• Adventurous Hannah
Adventurous Hannah Hannah Whitall Smith's resiliency would surprise people all through her life. Knocked down time after time, hounded by doubts and confusion, she had a gift for dealing with defeat and rebounding from despair. There was a prevailing buoyancy in her soul, an aliveness and sense of adventure in her spirit.
Hannah would have said very simply that her constantly deepening faith kept her from losing her enthusiasm for life, that it was her steadfast belief in the goodness of God that lightened her spirits and enabled her to maintain her vitality.
And there was something else that kept springing up out of her personality like a jumping jack. Hannah had a pungent sense of humor that was often directed at herself.
This came out in the accounts she left of her travels, especially camping trips.
One such excursion took place in July 1878, in the Adirondack Mountains in upstate New York. Hannah, then
46, entered into the plans with such gusto, her children were sure that the whole idea was most appealing to her.
The Pearsall Smith party was camped at the edge of a beautiful mountain lake. On this day the rain was coming
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down steadily. The tent leaked. Mother Hannah sat on a camp stool under the driest section of the soggy canvas and hoped that her clothes would be protected by the tarp she had wrapped them in. A high hissing whine sounded in her ear. Another mosquito was poking for blood on her hand.
She slapped at the mosquito and put away the circular letter she was trying to write to her relatives and friends.
Smoke poured into the tent through the partially open flap. Hannah coughed and tried to wave it away. Outside, her niece and nephew, Carey and Tom Thomas, were valiantly trying to keep a fire going in the persistent drizzle.
The smoke from the fire was supposed to discourage mosquitos, but this species seemed to thrive on it. Meanwhile the guides, hired to direct the Pearsall Smiths on their trek through the Adirondacks, had managed to prepare a rabbit stew over a little stove under a grove of big trees.
Hannah called to her children, who were rowing happily on the lake. They returned to shore, drenched but cheerful, and they huddled together at a birch-log table.
Everyone tried to keep the rain from dripping into the stew.
Hannah had covered herself with a waterproof and tried to enjoy the wild grandeur of the mountains and the serene loveliness of the lake, but it was no use. The dampness was in her bones. Her stew was soggy! Mosquitos continued to dive-bomb her. She was miserable.
The next day the rain had stopped and the guide led them through the primeval woods and virgin forest. The party had to cross several little streams that had single log bridges. Hannah tried, slipping and sliding across them and, at length, just marched through the ankle-deep water, rather than trying to negotiate the log bridges. She went on ahead of the rest of the party and followed the trail by herself for a long time.
At last she sat down on a log to wait for the others. She waited and waited. No one came. All she could hear was the uncanny stillness of the primeval forest and the faint rustlings of wild things in the bushes. It wasn't long until
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she began to imagine that some of the rustlings were bears.
Her overactive imagination conjured up a dreadful scene with a huge bear rising out of the mysterious depths of the woods, tearing her limb from limb and making a feast of her until nothing was left but her skeleton. When the rest of the party finally arrived and found only the bones of their beloved relative, they would form a circle and weep piteously until someone put her pitiful remains in a casket for burial.
The real Hannah was still sitting on the log, waiting for the others to catch up with her. Whatever was in the bushes seemed to want to stay there. However, she frightened herself so with her imaginings that she got up and fairly ran back along the trail until she encountered her nephew Tom
Thomas and one of the guides.2
The truth of it was that Hannah detested camping, but since the children loved these trips, each year she endured with cheerful fortitude the hard beds, incessant rain, persistent insects, and the aching muscles of middle-age.
Three summers later, still avoiding public life, the Smiths explored the area around what is now Yellowstone
Park in Wyoming. Four guides and nine family members needed saddle horses, a large mountain wagon, three baggage wagons with tents, provisions, stove, etc., and finally, a dog named Buster, whose function it was to guard the camp. This impressive cavalcade wended its way along the rough roads of the natural, unspoiled wilderness near Yellowstone in the warm months of 1881.
Hannah got along fairly well as long as she was able to ride in the big mountain wagon and didn't have to sleep in the open air. At Tower Creek, however, the rocky trail was too narrow for the mountain wagon. Hannah had to select a horse to ride. One of the guides produced a sober old creature named Foxy.
Hannah studied Foxy with wary eyes. Foxy stared back
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boldly, as if assuring her that he had carried a pack for years and was too mellow and experienced to do anything foolish or frisky. Hannah patted him on the neck gingerly and managed to heave her bulk into the saddle. She and Foxy took their place at the end of the procession as they all set out for Yellowstone Falls.
The trail led through mountainous country. In the high altitude the sun shone brightly. Picturesque rocks jutted out from the hillside. The air was balmy and sweetly scented with pine. Hannah began to relax and hum a quiet little song to herself.
All of a sudden Foxy, who had fallen behind the rest of the horses, became upset. He began a series of strange maneuvers—he backed up and went forward and went to the side and turned round and round and neighed indignantly.
Then he gave an unexpected jump. Poor Hannah sailed over his back and landed on the ground under his feet in an ignominious heap.
She was not hurt. Early on, Hannah learned how to relax while falling. Foxy, however, was apparently greatly chagrined by his bad manners. He stood still, twisted his head around, and eyed her in a contrite way while she struggled to her feet.
Hannah could have yelled for help. Instead, the undefeatable Hannah brushed herself off and painfully hoisted herself back up onto Foxy.3
In August 1883, Hannah, then 51, found herself dragged off to Maine for yet another camping trip. Robert, claiming illness, remained at home. The Pearsall Smith children, assorted cousins, and the reluctant chaperon, Mother Hannah, arrived by stage at Moosehead Lake, where they hired a steam-propelled yacht to take them around the lake.
August 1 1 found them at the mouth of the Kennebec River. The yacht was tied to the shore and Hannah and family spent a relaxed day canoeing, swimming, and pick-
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ing berries. The children came dashing by carrying light canoes.
"Where art thou going?" murmured Hannah. The peaceful lapping of the water against the rocks had been lulling her to sleep.
"Mother," answered Logan, "we are going to carry these canoes upriver and ride the rapids back."
Hannah had developed rheumatism, and her joints ached constantly. She was overweight. Nevertheless, with an adventurous gleam in her eye, she hoisted her complaining body to its feet and announced decidedly, "Well, I am coming too. I have always wanted to shoot the rapids."
A bit later the four canoes were lowered into the water, with Hannah enthroned in state on several life preservers in the middle of the first canoe. Logan was in the stern and Mary in the bow. Someone pushed the canoe into the middle of the swirling, foaming water, and it whizzed on through the white water, bounding along, veering from side to side, a thrilling and hair-raising ride. The mother sat majestically, her eyes sparkling with delight. At the end she said calmly, "Well, that was fun. Let's do it again."4
During this trip the guides took the Smith family to a logging camp, which meant a four-mile walk through the primeval forest over a rough logging road. Hannah valiantly plodded along with the others. She had on her castoff clothes, which were spattered with mud. On her feet she wore huge clodhopper boots, encrusted with grime. An old blue felt hat was jammed down over her untidy hair; several damp strands hung down in her face. There was a mud splotch on her cheek. She was a bedraggled and forlornlooking figure as she pushed herself on with her walking stick.
The Smith family was nearing the end of the hike. The others were ahead of poor Hannah. She looked up, wiping her dirty hand across her face, smearing the mud. Coming toward her on the trail were several dapper-looking gentlemen, fresh and spruce, just starting out on their walk. With
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consternation, Hannah recognized Professors Phelps and Farnam of Yale and Reverend Newman Smythe, author of Old Faiths in a New Light, a book on Christian evolution, which Hannah had read and with which she had been much impressed. In fact, she had written Mr. Smythe a letter asking him a knotty theological question about Adam and Eve. It was too good an opportunity to be missed.
Hannah intercepted Professor Phelps and his party and introduced herself. The three men stood, rooted to the spot, and stared at the disheveled-looking lady whose limp, sweat-soaked hair was hanging down in her face. Professor
Phelps, with a fastidious hand, brushed an imaginary speck of lint off the sleeve of his immaculate jacket.
"Reverend Smythe," intrepid Hannah spoke up boldly, "I wrote thee a letter some time ago asking thee why God forbade Adam and Eve from coming to the knowledge of good and evil. It seemed to me a necessary step in their development, and that I should have thought God would have wanted them to come to this knowledge. They would have been mere animals otherwise."
The reverend was dumbfounded. He was not prepared for this formidable woman, who had materialized out of the wilderness and was asking him difficult theological questions. One did not expect to go for a walk in the Maine woods and all of a sudden get plunged into a thorny debate about original sin. He stared at his mud-spattered opponent and tried to marshall his thoughts.
"Ah, um," he stuttered. "Well, ah."
"Yes?" prompted Hannah relentlessly.
"I, ah, have your letter in my trunk at Mount Kineo and was meaning to answer it this summer," he stumbled on.
Poor Reverend Smythe closed his eyes, thinking perhaps that this whole episode was a figment of his imagination.
"I would so much like to hear your views on this subject," she continued undaunted.
"Well, yes." He was beginning to collect himself. "I was thinking about your question and feel sure that I will have
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something to say about it soon. Actually," he hedged, "no one has ever spoken to me on this subject before. Although," he finished magnanimously, "I have often wondered why they have not."
"Well, I will let you know if I have any light on the subject," offered Hannah, trying to be helpful.
"Yes, yes, thank you. And I will write you as soon as I have considered this matter thoroughly."
Hannah bowed politely and stepped aside to let the three gentlemen pass. They continued on down the trail, shaking their heads in a state of amused bewilderment. One never knew what one might meet up with while traipsing around in the wilds of Maine.
It was not only in the United States that Hannah's children insisted on her sharing their adventures. When Logan became greatly enthused about culture on the European continent, nothing would do but that his mother must enjoy it too. He and his cousin Harry Thomas dragged her to art galleries all over France, Germany, and Italy. But, like a faulty vaccination, none of this exposure to the old masters "took." Hannah could not like the great paintings of Europe no matter how hard she tried. She decided that there was something wrong either with her or with the artists. But she had a basic inner curiosity to go anywhere, to try anything.
So it was that Hannah found herself trudging up endless European mountains to see lonely ruins at the top, searching out strange religions to find out what they offered. She visited Turkey and rode in a sedan chair lined with yellow silk, which she said made her feel like a harem woman.
Once she met a gentleman from North Africa who owned a ruined Greek temple and was anxious to sell it. With great difficulty, Hannah restrained herself from buying it.
She admitted to having purchased a little lake in Florida with eighty acres around it because she wanted to own the alligator who lived in the lake. She had also acquired some land in Wyoming for the sake of owning property in
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a state where women had the right to vote. As time passed, Hannah seemed barely to slow down. In a circular letter to friends, she wrote that she had within her a creature that was possessed with an unquenchable longing to do and to see everything there was to be done and seen.
It is a most uncomfortable creature to have within one, she went on to say. For after hearing some new thing, it is never satisfied until it has had an experience of that thing. I sometimes wish nobody would ever tell me of anything new, for of course, if I do not hear of new things, this inside creature will not hunger after them. 6
It was obvious that the adventuresome side of Hannah had not greatly changed from the irrepressible teenager who defied Quaker preaching to view the naked statue of Leander in the Philadelphia Academy of Fine Arts.
Hannah—a "dry old stick"? Hardly.