Etext of Small Family Memories
by Susan Fenimore Cooper 
 
SMALL FAMILY MEMORIES
 
RECORDED for the pleasure of my dear nephews ~ and nieces, none of whom have
known personally their Grandfather and Grandmother Cooper.
 
These small memories were planned two or three years since. Last summer Jim
asked me to write something of the kind; I therefore give the little book to
him; but all the grandchildren are to read, and those who choose to take the
trouble may copy it. It is written for all the family circle.
 
Cooperstown,
January 25, 1883.
 
"Delle cose custode,
E dispensiera."
 
I. THE FARM HOUSE AT FENIMORE
 
MY first recollections of my dear Father and Mother go back to the remote ages
when we were living at "Fenimore," in the farm-house built by your
grandfather. I was then about three years old. Some incidents of that time I
remember with perfect distinctness, while the intervening weeks, or months,
are a long blank.
 
I used very often to trot along between my Father and Mother about the
grounds; and I remember distinctly going with them to the new stone house,
then building. In that house they expected to pass their lives. But in fact it
was never inhabited. Your grandfather one day chose an even stone, to be
placed in the wall, and carved on it his own name and that of your
grandmother, with the date -- 1816. The position of that house was charming,
on a rising knell, commanding a lovely view of the Lake and village. The
grounds reached to the brook, southward, and the principal entrance was to
have been at the point where the road crosses the brook. Tradition says that
the last deer seen near the village was drinking, early one summer morning,
from that brook. In my own mind I have always called it "Deer-Brook," from
that little incident. The garden at Fenimore was then placed in the meadow
just beyond the road leading to the barn at the farm-house. I remember walking
there with your grandfather, who was always fond of gardening. On one {10}
occasion, on returning from the stone house, with my dear Mother, she picked
up a broken branch of raspberry and set it in the ground, telling me that it
would take root and grow, a fact which greatly surprised my infant mind.
 
The farm-house was painted red. It has been much enlarged since those days.
 
Our household consisted of our sweet Nurse Nanny, a widow; she was an
Englishwoman, who when a young girl came from England with my grandmother De
Lancey as nurse to my Uncle Thomas, then an infant. She then became my
Mother's nurse, and lived some years at Heathcote Hill. Later in the day she
married a farmer in the neighborhood, named Disbrow, and had several children.
After her husband's death she returned to live at Heathcote Hill, and after my
mother's marriage she became nurse to my little sister Elizabeth, and to
myself. She removed with us to Cooperstown. Her daughter Susan, a great stout
young woman, was the cook at Fenimore; Fred, a colored boy from Heathcote
Hill, was the waiter. There were still slaves in New York at that time, and a
family of them belonged to my Grandfather De Lancey. They had an easy time of
it, I imagine. Fred was given to my Mother when she removed to Cooperstown,
but I think I have heard that my Father paid him wages. Sam Brimmer was the
coachman; he was the son of a Hessian soldier. All these members of the
household I remember distinctly.
 
My Father had two grey horses, which I also remember very well; and he had a
little carriage which he called the rasée -- a sailor's name. When a ship in
the navy was changed from a higher to a lower grade by removing one of her
decks she was said to be rasée -- cut down, as it were -- and the little
carriage at Fenimore must have been {11} a barouche, I think, with only half a
top. At any rate my father always called it rasée.
 
I remember distinctly rather an adventurous drive on the Lake, with the grey
ponies, but not in the rasée, of course. Your grandfather had been driving
the little family party in the sleigh to the village, -- no doubt it was in
the spring when the roads were bad, -- and when we returned the ice had parted
from the shore! There lay the water before us -- I seem to see it; and the
agitation of my Mother was great, and no doubt the anxiety of my Father also.
I think he turned to a different spot, but still there was water; the horses
were whipped vigorously, they leaped ahead, there was a plunge, and lo we were
safe on the gravelly beach at Fenimore!
 
Our Grandfather De Lancey came to make us a visit, and brought with him our
dear Aunt Martha, then a young girl just growing up. She had been suffering
from chills and fever, and came to Otsego County for change of air; she
remained with us a year, and I remember her on several occasions.
 
The chief ornament of the little parlor at "Fenimore" was a portrait of my
Grandfather De Lancey; when my Mother consented to remove so far from her own
family, and make a new home in the wilds of Otsego, my Father had the portrait
painted for her, to cheer and comfort her; it was painted by Jarvis, and was
an admirable likeness. One day a neighboring farmer came to the house on
business. He noticed the portrait, got up, stood before it, and studied it
closely. "That 'ere pictur' is wonderful like!" he exclaimed. My mother was
surprised: "Did you know my Father?" she asked. No I never saw him -- but it's
wonderful like a man!" Absurd as it was, the praise was just; one sees that
the portrait {12} must have been a good likeness, it has so much individual
character. The picture now hangs in our cottage parlor in River Street; my
dear Mother gave it to me, as the eldest granddaughter. She also told me the
farmer's criticism, which of course I should not have understood if I had
heard it.
 
Your Grandfather had a sheep farm, on the hill above Fenimore. He called it
Mt. Ovis, and was very proud of some merino sheep he had introduced into the
County. There was a fierce old ram, called "Sinbad," of whose horns I was very
much afraid. He was afterwards drowned in the well!
 
Your Grandfather was Secretary of the County Agricultural Society in those
days. He was also a vestryman of Christ Church at that time, and was one of a
Committee who cleared and fenced the Church-yard. I have heard him say that my
Uncle Isaac had better taste than himself at that time, for he proposed
cutting down all the young pines in the yard; my Uncle would not hear of it,
and now the pines have grown into the fine trees which shade our Church-yard.
Father Nash was Rector of the Church at that time. Your Grandfather was also
in those years Secretary of the Otsego County Bible Society, General Morris
being the President.
 
Occasionally I was taken to the Hall to see my Grandmother. I have dim
recollection of her sitting near a little table, at the end of the long sofa
seen in her picture, with a book on the table. She always wore sleeves to the
elbow, or a little below, with long gloves. She took great delight in flowers,
and the south end of the long hall was like a greenhouse in her time. She was
a great reader of romances. She was a marvellous housekeeper, and beautifully
nice and neat in all her arrangements. {13} Her flower garden was at the South
of the house, and was considered something wonderful for the variety of
flowers. There is a delicate little vine, called the Alleghany vine, Adlumia,
growing in our hills; this was a favorite of hers.
 
The old negro seen in the picture of the Hall was an important personage in
the family; he lived with my grandparents twenty years; his name was Joseph,
but my Uncles often called him "the Governor." As you know, he is buried in
the family ground. His wife Harris married again after his death, and lies in
the Churchyard, near the front fence. My Grandfather gave her a house and lot,
on what is now Pine Street. Having no children, she left that house to John
Nelson. Harris lived, after my Grandfather's death, with the Russells.
 
The only one of my Uncles of whom I have any recollection was my Uncle Isaac.
I remember him distinctly on one occasion, when he was dining at the
farm-house; he took me up in his arms and wanted me to kiss him; but I was shy
about it. "This young lady does not kiss gentlemen!" said your grandfather
laughing. I seem to hear him say the words now, and I also recollect wondering
in an infantile way what was their meaning. This is my only recollection of my
Uncle Isaac. My Mother was much attached to him; he was very warm-hearted and
affectionate, and very benevolent. On one occasion when your Grandfather was
in the Navy, he came home on a furlough, and my Uncle Isaac gave a grand
family dinner on the occasion. Your Grandfather would seem to have been
something of a dandy in those days; he sported a queue; would you, would you
believe it! Some of the young naval officers at that time followed the fashion
of Napoleon and Nelson, and sported that appendage. {14} Judge of the
excitement caused in the family and in the village by the midshipman's
pig-tail! He soon threw it aside. But my Uncle Isaac by a successful manoeuvre
got possession of it, on the day of the dinner party, and when the family
assembled about the table, there, suspended to the chandelier, was the young
gentleman's pig-tail! My Aunt Pomeroy told me the incident. He was paying a
visit, with my Aunt Mary, to General Morris' family at the Butternuts, and one
day after dinner was wrestling in fun with his brother-in-law Richard Morris,
when he was thrown with some force against the railing of the piazza, injuring
his spine. He lingered for a year or more, but abscesses formed, and he died
at last of exhaustion.
 
My Mother always spoke kindly of her brothers-in-law. My Uncle William was
wonderfully clever, quite a genius, a delightful talker, very witty. My Uncle
Richard was a handsome man with remarkably fine manners; my Grandfather De
Lancey, who had seen the best society in England, said he was "a very well
bred man." He was very intimate with Mr. Gouldsborough Banyer, and named his
eldest son after him. My Uncle Sam was clever, but undersized and eccentric.
My Mother has often said they were all fine tempered men.
 
My little sister Cally was my playfellow in those days, though she was still a
baby, not yet two years old. Our education began, however, in the little
parlor at Fenimore; we used to sit on two little stools near our Mother; I
learned to read in a primer, and to sew; Cally, I fancy, was considered too
young for the primer, and her sewing was done with a thread tied to a pin. She
was born at Fenimore, and was a pretty little child, with auburn hair which
curled on her neck. When we had finished our hour of school we followed our
Mother into {15} the pantry, and each holding up our little apron -- I beg
Nanny's pardon, our "pinafores" -- we were rewarded with a few raisins, or
ginger bread, or perhaps a bit of maple sugar. Nanny and my Grandmother always
spoke of our "pinafores," but my Mother called them aprons.
 
Occasionally, though rarely, I fancy, our Father went to Albany on business.
Journeys were formidable affairs in those days. On one occasion when he
returned he brought, as usual, presents for us children. What was Cally's
present I cannot say. But my own made a very deep impression on me; there were
four bits of some bright colored stuff like merino for as many dresses for my
small person -- a yard of each, I suppose -- blue, buff, red, and pink. I
marched about the room hugging them tight, or showing them off. Suddenly my
Father called me; I trotted up to him, holding my treasures: "Now, Susie, you
have four dresses here; don't you think you had better give one to Nannie?" I
had no objection; and after spreading them on the floor picked up the buff
one, and trotted off with it to Nannie, who was in the room. "That is very
well; now suppose you give this red one to Susan?" Susan Disbrow was also
present; I picked up the red one, and carried it to Susan. "Now don't you
think you had better give me this blue one, for Grandmother? she will like a
blue dress." Somewhat less cheerfully, I handed the blue dress to my Father,
for Grandmother. "That is all right -- Grandmother will like a blue frock --
but here is the pink one; I think Nanny looks as if she would like a pink
frock too." In a small agony I picked up the favorite, precious pink one, and
carried it to Nanny, then burst into tears, exclaiming, "Oh, Father, you will
kill me!" I remember perfectly saying the words, and the feeling that I loved
Nanny so much that she {16} must have the dress, though at the same time it
was agony to give up that beautiful pink one. I am afraid I had a great liking
for finery in those days. But after the trial was over, I was nearly hugged to
death; our Father thought nothing of giving a score of kisses at one time.
 
There was a romantic mystery hanging over the Lake at that time -- a
mysterious bugle was heard in the summer evenings and moonlight nights, now
from the Lake, now from the wooded mountain opposite "Fenimore." "There is the
bugle!" my Father would call out, and all the family would collect on the
little piazza to listen. I remember hearing the bugle frequently, and being
aware, in a baby fashion, of the excitement on the subject. No one knew the
performer. It was some mysterious stranger haunting the mountain opposite
Fenimore, for several months. So my Aunt Pomeroy told me in later years.
 
My Father played the flute, in those days! His flute remained among the family
possessions for some years.
 
