by Barbara Dana
Each day one was certain to see at least one notice in the hall, announcing the all-important lectures for the day, such as DEPRAVITY, DEATH AND DAMNATION AT 2¼ OCLOCK, or THE MORTIFICATION OF THE IMPENITENT AT 3. It was a veritable battlefield through which one was required to pass if one desired any peace whatsoever!
In addition to the lectures we were divided into two groups pertaining to our status as regarded becoming Christians. Miss Whitman met with those who were already Christians, along with those who had hope of becoming same, Miss Scott with all the impenitent. I was of the latter. We were not forced to accept Christ into our hearts, yet one felt the pressure most keenly to seek the salvation of our Souls. Here I encountered difficulty, as the idea of Original Sin had never made sense to me. There were several other Christian precepts—in addition to Original Sin—that troubled me as well. I recall asking who it was wrote the Bible. When being told it was “Holy Men . . . moved by the Holy Ghost,” I found the answer puzzling, to say the least. Who were these Holy Men? And who was it exactly they were moved by? Were there Holy Women? I heard much about the “Father and the Son,” but where did I come in?
In my meetings with Miss Scott and the other impenitent girls, my thoughts returned to these questions. I sat tall, back straight against the rungs of the unforgiving chair, hands clasped in lap, attention on the earnest face of our teacher, the cadence of her words, those Bible passages on Human Depravity and the miserable Eternity that lay beyond for such as we, yet in the corner of my obstinate brain I remained unmoved. I felt the longing, the sense of being left behind, of missing what mattered most, and still the nagging voice:
Hold fast to what feels true.
When others with “no hope” began to go over to the other side, accepting Christ as they were expected to do, I felt their pity. They wondered that I did not feel strange holding back when so many had moved to the Comforting Arms of our Noble Savior. It did feel strange, yet it would have felt stranger to be dishonest. There was a different soil on which I found my feet, as when listening to Professor Hitchcock at the Academy. At those times my heart took flight—to open sky—to Possibility—to the existence of things unseen. His phrase “science proves religion” unlocked a frightful jam in reason, and I could breathe.
We were all thoroughly delighted at the prospect of Thanksgiving! Much as I loved the excitement of Mt Holyoke—the girls, the teachers, the acquisition of edifications regarding the history of Sulphuric Acid, the application of proper grammatical usage and many other points of intellectual improvement too numerous to mention—there is no place in the World to compare with the sanctity of Home. The time was to be treasured, especially as we would be denied such luxury at Christmastime. That “Pagan Festival,” as it was described by our virtuous and exceedingly energetic Principal, would have to pass unnoticed, by us at any rate. No stocking on my bedpost, bulging with thoughtful surprises. Not this year.
I was in the midst of writing another poem. We had been reading Hamlet, and I, swept away by the plight of that sorry Dane, had been toying with some verses that had sprung from an unknown corridor of my brain. The poem lived on two small scraps of paper that I kept in the pocket of my favorite calico. I had written two other poems that fall, those having found themselves at last, home in all their Spartan glory, in the top drawer of my chest, beneath the handkerchiefs. Poems are too personal to be strewn across the landscape in random fashion, to be stumbled upon by whichever disinterested party the wind might design! The first poem was the one about the Dungeon Fear. The second was a Valentine. Born as it was months before its time, it waited, needing to come into itself. Some poems appear at once, complete, as if by reason of their own design. Others need time to change and grow as I help to edge them home. The Hamlet poem was to travel with me to Amherst that Thanksgiving—a silent friend, constant through all the coming and goings of the unexpected.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving Austin came for me in the carriage. He would be taking Cousin Emily and yours truly home. The rain poured down that day, the wind howled and the brooks rushed, swelling to over-flow their expected beds, but nothing could dampen our spirits.
When the carriage stopped in front of my own dear Home I thought my heart would burst with the glory of it—and there to greet us, Mother, all tears, and Vinnie smiling, blue shawl about her shoulders. And let us not forget the cats! Pussy, tail high, wove about Vinnie’s feet. Roughnaps and Snugglepoops sat staring from the darkness of the Hallway, eyes wide, suspicious, as if we might be out to steal their peace. Noopsie Possum was not in evidence. No doubt a nap detained her elsewhere.
Austin carried our valises upstairs. As could be expected, there was all manner of fussing from Mother—were we wet, were we tired, were we hungry and did we want some tea.
“Yes, to all!” I told her.
What extraordinary days, those four at Home! Father was in fine form, regaling us with stories—including one about a group of neighbors who had banded together in search of a goat who had escaped from one of their barns, only to be found some weeks later, sitting on the owner’s front porch with a boot in its mouth. The boot belonged to another in the group, who had been searching for it with no success and had not a thought in the world that the two disappearances might be related. Father played all the parts, including the goat, who under no circumstances could be convinced to give up his treasure!
Thanksgiving morning was clear and freezing! I could only imagine what it must have been like at school, high up in my Arctic Chamber! Mother told us that her feet were “as cold as ice” and the pump handle was “frozen solid”! Mother had raised the handle high to keep it from freezing—The Frugal Housewife, page 16—as she always did in winter before retiring, but with all the excitement of our return, had neglected to throw the horse blanket over the pump, as her “personal Bible” suggested.
We skipped breakfast, going first to church, where we heard a cautionary sermon from Reverend Colton on The Perils of Retribution. Upon our return we had dinner, then calls and visits. Abby, and Mary Warner—new to Amherst, pretty, humble, with exceptional hair—and a handsome gentleman by the name of Bowdoin who worked in Father’s office, and of course Vinnie, Austin, myself, Cousin Emily and others spent a most enjoyable evening at the Macks’. It was nearly nine oclock when we returned home.
That night Father wanted to hear me play the piano. Nothing would do but that I play for him, several tunes, to which he listened with evident gratitude. And smiled! Especially when I played my own thundering composition entitled “The Devil.” Times such as those are joy upon joy. Father does not often share his Soul.
A sad note at that Thanksgiving time. We learned that beautiful Olivia Coleman—the very same girl who had provoked such jealousy among the members of our Magic Circle—had died in Princeton, New Jersey. It was Consumption did it. She had been gone a year and a half to that far-off place and I had no idea how sick she was. Eliza had been the frail one. As if that were not enough to bear, our neighbor, Jacob Holt, was stricken with the culprit as well. Austin’s rooster had been crowing under Jacob’s window for reasons unclear. I was vexed about it but was told it was amusing to Jacob, who could use all the amusement he could get.
Monday came too quickly. I hated to leave Home. I felt I would not be safe away. And what of Father and Mother? I recall my thought as I drove off the carriage.
My smile is small, but might be just the one they need.
A Place to Stand
I will now quote my grammar book, an irksome companion during my stay at Mt Holyoke. The book is called English Grammar, a bold assumption if I ever heard one, and is said to have been written by a certain Lindley Murray—or Murray Lindley—I forget which. I quote: “The dash, though often used improperly by hasty and incoherent writers, may be used with propriety, where the sentence breaks off abruptly; where a significant pause is required; or when there is an unexpected turn in the sentiment.”
When I think of my love for the dash I fear I join t
he ranks of the improper, hasty and incoherent writers sprinkled carelessly about the globe like so many errant pebbles. But I love it so—its liveliness, its thrust, its enviable ability to include a thought, yet separate that same just far enough from its preceding colleagues to keep the meaning straight. Its boldness, its daring, its sense of abandon! And the freedom, the effortless flow. Why, it takes my breath away! I doubtless express my thoughts with the utmost impropriety. No matter. It will have to do. One can’t have everything, as the saying goes nowadays.
It was not an easy thing to return to Mt Holyoke after the Holiday. Loneliness became my constant companion. I felt I would surely die without I was in the arms of my beloved family. As one might expect, my grammar book was of little consolation. My Hamlet poem, however, was. When at Home I had not been afforded the leisure to visit it, but now at night, lessons completed—dashes and all!—I arranged my thoughts on those modest scraps from my pocket. The noble Prince’s loneliness met mine—as mine met his. The arrangement afforded comfort. I feel when I am lonely that no one in the universe knows that certain pain—has never known it—and I, a lonely Soul, made lonelier by my false surmise. To know I am not alone—there begins a place to stand!
I was soon back in form as life at school reclaimed its relentless sweep through the hours of my being. Silliman’s Chemistry, Cutler’s Physiology, Samuel Phillips Newman’s Practical System of Rhetoric—these were my Preceptors. And let us not forget Olmsted’s Compendium of Astronomy, containing the merriest illustrations, not to mention the latest discoveries, although for how long they would be considered “late” I could not surmise.
