.dt Memories Grave and Gay, by Florence Howe Hall--A Project Gutenberg eBook
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<i>MEMORIES GRAVE AND GAY</i>
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<l>❦</l>
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<s><i>Florence Howe Hall</i></s>
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[Illustration: Florence Howe Hall]
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<xxl><i>MEMORIES</i></xxl>

<xl><i>GRAVE AND GAY</i></xl>

BY
<l>FLORENCE HOWE HALL</l>

<i>Frontispiece portrait</i>
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<l><i>Harper & Brothers Publishers</i></l>
<i>New York and London</i>
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<sc>Memories Grave and Gay</sc>
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Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
Published November, 1918
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TO

MY SONS AND MY DAUGHTER
SAMUEL PRESCOTT HALL
CAROLINE MINTURN BIRCKHEAD
HENRY MARION HALL
JOHN HOWE HALL
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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The author wishes to express her cordial thanks to
Messrs <sc>Houghton and Mifflin</sc> for their courtesy in
allowing her to quote from the “Reminiscences” of
Julia Ward Howe (published by them in 1899) and
from “Julia Ward Howe” (published by them in 1916).
She also desires to thank Mrs. <sc>Laura E. Richards</sc>
for her kind permission to quote from “The Journals
and Letters of Samuel Gridley Howe” (published by
Dana Estes & Company in 1906).
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CONTENTS
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<s>CHAPTER</s> | | <s>PAGE</s>
I. |  <sc>Introductory</sc>\
The Romance of Philanthropy Causes the First Meeting\
of Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe and Julia Ward.—Letter\
of Congratulation from the Poet Longfellow.—The\
“Chevalier.”—The Wedding-tour in Europe.—The\
Eldest Daughter, Julia Romana, Is Born in Rome.\
Why She Was “Mary” and I Was “Martha.”   | #1:ch01#

II. | <sc>Stories Told Us by Our Parents</sc>\
The Alarming Three Bears of the Howe Coat-of-arms.—Brutality\
at the Old Boston Latin School.—Boyish\
Mischief.—Papa’s Church.—Grandmother Cutler\
Rebukes the Biographer of Washington and Marion.—Grandfather\
Ward, His Liberality and His Stern Calvinism.     | #4:ch02#

III. | <sc>Memories of Early Childhood</sc>\
The Perkins Institution for the Blind.—South Boston\
in the ’Fifties and ’Sixties. Migratory Habits of the\
Howe Family.—“Cliff House” at Newport.—George\
William Curtis and the Howe Children.—A Children’s\
Party at the Longfellow Mansion.—Professor “Stubby”\
Child Plays with Us in the Hay.     | #12:ch03#

IV. | <sc>Our Early Literary Activities</sc>\
The Howe Children Invent a “Patagonian Language,”\
Edit a Newspaper <i>The Listener</i>, Write Plays and\
Songs. They Give “Parlor Concerts” and Take Part\
in Tableaux and Private Theatricals.—William Story\
and Thackeray.  | #30:ch04#

V. | <sc>Under the Shadow of Byron’s Helmet</sc>\
Echoes of the Greek Revolution.—The Enchanted Garden.—“Green\
Peace” an International Resort.—Political\
Exiles. Teach Us Foreign Languages and the\
Love of Freedom.—Louis Kossuth.    | #40:ch05#

VI. | <sc>Noted Visitors at “Green Peace”</sc>\
Charles Sumner and His Brother.—Edwin P. Whipple—James\
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 T. Fields.—Doctor Kane.—Rev. Thomas Starr\
King.—Prof. Cornelius C. Felton.—Arthur Hugh\
Clough.—Frederika Bremer.—Laura Bridgman.   | #50:ch06#

VII. | <sc>Young America Goes to School</sc>\
Our Schools and Teachers.—The South Boston Omnibus.—A\
Grand School Sleigh-ride.—Memories of the\
Adams Family.—A Picnic on the State House Steps.   | #68:ch07#

VIII. | <sc>The Agassizes and Their School</sc>\
Professor and Mrs. Louis Agassiz.—Prof. Alexander\
Agassiz.—Papanti’s Dancing-school.—I Invent Fancy\
Dances.—We Swim, Skate, and Ride on Horseback.—Boston’s\
Purple-glass Windows.    | #79:ch08#

IX. | <sc>Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman</sc>\
Why They Did Not Act My Mother’s Play, “Hippolytus.”—A\
Bundle of Old Playbills.—Letters from\
Edwin and Mary Booth.—Mrs. Frances Ann Kemble.—Statue\
of Horace Mann.—My Father Introduces\
Written Examinations into the Public Schools, amid\
Angry Protests from the Masters.    | #92:ch09#

X. | <sc>Lawton’s Valley, Our Summer Home</sc>\
The Beautiful Valley.—The Crawford Children.—“Yeller’s\
Day.”—“Vaucluse” and the Hazards.—The\
Midshipmen Visit Us.—Dances on Board the Frigate\
<i>Constitution</i>.—Parties in the Valley.—George Bancroft.—A\
Party at His House.—Rev. Charles T. Brooks.    | #110:ch10#

XI. | <sc>Anti-Slavery and Civil War Memories</sc>\
Deep Interest of My Parents in the Anti-Slavery\
Movement and in the Civil War.—We Learn the Evil\
of Compromise.—A Trip to Kansas.—Manners on the\
Mississippi Steamboats.—Fort Sumter Is Attacked.—Mother’s\
Poems of the War.—Father’s Work on the\
Sanitary Commission.—How the Flag Was Treated at\
Newport.—We Ride in the “Jeff Davis.”\
Knitting and Scraping Lint.—Sewing-circles.—Fairs\
for the Army and the Navy.—“The Boatswain’s\
Whistle.”—Visiting the Camp at Readville.—Governor\
N. P. Banks.—Governor John A. Andrew.—Parade of the Ancient\
and Honorable Artillery  | #128:ch11#
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XII. | <sc>Work for the Soldiers</sc>\
The Ancient and Honorable Artillery.—Death of Little\
Sammy.—Assassination of Lincoln.—My Father\
Serves on the Freedmen’s Commission.    | #141:ch12#

XIII. | <sc>The Brighter Side of Life in the Civil War</sc>\
How We Dressed and Danced in the ’Sixties.—War\
Prices.—Mrs. Jared Sparks.—Visit of the Russian\
Fleet.—The Brain Club.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.—Ralph\
Waldo Emerson.—William R. Alger.—William\
M. Hunt.—“Mamma’s Owls,” William and Henry\
James.—A Clever Group of Society Women.—A Historic\
Nose-pulling.    | #155:ch13#

XIV. | <sc>Our Labors in Behalf of Crete</sc>\
Removal to Boylston Place.—W. D. Howells.—Marion\
Crawford as a Boy.—The Romance of a Fire.—The\
Cretan Insurrection.—Sisters Julia and Laura Accompany\
Our Parents to Greece.—A Grim Passenger.—A\
Price Is Set on My Father’s Head.—Our Cretan\
Sewing-Circle and Concert.—Over-modest Amateurs.—The\
Sumner Bronzes.   | #180:ch14#

XV. | <sc>Married Life in New York and New Jersey</sc>\
Nursery Days.—The Family of a New Jersey Commuter.—Sorrows\
of the Country Housekeeper.—Death\
of My Father.—A Memorial Meeting.—The Story of\
Sister Constance.—A Division of Heirlooms.   | #205:ch15#

XVI. | <sc>Reconstructing a New Jersey Village</sc>\
The Mutual Admiration Society of Scotch Plains.—My\
Husband Becomes a Leader in Local Politics and\
Activities.—The Passing of the Mossbacks.—How We\
Gained a Public Library, a New School-house and a\
New Truck-house.—An Overseer of the Poor with\
Peculiar Methods.   | #220:ch16#

XVII. | “<sc>I Take My Pen in Hand</sc>”\
Following the Family Tradition.—<i>Demorest’s</i> and\
“Jennie June.”—Marion Crawford and the Little Green\
Parlor.—Town and Country Club.—Charles Dudley\
Warner.—How I Came to Write about Manners.—Life\
of Laura Bridgman.—Helen Keller at the Perkins\
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Institution. A Luncheon at “Boothden,” the Home of\
Edwin Booth.—Joseph Jefferson and William Warren.   | #233:ch17#

XVIII. | <sc>Our Children at Home, School, and College</sc>\
An Attic Fairy.—Our Child Artist Grinds Her Own\
Paints.—Scholarships and Athletics at Harvard University.—Our\
Youngest Wins an “H.”—American\
Girls’ Club in Paris.—Caroline’s Pictures Exhibited in\
the New Salon.  | #250:ch18#

XIX. | <sc>The Club and Suffrage Movements</sc>\
Enthusiasm of the Pioneer Clubwomen.—Early Conventions\
of the General Federation of Women’s Clubs.—Work\
as President of New Jersey Woman Suffrage\
Association.—We Visit the Legislature.—Campaign for\
School Suffrage.—Formation of New Leagues.—Lucy\
Stone and Her Baby’s Cradle.—Rev. Samuel Smith,\
Author of “America.”   | #258:ch19#

XX. | <sc>Joys and Sorrows of the Lecturer</sc>\
The Treatment of “Talent”—Visits to New England\
and to the West.—My Mother’s Seventieth Birthday.—The\
papeterie Club.—Elizabeth Stewart Phelps.—Thomas\
Nelson Page.    | #276:ch20#

XXI. | <sc>Darby and Joan on Their Travels</sc>\
A Cathedral Pilgrimage.—Visit to a French Country\
House.—Madame Blanc.—Cathedrals of Rheims,\
Chartres, Rouen, Beauvais, Amiens.—English Hospitality.—Visit\
to Florence Nightingale.    | #286:ch21#

XXII. | “<sc>Wander-Years</sc>”\
Michael Anagnos, His Romantic Yet Practical Career.—Death\
of My Husband.—Return to New York.—My\
Daughter’s Exhibitions.—High Bridge, a Quaint Old\
Jersey Town.—Leader Twelfth Assembly District of\
Manhattan.—Suffrage-worker at Newport, Rhode\
Island.—The Delights of Canvassing and Out-of-door\
Speaking.   | #308:ch22#

XXIII. | <sc>Unto the Third and Fourth Generation</sc>\
My Mother’s Beautiful Old Age.—How It Feels to be\
an Ancestor.—Grandmotherhood in the Twentieth Century.—Keeping\
Alive the Sacred Fires of Noble Tradition.—Handing\
on the Lighted Torch.  | #332:ch23#
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FOREWORD
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<sc>It</sc> has been a pleasure for me to recall, at the kind
request of the Messrs. Harper & Brothers, the memories
of a lifetime, even though some sad thoughts
have mingled with the happy ones. So many bright
shapes have risen out of the past at my bidding that
the difficulty of selection has been great. Beloved
faces seem to look out at me and say, “Why did you
leave me out?” The ghosts of noble deeds, the
memories of stirring scenes sweep softly by me, murmuring:
“Are we not worthy of mention?”

Indeed and indeed you are, bright spirits of the
past and of the present also, but in my small mosaic
all the precious stones would not fit.

For the rest, if the store of my childhood’s early
memories seems to be unduly large, it must be whispered
that when, some twenty-five years ago, I began
to record my reminiscences, a good fairy, my mother,
helped me.
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<xxl><i>MEMORIES GRAVE AND GAY</i></xxl>
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<i><xxl>MEMORIES</xxl>
<xl>GRAVE AND GAY</xl></i>
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I||<s>INTRODUCTORY</s>
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<i>The Romance of Philanthropy Causes the First Meeting of Dr.
Samuel Gridley Howe and Julia Ward.—Letter of Congratulation
from the Poet Longfellow.—The “Chevalier.”—The
Wedding-tour in Europe.—The Eldest Daughter, Julia
Romana, Is Born in Rome.—Why She Was “Mary” and I
Was “Martha.”</i>
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THOSE stern censors, Time and Space, forbid my
giving an account of the early lives of my parents,
Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe and Mrs. Julia Ward
Howe, since these have been already described in their
respective biographies and in my mother’s <i>Reminiscences</i>.
Suffice it to say here that at the time of his
marriage my father was already known on both sides
of the Atlantic on account of his services in the Greek
Revolution, as well as for his work for the blind. As
“Surgeon-in-chief of the Fleet,” soldier, and almoner
of America’s bounty, had he aided the Greeks in their
long struggle with the barbarous Turks. The King
of Greece made him a Knight of St. George, a title
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which he himself never used. But his intimate
friends, fellow-members of the “Five of Clubs”—Longfellow,
Charles Sumner, Prof. Cornelius C.
Felton and George S. Hilliard—called him “Chevalier,”
which my mother abbreviated to “Chev.”

It was the Ward sisters’ interest in his famous pupil,
Laura Bridgman, the blind deaf-mute, which brought
about the first meeting of my parents, Charles Sumner
and the poet driving the young ladies to the Institution
for the Blind. In the following winter, 1842–43,
Doctor Howe and Julia Ward became engaged, their
marriage taking place in April, 1843. Longfellow’s
beautiful letter of congratulation addressed to the
“Chevalier” has been published elsewhere. I am glad
to be able to give the one he wrote to our mother’s
“Brother Sam.”

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<sc>Cambridge</sc>, <i>March 6, 1843</i>.

<sc>My Dear Sam</sc>,—I ought to have written you long ago on the
great event of our brave Chevalier’s conquering the Celestial
City; but I have been away from home, and have moreover
been hoping to see you here, and expecting to hear from you.
The event did not surprise me; for the Chevalier is a mighty
man of Love, and I noted that on the walls of the citadel
(Julia’s cheeks) first the white flag would be displayed, and
anon the red, and then again the white. The citadel could not
have surrendered to a braver, better or more humane Knight.

Seriously, my dear Sam, and most sincerely do I rejoice in
this event. Julia could not have chosen <i>more</i> wisely—nor the
Doctor <i>so</i> wisely; and I think you may safely look forward to
a serene and happy life for your sister. And so God speed
them upon Life’s journey: “To the one be contenting enjoyments
of his auspicious desires; to the other, a happy attendance
of her chosen muses.”

I write you a very short note this morning, because I am
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going down to hear Sumnerius lecture in the Law School,
on Ambassadors, Consuls, Peace & War, and other matters of
International Law.

Write me soon—as soon as you can; and say that you are
coming to Cambridge erelong. Life is short. We meet not
often; and I am most sincerely,
.rj
<sc>Henry W. Longfellow.</sc>
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My mother has described in her <i>Reminiscences</i> the
wonderful wedding-tour in Europe. In Rome, her
eldest daughter, Julia Romana, was born. She fancied
she saw, in the baby’s radiant little face, a reflection of
the beautiful forms and faces she had so earnestly contemplated
before the child’s coming. Other people
saw it there in after-years. The exaltation of her
mother’s spirit deeply influenced the mind and character
of sister Julia, “the first-born daughter of a
hero’s heart.” She was so unworldly that she did
not know what worldliness was. Her lovely face
and rapt upward look have, fortunately, been preserved
by the pencil of our uncle, Luther Terry.

After a year and a half in Europe my parents returned
to America. The European travel had been
by post, in their own carriage. The tour had been
expensive and economy was for a time necessary.
My mother accordingly did some clerical work, thus
earning the money for my baby-clothes.

I soon evinced a practical turn of mind, very
different from that of my sister. The tendency to
economy with which the family have sometimes reproached
me is due, as I believe, to pre-natal influences.
Perhaps it is also an inheritance from
French ancestors!
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II||<s>STORIES TOLD US BY OUR PARENTS</s>
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<i>The Alarming Three Bears of the Howe Coat-of-arms.—Brutality
at the Old Boston Latin School.—Boyish Mischief.—Papa’s
Church.—Grandmother Cutler Rebukes Wemyss, the
Biographer of Washington and Marion.—Grandfather Ward,
His Liberality and His Stern Calvinism.</i>
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SOME one has said that it is hard to live under the
shadow of a great name. It has been my great
privilege and happiness to live, not under the shadow,
but in the light of two honored names, those of my
father and mother. They were honored and beloved
because of their own love for and service to their
fellow-men.

My father was nearly eighteen years older than
my mother. He had had the responsibility and care
of his young blind pupils for ten years before his
marriage. Hence he was well fitted to take an active
part in our training, especially as he dearly loved
children. The absence in Europe, for more than a
year, of my mother and the two younger children,
Harry and Laura, brought Julia and myself under his
care when we were respectively five and six years
old. We thus early formed the habit of close companionship
with him, to which, as the elder, we had
special claim. Indeed, we all followed him about to
such a degree that he once exclaimed jestingly, “Why,
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if I went and sat in the barn I believe you children
would all follow me!”

The housekeeper who was with us in these early
years would sometimes say, “You do not know what
a good father you have.” Of course we did not. We
knew that “Papa” made us his companions whenever
he could possibly do so. We knew that as “a good
physician” he bound up our small wounds and cared
for us when we were sick. We knew that if we did
wrong we must expect his firm yet gentle rebuke.
Did he not tell me about a naughty little devil I had
swallowed, bidding me open my mouth so that he
could get hold of its tail and pull it out? Lessons of
thrift and generosity he early inculcated. We received
a penny for every horseshoe and for every
pound of old iron we picked up about the place.

He constantly sent, by our hands, gifts of the delicious
fruit of the garden to our schoolmates and to
the blind children.

When our mother played the most delightful tunes
for us to dance, Papa would join in the revels, occasionally
pleading “a bone in his leg” as an excuse for
stopping. Together they planned and carried out all
sorts of schemes for our amusement and that of our
little friends.

When, at a child’s party in midwinter, fireworks
suddenly appeared outside the parlor window, the
great kindness of our parents in doing so much for
our amusement began to dawn upon my childish mind.
Indeed, the Howe juvenile parties were thought very
delightful by others besides ourselves.

Our parents told us stories of their youth, in which
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we were greatly interested. My father must have
been a very small boy when he was alarmed by the
Howe coat of arms—three bears with their tongues
out. I fancy he came across this vision in the attic
and that it was banished there by Grandfather Howe,
who was a true Democrat.

Father also told us that the family was supposed
to be related to that of Lord Howe. I find the same
statement made in Farmer’s genealogy of the descendants
of “John Howe of Watertown freeman
1640, son of John Howe of Hodinhull Warwickshire.”

Anecdotes of his school-days showed that my
father, despite his feelings in the presence of the three
bears, was a very courageous boy. At Latin School
the master whipped him for some small fault, but
could not succeed in his amiable intention of making
the child cry, “though he whipped my hand almost
to jelly.” His Federalist schoolmates were as brutal
as their master. Because Sam Howe, almost the only
Democrat in school, refused to abandon his principles,
they threw him down-stairs.

Grandfather Howe lost a great deal of money by
the failure of the United States government to
pay him for the ropes and cordage which he,
as a patriotic Democrat, supplied to them in large
quantities during the War of 1812. Hence, when
his son went to college, young Sam Howe helped to
pay his way by teaching school in vacation. The
country lads, some of whom were bigger than he,
thought they could get the better of the new schoolmaster.
He restored order by the simple but sometimes
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necessary process of knocking down the
ringleader. The handsome young collegian found
more difficulty in managing the girls!

He must have been very young when he assured
his sister that the pump had a very agreeable taste
on a frosty morning. The confiding girl followed
his suggestion, but found it difficult to remove her
tongue from the cold iron.

Among his many pranks at college, the most original
was a nocturnal visit to a fellow-collegian who
had a store of good things in his room. “Sam” Howe
entered the window as a ghost and carried off a turkey.
When the unfortunate owner of the feast waked
up and looked out of the window, he saw a dim white
figure rising in the air. Later on, the bones of the
bird neatly picked were laid in front of his door.
The boy was greatly worried and fully convinced that
some supernatural being had visited his room. The
affair so preyed on his mind that his fellow-students
finally explained the joke.

Strange to say, my father did not have much patience
with his son when brother Harry displayed at
Harvard the same kind of mischievous ingenuity.
They had both inherited this quality from Grandfather
Howe if we may judge by the following story.

Having promised to pay Sammy a penny for every
rat he caught, the old gentleman surreptitiously
withdrew the rodents from the trap. But Sammy was
quite equal to the occasion. He parried by making
the same animal serve for several mornings, until his
father exclaimed, “Sammy, that rat begins to smell!”

Grandfather Howe was very fond of building, a
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taste inherited by his descendants. When there was
a question of his erecting a house on her property,
his second wife said to him, “But your children would
never permit it.” The old gentleman’s wavering resolve
at once became fixed. He had no notion of listening
to dictation from his sons and daughters. So
he built the house, which, of course, became the property
of our step-grandmother and went ultimately to
her heirs, instead of to his own descendants, the
Howes.

My father always cherished the memory of his own
mother, Patty Gridley, who was a very beautiful
woman, of a lovely and sympathetic nature.

He liked to see his daughters sitting at their needlework.
“It reminds me of my mother,” he would say.
He could not bear to see bread wasted, because of
her early teachings of thrift. On the top of his
father’s house, there had been a cask or vat into
which the lees of wine were thrown and left to ferment
into vinegar.

With our mother, also, we had a delightful comradeship.
Having been brought up with undue strictness
herself, she resolved that her children should
not suffer in the same way. Hence we had a happy
familiarity with our parents; yet we felt their superiority
to ourselves. Mother taught us many
things, after the fashion of mothers—lessons in the
conduct of life and in social observance, of course.
To be considerate of others, to enjoy small and simple
pleasures, to take good things in moderation—these
were a part of her philosophy. If we made a
noise after the baby was asleep, we instantly heard
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her whispered warning, “Hush!” Indeed, it was an
offense in her eyes to disturb any one’s rest.

Her efforts to teach us punctuality were not altogether
successful. There were dreadful moments
when sister Julia and I were so late in dressing for
a party that Mamma would be reduced almost to despair.
Sister Laura saw these things and, being a
wise little maiden, resolved that when her turn came
to go into society she would be punctual. She carried
out her resolution.

When we were old enough, our mother took us
to the Church of the Disciples, by my father’s desire.
He himself went only occasionally, but then Papa had
a church of his own, which we sometimes attended.
In the great hall of the Institution for the Blind,
he held at six o’clock every morning a brief service
for the pupils. The deep reverence of his
voice as he read a lesson from the Bible, the solemn
tones of the organ, the sweetness and beauty of
the fresh young voices as the blind larks suddenly
burst forth into their morning hymn of praise, were
things never to be forgotten. Truly Papa’s church
was not like any other!

Many stories of her young days we heard from our
mother. They were different in many ways from our
own happy and athletic childhood. It is true that, like
ourselves, she belonged to a family of six brothers
and sisters, who had merry times together. But the
great misfortune of losing her mother shadowed her
young life. Aunt Eliza Cutler (afterward Mrs.
Francis), who took, as far as she was able, the latter’s
place, was most conscientious in fulfilling her
// 028.png
.pn +1
duties. But she was very strict with her young
charges. Witness the story of the little girl whom
Julia invited to tea. After this rash act her courage
completely failed her. She did not dare bring her
visitor down-stairs, and sat miserably waiting the
course of events. The delay seemed to her interminable,
but at length a message was sent up, coldly
inviting “Miss Ward,” as she was called even in
childhood, to bring her friend down to tea. She
never repeated the offense.

Our mother was very fond of her grandmother
Cutler, who spent the last years of her life under her
son-in-law’s roof. She was a woman of literary
tastes as well as of personal charm. The niece of
General Francis Marion, the “Swamp Fox,” Grandma
Cutler possessed a goodly share of spirit. Thus
when Wemyss, the biographer of Washington and
Marion, dined at the home of Grandfather Ward,
Mrs. Cutler took the careless historian to task:

“Mr. Wemyss, how is it that you say in your <i>Life</i>
of the General that you have never heard what became
of his sister Esther, my mother?”

The old lady was a flaming Huguenot, as her letters
show.

I fear that, despite the fact that she had been a
belle in the Revolutionary period, she took snuff.
Our mother told us that the Ward family carriage
was in the habit of stopping at “Lorillard’s,” then a
small tobacco-shop, to buy great-grandmother’s favorite
brand—this, if I remember aright, was Maccaboy.

In our mother’s story of her early life the dominating
// 029.png
.pn +1
figure was that of her father, Samuel Ward, the
third of the name. She fully recognized his great
affection for his children and his almost painful desire
to shield them from all evil. Evidently to Grandfather
Ward “the world, the flesh, and the devil”
were not outworn features of a half-forgotten creed,
but dreadful realities. He was as liberal in giving
money to good causes as he was illiberal in his religious
views. During a period of hard times (perhaps
in 1837), he suggested to our mother that they
should take care of the conservatory themselves,
sending away the gardener.

“For I will not cut down my charities,” quoth
Grandfather Ward.

He left a large fortune for those days, but it was
a good deal diminished by the management of his
brother, who did not understand real estate. The
Grange, formerly the property of Alexander Hamilton,
was a part of it. The Ward family desired to
have this sold to a great-uncle, for the nominal price
of ten thousand dollars. My father very properly
protested, yielding in the end, for the sake of peace.
Some twenty-five years later it was worth one or two
million dollars, but the family were unable to hold it
after the panic of Black Friday, September, 1869.
// 030.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch03
III||<s>MEMORIES OF EARLY CHILDHOOD</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>The Perkins Institution for the Blind.—South Boston in the
’Fifties and ’Sixties.—Migratory Habits of the Howe Family.—“Cliff
House” at Newport.—George William Curtis and
the Howe Children.—A Children’s Party at the Longfellow
Mansion.—Professor “Stubby” Child Plays with Us in the
Hay.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
“I\_REMEMBER, I remember, the house where I
was born.” Indeed, I can hardly do otherwise,
for the Perkins Institution for the Blind was one of
the landmarks of Boston in the nineteenth century.
It was also, so to speak, the intermittent home of our
family for many years. My father bought “Green
Peace” and moved the family there soon after my
birth, hence we lived at the Institution only from
time to time.

The “Doctor’s” wing of the great building was
always at his disposal. In the summer, when the
family were at Newport, he often stayed there. It
was a refuge to us in time of trouble. Did our city
house catch fire, or other circumstances make a change
desirable—presto! we departed, servants and all, for
the Institution! My brother-in-law, Henry Richards,
complained mildly during his courtship that no
notice was given of these intended hegiras. He
would come to see sister Laura one evening and bid
// 031.png
.pn +1
her good-by, with every expectation of calling on her
the following day. When, twenty-four hours later,
he rang the door-bell, there was no response! The
Howe family had folded their tents, like the Arabs,
and silently moved over to the Institution. It will be
judged, from this story, that the Doctor’s part was
fully furnished, save that the halls, like all those in
the building, had uncarpeted marble floors. For the
Perkins Institution for the Blind had originally been a
hotel, the Mount Washington House.

The building, simple, massive, and dignified, stood
on a hill commanding a lovely view of Boston Harbor
with its many islands. Just behind it rose Dorchester
Heights. As children we played among the
earthworks whence the cannon of Washington’s
army had forced the British to evacuate Boston. We
did not then know that Col. Richard Gridley, one of
our ancestors, had planned those fortifications and
the defenses of Bunker Hill as well. He was a veteran
of the French wars who had “won laurels as
an accomplished engineer at Louisburg.”[#]

.pm fn-start // 1
Frothingham’s <i>Siege of Boston</i>.
.pm fn-end

When the Institution for the Blind was moved to
South Boston, Ward twelve was more highly esteemed
as a place of residence than it is now. A
peninsula connected with the mainland only by Dorchester
Neck, it enjoys the full sweep of the famous
Boston east wind. Hence it is cool in summer,
and the extended shore gives opportunities for sea-bathing.
One of the sad memories of my childhood
is the booming of cannon fired in the hope of bringing
// 032.png
.pn +1
to the surface the bodies of those who had been
drowned while bathing.

South Boston has so many natural advantages of
climate and scenery that it was hoped the city would
grow in that direction. But the situation has its
drawbacks. In order to reach Boston proper it is
necessary either to take a long and circuitous route
through Dorchester, or else to cross one of the bridges
which span the harbor. These were, when I can
first remember, fitted with primitive wooden drawbridges
through which vessels seemed always to be
passing, if one were in a hurry. Boston was at this
time a seaport in reality as well as in name, the
wharves filled with shipping. To a child it was alarming
to see the solid floor of the bridge divide in two
portions and rise slowly in the air, disclosing an open
space of water. It diminished very much one’s feeling
of security. To be sure, after the vessel had
finally passed through, and the great wooden jaws
had again snapped together, a large iron bolt restrained
further vagaries on their part. But what
was to prevent the draw from sinking down under the
weight of the passing vehicles? Then there were
legends of adventurous and unfortunate little boys
who had been caught between the descending jaws.
If you and your driver were fair-minded persons,
your carriage took its proper place in the line and
patiently waited its turn to cross. Despite the warning
sign, “Keep to the Right as the Law Directs,”
there were people so unfair as to try to form a second
line and so cross ahead of earlier comers. These we
regarded with righteous indignation.
// 033.png
.pn +1

The neighborhood of the bridges was occupied by
tenement-houses, making the approach to South Boston
rather squalid. The House of Correction and
other public institutions then established there lessened
the attractiveness of the peninsula. So when
Boston began to expand in earnest it took the usual
course of cities and grew toward the west. The
Back Bay was duly filled in, for the new part of Boston
is on made ground. My father considered this
much less wholesome than the original soil.

In the days of my childhood, South Boston, while
not a fashionable suburb, counted many substantial
and fairly well-to-do citizens among its inhabitants.
Toward the eastern end it was pleasantly open and
still retained a rural air. At City Point were semi-circles
of granite, built for the cannon of the Revolution.
Facing it, with a mile of water stretching
between, was the grim gray outline of Fort Independence,
not yet reduced to innocuous desuetude by
the changes in methods of warfare.

As there was already a baby girl, it was hoped that
I would be a boy. My father was much disappointed
at my failure to fulfil this hope. He declared that
the only way to console him would be to name me
for Florence Nightingale, which was accordingly
done. This was before the Crimean War had made
her famous. My parents, however, had spent some
days at “Embley,” the home of the Nightingale family,
while on their wedding-tour. Florence, then a
young woman of twenty-three, was already turning
toward her life-work. She consulted my father, as a
philanthropist of experience, about the propriety of
// 034.png
.pn +1
her studying nursing and devoting her life to the
care of the sick. He, of course, counseled her to do
so. Ever in advance of his own day and generation,
he would have had small patience with the people
who even now consider a nurse as a species of social
pariah.

Miss Nightingale corresponded with my parents
before she had taken up her public work. The beautiful
and devout spirit of her later years, as well as
an intense interest in the movements in behalf of political
and religious freedom, is manifest in these early
letters. Touches of fun remind us that she had a
happy sense of humor. Throughout the correspondence
we see the great admiration of the young English
gentlewoman for the man whose life was dedicated
to the cause which she longed to take up.

She thus acknowledged the news of my birth and
of the decision to name the new baby after her, foreshadowing,
also, her own future career.

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>Embley</sc>, <i>December 26</i>.

I cannot pretend to express, my dear kind friends, how
touched and pleased I was by such a remembrance of me as
that of your child’s name.... If I could live to justify your
opinion of me, it would have been enough to have lived for,
and such thoughts as that of your goodness are great thoughts,
“strong to consume small troubles,” which should bear us up
on the wings of the Eagle, like Guido’s Ganymede, up to the
feet of the God, there to take what work He has for us to do
for Him. I shall hope to see my little Florence before long
in this world, but, if not, I trust there is a tie formed between
us which shall continue in Eternity—if she is like you, I shall
know her again there, without her body on, perhaps the better
for not having known her here with it.
// 035.png
.pn +1

... Good-by, my dearest friend, which word I am sure I
never say to you without its good old meaning, God be with
you. You never can tell me enough about yourself, or about
Dr. Howe’s reforms.

I have no time to be ashamed of myself for writing you
such a long and barren letter in return—I <i>would</i> write now,
because, from the day after Christmas Day, for a month, I
shall not have a moment to myself, except the solemn minute
of the procession in to dinner, when everybody knows that
each person may have the full and exclusive possession of his
or her thoughts to him or herself, till the dogs are fairly
feeding.

If I could live to see anything like a Protestant Sisterhood
of Charity in England “my eyes would indeed have seen His
salvation,” but now I see nothing but a mist, and only hope,
when the mist clears away, to see something else.

Pray excuse me—I’m coming back—but only to say this time,
what I never can express, how very earnestly I am ever your
loving and grateful Florence.

Pray give our very kindest remembrances to Dr. Howe—and
so fare you well, very well, my dear, dear friends.
.pm letter-end

In a later letter she writes of the two babies:

.pm letter-start
... I often think of your little couple, and imagine what
they are like, and fancy the curious mixture there must be
in them. I see them standing in the doorway, looking at me
with irresolute eyes, and I sit quite still, that they may not go
away—perhaps the only intercourse that will be permitted me
with them on earth. It would be a curious speculation (if
one’s acquaintance were but large enough to enable one to
collect a sufficient number of facts to form a sort of experience)
to find out <i>what</i> materials in the parents’ characters
kneaded together into what sort of <i>pâte</i> in the children’s—and
the general laws of these admixtures. I wonder, in this diving
and grubbing age, that people don’t make at least rough theories
about it (there must be some laws, if we could but find
them out)—beginning with Genesis, where we see that the
“sons of <i>God</i>” which, I suppose, only means the men great in
// 036.png
.pn +1
wisdom and virtue and piety, who led these antediluvian
females to the Hymeneal altar, who, I am afraid, were pagans
or at the least something very bad by their being called the
“daughters of <i>men</i>,” we see that their offspring, poor things!
were strong and violent and restive and whatever else we may
suppose symbolized under the character of “<i>giants</i>.” N. B.—This,
upon second thoughts, looks like an uncivil apologue, and,
as I remember, poor Mrs. Fowler got into a scrape by sealing
a letter once with a wafer on which were two donkeys with
the motto “When shall we three meet again?” of course implying
that the receiver of the letter was the third donkey (though
preserve me from putting you into the same category of souls
as Mrs. Fowler’s correspondent!), yet I must beg to assure
you that the above is no parable.

The downfall from the heavens has been so prodigious these
last three weeks, that the river has been the driest place, and
standing in it up to one’s shoulders the best shelter from the
rain. Archbishop Whately is practising mesmerism at Dublin
with a Catholic priest. Miss Martineau’s last books are stupid—if
the revelations of the laws of Nature, which were made to
her in a state of mesmerism, have found their incarnation in
her recent Game-law Tales in sea-green covers, I wish her
“<i>toutes sortes de prospérités et un peu plus de goût</i>.” The
laws of Nature are uncommon dry ones—but I have come to
the end of my paper, and with all our kindest remembrances
to Dr. Howe, believe me, dearest Julia,
.ti +10
Yours till Doomsday i’ th’ afternoon,
.rj
<sc>Florence.</sc>
.pm letter-end

Florence Nightingale did not content herself with
sending loving messages to her godchild. Her christening-gift—a
beautiful edition of Knight’s <i>Shakespeare</i>—is
one of my most treasured possessions. I
still have also the remains of a bracelet made of her
hair, with a little golden heart at the clasp.

In my mother’s correspondence with her sisters the
“babies” are important figures. Maternal affection
// 037.png
.pn +1
represents us in a glorified aspect; nevertheless, it is
pleasant to have our early virtues and talents recorded
by her loving hand. A few extracts from her letters
are given below.

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>New York</sc>, <i>Oct., 1845.</i>
.ni
To <sc>Mrs. Thomas Crawford</sc>.
.pi
... You complain that no one tells you about Florence. Oh!
she is a perfect angel! The little creature lies in my arms all
night, and makes me too happy. She is the image of our
dear father—is not that strange? She has his eyes, his brow,
almost his smile. So strong is the likeness that even Lizzie
Hogg cried out: “Oh! she is like dear Mr. Ward!” This
endears her to me very, very much. She was christened in
our little study at South Boston. No one was present but
Sumner, [Doctor] Fisher, Wightie, and Laura. The good
Mr. Burton christened her, and made the service even more
touching and beautiful than did our friend Parker. I had had
a very nice cake made at home, iced over and adorned with
sugar-plum letters.... The child has a heavenly disposition,
and is much more robust than Julia was at her age....
.rj
<i>May 30, ’46.</i>
.pm letter-end

.pm letter-start
.ni
To <sc>Mrs. Crawford</sc>.
.pi
... For this summer my great themes of interest are Annie’s[#]
marriage and Fofo’s teeth. Flossy, as Julia calls her, is as
healthy a child as one can see. She creeps on the floor all day,
and can pull herself up by a chair, and stand for a long time,
though she is just nine months old.... I confess my spirits
have risen wonderfully since I left the institution. My little
corner is so green and pretty, so quiet and hidden from all. I
have not those dreadful stairs to go up and down, all the rooms
are so near together. I need not lose sight of the children at
any time....
.pm letter-end

.pm fn-start
My aunt, Anne Eliza Ward, who married Adolphe Mailliard.
.pm fn-end

.pm letter-start
.rj
<i>June 17, 1847.</i>
... I stay at home pretty much all day, and generally all
the evening, too. I write stories and verses, and when my
// 038.png
.pn +1
eyes are tired I paste pictures in the nursery scrap-book, which
is in great demand. In another year I shall have a governess
for Julia, who is getting too big to be left with a servant.
She and Flossy come on well with their French....
.pm letter-end

.pm letter-start
.rj
<i>Nov. 31, ’47.</i>

... Yesterday I incautiously used the word <i>devil</i>, and Julia
said, “Mamma, that is not a pretty word; you had better say
<i>villain</i>.” They are both as lovely as children can be. The little
one is passionately attached to her sister and cries whenever
they are separated....
.pm letter-end

My father hired a house in Mount Vernon Street,
in the years 1847–50, and of this I have still some
recollections. The most interesting is that of a day
in February, 1850, when my father carried all his
three children down-stairs on his back, in a single
load, to see our new little sister. She was later named
Laura, after my father’s noted pupil, Laura Bridgman,
and Elizabeth, after his sister. As Mrs. Laura
E. Richards, author of many nursery rhymes and
juvenile books, she has since been beloved by several
generations of little folk.

Our brother, Henry Marion Howe, was not quite
two years old when he came down on his father’s
back to welcome sister Laura into this bustling world.
Although, on one occasion, when he plunged her into
the horse-trough, he nearly helped her out of it, they
were throughout their childhood inseparable friends
and companions.

Other memories of those years, 1847–50, relate to
my earliest school-days. We went to a private school
near by, kept by a Miss Watson, Paper dolls, made
or contributed by the older girls, and peach leather
// 039.png
.pn +1
loom large in these recollections of school attendance.
The latter delicious article of food was a species of
stiff marmalade prepared in a sheet about half an inch
thick. This was rolled up tightly, and a piece, which
was literally a jelly roll, was cut off the end. You
could not only eat this, but you could first, happy
thought, uncoil it. In old Southern cook-books the
receipt for making peach leather can be found. Ours
came from Professor and Mrs. Lieber, the former
being at that time connected with Columbia College
in South Carolina. He has been gratefully remembered,
during the present war, as one of the freedom-loving
Germans of earlier days.

Somehow or other I learned to read, for I can remember
being conversant with my Reader before I
was five years old—according to the custom of that
day.

In the early summer of 1850 our parents, with the
younger children, Harry and Laura, sailed for
Europe. As became a child of New England, I was
extremely reserved, and it was thought a pleasant
sign when, as the family were about to depart, I
wept. Alas! Investigation revealed that my tears
were really connected with the little Greek almonds—doubtless
too few had been allotted to me. In justice
to myself I must say that on the return, eighteen
months later, of my mother, brother and sister, I
found tears of joy in my eyes.

My eldest sister and I were left in the custody of
our faithful nurse, Lizzie, and in the care of friends.
We spent the summer happily at Concord, Massachusetts.
Hearing the bells toll one day, we asked the
// 040.png
.pn +1
reason, and were told that General Taylor (then
President of the United States) was dead.

One happy autumn day there was a cry of, “Papa!
Papa!” and we rushed down the street into his arms.
He could not remain away longer from America,
owing to his many cares. We were now installed in
the delightful home “Green Peace,” with an efficient
housekeeper, Mrs. Stanwood, to care for us.

A sad memory comes back to me out of this
distant past. On a certain summer day the blind
pupils and their teachers made an excursion to the
seaside, sister Julia and I going with them. Nurse
Lizzie allowed us to go in bathing, but cautioned us
to hold tightly to a rock whose head rose above the
water.

With childish bravado, I let go, calling on the others
to look at me. Suddenly a great wave dashed
over me, but not more quickly than Lizzie, who
rushed in and dragged me out, all dressed as she was.
She never recovered from the cold taken that day,
dying of consumption not long afterward. I must
have been five or six years old at the time of the
funeral. I remember seeing the face of the devoted
nurse lying white and still beneath the glass of the
coffin. I remember, too, that all knelt on the earth
around the grave, the service being according to the
Roman Catholic ritual.

While “Green Peace” remained our home for many
years, its situation on the southerly slope of a hill
made it warm in summer. Accordingly, in 1852 my
father and the poet Longfellow hired a house on the
cliffs at Newport, with the understanding that no
// 041.png
.pn +1
other boarders should be received except those of
whom they approved. The company that assembled
beneath the roof of this early “Cliff House” was
of a literary turn of mind. Count Gurowski
nicknamed it “Hôtel Rambouillet.” A daguerreotype
is still in existence showing Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow,
my mother, Mrs. Freeman (wife of the artist), and
Mr. Thomas Gold Appleton, the noted wit. A broad
smile pervades the group, doubtless due to the fact
that in those early days of photography the victims
were obliged to sit some twenty minutes before the
camera.

George William Curtis was among the favored
few who spent that summer at the “Cliff House.”
He was then a handsome young bachelor who went to
balls and parties. Alas! Near his room was the Howe
nursery, and the children, who took no part in the social
gaieties of Newport, arose at an early hour. Our
noise and that of our portable tin bath-tub sadly disturbed
the morning slumbers of the “Howadji.”

I was a little girl of an independent turn of mind
and objected decidedly to being kissed. Some of
the gentlemen thought this very amusing in a child
of barely seven, and delighted in teasing me. To
enter or leave the house was a feat of daring, for the
enemy might be lurking in the shadow of the hall,
ready to catch me. Once, at least, I was seized and
held up in the air by a Mr. G——. “Now I’ve got
you!” he exclaimed. He was soon glad to put down
a very irate and struggling little girl. The foolish
custom of kissing children indiscriminately has happily
gone out of fashion.
// 042.png
.pn +1

Another sad memory of that summer rises before
me. I see on the lawn of “Cliff House” my silver
mug, with a deep wound in its side. One of the gentlemen,
espying it in the grass, took it for a pewter
vessel and obligingly discharged his pistol at it.

The Longfellow boys, Charles and Ernest, who
were of nearly the same age as sister Julia and I,
were our pleasant playfellows. Speculating on their
father’s height, they declared that he ought to be
called Mr. Shortfellow rather than Mr. Longfellow.
I do not so well recall his appearance at the “Cliff
House,” but a year or so later he emerges from my
childish recollections as an alert, slender and rather
short man, with a cheerful expression of countenance
and remarkably bright blue eyes. My uncle, Samuel
Ward, declared they were like blue water-lilies. His
hair was then sandy, with a dash of gray, and his
sensitive mouth was not concealed by either beard or
mustache, for he wore only side-whiskers.

In those early days he did not, to my thinking, <i>look</i>
as poetical as in later years. It was customary in
Boston to speak of him as Professor Longfellow, as
he then filled the Harvard chair of belles-lettres. His
predecessor, George L. Ticknor, author of a history
of Spanish literature, was not well pleased at giving
up his office. Instead of bequeathing his Spanish
library to Harvard College, he left it to the Boston
Public Library, with strict injunctions that the books
should not be allowed to circulate, lest they should
fall into the hands of the Cambridge professors. A
more amiable postulate is that he feared the books
might be lost. Dr. Joseph Greene Cogswell, the first
// 043.png
.pn +1
Astor librarian, administered that foundation on the
same principle.

With Mr. Longfellow himself Mr. Ticknor maintained
pleasant and friendly relations, as we see by
the poet’s letters.