My Aunt Martha used to ride frequently with my Father; she was considered a
very good horsewoman in her youth. Nevertheless I remember her being thrown
from one of the grey ponies in the grounds at Fenimore; there was great
agitation at the moment; my Mother, Nanny, and the whole family gathered about
her; I remember being much distressed on the occasion. But there was no
serious injury. My Aunt Martha was very handsome in her youth, with a
brilliant complexion, fine dark eyes, and fine hair of a raven black. My
Father was fond of her and always called her "Pink" or "Pinkie." To the last
months of his life he called her "Pink."
 
My Mother had been a great horsewoman too; she told me that my Grandfather
used to take her out riding on a pillow, before him, when she was a little
thing. She rode {17} with my Father before her marriage, and after. She told
me they had ridden together, at different times, after her marriage over many
of the wood roads of the neighborhood, and had been on Mt. Vision repeatedly,
on horseback.
 
There is a brook running into the Lake, just above the grounds at Fenimore;
there was a pretty grove of young trees covering a small space of ground
reaching to the pebbly beach of the Lake. Here there was a small enclosure,
and within it lay the grave of our little sister Elizabeth. I remember going
there with my Mother, and also with my Father. That enclosure was intended for
the family burying-ground. It was a general custom in those days, though a
very unwise one, for all families living in the open country to have private
places of burial on their own ground. It was singular that my Father should
have thought it necessary to place my little sister's grave at "Fenimore," and
not in the Churchyard, in the family ground where his Father, and his sister
Hannah, whom we had loved so much, were already placed. But he followed the
general custom. When he sold Fenimore, some years later, our little sister was
removed to the Churchyard, where she now lies. She died at the house of my
Aunt Pomeroy, soon after our arrival from Mamaroneck, in 1813, when I was an
infant. Her illness was caused by some over-ripe strawberries given to her at
Cherry Valley on the journey. I have heard that my Father felt her death very
deeply.
 
There were two Englishmen among the many European residents in the village in
those days, with whom your Grandfather was quite intimate -- Mr. Edmeston and
Mr. Atchison, both intelligent educated men from the North of England. I have
no recollection of them at {18} Fenimore, but they were frequent guests there.
Mr. Edmeston was a man of property -- he built a house on the comer of what
are now Church and Fair Streets, where he and Mr. Atchison kept bachelor's
hall together. The house could boast the first bow-window seen in these
regions. It has just been pulled down -- 1883.
 
Family Lake parties were frequent in those days; they always went to the
Point, which your Great-Grandfather had selected for that purpose only a few
years after the village was founded. My Aunt Pomeroy has told me that the
first Lake party she remembered took place when she was quite a young girl;
the Lake was almost entirely surrounded with forest. Game was still abundant,
and on that occasion the gentlemen of the party pursued and killed a deer in
the Lake. Bears and wolves were common then, and panthers also. The bears
would lie dormant in the caves on the hillsides. And my Aunt said she had
often heard the wolves howl on the ice in the Lake, in winter. The first Lake
Party was given by my Grandfather to some friends from Philadelphia. A
beech-tree was chosen, on the Point, and the initials of the party carved on
it. I have seen the tree, and the initials of my Grandfather and Grandmother,
W-C. and E-C., cut in the bark. But it has long since vanished. About the same
time that the first Lake party took place there was a terrific fire in the
forest; my Aunt said there was a circle of flames entirely surrounding the
Lake, and apparently closing in about the village to the southward, as the
woods came very near the little town at that time. There was serious alarm for
a day or two. At night she said the spectacle was very fine. But everybody was
anxious. Happily a heavy rain quenched the flames before they reached the
little village. In winter there was a great {19} deal of skating. My Uncle
Richard and my Uncle William were particularly accomplished in that way, very
graceful in their movements, and cutting very intricate figures on the ice. So
I have been told.
 
My Father was fond of boating on the Lake, as may be supposed, and often rowed
my Mother out from the little wharf at Fenimore -- they two alone together.
 
A tragical scene occurred in the nursery one day; my little sister Cally was
left in the charge of a careless young nurse, who must have neglected her
shamefully; she rolled off the bed on which she had been sleeping, and broke
her collar bone! Great was the agitation. Sam Brimmer was sent off in
desperate haste for the Dr.; the little bone was set, and the careless nurse
discharged on the spot. I do not think my dear Mother ever really forgave that
young woman; she spoke of her with great severity many years after the
accident.
 
About half-way between Fenimore and the village there lived a certain
Methodist deacon, who aimed a deadly blow at the peace of our household about
this time. He lived in the house now occupied by the Orphanage. It was then
the only house on that road between Fenimore and Mr. Campbell's, where Mrs.
Turner now lives. Our dear Nanny was a Methodist. The Deacon succeeded in
convincing himself that Mrs. Disbrow was throwing herself away, by her care of
Mrs. Cooper's children; higher duties awaited her, in his opinion. There was a
certain Methodist brother in danger of being lost to the Church; he was a
widower, and a good Methodist wife must be provided for him without delay.
Sister Disbrow must be that wife. How long this worthy busy-body was occupied
with this nefarious plot against our peace I cannot say. He seems to have gone
very skillfully to {20} work, acting upon poor dear Nanny's religious notions;
at first she would not hear of the plan; but he, and his family, and other
Methodist brethren, by constantly urging upon Nanny the sublime duty of
bringing Brother Bloss back into the fold, succeeded at length in obtaining
her consent. Alas for our poor Mother, when Nanny told her she felt it her
duty to marry Brother Bloss!! So our dear sweet Nanny left us, to become the
wife of Farmer Bloss, at Burlington Green, the father of half a dozen grown-up
children. They were respectable people, but a very rough set; our dear gentle
Nanny was thrown away among them. She had to work much harder than she had
ever done before, without a tithe of the real affection and love which had
been given to her at Heathcote Hill and Fenimore. Her daughter Susan went with
her, of course.
 
Our poor Mother was desolate! It was extremely difficult to find even nominal
substitutes for Nanny and Susan. Servants were then even more difficult to
find than they are to-day. My Father comforted her with the promise of a long
visit to her home at Heathcote Hill.
 
One beautiful morning in May, our good cousin Mrs. Dering from Shelter Island,
who had come to spend a month or two with our Mother, took Cally and me to
play in the pine grove on the opposite side of the road from the farm-house. I
remember the grove, and the flowers, and the red wintergreen berries, as if it
were yesterday. After a while there came a message from the house: we were
told that we had a little sister! We trotted home, much excited at the news,
and were soon introduced to baby Charlotte. To speak frankly, I was amazed at
her small size, and her redness. It seemed to me I had never seen anything so
red before. I am also bound to confess that she cried a great deal. They say
that babies who cry {21} during the first three months are the most cheerful
afterwards. That was certainly the case with Aunt Charlotte, who has done a
great deal of laughing since those days -- often so merry, and bright, and
cheery, as you all know.
 
My next recollection is the christening of the baby in Christ Church by Father
Nash, who had also baptized Cally and myself. She was named after my Mother's
English sister, Anne Charlotte. Anne was after our Great Aunt Mrs. Jones, and
Charlotte after Queen Charlotte! This English sister our Mother had never seen
at that time. My Grandfather and Grandmother De Lancey, though both Americans,
were married in England, and when they returned to America they left their
daughter Anne with her Aunt and Uncle Jones; she inherited their Tory
prejudices so strongly that she could never be persuaded to join her family in
America.
 
After the christening there must have been a busy time of preparation for the
journey to Mamaroneck. But of this I remember nothing. Soon we were taken to
say good-bye to our Grandmother Cooper; I have a dim recollection of her
appearance, as she sat in the hall, with a little table near her. Then came
the leave taking at Edgewater; we were all in the rasée, my Father driving
the grey ponies; the most important member of the family, Baby Charlotte, lay
on a pillow, in a basket at our Mother's feet. I remember distinctly driving
into the grounds at Edgewater and seeing my Uncle Isaac, Aunt Mary, and a
group of cousins rather older than myself bidding us good-bye.
 
Then came the long climb up the Vision road. At the fop of the hill some wild
roses caught my fancy; my Father stopped the carriage, and gathered a large
handful of the flowers, and gave them to us.
 
{22} It was many a long year before we saw the wild roses of Otsego again.
 
One little incident I remember distinctly, but omitted to record it in its
place. On the morning before we left our Fenimore home, my dear Father took me
by the hand and led me through the grounds, across the brook, into the
inclosure where lay the grave of my little sister Elizabeth. He stood there in
silence a few moments, and then led me back again. I cannot remember his
having spoken a word at the time.
 
II. HEATHCOTE HILL 

THE three days' journey to Albany is a blank; so far as my memory goes. I only
remember the baby in the basket.
 
But the very important event of going down the North River in the steamboat I
recollect distinctly. I am inclined to think it was my dear Mother's first
experience of a steamboat. She had been four years at Fenimore; and I know
that her first journey, when she was a bride, was made in a gig, my Father
driving the horses tandem. What route they took I never heard, but my Mother
has told me they travelled over a good deal of corduroy road. Her second
journey to Cooperstown, with my little sister Elizabeth and myself as babies,
was made in the rasée. I seem to have a sort of faint perception of a
feeling of subdued excitement among the party in the steamboat. My Father came
into the cabin often to point out to my Mother the villages and country houses
on the banks. One of the gentlemen, whose wife was in the cabin, came every
few moments to a window, and called to her: "I say!" It was natural to my
inexperienced mind to suppose that "I say" was the lady's name. I seem to hear
him now calling out "I say," every few minutes.
 
Voyage, passing through the great city of New York, the half day's journey to
Mamaroneck, is all a blank. Memory only awakens again in the parlor at
Heathcote Hill, where Grandparents, uncles and Aunts, and servants were all
making us welcome, after the formidable {24} journey from the wilds of Otsego
to the shores of the Sound. We passed some months with my Grandparents. My
Father, however, returned to Fenimore after a while to look after his affairs
there. The stone house was still going on, and it was expected that we should
return there.
 
That was a pleasant summer for us little people, and still more so, no doubt,
to our dear Mother. Our young Aunts petted us, and our Grandfather took us out
very often to drive with him, over his farms or about the country. Many little
memories revive, as I think of him. Cally was still in the nursery, but I
was promoted to a high chair, near my Grandfather. I well remember his
breaking the shells of the oysters, and giving me the oyster itself, for my
breakfast. The family lived and dined in the same room. There were several
dark-skinned servants in the house -- slaves, I fancy, they must have been at
that date, but enjoying life in a very free and easy way. There was a fat
black woman as cook in the kitchen, Harriet her daughter as chambermaid, Henry
her son the man, a colored child or two, and one white woman, a sort of
factotum, Betsy Baker. The house stood on the brow of a low hill, immediately
above the highway to Boston, and facing a broad bay of the Sound. The view was
very pleasing when the tide was in, but dismal at low tide, when a waste of
black mud covered half the bay. There was no attempt at pleasure grounds,
beyond a row of locusts along the fence, and some noble weeping-willows in
different positions. Cherry-trees, and peach-trees, apricots, and nectarines
were planted near the house, the front porch on either side being flanked with
the largest peach tree I have ever seen. From the covered porch in the rear of
the house one road swept down the hillside to what was called "the red
gate," leading {25} towards the village of Mamaroneck, close at hand; another
road made a wide circuit around the hill to the southward, and came out on the
highway at "the white gate," through which one passed towards my Grandfather's
farm on "the Neck" and the village of New-Rochelle.
 
