This is the next installment in the autobiography of Cornelia Gray Lunt of Evanston, Illinois: Sketches of Childhood and Girlhood, Chicago, 1847-1864. For more about the life and times of Miss Lunt, please see the first installment:
BOOK I
Chapter Eight
The Two Grandfathers
The Two Grandfathers
Bowdoinham, Maine
Summer of 1853
That first decade of my life there always seemed a light shining within. As I look back, I see a somewhat solitary child, but never bored, fretful, harried or dissatisfied; I never had to ignore, evade or capitulate. Parents and environment had no cramping influence; No methods in my rearing fantastic or severe were ever used. I was conscious in myself of no resistance - active or passive to existing conditions. I could act on the assumption of freedom to a large extent; obedience when required was easily yielded, and the adult world was to me always kindly and interesting. So I never broke with the older generation, and age-old problems were never thrust upon me. I did not know that I had to be safe-guarded, and naturally I did not recognize the value of my happy surroundings, or the fortunate influences exerted by association, parental devotion and the process of education.
Mutual affection in my life has always been sufficient even in seasons of domestic stress to meet all emergencies. There were never with my beloved Father and Mother any natural incompatibilities which enforced unwilling submission from their children. What an immense help to love each other! How easy to avoid the contradictions that affect our lives if inter-actions adjust themselves amicably to situations as they arise. And no situation had arisen that left me unprotected or conscious of any flame of opposition within. I was in the safe shelter of a happy home.
There were always intoxicating possibilities in the dream-world; but the real world held dignity and nobility and serenity in the poise and sweetness of its days . We are, I suppose, all beholden to our thousands of ancestors for disposition, temperament, moral or mental attitudes; and mine were self-respecting individuals, and passed on some dominant racial ideas of primary importance in our social world. All this is beyond the scope of definition but is absorbed by human contact.
My two grandfathers in the Maine village, in those days prosperous, and with no threat of its present stagnation and social dearth or death, lived not far apart, in homes of attractive outward aspect, but far different in appointment, comfort and peace.
Grandfather Gray erect, impressive, with finer features, keen eyes and firm mouth, had, in those days, the great advantage of College education - having been duly graduated from Brown University. He speedily attained to unquestioned importance and relative wealth - coming from Rhode Island, to marry and settle in that small ship-building centre, he became a member of the state legislature, a lawyer of high standing, the Justice of the Peace, and the Squire of the Village. He had large interests in ships, and was widely known, respected, admired and in a sense feared. His manner demanded a deference quickly yielded. He brooked neither criticisms nor advice in matters of business, and more than he would endure the least interference in domestic rule. He directed and domineered, but was generous and kind at bottom. Very proud of his family and ancestry, he taught "Noblesse oblige" to his children, and watched over them with unfailing care as he did of material possessions.
Across the bridge, under which the river or stream below his house rose and fell with the tides, and up the opposite hill, one turned into a pretty street all lined with pleasant homes. And Grandfather Lunt's, (William Webb Lunt, 1788-1864) a square white green-blinded one, was set well back among the trees, with apple orchards beside and behind it that were a never failing source of delight. The central hall and good sized rooms were always bare and forbidding. It was not only the contrasts that struck somewhat heavy on my spirits, but the atmosphere of fault-finding and unchecked temper that characterized the household, seldom as it was openly expressed in my presence.
Grandfather Lunt was the principal merchant of the little village, a man of perfect probity and profound piety.
In church and business he stood as an example beyond reproach, he was true to the best as he saw it: In a sense he must have once been a strong man, but he had a wasted look; His cheeks were thin and hollowed, the yellow skin tight drawn. His snow white hair thick and wavy was brushed back from a beautiful brow, and it looked like a thick frame each side of the sad face; sad somehow as if light had been washed out. His was a good figure still, but he stooped somewhat, and his melancholy eyes were set deep back under overhanging brows. He was a dignified, quiet old man, but warmth had died out of him.
My father's step-mother (Priscilla Purrington Lunt, 1795-1863) had in the children's early life made misery for them all - Orrington and William (William H. Lunt, 1814-1816) and Sarah (Sarah Ann Lunt, 1821-1880) and Dolly, (Dolly Sumner Lunt, 1817-1891) and the little Sumner whose birth had cost his Mother's life (Davis Sumner Lunt, 1825-1835).
