Nella Fontaine Binckley: "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter IV, Part 2

Martha Washington Inn, formerly College, formerly Preston House, in Abingdon, Virginia, 2006 (Wiki Commons)

[Nella Fontaine Binckley, "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter IV, part 2. From a transcription annotated by Patricia D'Arcy Binckley of typewritten original, February 25, 2005. Original "written some time after 1941 by Nellie F. Binckley, 1860-1950 or 51." Notes in brackets are mine, unless followed by the initials "P.D.B." Occasionally, additional paragraph breaks inserted for easier reading. 

Many thanks to William Myers, Mary Davy, Sally Young and Sue Davis for their ongoing research collaboration; specifically to William for providing a scan of the original document, and in turn many thanks to Peter Binckley and Patricia D'Arcy "Trish" Binckley (1951-2007), at the source.]

Grandmother had a niece there -- the only niece she had -- the daughter of her brother Charles, Eliza Hughes. Uncle Charles had been in Congress and lived in Alexandria, across the Potomac from Washington. There was a night session of Congress one very rainy and [stormy] night, and Uncle Charles wanted to go over to the Capitol. In those days there were no bridges, only a ferry boat. And very dim lights at the pier. The boat was rocking on the rough waves and as Uncle Charles tried to step aboard, he mised the footing and fell in the river. In the dark and the storm they could not [find] him and he drowned. His wife was dead, so his little daughter was taken and brought up in a friend's family, that of Gov. [John Buchanan Floyd], Cousin Nicketti's father [brother]. 

Cousin Eliza had married Judge Hughes of Norfolk, where they lived in the winters. In the summers [they] stayed at their place near Abingdon, called Val Verde. We used to visit out there, as well as at Eggleston. I remember one time we [were] out there and Cousin Sally Floyd, who had brought up Cousin Eliza, and was of course an old lady, was also visiting there. She was strongly allergic to cats. So whenever she was there, the family cat was shit up in the corn crib. This was a small building outside, with slatted sides, where the dry corn on the cob was stored as feed for the livestock. One morning we were all at the breakfast table and suddenly Cousin Sally screamed and fainted dead away. Everybody knew exactly what had happened. Old Tom had gotten out of the corn crib somehow. Sure enough, he was happily coming in the door.

Mother had entered me at Martha Washington College, though I was very young for college. The building was a big rambling old house, formerly the mansion of the Preston family, cousins of ours who had gone out in the world years before. I was well up in most studies, was reading Virgil, and went into classes of girls older than myself.

Except arithmetic! Both Mother and Grandmother hated arithmetic, so it was slurred over at home. I had never gotten beyond the rudiments. Once in a while Father would ask if I knew the multiplication table. I never did. He thought that disgraceful (which it was) and I was put in a room and told that I must stay there till I learned it. At first I threw myself on the floor and bawled. But when I got good and hungry I would rise up, buckle down and learn it. Then I'd recite it glibly to Mother and be let out. When Dad returned from the office, again a glib recital. But a day or so later, it had escaped me utterly. Evidently I was not built for mathematics. So this had to be gone through periodically. At college I had to go into an [elementary] class with small children. Most humiliating. But my teacher very kindly offered to hear me recite after hours, so I could catch up. Soon I went into University arithmetic with my contemporaries. I crammed before exams and got through. But none of it stayed with me. Through life I have managed to keep my accounts straight because I had to. But it always takes agonized concentration, and at the moment death seems preferable.

The Cave House, 1857/58, built for Anna Liza Hickman Campbell*

We boarded at Mrs. Ann Eliza Campbell's house. (Everybody pronounced it Analiza.) In her back yard was the large entrance to a cave. There was a spring just inside and shelves had been put up and she used it as a springhouse, where she kept her butter, milk, etc. It was always very cool in the summer. One could walk back in the cave for quite a distance to a place where there was a well. Overhead an opening had been cut up into the back yard of a family living farther up the street, who used the well. It was [said] that if you looked up from the cave through this opening you could see the stars at midday.

[Ellen/Nellie/Nella Fontaine Binckley (September 1, 1860-April 27, 1951). Family names and dates were whimsically tweaked by their owners during their lifetime, adding mystery and sometimes causing confusion. For Binckley's "Artist's Life," I'm opting for the full artist's signature name, Nella Fontaine Binckley. 