I remember very well a charming children’s party
given in the pleasant grounds adjoining the old
“Craigie House.”

The mansion is Colonial in style, and with its
wide verandas, has an ample front of more than
eighty feet. As a child, the interior, with its spacious
halls and rooms, impressed me more than the exterior.
The former had an aspect of comfort and of a certain
elegance which bespoke the refined and scholarly
tastes of its owner. This was not so common at that
time as it is now, when interior decoration is so much
studied.

Great clumps of sweet-flowered shrubs grew about
the dear old house, as if longing to shield it from the
dust and traffic of the wayside. Here blossomed the
sweetest of old-fashioned spring flowers, the lilac,
and the starry syringas which were so much more
fragrant than the modern more showy variety of the
same flower.

Mr. Longfellow was an extremely kind and indulgent
father and his boys, like other boys whom
we have all known, sometimes abused his kindness.
Across the pleasant memories of the “Craigie House”
party lies the shadow of our virtuous indignation at
the conduct of the boys, who, as he thought, cheated
us out of our fair share of candy. The calm reflection
of later years suggests that the spirit of fun and
// 044.png
.pn +1
adventure rather than mere rapacity may have influenced
their conduct. The girls were too young to
accept their defeat in the true sporting spirit.

The coveted bonbons were showered upon us from
a scrabble-bag, to wit, a large, brown-paper bag filled
with candy and hung above our heads. At some parties
the scrabble-bag also contained raisins and popped
corn, but at the “Craigie House” I can remember
only great showers of candy.

The children were in turn blindfolded, armed with
a stick, then bidden to advance and bring down the
contents of the bag with three blows. It was hung
from the bough of a tree, the bonbons came down
pellmell upon the grass and we all scrambled for
them.

Mr. Longfellow, who must evidently have had assistants,
was most active and energetic; I should be
afraid to say how many brown-paper bags were hung
up, a great number of them succumbing in turn to
our childish onslaughts.

The boys established a sort of robbers’ den, or retreat,
in one of the lofty trees of the dear old garden;
here they would fly for protection when hard pressed
by the enemy, returning to the attack when the
sugar-plums were about to descend. It is but just
to the Longfellow boys to say that they were usually
pleasant playfellows. My sister Julia and I had
many merry times with them before the dreadful
catastrophe of Mrs. Longfellow’s death threw its
dark shadow over the household.

It will be remembered that her thin summer dress
caught fire while she was making seals to amuse her
// 045.png
.pn +1
children. In those days of crinoline such an accident
was almost certain to end fatally. The hoopskirt
was a fire-trap of the most deadly sort.

For a long time after the tragic death of his wife
the poet withdrew from all society.

We saw him occasionally in later years, when the
gold of his hair had turned to silver. His beautiful
snow-white hair and beard seemed almost like a halo
surrounding his poetic face. The blue eyes retained
their brightness, in spite of advancing years. It was
always a red-letter day when he accepted an invitation
to dine or spend an evening at our house, although
he was, in the latter part of his life, rather a
silent guest. But the charm of his presence was great,
and what he said was, of course, well worth hearing.

Our mother always remembered his description of
my sister Julia. In her beautiful young womanhood
she was often tormented with the “Howe shyness”
which seemed to form a slight but impalpable barrier
between her and the world, until she became so much
interested in the conversation as to forget herself.
Mr. Longfellow said of her, “Julia is like a veiled
lily.”

A curious myth prevailed at one time about a
daughter of the poet. The artist who painted a portrait
group of the three charming children placed one
of them in such a position as to conceal both her
arms. This picture was reproduced in an engraving
which adorned the walls of many houses. Hence the
fable arose that one of Mr. Longfellow’s daughters
had no arms. Two ladies were lamenting this fact
in a Cambridge horse-car when a Harvard professor
// 046.png
.pn +1
overheard them. Thinking they would be glad to be
set right, he addressed them: “Ladies, I know the
Longfellow family well, and I am happy to be able to
tell you that all three of the little girls have the usual
number of arms.”

Rash is the man who thus seeks to overthrow a
popular delusion! Drawing herself up, one of the
ladies replied, “Sir, we have it on the best authority
that one of Mr. Longfellow’s daughters <sc>HAS NO
ARMS</sc>!”

The children’s parties given at Cambridge in the
days of my childhood were certainly very delightful
occasions. The old régime, under which distinguished
men were chosen as professors at Harvard
College, still prevailed at that time. When President
Eliot took office he is said to have chosen men rather
for their ability as instructors than for their claims
to literary or scientific distinction. Professor Child,
well known for his exhaustive collection of ballads,
doubtless possessed both kinds of merit, since he was
retained on the Harvard faculty, as I think, throughout
his life. Generations of students remember him
as the stern but humorous critic whose caustic comments
stayed the noble current of their rage and withered
many a youthful burst of eloquence with the
unfeeling remark “spread-eagle.”

From this accustomed severity he would unbend on
a midsummer afternoon, and frolic about with the
children as if he had been one of them. Full of
jokes, fun and nonsense, he was the life and soul of
a certain merry June day which rises before me out
of the mist of childish recollections. As he tumbled
// 047.png
.pn +1
about in the new-mown hay, among his little friends,
or sat down on the grass while we gathered about to
listen to his stories, he seemed to me a very funny
man. And yet I wondered, with a certain gravity
of imagination peculiar to early childhood, why
he should bring himself down to our level. Why,
being a grown man, he should find it amusing to
tumble in the hay. With his short figure, close-curling
yellow hair, and decidedly <i>retroussé</i> nose, he certainly
looked like the genius of comedy; but nothing
about him seemed to me half so funny as a singular,
light-colored felt hat which he wore. It was nearly
as tall as that of the ordinary circus clown and had a
rounded or dome-shaped crown. Under the skilful
and amusing manipulation of its owner it certainly
afforded us a great deal of amusement on that festal
day. Alas! In later years he wore just an ordinary
hat.
// 048.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
IV||<s>OUR EARLY LITERARY ACTIVITIES</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>The Howe Children Invent a “Patagonian Language,” Edit a
Newspaper, “The Listener,” Write Plays and Songs.—They
Give “Parlor Concerts” and Take Part in Tableaux and
Private Theatricals.—William Story and Thackeray.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
I\_HAVE spoken of the Institution for the Blind as
our intermittent or occasional home. The autumn
of 1854 found us established there for a stay of more
than a year.

The Crimean War was then going on, our parents
being much interested in it. Their sympathies were
with the Allies as against Russia, the little Howes
duly reflecting the opinion of their parents. We followed
the course of events in <i>Punch</i> and the <i>Illustrated
London News</i>. Indeed, the <i>London Charivari</i>,
with its excellent cartoons by Tenniel, John
Leech and others, played quite a part in our early
political education. We duly admired the sprightly
Lord Palmerston, smiled at funny little Lord John
Russell perpetually wheeling a reform bill in a perambulator,
and entirely disapproved of “Dizzy” with his
acrobatic tricks. Although <i>Punch</i> approved of Louis
Napoleon, ally of England, our parents never did.
Popular sympathy in America was, if I remember
aright, on the side of Russia, witness the ballad of
“Pop Goes the Weasel.”
// 049.png
.pn +1

.pm verse-start
Queen Victoria’s very sick;
  Napoleon’s got the measles;
Sebastopol’s not taken yet.
  Pop goes the weasel!
.pm verse-end

This song would seem to indicate the prevalence of
measles at that time. Certain it is that some cases
developed in the other part of the Institution and the
five Howe children promptly caught the disease, sister
Julia becoming very ill. Our mother had a very
anxious and fatiguing experience. She wrote to her
sister Annie as follows:

.pm letter-start
See that your children get measles <i>young</i>. Baby suffered
very little. Each older one was worse in proportion to the
comparative age. Donald[#] has passed the whole week here,
day and night.
.pm letter-end

.pm fn-start
Mrs. McDonald, matron of the School for Idiots, who had
been nurse and housekeeper for my mother in Rome.
.pm fn-end

The delights of convalescence obliterate the memories
of the sickness itself. “Dip” toast, prunes and
the reading aloud of the “Leila” books we found very
comforting.

Our literary activities seem to have been greatly
stimulated at this period, although it must be confessed
that they were principally carried on by sister
Julia. It was she who wrote the plays that overcame
our elders with laughter. It was she who, with
my mother’s help, edited <i>The Listener</i>, a weekly periodical
which chronicled all the doings of family,
friends and the Stevenson School, touching also upon
public affairs. Each issue covers four pages of large
// 050.png
.pn +1
letter-paper. Some stories were contributed by our
friend and schoolmate, Clara Gardner. The occasional
editorials by my mother are in her own beautiful
hand. But the main body of the paper was
faithfully written by the little editor, in her quaint,
crabbed, yet legible hand. The birth of our sister
Maud was thus chronicled by Julia—then ten and a
half years old:

.pm letter-start
.nf c
<sc>Editor’s Table</sc>
.nf-
A very curious little animal lies on the editor’s table this
week. It does not understand the use of cup, plate or spoon,
yet it feeds itself. It does not know any language, yet it
makes itself understood. It never bought itself a dress, yet
it has a whole wardrobe full of clothes. It does not know
anybody, yet it has plenty of friends. Can you guess what it is?
It is our little baby sister.
.pm letter-end

There were some questionings as to the name to
be bestowed on the newcomer. My father suggested
the Greek name of Thyrza, but the good, Anglo-Saxon
name of Maud was finally and appropriately
chosen. She was a beautiful baby—indeed, she has
been beautiful all her life. Sister Julia began another
editorial in <i>The Listener</i>, some five weeks later,
apropos of the ceremony of weighing the infant:

.pm letter-start
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king? George the
Fourth is said to have expressed himself in this manner when,
in his last illness, some water gruel was served to him in a
silver bowl. I wonder whether gruel would taste better out
of a silver dish, a silver spoon does not seem to add much
to it.
.pm letter-end

Here my mother takes up the thread of the story.
// 051.png
.pn +1

.pm letter-start
The King had been used to the best of living—probably had
always had as much plum-cake as he wanted [did you, ever?]
and so it seemed rather an insult to set water gruel before
him, even in so rich a bowl. We happened to make the same
remark as his Majesty, to-day, when we saw our Baby Sister
weighed in a porcelain dish—she looked so fat and funny.
.pm letter-end

In the opinion of Julia and Flossy, at this tender
age, the only form of marriage offering any romance
was a fleeing one, so to speak, consummated after
an elopement. Thus in Julia’s tale of <i>Leonora Mayre</i>,
the hero and heroine run away from England to
America, where they are married. The sequel is
decidedly original. Leonora, now Mrs. Clough, repents
deeply the desertion of her parents. She returns,
with her maid but without her husband, to
England and to her father’s house.

.pm letter-start
“The next day Mr. Mayre had a serious conversation with
her.

“‘Leonora,’ he said, ‘did you not know that it was very
wrong to disobey me and run away?’

“‘I did not think so at the time, father. At least I did at
first. But then I loved Frank so much that I could not help it.’

“‘I knew, Leonora, that you would not have done it had it
not been for Mr. Clough.’

“‘Why?’

“‘Because I knew that you were too good a girl to do such a
thing.’

“‘I am not good, father,’ said Leonora, ‘or I should not have
been married without your permission.’

“‘Marry? You did not marry Mr. Clough, did you?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Oh, Leonora! my child! Is it possible?’ said Mr. Mayre.

“He said no more, but looks were enough. He seemed perfectly
distracted. Leonora left the room and went up to her
own; then, throwing herself on the bed, burst into tears.”
// 052.png
.pn +1

We are glad to be able to reassure our readers about the
sequel. Mr. Mayre felt better in half an hour and ultimately
forgave the erring Frank, who returned from America. He
argues the case with his angry father-in-law.

“Frank was perfectly composed. ‘Mr. Mayre,’ said he, in
answer to the other’s angry words, ‘you think your daughter
is good and beautiful and attractive, do you not?’

“‘Certainly, sir.’

“‘And you love her very much?’

“‘Of course.’

“‘Well, then, if she has the same charms for others that she
has for you, can you blame me for loving her?’

“‘You had a right to love her, but you had no right to marry
her against my will.’

“‘I don’t suppose I had, but you ought to pardon me if I am
sorry.’

“‘I have not heard that you were sorry.’

“‘You now hear it, then. Have I your forgiveness or your
anger; your daughter or your scorn?’

“‘My daughter,’ said Mr. Mayre, with emphasis, ‘for she
could never have had a better husband.’”
.pm letter-end

If “Miss Flossy Howe” did not write for <i>The Listener</i>,
the editors were, nevertheless, generous enough
to “figure her” in its pages. Her appearance at sister
Julia’s birthday party in the drama of “The Three
Bears” is thus chronicled by Mamma’s faithful pen.
The Three Bears were acted by my father and sisters
Julia and Laura:

.pm letter-start
.ni
<i>The Listener</i>
.rj
<i>March 11th.</i>
.nf c
<sc>Editor’s Table</sc>
.nf-
.pi
A great deal more might have been said about our Birthday
party. Was not Miss Florence Howe bewitching in the character
of “Silverhair”? Where did Miss F. get so much powdered
// 053.png
.pn +1
wig? Does she keep a maid, on purpose to put up her hair
and powder it, when she plays Silverhair? We know all about
it, but we won’t tell. We know, too, about those three Bears,
and especially that biggest one with a ferocious and hairy expression
of countenance. Think of the three real chairs, real
beds, real bowls of porridge! Think, too, of a real window for
Silverhair to jump out of—what’s all your empty scene-painting
to that? If we had wanted a real waterfall for our piece,
our Papa would have had one for us—that’s his way of doing
things. Every one knows those Bears were real—they could
have growled a great deal louder, only they did not want to
frighten the company; and when the performance was over,
they put on their coats so politely, and went back to their
menagerie.
.pm letter-end

We were so fortunate as to secure Mr. William Story,
the artist, and his wife, for the title rôles of King
Valoroso and his queen in “The Rose and the Ring.”
According to tradition their daughter Edith was one
of the children for whom Thackeray wrote the
story. Certain it is that the portraits of the
royal pair, drawn by the author himself, look a good
deal like Mr. and Mrs. Story, due allowance being
made for caricature. Hence they were able to reproduce
Thackeray’s royal couple with exactitude.
Mrs. Story wore a very beautiful amethyst necklace
belonging to my mother. Mabel Lowell, daughter of
the poet, and I took the parts of the royal children,
Angelica and Rosalba.

As for the warming-pan, dear Mrs. George Russell,
wife of my father’s chum, lent hers for the affair.
It had been a part of her housekeeping outfit, but she
said to my mother, “You may keep it, as I never use
it now.” It is still in my possession, a pleasant reminder
of my first appearance upon any stage.
// 054.png
.pn +1

We saw the Storys quite often at this time. One
evening, when mince pie was set upon the table, my
father, who was obliged to be extremely careful about
his diet, remarked:

“Well, we might as well all die together.”

To which Mr. Story at once replied, “Yes, and
all dye the same color.”

Puns were not then frowned upon so severely as
they are now. Thackeray was in Boston during this
period and the Storys invited us to a children’s party
at which the great man was present. I remember
him only as a large person in black, with thick gray
hair, who did his best, I do not doubt, to amuse the
children.

Mr. William Story gave us an impersonation of a
dwarf which was truly delightful. To our immeasurable
surprise, we saw this gentleman, suddenly
shrunk to less than half his natural height. Arrayed
in a Turkish fez and white garments, with slippers
and stockings to match, he danced very high, if not
disposedly, on a table, with many rollings of the eyes
and gestures of the arms. The explanation of the
trick was that his hands formed the feet of the dwarf,
while the arms and hands were furnished by another
person kneeling behind him.

To invent a language is a common device of children,
who usually content themselves with simply adding
a termination or a prefix to each word. Our
attempt was more ambitious as we boldly undertook
to construct an entire language. It is needless to say
that we did not get very far with our venture. I
fancy that we chose Patagonian because the account
// 055.png
.pn +1
in our geography of the inhabitants of that country—large
men, imperfectly clothed and very slightly civilized—appealed
to our infant imaginations. Also,
the land being so remote, it was very unlikely
that any returned travelers would suddenly speak
to us in true Patagonian accents and so put us to the
blush.

There were to be many irregular verbs, the wise
Julia counseled, since that would render our task
easier! Of the surviving fragments of our language,
it suffices to give two.

“Bis von snout?” (“Are you well?”)

“Brunk tu touchy snout.” (“I am very well.”)

It will be observed that these are reminiscent of
more than one modern tongue.

The scope of our language was hardly great enough
to account for its fame (it has been duly chronicled
in at least one published volume). Doubtless it was
the boldness of the venture and the happy choice of
a name which immortalized the Howe Patagonian
tongue.

If Julia shone in the family on account of her literary
productions, Flossy achieved a certain distinction
as a musical composer. It must be confessed
that she produced only one song, consisting of a single
verse with repetitionary chorus. But did she not
write out the score, words and music <i>with accompaniment</i>,
treble and bass clef being duly marked?
“Play on the shovel” lies before me now, preserved
by fond parents during many years.

The early interest of Florence in financial affairs
was shown by the arrangements for our concert.
// 056.png
.pn +1
From the hothouse at “Green Peace” we procured—without
charge—flowers which we arranged in tiny
bouquets. These were sold to the audience for a
cent apiece, our friends obligingly throwing them
back at us, in token of admiration for our performance.
By this simple yet remunerative scheme we
secured both the flowers and the price thereof. Some
of them were, I hope, given to Miss Ellen Burns, our
prima donna, on the occasion of her benefit. I had
often seen, on theatrical bill-boards, the phrase, “Benefit
of So-and-so.” This seemed to me a much more
alluring and attractive word than “Concert.” When
I was informed that this name implied the giving of
the profits to the beneficiary, I refused, with the horrid
obstinacy of childhood, to accept any such paltry
explanation.

“Play on the shovel,” which was much liked, was
included in the program. Our audience consisted
principally of the teachers and officers of the Institution.
They nobly paid one or more pins for their
seats, according to desirability.

From all this it will be judged that our musical
education was already well begun, Mr. Otto Dresel
being our master.

I will not say that we regarded him as belonging
to the same class as the family dentist, because the
latter we considered a species of ogre. But we duly
feared and respected Mr. Dresel as a person who
might at any time stamp his feet or say, with energy,
“How stupid!” as we no doubt were.

It now seems to me that he was wonderfully patient
with us and our little stumbling fingers. For,
// 057.png
.pn +1
like most artists, he was a man of highly nervous
organization. He was not only one of Boston’s leading
pianists, but a composer of merit.

Our kind friends, the Bensons and Schlessingers,
allowed us to take our music lessons at their house
in Boston, in these early days, thus saving our master
the long trip to South Boston.

A most pleasant eleven-o’clock lunch was provided
for the little people, to our great joy.
// 058.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch05
V||<s>UNDER THE SHADOW OF BYRON’S HELMET</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Echoes of the Greek Revolution.—The Enchanted Garden.—“Green
Peace” an International Resort.—Political Exiles
Teach Us Foreign Languages and the Love of Freedom.—Louis
Kossuth.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
WHILE the Institution for the Blind was our
pleasant refuge, our permanent and dearly
loved home was “Green Peace.”

As you came in the main door of entrance and looked
down the long hallway of the house you saw directly
opposite to you Byron’s helmet, fitting symbol of the
man who dwelt there. My father had hung it up, as
a returned pilgrim did his staff and cockle-hat in the
olden time, or a warrior his sword and shield.

True, father had never worn that or any other
helmet; unless I am much mistaken, neither had Byron.
Yet the noble example and stirring verses of
the poet had much to do with young Howe’s sailing
for Greece, where for seven long years he helped carry
out the work which Byron had begun. When, broken
in health, he at length left ancient Hellas, she was
once more free! Thus the helmet reminded those who
knew, not only of the poet’s devotion to the cause for
which he died, but also of the work of his admirer
and successor, Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, the “Chevalier,”
as he was called by his intimates.
// 059.png
.pn +1

.pm verse-start
In the prison of the Kaiser,
By the barricades of Seine,[#]
.pm verse-end
.ni
in Greece, and later, in slavery-ridden America, had
he striven for human freedom.

The helmet not only reminded of past deeds; it was
also an incentive to generous efforts in the present.
My father was deeply interested in all attempts to
throw off the yoke of kings and welcomed to “Green
Peace” political exiles and refugees from many countries.

.pm verse-start
Wherever rise the peoples,
  Wherever sinks a throne,
The throbbing heart of Freedom finds
  An answer in his own.[4]
.pm verse-end

.pm fn-start // 1
From Whittier’s poem, “The Hero,” written about Doctor
Howe.
.pm fn-end

Thus it came about that we, the Howe children, were
brought up under the shadow of Byron’s helmet, the
helmet of the Philhellene. And now, in this time of
the Great War, all America is thrilling to the magic
words that we were taught to lisp from the cradle—“the
cause of humanity,” “the brotherhood of man!”
These phrases that we now hear everywhere seem to
me wonderful echoes of that far-away time when Kossuth,
the Hungarian patriot, was welcomed at “Green
Peace,” as Joffre has been welcomed in New York
and Boston! Was not I as a child taught the stirring
story of William Tell and his resistance to the tyrant
// 060.png
.pn +1
Gessler, by one who had himself resisted the tyranny
of the Austrian emperor?

The helmet, like some magic helm of romance, was
a magnet to which all who came to “Green Peace”
were irresistibly drawn. As for the house itself, it
had the charm of an old dwelling which has “just
naturally grown” to suit the needs of the inmates.
The original cottage dated back to pre-Revolutionary
days. The old and new parts of the house were connected
by a dining-room looking out on a small conservatory.
The carpet of the former was from the
famous Gobelin looms in France and had belonged
to Joseph Bonaparte, ex-King of Spain. It was
woven all in one piece, with a medallion in the
center showing the profiles of Joseph and his brother,
the great Napoleon. There were various delightful
figures in the border—butterflies, owls and dolphins.
For dancing, that carpet had a special and unique
charm.

A third historic object of interest stood in one of
the drawing-rooms. This was a large and beautiful
carved cabinet which my father had bought in Avignon
while on his wedding-tour. It is said to have
come from the Pope’s palace there, as well as its
mate, which was kept in our rooms at the Institution.

The estate, as an Englishman would call it, was
ideally situated on the southern side of a hill which
sloped gradually down to the waters of Dorchester
Bay. From the windows we saw not only the sea,
but, in the distance, beautiful Savin Hill. The Institution
for the Blind, where my father’s work lay, was
// 061.png
.pn +1
not a quarter of a mile away, yet concealed from our
view by a portion of Dorchester Heights.

These were already blasted away, to some extent,
a steep cut in the hills separating us from the Institution.
Word once came to my father, sitting at the
dinner-table of “Green Peace,” that the Institution
was on fire. Without a moment’s delay he started
for the scene of trouble, scrambling in some extraordinary
way down the face of the vertical cliff. The
feat was made possible by his early experiences when
he had learned to clamber with the Greek soldiers
over steep mountains.

To the west of us was another portion of old Dorchester
Heights, then crowned with a reservoir and
some cannon which were fired on the Fourth of July.
Thus “Green Peace” lay snugly sheltered among hills,
connected with the outside world only by a short, tree-lined
roadway called “Bird’s Lane.” Yet paved
streets and the omnibus, though invisible to us, were
less than a quarter of a mile away.

“Green Peace” was all a garden, the most delightful
in the world. The house stood in the center of an
oval lawn dotted with lilac-bushes and pink-and-white
hawthorn trees. Near the driveway was the wonderful
Chinese junk, or rocking-boat, capable of holding
nearly a score of happy children. An arbor-vitæ
hedge separated the house and lawns from the main
garden, which lay still farther down the hill. Passing
under an arch of white lilacs, you descended to
this by a flight of wooden steps. Three tiny trim
gardens with oval beds and paths all surrounded by
borders of box belonged, respectively, to Julia, Henry,
// 062.png
.pn +1
and myself. We were supposed to care for them
ourselves, but I fear we never did so. We took an
honorable pride in our possessions, walked in the
paths and admired the flowers—but that was all!
Ours was the aristocratic pose of benevolent ownership
with only vague responsibilities attached.

Just beyond lay the truly enchanted part of the
garden, where a captive princess might have passed
her time happily enough. We were accustomed to
read in our fairy-stories of the Garden of the Hesperides
and other remarkable places where grew
apples of pure gold and glittering precious stones in
the form of peaches and plums. But what were these
cold, stony and thoroughly indigestible objects compared
with the warm, glowing, and luscious fruit of
“Green Peace”? Moreover, the magic supply of this
was inexhaustible. For, after frosts had settled the
business of the last grapes on the trellis and the last
lingering apples on the trees, the fruit of the garden
was by no means exhausted. You had but to peep
into the shallow drawers in the pear-room to see supplies
of delicious winter pears—Easter Beurré’s and
winter Nellis, to say nothing of barrels of glorious
golden-russet apples. In the center of the garden was
a sort of shrine to Pomona, consisting of a hothouse
and bowling-alley, with school-house (later used as a
pear-room) adjoining.

There were at least four strawberry-beds filled
with different varieties of the fruit, also raspberries,
blackberries, gooseberries of many colors, plums, nectarines,
peaches, apples, quinces, and, last but not least,
pears.
// 063.png
.pn +1

Of the last-named fruit my father was especially
fond. He cultivated with the greatest care many
varieties of these. In recent years I have learned
that the delicious French pears for which the neighborhood
of Boston is famous were brought there by
the French Huguenots.

Our parents often had bowling parties in our
childhood, and it amused us to observe the different
ways in which the players handled the balls. Inexperienced
persons would choose a small ball and toss
it up in the air in a delightfully ridiculous way,
instead of rolling it swiftly along the floor of the
alley. I seem to remember Mr. Seguin, the famous
authority on idiots, thus maneuvering with a small
ball. My father had brought him to South Boston
to assist in the work of starting the Massachusetts
School for Idiots, the first to be established in
America.

“The dogs,” as they were called generically,
guarded this paradise from urchins over-appreciative
of the flavor of the celestial fruit. The backbone of
this canine police force was a very large and not thoroughly
amiable Newfoundland dog, named Arthur.
An enemy dog called Lion lived in Boston, and would
occasionally cross the bridge and take a two-mile trot
over to “Green Peace” to try conclusions with Arthur.
A battle royal would thereupon ensue, the gardener
and my father or another employee each holding one
of the combatants by the tail and belaboring him until
he consented to let go of his enemy. We watched the
encounter from a respectful distance.

It has been said that visitors were always interested
// 064.png
.pn +1
in Byron’s helmet. They sometimes tried to put
it on, but seldom succeeded. The poet, it will be remembered,
had a very small though beautiful head.
Sister Laura was the only one of the Howe family
who could wear it. She and sister Julia were the
most poetical of the children. A tintype is still in
existence showing the former, at the age of fourteen,
crowned with the Byron helmet, her long hair flowing
over her shoulders.

The Greek War of Independence (1822–29) was a
comparatively recent event in the ’Fifties, and people
often spoke of it and of the Philhellenes. My father
looked much younger than he really was, and occasionally,
when asked about his share in the struggle,
he would jestingly say, “Oh, it was my <i>father</i> who
fought in Greece.” His children knew something of
this early career, but he never told us of his deeds
of heroism. That would have seemed too much like
boasting for a reserved New-Englander.

If we complained of the food, he would sometimes
remind us that we should be grateful for it and tell
us of the strange articles which had constituted the
diet of his companions and himself.

Roasted wasps did not sound very attractive, even
after the removal of the stings. As for sorrel, we
used to sample the plants which grew wild—always
pitying poor Papa for having been obliged to eat such
sour stuff. We could well imagine how tough donkey’s
flesh might be, from our encounter with our own
José, whose back and sides appeared to be made of
iron.

Of the primitive ways and ideas of the Greeks at
// 065.png
.pn +1
that time he would occasionally tell us. Great was
their astonishment because he could remove one of
his teeth and replace it. Wheeled vehicles were unknown,
and one constructed by his faithful follower
(a man whose life my father had saved) caused much
surprise. As for tea, if you invited a Greek to partake
of a cup he would reply, “No, thank you, I am
not <i>sick</i>.”

A great many people of all sorts and kinds came to
“Green Peace.” All European travelers of note
wished to see Laura Bridgman, the Helen Keller of
the nineteenth century, and the man who had brought
her into the human fold. While my father did not
cross the seas to take part in European revolutions
after 1832 until the Cretan uprising of 1867, he was,
of course, deeply interested in them and in their promoters.
Thus when the Hungarian patriot, Louis
Kossuth, came to America to try to enlist the sympathies
of our countrymen in his projects, my father
saw a great deal of him and helped in his plans as
much as possible.

By Kossuth’s desire, the committee in charge appointed
my father as the person to whom “he could
reveal in confidence so much of his plans and prospects
as would show there was reason for hope and
for immediate action.” He greatly impressed Doctor
Howe who wrote to Charles Sumner, “Surely he is
an inspired man.”

I can remember the Hungarian patriot standing
with many other men, doubtless his suite, in the hall
where hung Byron’s helmet. My childish imagination
was much exercised about the Kossuth hat, which
// 066.png
.pn +1
I heard talked about. This was of black felt, high
and of Alpine shape. I was greatly disappointed
because the sober citizens of Boston did not adopt
the little black feather as well as the Kossuth hat!

Lowell, Longfellow, Theodore Parker, George
Sumner, George S. Hillard, and Miss Catharine Sedgwick
were among the guests on this occasion. Laura
Bridgman was brought in after dinner. All were so
much interested in her, and in the Hungarian patriot’s
story of his cause, that teatime presently arrived
and my mother entertained them with the remnants
of the earlier feast!

Many of the foreigners who came to “Green
Peace” were political refugees—Poles, Austrians,
Hungarians. There were, of course, many Greeks
also. One of my father’s self-imposed duties was
finding employment for these people, who naturally
were quite helpless in a strange land. Thus many of
our early teachers and governesses were foreigners.
We grew up in an international atmosphere less common
in those early days than now. Professor Fiester,
doubtless a very learned Austrian, gave us some rudimentary
lessons in Latin and German. He was a
very stout, large man, with fair, curly hair and gold
spectacles. Some one nicknamed him “the mastodon
calf.” He understood perfectly how to amuse children,
and made us the most fascinating fly-houses
and other paper objects. It is evident that I was a
naughty child and quite determined to have my own
way. One morning the patience of our gentle master
came to an end.

“No, Mees!” he exclaimed. “I haf refused to opey
// 067.png
.pn +1
the Emperor of Austria, and do you think I will opey
you, you little thing?”

I was about eight years old when I was thus classed
with the Hapsburg tyrant of the day!

One of our early teachers, Jules M——, had deserted
from the French army. The family of his
Greek wife had aided him in some way, and he
married her, out of gratitude. Of course they found
their way, like other foreigners, to my father’s office
in Boston, No. 20 Bromfield Street. As neither of
them could speak the other’s language, he interpreted
between husband and wife when they got into difficulties.
She wore an embroidered cap on the back
of her head, with her hair braided outside of it.

M—— was of the blond French type, with a military
air. It was his soldierly training, doubtless,
which caused him to ring the door-bell in a very decided
way, and then, without waiting for the maid
to answer it, open the door himself and march
straight into the parlor. This gave me an injured
feeling, for I was apt to be late, and counted on those
few minutes in which he should have waited, to get
ready.

He wrote a beautiful copper-plate hand and was a
good teacher. With a military desire to see everything
in good order, he one day informed me that
my stockings needed pulling up. This was more than
the dignity of my nine years could brook, and I made
no reply. He repeated his observation several times,
but in vain! The peer of the Emperor of Austria
was not going to yield to a deserter from the French
army!
// 068.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch06
VI||<s>NOTED VISITORS AT “GREEN PEACE”</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Charles Simmer and His Brother George.—Edwin P. Whipple.
James T. Fields.—Doctor Kane.—Rev. Thomas Starr King.—Prof.
Cornelius C. Felton.—Arthur Hugh Clough.—Frederika
Bremer.—Laura Bridgman.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
AMONG those who came to “Green Peace” was
Charles Sumner, my father’s most intimate
friend. The great Massachusetts Senator towered
above his fellow-men physically as well as intellectually.
He was a man of noble proportions, and his
great height and size seemed to correspond with
entire fitness to his massive brain and solid mental
acquirements. The great dignity of his character and
manner made him seem even larger than he really
was. I cannot give his exact height, but it was at
least six feet two inches. Brother Harry once said
to our younger sister:

“There are two kinds of giants, Laura. There are
the ogres who eat people up, and there are the harmless
giants. Now Mr. Sumner is a harmless giant!”

He was a handsome man, always well dressed and
scrupulously exact about his personal appearance.
When I first remember him he usually wore drab-cloth
gaiters with white-pearl buttons, which gave
him a look of immaculate neatness. Yet we know he
// 069.png
.pn +1
was not a dandy, because Mr. Longfellow tells us so.
A large man—who is necessarily the target for many
eyes—should certainly be careful about his appearance.
Six feet three with breadth in proportion
would make a large area of untidiness sad to contemplate!
We children, as I have said, considered
him as a good-natured giant, but he was not familiar
with little people and their ways. We did not have
much intercourse with him, save from an admiring
distance. But he well understood that children like
presents. He brought two dolls for Julia and Flossy
from the anti-slavery fair. I am ashamed to say
that, although the younger, I insisted on having the
beautiful wax doll dressed in white with “Effie”
marked on her handkerchief! Julia received the companion
doll, dressed in black as a nun. She did not
compare with Effie in beauty.

On a certain evening, as he was going out of the
front door of “Green Peace,” I valiantly called out
to him, “Good night, Mr. Sumner.” And a
great voice answered me out of the darkness, “<i>Good
night, child!</i>” He was very careful and exact
in his use of English, as became a man of scholarly
attainments, and did not like to have other people take
liberties with our mother-tongue. Thus he rebuked
our governess for saying that the clock was out of
kilter. There was no such word as <i>kilter</i>, he averred,
in the English language. Miss Seegar was rather
indignant at being forbidden the use of this quaint
Yankee expression; after Mr. Sumner had gone she
took down the dictionary and found that <i>kilter</i> was
duly recorded there!
// 070.png
.pn +1

It is evidently one of the many so-called Americanisms
which are, in reality, words formerly used in
England.

He once went away from a party at our house
without taking leave of any one. My mother was
rather troubled at this, and my father, who had
known Mr. Sumner long and intimately, said, “Why,
that is Sumner’s idea of taking French leave.”
Whereupon sister Julia observed, “I should as soon
think of an elephant walking incognito down Broadway
as of Mr. Sumner’s taking French leave without
being observed.”

Of the attack upon him in the Senate I shall speak
later. Suffice it to say here that the intense and prolonged
physical suffering caused by this murderous
assault was not the only form of political martyrdom
which he was destined to endure.

The aristocratic element of Boston was, in ante-bellum
days, strongly opposed to anti-slavery doctrines
and those who held them. Charles Sumner’s
heroic defense of the principles of liberty gained for
him social ostracism in his native city. This never
fell upon my father, whose work for the public
schools, for the blind, the idiots, the insane, and
other unfortunates, insured him the cordial good-will
of the community, in spite of his anti-slavery activities.
It should also be remembered that he did not,
like his friend, hold political office. It is sad to recall
the unkind treatment of Sumner; it is pleasanter to
remember that in his later years the great Senator
was fully appreciated and honored in the city of his
birth.
// 071.png
.pn +1

Charles Sumner had not what is called social talent,
and I do not think that he cared much for society.
His busy life of constant political activity did not
leave him much leisure, and his tastes were those of a
scholar and lover of books.

As he grew older and busier he had less time to
devote to social functions. But he would show his
interest and sympathy on all great festive occasions
in the families of his intimate friends by making his
appearance among the guests, even though he seldom
stayed long.

The gods were ever wont, however, to make brief
visits among the children of men—and if Charles
Sumner stayed only fifteen minutes and said only a
dozen words, at a wedding or a class-day, we rejoiced
that he had been there, and his smile brightened the
feast as much as the sun. His smile was one of rare
sweetness and beauty; beneath the reserved exterior
which distinguished him there beat a warm and true
heart. He had, be it said, beautiful white teeth, and
my mother remembered with amusement a certain
dinner in his younger days when he resolutely refused,
for obvious reasons, to eat huckleberry pie.

The reserve and apparent coldness which we New
Englanders have inherited from our English forefathers—and,
owing to the severity of the climate,
have been unable to modify—are often a misfortune
to their possessor and cause him to be considered as
unsympathetic, when he is not so in reality. The
great Massachusetts Senator was a man without
guile and of an almost childlike simplicity of nature.
His pocket was constantly picked, literally as well as
// 072.png
.pn +1
figuratively. He would go to the station to start for
Washington, and, presto! his pocketbook would be
gone. At fairs, he was an easy victim—and at the
great fair held in Boston, for the benefit of the sailors
of the navy, I should be afraid to say in how many
raffles he was induced to invest. My contemporaries
will remember that we had not then discovered the
wickedness of raffles. To have them prohibited by
law is a great protection to the modern purse.

While no one could attack a political enemy with
greater vigor than Charles Sumner, he seldom bore
personal malice or ill-will. He met in the street, one
day, a gentleman, Mr. Robert C. Winthrop, whose
political opinions he had, in the discharge of his public
duty, vigorously denounced. He held out his hand,
and was surprised and pained to have it refused. It
may be said in Mr. Winthrop’s excuse that Mr. Sumner’s
action contributed to his being politely shelved!

Charles Sumner’s conversation was very interesting
and instructive, and he would sometimes pour
out very freely the treasures of his well-stored mind.
But while one felt that he was a man of learning, he
was almost wholly destitute of the sense of humor.
This is very evident in the correspondence of the
“Five of Clubs,” the other members occasionally making
merry at his expense. Who can blame them when
dear Mr. Sumner, in the innocence of his heart, advised
his office-boy, a young fellow from the country,
to visit Mount Auburn, Boston’s principal cemetery,
on the Fourth of July?

I had the pleasure of hearing him speak in public,
two hours at a time, after the political fashion of
// 073.png
.pn +1
that day. That as a young girl I was able to listen
so long proves that the speech must have been interesting.
The following sketch of him as a public
speaker was given me by my mother:

“Mr. Sumner was a forcible speaker. His custom
was to recapitulate the chief points of his discourse,
with ever-increasing amplification and emphasis. In
this way he established his points in the minds of
his hearers, whom he led step by step to his own conclusions.
He was majestic in person, habitually reserved
and rather distant in manner, but sometimes
unbent to a smile in which the real geniality of his
soul seemed to shed itself abroad. His voice was
ringing and melodious, his gestures somewhat constrained,
his whole manner, like his matter, weighty
and full of dignity.”

Among the many interesting men and women who
were guests in the household of my father and
mother, none was more amusing than Mr. Edwin P.
Whipple, author of <i>Character and Characteristic Men</i>
and well known as a lecturer and essayist. He was a
homely man, but his homeliness was of an agreeable
character. He had large and prominent blue eyes,
which gave him somewhat the appearance of a good-natured
frog. These eyes seemed to be dancing with
fun behind his spectacles. As he was also pitted
with smallpox, he could not be called handsome.
Nevertheless, Mr. Whipple’s face was an attractive
one, and he had an absurd manner of saying funny
things which made them doubly amusing.

I remember a picnic at the “Glen,” near Newport,
where he kept us all laughing by his sallies of wit. If
// 074.png
.pn +1
any one else said anything funny on this occasion,
Mr. Whipple would gravely feel in his waistcoat
pocket and, drawing thence a dime, would offer it to
the perpetrator of the joke, saying, “If you’ll let me
have that joke I’ll give you ten cents for it.” His
connection with the press gave a realistic flavor to
this performance.

On a certain rainy evening, when he and his wife
were attending one of my mother’s parties, Mrs.
Whipple lingered after the announcement of her carriage.
Mr. Whipple came up to her and said, with a
low bow and in a tone of mock gravity:

“Madam, stay or go, just as you like, but before
you make up your mind you should come to the front
door and listen to your coachman, who is blaspheming
so that he can be heard all the way up and down
Blank Street.”

Mrs. Whipple was as handsome as her husband
was plain. She was a decided brunette, with black
hair and eyes, sweet-tempered and sympathetic, yet
not wanting in firmness. She must have been of very
vigorous, physical habit, for, meeting a friend in the
street, she would grasp her warmly by the hand and
detain her in conversation longer than the sharp
Boston east wind rendered agreeable to one of a chilly
disposition. It was Mrs. Whipple, if I remember
aright, who once lay in a stupor during an attack of
smallpox. The doctor, supposing her to be unconscious,
purred gently that she would not recover.
Aroused by his words, she proceeded to do so. The
same thing happened to one of the idiots under my
father’s charge during an attack of the same dread
// 075.png
.pn +1
disease. Three of them lay in the same room, one
being seriously ill, the others not in so dangerous a
condition. The first, hearing his companions discuss
his probable fate, connected with a tarred sheet and
lowering out of the window, roused himself from his
lethargy and recovered!

Another couple who came often to “Green Peace”
were Mr. and Mrs. James T. Fields. When I can
first remember them the latter was still a young
woman and very comely. She wore her dark wavy
hair in puffs at the side, which later expanded to a
size that was no doubt artistic, but not pleasing to the
conservative eye of childhood. I did admire, however,
her beautiful golden net. Mr. Fields was a fine-looking
man, his long black beard giving him something
the look of a Jewish prophet. The expression
of his face was humorous rather than serious, as I
remember it. I saw him, however, in his lighter
moods, when he was witty and amusing. The Whipples
and the Fields once made a visit at Lawton’s Valley,
our summer home, where the two humorists led
each other on to say one funny thing after another.

Mr. Fields told a story of a lady who desired to
be thought a person of culture, despite the defects in
her early education. Espying the approaching carriage
of certain literary persons, she called out to her
son:

“Oh, James! There are the So-and-sos driving up.
<i>Do</i> get out the works of Mr. Ensign-Clompedos and
give the place a litt’ry and conversashioshonary appearance!”

In those days of “high thinking and plain living”
// 076.png
.pn +1
it was the pleasant custom, at informal dinners, for
the host or hostess to peel and cut fruit in slices.
These were then handed around the table, each person
taking a piece. I remember a dinner at the Fields’
house in Charles Street, where red bananas were
served in this fashion. In my childhood they were
comparatively rare, costing sometimes fifteen cents
apiece!

As Ticknor & Fields published our mother’s writings,
my sister and I were accustomed to go to their
well-known corner book-store for our new school-books.
My delight in these was connected more with
their appearance than with the stores of knowledge
they contained. Those fresh, new, clean books with
their crisp paper well finished at the edges appealed
to my childish imagination. Did they not preach, too,
a lesson of neatness? I am so sorry for the children
who, at some public schools, are obliged to use old,
worn books! Why should we not make learning
attractive by clothing it in a nice fresh dress?

Doctor Kane, the Arctic explorer, came at least
once to “Green Peace.” I was so young at the time
that I thought, on account of his name, he must be
in some way connected with a cane. A small and
slender man, he did, as I think, appear with one, and
so justify my youthful imaginings. I remember a
dinner in the room with the Gobelin carpet where
Rev. Thomas Starr King, the noted divine, and his
handsome wife, were among the guests. Mr. King
had large white teeth, and wore his brown hair parted
far on one side. Not long after this time he went to
the Pacific coast, where his splendid advocacy of the
// 077.png
.pn +1
cause of the Union had a large share in keeping California
loyal. Alas! He paid the penalty of over-exertion
with his life soon afterward. But his memory
is cherished and revered on both shores of our
great continent. At the East, the everlasting hills
are his monument, for “Thomas Starr King” is one
of the peaks of the White Mountain range.

The following letter to my mother explains itself.

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>San Francisco</sc>, <i>January 20, 1862</i>.

<sc>My Dear Mrs. Howe</sc>,—How I long to get back into
civilization,—where they speak the English language, raise regiments
for the war, and write about Lyons looms.[#]

Do you know why I have the impudence to write to you?
Simply for your card photograph and the Doctor’s and your
autograph under a copy of the “Weave no more silks.”[5]

You see how modest my requests are. That quality is a
grace that thrives in California air.

