Prologue

Excerpt from Reminiscences in the Life of a Peripatetic Newsman
(Anonymous, 1906, New York, private collection)

A blizzard of the most intense ferocity swept the East River on that morning in January, 1861, and our miserable company was already chilled to the marrow when we departed from Manhattan and embarked on the ferry to Brooklyn. Only the loyal and true were in attendance: less than a dozen souls all told.

I must admit to a certain relief that none of my fellow scribblers had as yet heard of the lady’s demise and it was providential that I had received a private communication from a friend who was aware of my association with the deceased. Thus it was that our group gained little attention from the public, appearing much as any other mourners headed for Green-Wood, pallid of countenance and swathed in black.

Some of my companions were previously known to me, such as the Buchanan couple and the fiery Democrat orator and preacher, the Reverend Francis Hawks, but I pondered over two young women with the badge of their profession all too clear in their sultry deportment and boldness of eye.

As we huddled for warmth around the brazier in the vessel’s saloon, my contemplation caught the notice of the Reverend and he fixed me with a glare over the pages of a church tract. ‘I trust that is not amusement I detect in your visage, Mr D---?’

‘Not at all, Reverend,’ I hastened to reply, ‘I am dwelling on the irony that her final journey is taking place in a raging snowstorm. She once told me she hated snow.’

‘Understandable, when one’s childhood is spent in sunnier climes.’

‘She said snow always brought her bad luck.’

The Reverend was unmoved. ‘I hardly think one could call dying in the Lord’s grace bad luck, Mr D---. And death knows no season. Just be grateful that she found salvation in time, and rejoice.’

I ventured a further observation. ‘There aren’t many here.’

‘No, and it is exactly as she would have preferred,’ he said, dismissing me in a curt fashion as he returned to his religious reading.

Thereupon, quite without warning, I was overwhelmed with intense waves of nostalgia for a distant time and place. I saw myself again a young man - enthusiastic and idealistic - and when all about me there were others similarly fired with ambition for change; when we all had belief in our dreams.

There I was, fighting my way through a crowd of other young men outside a hotel in W-----, each of us hoping to catch just one glimpse of the woman who single-handedly had dared to defy the notion that one country had the right of tyranny over another; that extraordinary woman who was unafraid to speak up for truth and freedom.

I recall holding my breath and being quite overcome as she swept out onto the balcony, her raven hair flowing across her shoulders, every curve of femininity emphasised in her velvet gown. Her laughter was sheer enchantment as she waved to us and flashed those glorious eyes of brilliant blue.

As she proceeded to scatter bunches of violets across the crowd, each man of us scrambled one over the other to retrieve just a single petal. It was what took place on that very day that became the catalyst for my own change in fortune, and her actions and words played their part in encouraging me to seek liberty and a new life in America.

By the time the ferry reached the other shore, the light of these memories had faded and my mind returned to the present circumstance and awareness that ideals and dreams, alas, seem doomed for us all. I suffered the most bereft feelings.

The blizzard had eased somewhat by the time we completed the three mile carriage ride to Green-Wood Cemetery - on that day, a bleak, frozen scene of white, marble and stark pines. I noticed that at least the plot chosen would have a pleasant aspect in summer, being on a slope with a view of a lake.

As the plain pine box was lowered into the vacant pit, snowflakes fell over its surface and obscured its copper name-plate, while the Reverend’s sonorous voice battled the wind with those timeless words:

‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit her body to the ground ...’

I continued to be absorbed in my own melancholic musings. There were more paradoxes here than snow. Where were the kings or princes paying their last respects? Or the lords and prime ministers; the famous writers and musicians? Not one of the lovers, and not even one family member. But at least I was thankful there were neither her critics nor detractors.

As the good Reverend closed his prayer book, he stood with his bare head bowed for some minutes in silence while we freezing mourners shifted from foot to foot, willing him to hurry. At last he spoke again.

‘Before we depart, I should like to share a few thoughts with you,’ he said. ‘In the course of my long years as a Christian minister, I do not think I ever met anyone with more regrets or bitter self-reproach than Eliza Gilbert. Many have said that she deliberately chose a life of infamy and public dishonour, and unfortunately, as history repeatedly buries the good with an individual and remembers only the evil, then her legacy to posterity will be such.

‘However, each of you who ventured here today will remember another woman. I ask that you never forget her. Never forget her generosity; her fight against all manner of injustices, and her unfailing courage. May she have at last found the peace she deserves.’

He thereupon uttered a tremulous sigh. ‘Farewell Eliza. Sleep well in the arms of the Lord.’ I was astonished to see that even this famously impassive individual fought against tears.

Knowing nothing of the woman being interred, the gravedigger was unmoved and impatient to cover the box. We left him to his work and returned to the waiting carriages where I gave pause and turned my face to the bitter skies.

I spoke inwardly to Eliza’s spirit, now free of the shackles of this world. ‘The snow today was unfortunate,’ I told her, ‘but as soon as spring breaks through, I promise I will bring you violets.’

In remembrance of this remarkable woman, my spring pilgrimage with violets has continued all the years since, until my own encroaching decrepitude now precludes me from doing so.