeared, that it has an historical interest of its own, and
is a welcome addition to the few diaries and records of the times which
we possess.
Everything was not all serene and pleasant in the years 1704 and
1705 in New England. Events had occurred which could not have been
cheerful for Madam Knight to think of when riding through the lonely
Narragansett woods and along the shores of the Sound. News of the
frightful Indian massacre at Deerfield had chilled the very hearts of
the colonists. At Northampton shocking and most unexpected cruelties
had been perpetrated by the red men. At Lancaster, not any too far
from Boston, the Indians had been most obstreperous. We can imagine
Madam Knight had no very pleasant thoughts of these horrors when she
wrote her description of the red men whom she saw in such numbers in
Connecticut. Bears and wolves, too, abounded in the lonely woods of
Massachusetts and Connecticut. The howls of wolves were heard every
night, and rewards were paid by New England towns for the heads of
wolves that were killed, provided the heads were brought into town
and nailed to the side of the meeting-house. Twenty-one years later
than Madam Knight’s journey, in 1725, twenty bears were killed in one
week in September, within two miles of Boston, so says the _History of
Roxbury_; and all through the eighteenth century bears were hunted and
killed in upper Narragansett. Hence “buggbears” were not the only bears
to be dreaded on the lonely journey.
The year 1704 was memorable also because it gave birth to the first
newspaper in the colonies, the _Boston News-Letter_. Only a few
copies were printed each week, and each copy contained but four or
five square feet of print, and the first number contained but one
advertisement--that of the man who printed it.
When Madam Knight’s journal was published in New York by Mr. Theodore
Dwight, in 1825, the editor knew nothing of the diarist, not even
her family name; hence it was confidently believed by many that the
journal was merely a clever and entertaining fiction. In 1852, however,
Miss Caulkins published her history of the town of New London, and
contradicted that belief, for she gave an account of the last days
of Madam Knight, which were spent in Norwich and New London. Madam
Knight’s daughter married the Colonel Livingston who is mentioned
in the journal, and left no children. From a descendant of Mrs.
Livingston’s administratrix, Mrs. Christopher, the manuscript of the
journal was obtained for publication in 1825, it having been carefully
preserved all those years. In _Blackwood’s Magazine_ for the same
year an article appeared, entitled _Travelling in America_, which
reprinted nearly all of Madam Knight’s journal, and which showed a high
appreciation of its literary and historical merits. In 1858 it was
again printed by request in _Littell’s Living Age_, with some notes of
Madam Knight’s life, chiefly compiled from Miss Caulkins’ _History of
New London_, and again provoked much inquiry and discussion. Recently
a large portion of the journal has been reprinted in the _Library of
American Literature_, with many alterations, however, in the spelling,
use of capitals, and punctuation, thus detracting much from the
interest and quaintness of the work; and most unnecessarily, since it
is perfectly easy to read and understand it as first printed, when, as
the editor said, “the original orthography was carefully preserved for
fear of introducing any unwarrantable modernism.”
The first edition is now seldom seen for sale, and being rare is
consequently high-priced. The little shabby, salmon-colored copy of
the book which I saw was made interesting by two manuscript accounts
of Sarah Knight, which were inserted at the end of the book, and which
are very valuable, since they give positive proof of the reality of the
fair traveller, as well as additional facts of her life.
The first account was in a fine old-fashioned, unpunctuated
handwriting, on yellow, time-stained paper, and read thus:--
Madam Knight was born in Boston She was the daughter of Capt. Kemble
who was a rich merchant of Boston he was a native of Great Britain
settled in Boston built him a large house for that day near New North
Square in the year 1676 this daughter Sarah Kemble was married to a
son of a London trader by the name of Knight he died abroad and left
her a smart young widow in October 1703 she made a journey to New
York to claim some property of his there. She returned on horse-backe
March 1705 Soon after her return she opened a school for children
Dr. Frankelin and Dr Saml Mather secured their first rudiments of
Education from her her parents both died and as She was the only child
they left she continued to keep school in the Mansion house till the
year 1714. She then sold the estate to Peter Papillion he died not
long after in the year 1736 Thomas Hutchinson Esqr purchased the
estate of John Wolcott, who was administrator of the Papillion estate
Mr Hutchinson gave the estate to his daughter Hannah who was the
wife of Dr Saml Mather. The force of Madam Knight’s Diamond Ring was
displayed on several panes of glass in the old house in the year 1763
Dr Mather had the house new glazed and one pane of glass was preserved
as a curiosity for years till 1775 it was lost at the conflagration
when Charlestown was burnt by the British June 17th. The lines on the
pane of glass were committed to memory by the present writer. She
was an original genius our ideas of Madam are formed from hearing Dr
Frankelin and Dr Mather converse about their old school misstress
Through many toils and many frights
I have returned poor Sarah Knights
Over great rocks and many stones
God has preserv’d from fractur’d bones
as spelt on the pane of glass.
Underneath this account was written in the clear, distinct chirography
of Isaiah Thomas, the veteran printer, this endorsement:--
The above was written by Mrs. Hannabell Crocker, of Boston,
granddaughter of the Rev. Cotton Mather, and presented to me by that
lady.--ISAIAH THOMAS.
The other manuscript account is substantially the same, though in a
different handwriting; it tells of the pane of glass with the rhymed
inscription being “preserved as a curiosity by an antiquicrity” (which
is a delightful and useful old word-concoction), “until the British
set fire to the town,” in Revolutionary times, and “Poor Madam Knight’s
poetrys, with other curiosities, were consumed.” It says, “She obtained
the honorable title of Madam by being a famous schoolmistress in her
day. She taught Dr. Franklin to write. She was highly respected by Dr.
Cotton Mather as a woman of good wit & pleasant humour.”
Sarah Knight was born in 1666, and thus was about thirty-eight years
old when she made her “perilous journey.” She started October 2d, and
did not reach New York until December 6th. Of course much of this time
was spent visiting friends and kinsfolk in New London and New Haven,
and often, too, she had to wait to obtain companion travellers. She
rode upon the first night of her journey until very late in order to
“overtake the post,” and this is the account of her reception at her
first lodging-place:--
My guide dismounted and very complasently and shewed the door signing
to me with his hand to Go in, which I Gladly did. But had not gone
many steps into the room ere I was interrogated by a young Lady I
understood afterwards was the Eldest daughter of the family, with
these, or words to this purpose, (viz) Law for mee--what in the world
brings you here at this time-a-night? I never see a woman on the Rode
so Dreadfull late in all my Varsall Life. Who are You? Where are you
going? I’m scar’d out of my witts--with much now of the same Kind I
stood aghast Prepareing no reply--when in come my Guide--to him Madam
turn’d roreing out: Lawfull heart John is it You? how de do? Where
in the world are you going with this woman? Who is She? John made no
Ans’r but sat down in the corner, fumbled out his black Junk, and
saluted that instead of Debb. She then turned agen to mee and fell
anew into her silly questions without asking mee to sit down. I told
her she treated mee very Rudely and I did not think it my duty to
answer her unmannerly Questions. But to gett ridd of them I told her I
come there to have the Posts company with me to-morrow on my Journey
&c. Miss stared awhile, drew a chair bid me sitt And then run upstairs
and putts on two or three Rings (or else I had not seen them before)
and returning sett herself just before me shewing the way to Reding,
that I might see her Ornaments.
It appears from this account that human nature, or rather feminine
love of display, was the same in colonial times as in the present day.
Very vivid are her descriptions of the various beds upon which she
reposed. This is her entry in her diary after the first night of her
journey:--
I pray’d Miss to shew me where I must Lodg. Shee conducted me to a
parlour in a little back Lento, which was almost filled with the
bedstead, which was so high that I was forced to climb on a chair to
gitt up to ye wretched bed that lay on it, on which having Strecht my
tired Limbs, and lay’d my head on a Sad-colour’d pillow, I began to
think on the transactions of ye past day.
We can imagine her (if such an intrusive fancy is not impertinent
after one hundred and eighty years), attired in her night-hood and her
“flowered calico night-rayle with high collared neck,” climbing wearily
upon a chair and thence to the mountainous bed with its dingy pillow.
The fashion of wearing “immoderate great rayles” had been prohibited
by law in Massachusetts in 1634, but the garment mentioned must have
been some kind of a loose gown worn in the day-time, for we cannot
fancy that even the meddlesome interference and aspiring ambition
for omnipotence of those Puritan magistrates would make them dare to
attempt to control what kind of a nightgown a woman should wear.
Here is another vivid description of a night’s lodging, where her room
was shared, as was the country custom of that time (and indeed for many
years later), by the men who had journeyed with her:--
Arriving at my apartment found it to be a little Lento Chamber
furnished amongst other Rubbish with a High Bedd and a Low one, a Long
Table, a Bench and a Bottomless chair. Little Miss went to scratch up
my Kennell which Russelled as if shee’d bin in the Barn amongst the
Husks, and supose such was the contents of the tickin--nevertheless
being exceeding weary-down I laid my poor Carkes (never more tired)
and found my Covering as scanty as my Bed was hard. Anon I heard
another Russelling noise in Ye Room--called to know the matter--Little
Miss said shee was making a bed for the men; who, when they were
in Bed complained their leggs lay out of it by reason of its
shortness--my poor bones complained bitterly not being used to such
Lodgings, and so did the man who was with us; and poor I made but one
Grone, which was from the time I went to bed to the time I Riss, which
was about three in the morning, Setting up by the Fire till Light.
The word “lento,” or “lean to,” was sometimes called “linter,” and you
will still hear old-fashioned or aged country-people use the word.
The “lean-to” was the rear portion of a form of house peculiar to New
England, which was two stories high in front, with a roof which sloped
down from a steep gable to a very low single story at the rear.
Madam Sarah speaks with some surprise throughout her travels of the
height of the beds, so it is evident that very towering beds were
not in high fashion in Boston in 1704, in spite of the exceeding
tall four-posters that have descended to us from our ancestors, and
which surely no one could mount in modern days without a chair as an
accessory. Even a chair was not always a sufficient stepping-block by
the bedsides that Madam Sarah found, for she thus writes: “He invited
us to his house, and shewed me two pair of stairs, viz, one up the
loft, and tother up the Bedd, which was as hard as it was high, and
warmed with a hott stone at the foot.”
After the good old Puritan custom of contumelious reviling, in which
clergymen, laymen, and legal lights alike joined, Madam Knight could
show a rare choice of epithets and great fluency of uncomplimentary
description when angered. Having expected to lodge at the house of a
Mr. DeVille in Narragansett, and being refused, she writes thus of the
DeVilles:--
I questioned whether we ought to go to the Devil to be helpt out of
the affliction. However, like the Rest of Deluded souls that post
to ye Infernall denn, Wee made all possible speed to this Devil’s
Habitation; where alliting, in full assurance of good accommodation,
wee were going in. But meeting his two daughters, as I suposed twins,
they so neerly resembled each other both in features and habit and
look’t as old as the Divel himself, and quite as Ugly. We desired
entertainment, but could hardly get a word out of ’um, till with
our Importunity telling them our necessity &c they call’d the old
Sophister, who was as sparing of his words as his daughters had
bin, and no or none, was the reply’s he made us to our demands. Hee
differed only in this from the old fellow in tother Country, hee let
us depart. However I thought it proper to warn poor Travaillers to
endeavour to Avoid falling into circumstances like ours, which at our
next Stage I sat down and did as followeth:--
May all that dread the cruel fiend of night
Keep on and not at this curst Mansion light
Tis Hell: Tis Hell: and Devills here do dwell
Here Dwells the Devill--surely this is Hell.
Nothing but Wants: a drop to cool yo’re Tongue
Cant be procured those cruel Fiends among
Plenty of horrid grins and looks sevear
Hunger and thirst, But pitty’s banish’d here.
The Right hand keep, if Hell on Earth you fear--
Madam Knight had a habit of “dropping into poetry” very readily and
upon almost any subject. Upon the moon, upon poverty, even upon the
noise of drunken topers in the next room to her own. The night-scene
that brought forth the rhymes upon rum was graced by a conversation
upon the derivation of the word Narragansett, and her report of it
is of much interest, and is always placed among the many and various
authorities for, and suggestions about, the meaning of the word:--
I went to bed which tho’ pretty hard Yet neet and handsome but I
could get no sleep because of the Clamor of some of the Town-tope-ers
in next Room who were entered into a strong debate concerning ye
Signifycation of the name of their Country (viz) Narraganset. One said
it was named so by ye Indians because there grew a Brier there of a
prodigious Highth and bigness, the like hardly ever known, called
by the Indians Narragansett. And quotes an Indian of so Barberous a
name for his Author that I could not write it. His Antagonist Replyd
No.--It was from a spring it had its name, which he well knew where
it was, which was extreem cold in summer, and as Hott as could be
imagined in the winter which was much resorted to by the natives and
by them called Narragansett (Hott & Cold) and that was the originall
of their places name--with a thousand Impertinances not worth notice,
which He uttered with such a Roreing voice & Thundering blows with
the fist of wickedness on the Table that it pierced my very head. I
heartily fretted and wisht ’um tonguetyed; but with little success.
They kept calling for tother Gill which while they were swallowing,
was some Intermission But presently like Oyle to fire encreased the
flame. I set my Candle on a Chest by the bedside, and setting up fell
to my old way of composing my Resentments in the following manner:--
I ask thy aid O Potent Rum
To charm these wrangling Topers Dum
Thou hast their Giddy Brains possest
The man confounded with the Beast
And I, poor I, can get no rest
Intoxicate them with thy fumes
O still their Tongues till morning comes
And I know not but my wishes took effect for the dispute soon ended
with tother Dram.
To one who, unused to venturing abroad in boats on stormy waters, has
trusted her bodily safety to one of those ticklish Indian vehicles, a
canoe, this vivid account of the sensations of an early female colonist
in a similar situation may prove of interest; nor do I think, after
the lapse of centuries, could the description be improved by the added
words of our newer and more profuse vocabulary:--
The Cannoo was very small & shallow so that when we were in she seemd
redy to take in water which greatly terrify’d me, and caused me to be
very circumspect, sitting with my hands fast on each side, my eyes
stedy, not daring so much as to lodge my tongue a hairs breadth more
on one side of my mouth than tother, nor so much as think on Lotts
wife, for a very thought would have oversett our wherey.
We are so accustomed to hearing of the great veneration and respect
always shown in olden times by children toward their parents, and the
dignified reserve and absolute authority of parents towards children,
that the following scene rather shocks our established notions:--
Thursday about 3 in the afternoon I set forward with neighbour Polly
& Jemima a girl about 18 years old, who her father said he had been
to fetch out of the Narragansetts and said they had rode thirty miles
that day on a sorry lean Jade with only a Bagg under her for a pillion
which the poor Girl often complain’d was very uneasy. Wee made Good
speed along wch made poor Jemima make many a sowr face the mare being
a very hard trotter, and after many a hearty & bitter Oh she at length
low’d out: Lawful Heart father! this bare mare hurts mee Dingeely. I’m
direfull sore I vow, with many words to that purpose. Poor Child--sais
Gaffer--she us’t to serve your mother so. I dont care how mother ust
to do, quoth Jemima in a passionate tone. At which the old man Laught
and kikt his Jade o’ the side, which made her Jolt ten times harder.
About seven that evening we came to New London Ferry here by reason of
a very high wind, we mett with great difficulty in getting over. The
boat tost exceedingly and our Horses cappered at a very Surprising
rate and set us all in a fright especially poor Jemima who desired
father to say So Jack! to the Jade to make her stand. But the careless
parent, taking no notice of her repeated desires, She Rored out in a
Pasionate manner Pray Suth father Are you deaf? Say So Jack to the
Jade I tell you. The Dutiful Parent obeyed saying So Jack So Jack as
gravely as if he had bin saying Chatchise after young Miss who with
her fright look’t all the Colours of ye Rainbow.
It is very evident from entries in her Journal that Madam Knight
thought much of gratifying her appetite, for the food she obtained at
her different resting-places is often described. She says:--
Landlady told us shee had some mutton which shee would broil. In a
little time she bro’t it in but it being pickled and my Guide said it
smelt strong of head-sause we left it and paid six pence apiece for
our dinners which was only smell.
Again, she thus describes a meal:--
Having call’d for something to eat the woman bro’t in a Twisted thing
like a cable, but something whiter, laying it on the bord, tugg’d for
life to bring it into a capacity to spread; which having with great
pains accomplished shee served a dish of Pork and Cabage I supose the
remains of Dinner. The sause was of a deep purple which I tho’t was
boiled in her dye Kettle; the bread was Indian and everything on the
Table service agreeable to these. I being hungry gott a little down,
but my stomach was soon cloy’d and what cabage I swallowed served me
for a Cudd the whole day after.
The early colonists never turned very readily to Indian meal and
pumpkins--pumpions as they called them in the “times wherein old
Pompion was a saint;” and Johnson, in his _Wonder-Working Providence_,
reproved them for making a jest of pumpkins, since they were so good a
food. Madam Knight had them offered to her very often, “pumpkin sause”
and “pumpkin bred.” “We would have eat a morsell ourselves But the
Pumpkin and Indian-mixt Bread had such an aspect, and the Bare-legg’d
Punch so awkerd or rather Awfull a sound that we left both.”
She gives a glimpse of rather awkward table-manners when she complains
that in Connecticut masters permitted their slaves to sit and eat with
them, “and into the dish goes the black Hoof as freely as the white
hand.” Doubtless in those comparatively forkless days fingers were very
freely used at the table.
She tells many curious facts about Connecticut. Divorces were plentiful
in that State, as they are at the present day. She writes:--
These uncomely Standaways are too much in Vogue among the English in
this Indulgent Colony as their Records plentifully prove, and that
on very trivial matters of which some have been told me, but are not
Proper to be Related by a Female Pen.
She says they will not allow harmless kissing among the young people,
and she tells of a curious custom at weddings, where the bridegroom ran
away and had to be chased and dragged back by force to the bride.
Her descriptions of the city of New York; of the public vendues “where
they give drinks;” of the Dutch houses and women; of the “sley-riding”
where she “mett fifty or sixty sleys,” are all very entertaining. There
were few sleighs in Boston at that date. Everything is compared with
“ours in Boston,” or said to be “not like Boston,” after a fashion
still somewhat followed by the Boston “Female Pen” of the present day.
As New York then was only a small town of five thousand inhabitants,
while Big Boston possessed ten thousand inhabitants, such comparisons
were certainly justifiable.
We must give her vivid and vivacious picture of a country “lubber” in a
merchant’s shop:--
In comes a tall country fellow with his Alfogeos full of Tobaco.
He advanced to the middle of the room, makes an awkward nodd and
spitting a large deal of Aromatic Tincture, he gave a scrape with his
shovel-like shoo, leaving a small shovel-full of dirt on the floor,
made a full stop, hugging his own pretty body with his hands under
his arms, Stood Staring round him like a Catt let out of a Baskett.
At last like the creature Balaam rode on he opened his mouth and said
_Have you any Ribinen for Hat bands to sell I pray?_ The Questions
and answers about the pay being past the Ribin is bro’t and opened.
Bumpkin simpers, cryes, _Its confounded Gay I vow_; and beckoning to
the door in comes Joan Tawdry, dropping about 50 curtsies, and stands
by him. He shews her the Ribin. _Law You_, sais shee, _its right Gent,
do you take it, its dreadful pretty_. Then she enquires: _Have you
any hood silk I pray?_ which being brought and bought. _Have you any
Thred silk to sew it with?_ says shee, which being accomodated with
they departed.
Though Madam Knight left no account of the costume which she wore
on her “perilous journey,” we know very well what the fashions of
the time were and of what her dress consisted. She wore a woollen
round-gown, perhaps of camlet, perhaps of calimanco, of which the
puffed sleeves came to the elbow and were finished with knots of
ribbons and ruffles. Riding-habits were then never worn. I am sure she
did not wear a neck-ruff on this journey, but a scarf or neck-kerchief
or “cross cloth” instead. Long gloves of leather or kid protected her
fair hands, and came to the elbow, and were firmly secured at the
top by “glove-tightens” made of braided black horsehair. A pointed
beaver or beaverette hat covered her head; the hat and peruke had not
then reached the excessive size which made them for a lady’s “riding
equipage” so bitterly and openly condemned in 1737 as an exceeding
and abominable affectation. She doubtless wore instead of the fine,
stately peruke, a cap, a “round cap,” which did not cover the ears,
or a “strap cap,” which came under the chin; or perhaps a “quoif” or
a “ciffer”--New England French for _coiffure_. During her cold winter
ride home she surely donned a hood. One is described at that date
thus: “A woman’s worsted camlet riding-hood of grayish color faced
with crimson coulour’d Persian.” Over her shoulders she wore a heavy
woollen short cloak, or a scarlet “whittle,” and doubtless also added a
“drugget-petticoat” for warmth, or a “safeguard” for protection against
mud. High-heeled pointed shoes of leather, with knots of green ribbon
or silver buckles, completed Madam Sarah’s picturesque and comfortable
attire. One other useful article of dress, or rather of protection, she
surely as a lady of high gentility carried and wore: a riding-mask made
of black velvet with a silver mouthpiece, or with two little strings
with a silver bead at the end, which she placed in either corner of her
mouth, to hold her mask firmly in place.
