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The first eleven years of life had been passed under these happy influences of a healthy English home, when a great change of social surroundings took place, by my father’s emigration to the United States with his large and increasing family.

Early life in America.—In the month of August 1832, the family party of eight children and seven adults sailed from Bristol in the merchant ship ‘Cosmo,’ reaching New York in about seven weeks.

The cholera was raging in England when we left; we found New York comparatively deserted, from the same cause, when we arrived, and several steerage passengers died during the voyage; but the family party remained in good health, and the ocean life furnished delightful experiences to the younger travellers.

The following six years were spent in New York and its suburb, Jersey City, across the bay.

As daily pupil in an excellent school in New York, entering ardently into the anti-slavery struggle, attending meetings and societies, the years passed rapidly away. Our brothers being younger than the three elder sisters, habits of unconscious independence amongst the sisters were formed, which became a matter of course.

Often in returning home from some evening meeting in New York the hourly ferry-boat would be missed, and we have crossed by the eleven or twelve o’clock boat, with no sense of risk or experience of annoyance.

We became acquainted with William Lloyd Garrison and other noble leaders in the long and arduous anti-slavery struggle. Garrison was a welcome guest in our home. He was very fond of children, and would delight them with long repetitions of Russian poetry.

But fierce antagonisms were already aroused by this bitter struggle; and on one occasion the Rev. Samuel H. Cox, a well-known Presbyterian clergyman, and his family, sought refuge at our country house. This gentleman had stated in the pulpit that the Lord Jesus belonged to a race with darker skins than ours. At once the rumour went abroad that ‘Dr. Cox had called Jesus Christ a nigger,’ and it was resolved forthwith to lynch him! So he came out to our country house on Long Island until the storm had blown over.

Removal to Ohio, 1838.—When I was seventeen years old my father removed from New York with his family to Cincinnati, then a small but flourishing town, on the Ohio River, where a promising opening for the extension of his business presented itself.

We left New York full of hope and eager anticipation. We were delighted with the magnificent scenery of the mountains and rivers as we crossed Pennsylvania by canal and stage (for it was before the time of railways), and sailed down the noble Ohio River, then lined with forests. With eager enjoyment of new scenes, the prosperous little Western town was reached. It was picturesquely situated on a plateau, overlooking the river, and surrounded by pleasant hills.

For a few months we enjoyed the strange incidents of early Western civilisation, so different from the older society of the East.

Amongst other curious experiences, we attended a public Fourth of July picnic, held in the neighbouring woods. At this festival, the well-known ‘Come-outers’[1]—the Wattles brothers—were the chief speakers. Augustus, the elder, had established in the unsettled districts of the West what he called ‘Humanity’s Barn,’ where any human being might find a night’s shelter. His younger brother, John, was a chief speaker on this special occasion, and he concluded his speech with the following (to us) astounding sentiment, which was loudly applauded by the large assembly present—viz.: ‘Priests, Lawyers, and Doctors, the Trinity of the Devil!’

But all these curious experiences were suddenly checked by a catastrophe which compelled us to face the stern realities of life, in the strange land to which we had just removed, without friends or pecuniary resources. This was the sudden death of our earthly Providence.

The hot, oppressive summer of that Western climate proved too much for the English constitution of our father. Within a few months of our arrival in Cincinnati he died, after a short illness, from bilious fever, leaving his widow and nine children entirely unprovided for.

This irreparable loss completely altered our lives. Recovering from the first effects of the stunning blow, we began to realise our position, and the heavy responsibilities henceforth devolving on us. The three elder sisters set zealously to work, and in time established a day and boarding school for young ladies; whilst our eldest brother obtained a situation in the Court House of Cincinnati, under Major Gano.

For the next few years, until the younger children grew up and were able gradually to share in the work, we managed to support the family and maintain a home.

During this long struggle our minds rapidly opened to new views of social and religious duty in the untrammelled social atmosphere of the West.

The wider education of women was a subject then coming to the front; and we three sisters threw ourselves with ardour into the public conferences held in Cincinnati on this subject, actively supporting our staunch champion Lawyer Johnston, who ably opposed the reactionary efforts of the Roman Catholic Archbishop Purcell in his endeavour to check the liberal tendencies of the age in relation to women’s education.

About this time we had joined the Episcopal Church, being confirmed by the venerable Bishop McIlvaine of Ohio. We became members of St. Paul’s Church, of which the Rev. H. V. Johns was rector, entering heartily into its social life and teaching in its Sunday-school. We shared also in the stirring political contest which took place when General Harrison defeated Van Buren, the ‘Locofoco’[2] candidate for the presidency. We attended political conventions and public meetings, and joined in singing political songs. It was a most exciting time.

