Half a Century by Jane Grey Cannon Swisshelm

J >> Jane Grey Cannon Swisshelm >> Half a Century

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

HALF A CENTURY.

BY

JANE GREY SWISSHELM.

* * * * *

"God so willed:
Mankind is ignorant! a man am I:
Call ignorance my sorrow, not my sin!"

"O, still as ever friends are they
Who, in the interest of outraged truth
Deprecate such rough handling of a lie!"

ROBERT BROWNING.

1880.

PREFACE.

It has been assumed, and is generally believed, that the Anti-slavery
struggle, which, culminated in the Emancipation Proclamation of 1862,
originated in Infidelity, and was a triumph of Skepticism over
Christianity. In no way can this error be so well corrected as by the
personal history of those who took part in that struggle; and as most of
them have passed from earth without leaving any record of the education
and motives which underlay their action, the duty they neglected becomes
doubly incumbent on the few who remain.

To supply one quota of the inside history of the great Abolition war, is
the primary object of this work; but scarcely secondary to this object
is that of recording incidents characteristic of the Peculiar
Institution overthrown in that struggle.

Another object, and one which struggles for precedence, is to give an
inside history of the hospitals during the war of the Rebellion, that
the American people may not forget the cost of that Government so often
imperiled through their indifference.

A third object, is to give an analysis of the ground which produced the
Woman's Rights agitation, and the causes which limited its influence.

A fourth is, to illustrate the force of education and the mutability of
human character, by a personal narrative of one who, in 1836, would have
broken an engagement rather than permit her name to appear in print,
even in the announcement of marriage; and who, in 1850, had as much
newspaper notoriety as any man of that time, and was singularly
indifferent to the praise or blame of the Press;--of one who, in 1837,
could not break the seal of silence set upon her lips by "Inspiration,"
even so far as to pray with a man dying of intemperance, and who yet, in
1862, addressed the Minnesota Senate in session, and as many others as
could be packed in the hall, with no more embarrassment than though
talking with a friend in a chimney corner.