On marched the lectures, the outstretched Arms of Christ awaiting the surrender of us poor souls with “no hope,” a dwindling group. And the rules! No Throwing Things from the Windows; No Speaking Above a Whisper in the Washroom; No Sleeping with the Door Closed—an odd rule if I ever heard one!—and many others too numerous to mention. There were chores, walks in the cold, calisthenics, studies, accounts, meetings, lectures and compositions. There was singing, practice upon the piano, reading—Othello and the magnificent female poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning. What strong verses for a woman to write. How brave!
My birthday passed unnoticed—I taking examination in the mathematics of Euclid to mark the day. It seems birthdays fall in the same category as Christmas at Mt Holyoke, considered serious days for contemplation rather than occasions for dreaded frivolous celebration. I turned seventeen quietly, in the space of my own brain, with none but that certain well-known mathematician for company.
Christmas was the loneliest I can remember. We stayed at school and quiet—a gruesome exercise! Alone and small at school, I thought of Home. A fire in the fireplace. Father’s slippers by the chair. Candy in my stocking. Christmas Eve late with Austin and us two by the hearth. Mother’s snow pudding. The currant wine, the singing. Father’s smile. Vinnie snoring on the couch after dinner and Noopsie Possum upside down, asleep at her side. Pussy and Snugglepoops washing themselves with their rough tongues. Roughnaps attacking a bit of colored ribbon on the parlor floor and the silent snow falling outside the window, the chickadee on the branch—puffed out—air between feathers to fortify against the cold and Mother on the lounge, feet up, under the woolen blanket. I play a tune on the piano. Father has asked!
It was different now. Silence. Fasting. A Meeting of the Impenitent. The senseless and troubling rule—No Lying on the Quilt. A melancholy overtook me. I missed my family, my Abby, my Abiah. Though Jennie was at school she had no time for her bed-jumping partner, a fact that caused me considerable grief. Cousin Emily’s presence was dear and yet I felt, despite her kindness, that no one understood me. The other girls could deal with life. I could not. I had a thinner skin.
The days after Christmas were filled with Meetings of the Impenitent. We were not penitent, not remorseful for our sins. As the primary sin in question was Original Sin and since I did not believe that I or any other of God’s creatures had been born in it, I had a hard time feeling remorseful for something that never happened. No matter. Each afternoon the Impenitent were called to meet with Miss Lyon in Room B to discuss the seriousness of our situation. The topics discussed included, but were not limited to, Hardness of the Heart, Damnation, Choose Ye This Day Whom Ye Will Serve, Excuses Made by Sinners for Not Submitting to Jesus Now, Total Depravity, and The Nature of Sin.
As we neared the time for our winter vacation—it began late in January—our numbers were fading. Each night another would weep, then the walls of reticence all awash, cross to the shore of Everlasting Protection, and I alone at sea, amid the storms of uncertainty, left to fend for myself. When the term ended I was very much relieved. Two whole weeks in the bosom of my Family!
Upon my arrival Vinnie looked more beautiful than ever, her dimensions being the envy of all the girls. She was beginning to attract considerable interest from the boys in her class, a delight to her and a matter of grave concern to Father. Vinnie and I laughed a great deal, outdoing each other with precise, perceptive mimic of many an unsuspecting neighbor. At night in our bed I told her disaster stories, the kind she so admired, making them up as I went along, or exaggerating details from actual events at school.
Mother was not well. I forget what the trouble was—a dullness of mood and something with the feet. We had to be quiet so as not to interrupt her rest. Father had just had a birthday, and not having been with him to share it, I baked him some delicious gingerbread as a present. In addition I drew him a picture in which he was carrying an extremely large briefcase, and me at the door of our house, holding the bread as he approached. He said he would keep the picture always, if not the bread. That he would eat.
That same night Father told me I would not be returning to Mt Holyoke after the first year. The Seminary program is of three years—duration. Although most girls complete one year only, I thought, being of superior intellect and doing so well in my studies, Father might consider me an exception. Several girls were completing a full two years. But Father felt a year was enough for his “delicate flower.” The ease and peace of Home would be best for my fragile constitution. I would end my schooling in August.
