In the Courts of Memory 1858-1875. | Page 4

the

stumbling-block. He sometimes answered, "Father," and sometimes,
"Mother." Aunty, being afraid that he would answer, "Miss Fay," had
him come to the house during the week, where she could din into him
that it was God who made him and all creation. "Now, Joshua, when Dr.
Hoppin says to you, 'Who made you?' you must answer, 'God, who
made everything on earth and in heaven'--you understand?" "Yes,
ma'am," and repeated the phrase until aunty thought him ripe to appear
at Sunday-school, which he did on the following Sunday. You may
imagine aunty's consternation when Dr. Hoppin asked Joshua, "Who
made you?" and Joshua looked at aunty with a broad grin, showing all
his teeth, and said, "Lor', Miss Fay, I forget who you said it was." This
was aunty's last effort to teach the blacks. She repeated this episode to
Mr. Phillips Brooks, who, in return, told her an amusing story of a
colored man who had been converted to the Catholic religion, and went
one day to confession (he seems not to have been very sure about this
function). The priest said to him, "Israel, what have you to confess?
Have you been perfectly honest since the last time? No thefts?"
"No, sir."
"None at all? Stolen no chickens?"
"No, sir."
"No watermelons?"
"No, sir."
"No eggs?"
"No, sir."
"No turkeys?"
"No, sir; not one."
Then the priest gave absolution. Outside the church Israel found the
companions whom he had left waiting for him.
"Well, how did you get on?" they asked.
"Bully!" answered Israel. "But if he'd said ducks he'd have got me."
Cousin James Lowell said: "See how a negro appreciates the
advantages of the confession."
DEAR L.,--A family council was held yesterday, and it is now quite
decided that mama is to take me to Europe, and that I shall study
singing with the best masters. We will first go to New York for a visit
of ten days with Mr. and Mrs. Cooley. I shall see New York and hear a
little music; and then we start for Europe on the 17th in the

Commodore Vanderbilt.
NEW YORK.
DEAR AUNT,--We have now been here a week, and I feel ashamed
that I have not written to you before, but I have been doing a great deal.
The Cooleys have a gorgeous house in Fifth Avenue, furnished with
every luxury one can imagine. The sitting-room, dining-room, library,
and a conservatory next to the billiard-room, are down-stairs; up-stairs
are the drawing-rooms (first, second, and third), which open into a
marble-floored Pompeian room, with a fountain. Then comes mama's
and my bed-room, with bath-room attached. On the third floor the
family have their apartment. We have been many times to the opera,
and heard an Italian tenor, called Brignoli, whom people are crazy over.
He has a lovely voice and sings in "Trovatore." Last night, when he
sang "Di quella pira," people's enthusiasm knew no bounds. They stood
up and shouted, and ladies waved their handkerchiefs; he had to repeat
it three times, and each time people got wilder. Nina and I clapped till
our gloves were in pieces and our arms actually ached.
A Frenchman by the name of Musard has brought over a French
orchestra, and is playing French music at the opera-house. People are
wild over him also. Madame La Grange, who they say is a fine lady in
her own country, is singing in "The Huguenots." She has rather a thin
voice, but vocalizes beautifully. Nina and I weep over the hard fate of
Valentine, who has to be present when her husband is conspiring
against the Huguenots, knowing that her lover is listening behind the
curtain and can't get away. The priests come in and bless the conspiracy,
all the conspirators holding their swords forward to be blessed. This
music is really too splendid for words, and we enjoy it intensely.
Mr. Bancroft, the celebrated historian, invited us to dinner, and after
dinner they asked me to sing. I had to accompany myself. Every one
pretended that they were enchanted. Just for fun, at the end I sang,
"Three Little Kittens Took Off Their Mittens, to Eat a Christmas Pie,"
and one lady (would you believe it?) said she wept tears of joy, and had
cold shivers down her back. When I sang, "For We Have Found Our
Mittens," there was, she said, such a jubilant ring in my voice that her
heart leaped for joy.
Mr. Bancroft sent me the next day a volume of Bryant's poems, with
the dedication, "To Miss Lillie Greenough, in souvenir of a

never-forgetable evening." I made so many acquaintances, and received
so many invitations, that if we should stay much longer here there
would be nothing left of me to take to Europe.
I will write as soon