I was well acquainted with "the red gate" and "the white gate," as I often had
the pleasure of opening them for my Grandfather, when driving in the gig with
him. The only flowering shrubs I can remember were lilacs and syringas, near
the house. The barns, a large cluster of them, stood at some distance from the
house to the right, and in the rear. The garden lay also in the rear, at some
little distance; I fancy it must have been a fine garden, well cared for, with
a great variety of fruit and vegetables. Beyond the garden rose another low
hill; on climbing it one came to the cider-mill and the peach-orchard, a
very large orchard filled entirely with peaches, which sometimes covered the
ground about the trees, and were fed to the hogs! Pork which had partaken
amply of peaches was considered very delicate. Then again there were
apple-orchards, very extensive, with the finest kinds of fruit. And beyond all
these orchards there rose a beautiful wood, the remains of the ancient forest;
within its shade there was an open enclosure, the family burying-ground,
surrounded by a low stone wall; I have often been there. At that time there
were but few graves. One was that of my Grandfather's sister, Miss Susan De
Lancey, who had died not long before our visit to Heathcote Hill; my Mother
had been a great favorite with her. She was said to have been very clever, and
very good; rather undersized, and some years older than my Grandfather, who
was indeed the twentieth child! Many of his {26} brothers and sisters had died
in infancy, and when he returned from England this sister was the only one
living, and came to make her home with him. Another grave was that of my
Mother's sister Maria Frances, who died not long before my Mother's marriage,
to whom she was nearest in age. My Grandfather grieved greatly for her.
 
Driving and riding were a part of every day's pleasure. My Aunt Martha must
have been a great horsewoman, she was so often riding alone, or with young
companions. Beside our two young Aunts there were three Uncles -- our Uncle
Thomas, older than our Mother, our Uncles Edward and William. Uncle Thomas was
a lawyer in the office of Mr. Peter Jay Munro, in New York; Uncle Edward was
always at home -- he was to be the farmer of the family; Uncle William was at
Yale College expecting to become a clergyman.
 
When my Grandfather was driving in his gig, with his little granddaughter
Susie sitting in state beside him, that little damsel observed that the people
who met them always took off their hats, a salutation which was returned by
Mr. Dellansée, as these people called him. In those good old times even
strangers bowed to each other when meeting on the highway. That was the
universal custom about Mamaroneck. The pronunciation of the name De Lancey as
Dellansée was also common then, and nearer perhaps to the true French
pronunciation than our own fashion of placing the accent on the first syllable.
 
When out in the gig we frequently met the Rector of the Church at Rye, the
parish to which the family at Heathcote Hill then belonged, the Rev. Mr.
Asgill, who had married our parents. The wedding had taken place on New-Year's
day, 1811, in the drawing-room at Heathcote Hill. There was no one present but
the fam{27}ily, including Miss Susan De Lancey, Nannie, Uncle William Cooper,
and all the servants. After the ceremony, and before the supper, the bride and
groom played a game of chess! Strange to say, I always forgot to ask who won
the game. The bride wore a soft sprigged Indian muslin dress, with a waist
about three inches deep! The Rev. Mr. Asgill was a curiosity. He had a
peculiar nasal drawl in speaking, and his whole manner and utterances were
peculiar. "Good morning - Mr. Dellansée - hm - ha - I hope Mrs. Dellansée - a
- and - Mrs. Cooper - hm - hm - ha - a - and - the - ah - hm - ha - young
ladies - and the - hm - ha - hm - little ladies - are - hm - ha - in good
health."
 
Such salutations on the highway have I often heard. In Church he must have
been intolerable. On one occasion when we were present he went into the
reading-desk, looked about him, fumbled in his pocket, looked towards the pew
where his wife sat -- "Hm - hm - ha - Mrs. Asgill, - hm - ha - hm, I have
forgotten - hm - ha - my spectacles!" The good lady meekly arose, and took
them into the chancel to him. Another Sunday as he was reading the most solemn
part of the Litany, he inserted a new clause into the service, without
changing the usual drawling snarl in which he read it: "In all - hm - ha time
- ha - of our tribulation - hm - ha - in all time of our prosperity - hm - ha
- hm - Mr. Purdy's horses are loose - hm - ha," etc., etc. He frequently
made impromptu remarks during the prayers and sermon. The Church was like a
great barn, with large square windows, no blinds or shades, and consequently
Mr. Asgill could see what was going on among the waggons and horses collected
every Sunday in the open space about the Church. In winter the Church was
fearfully cold. When {27} I went with my Mother or Grandmother it was my task
to carry their foot-stove to the Sexton, who usually sat near the large box
stove, and filled it for me. The Church was unpainted on the outside.
 
After a while my Father returned from Otsego County. A new nurse was provided
for us, Katie Arnault, a young girl from one of the Huguenot families in the
neighborhood, of which there were many; Flandreau, Comel, Bonnet, etc., etc.,
were common names. One old woman, very aged indeed, was still something of a
Frenchwoman; she had made me a little French cap, quilted like those worn in
some parts of France by babies -- it was preserved as a curiosity for many
years, but has been lost in some of our wanderings.
 
Mamaroneck was sadly troubled with chills and fever, said to have been first
caused by damming up the Sheldrake, a small stream flowing into the bay -- a
factory had been built on the banks, and the water was used for its purpose.
My Aunts and Uncles suffered severely from the fever; they were dosed with
bark and port wine -- great glassfuls -- quinine not having been invented in
those remote times. Happily for us, neither our Father or Mother ever had the
fever. The factory was considered a great nuisance, as it brought many
disreputable people into that primitive region. The small-pox appeared among
the work people; our Father was very kind to the sick; he had many of the
factory people vaccinated at his own expense. Little Cally and myself had been
vaccinated in infancy -- but my Father wished to have us inoculated also. Our
Mother was distressed, but the experiment was tried; we were both inoculated
-- but without any result; the virus dried up without producing the least
semblance of a pock.
 
{29} Parties of emigrants used frequently to pass along the highway below the
hill; on one occasion there was a formidable troop of them, men, women, and
children, hungry, dusty, and weary. They seated themselves along the roadside
for a rest; my Grandmother sent them loads of provisions, with milk for the
little ones, and a whole baking of some very nice biscuits of a peculiar kind,
fresh from the oven. These poor people had only landed from the ship which
brought them over the Ocean, a day or two earlier. After a rest by the
roadside they passed on their way to some distant manufacturing town.
 
One day as my Father was driving us he pointed out a neat, but very small
house, just beyond the bridge over the Sheldrake. "That," said he, "is Closet
Hall." It was the house in which our Father and Mother had made their first
attempt at house keeping, the year after our little sister Elizabeth was born.
On account of its tiny size, my Father had given it the name of Closet Hall.
They gave it up, and returned to Heathcote Hill a short time before I was born.
 
Our next-door neighbor was Dr. Guy Carleton Bailey, the family physician. His
wife was a Miss Grace Roosevelt. The families were very intimate, elders and
children also; we little people were constantly playing together; the eldest
boy, Roosevelt Bailey, was converted to the Church of Rome by his Aunt Mrs.
Seaton, and is now His Grace the Archbishop of Baltimore!
 
Another family with whom we were very intimate were the Jays at Rye. "Auntie
Jay," as we called her, was a dear old lady; she was the widow of a blind man,
the brother of Governor Jay. When he was a child he, and a sister near his own
age, had the small-pox so severely that they both lost their sight. From that
time {30} their mother devoted herself especially to the care of those
afflicted children; she must have been a sensible and judicious woman, as one
can imagine the mother of Governor Jay ought to have been. As they grew older
they were carefully educated. The home of the family was in New York, but a
country house was built especially for them at Rye, a mile or two from
Mamaroneck. Here they passed most of their time; and here, after the death of
their parents, the blind brother and sister kept house together! Miss Jay was
considered a good housekeeper; she went all about the house alone, and what is
remarkable, she was very skillful with her needle! She could take a piece of
linen, cut it out, and make up the garments herself. And Mr. Peter Jay also
was very accomplished in his way; he had been taught cabinet making, and made
very neat tables, book shelves, bureaus, etc., etc. He was also a farmer,
walked all over the grounds and garden alone, and rode on horse-back into the
different fields alone, letting down bars and opening gates himself. His
senses of hearing and touch were very acute. He knew his friends when they
came to see him, by their step, and by feeling their hands. I have heard my
Father say that frequently they would try the experiment of misleading him;
one visitor standing near would say, "How do you do, Mr. Jay?" and another
would shake hands with him -- but he always knew them apart, and would say
"That is Cooper" -- "That is Tom De Lancey." The blind brother and sister
lived very happily together for many years. At last Miss Jay died. This was a
very great affliction to her brother. After a while he told his friends that
he was lonely, he wished to marry, and they must find a wife for him. This was
no easy task. But at last a pleasant cheerful old maid, Miss Duyckinck, was
{31} persuaded to listen to these peculiar proposals. At first she was
indignant; but on making the blind man"s acquaintance found him so kind, and
gentlemanly, and agreeable, that she consented. Before the marriage he begged
to be allowed to feel her face, that he might have some idea of his future
wife's appearance! The marriage turned out very well; they were a happy
couple. I have no recollection of Mr. Jay, who died before we returned to
Mamaroneck. But with "Auntie Jay" I was very intimate; she was very fond of
children, and our parents, or Grandfather, or aunts were constantly taking us
over to see her. She lived very pleasantly in the house built for her husband,
her niece Miss Effie Duyckinck living with her. "Auntie Jay" kept a supply of
toys and sugarplums for her young friends, but I think we enjoyed her
conversation more than the goodies, she was so bright and cheerful with us. We
were often in her bedroom, and many a time have I climbed up on her bureau to
look at a picture which was full of a mysterious attraction to us little folk;
it was a sea piece, with two ships approaching a port; one of these "Auntie
Jay" asserted to be the ship which brought her the toys and sugarplums with
which she supplied us. The name of the ship I have forgotten, but the
diminutive figure of a man standing on the deck she introduced to us as
"Geoffrey Norcross," the Captain. It would take me pages to tell all the
wonderful things we heard about "Captain Geoffrey Norcross," and the countries
where he found the toys and other treasures. We often drank tea with "Auntie
Jay"; there were several lovely old blacks in the kitchen, "Caesar," and
"Venus," and "Lily," with whom we were on the most affectionate terms.
 
{32} Our Grandfather frequently took us to a village with the peculiar name of
"Sawpits" -- now Port-Chester.
 
We also went very frequently to New Rochelle, the home of the Huguenot colony.
The Church at New Rochelle was a square stone building, with a roof running up
to a point -- as plain as possible without and within. Most of the Huguenot
families, like the De Lanceys, united with the Church of England: those who
settled at New Rochelle were very devout; on Sunday mornings they used to go
down to the shore of the Sound, and turning their faces Eastward, waft their
prayers across the Atlantic towards the coast of France, whence Louis XIV. had
driven them by his "Dragonnades." They would also rise very early -- in the
night, I think -- and set out in parties to walk to the French Church in New
York to attend the regular services there.
 
Our Grandfather De Lancey must have been a charming companion -- he was very
amusing with his grandchildren, and told us many pleasant things, as he drove
us about in his gig and farm-waggon. One immensely fat old farmer of Huguenot
stock, named Comel, he pointed out to me: "They say the old man has swallowed
the hen and all her chickens; do you think that can be true, Susie?" A fine
litter of young pigs appeared by the roadside; "Count them, Susie." -- There
were ten. -- "Do you see that fat little rogue, the last one? if he had been
born in England that pig would have gone to the clergyman! Every tenth pig and
tenth chicken belongs to the clergyman, in England!" Such was my first lesson
on tithes. And my dear Grandfather soon commenced my botanical education --
being the eldest of the little troop, I often drove with him, in the gig,
about his farms and into his woods, and it was my duty to jump out and open
{33} all the gates. In these drives he taught me to distinguish the different
trees by their growth, and bark, and foliage -- this was a beech, that an oak,
here was an ash, yonder a tulip-tree. He would point out a tree and ask me to
name it, going through a regular lesson in a very pleasant way. Such was the
beginning of my Rural Hours ideas.
 