You ought not to refuse. I am a missionary and should
be encouraged by all good Christians.... You are patriotic.
I read your glorious verses to a crowded house in San Francisco
at a festival for Volunteers, and the spirit so upheld the
reading that the audience were thrilled....

Do be gracious!...

Love to everybody and to you, if you send the cards, etc.;
if not, <i>not</i>.

.nf c
<fs=0.95em>Conditionally your friend,
Unconditionally your admirer,</fs>
.nf-
.rj
<sc>T. S. King</sc>.
.pm letter-end

.pm fn-start
A quotation from Mrs. Howe’s poem, “Our Orders.”
.pm fn-end

Prof. Cornelius C. Felton has already appeared in
this eventful history as a member of the “Five of
Clubs.” In addition to being professor of Greek,
he was for a time president of Harvard College.

// 078.png
.pn +1
Among his friends he was genial and jolly, with a
gift of hearty laughter. “Heartiest of Greek professors,”
Charles Dickens called him. He was sturdy
and thick-set, with close-curling black hair covering
his round head. At Memorial Hall, Cambridge, there
is a portrait of him in his robes of office. This picture
is characterized by due dignity of mien and bearing,
but I like best to think of him with those merry
eyes gleaming behind his spectacles as his cheery
laugh broke upon our ears.

Professor Felton related to us the story of his visit
to the Maid of Athens, who was no longer young and
beautiful as in Byron’s day. He was much impressed
by the superior quality of her pickled olives, and told
us that he longed to repeat the poet’s verses, with a
slight change. Instead of saying,

.pm verse-start
Maid of Athens, ere we part
Give, oh, give me back my heart,
.pm verse-end
.ni
he wanted to exclaim,

.pm verse-start
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me a jar of pickled olives!
.pm verse-end
.pi
In her correspondence with my father Florence
Nightingale appeals to him for advice and assistance
for the martyrs of the cause of progress, political
and religious. One of the latter was Arthur Hugh
Clough, the English poet, whom she thus introduced:

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>Embley Romsay</sc>, <i>Oct. 28 (1852)</i>.

<sc>My dear Dr. Howe</sc>,—I have never thanked you for your
most kind and valuable letter about my friend. But herewith
// 079.png
.pn +1
comes my friend in person, to profit by that most kind sentence
of yours, “Do not fail to give him a letter to me.”

His name is Arthur Hugh Clough, M.A. (late Fellow and
Tutor of Oriel College, Oxford). He was a favorite pupil of
Dr. Arnold of Rugby, and was elected Tutor of Oriel at
twenty-two. He has given up very high prospects, because he
was unwilling to pledge himself to inculcate the doctrines of
the English Church. This has stopped his progress in his own
country. He comes to seek a more impartial mother in yours.

He is about to marry a very charming cousin of mine—but
his untimely integrity has lessened his means, and he is now
going to try to make her a position in the New World.

He was Professor of English Literature at University College,
London. He is a first-rate classical scholar; he would
undertake to prepare young men for college who are anxious
for advanced classical knowledge, and also to teach (or lecture
upon) English Literature and Language.

He is known in England as an author and poet, and has been
a contributor to our more liberal Reviews.

I have tried to enlist your and Mrs. Howe’s sympathies in his
favour. But, indeed, my dear Dr. Howe, I know your kindness
so well that it seems as if I thought it impossible to
trespass upon it....

Believe me, with best love to dear Mrs. Howe and my godchild,
yours most truly and gratefully,
.rj
<sc>Florence Nightingale</sc>.
.pm letter-end

Mr. Clough made a visit at “Green Peace” which
I shall never forget, since it produced one of the small
tragedies of my childhood.

Our house was one of those rambling structures,
built at different periods of time, wherein the space
is not disposed of to the best advantage. Hence, as
we were a large family and each of us had a separate
room, some one had to be, turned out in order to accommodate
Mr. Clough. He was accordingly established
// 080.png
.pn +1
in the housekeeper’s room, and we children
were duly warned not to go there, as was our custom.
But I forgot this caution, and next morning
turned with some difficulty the old-fashioned brass
handle of the housekeeper’s door and peeped into the
room.

Little Red Riding-Hood was not more surprised
at the transformation of her grandmother into the
wolf than I was at the sudden change which had
come over our young and handsome housekeeper. As
some one sat up in bed (after the fashion of the wolf
in the story) to ask what I wanted, I said to myself,
“Why, Mrs. S—— has grown bald and gray in one
night!” Then the true state of the case flashed upon
my infant consciousness and I went away suddenly
and much abashed. It is to be feared that I left the
door open.

When I came down to breakfast Mr. Clough looked
up and said, as it seemed to me rather cruelly, “<i>I
think that I have seen this young lady before, this
morning.</i>”

Mr. Clough’s poem, “The Bothie of Toper-na-Fuosich,”
was republished in this country, and was
widely read both here and in England. He was present
at one time where some thoughtless young men
were amusing themselves with laughing at the new
aspirant for poetical honors.

“Who is this old Clough?” says one.

“I should like to see him,” says another.

After listening to their remarks for some time, the
grave, quiet man rose to leave the room, and as he
passed the group who were making so merry at his
// 081.png
.pn +1
expense he simply said, “The name is <i>Clough</i>”
[Cluff].

Frederika Bremer, the Swedish authoress, visited
us when I was a very little child. She traveled extensively
in America and related her experiences
in <i>Homes of the New World</i>. In this she described
“the dark, energetic father and two charming little
girls, all lilies and roses.” After it had been translated
into English, people told us that we had
been put into a printed book. Our young friends
wished that they, too, could have the great happiness
of being put into a book, like Julia and Flossy Howe.

Miss Bremer gave an account of Mr. George
Sumner and his visit to the Czar of Russia, representing
him as an awkward, ungainly youth and making
fun of him. He did carry to the Czar of Russia,
be it said in passing, an acorn from the grave of
Washington. The Czar was much pleased and paid
the young man a good deal of attention. When
Charles Sumner learned what our young friends had
said, he mischievously remarked to his brother,
“Some people would prefer not to have been put in
a book.”

A number of Frederika Bremer’s books have been
translated into English; we read her stories with
much pleasure in our school-girl days. <i>The H—— Family</i>,
<i>The Neighbors</i>, <i>The Home</i>, are the titles of
some of them. Her description of Swedish family
life is delightful.

George Sumner, like the Senator, was a man of
intellectual tastes and possessed a wide knowledge of
books. In mid-Victorian days there was no complete
// 082.png
.pn +1
catalogue of the library in the Vatican. Some one in
Rome who was anxious to find a certain volume was
referred to “a young American who knows more about
the books there than any one else.” This was George
Sumner. He was one of the habitués of our house.
I remember a visit he paid us at Lawton’s Valley
when a lame knee gave him anxiety. We heard him
walk heavily and perseveringly up and down his
room, in the vain hope of curing it by exercise. One
day there was a crash! In the effort to save himself
from falling he had pulled over the light iron washstand.
When he again visited us my father had him
placed, chair and all, in an open wagon that he might
enjoy a drive. I last saw him at the Massachusetts
General Hospital when he could move little save his
head. Thus was a brilliant man in the prime of life
turned gradually into a marble statue!

George L. Stearns was a striking figure, with his
beautiful brown beard, long, soft, and silky as a
woman’s hair. He was greatly interested in the anti-slavery
cause, and when the Civil War came entered
the army as a major. He wished to serve without
pay, which my father thought a mistake, because an
unpaid volunteer might feel unwilling to submit to
the regular discipline of the army. It is true that my
father had served in the army of Greece without pay,
but the conditions there were very different from
those prevailing in the United States during the Civil
War.

Mrs. Stearns was also full of public spirit, although
sometimes rather sentimental. She once
brought to “Green Peace” a bunch of nasturtiums of
// 083.png
.pn +1
various colors, which were then something of a rarity.
Apropos of these, she said to my father, who knew
nothing of music:

“Doctor Howe, do not the palest of these nasturtiums
remind you of the high notes of the soprano in
the opera of ‘Semiramide’?”

The persons of note who came to “Green Peace”
could all speak some language—Greek, French, Polish,
German, or Italian—if not English.

There was one silent figure, however, who spoke
only with her swift-flying fingers. Yet her fame had
spread over the civilized world. The name of Laura
Bridgman was a household word in the nineteenth
century. That a girl, deaf, dumb, and blind from
infancy, should be able to communicate her thoughts
to others, write, cipher, and study like other children,
was thought a miracle. People found it so hard to
believe that they came in crowds to see the marvel
with their own eyes. So many visitors—eleven hundred,
on one occasion—appeared at the weekly exhibitions
of the school that it was thought necessary to
seat Laura in a little enclosure, lest her young head be
turned by too much attention.

Charles Dickens thus saw her. His account of his
visit to the school, with a beautiful tribute to my
father, is to be found in his <i>American Notes</i>. If
Byron’s helmet was the symbol of the latter’s earlier
labors, Laura Bridgman was the living witness of the
success of his later work.

She was often summoned to “Green Peace” to see
foreigners of distinction, as well as to make familiar
visits to the household. When I can first remember
// 084.png
.pn +1
her she was a young woman in the early twenties.
Her education had then been completed, but she was
allowed to remain at the school, the true home of her
spirit. Here every one could talk her finger language.

In appearance Laura was exquisitely neat. Her
brown hair was brushed perfectly smooth and braided
in a coil at the nape of the neck, thus showing to advantage
her shapely head. She had good features
and was comely, save for the heavy white scars at her
throat made by the disease—scarlet fever—which had
deprived her of her senses. Green shades covered the
sightless eyes.

When sister Julia and I were very young we were
naughty enough to tease Laura. One of us would
lead her to a chair in which the other was already
seated. When she attempted to sit in it she found
the place occupied. Another silly joke was to pound
with our feet and make such a racket that Laura,
feeling the vibrations through the floor, would ask us
to stop. Knowing that she was totally deaf, this
seemed to us very amusing. My father’s step she
knew at once. I have seen him tiptoe softly into the
room where she was seated. She, not to be deceived,
sprang up and followed him about the room, he walking
always with the same light step and laughingly
eluding her. Musical vibrations gave her real pleasure.
In later years she was delighted with the present
of a music-box to which she “listened” by placing
her feet upon it!

We early learned to talk with Laura. She used
the single-handed alphabet, making each letter very
carefully for those who had not learned to understand
// 085.png
.pn +1
her rapidly. As soon as you recognized the letter
you tapped her hand gently as a sign for her to give
the next one. When answering, you formed the letters
in the hollow of her hand, which partly closed over
your fingers while she quickly grasped your meaning.
Conversation was carried on rapidly with those accustomed
to talk with her. She was in the habit of
speaking certain words and making some abbreviations,
thus saving time. By feeling of the lips and
throat of her interlocutor she had learned to articulate
certain sounds. If you asked her to rehearse
her little vocabulary, she would first spell the word
on her fingers and then pronounce it. “Doc—Doc”
was the abbreviation for her beloved “Doctor,” as my
father was universally called at the institutions under
his charge. She had nearly sixty sounds for persons.[#]
My father regretted later that he had not taught
Laura to speak. He was one of the earliest advocates
in America of teaching articulation to deaf-mutes.
One of his battles royal was with the authorities
at Hartford, who were much opposed to this
system, now the universally accepted one. I remember
the visit of a German deaf-mute to my father
when I was a child. He arranged that our cook,
who was of the same nationality, should have a little
talk with the man. When informed afterward that
he was deaf she refused to believe it!

.pm fn-start // 1
See Dr. Francis Lieber’s account of Laura Bridgman’s vocal
sounds printed by the Smithsonian Institution in Vol. II of the
<i>Smithsonian Contributions to Knowledge</i>.
.pm fn-end
// 086.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch07
VII||<s>YOUNG AMERICA GOES TO SCHOOL</s>
.pm ch-hd-start

<i>Our Schools and Teachers.—The South Boston Omnibus.—A
Grand School Sleigh-ride.—Memories of the Adams Family.—A
Picnic on the State House Steps.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
OUR earliest school-days have been already described.
I can first remember the dignity of
traveling as <i>dames seules</i> in an omnibus, in connection
with the Stevenson School. In those primitive
days Boston was a small city and the foreign population
was not large. It was therefore considered
quite safe for us to go from South Boston to our
school in Hancock Street in the omnibus. This vehicle
was a patriarchal affair, going on wheels the
greater part of the year. They were changed for
runners when snow lay on the ground. In my childhood
this was never cleared away from the streets of
Boston, the use of sleighs being universal. Unfortunately,
the heavy teams soon made the surface of
the snow extremely uneven so that you rose on a
hillock at one moment and descended at the next into
a valley called a “cradle-hole.” This was bad enough
in an open vehicle—but in the closed sleighs of the
period, booby-hacks or booby-huts as they were
called, the motion was so violent as to make people
seasick.
// 087.png
.pn +1

The snow-storms were terrific. Mountains of
snow lined the thoroughfares and hid the sidewalks
from our infant view. The omnibus seemed to be
progressing to its destiny between lofty Alps. Fortunately,
the designers of these vehicles realized that
amusement would be necessary, to beguile the way.
Above each window was a picture (?) to be studied
and admired. The glass in the door bore the legend,
“htuos notsob,” the meaning of which was for some
time a mystery to us. Then there was the funny
little lamp which used camphene, I suspect—a dangerous
fluid eschewed by careful people.

As the omnibus went at infrequent intervals, we
often made the trip in company with the same persons.
We maintained, however, a proper maidenly reserve,
entering into no conversation with our fellow-travelers.
On one point their views differed from
ours. Having paid three cents apiece (half-fare) for
our seats, we felt it in accordance with our dignity
to retain them under all circumstances. When the
omnibus was full we would be invited to sit on some
gentleman’s knee, thus making room for another lady.
My firm refusal to do this led to my being called
“Young America” by unappreciative fellow-passengers.

The seat next to the door was very pleasant, as it
commanded a fine view to the rear. While occupying
this agreeable post of vantage one day I incautiously
put my forefinger in the crack of the door.
The driver pulled the latter to with a bang, causing
me sharp pain. Julia and I were alone in the omnibus,
except for one stolid young woman who did nothing
// 088.png
.pn +1
to comfort the weeping and frightened children.
Fortunately we were near home. Alas! Papa, the
good surgeon, was out. Mamma, who could not bear
the sight of blood, would not look at the crushed
finger, but instantly ordered the carriage and took me
to see Dr. William Bigelow. He pronounced, to our
great relief, that no bones were broken. The finger
has never quite recovered its original shape. My
mother was much worried at the moment, but made
merry over the accident a little later in <i>The Listener</i>.[#]

.pm fn-start // 1
See #Chapter IV:ch04#.
.pm fn-end

The school of the Misses Stevenson was just opposite
the reservoir and a stone’s throw from the State
House. The last named had not then received the
additions which have doubtless increased its usefulness,
but detracted from its beauty. It stood simple
and majestic, a fitting crown to dear old Beacon Hill.
No odious apartment-house then lifted a commercial
head above it, dwarfing the height of the beautiful
dome. The old Hancock house still stood near by.
It had not yet made way for the mansion of the gentleman
whose ambition was to have the handsomest
house in Boston and the finest tomb in Mount Auburn.
Alas for human ambition! I fancy that few people now
remember either this man, his dwelling, or his tomb.

We children loved to play on the granite steps and
balustrades of the State House, also to climb to the
dome when permitted. A selfish and obstructionist
legislature allowed no one to go there while the General
Court was in session, asserting that the noise
disturbed them.
// 089.png
.pn +1

In <i>The Listener</i> we find many mentions of the
Stevenson School. Prominent among our diversions
was the holding of fairs.

I regret to say that these would seem to have been
purely commercial transactions, if we may judge by
the “advertisement” in <i>The Listener</i>. As it appeared
<i>after</i> the fair, it was a little different from an ordinary
modern advertisement.

.pm letter-start
Every lady who helped to sell things, got 43 cents, and if the
fair should be held next year, we advise all who do not wish
to trouble their papas for pocket money to take a table at the
fair.
.pm letter-end

We note, however, that the young ladies are advised
to remember the poor and forget the candy-shop,
“as there are a great many little girls who want
bread this hard winter.”

The articles sold were, to a great extent, contributed
by our long-suffering elders. “The head of
John the Baptist on a charger” was furnished, however,
by one of the school-girls. The head of a small
china doll was displayed on a tiny plate, adorned with
vermilion paint!

The following <i>Listener</i> editorial, from my mother’s
pen, tells of an excursion to Fresh Pond and of her
falling down. She never learned to be thoroughly
at home on ice, like her own ducklings:

.pm letter-start
.ni
<i>The Listener</i>
.rj
<i>January 11th, 1855</i>.
.nf c
<sc>Editor’s Table</sc>
.nf-
.pi
We do not know that the week just past had in it any event
// 090.png
.pn +1
more important than the great Stevenson and Howe sleigh-ride,
which took place on Monday last—the Stevenson school sleigh-ride,
in the great Howe sleigh. The young ladies looked and
behaved their very best. Miss Loring’s bonnet and yellow
ribbons were remarkably becoming—shouldn’t wonder if other
Judges than Judge Loring thought “our Gal” very good looking.
Arrived at the pond, sliding became the order of the day.
Misses Kate Selfridge and Susie Sargent were last seen with
Mrs. Howe between them, like two little steam-tugs towing
out a seventy-four. The 74 went down (on the ice) and the
tugs scattered. Mr. Henry Marion (Bunker) Howe distinguished
himself by a bump on the head, Mr. Bradford went
about like a dear old Puss in Boots. After a good deal of
slip-sliding, the party adjourned to the Hotel, where hot
lemonade was demanded, drunk, and paid for, the young ladies
supplying the spirits. The ride home was chiefly remarkable
for the hearty cheering of sleighs and dirt-carts and hissing of
toll-gate men.
.pm letter-end

Among our friends and playmates was Mary
Adams, the youngest daughter of Charles Francis
Adams, Sr. The town residence of the family was in
Mount Vernon Street, only a stone’s-throw from the
State House. It was a simple brick structure, of the
fashion then prevailing. That early style of architecture
gave an air of solidity and dignity not always
found in the more ornate fashions of to-day. The
Adams house was built in the English-basement style,
the pleasant dining-room looking out upon Mount
Vernon Street. Like the neighboring residences, it
stood some twenty or thirty feet back from the sidewalk,
a paved court leading up to the door and giving
the abode a certain air of privacy and retirement.
Spacious parlors ran across the entire front of the
second story, the building being a wide one. At the
// 091.png
.pn +1
rear, a ball-room had been built on, and I remember
a delightful children’s party there. To say that we
played at “pillows and keys” with John Quincy
Adams and Charles Francis Adams, Jr., has a historic,
almost a presidential sound.

At supper there was a ring in the cake, an
essential feature of these juvenile entertainments.
We drew lots out of a silk hat, and the prize fell
to my share. As the slips were not folded up,
“Ring,” written on one larger than the rest, was
plainly discernible to my youthful eyes. The recording
angel suggests in mitigation that greater
care should have been taken to disguise that royal
slip!

In the Adams’ nursery we had many merry times
with our paper dolls and other toys. The favorite
doll in that day was “Jenny Lind,” with changes of
dress showing all the operatic rôles in which the famous
prima donna had appeared.

I fear these recollections of mine will seem strange
to those people who have heard that Boston society
was opposed to theater-going in the ’Fifties and ’Sixties.
There was, in some families, a disapproval of
the theater, and certain of our young friends were
not allowed to go to the play—save at the Boston
Museum. This was considered a family place of
resort, and many persons came to see performances
there who would not have thought it right to go to a
regular theater. The children liked to arrive early
and to examine all the curiosities including the wax-works,
which were terrible, yet fascinating. It seems
strange now to think that a group representing the
// 092.png
.pn +1
murder of a well-known Bostonian should have been
exhibited here.

Boston people then dined at half past two o’clock,
on the return of the children from school, business
men coming home across the Common for the meal,
and going back to their offices afterward. The dinner
hour at the Adams’ was a little later, three
o’clock, and this seemed in keeping with a certain
stateliness that characterized the family, as well as
great cordiality and hospitality.  I remember that
there was a profusion of silver plate, and all the
appointments were handsome. A closed buffet with
glass doors and glass shelves seemed to me especially
elegant. Mr. Adams sat at the head of the table and
carved, as the heads of families did at that time. I
remember him as a quiet and dignified gentleman,
yet kindly rather than stern. Doubtless we youngsters
were impelled to behave well in his presence, yet
I do not remember being afraid of him, as we should
have been of an unkind or tyrannical man.

How quiet and primitive was the dear old Boston
of that day! As girls of eight and ten years we
loved to romp and play on the Common, tumbling
about on the grass and having little feasts of strawberries
in the small thimble-shaped baskets wherein
those delectable berries were then sold. How delightful
it would be, some of us thought, to have a real
picnic on the State House steps!

The supplies having been secured from our respective
homes, we met on the steps of Massachusetts’
Capitol, but, alas! unwelcome guests came too. Various
boys of our acquaintance, led by Brooks Adams,
// 093.png
.pn +1
the youngest of the family, appeared upon the scene,
and we reluctantly beat a retreat, the boys forming
a skirmish-line and hovering around us and our provisions.
After this feat of daring we were never
allowed to have picnics again within the city limits.

When summer came, the Adamses removed to the
old family mansion in Quincy, and here, too, sister
Julia and I had the pleasure of visiting them. I am
afraid we did not think much about the presidential
memories connected with the house, which was certainly
a delightful one. On the second floor was a
spacious drawing-room, only opened, I think, for state
occasions. It was furnished in yellow damask, and I
have a dim memory of family portraits as we sported
about among the cushions.

Evidently the sturdy spirit of the old Adamses was
not wanting to their descendants, and with Master
Brooks we had some conflicts (he was seven or eight
at this time). Perhaps we, being so many girls, in
some way infringed upon his rights.

The older sons of the house, John Quincy
and Charles Francis, Jr., were at this time students
at Harvard College, or had recently graduated there-from.
They were genial, witty and delightful, and
showed great kindness to their little sister and her
friends. Of course we were only too well pleased to
listen to the conversation of such clever and agreeable
young men, though too youthful to have developed
much feminine coquetry. Yet it was a salve to
our pride that we were considered old enough to be
worthy any notice from such brilliant people. Master
Brooks did not appreciate us as his elder brothers did.
// 094.png
.pn +1

“Green Peace” was not more than eight miles distant
from Quincy. My father was extremely fond
of riding on horseback and often took us with him.
The younger generation of the Adamses were also
fond of this exercise, hence we used occasionally to
join forces and pace through the lovely country lanes
together. By this time I had attained to the dignity
of semi-young-ladyhood. An untoward event attended
our return from one of these expeditions. As our
hospitable hosts detained us to “high tea,” it was
dark when we went to the gate to remount our
horses, and one of the young gentlemen, in putting
me on my palfrey, landed me on the horse’s neck.
When this disaster was discovered every one laughed
heartily, while I crawled back into the proper position,
feeling my youthful dignity somewhat diminished.

My father, who was active in the councils of the
Republican party and who was a friend of Charles
Francis Adams, once called to see him about some
matter connected with his approaching election to
Congress, if I remember aright. We were received
in the wonderful mahogany room. The existence of
this was not known until recent times, when some
workmen accidentally discovered beneath the plaster a
wall of solid mahogany reaching from floor to ceiling.
The plaster was removed and the mahogany paneled
and varnished, thus making a beautiful and unusual
interior.

Mrs. Charles Francis Adams was a fine-looking
woman whose bright black eyes bespoke keenness of
mind as well as geniality and vivacity of temperament.
// 095.png
.pn +1
At the time of which I speak, her hair was jet
black and worn in the smooth bandeaux then fashionable.
Both in appearance and in disposition she
formed a contrast with her distinguished husband,
who was already bald and gray, with blue eyes.

Brother Harry and sister Laura went at this time to
a school kept by Miss Susan Hale, a sister of Edward
Everett Hale. Harry had been from his tenderest
years an extremely mischievous child. If Miss Hale
punished him by putting him in the closet, some damage
to the clothing hanging there was sure to result.
Laura was a very good and amiable little girl, and
conscientious as well.

Nevertheless, when she was about five years old a
curious indisposition was wont to attack her as the
time approached for starting for school. With the
brutal penetration of the older sister, I saw that this
was only “shamming.” But the elders were more
lenient. The child perhaps might not feel well, so
she was allowed to remain at home. As soon as the
rest of us had departed she recovered her health with
surprising promptness!

In extenuation of this little piece of innocent deception
it should be said that she was rather a delicate
child.

She, as well as Julia, developed a literary turn of
mind very early. When only five years old she delighted
the rest of us by reciting “Annie of Lochroyan”
and other ballads from <i>Thalatta</i>, a book of
which we were all fond. A little later, when she
went to the school kept by Mr. Henry Williams, he
called her in to read before the older girls, for the
// 096.png
.pn +1
instruction of the latter. Dear, good man, he did not
realize the naughtiness of girls. They made the
child’s life miserable by teasing her after this event.

I have already mentioned some of our foreign
teachers. Among these was a German, Dr. D——,
who had ten children and, as I think, no servant.
Yet he told us that he never wanted to dine out, as
his wife was such a good cook. This seemed to me
a little hard on that good woman. He had the habit
of learning, before breakfast, one hundred words of
some foreign language! Evidently he was a man of
attainments but not of scientific accuracy.

One could pardon, as a poetic flight of fancy, his
statement that the mastodon—or some other extinct
beast—was as large as the Institution for the Blind.
But when it came to the price of cows, that was another
matter. He made a misstatement on this subject
to the blind boys, some of whom were country
lads, and thus lost their confidence. Possibly they
were unjust, for the learned professor might have
confused German and American prices!
// 097.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch08
VIII||<s>THE AGASSIZ SCHOOL</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Professor and Mrs. Louis Agassiz.—Prof. Alexander Agassiz.—Papanti’s
Dancing-school.—I Invent Fancy Dances.—We
Swim, Skate, and Ride on Horseback.—Boston’s Purple-glass
Windows.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.4 0.6
AMONG the pleasant friends who came to “Green
Peace” were Professor and Mrs. Louis Agassiz.
Thus it naturally happened that I was sent to the
Agassiz School. The journey from South Boston
to Cambridge took so long, in those days, that I gave
it up after three months’ trial. As I was then only
twelve years of age, I did not fully appreciate the
advantages offered by the school—advantages of
which girls from distant parts of the United States
were very glad to avail themselves. The special
feature of the school, however, even the youngest
pupils were old enough to enjoy. Who could help
enjoying the closing hour of the day when the scholars
assembled in the big class-room to listen to a
delightful talk from the lips of the great naturalist
himself? As he stood before the great blackboard,
now drawing figures, now explaining to us the development
of the little animals whose growth forms
the coral reefs, the movement of the glaciers, or the
reason of the gradual recession of Niagara Falls,
// 098.png
.pn +1
we sat listening to his words with eager interest.
He adapted himself to our youthful comprehension
with the utmost ease—or, if there was any effort
made, it was not an apparent one.

A great charm of these talks was that in them
the professor brought us the fresh fruits of his own
experience. He had personally investigated the glaciers
before coming to America. The theory that
they had once covered the earth originated with him,
if I remember aright. He had also visited the coral
reefs. I have understood from Prof. Alexander
Agassiz that his father’s views about these were not
fully accepted by later scientists. To the lay mind
it would appear that Science is almost as fickle as
Fashion!

Of Darwinism Professor Agassiz was a vigorous
opponent. The new doctrine seemed to him irreconcilable
with the idea of a divine Providence, and
would, he feared, destroy the faith of mankind. Professor
Agassiz and Professor Asa Gray found themselves
diametrically opposed on this question. There
is a legend of a lively meeting between them in Cambridge,
where words almost led to blows!

An account of the Agassiz School would be incomplete
if it did not mention the Agassiz omnibus, a
white, high-stepped vehicle which took its winding
way through the thoroughfares of old-fashioned
Boston, calling for the girls at streets and places which
have now vanished into the past like the old ’bus
itself, or, if they exist at all, exist only as soulless
business streets, with great granite blocks of shops
replacing the dear old houses shaded by lofty trees.
// 099.png
.pn +1

The purple-glass windows which they had inherited
from an earlier generation (some are still to be seen
on Beacon Hill) furnished indisputable proof of the
wonderful virtue of early Boston boys, or of the extreme
watchfulness of Puritan parents.

While there were some very studious girls, about
whose profound learning wonderful stories were
whispered, who patronized the Agassiz omnibus, there
were also fashionable and rather frivolous young
ladies among our number—who danced at balls and
parties in the evening and as a natural consequence
came to school very tired in the morning. Human
nature in mid-Victorian days was very much as it is
now. One sad memory is indissolubly connected with
the Agassiz omnibus. It relates to the hats I wore—and
to those which, had fate permitted, I should have
liked to wear. The views of my dear mother on the
subject of headgear differed from those of her neighbors.
In Boston the sumptuary laws of this period
prescribed that your hat should be as nearly as possible
the exact ditto of that worn by every other
woman and girl in the town. During this particular
spring white-straw bonnets, trimmed with green ribbon
outside and pink ribbon inside, were the regulation
wear. Now blue was my color, and my bonnet was
garnished with a ribbon of bluish gray tint, more becoming
to me than the universal pink. I was prepared
to accept this variation from type, the bonnet being
pretty in itself. But, alas! this was not the worst.
Our mother also had an idea that round hats were
more suitable for school-girls than bonnets. Accordingly,
I was provided with a brown straw shade-hat,
// 100.png
.pn +1
the brim of which seemed huge to my excited imagination.
It was expected that I should wear this to
school, reserving the bonnet for best.

I adopted the desperate expedient of wearing my
winter bonnet out of the proper season. Oh, how
I scrutinized the girls, as they entered the omnibus,
to see how many still wore their winter
bonnets! Several obligingly did so, but their number
became daily less. At last I was driven from the
burrow—or trench—of that velvet bonnet and obliged
to come out into the open. A few times I tremblingly
wore the huge round hat—the only one in the stage.
Once or twice I took refuge in the Cambridge street-cars—but
here lurked the danger of Harvard students
with their critical eyes. At last I boldly put
on the Sunday blue bonnet. What if it did fade
and wither from too frequent exposure? At least
I should be saved from wearing the despised round
hat!

Even then, however, there were exceptions to this
sumptuary law, practised in Cambridge itself, had I
only known it.

It was perhaps in this very year, 1858, that Charles
Francis Adams, Jr., then a student at Harvard, drew
upon himself a remonstrance from his fellows on
account of his headgear, to which he made the following
reply:

<i>“An Adams can wear any sort of hat he wishes.”</i>

His fellow-student, my brother-in-law, related this
story to me many years afterward, in a grieved spirit.
I assured, him that Charles Francis Adams, Jr., was
right. Certain families of the Hub possessed at that
// 101.png
.pn +1
date a prescriptive right to dress as they pleased,
every one knowing who they were.

Young Mr. Adams, far from showing conceit, was
simply illumining the way for us all in the direction
of personal independence.

The Agassiz School was held in the professor’s
own pleasant house on Quincy Street, Cambridge,
very near Harvard College. Probably the older girls
were conscious of this fact, but I was too young to
bear it much in mind. The students whom I met
occasionally in the street seemed to me great and
august beings. Time, however, brings its revenges.
In later life, when my sons were undergraduates, I
had occasion to revisit Cambridge. The students no
longer inspired me with awe; whether they were
afraid of me or not I cannot say.

In his charming wife Professor Agassiz had a most
efficient helpmeet who entered into all his plans and
followed his work with loving zeal and intelligence.
Mrs. Agassiz, who survived her husband for many
years, was a very charming woman. She had a noble
and whole-souled nature, which one fancied was contagious,
for the moment at least. I think it would
have been impossible to do a mean thing while in her
company.

In the days of the Agassiz School she was still a
young woman, and we all felt that she was the presiding
genius of the establishment as she flitted from
room to room in her pretty, trim morning dress and
cap with its fresh flowing ribbons, which seemed to
correspond so well with the sweetness and freshness
of her disposition. She heard the lessons of the
// 102.png
.pn +1
younger pupils, but I am sure that she exercised a
sweet and wholesome influence over all the scholars,
old and young.

Prof. Alexander Agassiz taught in his father’s
school. I remember him in those days as a handsome,
rather melancholy-looking young man who was
suspected of being afraid of the biggest girls. Not
long afterward he married one of them, Miss Anna
Russell, daughter of my father’s old chum, George
Russell. Prof. Alexander Agassiz was much more
reserved and grave than his father, whose genial temperament
was full of warmth and sunshine. Occasionally
he also gave us a lecture.

During many years of his life, Louis Agassiz
worked through a great part of the night, sleeping
very late in the morning. It is said that one Sunday
morning Mrs. Agassiz, while dressing for church,
suddenly called out, “Agassiz! there is a snake in my
boot!” To which the Professor drowsily replied, “I
wonder where the others are!”

I remember a lecture where he showed us an orange
to represent a sea-urchin. With a sudden movement
he opened the fruit, which we then saw had
been cut, into the form of a starfish, thus showing
the relationship between the two types of creatures,
and the audience burst into applause.

In 1859 our parents made a visit to the West Indies
which our mother described in <i>A Trip to Cuba</i>. We
children stayed with various relatives and friends,
Mrs. Charles H. Dorr, at that time living in Jamaica
Plain, hospitably receiving me. I thus came to know
the young girls living in that pleasant suburb, and to
// 103.png
.pn +1
attend the school of Miss Lucia M. Peabody. The
double attraction was so strong that I was willing to
take the trip of some six miles daily, for more than
three years, walking from South Boston to the
Jamaica Plain horse-car in Boston.

Miss Peabody not only loved study herself, but
made it attractive to others. She was an excellent
teacher, to whom I owe much gratitude.

If it had not been for Charlotte Bowditch, I should
have been the first scholar in arithmetic. But Charlotte,
who was a granddaughter or great-niece of the
famous navigator, was hopelessly ahead of us all.
This was an excellent thing for my vanity.

Among my school memories is that of a very extraordinary
dictionary belonging to one of my
friends. The learned German—he must have been a
German—who compiled it had evidently been imposed
upon by some wag. Thus the synonyms for
“to die” were given as “to kick the bucket,” “to hop
the twig,” “to go to Davy Jones’s locker.” I do not
think the book was vicious, but it abounded in slang.
Perhaps it was prepared for the use of sailors in
foreign ports!

Our physical culture began early. We learned to
swim without especial instruction, each one of us
following out his or her own ideas, brother Harry
keeping his head under water, sister Julia paddling
dog-fashion, I swimming on my back.

We learned to ride very young, beginning with
José, a little Spanish donkey presented to us by
Albert Sumner, a brother of Charles. He had been
for some years the mount of Mr. Sumner’s daughter
// 104.png
.pn +1
Kate, and was an animal of high character. In his
letter of introduction Mr. Sumner duly sets forth
José’s many excellent traits, mentioning also that as
he came from Barbary he must be a pure Barb! He
was a gentle animal, but possessed of the amiable
determination characteristic of his species. He never
bit, kicked, nor scratched, but he was a person of
dignity and his movements were marked by great
deliberation. The only way in which we could coax
him out of a walk was to run before him, holding out
a piece of bread. This soon became fatiguing to the
advance courier.

When we had a children’s party, he was brought
out for the entertainment of the visitors. José did
not like to have strange children on his back, and
could tell at once when the reins were in the hands
of an inexperienced rider. In this case he would
turn toward the fence, putting his head and forefeet
under the lowest board. He thus obliged the child
either to dismount or to come in contact with the
fence. Sometimes he would vary the proceedings by
running to the barn.

Indeed, running away was one of José’s accomplishments,
so inconsistent is donkey nature. The
fences at South Boston were from time to time
adorned with little posters bearing the legend: “Lost—a
small brown donkey. The finder will please
return him,” etc.

Once my brother Harry, who was perhaps eight
years of age, received an official letter beginning,
“Sir, your ass is in the pound.”

José was from time to time the shrine of a singular
// 105.png
.pn +1
pilgrimage. A group of people, bearing a child
sick with whooping-cough, would arrive at “Green
Peace” and ask to interview our donkey. The parents
took their station, one on each side of José,
and passed the child to each other three times over
and under the animal. In order to make the cure
complete, a piece of bread was put in the donkey’s
mouth and then given to the child. The superstition
rests on the theory that the donkey is a sacred animal,
since Christ once rode on him; witness the cross upon
his back.

We owned for a time another donkey—Billy—who
possessed a most unamiable disposition. He was not
our friend and companion like José, and we did not
ride on his back. He formed part of a donkey tandem
which we drove at Newport, our uncle Sam
having given us a delightful pony-carriage and harness.
When we went abroad in this little conveyance
a dreadful danger lurked by the wayside, for the
Andersons’ donkey lived in a field bordering on the
road over which we were obliged to pass. Like the
evil spirit in the story of the <i>Three Goats Brausewind</i>,
he accosted us in a very rude way. José and Billy
were evidently moved by the appeal of their fellow-donkey,
and we were greatly troubled in mind. For
a tandem, as every one knows, is a most difficult
team to drive, even when undisturbed by asinine conversation.

My father trained us all to ride first with a leading-rein,
afterward alone. By his side we rode many
miles about the country. With Cora, our pretty but
imperfectly broken colt, I had some terrifying moments.
// 106.png
.pn +1
We were in the habit of going out tête-à-tête,
she and I, and all would go well until we met an ice-wagon,
or crossed a certain railroad bridge. Then
she would shy and run, but fortunately I did not
fall off.

Lorenzo Papanti, his dancing-classes and his hall,
were among the institutions of old Boston. It was
said that this accomplished veteran had instructed
three generations of Bostonians in the art of dancing.
He was by no means young when I first remember
him, although his dark wig doubtless made him look
older than he really was; his blue-gray eyes would
have appeared less fishlike, his complexion less red
and mottled, had he appeared before us without this
adornment. For a man with a bald head to teach
dancing might, it is true, seem incongruous. He was
always in evening dress, dignified and graceful in his
movements, as became one of his profession. Age
had no power to wither him. He bore a strong resemblance
to William Warren, the noted actor.
When I saw portraits of the latter on cigar-boxes
labeled “Boston’s favorite,” I supposed they were
likenesses of Papanti.

In these days of division of labor it seems wonderful
to remember that he had no assistant. He taught
us to dance, playing at the same time on his fiddle.
He kept us in good order, routing the truants out of
the dressing-rooms if we stayed there too long to
play and talk. He had the Italian genius for governing,
inherited, doubtless, from the ancient Romans.

When Mr. Papanti sounded a preliminary flourish
// 107.png
.pn +1
on his fiddle and asked us to take partners for the
quadrille or the lancers, the boys did not rush joyously
forward, as might have been expected. Our
master was often obliged to lead them out in a long,
reluctant line, dragging back as much as they dared.
With some twenty or thirty boys in tow, he would
approach the girls, who were not very encouraging.
It was pleasanter to dance with your girl friends than
with strange boys who had little to say. A certain
Master J—— once ejaculated, “My stars!” in talking
to his partner. We considered this very bad
form. There were one or two little boys of greater
conversational powers whom we admired.

Mr. Papanti duly instructed the elect of the class
in the gavotte. It was a proud moment when you
were chosen to take part in this. The “shawl” dance
was even more select. The single couple—a brother
and sister—who danced this had reached the height of
human ambition at Papanti’s.

The hall had a delightful spring floor, the like of
which I have never beheld. It yielded beneath your
feet like a live thing!

When we were children dancing was one of our
home pleasures. Our mother, who had an endless
store of operatic airs in her memory, would sit down
at the grand piano at the children’s hour. As her
nimble fingers struck the keys away we all went, each
doing a <i>pas seul</i> of some sort.

To sister Julia belongs the credit of inventing the
“frog” minuet. This is only suitable for very young
children. You go down on your hands and knees,
then you lift first the right arm and knee, after that
// 108.png
.pn +1
the left, all in time to the music. The movement is
rather slow.

My mother’s passionate fondness for music and
love of dancing in her youth have been mentioned
elsewhere. Small wonder that these dramatic airs,
as she played them, stirred the little daughter to whom
dancing was the natural mode of expression. My
performances were no doubt admired by the family
much more than they deserved. As we were still
lingering in a certain degree of Puritanism, the invention
of fancy dances was then rare.

Among those which I “originated” were dances for
the four seasons, and the dagger dance—usually
performed with a silver fruit-knife—of Lady Macbeth.
Intimate friends of the family were allowed to
witness these. Alas! I once cast the dagger from
me with so noble a passion that it narrowly missed
one of the guests. After that greater reserve was
necessary.

Our mother was quick to recognize and to praise
any little manifestation of talent or originality on our
part. She did not look with an entirely favorable eye
upon our competitors. Thus neither she nor I wholly
approved of the performance of a little girl who
danced the cachucha, with castanets, at a party in
Providence. In the daytime the child was not as
pretty as by gaslight. I suspect that she was freckled.
However, she did not again cross my orbit.

In West Roxbury lived another young girl who
danced, Miss Emily Russell, a daughter of Mr.
George Russell. Her performances were more ambitious
than mine, being conducted on the footboard of
// 109.png
.pn +1
a bedstead. Friends were invited to see these, one
lady appearing in diamonds and a corn-colored
barège. The costume aroused some criticism. I have
already intimated that in old Boston it was necessary
to dress with discretion.

My father taught us to skate first with one foot,
thereby avoiding some tumbles. There was a great
revival of skating shortly before the Civil War. Jamaica
Pond was in high favor, the cars going there
being jammed with people. Father revived his skating,
as did many older people, a certain general arousing
unfavorable comment by appearing on double
runners—<i>i.e.</i>, skates with two blades.

To me the exercise was even more delightful than
riding on horseback. I still dream of flying along on
skates in the most wonderful manner.
// 110.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch09
IX||<s>EDWIN BOOTH AND CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Why They Did Not Act My Mother’s Play, “Hippolytus.”—A
Bundle of Old Playbills.—Letters from Edwin and Mary
Booth.—Mrs. Frances Ann Kemble.—Statue of Horace
Mann.—My Father Introduces Written Examinations into
the Public Schools, amid Angry Protests from the Masters.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
WE usually accepted the appearance of distinguished
visitors at “Green Peace” in a spirit
of philosophic calm. Young people are little moved
by what does not directly concern them.

Great was our excitement and delight, however,
when Edwin Booth called on my mother. We did
not then know how it happened that our house should
receive such a delightful visitation. The explanation,
however, was very simple. Our mother, who had
already had a play presented on the stage, was asked
by Mr. Booth’s manager to write one for him. Hence
he came to see her, accompanied by his intimate
friend with whom she also was acquainted, Walter
Brackett, the artist.

She was very liberal in allowing us to see visitors,
but evidently it was not desirable to permit school-girls
of a tender and impressionable age to make the
acquaintance of a young and very handsome actor.
The visit took place in the room with the Gobelin
carpet, thus enabling Julia and Florence to get fleeting
// 111.png
.pn +1
glimpses of the great man from the adjoining
conservatory. We never knew whether he heard us
rustling about among the plants, but it is highly
probable that he did. It was aggravating to get only
furtive glimpses of him through the glass, yet we had
a fair opportunity to see the young actor.

He had not yet lost the bright color in his cheeks.
His purple-black hair was at that time short, curling
close to his head. “Short,” however, did not then
mean close-cropped, as in the present day.

After the departure of the visitors I seized upon
the chair in which Edwin Booth had sat and marked
the seat (underneath) with a “B,” worked in silver
thread. It will be guessed that we had already seen
him upon the stage and worshiped him from afar.
There were young women bold and foolish enough
to write to this object of their adoration. He disliked
very much to be thus admired by silly and sentimental
girls. Our respectful homage was of a very
different sort. We considered him a species of superman,
as may be judged from the incident of the
chair.

When I branded the chair for eternal fame, I little
dreamed that our hero would revisit us, and that we
should have a chance to speak to him, if we dared, a
year or two later. We were no longer obliged to
lurk in the conservatory, for Booth was now a benedict,
and brought his lovely wife to “Green Peace.”

