Retrospection and Introspection.
by Mary Baker Eddy.
ANCESTRAL SHADOWS
My ancestors, according to the flesh, were from both Scotland and England, my great-grandfather, on my father"s side, being John McNeil of Edinburgh.
His wife, my great-grandmother, was Marion Moor, and her family is said to have been in some way related to Hannah More, the pious and popular English auth.o.r.ess of a century ago.
I remember reading, in my childhood, certain ma.n.u.scripts containing Scriptural sonnets, besides other verses and enigmas which my grandmother said were written by my great-grandmother. But because my great-grandmother wrote a stray sonnet and an occasional riddle, it was no sign that she inherited a spark from Hannah More, or was her relative.
John and Marion Moor McNeil had a daughter, who perpetuated her mother"s name. This second Marion McNeil in due time was married to an Englishman, named Joseph Baker, and so became my paternal grandmother, the Scotch and English elements thus mingling in her children.
Mrs. Marion McNeil Baker was reared among the Scotch Covenanters, and had in her character that st.u.r.dy Calvinistic devotion to Protestant liberty which gave those religionists the poetic daring and pious picturesqueness which we find so graphically set forth in the pages of Sir Walter Scott and in John Wilson"s sketches.
Joseph Baker and his wife, Marion McNeil, came to America seeking "freedom to worship G.o.d;" though they could hardly have crossed the Atlantic more than a score of years prior to the Revolutionary period.
With them they brought to New England a heavy sword, encased in a bra.s.s scabbard, on which was inscribed the name of a kinsman upon whom the weapon had been bestowed by Sir William Wallace, from whose patriotism and bravery comes that heart-stirring air, "Scots wha hae wi" Wallace bled."
My childhood was also gladdened by one of my Grandmother Baker"s books, printed in olden type and replete with the phraseology current in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.
Among grandmother"s treasures were some newspapers, yellow with age. Some of these, however, were not very ancient, nor had they crossed the ocean; for they were American newspapers, one of which contained a full account of the death and burial of George Washington.
A relative of my Grandfather Baker was General Henry Knox of Revolutionary fame. I was fond of listening, when a child, to grandmother"s stories about General Knox, for whom she cherished a high regard.
In the line of my Grandmother Baker"s family was the late Sir John Macneill, a Scotch knight, who was prominent in British politics, and at one time held the position of amba.s.sador to Persia.
My grandparents were likewise connected with Capt. John Lovewell of Dunstable, New Hampshire, whose gallant leadership and death, in the Indian troubles of 1722-1725, caused that prolonged contest to be known historically as Lovewell"s War.
A cousin of my grandmother was John Macneil, the New Hampshire general who fought at Lundy"s Lane, and won distinction in 1814 at the neighboring battle of Chippewa, towards the close of the War of 1812.
AUTOBIOGRAPHIC REMINISCENCES
This venerable grandmother had thirteen children, the youngest of whom was my father, Mark Baker, who inherited the homestead, and with his brother, James Baker, he inherited my grandfather"s farm of about five hundred acres, lying in the adjoining towns of Concord and Bow, in the State of New Hampshire.
One hundred acres of the old farm are still cultivated and owned by Uncle James Baker"s grandson, brother of the Hon. Henry Moore Baker of Washington, D.C.
The farm-house, situated on the summit of a hill, commanded a broad picturesque view of the Merrimac River and the undulating lands of three townships. But change has been busy. Where once stretched broad fields of bending grain waving gracefully in the sunlight, and orchards of apples, peaches, pears, and cherries shone richly in the mellow hues of autumn,--now the lone night-bird cries, the crow caws cautiously, and wandering winds sigh low requiems through dark pine groves. Where green pastures bright with berries, singing brooklets, beautiful wild flowers, and flecked with large flocks and herds, covered areas of rich acres,--now the scrub-oak, poplar, and fern flourish.
The wife of Mark Baker was Abigail Barnard Ambrose, daughter of Deacon Nathaniel Ambrose of Pembroke, a small town situated near Concord, just across the bridge, on the left bank of the Merrimac River.
Grandfather Ambrose was a very religious man, and gave the money for erecting the first Congregational Church in Pembroke.
In the Baker homestead at Bow I was born, the youngest of my parents" six children and the object of their tender solicitude.
During my childhood my parents removed to Tilton, eighteen miles from Concord, and there the family remained until the names of both father and mother were inscribed on the stone memorials in the Park Cemetery of that beautiful village.
My father possessed a strong intellect and an iron will. Of my mother I cannot speak as I would, for memory recalls qualities to which the pen can never do justice. The following is a brief extract from the eulogy of the Rev. Richard S. Rust, D.D., who for many years had resided in Tilton and knew my sainted mother in all the walks of life.
The character of Mrs. Abigail Ambrose Baker was distinguished for numerous excellences. She possessed a strong intellect, a sympathizing heart, and a placid spirit. Her presence, like the gentle dew and cheerful light, was felt by all around her. She gave an elevated character to the tone of conversation in the circles in which she moved, and directed attention to themes at once pleasing and profitable.
