Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary. Daniel Dulany Addison
with the sun shining on it, and the green waving trees about it, while the waves looked so smooth in their white fringes, that I could have jumped overboard for joy! Never shall I forget that afternoon. At evening, took the cars to—somewhere, on the Chesapeake Bay, and thence to Baltimore on another boat. Saw hedges, for the first time, in Maryland. Had an unpleasant sail in an unpleasant boat. Sister and S. wretchedly seasick; so was nearly everybody, but I redeemed my fame, dancing attendance from baby to the sick ones continually. The wind blew, the boat rocked, and the tide was against us. One poor little Irish woman, who was going with her baby to meet her husband, was terribly frightened. I tried to comfort her, but she said “she would pull every curl out of her old man’s head, for sending for her and the baby.” All the while, a queer-looking German couple were on deck; the man appeared as if intoxicated, first scolding and then kissing! The wind was cold, but the man shook his fists when one young lady asked the woman to come inside and get warm. She would cry when he scolded her, and “make up” again as soon as he was disposed to. Then they would promenade together very lovingly and very awkwardly.
Came into Baltimore between ten and eleven. S. had her pocket picked on the way! Stopped at the National Hotel for the night, and left B. again in the morning, in the cars. Glad enough, too, for I hate cities, and B. worst of all. Rode through Maryland. A very delightful state, but slavery spoils it. Saw the first log-cabin; it was quite decent-looking, in comparison with the idea I had formed of it. Stopped at a station where there were three little negroes sitting on a bench, sunning themselves, and combing each other’s wool meanwhile. They looked the picture of ignorance and happiness.
Were all day Thursday riding through the State of Maryland. Saw flowers and trees in blossom: delightful country, quite hilly, and well watered. Followed the course of the Potomac a long way, and at noon stopped at Harper’s Ferry, a wild-looking place, though I think not so romantic as a place we passed just before it, where the waters curve in gentle flow from between two bold hills. Now saw the mountains around Cumberland. At Cumberland, were squeezed into a stage, to cross the Alleghenies. Oh, what misery did we not endure that night! Nine, and a baby, in the little stage! I tried to reconcile myself to my fate, but was so cross if anybody spoke to me! When we got out of the stage in the morning I felt more like a snake crawling from a heap of rocks than anything else. We stretched ourselves, and took breakfast, such as we could get, at a poor-looking tavern. Then into the stage again, and over the mountains to Brownsville; never imagined mountains could be so high, when we were riding on mountains all the time. Reached Brownsville about twelve—a dingy place down among the hills. Took a little walk here. Embarked for Pittsburgh; was glad enough to stow myself away into a berth and rest. Didn’t trouble the Monongahela with a glance after the boat started, for I was “used up.” Found ourselves at Pittsburgh in the morning, a dirty city indeed. Everything black and smoky. Should think the sun would refuse to shine upon it.
Friday noon. Here we take another boat—the “Clipper”—the prettiest one I have seen yet. Splendidly furnished, neat, comfortable berths, and all we could ask for. The Ohio is a beautiful stream. I sit in my state-room with the door open, “taking notes.” I am on the Ohio side; the banks are steep—now and then we pass a little town. We have stopped at one, now; men and boys are looking down on us from a sand-bank far above our heads. Why the people chose a sand-bank, when they might have had a delightful situation almost anywhere, I wonder much! Oh, dear! nothing looks like home! but I must not think of that, now.