Some years later, the New England Transcendental movement spread to the West. It was the era of the Brook Farm experiment. We became acquainted with the very intelligent circle of New England society settled in Cincinnati, of which the Rev. W. H. Channing was the attractive centre. This gentleman, nephew of Dr. Ellery Channing of Boston, and father of our present parliamentary representative of the Kettering Division of Northamptonshire, was afterwards well known in Liverpool and in London. He was a man of rare moral endowments and eloquence as a speaker. His social influence on a limited circle was remarkable. Men of thought and active intelligence gathered round him. Men from New England who were then intellectual leaders of Cincinnati thought—such as James Perkins, C. P. Cranch, William Greene, and Judge Walker—formed a society of which he was the inspiring centre, a society which strongly attracted us. The ‘Dial,’ and afterwards the ‘Harbinger,’ with its anticipation of social reorganisation, were then appearing. The writings of Cousin, Carlyle, and Fourier were keenly studied, and Emerson was revolutionising American thought. I well remember the glowing face with which I found Mr. Channing reading a book just received. ‘Sit down,’ he cried, ‘and listen to this!’ and forthwith he poured forth extracts from Emerson’s essays.

Notwithstanding our close and arduous teaching occupations, we eagerly shared in the active awakening of thought that marked the time, and joined the Church of which Mr. Channing was minister.

In the year 1842, our elder brothers entering into business, the boarding-school was given up, and I occupied myself with private pupils. Whilst still engaged in this way I was invited to take charge of a girls’ district school, to be established in the town of Henderson, situated in the western part of Kentucky. The invitation seemed to promise useful remunerative work, so it was accepted.

The region of Kentucky, where I then went, was a tobacco-growing district. I there gained my first practical experience of negro slavery and the crude civilisation of a Western slave State.

This being my first separation from the family, a constant correspondence was kept up with home. Some extracts from these letters will give a curious glimpse of Kentucky rural life fifty years ago.

Henderson: March 5, 1844.