The “nagg” upon which Madam rode was without doubt a pacer, as were
all good saddle-horses at that date. No one making any pretension to
fashion or good style would ride upon a trotting-horse, nor indeed
until Revolutionary times was a trotter regarded as of any account or
worth.
I do not think Madam Knight had a Narragansett pacer, for as soon
as they were raised in any numbers they were sent at once to the
West Indies for the use of the wives and daughters of the wealthy
sugar-planters, and few New England people could afford to own them.
The “horse furniture” of which she speaks included, of course, her
side-saddle and saddle-bag, which held her travelling-wardrobe and her
precious journal.
Madam Sarah Knight did not end her days in Boston. She removed to
Norwich, Conn., and in 1717 it is recorded that she gave a silver cup
for the communion-service of the church there. The town in gratitude,
by vote, gave her liberty to “sitt in the pue where she was used to
sitt in ye meeting house.” She also kept an inn on the Livingston
Farm near New London, and I doubt not a woman of her large experience
kept a good ordinary. No rustling beds, no sad-colored pillow-bears,
no saucy maids, no noisy midnight topers, no doubtful fricassees, no
pumpkin-bread, and, above all, no bare-legged punch in her house.
It is painful to record, however, that in 1718 the teacher of Benjamin
Franklin and friend of Cotton Mather was indicted and fined for
“selling strong liquor to Indians.”
Altogether, Madam Knight was far ahead of the time in which she lived.
She was a woman of great energy and talent. She kept a school when a
woman-teacher was almost unheard of. She ran a tavern, a shop. She
wrote poetry and a diary. She cultivated a farm, and owned mills,
and speculated largely in Indian lands, and was altogether a sharp
business-woman; and she must have been counted an extraordinary
character in those early days.
CHAPTER VI.
TWO COLONIAL ADVENTURESSES.
A “strange true story of Louisiana” so furnished with every attractive
element of romance, so calculated to satisfy every exaction of literary
art, that it seems marvellous it has not been eagerly seized upon
and frequently utilized by dramatists and novelists, is that of a
Louisiana princess--or pretender--whose death in a Parisian convent in
1771 furnished a fruitful topic of speculation and conversation in the
courts of France, Austria, Russia, and Prussia. This Louisiana princess
(were she no pretender) was the daughter-in-law of Peter the Great
of Russia, wife of the Grand Duke Alexis, and mother of Peter II. of
Russia. The story, as gathered from a few European authorities and some
old French chronicles and histories of Louisiana, is this.
The Princess Christine, daughter of a German princeling and wife of the
Grand Duke Alexis, is said by Russian official and historical records
to have died in 1716 after a short and most unhappy married life with
a brutal royal profligate, and to have been buried with proper court
honors and attendance. But there is another statement, half-history,
half-romance, which denies that she died at that time, and asserts that
her death and burial were but a carefully planned deception, to permit
her to escape her intolerable life in Russia, and only concealed her
successful flight from St. Petersburg and the power of the Russian
throne. Aided by the famous Countess Königsmark, the princess, after
some delay and frightened hiding in France, sailed from the port of
L’Orient, accompanied by an old devoted court retainer named Walter.
Of course there must always be a lover to form a true romance, and a
young officer named D’Aubant successfully fills that rôle. He had often
seen Christine in the Russian court, and had rescued her from danger
when she was hunting in the Hartz Mountains, and had cherished for her
a deep though hopeless love. When the news of her death came to the
knowledge of Chevalier D’Aubant, he sadly left the Czar’s service
and went to France. Soon after he chanced to see at the cathedral in
Poitiers a woman who raised her veil, glanced at him with a look of
recognition, and apparently a face like that of his loved Christine.
After long search for the unknown, he found her temporary home, only to
learn that she, with her father Mons. De L’Ecluse (who was of course
Walter), had just sailed for the New World. But the woman of the house
gave him a slip of paper which the fair one had left for him in case
he called and asked concerning her. On it was written this enigmatical
lure:--
I have drunk of the waters of Lethe,
Hope yet remains to me.
Now, he would not have been an ideal court-lover, nor indeed but a
sorry hero, if, after such a message, he had not promply sailed after
the possible Christine. He learned that the vessel which bore her
was to land at Biloxi, Louisiana. He sailed for the same port with
his fortune in his pockets. But on arriving in Louisiana, Walter (or
Mons. De L’Ecluse) had taken the disguising name of Walter Holden,
and Christine posed as his daughter, Augustine Holden; so her
knight-errant thus lost trace of her. Christine-Augustine and her
father settled in the Colonie Roland on the Red River. D’Aubant, with
sixty colonists, founded a settlement but fifty miles away, which he
named the Valley of Christine. Of course in due time the lovers met,
and disguise was impossible and futile, and Augustine confessed her
identity with the Crown Princess. As her husband Alexis had by this
time conveniently died in prison, in Moscow, where he had been tried
and condemned to death (and probably been privately executed), there
was no reason, save the memory of her past exalted position, why she
should not become the wife of an honest planter. They were married by
a Spanish priest, and lived for twenty happy years in the Valley of
Christine.
But D’Aubant’s health failed, and he sought physicians in Paris. One
day when Christine was walking in the garden of the Tuileries, with her
two daughters, the children of D’Aubant, the German conversation of the
mother attracted the attention of Marshal Saxe, who was the son of the
very Countess Königsmark who had aided Christine’s escape. The marshal
recognized the princess at once, in spite of the lapse of years, and
through his influence with Louis XV. obtained for D’Aubant a commission
as major of troops, and the office of governor of the Isle of Bourbon.
The King also informed the Empress of Austria, who was a niece of
Christine, that her aunt was alive; and an invitation was sent from the
Empress for the D’Aubant family to become residents of the Austrian
Court. They remained, however, at the Isle of Bourbon until the death
of D’Aubant and the two daughters, when Christine came to Brunswick and
was granted a pension for life by the Empress. Her death in a convent,
and her burial, took place over half a century after her pretended
legal demise.
This is the Christine of romance, of court gossip, of court credulity,
but there is another aspect of her story. Judge Martin has written a
standard history of Louisiana. In it he says:--
Two hundred German settlers of Law’s grant were landed in the month of
March 1721 at Biloxi out of the twelve hundred who had been recruited.
There came among the German new-comers a female adventurer. She had
been attached to the wardrobe of the wife of the Czarowitz Alexis
Petrovitz, the only son of Peter the Great. She imposed on the
credulity of many persons, particularly on that of an officer of the
garrison of Mobile (called by Bossu, the Chevalier D’Aubant, and by
the King of Prussia, Waldeck), who, having seen the princess at St.
Petersburg imagined he recognized her features in those of her former
servant, and gave credit to the report that she was the Duke of
Wolfenbuttel’s daughter, and the officer married her.
Grimm and Voltaire in their letters, Levesque in his History, all unite
in pronouncing her an impostor. But you can choose your own estimate of
this creature of high romance; if you elect to deem her a princess, you
find yourself in the goodly company of the King of France, the Empress
of Austria, Marshal Saxe, and a vast number of other folk of rank and
intelligence.
In the year 1771 there was sent to this country from England a woman
convict, who had in her enforced home a most extraordinary and romantic
career of successful fraud.
The first account which I have seen of her was printed in the
_Gentleman’s Magazine_ in 1771, and told simply of her startling
intrusion into the Queen’s apartments in London; but Dr. Doran’s _Lives
of the Queens of England of the House of Hanover_ gives this account of
this interesting bit of Anglo-American romance.
Sarah Wilson, yielding to a strong temptation in the year 1771,
filched one or two of the Queen’s jewels, and was condemned to be
executed. It was considered almost a violation of justice that the
thief should be saved from the halter and be transported instead of
hanged. She was sent to America, where she was allotted as slave, or
servant, to a Mr. Dwale, Bud Creek, Frederick County. Queen Charlotte
would have thought nothing more of her, had her majesty not heard with
some surprise, that her sister Susannah Caroline Matilda was keeping
her court in the plantations. Never was surprise more genuine than the
Queen’s; it was exceeded only by her hilarity when it was discovered
that the Princess Susannah was simply Sarah Wilson, at large. That
somewhat clever girl having stolen a Queen’s jewels, thought nothing,
after escaping from the penal service to which she was condemned, of
passing herself off as a Queen’s sister. The Americans were not so
acute as their descendants; so in love were some of them with the
greatness they affected to despise, that they paid royal honors to
the clever impostor. She passed the most joyous of seasons before
she was consigned again to increase of penalty for daring to pretend
relationship with the consort of King George. The story of the
presuming girl, whose escapades, however, were not fully known in
England at that time, served, as far as knowledge of them had reached
the court, to amuse the gossips who had assembled about the cradle of
the young Elizabeth.
In this account of Dr. Doran’s there are some errors. The real story
of the crime of Sarah Wilson and her subsequent career was this. In
August, 1770, a strange woman found her way by means of a private
staircase to the apartments of Queen Charlotte. She entered a room
where the Queen and the Duchess of Ancaster were sitting, to their
alarm. While she was taking a leisurely survey of the contents of the
room, a page was summoned, who expelled the intruder, but did not
succeed in arresting her. Shortly after, the Queen’s apartments were
broken into by a thief, who stole valuable jewels and a miniature of
the Queen. The thief proved to be a woman named Sarah Wilson, who had
been maid of the Honorable Miss Vernon, and this thief was asserted to
be the inquisitive intruder whose visit had so alarmed the Queen.
Sarah Wilson was arrested, tried as a felon, and sentenced to death;
but by the exertions and influence of her former mistress the sentence
was commuted to transportation to the American colonies for a seven
years’ term of servitude. This leniency caused considerable stir in
London and some dissatisfaction.
In 1771, after passage in a convict ship, Sarah Wilson was sold to a
Mr. William Duvall, of Bush Creek, Frederick County, Maryland, for
seven years’ servitude. After a short time, in which she apparently
developed her plans of fraud, she escaped from her master, and went to
Virginia and the Carolinas, where she assumed the title of Princess
Susannah Caroline Matilda, and asserted she was the sister of the Queen
of England. She still owned the miniature of the Queen, and some rich
jewels, which gave apparent proof of her assertion, and it is said some
rich clothing. It is indeed mysterious that a transported convict
could retain in her possession, through all her reverses, the very
jewels for whose theft she was punished; yet the story can scarcely be
doubted.
She travelled through the South from plantation to plantation, with
plentiful promises of future English offices and court favors to all
who assisted her progress; and liberal sums of money were placed at her
disposal, to be repaid by Queen Charlotte; and she seems to have been
universally welcomed and feasted.
But the fame of the royal visitor spread afar and found its way to Bush
Creek, to the ears of Mr. Duvall, and he promptly suspected that he had
found trace of his ingenious runaway servant. As was the custom of the
day, he advertised for her and a reward for her capture. The notice
reads thus:--
Bush Creek, Frederick County, Maryland, October 11, 1771. Ran away
from the subscriber a convict servant named SARAH WILSON, but has
changed her name to Lady Susannah Caroline Matilda, which made the
public believe that she was her Majesty’s sister. She has a blemish in
her right eye, black roll’d hair, stoops in the shoulders, and makes
a common practice of writing and marking her clothes with a crown and
a B. Whoever secures the said servant woman or will take her home,
shall receive five pistoles, besides all cost of charges. William
Duvall.
I entitle Michael Dalton to search the city of Philadelphia, and from
there to Charleston, for the said woman.
Beauty readily inspires confidence, and dignity commands it. But a
woman with such scant personal charms, with a blemish in her eye and
stooping shoulders, must have been most persuasive in conversation to
have surmounted such obstacles. It is said that she was most gracious,
yet commanding.
To elude Michael Dalton’s authorized search from Philadelphia to
Charleston, Sarah Wilson fled from her scenes of success, but also of
too familiar and extensive acquaintance, to New York. But New York
proved still too near to Maryland, so she took passage for Newport.
Here her fame preceded her, for in the _Newport Mercury_ of November
29, 1773, is this notice:--
Last Tuesday arrived here from New York the lady who has passed
through several of the southern colonies under the name and character
of CAROLINE MATILDA, Marchioness de Waldgrave, etc., etc.
I do not know the steps that led to her capture and removal, but at
the end of the year the Marchioness was back on William Duvall’s
plantation, and bound to serve a redoubled term of years. It seems to
be probable that she also suffered more ignoble punishment, for Judge
Martin says in his _History of Louisiana_:--
A female driven for her misconduct from the service of a maid of honor
of Princess Matilda, sister of George III., was convicted at the Old
Bailey and transported to Maryland. She effected her escape before the
expiration of her time, and travelled through Virginia and both the
Carolinas personating the Princess, and levying contributions on the
credulity of the planters and merchants and even some of the king’s
officers. She was at last arrested in Charleston, prosecuted and
whipped.
I often wonder what became of the Brummagem princess, with her jewels
and her personal blemishes; and I often fancy that I find traces of
her career, still masquerading, still imposing on simple folk. For
instance, Rev. Manasseh Cutler wrote, at his home in Ipswich Hamlet,
Mass., on January 25, 1775:
A lady came to our house who had made a great noise in the country,
and has been made the occasion of various conjectures. She calls
herself Caroline Augusta Harriet, Duchess of Brownstonburges. Says
she has resided in the Court of England for several years, that she
eloped from the palace of St. James. She appears to be a person of an
extraordinary education, and well acquainted with things at Court, but
she is generally supposed to be an impostor.
Three days later he writes that he “conveyed the extraordinary visitor
to town in a chaise.” With this glimpse of Sarah--if Sarah she
were--visiting in a little New England town in a sober Puritan family,
and riding off to Boston in a chaise with the pious Puritan preacher,
she vanishes from our ken, to be obscured in the smoke of battle and
the din of war, and forced to learn that to American patriots it was no
endearing trait to pose as an English princess.
CHAPTER VII.
THE UNIVERSAL FRIEND.
Sir Thomas Browne says that “all heresies, how gross soever, have
found a welcome with the people.” Certainly they have with the people,
and specially they have with the Rhode Island people. The eighty-two
pestilent heresies so sadly deplored by the Puritan divines found
a home in Rhode Island and the Providence Plantations. It was not
strange, therefore, that from the heart of Narragansett should spring
one of the most remarkable and successful religious woman-fanatics
the world has ever known. Jemima Wilkinson was born in the town of
Cumberland, R. I., in 1758. Though her father was a poor farmer, she
came of no mean stock. She was a descendant of English kings--of King
Edward I.--and later of Lieutenant Wilkinson, of Cromwell’s army, and
she was a second cousin of Governor Stephen Hopkins and Commodore
Hopkins.
When she was eight years old her mother died, leaving her to the care
of older sisters, whom she soon completely dominated. She was handsome,
fond of ease and dress, vain, and eager for attention. She was romantic
and impressionable, and when a new sect of religious zealots, called
Separatists, appeared in her neighborhood--a sect who rejected church
organization and insisted upon direct guidance from heaven--she became
one of the most regular attendants at their meetings.
She soon betook herself to solitude and study of the Bible, and
seemed in deep reflection, and at last kept wholly to her room, and
then went to bed. She was at that time but eighteen years old, and it
scarcely seems possible that she deliberately planned out her system
of life-long deception which proved so successful; but soon she began
to see visions, which she described to her sisters and visitors, and
interpreted to them.
Finally she fell in a deep trance, which lasted thirty-six hours,
during which she scarcely breathed. About the middle of the second
day, when surrounded by anxious watchers (who proved valuable witnesses
in her later career), she rose up majestically, called for clothing,
dressed herself, and walked about fully restored and calm, though pale.
But she announced that Jemima Wilkinson had died, and that her body was
now inhabited by a spirit whose mission was to deliver the oracles of
God to mankind, and who was to be known henceforth by the name of the
Universal Friend. It ought to be noted here that this girl of eighteen
not only maintained these absurd claims of resurrection of the body
and reincarnation, at that time, in the face of the expostulation
and arguments of her relatives and friends, but also with unshaken
firmness, and before all hearers, till the day of her death at the age
of sixty-one.
On the first Sunday after her trance, the Universal Friend preached in
the open air near her home to a large and excited gathering of people;
and she electrified her audience by her eloquence, her brilliant
imagination, her extraordinary familiarity with the Scriptures, and
her facility and force of application and quotation from them. Her
success in obtaining converts was most marked from the first, as was
her success in obtaining temporal comforts and benefits from these
converts. In this she resembled the English religious adventuress,
Johanna Southcote. For six years she lived at the house of Judge
William Potter, in South Kingstown, R. I. This handsome house was known
as the Abbey. He enlarged it by building a splendid suite of rooms for
his beloved spiritual leader, on whom he lavished his large fortune.
Her success as a miracle-worker was not so great. She announced that on
a certain date she would walk upon the water, but when, in the face of
a large multitude, she reached the water’s edge, she denounced the lack
of faith of her followers, and refused to gratify their curiosity by
trying the experiment. Nor did she succeed in her attempt to raise from
the dead one Mistress Susanna Potter, the daughter of Judge Potter, who
died during Jemima’s residence at the Abbey. She managed, however, to
satisfy fully her followers by foretelling events, interpreting dreams,
and penetrating secrets, which she worded by ingeniously mystic and
easily applicable terms.
Her meetings and her converts were not confined to Rhode Island. In
southern Massachusetts and Connecticut many joined her band. In New
Milford, Conn., her converts erected a meeting-house. In 1782 she
started out upon a new mission. With a small band of her disciples she
went to Philadelphia, where she was cordially received and entertained
by the Quakers. In Worcester, Pa., her reception was enthusiastic.
Scarce a diary of those times but contains some allusion to her or her
career. In the journal of Jacob Hiltzeheimer, of Philadelphia, I read:--
Aug. 15, 1783. Returning from church, I observed people crowded about
the Free Quakers meeting-house, and was told they were waiting to see
the wonderful Jemima Wilkinson who had preached. I remained till she
came out to get in her chair. She had on a white hat but no cap, and a
white linen garment that covered her to her feet.
Aug. 20, 1783. Went to the new Quaker meeting-house on Arch Street to
hear Jemima Wilkinson preach. She looks more like a man than a woman.
May 22, 1788. I rode out to Cunninghams Centre House to hear the
famous Jemima Wilkinson preach, and in the room where formerly a
billiard table stood I saw and heard her. She spoke much in the New
England dialect. She appeared to be about twenty-five years of age,
her hair was dressed like that of a man, and she wore a black gown
after the fashion of church ministers.
The manuscript diary of the Reverend John Pitman, of Providence, R. I.,
says: “Saw that poor deluded creature Jemima Wilkerson and a number of
her dull followers standing staring at the cross-roads.”
In the days of reaction after the excitement of the Revolution, many
aspirations for a better social state prompted settlements in outlying
portions of the Central States. Communities were founded, Utopias were
planned, and soon the united body of people known as the Friend’s
followers decided to seek in the depths of the wilderness a new home.
It was a bold undertaking, but the band had a bold commander, and above
all, they were absolute in their confidence in her. In no way was
that confidence shown so remarkably as in the fact that the settlement
was made for her but without her. The three delegates sent to find a
place suitable for their purpose reported in favor of the region at the
foot of Seneca Lake in the State of New York. In 1788 the settlement
was made on the west shore of the lake by twenty-five persons, on the
primitive highway of the region, about a mile south of Dresden, and it
was named Jerusalem.
For over two years a band of determined believers labored in this
wilderness to prepare a home for their leader, who was comfortably
carrying on her triumphant and flattering progress in the large cities.
Surrounded by Indians, and menaced by wild beasts, they cleared the
forests, and planted wheat, and lived on scant food. During the first
year one family for six weeks had only boiled nettles and bohea tea for
nourishment. When the cornfields yielded the second summer, a small
grist-mill was built with incredible labor. When the well-fed and not
at all over-worked Friend arrived, she found an orderly, industrious
community of two hundred and sixty persons, who had built for her a
home and a meeting-house, and she at once settled down in comparative
comfort in the midst of her flock.
The house which was occupied by the Friend was a log-house of humble
pretensions; to this two or three houses were added, then upper stories
were placed over all, and framed in. It stood in a fine garden, and
by its side was a long building used as a workshop for the women of
the settlement, where spinning, weaving, and sewing were constantly
carried on. Near by stood the sugar grove, a most lucrative possession
of the society. From this home the Friend and her steadfast followers
would ride in imposing cavalcade, two by two, to meeting at the early
settlement. With their handsome, broad-brimmed hats, substantial
clothes, and excellent horses, they made a most notable and impressive
appearance. Her second house was more pretentious and comparatively
luxurious; in it she lived till the time of her death.
Jemima Wilkinson’s followers were of no poor or ordinary stock. Many
brought to her community considerable wealth. Into the wilderness
went with her from Kingstown, R. I., Judge William Potter and his
daughters; a family of wealthy Hazards; Captain James Parker (brother
of Sir Peter Parker); four Reynolds sisters from a family of dignity;
Elizabeth Luther and seven children; members of the Card, Hunt,
Sherman, and Briggs families. From New Milford, Conn., emigrated a
number of Stones and Botsfords, and from New Bedford many members of
the influential Hathaway and Lawrence families. From Stonington and
New London went a large number of Barneses and Browns and Davises;
from Philadelphia the entire family of Malins and the Supplees; from
Worcester, Pa., came a most important recruit, Daniel Wagener, with
his sister, and Jonathan Davis, and other well-to-do and influential
persons.
