[Illustration: Elizabeth Cady Stanton]




EIGHTY YEARS AND MORE

REMINISCENCES 1815-1897


ELIZABETH CADY STANTON



"Social science affirms that woman's place in society marks the level of
civilization."




I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME TO

SUSAN B. ANTHONY,

MY STEADFAST FRIEND FOR HALF A CENTURY.




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. CHILDHOOD
II. SCHOOL DAYS
III. GIRLHOOD
IV. LIFE AT PETERBORO
V. OUR WEDDING JOURNEY
VI. HOMEWARD BOUND
VII. MOTHERHOOD
VIII. BOSTON AND CHELSEA
IX. THE FIRST WOMAN'S RIGHTS CONVENTION
X. SUSAN B. ANTHONY
XI. SUSAN B. ANTHONY (_Continued_)
XII. MY FIRST SPEECH BEFORE A LEGISLATURE
XIII. REFORMS AND MOBS
XIV. VIEWS ON MARRIAGE AND DIVORCE
XV. WOMEN AS PATRIOTS
XVI. PIONEER LIFE IN KANSAS--OUR NEWSPAPER "THE
REVOLUTION"
XVII. LYCEUMS AND LECTURERS
XVIII. WESTWARD HO!
XIX. THE SPIRIT OF '76
XX. WRITING "THE HISTORY OF WOMAN SUFFRAGE"
XXI. IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE
XXII. REFORMS AND REFORMERS IN GREAT BRITAIN
XXIII. WOMAN AND THEOLOGY
XXIV. ENGLAND AND FRANCE REVISITED
XXV. THE INTERNATIONAL COUNCIL OF WOMEN
XXVI. MY LAST VISIT TO ENGLAND
XXVII. SIXTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1832--THE
WOMAN'S BIBLE
XXVIII. MY EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
INDEX OF NAMES




LIST OF PORTRAITS.

The Author, _Frontispiece_
Margaret Livingston Cady
Judge Daniel Cady
Henry Brewster Stanton
The Author and Daughter
The Author and Son
Susan B. Anthony
Elizabeth Smith Miller
Children and Grandchildren
The Author, Mrs. Blatch, and Nora
The Author, Mrs. Lawrence, and Robert Livingston Stanton




EIGHTY YEARS AND MORE.



CHAPTER I.

CHILDHOOD.


The psychical growth of a child is not influenced by days and years, but
by the impressions passing events make on its mind. What may prove a
sudden awakening to one, giving an impulse in a certain direction that
may last for years, may make no impression on another. People wonder why
the children of the same family differ so widely, though they have had
the same domestic discipline, the same school and church teaching, and
have grown up under the same influences and with the same environments.
As well wonder why lilies and lilacs in the same latitude are not all
alike in color and equally fragrant. Children differ as widely as these
in the primal elements of their physical and psychical life.

Who can estimate the power of antenatal influences, or the child's
surroundings in its earliest years, the effect of some passing word or
sight on one, that makes no impression on another? The unhappiness of
one child under a certain home discipline is not inconsistent with the
content of another under this same discipline. One, yearning for broader
freedom, is in a chronic condition of rebellion; the other, more easily
satisfied, quietly accepts the situation. Everything is seen from a
different standpoint; everything takes its color from the mind of the
beholder.

I am moved to recall what I can of my early days, what I thought and
felt, that grown people may have a better understanding of children and
do more for their happiness and development. I see so much tyranny
exercised over children, even by well-disposed parents, and in so many
varied forms,--a tyranny to which these parents are themselves
insensible,--that I desire to paint my joys and sorrows in as vivid
colors as possible, in the hope that I may do something to defend the
weak from the strong. People never dream of all that is going on in the
little heads of the young, for few adults are given to introspection,
and those who are incapable of recalling their own feelings under
restraint and disappointment can have no appreciation of the sufferings
of children who can neither describe nor analyze what they feel. In
defending themselves against injustice they are as helpless as dumb
animals. What is insignificant to their elders is often to them a source
of great joy or sorrow.

With several generations of vigorous, enterprising ancestors behind me,
I commenced the struggle of life under favorable circumstances on the
12th day of November, 1815, the same year that my father, Daniel Cady, a
distinguished lawyer and judge in the State of New York, was elected to
Congress. Perhaps the excitement of a political campaign, in which my
mother took the deepest interest, may have had an influence on my
prenatal life and given me the strong desire that I have always felt to
participate in the rights and duties of government.