When I first saw him on the stage this lady—then
Miss Mary Devlin—took the principal woman’s part.
The play was “The Iron Chest,” a tale of secret guilt.
The mystery of a murder, the guilty man’s remorse
// 112.png
.pn +1
and fear of discovery, form a tragic theme which
always interests the human mind.

The opening scene is dramatic. An old servant
incautiously narrates to the new private secretary the
story of his master’s trial and acquittal. In the midst
of it they are interrupted by a voice calling from
behind the scenes, “Adam Winterton, Adam Winterton,
come hither to me!” With what telling effect the
great actor pronounced these his first words in the
drama may be guessed by those who remember Edwin
Booth. The sadness in that wonderful voice struck
the key-note of the tragedy. The end of the play
savors of melodrama. On the discovery of his guilt,
Sir Edward Mortimer falls upon the stage and dies
to slow music, as his lady-love rushes in and supports
his head. I fancy the play would not be tolerated,
except by a Bowery audience, in these days, but with
Booth in the principal rôle it was a favorite in the
middle of the nineteenth century.

Mary Devlin became engaged to be married to him
soon afterward, and left the stage. This was a real
loss to theater-goers, for the actresses who succeeded
her in the principal rôles were by no means so satisfactory.
It outraged our youthful ideals of fitness to
have Mrs. E. L. Davenport take such parts as Katharine
in the “Taming of the Shrew,” or Ophelia. She
was middle-aged, thin and not beautiful. Hence, no
matter how good her acting, she did not please critical
school-girls. Losing Mrs. Booth from the stage
brought us compensation, however, since we soon had
the pleasure of seeing both “the great B and the little
B,” as my mother playfully called them, in private life.
// 113.png
.pn +1

It should here be said that the latter had earned
the lasting gratitude of the great actor by her generous
tribute of praise, bestowed at a moment when
he was hurt and discouraged by harsh criticism. Her
poem, “Hamlet at the Boston,” published in the
<i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, was a word spoken in season.

Mary Booth was an exquisite little woman, slender,
graceful, with a charm of manner more winning than
that of beauty alone. She and my mother soon became
well acquainted, their pleasant friendship being
cut short by her untimely death, at the age of twenty-five.

Thus Edwin Booth is one of those whom I remember
standing beneath Byron’s helmet at “Green
Peace.” His manners were perfectly simple and natural.
I suspect that he was a little shy in private life.
He once told us that when called before the curtain
between the acts or after the play he suffered from
stage fright. I do not think this is surprising. During
the performance of the play the actor loses himself
in his part—he is no longer Edwin Booth, but
Hamlet. When he is called before the curtain, however,
his position is a curious one. He is wearing
the trappings and the suits of woe of the Prince of
Denmark; yet he must bow, and perhaps make a
speech, as Edwin Booth. If we had a higher appreciation
of dramatic values we should not call an actor
before the curtain. Where this is done, in the course
of the play, it breaks the continuity of the impression
and summons us from our dream to the prose of
daily life.

Negotiations were now under way for the performance
// 114.png
.pn +1
of my mother’s play, “Hippolytus,” with a
cast including Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman.
This was the drama which she had written for him
some years before. Mr. Booth and Miss Cushman
agreed to take part in the play; the manager of the
Howard Athenæum, Mr. E. L. Davenport, agreed to
put it on the stage. Alas! his wife, the actress of
whom I have already spoken, did not like the part
assigned to her; other reasons, more or less valid,
were brought forward by the manager, and the matter
was dropped, to my mother’s great disappointment.
The question of its production was again brought up,
long after Edwin Booth’s death and toward the end
of my mother’s life. If she had lived a little longer she
might have seen it appreciatively given in Boston by
Margaret Anglin and a good company. Edwin Booth’s
opinion of the play is given in the following letter:

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>Baltimore</sc>, <i>Aug. 26th, 1858</i>.

<sc>My dear Madam</sc>,—“Hippolytus” arrived safely a day or two
since, and I have read it once. Being troubled with a bilious
attack, I have not been able to give it a very careful reading,
but am satisfied, even from my hasty perusal of it, that I shall
like it infinitely. Mr. Barry promises to <i>get it up</i> in superior
style, and, believe me, I shall use my best endeavors to do
justice, as far as the <i>acting</i> goes, to the youthful hero; the
<i>make-up</i> to accord with Phedra’s description I fear is beyond
my art. It needs very little, if any, curtailing or alteration, but
’twere best to submit to Mr. Barry’s judgment, having a
better knowledge of such matters than myself.

I shall be in Boston in <i>Oct.</i> next, my engagement being for
three weeks. I shall have plenty of time to rehearse and assist
in <i>getting up</i> the piece to the best advantage.

My best wishes for its success and your own prosperity,
Madam, I remain your servant,
.rj
<sc>Edwin Booth</sc>.
.pm letter-end
// 115.png
.pn +1

As entertaining was always a delight to my mother,
she gave several Booth parties. It is chronicled that
at one of them he spent much of his time playing with
little Maud, then some eight years old. Clearly he
did not enjoy being lionized. I have already intimated
that we older girls regarded him as a species of
Olympian god. This attitude of silent homage must
have been trying to a man of his good sense and modesty.
Yet he doubtless was wise enough to make
allowance for school-girls’ little harmless follies.

The most important of these Booth parties was
given at No. 13 Chestnut Street, the house in Boston
to which we removed in 1862. Every one wanted to
come to it, all sorts of people, artistic, literary and
fashionable, being anxious to meet Edwin Booth.
The party was a great success, as my mother’s entertainments
usually were. I remember that Mrs. Booth
wore a high-necked silk dress of some delicate color.
While we wore <i>décolleté</i> dresses for dances, we did
not in those days think it necessary to wear our shoulders
bare on all evening occasions. At her throat was
a brooch composed of a single large opal. Her sudden
death, a few months later, recalled to us sadly
the superstition about this stone which is supposed to
portend the early death of the wearer.

Sister Julia went with my mother to the funeral at
Mount Auburn. Edwin Booth was overwhelmed
with grief by his wife’s sudden death. He was acting
in New York at the time, and did not reach Boston
until all was over. The sad news was not broken
to him by the friends who came to meet him until
he was in the carriage. On learning it his agony
// 116.png
.pn +1
was so intense that they could with difficulty hold
him.

I saw him that winter on the Brighton Road, then
the gay resort of rapidly moving sleighs. Some hopeful
friend had evidently thought the scene might
divert him from his sorrow. A glance at his face
and figure showed the utter futility of this hope.
Such an image of sorrow I have never seen. His
wonderfully expressive features mirrored the grief
within as only such features can, while his long black
hair seemed a fitting frame for the dark, melancholy
face as he sat huddled together in the cutter, his head
sunk upon his breast. I doubt whether he saw any
one of that gay throng of people. He saw only one
face, invisible to us, and a grave in Mount Auburn a
few miles away.

Fortunately he had good friends and true to help
him through this sad time. Among these were the
two poets, R. H. Stoddard and Thomas W. Parsons.
In my collection of Booth relics is a note from the
former to my mother, written soon after the death
of Mrs. Booth. Being very sympathetic by nature,
she did not shrink from her friends in time of sorrow,
but strove to comfort them. Mr. Stoddard
writes that Booth will see her, adding, “I think you
can do him good and I have told him so.”

Doctor Parsons’ lovely verses give a true picture
of Mary Booth’s exquisite personality.

We saw a good deal of Doctor Parsons at this
time. He was a man of the greatest refinement, absolutely
free from self-assertion. He had, withal, a
touch of genius. One day, on looking up from his
// 117.png
.pn +1
work, he saw Edwin Booth standing before him.
The poet could but say, “Angels and ministers of
grace defend us!” his friend answering in the same
sportive strain.

Walking in the neighborhood of the old Revere
House one day, I saw Edwin Booth and a friend
driving in a buggy. He had doubtless been visiting
the grave of his wife at Mount Auburn. To my
surprise and pleasure, he recognized me by a grave
bow. As he had seen us all a number of times, at
the house of our parents, there was really nothing
surprising in this. But, as I have said, we regarded
him as a species of superman.

After Mrs. Booth’s death we saw less of the great
actor, as she had been the gracious link that united
us all. When he came to spend his summers at Newport,
a score of years later, the old friendship was
pleasantly renewed.

Wilkes Booth I saw several times on the stage in
the characters of Richard the Third, Shylock and
Charles Moore in Schiller’s play of the “Robbers.”
He also was handsome, taller and heavier than his
brother.

Edwin Booth was filling an engagement in Boston
at the time of Lincoln’s assassination. We had tickets
bought before the dreadful news came, for his
matinée on the fatal Saturday of the President’s
death. All places of amusement were of course closed
at once. The blow, a stunning one to the whole country,
brought to Edwin Booth the additional shock of
his brother’s terrible deed. It was reported at the
time that he had resolved to quit the stage forever.
// 118.png
.pn +1
The actors of the day were much troubled that a
member of their profession should have perpetrated
such a crime. It was said, in their defense, that actors
had seldom committed deeds of violence.

Although Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman
never acted in “Hippolytus,” they did appear together
in “Macbeth.” He mischievously remarked to us that
he longed to say to Miss Cushman: “Why don’t you
kill him? You’re a great deal bigger than I am.”
He did not consider himself heavy enough for the
part of Macbeth. Yet his rendering of it was very
impressive. All the dreadful drama of the murder,
the knocking at the outer gate, the banquet scene
where the ghost of Banquo appears, were thrilling to
witness.

Who, indeed, has rendered Shakespeare like Edwin
Booth? Sir Henry Irving could not, in my opinion,
be compared with him.

Hamlet was thought his best part—indeed, we said
he was the gentle Prince of Denmark. The gravity
of his disposition, “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of
thought,” his natural dignity and the grace of his
movements, all recalled Hamlet. When my mother
saw him at the funeral of his beloved wife she remembered
how often she had beheld him, on the
stage, follow Ophelia to the grave.

Shakespeare’s “Richard the Third” was another
character in which we especially liked to see him. He
was so handsome, so fascinating, that the scene with
Lady Anne, where he wins her from the very bier
of her murdered husband, did not seem unnatural.
The scene in the tent he gave with tremendous power.
// 119.png
.pn +1
After the ghosts of his victims have appeared to him,
one after another, calling down defeat upon his head,
he arouses himself from his uneasy slumber. Still
half-asleep, and fighting his way with his sword, he
staggers to the front of the stage, crying out, “Give
me another horse; bind up my wounds!” Kneeling
for a moment, his countenance still distorted, he cries
out, “Have mercy, Jesu!” His movements as he
blindly made his way forward, the awful expression
of his face, with eyes rolled upward, made this scene
more terrible in its way than that of his death on
Bosworth Field.

Yet this revelation of the true soul of the hump-backed
king lasted but a few moments. Soon he recovers
and “Richard is himself again.” (This phrase
must have been added by Colley Cibber, for it is not
in Shakespeare.)

As “honest Iago,” the openness of his countenance
somehow conveyed to the beholder that it was assumed.
Only in the final scene did he allow the true
villainy of the character to appear on his face. His
Othello was beautiful and moving. As Cardinal
Richelieu he was wonderful, portraying to the life the
little, cunning, powerful, yet on the whole benevolent
old man of Bulwer’s drama. With what telling effect
he drew the magic circle and gave the curse of Rome!

I saw him as Shylock a number of times, the last
time shortly before his retirement from the stage.
This impersonation had gained greatly in power since
the early days. The awful look of hatred that, during
his talk with Tubal, he allowed for a moment to
play over his face was a revelation. You caught a
// 120.png
.pn +1
glimpse of the race hatred accumulated through centuries
of oppression.

Once when I thoughtlessly spoke of the principles
of Christianity to a Hebrew acquaintance, I was
frightened to see something of the same terrible expression
come over his face.

When Booth was a young man he often played in
comedy. The rollicking mischief and fun of his
Petruchio and Don Cæsar de Bazan we greatly enjoyed.
He gave an abbreviated version of the “Taming
of the Shrew” as companion piece to “The Iron
Chest.”

His acting was of an intellectual and poetic type.
It was said that those who saw Edwin Booth play
Romeo to Mary Devlin’s Juliet were not likely to forget
it. They were so young, so beautiful, so identified
with their parts. I should not say that, ordinarily, he
excelled in the lover’s rôle. Charles Fechter, in spite
of his very plain face and ugly figure, could enact
the love scenes of Claude Melnotte in “The Lady of
Lyons,” with a power that Edwin Booth lacked.
Was it his natural reserve which made it distasteful
and difficult for him to simulate love-making in public?
I think it was. Like Hamlet, he had loved once
and deeply. After that I fancy he took little interest
in affairs of the heart. It is true, he married again,
perhaps for companionship. His second wife did not
long survive their marriage.

Tenderness of another kind he could well show
forth. The scene in “King Lear,” where he brings
in the dead Cordelia in his arms, hoping she is still
alive, was an exquisite piece of acting.
// 121.png
.pn +1

Among my Booth relics is a bundle of playbills, the
earliest dating back to November 6, 1858. This
shows “Miss Mary Devlin” in the principal feminine
rôle, Lady Helen, in “The Iron Chest.” The prices
are astounding. “Parquet, Balcony, and First Tier
of Boxes, fifty cents; Family Circle, twenty-five
cents; Amphitheater, fifteen cents. Children under
twelve years of age, half price. Private Boxes,
$6.00.”

A young friend to whom I lately showed this list
exclaimed, “No wonder Booth was a hero to the public,
when the prices were so low that every one could
afford to go to see him!”

From the collection of Booth letters I have selected
two from Mrs. Booth and one from Mr. Booth himself,
which will be found of interest:

.pm letter-start
<sc>My dear Mrs. Howe</sc>,—I deeply regretted my absence from
home yesterday when you called—but my disappointment was
greatly soothed by soon after receiving your polite note of
invitation to visit you on Sunday.

We will “tea” with you with infinite pleasure, at the hour
you appoint—most happy, too, of another opportunity of meeting
Miss Cushman, whose near departure makes her presence
doubly dear.
.ti +10
With great esteem,
.ti +15
Yours very sincerely,
.ti +20
<sc>Mary Booth</sc>.

<i>Wednesday, May 29th.</i>
.pm letter-end

.pm letter-start
<sc>My dear Mrs. Howe</sc>,—I should only be too delighted to be
“stared at” this evening at your little party, if I were not
expressly forbidden by my doctor to go into any excitement;
I have been so very feeble the past few days; so for once, dear
friend, pleasure must yield to duty. We will go over, “the
// 122.png
.pn +1
Great B” and myself, this week to see you. Please dance a
“Redowa” for me and believe me your disappointed little friend,
.rj
<sc>Mary Booth</sc>.

<i>Friday morn, June 28th.</i>
.pm letter-end

The following letter shows Edwin Booth’s tender
care for his little motherless daughter:

.pm letter-start
.rj
<i>Friday</i>.
<sc>Dear Mrs. Howe</sc>,—To-morrow and Sunday night I am engaged—but
think I shall remain at home on account of ill-health;
to-morrow night I start for New York. I am sorry
I have been unable to see you, but hope to have that pleasure
before I leave the city.

Baby Booth is not with me—I feared the climate and at the
last moment concluded not to bring her here. I hear from
her every day. She has grown to be a most splendid child
and worships her papa. I miss her very much.

My long winter’s work has completely unnerved me and it is
as much as I can do to drag through my performances.

Pray present my compliments to the young ladies and to
Dr. Howe and accept my thanks for your polite invitation.

Hoping soon to have an opportunity to call upon you, believe
me,
.ti +10
Very truly,
.ti +15
Your servant,
.ti +20
<sc>Edwin Booth</sc>.
.pm letter-end

Among my early memories of “Green Peace” is a
large daguerreotype of Charlotte Cushman. It was
probably lost in one of the many movings of the
Howe family.

When Miss Cushman’s furniture and personal
effects were sold at Newport, many years after her
death, a portrait of my mother and one of Elizabeth
Barrett Browning were still hanging in her bedroom!
A photograph of the great actress, taken about the
time of the Civil War, I still possess.
// 123.png
.pn +1

My parents were early interested in Charlotte
Cushman’s acting, as they were in that of Edwin
Booth, at the beginning of his career. They invited
guests to meet her at “Green Peace,” and asked their
friends in other cities to extend to her social recognition.

In the summer of 1850 they were her fellow-passengers
on the voyage to England. Sister Laura was
then an infant. Seeing her gnaw her little fist,
the actress exclaimed that babies were funny things,
at the same time mimicking exactly the child’s
action.

Like Sally Battle, Charlotte Cushman believed in
the rigor of the game. She and my mother were
engaged one day in a game of whist when a gentleman
was rash enough to talk to the latter and to
keep on talking. Charlotte Cushman bore it as long
as she could, then turned to the offender and said,
in her great, deep voice, “Remember, this is whist.”
The hint was sufficient.

Another story we had from my mother was of a
certain holiday performance when the theater was
crowded. Miss Cushman was acting with her sister,
the play being, as I think, “Romeo and Juliet.” In
the midst of the tender love-making a small boy called
out from the gallery, “Oh, my stummick!” The sister
was nearly convulsed with laughter, when Charlotte
gave her a shake and brought her to herself with
the words, “<i>Remember where you are</i>.”

On another occasion, when Miss Cushman came
bounding upon the stage as Meg Merrilies, she trod
upon a needle, dropped there by some careless actress,
// 124.png
.pn +1
and had to be helped from the stage in an agony of
pain.

She had already grown quite gray when I first
remember her, in the Civil War period. Such a
wonderfully expressive face could not be called altogether
homely, although her retreating mouth prevented
it from being handsome. Her teeth were
small and insignificant, while the blue of her eyes
contrasted well with the gray hair. She was built on
a generous scale, her figure tall and commanding. As
Queen Katherine in “Henry the Eighth” she was at
her best. One of her great points was in the trial scene.
When the insignificant Cardinal Campeius addressed
her she turned to Wolsey, with splendid gesture, looking
every inch a queen, as she gave with noble emphasis
the lines, “My lord cardinal, to you I speak.”

In 1915–16 I again saw this play, after an interval
of fifty years, with Sir Beerbohm Tree as the cardinal.
Anne Boleyn was graceful and charming,
making one understand as never before how Henry
was won from Katharine. Bluff King Hal was extremely
well portrayed. Cardinal Wolsey was magnificent
in his vivid scarlet raiment, the costumes and
scenery all beautiful. The whole was a feast of color
for the eye. But the one great figure that had dominated
the performance of early years I sadly missed.
The actress who played Queen Katharine did not
even attempt to make Charlotte Cushman’s great
point in the trial scene. In the last sad scene Miss
Cushman vividly portrayed for us the discarded
queen, sick and suffering unto death.

I saw her also in “London Assurance,” when she
// 125.png
.pn +1
took the part of Lady Gay Spanker. She was gay
and rollicking enough, although her gray hair seemed
a little incongruous in the part of a young woman.
It was out of keeping also in “Fazio,” where she took
the rôle of Bianca.

Charlotte Cushman possessed wigs, for these were
sold, with the rest of her theatrical wardrobe, one
being still in curl papers! When I saw her on the
stage, however, she appeared with her own gray hair.

It will be remembered that she had intended to go
on the operatic stage, but, owing to the loss of her
singing-voice, was obliged to give this up. The mishap
may have been a blessing in disguise. For the
perfect development of Miss Cushman’s great dramatic
talent the legitimate stage was the best agent.

I had the pleasure of hearing her sing, on the occasion
of a visit to Lawton’s Valley. It was a wonderful
performance. It was not like any other singing,
but rather a species of chanting or weird crooning, in
which she gave us the simple and moving story of
“Mary, go and call the cattle home, across the sands
o’ Dee.” The deep tones of her voice intensified the
effect.

My mother also was accustomed to sing this pathetic
ballad, to a tune of her own composition. With
her high, clear voice the effect was very different from
that produced by Charlotte Cushman; yet she, too,
made her hearers feel the deep pathos of the ballad.

In the Newport days of which I speak we often
saw Miss Cushman and her intimate friend, Emma
Stebbins, the sculptress. The latter modeled the
bronze statue of Horace Mann which stands in front
// 126.png
.pn +1
of the State House in Boston, opposite that of Daniel
Webster.

I do not think this proximity to the former idol
of the Massachusetts Whigs was much relished by
them. But my father had a way of putting through
what he undertook. As an intimate friend and co-worker
with Horace Mann, he was chairman of the
committee for the erection of the memorial. I fancy
it was he who gave the commission to Miss Stebbins
and arranged for the contribution of their pennies by
the school-children of Boston. Doubtless he persuaded
those in power that Mann’s splendid services
to the cause of education deserved this recognition
from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In the
twentieth century my father’s views—he was usually
some fifty years ahead of his time—have come to prevail.

It is sad to remember that Charlotte Cushman’s
last years were clouded by an incurable disease—cancer.
She made a splendid fight against it, keeping
on with her work almost to the end of her life. She
would not give it up until she had made a handsome
provision for those near and dear to her.

I remember with pleasure a visit to Fanny Kemble—Mrs.
Frances Anne Kemble, to give her her full
name. My father took me as a little girl to see her
at the Tremont House, where she received us very
graciously and kindly. I also heard her read one of
Shakespeare’s plays. This she did without any help
of scenery or special costume. We saw only a middle-aged,
rather stout lady, dressed quietly in black
and seated at a table. Although there was much to
// 127.png
.pn +1
admire in her character, she possessed a stormy temper.
It was said that she once insisted so vehemently
on having her washing brought to her without delay
that the tub containing the wet garments in the suds
was finally set down before her!

In these early days she did not admire the acting
of Edwin Booth. At one of his performances she
was seen “sniffing,” as the story went, her countenance
showing her lack of approbation. He was already
a favorite with the public, but certain friends of
Mrs. Kemble followed her opinion. Vehement were
the arguments which we as enthusiastic admirers of
Booth had with the Kembelites among our young
friends.
// 128.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch10
X||<s>LAWTON’S VALLEY, OUR SUMMER HOME</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>The Beautiful Valley.—The Crawford Children.—“Yellers’
Day.”—“Vaucluse” and the Hazards.—The Midshipmen
Visit Us.—Dances on Board the Frigate “Constitution.”—Parties
in the Valley.—George Bancroft.—A Party at His
House.—Rev. Charles T. Brooks.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
THE lovely island of Rhode Island is indented
with a number of ravines on either shore. The
most beautiful of these is Lawton’s Valley—a deep
cut between the hills, running a mile into the land,
from the waters of Narragansett Bay. The entrance
into the valley is so masked with trees, the
descent into it is so steep, that it lies securely hidden
from the world above. You suddenly find yourself
in a wooded gorge, the trees rising high above it on
either side, and a brook running along the base of the
cliff, leaping over waterfalls as it goes down to the
sea. When my father bought the place, a grist-mill
with a great terrifying wooden wheel stood at the
head of the largest waterfall. My father, to whom
gardening was a delight, greatly improved the appearance
of the valley.

The mill was converted into a school-house containing
also one or two chambers for the bestowal of
masculine guests, when the house was full to over-flowing.
There is a family legend that brother
// 129.png
.pn +1
Harry, when a lad, once slept upon the grand piano,
no other place being available! We were sometimes
obliged to arise in the night and give up our rooms
to make way for relatives arriving unexpectedly.

Some sudden emergency brought our especially beloved
Aunt Annie Mailliard and her family to us in
this way—for Lawton’s Valley is six miles from the
post and telegraph offices. Telegrams then cost three
dollars to deliver, and frightened us badly!

Aunt Annie was the very soul of hospitality, and
did her full share of it by entertaining us all delightfully
at her home in Bordentown, New Jersey.

Uncle Sam once occupied the mill-chamber and
reported in the morning that the perpetual tap of
the hydraulic ram sounded like a constant knocking
at the door, causing him to murmur in his sleep,
“Come in! Come in!” We could not do without the
ram, however, as it supplied the house with water. It
was sad when an eel got into the pipe, or some other
accident stopped the water-supply. The pump,
whence we obtained our drinking-water, was of a
pattern calculated to drive one to the wine-cup. You
turned the handle round and round furiously, and
after a long time a refreshing stream appeared, borne
in some mysterious way on two endless parallel
chains. Then, if you went on pumping like mad, you
could fill the pail. But if you stopped for one single
second a horrible gurgling sound informed you that
the water had retreated to the bottom of the well!
Then you had to begin all over again the treadmill
task of bringing it up! It was supposed to be remarkably
fresh and pure when it appeared—for evidently
// 130.png
.pn +1
it had not lingered in any pipe, as no pipe
existed.

Sometimes food was hung down the well, country
fashion, to keep cool. It was a sad day when the leg
of mutton dropped in, since herculean efforts were required
to bring it up. It was naturally mutton which
made this unlucky descent, for at that time the local
butcher kept little else. Sometimes my father had
beef sent down by freight from Boston—only to have
it seized by the agents of Kinsley’s express and carried
to their office. This delayed the meat in transit
and obliged us to pay express charges without express
benefit. For this company did not deliver goods at
Lawton’s Valley, nor did we desire to have them do
so. Hence much friction between Kinsley’s express
and my father.

Rhode Island mutton and lamb are, or were, very
good. One day an old friend of my mother’s drove
out from Newport and was invited to stay to midday
dinner.

The feelings of the hostess can be imagined when
the guest oracularly observed, “My grandfather Gray
could never eat lamb, and I never can!”

Fortunately there was a little chicken to help out
the situation. The words of Grandfather Gray became
a byword in our family. Our house was not in
the valley itself but stood half-way down the slope
of a hill, being thus protected from the wind that
blows constantly over the island. Mr. C——, who
sold the place to my father, was the victim of the
drink habit. Finding him lying prostrate on the
ground, much the worse for liquor, father poured
// 131.png
.pn +1
away the contents of the jug standing near, and led
away the man’s horse, so that he would be obliged
to sober up before starting to get a fresh supply of
rum.

Some Lowestoft ware marked with the family initials
and some good old furniture, which we bought,
showed that the family had seen better days.

The inhabitants of the island, with some notable
exceptions have suffered from an insular habit of
intermarriage. This has, we will hope, lessened with
the invasion of Rhode Island by outlanders, bringing
prosperity with them. Not long ago, however, when
a man or woman married “off the island,” it was
mentioned with a certain regret, as being not quite the
thing to do. The methods of cultivating the soil were
surprisingly primitive. It was very much run down,
the principal fertilizer being deceased fish. Car-loads
of menhaden were scattered broadcast over the fields,
and left there to rot. Oh, how they smelled to
heaven! We did not cultivate our land after this
fashion, but, alas! our neighbors did! Fortunately,
menhaden became valuable for other purposes and
their use as a fertilizer was abandoned.

As Rhode Island was founded by excellent but
visionary people, refugees from the stern, logical rule
of the Puritans, its laws are peculiar. On a Fourth
of July in the ’Sixties, I inquired for brandy at an
apothecary shop in Newport.

“I’m sorry I can’t let you have any, but the laws
of the state forbid the sale of liquor to females,” said
the salesman. My mortification may be imagined!
On my explaining that the brandy was wanted, not
// 132.png
.pn +1
for “reveling,” but for covering preserves, he kindly
sold me some alcohol, declaring it to be “just as good”
for my purpose.

Shortly afterward, my purse disappeared, and by
the advice of friends I had the loss proclaimed by the
town crier—a quaint old figure with his long beard
and prehistoric hat. He alternately rang an immense
bell and “cried” the lost article. His fee was a modest
one, but I never recovered the purse. Was he
recommended to me as a joke?

Summers at Lawton’s Valley were always delightful,
but we especially enjoyed them when Aunt Louisa
Crawford brought her children to stay at a neighboring
farm-house. Marion Crawford, the novelist, was
about two years old when they first came. With his
three elder sisters, Annie, Jennie, and Mimoli, we
had many merry times. Wading in the valley brook
was a favorite pastime. As the stones were very
slippery, we frequently fell down, and then appeared
at the valley home a dripping crowd of little girls.
As the farm where the Crawfords lived was some
little distance away, our mother felt it to be her duty
to provide raiment for her nieces as well as for her
own children. She found these double drafts upon
our wardrobe rather trying. Annie, the eldest daughter,
was full of talent. We were inseparable companions
and had a studio where we painted dolls and
sets of jewelry—all on paper.

When she grew older she painted lovely designs in
flowers. She also published anonymously at least one
volume of stories which possessed merit. She had
quite as much talent as her brother Marion, but lacked
// 133.png
.pn +1
his power of application. Her Prussian Junker
husband, Baron von Rabe, considered any literary
activities as <i>infra dig.</i> for his wife. My aunt had the
unspeakable sorrow of losing her second daughter,
Jennie, when the latter was a young and lovely girl
of nineteen. Mimoli, the third daughter, became the
wife of Hugh Fraser, of the English diplomatic service.
She is well known as a writer and is a woman
of much personal charm. One of her sons and one of
Marion Crawford’s have been killed in the present
war.

According to family tradition I may claim the
honor of inventing “Yellers’ Day.” The observance
of the day flourished in full vigor only during our
sojourn at Lawton’s Valley. We were accustomed to
celebrate it on top of the hill behind the house, whence
we had a view of Narragansett Bay. Our elders did
not join us, but wisely permitted our activities. Hence
“Yellers’ Day,” having no flavor of forbidden fruit,
fell gradually into innocuous desuetude. The celebration
described in the following letter has a melancholy
interest as being in all probability the last of its
kind.

.pm letter-start
.rj
<i>August 3, 1860.</i>
<sc>Dear Papa</sc>,—Wednesday we had some young ladies to spend
the day and had a jolly time. At sunset we all went up on
the rocks to yell, for it was the 1st of August, “Yellers’ Day.”
We made a terrible noise and finally Mamma came to the door
and said she thought “St. Yeller was satisfied.” We had a
very nice tea, and in the evening, after looking at the moon,
danced till we were fairly worn out. The evening was wound
up by Mr. Turner’s (the brother of one of the young ladies,
who came out about 6½) knocking one-half of the gate off its
// 134.png
.pn +1
hinges, which accident gave us an opportunity of hopping onto
the carriage steps and renewing our vows of eternal friendship
besides a great deal of hugging and kissing.
.pm letter-end

Thomas Crawford, our uncle by marriage, came to
the valley during one of these summers. He was
one of the foremost American sculptors of his day,
having designed some of the bronze doors at the
Capitol, also the statue of Liberty that crowns the
dome of the building. This is familiar to all Americans,
since it has been reproduced on our five-dollar
bills.

Uncle Crawford had worked beyond his strength
and complained, that summer, of trouble in one of
his eyes. I remember an excursion to the shores of
the Bay, when Albert Sumner, the donor of our donkey,
Uncle Crawford and my father were of the
party. The gentlemen amused themselves with
throwing sticks or stones into the water. This trivial
scene impressed itself upon my memory because of
the tragic death, not long afterward, of two of the
actors in it. Albert Sumner, his wife and daughter
were at this time planning a trip to Europe. Mr.
Summer was a stout man, and some one jokingly remarked
that fat people make good swimmers. This
speech was sadly recalled to our minds when the
steamer in which they sailed, the <i>Lyonnaise</i>, went to
the bottom with all on board.

No particulars of their fate were known. It was
said that in cases of shipwreck the law considered
that the man would live longer than the woman, being
stronger physically. Hence he and his heirs would
inherit property. I notice that the law always has
// 135.png
.pn +1
some very wise reason for favoring the man rather
than the woman. The heirs of Albert Sumner and
his daughter could thus have laid claim to such share
of Mrs. Sumner’s property as he would have inherited,
as the supposititious survivor. Charles Sumner
and his family were not the sort of people to take
advantage of any such legal quibble. Mrs. Albert
Sumner was a woman of means and left heirs by a
former husband, who very properly inherited her
fortune.

Uncle Crawford also crossed the ocean, leaving his
wife and children in America. The slight trouble in
his eye grew gradually worse. In the midst of a
winter of unprecedented severity Aunt Louisa started
to rejoin him. Boston Harbor, whence all Cunard
steamers then sailed, was frozen solid. It was necessary
to postpone the start until a patch could be
cut for the ship through the solid ice. In those
days nothing was supposed to prevent the sailing
of a Cunarder, but Jack Frost did delay it
this once.

Mr. Crawford’s illness proved to come from a cancer
behind the eye. He died after a long period of
suffering.

Aunt Louisa, a woman of a most affectionate and
sympathetic nature, was much worn with the long
nursing and overcome with deep sorrow. She returned
to America, dressed in mourning so deep that
her sisters thought it excessive and unwholesome. It
was said that her widow’s crape veil reached the
ground, being double up to the eyes, and that her back
never recovered from the bad effects of sustaining
// 136.png
.pn +1
this load of mourning. A photograph of her taken
at this time was marked “The over-solemn look.”

And yet, after a suitable interval of time, she married
again, as the inconsolable usually do. Instead
of smiling at the fickleness of the human mind, we
should remember that for persons of a highly sympathetic
nature the loneliness caused by the loss of
a beloved helpmeet is almost insupportable. They
must, for their own happiness, find another mate.
The woman who can live alone, after the loss of her
husband, is made of sterner stuff.

Lawton’s Valley is on the west side of the island
of Aquidneck. On the east side lived Mr. Thomas
R. Hazard—“Shepherd Tom,” as he was familiarly
called—in the historic mansion of “Vaucluse,” the
finest example of Colonial architecture north of Virginia.
The grounds were worthy of the house. They
were adorned with a labyrinth of box surrounding a
sun-dial, and with a number of summer-houses scattered
through groves of trees.

Mr. Hazard was a remarkable but eccentric person.
He had a genuine love for his fellow-man and
a hatred of tyranny and oppression. He did great
service in securing better treatment for the insane in
Rhode Island, as Dorothea Dix and my father did
in Massachusetts.

After the death of his beautiful wife he became
much absorbed in spiritualism. When we first made
his acquaintance he was a widower with a delightful
family of four daughters and one little boy.

The eldest, Fannie, kept house for her father, while
a governess instructed the children. Mr. Hazard
// 137.png
.pn +1
was the very soul of hospitality. Relations, young
and old, made “Vaucluse” their headquarters for
long stays during the summer, while friends also paid
copious visits.

“Vaucluse” was liable to sudden inroads of aunts
bringing their six children, even though there were
already visitors in the house. The hospitality of
those days was not confined to the South. My mother
once jestingly said to our nearest neighbor that she
kept a boarding-house.

“Well, if you do, then I keep a hotel,” replied Mrs.
Anderson, whose large house was well filled by the
family connection. To take high tea at “Vaucluse”
was always delightful. I should be afraid to say
how many people sat around the long, well-polished
mahogany table. Yet there were always plenty of
hot Indian-meal griddle-cakes, as well as other good
things, for every one. When there were many guests,
it was necessary to set the table a second time. Fannie,
who presided over the household, was as hospitable
as her father, but the strain of this heavy
entertaining was too much for her strength. Her
housekeeping ideals were high, and servants hard to
get and to keep. In one of his crusades Mr. Hazard,
who had been brought up in the Society of Friends
or Quakers, attacked the Roman Catholic Church.
This made it more difficult for him to procure servants,
who, at that time, were almost all Roman
Catholic Irishwomen.

So Fannie and her sisters did a great deal of the
housework themselves. Mr. Hazard was a most devoted
father, but, being extremely vigorous himself,
// 138.png
.pn +1
he failed to realize that his daughters were of a less
robust type. All four died before reaching the age
of forty, three of tuberculosis.

He himself held various singular beliefs upon
which he loved to expatiate to his friends. Chief
among his hobbies was spiritualism. He would quote
to my mother, as remarkable new truths, views with
which she, a student of philosophy, was perfectly familiar.
We were all gathered at the Anderson mansion
one evening, to witness a clever exhibition of
legerdemain by Mr. Elbert Anderson. After witnessing
the various conjuror’s tricks, Mr. Hazard
declared that they were done by spiritualism! When
he was with difficulty convinced that they were not, he
naïvely observed that just such things were done by
spiritualists! Toward the end of his life, when his
wife appeared to him as a materialized spirit, he
gladly received some cotton lace from her celestial
robe!

In the efficacy of Brandreth’s pills for typhoid
fever and minor ills he was a fervent believer. Even
calves he dosed with them. He scorned the aid of
surgeons, holding that the only persons who could
properly attend to broken bones were a certain family
of Sweets, “natural bone-setters,” as they were
called. In spite of all these eccentricities, he was a
very intelligent man. His extreme credulity was due,
in part, to lack of early education.

Many were the merry picnics that the Howes,
Hazards and sometimes the Andersons had at the
“Glen” and at “Paradise.” Lawton’s Valley itself
was a favorite place for picnics when my father
// 139.png
.pn +1
bought it. It was soon evident, however, that we and
the public could not jointly use it, because the latter
were so extremely inconsiderate. To have your place
treated like an inn, to have strange omnibuses loaded
with unknown people arrive without warning at your
back door, destroys all privacy. The tendency of
Americans to leave behind unpleasant mementoes in
the shape of the débris of the feast, and to carry off
floral tributes, is a thing to be deplored. It is to be
hoped that our new Anglo-French alliance will teach
our people to respect private property.

When the Civil War came, the Naval Academy was
moved from Annapolis to Newport. The older classes
were sent to take their part in the conflict, the younger
remaining at Newport. Their coming brought gay
doings for the young girls. Weekly hops were held on
Saturday afternoons, aboard the famous old frigate
<i>Constitution</i>. To these we all repaired, being rowed
over in the ship’s boats. The dancing took place between
decks where a very tall man might easily have
bumped his head. The naval band furnished the
music, a certain tune giving us a gentle hint to depart
when the dance was over.

The midshipmen were extremely young, but so
were we! I myself was nearly sixteen, but some of
my partners looked to me like mere children. Others
were old enough to be “real beaux.” However, we
entered their names on our cards impartially and
danced with them, young or old, as they came along.
The gallant and ill-fated De Long was at Newport
that summer, but I do not remember him among my
partners.
// 140.png
.pn +1

A few young men who were not navy officers came
to these hops. I remember among the dancers a tall,
handsome fellow with fair hair. Some of the girls
disapproved of him, thinking him dandified, because
he wore a white tie. I, however, admired him and
learned later, from one of the older girls, that he had
said complimentary things about me. She did not,
however, offer to introduce us, nor did I have the
skill to manage an introduction. Whether dandified
or not, W—— T—— was no slacker, but fought for
his country on land, as the midshipmen did on the
sea.

The next time I met him was on the New York
boat. As my mother and I boarded it, to go to Boston,
a figure shrouded in shawls emerged from the
darkness of the boat, on his way to the shore. It
was W—— T—— returning wounded to his aunt’s
home in Newport, which we had just left. I never
saw him again, for he went back to the army and was
killed. So ended this shadow of a war romance!

Parties were given for the midshipmen both at
Lawton’s Valley and at “Vaucluse.” The ice-cream
for our entertainment missed connections, so David
Hall, always obliging, was commissioned to drive to
Newport and bring it out. Meantime the lady of his
affections, the present writer, was left to philander
about with the midshipmen. The feelings of the boy,
who was not yet sixteen, as he drove the ice-cream, a
chilling passenger, out in his buggy may be imagined!

Our cousin, Louisa Mailliard, a tall, slender girl of
fourteen, very pretty and very mischievous, was then
with us. One of the midshipmen, Mr. N——, became
// 141.png
.pn +1
desperately infatuated with her. When the omnibus
containing the young men was starting for Newport,
he could not refrain from turning and gazing fondly
at her.

“Eyes right!” sang out his mates, who made very
merry over the lovesick swain.

The landsmen were jealous of the embryo sailors,
and could not understand the attraction of the latter
for the young girls. Some of our youthful friends
arranged an expedition to Fort Adams, where a drill
of the midshipmen was to be held. Cousin Louisa
and I were the girls of the party, while the mother
of one of the boys acted as matron. All went well
during the sail across the harbor. But no sooner had
we reached the landing than midshipmen appeared
and we paired off quite happily, without paying the
smallest attention to the boys who had brought us
over.

This was not polite to our escorts, but we were
very young and uniforms are ever attractive. Serenely
we walked over the fort, the discarded boys
grumbling ominously in our rear. We were too late
for the drill, but we had a pleasant promenade, returning
peacefully to our sail-boat.

As she drew away from the landing, one of the
boys could contain his feelings no longer. He
shouted his views of their conduct after the midshipmen
on the wharf, in language sufficiently abusive.
It was the same boy, David Hall, my future husband,
who was obliged to conduct the ice-cream
party! He <i>did</i> have a hard time with the midshipmen!
// 142.png
.pn +1

The girls were extremely indignant. Of course we
walked with the middies! What did they think we
went over for? etc., etc. The return voyage was
rather stormy. It transpired that <i>one</i> of the boys,
possessed of a meaner spirit than the others, had
proposed sailing away without us!

The midshipmen were transferred later to the
Atlantic House, one of the chief hotels of Newport
in the early days. Here also were hops given, but
they could not compare in fascination with the dances
on board ship.

In the following letter sister Julia describes some
of our “civilian” gaieties:

.pm letter-start
.rj
<i>Tuesday Morning, Aug. 13, 1861.</i>

<sc>Dear Papa</sc>,— ... We have enjoyed Mrs. Bell and Mrs.
Pratt[#] exceedingly. What little jewels they are! Mrs. Dorr
was to have a party for the governor (Andrew) in the evening.
Mamma decided that it would not be very interesting for us
girls, so we stayed at home, expecting to entertain Woody,
who we supposed would arrive in the evening. What was
our surprise when, at about half past eight o’clock, a carriage
arrived whose driver bore a message from Mamma to the effect
that we were to dress and go into town to Mrs. Dorr’s house.
What cogitation and agitation followed can be only pictured by
those who have a thorough knowledge of young girls.

Mrs. Dorr had told Mamma, I believe, that the party would
be pleasant for us, and that she wished to have us come. So
there was a confusion and indecision, and brushing, braiding,
and curling, in our one little room, quite amusing to behold.
How the best white skirts were whisked about! How poor
Ann and Mary frisked up and down stairs! How much had to
be done before, fully prinked, we squeezed our crape and piña
selves into the little rockaway! But it makes even careless <i>me</i>
// 143.png
.pn +1
blush to think of the state in which we left our room. What
mountains of skirts, sleeves, and gowns, with here and there
a stray comb or pomatum-pot, met the eye of the astonished
bystander. And yet,—would you believe it?—when we returned
next day we found the apartment in order. (Oh dear, Papa!
I <i>never</i> shall finish this letter. Mamma is in the room, and she
is so witty that I write my words wrong.) Mrs. Pratt and
Mrs. Bell looked finely, as the graceful diminutive darlings
always do.... In order that they might all get into the
carriage poor Mamma slipped up-stairs and slipped off her
crinoline. You cannot imagine how droll her figure looked
without it. Floss and I slept together and a merry time we
had. Of course we were somewhat excited by the party, and
the clock struck half past twelve before we slept. Just think
of us, your bread-and-butter nine o’clock girls, being so dissipated!
Mamma was to have had a party this afternoon, but
the weather is so stormy that no one has come. We all dressed
ourselves out in our best, but silks would not bring visitors, so
they have made a pleasant little circle down stairs, and are
chatting gaily.
.ti +15
Ever your loving
.rj
J.
.pm letter-end

.pm fn-start // 1
Daughters of Rufus Choate.
.pm fn-end

During the Civil War Portsmouth Grove, some
three miles away, became a military camp and hospital.
The soldiers often strolled over to Lawton’s
Valley, finding it a pleasant place in which to do their
laundry work. This somewhat restricted the family’s
use of the valley, although the soldiers were never uncivil.

One of the prominent figures in Newport life
was that of George Bancroft, the historian. Like
President Wilson, he was a schoolmaster turned politician.
He had taught at the famous Round Hill
School for Boys, and had also held various political
offices, including that of Secretary of the Navy.
Hence, if he came on board the <i>Constitution</i> while we
// 144.png
.pn +1
were there, our ears were deafened by the official
salute, sixteen guns, as I think, fired in his honor.
Greatness certainly has its inconveniences.

He was already gray when I first remember him,
but slender and active. Evidently he felt much
younger than he looked. It was rumored that he
said to one young lady, “<i>Call me George</i>.” In a word,
he was inclined at this time to be “frisky.”