Feeding the poultry was one of our pleasure -- the barn-yard was full of
feathered creatures in great flocks -- hens, cocks, chickens of all sizes,
geese, ducks, turkeys, peacocks, and guinea fowls. Our young Aunts were much
interested in making caps, and tippets, and bands for trimming dresses, out of
the choice feathers from the poultry-yard -- white feathers, and down from the
geese and ducks, and bright ones from the peacocks and guinea fowls. Such was
a young lady fashion of the hour. Another fancy of the young ladies of that
time, was making shoes! Or rather slippers for evening parties, prunelle,
black, and white satin! They bought the thin soles, and then cut out the upper
part, and put them together without any assistance. They had lasts and tools
for the purpose. All the young fashionable ladies in New York were much intent
in making their own sandals, at that time -- why or wherefore, I cannot say.
Such sandals were worn in the streets of New York, by the ladies, even in
midwinter. They were worn even twenty years later -- not made at home; that
fashion must soon have vanished, I fancy. But American women at that date had
a horror of thick soles; when we lived in New York we never saw ladies wearing
a shoe with a sensible sole. They have better judgement now.
 
A small absurdity occurs to me just now, in connection with the fashions,
which I relate for the especial benefit of my nieces. White dresses were much
worn in those {34} years, with muslin puffs of some width around the skirts --
two or three puffs often. Now my dear Mother had made for my little person a
white dress, with two or three puffs of thin muslin, well starched. I have no
doubt Cally had another of the same kind. To my own, however, I was fondly
attached, admiring it greatly. One Sunday morning I was dressed for Church in
this choice puffed garment and told to go down stairs to wait for my Mother
and Aunts. I trotted down the first flight of steps from the broad lobby on
which the rooms from the second floor opened. At the turn, at the head of the
second broad flight, I paused. My dear Father, my Uncles Tom and Edward were
standing in the hall below, looking over the guns, in the gun-rack which stood
near the front door. I seem to see them now. My Uncles were great sportsmen,
making havoc among the game birds of all kinds. My Uncle Tom chanced to turn
to look at me: "Oh, Uncle Tom, don't come near me! This is my puffed
frock!!" How they laughed and made believe they wanted to catch me. I
distinctly remember my feeling of surprise at their laughing so heartily;
could they not understand that I had been told to take care of my puffs?
 
A very important event of those months we passed at Heathcote Hill was the
performance of a play, which I remember perfectly. My Father was the manager;
Love-à-la-Mode was the play. The characters were Sir Theodore Goodchild;
Sir Archie Macsarcasm; Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan; 'Squire Groom; and
Charlotte. The performers were my Father, my Uncles, Dr. Bailey, and my Aunt
Caroline. If I remember right, my Father took the part of Sir Callaghan. My
Aunt Caroline was remarkably pretty in those days, a brilliant brunette. The
performance took place in the dining-room, the green {35} crumb-cloth being
promoted to a stage curtain. The audience consisted of the family, Mrs.
Bailey, and a boy or two, with the servants in the door-way. The pantry was
the green room. Great was my amazement at seeing my Father and Dr. Bailey with
white powdered heads! I sat on a little chair next to my Grandfather, in a
great state of excitement. There was laughing, and clapping of hands, and
criticism, and a great deal of joking afterwards.
 
We had not been long at Mamaroneck when a change in the family plans took
place. Instead of returning to Cooperstown after a six months' visit, it was
decided that my Father should build a country-house on a farm that was
destined for my Mother by my Grandfather. This farm was on a hill in
Scarsdale, four miles from Mamaroneck. The question once decided, my Father
went to work with his usual eagerness, and in a few months the house was
built, and we took possession. The farm was called Angevine, the name of the
Huguenot tenants who had preceded us. The view from the hill was fine,
including a long stretch of the Sound, and Long Island beyond. The house
consisted of a centre and two wings; one of these was the common sitting room,
the other was the "drawing-room." Little did my dear Father foresee, when he
planned and built that room, that within its walls he should write a book, and
become an author! In general his thoughts seem to have turned upon ships, and
the sea, and farming, and landscape gardening. I can remember trotting around
after him while he was planning a sweep, and a ha-ha fence -- a novelty in
those days. He set out many trees.
 
During the winter after we had taken possession there was a grand
house-warming party. As I look back the {36} rooms seem to me to have been
crowded with gaily dressed ladies and their cavaliers. I particularly remember
my Aunt Caroline wearing a pink silk spencer, and dancing. And this was the
only occasion on which I ever saw my Father dance.
 
There were daily drives to Mamaroneck, where all the marketing was done. The
drive was a pleasant one. There was, however, a tragical spot on the bank of
the Sheldrake, not far from Mamaroneck, which had been pointed out to us
children. Some years earlier, not long before my Mother's marriage, there were
two little girls, friends of my young Aunts, making a visit at Heathcote Hill;
their name was Titford. The four little girls, my Aunts, and the two Titfords
went out for a walk; they wandered to the bank of the Sheldrake, where they
made their arrangements for fishing. In the excitement of their sport one of
the Titford girls fell into the water, which was deep at that spot; she sank;
her sister rushed into the river to save her, and sank also. Both were
drowned! My Aunts were several years younger; their cries drew people to the
spot, but too late -- life was extinct in both the young girls. This was a
fearful blow to all at Heathcote Hill. My Grandmother never entirely recovered
from the shock. The elder sister was an intimate friend of my Mother's; Miss
Susan Titford afterwards married Mr. Lloyd Daubeny.
 
My Father used to drive us to Church, either to Rye or to New Rochelle. One
Sunday morning as he was driving my Mother and myself in the gig, to church,
his favorite horse, "Bull-head," stumbled in going down the hill from
Angevine, broke the shafts, and threw us all out. I remember distinctly
finding myself on the horse's stomach, his legs kicking round me; my Father
picked me {37} up; no one was injured, but I think "Bull-head"" must have been
sold soon after. We had another pair of black horses in those days, and the
old rasée. Fred the black boy, who nominally belonged to my Mother, but
received wages, deserted about that time. We had for assistant nurse, a young
girl named Katie Conklin, who was bound to my parents; she was the daughter of
my Grandfather's farmer, on the Neck.
 
My Father was much interested in Agricultural matters in those days. He
belonged to the Agricultural Society of the County, and I remember the making
of a flag to be hoisted at the annual fair; there was a black plough, and
the words "West Chester Agricultural Society," in large black letters on the
white ground, a joint effort of genius on the part of Father and Mother, while
two little girls looked on in admiration. But our Father figured also as a
military character at that time; Governor Clinton made him his aide~de-camp,
with the rank of Colonel, and more than once we little girls had the pleasure
of admiring him in full uniform, blue and buff, cocked hat and sword, mounted
on Bull-head before proceeding to some review. He was thus transferred from
the naval to the land service. To the last days of his life, Mr. James de
Peyster Ogden, one of his New York friends, never omitted giving him his title
of "Colonel." H[e thus became one of the numerous army of American Colonels,
though not one of the ordinary type certainly.
 
But he was also a Skipper, at that date. He had become interested in a whaling
ship sailing from Sag Harbor, his partner in this venture being Mr. Charles
Dering, who had married my Mother's cousin Miss Elizabeth Nicoll of Shelter
Island. On several occasions he took command of the Union, as she passed to
and fro; {38} this venture was, I believe, fairly successful. When the Union
came into port at Boston, he joined Mr. Dering there, and on his return
brought me a magnificent wax doll, a magnificent creature, nearly as large as
a live baby!
 
He always read a great deal, in a desultory way. Military works, travels,
Biographies, History -- and novels! He frequently read aloud at that time to
my Mother, in the quiet evenings at Angevine. Of course the books were all
English. A new novel had been brought from England in the last monthly
packet; it was, I think, one of Mrs. Opie's, or one of that school. My Mother
was not well; she was lying on the sofa, and he was reading this newly
imported novel to her; it must have been very trashy; after a chapter or two
he threw it aside, exclaiming, "I could write you a better book than that
myself!" Our Mother laughed at the idea, as the height of absurdity -- he who
disliked writing even a letter, that he should write a book!! He persisted in
his declaration, however, and almost immediately wrote the first pages of a
tale, not yet named, the scene laid in England, as a matter of course. He soon
became interested and amused with the undertaking, drew a regular plot, talked
over the details with our Mother, and resolved to imitate the tone and
character of an English tale of the ordinary type. After a few chapters were
written he would have thrown it aside, but our dear Mother encouraged him to
persevere; why not finish it, why not print it? This last idea amused him
greatly. He usually wrote in the drawing-room, and after finishing a chapter
always brought my Mother in to hear it. One day he left the room; the door was
open, and I went in, and retired under the writing-table, which was covered
{39} with a cloth, for a play with my doll. Father and Mother came in
together. I went on playing quietly with my doll. The reading of a chapter of
Precaution began. This interested me greatly; it was Chapter --. Suddenly I
burst into tears, and sobbed aloud over the woes of -------. Father and Mother
were amazed; I was withdrawn from my tent, but they could not imagine what had
distressed me. On one of his visits to New York, in those days, my Father
bought a large green port-folio for himself, and a red one for my Mother. The
red one is now among my papers, in a dilapidated condition.
 
When Precaution was completed we set out for a visit to Bedford, for the
especial purpose of reading the MS. to the Jay family. My Mother wished the
book to be printed, my Father had some doubts on the subject, and at last it
was decided that if his friends the Jays listened with interest to the
reading, the printing should take place; Mrs. Banyer's taste and judgment were
considered of especial importance in deciding a literary question. We made the
little journey in the gig; Father, Mother, Susie, and Precaution. For my
part, I greatly enjoyed the visit, playing with Anna and Maria Jay. The
reading went on in the parlor, while we little people were in the nursery.
Governor Jay, venerable in appearance as in character, was one of the
audience. With his grandchildren I used to go up and kiss him for good-night,
every evening. The audience approved, although only one or two of them knew
the secret of the authorship; the MS. was supposed to be written by a friend
of my Father. There was a Miss McDonald, a friend of the Jays staying with
them at the time; she declared the book quite interesting, but it was not new;
"I am sure I have read it before," she declared -- this the author considered
as a {40} complimentary remark, as he aimed at close imitation of the Opie
School of English novels. Bedford was at that time a delightful house to visit
at; child as I was, it made this impression on me. My Father and Judge Jay
were always very intimate; they had been school boys together. Mrs. Banyer was
also a warm friend of my parents. Her husband, Mr. Gouldsborough Banyer, had
been an intimate friend of my Uncle Richard Cooper; Mrs. Banyer's wedding trip
was to Cooperstown, and she always spoke with pleasure and interest of her
visit to the old Hall; the view of the Lake she declared to be lovely from the
house at that time.
 
When Precaution was published some months later, it was generally supposed
to have been written in England, and by a lady. Many persons thought it was
written by Miss Anne De Lancey, my Mother's sister, who afterwards married Mr.
John Loudon McAdam, the great engineer of roads. This sister my Mother had
never seen! When my grandparents returned to America after the Revolution,
their eldest child was left in England with her Uncle and Aunt, Judge and Mrs.
Jones; Judge Jones was the brother of my grandmother; he took the name of
Jones from -------; he was born a Floyd. Mrs. Jones was my grandfather's
sister, Miss Anne De Lancey. They were both great Tories, and could not be
induced to return to America, and begged that their little niece might be left
with them for a time at least. So the child was left with them, and my
grandparents sailed with their little boy Thomas, and his nurse, "Nanny" --
our dear old Nanny of later days. My Grandfather considered himself an
American, not an Englishman, and now that the war was over decided to cast in
his lot with his native country. They lived in New York for a time, at {41}
the City Hotel, which belonged to my Grandfather. When we were living in the
Rue St. Dominique at Paris, one of our opposite neighbors was the duc de
Valmy, Gen. Kellerman; he one day asked my Father if he had ever known a
Madame de Lancé, in New York, remarking that he had spent some time at the
City Hotel, and there became acquainted with M. and Mme. de Lancé; the lady
he said was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. My Aunt Anne
grew up a fierce Tory, and after the death of her Uncle and Aunt Jones, could
never be induced to come to America, which was a great grief to my
grandparents. She was now credited with writing Precaution, a book, it was
said, clearly written in England, and by a woman!
 