J.G.S.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. I FIND LIFE

II. PROGRESS IN CALVINISM, HUNT GHOSTS, SEE LA FAYETTE

III. FATHER'S DEATH

IV. GO TO BOARDING SCHOOL

V. LOSE MY BROTHER

VI. JOIN CHURCH, AND MAKE NEW ENDEAVORS TO KEEP SABBATH

VII. DELIVERER OF THE DARK NIGHT

VIII. FITTING MYSELF INTO MY SPHERE

IX. HABITATIONS OF HORRID CRUELTY

X. KENTUCKY CONTEMPT FOR LABOR

XI. REBELLION

XII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH

XIII. "LABOR--SERVICE OR ACT"

XIV. SWISSVALE

XV. WILLOWS BY THE WATER-COURSES

XVI. THE WATERS GROW DEEP

XVII. MY NAME APPEARS IN PRINT

XVIII. MEXICAN WAR LETTERS

XIX. TRAINING SCHOOL

XX. RIGHTS OF MARRIED WOMEN

XXI. PITTSBURG SATURDAY VISITER

XXII. RECEPTION OF THE VISITER

XXIII. MY CROOKED TELESCOPE

XXIV. MINT, CUMMIN AND ANNIS

XXV. FREE SOIL PARTY

XXVI. VISIT WASHINGTON

XXVII. DANIEL WEBSTER

XXVIII. FUGITIVE SLAVE LAW--THE TWO RIDDLES

XXIX. BLOOMERS AND WOMAN'S RIGHTS CONVENTIONS

XXX. MANY MATTERS

XXXI. THE MOTHER CHURCH

XXXII. POLITICS AND PRINTERS

XXXIII. SUMNER, BURLINGAME AND CASSIUS M. CLAY

XXXIV. FINANCE AND DESERTION

XXXV. MY HERMITAGE

XXXVI. THE MINNESOTA DICTATOR

XXXVII. ANOTHER VISITER

XXXVIII. BORDER RUFFIANISM

XXXIX. SPEAK IN PUBLIC

XL. A FAMOUS VICTORY

XLI. STATE AND NATIONAL POLITICS

XLII. RELIGIOUS CONTROVERSIES

XLIII. FRONTIER LIFE

XLIV. PRINTERS

XLV. THE REBELLION

XLVI. PLATFORMS

XLVII. OUT INTO THE WORLD AND HOME AGAIN

XLVIII. THE ARISTOCRACY OF THE WEST

XLIX. THE INDIAN MASSACRE OF '62

L. A MISSIVE AND A MISSION

LI. NO USE FOR ME AMONG THE WOUNDED

LII. FIND WORK

LIII. HOSPITAL GANGRENE

LIV. GET PERMISSION TO WORK

LV. FIND A NAME

LVI. DROP MY ALIAS

LVII. HOSPITAL DRESS

LVIII. SPECIAL WORK

LIX. HEROIC AND ANTI-HEROIC TREATMENT

LX. COST OF ORDER

LXI. LEARN TO CONTROL PYAEMIA

LXII. FIRST CASE OF GROWING A NEW BONE

LXIII. A HEROIC MOTHER

LXIV. TWO KINDS OF APPRECIATION

LXV. LIFE AND DEATH

LXVI. MEET MISS DIX AND GO TO FREDERICKSBURG

LXVII. THE OLD THEATER

LXVIII. AM PLACED IN AUTHORITY

LXIX. VISITORS

LXX. WOUNDED OFFICERS

LXXI. "NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP"

LXXII. MORE VICTIMS AND A CHANGE OF BASE

LXXIII. PRAYERS ENOUGH AND TO SPARE

LXXIV. GET OUT OF THE OLD THEATER

LXXV. TAKE BOAT AND SEE A SOCIAL PARTY

LXXVI. TAKE FINAL LEAVE OF FREDERICKSBURG

LXXVII. TRY TO GET UP A SOCIETY AND GET SICK

LXXVIII. AN EFFICIENT NURSE

LXXIX. TWO FREDERICKSBURG PATIENTS

LXXX. AM ENLIGHTENED

CONCLUSION

HALF A CENTURY.

CHAPTER I.

I FIND LIFE.

Those soft pink circles which fell upon my face and hands, caught in my
hair, danced around my feet, and frolicked over the billowy waves of
bright, green grass--did I know they were apple blossoms? Did I know it
was an apple tree through which I looked up to the blue sky, over which
white clouds scudded away toward the great hills? Had I slept and been
awakened by the wind to find myself in the world?

It is probable that I had for some time been familiar with that tree,
and all my surroundings, for I had been breathing two and a half years,
and had made some progress in the art of reading and sewing, saying
catechism and prayers. I knew the gray kitten which walked away; knew
that the girl who brought it back and reproved me for not holding it was
Adaline, my nurse; knew that the young lady who stood near was cousin
Sarah Alexander, and that the girl to whom she gave directions about
putting bread into a brick oven was Big Jane; that I was Little Jane,
and that the white house across the common was Squire Horner's.

There was no surprise in anything save the loveliness of blossom and
tree; of the grass beneath and the sky above; and this first indelible
imprint on my memory seems to have found this inner something I call me,
as capable of reasoning as it has ever been.

While I sat and wondered, father came, took me in his loving arms and
carried me to mother's room, where she lay in a tent-bed, with blue
foliage and blue birds outlined on the white ground of the curtains,
like the apple-boughs on the blue and white sky. The cover was turned
down, and I was permitted to kiss a baby-sister, and warned to be good,
lest Mrs. Dampster, who had brought the baby, should come and take it
away. This autocrat was pointed out, as she sat in a gray dress, white
'kerchief and cap, and no other potentate has ever inspired me with such
reverential awe.

