An amusing true story about an innocent little girl whose lack of knowledge of words led to a problem. Poor Mr. Whittier--had he but known... Lucretia Mott was a well-known abolitionist and also fighter for women's rights."I as a very little girl when I first met the great poet John Greenleaf Whittier," said the sweet-faced lady to an eagerly listening group of young people gathered about her for one of her interesting stories; "but never have I forgotten him, and his birthday, the seventeenth of December, always brings with it the remembrance of an unusual role the gentle poet once played in a certain small tragedy of my young life.
"You know my people were Quakers," the lady proceeded in answer to clamorous appeals for the story, "and at that time we were living in Philadelphia, where we became intimately acquainted with John Greenleaf Whittier, who was then editor of an antislavery paper.
"We all attended the same Quaker church, of which the members of my family were loyal adherents, my mother being especially distinguished as a brilliant and forcible public speaker.
"About this time, my mother was called away from Philadelphia on business, and, taking advantage of her absence, my grandmother, who lived in the same house with my parents, decided to have torn down an old-fashioned, white marble mantelpiece that stood in my mother's bedroom, and to build in an open fireplace.
"This was done, and under the marble mantelshelf a handsome fireplace was set in with porcelain tiles. I can still recall the delight with which I surveyed the beautiful colors of this tile work, depicting a pastoral scene of English life.
"Before the workmen returned for the final touches, it was decided that the cement holding the tiles in place should be left to thoroughly harden, and it was while the fireplace was still in this soft and unsettled condition, that I stole into my mother's room, and, childlike, picked out one or more of the pretty tiles for playthings.
"My grandmother arrived to find me so occupied, and, in her indignation at the mischief I had done, exclaimed:
"'Thee naughty child! Thee ought to be ashamed of thyself! A little more, and thy mother's mantel would have fallen upon thee!'
"And the enormity of my offense was still more forcibly impressed upon my childish mind by a proper punishment, for my Quaker grandmother was not of the kind to 'spare the rod and spoil the child.'
"Meanwhile, my mother returned from her business trip, and the episode of the mantel was, for the time, forgotten in preparations for an event of great moment. This was the 'Yearly Meeting' of Quakers in Philadelphia, which continued for a whole week, during which several smaller meetings were to be held in private houses, one of them in my father's home.
"The important day arrived, and the big room where the meeting assembled was crowded with guests. So great, indeed, was the crush, that the smaller children, for whom places could not be found, were lifted up and seated upon a raised space or platform at one end of the room.
"I was among these children, and I remember how, as I sat between the legs of the wooden table, which, in accordance with Quaker simplicity, was of the plainest. I would timidly glance up to catch a glimpse of the 'Quaker Poet' as he stood just above me.
"He had a beautiful, gentle countenance; his hair was then very black, and never shall I forget the flash of his wonderful dark eyes as he spoke.
"Another privilege that fell to me upon this eventful day, was that of being chosen to present bouquets of flowers to Whittier and Lucretia Mott, who were the honored guests of the occasion.
"After the meeting, my mother, who had just closed a most beautiful and moving address, presented me to Whittier. He looked at me fixedly with those glorious and wonderfully piercing eyes of his, and, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he said with slow and solemn emphasis:
"'My darling child, I sincerely trust that thy mother's mantle may some day fall on thee.'
"Alas! this beautiful benediction, so thrillingly pronounced, turned me pale with fright; to my childish comprehension, there was but one 'mantel,' and that was the mantel in my mother's bedroom, the one that my grandmother had already predicted might fall upon me. And now here was the great John Whittier voicing the same awful prophecy! Had my grandmother told my mother of my wicked act, and had my mother, in turn, told Whittier, and was this the public expression of the good man's righteous wrath? All this went through my mind.
"Crushed by shame and fear, I held my peace; for I dared question neither my mother nor my grandmother upon the subject; but my troubles were, as I found to my sorrow, far from ended.
"During the week of the Yearly Meeting, my parents invited Whittier to dinner, together with the delegates and other prominent guests of the gathering, and I, as a child of the household, was, of course, expected to present myself at table with the others.
"The prospect of meeting Whittier, forever disgraced as I felt myself to be in his eyes, was more than I could bear, and hiding as best I could the anguish of my poor little tormented heart, I went to my mother and said:
"'I do not think I am old enough to come to the dinner, Mother; I think thee had better let me wait until afterward.'
"'What!' exclaimed my father, who happened to pass as I made the remark; 'not come to the dinner, daughter! Why, we are going to have chicken-pie, and surely thee wants to hear John Whittier tell how he made his first chicken-pie!'
"I was very far from caring to hear John Whittier tell about anything just then, but Quaker children are brought up to obey; so to the dinner I went, and to my unspeakable consternation found myself seated next to Whittier, and directly facing the great Lucretia Mott.
"What I suffered during that dinner is one of the tragedies of my childhood; I struggled hard to hide my emotions, but so apparent was my distress, that my mother noticed it and, as soon as an opportunity offered, drew me aside to inquire into the cause.
"In a burst of tears, I made my confession; I told my mother of my naughtiness in removing the tiles of the fireplace to play with, and how my grandmother, in her anger, had predicted that the mantel would fall upon me, and how on the day of the meeting, John Whittier had said that he hoped this dreadful thing would come to pass!
"How tenderly my dear mother sympathized with me ! How lovingly she soothed me—and yet, how she laughed! And when she told the story to Whittier, how he laughed! And Lucretia Mott laughed! And all the company laughed! And though I wondered that everybody should make so merry, I was comforted, for I felt that. in some mysterious way, which I did not understand, everything was right.
"And when the big dinner was over and the company gone, Whittier went up-stairs with us, and, seating himself before the blazing logs in the new open fireplace, he took my sister and myself each upon a knee, and told us story after story.
"It has been a lifelong regret to me that I was too young at the time to remember these stories, and all I can recollect my mother saying about them, was that they were wonderfully beautiful, and that she had not the slightest doubt but that Whittier 'made them up' as he went along.
"I remember distinctly, too," said the lady, in conclusion, "how the 'Quaker Poet' was revered and loved by every member of my family for his gentleness and the religious beauty of his character; but the memory of the great man that has long remained with me, and always will remain, is the incident that so impressively connected him with my mother's 'mantel.'"
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