Another little daughter now made her appearance at Angevine. She was named by
my Grandmother De Lancey, Maria Frances, after my mother's sister who had
died some years earlier. My Father for two or three years called her Velvet,
because her skin was so soft. She was baptized by the Rev. Revaud Kearney, a
cousin of our Mother's, at that time Rector of New Rochelle.
 
One day when Fanny was about a year old there was a great alarm about little
Charlotte. The child had disappeared! Could no where be found! In those days
children were not stolen, as they are in these civilized times, but it was
feared some accident had happened to her. Every corner about the house and
outbuildings was closely searched, messengers were despatched to the two or
three houses in the neighborhood, the agitation was very great. At last I had
the joy of discovering my little sister; a flock of sheep had passed on the
highway, and had been driven about three quarters of a mile down the hill, on
the road to Mamaroneck; they could plainly be {42} seen from the piazza -- and
there, trotting along behind the sheep, was a small figure which I knew must
be the missing sister. The eloping damsel was soon pursued, and brought home
in our Father's arms, bare-headed and dusty; she wanted "to see Grandma," and
intended trotting all the way to Mamaroneck. Great was our Mother's joy when
little Charley was placed in her arms.
 
Precaution having been quite as successful as he expected, the writer now
planned another book. It: was to be thoroughly American, the scene laid in
West Chester County, during the Revolution. An anecdote which Governor Jay had
told him relating to a spy, who performed his dangerous services out of pure
patriotism, was the foundation of the new book.
 
My Father never knew the name of the Spy; Governor Jay felt himself bound to
secrecy on that point. But he never for a moment believed that Enoch Crosby
was the man. Various individuals, twenty years later, claimed to have been the
original Harvey Birch. One man even asserts that Mr. Cooper used to visit at
his house frequently, for the purpose of hearing his adventures and then
writing them out in The Spy. This is utterly false. From only one person did
my Father ever receive any information connected with the life of the Spy who
was the dim original of Harvey Birch, and that person was Governor Jay. The
conversation on the piazza at Bedford relating to the patriot spy occurred a
long time before my Father dreamed of writing a book.
 
When he had fully made up his mind to write a novel entirely American, whose
scene should be laid in West Chester during the Revolution, he amused himself
by going among the old farmers of the neighborhood and hearing all the gossip
of those old times, about the "Neu{43}tral Ground" on which we were then
living the ground between the English in New York, and American forces
northward. Frequently he would invite some old farmer to pass the evening in
the parlor at Angevine, and while drinking cider and eating hickory nuts, they
would talk over the battle of White Plains, and all the skirmishes of the
Cow-Boys and Skinners. Many such evenings do I remember, as I sat on a little
bench beside my Mother, while Uncle John Hatfield, or George Willis, or one of
the Cornells related the stirring adventures of those days of the Revolution.
There was a shallow cave in a rocky ledge on the road to Mamaroneck, where a
Tory spy had been concealed, and was stealthily fed for some time. And on the
road to New Rochelle there was a grove where a sharp skirmish had taken place;
it was called the Haunted Wood -- ghosts had been seen there! The cave and the
grove were full of tragic interest to me, whenever we passed them.
 
Every chapter of The Spy was read to my Mother as soon as it was written,
and the details of the plot were talked over with her. From the first months
of authorship to the last year of his life, my Father generally read what he
wrote to my Mother.
 
The Spy, when it appeared, was brilliantly successful. Never before had an
American book attained anything like the same success.
 
During those years at Angevine our education began. Our dear Mother was our
Governess, and from time to time our Father examined us. We were "in school"
two hours, the three elder ones, Susie, Cally, and Charley, sitting round our
Mother in the parlor or dining-room, while the author and The Spy were
occupying the drawing-room. Charley could read when she was three years {44}
old. There was spelling, and writing, and arithmetic, and geography, and Mrs.
Trimmer's Bible Lessons, and the History of England. Well do I remember those
school hours. Our precious Mother was so loving and patient with us. I seem to
hear her sweet musical voice now as she talked with us. She had a remarkably
sweet voice in conversation; my friend Mrs. Hamilton Fish said to me one day
years ago, "I always thought that when novelists spoke of the musical voices
of their heroines in conversation it was pure romance, but Mrs. Cooper's voice
is melody itself." Our dear Mother had taken the trouble to write out little
cards as rewards for good conduct; Diligence, Silence, I remember
particularly, but there were others for the different lessons. Sewing was also
part of our education. The Kings of Israel and the Kings of Judah were a great
trial to me; so many of them were wicked! "Is this one going to be wicked too?
I wish they would be good!" I remember saying this to my Mother, after reading
of so many who "did evil in the sight of the Lord." What an expression that
is, "doing evil in the sight of God"! The History of England was full of
interest; it was Goldsmith's History, in four volumes, with portraits of some
of the kings. Our dear Father was so proud of our progress in English History
that on one occasion when his friend Mr. Acheson was staying at Angevine he
invited him to examine us in Goldsmith; I fancy the result was satisfactory.
As regards our sewing Cally and I must have been ambitious, for we were
encouraged to make a shirt for our Father! Well do I remember stitching the
collar and wristbands; but I doubt if that shirt was ever finished. As a
reward for this shirt-making Cally and I received a dollar, which we gave to
{45} Judge Jay for the Bible Society. Gentlemen's shirts were all made
entirely of linen in those ancient times.
 
On one occasion when our Father was driving us to Mamaroneck we were met by
one of my Uncles, who called out as he stopped his horse, "Boney is dead!!" --
"Boney" being no less a personage than the Emperor Napoleon I.
 
While we were living at Angevine my Mother lost her brother Edward. He died
after a very short illness, of dysentery. Our kinsman Dr. Watts carne from New
York to attend him, but nothing could save him. My uncle Edward was to have
been the farmer of the family. Uncle Thomas was a lawyer, Uncle William was
studying for the ministry. I remember hearing the negroes in the kitchen at
Heathcote Hill talking about "Massa Edward's ghost," which they professed to
have seen walking about the barn!
 
Our dear kind Grandmother also died while we were at Angevine. A fearful blow
this was to all the family, by whom she was fondly loved. She died of what
would now be called typhoid fever. The treatment at that time was bleeding! 

There were two marriages in the family while we were at Angevine. My uncle
Thomas married his second cousin Miss Mary Ellison of New Windsor, an Aunt to
whom we became much attached in later years. Our uncle William after his
ordination married Miss Frances Munro, the daughter of Mr. Peter Jay Munro; I
well remember their wedding visit to Angevine. And I also remember going with
my Mother to the Church at East Chester to hear my Uncle preach; he was
considered even then as a very good preacher. He was a great favorite with
Bishop Hobart.
 
{46} One afternoon in September very dark clouds began to gather over the
Sound, where we could see the vessels flying before the wind. We little people
were all called into the house. A heavy storm was at hand. The windows were
closed, but we could see the black clouds whirling about, and the trees
bending and twisting under the fierce wind, while clouds of dust rose from the
highway. Very soon the darkness increased, and shut us in so that nothing of
our fine view of the country and Sound could be seen. The force of the wind
increased terribly. The window-shutters and blinds were closed to protect the
sashes, which it was feared might be blown in. Our dear Mother collected all
of her little ones at her knee in the dining-room. Of course we did not
understand the danger, but a feeling of wonder and awe came over us. Our
Father came in, reporting the force of the wind as equalling the severest gale
he had known at sea; he said, "While I was on the piazza just now I tried to
fall to the ground, but the force of the wind held me up!" That was the storm
spoken of years later as the "September Gale." To-day it would have been
called a Cyclone. No serious damage was done at Angevine, but trees and fences
were blown down, and not an outbuilding on the place remained firm on its
foundation; barn, carriage-house, a large poultry house, and the corn-crib
were all twisted some inches out of place. I remember going about with my
Father the next day inspecting these buildings. Happily the house was
uninjured. Many vessels were wrecked by this gale, which extended over a great
extent of the country and the Ocean. The monthly Packet Ship from New York to
Liverpool, the Albion, was lost, never heard of. Among other passengers in
the Albion were Mr. and Mrs. Hyde Clarke, the eldest son of Mr. George
Clarke, and his {47} wife; they had been on a visit at Hyde, and were
returning to England when they met their sad fate in the Albion.
 
I do not remember the date of the "September Gale," and have no time to look
for it. In these "Small Memories," my dear nephews and nieces, you must please
overlook the absence of dates -- I have no time to hunt up the day and year of
many of the events mentioned. A golden silence is better than inaccuracy.
Please look for the dates yourselves.
 
One pleasant September day Cally, Charley, and myself were invited to spend
the day at Heathcote Hill, where we enjoyed ourselves very much as usual. At
dusk our Father came for us; while we were being shawled in the dining-room,
my Grandfather threw up the sash and called out, "How is Susan?"
"Comfortable!" "And the baby?" "A boy!!!" -- Here was a piece of news for us.
We had a little brother for the first time, and were eager to make his
acquaintance. Dear little fellow, he was a great pet among us as long as he
lived. He was baptized by the Rev. Revaud Kearney, Rector of the Church at New
Rochelle, a kinsman of our Mother's. My Father gave him the name of Fenimore
-- had he lived he would have been called James, or William. He was a large
fine-looking baby, and a very generous little fellow; he gave away the best of
everything he had. One day at dinner I remember Father's giving him some large
strawberries; he got down from his little chair and trotted around the table,
giving one of his strawberries to each member of the family.
 
Meanwhile writing was going on. The printing would seem to have been a slower
business than it is to-day. The new book was to give a picture of American
life in a new {48} settlement, shortly after the Revolution, and the scene
was laid at Cooperstown, on Lake Otsego. Some of the characters were drawn
from real life, but the plot was purely fiction. Monsieur Le Quoi, Major
Hartman, Ben Pump were actual colonists on Lake Otsego. Natty Bumppo was
entirely original, with the exception of his leathern stockings, which were
worn by a very prosaic old hunter, of the name of Shipman, who brought game to
the Hall. Mr. Grant was not Father Nash.
 
Our Father went frequently to New York, sometimes by the Mamaroneck stage,
sometimes in his gig, occasionally on horse back, and I can remember his
walking the 25 miles occasionally, and coming home very tired. In order to be
nearer printer and publisher, and to forward our education, it was now decided
that we should remove to New York. A vision of Europe was also arising. It is
singular, but I have only one recollection of this important removal to New
York -- I remember Mrs. Mudge, the keeper of the toll-gate at Kingsbridge,
over the Harlem River. Mrs. Mudge was an important personage in those days,
intimate with inmates of the important country houses in West Chester.
 