The most important converts to belief in her doctrines, and pioneers
for her, were doubtless Judge Potter and Captain Parker, both men of
large wealth and unstinted liberality to their leader. The former had
been treasurer of the State of Rhode Island; the latter had been also
a magistrate for twenty years in the same State. They were the largest
contributors to the fund for the purchase of the tract of land in
New York. These men sacrificed home and friends to come to the New
Jerusalem with their adored priestess; but they quickly escaped from
her sway, and became in later years her most powerful enemies. They
even issued a complaint against her for blasphemy. The officer who
tried to serve the warrant upon her was unable to seize the Friend, who
was an accomplished rider and well mounted, and, when he went to her
house, was roughly treated and driven away. John Lawrence, whose wife
was Anna Hathaway, was a near relative of Commodore Lawrence; he was a
shipbuilder at New Bedford, and, though he followed Jemima Wilkinson
to Seneca Lake, never joined her society. Many of her believers never
lived in her settlement, but visited her there; and many bequeathed to
her liberally by will, and made valuable gifts to her during their life.
In the main, the influence of this remarkable woman continued unabated
with a large number of her followers throughout her life, and even
after her death. This power survived against the adverse conditions of
frequent litigations, personal asperities, constant injurious reports,
and the dislike of many to the strictness of her faith and austerity
of life required by her from her followers. This allegiance could
hardly have been founded solely on religious credulity, but must have
depended largely in her attractive personal traits, her humanity, and
doubtless also to her attractive expositions of her lively imagination.
To the last she persisted in calling herself by the sole name of the
Universal Friend. Even her will was signed thus: “I, the person once
called Jemima Wilkinson, but in and ever since the year 1777 known as
and called the Public Universal Friend, hereunto set my name and seal;
Public Universal Friend.” But she cannily appended a sub-signature over
a cross-mark of the name of her youth.
A remarkable feature of the Universal Friend’s Society, perhaps
the most remarkable effect of her teachings, was the large number
of excellent women who, as persistent celibates, adhered to her
teachings throughout their lives. Some lived in her house, and all were
consistent representatives of her doctrines, and many lived to great
old age. Nor can I doubt from the accounts of their lives that they
were exceedingly happy in their celibacy and in their unwavering belief
in Jemima Wilkinson. Carlyle says, “Man’s gullibility is not his worst
blessing.” I may paraphrase his assertion thus--woman’s gullibility
is one of her most comforting traits. Her persistent belief, her
unswerving devotion, often to wholly unworthy objects, brings its own
reward in a lasting, though unreasoning satisfaction.
Jemima’s male adherents were nearly all married. It was her intention
that her property, which was considerable, should be held for the
benefit of her followers who survived her, but it was gradually
transferred and wasted till the last aged members of the band were
forced to depend upon the charity of neighbors and the public.
One of the best accounts of the personality of Jemima Wilkinson was
given by the Duke de la Rochefoucault Liancourt, who visited her in
1796. He says:--
We saw Jemima and attended her meeting, which is held in her own
house. Jemima stood at the door of her bed chamber on a carpet,
with an armchair behind her. She had on a white morning gown and a
waistcoat such as men wear and a petticoat of the same color. Her
black hair was cut short, carefully combed and divided behind into
three ringlets; she wore a stock and a white silk cravat, which was
tied about her neck with affected negligence. In point of delivery
she preached with more ease than any other Quaker I have ever heard,
but the subject matter of her discourse was an eternal repetition of
the same subjects--death, sin and repentance. She is said to be about
forty years of age but did not appear more than thirty. She is of
middle stature, well made, of florid countenance, and has fine teeth
and beautiful eyes. Her action is studied. She aims at simplicity but
is pedantic in her manner. Her hypocrisy may be traced in all her
discourse, actions and conduct and even in the very manner which she
manages her countenance.
He speaks with much asperity of her pretence of condemning earthly
enjoyment while her whole manner of living showed much personal luxury
and gratification.
This description of her was given by one who saw her:--
She was higher than a middle stature, of fine form, fair complexion
with florid cheeks, dark and brilliant eyes, and beautiful white
teeth. Her hair dark auburn or black, combed from the seam of the
head and fell on her shoulders in three full ringlets. In her public
addresses she would rise up and stand perfectly still for a minute or
more, than proceed with a slow and distinct enunciation. She spoke
with great ease and increased fluency; her voice clear and harmonious,
and manner persuasive and emphatic. Her dress rich but plain and in a
style entirely her own; a broad brimmed beaver hat with a low crown,
and the sides when she rode turned down and tied under her chin; a
full light drab cloak or mantle and a unique underdress; and a cravat
round the neck with square ends that fell down to the waist forward.
The square cravat or band gave her a semi-clerical look. The rich
glossy smoothness and simplicity of dressing her hair is commented on
by nearly all who left accounts of her personal appearance; and was
doubtless more marked in her day because the feminine headdress of that
time was elaborate to a degree that was even fantastic, and was at the
opposite extreme from simple curls.
Many scurrilous and absurd stories are told of her, especially in
a biography of her which was written and printed soon after her
death. Many of the anecdotes in this biography are too petty and
too improbable to be given any credence. I am convinced that she
was a woman of most sober and discreet life; importunate of respect
and greedy of absolute power; personally luxurious in her tastes,
and of vast ambition, but always of dignified carriage. And through
her dignity, sobriety, and reserve she had a lasting hold upon her
followers. Perhaps she told her alleged belief, her tale of her
mission, until she half believed it herself. One story of her is worthy
repetition, and I think of credence.
It tells of her repulse when she endeavored to secure among her
followers the Indians of Canandaigua. She spoke to them at Canandaigua
and again at Seneca Lake, evidently realizing fully the advantage that
might be gained from them through land-grants and personal support.
Many of the Oneida Indians had been converted by missionaries to
Christianity, and as they held a Sunday service she entered and made a
thrilling and impressive address, assuring them she was their Saviour
Jesus Christ. They listened to her with marked attention, and one of
their number arose and delivered a short and animated speech to his
companions in the Oneida tongue. When he ceased speaking, Jemima turned
to the interpreter and asked an explanation of the speaker’s words,
which was given her. The Indian speaker sat by her side with a sardonic
expression on his grim face, and when the interpretation was finished,
said significantly and coldly, “You no Jesus Christ--he know all poor
Indian say as well as what white man say,” and turned contemptuously
from her. It is said that the cunning Indian detective was the great
chief Red Jacket, and from what we know of his shrewd and diplomatic
character it can readily be believed.
CHAPTER VIII.
EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY MANNERS.
Nothing can more plainly show the regard in which women were held in
Virginia in the middle of the eighteenth century than the entries
in the accounts of Colonel William Byrd of his visits to Virginia
homes. He was an accomplished and cultivated gentleman, who wrote
with much intelligence and power when relating his interviews with
men, or discussing what might be termed masculine subjects, but who
revealed his opinion of the mental capacity of the fair sex by such
side glimpses as these: “We supped about nine and then prattled with
the ladies.” “Our conversation with the ladies was like whip-syllabub,
very pretty but nothing in it.” He also makes rather coarse jokes about
Miss Thekky and her maiden state, which was of course most deplorable
in his and every one else’s eyes; and he alludes disparagingly to Mrs.
Chiswell as “one of those absolute rarities, a very good old woman.”
The Virginia women are said by other authors of that day to have been
“bounteous in size and manner.” M. Droz wrote of them:--
Most of the women are quite pretty and insinuating in their manner
if they find you so. When you ask them if they would like to have
husbands they reply with a good grace that it is just what they desire.
For many years an epidemic of sentimentality and mawkishness seemed
to everywhere prevail in America, and indeed everywhere among
English-speaking peoples, and seemed also to be universally admired.
The women in America were, as Doctor Shippen wrote, “languishingly
sweet.” This insipidity pervaded the letters of the times, it showed
in all the diaries and journals that record conversations. Long and
vapid discourses on love and matrimony and “Platonicks” were held
even between comparative strangers. Even so sprightly and intelligent
a journalist as Sally Wister records her exceedingly flippant
conversation with young officers of new acquaintance, who, within a few
hours of introduction, suggested matrimony and love and kisses, and
punctuated their remarks with profanity, which they “declared was their
favorite vice.”
William Black, a most observant traveller, wrote of Philadelphia girls
in 1744:--
One of the ladies began a discourse on love wherein she pull’d the
other Sex to pieces. Setting forth the Constancy of their Sex and the
Unstability of ours. Every one of the young ladies put in an Oar and
helped her Out; at last being quite tired of the Subject and at a Loss
what more to say the Lady that begun it turned from it artfull enough
to Criticizing on Plays and their Authors, Addison, Otway, Prior,
Congreve, Dryden, Pope, Shakespere &c were named often in Question;
the words Genius and no Genius, Invention, Poetry, Fine things, bad
Language, no Style, Charming writing, Imagary and Diction, with many
more Expressions which swim on the surface of Criticism seemed to have
been caught by the Female Fishers for the Reputation of Wit.
Though William Black was willing to talk of “Love and Platonicks,” and
with warm approval, he was bitter in his rebuke of this “Fine Lady Mrs
Talkative” who dared to speak of books and authors.
It is well to note the books read by these young ladies in high life,
and their critical opinion of them. A much-liked book was named _The
Generous Inconstant_. It has vanished from our modern view. I should
really like to see the book that rejoiced in such a title. We can also
learn of the books read by Lucinda the “Young lady of Virginia” and her
friend Polly Brent. Lucinda’s journal was written during a visit to
the Lees, Washingtons, Grymes, Spotswoods, and other first families of
Virginia, and has been preserved till our own day. She thus records:--
I have spent the morning in reading Lady Julia Mandeville, and was
much affected. Indeed I think I never cried more in my life reading a
Novel; the Stile is beautiful, but the tale is horrid. Some one just
comes to tell us Mr Masenbird and Mr Spotswood is come. We must go
down, but I am affraid both Sister’s and my eyes will betray us.
Mrs. A. Washington has lent me a new Novel called Victoria. I cant say
I admire the Tale, though I think it prettyly Told. There is a Verse
in it I wish you much to read. I believe if I ant too Lazy I will copy
it off for you; the verse is not very beautifull but the sense is I
assure you.
I have been very agreeably entertained this evening reading a Novel
called Malvern Dale. It is something like Evelina, though not so
pretty. I have a piece of advice to give which I have before urged,
that is to read something improving. Books of instruction will be
a thousand times more pleasing (after a little while) than all the
novels in the World. I own myself I am too fond of Novel-reading; but
by accustoming myself to reading other Books I have become less so.
I have entertained myself all day reading Telemachus. It is really
delightful and very improving.
I have for the first time in my life just read Pope’s Eloiza. I had
heard my Polly extol it frequently, and curiosity led me to read it.
I will give you my opinion of it; the Poetry I think butifull, but do
not like some of the sentiments. Some of Eloizas is too Amorous for a
Female I think.
Sally Wister, a girl of fifteen, had brought to her what she called
“a charming collection of books,”--_Caroline Melmoth_, some _Ladys
Magazines_, _Juliet Grenville_ and “Joe Andrews”--this, Fielding’s
_Joseph Andrews_, I suppose.
The sensible and intelligent Eliza Lucas wrote in 1742, when she was
about twenty-one years old, with much critical discrimination on what
she read:--
I send by the bearer the last volume of Pamela. She is a good girl and
as such I love her dearly, but I must think her very defective, and
even blush for her while she allows herself that disgusting liberty
of praising herself, or what is very like it, repeating all the fine
speeches made to her by others,--when a person distinguished for
modesty in every other respect should have chosen rather to conceal
them, or at least let them come from some other hand; especially as
she might have considered those high compliments might have proceeded
from the partiality of her friends, or with a view to encourage her
and make her aspire after those qualifications which are ascribed to
her, which I know experimentally to be often the case. But then you
answer, she was a young country girl, had seen nothing of life, and
it was natural for her to be pleased with praise, and she had not art
enough to conceal it. True, before she was Mrs. B. it was excusable
when only wrote to her father and mother, but after she had the
advantage of Mr B’s conversation, and others of sense and distinction,
I must be of another opinion. But here arises a difficulty--we are to
be made acquainted by the author of all particulars; how then is it
to be done? I think by Miss Durnford or some other lady very intimate
with Mrs B. How you smile at my presumption for instructing one so far
above my own level as the author of Pamela (whom I esteem much for the
regard he pays to virtue and religion) but contract your smile into a
mortified look for I acquit the author. He designed to paint no more
than a woman, and he certainly designed it as a reflection upon the
vanity of our sex that a character so complete in every other instance
should be so defective in this. Defective indeed when she sometimes
mentions that poor creature Mr H’s applauses it puts me in mind of the
observation in Don Quixote, how grateful is praise even from a madman.
A most popular form of literary intercourse and amusement was
everywhere found in stilted sentimental correspondence, conducted often
under assumed and high-sounding names, usually classical. For instance,
this young lady of Virginia writes to her friend, plain Polly, when
separated for a short time:--
Oh my Marcia how hard is our fate! that we should be deprived of your
dear company, when it would compleat our Felecity--but such is the
fate of Mortals! We are never permitted to be perfectly happy. I
suppose it is all right, else the Supreme Disposer of all things would
have not permitted it, we should perhaps have been more neglectful
than we are of our duty.
She frequently forgets to use the pompous name of Marcia, especially
when writing on any subject that really interests her:--
You may depend upon it Polly this said Matrimony alters us mightily.
I am afraid it alienates us from every one else. It is I fear the ban
of Female Friendship. Let it not be with ours Polly if we should ever
Marry. Farewell my love, may Heaven shower blessings on your head
prays your Lucinda. (I always forget to make use of our other name.)
Even so sensible and intelligent a woman as Abigail Adams corresponded
under the names Diana or Portia, while her friends masqueraded as
Calliope, Myra, Aspasia, and Aurelia. Wives wrote to their husbands,
giving them fanciful or classical names. This of course was no new
fashion. Did not Shakespeare write:--
Adoptedly--as school-maids change their name
By vain though apt affection.
It is evident that in spite of all the outward dignity shown in these
pompous forms of address, and in a most ceremonial and reserved bearing
in public, there existed in private life much rudeness of demeanor and
much freedom in manner. Let me quote again from the vivacious pages of
the young lady of Virginia:--
The Gentlemen dined today at Mr Massinbirds. We have supped, and the
gentlemen are not returned yet. Lucy and myself are in a peck of
troubles for fear they should return drunk. Sister has had our bed
moved in her room. Just as we were undress’d and going to bed the
Gentlemen arrived, and we had to scamper. Both tipsy!
Today is Sunday. Brother was so worsted by the frolick yesterday,
we did not set off today. Mr C. Washington returned today from
Fredericksburg. You cant think how rejoiced Hannah was, nor how
dejected in his absence she always is. You may depend upon it Polly
this said Matrimony alters us mightely. Hannah and myself were going
to take a long walk this evening but were prevented by the two Horred
Mortals Mr Pinkard and Mr Washington, who siezed and kissed me a dozen
times in spite of all the resistance I could make. They really think,
now they are married, they are prevaliged to do anything....
When we got here we found the house pretty full. I had to dress
in a great hurry for dinner. We spent the evening very agreeably
in chatting. Milly Washington is a thousand times prettyer than I
thought her at first and very agreeable. About sunset Nancy, Milly
and myself took a walk in the Garden (it is a most beautiful place).
We were mighty busy cutting thistles to try our sweethearts, when Mr
Washington caught us; and you cant conceive how he plagued us--chased
us all over the Garden and was quite impertinent. I must tell you
of our frolic after we went to our room. We took a large dish of
bacon and beef; after that, a bowl of Sago cream; and after that an
apple-pye. While we were eating the apple-pye in bed--God bless you,
making a great noise--in came Mr Washington dressed in Hannah’s short
gown and peticoat, and seazed me and kissed me twenty times, in spite
of all the resistance I could make; and then Cousin Molly. Hannah soon
followed dressed in his Coat. They joined us in eating the apple-pye
and then went out. After this we took it into our heads to want to eat
oysters. We got up, put on our rappers and went down in the Seller to
get them; do you think Mr Washington did not follow us and scear us
just to death. We went up tho, and eat our oysters. We slept in the
old ladys room too, and she sat laughing fit to kill herself at us.
Now, these were no folk of low degree. The lively and osculatory Mr.
Washington was Corbin Washington. He married Hannah, daughter of
Richard Henry Lee. Their grandson, John A. Washington, was the last
of the family to occupy Mount Vernon. Mr. Pinkard also had a delicate
habit of “bolting in upon us, and overhearing part of our conveasation
in our rooms, which hily delighted him,” trying to seize the girls’
letters, dressing in women’s clothes, and other manly and gentlemanly
pleasantries.
Sarah Eve records in her journal an equally affectionate state of
manners in Philadelphian society in 1722. She writes:--
In the morning Dr Shippen came to see us. What a pity it is that the
Doctor is so fond of kissing. He really would be much more agreeable
if he were less fond. One hates to be always kissed, especially as it
is attended with so many inconveniences. It decomposes the economy of
ones handkerchief, it disorders ones high roll, and it ruffles the
serenity of ones countenance.
Though there was great talk made of gallant and chivalric bearing
toward the ladies, it is evident that occasional rudeness of manner
still existed. A writer in the _Royal Gazette_ of August 16, 1780, thus
complains of New York swains:--
As the Mall seems to be the chief resort for company of an evening I
am surprized that there is no more politeness and decorum observ’d
by the masculine gender. In short there is seldom a seat in that
agreeable walk that is not taken up by the gentlemen. This must be
very disagreeable to the fair sex in general whose tender delicate
limbs may be tired with the fatigues of walking, and bend, denied a
seat to rest them.
I cannot discover that anything of the nature of our modern chaperonage
was known in colonial days. We find the early travellers such as Dunton
taking many a long ride with a fair maid a-pillion back behind them.
In 1750 Captain Francis Goelet made a trip through New England. He
consorted only with the fashionable folk of the day, and he appeared to
find in them a very genial and even countrified simplicity of manners.
He tells of riding to “Turtle Frolicks” and country dances with young
ladies of refinement and good station in life. To one of the finer
routs at Cambridge he rode with Miss Betty Wendell in a chaise. There
were twenty couples in all who went to this Frolick, all, he says
complacently, the “Best Fashion in Boston.” Young men escorted young
girls to dancing-parties, and also accompanied them home after the
dance was finished.
Weddings were everywhere, throughout the middle and southern colonies,
scenes of great festivity.
I have been much interested and amused in reading the _Diary of Jacob
Hiltzheimer_, of Philadelphia (which has recently been published),
to note his references to the deep drinking at the weddings of the
day. One entry, on February 14, 1767, runs thus: “At noon went to
William Jones to drink punch, met several of my friends and got
decently drunk. The groom could not be accused of the same fault.” This
cheerful frankness reminds us of Sir Walter Raleigh’s similar ingenuous
expression: “Some of our captains garoused of wine till they were
reasonable pleasant.”
This William Jones was married eighteen years later to a third wife,
and again kept open house, and once more friend Jacob called on the
bride and ate the wedding-cake and drank the wedding-punch. Nay,
more, he called four days in succession, and at the end “rode all the
afternoon to wear off the effects of the punch and clear my head.” At
one bride’s house, Mrs. Robert Erwin’s, record was kept that for two
days after the wedding, between three and four hundred gentlemen had
called, drank punch, and probably kissed the bride.
It was the universal Philadelphia custom for the groom’s friends to
call thus for two days at his house and drink punch, and every evening
for a week large tea-parties were given by the bride, the bridesmaids
and groomsmen always in attendance. Sometimes a coaching trip was taken
by the entire bridal party out on the Lancaster pike, for a wedding
breakfast.
Similar customs prevailed in New York. In a letter written by Hannah
Thompson I read of bridal festivities in that town.
The Gentlemans Parents keep Open house just in the same manner as the
Brides Parents. The Gentlemen go from the Bridegroom house to drink
punch with and give Joy to his Father. The Brides visitors go in the
same manner from the Brides to her mothers to pay their compliments to
her. There is so much driving about at these times that in our narrow
streets there is some danger. The Wedding house resembles a beehive.
Company perpetually flying in and out.
In a new country, with novel methods of living, and unusual social
relations, there were some wild and furious wooings. None were more
coarsely extraordinary than the courting of young Mistress Burwell by
the Governor of the colony of Virginia, an intemperate, blustering
English ruffian named Nicholson. He demanded her hand in an Orientally
autocratic manner, and when neither she nor her parents regarded him
with favor, his rage and determination knew no bounds. He threatened
the lives of her father and mother “with mad furious distracted
speech.” When Parson Fouace came, meekly riding to visit poor Mr.