As a mother, she was untiring in her efforts to secure the happiness of her family. She ever entertained a lively sense of the parental obligation, especially in regard to the education of her children. The oft-repeated impressions of that sainted spirit, on the hearts of those especially entrusted to her watch-care, can never be effaced, and can hardly fail to induce them to follow her to the brighter world. Her life was a living ill.u.s.tration of Christian faith.
My childhood"s home I remember as one with the open hand. The needy were ever welcome, and to the clergy were accorded special household privileges.
Among the treasured reminiscences of my much respected parents, brothers, and sisters, is the memory of my second brother, Albert Baker, who was, next to my mother, the very dearest of my kindred. To speak of his beautiful character as I cherish it, would require more s.p.a.ce than this little book can afford.
My brother Albert was graduated at Dartmouth College in 1834, and was reputed one of the most talented, close, and thorough scholars ever connected with that inst.i.tution. For two or three years he read law at Hillsborough, in the office of Franklin Pierce, afterwards President of the United States; but later Albert spent a year in the office of the Hon.
Richard Fletcher of Boston. He was consequently admitted to the bar in two States, Ma.s.sachusetts and New Hampshire. In 1837 he succeeded to the law-office which Mr. Pierce had occupied, and was soon elected to the Legislature of his native State, where he served the public interests faithfully for two consecutive years. Among other important bills which were carried through the Legislature by his persistent energy was one for the abolition of imprisonment for debt.
In 1841 he received further political preferment, by nomination to Congress on a majority vote of seven thousand,--it was the largest vote of the State; but he pa.s.sed away at the age of thirty-one, after a short illness, before his election. His n.o.ble political antagonist, the Hon.
Isaac Hill, of Concord, wrote of my brother as follows:--
Albert Baker was a young man of uncommon promise. Gifted with the highest order of intellectual powers, he trained and schooled them by intense and almost incessant study throughout his short life.
He was fond of investigating abstruse and metaphysical principles, and he never forsook them until he had explored their every nook and corner, however hidden and remote. Had life and health been spared to him, he would have made himself one of the most distinguished men in the country. As a lawyer he was able and learned, and in the successful practice of a very large business.
He was noted for his boldness and firmness, and for his powerful advocacy of the side he deemed right. His death will be deplored, with the most poignant grief, by a large number of friends, who expected no more than they realized from his talents and acquirements. This sad event will not be soon forgotten. It blights too many hopes; it carries with it too much of sorrow and loss. It is a public calamity.
VOICES NOT OUR OWN
Many peculiar circ.u.mstances and events connected with my childhood throng the chambers of memory. For some twelve months, when I was about eight years old, I repeatedly heard a voice, calling me distinctly by name, three times, in an ascending scale. I thought this was my mother"s voice, and sometimes went to her, beseeching her to tell me what she wanted. Her answer was always, "Nothing, child! What do you mean?" Then I would say, "Mother, who _did_ call me? I heard somebody call _Mary_, three times!"
This continued until I grew discouraged, and my mother was perplexed and anxious.
One day, when my cousin, Mehitable Huntoon, was visiting us, and I sat in a little chair by her side, in the same room with grandmother,--the call again came, so loud that Mehitable heard it, though I had ceased to notice it. Greatly surprised, my cousin turned to me and said, "Your mother is calling you!" but I answered not, till again the same call was thrice repeated. Mehitable then said sharply, "Why don"t you go? your mother is calling you!" I then left the room, went to my mother, and once more asked her if she had summoned me? She answered as always before. Then I earnestly declared my cousin had heard the voice, and said that mother wanted me.
Accordingly she returned with me to grandmother"s room, and led my cousin into an adjoining apartment. The door was ajar, and I listened with bated breath. Mother told Mehitable all about this mysterious voice, and asked if she really did hear Mary"s name p.r.o.nounced in audible tones. My cousin answered quickly, and emphasized her affirmation.
That night, before going to rest, my mother read to me the Scriptural narrative of little Samuel, and bade me, when the voice called again, to reply as he did, "Speak, Lord; for Thy servant heareth." The voice came; but I was afraid, and did not answer. Afterward I wept, and prayed that G.o.d would forgive me, resolving to do, next time, as my mother had bidden me.
When the call came again I did answer, in the words of Samuel, but never again to the material senses was that mysterious call repeated.
Is it not much that I may worship Him, With naught my spirit"s breathings to control, And feel His presence in the vast and dim And whispering woods, where dying thunders roll From the far cataracts? Shall I not rejoice That I have learned at last to know His voice From man"s?--I will rejoice! My soaring soul Now hath redeemed her birthright of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfettered way!
--MRS. HEMANS.
EARLY STUDIES
My father was taught to believe that my brain was too large for my body and so kept me much out of school, but I gained book-knowledge with far less labor than is usually requisite. At ten years of age I was as familiar with Lindley Murray"s Grammar as with the Westminster Catechism; and the latter I had to repeat every Sunday. My favorite studies were natural philosophy, logic, and moral science. From my brother Albert I received lessons in the ancient tongues, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. My brother studied Hebrew during his college vacations. After my discovery of Christian Science, most of the knowledge I had gleaned from schoolbooks vanished like a dream.