My own grandmother Lunt (Ann Matilda Sumner Lunt, 1795-1825) was described to me by Grandmother Gray as a "Great Lady" since she brought to that small community a style and dress hitherto by the natives unseen: Such high-heeled slippers, and tall combs, and laces and fans: How did mild Grandfather Lunt ever persuade that daughter of the Sumner's and Vose's, of such marked breeding and refinement, to turn her back upon Boston and Milton and bury herself in that inland village? True, he was good to look upon, and there must have been sparkle in those deep blue eyes, for when he smiled even now, and ever so faintly, something stirred in the heart - But, Alas! and alas! however tender and devoted, he must have lacked firmness and discernment, or after that early death of his lovely wife, how could he have come so speedily under the dominance of the managing, sharp-tongued housekeeper, who had acted as Nurse when the little Sumner was born? The report was current that in his short unhappy life the child was harried by unkindness that developed into cruelty. The towns-people averred that he suffered from lack of love, and severity of discipline, until driven into brain-fever to join his Mother who had given her life so vainly.
This awful tale recounted to me with gruesome additions filled my young soul with horror, and an approach to hatred of the old lady who greeted my rare appearance with gentle words and smiles. All sense of kinship had been killed in me, and revolt in its place made me shrink unjustly from the whole household. The neighbor's gossipy tales, which would not seem to die out, were responsible for my attitude of aversion and distaste. My visits were enforced ones and always as brief as I dared make them. I was under order from my beloved and forgiving Father, who was their support and dependence for many years and acted to the end as a devoted and supporting son of the house.
All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of the one time my Father's Father seemed familiar and came close to me. I had been in the orchard where the fresh blown afternoon winds, that shook the trees and made the earth so dear, had almost obsessed me with something complete in joy. My Grandfather saw and called to me as he entered the gate, and reluctantly I rose and followed him into the house and unused parlour, where he shut the door and stood silent for a second looking at me; - wide-eyed I watched every movement as I listened afterward to every word.
Behind that outward semblance lurked a shadow that could not be explored - grudges and wrongs and bitter tales had made me lose all comprehension and affection: Resting on a rock of inarticulate resentment had broken all bonds of sympathy, and there was a bolt, an impassible barrier between us.
He must have known nothing that could have forbidden personal relations between us. He looked up on me kindly. He seemed not excited, very calm and patient in manner, but when he began to speak it was as if he were looking and listening to something far away.
His mind seemed full of my Father, "My son Orrington my dear son" - he repeated with an anxious inflection. He lacked the qualities which would have made him firm in conflict, when his sovereignty at home was usurped almost to the point of tragedy, and that lost him the whip-hand in his family. He must have called up pictures and people that set a drama going in his brain, for it was of the conditions and adventures of Orrington's childhood that he spoke: And for the first time I realized that my Father had been his little boy.
Mine had been a pitiless judgment upon his wife's pitilessness, and now I felt a love had lived in my Grandfather's heart that I could not understand. But I was not handicapped with the mental blindness of the unimaginative, and he made me feel and see in that past, and in him, something that curiously aroused a feeling of impetuous feeling of allegiance, almost a friendship for ever after for my little understood Grandfather.
He talked on and on of the children of Orrington and William, and Sarah and Dolly, and of the Mother who died when my Father was eleven; and I looked up admiringly at his crinkly white whiskers; and the wavy snow white hair that framed so beautifully his tired face. His eyes for the first time had lovely light and they glittered like blue steel, not like those of an old man. There had come a sudden sparkle, and the overhanging brows had lifted, to show me an unexpected reserve and a secret of intense devotion. His voice always low, changed to subtle sympathy and he continued to recount little incidents of the childrens lives. Living over the past he became impressive almost to tenderness. For a second he put his arm about me, but habitual repression was too strong and we heard a voice, and a call which was a menace to him, a devastating demoralizing factor that held all loving expression in leash.