Burwell, his parishioner, who was sick (naturally enough), the Governor
set upon him with words of abuse, pulled the clerical hat off, drew
his sword, and threatened the clerical life, until the parson fled in
dismay. Fancying that the brother of Commissary Blair, the President of
the Virginia College, was a would-be suitor to his desired fair one, he
assailed the President with insane jealousy, saying, “Sir, your brother
is a villain and you have betrayed me,” and he swore revenge on the
entire family. To annoy further the good President, he lent his pistols
to the wicked college boys that they might thus keep the President
out of the college buildings. He vowed if Mistress Burwell married
any one but himself he would cut the throat of bridegroom, minister,
and justice who issued the marriage license. The noise of his abuse
reached England, and friends wrote from thence protesting letters to
him. At last the Council united and succeeded in procuring his removal.
Poor President Blair did not fare well under other governors, and both
College and President were fiercely hated by Governor Andros; and “a
sparkish young gentleman,” the grandfather of Martha Washington’s first
husband, to show his zeal for his gubernatorial friend, went into
church and “with great fury and violence” pulled Mrs. Blair out of her
pew in the face of the minister and the whole congregation--and this in
the stately old cavalier days.
One very curious duty devolved on young girls at that day. They often
served as pall-bearers. At the funeral of Mrs. Daniel Phœnix the
pall-bearers were women, and when Mrs. John Morgan, sister of Francis
Hopkinson, died in Philadelphia, her brother wrote of her funeral:--
The morning was snowy and severely cold, and the walking very
dangerous and slippery, never the less a number of respectable
citizens attended the funeral and the pall was borne by the first
ladies of the place.
Sarah Eve, in her diary, writes in 1772, in a somewhat flippant manner:
“R. Rush, P. Dunn, K. Vaughan, and myself carried Mr. Ash’s child to
be buried; foolish custom for girls to prance it through the streets
without hats or bonnets!” At the funeral of Fanny Durdin in 1812, the
girl pall-bearers were dressed in white, and wore long white veils.
CHAPTER IX.
THEIR AMUSEMENTS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
Of amusements for women in the first century of colonial life, we can
almost say there were none. There was in New England no card-playing,
no theatre-going, no dancing. The solemn Thursday lecture was the
sole mid-week gathering. Occasionally there was the excitement of
Training Day. In the South the distances were too great from plantation
to plantation for frequent friendly meetings. As time went on,
coöperation in gathering and storing the various food-harvests afforded
opportunities for social intercourse. Apple-parings and corn-huskings
were autumnal delights, but when these were over, the chafing youth
found no recreations through the long, snowy months in country homes,
and but scant opportunity for amusement in town. No wonder that they
turned eagerly to the singing-school, and found in that innocent
gathering a safety-valve for the pent-up longing for diversion which
burned in young souls then as now. We can but wonder how, ere the
singing-school became a force, young New Englanders became acquainted
enough with each other to think of marriage; and we can almost regard
the establishment of the study of fugue and psalm singing as the
preservation of the commonwealth.
In Virginia the different elements of life developed characteristic
pastimes, and by the first quarter of the eighteenth century there were
opportunities of diversion offered for women.
We have preserved to us an exact account of the sports which were
enjoyed by both Virginian men and women. It may be found in the
_Virginia Gazette_ for October, 1737:--
We have advices from Hanover County that on St Andrews Day there are
to be Horse Races and several other Diversions for the entertainment
of the Gentlemen and Ladies, at the Old Field, near Captain John
Bickertons, in that County if permitted by the Hon Wm Byrd Esq
Proprietor of said land, the substance of which is as follows viz:
It is proposed that 20 Horses or Mares do run around a three mile
course for a prize of five pounds.
That a Hat of the value of 20s be cudgelled for, and that after the
first challenge made the Drums are to beat every Quarter of an hour
for three challenges round the Ring and none to play with their Left
hand.
That a violin be played for by 20 Fiddlers; no person to have the
liberty of playing unless he bring a fiddle with him. After the prize
is won they are all to play together and each a different tune, and to
be treated by the company.
That 12 Boys of 12 years of age do run 112 yards for a hat of the cost
of 12 shillings.
That a Flag be flying on said Day 30 feet high.
That a handsome entertainment be provided for the subscribers and
their wives; and such of them as are not so happy as to have wives may
treat any other lady.
That Drums Trumpets Hautboys &c be provided to play at said
entertainment.
That after Dinner the Royal Health His Honor the Governor’s &c are to
be drunk.
That a Quire of Ballads be sung for by a number of Songsters, all of
them to have liquor sufficient to clear their Wind Pipes.
That a pair of Silver Buckles be wrestled for by a number of brisk
young men.
That a pair of handsome Shoes be danced for.
That a pair of handsome Silk Stockings of one Pistole value be given
to the handsomest young country maid that appears in the field.
With many other whimsical and Comical Diversions too numerous to
mention.
And as this mirth is designed to be purely innocent and void of
offence, all persons resorting there are desired to behave themselves
with decency and sobriety; the subscribers being resolved to
discountenance all immorality with the utmost rigor.
There is a certain rough and noisy heartiness in this rollicking Racing
Day in old Virginia that speaks of boisterous cheer akin to the days of
“merrie England,” and which seems far from disagreeable when contrasted
with the dull yearly round of sober days in New England. Virginia and
Maryland men had many social clubs “to promote innocent mirth and
ingenious humour,” but of course within these clubs their consorts and
daughters were not guests. A ball or a country dance were the chief
amusements of Southern women, and very smart functions some of these
balls were, though they did begin in broad daylight.
An early account was given by a travelling Virginian, William Black, of
a Government Ball in the Council Room at Annapolis in 1744.
The Ladies of Note made a Splendant Appearance. In a Room Back from
where they Danc’d was Several Sorts of Wines, Punch and Sweetmeats.
In this Room those that was not engaged in any Dancing Match might
better employ themselves at Cards, Dice, Backgammon, or with a
cheerful Glass. The Ladies were so very agreeable and seem’d so intent
on Dancing that one might have Imagin’d they had some Design on the
Virginians, either Designing to make Tryal of their Strength and
Vigour, or to convince them of their Activity and Sprightliness. After
several smart engagements in which no advantage on either side was
Observable, with a mutual Consent about 1 of the Clock in the Morning
it was agreed to break up, every Gentleman waiting on his Partner home.
The method in which a ball was conducted somewhat more than a century
ago in Louisville was thus told by Maj. Samuel S. Forman, who visited
that town as a young man.
After the managers had organized the Company by drawing numbers
and appointing the opening with a Minuet, Uncle was called on
and introduc’d to a Lady for the opening scene. The Managers who
distributed the numbers called Gentⁿ No. 1, he takes his stand--Lady
No. 1, she rises from her seat, the Manager leads her to the floor
and introduces Gentⁿ No. 1, & so on till the floor is full. After all
the Company have been thus call’d out then the Gentⁿ are free to seek
his Partner but no monopoly. Lady at the head chooses the figure, but
it is considered out of order for one Lady to head a figure twice
unless all have been at the head. If there happen to be some ladies
to whom from mistake or otherwise have been passed the Managers duty
is to see to it. And another Custom was for a Gentⁿ to call on a Lady
& inform her of an intended ball & ask permission to see her to the
place & see her safe home again. If the Gentⁿ does not draw such Lady
for the first Contra Dance he generally engages her for the first
Volunteer. At the Refreshments the Gentⁿ will by instinct without
Chesterfieldian monition see that his betterhalf (for the time being)
has a _quantum sufficit_ and that without cramming his jaws full until
he has reconducted her to the ball-room, then he is at liberty to
absent himself for a while. There were two young gentlemen there from
New York who were much attached to each other. They promised to let
each other know when a ball was on foot. At one time one came to the
other and told him to prepare his pumps against such an evening. The
answer was--Pumps out of order, must decline. No Sir that will not do.
Then Sir you have been buying Several pair of handsome Mocassons for
New York Ladies. If you will lend me one pair & you will put on one
pair (it wont hurt them) I will go. Snaps his fingers--the very thing.
The next ball after this Moccasons became very fashionable. So many
fashions have their origins from Necessity.
A traveller named Bennet gives us an account of the amusements of
Boston women in the middle of the century, when dancing was slowly
becoming fashionable.
For their domestic amusements every afternoon after drinking tea, the
gentlemen and ladies walk the Mall, and from there adjourn to one
anothers house to spend the evening, those that are not disposed to
attend the evening lecture which they may do if they please six nights
in the seven the year round. What they call the Mall is a walk on a
fine green Common adjoining to the south east side of the town. The
Government being in the hands of dissenters they dont admit of plays
or music houses; but of late they have sent up an assembly to which
some of the ladies resort. But they are looked upon to be none of the
nicest, in regard to their reputation, and it is thought it will be
soon suppressed for it is much taken notice of and exploded by the
religious and sober part of the people. But notwithstanding plays and
such like diversions do not obtain here, they dont be dispirited or
moped for the want of them; for both the ladies and gentlemen dress
and appear as gay in common as courtiers in England on a coronation
or birthday. And the ladies visit here, drink tea, indulge in every
little piece of gentility to the height of the mode, and neglect the
affairs of the family with as good a grace as the finest ladies in
London.
The Marquis de Chastellux writes of the Philadelphia assembly in 1780:--
The assembly or subscription ball, of which I must give an account may
here be introduced. At Philadelphia, there are places appropriated for
the young people to dance in and where those whom that amusement does
not suit may play at different games of cards, but at Philadelphia
games of commerce are alone allowed. A manager or Master of Ceremonies
presides at the methodical amusements; he presents to the gentlemen
and lady dancers, billets folded up containing each a number; thus
fate decides the male or female partner for the whole evening. All
the dances are previously arranged and the dancers are called in
their turns. These dances, like the toasts we drink at table, have
some relation to politics; one is called The Successful Campaign,
another Bourgoynes Defeat, a third Clintons Retreat. The managers
are generally chosen from among the most distinguished officers of
the army. Colonel Mitchell, a little fat squat man, was formerly the
manager, but when I saw him he had descended from the magistracy and
danced like a common citizen. He is said to have exercised his office
with great severity, and it is told of him, that a young lady who was
figuring in a country dance, having forgot her turn through conversing
with a friend, he came up to her and called out aloud, “Give over,
Miss, take care what you are about. Do you think you come here for
your pleasure?”
The dance, _A Successful Campaign_, was the one selected by diplomatic
Miss Peggy Champlin to open the ball, when she danced in Newport with
General Washington, to the piping of De Rochambeau and his fellow
officers. This was “the figure” of _A Successful Campaign_. “Lead
down two couples on the outside and up the middle; second couple do
the same, turn contrary partners, cast off, right hand and left.” It
was simple, was it not--but I doubt not it was dignified and of sedate
importance when Washington footed it.
_Stony Point_ was another favorite of Revolutionary days--for did
not General Wayne successfully storm the place? This dance was more
difficult; the directions were somewhat bewildering. “First couple
three hands round with the second lady--allemand. Three hands round
with the second gentleman--allemand again. Lead down two couples, up
again, cast off one couple, hands round with the third, right and
left.” I scarcely know what the figure “allemand” was. The German
allemande was then an old style of waltz, slower than the modern waltz,
but I can scarcely think that Washington or any of those serious,
dignified officers waltzed, even to slow time.
Another obsolete term is “foot it.”
Come and foot it as you go
On the light fantastic toe,
seems to refer to some definite step in dancing. Sheridan in _The
Rivals_ thus uses the term in regard to dances:--
I’d foot it with e’er a captain in the county, but these outlandish
heathen allemandes and cotillions are quite beyond me.
But “footing it” and “outlandish heathen allemandes” are not so misty
as another term, “to haze.” In the _Innocent Maid_ they “hazed.” “First
three couples haze, then lead down the middle and back again, close
with the right hand and left.” In dancing the _Corsino_ they figured
thus: “Three couples foot it and change sides; foot it again and once
more change sides; three couples allemand, and the first fall in the
middle then right hand and left.”
Dancing-masters’ advertisements of those days often give us the list of
modish dances: “Allemandes Vally’s, De la Cours, Devonshire Minuets and
Jiggs.”
Burnaby in 1759 wrote of a special pleasure of the Quaker maids of
Philadelphia: of fishing-parties.
The women are exceedingly handsome and polite. They are naturally
sprightly and fond of pleasure and upon the whole are much more
agreeable and accomplished than the men. Since their intercourse with
the English officers they are greatly improved, and without flattery,
many of them would not make bad figures even in the first assemblies
in Europe. Their amusements are chiefly dancing in the winter, and
in the summer forming parties of pleasure upon the Schuilkill, and
in the country. There is a society of sixteen ladies and as many
gentlemen called The fishing company, who meet once a fortnight upon
the Schuilkill. They have a very pleasant room erected in a romantic
situation upon the banks of that river where they generally dine
and drink tea. There are several pretty walks about it, and some
wild and rugged rocks which together with the water and fine groves
that adorn the banks, form a most beautiful and picturesque scene.
There are boats and fishing tackle of all sorts, and the company
divert themselves with walking, fishing, going up the water, dancing,
singing, conversing, or just as they please. The ladies wear an
uniform and appear with great ease and advantage from the neatness
and simplicity of it. The first and most distinguished people of the
colony are of this society; and it is very advantageous to a stranger
to be introduced to it, as he hereby gets acquainted with the best and
most respectable company in Philadelphia. In the winter when there
is snow upon the ground it is usual to make what they call sleighing
parties.
He says of New York society:--
The women are handsome and agreeable though rather more reserved than
the Philadelphian ladies. Their amusements are much the same as in
Pensylvania; viz balls and sleighing expeditions in the winter, and
in the summer going in parties upon the water and fishing; or making
excursions into the country. There are several houses pleasantly
situated upon East River near New York where it is common to have
turtle feasts; these happen once or twice in a week. Thirty or
forty gentlemen and ladies meet and dine together, drink tea in the
afternoon, fish and amuse themselves till evening and then return home
in Italian chaises, a gentleman and lady in each chaise. In the way
there is a bridge, about three miles distant from New York which you
always pass over as you return, called the Kissing Bridge where it is
a part of the etiquette to salute the lady who has put herself under
your protection.
It is evident from these quotations and from the testimony of other
contemporary authors that one of the chief winter amusements
in New York and Philadelphia and neighboring towns was through
sleighing-parties. Madam Knights, of Boston, writing in 1704 of her
visit to New York, said:--
Their diversion in winter is riding sleighs about three or four miles
out of town where they have houses of entertainment at a place called
the Bowery, and some go to friends houses, who handsomely treat them.
Mr. Burroughs carried his spouse and daughter and myself out to one
Madam Dowes a gentlewoman that lived at a farmhouse who gave us a
handsome entertainment of five or six dishes and choice beer and
metheglin, etc, all which she said was the produce of her farm. I
believe we met fifty or sixty sleighs that day; they fly with great
swiftness and some are so furious that they will turn out of the path
for none except a loaded cart.
There were few sleighs at that date in Boston.
Sixty-four years later, in 1768, a young English officer, Alexander
Macraby, wrote thus to his brother of the pleasures of sleighing:--
You can never have had a party in a sleigh or sledge I had a very
clever one a few days ago. Seven sleighs with two ladies and two men
in each proceeded by fiddlers on horseback set out together upon a
snow of about a foot deep on the roads to a public house, a few miles
from town where we danced, sung, romped and eat and drank and kicked
away care from morning till night, and finished our frolic in two or
three side-boxes at the play. You can have no idea of the state of the
pulse seated with pretty women mid-deep in straw, your body armed with
furs and flannels, clear air, bright sunshine, spotless sky, horses
galloping, every feeling turned to joy and jollity.
That older members of society then, as now, did not find sleighing
parties altogether alluring, we learn from this sentence in a letter of
Hannah Thompson written to John Mifflin in 1786:--
This Slaying match Mr Houston of Houston St gave his Daughters, Dear
Papa, Dear Papa, do give us a slaying--he at last consented, told them
to get ready and dress themselves warm, which they accordingly did and
came running. We are ready papa. He ordered the Servants to have some
burnt wine against they came back. He desir’d them to step upstairs
with him before they went. As soon as they got in an Attick chamber,
he threw up all the windows and seated them in two old Arm Chairs and
began to whip and Chirrup with all the Spirit of a Slaying party. And
after he kept them long enough to be sufficiently cold he took them
down and call’d for the Mulled Wine and they were very glad to set
close to the Fire and leave Slaying for those who were too warm.
This I quote to execrate the memory of Mr. Houston and express my
sympathy for his daughters.
There were no entertainments more popular, from the middle of the past
century to the early years of this one, than “turtle frolics,” what
Burnaby called turtle-feasts. Every sea-captain who sailed to the West
Indies intended and was expected to bring home a turtle on the return
voyage; and if he were only to touch at the West Indies and thence pass
on to more distant shores, he still tried, if possible, to secure a
turtle and send it home by some returning vessel. In no seaport town
did the turtle frolic come to a higher state of perfection than in
Newport. Scores of turtles were borne to that welcoming shore. In 1752
George Bresett, a Newport gentleman, sailed to the West Indies, and
promptly did a neighborly and civic duty by sending home to his friend
Samuel Freebody, a gallant turtle and a generous keg of limes. Lime
juice was the fashionable and favorite “souring” of the day, to combine
with arrack and Barbadoes rum into a glorious punch. The turtle arrived
in prime condition, and Freebody handed the prize over to a slave-body
named Cuffy Cockroach. He was a Guinea Coast negro, of a race who were
(as I have noted before) the most intelligent of all the Africans
brought as slaves to these shores. Any negro who acquired a position
of dignity or trust or skill in this country, in colonial days, was
sure to be a Guinea-boy. Cuffy Cockroach followed the rule, by filling
a position of much dignity and trust and skill--as turtle-cook. He was
a slave of Jaheel Brenton, but he cooked turtle for the entire town.
The frolic was held at Fort George, on Goat Island, on December 23. The
guests, fifty ladies and gentlemen, sailed over in a sloop, and were
welcomed with hoisted flag and salute of cannon. The dinner was served
at two, tea at five, and then dancing begun. _Pea Straw_, _Faithful
Shepherd_, _Arcadian Nuptials_, were allemanded and footed, and the
keg of limes and its fellow-ingredients kept pace with the turtle. The
moon was at the full when the party landed at the Newport wharf at
eleven, but the frolic was not ended. For instead of the jolly crowd
separating, they went the rounds, leaving one member of the party at a
time at his own door, and then serenading him or her, till the whole
company had been honored in succession. When Sammy wrote to Mr. Bresett
he said:--
Upon the whole the entertainment had the preference over all turtle
frolics before it, and Mr George Bresetts health with “Honest
George” was freely drank in a cheerful glass by every person; and at
the request of the company I return you their compliments for the
foundation of so agreeable an entertainment.
We find even so staid and dignified a minister and legislator as
Manasseh Cutler writing thus in Providence in 1787:--
This morning I received a polite invitation from Govenor Bowen in the
name of a large company to join them in a Turtle Frolic about six
miles out of town. Mr Hitchcock and other clergymen of the town were
of the party but much against my inclination I was obliged to excuse
myself.
The traveller who drives through the by-roads of New England to-day is
almost ready to assert that there is no dwelling too poor or too lonely
to contain a piano, or at the very least a melodeon or parlor organ.
The sounds of Czerny’s exercises issue from every farmhouse. There may
be no new farm implements, no sewing-machine, but there will surely
be a piano. This love of music has ever existed on those rock-bound
shores, though in early days it found a stunted and sad expression in
hymn tunes only, and the performance of music could scarce be called a
colonial accomplishment. The first musical instruments were martial,
drums and fifes and hautboys. I have never seen, in any personal
inventory, the notice of a “gitterne” as in similar Virginian lists.
But in the early years of the eighteenth century a few spinets must
have been exported to Boston and Philadelphia, and perhaps to Virginia.
In 1712 an advertisement was placed in the _Boston News-Letter_ that
the Spinet would be taught, and on April 23, 1716, appeared in the same
paper:--
Note that any Persons may have all Instruments of Music mended or
Virginalls or Spinnets Strung & Tun’d, at a Reasonable Rate & likewise
may be taught to play on any of the Instruments above mentioned.
In August, 1740, a “Good Spinnet” was offered for sale, and soon after
a second-hand “Spinnet,” and in January, 1750, “Spinnet wire.”
On September 18, 1769, this notice appeared in the _Boston Gazette and
Country Journal_:--
It is with pleasure that we inform the Public that a few days since
was ship’d for Newport a very Curious Spinnet being the first ever
made in America, the performance of the ingenious Mr. John Harris of
Boston (son of the late Mr. Jos. Harris of London, Harpsichord and
Spinnet Maker deceased) and in every respect does honor to that Artist
who now carries on the Business at his house a few doors Northward of
Dr. Clarkes, North End of Boston.
This first American spinet is said to be still in existence in a
house in Newport on the corner of Thames and Gidley streets. It has
one set of jacks and strings. The hammers have crow-quills which
press on brass strings. It has ancient neighbors. In Bristol, R. I.,
is a triangular spinet four feet long, which is more than a century
older than the town which is now its home. It bears this maker’s
mark,--“Johann Hitchcock fecit London 1520.” If this date is correct,
it is the oldest spinet known, the one of Italian manufacture in the
British Museum being dated 1521.