Saturday noon. We are passing through a delightful country. Peach-trees along the banks of the river, in full bloom, reflected in the water by sunrise, and surrounded by newly-leaved trees of every shade of green—they were beautiful indeed. Have been perfectly charmed with the varied prospect. Hills stretching down to the margin of the river, covered with trees, and sunny little cottages nestled at their base, surrounded with every sort of fruit-tree—old trees hanging over the river, their topmost boughs crowned with the dark green mistletoe. Think I should like to live here a little while. Sat on the deck this forenoon, and sang “Sweet Home,” and “I would not live alway,” with Mr. C. and S. Thunder-storm this afternoon; went on deck after tea to see the sunset—beautiful! Water still, and reflecting gold from motionless clouds. Went out again at dusk, and heard the frogs singing. It seemed a little like Saturday evening at home; but no! Passed North Bend before sunset. Beautiful place: large house, standing back from the road, half hid by trees; a small green hill near the house covered with young trees; and a fine orchard in bloom on another hill, near by. The river bends on the Ohio side.
21st. Stopped at St. Louis, about ten o’clock. Lay here till nearly dark, waiting for canal to be mended. Oppressively hot; could not sit still nor sleep. Going through the canal very slowly.
22d. Passed through the locks in the night. Morning—found Illinois on the right. Dogwort looked sweet among the light green foliage. Stopped at Evansville in the afternoon, and took in a freight of mosquitoes. Cabin full. Retired early, to get out of their way.
23d. Played chess, forenoon. Came to the north of the bend about ten. Went on deck to see the meeting of the waters. Grand sight. Cairo, small town on the point, has been overflowed. So near my new home; begin to be homesick.
The new home was destined to be a log-cabin on Looking-Glass Prairie, St. Clair County, Illinois, with the broad rolling country all around, and a few houses in sight. This settlement was designated “Frogdom” by some of the residents.
The little family had to put up with great inconveniences, the house not even being plastered, and the furniture being of the most primitive kind. Soon after their arrival, they were all ill with malarial fever, commonly called “agey,” but their spirits never flagged. Lucy somewhere speaks of herself as having a cheerful disposition; it helped her, at this time, to deal with the discomforts of the novel surroundings. Her sister refers to her, in a letter to Beverly, as “our merry young sister Lucy.”
Some of the neighbors were not as comfortable as these new farmers. One of them, living not very far off, had for a home a hastily constructed shanty, with a bunk for a bed, and innumerable rat-holes to let the smoke out when he had a fire. Others were “right smart” folk from Pennsylvania. Her main object, however, was not to be a farmer, but to become a district-school teacher. She soon secured a position; and began the itinerant life of a teacher, spending a few months in many different places. She received her salary every three months. Once, when there was a little delay in the payment, she requested it. The forty dollars were paid with the remark that “it was a powerful lot of money for only three months’ teaching.”
The rough boys and untrained girls called forth all her patience, and the need of holding their attention forced her to adopt a straightforward method of expressing herself. Sometimes her experiences were ludicrous. One day, having to discipline a mischievous urchin, she put him on a stool near the fireplace, and then went on with the lessons, not noticing him very much. Looking to see what he was doing, she was surprised at his disappearance from the room. The question was, “Where has he gone?” It was answered by one of the scholars, “He’s gone up the chimney.” He had indeed crawled up the wide open fireplace, and, having thus escaped, was dancing a jig in front of the school-house.
Miss Larcom taught in many different places—Waterloo, Lebanon, Sugar Creek, Woodburn—and generally the rate of payment was fourteen dollars a month. Board and lodging cost her one dollar and twenty-five cents a week. She did her own washing and ironing. The frequent change of schools made her form attachments for the children that had to be quickly broken. Speaking of a farewell at one school, she said, “The children cried bitterly when I dismissed them, whether for joy or sorrow it isn’t for me to say.”
Her letters to Beverly were brimful of fun; they give, in an easy style, a vivid account of the hardships of these log-cabin days. The two following letters were written to her sisters, Abby and Lydia.
TO MRS. ABBY O. HASKELL.
Looking-Glass Prairie, May 19, 1846.
Dear Sister Abby—I think it is your turn to have a letter now, so I’ve just snuffed the candle, and got all my utensils about me, and am going to see how quickly I can write a good long one.
Well, for my convenience, I beg that you will borrow the wings of a dove, and come