My father was a man of firm character and unimpeachable integrity, and
yet sensitive and modest to a painful degree. There were but two places
in which he felt at ease--in the courthouse and at his own fireside.
Though gentle and tender, he had such a dignified repose and reserve of
manner that, as children, we regarded him with fear rather than
affection.

My mother, Margaret Livingston, a tall, queenly looking woman, was
courageous, self-reliant, and at her ease under all circumstances and in
all places. She was the daughter of Colonel James Livingston, who took
an active part in the War of the Revolution.

Colonel Livingston was stationed at West Point when Arnold made the
attempt to betray that stronghold into the hands of the enemy. In the
absence of General Washington and his superior officer, he took the
responsibility of firing into the _Vulture_, a suspicious looking
British vessel that lay at anchor near the opposite bank of the Hudson
River. It was a fatal shot for Andre, the British spy, with whom Arnold
was then consummating his treason. Hit between wind and water, the
vessel spread her sails and hastened down the river, leaving Andre, with
his papers, to be captured while Arnold made his escape through the
lines, before his treason was suspected.

On General Washington's return to West Point, he sent for my grandfather
and reprimanded him for acting in so important a matter without orders,
thereby making himself liable to court-martial; but, after fully
impressing the young officer with the danger of such self-sufficiency on
ordinary occasions, he admitted that a most fortunate shot had been sent
into the _Vulture_, "for," he said, "we are in no condition just now to
defend ourselves against the British forces in New York, and the
capture of this spy has saved us."

My mother had the military idea of government, but her children, like
their grandfather, were disposed to assume the responsibility of their
own actions; thus the ancestral traits in mother and children modified,
in a measure, the dangerous tendencies in each.

Our parents were as kind, indulgent, and considerate as the Puritan
ideas of those days permitted, but fear, rather than love, of God and
parents alike, predominated. Add to this our timidity in our intercourse
with servants and teachers, our dread of the ever present devil, and the
reader will see that, under such conditions, nothing but strong
self-will and a good share of hope and mirthfulness could have saved an
ordinary child from becoming a mere nullity.

The first event engraved on my memory was the birth of a sister when I
was four years old. It was a cold morning in January when the brawny
Scotch nurse carried me to see the little stranger, whose advent was a
matter of intense interest to me for many weeks after. The large,
pleasant room with the white curtains and bright wood fire on the
hearth, where panada, catnip, and all kinds of little messes which we
were allowed to taste were kept warm, was the center of attraction for
the older children. I heard so many friends remark, "What a pity it is
she's a girl!" that I felt a kind of compassion for the little baby.
True, our family consisted of five girls and only one boy, but I did not
understand at that time that girls were considered an inferior order of
beings.

To form some idea of my surroundings at this time, imagine a two-story
white frame house with a hall through the middle, rooms on either side,
and a large back building with grounds on the side and rear, which
joined the garden of our good Presbyterian minister, the Rev. Simon
Hosack, of whom I shall have more to say in another chapter. Our
favorite resorts in the house were the garret and cellar. In the former
were barrels of hickory nuts, and, on a long shelf, large cakes of maple
sugar and all kinds of dried herbs and sweet flag; spinning wheels, a
number of small white cotton bags filled with bundles, marked in ink,
"silk," "cotton," "flannel," "calico," etc., as well as ancient
masculine and feminine costumes. Here we would crack the nuts, nibble
the sharp edges of the maple sugar, chew some favorite herb, play ball
with the bags, whirl the old spinning wheels, dress up in our ancestors'
clothes, and take a bird's-eye view of the surrounding country from an
enticing scuttle hole. This was forbidden ground; but, nevertheless, we
often went there on the sly, which only made the little escapades more
enjoyable.

The cellar of our house was filled, in winter, with barrels of apples,
vegetables, salt meats, cider, butter, pounding barrels, washtubs, etc.,
offering admirable nooks for playing hide and seek. Two tallow candles
threw a faint light over the scene on certain occasions. This cellar was
on a level with a large kitchen where we played blind man's buff and
other games when the day's work was done. These two rooms are the center
of many of the merriest memories of my childhood days.