At the rooms of the Essex Institute in Salem, Mass., is an old spinet
made by Dr. Samuel Blyth in that town. Henry M. Brooks, Esq., author
of _Olden Time Music_, has in his possession a bill for one of these
American spinets that shows that the price in 1786 was £18. In the
Memorial Hall at Deerfield, Mass., may be seen another dilapidated one,
made by Stephanus & Keene. This belonged once to Mrs. Sukey Barker, of
Hingham.
In the _Newport Mercury_ of May 17, 1773, is advertised, “To be sold
a Spinnet of a proper size for a little miss, and a most agreeable
tone--plays extremely easy on the keys. Inquire of the Printer.”
Advertisement of the sale of spinets and of instruction on the spinet
do not disappear from the newspapers in this country even after
formidable rivals and successors, the harpsichord and forte-piano, had
begun to be imported in comparatively large numbers.
The tone of a spinet has been characterized concisely by Holmes in his
poem, _The Opening of the Piano_,--the “spinet with its thin metallic
thrills.” I know of nothing more truly the “relic of things that have
passed away,” more completely the voice of the past, than the tinkling
thrill of a spinet. It is like seeing a ghost to touch the keys, and
bring forth once more that obsolete sound. There is no sound born in
the nineteenth century that at all resembles it. Like “loggerheads” in
the coals and “lug-poles” in the chimney, like church lotteries and
tithingmen, the spinet--even its very voice--is extinct.
Since in the _News-Letter_ first quoted in this chapter virginals are
named, I think the musical instrument of Queen Elizabeth must have been
tolerably familiar to Bostonians. Judge Sewall, who “had a passion for
music,” writes in 1690 of fetching his wife’s “virginalls.” I cannot
conceive what tunes Madam Sewall played on her virginals, no tawdry
ballads and roundelays, no minuets and corams; she may have known half
a dozen long-metre psalm tunes such as the Judge set for so many years
in meeting.
“Forte-pianers” were imported to America, as were other musical
instruments. It is said the first one brought to New England was in
1785 by John Brown for his daughter Sarah, afterwards Mrs. Herreshoff.
It is still possessed by Miss Herreshoff, of Bristol, R. I. The first
brought to “the Cape” was a Clementi of the date 1790, and found for
many years a home in Falmouth. It is in perfect preservation, a dainty
little inlaid box lying upon a slender low table, with tiny shelves
for the music books, and a tiny little painted rack to hold the music
sheets, and a pedal fit for the foot of a doll. It is now owned by
Miss Frances Morse, of Worcester, Mass. An old Broadwood piano, once
owned by the venerable Dr. Sweetser, may be seen at the rooms of the
Worcester Society of Antiquity; and still another, a Clementi, at the
Essex Institute in Salem.
By the beginning of this century piano-playing became a more common
accomplishment, especially in the large towns, though General Oliver
said that in 1810, among the six thousand families in Boston, there
were not fifty pianos. Rev. Manasseh Cutler writes in 1801, from
Washington, of a young friend:--
She has been educated at the best schools in Baltimore and Alexandria.
She does not converse much, but is very modest and agreeable. She
plays with great skill on the Forte Piano which she always accompanies
with the most delightful voice, and is frequently joined in the vocal
part by her mother. Mr. King has an excellent Forte-Piano which is
connected with an organ placed under it, which she plays and fills
with her feet, while her fingers are employed upon the Forte-Piano.
On Sunday evenings she constantly plays Psalm music. Miss Anna plays
Denmark remarkably well. But the most of the psalm tunes our gentlemen
prefer are the old ones such as Old Hundred, Canterbury, which
you would be delighted to hear on the Forte-Piano assisted by the
Organ. Miss Anna gave us some good music this evening, particularly
the Wayworn Traveller, Ma Chere Amie, The Tea, The Twins of Latma
(somewhat similar to Indian Chief) Eliza, Lucy or Selims Complaint.
These are among my favourites.
In February, 1800, Eliza Southgate Bowne wrote thus in Boston:--
In the morning I am going to look at some Instruments; however we got
one picked out that I imagine we shall take, 150 dollars, a charming
toned one and not made in this country.
In June she said enthusiastically of her “Instrument:”--
I am learning my 12th tune Oh Octavia, I almost worship my
Instrument,--it reciprocates my joys and sorrows, and is my bosom
companion. How I long to have you return! I have hardly attempted
to sing since you went away. I am sure I shall not dare to when you
return. I must enjoy my triumph while you are absent; my musical
talents will be dim when compared with the lustre of yours.
The most universal accomplishment of colonial women was the making
of samplers, if, indeed, anything could be termed an accomplishment
which was so rigidly and prosaically part of their education. I can
well imagine the disgrace it would have been to any little miss in
her teens a century ago not to be able to show a carefully designed
and wrought sampler. On these samplers were displayed the alphabet,
sometimes in various shaped letters--thus did she learn to mark neatly
her household linen; bands of conventional designs, of flowers, of
geometrical patterns--thus was she taught to embroider muslin caps
and kerchiefs; and there were gorgeous flowers and strange buildings,
and domestic scenes, and pastoral views, birds that perched as large
as cows, and roses that were larger than either; and last and best of
all (and often of much satisfaction to the genealogist), there was
her name and her age, and sometimes her place of birth, and withal a
pious verse as a motto for this housewifely shield. Of all the relics
of old-time life which have come to us, none are more interesting than
the samplers. Happily, many of them _have_ come to us; worked with
wiry enduring crewels and silk on strong linen canvas, they speak down
through the century of the little, useful, willing hands that worked
them; of the tidy sempstresses and housewives of those simple domestic
days. We know little of the daughters of the Pilgrims, but Lora
Standish has sent to us a prim little message of her piety, and a faded
testimony of her skill, that makes her seem dear to us:--
Lora Standish is My Name.
Lord Guide my heart that I may do thy Will
Also fill my hands with such convenient skill
As will conduce to Virtue void of Shame,
And I will give the Glory to Thy Name.
A more ambitious kind of needlework took the form of what were known as
mourning pieces. These were regarded with deepest affection, for were
they not a token of loving remembrance? They bore stiff presentments
of funeral urns, with drooping willows, or a monument with a bowed and
weeping figure. Often the names of dead members of the family were
worked upon the monument. A still more ambitious sampler bore a design
known as The Tree of Life. A stiffly branched tree was sparingly hung
with apples labelled with the names of the virtues of humanity, such
as Love, Honor, Truth, Modesty, Silence. A white-winged angel on one
side of this tree watered the roots with a very realistic watering-pot,
and was balanced with exactness, as were evenly adjusted all good
embroidery designs of that day, by an inky-black Satan who bore a
pitchfork of colossal proportions and a tail as long as a kite’s, and
so heavy that he could scarce have dragged it along the ground--much
less with it have flown.
For many years a favorite and much praised accomplishment was the
cutting of paper in ornamental designs. This art was ambitiously called
Papyrotamia, and it was of special usefulness in its application to
watch-papers, a favorite lover’s token of the day. The watch proper
at that time was separate and removable from its case, which was of
gold, silver, shagreen, or lacquer. Of course the watch did not fit
closely into the case, and watch-papers were placed within to serve
as a cushion to prevent jar and wear; sometimes the case would hold
several. Artistic and grotesque taste could be used in the manufacture
of these tokens of regard. I have seen them cut in various open-work
designs from gilt and silver paper, embroidered in hair, painted in
water colors. One I have has two turtle-doves billing over two hearts,
and surrounded by a tiny wreath; another, embroidered on net, has the
words “God is Love;” another has a moss rose and the words “Rejoice
and blossom as a rose.” Another bears a funeral urn, and is evidently
_in memoriam_. Still another, a heart and arrows, and the sentimental
legend “Kill me for I die of love.” Jefferson, writing as a young man,
bitterly deplores his inadvertent tearing of watch-papers which had
been cut for him by his beloved Belinda. Watch and watch-papers had
been accidentally soaked in water, and when he attempted to remove the
papers, he says, “My cursed fingers gave them such a rent as I fear I
shall never get over. I would have cried bitterly, but that I thought
it beneath the dignity of a man.” And he trusts the fair Becca will
give him another paper of her cutting, which, though but a plain round
one, he will esteem more than the nicest in the world cut by other
hands.
Nothing can be more pathetic than the thoughtful survey of the crude
and often cumbersome and ludicrous attempts at decorative art, through
which the stunted and cramped love of the beautiful found expression,
until our own day, in country homes. The dreary succession of
hair-work, feather-work, wax flowers, shell-work, the crystallization
with various domestic minerals and gums of dried leaves and grasses,
vied with yarn and worsted monstrosities, and bewildering patchwork.
Occasionally some bold feminine spirit, made inventive through artistic
longing, gave birth to a novel, though too often grotesque form of
decoration.
A most interesting symbol of exquisite neatness, unbounded patience,
and blind groping for artistic expression was Rhoda Baker’s
“Leather-Works.” Rhoda Baker lived in a small Rhode Island village,
which was dull at its birth and slow of growth and progress. She had a
nature so timid, so repelling, and so wholly introspective, that, after
nearly fifty years of shy and even unwilling “keeping company” with
a preaching elder of the time,--a saint, almost a mystic,--she died
without ever having given to the quaint, thin, pleasant-faced, awkward
man, one word of encouragement to his equally timid, his hinting and
halting love-making. During those patient years of warm hopes, but
most scanty fruition, he had built a house on an island which he owned
in Narragansett Bay, with a window where his beloved Rhoda could sit
sewing when she became his wife, and watch him happily rowing across
the Bay to her; but great lilac bushes grew up unchecked, and shaded
and finally hid the window at which Rhoda never sat to welcome her
husband-lover. After her death the Elder so grieved that he had naught
to remind him and speak to him of his beloved, that he boldly decided
to name his boat for her; but as he could not conscientiously say she
had ever encouraged him by word or look in his incipient love-making,
and he must be strictly honest and chivalrously respectful to her
memory, he painted upon the boat in black letters this truthful yet
dimly consoling legend, “Rhoda Wouldnt.” Poor Elder! Many a time had he
ventured a-courting, and slowly entering, after his unanswered assault
upon the door-knocker, had found the kitchen of this elusive Rhoda
vacant,--_but her rocking-chair was slowly rocking_,--so he sadly left
the deserted room, the unwelcoming house.
He sacrificed his life to his affection for his dead love. He had all
his days a fear, a premonition, that he should lose his life through
a horse, so he never rode or drove, but walked, rowed, or sailed, and
lived on an island to escape his dreaded doom. When Rhoda’s brother
died in a distant town, the Elder was bidden to the funeral, and he
honored his Rhoda’s memory by his attendance, and he had to ride there.
As he left the house of mourning, a fractious young colt ran away with
him, threw him out of the wagon, and broke his neck.
His sweetheart’s “Leather-Works” still exist, to keep fresh this New
England romance. I saw them last summer in the attic of the Town
Hall. Rhoda left them in her will to her church, and they are now the
property of the village church-guild. The guild is vigorous and young,
so can bear this ancient maiden’s bequest with cheerful carriage and
undaunted spirits. The leather-works are many and ponderous. One is a
vast trellis (which may have been originally two clothes-horses), hung
with elaborately twisted and tendrilled vines, bearing minutely veined
leaves and various counterfeit and imaginary fruits. The bunches of
grapes are made of home-cast leaden bullets, or round stones, covered
dexterously and with unparalleled neatness and imperceptible stitches
with pieces of old kid gloves or thin leather; and to each a common
dress-hook is attached. The stem of the bunch has corresponding eyes,
to each of which a grape is hung. By this ingenious means the bunches
of grapes could be neatly dusted each week, and kept in repair, as
well as easily shaped. On this trellis hung also Roses of Sharon, a
mystic flower which Rhoda’s sister Eunice invented, and which had a
deep spiritual signification, as well as extraordinary outline and
intricate composition. Every leaf, every grape, every monstrous fruit,
every flower of these Leather-Works, speaks of the æsthetic longing,
the vague mysticism, the stifled repression, of Rhoda Baker’s life;
and they speak equally of the Elder’s love. It was he who moulded the
bullets, and searched on the shore for carefully rounded stones; and
he who haunted the country saddlers and repair-shops for waste strips
of leather, which he often deposited in the silent kitchen by the
rocking-chair, sure of grateful though unspoken thanks. Many a pair
of his old boot-tops figures as glorious vine leaves; and he even
tanned and dressed skins to supply swiftly the artist’s materials when
genius burned. It was he who tenderly unhooked the grapes and pears,
the fruits of Eden and the Roses of Sharon, when the trellis was
transported to the Town Hall, and he reverently placed the trophies of
his true love’s skill and genius in place in their new home. I always
rather resent the fact that Rhoda did not bequeath the Leather-Works
to him, when I think of the vast and almost sacred pleasure he would
have had in them; as well as when I remember the share he had in the
preparations for their manufacture. And the Leather-Works speak still
another lesson, as do many of the household grotesqueries seen in New
England, a lesson of sympathy, almost of beauty, to those who “read
between the lines, the finer grace of unfulfilled designs.”
CHAPTER X.
DAUGHTERS OF LIBERTY.
We are constantly hearing the statement reiterated, that the Society
of the Daughters of the American Revolution was the first association
of women ever formed for patriotic purpose. This assertion shows a
lamentable ignorance of Revolutionary history; for a century and a
quarter ago, before the War of the Revolution, patriotic societies
of women were formed all over the country, and called Daughters of
Liberty. Our modern bands should be distinguished by being called the
first patriotic-hereditary societies of women.
As we approach Revolutionary days, it is evident that the women of all
the colonies were as deeply stirred as were the men at the constant
injustice and growing tyranny of the British government, and they
were not slow in openly averring their abhorrence and revolt against
this injustice. Their individual action consisted in the wearing
only of garments of homespun manufacture; their concerted exertions
in gathering in patriotic bands to spin, and the signing of compacts
to drink no more of the taxed tea, that significant emblem of British
injustice and American revolt.
The earliest definite notice of any gathering of Daughters of Liberty
was in Providence in 1766, when seventeen young ladies met at the
house of Deacon Ephraim Bowen and spun all day long for the public
benefit, and assumed the name Daughters of Liberty. The next meeting
the little band had so increased in numbers that it had to meet in
the Court House. At about the same time another band of daughters
gathered at Newport, and an old list of the members has been preserved.
It comprised all the beautiful and brilliant young girls for which
Newport was at that time so celebrated. As one result of this
patriotic interest, the President and the first graduating class of
Brown University, then called Rhode Island College, were clothed, at
Commencement in 1769, in fabrics of American homespun manufacture. The
senior class of the previous year at Harvard had been similarly dressed.
These little bands of patriotic women gathered far and wide throughout
New England. At one meeting seventy linen wheels were employed. In
Newbury, Beverly, Rowley, Ipswich, spinning matches were held. Let me
show how the day was spent. I quote from the _Boston News-Letter_:--
Rowley. A number of thirty-three respectable ladies of the town met
at sunrise [this was in July] with their wheels to spend the day at
the house of the Rev’d Jedidiah Jewell in the laudable design of a
spinning match. At an hour before sunset, the ladies then appearing
neatly dressed, principally in homespun, a polite and generous repast
of American production was set for their entertainment, after which
being present many spectators of both sexes, Mr. Jewell delivered a
profitable discourse from Romans xii. 2: Not slothful in business,
fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.
You will never find matters of church and patriotism very far apart in
New England; so I learn that when they met in Ipswich the Daughters
of Liberty were also entertained with a sermon. The Newbury patriots
drank Liberty Tea, and listened to a sermon on the text Proverbs xxxi.
19. Another text used at one of these gatherings was from Exodus xxxv.
25: “And all the women that were wise-hearted did spin with their
hands.”
The women of Virginia were early in the patriotic impulses, yet few
proofs of their action or determination remain. In a Northern paper,
the _Boston Evening Post_ of January 31, 1770, we read this Toast to
the Southerners:--
NEW TOASTS.
The patriotic ladies of Virginia, who have nobly distinguished
themselves by appearing in the Manufactures of America, and may those
of the Massachusetts be laudably ambitious of not being outdone by
Virginians.
The wise and virtuous part of the Fair Sex in Boston and other Towns,
who being at length sensible that by the consumption of Teas they are
supporting the Commissioners & other Tools of Power, have voluntarily
agreed not to give or receive any further Entertainments of that Kind,
until those Creatures, together with the Boston Standing Army, are
removed, and the Revenue Acts repealed.
May the disgrace which a late venal & corrupt Assembly has brought
upon a Sister Colony, be wiped away by a Dissolution.
This is pretty plain language, but it could not be strange to the
public ear, for ere this Boston women had been appealed to in the press
upon this same subject.
In the _Massachusetts Gazette_, as early as November 9, 1767, these
lines show the indignant and revolutionary spirit of the time:
Young ladies in town and those that live round
Let a friend at this season advise you.
Since money’s so scarce and times growing worse,
Strange things may soon hap and surprise you.
First then throw aside your high top knots of pride
Wear none but your own country linen.
Of economy boast. Let your pride be the most
To show cloaths of your own make and spinning.
What if homespun they say is not quite so gay
As brocades, yet be not in a passion,
For when once it is known this is much wore in town,
One and all will cry out ’Tis the fashion.
And as one and all agree that you’ll not married be
To such as will wear London factory
But at first sight refuse, till e’en such you do choose
As encourage our own manufactory.
Soon these frequent appeals, and the influence of the public and
earnest revolt of the Sons of Liberty, resulted in a public compact of
Boston women. It is thus recorded in the Boston press:--
The _Boston Evening Post_:--
Monday, February 12, 1770.
The following agreement has lately been come into by upwards of 300
Mistresses of Families in this Town; in which Number the Ladies of the
highest rank and Influence, that could be waited upon in so short a
Time, are included.
BOSTON, January 31, 1770.
At a time when our invaluable Rights and Privileges are attacked in
an unconstitutional and most alarming Manner, and as we find we are
reproached for not being so ready as could be desired, to lend our
Assistance, we think it our Duty perfectly to concur with the true
Friends of Liberty in all Measures they have taken to save this abused
Country from Ruin and Slavery. And particularly, we join with the very
respectable Body of Merchants and other Inhabitants of this Town, who
met in Faneuil Hall the 23d of this Instant, in their Resolutions,
totally to abstain from the Use of Tea; And as the greatest Part of
the Revenue arising by Virtue of the late Acts, is produced from the
Duty paid upon Tea, which Revenue is wholly expended to support the
American Board of Commissioners; We, the Subscribers, do strictly
engage, that we will totally abstain from the Use of that Article,
(Sickness excepted) not only in our respective Families, but that we
will absolutely refuse it, if it should be offered to us upon any
Occasion whatsoever. This Agreement we cheerfully come into, as we
believe the very distressed Situation of our Country requires it, and
we do hereby oblige ourselves religiously to observe it, till the late
Revenue Acts are repealed.
_Massachusetts Gazette_, and the _Boston Weekly News-Letter_:--
February 15, 1770.
We hear that a large Number of the Mistresses of Families, some
of whom are Ladies of the highest Rank, in this Town, have signed
an Agreement against drinking Tea (Bohea it is supposed, tho’ not
specified); they engage not only to abstain from it in their Families
(Sickness excepted) but will absolutely refuse it, if it should be
offered to them upon any Occasion; This Agreement to be religiously
observed till the Revenue Acts are repealed.
It was natural that, in that hotbed of rebellion, young girls should
not be behind their brothers, fathers, and their mothers in open avowal
of their revolt. Soon the young ladies published this declaration:--
We, the daughters of those patriots who have and do now appear for the
public interest, and in that principally regard their posterity--as
such, do with pleasure engage with them in denying ourselves the
drinking of foreign tea in hopes to frustrate a plan which tends to
deprive the whole community of all that is valuable as life.
One dame thus declared her principles and motives in blank verse:--
Farewell the teaboard with its gaudy equipage
Of cups and saucers, creambucket, sugar tongs,
The pretty tea-chest, also lately stored
With Hyson, Congo and best double-fine.
Full many a joyous moment have I sat by ye
Hearing the girls tattle, the old maids talk scandal,
And the spruce coxcomb laugh at--maybe--nothing.
Though now detestable
Because I am taught (and I believe it true)
Its use will fasten slavish chains upon my country
To reign triumphant in America.
When little Anna Green Winslow bought a hat in February, 1771, she
bought one of “white holland with the feathers sewed on in a most
curious manner, white and unsulleyed as the falling snow. As I am
as we say a daughter of Liberty I chuse to wear as much of our own
manufactory as posible.”
Mercy Warren wrote to John Winthrop, in fine satire upon this
determination of American women to give up all imports from Great
Britain except the necessaries of life, a list of the articles a woman
would deem it imperative to retain:--
An inventory clear
Of all she needs Lamira offers here.
Nor does she fear a rigid Catos frown
When she lays by the rich embroidered gown
And modestly compounds for just enough--
Perhaps some dozen of more slighty stuff.