No doubt you’ve reproached me for my silence, after promising to write the second day from my arrival, but we had a very long trip, and it was not till the morning of the fourth day that I set my foot in the mud of Henderson. The ‘Chieftain’ left Cincinnati at two o’clock Wednesday morning, and in seven hours we made twenty miles. All seemed lazy on board the boat. The first night we laid up, on account of the fog; the second we spent at Louisville, the third at Evansville; we had on board a quantity of green wood, and stopped continually to take in fresh supplies. The captain, a fat, red-faced, good-natured fellow, went to sleep, or took matters very easily. As we entered the canal at Louisville he was standing on the hurricane-deck, at the head of the boat, apparently fast asleep; the helmsman steered immediately for the rough stone wall of the canal, and with a tremendous shock smashed in a great deal of the woodwork in the fore part of the boat. The captain gave one jump, wrung his hands, spun round, and went to sleep again. In the morning I went with Mr. S. into Louisville; there I got my watch-key mended (a providential piece of foresight, for ’twould have been impossible here), bought various little things, and saw also the famed Kentucky giant, and bade good-bye to Louisville, having been five hours passing through the canal. One afternoon Mr. S. was playing on his guitar on the side deck, when a great rough-looking boy made his appearance, and addressed me: ‘The ladies sent me to tell you to bring your man into the cabin, that he may sing for them.’ I translated for the man’s benefit, and a good hearty laugh we had. One of Mr. S.’s favourite amusements was to stand on the hurricane-deck with me and joke about my village; every two or three dirty-looking shanties that we passed he would tell me to look out, for he had a presentiment that we were reaching Henderson. I grew almost nervous as we were approaching the situation, for really all the little towns we had passed looked so straggling, dingy, and uninteresting that it appeared to me almost impossible for a decent individual to inhabit them; you may imagine how I felt standing, for the last time, on a bright Saturday morning, with my last friend and remaining piece of civilisation, awaiting my destiny. The clerk approached. ‘Madam, we have reached Henderson;’ the boat turns, I give one glance, three dirty old frame buildings, a steep bank covered with mud, some negroes and dirty white people at the foot, and behold all that I could see of my future home. I looked resolutely down, exclaiming (to my French friend), ‘Laide, vilain, horrible!’ but the boat touched and I was hurried off. Upon my inquiring for Dr. Wilson, a rough-looking man presented his arm, three negroes seized my trunks, to ‘tote them up,’ the steamboat shoved off, and I followed my companion—holding his hand to prevent myself slipping down the bank. In the middle of the mud I stopped to see the last of our friend and civilisation; we waved our handkerchiefs till the boat was out of sight, and then, gulping down my tears and giving a few convulsive laughs, we proceeded on our way through a dirty, little, straggling, country village; we stopped before a small frame house, entered a low, shabbily-furnished room, where a poorly-dressed, sleepy-looking woman was introduced as Mrs. Wilson. I longed to be shown to my bedroom, for my head was in a perfect whirl, but I had to sit down and talk about I know not what. At last I ventured to request permission to go upstairs; the daughter showed me up old, crooked, creaking steps, and opened the bedroom door. How shall I describe it? A little window looking upon the side of a house not two yards from it, the rough board walls daubed with old whitewash, the bed, the furniture, dirty, covered with litter and dust, all gloomy and wretched. My disposition to cry vanished at once, tears froze far below zero; I smiled on my companion, who stood examining me, and asked to have my trunks carried up. This request brought my hostess, who with some confusion told me, ‘This was not to be my home, but that her niece was gone to make some preparations for my reception and would take me there in the evening, she being perfectly aware that I could not live in such a hole.’ The word ‘hole’ revived me; the inhabitants of Henderson were, then, not perfectly blind; they had some little consciousness that there were degrees of decency; there was a small ray of comfort in that little word ‘hole.’ I descended, and soon found that everything proceeded with real Kentucky slowness. Begin to teach on Monday! This was utterly impossible! The idea seemed to them preposterous, the schoolhouse was hardly selected, the windows were broken, the floor and walls filthy, the plaster fallen off, the responsible trustees not appointed, the scholars unnotified of my arrival; no, ’twas impossible, I must wait a week; but the idea of spending an unnecessary week in Henderson was insupportable, so I urged and argued, and persuaded and ran about, till a man was sent to mend the windows, and another to clean the floor, and the Responsibles came to visit me, and promised to collect the scholars, and on Monday I was to begin. Then, to avoid the necessity of having to sit and repeat wearisome inanities, I set out, accompanied by the daughter, to view the so-called city. All looked dreary on a dull winter day—in fact, Henderson is a very small, very uninteresting country place, though, it must be confessed, the view of it from the river is the worst of all. Towards evening I took a look at my schoolhouse; nothing was done but mischief. The old negro had flooded the muddy floor with water and gone away, leaving the floor like the bed of the Nile; ’twas now too late to get the place into order. The people are very pious, nothing could be done Sunday; so, cursing the laziness of a slave society, I resigned myself to fate, and followed my young hostess—a tall, graceful, sleepy-eyed girl—to my new quarters.

A substantial, rough brick house opened its enormous gates to receive me. I entered a small, high-ceilinged bedroom, where I was to make one of four, and then my conductress glided away to bring her mother and two other sisters. The sight of the sisters somewhat consoled me, because I immediately hoped to be able to teach for my board. The mother received me with good-nature, and ever since I’ve been here the whole family have treated me with kindness to the extent of their knowledge, one portion of which is never to leave me alone, and I, who so love a hermit life for a good part of the day, find myself living in public, and almost losing my identity. Well, Sunday, and a refreshing Presbyterian sermon, of an eternity’s duration, I must leave to your imagination. Monday I ran about, and at last seated myself in Dr. Wilson’s parlour, where I received a visit from one of the Responsibles, a fussy, pompous little doctor, who talked grandly, whereupon I talked grandlier, upon which he told me this was an epoch in the history of Henderson. Then in came the other Responsibles, when I spoke and they rejoined, and the little doctor called to order, and after a wonderful quantity of fuss the schoolhouse was pitched upon, put into something like order, and on Tuesday morning I took my seat at the head of fourteen girls, and organised my school.

March 20, 1844.—So far as I can learn I give general satisfaction, but I believe the people are a little afraid of me, particularly when they see me read German (for I often forget myself with Hoffman). I am amused to learn accidentally how I have been talked over in every direction, and my teeth particularly admired in peculiarly Kentucky style. ‘Well, I do declare she’s got a clean mouth, hasn’t she!’—white teeth seeming remarkable where all use tobacco! All the chief people of the place have called on me, which plagues me dreadfully, as I have to return the calls, and find them in the lowest degree uninteresting, with nothing to do but knit, nothing to hear but their own petty affairs. Then they are most unmerciful in the length of visit. If they live in what is called out of town, nothing will satisfy but giving up the afternoon, taking tea, and sleeping. The sleeping I have victoriously fought against, but the rest I have sometimes been betrayed into, and have sat hour after hour striving dreadfully to take an interest in the gossip, swallowing yawns until my eyes watered, and then suddenly awaking out of a long reverie on all of you to the consciousness that everybody is sitting in an awkward silence, and that it is absolutely necessary to say something. The first evening I so spent I was rejoicing at the prospect of escape, for the watches had been pulled out, and it was declared late (half-past eight), when I was taken quite by surprise by seeing the Episcopal clergyman who was present seat himself by the table with a large Bible before him, wipe his spectacles, and give a preparatory hem! I gave an inward groan, sat down again and looked with a long face steadily at the fire, whilst a north-wester was blowing all the time through a crack of the door into my ear. As we knelt down, and I looked round at the funny kneeling figures and up at the walls of a real log cabin, and on one side at the immense wood fire, it all seemed so very odd that I almost began to doubt my own identity.