I can recall three colored men, Abraham, Peter, and Jacob, who acted as
menservants in our youth. In turn they would sometimes play on the banjo
for us to dance, taking real enjoyment in our games. They are all at
rest now with "Old Uncle Ned in the place where the good niggers go."
Our nurses, Lockey Danford, Polly Bell, Mary Dunn, and Cornelia
Nickeloy--peace to their ashes--were the only shadows on the gayety of
these winter evenings; for their chief delight was to hurry us off to
bed, that they might receive their beaux or make short calls in the
neighborhood. My memory of them is mingled with no sentiment of
gratitude or affection. In expressing their opinion of us in after
years, they said we were a very troublesome, obstinate, disobedient set
of children. I have no doubt we were in constant rebellion against their
petty tyranny. Abraham, Peter, and Jacob viewed us in a different light,
and I have the most pleasant recollections of their kind services.

In the winter, outside the house, we had the snow with which to build
statues and make forts, and huge piles of wood covered with ice, which
we called the Alps, so difficult were they of ascent and descent. There
we would climb up and down by the hour, if not interrupted, which,
however, was generally the case. It always seemed to me that, in the
height of our enthusiasm, we were invariably summoned to some
disagreeable duty, which would appear to show that thus early I keenly
enjoyed outdoor life. Theodore Tilton has thus described the place where
I was born: "Birthplace is secondary parentage, and transmits character.
Johnstown was more famous half a century ago than since; for then,
though small, it was a marked intellectual center; and now, though
large, it is an unmarked manufacturing town. Before the birth of
Elizabeth Cady it was the vice-ducal seat of Sir William Johnson, the
famous English negotiator with the Indians. During her girlhood it was
an arena for the intellectual wrestlings of Kent, Tompkins, Spencer,
Elisha Williams, and Abraham Van Vechten, who, as lawyers, were among
the chiefest of their time. It is now devoted mainly to the fabrication
of steel springs and buckskin gloves. So, like Wordsworth's early star,
it has faded into the light of common day. But Johnstown retains one of
its ancient splendors--a glory still fresh as at the foundation of the
world. Standing on its hills, one looks off upon a country of enameled
meadow lands, that melt away southward toward the Mohawk, and northward
to the base of those grand mountains which are 'God's monument over the
grave of John Brown.'"

Harold Frederic's novel, "In the Valley," contains many descriptions of
this region that are true to nature, as I remember the Mohawk Valley,
for I first knew it not so many years after the scenes which he lays
there. Before I was old enough to take in the glory of this scenery and
its classic associations, Johnstown was to me a gloomy-looking town. The
middle of the streets was paved with large cobblestones, over which the
farmer's wagons rattled from morning till night, while the sidewalks
were paved with very small cobblestones, over which we carefully picked
our way, so that free and graceful walking was out of the question. The
streets were lined with solemn poplar trees, from which small yellow
worms were continually dangling down. Next to the Prince of Darkness, I
feared these worms. They were harmless, but the sight of one made me
tremble. So many people shared in this feeling that the poplars were all
cut down and elms planted in their stead. The Johnstown academy and
churches were large square buildings, painted white, surrounded by these
same sombre poplars, each edifice having a doleful bell which seemed to
be ever tolling for school, funerals, church, or prayer meetings. Next
to the worms, those clanging bells filled me with the utmost dread; they
seemed like so many warnings of an eternal future. Visions of the
Inferno were strongly impressed on my childish imagination. It was
thought, in those days, that firm faith in hell and the devil was the
greatest help to virtue. It certainly made me very unhappy whenever my
mind dwelt on such teachings, and I have always had my doubts of the
virtue that is based on the fear of punishment.

Perhaps I may be pardoned a word devoted to my appearance in those days.
I have been told that I was a plump little girl, with very fair skin,
rosy cheeks, good features, dark-brown hair, and laughing blue eyes. A
student in my father's office, the late Henry Bayard of Delaware (an
uncle of our recent Ambassador to the Court of St. James's, Thomas F.
Bayard), told me one day, after conning my features carefully, that I
had one defect which he could remedy. "Your eyebrows should be darker
and heavier," said he, "and if you will let me shave them once or twice,
you will be much improved." I consented, and, slight as my eyebrows
were, they seemed to have had some expression, for the loss of them had
a most singular effect on my appearance. Everybody, including even the
operator, laughed at my odd-looking face, and I was in the depths of
humiliation during the period while my eyebrows were growing out again.
It is scarcely necessary for me to add that I never allowed the young
man to repeat the experiment, although strongly urged to do so.

I cannot recall how or when I conquered the alphabet, words in three
letters, the multiplication table, the points of the compass, the
chicken pox, whooping cough, measles, and scarlet fever. All these
unhappy incidents of childhood left but little impression on my mind. I
have, however, most pleasant memories of the good spinster, Maria Yost,
who patiently taught three generations of children the rudiments of the
English language, and introduced us to the pictures in "Murray's
Spelling-book," where Old Father Time, with his scythe, and the farmer
stoning the boys in his apple trees, gave rise in my mind to many
serious reflections. Miss Yost was plump and rosy, with fair hair, and
had a merry twinkle in her blue eyes, and she took us by very easy
stages through the old-fashioned school-books. The interesting Readers
children now have were unknown sixty years ago. We did not reach the
temple of knowledge by the flowery paths of ease in which our
descendants now walk.

I still have a perfect vision of myself and sisters, as we stood up in
the classes, with our toes at the cracks in the floor, all dressed alike
in bright red flannel, black alpaca aprons, and, around the neck, a
starched ruffle that, through a lack of skill on the part of either the
laundress or the nurse who sewed them in, proved a constant source of
discomfort to us. I have since seen full-grown men, under slighter
provocation than we endured, jerk off a collar, tear it in two, and
throw it to the winds, chased by the most soul-harrowing expletives. But
we were sternly rebuked for complaining, and if we ventured to introduce
our little fingers between the delicate skin and the irritating linen,
our hands were slapped and the ruffle readjusted a degree closer. Our
Sunday dresses were relieved with a black sprig and white aprons. We had
red cloaks, red hoods, red mittens, and red stockings. For one's self to
be all in red six months of the year was bad enough, but to have this
costume multiplied by three was indeed monotonous. I had such an
aversion to that color that I used to rebel regularly at the beginning
of each season when new dresses were purchased, until we finally passed
into an exquisite shade of blue. No words could do justice to my dislike
of those red dresses. My grandfather's detestation of the British
redcoats must have descended to me. My childhood's antipathy to wearing
red enabled me later to comprehend the feelings of a little niece, who
hated everything pea green, because she had once heard the saying, "neat
but not gaudy, as the devil said when he painted his tail pea green." So
when a friend brought her a cravat of that color she threw it on the
floor and burst into tears, saying, "I could not wear that, for it is
the color of the devil's tail." I sympathized with the child and had it
changed for the hue she liked. Although we cannot always understand the
ground for children's preferences, it is often well to heed them.

I am told that I was pensively looking out of the nursery window one
day, when Mary Dunn, the Scotch nurse, who was something of a
philosopher, and a stern Presbyterian, said: "Child, what are you
thinking about; are you planning some new form of mischief?" "No, Mary,"
I replied, "I was wondering why it was that everything we like to do is
a sin, and that everything we dislike is commanded by God or someone on
earth. I am so tired of that everlasting no! no! no! At school, at home,
everywhere it is _no_! Even at church all the commandments begin 'Thou
shalt not.' I suppose God will say 'no' to all we like in the next
world, just as you do here." Mary was dreadfully shocked at my
dissatisfaction with the things of time and prospective eternity, and
exhorted me to cultivate the virtues of obedience and humility.

I well remember the despair I felt in those years, as I took in the
whole situation, over the constant cribbing and crippling of a child's
life. I suppose I found fit language in which to express my thoughts,
for Mary Dunn told me, years after, how our discussion roused my sister
Margaret, who was an attentive listener. I must have set forth our
wrongs in clear, unmistakable terms; for Margaret exclaimed one day, "I
tell you what to do. Hereafter let us act as we choose, without asking."
"Then," said I, "we shall be punished." "Suppose we are," said she, "we
shall have had our fun at any rate, and that is better than to mind the
everlasting 'no' and not have any fun at all." Her logic seemed
unanswerable, so together we gradually acted on her suggestions. Having
less imagination than I, she took a common-sense view of life and
suffered nothing from anticipation of troubles, while my sorrows were
intensified fourfold by innumerable apprehensions of possible
exigencies.