Grandmother = Jane Johnston Mitchell/Michel (1811-1892).
Mother = Mary Louisa/Louise Mitchell/Michel Binckley (1838-1930).
Dad/Father = John Milton Binckley (circa 1831-1878).
Eliza Hughes = Eliza Mary Johnston Hughes (1825-1909).
Charles = Charles Clement Johnston (1795-1832).
His wife = Eliza Madison Preston Johnston (1803-1828).
Hughes = Robert William Hughes (1821-1901).
Nellie is conflating John Floyd (1783-1837) with his son, John Buchanan Floyd (1806-1863), brother of Nicketti Buchanan Floyd Johnston (1819-1908).
Sally Floyd = Sarah "Sally" Buchanan Preston Floyd (1802-1879).
Martha Washington = Francis Preston house, 1832-1858; Martha Washington College, 1858-1935; Martha Washington Inn, 1935-present.
Prestons = Gone with the Wind, but not completely. 
Ann Eliza Campbell = Anna Liza Hickman Campbell, wife of Frank Campbell and daughter of Adam Hickman, who had the "Cave House" built for her (279 East Main Street, Abingdon) in 1858. 
*Cave House picture via Creeper Trail Info 2013. Link here ]

Nella Fontaine Binckley: "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter IV, Part 1

Peter Carr Johnston (image care of Peter Binckley via William Myers)

[Nella Fontaine Binckley, "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter IV, part 1. From a transcription annotated by Patricia D'Arcy Binckley of typewritten original, February 25, 2005. Original "written some time after 1941 by Nellie F. Binckley, 1860-1950 or 51." Notes in brackets are mine, unless followed by the initials "P.D.B." Occasionally, additional paragraph breaks inserted for easier reading. 

Many thanks to William Myers, Mary Davy, Sally Young and Sue Davis for their ongoing research collaboration; specifically to William for providing a scan of the original document, and in turn many thanks to Peter Binckley and Patricia D'Arcy "Trish" Binckley (1951-2007), at the source.]

After living in the cold among strangers, to come back to the South and beloved kinfolk -- it was heaven! And to live with mountains again! [Abingdon] was Grandmother's birthplace. It's a lovely little town on the Western edge of Virginia only ten miles from Bristol, which town sits astride the State line. One side of its principal street is in Virginia and the other side is in Tennessee.

The old Johnston family mansion, Panicillo [Panecillo], where Grandmother was born, stands on a hill a short distance outside the town of Abingdon. When my great grandfather, Judge Peter Johnstone [Johnston], died the place was sold, as none of his sons wished to stay in a small town. He had fought through the Revolution on the staff of Light Horse Harry Lee.

At the time we came to Abingdon from Chicago, all of Grandmother's brothers were dead but two -- Uncle Peter, who was living there in Abingdon, and Uncle Joe, who was but six years older [than] Grandmother and who was living in Washington.* Uncle Peter was one of the older brothers, and was a geologist. [They] had dropped the final e from their name and it was now Johnston.

Grandmother's nephew -- the only one she had -- was then in Abingdon, or rather, living in his place, Eggleston, a few miles out of town. He was the son of her oldest brother, Uncle John, and was three [closer to seven] years older [than] she! He had never called her aunt, but always Jane. Uncle John [Warfield Johnston -- M.J.B.] had married Miss Lou Bowen of Tazewell County, a great beauty and belle. He died at twenty-three [twenty-seven], leaving a widow of nineteen and a baby boy. Aunt Lou lived to be ninety-six [into her seventies?], but never married again. When we came, she was still living with her son, who was now Senator John Warfield Johnston, Jr. of Virginia. She was a lovely old lady, as she had been a lovely young one.

Cousin John had married a daughter of Governor John B. Floyd of Virginia. Among his valued friends, Gov. Floyd counted an Indian chief. When a baby girl was born, the chief asked the privilege of naming her. He gave her an Indian name, Nicketti, pronounced Nickettye. 

The Floyds were Catholics; his wife converted cousin John and he became a devout Catholic, so his large family were brought up in the faith. There was a convent in Abingdon and Coralie, Cousin John's youngest daughter, used to take me to see Sister Benedicta, of whom we were both fond. She was young and pretty and I often wondered what had made her take the veil.      

[Ellen/Nellie/Nella Fontaine Binckley (September 1, 1860-April 27, 1951). Family names and dates were whimsically tweaked by their owners during their lifetime, adding mystery and sometimes causing confusion. For Binckley's "Artist's Life," I'm opting for the full artist's signature name, Nella Fontaine Binckley. 

Grandmother = Jane Johnston Mitchell/Michel (1811-1892).
Mother = Mary Louisa/Louise Mitchell/Michel Binckley (1838-1930).
Dad/Father = John Milton Binckley (circa 1831-1878).
Lighthorse Harry Lee (1756-1818). 
Peter Johnston, Jr. (1763-1831).
Peter Carr Johnston (1793-1877).
*Joseph Eggleston Johnston (1807-1891) was living in Savannah in 1875. He lived there at 105 East Oglethorpe Avenue, with his wife (Lydia Milligan Sims McLane Johnston), from 1868 until 1876. He did live in Washington City later (and before the Civil War, also).
Dr. John Warfield Johnston (1790-1818).
John Warfield Johnston  (1818-1889).
Aunt Lou = Louisa Smith Bowen Johnston (1800-187?). Nellie's recollection suggests that she lived past 1873.
Nellie is conflating John Floyd (1783-1837) with his son, John Buchanan Floyd (1806-1863), brother of Nicketti Buchanan Floyd Johnston (1819-1908).
Coralie Henry Johnston (1861-1954) later served as a nurse and librarian. 
Sister Benedicta = Sister Mary Benedicta Fenwick, situated at the Villa Marie, Academy of the Visitation, in Abingdon. This institution was in operation here from 1867 until the early 1900s, when it was relocated to Wytheville.]

Erik Donald France to Wallace Fowlie, January 4, 1989

[Though earlier I'd donated to Duke letters from Wallace Fowlie (1908-1998) to me, more recently, in sorting through my files, I came across photocopies of at least some of the letters I wrote to him. Here's another one of them, from when I lived near Little River Church Road in Hurdle Mills, North Carolina. Ellipses indicate slight editing (deletion of a few personal details). For his other letters, please see Wallace Fowlie Papers, David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University. Here's a link to the collection guide.]

                                                      Hurdle Mills, NC
                                                      January 4th, 1989

Dear Wallace,

. . . Happy New Year's to you -- I hope you've had a pleasant holiday. How did your lecture on Marcel Proust go? Was Roger Shattuck there? I wish I could have been a fly on the wall. I read the C.K. Scott Moncrieff translation [of] Swann's Way and the first part of Within a Budding Grove. Before I proceed on this course, do you think it's disastrous? Is there another translation you prefer? I can tell you I've gotten much out of Moncrieff. I wish I could tackle the original -- someday I will, in another life perhaps. I'm much taken by the descriptions of the streets of Paris, just the little incidents. They bring back memories of Balzac. The Paris I saw was very different, modern. Proust's is so nineteenth century, before the 1914 war.

Did Germaine Brée talk at Birmingham? I learned a lot from Twentieth-Century French Literature.

I love Paris, can't not think about it. I love reading descriptions and passages about [the city]. 

I finished reading, a couple of weeks ago and on your recommendation, a Henry Miller book. Tropic of Cancer. A thoroughly enjoyable book! To think that it was held back from American publication for thirty years. it's difficult to imagine now. I'm getting ready to dive into Black Spring. Do you think that's the one to read next? I picked up a copy at the Gothic.

I want to absorb everything quickly, but there's work and my library classes. . . There's so much to do. I don't like working for other people at all. My family, my friends, yes, and for myself. Everything else is a farce. (Isn't that Rimbaud?) Or Voltaire: "Men judge everything without knowing anything." That's me.

What are you up to? How is your fourth memoir coming? Are you teaching this semester? I have been tracking you in newspapers and flyers as you teach Proust, appear in an October R & R Weekly, give lectures on Dante. I can't guess your next move. Are you still giving French lessons?

Please find enclosed "Rimbaud" by Jack Kerouac, which I promised you some time ago. I should have sent it to you sooner. I found it in Scattered Poems (City Lights, 1971), comp. by Ann Charters. I was lucky enough to hear a tape of Kerouac and can now answer your question about his accent -- definitely not French. New England and New York, not French or Quebec. He did speak and read it, and felt devotion to his French Catholic background. I like him. 

I include also a little thing, a feuilleton written in 1986 and included in the little review Dog Food from that fall. I think you will understand why I sent it. Please give me your honest opinion as to what you think.

Have you been able to work any more on that Rimbuad-rock thesis? There are references and groups that I've come across and I will piece them together when I have some spare time. . .

What was that French compilation of Jim Morrison's poems you mentioned? I couldn't find it anywhere. 

By the way, did you see Bob Dylan when he came to Chapel Hill? I saw him, and I saw Iggy Pop in Charlotte. Iggy is a type of Rimbaud, a fan of Morrison and a wild performer in his own right!

                                            Warmly Yours,
                                             Erik France

P.S. Do you know of any 75th Anniv. translations of Alcools? I can't get enough of "Zone."

     

ZONE (Apollinaire, 1913)

À la fin tu es las de ce monde ancien

Bergère ô tour Eiffel le troupeau des ponts bêle ce matin

Tu en as assez de vivre dans l’antiquité grecque et romaine

Ici même les automobiles ont l’air d’être anciennes
La religion seule est restée toute neuve la religion
Est restée simple comme les hangars de Port-Aviation

Seul en Europe tu n’es pas antique ô Christianisme
L’Européen le plus moderne c’est vous Pape Pie X
Et toi que les fenêtres observent la honte te retient
D’entrer dans une église et de t’y confesser ce matin
Tu lis les prospectus les catalogues les affiches qui chantent tout haut

Voilà la poésie ce matin et pour la prose il y a les journaux
Il y a les livraisons à 25 centimes pleines d’aventures policières
Portraits des grands hommes et mille titres divers

J’ai vu ce matin une jolie rue dont j’ai oublié le nom
Neuve et propre du soleil elle était le clairon
Les directeurs les ouvriers et les belles sténo-dactylographes
Du lundi matin au samedi soir quatre fois par jour y passent
Le matin par trois fois la sirène y gémit
Une cloche rageuse y aboie vers midi
Les inscriptions des enseignes et des murailles
Les plaques les avis à la façon des perroquets criaillent
J’aime la grâce de cette rue industrielle
Située à Paris entre la rue Aumont-Thiéville et l’avenue des Ternes

Voilà la jeune rue et tu n’es encore qu’un petit enfant
Ta mère ne t’habille que de bleu et de blanc
Tu es très pieux et avec le plus ancien de tes camarades René Dalize
Vous n’aimez rien tant que les pompes de l’Église
Il est neuf heures le gaz est baissé tout bleu vous sortez du dortoir en cachette

Vous priez toute la nuit dans la chapelle du collège
Tandis qu’éternelle et adorable profondeur améthyste
Tourne à jamais la flamboyante gloire du Christ
C’est le beau lys que tous nous cultivons
C’est la torche aux cheveux roux que n’éteint pas le vent
C’est le fils pâle et vermeil de la douloureuse mère
C’est l’arbre toujours touffu de toutes les prières
C’est la double potence de l’honneur et de l’éternité
C’est l’étoile à six branches
C’est Dieu qui meurt le vendredi et ressuscite le dimanche
C’est le Christ qui monte au ciel mieux que les aviateurs
Il détient le record du monde pour la hauteur
Pupille Christ de l’œil
Vingtième pupille des siècles il sait y faire
Et changé en oiseau ce siècle comme Jésus monte dans l’air
Les diables dans les abîmes lèvent la tête pour le regarder
Ils disent qu’il imite Simon Mage en Judée
Ils crient s’il sait voler qu’on l’appelle voleur
Les anges voltigent autour du joli voltigeur
Icare Enoch Elie Apollonius de Thyane
Flottent autour du premier aéroplane
Ils s’écartent parfois pour laisser passer ceux que transporte la Sainte-Eucharistie

Ces prêtres qui montent éternellement en élevant l’hostie
L’avion se pose enfin sans refermer les ailes
Le ciel s’emplit alors de millions d’hirondelles
À tire-d’aile viennent les corbeaux les faucons les hiboux
D’Afrique arrivent les ibis les flamands les marabouts
L’oiseau Roc célébré par les conteurs et les poètes
Plane tenant dans les serres le crâne d’Adam la première tête
L’aigle fond de l’horizon en poussant un grand cri
Et d’Amérique vient le petit colibri
De Chine sont venus les pihis longs et souples
Qui n’ont qu’une seule aile et qui volent par couples
Puis voici la colombe esprit immaculé
Qu’escortent l’oiseau-lyre et le paon ocellé
Le phénix ce bûcher qui soi-même s’engendre
Un instant voile tout de son ardente cendre
Les sirènes laissant les périlleux détroits
Arrivent en chantant bellement toutes trois
Et tous aigle phénix et pihis de la Chine
Fraternisent avec la volante machine