The house your Grandfather had rented was one of two recently built by the
Patroon, on Broadway, just above Prince Street. It was then almost "out of
town." Directly opposite to us was a modest two-story house occupied by John
Jacob Astor. Niblo's Gardens now occupies the site of the house in which we
lived. Not far above us was a very grand "Gothic edifice," St. Thomas' Church,
considered an architectural gem in those days! Next door to us was a Boarding
School, one of the best in New York; the principal was Mrs. Isabella Holt.
Here Cally and I became pupils. There were some very {49} nice girls in the
school -- Miss Elizabeth Fish, Miss Rutgers, Miss Morewood, all older than we
were, and the Langdons, granddaughters of Mr. Astor, who were about our age.
Here we sat with our feet in the stocks -- here I became very intimate with
the Kings of Egypt, and the great men of Greece. Here, if we were disorderly,
or our nails were not properly cleaned, we were obliged to wear a real
pig's-foot tied around our neck! One tragic morning Miss Morewood, the oldest
girl, eighteen, and a perfect pupil, left her work lying about, and was
condemned to wear the pig's-foot! Mrs. Holt shed a tear, Miss Morewood wept,
and I fancy we all cried -- but stem justice was administered -- the
pig's-foot was worn by the model pupil! These young ladies often were escorted
from school by their beaux. Miss Rutgers, now Mrs. -------, and a grandmother,
has been in Cooperstown lately. On one occasion I was told to write a
composition on the difference between the characters of Washington and
Franklin -- your Grandfather no sooner learned the subject allotted to me,
than he took his hat, walked in to Mrs. Holt's, and remonstrated on the folly
of giving such a task to a child of nine. That composition was never written.
 
In those days your Grandfather saw frequently many Officers of the army and
navy. I remember on one occasion his bringing General Scott home to dinner,
and my amazement at his great height -- as he stood at the window he looked
out of the upper sash. Your Grandfather was also partial to the society of
artists, all painters; there was no American sculptor in those days. Mr.
Dunlap and Mr. Cole, I remember especially. I remember being taken to see a
picture of great size, Death on the White Horse, painted by Mr. Dunlap. It was
about this {50} time that my Father planned and founded a Club to which he
gave the name of "The Lunch." It met every Thursday evening, I think at the
house of Abigail Jones, a colored cook, famous at that day, who kept the
Delmonico's of that date. Most of the prominent men of ability and character
in New York belonged to the club, which also, through its members, invited
strangers of distinction. Conversation was the object; I do not think there
was any card-playing. The evening closed with a good supper, one of the
members being caterer every Thursday, while Abigail Jones carried out the
programme to perfection in the way of cooking. Your Grandfather, when caterer,
wore a gilt key at his buttonhole. He was very social in his tastes and
habits, and full of spirited conversation, and delighted in these Lunch
meetings. Officers of the Army and Navy, the prominent Clergy, Lawyers,
Physicians, Merchants, etc., etc., belonged to the Club. Bishop Hobart was a
frequent guest. During that winter our Uncle Thomas' health failed; he removed
to New York, and my Grandfather and Aunts passed the winter in town also. They
rented a house belonging to Mrs. White, the mother of Mrs. Munro, near the
Battery, in the lower part of Broadway, then the fashionable part of the town.
My Uncle died of consumption, leaving a young widow and a baby son.
 
In the following spring we moved to Beach Street, near Greenwich Street, to a
house belonging to our Mother's cousin Henry Floyd Jones of Fort Neck. He and
my father were very intimate. Several years before her marriage your
Grandmother came near losing her life from this cousin's carelessness; he was
staying at Heathcote Hill, and taking up a gun -- there were always several in
the gun-rack in the hall -- he aimed it at his cousin {51} Susan, threatening
to shoot her. The gun was loaded -- he had believed it unloaded -- the full
charge of shot went into the wall, very near my Mother's head, as she stood
within a few feet of her cousin. Cousin Henry was almost distracted at the
thought of the risk she had run. It was a rule of my Grandfather's that every
gun carried by the sportsmen should be discharged before it was brought into
the house. But on that occasion the rule had been carelessly broken.
 
We had not been long settled in Beach Street when the yellow fever broke out
in New York. Everybody who could left the city. Our father rented a
country-house at Turtle Bay, several miles out of town at that day. It
belonged to Mrs. Winthrop, a charming old lady. I remember driving frequently
down the Avenue to the different shops, and the Post-Office, all of which had
been moved out of town, into the many villas which lined the unpaved road. The
fever was confined to the lower part of the city. A high board fence had been
built, I think near Pearl Street, shutting off the infected district, which
was entirely deserted. A young man of one of the prominent families -- I
forget which -- thought he would take a look at the deserted region. He went
to the fence, and, climbing up, looked over the deserted streets for a while.
Within a few days he was taken ill with the fever and died. While we were at
Turtle Bay our dear little brother Fenimore was taken ill from the effects of
teething. As soon as the city was declared safe we returned to Beach Street.
There Fenimore became rapidly worse, and in ---- he died, to the great grief
of our parents.
 
While we were living in Beach Street your Grandfather became interested in a
newspaper edited by his friend Colonel Gardenier, one of his military friends.
{52} It was The Patriot. My Father frequently wrote for it. At this time,
with his usual generous kindness, your Grandfather interested himself warmly
in behalf of the children of his brother William, who had died some years
earlier. The two eldest, William and Eliza, were frequently with us. William,
indeed, remained a member of our family until his death; your Grandfather took
the entire charge of him.
 
One day, as I was sitting near my Mother, your Grandfather came into the room,
with the Cooperstown paper in his hand, and without speaking pointed out a
passage to her, and then left the room. My dear Mother looked sad. It was the
burning of the house at Fenimore which was reported in the Freeman's
Journal. The stone house was very nearly finished, and was valued at $3500.
There were many incendiary fires in Cooperstown at that time, all contrived,
it was said, by one unprincipled man. Your Grandfather soon after sold the
property at Fenimore. From that time the idea of a visit to Europe became more
clearly defined. Your Grandfather always said he would not go to Europe
without his wife and children. At that time it was unusual for American
families to visit Europe. My dear Mother was rather alarmed at the idea, and
wished for time to think the plan over -- there was no intention, however, of
going immediately; business matters required delay. Beach Street was very near
St. John's Square; some of the pleasantest families in New York then lived on
the Square; among others Mr. Charles Wilkes, with whom your Grandfather was
intimate.
 
One day, at a dinner-party at Mr. Wilkes', the recently published novel "by
the author of Waverley," The Pirate, was the subject of conversation.
Several of {53} the party insisted that the book could not have been written
by a landsman. Your Grandfather thought differently, and declared that a
sailor would have been more accurate, and made more of the nautical portions
of the book. No one agreed with him; they thought that great skill had been
shown by merely touching on the sea passages; to have enlarged them would have
ruined the book: "Impossible to interest the reader deeply in a novel where
the sea was introduced too freely." Your Grandfather declared that a novel
where the principal events should pass on the Ocean, with ships and sailors
for the machinery, might be made very interesting. There was a general outcry.
Mr. Wilkes, himself a man of literary tastes, and very partial to your
Grandfather, shook his head decidedly. Nevertheless at that very moment the
author of The Spy resolved to write a clearly nautical novel. On his way
home he sketched the outline, and, arrived arrived at his house, told your
Grandmother of his plan. He always talked over his literary plans with her.
The Pilot was soon commenced, and when published proved brilliantly
successful.
 
The house in Beach Street was out of repair. The number of rats was really
alarming! I remember distinctly their running over the bed in which I slept.
It was decided that we should move to 345 Greenwich Street. Before that event
took place, however, a little brother was born to us. Your Father, my dear
Jim, was born at No. 3 Beach Street, and was named Paul. Some absurd people
thought he was named after Paul Jones! But your Grandfather always liked short
strong names for boys. He liked Giles, and Miles. Of course the baby was an
immense pet with us all, and in my capacity of elder sister, I was allowed to
play nurse very often, a task which I much enjoyed.
 
On the regular moving-day, May 1st, we were all transferred to Greenwich
Street, at that time a quiet, dignified part of the town, now a haunt of all
kinds of disreputable characters. Europe now loomed up more clearly in the
distance. A French governess was provided for us, Madame de Bruges. Your
Grandfather also took lessons with Monsieur Manesca, a refugee from St.
Domingo who had a system of his own, a very clever but peculiar man. After a
while your Grandfather took me with him, and I had regular hours also; we
walked down hand-in-hand to Liberty Street, a long walk, three times a week.
M. Manesca lived in a miserable little two-story house, wretchedly furnished;
his family were with him. They had been wealthy planters in St. Domingo, but
escaped with their lives only. His teaching was all carried on in writing; no
lessons were learned. I remember once learning a verb by heart, while your
Grandfather was taking his lesson; suddenly a gruff voice called out in loud
angry tones, and a dark face scowled at me. "Que faites-vous là,
Mademoiselle!!!"I trembled.--"Vous apprenez ce verbe par coeur??" -- "0ui,
Monsieur," in a faint tone. The long, lank figure arose, stalked over to the
corner where I sat, seized the grammar, and dashed it on the table. "Sachez,
Mademoiselle, que si vous apprenez un autre verbe par coeur je vous renverrai
-- je ne vous donnerai plus de leçons! Entendez-vous?" I forget whether I
cried, but probably came very near it. He then returned to your Grandfather,
and talked the question over with him philosophically. He did not wish to
teach a set of magpies -- he wanted his pupils to think. Such he declared
was his principle. As a general thing he approved {55} of his older and his
younger scholar. Many were the little baskets, carved out of peach-pits, cut
with his knife during our lessons, which he gave me; they were pretty little
toys. After a while he was so well satisfied with my progress that he wanted
to exhibit me to a party of gentlemen. I was frightened at the idea. But there
was no danger; your Grandfather said No very decidedly.
 
We had a negro man as waiter at that time; his name was Charles, and his
birth-place was Communipaw! He spoke negro Dutch better than English. At
that time Dutch was not infrequently heard in the streets of New York among
the negroes and work people. Charles was very fond of the baby, whom he began
very early to call "Massa Paul." Your father's nurse was a New England girl,
an admirable person in many ways; on one occasion Mrs. Shubrick, who had been
staying with us, offered her a parting gift of money, as usual -- Abby drew
back, indignant; "Mrs. Cooper paid her wages," she said; that was sufficient.
Her wages were six dollars a month. Your Grandmother wished to take her to
Europe, but Abby could not be persuaded to leave Yankeeland.
 
As a preparation for Europe we were all studying French, old and young, great
and small. My three little sisters went to a French day-school, during the
winter, where nothing but French was spoken, as the pupils were all from
French families.
 
In the summer we moved into the country, to a farmhouse at Bay-Side, near
Flushing. We had an English Governess at that time, Miss Mellish, an
excellent, warm-hearted lady, who kept up our English studies successfully.
 
With the cool weather we returned to Greenwich Street. Your Grandfather was
writing Lionel Lincoln at {56} that time. The "Lunch" was in full vigor;
they met, I think, every Thursday evening. And our French lessons with M.
Manesca were kept up regularly, and we had a French Governess, Madams de
Bruges -- Miss Mellish, to our regret, leaving us to make room for the
French-speaking lady, a common kind of person in whom none of us felt much
interest. Your Grandfather also wished William and myself to take Spanish
lessons, which we did with a certain M. Galvon; your Grandfather thought that
the intercourse with the Spanish-American countries would become so close that
the language would become a sort of necessity to an educated American. In this
he was mistaken. But he also wished William to fit himself for a position in
some merchant's counting-house. We learned to read Spanish, but the lessons
were given up after a while and never resumed. Our cousin Gouldsborough
Cooper, my Uncle Richard's eldest son, paid us a visit during the winter.
Officers of the Army and Navy, Artists, and literary men, were frequently at
the house. I particularly remember Mr. Bryant, Mr. Halleck, and Mr. Perceval
the poet, as guests at dinner. Also Mr. Cole the artist. Dr. De Kay was also a
frequent companion of your Grandfather's. Mr. Gilbert Saltonstall, a college
companion of your Grandfather, whose home was in New England, stayed at the
house repeatedly; he was a very clever man. On one occasion when Lieutenant
Commander Shubrick was going away after passing a week or two with us, he
proposed to my little sister Fanny to go with him; she was all ready for the
elopement, trotted up stairs, put together a few articles of her wardrobe,
tied them up in a handkerchief, and trotted down to the parlor all ready for
the journey; Captain {57} Shubrick was delighted with her readiness to go with
him, and frequently alluded to it in later years.
 