With lawns and lutestrings, blond and mecklin laces,
Fringes and jewels, fans and tweezer cases,
Gay cloaks and hats of every shape and size,
Scrafs, cardinals and ribbons of all dyes.
With ruffles stamped, and aprons of tambour,
Tippets and handkerchiefs at least three score;
With finest muslins that far India boasts,
And the choice herbage from Chinesan coast.
(But while the fragrant hyson leaf regales
Who’ll wear the home-spun produce of the vales?
For if ’twould save the nation from the curse
Of standing troops--or name a plague still worse,
Few can this choice delicious draught give up,
Though all Medea’s poison fill the cup.)
Add feathers, furs, rich satins and ducapes
And head dresses in pyramidal shapes,
Sideboards of plate and porcelain profuse,
With fifty dittos that the ladies use.
So weak Lamira and her wants are few,
Who can refuse, they’re but the sex’s due.
In youth indeed an antiquated page
Taught us the threatening of a Hebrew page
Gainst wimples, mantles, curls and crisping pins,
But rank not these among our modern sins,
For when our manners are well understood
What in the scale is stomacher or hood?
Tis true we love the courtly mien and air
The pride of dress and all the debonair,
Yet Clara quits the more dressed negligé
And substitutes the careless polanê
Until some fair one from Britannia’s court
Some jaunty dress or newer taste import,
This sweet temptation could not be withstood,
Though for her purchase paid her father’s blood.
After the war had really begun, Mrs. John Adams, writing July 31, 1777,
tells of an astonishing action of Boston women, plainly the result of
all these revolutionary tea-notions:--
There is a great scarcity of sugar and coffee, articles which the
female part of the State is very loath to give up, especially whilst
they consider the scarcity occasioned by the merchants having secreted
a large quantity. There had been much rout and noise in the town for
several weeks. Some stores had been opened by a number of people, and
the coffee and sugar carried into the market and dealt out by pounds.
It was rumored that an eminent stingy wealthy merchant (who is a
bachelor) had a hogshead of coffee in his store which he refused to
sell the committee under six shillings per pound. A number of females,
some say a hundred, some say more, assembled with a cart and trunks,
marched down to the warehouse and demanded the keys which he refused
to deliver. Upon which one of them seized him by his neck and tossed
him into the cart. Upon his finding no quarter, he delivered the keys
when they tipped up the cart and discharged him; then opened the
warehouse, hoisted out the coffee themselves, put into the trunks, and
drove off. It was reported that he had personal chastisements among
them, but this I believe was not true. A large concourse of men stood
amazed, silent spectators of the whole transaction.
I suppose these Boston dames thought they might have coffee since they
could not have tea; and, indeed, the relative use of these two articles
in America was much changed by the Revolution. To this day much more
coffee is drunk in America, proportionately, than in England. We are
not a tea-drinking nation.
I don’t know that there were Daughters of Liberty in Philadelphia, but
Philadelphia women were just as patriotic as those of other towns. One
wrote to a British officer as follows:--
I have retrenched every superfluous expense in my table and family.
Tea I have not drunk since last Christmas, nor have I bought a cap or
gown since your defeat at Lexington. I have learned to knit and am
now making stockings of wool for my servants. In this way do I now
throw in my mite for public good. I know this, that as free I can die
but once, but as a slave I shall not be worthy of life. I have the
pleasure to assure you that these are the sentiments of my sister
Americans.
The women of the South were fired with patriotism; in Mecklenburgh and
Rowan counties, North Carolina, Daughters of Liberty found another
method of spurring patriotism. Young ladies of the most respectable
families banded together, and pledged themselves not to receive
addresses from any recreant suitors who had not obeyed the country’s
call for military service.
There was an historic tea-party also in that town of so much importance
in those days--Edenton, N. C. On October 25, 1774, fifty-one spirited
dames assembled at the residence of Mrs. Elizabeth King, and passed
resolutions commending the action of the Provincial Congress, and
declared also that they would not conform to “that Pernicious Custom of
Drinking Tea or that the aforesaid Ladys would not promote ye wear of
any manufacture from England,” until the tax was repealed.
The notice of the association is contained in the American Archives,
and runs thus:--
Association Signed by Ladies of Edenton, North Carolina, Oct. 25,
1774. As we cannot be indifferent on any occasion that appears
to affect the peace and happiness of our country, and as it has
been thought necessary for the publick good to enter into several
particular resolves, by meeting of Members of Deputies from the
whole Province, it is a duty that we owe not only to our near and
dear relations and connections, but to ourselves who are essentially
interested in their welfare, to do everything as far as lies in
our power to testify our sincere adherence to the same, and we do
therefore accordingly subscribe this paper as a witness of our fixed
intentions and solemn determination to do so. Signed by fifty one
ladies.
It is a good example of the strange notions which some historians
have of the slight value of circumstantial evidence in history,
that the names of these fifty-one ladies have not been preserved. A
few, however, are known. The president was Mrs. Penelope Barker, who
was thrice a widow, of husbands Hodgson, Crumm, and Barker. She was
high-spirited, and from her varied matrimonial experiences knew that it
was needless to be afraid of any man; so when British soldiers invaded
her stables to seize her carriage horses, she snatched the sword of one
of her husbands from the wall, with a single blow severed the reins
in the British officer’s hands, and drove her horses back into the
stables, and kept them too.
The fame of this Southern tea-party reached England, for Arthur Iredell
wrote (with the usual masculine jocularity upon feminine enterprises)
thus, on January 31, 1775, from London to his patriot brother, James
Iredell:--
I see by the newspapers the Edenton ladies have signalized themselves
by their protest against tea-drinking. The name of Johnston I see
among others; are any of my sister’s relations patriotic heroines? Is
there a female Congress at Edenton too? I hope not, for we Englishmen
are afraid of the male Congress, but if the ladies who have ever,
since the Amazonian era, been esteemed the most formidable enemies,
if they, I say, should attack us, the most fatal consequence is to
be dreaded. So dextrous in the handling of a dart, each wound they
give is mortal; whilst we, so unhappily formed by Nature, the more we
strive to conquer them the more are conquered! The Edenton ladies,
conscious I suppose of this superiority on their side, by former
experience, are willing, I imagine, to crush us into atoms by their
omnipotency; the only security on our side to prevent the impending
ruin that I can perceive is the probability that there are few places
in America which possess so much female artillery as in Edenton.
Another indication of the fame of the Edenton tea-party is adduced by
Dr. Richard Dillard in his interesting magazine paper thereon. It was
rendered more public by a caricature, printed in London, a mezzotint,
entitled “A Society of Patriotic Ladies at Edenton in North Carolina.”
One lady with a gavel is evidently a man in woman’s clothing, and is
probably intended for the hated Lord North; other figures are pouring
the tea out of caddies, others are writing. This caricature may have
been brought forth in derision of an interesting tea-party picture
which still exists, and is in North Carolina, after some strange
vicissitudes in a foreign land. It is painted on glass, and the various
figures are doubtless portraits of the Edenton ladies.
It is difficult to-day to be wholly sensible of all that these Liberty
Bands meant to the women of the day. There were not, at that time,
the associations of women for concerted charitable and philanthropic
work which are so universal now. There were few established and
organized assemblies of women for church work (there had been some
praying-meetings in Whitefield’s day), and the very thought of a
woman’s society for any other than religious purposes must have been
in itself revolutionary. And we scarcely appreciate all it meant for
them to abandon the use of tea; for tea-drinking in that day meant far
more to women than it does now. Substitutes for the taxed and abandoned
exotic herb were eagerly sought and speedily offered. Liberty Tea,
Labrador Tea, and Yeopon were the most universally accepted, though
seventeen different herbs and beans were named by one author; and
patriotic prophecies were made that their use would wholly outlive that
of the Oriental drink, even could the latter be freely obtained. A
century has proved the value of these prophecies.
Liberty Tea was the most popular of these Revolutionary substitutes.
It sold for sixpence a pound. It was made from the four-leaved
loose-strife, a common-growing herb. It was pulled up whole like flax,
its stalks were stripped of the leaves and then boiled. The leaves were
put in a kettle with the liquor from the stalks and again boiled. Then
the leaves were dried in an oven. Sage and rib-wort, strawberry leaves
and currant leaves, made a shift to serve as tea. Hyperion or Labrador
Tea, much vaunted, was only raspberry leaves, but was not such a wholly
odious beverage. It was loudly praised in the patriotic public press:--
The use of Hyperion or Labrador tea is every day coming into vogue
among people of all ranks. The virtues of the plant or shrub from
which this delicate Tea is gathered were first discovered by the
Aborigines, and from them the Canadians learned them. Before the
cession of Canada to Great Britain we knew little or nothing of
this most excellent herb, but since we have been taught to find it
growing all over hill and dale between the Lat. 40 and 60. It is
found all over New England in great plenty and that of best quality,
particularly on the banks of the Penobscot, Kennebec, Nichewannock and
Merrimac.
CHAPTER XI.
A REVOLUTIONARY HOUSEWIFE.
We do not need to make a composite picture of the housewife of
Revolutionary days, for a very distinct account has been preserved of
one in the quaint pages of the _Remembrancer_ or diary of Christopher
Marshall, a well-to-do Quaker of Philadelphia, who was one of the
Committee of Observation of that city during the Revolutionary War.
After many entries through the year 1778, which incidentally show the
many cares of his faithful wife, and her fulfilment of these cares, the
fortunate husband thus bursts forth in her praise:--
As I have in this memorandum taken scarcely any notice of my wife’s
employments, it might appear as if her engagements were very trifling;
the which is not the case but the reverse. And to do her justice
which her services deserved, by entering them minutely, would take
up most of my time, for this genuine reason, how that from early
in the morning till late at night she is constantly employed in the
affairs of the family, which for four months has been very large; for
besides the addition to our family in the house, it is a constant
resort of comers and goers which seldom go away with dry lips and
hungry bellies. This calls for her constant attendance, not only to
provide, but also to attend at getting prepared in the kitchen, baking
our bread and pies, meat &c. and also the table. Her cleanliness
about the house, her attendance in the orchard, cutting and drying
apples of which several bushels have been procured; add to which her
making of cider without tools, for the constant drink of the family,
her seeing all our washing done, and her fine clothes and my shirts,
the which are all smoothed by her; add to this, her making of twenty
large cheeses, and that from one cow, and daily using with milk and
cream, besides her sewing, knitting &c. Thus she looketh well to the
ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness; yea she
also stretcheth out her hand, and she reacheth forth her hand to her
needy friends and neighbors. I think she has not been above four times
since her residence here to visit her neighbors; nor through mercy has
she been sick for any time, but has at all times been ready in any
affliction to me or my family as a faithful nurse and attendant both
day and night.
Such laudatory references to the goodwife as these abound through the
_Remembrancer_.
My tender wife keeps busily engaged and looks upon every Philadelphian
who comes to us as a person suffering in a righteous cause; and
entitled to partake of her hospitality which she administers with her
labor and attendance with great freedom and alacrity....
My dear wife meets little respite all the day, the proverb being
verified, that Woman’s Work is never done.
I owe my health to the vigilance, industry and care of my wife who
really has been and is a blessing unto me. For the constant assiduity
and press of her daily and painful labor in the kitchen, the Great
Lord of the Household will reward her in due time.
It seems that so generous and noble a woman should have had a reward
in this world, as well as the next, for, besides her kitchen duties,
she was a “nonsuch gardner, working bravely in her garden,” and a first
class butter-maker, who constantly supplied her poor neighbors with
milk, and yet always had cream to spare for her dairy.
Far be it from me to cast even the slightest reflection, to express
the vaguest doubt, as to the industry, energy, and application of so
pious, so estimable an old gentleman as Mr. Marshall, but he was,
as he says, “easily tired”--“the little I do tires and fatigues
me”--“the grasshopper seems a burden.” So, even to our prosaic and
somewhat emancipated nineteenth century notions as to women’s rights
and their assumption of men’s duties, it does appear that so patient,
industrious, and overworked a consort might have been spared some of
the burdensome duties which devolved upon her, and which are popularly
supposed not to belong to the distaff side of the house. An elderly
milk-man might have occasionally milked the cow for that elderly weary
milkmaid. And it does seem just a little strange that a hearty old
fellow, who could eat gammons and drink punch at every occasion of
sober enjoyment and innocent revelry to which he was invited, should
let his aged spouse rise at daybreak and go to the wharves to buy loads
of wood from the bargemen; and also complacently record that the horse
would have died had not the ever-energetic wife gone out and by dint
of hard work and good management succeeded in buying in the barren city
a load of hay for provender. However, he never fails to do her justice
in commendatory words in the pages of his _Remembrancer_, thus proving
himself more thoughtful than that Yankee husband who said to a neighbor
that his wife was such a good worker and a good cook, and so pleasant
and kept everything so neat and nice around the house, that sometimes
it seemed as if he couldn’t help telling her so.
One of the important housewifely cares of Philadelphia women was their
marketing, and Madam Marshall was faithful in this duty also. We find
her attending market as early as four o’clock upon a winter’s morning.
In 1690, there were two market days weekly in Philadelphia, and nearly
all the early writers note the attendance thereat of the ladies
residing in the town. In 1744, these markets were held on Tuesday and
Friday. William Black, a travelling Virginian, wrote that year with
admiration of this custom:--
I got to the market by 7, and had no small Satisfaction in seeing the
pretty Creatures, the Young Ladies, traversing the place from Stall
to Stall where they could make the best Market, some with their maid
behind them with a Basket to carry home the Purchase, others that
were design’d to buy but trifles, as a little fresh Butter, a Dish of
Green Peas or the like, had Good Nature & Humility enough to be their
own Porters. I have so much regard for the fair Sex that I imagin’d
like the Woman of the Holy Writ some charm in touching even the Hem of
their Garments. After I made my Market, which was one pennyworth of
Whey and a Nosegay, I disengag’d myself.
It would appear also that a simple and appropriate garment was donned
for this homely occupation. We find Sarah Eve and others writing of
wearing a “market cloke.”
It is with a keen thrill of sympathy that we read of all the torment
that Mistress Marshall, that household saint, had to endure in the
domestic service rendered to her--or perhaps I should say through the
lack of service in her home. A special thorn in the flesh was one Poll,
a bound girl. On September 13, 1775, Mr. Marshall wrote:--
After my wife came from market (she went past 5) she ordered her girl
Poll to carry the basket with some necessaries to the place, as
she was coming after her, they intending to iron the clothes. Poll
accordingly went, set down the basket, came back, went and dressed
herself all clean, short calico gown, and said she was going to
school; but presently after the negro woman Dinah came to look for
her, her mistress having mistrusted she had a mind to play truant.
This was about nine, but madam took her walk, but where--she is not
come back to tell.
Sept. 16. I arose before six as I was much concern’d to see my wife so
afflicted as before on the bad conduct of her girl Poll who is not yet
returned, but is skulking and running about town. This I understand
was the practice of her mother who for many years before her death was
a constant plague to my wife, and who left her this girl as a legacy,
and who by report as well as by own knowledge, for almost three years
has always been so down to this time. About eight, word was brought
that Poll was just taken by Sister Lynn near the market, and brought
to their house. A messenger was immediately dispatched for her, as
she could not be found before, though a number of times they had been
hunting her.
As the years went on, Poll kept taking what he called “cruises,”
“driving strokes of impudence,” visiting friends, strolling around the
streets, faring up and down the country, and he patiently writes:--
This night our girl was brought home. I suppose she was hunted out, as
it is called, and found by Ruth on the Passyunk Road. Her mistress was
delighted upon her return, but I know of nobody else in house or out.
I have nothing to say in the affair, as I know of nothing that would
distress my wife so much as for me to refuse or forbid her being taken
into the house.
(A short time after) I arose by four as my wife had been up sometime
at work cleaning house, and as she could not rest on account of Polls
not being yet return’d. The girls frolics always afflict her mistress,
so that to me its plain if she does not mend, or her mistress grieve
less for her, that it will shorten Mrs Marshalls days considerably;
besides our house wears quite a different face when Miss Poll is in it
(although all the good she does is not worth half the salt she eats.)
As her presence gives pleasure to her mistress, this gives joy to all
the house, so that in fact she is the cause of peace or uneasiness in
the home.
It is with a feeling of malicious satisfaction that we read at last of
the jaded, harassed, and conscientious wife going away for a visit,
and know that the man of the house will have to encounter and adjust
domestic problems as best he may. No sooner had the mistress gone than
Poll promptly departed also on a vacation. As scores of times before,
Mr. Marshall searched for her, and retrieved her (when she was ready to
come), and she behaved exceeding well for a day, only, when rested, to
again make a flitting. He writes on the 23d:--
I roused Charles up at daylight. Found Miss Poll in the straw house.
She came into the kitchen and talked away that she could not go out
at night but she must be locked out. If that’s the case she told them
she would pack up her clothes and go quite away; that she would not
be so served as her Mistress did not hinder her staying out when she
pleased, and the kitchen door to be opened for her when she came home
and knocked. The negro woman told me as well as she could what she
said. I then went and picked up her clothes that I could find. I asked
her how she could behave so to me when I had conducted myself so easy
towards her even so as to suffer her to sit at table and eat with me.
This had no effect upon her. She rather inclined to think that she
had not offended and had done nothing but what her mistress indulged
her in. I told her before Betty that it was not worth my while to
lick her though she really deserved it for her present impudence; but
to remember I had taken all her clothes I could find except what she
had on, which I intended to keep; that if she went away Charles with
the horse should follow her and bring her back and that I would send
a bellman around the borough of Lancaster to cry her as a runaway
servant, wicked girl, with a reward for apprehending her.
The fatuous simplicity of Quaker Marshall’s reproofs, the futility of
his threats, the absurd failure of his masculine methods, received
immediate illustration--as might be expected, by Miss Poll promptly
running away that very night. Again he writes:--
Charles arose near daybreak and I soon after, in order to try to find
my nightly and daily plague, as she took a walk again last night.
Charles found her. We turned her upstairs to refresh herself with
sleep....
(Two days later) After breakfast let our Poll downstairs where she has
been kept since her last frolic. Fastened her up again at night. I
think my old enemy Satan is much concerned in the conduct and behavior
of that unfortunate girl. He knows her actions give me much anxiety
and indeed at times raise my anger so I have said what should have
been avoided, but I hope for the future to be more upon my guard and
thus frustrate him in his attempts.
With what joy did the masculine housekeeper and steward greet the
return of his capable wife, and resign his position as turnkey! Poll,
upon liberation from restraint, flew swiftly away like any other bird
from its cage.
Notwithstanding such heavy weather overhead and exceeding dirty under
foot our Poll after breakfast went to see the soldiers that came
as prisoners belonging to Burgoynes army. Our trull returned this
morning. Her mistress gave her a good sound whipping. This latter was
a variety.
And so the unequal fight went on; Poll calmly breaking down a
portion of the fence that she might decamp more promptly, and return
unheralded. She does not seem to have been vicious, but simply
triumphantly lawless and fond of gadding. I cannot always blame her.
I am sure I should have wanted to go to see the soldier-prisoners of
Burgoyne’s army brought into town. The last glimpse of her we have is
with “her head dressed in tiptop fashion,” rolling off in a coach to
Yorktown with Sam Morris’s son, and not even saying good-by to her
vanquished master.
Mr. Marshall was not the only Philadelphian to be thus afflicted; we
find one of his neighbors, Jacob Hiltzheimer, dealing a more summary
way with a refractory maid-servant. Shortly after noting in the pages
of his diary that “our maid Rosina was impertinent to her mistress,”
we find this good citizen taking the saucy young redemptioner before
the squire, who summarily ordered her to the workhouse. After remaining
a month in that confinement, Rosina boldly answered no, when asked if
she would go back to her master and behave as she ought, and she was
promptly remanded. But she soon repented, and was released. Her master
paid for her board and lodging while under detention, and quickly sold
her for £20 for her remaining term of service.
With the flight of the Marshalls’ sorry Poll, the sorrows and
trials of this good Quaker household with regard to what Raleigh
calls “domesticals” were not at an end. As the “creatures” and the
orchard and garden needed such constant attention, a man-servant was
engaged--one Antony--a character worthy of Shakespeare’s comedies. Soon
we find the master writing:--
I arose past seven and had our gentleman to call down stairs. I spoke
to him about his not serving the cows. He at once began about his way
being all right, &c. I set about serving our family and let him, as in
common, do as he pleases. I think I have hired a plague to my spirit.
Yet he is still the same Antony--he says--complaisant, careful,
cheerful, industrious.
Then Antony grew noisy and talkative, so abusive at last that he had to
be put out in the yard, where he railed and talked till midnight, to
the annoyance of the neighbors and the mortification of his mistress;
for he protested incessantly and noisily that all he wished was to
leave in peace and quiet, which he was not permitted to do. Then,
and repeatedly, his master told him to leave, but the servant had
no other home, and might starve in the war-desolated town; so after
half-promises he was allowed by these tender folk to stay on. Soon he
had another “tantrum,” and the astounded Quaker writes:--
He rages terribly uttering the most out of the way wicked expressions
yet not down-right swearing. Mamma says it is cursing in the Popish
way....
