Eighty Years and More | Page 2

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 André, 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 André, 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