He and his wife set an example of steadfast loyalty
to the Union, in Newport, where there was a good
deal of secession sentiment among the summer residents
early in the Civil War. I remember a party at
their house, where we school-girls as well as our
elders were present. We had patriotic recitations,
everything being done in the pleasant, informal fashion
of that day. It was after this party that my
mother made her “Remember R——n” resolve.

In a spirit of pure fun, she rallied this gentleman
on his attentions to one of the young girls present who
was hardly more than a child. Mr. R—— solemnly
asseverated that Mrs. Howe was entirely mistaken.
On her return home, she declared her intention of
hanging up a placard reading, “Remember R——n,”
as a warning to her never to try to joke with persons
devoid of a sense of humor.

Mrs. Bancroft set a good example by substituting
gray silk or thread gloves for kid during the Civil
War. She attended the Unitarian church, where
Rev. Charles T. Brooks then officiated. He was a
genial and delightful man, whose buoyant spirit made
it wholly unnecessary to affect youth. Mr. Brooks
never seemed to grow old, though he lived to be seventy
// 145.png
.pn +1
or more. He was a German scholar and translated
Goethe’s “Faust” into English verse. He enjoyed
Teutonic humor, preparing for the church fairs
numerous booklets with little German jokes and illustrations.
// 146.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch11
XI||<s>ANTI-SLAVERY AND CIVIL WAR MEMORIES</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Deep Interest of My Parents in the Anti-Slavery Movement
and in the Civil War.—We Learn the Evil of Compromise.—A
Trip to Kansas.—Manners on the Mississippi Steamboats.—Fort
Sumter Is Attacked.—Mother’s Poems of the War.—Father’s
Work on the Sanitary Commission.—How the Flag
Was Treated at Newport.—We Ride in the “Jeff Davis.”</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
I\_CANNOT remember when my father began his
anti-slavery work, because at that time I was an
infant. It was the kidnapping of a runaway negro
in the streets of Boston that roused him to action. He
called a meeting in Faneuil Hall over which John
Quincy Adams presided. My father made the principal
address. Colonel Higginson tells us that “Every
sentence was a sword-thrust.” The result of the
meeting was the formation of a Vigilance Committee
of forty with my father as chairman. Its object was
to prevent the returning of fugitives to the slavery
from which they had escaped. To the descendants
of the men who had fought in the Revolution for the
cause of Liberty, the thought that “the port of Boston
had been opened to the slave-trader” was intolerable.

The records of that Vigilance Committee have
never been published. It is to be hoped that some
day they will be, unless they have been destroyed.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson has told us that my
// 147.png
.pn +1
father’s part in the anti-slavery movement was almost
unique and wholly characteristic of the man, who was
a natural crusader or paladin.

The little Howes did not know of the existence of
this committee. Neither did we know of our father’s
strenuous labors in connection with the election to
the Senate of his friend Charles Sumner. We were
too young to be intrusted with state secrets. But
from our early childhood my father taught us to love
freedom and to hate slavery. He told us of the successive
aggressions of the slave power and of the
steps by which it had grown to threaten the whole
land. We learned of the Missouri Compromise, the
Dred Scott Decision, the Kansas and Nebraska Bill.

We knew these, not as dry political facts from the
office of a lawyer, but as the successive invasions of a
fire that was destined, ere many years had passed, to
involve our beloved country in the terrible conflagration
of the Civil War. To my father and his co-workers
in the anti-slavery cause, these successive encroachments
of slavery on the territory which the
framers of our Federal Constitution had declared
should remain eternally free, were a growing menace
of evil. He strongly impressed upon our minds the
sin of compromise of principle. Did he not see, in the
bloody struggle in Kansas, the sinister results of those
weak yieldings of the North?

The electric current of indignation that thrilled
through our home we felt very strongly, as we did the
stir of action. Lowell’s lines, splendid in themselves,
gained a new force and intensity as my father repeated
them to us.
// 148.png
.pn +1

.pm verse-start
Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,
Standeth God with the shadow, keeping watch above His own.
.pm verse-end

Sometimes I would hear him and his friends talking
together over the political situation with deep
earnestness and indignation. Those were exciting
days. As children, we knew nothing of the approaching
storm, but we felt the stir in the air!

Brother Harry, a child of eleven, wrote an indignant
letter, after the capture of John Brown, to Governor
Wise of Virginia. As it was couched in abusive
terms, I fear it was never mailed. Since few of
our young mates agreed with us in opinion, we had
many arguments. In the early days one of our
friends at the Stevenson School laughingly called us
“Little Free-dirters,” because we belonged to the
Free Soil party. As events moved rapidly forward
feeling grew more intense. We were very indignant
at the deadly assault in the Senate Chamber upon our
friend, Charles Sumner. As he sat pinioned down
by his desk, and so unable to rise, blows with a loaded
cane were showered upon his head. Some of the girls
of our acquaintance sought to justify the attack. We
countered with the testimony of Henry Wilson (later
Vice-President of the United States), who had witnessed
the scene where a colleague of Preston Brooks
stood guard, a pistol in either hand, to prevent any
interference in behalf of Sumner. For a long time,
the victim’s life was in danger. His seat in the Senate
remained “eloquently empty” for three years. Yet
Charles Sumner lived to see slavery overthrown and
// 149.png
.pn +1
the United States a free country. Within a year his
young assailant died of membranous croup. It was
thought that remorse for his brutal deed hastened his
death.

We children heard of Sumner’s great sufferings,
and of the cruel “Mochsa” treatment—the burning
of his back.

In the Presidential election of 1856 we were
greatly interested. I remember a political procession
in which a dead deer was borne aloft with the
device, “Old Buck Is Dead.” The result of the election
was not certain for some time. We held on to
hope as long as we could. From California no word
could come for ten days! I asked my father whether
the result there might not change the result. He said,
“No. There is enough to settle the hash without
California.” James Buchanan, the last President of
the slavery era, had indeed been elected.

My father was deeply interested in the struggle for
freedom in Kansas. When the colonists from the
free states were almost overpowered by the border
ruffians, he again called a Faneuil Hall meeting
where money was raised and sent to help the settlers.
He himself went out there, with great risk to
his life.

In the spring of 1857 my mother and I accompanied
him on one of his trips to Kansas, but, as I
became ill at Louisville, he went on without us. Part
of our journey was made on the large steamboats of
the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. Great was the horror
of the other women when my mother took out a
pack of cards to amuse me. This was owing to the
// 150.png
.pn +1
prevalence of gambling in that section of the country.
Many years later, in traveling through the Middle
West, I found this prejudice had not wholly died out.

There was little to do during the long spring days
when the steamboats sailed along the great, quiet rivers.
It seemed very strange that every one rushed
so to get through the meals quickly. As the service
was <i>table d’hôte</i>, it is possible that people hurried in
order to get all that they could before the food was
removed. My mother always made a practice of
eating slowly; hence her excellent digestion.

On this trip our mother purchased a red toy balloon
for brother Harry. It was then a novelty and cost
something like a dollar. As it was affixed to the tail
of one of our dogs, it did not long survive. We had
supposed this fascinating object would be a lasting
investment.

On our outward journey we stopped overnight at
Harper’s Ferry. I remember climbing the hill and
looking down upon the valley where the Judas tree
was in blossom. Did it bloom in somber foreboding
of the blood to be shed there, a little later, in the John
Brown raid and in the Civil War?

I remember too vast engines with which we climbed
the terrifying slopes of the Alleghanies. No sleeping-cars
were then to be seen, but only cars with reclining
chairs. Hence the advisability of traveling by water
whenever possible.

At Cincinnati, then the principal city of that part
of the country and much larger than Chicago, we
stayed with Mr. and Mrs. William Greene, the former
a cousin of Grandfather Ward. We visited the observatory
// 151.png
.pn +1
and the Longworths’ wine-cellar, where I
was discovered in a corner, a glass of champagne
tilted up against my nose. At the age of eleven I
saw no reason why I should <i>not</i> partake of the wine,
since they were kind enough to offer it to me.

My memories of Louisville, Kentucky, are sinister.
Here we were shown the spot where several negroes
had been lynched. We also went to court, where a
man was on trial for the murder of his wife. From
the appearance of his face, I fancy he must have committed
the crime while drunk.

We stayed also at the house of my father’s great
friend, Horace Mann, then president of Antioch College,
a coeducational institution of Ohio. Mrs. Mann
believed in using cream in cooking, rather than butter.
If you had no cream, you thickened milk with
flour! The Manns were “so glad to see us they almost
ate us up”! Mrs. Mann was a woman of intellectual
tastes and interested in good works. She was the
sister of the wife of Nathaniel Hawthorne and of
Miss Elizabeth Peabody, who first introduced the
kindergarten in America.

Horace Mann himself had a pleasant, kindly face
and beautiful snow-white hair parted in the middle.
This had suddenly turned white (in a single night, it
was said) through grief at the death of his first
wife.

In this year, 1857, there was a terrible financial
panic, of which I heard some echoes. Nickel cents
were then first coined, replacing the large copper ones
we had used previously.

During the winter of 1860–61 we heard rumors of
// 152.png
.pn +1
war and secession. Some young friends, the sons of
Admiral Winslow of <i>Kearsarge</i> fame, had visited the
South, and assured us that serious preparations were
going on there. Still, we of the North hardly
dreamed of the struggle to come. Meantime traitorous
officials of the federal government were transferring
supplies of arms to the Southern states, knowing
well these would soon be used against the nation’s
life. Officers trained at West Point and bound by
oath to support the government to which they owed
not only allegiance, but their education, were resigning
from the regular army and going to the South.
The North in 1861, like the English in 1914, was
unprepared. Many attempts have been made to disguise
the issue. Fifty years hence, when all the passions
roused by the Civil War have died away, as I
pray they may, the truth will stand out clearly. For
the rest, it was clear enough in 1860–61. As soon as
the Republican party came into power, on a platform
declaring, as the framers of the Constitution had declared,
that slavery should be extended no farther,
the Southern states seceded.

My father was one of those who from the very beginning
saw the issue clearly. When the news of the
firing on Sumter was received he came, with his
quick, active step and gallant bearing, into the nursery
at “Green Peace,” crying out to us:

“Sumter has been fired upon! That’s the death-blow
of slavery!”

He rejoiced that the irrepressible conflict had
begun. Of course he did not foresee—who could?—that
the struggle would be so long and so terrible.
// 153.png
.pn +1
But he knew it must come. Throughout those four
years he never lost faith that the right would triumph.
On learning of the attack on Sumter, he wrote at once
to Governor Andrew:

.pm letter-start
Since they will have it so—in the name of God, Amen! Now
let all the governors and chief men of the people see to it that
war shall not cease until emancipation is secure. If I can
be of any use, anywhere, in any capacity (save that of spy),
command me.[#]
.pm letter-end

.pm fn-start // 1
from <i>Journals and Letters of Samuel Gridley Howe</i>. Dana,
Estes & Co.
.pm fn-end

At the age of sixty, he was too old and too infirm
in health to take the field as a soldier. But his early
experiences in Greece enabled him to give valuable
assistance in safeguarding the health of the army.
Both Governor Andrew and Abraham Lincoln were
glad to accept my father’s offer of his services. On
the formation of the Sanitary Commission, he was appointed
a member of the board. His letters and reports
are expressed in his usual terse and vigorous
style.

When Fort Sumter was fired upon a splendid wave
of patriotism swept over the country. That shot,
the attack upon the flag, consolidated the men of the
North as nothing else could have done. “The Union,
it must and shall be preserved,” was the shibboleth
of the hour. Democrats and Whigs, as well as Republicans,
rallied everywhere to the defense of the
Union.

It was said that if the Confederates had kept to
the old flag, instead of adopting a new one, they
// 154.png
.pn +1
might have won. Yet we know that was impossible,
because the corner-stone of the sovereignty they
sought to establish was human slavery. The politicians
and leaders of thought on both sides knew this
perfectly well from the beginning. The rank and file
at first felt it only dimly. But in the Northern army
the men who were doing the actual fighting were not
long in doubt as to the real issues of the conflict.
They sang:

.pm verse-start
“John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the ground,
His soul is marching on.”
.pm verse-end

Old John Brown, who had died on the gallows that
men might be free! They had hanged him and buried
him in the ground, but his spirit led the Northern
troops to victory! The “Battle Hymn of the Republic”
was a nobler expression of the idea dimly outlined
in the John Brown song.

Reading in later years the accounts written by
Southern men and women, I have realized that the
war was never brought home to us in New England
in the same way as to the people of the South. It
never came near us, nor did we expect it would.
Some timid souls were anxious lest the Confederate
rams should visit our Northern ports. But this was
only a brief scare.

While we were spared the grim horrors of actual
warfare in our midst, almost every aspect of life
was affected by the four years’ conflict. In the spring
of 1861, on my daily walk to Boston, I saw the posters
calling for seventy-five thousand troops to serve for
three months. We heard with deep indignation of
// 155.png
.pn +1
the assault of the plug-uglies on the Massachusetts
regiments as these passed through Baltimore. Several
soldiers were killed—the sons of the Old Bay
State being the first to shed their blood in defense of
the Union.

During the stormy prelude to the Civil War my
mother had written many verses expressing her indignation
at the crime against Kansas, the attack on
Charles Sumner, and the treatment of John Brown,
as well as her hatred of slavery itself. While the war
was in progress her pen continued active in the cause
of human freedom and of patriotism. We of the
younger generation were especially interested in the
composition of “Our Country” because the music was
written by our master, Otto Dresel. The song had
power and dignity, with the swing important in music
of this sort. A prize had been offered for a national
song, but I do not think it was ever awarded. To my
mother’s regret, Mr. Dresel afterward decided to
use the tune as a setting for Oliver Wendell Holmes’s
“Army Hymn.” She told him that the words and
music belonged together and ought not to be divorced.

The hour was not yet ripe for the writing of a true
national song. In these earlier poems we see how
much my mother was moved by the tragic events of
the day as the panorama of our national history unfolded
itself before her eyes. The white heat of emotion
was only reached when she saw the stern realities
of war—the bivouacs, the camp-fires, the rows of burnished
steel, the hosts of our country’s defenders.
The soul of that army, the army of freedom, took
// 156.png
.pn +1
possession of her after that wonderful day when her
carriage was surrounded by the marching soldiers.
That night the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” was
written.

So she gave back to the soldiers of the Republic
their half-expressed aspiration, clothed now in words
of fire. In every hour of national crisis, whenever
our country is in danger, those words flame up anew
in the hearts of men.

Nor are they for our country only. In this present
war they have been sung with wonderful effect under
the great dome of old Saint Paul’s in London as well
as at the battle-front. For the “Battle Hymn of the
Republic,” terrible as it is, is a Christian song. No
one could have written it who was not familiar with
the language and imagery of the Bible, Old Testament
as well as New. It was the daughter of Samuel
Ward, Puritan, who wrote, “He is trampling out the
vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored.” But
it was the wife of the old Revolutionist, the man
whose life had been one long battle in behalf of his
fellow-men, who wrote, “He has sounded forth the
trumpet that shall never call retreat.”

“The Flag” was written after the second battle of
Bull Run. In ante-bellum days Newport had been
a place of summer resort for Southerners, some of
whom appeared there during the first year of the war.
They behaved very badly toward the flag. Women
would draw aside the full skirts, then universally
worn, to prevent their touching the Stars and Stripes.
It was said that in the Episcopal Church, when the
prayer for the President of the United States was
// 157.png
.pn +1
read, the “Secesh” would rise from their knees to
mark their dissent, resuming their attitude of devotion
at its conclusion. I have always fancied that
the line, “Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass on where
others rule,”, was inspired by the behavior of the
“Secesh” toward “Old Glory.” General Dix’s famous
saying, “If any man attempts to pull down the flag,
shoot him on the spot,” was much quoted in those
days.

The attitude of the Southerners was very irritating.
They really supposed themselves to be the
superiors of the Northern men. The former subserviency
of the latter in political matters was one
reason of this belief. Another was that constant association
with an inferior race, the negroes, had given
them an exaggerated idea of their own talents and
capacity. We know now that this was, and still is,
a great misfortune to them.

When the members of a certain family expatiated
in our presence on the whipping the North was
to receive at the hands of the South we were not
pleased.

My mother decided to give them a lesson. At one
of our Paradise picnics she asked Mrs. David Hall,
the mother of my future husband, to personate America.
There was a certain realism in the selection, for
Mrs. Hall’s eldest son, Rowland Minturn Hall, was
then fighting for our country in the Northern army.
We crowned her with flowers as the queen of the
occasion and saluted her with patriotic songs.

We did not feel very pleasantly toward Jefferson
Davis, whose ambition had much to do with bringing
// 158.png
.pn +1
on the war. A photograph of him, in the likeness of
the Devil, was circulated, while the soldiers sang:

.pm verse-start
“We’ll hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree.”
.pm verse-end
.ni
By a strange caprice of fate a carriage intended for
the President of the Southern Confederacy fell into
the hands of a Northern abolitionist. Owing to the
war, the vehicle could not be delivered to Mr. Davis,
and my father bought it. It was a closed carriage,
more strongly built than the Confederacy itself, and
lasted for many years. If we wished to go to Newport
on a rainy day, some one would say, “Oh, take
the Jeff Davis, and you won’t get wet!”
.pi
For the first two years of the war we were disheartened
by repeated defeats. In McClellan my
father never believed, and we were glad when he
was displaced.

After a long period of anxious waiting we were
rejoiced by the taking of Vicksburg and the victory
over Lee at Gettysburg, all on one glorious Fourth
of July. The tide had turned at last!
// 159.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch12
XII||<s>WORK FOR THE SOLDIERS</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Knitting and Scraping Lint.—Sewing-circles.—Fairs for the
Army and the Navy.—“The Boatswain’s Whistle.”—Mrs.
Harrison Gray Otis.—Visiting the Camp at Readville.—Governor
N. P. Banks.—Governor John A. Andrew.—Parade
of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery.—Death of
Little Sammy.—Assassination of Lincoln.—My Father Serves
on the Freedmen’s Commission.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
WORK for the soldiers began promptly. In the
general enthusiasm for knitting some one
asked our minister, the Rev. James Freeman Clarke,
whether it was right to do this work on Sunday.
Any lingering doubts vanished when he returned
home and found his wife, a woman of saintly character,
lying down to rest, her needles still flying!
Plain knitting I had mastered long before, but now I
learned to make stockings. My first pair were by no
means mates. As I learned to knit better, and so more
loosely, the second stocking bloomed to a tremendous
size! I could only survey it sadly in the fond hope
that shrinking in hot water might reduce it to the
size of its companion.

We all scraped lint and there were sewing-circles
in the afternoon and in the evening. The latter were
the more festive, gentlemen coming in after our work
was done.
// 160.png
.pn +1

The Sanitary Commission then occupied much the
same position that the Red Cross does to-day. Women
showed the greatest zeal in working for it,
though their efforts were not always wisely directed.

The great patriotic fairs were a striking feature
of war-days. The one held in New York for the
benefit of the Sanitary Commission was the largest
of all. The tremendous labor involved killed the
noble woman who took a leading part in it. Boston
also held a great bazaar for the benefit of the National
Sailors’ Home, in which we assisted my mother.
She was editor of the fair newspaper, <i>The Boatswain’s
Whistle</i>. I remember the discussion of the
title with William Morris Hunt, the artist, who imitated
the action of the boatswain piping up aloft. He
possessed the power to present, in this way, pictures
which his striking head and figure made perfect.
Doubtless he would have made a fine actor.

At the head of the little newspaper stood the device
of the boatswain designed by Mr. Hunt. My mother
had the assistance of some of our best-known writers,
but the responsibility and the heaviest share of labor
she bore herself. Mr. James C. Davis helped in the
work of arranging the paper, but it was necessary also
to employ a professional person who understood the
technicalities of the “make-up.”

The Great Fair was held in the Boston Theater,
and lasted some ten days. Every variety of object
was sold there—many by means of raffles. It seemed
fitting that there should be a table for the sale of our
paper. We of the younger generation duly established
ourselves in charge of it—selling also stationery
// 161.png
.pn +1
and small articles. We thought it all great fun.
I am ashamed to think how much we tormented Mrs.
Hooper, the lady at the head of the fair management,
for our various small needs.

Mrs. Harrison Gray Otis, who occupied a unique
position in the Boston society of that day, was prominent
among the women who worked for the national
cause. She had been beautiful in her youth, but retained
no vestige of good looks that were perceptible
to the clear, cruel eyes of youth. I could hardly believe
my father when he told us of her former sylph-like
slenderness.

For many years she gave a reception on the
morning of Washington’s Birthday, which the
whole world of society attended. My mother took us
once, when we found Mrs. Otis arrayed in a low-necked
black dress, with a black velvet head-dress.
Her black hair was arranged in puffs or bandeaux
coming down over the ears, a style extremely unbecoming
to the lined face of an elderly woman. Mrs.
Otis was tall and dignified, standing to receive her
guests. The entire house was thrown open to visitors,
who wandered up and down-stairs at will.

It already has been said that my father was too old
for military service. Brother Harry was too young,
being only thirteen when war broke out. The only
near relatives who joined the army were two cousins
of my mother, William Greene Ward and John
Ward, and my father’s nephew, Thomas Beale Wales,
Jr. Fortunately, none of the three was wounded.
The two Wards were taken prisoner at Harper’s
Ferry, but were paroled.
// 162.png
.pn +1

Many of the young men of our acquaintance joined
the army, some of them never to return. A sad case
was that of Charlie Hickling, whose slight frame held
a heroic spirit. In spite of his frail physique, he insisted
on enlisting, only to return hopelessly broken
in health. He died not long afterward.

Tragedies were all around us. I was staying with
my dear friend, Alice Weld, at Jamaica Plain, when
news arrived of the capture of her brother, Stephen
Minot Weld, Jr. The anxiety of his father may be
imagined, yet he took the blow bravely. The horrors
of the Southern prisons made confinement there
a thing to be greatly dreaded. Libby was bad enough,
but of Andersonville one cannot speak or think without
deep indignation. I shall never forget the appearance
of Arthur Sedgwick soon after his return
from a Southern prison. With great black hollows
under his eyes, he looked like a walking ghost.

Another tragic picture comes to my mind. We
were passing the day quietly at Lawton’s Valley when
suddenly a distracted figure appeared among us. It
was that of Mrs. McDonald—“D.D.,” as we affectionately
called her—the matron of the School for Idiots.
Her hair, always neatly arranged, was now blown by
the wind and wet with the rain, but she was too deeply
moved to think of that. She had braved the storm
and come, in an open wagon, to seek help and comfort
from the “Doctor”—a tower of strength to all who
knew him. Her adored eldest son, serving on the
Christian Commission, had been taken prisoner.
After a time he came back to her, only to die a year
or two later of tuberculosis. Like many other persons
// 163.png
.pn +1
at that time, Mrs. McDonald found comfort in
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps’s “Gates Ajar.” This was
written, it will be remembered, after the author herself
had passed through the bitterest sorrow.

From the window of Miss Clapp’s school in Boston
we saw the funeral cortege of Arthur Dehon Hill, who
had been killed in the war. At the time we knew the
family very slightly. A thoughtless school-girl, I little
realized what death and sorrow meant. Six months
later, when my own little brother died, I learned the
sad lesson which all must learn for themselves.

Visits to the camp at Readville, near Boston, were
the order of the day, but, according to etiquette, these
were made very sparingly. It was said of the Misses
X—— that they went so often the officers could
hardly find time to change their clothes!

One of our friends arranged an expedition for us,
our chaperon agreeing to join us in Readville. This
young girl was terribly pestered by aunts, of whom
she possessed eleven. She was wont to complain that
wherever she went, an aunt was sure to appear on the
scene!

One of the eleven heard of the proposed expedition,
and jumped to the conclusion that a chaperon in
the hand was worth several in the bush. Accordingly,
when our carriage started for Readville, another, containing
the aunt and her fellow-conspirators, followed
close behind. This greatly fretted our young companion,
who, at the age of twenty, felt she was too
old to need supervision. The expected chaperon
failed to appear and the troublesome aunt serenely
took charge of our expedition.
// 164.png
.pn +1

Among the members of the Vigilance Committee
mentioned earlier in this chapter was John Albion Andrew.

One of the occasions when I remember seeing
the man who was afterward the great war Governor
of Massachusetts was at the parade of the Ancient
and Honorable Artillery. In ante-bellum days this
event elicited popular interest and was conducted with
some formality. It was held on Boston Common,
where the Governor reviewed the troop. The Ancient
and Honorable Artillery Company has the
unique distinction of consisting wholly of former officers
of other militia companies. They wear a motley
variety of uniforms, producing a picturesque but
singular effect.

Nathaniel P. Banks, a fine-looking man with thick,
iron-gray hair, was at this time Governor of the
state. His imposing and martial air enabled him to
appear to advantage at a military festival. His deep
voice and good delivery made him effective as a
speaker in a day when oratory was still highly considered.
As a warrior he was not a success.

My mother used to tell us, with a mischievous air,
a story of his experience in the army. On receiving
a report that the enemy was attacking in force, he
replied, laconically:

.pm verse-start
<i>“Let them be repulsed forthwith.”</i>
.pm verse-end

I remember how jolly and merry Mr. Andrew was
as we stood, a party of plain citizens, in the throng
that pressed as near as they could to the rope which
// 165.png
.pn +1
divided us from the glory of uniforms blazing within
the charmed circle. In those early days our beloved
friend was the most delightful companion, brimful of
fun, singing comic songs and telling funny stories,
to the great delight of the Howe children. I remember
hearing him repeat with gusto a ridiculous mock
sermon from the text, “And they shall flee unto
the mountains of Hepsidam, where the lion roareth
and the whangdoodle mourneth for its first-born.”

Although he amused us with the “flatboat” sermon,
he was a truly religious man whose sympathies were
by no means limited to his own sect.

In figure he was short and stout. His round,
smooth face, fair, close-curling hair, and blue eyes,
reminded one of a benevolent cherub in spectacles.
His mouth was like a woman’s, it was so pretty and
sensitive, yet, when the occasion called for it, his
face never lacked the dignity of expression springing
from serious and noble purpose.

We were present at his inauguration as Governor,
and also on the occasion when he received, on behalf
of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the gun that
had belonged to Theodore Parker’s grandfather.
This was one of the guns that fired, at the battle of
Lexington, the shot heard around the world. Governor
Andrew, filled with an emotion shared by the
audience, kissed the weapon as he was about to give
it up. Whereupon <i>Vanity Fair</i>, the comic newspaper
of the period, published an absurd cartoon representing
the audience weeping floods of tears and waving
their handkerchiefs, the people in the pit holding up
// 166.png
.pn +1
umbrellas to ward off the briny stream dropping from
the galleries!

In the days before he took office, Governor Andrew
had been a familiar and delightful friend who came
often to “Green Peace” and visited us also at Lawton’s
Valley. Mrs. Andrew, who was a very pretty
woman, usually accompanied him. His son, John
Forrester, a pretty, fair-haired boy, later a member
of Congress, we often saw, as well as the daughters.
Elizabeth, or Bessie, looked very much like her father,
and was said to be like him in character. Edith was
a great friend of my sister Maud.

After our friend became Governor and the Great
Rebellion cast its dark shadow—the shadow of the
cross—upon his path, we saw him less frequently.
The cares of office weighed heavily upon him in those
terrible days of the war. We began to miss him from
his accustomed seat in the Church of the Disciples—he
could not even go to church because so many people
followed and waylaid him with their endless petitions.
We heard with indignation of the box of
copperhead snakes sent him by some wicked person.

Toward the close of the war my mother and I had
the pleasure of going, as members of the Governor’s
party, to the Agricultural Fair and Ball at Barnstable.
Usually the cadets accompanied him as escort, but
this time the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company
were chosen for the honor. We were disappointed
at the exchange, for the Independent Corps of
Cadets contained a number of young men whom we
knew. However, the “Ancients” undeniably furnished
a sufficient number of partners. This affair
// 167.png
.pn +1
has been described in my mother’s <i>Reminiscences</i> and
in her <i>Life</i>.

One verse in her humorous account of it records,
the leniency of Governor Andrew:

.pm verse-start
Governor A. won’t hang for homicide,
  That’s a point that bothers us all.
He must banish ever from his side
  Such as murdered the Barnstable Ball.
.pm verse-end

Our friend had received some criticism for refusing
to sign the death warrant of a condemned murderer.
He justified his action on the legal ground
that, since the man had been judged only on his own
confession, it was not right to hang him without a
full and fair trial. When the war was over, Governor
Andrew retired to private life, resuming the
practice of his profession. The strain upon him had
been tremendous. He laughingly said: “It’s nip and
tuck. I may bust my boiler, or I may not.” Alas!
A stroke of apoplexy carried him off while still under
fifty years of age. He was as much a victim of the
Civil War as if he had died on the field of battle.

On the morning of Saturday, April 19, 1865, came
the terrible news of the assassination of Abraham
Lincoln and of the murderous attack on Secretary
Seward and his son. Evidently there was a plot on
foot to kill the chief officials of the national government.
To the deep sorrow at the death of the beloved
President was added the fear of the unknown evils
threatening us and great indignation at the dastardly
deed. How wide-spread the plot might be we did
not know. Grief for the death of Lincoln was the
// 168.png
.pn +1
predominant feeling. The sudden and tragic ending
of his career showed his countrymen, as by a flash
of light, the nobility of his character and the magnitude
of what he had accomplished.

Even the London <i>Punch</i>, which had jeered at the
cause of the North during the Civil War, now made
such atonement as was possible. I quote a verse of
the poem by Douglas Jerrold:

.pm verse-start
The Old World and the New, from sea to sea,
  Utter one voice of sympathy and shame!
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high;
  Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came.
.pm verse-end

I do not believe our country has ever shown such
universal signs of mourning. As my father and I
rode on horseback about the suburbs of Boston, we
saw house after house draped with black and white,
some of the decorations being very elaborate. For a
long time the countryside was swathed in mourning.

The day after Lincoln’s death was Easter Sunday.
In our own Church of the Disciples the pulpit was
draped with purple cloth and adorned with flowers.
In the afternoon I attended the services of the Church
of the Advent, in which my friend, Louise Darling,
was much interested, an Episcopal church of strongly
ritualistic tendencies. There were no signs of mourning
and no mention of the national sorrow! This
seemed to me very heartless.

Meanwhile the assassin was at large. It was a most
dramatic as well as a most terrible time in our history.
I read the newspapers—doubtless every one did—with
the greatest interest. Here the story gradually
// 169.png
.pn +1
unfolded itself, culminating in the trial and execution
of Mrs. Surratt and the other conspirators. I remember
wading through endless testimony, the
question whether Edward Spingler did or did not
wear a mustache being much discussed.

In spite of his crime, I felt a pang of pity for
Wilkes Booth when I read of his tragic death. It
was necessary that he should be shot down, like a
creature at bay, but the attendant circumstances, the
firing through the cracks of the barn, lent additional
ignominy to his fate.

While we were still living at “Green Peace” our
youngest brother, Samuel Gridley Howe, Jr., was
born. He was a fine, large baby, weighing twelve
pounds at birth. Soon after his arrival in this world
(on Christmas Day, 1859), and while our mother
was still confined to her room, several of us were
attacked with scarlet fever. The great danger of contagion
from this disease was not then clearly understood.
My father inquired of Mr. Gardner, headmaster
of the Boston Latin School, whether he wished
brother Harry, who had not contracted the fever, to
remain away. Mr. Gardner decided it would be safer
for the boy to do so. The breaking out of smallpox
at the Idiot School, of which my father retained the
supervision, brought my mother a new anxiety.
Would it come to her, and was it, as she had heard,
fatal in confinement cases? Fortunately, our household
escaped the disease and the scarlet fever left no
bad effects behind.

Little Sammy was a beautiful and healthy child, yet
he fell a victim to diphtheritic croup in May, 1863,
// 170.png
.pn +1
when he was three and a half years old. His death
brought me the first realization of the meaning of
sorrow. We had lost my father’s sister, our kind and
devoted Aunt Lizzie, two years earlier, but the loss of
little Sammy was a much greater bereavement. I
could not understand then, nor do I now, the point
of view which those persons take who declare that
it is a beautiful thing for a little innocent child to
leave this world and go to heaven. I felt, at seventeen,
as I do at seventy, that it is contrary to the laws
of nature for a child to die. It is the saddest death of
all, for the little one has been cut off untimely from the
life on this earth that his Creator meant him to enjoy.

As this was my first experience of deep sorrow, it
brought me the first knowledge of the beautiful human
sympathy without which grief would be unendurable.
Friends and relatives gathered about my stricken
parents, helping them to bear the dull burden of grief.
It made my father seriously ill; indeed, he grieved for
the boy to the end of his life. My mother, like most
women, was able to give more expression to her sorrow.
After her death we found a little book of verses
and a letter written to her lost darling, in which she
poured out her grief.

In her journal are many mentions of the little boy,
showing how his memory dwelt in her heart throughout
her life.

Fortunately for my father, he had on hand a task
of wide importance in connection with the recently
freed slaves. From the beginning of the war he had
labored to bring about the freeing of the negroes. It
had not been five months in progress when he called
// 171.png
.pn +1
a meeting of anti-slavery men at his office “to take
into consideration measures tending to the emancipation
of slaves as a war policy.” This resulted in the
formation of the Emancipation League, the <i>Commonwealth</i>
being once more brought to life as its organ.
As my father’s duties on the Sanitary Commission
took him frequently to Washington, in 1861–62, he
was able to urge upon the President the necessity of
emancipating the negroes.

But he well understood that so tremendous a change
involved the making of preparations beforehand.
In September, 1862, the month when Lincoln issued
the Emancipation Proclamation, we find him writing
from Washington to a friend of his plan for the
creation of a bureau to inquire into the actual condition
of the freedmen, their wants and their capacities.
In 1863 Stanton, then Secretary of War, appointed
a Freedmen’s Inquiry Commission, the members of
it being my father, Robert Dale Owen, and James
McKay.

So, when we came to New York for a change of air
and scene, shortly after little Sammy’s death, we
found my father busy in the office of the commission,
in spite of his sufferings from the gout.

It was always his policy to gather facts and knowledge
before taking action. Hence the many reforms
which he instituted were lasting. They were not built
for a day, and as he took no thought of his own glorification,
no personal element deflected them from the
right track.

Evidently it was important to ascertain what the
negroes had done with their freedom in other English-speaking
// 172.png
.pn +1
countries. So the commission thoroughly
investigated conditions in the Province of
Ontario (then Canada West), where twenty thousand
colored people were living, and made an exhaustive
report.

The labors of the Freedmen’s Inquiry Commission
were those of a pioneer body. They were carried on
later by the Freedmen’s Bureau.
// 173.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch13
XIII||<s>THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF LIFE IN THE CIVIL WAR</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>How We Dressed and Danced in the ’Sixties.—War Prices.—Mrs.
Jared Sparks.—Visit of the Russian Fleet.—The Brain
Club.—Oliver Wendell Holmes.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.—William
R. Alger.—William M. Hunt.—“Mamma’s Owls.”—William
and Henry James.—A Clever Group of Society
Women.—A Historic Nose-pulling.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
IN Boston, your age is always carefully calculated
in accordance with the year of your début in
society and the sewing-circle to which you belong.
In case of doubt, the maximum number of years are
unfailingly attributed to you. I had the fortune, bad
or good, to come half-way between two sets, and
therefore to belong to neither of them. Our mother,
who liked to give her daughters a little glimpse of
society, took us to a few informal occasions while
we were still at school. The exact Boston mind was
therefore baffled in the very beginning as to our true
age.

At school all the girls in my class were older than I,
except my friend, Louise Darling. Sister Julia and I
were so nearly of the same age that in our school-girl
days, as in those of our childhood, we went to parties
together. Hence, when she began to go into society
it was rather hard for me to stay behind, although
I was only seventeen and still at school. By this
// 174.png
.pn +1
time the unwisdom of exaggerating your age had
appealed to my Boston soul, which was greatly torn
during that winter. The older set, a number of whose
members had been classmates at school, were now
in society. As by a flash of light, I saw the dangers
of my position, and drew back before it was too late.
I joined the dancing-class of the younger set—the
girls not yet out—although at school there had been
little commerce between us.

When a dance was given at our house, sister Julia
should really have had all the honors. But she cared
little for dancing, while I was very fond of it. One
of my special friends, Charlie Longfellow, the poet’s
eldest son, was my partner for the german. I carried
a large bouquet and altogether had a royal time. Julia
danced with Mr. Braggiotti, a Greek gentleman, and
no doubt their conversation was less frivolous than
ours. Charlie Longfellow ran away to the war not
long afterward.

When the time for my real entrance into society
came, in the following year, there were only three
other débutantes, namely, the Misses Sara P. Lowell,
Cora Crowninshield, and Clara Gardner. Obviously
no sewing-circle could be formed for us, so I joined
that of the older set. Instead of the handsome lunch
now customary at the meetings of these societies, we
enjoyed a modest repast, consisting exclusively of
bread and butter in endless variety—crumpets, brown
bread, biscuits, etc., with tea or chocolate. It was
served at eleven or twelve o’clock in the forenoon,
dinner being at half past two.

With gold going always higher, the price of everything
// 175.png
.pn +1
soared in the ’Sixties, as in the present war.
The sad part of it was that they did not come down
until years afterward. The highest point reached by
gold was three hundred, but, although it dropped
later, prices did not. They were so sensitive as to
respond instantly to any rise, but were entirely unaffected
by a fall of the precious metal. This seemed
to me very unfair. With occasional help from my
mother, I had bought my own clothes after reaching
the age of fifteen, when I was given an allowance for
dress.

It was indeed a problem for the girls of those days
to dress suitably, when everything was so dear. Some
of my friends bought braid and made their own straw
hats. The price of kid gloves—even the short ones
then usually worn—was so high that certain girls with
skilful fingers made their own. We also made our
own undersleeves and even a few linen collars. The
enormous hoops of this period required a large
amount of material for the skirts of gowns, especially
as these were not gored, the entire fullness being gathered
or plaited at the waist-line. When certain girls
first appeared at the Assemblies, it was said that their
skirts were six yards in circumference! Our hoops
were not quite so large as this, but they were terrific in
size, especially for evening dress. For a lady to enter
an omnibus at that time was no easy matter. Fortunately,
our wire cages were very light and elastic.
You had to be very careful, however, when you sat
down in a crowded car, to pull up the hoop behind, as
otherwise it would stick straight out in front! At
one time these great bird-cages were arranged so that
// 176.png
.pn +1
they teetered back and forth as you moved along.
The skirts, which were long, were then looped up
gracefully in scallops, when you walked abroad, showing
your balmoral, or ornamental petticoat of woolen
cloth. The balmorals were often pretty, and did
prevent our skirts from trailing in the gutter. They
were much more economical, also, than the starched
white skirts which preceded them.

But, oh, how sad it was when each succeeding year
brought an expansion in the circumference of our
gowns, obliging us to discard these before they were
half worn out! It is my firm belief that the persons
who set the fashions purposely change them in such
a way as to promote as much as possible the casting
away of half-worn garments and the purchase of new
ones.

Fortunately, there were ingenious dressmakers in
the ’Sixties who could do wonders in the way of combination,
a fine new dress coming out of two old ones.
The fashion of making evening dresses of tarlatan
and similar diaphanous materials enabled young girls
to have a number of gowns for a relatively small
price. True, many layers of the stuff were necessary—but
the construction, with a little help from the
dressmaker, was easy, thus lessening the expense of
labor. You can take grand large stitches in tarlatan
and they will not show!

We made many of our own bonnets, also, some
clever girls actually quilting the silk in diamonds instead
of buying it ready made. It must have been
a hideous material, but we admired it when it was in
fashion. This reminds me that among my early
// 177.png
.pn +1
memories are those of certain very old gentlemen in
Boston wearing high hats and overcoats of quilted
silk!

Our ball dresses were made with bodice cut moderately
low, a long point in front and at the back and
full sleeves reaching half-way to the elbow. The effect
of these pointed waists over the full skirts was
certainly elegant. Somebody had to lace you up behind,
for obviously you could not do this yourself. If
you were clever, you could undo the lacing on your
return home from the ball. The Assemblies, usually
held in Papanti’s Hall, were the backbone of the
winter’s entertainments for the young set, although
there were always private dances also.

In that primitive day a book was sent around to
the families who were considered eligible as subscribers
for the Assemblies. Boston was then extremely
stern in its construction of who should and
who should not have the privilege of entering their
names on this sacred scroll.

My mother, always generous in such matters, asked
to have the book sent to certain people who had not
hitherto been subscribers, although they were descendants
of a good old family. Her request was not
granted, probably because it was suspected that the
husband had engaged in some financial transaction
not altogether in accordance with the Puritan notions
of uprightness.

The young people of the ’Sixties owed a debt of
gratitude, which they did not fully recognize, to Mrs.
Jared Sparks, the wife of the historian. The unique
form of her entertainments disturbed the conventionality
// 178.png
.pn +1
of the youthful mind. The good lady’s motive
was doubtless to prevent boredom by carrying out
conceptions of striking originality. As we did not live
in Cambridge, we were not invited to the pencil party,
nor to that where, all the chairs being removed, the
guests sat on the floor. But I did go to the famous
<i>thé dansant</i> which Boston discussed long and vigorously.

Mrs. Sparks thought it would be a pleasant thing
to give a party early in the evening, where the young
people could dance till midnight and then go home.
So she asked us to a <i>thé dansant</i> at Papanti’s Hall
to which we went, and had a very good time. Chocolate
and cake were quite sufficient for the dancers, but
Mrs. Sparks had not calculated the probable feelings
of the dowagers. They found it hungry work to sit
and watch other people dance and highly disapproved
of the simple repast. As time went by, low and deep
were the murmurings. Even the quality of the cake
was unkindly called in question. Mrs. Sparks’s
friends sent a sample, it was said, to a lady of the opposite
faction, so that the latter might see for herself
the excellent quality of the butter and eggs. But she
declared it was now so stale (for the controversy
lasted for days or even weeks) she could tell nothing
about the ingredients!

Mrs. Sparks’s original turn of mind also showed
itself in the dealings with her children. One of the
daughters had a will of her own and it was sometimes
necessary to discipline her. This was done by taking
a tuck in her dress, thus doubly punishing her; she had
the mortification of appearing in childish array at an
// 179.png
.pn +1
age when every girl desires to seem grown up, and
she was obliged also to betray to all friends and
acquaintances the fact that she had been naughty.
You had only to look at her skirts to know what her
behavior had been.

The historian himself sometimes came to dances.
From the expression of his countenance, I am sure
he did not enjoy them. The top of his head was
bald, yet the curly hair at the sides stood out in a way
to show that it had once been thick. If you had any
doubt of it, you had only to look at the tremendous
crop of curly hair belonging to his son.

His harassed air made it evident that he had come
in a spirit of parental resignation, not in one of joy.
A legend of that time described Mr. and Mrs. Sparks
driving together on a hot summer’s day. As the
horse showed signs of fatigue, Mr. Sparks suggested
stopping. “Drive on, Mr. Sparks,” replied the lady,
majestically. After two or three similar stoppages
the horse fell down dead!

Most of our dancing partners were Harvard students,
with a sprinkling of older men and returned
soldiers. Two of these, Col. Francis Palfrey and
Capt. William Horton, had been wounded in the arm,
so that the latter was held in a sling. This did not
prevent their dancing, however.

One of our amusements was going on board warships,
not only those of our own navy, but on Swedish
and Russian vessels as well.

The visit of the latter to American waters was one
of the political and social events of the day. Among
the hostesses who gave dances for the officers were
// 180.png
.pn +1
Mrs. Storer of Cambridge, our aunt, Mrs. Joseph
N. Howe, and our mother. We were also invited to
dances on board the Russian ships and to services of
the Orthodox Church held there.

Uniforms are always attractive to young women.
When worn by handsome young foreigners the charm
is doubled. My special partner, being in the engineering
department, wore silver instead of gold decorations.
He was nicknamed “Cranberry Cheeks” by the
family. As neither of us could speak the language
of the other, our conversation was carried on entirely
in French. Now my education in this language at
school had not dwelt especially on the sentimental
side, so that the explanation of words was occasionally
necessary. However, I always succeeded in
grasping the idea.

We were very sad when the Russian fleet sailed,
taking away all our delightful friends.

Among the pleasant entertainments of the ’Sixties
were those given by the Brain Club, as it was popularly
called.

My mother’s position in it might fitly be described
as “Queen of the Revels,” for she devised and
helped carry out many of the programs. We of the
younger generation were allowed to attend some of
the meetings. William Hunt, the artist, took part in
a most ridiculous burlesque of a tourney, where he
and his competitor, Hamilton Wilde, mounted on
pasteboard hobbyhorses, engaged in a deadly encounter,
prancing meanwhile about the drawing-room.
Mrs. Charles Homans, as the Queen of Love and
Beauty, wore a wonderful wig made of raveled tow.
// 181.png
.pn +1
Mr. Hunt, being overthrown, toppled over, pretending
to be mortally wounded, and a leech was summoned
to prescribe for him. Mr. Jere Abbott, wearing
a long false nose, took this part admirably, making
many absurd inquiries of the patient: “Have any of
your wife’s family suffered from this disease?” etc.

Another burlesque was that of the trio in the opera
of “Lucrezia Borgia.” Mr. Otto Dresel played the
air on the piano, while my mother enacted the title
rôle. Hamilton Wilde represented her son, Gennaro,
while the Duke’s part was taken by William Hunt, if
I remember aright. All three joined hands in a line,
keeping time to the music with exaggerated operatic
motions. Mr. Wilde indicated his sufferings from
poison, before the arrival of the antidote. It was
extremely funny.

At our house in Chestnut Street the Brain Club was
entertained by two charades written by my mother,
“Pandemonium” and “Catastrophe.”

For “Cat” a scene was adapted from the classic but
terrible story of Atreus and Thyestes. The unfortunate
owner of the animal has it served up to her in
a pie. After she has eaten it the dreadful nature of
the pasty is revealed to her!

For “Ass” the second syllable, we acted the scene
from “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” where Titania
makes love to Bottom. Mr. James C. Davis took the
latter part, wearing an ass’s head borrowed from the
theater, while I took that of the Fairy Queen.

My mother was always proud of our small accomplishments.
Her journal says that Flossy looked
beautiful. Doubtless I did—to her maternal eyes.
// 182.png
.pn +1

The President of the Brain Club was called Mrs.
Josiah Quincy, Jr., because her husband’s father, a
very old gentleman, was still living. The four generations,
all having the same name, had their photographs
taken in a group when the youngest was only a
babe in arms. This carrying on of the family name
appeals to sentiment, but is not convenient in practice.
The third Josiah Quincy, finding unutterable
confusion in his mail, adopted a middle initial in self-defense.
He thus became Josiah <i>P.</i> Quincy. His
brother, Samuel Quincy, fought in the Civil War.

Their sister, Mary Quincy, had a fine contralto
voice. We often saw her and her husband, Prof.
B. A. Gould, as well as her parents, Mr. and Mrs.
Josiah Quincy, Jr. I remember the former as a handsome
man with beautiful snow-white hair and whiskers.
These had turned prematurely, as he was still a
vigorous man who took the trouble to make himself
agreeable to the young. Perhaps this was owing to
his political experience, for he had been Mayor of Boston.
The house in Park Street was one of a series
of spacious, pleasant residences, occupied by the Lowells,
the Thomas Wards, the Misses Quincy, and
other worthies of Boston. The last-named ladies
were sisters of the ex-Mayor. Both he and they had
pleasant summer places in Quincy, one of which has
now become the Quincy Mansion School for Girls.

Unitarianism, as all the world knows, became firmly
intrenched in Boston in the early part of the nineteenth
century. Many Puritan ideals still prevailed,
however, especially with regard to the observance of
Sunday. Certain persons adhered to the idea that
// 183.png
.pn +1
no gay doings should take place on Saturday evening,
that time being devoted to preparation for the Sabbath.
These were usually plain people. Indeed, some
individuals went so far as to disapprove of the celebration
of Christmas. It was not uncommon to substitute
New Year’s Day as the time to exchange presents.
The students at Harvard College were obliged
to go to all the services of whatever church they attended.
Hence many of them selected our church,
that of the Disciples, since here there was only one
service on Sunday. During the week, attendance at
morning chapel was compulsory, the hour being six
and in later years seven o’clock. Small wonder that
the undergraduate body learned to dress in a very
short space of time, high boots and an ulster covering
many deficiencies.

The young Howes were always taken to church in
the morning, but were free to spend the rest of Sunday
very much as they liked. We were not expected
to practise on the piano, however, and we entertained
the usual superstition about the impropriety, not to
say evil, of sewing on Sunday. Our aunt, Mrs. Crawford,
who lived during the greater part of her life in
Italy, brought back to us more liberal ideas about the
use of the needle.

While we often took a drive on Sunday afternoon,
I went with the feeling that it was not quite right,
so strong was the influence of the prevalent opinion in
the community.

My father liked to have us read aloud from the
Bible on Sunday evening, and we often did so while
living in South Boston. The friends of the family
// 184.png
.pn +1
found it pleasant and convenient to come to high tea
on that day, so that at “Green Peace” we often had
a tableful of guests. After the removal to Boston
these Sunday teas developed into evening receptions
of a pleasant and informal character. For these our
mother was duly taken to task by a lady who held the
old-fashioned view of the day. In spite of this rebuke
our mother continued serenely on her way. To entertain
her friends was as essential to her happiness as
to read and study. My father once said that if she
were alone on a desert island, with one old negro, she
would manage to have a party!

It had, indeed, required effort on her part, and on
that of her friends, to have entertainments in South
Boston. At No. 13 Chestnut Street it was much
easier. Among the pleasant people who came there
were William Hunt, the artist, and his wife. Her
handsome and intelligent face lit up with interest and
animation as she talked. I remember a little dinner
at the Hunt house where my mother and I were the
only guests. Mr. Hunt told us various anecdotes of
the French circus—then known as the Hippodrome;
of an old woman of eighty who still danced on the
tight rope. He showed us how the little old bowed
figure looked as she came forward to take her part
in the performance.

He related, too, the story of two men, one standing
on the top of a tall staff, the second performing on a
tight rope attached to it. One day, as the latter was
testing the rope, it snapped in two! He never loosened
his grasp on his balance-pole, never lost his erect
position, falling, splendid as Lucifer, through the
// 185.png
.pn +1
fifty or more feet of air, till his feet struck the ground.
Both legs were broken.

Among the interesting guests at No. 13 Chestnut
Street were Celia Thaxter and her husband. She
was handsome and looked like the woman of spirit
that she undoubtedly was. What she said I cannot,
alas! remember.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes was in those days the
most brilliant and delightful of talkers. Not only
did he talk without effort, but it seemed to require
an effort on his part to maintain silence. His very
mouth looked as if it were ready to overflow into
brilliant conversation of its own accord, and one fancied
that he was obliged to exercise a certain restraint
over it.

I remember a dinner at our house where Ralph
Waldo Emerson, Rev. William R. Alger, John Weiss,
and Doctor Holmes were the guests. The witty doctor
became fairly launched on the stream of his own
brilliant conversation, and let us into certain of his
professional secrets by telling us something of his
methods of composition and of the moods in which he
wrote. I listened to this talk with a feeling akin to
awe at being allowed to come so near to the sacred
places of genius. The poet was inspired by his theme,
and was led on, by the unfolding of his thought, to
lay bare the secrets of his soul. It was a wonderful
talk, and one could scarcely listen to it without emotion.

When Doctor Holmes went away he said to his
hostess, by way of apology for having talked so much,
“Well, I have told you a great deal about myself to-day.”
// 186.png
.pn +1
Whereupon another member of the company,
himself a literary man, but of a less expansive nature
than the Doctor, said, with emphasis, “Others could
have told of their experiences, too, Doctor, if you had
given them a chance.”

During the Civil War my father and Doctor
Holmes were among the medical men appointed to
examine those who sought to escape the draft on the
ground of physical disability. Among them was one
very large young man who had evidently outgrown
his strength. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table
was short and slight. There was such a contrast in
the size of the two that the witty doctor thought it
would be amusing if he, the little man, should examine
the big one. So he called out, “Let me examine him,
Doctor, let me examine him!” He accordingly proceeded
to percuss the young giant.

Doctor Holmes liked better to talk than to listen,
as the title which he assumed, “The Autocrat of the
Breakfast Table,” plainly shows. When my mother
decided to give a course of talks on philosophical subjects,
in the parlors of our house, she invited Doctor
Holmes to be one of the guests. Meeting her in the
street one rainy day, he explained to her at length
why he was not interested in hearing other people
lecture, the pair meanwhile walking up and down
under their umbrellas.

On another occasion, when both had been listening
to an uninteresting lecture, Doctor Holmes said he
would as lief hear potatoes poured from one barrel
into another!

Ralph Waldo Emerson was from time to time a
// 187.png
.pn +1
visitor at our house. He was of the tall, slender New
England type, with blue eyes and the large nose which
is thought to indicate force. At the time of the execution
of John Brown he compared the gallows on
which the old man perished to the cross. A little
later he was in the company of some conservative
people who were shocked at this comparison. They
asked Mr. Emerson if he had made it, and, without
attempting to palliate or explain, he replied that he
had said something of the sort.

In my youth the following remarks were attributed
to him.

“Church? What is church? I do not see church,
I do not hear church, I do not smell church!” It is
very possible that he did make them, yet he was a
man essentially devout, the descendant of a line of
clergymen. When a distinguished clergyman of the
Church of England came to America, some years
later, he declared that, whoever occupied the pulpit,
Emerson was always the preacher! Time thus
brought to the latter a splendid revenge for the small
satires of earlier days.

His table talk was fresh, quaint and delightful.
Yet he was, on the whole, rather silent than talkative
in company, as became the author of this passage:

“When people come to see us, we foolishly prattle,
lest we be inhospitable. But things said for conversation
are chalk eggs. Don’t <i>say</i> things. What you
are stands over you the while and thunders so that I
cannot hear what you say to the contrary.”

If this saying bears too hard upon women, we may
comfort ourselves with another dictum of his,
// 188.png
.pn +1
“Woman, if not the queen, is the lawgiver of conversation.”
While great men like Mr. Emerson may
sit serenely silent, the feminine instinct bids us try,
at least, to be agreeable!

The Sage of Concord, as he was called, staying one
night at a hotel in Boston, received a long visit from
a literary man who, rising to go at a late hour, said,
“I am to give a lecture on Plato to-morrow and I
haven’t written the first word of it yet.” To which
Mr. Emerson, horrified at such carelessness, replied,
“Good God!” This gentleman was Emanuel Scherb,
a habitué of our house at one time. His negligence
perhaps arose from the fact that he had once been insane.
He then imagined that he was a monkey. A
knowledge of this lingered in my mother’s subconscious
mind. She once talked with him about monkeys,
until she suddenly remembered his former delusion!

Mr. Emerson did not answer the persons who
wrote to him asking for his autograph, even if they
generously enclosed a stamp. It was said that his
family found these stamps useful for their correspondence.
Mrs. Emerson foresaw, at the beginning
of the Civil War, that there would be a great rise in
the price of cotton cloth. Hence she wisely laid in
a closetful of this important commodity.

Rev. William Rounceville Alger was one of the “intellectuals”
of whom we saw a good deal. For a
time he occupied Theodore Parker’s pulpit in Music
Hall, where sister Maud enjoyed hearing him preach.
I fear that we classed him as one of “mamma’s owls.”
We so called, in a general way, the men of literary
// 189.png
.pn +1
taste with whom she liked to converse. Among the
persons of note who dined with us at 13 Chestnut
Street was Mr. Olcott, vegetarian and reformer, now
best known as the father of Louisa Olcott. He spoke
of his poetic views about foodstuffs, declaring that
grains were to be preferred to roots, since the former
grew above the ground, hence nourished our higher
faculties, whereas the latter, being of the earth, must
be earthy. This singular theory did not appeal to
my father, nor, indeed, to any of us, Carlyle said of
it, “Olcott and his potato gospel won’t go down here.”

He held “conversations,” at one of which he observed,
apropos of cannibalism, that if we were to eat
flesh at all, he did not see why we should not eat the
best. Whereupon Mr. Coolidge, a gentleman of a
literal turn of mind, was so horrified that he made a
bee-line for the door. Mr. Olcott kept a school at
one time where punishment was vicarious: if the
children did wrong they were to punish him. For
the offenses of one of Mr. Olcott’s daughters, L——
L——, a very good little girl, received correction.
One of the many stories told of this gentleman was
that he believed persons of fair hair and blue eyes
were children of light who need not labor, whereas
dark-haired individuals were children of darkness
appointed to perform the work of the world. Mr.
Olcott himself had fair hair and blue eyes, but his
wife was dark!

My father gave some breakfasts for gentlemen at
the Chestnut Street house. I remember one where
Alexander Hamilton, son of the great Federalist, was
present and told various interesting stories. Among
// 190.png
.pn +1
the family relics we have found a tiny lock of the hair
of the statesman, sent by his son to my father.

My mother was away from home when one of
these breakfasts took place, and I sat at the head of
the table as lady of the house. I appreciated the
honor, although it was rather overpowering to be the
only woman present.

To No. 13 Chestnut Street, as well as to “Green
Peace,” came clever and delightful women. The most
original and brilliant of these was Mrs. Helen Bell,
wife of Joseph Bell and the daughter of Rufus
Choate, a famous lawyer of that day and a relative
of Joseph H. Choate. She and her sister, Mrs. Ellerton
Pratt, were a most charming and unique couple.
They kept up a running fire of absurd sayings in
which Yankee exaggeration played its part.

Thus when some one declared that a certain German
gentleman had objectionable manners at table,
Mrs. Bell exclaimed: “What do you suppose he does?
Do his feet fly up over his head, after every mouthful,
or does he throw the tender vegetables about!”

She had clear-cut features and a beautiful head,
with wavy hair of a reddish tint. After crimping
came into fashion, she remarked, “I put my hair up
on lamp-wicks overnight, and people say I look like
a Roman emperor.” Mrs. Pratt, with her fair hair
and blue eyes, was very pretty and had a certain childlike
expression of countenance that was very attractive.
I never was so fortunate as to hear Mrs. Bell
sing. Since her death, a few months ago, an old
friend has thus described her singing, “To listen to
the deep tones of that pathetic voice, song after song
// 191.png
.pn +1
coming through the twilight, was an emotional experience
never to be forgotten.” Mrs. Bell also played
very well on the piano. Our master, Otto Dresel,
once arranged that we should play together a
concerto of Bach’s for three pianos, Miss Charlotte
Heminway playing on the third, while he
took the part of the orchestra on the fourth. We were
obliged to practise in Chickering’s music-rooms, no private
house containing so many instruments. I took
much pleasure and pride in the performance, which was
simply for our own gratification and improvement.

It may have been apropos of this concerto of Bach’s
that Mr. Dresel said to my mother, “I have created
Flossy.” I greatly enjoyed my music and it was
cordially appreciated by our friends. In these days I
often played—usually duets with Mr. Dresel—at our
informal parties. A young friend, Miss Emily Appleton,
gave a musical evening where each of us
played some piece on the piano. Mr. Dresel’s constant
drill, and a flexibility of fingering inherited from my
mother, gave me an advantage over the others. The
young friends were surprised, but generously praised
my performance of a piece which called for rapid and
constant motion of the fingers.

The express horses of the ’Sixties must have been
very lively animals, for they managed to run away
with our grand piano and to damage it materially.
The instrument belonging to our friends, the Sam
G. Wards, needed repairing at the same time. Mr.
Dresel used to say jokingly that at the Chickering
factory they had simply exchanged the actions of the
two pianos!
// 192.png
.pn +1

Charlotte Heminway was the eldest daughter of
Augustus Heminway and Mrs. Mary Heminway,
whose memory is revered on account of her noble
charities. Charlotte herself, a friend of sister Julia,
was a young woman of fine character and promise.
One day in New York, being in haste to reach the station,
she and a party of friends hailed a passing hack.
After entering it they noticed a peculiar odor. On
her return to Boston this eldest and especially beloved
daughter of the house died of a virulent fever, supposed
to be typhus.

Among the clever and agreeable women who came
to No. 13 Chestnut Street were two daughters of
the Rev. Mr. Greenwood—Mrs. James Lodge and
Mrs. William Howe. A third was Mrs. Charles Homans,
daughter of our opposite neighbor, Rev. Samuel
K. Lothrop. A handsome woman to the end of
her days, she was then young, albeit her hair was turning
gray.

In the ’Sixties Boston observed New Year’s Day as
a fitting time to take account of stock. A few people
followed the custom, then prevalent in New York,
of receiving callers. Our mother, remembering the customs
of her youth, was one of the first to do this, inviting
a number of gentlemen to call. Mrs. Homans helped
us receive one New Year’s Day, adding to the pleasure
of the occasion by her presence and conversation.

Although she and my mother took opposite views
of the suffrage question, they always maintained a
cordial friendship. Mrs. Homans was active in public
work of a charitable nature, interesting herself
especially in prisoners.
// 193.png
.pn +1

Sister Julia and I enjoyed the intellectual society
of our elders, yet we also had friends of our own age.
Among these were two young men of promise, William
Washburn and William James, well known later
as the psychologist. The latter was a most genial
and delightful person. When the question came up,
possibly apropos of the Mormons, of the propriety
of polygamy, he was inclined to think it might be a
good thing to have more than one wife. I suggested
that from the woman’s side of the question it would
<i>not</i> be desirable.

When he returned from Brazil he told us that the
inhabitants beckoned with the whole hand, instead of
with extended forefinger, as was then the custom in
America. Finding it difficult to make out prices, he
confidingly extended a handful of silver, allowing
the Brazilians to pick out the proper amount.

William Washburn, who was a friend of William
James, wrote a book of stories about Harvard, but
did not make literature his profession. Henry James
the younger, as he then was, came to see us occasionally,
but we never knew him well. The coldness of
his temperament was in strong contrast to the warmth
and geniality of his brother’s. He was then pale, and
looked, as I thought, like the great Napoleon. I believe
that he was not in good health at that time, and
possibly he was shy. Great was our surprise when
he declared that some one was a hog. Who this selfish
person was I cannot remember, but Henry James
was ordinarily so calm that this forcible denunciation
was startling. At a later period my mother grew
to know him better and had real affection for him.
// 194.png
.pn +1

We knew also the two younger brothers, Wilkie
and Robertson, who were pleasant fellows. Both
fought in the Civil War, Wilkie being badly wounded.

Henry James, Sr., was a man of as much talent as
his distinguished sons, although never so well known.
He was a follower of Swedenborg, but did not consider
that the Swedenborgian Church interpreted correctly
the writings of the great mystic. I read with
interest one of his books, <i>Substance and Shadow</i>, in
which he expressed himself with vigor and originality.
Mr. James knew that I was interested in his writings.
Hence, when he saw me at the conclusion of his address
at the Radical Club he exclaimed, reproachfully:

“You here, Flossy!”

“Why, Mr. James, I came to hear you!”

With the delightful inconsequence of the Irish
mind, he regretted seeing me at so unorthodox a
meeting, not reflecting that he was the magnet which
brought me there!

My father’s experience as the head of two large
institutions had shown him that, through changes in
fortune, many women who never expected to earn
their own living are obliged to do so. He thought all
should be so educated as to be able to support themselves.
Hence I was taught bookkeeping, and kept,
for some years, the books of the School for Idiotic
and Feeble-minded Youth. These included a ledger
on the double-entry system, and obliged me to take
from time to time a trial balance. On one occasion
I carelessly overdrew the bank-account. The check
went to protest, causing me an expense of two dollars
or more and some mortification. The father of one
// 195.png
.pn +1
of the inmates, finding that his correspondent was
“Madam” and not “Sir,” wrote me in rather gallant
style. Otherwise the work was calm and uneventful.
I was paid a small salary, which helped out my allowance
for dress. “The Town of Lee” was one of the
headings in my ledger, this town being responsible
for the maintenance of Charles Keep, who had a
genius for catching rats without any trap. Why they
did not bite his fingers is a mystery. At one time the
authorities at the school were puzzled by a shortage
in the milk. It was discovered that the feeble-minded
boys who brought the cans from the Institution for
the Blind, finding the load rather heavy, lightened it by
pouring out part of the milk on the road!

Usually these poor children did not display special
talent. I remember one who was proud of having
only a single hand—a pride not more unreasonable
than that often shown by persons of intelligence in
matters for which they can not justly claim any credit.
Another boy had such an exaggerated fear of Sabbath-breaking
that his teacher was in despair on Sunday
afternoons. If she proposed any occupation with
the slightest tinge of secularity, Charlie would reject
it with the simple explanation, “Hell!” The parents
in many cases wrote an illiterate hand. The postal
authorities were wont to indorse on letters bearing a
cryptic address, “Try Doctor Howe.” Everybody
who wanted help did “try Doctor Howe”—the rich as
well as the poor. Thus while few of the mentally deficient
children of the well-to-do came to the Institution,
many were brought to his office in Bromfield
Street for examination and advice. These
// 196.png
.pn +1
he gave gladly, never charging any fee for his services.

Sister Julia, soon after leaving school, took up as
her work teaching at the Institution for the Blind.
For this she never received any remuneration, nor did
she wish any. She was one of the most unworldly
persons whom I have ever seen. While enjoying, in
a natural, healthy way, the pleasures of this life as
they came to her, the things of the mind and of the
spirit were to her the true realities. The bond of
affection between her and my father was especially
strong. “Darlingest, Firstest, and Best Born” he
calls her in one of his letters. It was a pleasure to
see them start together for the daily trip to the Institution
for the Blind at South Boston. Having special
talent for languages, she here taught Latin, German
and French. She also read aloud in English to some
of the inmates.

A few years later, Mr. (afterward “Sir”) Francis
Campbell, who had held a responsible position under
my father, founded and carried on with much success
“Norwood College” near London. This was
the first school for the blind in England conducted
on modern principles. My father did all in his power
to help on the new enterprise, lending several teachers
from the institution under his charge to start it.
Among them was Miss Faulkner, who later became
Lady Campbell.

Some of the American teachers were blind and had
been sister Julia’s pupils. It was reported to us that,
when traveling on the Continent of Europe, they
found her instruction of real help.
// 197.png
.pn +1

In the late ’Sixties Boston was stirred by a ludicrous
incident which ended in a tragedy. Three commuters,
society men, had turned over a seat on a railway train
and were chatting together when a stranger approached
and took the vacant place. He was a large
man, cumbered with a toy baby-carriage, and his
presence disturbed the group of friends, who plainly
showed their annoyance. When the interloper arose
to go he said to one of the group, “Sir, you are no
gentleman!” According to the masculine code, there
is only one answer to this remark, although to a mere
woman striking a man is a strange argument to prove
that you are a gentleman. Mr. X., a small man with
a quick temper, delivered the answer on the nose of
the offender, knocking off and breaking his glasses.
The bearer of the baby-carriage was a pacifist. He
did not retort in kind, but brought suit against Mr.
X. for assault and battery. The case was complicated
by the fact that the three friends, of whom one at least
was a director of the railroad, were thought by some
of the traveling public to behave too much as if they
owned the railway. It was a sort of town-and-gown
affair. Hence when the lawyer for the defense made
the mistake of treating the whole as a pure joke, the
judge was angered and condemned Mr. X. to three
months in prison. Having served this severe sentence,
Mr. X. and his family left the United States, never
to return.
// 198.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch14
XIV||<s>OUR LABORS IN BEHALF OF CRETE</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Removal to Boylston Place.—W. D. Howells.—Marion Crawford
as a Boy.—The Romance of a Fire.—The Cretan Insurrection.—Sisters
Julia and Laura Accompany Our Parents
to Greece.—A Grim Passenger.—A Price Is Set on My
Father’s Head.—Our Cretan Sewing-circle and Concert.—Over-modest
Amateurs.—The Sumner Bronzes.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
IN the autumn of 1865 we left No. 13 Chestnut
Street, greatly to our regret. The owner of the
house, Mr. Sargent, decided to live there himself, so
we moved to No. 19 Boylston Place. My father never
approved of this locality, as it was on made ground
and rather low. It had been a part of old Mr. ——’s
garden. However, I do not think it affected the
health of the family unfavorably. Having some
trouble with the drainage, he sent for the Master of
the Drains. This official looked exactly as one might
guess from his title—quaint, seedy, with bloodshot
eyes. I suspect Boston did not then have a sewerage
system.

The move from Chestnut Street had been a hurried
one, as my father hoped almost to the last to find a
situation better to his liking than Boylston Place. I
was now at the age, twenty years, when young people
feel the responsibility of the world resting heavily
on their shoulders. During the preparations for removal
I flew up and down stairs and attempted to do
// 199.png
.pn +1
a hundred things, without any regard for my own
strength, which I supposed to be unlimited. The result
was a strain that affected my health unfavorably
for some years. The fault was my own, as no one had
asked or expected me to do so much.

In these years I began to be interested in charitable
work, conducting a sewing-school for poor children
at our own house. Occasionally our sittings were
interrupted by the merry raids of the young Howes,
who launched sponges and other missiles at my scholars.
The latter took refuge under the dining-room
table, but appreciated the sport of the affair. When
my father looked in upon the children at work his face
lit up with a beautiful smile that was more than reward
enough for my small efforts.

In our frequent drives between South Boston and
Boston we passed through a somewhat squalid tenement-house
district. Concern for the people dwelling
there now began to oppress me, and I made efforts,
though not always wise ones, to help them.

Among my protégées was a Mrs. Wallace, a stalwart
Irish woman with several children, whose
husband had pains in his legs whenever he held the
baby. We started her in a fruit-stand and made various
efforts in her behalf. She was later arrested
for some misdemeanor and it required several policemen
to take her, struggling all the way, to the station-house.

A very unpleasant though amusing incident of our
life at Boylston Place was the arrival of a box containing
six semi-wild cats, sent to my father by our
friend, Mr. Thomas R. Hazard, as a species of joke
// 200.png
.pn +1
When the box was opened the cats flew out of it,
scattering in every direction. Fortunately for the
Howe family, some of them escaped from the house.
The most troublesome one persisted in rushing up the
chimney-place in my room whenever we approached
her.

About this time the family narrowly escaped a serious
danger. One evening my mother, being up late,
noticed on the ceiling a slight discoloration; she also
thought she heard a low tick-tick as of flames. Being
very sleepy, she reasoned thus with herself: “Even if
there should be a fire and we should be burned up,
why, then David and Flossy could be married.”

Arousing herself from this strange altruistic vein,
she called my father. In time of danger he was in
his element. He speedily chopped open the floor of
the parlor and the flames appeared! Meantime,
brother Harry, hastily attired, rushed out for a policeman.
The latter showed very languid interest.

“Fire—where?”

“At No. 19 Boylston Place.”

“O Lord!” ejaculated the officer of the law, and
rushed for the spot. His own home was next door!

On the other side of us lived Mrs. Richards and her
five stalwart sons. Whenever our furnace sent out
smoke, it went into the Richards’ house. Hence the
young men, smelling smoke, came in to see what was
wrong with us. Sister Laura, who was a very pretty
and charming girl, roused suddenly from sleep, appeared
barefoot upon the scene, with her fine hair
floating over her shoulders. Two or three years later
she married the youngest of the fire-fighters.
// 201.png
.pn +1

I was staying in New York at the time, and so
missed the great scene of the fire. It was put out
without much damage.

It will be judged from my mother’s remark that my
engagement was a long one, my fiancé being a young
lawyer studying in his father’s office. During the five
years that elapsed before our marriage I found it
pleasant to make visits in New York, staying with
Great-uncle Richard Ward. He possessed the courtly
manners of a gentleman of the old school, his diction
being somewhat old-fashioned. Thus he frequently
said, “No, lady,” or “Yes, lady,” a form of address
now used chiefly by dependents. Uncle Richard was
a thorough Ward, of tall and massive frame, though
not at all stout. He had been six feet four inches tall
in his younger days, and wore number eleven gloves, it
was said. His shoes were on the same scale. During
the life of Uncle John (when the two brothers lived
together) there was a room at the rear of the house
devoted to their footgear. It was a veritable acreage
of shoes which resembled small cradles. Leather was
then supposed to last longer if boots were given a
rest instead of being used constantly. Uncle Richard
wore one of the hideous wigs of the period, having
lost his hair many years before. A family tradition
declared that, from the receding of the gums, his
teeth had all dropped out while still sound. He received
us always with great kindness and hospitality.
The only drawback to the pleasure of a visit at No.
8 Bond Street was the temperature of the house, which
was cold for our modern taste. In addition to an
old-fashioned and rather ineffectual furnace there
// 202.png
.pn +1
were pleasant open-grate fires in all the rooms. We
soon learned that we must not poke these too much
when Uncle Richard was present, for a temperature
comfortable to us was distressing to him. As
we sat playing whist of an evening, he would get up
and leave the room from time to time, in order to
cool off in the hall.

He made it a point of pride not to wear an overcoat,
and seldom did so, though he dressed very
warmly beneath his invariable black suit. What he
should wear on a cold day became in his later years
a serious question. He would call in consultation his
faithful old retainer. Mary Oliver would sometimes
decide the matter by weighing the clothes!

Uncle Richard was very much interested in genealogy
and took great pride in his ancestors. He informed
me that the boys at school looked with respect
on his brothers and himself because they were descended
from four Governors! Dear deluded man!
How could he so misunderstand boy nature! I’ve no
doubt their schoolmates treated the brothers with due
respect, the Wards being a large and powerful race.
It is more prudent not to offend bigger boys.

He was showing me one day an old family Bible in
which the names of seven generations of Wards were
inscribed. Seeing a visitor come up the front steps,
he closed the book.

“Now, my dear, we will not talk about ancestors
before Mr. So-and-so,” he observed. “Because if we
speak of these before other people, they also talk
about theirs, <i>and that is not so interesting</i>!”

I do not think he wrote any account of his forebears,
// 203.png
.pn +1
leaving that for his successor in the cult, Cousin
John Ward. The latter does not mention the fourth
awe-inspiring Governor, but perhaps he was on the
distaff side.

William Dean Howells was one of the noted people
who came to see us in Boylston Place. Sister Julia
and I fancied that he looked like an amiable Richard
III. His black hair was parted in the middle—a thing
not usual in the ’Sixties. Although cut short, it
strayed over his forehead in a way to suggest the
close-cropped hair of the medieval knight, while his
dark complexion, short, compact figure, and something
unusual about his face, suggested this resemblance
to us. The comparison was not invidious, because
we admired Edwin Booth in the rôle of Richard
III.

We were interested in Mr. Howells’s india-rubbers,
they were so small! Mr. and Mrs. Frank Leslie, with
Mrs. Squiers, also spent an evening with us. Both
ladies were in full evening dress, doubtless supposing
the occasion would be a formal one. Mrs. Squiers
was a striking-looking person whose face did not
recommend itself to me. After the death of the first
wife, she became the second Mrs. Frank Leslie. All
suffragists owe her a debt of gratitude for her generous
gift of her fortune to our cause.

One of our delightful visitors in these days was
our cousin-german Frank, known later as Marion
Crawford, the novelist. He was sent to this country
to receive his early education, spending several years
at St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire.
He was now about ten years old, a handsome, freshfaced
// 204.png
.pn +1
boy, very much interested in locomotives. He
brought a number of engravings of these, which I
politely examined, in spite of my perfect indifference
to engines of all sorts. In later years my youngest
son, discovering with pain this trait in his mother’s
character, observed, reflectively:

“It must be strange not to be interested in locomotives.”

“No, Jack, it is <i>not</i> strange at all!”

Young Crawford was as full of fun as other boys
of his age. With brother Harry he performed various
antics at the house of my aunt, Mrs. Mailliard,
in Bordentown, New Jersey. Her family were surprised,
when walking in the garden, to see the stand
of the lost rocking-horse protruding from the chimney!

Dear old Mr. Joseph Greene Cogswell, who had
been the first librarian of the Astor Library, was sitting
quietly by the fire when boots suddenly came
down the chimney. With perfect gravity he picked
these out of the fire with the tongs, causing great
amusement to the naughty boys watching above.

Sister Julia was ten years older than Frank, but
they were great chums. During one of our periodical
stays at the Institution for the Blind they bought
cream-cakes with the money given them for car fare,
and walked the two or more miles from Boston to
South Boston with cheerful hearts!

During our residence in Boylston Place my father
did some of his writing in the house and asked us to
make no noise near his room. We were so young
and thoughtless as to think this request unreasonable.
// 205.png
.pn +1
True, we knew, in a general way, that he was writing
the report for the Massachusetts Board of State
Charities, but this meant little to us. In later years
we came to understand what labor and fatigue the
task involved, for the board was the pioneer body of
its kind in the United States. My father’s wide experience
made it inevitable that he should be summoned
to sit on it. “The Nestor and Achilles of public
charities in Massachusetts” soon became the chairman.
In a series of annual reports he advocated a system
of dealing with the dependent classes which was
accepted and still remains in force, not only in Massachusetts,
but in many other states and in some European
countries.

Public institutions, he declared, should be built only
in the last resort. The dependent classes should be
diffused through the community, not gathered together.
Children should be cared for in families, not
in institutions. Defectives should be brought together
only for purposes of instruction. They should not
live together in homes, as their peculiarities thus become
more strongly developed, but with normal people.

As a pioneer in eugenics he strongly disapproved
of the policy of certain trustees of the Reform School
for Girls. These wished to bury in oblivion the former
bad life of the young women, allowing young
men to marry them without any warning of their past
misbehavior. My father knew this was all wrong
and so declared, drawing upon himself sarcastic denunciations
from the unwise trustees.

When it was proposed to build a large institution at
// 206.png
.pn +1
Winthrop, he wrote to the newspapers, showing the
evil of congregating so many people under one roof.

An unexpected ally appeared in a correspondent
who wrote Doctor Howe, approving the stand he had
taken “because, although it is not generally known,
there are lions and tigers under the proposed site of
the institution!”

My father’s labors have often seemed to me like
those of Hercules. He succeeded in them because he
had great confidence in the benevolence of his fellow-men;
he knew they would respond to appeals made in
the right spirit, if matters were clearly explained.

“Obstacles are things to be overcome,” was one of
his mottoes. “<i>Qui facit per alium, facit per se</i>,” was
another.

So long as the deed was done, it mattered not to
him who did it or who received the praise. If some
one else could carry out his plan, he was off to the
next task. He was too busy to give any time to the
recording of his own accomplishments. Hence he
had all the more for the work in hand.

In 1866 came the stirring news of the revolt of
Crete against her Mohammedan oppressors. The
island had earned its freedom with the rest of Greece
in the war of independence, but by a cruel stroke of
diplomacy had been put back under the heel of the
Turk.

We shudder in the year 1918 at the cruelties of the
Germans, the self-styled Huns. Yet they were once
Christians and some remains of Christian thought and
practice still linger among their soldiery. But the
Turks have always been barbarians. In the early
// 207.png
.pn +1
days of the rising of 1866–68 we learned with horror
of the fate of the brave and desperate Cretans who,
gathered together in church or fortress, blew themselves
into eternity rather than fall into the savage
hands of the Turks. Men did the same thing in the
Greek revolution, to escape the same terrible fate!

My father was now sixty-five years old. Yet “he
heard the voice of Greece calling him,” and he answered
the call, as he had answered it nearly half
a century before.

Then he had gone, in the enthusiasm of his bright
youth, alone to a strange land, whose language he
did not speak. <i>Now</i> he at once called a meeting in
Music Hall, Boston, where Edward Everett Hale,
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips, the silver-tongued
orator, and others spoke.

My father presided and made a brief speech:

“I knew hundreds of them [the Cretans]—good
men and true. I had been in their beautiful island,
had stood a siege with them in one of their beleaguered
fortresses, and witnessed their courage....
I see them now, the sons of my old companions, in
their snowy chemise and their shaggy capote, saying,
sadly, ‘Good-by, mother! Good-by, sister and child!
Seek your refuge in the neighboring isles, upon the
main, wherever the hand of Christian mercy may aid
you. We go to the mountains to keep the flag of
freedom flying as long as we live!’ My friends, these
unfortunate women and children are now suffering as
many of their mothers suffered forty years ago. Your
fathers and your mothers relieved them. Will you
not relieve their children?”
// 208.png
.pn +1

Of course they would and did. Thirty-seven thousand
dollars were raised, and in March, 1867, my
father sailed for Greece, to be once more the almoner
of American charity.

The Cretan refugees had been obliged to fly hastily,
and were in a destitute, almost naked condition. The
good women of Boston responded to this call by
forming sewing-circles to make clothing for these
exiles.

I inaugurated one among my young friends, but
looked in vain for a president. I appealed to Emily
Russell, who had held this office in a similar society.

“Why aren’t you the president yourself?” she suggested.
The idea had not previously occurred to me,
as I had had no experience. However, I accepted
her advice, learning then that if you start an enterprise
you must expect to take the responsibility on
your own shoulders.

Just what kind of undergarments the women of the
Orient wore we did not know. Fortunately for us, a
circle of older ladies took the responsibility, cutting
out for us pattern “togas” and “pajamas.” They
were of unbleached muslin—or cotton cloth. The
price of this had been seventy-five cents a yard during
the Civil War, and was still very high in 1867.

We were merry over the naming of the garments
and over their unusual shape. My mother, who assisted
in the distribution of the clothing to the refugees
at Athens, tells us that they were suitable in
pattern and quality.

One or more of our meetings were held at the Institution
for the Blind, where Laura Bridgman, despite
// 209.png
.pn +1
her lack of sight and hearing, ran the sewing-machine
for us.

The year 1867 and a good part of 1868 were
largely occupied with work for the Cretan cause.
My mother and sisters, Julia and Laura, accompanied
my father to Europe, I having remained behind from
choice. This was partly out of deference to the
wishes of my fiancé and partly because I had not yet
recovered from the strain received during the removal
to Boylston Place.

A quiet summer was indicated for me—but how
was it possible to compass this when the letters from
Greece were so moving? Sister Laura, in particular,
wrote such harrowing accounts of the refugees that
I could not remain inactive. Brother Harry, sister
Maud and I were spending the greater part of the
summer at our home in Lawton’s Valley, where our
aunt, Mrs. Joseph N. Howe, and her daughters were
installed for the season.

I rashly decided to arrange an amateur concert for
the benefit of the Cretans. True, I knew something
of music, but of the nature of amateur musicians I
was blissfully ignorant. The first step was easy
enough. The stirring letters from Greece afforded
plenty of ammunition for a circular appeal to the
leading people of Newport, of which we wrote many
copies. Brother Harry, now a junior at Harvard
College, was my right hand in the whole matter, working
most unselfishly and constantly.

Day after day we took the six-mile drive to Newport,
calling upon prospective patronesses and singers.
The former responded nobly. Mrs. E. D. Morgan,
// 210.png
.pn +1
wife of the war Governor of New York State,
took fifty tickets, although her husband had already
contributed to the cause.

But the singers! oh, the singers! Such backing and
filling, such coy consents, withdrawn almost as soon
as made! It had not occurred to my youthful mind
that the amateur musician normally displays his talents
before a private audience. In asking him to sing
before the public, at an entertainment for which tickets
were sold, I was requesting something unusual.
Doubtless many felt their talents were not sufficient
for the task. The Cretan concert might never have
materialized except for the timely aid of Miss Jane
Stuart. Daughter of the famous painter, Gilbert
Stuart, and an artist herself, she was one of the
characters of old Newport. Her father had been
one of the few to give my father God-speed when the
latter started for Greece in 1824, and he had reciprocated
the kindness by helping Miss Jane in some undertaking.
She was extremely grateful, and once
showed her feeling by embracing him. “My dear, I
might just as well have kissed that door!” she afterward
said to my mother. My father was a true New
Englander in disliking all such demonstrations, and
Miss Jane was extremely plain.

She and her elder sister lived in a pleasant little
cottage on Mill Street. This was practically headquarters
for us during our Cretan concert campaign.
Miss Jane gave us her aid and counsel in every possible
way. I’m ashamed to think how often we imposed
upon the kindness of the two ladies by staying
to luncheon. Miss Anne, born toward the close of
// 211.png
.pn +1
the eighteenth or at the beginning of the nineteenth
century, was a gentlewoman of the old school. She
wore a black head-dress covering a great part of her
head—the successor to the turban, perhaps. She was
not so witty as Miss Jane, whose conversation was
very charming. The agreeable women of the older
generation whom I remember in my youth had grown
up before the day of the short story and almost before
that of the magazine. Hence it was a part of
their social education, the knowledge of how to tell
anecdotes in a truly interesting way.

Another friend who helped us in our undertaking
was Miss Anna Vernon, who thoroughly loved music
and gave much time to it. She then lived in the historic
Vernon house, the headquarters of Rochambeau.
It is now decorated with a medallion portrait of him.

I was so much absorbed in my new undertaking as
to suppose every one else would be interested in it.
Perhaps that is the secret of successful canvassing!
To my urgent request that he would go with me to
drum up recruits Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson
at last replied:

“Why, I am the only man in Newport who has anything
to do!”

This gentle rebuke was disconcerting, but, having
delivered it, and so freed his mind, the gallant colonel
climbed into my pony-chaise and we made the projected
calls together. At that time he and his first
wife were living in Newport. She was a superior
woman, but a victim of a form of rheumatism which
made her almost helpless. Her husband was devoted
to her.
// 212.png
.pn +1

The amateurs continuing hopelessly coy, we had,
in a moment of desperation, an interview with the
manager of an opera troupe. It did not prove practicable,
however, to hand the concert over to professionals.

We were obliged to call in the aid of one, Mrs.
Flora Cary, afterward Mrs. Barry, a concert singer
with a fine contralto voice. She generously gave us
her services. My mother’s cousin, John Ward, possessed
a well-cultivated tenor voice, and he, too, nobly
volunteered. With the help of these and other performers
the concert for the benefit of the Cretans at
last came off. We cleared four hundred dollars, and
a donation from the Misses Hazard, the sisters of
Mr. Thomas Hazard, brought our profits up to five
hundred.

Cousin John had taken degrees both as a doctor
and as a lawyer, yet he practised neither profession.
The possession of money was an effective damper on
his activities. For many years he was a member of
the well-known Mendelssohn Glee Club of New York.
Unfortunately, he desired also to be a poet, a career
for which nature had not intended him. He had a
theory that perseverance was the main requisite.
Hence he would read his verses to some unfortunate
friend, and if the latter made any criticism which
seemed to him just he would call on the friend a second
time, and recite a revised version, asking if that
were any better!

His friends took refuge in polite lies. “Oh no,
John, I have no taste for poetry. I’m no judge of it—it
would not be of any use to read that to me!”
// 213.png
.pn +1

Even the most conscientious fell from truth, after
a while. When it came to the third degree—listening
to the same verses, altered slightly to suit your taste,
for the third time you surrendered. You accepted
them as faultless—anything, rather than listen to
them again.

He printed a volume of poems, which he determined
should be letter-perfect. Of course it was not—but
the printer profited handsomely by the venture.

A more practical taste was that for genealogy.
We owe to his painstaking industry biographies of
our common ancestors, Governor Samuel Ward and
his son, Lieutenant-Colonel Ward, as well as an account
of the Continental Congress before the Declaration
of Independence. Thereby hangs a tale. Governor
Samuel Ward was not only a member of that
Congress, but presided constantly over the body as
chairman of the Committee of the Whole, until March
15, 1776, when he was obliged to leave the session,
owing to a violent attack of smallpox! He died
shortly after, and so did not sign the famous document.
His colleague, Stephen Hopkins, <i>did</i> live to
sign it, yet it was the “physical disability” of the latter
which threw such a burden of work on Governor
Ward that he was in an entirely unfit state to cope
with the disease!

We have found it a little hard to forgive our distinguished
ancestor his imprudence. If he had only
been inoculated beforehand all might have been well,
but he could not take the time! However, we console
ourselves by remembering that he was the <i>only</i> Colonial
// 214.png
.pn +1
governor who refused to carry out the odious
stamp act!