What this Popish swearing could have been arouses my curiosity; I
suspect it was a kind of “dog-latin.” Antony constantly indulged in it,
to the horror and sorrow of the pious Marshalls. And the amusing, the
fairly comic side of all this is that Antony was a preacher, a prophet
in the land, and constantly held forth in meeting to sinners around
him. We read of him:--
Antony went to Quakers meeting today where he preached; although he
was requested to desist, so that by consent they broke up the meeting
sooner than they would have done....
Mamma went to meeting where Antony spoke and was forbid. He appeared
to be most consummately bold and ignorant in his speaking there. And
about the house I am obliged in a stern manner at times to order him
not to say one word more....
This afternoon Antony preached at the English Presbyterian meeting. It
is said that the hearers laughed at him but he was highly pleased with
himself.
Antony preached at meeting. I kept engaged helping to cook the pot
against master came home. He comes and goes as he pleases.
I don’t know when to pity poor Dame Marshall the most, with Antony
railing in the yard and disturbing the peace of the neighbors; or
Antony cursing in a Popish manner through the house; or Antony shamming
sick and moaning by the fireside; or Antony violently preaching when
she had gone to the quiet Quaker meeting for an hour of peace and rest.
This “runnagate rascal” was as elusive, as tricky, as malicious as a
gnome; whenever he was reproved, he always contrived to invent a new
method of annoyance in revenge. When chidden for not feeding the horse,
he at once stripped the leaves off the growing cabbages, cut off the
carrot heads, and pulled up the potatoes, and pretended and protested
he did it all solely to benefit them, and thus do good to his master.
When asked to milk the cow, he promptly left the Marshall domicile for
a whole day.
Sent Antony in the orchard to watch the boys. As I was doubtful
sometime whether if any came for apples Antony would prevent, I took
a walk to the back fence, made a noise by pounding as if I would
break the fence, with other noise. This convinced me Antony sat in
his chair. He took no notice till my wife and old Rachel came to him,
roused him, and scolded him for his neglect. His answer was that he
thought it his duty to be still and not disturb them, as by so doing
he should have peace in heaven and a blessing would ever attend him.
This was certainly the most sanctimonious excuse for laziness that
was ever invented; and on the following day Antony supplemented his
tergiversation by giving away all Mr. Marshall’s ripe apples through
the fence to passers-by--neighbors, boys, soldiers, and prisoners.
There may have been method in this orchard madness, for Antony loathed
apple-pie, a frequent comestible in the Marshall domicile, and often
refused to drink cider, and grumbling made toast-tea instead. In a
triumph of euphuistic indignation, Mr. Marshall thus records the
dietetic vagaries of the “most lazy impertinent talking lying fellow
any family was ever troubled with:”
When we have no fresh broth he wants some; when we have it he cant sup
it. When we have lean of bacon he wants the fat; when the fat he cant
eat it without spreading salt over it as without it its too heavy for
his stomach. If new milk he cant eat it till its sour, it curdles on
his stomach; when sour or bonnyclabber it gives him the stomach-ache.
Give him tea he doesn’t like such slop, its not fit for working men;
if he hasn’t it when he asks for it he’s not well used. Give him apple
pie above once for some days, its not suitable for him it makes him
sick. If the negro woman makes his bed, she dont make it right; if she
dont make it she’s a lazy black jade, &c.
In revenge upon the negro woman Dinah for not making his bed to suit
his notion, he pretended to have had a dream about her, which he
interpreted to such telling effect that she thought Satan was on his
swift way to secure her, and fled the house in superstitious fright,
in petticoat and shift, and was captured three miles out of town. On
her return, Antony outdid himself with “all the vile ribaldry, papist
swearing, incoherent scurrilous language, that imperious pride, vanity,
and folly could invent or express”--and then went off to meeting to
preach and pray. Well might the Quaker say with Juvenal, “The tongue
is the worst part of a bad servant.” At last, exasperated beyond
measure, his patient master vowed, “Antony, I will give thee a good
whipping,” and he could do it, for he had “pacified himself with sundry
stripes of the cowskin” on Dinah, the negro, when she, in emulation of
Antony, was impertinent to her mistress.
The threat of a whipping brought on Antony a “fit of stillness” which
descended like a blessing on the exhausted house. But “the devil is
sooner raised than laid;” anon Antony was in his old lunes again, and
the peace was broken by a fresh outburst of laziness, indifference, and
abuse, in which we must leave this afflicted household, for at that
date the _Remembrancer_ abruptly closes.
The only truly good service rendered to those much tried souls was by
a negro woman, Dinah, who, too good for this earth, died; and in her
death involved them in fresh trouble, for in that war-swept town they
could scarce procure her burial.
CHAPTER XII.
FIRESIDE INDUSTRIES.
Around the great glowing fireplace in an old New England kitchen
centred the homeliness and picturesqueness of an old-time home. The
walls and floor were bare; the furniture was often meagre, plain, and
comfortless; the windows were small and ill-fitting; the whole house
was draughty and cold; but in the kitchen glowed a beneficent heart
that spread warmth and cheer and welcome, and beauty also when
the old rude-furnished room
Burst flower-like into rosy bloom.
The settlers builded great chimneys with ample open hearths, and to
those hearths the vast forests supplied plentiful fuel; but as the
forests disappeared in the vicinity of the towns, the fireplaces also
shrank in size, so that in Franklin’s day he could write of the big
chimneys as “the fireplaces of our fathers;” and his inventions for
economizing fuel had begun to be regarded as necessities.
The kitchen was the housewife’s domain, the chimney-seat her throne;
but the furniture of that throne and the sceptre were far different
from the kitchen furnishings of to-day.
We often see fireplaces with hanging cranes in pictures illustrating
earliest colonial times, but the crane was unknown in those days. When
the seventeenth-century chimney was built, ledges were left on either
side, and on them rested the ends of a long heavy pole of green wood,
called a lug-pole or back bar. The derivation of the word lug-pole is
often given as meaning from lug to lug, as the chimney-side was often
called the lug. Whittier wrote:--
And for him who sat by the chimney lug.
Others give it from the old English word _lug_, to carry; for it was
indeed the carrying-pole. It was placed high up in the yawning chimney,
with the thought and intent of its being out of reach of the devouring
flames, and from it hung a motley collection of hooks of various
lengths and weights, sometimes with long rods, sometimes with chains,
and rejoicing in various names. Pot-hooks, pot-hangers, pot-hangles,
pot-claws, pot-cleps, were one and the same; so also were trammels and
crooks. Gib and gibcroke were other titles. Hake was of course the old
English for hook:--
On went the boilers till the hake
Had much ado to bear ’em.
A twi-crook was a double hook.
Other terms were gallow-balke, for the lug-pole, and gallow-crookes for
pot-hooks. These were Yorkshire words, used alike in that county by
common folk and gentry. They appear in the inventory of the goods of
Sir Timothy Hutton, and in the farming-book of Henry Best, both dating
to the time of settlement of New England. A recon was another Yorkshire
name for a chain with pot-hooks. They were heard but rarely in New
England.
The “eetch-hooke” named by Thomas Angell, of Providence, in 1694, with
his “tramils and pot hookes” is an unknown and undescribable form of
trammel to me, possibly an H-hook.
By these vari-named hooks were suspended at various heights over the
flames pots, kettles, and other bailed cooking utensils.
The lug-pole, though made of green wood, often became brittle or
charred through too long and careless use over the hot fire, and was
left in the chimney till it broke under its weighty burden of food and
metal. And as within the chimney corner was a favorite seat for both
old and young of the household, not only were precious cooking utensils
endangered and food lost, but human life as well, as told in Judge
Sewall’s diary, and in other diaries and letters of the times. So, when
the iron crane was hung in the fireplace, it not only added grace and
convenience to the family hearth, but safety as well. On it still were
hung the pot-hooks and trammels, but with shortened arms or hangers.
The mantel was sometimes called by the old English name, clavy or
clavel-piece. In one of John Wynter’s letters, written in 1634, he
describes his new home in Maine:
The chimney is large, with an oven in each end of him: he is so large
that we can place our Cyttle within the Clavell-piece. We can brew
and bake and boyl our Cyttle all at once in him.
The change in methods of cooking is plainly evinced in many of our
common kitchen utensils. In olden times the pots and kettles always
stood on legs, and all skillets and frying-pans and saucepans stood
on slender legs, that, if desired, they might be placed with their
contents over small beds of coals raked to one side of the hearth. A
further convenience to assist this standing over coals was a little
trivet, a tripod or three-footed stand, usually but a simple skeleton
frame on which the skillet could be placed. In the corner of a
fireplace would be seen trivets with legs of various lengths, through
which the desired amount of heat could be obtained. We read in Eden’s
_First Books on America_:--
He shulde fynde in one place a fryingpan, in another chauldron, here a
tryvet, there a spytte, and these in kynde in every pore mans house:--
Of somewhat later date was the toast rack, also standing on its little
spindling legs.
No better list can be given of the kitchen utensils of earliest
colonial days in America than those found in the inventories of the
estates of the dead immigrants. These inventories are, in some cases,
still preserved in the Colonial Court Records. We find that Madam
Olmstead, of Hartford, Conn., had, in 1640, in her kitchen:--
2 Brasse Skillets 1 Ladle 1 candlestick
one mortar all of brasse 1 brasse pott 5.
7 Small peuter dishes 1 peuter bason 6
porringers 2 peuter candlesticks 1
frudishe 2 little sasers 1 smale plate. 1. 10.
7 biger peuter dishes 1 salt 2 peuter
cupps 1 peuter dram 1 peuter bottel
1 Warmeing pan 13 peuter spoons 2. 12.
1 Stupan 3 bowles & a tunnel 7 dishes
10 spoones one Wooddin cupp 1
Wooddin platter with three old latten
panns Two dozen and a halfe trenchers
two wyer candlesticks 11.
2 Jacks 2 Bottels 2 drinking hornes 1
little pott 10.
2 beare hogsheads 2 beare barrels 2
powdering tubs 4 brueing vessels 1
cowle 2 firkins 2.
This was certainly a very good outfit. The utensils for the manufacture
and storage of beer did not probably stand in the kitchen, but in
the lean-to or brew-house. A “cowl” was a large tub with ears; in it
liquids could be carried by two persons, who bore the ends of a pole
thrust through the ears or handles. Often with the cowl was specified
a pail with iron bail. William Harris, of Pawtuxet, R. I., had, in
1681, “two Payles and one jron Bayle” worth three shillings. This
naming of the pail-bail marked the change in the form of pail handles;
originally, pails were carried by sticks thrust through ears on either
side of the vessel.
The jacks were waxed leather jugs or drinking horns, much used in
English alehouses in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, whose use
gave rise to the singular notion of the French that Englishmen drank
their ale out of their boots. Governor Winthrop had jacks and leather
bottles; but both names disappear from inventories by the year 1700, in
New England.
These leather bottles were in universal use in England “among shepherds
and harvest-people in the countrey.” They were also called bombards.
Their praises were sung in a very spirited ballad, of which I give a
few lines:--
I wish in heaven his soul may dwell
Who first found out the leather bottell.
A leather bottell we know is good
Far better than glasses or cases of wood,
For when a mans at work in a field
Your glasses and pots no comfort will yield,
But a good leather bottell standing by
Will raise his spirits whenever he’s dry.
* * * * *
And when the bottell at last grows old,
And will good liquor no longer hold,
Out of the side you may make a clout
To mend your shoes when they’re worn out,
Or take and hang it up on a pin
’Twill serve to put hinges and odd things in.
Latten-ware was a kind of brass. It may be noted that no tin appears on
this list, nor in many of the inventories of these early Connecticut
colonists. Thomas Hooker had several “tynnen covers.”
Brass utensils were far from cheap. Handsome brass mortars were
expensive. Brass kettles were worth three pounds apiece. No wonder
the Indians wished their brass kettles buried with them as their
most precious possessions. The brass utensils of William Whiting, of
Hartford, in 1649, were worth twenty pounds; Thomas Hooker’s, about
fifteen pounds. Among other utensils named in the inventories of some
neighbors of Mr. Hooker were an “iron to make Wafer cakes,” “dyitt
vessels,” “shredin knife,” “flesh fork.” Robert Day had a “brass
chaffin dish, 3s, lether bottle 2s, brass posnet 4s, brass pott 6s,
brass kettle 2. 10s.” A chafing-dish in olden times was an open box of
wire into which coals were thrust.
Dame Huit, of Windsor, Conn., had these articles, among others:--
1 Cullender 2 Pudding pans. In kitchen
in brasse & Iron potts, ladles, skimmers,
dripping pans, posnets, and
other pans 6. 10s.
A pair Andirons 2 Brandii 2 Pair Crooks
3 pair of tonges and Iron Spitts pot-hangers 1.
1 Fornace 2.
Tubbs pales churnes butter barrels &
other woodin implements 2.
The “two Brandii” were brand-irons or brond-yrons, a kind of trivet
or support to set on the andirons. Sometimes they held brands or logs
in place, or upon them dishes could be placed. Toasting-irons and
broiling-irons are named. “Scieufes,” or sieves, were worth a shilling
apiece.
Eleazer Lusher, of Dedham, Mass., in 1672, owned cob-irons, trammels,
firepans, gridirons, toasting-fork, salt pan, brand pan, mortar,
pestle, box iron heaters, kettles, skillets, spits, frying-pan, ladles,
skimmers, chafing-dishes, pots, pot-hooks, and creepers.
The name creeper brings to our consideration one of the homeliest
charms of the fireplace--the andirons. Creepers were the lower and
smaller andirons placed between the great firedogs. The word is also
applied to a low cooking spider, which could be pushed in among the
embers. Cob-irons were the simplest form of andirons, and usually were
used merely to support the spit; sometimes they had hooks to hold a
dripping-pan under the spit. Sometimes a fireplace showed three pairs
of andirons, on which logs could be laid at various heights. Sometimes
a single pair of andirons had three sets of hooks or branches for the
same purpose. They were made of iron, copper, steel, or brass, often
cast in a handsome design. The andirons played an important part in the
construction and preservation of a fire.
And the construction of one of these great fires was no light or
careless matter. Whittier, in his _Snow-Bound_, thus tells of the
making of the fire in his home:--
We piled with care our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,--
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then hovering near
We watched the first red blaze appear.
Often the great backlog had to be rolled in with handspikes, sometimes
drawn in by a chain and yoke of oxen. The making of the fire and
its preservation from day to day were of equal importance. The
covering of the brands at night was one of the domestic duties, whose
non-fulfillment in those matchless days often rendered necessary a
journey with fire shovel to the house of the nearest neighbor to obtain
glowing coals to start again the kitchen fire.
A domestic luxury seen in well-to-do homes was a tin kitchen, a
box-like arrangement open on one side, which was set next the blaze.
It stood on four legs. In it bread was baked or _roasted_. Through the
kitchen passed a spit, which could be turned by an external handle; on
it meat was spitted to be roasted.
The brick oven was not used so frequently, usually but once a week.
This was a permanent furnishing. When the great chimney was built, a
solid heap of stones was placed for its foundation, and a vast and
massive structure was reared upon it. On one side of the kitchen
fireplace, but really a part of the chimney whole, was an oven which
opened at one side into the chimney, and below an ash pit with swinging
iron doors with a damper. To heat this oven a great fire of dry wood
was kindled within it, and kept burning fiercely for some hours. Then
the coal and ashes were removed, the chimney draught and damper were
closed, and the food to be cooked was placed in the heated oven. Great
pans of brown bread, pots of pork and beans, an Indian pudding, a dozen
pies, all went into the fiery furnace together.
On Thanksgiving week the great oven was heated night and morning
for several days. To place edibles at the rear of the glowing oven,
it is plain some kind of a shovel must be used; and an abnormally
long-handled one was universally found by the oven-side. It was called
a slice or peel, or fire-peel or bread-peel. Such an emblem was it of
domestic utility and unity that a peel and a strong pair of tongs were
a universal and luck-bearing gift to a bride. A good iron peel and
tongs cost about a dollar and a half. The name occurs constantly in old
wills among kitchen properties. We read of “the oven, the mawkin, the
bavin, the peel.” Sometimes, when the oven was heated, the peel was
besprinkled with meal, and great heaps of rye and Indian dough were
placed thereon, and by a dextrous and indescribable twist thrown upon
cabbage leaves on the oven-bottom, and thus baked in a haycock shape.
“Shepherd Tom” Hazard, in his inimitable _Jonny Cake Papers_, thus
speaks of the old-time methods of baking:--
Rhineinjun bread, vulgarly called nowadays rye and Indian bread, in
the olden time was always made of one quart of unbolted Rhode Island
rye meal to two quarts of the coarser grained parts of Ambrosia
(Narragansett corn meal) well kneaded and made into large round loaves
of the size of a half-peck measure. There are two ways of baking
it. One way was to fill two large iron basins with the kneaded dough
and, late in the evening, when the logs were well burned down, to
clear a place in the middle of the fire and place the two basins of
bread, one on top of the other, so as to inclose their contents and
press them into one loaf. The whole was then carefully covered with
hot ashes, with coals on top, and left until morning. Another way
was to place a number of loaves in iron basins in a long-heated and
well-tempered brick oven--stone would not answer as the heat is too
brittle--into which a cup of water was also placed to make the crust
soft. The difference between brown bread baked in this way, with its
thick, soft, sweet crust, from that baked in the oven of an iron stove
I leave to abler pens than mine to portray.
In friendly chimney corners there stood a jovial companion of the peel
and tongs, the flip iron, or loggerhead, or flip-dog, or hottle. Lowell
wrote:--
Where dozed a fire of beechen logs that bred
Strange fancies in its embers golden-red,
And nursed the loggerhead, whose hissing dip,
Timed by nice instinct, creamed the bowl of flip.
Flip was a drink of vast popularity, and I believe of potent benefit
in those days when fierce winters and cold houses made hot drinks more
necessary to the preservation of health than nowadays. I have drunk
flip, but, like many a much-vaunted luxury of the olden time, I prefer
to read of it. It is indescribably burnt and bitter in flavor.
It may be noted in nearly all old inventories that a warming-pan is
a part of the kitchen furnishing. Wood wrote in 1634 of exportation
to the New England colony, “Warming pannes & stewing pannes are of
necessary use and very good traffick there.” One was invoiced in 1642
at 3_s._ 6_d._, another in 1654 at 5_s._ A warming-pan was a shallow
pan of metal, usually brass or iron, about a foot in diameter and
three or four inches deep, with a pierced brass or copper cover. It
was fitted with a long wooden handle. When used, it was filled with
coals, and when thoroughly heated, was thrust between the icy sheets
of the bed, and moved up and down to give warmth to every corner. Its
fireside neighbor was the footstove, a box of perforated metal in a
wooden frame, within which hot coals could be placed to warm the feet
of the goodwife during a long winter’s drive, or to render endurable
the arctic atmosphere of the unheated churches. Often a lantern of
pierced metal hung near the warming-pan. The old-time lanterns, still
occasionally found in New England kitchens or barns, form a most
interesting study for the antiquary, and a much neglected fad for the
collector. I have one of Elizabethan shape, to which, when I found it,
fragments of thin sheets of horn still clung--the remains of the horn
slides which originally were enclosed in the metal frame.
High up on the heavy beam over the fireplace stood usually a
candlestick, an old lamp, perhaps a sausage stuffer, or a spice-mill,
or a candle mold, a couple of wooden noggins, sometimes a pipe-tongs.
By the side of the fireplace hung the soot-blackened, smoke-dried
almanac, and near it often hung a betty-lamp, whose ill-smelling flame
could supply for conning the pages a closer though scarce brighter
light than the flickering hearth flame.
By the hearth, sometimes in the chimney corner, stood the high-backed
settle, a sheltered seat, while the family dye-pot often was used by
the children as a chimney bench.
Many household utensils once in common use in New England are now
nearly obsolete. In many cases the old-time names are disused and
forgotten, while the object itself may still be found with some modern
appellation. In reading old wills, inventories, and enrollments, and
the advertisements in old newspapers, I have made many notes of these
old names, and have sometimes succeeded, though with difficulty, in
identifying the utensils thus designated. Of course the different
English shire dialects supply a variety of local names. In some cases
good old English words have been retained in constant use in New
England, while wholly archaic in the fatherland.
In every thrifty New England home there stood a tub containing a pickle
for salting meat. It was called a powdering-tub, or powdering-trough.
This use of the word “powder” for salt dates even before Shakespeare’s
day.
Grains is an obsolete word for tines or prongs. Winthrop wrote in 1643
that a snake crawled in the Assembly room, and a parson “held it with
his foot and staff with a small pair of grains and killed it.”
Spenser used the word “flasket” thus: “In which to gather flowers to
fill their flasket.” It was a basket, or hamper, made of woven wicker.
John Hull, writing in 1675, asks that “Wikker Flasketts” be brought to
him on the _Sea Flower_.
A skeel was a small, shallow wooden tub, principally used for holding
milk to stand for cream. It sometimes had one handle. The word is
now used in Yorkshire. Akin to it is the word keeler, a small wooden
tub, which is still constantly heard in New England, especially in
application to a tub in which dishes are washed. Originally, cedar
keelers were made to hold milk, and a losset was also a large flat
wooden dish used for the same purpose. A skippet was a vessel much
like a dipper, small and round, with long handle, and used for ladling
liquids.