My second memory is of a "great awakening" to a sense of sin, and of my
lost and undone condition. On a warm summer day, while walking alone on
the common which lay between home and Squire Horner's house, I was
struck motionless by the thought that I had forgotten God. It seemed
probable, considering the total depravity of my nature, that I had been
thinking bad thoughts, and these I labored to recall, that I might
repent and plead with Divine mercy for forgiveness. But alas! I could
remember nothing save the crowning crime--forgetfulness of God.

I seemed to stand outside, and see myself a mere mite, in a pink
sun-bonnet and white bib, the very chief of sinners, for the probability
was I had been thinking of that bonnet and bib. It was quite certain
that God knew my sin; and ah, the crushing horror that I could, by no
possibility conceal aught from the All-seeing Eye, while it was equally
impossible to win its approval. The Divine Law was so perfect that I
could not hope to meet its requirements--the Divine Law-giver so alert
that no sin could escape detection.

Under that cloud of doom the sunshine grew dark, and I did not dare to
move until a cheery voice called out something about my pretty bonnet,
and gave me a sense of companionship in this dreadful, dreadful world.
Rose, a large native African, had spoken to me from her place in Squire
Horner's kitchen, and I went home full of solemn resolves and sad
forebodings.

This is probably what evangelists would call my conversion, and it came
in my third summer. There was a fire in the grate when mother showed Dr.
Robt. Wilson, our family physician, a pair of wristbands and collar I
had stitched for father, and when they spoke of me as not being three
years old--but then I had in my mind the marks of that "great
awakening."

To me, no childhood was possible under the training this indicates, yet
in giving that training, my parents were loving and gentle as they were
faithful. Believing in the danger of eternal death, they could but guard
me from it, by the only means of which they had any knowledge.

Before the completion of that momentous third year of life, I had
learned to read the New Testament readily, and was deeply grieved that
our pastor played "patty cake" with my hands, instead of hearing me
recite my catechism, and talking of original sin. During that winter I
went regularly to school, where I was kept at the head of a
spelling-class, in which were young men and women. One of these, Wilkins
McNair, used to carry me home, much amused, no doubt, by my supremacy.
His father, Col. Dunning McNair, was proprietor of the village, and had
been ridiculed for predicting that, in the course of human events, there
would be a graded, McAdamized road, all the way from Philadelphia to
Pittsburg, and that if he did not live to see it his children would. He
was a neighbor and friend of Wm. Wilkins, afterwards Judge, Secretary
of War, and Minister to Russia, and had named his son for him. When his
prediction was fulfilled and the road made, it ran through his land, and
on it he laid out the village and called it Wilkinsburg. Mr. McNair
lived south of it in a rough stone house--the manor of the
neighborhood--with half a dozen slave huts ranged before the kitchen
door, and the gateway between his grounds and the village, as seen from
the upper windows of our house, was, to me, the boundary between the
known and the unknown, the dread portal through which came Adam, the
poor old ragged slave, with whom my nurse threatened me when I did not
do as she wished. He was a wretched creature, who made and sold hickory
brooms, as he dragged his rheumatic limbs on the down grade of life,
until he found rest by freezing to death in the woods, where he had gone
for saplings.

I was born on the 6th of December, 1815, in Pittsburg, on the bank of
the Monongahela, near its confluence with the Allegheny. My father was
Thomas Cannon, and my mother Mary Scott. They were both Scotch-Irish
and descended from the Scotch Reformers. On my mother's side were
several men and women who signed the "Solemn League and Covenant," and
defended it to the loss of livings, lauds and life. Her mother, Jane
Grey, was of that family which was allied to royalty, and gave to
England her nine day's queen.