Our nursery, a large room over a back building, had three barred windows
reaching nearly to the floor. Two of these opened on a gently slanting
roof over a veranda. In our night robes, on warm summer evenings we
could, by dint of skillful twisting and compressing, get out between the
bars, and there, snugly braced against the house, we would sit and enjoy
the moon and stars and what sounds might reach us from the streets,
while the nurse, gossiping at the back door, imagined we were safely
asleep.

I have a confused memory of being often under punishment for what, in
those days, were called "tantrums." I suppose they were really
justifiable acts of rebellion against the tyranny of those in authority.
I have often listened since, with real satisfaction, to what some of our
friends had to say of the high-handed manner in which sister Margaret
and I defied all the transient orders and strict rules laid down for our
guidance. If we had observed them we might as well have been embalmed as
mummies, for all the pleasure and freedom we should have had in our
childhood. As very little was then done for the amusement of children,
happy were those who _conscientiously_ took the liberty of amusing
themselves.

One charming feature of our village was a stream of water, called the
Cayadutta, which ran through the north end, in which it was our delight
to walk on the broad slate stones when the water was low, in order to
pick up pretty pebbles. These joys were also forbidden, though indulged
in as opportunity afforded, especially as sister Margaret's philosophy
was found to work successfully and we had finally risen above our
infantile fear of punishment.

Much of my freedom at this time was due to this sister, who afterward
became the wife of Colonel Duncan McMartin of Iowa. I can see her now,
hat in hand, her long curls flying in the wind, her nose slightly
retrousse, her large dark eyes flashing with glee, and her small
straight mouth so expressive of determination. Though two years my
junior, she was larger and stronger than I and more fearless and
self-reliant. She was always ready to start when any pleasure offered,
and, if I hesitated, she would give me a jerk and say, emphatically:
"Oh, come along!" and away we went.

About this time we entered the Johnstown Academy, where we made the
acquaintance of the daughters of the hotel keeper and the county
sheriff. They were a few years my senior, but, as I was ahead of them in
all my studies, the difference of age was somewhat equalized and we
became fast friends. This acquaintance opened to us two new sources of
enjoyment--the freedom of the hotel during "court week" (a great event
in village life) and the exploration of the county jail. Our Scotch
nurse had told us so many thrilling tales of castles, prisons, and
dungeons in the Old World that, to see the great keys and iron doors,
the handcuffs and chains, and the prisoners in their cells seemed like a
veritable visit to Mary's native land. We made frequent visits to the
jail and became deeply concerned about the fate of the prisoners, who
were greatly pleased with our expressions of sympathy and our gifts of
cake and candy. In time we became interested in the trials and sentences
of prisoners, and would go to the courthouse and listen to the
proceedings. Sometimes we would slip into the hotel where the judges and
lawyers dined, and help our little friend wait on table. The rushing of
servants to and fro, the calling of guests, the scolding of servants in
the kitchen, the banging of doors, the general hubbub, the noise and
clatter, were all idealized by me into one of those royal festivals Mary
so often described. To be allowed to carry plates of bread and butter,
pie and cheese I counted a high privilege. But more especially I enjoyed
listening to the conversations in regard to the probable fate of our
friends the prisoners in the jail. On one occasion I projected a few
remarks into a conversation between two lawyers, when one of them turned
abruptly to me and said, "Child, you'd better attend to your business;
bring me a glass of water." I replied indignantly, "I am not a servant;
I am here for fun."

In all these escapades we were followed by Peter, black as coal and six
feet in height. It seems to me now that his chief business was to
discover our whereabouts, get us home to dinner, and take us back to
school. Fortunately he was overflowing with curiosity and not averse to
lingering a while where anything of interest was to be seen or heard,
and, as we were deemed perfectly safe under his care, no questions were
asked when we got to the house, if we had been with him. He had a long
head and, through his diplomacy, we escaped much disagreeable
surveillance. Peter was very fond of attending court. All the lawyers
knew him, and wherever Peter went, the three little girls in his charge
went, too. Thus, with constant visits to the jail, courthouse, and my
father's office, I gleaned some idea of the danger of violating the law.