A quarn was a hand-mill for grinding meal, and sometimes it stood in
a room by itself. It was a step in domestic progress beyond pounding
grain with a pestle in a mortar, and was of earlier date than the
windmill or water-mill. In Wiclif’s translation we read in Matthew
xxiv: “Two wymmen schalen be gryndynge in quern,” etc. This word is
also used by Shakespeare in _Midsummer Night’s Dream_. In early New
England wills the word is found, as in one of 1671: “1 paire Quarnes
and Lumber in the quarne house, 10s.” It was sometimes spelled “cairn,”
as in a Windham will, and also “quern” and “quirn.”
Sometimes a most puzzling term will be found in one of these old
inventories, one which appears absolutely incomprehensible. Here is
one which seems like a riddle of which the answer is irrevocably
lost: “One Billy bassha Pan.” It is found in the kitchen list of the
rich possessions of Madam De Peyster, in 1774, which inventory is
preserved in the family archives at the Van Cortlandt Manor House, at
Croton-on-Hudson. You can give any answer you please to the riddle; but
my answer is this, in slightly altered verse. I think that Madam De
Peyster’s cook used that dish to serve:--
A sort of soup or broth or stew
Or hotchpot of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo,
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach and dace;
All these were cooked in the Manor kitchen,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
The early settlers were largely indebted to various forest trees for
cheap, available, and utilizable material for the manufacture of both
kitchen utensils and tableware. Wood-turning was for many years a
recognized trade; dish-turner a business title. We find Lion Gardiner
writing to John Winthrop, Jr., in 1652, “My wyfe desireth Mistress
Lake to get her a dozen of trays for shee hearith that there is a good
tray-maker with you.”
Governor Bradford found the Indians using wooden bowls, trays, and
dishes, and the “Indian bowls,” made from the knots of maple-trees,
were much sought after by housekeepers till this century. A fine
specimen of these bowls is now in the Massachusetts Historical Society.
It was originally taken from the wigwam of King Philip. Wooden noggins
(low bowls with handles) are constantly named in early inventories,
and Mary Ring, of Plymouth, thought, in 1633, that a “wodden cupp” was
valuable enough to leave by will as a token of friendship. Wooden
trenchers, also made by hand, were used on the table for more than a
century, and were universally bequeathed by will, as by that of Miles
Standish. White poplar wood made specially handsome dishes. Wooden pans
were made in which to set milk. Wooden bread troughs were used in every
home. These were oblong, trencher-shaped bowls, about a foot and a half
in length, hollowed and shaped by hand from a log of wood. Across the
trough ran lengthwise a stick or rod, on which the flour was sifted in
a temse, or searce, or sieve. The saying, “set the Thames on fire,” is
said to have been originally “set the temse on fire,” meaning that hard
labor would, by the friction of constant turning, set the wooden temse,
or sieve, on fire.
It was not necessary to apply to the wood-turner to manufacture these
simply shaped dishes. Every winter the men and boys of the household
manufactured every kind of domestic utensils and portions of farm
implements that could be whittled or made from wood with simple tools.
By the cheerful kitchen fireside much of this work was done. Indeed,
the winter picture of the fireside should always show the figure of a
whittling boy. They made butter paddles of red cherry, salt mortars,
pig troughs, pokes, sled neaps, ax helves, which were sawn, whittled,
and carefully scraped with glass; box traps and “figure 4” traps,
noggins, keelers, rundlets, flails, cheese-hoops, cheese-ladders,
stanchions, handles for all kinds of farm implements, and niddy-noddys.
Strange to say, the latter word is not found in any of our
dictionaries, though the word is as well known in country vernacular as
the article itself--a hand-reel--or as the old riddle:--
Niddy-noddy,
Two heads and one body.
There were still other wooden vessels. In his _Philocothonista, or The
Drunkard Opened, Dissected and Anatomized_ (1635), Thomas Heywood,
gives for “carouseing-bowles of wood” these names: “mazers, noggins,
whiskins, piggins, cruizes, wassel-bowles, ale-bowles, court-dishes,
tankards, kannes.”
There were many ways of usefully employing the winter evening hours.
Some thrifty folk a hundred years ago occupied spare time in sticking
card-teeth in wool-cards. The strips of pierced leather and the
wire teeth bent in proper shape were supplied to them by the card
manufacturer. The long leather strips and boxes filled with the bent
wire teeth might be seen standing in many a country home, and many an
evening by the light of the blazing fire,--for the work required little
eyesight or dexterity,--sat the children on dye-pot, crickets, and logs
of wood, earning a scant sum to add to their “broom-money.”
By the side of the chimney, in New England country houses, always
hung a broom or besom of peeled birch. These birch brooms were
a characteristic New England production. To make one a straight
birch-tree from three to four inches in diameter was chosen, and
about five feet of the trunk was cut off. Ten inches from the larger
end a notch was cut around the stick, and the bark peeled off from
thence to the end. Then with a sharp knife the bared end was carefully
split up to the notch in slender slivers, which were held back by the
broom-maker’s left hand until they became too many and too bulky to
restrain, when they were tied back with a string. As the tendency of
the slivers or splints was to grow slightly thinner toward the notch,
there was left in the heart of the growing broom a short core, which
had to be whittled off. When this was done the splints were all turned
back to their first and natural position, a second notch was cut an
inch above the first one, leaving a strip of bark an inch in diameter;
the bark was peeled off from what was destined to be the broom handle,
and a series of splints was shaved down toward the second notch. Enough
of the stick was left to form the handle; this was carefully whittled
until an inch or so in diameter, was smoothed, and furnished with a
hole in the end in which to place a string or a strip of leather for
suspension. The second series of splints from the handle end was firmly
turned down and tied with hempen twine over the wholly splintered end,
and all the splints cut off the same length. The inch of bark which
remained of the original tree helped to hold the broom-splints firmly
in place.
When these brooms were partly worn, the restraining string could be
removed, and the flaring splints formed an ideal oven-besom, spreading
and cleaning the ashes from every corner and crevice. Corn brooms were
unknown in these country neighborhoods until about the middle of the
present century.
A century, and even as late as half a century ago, many a farmer’s
son (and daughter too) throughout New England earned his or her first
spending-money by making birch brooms for the country stores, from
whence they were sent to the large cities, especially Boston, where
there was a constant demand for them. In Northampton, about 1790, one
shopkeeper kept as many as seven or eight hundred of these brooms on
hand at one time.
The boys and girls did not grow rich very fast at broom-making.
Throughout Vermont, fifty years ago, the uniform price paid to the
maker for these brooms was but six cents apiece, and as he had to work
at least three evenings to make one broom,--to say nothing of the
time spent in selecting and cutting the birch-tree,--it was not so
profitable an industry as gathering beech-nuts at a dollar a bushel.
Major Robert Randolph told in fashionable London circles, that about
the year 1750, he carried many a load of these birch brooms on his
back ten miles to Concord, that he might thus earn a few shillings.
Such brooms were known by different names in different localities:
birch brooms, splinter brooms, and Indian brooms. The Indians were
very proficient in making them, and it is said invented them. This can
readily be believed, for like birch-bark canoes and snowshoes, they
are examples of perfection in utility and in the employment of native
materials. Squaws wandered over certain portions of the country bearing
brooms on their backs, peddling them from house to house for ninepence
apiece and a drink of cider. In 1806, one minister of Haverhill, New
Hampshire, had two of these brooms given to him as a marriage fee. When
a Hadley man planted broom corn in 1797, and made corn brooms to sell,
he was scornfully met with the remark that broom-making was work for
Indians and boys. It was long ere his industry crowded out the sturdy
birch brooms.
There were many domestic duties which did not waft sweet “odors of
Araby;” the annual spring manufacture of soft soap for home consumption
was one of them, and also one of the most important and most trying
of all the household industries. The refuse grease from the family
cooking was stowed away in tubs and barrels through the cool winter
months in unsavory masses, and the wood-ashes from the great fireplaces
were also thriftily stored until the carefully chosen time arrived. The
day was selected with much deliberation, after close consultation with
that family counselor, the almanac, for the moon must be in the right
quarter, and the tide at the flood, if the soap were to “come right.”
Then the leach was set outside the kitchen door. Some families owned
a strongly made leach-tub, some used a barrel, others cut a section
from a great birch-tree, and removed the bark to form a tub, which
was placed loosely in a circular groove in a base made of wood or,
preferably, of stone. This was not set horizontally, but was slightly
inclined. The tub was filled with ashes, and water was scantily poured
in until the lye trickled or leached out of an outlet cut in the groove
at the base. The “first run” of lye was not strong enough to be of use,
and was poured again upon the ashes. The wasted ashes were replenished
again and again, and water poured in small quantities on them, and
the lye accumulated in a receptacle placed for it. It was a universal
test that when the lye was strong enough to hold up an egg, it was also
strong enough to use for the soap boiling. In the largest iron pot the
grease and lye were boiled together, often over a great fire built
in the open air. The leached ashes were not deemed refuse and waste;
they were used by the farmer as a fertilizer. Soap made in this way,
while rank and strong, is so pure and clean that it seems almost like a
jelly, and shows no trace of the vile grease that helped to form it.
The dancing firelight shone out on no busier scene than on the grand
candle-dipping. It had taken weeks to prepare for this domestic
industry, which was the great household event of the late autumn, as
soap-making was of the spring. Tallow had been carefully saved from the
domestic animals killed on the farm, the honeyed store of the patient
bee had been robbed of wax to furnish materials, and there was still
another source of supply.
The summer air of the coast of New England still is sweet with one
of the freshest, purest plant-perfumes in the world--the scent of
bayberry. These dense woody shrubs bear profusely a tiny, spicy,
wax-coated berry; and the earliest colonists quickly learned that from
this plentiful berry could be obtained an inflammable wax, which would
replace and supplement any lack of tallow. The name so universally
applied to the plant--candleberry--commemorates its employment for this
purpose. I never pass the clumps of bayberry bushes in the early autumn
without eagerly picking and crushing the perfumed leaves and berries;
and the clean, fresh scent seems to awaken a dim recollection,--a
hereditary memory,--and I see, as in a vision, the sober little
children of the Puritans standing in the clear glowing sunlight, and
faithfully stripping from the gnarled bushes the waxy candleberries;
not only affording through this occupation material assistance to
the household supplies, but finding therein health, and I am sure
happiness, if they loved the bayberries as I, their descendant, do.
The method of preparing this wax was simple; it still exists in a few
Plymouth County households. The berries are simply boiled with hot
water in a kettle, and the resolved wax skimmed off the top, refined,
and permitted to harden into cakes or candles. The references in
old-time records to this bayberry wax are too numerous to be recounted.
A Virginian governor, Robert Beverley (for the bayberry and its wax
was known also in the South as myrtleberry wax), gave, perhaps, the
clearest description of it:--
A pale green brittle wax of a curious green color, which by refining
becomes almost transparent. Of this they made candles which are never
greasy to the touch nor melt with lying in the hottest weather;
neither does the snuff of these ever offend the smell, like that of a
tallow candle; but instead of being disagreeable, if an accident puts
a candle out, it yields a pleasant fragrancy to all that are in the
room; insomuch that nice people often put them out on purpose to have
the incense of the expiring snuff.
It is true that the balmy breath of the bayberry is exhaled even on its
funeral pyre. A bayberry candle burns like incense; and I always think
of its perfume as truly the incense to the household hearth-gods of an
old New England home.
Bayberry wax was a standard farm-product, a staple article of traffic,
till this century, and it was constantly advertised in the newspapers.
As early as 1712, Thomas Lechmere wrote to John Winthrop, Jr.:--
I am now to beg one favour of you, that you secure for me all the
bayberry wax you can possibly lay yor hands on. What charge you shall
be at securing it shall be thankfully paid you. You must take a care
that they do not putt too much tallow among it, being a custome and
cheate they have gott.
When the candle-dipping began, a fierce fire was built in the
fireplace, and over it was hung the largest house kettle, half filled
with water and melted tallow, or wax. Candle-rods were brought down
from the attic, or pulled out from under the edge of beams, and placed
about a foot and a half apart, reaching from chair to chair.
Boards were placed underneath to save the spotless floor from greasy
drippings. Across these rods were laid, like the rounds of a ladder,
shorter sticks or reeds to which the wicks were attached at intervals
of a few inches. The wicks of loosely spun cotton or tow were dipped
time and time again into the melted tallow, and left to harden between
each dipping. Of course, if the end of the kitchen (where stood the
rods and hung the wicks) were very cold, the candles grew quickly,
since they hardened quickly; but they were then more apt to crack.
When they were of proper size, they were cut off, spread in a sunny
place in the garret to bleach, and finally stored away in candle-boxes.
Sometimes the tallow was poured into molds; when, of course,
comparatively few candles could be made in a day. In some communities
itinerant candle-makers carried molds from house to house, and assisted
in the candle manufacture.
These candles were placed in candlesticks, or in large rooms were
set in rude chandeliers of strips of metal with sockets, called
candle-beams. Handsome rooms had sconces, and the kitchen often had
a sliding stand by which the candle could be adjusted at a desired
height. Snuffers were as indispensable as candlesticks, and were
sometimes called snuffing-iron, or snit--a word not in the _Century
Dictionary_--from the old English verb, “snyten,” to blow out. The
snuffers lay in a little tray called a snuffer-tray, snuffer-dish,
snuffer-boat, snuffer-slice, or snuffer-pan. Save-alls, a little
wire frame to hold up the last burning end of candle, were another
contrivance of our frugal ancestors.
In no way was a thrifty housewife better known than through her
abundant stock of symmetrical candles; and nowhere was a skilful and
dextrous hand more needed than in shaping them. Still, candles were
not very costly if the careless housewife chose to purchase them. The
_Boston Evening Post_ of October 5, 1767, has this advertisement:
“Dip’d Tallow Candles Half a Pistareen the single Pound & Cheaper by
Cwt.”
In many a country household some old-time frugalities linger, but the
bounteous oil-wells of Pennsylvania have rendered candles not only
obsolete, but too costly for country use, and by a turn of fashion they
have become comparatively an article of luxury, but still seem to throw
an old-time refinement wherever their soft rays shine.
An account of housewifely duties in my great-grandmother’s home was
thus written, in halting rhyme, by one of her sons when he too was
old:--
The boys dressed the flax, the girls spun the tow,
The music of mother’s footwheel was not slow.
The flax on the bended pine distaff was spread,
With squash shell of water to moisten the thread.
Such were the pianos our mothers did keep
Which they played on while spinning their children to sleep.
My mother I’m sure must have borne off the medal,
For she always was placing her foot on the pedal.
The warp and the filling were piled in the room,
Till the web was completed and fit for the loom,
Then labor was pleasure, and industry smiled,
And the wheel and the loom every trouble beguiled,
And there at the distaff the good wives were made.
Thus Solomon’s precepts were fully obeyed.
The manufacture of the farm-reared wool was not so burdensome and
tedious a process as that of flax, but it was far from pleasant. The
fleeces of wool had to be opened out and cleaned of all sticks, burrs,
leaves, feltings, tar-marks, and the dirt which always remained after
months’ wear by the sheep; then it had to be sorted out for dyeing,
which latter was a most unpleasant process. Layers of the various
colors of wools after being dyed were rolled together and carded
on coarse wool-cards, again and again, then slightly greased by a
disagreeable and tiresome method, then run into rolls. The wool was
spun on the great wheel which stood in the kitchen with the reel and
swifts, and often by the glowing firelight the mother spun. A tender
and beautiful picture of this domestic scene has been drawn by Dr.
Gurdon Russell, of Hartford, in his _Up Neck in 1825_.
My mother was spinning with the great wheel, the white rolls of wool
lay upon the platform, and as they were spun upon the spindle, she
turning the wheel with one hand, and with extended arm and delicate
fingers holding the roll in the other, stepping backwards and forwards
lightly till it was spun into yarn, it formed a picture to me, sitting
upon a low stool, which can never be forgotten. Her movements were
every grace, her form all of beauty to me who opposite sat and was
watching her dextrous fingers.
The manufacture of flax into linen material was ever felt to be of
vast importance, and was encouraged by legislation from earliest
colonial days, but it received a fresh impulse in New England through
the immigration of about one hundred Irish families from Londonderry.
They settled in New Hampshire on the Merrimac about 1719. They spun
and wove by hand, but with far more skill than prevailed among those
English settlers who had already become Americans. They established
a manufactory according to Irish methods, and attempts at a similar
establishment were made in Boston. There was much public excitement
over spinning. Women, rich as well as poor, appeared on Boston Common
with their wheels, thus making spinning a popular holiday recreation. A
brick building was erected as a spinning-school, and a tax was placed
in 1737 to support it. But this was not an industrial success, the
excitement died out, the public spinning-school lost its ephemeral
popularity, and the wheel became again simply a domestic duty and pride.
For many years after this, housewives had everywhere flax and hemp to
spin and weave in their homes, and the preparation of these staples
seems to us to-day a monumental labor. On almost every farm might
be seen a patch of the pretty flax, ripening for the hard work of
pulling, rippling, rotting, breaking, swingling, and combing, which
all had to be done before it came to the women’s hands for spinning.
The seed was sown broad-cast, and allowed to grow till the bobs or
bolls were ripe. The flax was then pulled and spread neatly in rows to
dry. This work could be done by boys. Then men whipped or threshed or
rippled out all the seed to use for meal; afterwards the flax stalks
were allowed to lie for some time in water until the shives were
thoroughly rotten, when they were cleaned and once more thoroughly
dried and tied in bundles. Then came work for strong men, to break
the flax on the ponderous flaxbreak, to get out the hard “hexe” or
“bun,” and to swingle it with a swingle knife, which was somewhat
like a wooden dagger. Active men could swingle forty pounds a day on
the swingling-board. It was then hetchelled or combed or hackled by
the housewife, and thus the rough tow was gotten out, when it was
straightened and made ready for the spruce distaff, round which it
was finally wrapped. The hatchelling was tedious work and irritating
to the lungs, for the air was filled with the fluffy particles which
penetrated everywhere. The thread was then spun on a “little wheel.” It
was thought that to spin two double skeins of linen, or four double
skeins of tow, or to weave six yards of linen, was a good day’s work.
For a week’s work a girl received fifty cents and “her keep.” She thus
got less than a cent and a half a yard for weaving. The skeins of linen
thread went through many tedious processes of washing and bleaching
before being ready for weaving; and after the cloth was woven it was
“bucked” in a strong lye, time and time again, and washed out an equal
number of times. Then it was “belted” with a maple beetle on a smooth,
flat stone; then washed and spread out to bleach in the pure sunlight.
Sometimes the thread, after being spun and woven, had been washed and
belted a score of times ere it was deemed white and soft enough to use.
The little girls could spin the “swingling tow” into coarse twine, and
the older ones make “all tow” and “tow and linen” and “harden” stuffs
to sell.
To show the various duties attending the manufacture of these domestic
textiles by a Boston woman of intelligence and social standing, as late
as 1788, let me quote a few entries from the diary of the wife of Col.
John May:--
A large kettle of yarn to attend upon. Lucretia and self rinse our
through many waters, get out, dry, attend to, bring in, do up and sort
110 score of yarn, this with baking and ironing.
Went to hackling flax.
Rose early to help Ruth warp and put a piece in the loom.
Baking and hackling yarn. A long web of tow to whiten and weave.
The wringing out of this linen yarn was most exhausting, and the
rinsing in various waters was no simple matter in those days, for
the water did not conveniently run into the houses through pipes and
conduits, but had to be laboriously carried in pailfuls from a pump, or
more frequently raised in a bucket from a well.
I am always touched, when handling the homespun linens of olden times,
with a sense that the vitality and strength of those enduring women,
through the many tedious and exhausting processes which they had
bestowed, were woven into the warp and woof with the flax, and gave to
the old webs of linen their permanence and their beautiful texture. How
firm they are, and how lustrous! And how exquisitely quaint and fine
are their designs; sometimes even Scriptural designs and lessons are
woven into them. They are, indeed, a beautiful expression of old-time
home and farm life. With their close-woven, honest threads runs this
finer beauty, which may be impalpable and imperceptible to a stranger,
but which to me is real and ever-present, and puts me truly in touch
with the life of my forbears. But, alas, it is through intuition we
must learn of this old-time home life, for it has vanished from our
sight, and much that is beautiful and good has vanished with it.
The associations of the kitchen fireside that linger in the hearts
of those who are now old can find no counterpart in our domestic
surroundings to-day. The welcome cheer of the open fire, which graced
and beautified even the humblest room, is lost forever with the close
gatherings of the family, the household occupations, the homespun
industries which formed and imprinted in the mind of every child the
picture of a home.
Transcriber’s Notes
Minor punctuation errors have been silently corrected.
Page 100: “take the the case” changed to “take the case”
Page 162: “promply sailed” changed to “promptly sailed”
Page 302: “was was set outside” changed to “was set outside”
Spelling and punctuation quoted from original sources has been left
as-is.
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