I was of two minds regarding Father’s decision. I would miss the studies. There is so much to learn in this world and always things one did not know before. I find it exciting to spend days gathering insight into the many wonders all around. And we had fine teachers. I would miss them and many of the girls as well. I would not miss the endless Meetings of the Impenitent, nor the lectures on the dire consequences of being left “without hope.” There was much to be said for going my own way, in my own Home, with loved ones about and books, my piano, my plants, my garden—all the most precious things of the Earth.
Vacation flew by, affording glorious days with Austin—caught up in reading The Arabian Nights—Abby and my new friend, Mary Warner—ever modest—her hair as long as ever I saw hair grow! Some fine Whiskers caught my attention. First, Thomas!—the most attractive young gentleman I may ever have seen! There was little conversation with us, but always the hope of more and watching to see if he was watching me. I have to say that sometimes I believe he was! There was also Bowdoin, from Father’s office, with whom I spent several enjoyable evenings, both alone and in general company. Bowdoin is ten years older than yours truly, a fact I find exciting, especially when I consider the attention paid so lowly a one as me.
Back to school and Valentine’s Week. No Valentines for me. Not a single one! All the girls were getting them. Well, maybe not all, but most, while I—desirable, witty, accomplished young maiden—was totally overlooked. I imagined Vinnie received many Valentines, but did not ask as I feared the truth would be less than encouraging.
Miss Lyon was not in favor of “foolish” Valentines, as she liked to call them, and forbade our sending any. Most of the girls got around the matter by writing their Valentines early and getting them to the Post Office in secret. I admired their sense of adventure.
&n
bsp; The weather was cold. No—it was freezing! Soon I felt not well, with sore throat and cough and all those familiar visitors who arrive without invitation and give no sign of future plans.
Awful Shock
My cold grew worse. I made every attempt to ignore the situation as I was enjoying my studies and enjoying some new aquaintances. No one was as dear to me as Abby or Abiah, but I did possess a fondness for several of the girls, which was really quite wonderful. The thought of leaving them and all the activity of school only to return to my bed, with Father’s constant ministering of unpleasant remedies, was not one I welcomed. I preferred to remain at school, free of the scourge of dosings from the famous “cold box.” A bleak portrait passed before my mind—Me, body flat, face pale, Father ministering, physician prodding, days with no names, “good deed ladies” visiting, Mother anxiously fussing. It was a dreary picture and so I kept my lips sealed.
After examinations were completed I was found out. At that time friends were allowed to visit. Mary—with the long hair—and Abby came to see me, but I was so sick that I could barely enjoy the visit. They could see how sick I was. I asked them not to tell Mother and Father, but my wishes were ignored. Mary told them. It was concern for my welfare made her tell. Saturday next, Austin appeared in the carriage to bring me Home.
The picture my brain had painted was nearly an exact match to the real thing. I spent a full month in the “extra room,” free from Vinnie’s snoring, but not free from Father’s tonics, physician’s queries, helpful ladies, and Mother’s anxious peering around the door, inquiring as to the state of my cough. I had not pictured the cats. They consider the “extra room” theirs. My presence in their quarters was viewed as a rude intrusion. Noopsie Possum took the whole business in stride, but was the only one, sleeping flat on the floor in the patch of sunlight by the window, waking occasionally for short periods to wash. Roughnaps had an entertaining habit of leaping in the air, boxing at specks of dust that shimmered in the rays of Noopsie Possum’s sunlight, while Snugglepoops strode in and out as the fancy moved him. Upon entering, he would stare at me with a put-upon expression, often with a poor half-dead bird locked between his jaws, then slink beneath the bed to complete the evil deed. Pussy sat in the window oblivious to the goings-on, making deep-throated growling noises as she stared at the fortunate feathered travelers who had escaped the deadly pursuits of her brother. It was quite a show and served to help pass the time when I was too weak to read. Oh, but when I felt well enough I met my Lexicon—those precious Words—with precious time to spend in joyful company! I read Evangeline and began a wonderful true adventure, Two Years Before the Mast, that being by Richard Henry Dana. I admire his spunk. He said, “No!” to those nasty measles, “I won’t have you! Be Gone!” and took to the sea for two years! The Ocean winds blew the unwanted intruders away—split them with the force of all the elements, scattering them to points unknown! Blessed recompense!