The great events of the year were the Christmas holidays, the Fourth of
July, and "general training," as the review of the county militia was
then called. The winter gala days are associated, in my memory, with
hanging up stockings and with turkeys, mince pies, sweet cider, and
sleighrides by moonlight. My earliest recollections of those happy days,
when schools were closed, books laid aside, and unusual liberties
allowed, center in that large cellar kitchen to which I have already
referred. There we spent many winter evenings in uninterrupted
enjoyment. A large fireplace with huge logs shed warmth and cheerfulness
around. In one corner sat Peter sawing his violin, while our youthful
neighbors danced with us and played blindman's buff almost every evening
during the vacation. The most interesting character in this game was a
black boy called Jacob (Peter's lieutenant), who made things lively for
us by always keeping one eye open--a wise precaution to guard himself
from danger, and to keep us on the jump. Hickory nuts, sweet cider, and
_olie-koeks_ (a Dutch name for a fried cake with raisins inside) were
our refreshments when there came a lull in the fun.

As St. Nicholas was supposed to come down the chimney, our stockings
were pinned on a broomstick, laid across two chairs in front of the
fireplace. We retired on Christmas Eve with the most pleasing
anticipations of what would be in our stockings next morning. The
thermometer in that latitude was often twenty degrees below zero, yet,
bright and early, we would run downstairs in our bare feet over the cold
floors to carry stockings, broom, etc., to the nursery. The gorgeous
presents that St. Nicholas now distributes show that he, too, has been
growing up with the country. The boys and girls of 1897 will laugh when
they hear of the contents of our stockings in 1823. There was a little
paper of candy, one of raisins, another, of nuts, a red apple, an
_olie-koek_, and a bright silver quarter of a dollar in the toe. If a
child had been guilty of any erratic performances during the year, which
was often my case, a long stick would protrude from the stocking; if
particularly good, an illustrated catechism or the New Testament would
appear, showing that the St. Nicholas of that time held decided views
on discipline and ethics.

During the day we would take a drive over the snow-clad hills and
valleys in a long red lumber sleigh. All the children it could hold made
the forests echo with their songs and laughter. The sleigh bells and
Peter's fine tenor voice added to the chorus seemed to chant, as we
passed, "Merry Christmas" to the farmers' children and to all we met on
the highway.

Returning home, we were allowed, as a great Christmas treat, to watch
all Peter's preparations for dinner. Attired in a white apron and
turban, holding in his hand a tin candlestick the size of a dinner
plate, containing a tallow candle, with stately step he marched into the
spacious cellar, with Jacob and three little girls dressed in red
flannel at his heels. As the farmers paid the interest on their
mortgages in barrels of pork, headcheese, poultry, eggs, and cider, the
cellars were well crowded for the winter, making the master of an
establishment quite indifferent to all questions of finance. We heard
nothing in those days of greenbacks, silver coinage, or a gold basis.
Laden with vegetables, butter, eggs, and a magnificent turkey, Peter and
his followers returned to the kitchen. There, seated on a big ironing
table, we watched the dressing and roasting of the bird in a tin oven in
front of the fire. Jacob peeled the vegetables, we all sang, and Peter
told us marvelous stories. For tea he made flapjacks, baked in a pan
with a long handle, which he turned by throwing the cake up and
skillfully catching it descending.

Peter was a devout Episcopalian and took great pleasure in helping the
young people decorate the church. He would take us with him and show us
how to make evergreen wreaths. Like Mary's lamb, where'er he went we
were sure to go. His love for us was unbounded and fully returned. He
was the only being, visible or invisible, of whom we had no fear. We
would go to divine service with Peter, Christmas morning and sit with
him by the door, in what was called "the negro pew." He was the only
colored member of the church and, after all the other communicants had
taken the sacrament, he went alone to the altar. Dressed in a new suit
of blue with gilt buttons, he looked like a prince, as, with head erect,
he walked up the aisle, the grandest specimen of manhood in the whole
congregation; and yet so strong was prejudice against color in 1823 that
no one would kneel beside him. On leaving us, on one of these occasions,
Peter told us all to sit still until he returned; but, no sooner had he
started, than the youngest of us slowly followed after him and seated
herself close beside him. As he came back, holding the child by the
hand, what a lesson it must have been to that prejudiced congregation!
The first time we entered the church together the sexton opened a white
man's pew for us, telling Peter to leave the Judge's children there.
"Oh," he said, "they will not stay there without me." But, as he could
not enter, we instinctively followed him to the negro pew.