We have had miserable weather for more than a week. The house, though substantially built of brick, with a deep verandah all round, is dreadfully cold; the two immense brick-paved halls, which cross in the centre, have great doors almost always open. The four rooms occupying the four corners, in one of which we sleep, have chimneys, all of which smoke. Then none of the windows seem to fit, and there are holes in the wall where the plaster has been knocked off, and will be replaced, I suppose, next doomsday. ’Tis pretty much the same in the schoolhouse. There, one very cold day, I drew my feet on the bar of my chair, then I put on my worsted gloves, then drew on my blanket shawl; and, finally, finding a great blowing about my head from everywhere in general, I put on my hood!...

April 4.—The young ladies and gentlemen of Henderson are most contemptible walkers, opening wide their eyes at the idea of two or three miles, and telling doleful tales of blistered feet, wild bulls, and furious dogs, of which latter there is certainly a larger supply than at any place I have ever seen. Every negro has his pet dog, the more savage the better, and all the masters follow their example.

I had a good fright from some of them yesterday, as I was returning from school. I’d no sooner crossed the steps that lead into the lawn than an enormous brindled fellow, with black, devilish face, sprang furiously towards me, followed by two others, barking and showing their horrid jaws. Now, thought I, my time has come! I hesitated whether I should endeavour to tear their mouths open, or jump upon them and crush them, should the worst arrive. I involuntarily thought of A., who has a horror of dogs, and then called out in my blandest tones, ‘Poor fellows; po-or fellows!’ The voice had the desired effect, and instead of having to fight Samson-wise, the gentlemen contented themselves with jumping upon me and knocking my dinner-tray out of my hand. I am in general quite a favourite with the canine race, and have not the slightest fear of them, which the ladies here can hardly believe, as their life is almost a torment to them for fear of dogs and cows; indeed, I would always sooner meet a dozen dogs than one negro, and the only uneasiness I have in taking my long, solitary walks proceeds from this; for of all brutes the human brute is the worst, and I never meet one in a lonely place without feeling a sudden perspiration.

I dislike slavery more and more every day; I suppose I see it here in its mildest form, and since my residence here I have heard of no use being made of the whipping-post, nor any instance of downright cruelty. (It was really meant as an act of hospitality when they placed a little negro girl as a screen between me and the fire the other day!) But to live in the midst of beings degraded to the utmost in body and mind, drudging on from earliest morning to latest night, cuffed about by everyone, scolded at all day long, blamed unjustly, and without spirit enough to reply, with no consideration in any way for their feelings, with no hope for the future, smelling horribly, and as ugly as Satan—to live in their midst, utterly unable to help them, is to me dreadful, and what I would not do long for any consideration. Meanwhile I treat them civilly, and dispense with their services as much as possible, for which I believe the poor creatures despise me. The mistresses pique themselves on the advantageous situation of their blacks; they positively think them very well off, and triumphantly compare their position with that of the poor in England and other countries. I endeavour, in reply, to slide in a little truth through the small apertures of their minds, for were I to come out broadly with my simple, honest opinion I should shut them up tight, arm all their prejudices, and do ten times more harm than good. I do long to get hold of someone to whom I can talk frankly; this constant smiling and bowing and wearing a mask provokes me intolerably; it sends me internally to the other extreme, and I shall soon, I think, rush into the woods, vilify Henderson, curse the Whigs, and rail at the Orthodox, whose bells have been going in a fruitless effort at revivals ever since I have been here. Not, mind, mother, that I really have such diabolical feelings against the poor Orthodox in general and particular, but I have an intense longing to scream, and everyone here speaks in a whisper.