Just then he saw the small volume of Byron that I had found behind a shelf of books upstairs - strange indeed to have found this book in his ill-assorted library, but it had been eagerly grasped because anecdotes, and adventures and emotions were a stock in trade to delight in or advertise with. My efforts that day had not resulted in understanding exactly what the author was talking about, but beautiful descriptions enchanted me, and allusions stimulated curiosity. "This is no book for you" I heard in stern accents - I had always chosen for myself and under that alien roof received the first criticism.
Little assistance in training or choice of reading had not harmed me because the treasure-trove of raw material for childish fingers to dig in was not of a nature to prove injurious. Grandfather Gray had opened to me that summer "Paradise Lost," and "Pepy's Diary" and "Plutarch's Lives" and read some aloud to me from Essays and Histories; and there were those enchanting novels he had given me, which made for enrichment and enhanced imagination.
Now surprise at an unexpected reproof kept me silent, as Grandfather Lunt put on his spectacles, took up the big Bible from the round centre-table with a plainly fixed idea that I needed Scriptural teaching. So, that one interview that I can remember, ended with his reading first from the Epistles, and then The Psalms to which I listened with pleasure. I had heard them every day of my life at morning prayers, and loved my Father's beautiful; voice as we all knelt at the family altar. There was something sweet and sonorous in Grandfather's tones, and it was all very familiar like fables of poems. I had little real idea what the oracular words so solemnly brought forth meant, and in the last Psalm he chose, that oft repeated "Selah," long drawn out, began to give me a strange sensation of awe. I was glad to get relieved finally, and with a brief farewell, for the resources of the entertainment had become insufficient, I ran gaily down the hill towards the homestead longing for Grandfather Gray's explanation.
That ever recurring "Selah, Selah" sang to me and lacked intelligibility; and I wanted also to ask about the "Ark of the Covenant," references to which in something very pious, read lately, had distinctly needed interpretation. My own reading, hitherto neither directed nor supervised, did not certainly by any means fulfil its mission in proving steps to learning.
In that far-off, but not forgotten time before the age of important school or wise schooling, which I now gravely doubt I ever had, the pictures of the text were always brightly coloured, and active fancies made their ineffaceable impression. It seems incredible to me now in extreme age that I can draw upon memory, and utilize so many points in experience, droll or otherwise, to hang ethical teachings on today; morals or lessons that never appealed to me then, any more than they do today to grand-nieces or adopted children!
I was sometimes serious, but I think at the very beginning my mind was bent in the way it has grown; not for any fine or valuable work in life, but for much enjoyment, and an overflowing fund of sympathy; a capacity to see the other side, and to put myself in another's place. Yes, and for good that at times has come to me - good beyond calculation, in swift response to the challenge of nature. Mine was apparently not the soil from which springs great enterprises or noble successful ventures, or wonderful sacrificial labours.
It was far-reaching philanthropies, splendid self-effacement, devotion to the highest standards, love of Church and State, that made my Father's life so worthy and wonderful. To him it was always Causes that appealed - To me it was, and ever has been the individual.
All the years that have passed have not dimmed my memory of the one time my Father's Father seemed familiar and came close to me. I had been in the orchard where the fresh blown afternoon winds, that shook the trees and made the earth so dear, had almost obsessed me with something complete in joy. My Grandfather saw and called to me as he entered the gate, and reluctantly I rose and followed him into the house and unused parlour, where he shut the door and stood silent for a second looking at me; - wide-eyed I watched every movement as I listened afterward to every word.
Behind that outward semblance lurked a shadow that could not be explored - grudges and wrongs and bitter tales had made me lose all comprehension and affection: Resting on a rock of inarticulate resentment had broken all bonds of sympathy, and there was a bolt, an impassible barrier between us.
He must have known nothing that could have forbidden personal relations between us. He looked up on me kindly. He seemed not excited, very calm and patient in manner, but when he began to speak it was as if he were looking and listening to something far away.
His mind seemed full of my Father, "My son Orrington my dear son" - he repeated with an anxious inflection. He lacked the qualities which would have made him firm in conflict, when his sovereignty at home was usurped almost to the point of tragedy, and that lost him the whip-hand in his family. He must have called up pictures and people that set a drama going in his brain, for it was of the conditions and adventures of Orrington's childhood that he spoke: And for the first time I realized that my Father had been his little boy.