This grandmother I remember as a stately old lady, quaintly and plainly
dressed, reading a large Bible or answering questions by quotations from
its pages. She was unsuspicious as an infant, always doubtful about
"actual transgressions" of any, while believing in the total depravity
of all. Educated in Ireland as an heiress, she had not been taught to
write, lest she should marry without the consent of her elder brother
guardian. She felt that we owed her undying gratitude for bestowing her
hand and fortune on our grandfather, who was but a yoeman, even if "he
did have a good leasehold, ride a high horse, wear spurs, and have
Hamilton blood in his veins." She made us familiar with the battle of
the Boyne and the sufferings in Londonderry, in both of which her
great-grandfather had shared, but was incapable of that sectarian
rancor, which marks so many descendents of the men who met on those
fields of blood and fought for their convictions.

In April, 1816, father moved from Pittsburg out to the new village of
Wilkinsburg; took with him a large stock of goods, bought property, built
the house in which I first remember him, and planted the apple tree
which imprinted the first picture on my memory. But the crash which
followed the last war with England brought general bankruptcy; the
mortgages on Col. McNair's estate made the titles valueless, and this,
with the fall of his real estate in Pittsburg, reduced father to
poverty, from which he never recovered.

CHAPTER II.

PROGRESS IN CALVINISM--HUNT GHOSTS--SEE LA FAYETTE.--AGE, 6-9.

My parents were members of the Covenanter Congregation, of which Dr.
John Black was pastor for forty-five years. He was a man of power, a
profound logician, with great facility in conveying ideas. To his pulpit
ministrations I am largely indebted for whatever ability I have to
discriminate between truth and falsehood; but the church was in
Pittsburg, and our home seven miles away, so we seldom went to meeting.
The rules of the denomination forbade "occasional hearing." Father and
mother had once been "sessioned" for stopping on their way home to hear
the conclusion of a communion service in Dr. Brace's church, which was
Seceder. So our Sabbaths were usually spent in religious services at
home. These I enjoyed, as it aided my life-work of loving and thinking
about God, who seemed, to my mind, to have some special need of my
attention. Nothing was done on that day which could have been done the
day before, or could be postponed till the day after. Coffee grinding
was not thought of, and once, when we had no flour for Saturday's
baking, and the buckwheat cakes were baked the evening before and warmed
on Sabbath morning, we were all troubled about the violation of the
day.

There was a Presbyterian "meeting-house" two miles east of Wilkinsburg,
where a large, wealthy congregation worshipped. Rev. James Graham was
pastor, and unlike other Presbyterians, they never "profaned the
sanctuary" by singing "human compositions," but confined themselves to
Rouse's version of David's Psalms, as did our own denomination. This
aided that laxness of discipline which permitted Big Jane, Adaline and
brother William to attend sometimes, under care of neighbors. Once I was
allowed to accompany them.

I was the proud possessor of a pair of red shoes, which I carried rolled
up in my 'kerchief while we walked the two miles. We stopped in the
woods; my feet were denuded of their commonplace attire and arrayed in
white hose, beautifully clocked, and those precious slices, and my poor
conscience tortured about my vanity. The girls also exchanged theirs for
morocco slippers. We concealed our walking shoes under a mossy log and
proceeded to the meeting-house.

It was built in the form of a T, of hewn logs, and the whole structure,
both inside and out, was a combination of those soft grays and browns
with which nature colors wood, and in its close setting of primeval
forest, made a harmonious picture. Atone side lay a graveyard; birds
sang in the surrounding trees, some of which reached out their giant
arms and touched the log walls. Swallows had built nests under the
eaves outside, and some on the rough projections inside, and joined
their twitter to the songs of other birds and the rich organ
accompaniment of wind and trees.

There were two sermons, and in the intermission, a church sociable, in
fact if not in name. Friends who lived twenty miles apart, met here,
exchanged greetings and news, gave notices and invitations, and obeyed
the higher law of kindness under protest of their Calvinistic
consciences. In this breathing-time we ate our lunch, went to the
nearest house and had a drink from the spring which ran through the
stone milk-house. It was a day full of sight-seeing and of solemn, grand
impressions.

