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CHAPTER XIII
LESSON IN SELF RELIANCE

THERE is still another man, famous in the annals of our nation, whom I am proud to count among my freinds -sic-, and now while I write of him the tide of memory turns agian -sic- bearing me backward more than fifty years on its tranquil bosom, and recalling a lesson in self reliance that he taught me. One morning in 1853, the late Mr. William Cleveland, our principal teacher, came to my class-room and said,

"I have a favor to ask of you. My brother, as you may know, has been appointed secretary to the superin-tendent. But the death of our father grieves him very much; and when you are at leisure I wish you would speak to him and try to divert his mind from sad thoughts. You can comfort him better than I can." And I promised to do my best.

That afternoon I went into the office and there found Grover Cleveland, a young man of about seventeen, engaged in his work as private secretary. We exchanged a few sentences and I agreed to come again the next day; for from that hour that we first met a friendship sprang up between us, the links of which must have been woven by angel fingers.

During the hours in which he was not engaged with his office work, he was in the habit of writing my poems as I dictated them to him. Mr. Chamberlain, my old friend, already frequently mentioned, was not superin-tendent then; but, in his stead, we had a man who expected that all due deference should be paid to himself. Not that he did not wish Mr. Cleveland to copy my verses, but rather that he thought any request should be made through him. At that time, however, I was thirty-five years of age and employed as preceptress at the Institution; and felt, therefore, that I was entitled to the privilege of making my own requests, whenever and of whomsoever I wished, provided that I was not breaking any of the rules or customs of the school.

But, much as I felt this, I hardly dared assert my rights in the matter: and so I said nothing one after-noon when the superintendent came in and forbade me to call on my young amanuensis without consulting him. After he had gone "Grove" -- as we then called him -- turned to me and said,

"How long are you going to let that man trample on your feelings in this manner?"

"What shall I do?" I asked. He laughed and replied,

"You are certainly within your own rights. So, if you have a poem to be copied tomorrow, come down here, and exactly the same scene will occur as has occurred today. Then, you will have an opportunity to give him as good as he sends; and if you have never learned the lesson of self reliance, you certainly cannot learn it earlier."

The next day I returned to have some copying done, my little speech all ready; and when the superintendent again objected I "asserted my rights," with the result that he hastily retreated leaving the field in our possession; and so it remained from that time.

Mr. Cleveland and I were constantly associated in our work for more than a year; then he left the Institution; and our paths diverged; but my interest in him has never waned, and I have watched his career with unusual pleasure; not that I was in the least surprised, for all of us expected noble things from him; but because of my own personal regard for his many excellent traits of character. Some years ago I called at his home in Lakewood, New Jersey, and we spent a delightful hour, reviewing the memories of the New York of fifty years ago. In honor of their daughter Ruth I recited the following poem to Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland:

"Like the lily bells that blossom
In the bowers of Eden fair,
All their pretty leaves unfolding
To the breeze that murmurs there,
Like a jewel bright and sparkling
From the peerless brow of Truth,
Like a birdling with the autumn,
Came your winsome Baby Ruth.

"There are feelings deep and tender,
There are joys you could not know
Till a cherub in your household
Bade the hidden fountains flow.
Now, a love its smile reflecting
From the peaceful eye of Truth,
Like a radiant star is shining
O'er your gentle Baby Ruth.

"In a fancied dream I linger,
As the evening time draws nigh,
And I listen to the carol
Of her mamma's lullaby,
While her papa, grave and thoughtful,
As in years of vanished youth,
Lays his hand with fond caressing
On the head of Baby Ruth.

"By a holy consecration
That will ne'er forgotten be,
You have answered Him who whispered
'Bring your little ones to me.'
You have brought her, pure and lovely,
To the Way, the Life, the Truth,
And His seal is on the forehead
Of your precious Baby Ruth.

"May you train her in the knowledge
And the wisdom of the Lord,
May you teach her to be faithful,
And obedient to His word.
With the lamp, whose beams are kindled
At the throne of sacred truth,
May you guide the coming future
Of your darling Baby Ruth,"

In March, 1903, a man professing to be a friend of mine wrote to Mr. Cleveland to the effect that it would be a pleasure to hand me a birthday letter if he would be kind enough to write one. This was done, but the professed friend sold the ex-President's note to a newspaper, and the first that I heard of it was when a reporter called to see if the letter was genuine. An-other copy was sent to me directly through the mail; and I am glad to quote from it: