The Story of My Life | Page 4

history of my life. I
have, as it were, a superstitious hesitation in lifting the veil that clings
about my childhood like a golden mist. The task of writing an
autobiography is a difficult one. When I try to classify my earliest
impressions, I find that fact and fancy look alike across the years that
link the past with the present. The woman paints the child's experiences
in her own fantasy. A few impressions stand out vividly from the first
years of my life; but "the shadows of the prison-house are on the rest."
Besides, many of the joys and sorrows of childhood have lost their
poignancy; and many incidents of vital importance in my early
education have been forgotten in the excitement of great discoveries. In
order, therefore, not to be tedious I shall try to present in a series of
sketches only the episodes that seem to me to be the most interesting
and important.
I was born on June 27, 1880, in Tuscumbia, a little town of northern
Alabama.
The family on my father's side is descended from Caspar Keller, a
native of Switzerland, who settled in Maryland. One of my Swiss
ancestors was the first teacher of the deaf in Zurich and wrote a book
on the subject of their education--rather a singular coincidence; though
it is true that there is no king who has not had a slave among his
ancestors, and no slave who has not had a king among his.
My grandfather, Caspar Keller's son, "entered" large tracts of land in
Alabama and finally settled there. I have been told that once a year he
went from Tuscumbia to Philadelphia on horseback to purchase
supplies for the plantation, and my aunt has in her possession many of
the letters to his family, which give charming and vivid accounts of
these trips.
My Grandmother Keller was a daughter of one of Lafayette's aides,
Alexander Moore, and granddaughter of Alexander Spotswood, an
early Colonial Governor of Virginia. She was also second cousin to
Robert E. Lee.
My father, Arthur H. Keller, was a captain in the Confederate Army,

and my mother, Kate Adams, was his second wife and many years
younger. Her grandfather, Benjamin Adams, married Susanna E.
Goodhue, and lived in Newbury, Massachusetts, for many years. Their
son, Charles Adams, was born in Newburyport, Massachusetts, and
moved to Helena, Arkansas. When the Civil War broke out, he fought
on the side of the South and became a brigadier-general. He married
Lucy Helen Everett, who belonged to the same family of Everetts as
Edward Everett and Dr. Edward Everett Hale. After the war was over
the family moved to Memphis, Tennessee.
I lived, up to the time of the illness that deprived me of my sight and
hearing, in a tiny house consisting of a large square room and a small
one, in which the servant slept. It is a custom in the South to build a
small house near the homestead as an annex to be used on occasion.
Such a house my father built after the Civil War, and when he married
my mother they went to live in it. It was completely covered with vines,
climbing roses and honeysuckles. From the garden it looked like an
arbour. The little porch was hidden from view by a screen of yellow
roses and Southern smilax. It was the favourite haunt of humming-birds
and bees.
The Keller homestead, where the family lived, was a few steps from
our little rose-bower. It was called "Ivy Green" because the house and
the surrounding trees and fences were covered with beautiful English
ivy. Its old-fashioned garden was the paradise of my childhood.
Even in the days before my teacher came, I used to feel along the
square stiff boxwood hedges, and, guided by the sense of smell would
find the first violets and lilies. There, too, after a fit of temper, I went to
find comfort and to hide my hot face in the cool leaves and grass. What
joy it was to lose myself in that garden of flowers, to wander happily
from spot to spot, until, coming suddenly upon a beautiful vine, I
recognized it by its leaves and blossoms, and knew it was the vine
which covered the tumble-down summer-house at the farther end of the
garden! Here, also, were trailing clematis, drooping jessamine, and
some rare sweet flowers called butterfly lilies, because their fragile
petals resemble butterflies' wings. But the roses--they were loveliest of

all. Never have I found in the greenhouses of the North such
heart-satisfying roses as the climbing roses of my southern home. They
used to hang in long festoons from our porch, filling the whole air with
their fragrance, untainted by any earthy smell; and in the early morning,
washed in the