With the spring came another movement to the country. This time to Hallett's
Cove, to a farm-house belonging to Colonel Gibbs, a friend of my Father, whose
fine house and grounds were close at hand. The place was called Sunswick and
was opposite Blackwell"s Island. It was thoroughly country then, with only an
occasional farm-house in the neighborhood. We had a beautiful little cow,
"Betty," and a farm waggon, with black horses, in which my Father drove us
about. He frequently took us to a pleasant shady beach, where we children
picked up many pretty shells, and where we all bathed. There was a wooded
point at one end of the beach where we loitered in shade, enjoying the breeze.
A few years later Dr. Muhlenberg built his College on that point. Sunswick is
now the city of Astoria!
 
Our Father had a little sloop of his own, anchored at the wharf near the
house; he called it the Van Tromp and went to New York in it almost daily.
Frequently I went with him, resting until the turn of the tide at Mr. Wiley's
bookstore. Was this in Wall Street? I remember distinctly the abominable taste
of the water, brought to me when I was thirsty, from a pump in the streets.
For many years longer New Yorkers drank only very unpleasant water from the
street pumps.
 
General Lafayette was in America on his triumphal journey that year. On one
occasion there was some naval performance in the Bay of New York in his honor,
and the Van Tromp, with the family as passengers, went to see the show. I
remember straining my eyes to see the General. I rather think there was a race
between the crew of an English man-of-war's boat and a Yankee boat {58} rowed
by Whitehallers, said to be at that day the best oarsmen in the world. The
Americans won the race and the men gave their boat to General Lafayette.
 
Our dear Father amused himself that summer with giving us lessons in naval
architecture, object lessons, with the different craft passing in the narrow
channel between the Sunswick bank and Blackwell's Island as models. We became
very knowing in distinguishing this three-masted ship, that two-masted brig,
the schooner, and the sloop. At every turn of the tide the East River would be
full of white sails. One craft, a chebacco boat, I have never seen or heard
of since.
 
In the autumn a grand event occurred: the completing of the Erie Canal. There
was a great procession in New York, which we saw from the windows of 345
Greenwich Street. Every trade was represented in the line, with appropriate
banners and devices. One carriage, in passing our house, made an especial
demonstration; it contained gentlemen, several of whom had on the ends of
their uplifted canes slices of bread and cheese -- members of Father's Club,
The Lunch, no doubt.
 
Madame de Bruges left us, and Madame de Jordanis took her place, as Governess.
A French gentleman, the Baron de Lyon, a young littérateur, brought letters
to your grandfather. He was a great dandy, and had written several books;
novels, I fancy. I remember his dining with us, and as he sat opposite one of
those mantelpiece long mirrors he was very much occupied with admiring
himself! He also admired, however, Natty Bumppo and Chingachgook.
 
It was now quite settled that we were to sail for Europe in the following
summer. Towards the last of April the house in Greenwich Street was given up.
Your {59} Grandmother, with all of us children, went to Heathcote Hill, to
pass the month of May with our Grandfather De Lancey, and our Aunts Caroline
and Martha. We had a delightful visit. All of our old friends made much of us,
among others Auntie Jay, and her niece Cousin Effie Duyckinck, as we called
her. Our Father, after winding up his business in New York, went to
Washington, in company with the Prince of Canino, Charles Bonaparte, the
celebrated naturalist, with whom he was quite intimate. While he was in
Washington Mr. Clay offered him the position of Minister to Sweden, but he did
not wish to be tied to a diplomatic life. He preferred a Consulship, as he
wished to remain identified with the country, and thought that position would
be a protection to his family in case of troubles in Europe. The chief object
in his going to Washington was to see more of a large deputation of Indian
chiefs, from the Western tribes, of whom he had seen much while they were in
New York. He had become much interested in them, and studied them closely.
They were chiefly Pawnees and Sioux, and among them was Petelasharoo, a very
fine specimen of a warrior, a remarkable man in every way. The army officers
in charge of this deputation told him many interesting facts connected with
those tribes. He had already decided upon a new romance, connected with the
mounted tribes on the Prairies.
 
While we were at Mamaroneck I made my debut as a Sunday School teacher; a
wooden Church, small but neat, had recently been built in the village, under
the auspices of our Grandfather. It had been named St. Thomas. I taught a
class of great factory boys during our Sundays at Heathcote Hill. Our aged
Grandfather was a charming companion. On one occasion there was {60} some
allusion to a prominent English politician in the morning paper. Grandpapa
laughed: "I knew him well," he said; "I was his warming pan! I was his fag at
Harrow, and every cold night had to tumble into his bed to warm the sheets for
him!"
 
The 1st of June, 1826, the author of The Spy embarked in the good ship
Hudson, with all his family, including his nephew William, the son of his
brother William, whom he had adopted. We were five weeks at sea, landing at
Cowes, in the Isle of Wight, on the 4th of July. Great was our delight at all
the strange sights. I remember being much interested in the thatched houses,
an entire novelty to us, and in the hedges, which were much less beautiful
than we expected. We made an excursion to Carisbrooke Castle, where we were in
great excitement over the first ruin beheld by our Yankee eyes; we studied
profoundly the drawbridge, the old walls, draped in ivy, the deep well, and
the little window out of which Charles I. ought to have escaped.
 
After a delightful week at Cowes, we crossed over to Southampton, where our
Father placed us in furnished lodgings, while he went to London on business
with his publisher. Southampton was even more delightful than Cowes. There was
an old gateway, a heavy stone arch crossing the principal street, and
connected with it the gigantic figure of Sir Bevis, a knight of very ancient
times. And then Netley Abbey, a really very fine ruin, was near the town. We
went there several times, with our parents, and were in a great state of what
my dear Father called "toosey-moosey," over every broken arch and
ivy-wreathed column. We children gathered here the first scarlet field poppies
we had ever seen growing in a wheatfield. One day as we were paying our
respects to {61} Sir Bevis, in the principal street of Southampton, several
carts passed us, marked in large letters Sir William Heathcote. The name
attracted the attention of our dear Mother, whose only living brother was
William Heathcote De Lancey. She found on inquiry that all carts were taxed in
England, and the name of the owners were painted on them, by law. Sir W. H.
was a kinsman, living at a fine place, Hursley Park, not far from the town. He
was a great friend of the Poet Keble, who wrote The Christian Year. We never
saw those English Heathcotes ourselves; but our Uncle Bishop De Lancey became
quite intimate with Sir W. H. at a later day.
 
A very near relation, an Englishwoman born and bred, came to visit us at
Southampton. This was Miss Anne De Lancey, the elder sister of our dear
Mother. My Grandfather and Grandmother De Lancey, though both born in America,
of American families, were married in England; both their families were
Tories, and went to England when the Revolution broke out. My Grandfather was
an officer in the English army. Their two elder children, Thomas and Anne,
were born in England. After the Peace my grandparents returned to America,
taking their boy with them, but leaving their little girl with her Aunt, Mrs.
Jones, by whom she was brought up. Our dear Mother was agitated by this
meeting. Our Aunt was intensely English in appearance, manner, and opinions.
To the great grief of my grandparents, their English daughter could never be
induced to visit America. She was very pleasant with us all, however, and
remained some time with us. Since the death of Mrs. Jones, my Grandfather's
sister -- who was, he used to say, an angel for sweetness and goodness -- our
Aunt had passed much of her time with Lady Dundas Miss Charlotte De {62}
Lancey, a cousin of my Grandfather, and the widow of Sir David Dundas, at one
time Commander-in-Chief of the British army. Soon after she left us, our Aunt
married Mr. John Loudon McAdam, the celebrated engineer of roads, a very
clever and agreeable old gentleman, born in America, I think, but a very
prejudiced Englishman. He told my Father, on one occasion, that sheep could
never be raised in America!!
 
At the end of a few weeks we left Southampton for Havre, in a small, rickety,
jerky, dirty steamboat. On a bright moonlight night we landed on the soil of
Normandy, the native province of our Huguenot ancestors, the de Lancés. At
Havre everything was desperately foreign. After a few days we embarked for
Rouen in a tugboat. Great was our delight in the views of the banks, the open
unfenced farms, the compact dark villages, and the ruined castles. At Rouen we
passed several days under the shadow of the grand old Cathedral, which was a
great delight to him, a sublime wonder of architecture. The Hôtel de Ville,
where dear good Jeanne d'Arc was burned in the presence of mitred Bishops and
belted knights, was visited with most melancholy interest. We all spoke French
with ease, excepting my little brother, whose English was still babylike,
though in a few months he was chattering away at a great rate in pure Parisian.
 
Our dear Father bought a travelling calèche at Rouen, and we were soon
climbing the hill of St. Catherine, where we greatly enjoyed the fine view. A
Norman paysanne, in winged white cap and wooden sabots, was walking up the
hill, as well as ourselves; a dark village of some size lay among the open
patch- work fields below; my Father asked its name of the young woman. "Je ne
suis pas de ce pays là, Monsieur," she replied. She did not {63} live in the
village, and therefore did not know its name! "A Yankee girl would have known
the name of every village in sight," remarked Papa. We were travelling post,
the most charming of all ways of travelling, stopping at different points of
interest; the château de Rosney was particularly interesting to me, as I had
been reading with Mamma, a few months earlier, the Memoirs of Sully, the great
Minister of the first Bourbon King Henri IV.; Rosney was his Château. At St.
Germain we passed a delightful afternoon visiting the grand old Château and
the Park.
 
We were soon in Paris, and the first afternoon our dear Mother was enticed out
for a walk on the Boulevards by Papa. A few days more and we had left the
Hôtel de Montmorency and were regularly installed in a temporary home of our
own, as bourgeois de Paris, in the narrow, gloomy Rue St. Maur, with its
muddy gutter in the centre, and a melancholy oil lamp swinging from. a rope,
above the gutter. Our first Paris home was in a pleasant furnished apartment,
au second, in a fine old hôtel, once occupied by a ducal dignitary of the
days of Louis XIV. Towards the street it was a most gloomy looking building,
blank gray walls. But, once within the porte-cochère, all was changed; there
was a lovely garden of more than an acre, with other adjoining gardens, all
surrounded with stone walls at least twelve feet high, while groves of fine
trees appeared above the walls. The hôtel itself was on a grand scale -- a
noble stone stairway, with elaborate iron railing, rooms with very high
ceilings, wide doorways, with pictured panels above and gilt lines on the
woodwork -- large windows, and parquet floors, of course. The
rez-de-chausée, or ground floor, and the first story were occupied by a
ladies' boarding-school. {64} The second story was our home, pleasant and
confortable, but not so grand. We were to be pupils in the school of Madame
Trigant de la Tour and Madame Kautz. Our parents, wishing to be near us,
rented the second story, where we all slept, but we children took our meals at
the school. A friend of our Father's, Colonel Hunter, American Consul at
Cowes, had just placed his daughters at the Couvent du Sacré Coeur, a very
aristocratic Institution, and wished to persuade our Father to follow his
example. This suggestion was firmly declined. All the Hunter girls became
Romanists, as was natural.
 