Maintenant tu marches dans Paris tout seul parmi la foule

Des troupeaux d’autobus mugissants près de toi roulent
L’angoisse de l’amour te serre le gosier
Comme si tu ne devais jamais plus être aimé
Si tu vivais dans l’ancien temps tu entrerais dans un monastère
Vous avez honte quand vous vous surprenez à dire une prière
Tu te moques de toi et comme le feu de l’Enfer ton rire pétille
Les étincelles de ton rire dorent le fonds de ta vie
C’est un tableau pendu dans un sombre musée
Et quelquefois tu vas la regarder de près

Aujourd’hui tu marches dans Paris les femmes sont ensanglantées
C’était et je voudrais ne pas m’en souvenir c’était au déclin de la beauté

Entourée de flammes ferventes Notre-Dame m’a regardé à Chartres
Le sang de votre Sacré-Cœur m’a inondé à Montmartre
Je suis malade d’ouïr les paroles bienheureuses
L’amour dont je souffre est une maladie honteuse
Et l’image qui te possède te fait survivre dans l’insomnie et dans l’angoisse

C’est toujours près de toi cette image qui passe

Maintenant tu es au bord de la Méditerranée
Sous les citronniers qui sont en fleur toute l’année
Avec tes amis tu te promènes en barque
L’un est Nissard il y a un Mentonasque et deux Turbiasques
Nous regardons avec effroi les poulpes des profondeurs
Et parmi les algues nagent les poissons images du Sauveur

Tu es dans le jardin d’une auberge aux environs de Prague
Tu te sens tout heureux une rose est sur la table
Et tu observes au lieu d’écrire ton conte en prose
La cétoine qui dort dans le cœur de la rose

Épouvanté tu te vois dessiné dans les agates de Saint-Vit
Tu étais triste à mourir le jour où tu t’y vis
Tu ressembles au Lazare affolé par le jour
Les aiguilles de l’horloge du quartier juif vont à rebours
Et tu recules aussi dans ta vie lentement
En montant au Hradchin et le soir en écoutant
Dans les tavernes chanter des chansons tchèques

Te voici à Marseille au milieu des pastèques

Te voici à Coblence à l’hôtel du Géant

Te voici à Rome assis sous un néflier du Japon

Te voici à Amsterdam avec une jeune fille que tu trouves belle et qui est laide
Elle doit se marier avec un étudiant de Leyde
On y loue des chambres en latin Cubicula locanda
Je m’en souviens j’y ai passé trois jours et autant à Gouda

Tu es à Paris chez le juge d’instruction
Comme un criminel on te met en état d’arrestation
Tu as fait de douloureux et de joyeux voyages
Avant de t’apercevoir du mensonge et de l’âge
Tu as souffert de l’amour à vingt et à trente ans
J’ai vécu comme un fou et j’ai perdu mon temps
Tu n’oses plus regarder tes mains et à tous moments je voudrais sangloter
Sur toi sur celle que j’aime sur tout ce qui t’a épouvanté

Tu regardes les yeux pleins de larmes ces pauvres émigrants

Ils croient en Dieu ils prient les femmes allaitent des enfants
Ils emplissent de leur odeur le hall de la gare Saint-Lazare
Ils ont foi dans leur étoile comme les rois-mages
Ils espèrent gagner de l’argent dans l’Argentine
Et revenir dans leur pays après avoir fait fortune
Une famille transporte un édredon rouge comme vous transportez votre cœur
Cet édredon et nos rêves sont aussi irréels
Quelques-uns de ces émigrants restent ici et se logent
Rue des Rosiers ou rue des Écouffes dans des bouges
Je les ai vus souvent le soir ils prennent l’air dans la rue
Et se déplacent rarement comme les pièces aux échecs
Il y a surtout des Juifs leurs femmes portent perruque
Elles restent assises exsangues au fond des boutiques

Tu es debout devant devant le zinc d’un bar crapuleux
Tu prends un café à deux sous parmi les malheureux

Tu es la nuit dans un grand restaurant

Ces femmes ne sont pas méchantes elles ont des soucis cependant
Toutes même la plus laide a fait souffrir son amant
Elle est la fille d’un sergent de ville de Jersey