Of the two sermons I remember but one, and this from the text "Many are
called but few are chosen," and the comments were Calvinism of the most
rigid school. On our way home, my brother William--three years older
than I--was very silent and thoughtful for some time, then spoke of the
sermon, of which I entirely approved, but he stoutly declared that he
did not believe it; did not believe God called people to come to him
while he did not choose to have them come. It would not be fair, indeed,
he thought it would be mean.

That evening, when we were saying the shorter catechism, the question,
"What are the decrees of God?" came to me, and after repeating the
answer, I asked father to explain it--not that I needed any explanation,
but that William might be enlightened; for I was anxious about his soul,
on account of his skepticism. Enlightened he could not be, and even to
father expressed his doubts and disapprobation. We renewed the
discussion when alone, and during all his life I labored with him; but
soon found the common refuge of orthodox minds, in feeling that those
especially loved by them will be made exceptions in the general
distribution of wrath due to unbelief.

One day I went with him to hunt the cow. We came to a wood just north of
the village, where the wind roared and shook the trees so that I was
quite awe-stricken; but he held my hand and assured me there was no
danger, until he suddenly drew me back, exclaiming:

"Oh see!" as a great tree came crashing down across the path before us,
and so near that it must have fallen on us if he had not seen it and
stepped back. Even then he refused to go home without the cow, and
taking up a daddy-long-legs, he inquired of it where she was, and
started in the direction indicated, when we were arrested by the voice
of Big Jane, who had come to search for us.

On reaching home, we found a new baby-sister, Elizabeth. Soon after her
birth, in April, 1821, father moved back to Pittsburg, and lived on
Sixth street, opposite Trinity Church, on property belonging to my
maternal grandfather. There was no church there at that time, but a
thickly peopled graveyard, which adjoined that of the First Presbyterian
Church, on the corner of Sixth and Wood. These were above the level of
the street, and were protected by a worm-fence that ran along the top of
a green bank on which we played and gathered flowers.

Grandmother took me sometimes to walk in these graveyards at night, and
there talked to me about God and heaven and the angels. I was
sufficiently interested in these, but especially longed to see the
ghosts, and often went to look for them. We had a bachelor uncle who
delighted in telling us tales of the supernatural, and he peopled these
graveyards with ghosts, in which I believed as implicitly as in the
Revelations made to John on the Isle of Patmos, which were my favorite
literature.

When the congregation concluded to abandon the "Round Church," which
stood on the triangle between Liberty, Wood and Sixth streets, and began
to dig for a foundation for Trinity, where it now stands, there was
great desecration of graves. One day a thrill of excitement and stream
of talk ran through the neighborhood, about a Mrs. Cooper, whose body
had been buried three years, and was found in a wonderful state of
preservation, when the coffin was laid open by the diggers. It was left
that the friends might remove it, and that night I felt would be the
time for ghosts. So I went over alone, and while I crouched by the open
grave, peering in, a cloud passed, and the moon poured down a flood of
light, by which I could see the quiet sleeper, with folded hands, taking
her last, long rest.

It was inexpressibly grand, solemn and sad. There were no gaslights, no
paved street near, no one stirring. Earth was far away and heaven near
at hand, but no ghost came, and I went home disappointed. Afterwards I
had a still more disheartening adventure.

I had gone an errand to cousin Alexander's, on Fifth street, stayed
late, and coming home, found Wood street deserted. The moon shone
brightly, but on the graveyard side were heavy shadows, except in the
open space opposite the church. I was on the other side, and there was
the office of the Democratic paper, and over the door the motto "Our
country, right or wrong." This had long appeared to be an uncanny spot,
owing to the wickedness of this sentiment, and I was thinking of the
possibility of seeing Auld Nick guarding his property, when my attention
was attracted to a tall, white figure in the bright moonlight, outside
the graveyard fence.