Our school life was very happy. The teachers were very kind, and the girls
very pleasant. Impossible to have a nicer set of girls; I cannot remember the
least impropriety among them; they were very innocent, cheerful, and merry.
The large grounds were delightful; we played games, and we danced every
evening. We wore large black aprons completely covering our dresses from neck
to heels, with a large pocket on one side. There were four classes in the
School, each distinguished by its colored belt, green, orange, red, and blue,
the last being the highest. Fanny was green, Caroline and Charlotte orange,
and Suzanne red. There was a great deal of writing; grammar, geography,
history, etc., were all taught in writing. Arithmetic was the weak point; a
singular fact, since Frenchwomen of the bourgeoise class are admirable
arithmeticians. M. Cuvier once told your grandfather that all his calculations
were made by women, and he had never known them in error. M. Arago made the
same remark. Our father and mother looked very closely into everything
connected with the school, and were quite satisfied. Our meals were very good;
a cup of milk and piece of bread, or else bread soup, at 7 -- then family {65}
prayers -- study until 10; breakfast of cold meat, potatoes, and salad, with
weak wine and water, "abondance"; then recess for an hour; lessons until 2;
lunch, "gouter" of a nice roll; playtime; lessons again until 6; dinner,
very goad, a "roti" of some kind, potatoes, salad, one other vegetable, and
a: simple dessert, pudding or fruit. Playtime, games, and dancing -- study for
an hour, family prayers, and to bed. Excellent teachers for music, drawing,
and dancing. When at a later day we slept at school we had very nice single
beds, with neat painted bedsteads, white and blue. The dormitory had been a
grand salon of the time of Louis XIV., ceiling IS feet high, with gilding over
the woodwork, and quaint pictures over doors and windows.
 
The garden was a delight, two acres of pleasant walks and trees. The larger
girls had little flower-beds of their own. There were a number of locusts
among the trees; when these were in blossom we had fritters made of the
flowers for our dessert!
 
One day as we went home, our dear Mother said, "Who do you suppose has been
here this morning? Sir Walter Scott!"
 
Sir Walter had just arrived in Paris, seeking materials for his Life of
Napoleon. It was very kind in him to call on your grandfather so soon. They
had some interesting interviews.
 
The same morning General Lafayette made a long call on my Father. But that was
a common occurrence.
 
While Sir Walter Scott was in Paris the Princess Galitzin gave him a very
grand reception. It was a great event of the winter; all the fashionable
people of Paris were there. As Sir Walter says in his diary, "the Scotch and
American lions took the field together." But of {66} course Sir Walter was the
lion-in-chief. All the ladies wore Scotch plaids as dresses, scarfs, ribbons,
etc., etc.
 
The Princess Galitzin was an elderly lady, very clever, a very kind friend of
your grandfather and grandmother, and a great writer of notes, full of the
"eloquence du billet," but in the most crabbed of handwriting. She had a
married daughter, and a married son living in Paris at that time. Her
daughter-in-law, the Princesse Marie, was a charming young lady, sweet and
gentle though the daughter of that rough old hero Marshal Suwarrow, who, when
needing rest, took off his spurs on going to bed. Madame de Terzè, the
Princess' daughter, gave a brilliant child's party, to which we four little
sisters were invited. Your father, my dear Jim, had not yet put on his dancing
shoes. Another child's party, a very brilliant affair, I remember, was given
by Madame de Vivien for her granddaughters Mesdemoiselles de Lostange. The
whole Hôtel was open, and brilliantly lighted, and a company of cuirassiers in
full uniform. were on guard in the court and adjoining street, to keep order
among the coachmen and footmen. That was the most brilliant affair of the kind
that I ever attended, in my childish days.
 
But the winter brought with it a very sad trial. My dear sister Caroline was
suddenly attacked with scarlet fever of the most malignant kind. She was very
alarmingly ill. For a time she seemed in a hopeless condition. It was a very
long and a very severe illness. In fact, it was four or five years before she
recovered fully from the disease. Scarlet fever was said to be more malignant
in Paris than elsewhere. My dear Mother, dear Charlotte, Fanny, and Paul had
the disease, but in a mild form.
 
I can remember no time, from my earliest childhood, {67} when my dear Father
did not say grace at table, and also he regularly read family prayers for us
every evening. He used the prayers in the Prayer Book. At a later day, when we
had French Protestant servants, the French translation of the Prayer Book was
used. Later still, when we were living at the Hall throughout the year, he
read family prayers in the evening also.
 
While in Paris we attended the service of the English Church of the Oratoire.
Bishop Luscomb had charge of the English residents, and many Americans also
profited by his services. A year or two later my dear sister Caroline and
myself were confirmed by him at the Oratoire, and later still my younger
sisters, dear Charlotte and Fanny, were also confirmed by him.
 
My dear Father always gave each of us girls a good-night kiss, and blessing,
every evening before we went to our rooms. This habit he kept up
affectionately long after we were grown women; indeed, until the last year of
his life, when only dear Charlotte and myself were left to receive the
good-night kiss in our old home.
 
In the spring we removed to a very pleasant country house, at St. Ouen, about
a mile from the walls of Paris. M. Ternaux, a great Paris banker, was our
landlord. There were two country houses at St. Ouen; the largest was occupied
by M. Ternaux; it had quite a large park; Madame de Staë1 lived there at one
time. And at the date of the Restoration of the Bourbons Louis XVIII. passed
some days at the house of M. Ternaux before making his formal entrance into
Paris. The ground between St. Ouen and Paris was then entirely level, without
fence or hedge, and green with market gardens. It is now, I am told, enclosed
within the fortifications of Paris, and a part of the City.
 
There were many Russians in Paris at that date, and they were generally very
polite to your grandfather. They spoke French like natives.
 
A naval officer, formerly his commander when he was stationed on Lake Ontario,
Captain Woolsey, was a frequent companion of my Father during the first winter
at Paris. They one day undertook to walk around the outer walls of Paris, and
accomplished the feat successfully. The distance was, I think, eighteen miles.
To-day that enchanting, wicked, dreadful city, containing many excellent
people, and many fiendlike spirits, covers a much wider extent of ground.
 
In the spring my parents went to London, where my Father had business with his
publisher. William and little Paul were of the party. We four girls remained
at school, in the Rue St. Maur. John Bull was very civil to your Grandfather,
so far as London Society went. He dined with prominent M. P.'s, prominent
Peers, and even with Cabinet Ministers. He soon became quite intimate with Mr.
Rogers the Poet; they were much together, and enjoyed each other's society.
Mr. Rogers was very clever and witty, and had a charming bijou of a house,
full of curiosities; in his dining room was a mahogany sideboard made for him
by a journeyman cabinet maker, later the celebrated sculptor Chantrey!
 
Our Aunt Miss Anne De Lancey had married Mr. John Loudon McAdam, the great
Colossus of Roads. He was an exceedingly ugly man, but very clever and
entertaining. He took a great fancy to my little brother Paul. This little
brother had now almost entirely forgotten his English, but he chattered away
at a great rate with his French maid, Lucie. It strikes me that I have
forgotten to record a very important fact. My little {69} brother was baptized
by the Rev. Mr. Gregg, during the summer we passed at HaIlett's Cove, and I
made him quite an elaborate christening dress, with bands of insertion, tucks,
and other ornamental work.
 
Our dear Grandfather De Lancey died while my Mother was in London. His death
was a great shock to her. He died very suddenly, having just returned from a
drive, and was alone in his own room, with the young man who waited on him. My
dear Aunts Caroline and Martha, who had been most devoted daughters to him,
were greatly afflicted. They were of course obliged to leave Heathcote Hill,
where they were born, and had lived all their lives. They went to
Philadelphia, to live with their brother the Rev. William Heathcote De Lancey,
then Rector of St. Peter's Church. My Grandfather, just before his death, sent
us each a handsome Prayer-Book with our names stamped on the binding in gilt
letters. My dear Mother's Prayer-Book was of a large size; she used it
constantly herself, and during the last years of their lives my dear father
and herself used it daily together, in their private morning devotions, in
their own room. I have given directions that this Prayer Book shall be placed
under my head in my coffin. My dear Father was a great admirer of the Litany
of our Church. After his death, in speaking of their use of the Prayer-Book
together, my dear mother said to me, "Oh, he lived on those Collects the last
year of his life!"
 
In the month of July, 1828, just two years after we entered Paris, we took
leave of our dear Governesses, and school friends in the Rue St. Maur, and set
out in a roomy family carriage, coachman's box in front, rumble behind, with
our faces towards Switzerland and Italy. We travelled post -- much the
pleasantest of all modes of {69} travelling. No doubt the palace cars of the
present day are very grand and luxurious; but grandeur and luxury often leave
much real pleasantness out of sight. The postillions were very comical in
appearance, wearing huge clumsy boots that covered their entire legs, and were
stuffed with straw! Occasionally we were treated to ropes in the harness. My
father often sat on the coachman's box, and I well remember his delight at the
first sight of Mt. Blanc, like a brilliant white cloud, sixty miles away! He
stopped the carriage, and invited my dear Mother to a seat beside him. He was
also in a state of toosey-moosey over the mists which clung to the Jura
mountains, after we had once entered Switzerland. We were soon settled in a
pleasant country house near Berne, La Lorraine, which had been recently
occupied by the ex-King of Holland, Louis Buonaparte, after the crown had
fallen from, his head -- as all Napoleon's crowns were doomed to fall. It was
a very simple house, with deal floors, a stiff little garden in front, with a
stiff little fountain, quite waterless, as its sole ornament. But Oh, the
sublime view of the Alps from the windows -- the whole range of the Oberland
Alps, so grand beyond description, so beautiful beyond description, and
constantly varying in their grandeur and their beauty. In the rear of the
house was a natural terrace, where we all walked almost every evening, parents
and children enjoying the noble view. It was on that terrace that my father
taught Paul to fly his first kite, which he had made for him. Farmer Walther,
who had charge of the property, had many interesting talks with his tenant on
subjects political and military; he was very indignant at the robbery of the
Treasury of the Canton of Berne by one of Napoleon's Marshals. But then
Napoleon, while {71} grand in other ways, was grand also at Robbery. Of course
we made acquaintance with the Bears of Berne in their fosse. I doubt if many
travellers enjoyed Switzerland more than your Grandfather did; he was in a
perpetual state of toosey-moosey over the grand and the beautiful in that
Alpine region. He made many excursions among the mountains, alone with guide
and Alpenstock, with William, or occasionally in a carriage with my dear
mother, William, and myself. There were very few America~s travelling in
Switzerland in those years. Only two came to Berne during the summer we passed
there, Mr. Ray, and Mr. Low, of New York.
 
In October we took a sentimental leave of La Lorraine, and moved southward to
Florence. We travelled Vetturino in the family calèche, with four fine
horses, and a fine old cuirassier of Napoleon's wars for postillion, followed
by a fourgon which carried our baggage, and had a hooded seat in front,
occupied by William and Paul's nurse. The fourgon had only two horses, and a
subaltern of Caspar for a postillion. We crossed the Simplon before the snow
fell. Your grandfather was much interested in the great engineering work of
Napoleon, which crossed the Simplon with such a fine broad road.
 
We were soon in Italy, dear delightful Italy. We paid our homage to the
beautiful Cathedral at Milan, paid our respects to San Carlo Borromeo, and the
Lago Maggiore, halted for a day or two at Bologna, crossed the Apennines, and
were soon at the gates of Florence. Your grandfather fell in love with Italy
at first sight. And it was a love which lasted through his life-time. For
Switzerland he had a great admiration; for Italy he had a warm affection,
which neither beggars nor bandits {72} could chill. The very atmosphere of
Italy was a delight to him.
 
We were soon provided with a home of our own in Florence.