Ses mains que je n’avais pas vues sont dures et gercées

J’ai une pitié immense pour les coutures de son ventre

J’humilie maintenant à une pauvre fille au rire horrible ma bouche

Tu es seul le matin va venir
Les laitiers font tinter leurs bidons dans les rues

La nuit s’éloigne ainsi qu’une belle Métive
C’est Ferdine la fausse ou Léa l’attentive

Et tu bois cet alcool brûlant comme ta vie
Ta vie que tu bois comme une eau-de-vie

Tu marches vers Auteuil tu veux aller chez toi à pied
Dormir parmi tes fétiches d’Océanie et de Guinée
Ils sont des Christ d’une autre forme et d’une autre croyance
Ce sont les Christ inférieurs des obscures espérances

Adieu Adieu

Soleil cou coupé

Mary Louisa Johnston to Nicketti Floyd Johnston, March 20, 1860

[Mary Louisa Bowen Johnston at Frederick, Maryland, to Nicketti Buchanan Floyd Johnston at [?], Virginia, March 20, 1860,  Box 2, John Warfield Johnston Papers, 1778-1890, David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University. This is my rough transcription. Paragraph breaks added for easier reading.]

Academy of the Visitation
Frederick     March 20th 1860 

My dearest mother,

It has indeed been a long time since you wrote to me but not so long as since I wrote to you. We received yours and Father's letters Thursday and indeed, dear Mother, I would rather you would scold me when I deserve it.

Yesterday was St. Josephs [Joseph's] day and we all had holiday. I thought of Bev very often. I wrote to Miss Hartford last letter writing day, but have not yet received an answer.

I am sorry that Fathers [Father's] courts begin so soon, but I am very glad that we do not live in Tazewell, for it would be so much more difficult for him to attend them. 

It is very pretty weather now, and the girls go out walking on Wednesdays and Saturday evenings. Sometimes, I would like to go if I could walk with Letty, but we have to walk according to our ranks. 

We were glad that you and Father had changed the name of the farm for "Beach Spring" is a much prettier name than "Four Springs."

There are plenty at home to nurse the younger members of the Johnston family, so you please come to Washington, if not to Frederick; you don't know how delighted Letty and myself would be,

We were surprised to hear that Martha Washington college was to be opened so soon. Emma Brown in her latter to us said she was very glad, and hoped it would enliven the town. Hennie was very dissatisfied[?] at her wanting boys to enliven the town, but when I told [her] it was a college for girls, she laughed at the mistake.

I will not ask the Sisters to pray for you as a poor sinner, as you said in one of your letters, but as the sweetest and best Mother that ever lived.

I wish you could know some of the Sisters, especially Sr Mary -- she is so sweet and good just like you. Letty and myself are in her music class. You need not fear, dear Mother, as to my health, for my [fragment missing] is a great deal better.

I am going to ask Mother Angela to get me a pair of braces. You don't know how very sorry I am about my report, but I am going to study diligently, and the future will speak for it self. 

When will Uncle Will make his first Communion? [N]ot until next summer I hope -- so we will be there. I pray for him every day, for Aunt Nannie, for Grandmother and for you and our precious Father, all all our darling little sisters and brothers.

You devoted child,

Mary Louisa Johnston

[p.s.] Sr. Liguori sends her best to you, and says to answer her letter. 


[The Academy of the Visitation aka Visitation Academy of Frederick apparently closed its doors on June 30, 2016; the last Sisters left in 2009
Mary Louisa Bowen Johnston (1846-1895)
 Mother = Nicketti Buchanan Floyd Johnston (1819-1908)
Father = John Warfield Johnston (1818-1889)
Bev = Joseph Beverly Johnston (1859-1943)
Letty = Laetitia "Letty" Floyd Johnston (1844-1888)
Uncle Will = Dr. William Preston Floyd (1809-1871)
Aunt Nannie = [?]
Grandmother = Mary Louisa Bowen Johsnton (1800-1873)]

For their help and assistance, many thanks to the staff of the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University, Durham, North Carolina. For more information about the John Warfield Johnston Papers, here's a link to the guide.     

[Many thanks to William Myers, Mary Davy and Sally Young for their ongoing research collaboration.]

Joseph Eggleston Johnston to John Warfield Johnston, December 28, 1867

[Joseph Eggleston Johnston at Baltimore to John Warfield Johnston at Abingdon, Virginia, December 28, 1867. Box 2, John Warfield Johnston Papers, 1778-1890, David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University].