Our next great fete was on the anniversary of the birthday of our
Republic. The festivities were numerous and protracted, beginning then,
as now, at midnight with bonfires and cannon; while the day was ushered
in with the ringing of bells, tremendous cannonading, and a continuous
popping of fire-crackers and torpedoes. Then a procession of soldiers
and citizens marched through the town, an oration was delivered, the
Declaration of Independence read, and a great dinner given in the open
air under the trees in the grounds of the old courthouse. Each toast was
announced with the booming of cannon. On these occasions Peter was in
his element, and showed us whatever he considered worth seeing; but I
cannot say that I enjoyed very much either "general training" or the
Fourth of July, for, in addition to my fear of cannon and torpedoes, my
sympathies were deeply touched by the sadness of our cook, whose drunken
father always cut antics in the streets on gala days, the central figure
in all the sports of the boys, much to the mortification of his worthy
daughter. She wept bitterly over her father's public exhibition of
himself, and told me in what a condition he would come home to his
family at night. I would gladly have stayed in with her all day, but the
fear of being called a coward compelled me to go through those trying
ordeals. As my nerves were all on the surface, no words can describe
what I suffered with those explosions, great and small, and my fears
lest King George and his minions should reappear among us. I thought
that, if he had done all the dreadful things stated in the Declaration
of '76, he might come again, burn our houses, and drive us all into the
street. Sir William Johnson's mansion of solid masonry, gloomy and
threatening, still stood in our neighborhood. I had seen the marks of
the Indian's tomahawk on the balustrades and heard of the bloody deeds
there enacted. For all the calamities of the nation I believed King
George responsible. At home and at school we were educated to hate the
English. When we remember that, every Fourth of July, the Declaration
was read with emphasis, and the orator of the day rounded all his
glowing periods with denunciations of the mother country, we need not
wonder at the national hatred of everything English. Our patriotism in
those early days was measured by our dislike of Great Britain.

In September occurred the great event, the review of the county militia,
popularly called "Training Day." Then everybody went to the race course
to see the troops and buy what the farmers had brought in their wagons.
There was a peculiar kind of gingerbread and molasses candy to which we
were treated on those occasions, associated in my mind to this day with
military reviews and standing armies.

Other pleasures were, roaming in the forests and sailing on the mill
pond. One day, when there were no boys at hand and several girls were
impatiently waiting for a sail on a raft, my sister and I volunteered to
man the expedition. We always acted on the assumption that what we had
seen done, we could do. Accordingly we all jumped on the raft, loosened
it from its moorings, and away we went with the current. Navigation on
that mill pond was performed with long poles, but, unfortunately, we
could not lift the poles, and we soon saw we were drifting toward the
dam. But we had the presence of mind to sit down and hold fast to the
raft. Fortunately, we went over right side up and gracefully glided down
the stream, until rescued by the ever watchful Peter. I did not hear the
last of that voyage for a long time. I was called the captain of the
expedition, and one of the boys wrote a composition, which he read in
school, describing the adventure and emphasizing the ignorance of the
laws of navigation shown by the officers in command. I shed tears many
times over that performance.




CHAPTER II.

SCHOOL DAYS.


When I was eleven years old, two events occurred which changed
considerably the current of my life. My only brother, who had just
graduated from Union College, came home to die. A young man of great
talent and promise, he was the pride of my father's heart. We early felt
that this son filled a larger place in our father's affections and
future plans than the five daughters together. Well do I remember how
tenderly he watched my brother in his last illness, the sighs and tears
he gave vent to as he slowly walked up and down the hall, and, when the
last sad moment came, and we were all assembled to say farewell in the
silent chamber of death, how broken were his utterances as he knelt and
prayed for comfort and support. I still recall, too, going into the
large darkened parlor to see my brother, and finding the casket,
mirrors, and pictures all draped in white, and my father seated by his
side, pale and immovable. As he took no notice of me, after standing a
long while, I climbed upon his knee, when he mechanically put his arm
about me and, with my head resting against his beating heart, we both
sat in silence, he thinking of the wreck of all his hopes in the loss of
a dear son, and I wondering what could be said or done to fill the void
in his breast. At length he heaved a deep sigh and said: "Oh, my
daughter, I wish you were a boy!" Throwing my arms about his neck, I
replied: "I will try to be all my brother was."