My school, I think I have told you, is limited to twenty-one; it has been full for some time, and many have been refused. The girls are a good, pleasant set, much more gentle than in Cincinnati, and all with faces that seem familiar to me; in fact, I have hardly seen a face in Henderson that does not torment me with a likeness to some former acquaintance. My school hours for the present are from nine to three. At half-past twelve I ring my bell, when there is a general rush and devouring. I uncover the tin knife-box devoted to me, and find regularly inside a saucer with three or four little slices of ham, a roll, a piece of corn bread, a cup of cream, and a raw egg; the latter I throw into the hot ashes, and when it has split with a loud report I take it out, and, peeling off the coating of burnt egg and ashes, am generally happy enough to find a little clean piece in the middle, which I swallow, and burn my throat. Then I put on my hood and gloves, and walk up and down under a tree in front of the schoolhouse, eating the remainder, and endeavouring not to think of you all, as I find it does not assist the digestion.

I used to look sentimentally to one corner of the heavens and fancy I saw you all, when one evening, to my amazement, I beheld the sun set in that corner, so I had to turn right round and look in the opposite direction, anathematising the river for being so stupid as to wind, and convert the sublime imaginings of a forlorn damsel into a ridiculous blunder.

I have at present four music scholars, and one out-of-school French, but two go for boarding. I teach ten hours, three days of the week, and wish the other three were similarly filled; but it is small remuneration for such an outlay of breath, and as soon as I have the opportunity I shall fly off to some other point of the compass, where at any rate I may learn myself while teaching others. Carlyle’s name has never even been distantly echoed here, Emerson is a perfect stranger, and Channing, I presume, would produce a universal fainting-fit.

Henderson.

I was delighted to receive my box last Sunday, the 12th; the things do admirably, the dresses I like exceedingly, they are both very pretty.

The people here begin to interest me more than they did at first; all continue very kind, and I think well satisfied. When I came here, I did not care one straw what was thought of my personal appearance, I dressed entirely from a principle of self-respect; now I sometimes dress for others, and feel a slight satisfaction if the glass tells me I shall not scare people. Is not this a good sign?... Do not imagine I am going to make myself a whole just at present; the fact is I cannot find my other half here, but only about a sixth, which would not do. There are two rather eligible young males here, whose mothers have for some time been electioneering for wives; one tall, the other short, with very pretty names, of good family, and with tolerable fortune, but unfortunately one seems to me a dolt, the other, well, not wise, so I keep them at a respectful distance, which you know I am quite capable of doing.

There is a spot called Lovers’ Grove, about three-quarters of a mile from the town, a sweet place on the river bank, encircled by trees, with a hill behind, and a delightful walk by the river-side connecting it with the ‘city.’ This used to be my Sunday afternoon stroll, but unfortunately it is the favourite resort of the beaux and belles of Henderson, who, during the summer, after afternoon church, regularly promenade thither, in groups of four or five, and meet accidentally on purpose. Here they stroll about, recline on the grass, watch the steamboats, flirt a very little (it being Sunday), and carve one another’s names, and sentimental verses, on the unfortunate locust trees. I had many offers of an escort thither and as many beaux as I might desire. I went once or twice, but at last got dreadfully tired of it, so while my party was busily engaged round a tree, I started off on a good brisk walk home, where, some time after, the others arrived, in some consternation to know how or why I had so suddenly vanished. I laughed at them and their sentimental doings, and they have not invited me since.

I had a very pleasant drive yesterday to make a bridal call on the Presbyterian minister, who has been quite polite. The country reminded me in some parts of our charming Staten Island drives, though the scenery here will not, of course, compare with that little gem.

The people of Henderson were all very friendly to me personally, and my relations always pleasant with them; but the injustice of the state of society made a gradually deepening impression on my mind. The inhabitants lived in constant fear of an outbreak among the slaves. Women did not dare to walk in the pleasant woods and country around the village, for terror of runaway slaves. Painful social contrasts constantly forced themselves on my notice. I well remember sitting with my hostess, who was reclining in her rocking-chair, on the broad, shaded verandah, one pleasant Sunday morning, listening to the distant church bells and the rustling of the locust trees, when the eldest daughter, a tall, graceful girl, dressed for Sunday, in fresh and floating summer drapery, came into the verandah on her way to church. Just at that moment a shabby, forlorn-looking negro in dirty rags approached the verandah; he was one of the slaves working in the tobacco plantation. His errand was to beg the mistress to let him have a clean shirt on that Sunday morning. The contrast of the two figures, the young lady and the slave, and the sharp reprimand with which his mistress from her rocking-chair drove the slave away, left a profound impression on my mind. Kind as the people were to me personally, the sense of justice was continually outraged; and at the end of the first term of engagement I resigned the situation.