84 Cathedral Street
Baltimore, Dec'r 28th 1867

My dear John [John Warfield Johnston, 1818-1889],

I enclose two photographs of your uncle [Edward William Johnston, 1799-December 9, 1867] just received from St. Louis. [A] hand trunk containing papers and a few articles of personal use, will be sent to Abingdon in a day or two, for brother Peter [Peter Carr Johnston, 1793-1877]. Please get it sent to him by the best opportunity. Perhaps one of Mr. Joe Campbell's [probably Joseph Trigg Campbell, 1827-1876] trips to Scott [Scott County, Virginia] (who travels in a buggy), may make a good one. The smaller of the the two pictures is a striking likeness of the end of life, as the other is of him at about 45.

I was very glad to learn that for ten years he had thought much of religion and had joined the Catholic Church in the early part of last year.

Our love to Nicketti [Nicketti Buchanan Floyd Johnston, 1819-1908] and all the children and especially your mother [Louisa Smith Bowen Johnston, 1800-1873].

Affectionately yours
J.E. Johnston

[This adds testimony to Edward's conversion to Catholicism. His marriage to Estelle Antoinette Estelle Costar (1802-1848) by John Power (1792-1849), priest and pastor of St. Peter's Church in New York City, on February 7, 1824 suggests a certain continuity. As of this post, little is known for sure about Margaret (circa 1821-1867), Edward's second wife, except that both were buried on December 11, 1867, in Cavalry Cemetery (Catholic) and are listed in the database of the Archdiocese of St. Louis. Link here. John and Nicketti were Catholic, as well.

Hopefully the two photographs mentioned in this letter still exist, but if so, they have yet to be identified as such. Also, Joseph Trigg Campbell was married to Mary Campbell Preston, 1833-1914].

For their help and assistance, many thanks to the staff of the David M. Rubenstein Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Duke University, Durham, North Carolina. For more information about the John Warfield Johnston Papers, here's a link to the guide. 

Letter from Wallace Fowlie, Thanksgiving 1993

Letter from Wallace Fowlie (1908-1998) at Chapel Hill to Erik France at Powelton Village, Philadelphia, Thanksgiving (November 25), 1993. 

Dear Erik,

Never would I think of judging you harshly on what has happened. As you present them, . . . and your . . . make you appear a lucky man. 1992 must have been a hard year for you. You deserve your present happiness which will continue. I congratulate you and send you and . . . my love and blessings.

After all those sections of writing and research skills at Temple, your present T.A. teaching in U.S. history, and grading exams in an American Studies class must be more to your liking. 

The Doors Complete was never published. Thanks to that, Frank Lisciandro has helped us get some pictures of J.M. for the book.

Since I did not teach this present semester, I have done a bit more work with my other profession which I may never have mentioned to you. I am a "lay psychiatrist" from Mass. General Hospital in Boston. Worked there 3 years (when I taught at Bennington). Then for two winters in Paris. I worked with Otto Rank. He began giving me a few Catholic patients (Since he makes nothing out of "that stuff"[)]. And here in N.C., it has continued. I work for 3 doctors, 2 in Durham and 1 in Chapel Hill, who send me (when I have  time) Catholic patients. I have right now 2 hard cases: a student (boy) from Duke and a girl from UNC . . . (Rank gave me one similar case in Paris) . . .

My health is good -- and if it continues, I will give my Dante course in January: both sections are filled (130 students.) I look forward to it. 

Your letter was dated a few days after my 85th birthday (Nov. 8)-- a big day  in my life. Brenda Brodie had me for lunch with 3 good friends of hers and mine. The evening was a meeting (banquet) of the Duke Catholic Community: 250 students, faculty, and administrators. Coach K was to be the after-dinner speaker. I had always wanted to meet him and tell him the good work two of his players did in my classes (Mark Crow and Mark Alarie.) I saw him at the entrance of the dining room. I shook hands with him, as he said, "Wallace, I know all about you from my players." We had a good chat. At dessert time,a waiter carried to my table a huge cake: "To Wallace on his  85th" -- and they all sang "Happy Birthday." I had to cut 150 small pieces of cake for the other tables. Mike K's speech was the best I have heard at Duke: witty, highly spirited -- at the end he spoke of a few professors who were present, and then, pointing at me, said "And that man publishes a new book every year!" (not accurate!) Erik, excuse this egoism. Let's keep in better touch.

love,
Wallace