His son, Lieut-Col. Samuel Ward, did good service
in the Revolution. Cousin John regarded these
and other ancestors with a reverence that amounted
almost to awe. He would let you take a peep at
Governor Ward’s Congressional Journal, but you
were not permitted to touch it. Yet he made no provision
for the care of these beloved papers after his
death. They were inherited by a relative who, possessing
no taste for genealogical research, has locked
them up in a safe-deposit box.

I have sometimes thought there should be <i>one</i> genealogist—and
only one—in each generation. Yet,
when I remember the lives of some of those I have
known, it seems a little hard to condemn even <i>one</i>
person every thirty years to this gentle fate. For
it is not to be denied that genealogists are often ineffective,
though excellent, persons. It has been already
said of Cousin John that he went to the Civil
War. So he did his “bit” for his country.

During the seven months while the family were in
Europe sister Maud remained under my charge.
With the help of Miss Mary Paddock, we kept house
in the “Doctor’s” part of the Institution, visiting various
relatives later on. That Miss Paddock should
thus come to help us out was quite in the usual order
of things. We were all fond of her and accepted her
aid as a matter of course. As the young Howes grew
older, we saw and appreciated the sterling worth and
rare unselfishness of her character.

It was a part of my father’s power to draw to his
// 215.png
.pn +1
aid people of worth and ability. His chivalrous spirit
thrilled through his assistants. They saw him devoting
his life to the care of the maimed lambs of the
human fold—they, too, would and did help in the
good work. Working with the “Doctor” was no light
service, yet all knew that he himself labored harder
than any one else. Of necessity there was much
steady, practical work, yet, as in all pioneer labor,
there was the romance of hewing out new paths. To
enlist under the “Doctor’s” banner was in itself an adventure.
Mary Paddock did so enlist, becoming a
teacher at the Institution for the Blind in her young
womanhood. Her devotion to my father ended only
with his life. She was with us often at “Lawton’s
Valley” and “Green Peace” as faithful friend and
helper. During the last years of my father’s life,
when his health was failing badly, she was his amanuensis
and nurse. For her memory we all feel deep
affection and gratitude.

The blind children were often my playmates. We
were so accustomed to seeing and being with them
that we thought little about their privation of sight.
My father’s aim was to make them as much like seeing
people as possible. Thus they were taught to go
about the house and grounds very freely, running
down-stairs as rapidly as seeing boys and girls. Some
of them walked in the streets and even traveled in
the cars alone. Usually, however, a leader was required.
Occasionally I went with them, as guide, to
opera or concert. Many tickets were generously sent
to them, especially for the less popular performances.

In the summer of 1867 sister Maud was in her
// 216.png
.pn +1
thirteenth year—a handsome child of generous and
noble impulses, but of an impetuous disposition that
made her at times difficult to deal with. “Old Splendid”
was the name given her by a dressmaker to whom
we were all attached. “The Stormy Petrel” was another
nickname.

Her lack of respect for the gods of the school-room
filled my more conventional soul with horror. To
call the excellent Mr. Greenleaf, the author of our
arithmetic, a fool seemed to me eminently unreasonable.
When, in a fit of exasperation over her studies,
the ink-bottle was flung across the room, spattering
the wall with its contents, I stood aghast. I did the
best I could for my young charge while the family
were in Europe and was rewarded a hundredfold by
her affection and gratitude.

My mother and sisters assisted in the work of distributing
to the Cretan refugees the ten thousand garments
sent out from America. Sister Laura has described
“the stately, dark-eyed Cretan women, majestic
even in their rags and misery; the slender girls;
the lovely, dirty children.” She has told us of many
romantic incidents which found no place in my father’s
reports.[#] He always suppressed his own part in
any undertaking, writing down only what was necessary
to secure the interest of the reader.

A price was set upon his head by the Turkish authorities
of Crete. Nevertheless, he visited the island
and the small rocky fortress where he had been besieged
in the old days of the Greek Revolution.

.pm fn-start // 1
<i>Letters and Journals of Samuel Gridley Howe.</i> Dana
Estes & Co.
.pm fn-end
// 217.png
.pn +1

The Howe sisters made a trip on a small steamer
where there was a grim passenger—the head of a
famous brigand who had just been captured and
killed. They would have liked to see this horrible
trophy, but my father would not permit it.

On their return to America, my father and mother
began to make preparations for a fair in behalf of the
Cretans. My share was to revive the sewing-circle
of the previous year. Instead of working on “pajamas”
and “togas,” we now had the more interesting
occupation of sewing on pretty things. White coats
with colored silk trimmings were then in fashion. I
conceived the brilliant idea of making them at our
sewing-circle, and so reaping a handsome profit. The
girls groaned at undertaking anything so serious as
outside garments, but I persuaded them that they could—and
ought. These sold for a high price—between
thirty and forty dollars apiece!

The fair was a great success, more than thirty
thousand dollars being raised. The work for the
Cretans involved many meetings. Money was raised
by lectures and in other ways. A poster in one of the
theaters announcing a performance for their benefit
drew this comment from a passer-by:

“The Cretans? Who in h—l are the Cretans?”

In spite of the splendid struggle made by the brave
inhabitants of the island, they were at last obliged
to go back under barbarian rule. But it was only for
a time. My father did not live to see Crete freed,
but we, the children of the Philhellene, rejoiced and
were exceeding glad when the hated Mohammedan
yoke was thrown off.
// 218.png
.pn +1

The Cretan episode had one very unexpected result.
Among my father’s helpers in Athens was a
young Greek, Michael Anagnostopoulos. When he
was asked what payment he desired for his services,
he replied:

“What do you receive for yours, Doctor Howe?”

“Nothing,” said my father.

“Neither do I wish to be paid,” the young Greek
answered. But he <i>did</i> want to see America!

He returned with the family to Boston, where,
after mastering the difficulties of the English language,
he became Doctor Howe’s assistant at the
Institution for the Blind. In the year 1870 he married
sister Julia, succeeding to the directorship after
my father’s death in 1876.

We were all made happy by the purchase of No.
32 Mount Vernon Street, soon after the return
of the family from Europe. This residence, on the
top of Beacon Hill, was spacious and pleasant.

The preceding owner was a maiden lady with a
great fondness for cats. They were not included
in the bill of sale, but hung about the place. Cats
seemed to be our fate!

As I had not fully recovered my strength, a room
on the ground floor was allotted to me, so that I
need not climb the stairs. A furnace burning wood
was put into the house as being more wholesome than
anthracite coal.

Once or twice I heard a friendly tap on the window-pane,
and opened the door to admit brother
Harry, who had forgotten his latch-key. From the
lapel of his dress-coat gleamed many favors, tokens
// 219.png
.pn +1
of the mimic victories of the german. For he was
a good dancer and a favorite in society.

Fifty years later, when the John Fritz gold medal
was presented to him, at a meeting of the United Engineering
Societies held in his honor, I again saw
stars shining upon his breast, the tokens not of mimic,
but of real victories. For brother Harry has won
golden opinions by his strenuous work, and many
honors, from foreign countries as well as from England
and America, have been bestowed on him. Yet
he has taken them all with a modesty that disarms
envy.

In 1869 he graduated from Harvard College.
His class day was an event in the family, especially
for sister Laura, who was then at the right age—nineteen—to
enjoy the festival fully. Various desperate
swains attended her on that day and made love
to her amid the classic shades of the old Harvard
Yard. She was a pretty, perhaps a beautiful girl,
with a sweetness and freshness of disposition delightful
to behold. Though clever and witty, she was too
amiable to say sharp things. Hence great was the
number of her admirers.

I had now assumed the cares of the family housekeeping,
as well as a certain supervision over the
clothes of the younger sisters. Sister Julia was not
interested in these things. It must be regretfully admitted
that under my sway plain living was too much
accentuated. Finding a diet of prunes and toast for
supper (dinner was still at two o’clock) monotonous
and uninteresting, the family rebelled and declared
they must have a more generous and varied bill of
// 220.png
.pn +1
fare. Even my father questioned whether, in view
of my natural tendencies to economy, it might have
been a mistake to teach me bookkeeping! I do not
think this was his real opinion, however. During one
of my absences from home he wrote that he missed
me as the regulating clock of the establishment. The
high prices which continued to prevail long after the
end of the Civil War made prudence in expenditure
necessary for people of moderate income. I kept the
family accounts, the central figure from whom we received
funds, and who was supposed to demand an
exact accounting of all moneys given out, being put
down as “The House.” My father once jokingly
exclaimed, “Who <i>is</i> House? Every one seems to be
against him!”

He was now requested to take part in a new enterprise
which deeply interested him. The Republic of
Santo Domingo having asked to be annexed to the
United States, President Grant appointed Hon. Benjamin
F. Wade, of Ohio, Hon. Andrew D. White,
and my father as commissioners to visit the island and
investigate the conditions there.

They sailed in the steamer <i>Tennessee</i>, after warning
us that we must not be alarmed if no news was
received from them for a month. Nevertheless, it
was difficult to avoid worry when sensational stories
appeared in the newspapers about the supposed foundering
of the <i>Tennessee</i>. The wife of Andrew D.
White suffered such anxiety that her hair turned
white!

With the assistance of a corps of scientific observers,
they made a careful investigation of conditions
// 221.png
.pn +1
in the little republic and wrote a report heartily
favoring annexation. I’m sorry to say that Charles
Sumner, misled by designing people, made a speech
in the Senate strongly opposing it, before this report
had been presented. Others attacked it and the measure
failed. Thus Grant’s plan of gaining a foothold
in the tropics was for the moment defeated.

My father still hoped that something might be done
for Santo Domingo through private enterprise. During
his last visit to the island news came of the death
of Charles Sumner. My father was deeply grieved,
for in spite of the difference of opinion about Santo
Domingo the old friendship remained unbroken.

To each of the Howe daughters, and I think to the
Longfellow daughters also, Charles Sumner left a
legacy of five hundred dollars. He also bequeathed
his fine collection of bronzes to my father and Mr.
Longfellow. Mother and sister Maud met the poet
and made the division. Sister Maud complained
afterward that our mother <i>would</i> choose first some
piece that she especially fancied, instead of selecting
the largest and most valuable articles. Sister Maud
was still in her teens!

The older three Howe sisters were all married
within a twelvemonth, sister Julia choosing the thirtieth
day of December, 1870, in order that she might
begin the new life with the new year. She was married
at home. Sister Laura’s wedding took place at
the Church of the Disciples, on the 17th of June.
We had forgotten that the procession of Bunker Hill
Day might interfere with the going to and from the
church. It did cause some delay.
// 222.png
.pn +1

My marriage took place at No. 32 Mount Vernon
Street, in November, 1871. All three of us had simple
weddings, followed by pleasant, informal receptions.
We had no bridesmaids. Several of sister
Laura’s disappointed lovers went off on an excursion
together, instead of attending the ceremony.

She and her husband went to Europe on their wedding-tour,
visiting Greece, Constantinople, Italy and
other countries.

Brother Harry graduated from the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology, at the head of his class, leaving
Boston during this same fateful year 1871. Our
parents were thus left with only one out of the five
children—sister Maud—but she was a host in herself,
while their many interests and many friends acted as
a cheerful counter-irritant to loneliness.

Brother Harry married, in April, 1874, Miss Fannie
Gay, daughter of Willard Gay, Esq., of Troy,
New York. The wedding was in church, a handsome
reception following it.
// 223.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch15
XV||<s>MARRIED LIFE IN NEW JERSEY</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Nursery Days.—The Family of a New Jersey Commuter.—Sorrows
of the Country Housekeeper.—Death of My
Father.—A Memorial Meeting.—The Story of Sister Constance.—A
Division of Heirlooms.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
THE first six years of our married life were spent
in New York City. Here we shared with my
husband’s brother, Rowland Minturn Hall, and his
two sisters, Elizabeth Prescott Hall and Frances Minturn
Hall, the family home at No. 208 Second Avenue.

During this period our three older children were
born, hence my time was much occupied with them.
As my husband cared little for society, our life was
extremely quiet, our social gaieties being for the most
part confined to a pleasant family circle.

Our eldest son, Samuel Prescott, was born at
“Green Peace,” South Boston.

My mother thus recorded the event in her journal:

.pm letter-start
<i>September 13</i>.—Before I open even my New Testament to-day
I must make record of the joyful birth of Flossy’s little
son, which took place soon after 1 A.M.... The boy is a handsome
infant.... I quieted him until 5 A.M., when I slept two
hours. God bless this dear little child. May he bring new
peace and love to the house where he comes a little too soon
for convenience—I mean for his uncle and aunts Hall. His
father and mother will bless God for him, as I do.
.pm letter-end
// 224.png
.pn +1

When I heard the baby’s first cry it seemed to me
the sweetest music to which I had ever listened. The
nurse had formerly been a Shaker, and soothed the
child with quaint melodies of that sect.

.pm verse-start
He hears the ravens when they cry,
He clothes the shining mead,
And shall He not my wants supply
With everything I need?
.pm verse-end

The air was old, having little quavers savoring of the
“tie-wig” period. Sammy was a nervous child and
required much quieting. He took his daily nap out
of doors, winter and summer. He was the first
grandson, sister Laura’s first child, born a month or
two before, being a daughter.

We named him for the two families, Samuel after
my father, and Prescott for my husband’s great-grandmother,
Elizabeth Prescott, wife of the Rev.
David Hall. She was descended from the Rev. Peter
Bulkley, the founder of Concord, Massachusetts, and
the lineal descendant of stout old Baron Bulkley, one
of the men who wrested Magna Charta from King
John and thus laid the foundations of the liberties of
England and America.

Samuel Prescott, my husband’s great-greatuncle,
accompanied Paul Revere on his famous ride. It
must be confessed, however, that his errand was in
part, at least, one of sentiment, as he was going to see
his sweetheart in Concord. When Paul Revere was
captured, Prescott escaped and carried the news of
the coming of the British to Concord. His name is
duly inscribed on one of the sign-posts which indicate
// 225.png
.pn +1
to the passer-by all the historic spots of the ancient
town. I dislike this excess of labeling which leaves
nothing to the imagination.

When I told my father that we should name our
boy for him, substituting Prescott for Gridley because
the latter was such an ugly name, he replied very
quietly that it belonged to a good old New England
family. Boasting about one’s ancestry was so repugnant
to him that he did not think proper to tell us
that Richard Gridley had been a distinguished engineer
during the Revolution, while Samuel, his grandfather
and namesake, had served as captain in the
former’s artillery regiment.

Many times have I regretted not giving my son his
grandfather’s full name. He has atoned for my
failure to do so by calling <i>his</i> son “Samuel Gridley.”

I had an excellent nurse to take care of the children,
but the youngest always slept in our room.
With Sam we had some terrible moments, owing to
our extreme zeal in tucking him up. As he disliked
the process, he often waked up and gave tongue. One
night my husband grew so desperate that he proposed
taking the baby down to the dining-room, two flights
below, and allowing him to cry until he was tired!
In reality, he was a most affectionate parent, but this
wild utterance relieved his feelings!

I did groan sometimes about the loss of sleep. I
remember with a blush that I foolishly made a complaint
to a kinswoman of my husband’s, wife of the
Mr. Grinnell who financed the Arctic Expedition.
She was a calm, elderly lady who had borne nine
// 226.png
.pn +1
children. It is to be feared that she thought David
Hall’s wife was a grumbling young woman!

At the time of our marriage my husband and I
were not aware of any relationship existing between
us. Some years later old General Greene, a devoted
genealogist, proved to us that a distant kinsmanship
existed through the Greenes. People of Rhode Island
descent almost inevitably have ancestors belonging to
this family. Like the Legion of Honor, it is hard to
escape from.

We had, also, a number of mutual relations, for
two of his aunts, the Misses Eliza and Maria Hall,
had married two of my greatuncles, Henry and William
Ward. Evidently the families possessed mutual
attraction. This did not prevent the two clans from
taking a high attitude of impartial criticism each
toward the other. I found, to my surprise, the traits
which we had supposed to be Hall—and which we
mildly criticized, were, on the contrary, Ward. They
had been acquired by the Halls on their marriage with
the latter family, so I was told!

These mutual relatives welcomed me very kindly
to New York. Just across the way lived two cousins,
Mr. and Mrs. Charles H. Ward, to whom we were
much attached. Cousin Mary was only related to us
by marriage, but her husband’s relatives were delighted
to adopt her as their own. To her joyous and
generous soul it was a great pleasure to make other
people happy. In her youth she had had so many admirers
that it was jokingly said she had gone through
the alphabet and stopped at “W” because that was as
far as she could go! One young man fell so much in
// 227.png
.pn +1
love with her that he disguised himself as a gardener
and entered her father’s employ.

The most intimate friend of my girlhood, Louise
Darling, had preceded me to New York. She had
entered the Protestant Episcopal Sisterhood of Saint
Mary, and was now Sister Constance. Her friends
and parents had in vain remonstrated against this step.
Yet we might have seen that it was in accord with
her natural bent of mind. Brought up as a Unitarian,
she had always been very devout, and while still very
young had contemplated becoming a missionary. Not
long after leaving school she became a convert to the
Episcopal faith, devoting herself enthusiastically to
church work.

When she entered the convent her heavy, beautiful
blond hair was all cut off, for St. Mary’s is a High
Church sisterhood. In her girdle of black rope were
tied three knots, representing the three vows of poverty,
chastity and obedience. The late Rev. Morgan
Dix, at that time a single man, was the Father Confessor
of the establishment. I never could understand
by what process of logic he could reconcile his
encouragement of celibacy in such a young, enthusiastic
woman as my friend, with his own later entrance
into matrimony. Perhaps he changed his mind—but
Sister Constance had taken the vows!

The sisterhood did not spend all their time in devotional
exercises, but engaged also in good works.
Sister Constance painted religious pictures and taught
in the school. She seemed entirely happy in her new
life. I went to see her whenever I could, but she
could not call upon us—or she thought she could not.
// 228.png
.pn +1
She was one of those persons who carry out thoroughly
whatever they had undertaken.

After our marriage Uncle Richard Ward kindly
invited us to come and live with him. Although we
did not accept the offer, it was gratifying.

The furniture and effects of No. 8 Bond Street
belonged to Uncle John Ward, who had died some
years before. On the death of Uncle Richard they
were divided among the eight heirs of the former.
The uncles had occupied the roomy, old-fashioned
house for many years. Not only their own possessions,
but those of their relatives, had accumulated.
Furniture, busts and pictures which were not wanted
for the moment were left under the hospitable care
of Uncle John. The result was a perfect maze of possessions,
some of them belonging to the estate of my
grandfather, who had died thirty-five years before,
some to Aunt Louisa Terry, who was living in Rome.

What we should have done without my mother I do
not know. Her excellent memory gave us the history
of each doubtful piece. That set of furniture was
bought by Grandfather Ward when Uncle Sam married
Emily Astor and the young couple came to live
with him at the corner house. Those pictures belonged
to grandfather’s gallery; the Copley portraits
of our ancestors had been purchased by Uncle John.
The other heirs wisely left these details to her judgment.
The main division took a little time, but was
accomplished without much difficulty. The heirs or
their representatives had several meetings and chose
what they wanted. My aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who was
living in California, gave her share as a weddingpresent
// 229.png
.pn +1
to her three married Howe nieces, Julia, Florence,
and Laura. Hence I attended the meetings, as
representing one of the eight heirs.

The other heirs, the main business over, departed
with light hearts. It was left for Cousin John Ward
and me to attend to the final details. Days and weeks
passed over our devoted heads and found us still at
our task. A faithful old retainer lived in the house
and aided us in our work.

I noticed one singular fact—articles of furniture
which no one wanted in the division assumed a priceless
value when they were gone beyond recall. Did
Cousin John and I, in solemn conclave, agree to sell,
for the benefit of the eight heirs, a mahogany bedstead,
then every one regretted our rash act.

Over Aunt Phebe’s knitting we pondered long and
earnestly. It was a half-finished stocking and the
wool was moth-eaten, for Greataunt Phebe had been
dead for years. We decided to run the risk of sacrilege
and destroy it. When Cousin John counted the
great piles of plates he shut his eyes, saying it was
easier for him to count in that way.

A death-mask found in the attic was hard to identify.
When Uncle Sam called at No. 8 Bond Street,
it was shown to him. “That is Maddie’s mother,” he
said. I was grieved to have asked unwittingly such
a painful question, for Maddie’s mother was his first
wife, Emily Astor, who had died many years before.
“Maddie” was their daughter, Margaret Astor Ward,
afterward Mrs. Winthrop Chanler. Uncle Sam’s phrasing
of his answer showed his tact and desire to avoid
making me feel I had committed a stupid blunder.
// 230.png
.pn +1

My aunt’s present to us was a handsome one, even
a third of an eighth representing quite a share of
silver, furniture, etc. I also figured as a sort of
residuary legatee, the heirs making me a number of
presents ranging from a great mahogany bedstead
down to small domestic articles of furniture. Hence
I was well repaid for the trouble involved.

My father still walked with a light, quick step and
maintained his gallant bearing till he was seventy-two
years old. Soon afterward his health began to
fail, but in spite of pain and weakness he kept at work.
In 1874 he wrote a brief report of his life-work for
the blind, of which it has been said:

“Were there no other monument to his memory,
this would suffice.”

He still enjoyed his favorite exercise, riding on
horseback, and took great pleasure in his grandchildren.
In spite of his extremely busy life he had always
found time to write to his children—were it
only a few affectionate lines. Two notes to sister
Julia lie before me.

.pm letter-start
.rj 2
<sc>Continental, Philadelphia</sc>,
<i>April 13, Sunday</i>.

<sc>Darling Dudie</sc>,—Journeying homeward from Washington I
was obliged to lie over here by sick headache, which, however,
is passing away.

I have seen dear Sumner, who lies stranded for life I fear—a
magnificent but mournful wreck.

Washington is looking beautifully in the full bloom of
spring. It is not cheering to leave it for the cold and still
wintry north, except when one thinks of the sunlight of dear
faces and the warmth of loving hearts.

Love to Michael.
.rj
<sc>Papa.</sc>
.pm letter-end
// 231.png
.pn +1

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>Glen</sc>, <i>Sunday, Sept. 7th, ’73</i>.
<sc>Darling Dudie</sc>,—Already I miss your sweet company and
genial sympathy very much.

Mamma and I had the most charming and felicitous journey
down that is conceivable....

The peace and quiet, however, is sadly broken in upon to-day,
and the confusion half-crazes me. Besides our immediate
three selves there are the two dear mothers[#] and two dear
babies; and two nurses and Zalinski and Maud Parks and
Girlie [?] Blackler, three men, two women and Pad [Miss
Paddock]—nineteen, all told!

The day is delicious indeed. I have taken both babies to ride
on horseback, and enjoyed their sweet enjoyment.

Laura and some of them have been to see Parker Lawton and
carried to him fruit and flowers.

I sent also a basket this afternoon to your old protégée Miss
Taggart.

Dear love to the ascetic Epirote and to all friends and the
residuary legatee of all my affections.
.rj
<sc>Papa.</sc>
.pm letter-end

When he died in January, 1876, beautiful tributes
were paid to his memory by all sorts and conditions
of men—from the Governor and Legislature down to
the feeble-minded children whom he had brought into
the human fold. A great memorial meeting was held
in his honor, where Laura Bridgman, with her pale,
sorrow-stricken face, was “the silent orator of the
occasion.”

Her health was seriously affected by my father’s
death, as was also that of sister Julia.

.pm fn-start // 1
Sister Laura and I.
.pm fn-end

From the poem of Oliver Wendell Holmes, I quote
a few verses:

.pm verse-start
How long the wreck-strewn journey seems
  To reach the far-off past
That woke his youth from peaceful dreams
  With Freedom’s trumpet-blast!
// 232.png
.pn +1

Along her classic hillsides rung
  The Paynims’ battle-cry,
And like a red-cross knight he sprung
  For her to live or die.

No trustier service claimed the wreath
  For Sparta’s bravest son;
No truer soldier sleeps beneath
  The mould of Marathon.
.pm verse-end

Edward Everett Hale said, in part:

.pm letter-start
You ask for his epitaph. It is a very simple epitaph. He
found idiots chattering, taunted, and ridiculed by each village
fool, and he left them cheerful and happy. He found the
insane shut up in their wretched cells, miserable, starving, cold,
and dying, and he left them happy, hopeful, and brave. He
found the blind sitting in darkness and he left them glad in
the sunshine of the love of God.
.pm letter-end

The simplest tribute of all came from the poor
children to whose minds he had brought light.

“They say Doctor Howe will take care of the blind
in heaven. Won’t he take care of us, too?”

On receiving my mother’s Memoir of her husband,
Florence Nightingale wrote as follows:

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>London</sc>, <i>June 7, ’77</i>.

<sc>Dear Mrs. Howe</sc>,—It is like a breath from Heaven to one’s
overworked and well-nigh overwhelmed mind, your Memoir of
one of the best and greatest men of our age, and your remembrance.

You have shown his many-sided life as known to few. You
have shown in him a rarer and more fruitful man than even
we, who had known and loved him for so long, knew.

What has been a revealing to us of him will be even more
so for the crowd of your readers who knew him but by the
// 233.png
.pn +1
dramatic Greek life: and by his work among the blind, deaf
mutes and idiots. No one will know him quite till after you
have been read. That is the privilege of your community
with him—with his unconsciously heroic life. A great duty
has been fulfilled in making known his sympathy for every
kind of misfortune,—his love of helping humanity, so to speak,
ancient and modern,—his generous and persevering devotion to
right,—his noble horror of helpless pity,—his indomitable faith
in progress; thanks to you.

And how little he thought of reputation! That was the
noblest thing of all.

The pressure of ever-increasing illness and business—how
little I thought to survive him—makes it difficult for me to
write one unnecessary line. Our common friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Bracebridge, Dr. Fowler, and how many others, are all
gone before us.

In their names and in his name I bid with all my heart,
.ti +10
Fare you very well,
.ti +15
<sc>Florence Nightingale.</sc>
.pm letter-end

On the anniversary of my birth, our only daughter,
Caroline Minturn Hall, was born at Portsmouth, near
Newport, Rhode Island. One of her pictures exhibited
at the Paris Salon shows the beloved landscape
of “Oak Glen,” which adjoins her birthplace.

When our second son, Henry Marion Hall, was
born, we moved to the country, in order to give our
three children greater liberty and more fresh air than
they could enjoy in the city. For fifteen years we
lived in Scotch Plains, a pretty, quaint old New Jersey
town lying at the foot of the Watchung Mountains.
The countryside in 1878 was still in a primitive
condition. Scotch Plains was almost destitute
of “modern conveniences,” the gods of the servant-girl.
A delusive bath-tub appeared very effective until
// 234.png
.pn +1
you found that it was necessary to drag all the hot
water up-stairs. We had a series of pumps indoors
and out, but no set wash-tubs.

There was neither gas, electricity, nor steam heat.
We burned kerosene-oil and my husband wrestled
with the hot-air furnace, which required such devotion
that he christened it his black wife.

Gradually all these things were improved, by persistent
effort. Our landlord, young Doctor Coles,
was our good friend, whom we persuaded to make
many improvements. But in the beginning housekeeping
was very difficult. Cooks looked upon us
with an unfavorable eye, especially as there was no
Roman Catholic Church in the town.

My visits to the intelligence office were frequent
and plaintive. Our neighbor, Mr. B——, grew desperate
over the situation. When he was asked the
searching question, “How many in fam’ly, sir?” he
replied: “Seven children. But I will make away
with some of them if you think that is too many!”

Some of our adventures were very funny—in the
retrospect. One green cook was much disturbed in
mind about the asparagus. She could not wait for my
promised help, but prepared the vegetable by neatly
whittling off the tops. Great was the grief of our children,
as this was the first asparagus of the season.

Another cook of an ingenious turn of mind saved
herself the trouble of going down one flight of stairs
to fill her bedroom pitcher by immersing it in the
tank in the attic. My husband could not understand
why it took comparatively few strokes of the pump
to fill the tank—which soon became empty again.
// 235.png
.pn +1

One night our little daughter was disturbed by plaster
falling on her face as she lay in bed. A glance at
the ceiling revealed the cause. The stalwart foot and
leg of the cook protruded from it! In going to dip
her pitcher into the tank she had unwarily deviated
from the narrow pathway which led to it, putting her
foot through the unprotected lath and plaster!

Perhaps the most singular Irish bull was that of
the functionary who had been directed to make the
sandwiches “half jelly and half mutton.” When we
were well started on our travels we tasted the luncheon.
It was horribly queer. Suddenly the truth
flashed upon me! The literal-minded cook had combined
these warring materials in every sandwich!

The mistress made some mistakes as well as the
cook. Seeing a material of the color of the gingerbread
often made in New England, I unhesitatingly
mixed it with the batter. When the supposititious
gingerbread came on the table it was very heavy and
quite uneatable. Something must have been wrong
with the oven! The next time I began to make gingerbread
the cook caught my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Hall!
Don’t put that in! <i>That’s mustard.</i>” My family
were mercilessly merry over this mistake.

I described the misadventure in <i>Demorest’s Magazine</i>,
receiving five dollars for the article. Thus every
time any one poked fun at me about the mustard
gingerbread I countered with the five dollars! Better
still, by persistent efforts I learned—from Marion
Harland’s excellent receipt-book—to make gingerbread
that appeared seraphic to my children.

When my husband once heartlessly observed that
// 236.png
.pn +1
our sons could never twit their wives with mother’s
cooking, a chorus went around the table, “Oh, but
Mamma makes such lovely gingerbread!” And so I
was honorably avenged.

Fortunately we had a tower of strength in the children’s
faithful nurse, Mary Thompson. When cooks
periodically failed us she valiantly walked into the
kitchen and did their work, as well as her own.

It must be confessed that Mary did not get along
very well with the various cooks. She was greatly
their superior in intelligence and character, as she
well knew. Hence she did not always take enough
pains to be agreeable to the reigning queen of the
kitchen. One woman complained to me of this.
“There we sit at table like two dumb <i>brutes</i>!” she
indignantly remarked.

In spite of all the troubles and trials of suburban
life my husband and I greatly enjoyed having a
house of our own.

I was very anxious that my old friend, Sister Constance,
should visit us during her summer vacation.
She was at this time established at the head of a
branch sisterhood in Memphis, Tennessee. Her parents
had unavailingly remonstrated with the authorities
over this change of domicile, for a Southern
climate did not agree with her.

In reply to my letter of invitation, she wrote me
she was so tired that it was an effort to get up and
walk across the room! A violent epidemic of yellow
fever suddenly broke out in her home district. Exhausted
as she was, she did not hesitate, but returned
at once to the post of duty. In ten days she was dead!
// 237.png
.pn +1

When she lay dying they asked if she was ready
to go. “Aye, glad!” she replied. So died, at the age
of thirty-two, a woman who gave her life for her
people as truly and as nobly as any hero of the
modern war!

I have always blamed the Mother Superior for permitting
this useless sacrifice. It was self-evident that
in Sister Constance’s exhausted condition she would
at once fall a prey to the dreaded scourge. She
should have been detained at the North long enough to
recruit her strength before exposing her to an ordeal
for which she was physically unfit.
// 238.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch16
XVI||<s>RECONSTRUCTING A NEW JERSEY VILLAGE</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>The Mutual Admiration Society of Scotch Plains.—My Husband
Becomes a Leader in Local Politics and Activities.—The
Passing of the Mossbacks.—How We Gained a Public
Library, a New School-house and a New Truck-house.—An
Overseer of the Poor with Peculiar Methods.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
DURING the summer of 1878 we tried the experiment
of remaining in New Jersey. We
never repeated it. The heat, especially in the eastern
and inland part of the state, is much greater than that
of New England. Miss Emily Coles, the sister of
our landlord, desiring to do something pleasant for
us, arranged a festivity in honor of my birthday.
The event of the evening was the reading of tributes
to my various excellent qualities, real or imaginary.
These were neatly written on fancy cards adorned
with pictures. As Miss Coles read each one, she gave
the name of some lady or gentleman present. At first
this puzzled me, for the guests looked very quiet and
thoughtful—not in the least enthusiastic over my virtues.
When Miss Coles handed me the basket with
the cards the secret was revealed. She had written
all the cards herself—and, in order to avoid monotony,
had attributed the quotations to the Baptist
dominie and the rest of the company. This was a
meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society of the
// 239.png
.pn +1
place—which existed, I fancy, chiefly in the fertile
brain of our good friend Miss Coles.

We invited our neighbors to informal entertainments,
without any mention of admiration to be
either received or given. The refreshments were
simple and appropriate to a small country place where
ice-cream was not indigenous. Our friends came, and
I learned later that people were glad to have us set
an example of simplicity in entertainment.

During our first years in New Jersey I was principally
occupied with household and nursery cares.
My husband soon began to interest himself in the life
of the little town. A few years before we came there
the managers of the local railroad (the New Jersey
Central) wished to move it nearer to Scotch Plains.
But certain property-owners, thinking they had the
railroad at their mercy, named an unreasonable price
for their land. The managers, finding they could
make a better bargain elsewhere, moved the railroad
farther away, leaving Scotch Plains more than a mile
from the new station.

It was governed by a triumvirate who gathered
around the stove in the principal grocery-store. They
were all hide-bound conservatives, not to say moss-backs.
Their party—the Democratic—ruled the
town. A witty friend of ours remarked that you
could not do anything with a New Jersey town until
the outlanders outnumbered the native inhabitants.

My husband was a Republican of the most ardent
type. He was also very public-spirited and soon became
the leader of those who wanted to see things
done in the village. Before long the Democratic majority
// 240.png
.pn +1
was definitely lost and a Republican one took
its place.

There was no fire-engine in the town. One of the
triumvirate could not see the necessity of having any.
“Insure your house, and if it catches fire let it burn
down.” It did not occur to him that if every one
followed this sweet and simple creed the insurance
companies would become bankrupt.

My husband was made president of the volunteer
fire company, and a campaign for improvement began.
The neighboring town of Plainfield was younger but
much larger and more prosperous than our village.
Here there dwelt a hand fire-engine, old and retired,
but still capable of usefulness. Plainfield was persuaded
to lend this to us. It was burnished and polished
with enthusiasm, coming out almost like new.
Next a better building was needed to house it and the
fire-truck. Men who could not give money were
persuaded to give labor, and before long we had a
good building, with a large hall capable of holding
half the village on ceremonial occasions. True, it
housed the engine and truck—but these could be
wheeled out of doors in a trice and brought back at
the close of a performance. Many were the amateur
theatricals and the church fairs held in that
truck-house, for the town had sadly needed such a
hall.

It also needed a public library. My husband determined
to found one that should last. Mr. Andrew
Carnegie had not yet become the sponsor of such
institutions; outside of New England, they were apt
to fade away and die.
// 241.png
.pn +1

Mr. Hall’s first step was to get a law passed by the
Legislature making one thousand dollars sufficient
endowment for a free library. A large part of this
sum was raised by Miss Mary N. Mead, a lovely and
unselfish young woman living near the village with
her sister, Mrs. Augustus D. Shepard. Another
sister was the wife of William Dean Howells. Miss
Mead’s enthusiasm and personal charm enabled her
to raise money where other people failed. She knew
the funds were there, though to get them out resembled
the task of Moses when he drew water from the
rock.

In the new building of the fire company were
several upper rooms used for their occasional meetings.
Mr. Hall had the brilliant idea of installing
the library here, at a nominal rent of one dollar a
year, the trustees to carpet and furnish the rooms as
a <i>quid pro quo</i>. The fire company generously entered
into the plan, and the library was formally opened
with amateur theatricals by the school children of the
village. We had discovered, early in our residence in
Scotch Plains, that the way to reach the parents was
through their boys and girls. I wrote the little play
which went off very successfully. The library was
proudly thrown open for the inspection of the public.
Magazines were provided for the reading-room, with
games in the small rooms set apart for the children.

Among the obstacles we had to encounter was the
opposition of a worthy lady who disapproved of
public libraries because she feared some of the books
might be objectionable. She had a long talk with my
mother and me in which she freed her mind as to the
// 242.png
.pn +1
iniquity of the theater, and expressed her grave
doubts about the proposed library. “The works of
Swedenborg might be placed there,” she declared! I
doubt whether she had ever read any of the works
of the famous mystic, but she fancied something must
be wrong with him. She doubtless knew that his
writings are sent free to any library desiring them.

The library once established, she sent tracts to it,
but these Mr. Hall firmly refused to place on the
tables.

In selecting the trustees he took great pains that all
cliques and sets of the little place should be represented,
no one being given an overwhelming preponderance.
He drew up the constitution making the
governing body a close corporation, with the thought
of perpetuating this balance of parties.

The little library had distinguished friends. Mr.
Howells sent boxes of books from time to time, while
Mrs. Elliott F. Shepard, sister-in-law of <i>our</i> Mr.
Shepard (Augustus D.), contributed liberally. But,
best of all, the people of the village, both rich and
poor, became interested in it, and adopted it as their
own. Many were the fairs given to raise money for
it. It has passed through various vicissitudes, but
was still living and flourishing at last accounts.

I have said that my husband served as trustee of
the public library, president of the truck (fire) company,
overseer of the poor and vestryman of All
Souls’ Church. He was soon called upon to fill so
many honorable but unremunerative offices that we
called him “Pooh Bah.” Thus he became a school
trustee and a member of the town committee of three.
// 243.png
.pn +1
The affairs of the village were managed by this body.
The school-house had grown old in service, so that a
new one was badly needed. Between the floors lived
rats, for which the boys fished through the cracks.

As our sons attended this school in their early years,
we sadly realized its deficiencies. My husband determined
that there should be a new one. The people
of means in the village sent their children to private
schools elsewhere; some had none to send. Hence
most of them were inclined to oppose the erection of
a new building, as it would increase their taxes without
being of any personal benefit to them. The moss-back
faction murmured mechanically their shibboleth,
“What was good enough for our fathers is good
enough for us.” The project was at first defeated.
Then my husband “got mad” and made things move.

A law had recently been enacted in New Jersey
empowering women to vote at school meetings. Mr.
Hall determined to fall back on this, should other
means fail. On the fateful evening a number of
women were gathered in our parlors, ready to march
over to the neighboring school-house and vote,
should our ballots be needed. A pretty young married
woman said, “Oh, I’m so afraid!” I myself was
not at all frightened, neither do I think the others
were.

After a time my husband entered, triumphant! He
and his friends had carried the day—the new school-house
was won and our votes had not been needed.
He had a wonderful power of enthusiasm which,
combined with hard work, enabled him to carry out
many projects.
// 244.png
.pn +1

The little town of Scotch Plains won not only a
new, but a beautiful school building. Through the
good offices of Mr. Augustus D. Shepard, brother-in-law
of William Rutherford Mead, the firm of
McKim, Mead & White consented to erect this at a
low price. My husband and the other trustees gave
the most careful attention to all the details, in order
that the school might be as convenient, yet as inexpensive,
as possible. I believe he enjoyed the laying
of every brick!

Since we women had not actually attended the
meeting which decided the fate of the school-house, it
was thought well that our initial entrance upon the
educational and political arena should be at an election
that did not promise to stir up excitement. Accordingly
three or four of us attended the meeting in
March of the following year and voted peaceably on
all questions.

A magic change took place on that day! At previous
school meetings peanut shells and other débris
had been scattered about the floor, and the electors
had mistaken the ink-wells in the children’s desks for
cuspidors! It had always been necessary to close the
school for a day in order to clear up after the “illicthors.”
Behold, on the coming of the women neatness
and order reigned. Next day school kept as
usual.

The overseer of the poor in our little village was
in his private capacity a landlord. A certain family
failing to pay their rent, he turned them out of doors
in the middle of winter. They camped out on a
piazza until they could find other quarters. My husband
// 245.png
.pn +1
was so indignant that at the next election he
ran for the office, and was duly elected. Quite a
little work but no salary was attached to it. The
four dollars which he received were presumably for
expenses.

His friends amused themselves with guying the
new overseer of the poor by sending tramps to call
on him. I remember only one real pauper with whom
he had to deal—a respectable old woman no longer
able to maintain herself. There was outside aid to be
given, notably to the family of a man in jail.

At the instigation of the owner, a woman, he had
set fire to her house, and was caught in the act. When
the trial came she had her children in court, and was
let off. S—— had children, also, but they were at
home. Hence he was sent to prison. He no doubt
deserved it, but, as the civil authorities made no provision
for the maintenance of his family, they had a
hard time to get along. We realized the terrible
injustice of taking away the breadwinner and expecting
his wretched wife and children to care for themselves
without outside assistance.

There were, when we came to Scotch Plains, a
Baptist and a Methodist church, and a struggling little
Episcopal mission. My husband and I decided to
throw in our fortunes with the last named. We liked
the clergyman in charge, Rev. Charles L. Sykes, very
much, and we both had a tendency to take the part
of the under dog. Mr. Sykes’ talents qualified him
to occupy a more important position, but clergyman’s
sore throat obliged him to choose a small cure. He
was one of the most devout men that I have ever
// 246.png
.pn +1
known. He did not read nor recite prayers, like most
ministers. When he prayed we felt that his soul was
lifted up to God. His wife was a woman of ability,
cheery and courageous; we soon became great friends.

When the mission services were temporarily discontinued,
we invited Mr. Sykes to deliver a series of
parlor lectures. Miss Mead and I arranged the
course, our friends and neighbors subscribing and
giving their parlors. We were only able to give a
small fee for the talks, but Mr. and Mrs. Sykes were
so fond of literature that the preparation of the lectures
was a labor of love. By and by a pretty little
stone church was built for the mission. Unfortunately,
the expense of the building was greater than
the small congregation could afford, and for years
there was a desperate struggle with a debt, which was
finally paid off. My husband was too wise to advise
this injudicious outlay, but he served for some years
as a vestryman.

The sister who had been my mate and dear companion
from early childhood, Julia Romana Anagnos,
died of typhoid fever in March, 1886.

The Metaphysical Club, of which she was the
founder and president, published a little volume containing
the tributes to her memory. The following
verses are by Dr. T. W. Parsons.

GIULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS

.pm verse-start
Giulia Romana! how thy trembling beauty,
  That oft would shudder at one breath of praise,
Comes back to me! before the trump of duty
  Had marshalled thee in life’s laborious ways.
// 247.png
.pn +1

We used to wonder at thy blush in hearing
 Thy parents praised. We now know what it meant:
A consciousness of their gifts reappearing
  Perchance, in thine—to consummation blent.
.pm verse-end
.tb
.pm verse-start
Oh, she was beautiful, beyond all magic
  Of sculptor’s hand, or pencil to portray!
Something angelical, divinely tragic,
  Tempered the smile that round her lips would play.

Dear first born daughter of a hero’s heart!
  Pass to perfection, all but perfect here!
We weep not much, remembering where thou art,
  Yet, child of Poesy! receive a tear.

<sc>T. W. Parsons.</sc>
.pm verse-end

Some nine months after the death of sister Julia
I was attacked with rheumatic fever. It did not,
however, as in her case, turn into typhoid. My
mother and husband were greatly alarmed, especially
as Gen. John A. Logan died of the same disease, during
my illness. In the midst of her distress my mother
had a strange feeling that she could save my life by
an effort of will. She did not content herself with
praying only, but strongly opposed the administration
of narcotics which the nurse in attendance was
only too ready to give me in order that she herself
might sleep. My mother determined that I should
no longer be dosed with these. She sat by my bedside
one night till the small hours of the morning,
when I dropped off into a natural sleep. To her vigilance
I probably owe my life.

One morning while I lay very ill she went quietly
into my husband’s room, asking him to come down-stairs
at once. He went immediately and found the
// 248.png
.pn +1
kitchen on fire, the Irish servant-women in a panic
of alarm. Seeing at a glance the cause of the trouble,
he caught up the blazing student-lamp and hurled it
out into the snow. It was then an easy task for him
to scrape down the flames from the woodwork. All
this was done so quietly that I knew nothing of the
matter.