[Illustration: MARGARET LIVINGSTON CADY.] [Illustration: JUDGE DANIEL
CADY.] Then and there I resolved that I would not give so much time as
heretofore to play, but would study and strive to be at the head of all
my classes and thus delight my father's heart. All that day and far into
the night I pondered the problem of boyhood. I thought that the chief
thing to be done in order to equal boys was to be learned and
courageous. So I decided to study Greek and learn to manage a horse.
Having formed this conclusion I fell asleep. My resolutions, unlike many
such made at night, did not vanish with the coming light. I arose early
and hastened to put them into execution. They were resolutions never to
be forgotten--destined to mold my character anew. As soon as I was
dressed I hastened to our good pastor, Rev. Simon Hosack, who was always
early at work in his garden.

"Doctor," said I, "which do you like best, boys or girls?"

"Why, girls, to be sure; I would not give you for all the boys in
Christendom."

"My father," I replied, "prefers boys; he wishes I was one, and I intend
to be as near like one as possible. I am going to ride on horseback and
study Greek. Will you give me a Greek lesson now, doctor? I want to
begin at once."

"Yes, child," said he, throwing down his hoe, "come into my library and
we will begin without delay."

He entered fully into the feeling of suffering and sorrow which took
possession of me when I discovered that a girl weighed less in the scale
of being than a boy, and he praised my determination to prove the
contrary. The old grammar which he had studied in the University of
Glasgow was soon in my hands, and the Greek article was learned before
breakfast.

Then came the sad pageantry of death, the weeping of friends, the dark
rooms, the ghostly stillness, the exhortation to the living to prepare
for death, the solemn prayer, the mournful chant, the funeral cortege,
the solemn, tolling bell, the burial. How I suffered during those sad
days! What strange undefined fears of the unknown took possession of me!
For months afterward, at the twilight hour, I went with my father to the
new-made grave. Near it stood two tall poplar trees, against one of
which I leaned, while my father threw himself on the grave, with
outstretched arms, as if to embrace his child. At last the frosts and
storms of November came and threw a chilling barrier between the living
and the dead, and we went there no more.

During all this time I kept up my lessons at the parsonage and made
rapid progress. I surprised even my teacher, who thought me capable of
doing anything. I learned to drive, and to leap a fence and ditch on
horseback. I taxed every power, hoping some day to hear my father say:
"Well, a girl is as good as a boy, after all." But he never said it.
When the doctor came over to spend the evening with us, I would whisper
in his ear: "Tell my father how fast I get on," and he would tell him,
and was lavish in his praises. But my father only paced the room,
sighed, and showed that he wished I were a boy; and I, not knowing why
he felt thus, would hide my tears of vexation on the doctor's shoulder.

Soon after this I began to study Latin, Greek, and mathematics with a
class of boys in the Academy, many of whom were much older than I. For
three years one boy kept his place at the head of the class, and I
always stood next. Two prizes were offered in Greek. I strove for one
and took the second. How well I remember my joy in receiving that prize.
There was no sentiment of ambition, rivalry, or triumph over my
companions, nor feeling of satisfaction in receiving this honor in the
presence of those assembled on the day of the exhibition. One thought
alone filled my mind. "Now," said I, "my father will be satisfied with
me." So, as soon as we were dismissed, I ran down the hill, rushed
breathless into his office, laid the new Greek Testament, which was my
prize, on his table and exclaimed: "There, I got it!" He took up the
book, asked me some questions about the class, the teachers, the
spectators, and, evidently pleased, handed it back to me. Then, while I
stood looking and waiting for him to say something which would show that
he recognized the equality of the daughter with the son, he kissed me on
the forehead and exclaimed, with a sigh, "Ah, you should have been a
boy!"

My joy was turned to sadness. I ran to my good doctor. He chased my
bitter tears away, and soothed me with unbounded praises and visions of
future success. He was then confined to the house with his last illness.