I stopped an instant, in great surprise, and listened for footsteps, but
no sound accompanied the motion. It did not walk, but glided, and must
have risen out of the ground, for only a moment before there was nothing
visible. I clasped my hands in mute wonder, but my ghost was getting
away, and to make its acquaintance I must hurry. Crossing the street I
ran after and gained on it. It passed into the shadow of the engine
house, on across Sixth street, into the moonlight, then into the shadow,
before I overtook it, when lo! it was a mortal woman, barefoot, in a
dress which was probably a faded print. Most prints faded then, and this
was white, long and scant, making a very ghostly robe, while on her head
she carried a bundle tied up in a sheet. She had, of course, come out of
Virgin alley, where many laundresses lived, and had just passed out of
the shadow when I saw her. We exchanged salutations, and I went home to
lie and brood over the unreliable nature of ghosts.

I was trying to get into a proper frame of mind for saying my prayers,
but I doubt if they were said that night, as we were soon aroused by the
cries of fire. Henry Clay was being burned, in effigy, on the corner of
Sixth and Wood streets, to show somebody's disapproval of his course in
the election of John Quincy Adams. The Democratic editor, McFarland, was
tried and found guilty of the offense, and took revenge in ridiculing
his opponents. Charles Glenn, a fussy old gentleman, member of our
church, was an important witness for the prosecution, and in the long,
rhyming account published by the defendant, he was thus remembered:

"Then in came Glenn, that man of peace,
And swore to facts as sleek as grease;
By all his Uncle Aleck's geese,
McFarland burnt the tar-barrel."

It was before this time that Lafayette revisited Pittsburg, and people
went wild to do him honor. The schools paraded for his inspection, and
ours was ranged along the pavement in front of the First Presbyterian
church, the boys next the curb, the girls next the fence, all in holiday
attire, and wearing blue badges. The distinguished visitor passed up
between them, leaning on the arm of another gentleman, bowing and
smiling as he went. When he came to where I stood, he stepped aside,
laid his hand on my head, turned up my face and spoke to me.

I was too happy to know what he said, and in all the years since that
day, that hand has lain on my brow as a consecration.

CHAPTER III.

FATHER'S DEATH.--AGE, 6-12.

In the city we went regularly to meeting, and Dr. Black seemed always to
talk to _me_, and I had no more difficulty in understanding his sermons,
than in mastering the details of the most simple duty. The first of
which I preserve the memory was about Peter, who was made to illustrate
the growth of crime. He began with boasting; then came its natural
fruit, cowardice, in following his master afar off; next falsehood, and
from this he proceeded to perjury. It did seem that a disciple of Christ
could go no further; but for falsehood and perjury there might be excuse
in the hope of reward, and Peter found a lower deep, for "he began to
curse and to swear." A profane swearer is without temptation, and serves
the devil for the pure love of the service. What more could Peter do to
prove that he knew not Jesus?

In the communion service is a ceremony called "fencing the tables,"
which consists of an appeal to the consciences of intended communicants.
Dr. Black began with the first commandment and forbade those living in
its violation to come to the table, and so proceeded through the
decalogue. When he came to the eighth, he straightened himself, placed
his hands behind him, and with thrilling emphasis said, "I debar from
this holy table of the Lord, all slave-holders and horse-thieves, and
other dishonest persons," and without another word passed to the ninth
commandment.

Soon after we returned to the city, sister Mary died of consumption, and
father's health began to fail. I have preserved the spinning wheel on
which mother converted flax yarn into thread, which she sold to aid in
the support of the family, but soon the entire burden fell on her, for
father's illness developed into consumption, from which he died in
March, 1823.

In spite of all the testamentary precautions he could take, whatever of
his estate might have been available for present support, was in the
hands of lawyers, and mother was left with her children and the debts.
There were the contents of his shop and warehouse, some valuable real
estate in Pittsburg, which had passed out of his possession on a claim
of ground-rent, and a village home minus a title.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22