Mine had been a pitiless judgment upon his wife's pitilessness, and now I felt a love had lived in my Grandfather's heart that I could not understand. But I was not handicapped with the mental blindness of the unimaginative, and he made me feel and see in that past, and in him, something that curiously aroused a feeling of impetuous feeling of allegiance, almost a friendship for ever after for my little understood Grandfather.
He talked on and on of the children of Orrington and William, and Sarah and Dolly, and of the Mother who died when my Father was eleven; and I looked up admiringly at his crinkly white whiskers; and the wavy snow white hair that framed so beautifully his tired face. His eyes for the first time had lovely light and they glittered like blue steel, not like those of an old man. There had come a sudden sparkle, and the overhanging brows had lifted, to show me an unexpected reserve and a secret of intense devotion. His voice always low, changed to subtle sympathy and he continued to recount little incidents of the childrens lives. Living over the past he became impressive almost to tenderness. For a second he put his arm about me, but habitual repression was too strong and we heard a voice, and a call which was a menace to him, a devastating demoralizing factor that held all loving expression in leash.
Just then he saw the small volume of Byron that I had found behind a shelf of books upstairs - strange indeed to have found this book in his ill-assorted library, but it had been eagerly grasped because anecdotes, and adventures and emotions were a stock in trade to delight in or advertise with. My efforts that day had not resulted in understanding exactly what the author was talking about, but beautiful descriptions enchanted me, and allusions stimulated curiosity. "This is no book for you" I heard in stern accents - I had always chosen for myself and under that alien roof received the first criticism.
Little assistance in training or choice of reading had not harmed me because the treasure-trove of raw material for childish fingers to dig in was not of a nature to prove injurious. Grandfather Gray had opened to me that summer "Paradise Lost," and "Pepy's Diary" and "Plutarch's Lives" and read some aloud to me from Essays and Histories; and there were those enchanting novels he had given me, which made for enrichment and enhanced imagination.
Now surprise at an unexpected reproof kept me silent, as Grandfather Lunt put on his spectacles, took up the big Bible from the round centre-table with a plainly fixed idea that I needed Scriptural teaching. So, that one interview that I can remember, ended with his reading first from the Epistles, and then The Psalms to which I listened with pleasure. I had heard them every day of my life at morning prayers, and loved my Father's beautiful; voice as we all knelt at the family altar. There was something sweet and sonorous in Grandfather's tones, and it was all very familiar like fables of poems. I had little real idea what the oracular words so solemnly brought forth meant, and in the last Psalm he chose, that oft repeated "Selah," long drawn out, began to give me a strange sensation of awe. I was glad to get relieved finally, and with a brief farewell, for the resources of the entertainment had become insufficient, I ran gaily down the hill towards the homestead longing for Grandfather Gray's explanation.
That ever recurring "Selah, Selah" sang to me and lacked intelligibility; and I wanted also to ask about the "Ark of the Covenant," references to which in something very pious, read lately, had distinctly needed interpretation. My own reading, hitherto neither directed nor supervised, did not certainly by any means fulfil its mission in proving steps to learning.
In that far-off, but not forgotten time before the age of important school or wise schooling, which I now gravely doubt I ever had, the pictures of the text were always brightly coloured, and active fancies made their ineffaceable impression. It seems incredible to me now in extreme age that I can draw upon memory, and utilize so many points in experience, droll or otherwise, to hang ethical teachings on today; morals or lessons that never appealed to me then, any more than they do today to grand-nieces or adopted children!
I was sometimes serious, but I think at the very beginning my mind was bent in the way it has grown; not for any fine or valuable work in life, but for much enjoyment, and an overflowing fund of sympathy; a capacity to see the other side, and to put myself in another's place. Yes, and for good that at times has come to me - good beyond calculation, in swift response to the challenge of nature. Mine was apparently not the soil from which springs great enterprises or noble successful ventures, or wonderful sacrificial labours.
It was far-reaching philanthropies, splendid self-effacement, devotion to the highest standards, love of Church and State, that made my Father's life so worthy and wonderful. To him it was always Causes that appealed - To me it was, and ever has been the individual.
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