The physician who attended me was Dr. Abraham
Coles, the father of our landlord. He was an excellent
doctor and our very good friend. Doctor Coles
was an elderly man, large and heavy. He was still
handsome, with a wealth of hair that was almost
white. The winter of 1886–87 was a very severe one,
the ground covered with ice. Mother made a little
path to the gate with the poker. She noticed with
pleasure that Doctor Coles walked in her little poker
path.

She wrote many letters to my husband, as he attended
to some of her business affairs. In this correspondence
she chronicles with affectionate interest
the doings of the Hall family, telling us also of her
own proceedings.

.pm letter-start
.rj
<sc>Boston</sc>, <i>June 8th, ’93</i>.

<sc>My dear David—</sc>, ... I telegraphed you to-day to send
some flowers for me to the Players’ Club for my dear friend,
Edwin Booth. If you have not done this before receiving this
letter it will be too late, as the service will be at 9 <sc>A.M.</sc> to-morrow
in N. Y., the burial to be here, the same evening, I
suppose. You will send me the bill....
.pm letter-end

.pm letter-start
.rj 2
<sc>241 Beacon St., Boston</sc>,
<i>June 8th, 1896</i>.

<sc>My dear David</sc>,—I will do my best to copy a verse of the
“Battle Hymn” to-day, but, oh! I write, every day, until I
// 249.png
.pn +1
fairly ache, and it is mostly, or in great part, for other people’s
pleasure or benefit. I shall write to dear Flossy as soon as
I can. Tell her for me that I heard pleasant things about our
dear Carrie from Mrs. Sally Whitman, recently returned from
a brief stay in Paris.
.ti +15
Always your affect.
.ti +20
<sc>Julia W. Howe</sc>.

P. S.—You see, I have done it.
.pm letter-end

The baby mentioned in the following letter was
our mother’s first great-grandchild, little Julia Ward
Howe Hall.

.pm letter-start
.rj 2
<sc>241 Beacon St.</sc>,
<i>June 16th, 1903</i>.

<sc>Dear David</sc>,— ... I saw your dear Harry last evening.
He seemed well—I thought him rather sober, as well he may
be, with a family to provide for. The Baby, not the less, is a
very welcome little creature, and it was a pleasant surprise
when, on my birthday, the little Mother laid the little daughter
on my lap. I returned on Sunday from a long visit in Gardiner.
Always
.ti +15
Your very affectionate
.ti +20
<sc>Julia Ward Howe</sc>.
.pm letter-end

In the following letter, we see my mother making
her annual pilgrimage to the State House to attend
the suffrage hearing.  Neither the bitter winter
weather nor the infirmities of age could restrain her
dauntless spirit.

.pm letter-start
.rj
<i>March 7th, 1905.</i>

<sc>My dear David</sc>,— ... Tell Flossy that I have passed the
morning at a State House hearing in behalf of a bill to have
the school committee here appointed by the Mayor, instead of
being elected by the people. I spoke against the bill, and hope
you would have done so in my place.
.pm letter-end
// 250.png
.pn +1

My husband was greatly delighted with my
mother’s <i>Reminiscences</i> and wrote her as follows:

.pm letter-start
.rj 2
<sc>31 Pine Street, New York</sc>,
<i>February 15th, 1901</i>.

<sc>Dear Mrs. Howe</sc>,—Though I was a long time getting to it,
when once I started in to read your <i>Reminiscences</i> I was obliged
to finish them at as nearly <i>one sitting</i> as the exigencies of the
“wrastle for hash” would permit.

I have not been so fascinated with any book since the old
days when as a boy I used to sit up half the night to finish
one of the Waverly Novels.

I had but two regrets when late last evening I read the
beautiful lines with which the book concludes:—the first that
there was not another volume, and the second that, charming
as it all is, it is after all such an inadequate presentation of the
life which is of such inexpressible value to us all. May I
add that I hope you will take better care of it than you have
recently been taking?
.ti +15
With best love
.ti +20
Ever very affectionately
.ti +25
<sc>D. P. Hall</sc>.
.pm letter-end
// 251.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch17
XVII||<s>“I TAKE MY PEN IN HAND”</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Following the Family Tradition.—“Demorest’s” and “Jennie
June.”—Marion Crawford and the Little Green Parlor.—Town
and Country Club.—Charles Dudley Warner.—How
I Came to Write About Manners.—Life of Laura Bridgman.—Helen
Keller at the Perkins Institution.—A Luncheon at
“Boothden,” the Home of Edwin Booth.—Joseph Jefferson
and William Warren.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
THE five children of our parents have all written
and published books. We have thus followed
their example and an hereditary impulse which made
writing an easy method of expression for us.

My father published a history of the Greek revolution
while he was still under thirty. Although essentially
a man of action, he was accustomed throughout
his long life to write reports, pamphlets and letters to
the newspapers—in a word, to elicit the interest and
good-will of his fellow-men in his work.

My mother is best known as the author of the
“Battle Hymn of the Republic,” but she also published
many volumes of verse and prose. In later
years she appealed much to the public, and especially
to her fellow-women.

Sister Julia wrote stories and verses from her
earliest childhood. She published a volume of poems,
// 252.png
.pn +1
entitled <i>Stray Chords</i>, and a little book, <i>Philosophicæ
Quæstor</i>, describing the Concord School of Philosophy.
Our mother considered this, her eldest daughter,
as the most talented of her children. Brother Harry
did not turn to literature until a later period in life.
His works, although primarily technical and scientific,
are thought to show a gift for literary expression.
The award of gold medals on both sides of the Atlantic
and of decorations by foreign governments was
doubtless won by lucidity of expression as well as
technical merit.

Sister Laura began to write rhymes for children
soon after her marriage. They were published in
<i>Saint Nicholas</i>, with illustrations by J. A. Mitchell,
afterward the editor of <i>Life</i>. Their merit and charm
were quickly recognized. She at once won the favor
of the public, and has held it ever since. <i>Captain
January</i> is the best known of her many books. She
is also the author of <i>Journals and Letters of Samuel
Gridley Howe</i> and, in collaboration with sister Maud,
of <i>Julia Ward Howe</i>. In the preparation of the last-named
book, I gave some assistance.

Sister Maud published novels and stories before
her marriage. Her later books, <i>Beata Roma</i>, <i>Two in
Italy</i>, etc., telling of her life and experience in the
Eternal City and elsewhere, have won a genuine success.

Thus when I began to think of adding a little to
our income, writing for the newspapers and magazines
seemed the easiest thing to do. We had now
four children, each of whom, as we held, had brought
us good fortune. This pleasant theory was probably
// 253.png
.pn +1
suggested by Bret Harte’s “Luck of Roaring Camp.”

They certainly brought us an incentive for new
effort, which is the best form of good fortune. In
story-writing I was not very successful. My natural
mode of expression was in sketches and essays, often
of a humorous character.

My mother was much interested in my new venture,
and gave me letters to various editors, including
Mrs. J. C. Croly (“Jennie June”), the editor of
<i>Demorest’s Magazine</i>. She was extremely kind to
me, and I wrote many articles for her. Mrs. Croly
was very fair, if not pale, with blue eyes and light
hair. Her face wore a rather worried expression,
for her life was not an easy one. Her husband was
then living, but his invalid condition added to her
cares. She held pleasant evening receptions, at one
of which I heard Marshall P. Wilder, the humorist.
He had a real power of mimicry, but his delineations
were not always pleasant. One of them was “The
Idiot Boy.”

In these days I made pilgrimages to editorial dens,
and was surprised at the wonderful flow of conversation
issuing from the mouths of powerful personages.
<i>Why</i> do editors talk so much to the neophyte? They
kindly gave me a great deal of information, but it
was gradually borne in upon me that they talked in
order to protect themselves from boredom at my
hands. Did they not know, from long and painful
experience, just what every beginner at the trade
would inevitably say? Hence they forestalled my
uninteresting remarks—and answered my unformed
questions in the proper way. I noticed that, after a
// 254.png
.pn +1
certain amount of information had been imparted to
me, the editor would take up a paper and become
deeply absorbed in its contents. This was the signal
for me to go. I soon learned not to invade the editor
in his den, unless he or she encouraged me to do so.

The following letter was written apropos of my
pilgrimages to editorial dens:

.pm letter-start
.rj 3
<sc>Scotch Plains</sc>,
<i>Sunday P.M.,</i>
<i>Nov. 1, ’85</i>.

<sc>Dearest Laura</sc>,—I was werry plose and thankful to receive
your kind letter with so many addresses—werry nice kind &
tanky much.

But oh! Lovely as is a Haddress, it is perhaps the right
address which fills us with the most lasting joy—as hennabling
a feller to find the zbodd, as it were.

I went to the Tribune Building—there was no Andrews
Bazar there—the hoary bearded Janitor suggested Morse
building the jan. of latter, said try Tract Building. At last
after I had wandered up and down a kindly news paper advertising
man told me he didn’t think there was “no such
a person.” Or rather he told me he thought it had changed its
name and become “The American Bazaar” where of he gimme
the number but was too tired to look it up that day.
.pm letter-end

Newport life furnished an excellent opportunity
for summer correspondence. We lived near enough
the town to enjoy something of its pleasures, yet far
enough away to avoid absorption in the whirlpool
of gaiety. When we were girls going into society
we should have preferred to be nearer the center
of things. But the six-mile trip to Newport was in
reality a blessing. It enabled us to view the summer
doings with a critical though friendly eye.

Those who suppose that Newport society is entirely
// 255.png
.pn +1
composed of frivolous people do not know the
place. Its matchless climate, delightful air and
peaceful beauty have always attracted people of quiet
tastes, men of letters and artists. Colonel Waring,
who did such important work in conquering yellow
fever, lived for many years in Newport, where he
had a model farm.

He was a very handsome man, with dark eyes, gray
hair, and a waxed mustache. In the early days of the
Town and Country Club he took part in the “admirable
fooleries” of which Colonel Higginson and my
mother have both given accounts. Kate Field often
came to the meetings, but did not, so far as I remember,
take any part in the program. When at Newport
she stayed at the house of her aunt, Mrs. Sanford,
in the latter’s villa on the Point. From her
“Juliet” window with its little balcony hung high in
the air she could look out over the peaceful waters of
the harbor and watch the beautiful Newport sunsets.
Kate Field had very handsome hair which at one
time she wore floating over her shoulders. This
fashion, which lasted only a short time, was not becoming
to her. As she was rather short, the long
and heavy hair tended to dwarf her height, while its
mass seemed out of proportion to her slender figure.

The diction of General Cullom, one of the officers
of the Town and Country Club, was peculiar. When
at a loss for a word, he deliberately remarked, “Pup-pup-pup,”
occasionally changing it for “Pam-pam-pam.”
To hear this courtly, elderly gentleman say
with perfect gravity, “Did you go, pam-pam-pam to
the Casino this morning?” was surprising.
// 256.png
.pn +1

When General Cullom kindly offered to give before
the club a talk on the French châteaux, illustrated
by lantern slides, we all felt anxiety. Wonderful
to say, neither “pup-pups” nor “pam-pams”
marred the smoothness of the address!

Prof. Alexander Agassiz, whose summers were
spent at Newport, when he was not traveling about
the world on his yacht, gave an illustrated lecture on
the Panama Canal which was of especial interest.
The French had then abandoned their attempt and
the United States had not yet undertaken to build it.
A series of mournful lantern slides showed the
wrecks of the French machinery, and the excavations,
which seemed small enough compared with the gigantic
nature of the undertaking. Professor Agassiz was
clearly of the opinion that, owing to the overflowing
of the Chágres River, it was not possible to build a
canal at that point.

Charles Dudley Warner, who read extremely well,
gave us, with realistic effect, his delightful sketch,
“The Bear Is Coming on.” We almost saw the raspberry-bushes
and felt the animal bearing down upon
us. Another sketch, relating to heaven and hell, was
witty, but too frivolous in tone to suit the orthodox
members of the club. They were rather scandalized at it.

In the summer of 1881 we had the happiness of
counting our aunt Louisa and her family as our
quasi-neighbors. She had been the family beauty,
but was less clever than her sisters Julia and Annie.
She was a woman of much charm and, like Uncle
Sam, showed signs of her French descent. With
her husband and their daughter Margaret she
// 257.png
.pn +1
spent the season at one of the cliff cottages at Newport.
“Daisy” was a débutante; and interested in the
gaieties of the season. Hence her half-brother,
Marion Crawford, who loved the quiet of the country,
spent much of his time with us at “Oak Glen.”
He was devoted to my mother and she was very fond
of him. Her house in Boston and her Newport home
were harbors of refuge to him in the years of his
bachelorhood, many of which he spent in this country.
We found him the most delightful of housemates.
Genial, cheery and charming, he never availed himself
of the masculine privilege of grumbling, but took
things as he found them. Mother said of him, “He
is as easy as an old shoe.” My youngest child, John
Howe Hall, was born that summer. The stairs at
“Oak Glen” were rather fatiguing for me to climb,
when I first came down-stairs after his birth. So
Cousin Marion, who was both tall and strong, would
pick me up like a baby and carry me up-stairs. He
was a very handsome man, with blue eyes like his
father’s, regular features, and curly brown hair.
This, alas! was already beginning to show a small
bare place on the crown, in spite of his mother’s faithful
efforts with hair tonic.

Sister Maud spent the summer of 1881 with my
aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who then lived on a great ranch
in California. Some of her experiences there are
described in her novel, <i>The San Rosario Ranch</i>. My
mother was invited to take part in amateur theatricals
at Newport during this eventful season. In spite of
her sixty-seven years, she was the first of the company
to master her lines.
// 258.png
.pn +1

She acted her part with spirit and gaiety, but could
not resist the temptation to “gag” the lines. Thus in
speaking of doctors who arranged, in Bob Sawyer
style, to have themselves called out, she mentioned the
names of Doctor Cleveland and other physicians
spending the summer in Newport.

As bad luck would have it, this gentleman, who
had a large practice, <i>was</i> actually summoned from
the hall and arose to go, blushing furiously!

Crawford had come to America, intending to live
here. He thought seriously of taking up the profession
of philology, having a talent for languages. As
he possessed a good voice, he also thought of going
on the operatic stage. His ear for music was somewhat
faulty, but this defect, he was assured, need not,
after the proper training of his voice, prevent his singing
correctly.

While he was in an undecided frame of mind he
wrote, as an experiment, his first novel, <i>Mr. Isaacs</i>.
Its immediate success banished all doubt as to his
career.

It was in the “little green parlor” at “Oak Glen”
that he composed a large part of this story. Here,
also, sister Maud and I often sat with our writing.
The little green parlor is a grassy crescent surrounded
on all sides by a hedge of tall cedar-trees. These have
now grown so tall as almost to conceal the house from
the view of passers-by.

In these days Messrs. Dana Estes & Co. proposed
to my mother the preparation of a book on manners,
dwelling especially on the origin of customs. She
did not care to undertake it, but Crawford thought he
// 259.png
.pn +1
might possibly do so, and sister Maud wrote a chapter.
When both abandoned the idea it seemed to me
a great pity to let this opportunity go to waste. I
wrote to Mr. Estes, asking whether he would like me
to write the book. He approved of my suggestion,
and <i>Social Customs</i> was the result. I was glad to
carry out, within certain limits, his plan of noting
the meaning and origin of customs. It was not possible,
however, with the time at my command, to make
an exhaustive historic study of the subject. But I was
able to analyze it and so present general rules, rather
than a mass of unexplained technical details. Looking
thus at the matter, from an outside point of view,
it was possible to treat it with a light touch instead
of in the ponderous vein formerly considered necessary.
I thought it right to speak occasionally of the
humorous aspects of the subject, while emphasizing
the intrinsic value and importance of good manners.
The critics hailed the book as a new departure in the
literature of the subject, and spoke very handsomely
of it. It was especially gratifying to receive from
the Brussels Institute of Sociology a good-sized volume
containing, among other things, a notice of my
book. The following letter accompanied it:

.pm letter-start
.rj 2
Instituts Solvay.
Institut de Sociologie Bruxelles (Belgium).

Madame:—The attention of a group of searchers at the
Solvay Institute of Sociology has been directed upon one of
your last works, and they are anxious to have a biographical
note relating to you inserted in the sociological record recently
organized at the said institute.
.nf c
Yours sincerely,
<sc>D. Warnoth</sc>, <i>Chief of the Service of Documentation.</i>
.nf-
.pm letter-end
// 260.png
.pn +1

It has been already said that the case of Laura
Bridgman excited deep interest. My father’s reports
were awaited as eagerly as novels, and were translated
into several foreign languages. In 1846, when
she had been nine years under instruction, he thought
of writing an account of her education and of communicating
with Messrs. Harper about its publication.

He never found time to carry out his purpose.
There was always some class of unfortunates who
needed his championship, some wrong that must be
set right. It is deeply to be regretted that he never
had the leisure to tell the story of his most conspicuous
achievement. The materials were all at hand. A
minute account of Laura’s progress had been kept in
the school journals. There were also my father’s
own reports, notes and correspondence, as well as
Laura’s letters and the journals which she kept for
some years. By the desire of our brother-in-law,
Michael Anagnos, and with his help, sister Maud and
I undertook to carry out our father’s intention and
tell the story of Laura Bridgman. Our chief difficulty
lay in the wealth of material. We held many
consultations, but to my sister belongs the chief credit
of the work. My share consisted principally in describing
the technical part of Laura’s education.

The work was of absorbing interest. In tracing
this drama of the birth of a human soul, we felt an
echo of the thrill which came to my father when he
saw Laura’s face suddenly “lighted up with a human
expression: it was no longer a dog or parrot—it was
an immortal spirit, eagerly seizing upon a new link
of union with other spirits!”
// 261.png
.pn +1

No wonder that he exclaimed, “Eureka!”

His graphic description of these first wonderful
steps is quoted—with due credit to Doctor Howe—in
Dickens’ <i>American Notes</i>.

Since Laura’s was the first case of the sort in the
world, it was necessary for my father to devise his
own methods. A special teacher was employed for
her, several devoted women filling this post in turn.

My father always superintended her education, and
recorded every step—telling us how he taught her the
use of prepositions, adjectives and verbs.

An excellent speller herself, in her later years she
taught the little blind children how to spell. Laura
Bridgman had the pride of intellect, in spite of her
infirmities, and was inclined to look down upon people
of inferior mind or education. The lessons in
conduct which the ordinary child learns from the example
of those around him Laura had to learn from
books or from conversation with her teacher. Moral,
ethical, and later spiritual problems aroused her deep
interest. Her writings—and they are many—show a
soul as white and innocent as that of a little child.

Laura was well trained in the domestic arts. She
was an exquisite needlewoman, her darning being a
“poem in linen.” She could also knit and crochet extremely
well, making the fine beaded purses then in
fashion. Indeed, the sale of her handiwork contributed
to her own support. She kept her room in
beautiful order, dusting the most delicate objects
without injury to them. One of Laura’s amusements
was to arrange my mother’s bureau drawers. The
latter disliked having any one meddle with her things,
// 262.png
.pn +1
but Laura’s touch was so delicate that she was allowed
thus to officiate as “mistress of the wardrobe.”

Best of all, she enjoyed life in spite of her many
deprivations, making the most of the little pleasures
that came to her. The following is one of her
“poems”:
.sp 2
.nf c
LIGHT AND DARKNESS
<s>BY</s>
<sc>Laura Bridgman</sc>
.nf-
.ni
.nf l
Light represents day.
Light is more brilliant than ruby, even diamond.
Light is whiter than snow.
Darkness is nightlike.
It looks as black as iron
Darkness is a sorrow.
Joy is a thrilling rapture.
Light yields a shooting joy through the human [heart].
Light is sweet as honey, but
Darkness is bitter as salt and even vinegar.
Light is finer than gold and even finest gold.
Joy is a real light,
Joy is a blazing flame.
Darkness is frosty.
A good sleep is a white curtain.
A bad sleep is a black curtain.
.nf-

.pi
In the late ’eighties the father of Helen Keller
wrote to Mr. Anagnos, then director of the Perkins
Institution, asking his assistance in the education of
his little daughter. My brother-in-law chose Miss
Annie Sullivan, herself partially blind and a graduate
of the Institution, for Helen’s instructor. Miss Sullivan
spent six months studying Doctor Howe’s reports
before entering upon her task. Every step that Laura
had taken little Helen now followed exactly. Her
// 263.png
.pn +1
progress was more rapid, as that of my father’s later
blind deaf-mute pupils had been. But the details of
her case were very much like that of Laura Bridgman.
Helen spent three years at the Perkins Institution
under the charge of her special teacher, Miss Sullivan.

There I had the pleasure of seeing her a number
of times in her childhood, and of talking with her in
the finger language. When we spoke of a brook, she
illustrated its movements by dancing. I noticed with
surprise that she did not move about with the perfect
freedom common to the blind children brought up at
the Institution. They were accustomed to walk about
alone, and to dash up and down stairs with utter fearlessness.
Whether Helen later learned to go about
in this way I cannot say. When she was about fifteen,
we met again at the Kindergarten for the Blind, an
off-shoot of the Perkins Institution founded and administered
by Mr. Anagnos. In conversing with
Helen I was struck with her intelligence. In these
days I heard her talk with her voice as well as with
her fingers.

Helen wrote me the following letter, after reading
my sketch of my father’s life, published in the <i>Wide Awake</i>
magazine.

.pm letter-start
.rj 2
<sc>South Boston, Mass.</sc>,
<i>December 2, 1890</i>.

<sc>My dear Mrs. Hall</sc>,—I want to tell you how much I enjoyed
hearing about your dear Father, and all the brave, generous
things he did for the Greeks, and for all who were poor and
unhappy. I think the children who read <i>Wide Awake</i> must
have been greatly interested in your story, but they cannot love
Dr. Howe as we little blind girls do. Teacher says, she would
// 264.png
.pn +1
not have known how to teach me if your Father had not
taught Laura Bridgman first, and that is why I feel so grateful
to him. How dreadful it would have been if I could not have
learned like other boys and girls! I am sure I should have
been very sorrowful with no one to talk to me, and so would
Edith and many others, but it is too sad to think about, is it
not? When you come to Boston I hope you will tell me more
about your Father, and what you did when you were a little
girl. Mr. Anagnos is going to show me Byron’s helmet some
day. Teacher sends her kind regards to you.
.ti +15
Lovingly your little friend,
.rj
<sc>Helen A. Keller</sc>.
.pm letter-end

In these years Edwin Booth spent the summer at
his pretty red-roofed villa, “Boothden,” on Indian
Avenue. It was then a quiet and retired part of the
island of Rhode Island, yet within easy reach of
Newport. The house was placed so near the rocky
shore that the ocean breezes might have been too boisterous
had not awnings screened the wide piazzas.
A large and pleasant boat-house equipped with a sitting- or
lounging-room stood on the shore.

“Boothden” was only four miles from “Oak Glen,”
so that we were country neighbors of Mr. Booth and
his charming daughter. We had the pleasure of seeing
them from time to time. When we were invited
to take luncheon at their villa, to meet Joseph Jefferson,
his wife and daughter, and William Warren, the
veteran comedian of the Boston Museum, it seemed
too wonderful to be true.

Miss Edwina Booth (whom I remembered as
Baby Booth) received us with a grace and charm that
vividly recalled her lovely young mother, dead many
years before. The resemblance to Mrs. Booth was
almost startling. It seemed as if the beloved wife,
// 265.png
.pn +1
young and fair as of old, had returned to this earth.
We saw the same slender figure, the same movements,
as I fancied. What a strange thing is the inheritance
of gesture! There could have been no conscious imitation,
for Miss Booth could not have remembered
her mother.

The three distinguished actors had rashly gone for
a sail in Mr. Booth’s yacht. It is always rash to go
out in a sail-boat if you expect to return at any particular
hour.

When they finally arrived their entrance was like a
scene upon the stage. Their behavior was not at all
theatrical, but they were mariners returning from a
stormy trip. A good stiff breeze had blown them
all about, the waves had given them a good wetting,
while Mr. Jefferson had lost his hat overboard.

They took all these small mishaps in the best possible
humor, as a part of life’s comedy. Joe Jefferson
had substituted a red bandanna handkerchief for the
lost hat and treated the whole affair as a delightful
joke. Presently we all sat down to a luncheon elegant
and elaborate, after the fashion of the time, the table
being faultless in its service and appointments.

Joseph Jefferson was brilliant and delightful, evidently
enjoying the conversation. The geniality and
cheeriness of his stage characters were but a reflection
of his own sunny disposition. If he had stood
in the shoes of Rip Van Winkle, Caleb Plummer, or
Bob Acres, he would have taken life as cheerfully as
they did. After seeing him in private life I understood
better the spirit of his acting. The Jefferson
of the parlor was the Jefferson of the stage, save that
// 266.png
.pn +1
the man himself was more brilliant, more original
than the men of a simple type whom he habitually
portrayed. He possessed that highest form of art
which conceals itself. At the Booth luncheon he
talked of many things—of art, his pictures, the
proper light for the stage, his children, his farm in
Florida, his delight in roaming through the woods
with his fishing-rod.

We enjoyed hearing many theatrical anecdotes
which gave us peeps behind the scenes. Mr. Jefferson
told us of a mistake he once made in “Lend Me Five
Shillings.” Forgetting that he had already delivered
certain lines, he repeated them—no applause followed!
Just as he was wondering what the matter
was, the actress with whom he was playing whispered,
“You have repeated your lines.” William Warren
confessed that he had had a somewhat similar experience
in “Our American Cousin,” when he struck a
match by the right end, lighting it, to his horror and
surprise. According to the play, he should have
struck the wrong end—and the mistake drove his part
out of his head for a moment, when a fellow-actor
gave him his lines, in a stage whisper! William
Warren, “the Boston favorite,” was a relative of
Joseph Jefferson or of Mrs. Jefferson. They called
him “Uncle William,” and all treated him with the
most affectionate respect. He was the eldest of the
three actors, and already in failing health. Hence he
was grave and quiet in manner when we saw him in
private life, although inimitably funny on the stage.
It seldom happens that so excellent an actor is content
to remain all his life a member of a stock company,
// 267.png
.pn +1
performing in a single city—but this was Warren’s
choice. The strong affection in which he was held was
doubtless a compensation to this inimitable actor for
the loss of a wider fame. He died not long after this
time.

We found our hospitable and kindly host, Edwin
Booth, little changed from the old days when we had
so devoutly admired him. There were the same charm
and simplicity of manner, the same sense of humor.
His eyes still had the old fire, while the cheerful serenity
of middle life replaced the buoyant happiness
of his younger days. He spoke very simply of the
time when he was a young man. I did not like to
think that Edwin Booth ever could grow old. He
was still in the prime of life, handsome and vigorous.

Of his profession, of the stage and of Shakespeare,
he liked to talk, and we liked only too well to listen.
He had recently brought home from Germany some
of the tokens of intense admiration that were showered
upon him there—wreaths of silver, and perhaps
of gold, also.

What to do with these he did not know. Mantel
lambrequins then afflicted the world. I fear it was I
who suggested that the classic garlands might be
sewn on these with decorative effect!

Edwin Booth was too reserved and too kind-hearted
to play the habitual mimic, yet he could, upon
occasion, imitate to the life the person described.
Once, when telling us of an experience in the far West
while he was traveling with his father, he suddenly
became a knock-kneed, shambling man. In a moment
he was again Edwin Booth, grave and dignified.
// 268.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch18
XVIII||<s>OUR CHILDREN AT HOME, SCHOOL AND COLLEGE</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>An Attic Fairy.—Our Child Artist Grinds Her Own Paints.—Scholarships
and Athletics at Harvard University.—Our
Youngest Wins an “H.”—American Girls’ Club in Paris.—Caroline’s
Pictures Exhibited in the New Salon.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
OUR children received their early education at
home and at the house of our good friend, Mrs.
Sykes. When the boys were well started in their lessons
we sent them to the neighboring public school.
Here their proficiency in reading was resented by their
contemporaries. An aristocracy of learning is quite as
offensive to boy nature as any other form of superiority.
The school was coeducational, but in spite of
this some of the boys were pretty rough. It was a
good thing for our sons, however, to learn young
to take their own part and to rub elbows with all
sorts and conditions of children. The public-school
system of America is an indispensable feature of our
democracy.

All our sons were prepared for college at Mr.
Leal’s excellent private school in Plainfield. A
schoolmate declared that when Mr. Leal called Sam
up to recite he would open the Greek book, lay it
affectionately upon the boy’s knee, pat it, and tell the
latter to begin. Thereupon Sam proceeded to reel
// 269.png
.pn +1
off page after page of the text, as if he had been a
species of classic hand-organ. He was now too big,
however, to have his head punched for his proficiency.
I was glad to help my children with their home
studies, thus reviving my acquaintance with Messrs.
Virgil, Cæsar and Company. But assisting them with
their arithmetic and algebra was very hard work.
To present a mathematical idea so that a child will
clearly understand it is not easy. Perhaps that is
the reason why teachers so often leave this task to the
luckless parents. This is all wrong.

My second son, Harry, was a natural leader and
had his little coterie of friends and followers. When
these were promoted to a higher room in the public
school it was proposed to promote their teacher, also;
she declined the honor!

The boy had a natural wit which he occasionally
used to torment his instructors at Mr. Leal’s school.
Harry had various clashes with the younger teachers,
who were all men. They did not make sufficient allowance
for the high spirits and the desire for independence
of the growing boy. “Poppy Leal,” the
principal, as the boys affectionately called him, was
wiser. He spoke of them all as men, thus winning
their hearts. But one day even Mr. Leal grew out
of patience with Harry. Sending for the boy’s parents,
he told us that there seemed to be a difference
of opinion between Harry and himself as to who
should run the school. He, however, had always
done so in the past and did not propose to abdicate
now. History repeats itself, and this same Harry
was called upon, not long ago, to curb the same spirit
// 270.png
.pn +1
in his eldest daughter, little Julia Ward Howe Hall.
The teacher unknowingly used the same words that
had been applied to Harry in his youth!

He was a daring boy, yet possessed of a certain
caution. We had bought for his elder brother one of
those immense bicycles which enjoyed a brief day of
popularity. It proved too big for the older boy, but
Master Harry managed to ride it, though his legs
were so short that he could only reach the pedals
as they came up. On this he descended such a dangerous
incline that the boys kindly gathered at the
foot of the hill to see him fall off. “Come see Hally
riding to hell!” one boy called to the others.

Our only daughter studied at home and at private
schools, going to Paris for her education in painting.

She was less than five years old, when she made
her own brushes by taking stiff chicken feathers and
shaving them off till only a small tuft was left at the
end. From pieces of brick and other materials
found about the place, she ground her own colors.
When we found the child making pictures with these
primitive paints, we at once supplied her with colors.
In addition to the power of invention, perhaps because
of it, Caroline possessed the happy faculty of
making the most of small things, enjoying whatever
little pleasures fell to her lot. Thus, wishing very
much to have a room entirely to herself, she asked
for one in the attic. When a mouse visited her bower
in the evening, instead of screaming she played softly
on the harmonica, in the hope that the music would
lead him to return to his home. We called her the
Attic Fairy.
// 271.png
.pn +1

In 1889, our eldest son, Samuel Prescott Hall, entered
Harvard University, having passed his examinations
with honors. I went up to Cambridge with
the trembling Freshman, who had just passed his
seventeenth birthday. A certain indifference, not to
say coldness, on the part of the authorities soon
showed me that the event of Sam’s entrance into academic
fields did not move them so deeply as it did me.
The bursar I found especially unsympathetic. My
son had not drawn a room in the college buildings, and
that was an end of it. Mr. —— had no suggestions to
offer. I was assured later that this gentleman was a
very kind man. He certainly concealed the fact very
successfully. I had dealings with him from time to
time during the period of fourteen years while my
sons were at Cambridge. But I do not remember his
ever displaying one sign of human weakness.

My brother had suggested our trying to procure
for Sam the position of president’s Freshman. The
duties of this functionary consisted in running
errands for the head of the university, for which he
was paid a small honorarium. When I inquired about
the president’s Freshman, I was met by a pitying
smile. The young man in charge had evidently never
heard of such a person.

When we looked about for rooms, dreadful tales of
young collegians who had been found dead from
opium-smoking greeted our affrighted ears. Fortunately,
we found a pleasant lodgment at the house of
an old acquaintance.

This attitude of serene indifference toward the
class of young men most in need of advice and help
// 272.png
.pn +1
has now passed away. The erection of a stately row
of buildings, intended especially for the accommodation
of Freshmen, shows that Alma Mater has waked
up to a fact which was clear long ago to the ordinary
mothers of men. The entering class, the new
blood, is the hope of the future. As they are the
youngest students and are totally inexperienced in the
ways of the university, many of them coming from
remote parts of the country, they should be made welcome.

Our sons thoroughly enjoyed their college life.
They were much interested in athletics and also liked
to have a good time. It was fully borne in upon
them, however, that study must be the principal aim
of their college course. We could not afford to send
them to Harvard simply for amusement. Sam, being
a student by nature, was always on the rank list, taking
special second-year honors, also graduating “<i>cum
laude</i>” with honors in Greek and Latin. In Charles
Eliot Norton’s famous class, “Fine Arts Four,” he
was greatly interested. It was said that the very
large membership of Professor Norton’s classes was
due to their being “snap” courses. Some of the boys,
having reported themselves present, would depart by
the fire-escape; others would read newspapers, to the
vexation of Professor Norton.

No. 241 Beacon Street was a second home to my
mother’s five grandsons, all of whom graduated from
Harvard. Of Sam she was especially fond. His
tastes, like hers, were those of a scholar, and there
was a close bond of intellectual sympathy between
her and her eldest grandson.
// 273.png
.pn +1

Football gave him so much pleasure that he continued
to play with amateur associations after leaving
college. Those were the days of the deadly flying
tackle. One morning a short, powerful-looking
young man called at our house for Sam’s football
clothes. This same young man had accidentally killed
another in a recent game. My feelings, on thus
learning that my son was to play with him, can be
imagined. Sam passed through these dreadful combats
without lasting injury. He did, to be sure, bruise
one of his legs so that it was black and blue from
hip to ankle and the doctor looked serious. Fortunately
youth and health pulled him through so that
no amputation was necessary.

Harry took his athletics less violently. Through
persistent exercise he became one of the strongest
ten men in college. His mother felt much anxiety
lest he should thus become muscle-bound, but my fears
would appear to have been groundless. Tennis proved
to be his forte, as various trophies testify.

In 1893 we moved into our new house in Plainfield.
As often happens, however, our children began to
leave home soon after we had established ourselves
permanently, as we hoped. Caroline was suddenly
invited to go to Paris with Mrs. George Richmond
Fearing, there to study painting and French.

Mrs. Fearing took great pleasure in giving young
girls the advantages of study in the French capital.
She employed actresses from the Théâtre Français
and the Odéon—the government theaters—to give
lessons in diction. Caroline’s decidedly American
accent changed, in the seven years of her foreign residence,
// 274.png
.pn +1
into something closely resembling the French
of the natives.

“Baby Hall,” as she was affectionately called, was
the youngest girl at the Délécluse studio. Thaulow,
the great Norwegian artist, criticized the work of the
art students in the Bois de Boulogne. He was a
very large man and wore a bottle-green coat. He
viewed with alarm the idea of seating himself on one
of the tiny folding camp-chairs of their kit, so they
procured one warranted to support many kilos.

In due course of time Caroline’s pictures were exhibited
and “hung on the line” at the new Salon in
Paris. She was also invited to exhibit her landscapes
in the French provinces, receiving letters beginning
“<i>Cher maître</i>.”

For some years she lived at the American Girls’
Club, No. 4 rue de Chevreuse, a pleasant establishment
where the charges were very moderate, Mrs.
Whitelaw Reid contributing to its support.

When our youngest son, John Howe Hall, went
to Harvard, it was necessary for him to assist materially
in his own support. As he was the least robust
of the three brothers, this was not so easy. He possessed,
however, grit, executive ability, and a capacity
for hard work. He won several scholarships, and
also tutored in the courses he had himself thoroughly
mastered.

To “coach” for examinations boys who have neglected
their studies involves severe and exhausting
mental labor for teacher and pupil alike. Jack did
the best he could for his pupils, who usually passed.
Although of slighter build than any of the other four
// 275.png
.pn +1
grandsons, he determined to achieve the coveted “H.”
He accordingly entered the track team and became a
long-distance runner. The flutterings of the mother
heart were now great. I was glad to have the boy
distinguish himself, but two miles seemed a long-distance
for one so slender to run. The perusal of a
story by Wilkie Collins, representing the hero, a college
runner, as a very brutal man, did not reassure
me. At first the boy was indignant at his parent’s
timidity and, as he thought, lack of sympathy. After
I had attended, in company with his brothers, several
races, where we showed great enthusiasm and cheered
loudly, he understood my feelings better.

It was indeed a proud moment at Franklin Field,
Philadelphia, when Sam called out to me, “Here
comes your youngest, at the head of the bunch.” He
was so handsome and so graceful, in that wonderful
stride of the trained runner, that mother was made
very happy. He gained, not long afterward, the
coveted “H”—the only one of the grandsons who
did so.
// 276.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch19
XIX||<s>THE CLUB AND SUFFRAGE MOVEMENTS</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Enthusiasm of the Pioneer Clubwomen.—Early Conventions of
the General Federation of Women’s Clubs.—Work as President
of the New Jersey Woman Suffrage Association.—We
Visit the Legislature.—Campaign for School Suffrage.—Formation
of New Leagues.—Lucy Stone and Her Baby’s
Cradle.—Rev. Samuel Smith, Author of “America.”</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
THE rapidity with which, in the latter part of the
nineteenth century, women’s clubs sprang up all
over the face of this broad land of ours was miraculous.
We may say that this agency and that person
helped in the development of the great movement, but
there must have been a cause underlying it. The
women of America had outgrown the old, narrow,
often selfish life of utter absorption in the affairs
of the individual home. They now longed for wider
culture, for the broadening of their ideas by association
with other women, for opportunities to improve
not only their own, but all homes. For the club
movement is only a part of the great, splendid world
movement whereby the women of the race have advanced
to take their place beside the men. In the beginning
intellectual culture was the principal object of
the clubs. Yet we felt deep interest in the conduct
of meetings and in the administration of affairs.
Why were the women so delighted with parliamentary
// 277.png
.pn +1
law? Because, all unconsciously, we were attending
a school of citizenship and learning that order
which is a part of the divine law.

The tremendous vitality of the club movement was
shown by the almost magical growth of the General
Federation of Women’s Clubs. To Sorosis, and especially
to Mrs. J. C. Croly (Jennie June), belongs the
honor of founding this splendid and powerful organization.
Sorosis has shown a wonderful power of
vision, for it founded also the “Association for the
Advancement of Women,” a pioneer body which did
very important work.

Yet the administration of both organizations soon
passed into other hands. This was, as I think, because
Sorosis had not cultivated the executive powers
of its members. Hence when it came to questions of
administration, other more active clubs assumed the
leadership for which they had been trained. Thus
the New England Woman’s Club, full of good works
and activity in civic movements, furnished the president,
Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, who for many years
guided the movements of “A. A. W.”

We must note a feature in the constitution of this
national union of clubs which, helpful in the beginning,
later proved a serious defect. The individual
societies were directly affiliated with the General Federation,
every club president being also a vice-president
of the national body. Under the devoted leadership
of Mrs. Charlotte Emerson Brown of East
Orange, whose soul was fairly absorbed in her work,
this grew and prospered.

The “fault” in the method of formation became
// 278.png
.pn +1
more and more evident as time went on. The number
of clubs increased to such an extent as to make the
national conventions unwieldy. It has been proposed
at various times to limit the representation to the state
federations, but the individual clubs, who have greatly
enjoyed their membership in the national body, are
very unwilling to give it up.

Will the initial fault in construction end by destroying
this splendid body? No one can now say.
Even should it perish, however, it will have fulfilled
an important mission. We should look at the General
Federation as a part of the great movement by
which our sex has been prepared for the new duties
which women are now so splendidly fulfilling.
Viewed in this light, the stimulus which it gave to the
formation of new clubs and the opportunities it afforded
to the women of all parts of our country for
meeting together have more than compensated for the
defect in organization. Had we waited to form first
state federations, and out of those a national body,
we should have lost the glow and enthusiasm of those
wonderful early conventions of the G. F. W. C. We
might have failed, also, in fulfilling the larger mission.

The conservative women often opposed us, but we
of the liberal party prevailed in the end. Gradually
club and Federation broadened their programs. At
the first biennial convention of the General Federation,
held in Chicago, we devoted our attention principally
to questions relating to clubs and their management.
Should they be large or small? Should we
have club-houses? Should we engage in philanthropic
// 279.png
.pn +1
work? It seems strange now to remember the great
enthusiasm with which we labored over these minor
matters. But they were doubtless necessary steps in
our progress.

The General Federation now has departments of
art, civics, legislation, public health, and many others.
Last and best of all, at the convention of 1914, the
General Federation endorsed suffrage for women. It
was a moment of great excitement and enthusiasm.
Veteran suffrage leaders wept with joy and embraced
one another, while the strains of the “Battle Hymn
of the Republic” sounded through the hall.

Sister Julia, with her strong intellectual tastes,
early felt the attraction of the movement and joined
the New England Woman’s Club. There were many
clever and delightful women in its membership. She
read papers before many of the clubs then springing
up all about Boston, and enjoyed doing so. Thus she
followed in the footsteps of our mother, who rejoiced
in club life and had the true club spirit.

The two youngest sisters, Laura and Maud, have
never possessed this in full measure. They have been
much in demand as speakers before societies of
women, and have belonged to these when occasion
arose. Both are fond of society as well as full of
public spirit. Mrs. Richards has done much reform
and charitable work in her adopted state of Maine.
Mrs. Elliott has not been behind her sister. In the
Progressive movement she was one of the leaders,
and on the Hughes “golden special” train she was one
of the “Big Four” speakers. In the suffrage movement
in Rhode Island she has done important service.
// 280.png
.pn +1
Last but not least she is the founder and moving spirit
of the Newport Art Association.

The fact remains that to neither of them have club
work and club association been the real joy that they
were to our mother and to me. When the young birds
began to leave the nest, the sons to go to college and
the daughter to study art in Paris, I had more leisure
to attend to outside matters. Thus, when the Monday
Afternoon Club of Plainfield was formed, in the late
’eighties, I was one of the charter members, succeeding
the founder, Miss Elvira Kenyon, as president.
The General Federation of Women’s Clubs was
formed at about this time, and I was appointed chairman
of correspondence for New Jersey. This officer
was a species of shepherd for the clubs of the state, a
part of whose duty and pleasure it was to visit the
various societies.

We chairmen of correspondence strove to hand on
to others the inspiration received at the Federation
and club meetings. For in those bright days there
was much exchanging of visits and many club festivities.

During my presidency, the Monday Afternoon
Club of Plainfield gave its first luncheon, with the
indispensable program of speeches. The amount of
work we—the members of the executive board—put
into the preparation, seems now almost incredible.
We had plenty of zeal, but no experience. Hence
every detail of the arrangements was considered at
great length. The cost of the luncheon was a burning
question. We compromised on a dollar, if I remember
aright. Nowadays, a competent house committee
// 281.png
.pn +1
would handle the whole matter quietly and easily.
But we were like children with a new toy!

As the shepherd of New Jersey, I proposed inviting
the not yet federated clubs to our gala-day, in order
that they might see for themselves the advantages of
union. The scheme was so successful that one lady
declared she had never known such a happy day before,
not even her wedding-day! How we did enjoy
it all! I see it now through a rosy mist. How delighted
we were with the wit of the speakers! One
of the lessons that we learn from club life is that
women possess a keen sense of humor. The luncheon
was brightened by toasts. Rev. Antoinette Brown
Blackwell, Mrs. Mary Mumford, of Philadelphia,
witty and delightful, and my mother were among the
speakers.

On another gala-day, the national president, Mrs.
Charlotte Emerson Brown, visited us.

In opening her speech she praised the beauty of
our decorations and found the English language inadequate
for the expression of her feelings. She
passed from “how beautiful” to “<i>wunderschön</i>” and,
“<i>magnifique</i>,” ending impressively with “to Kalon.”
We all smiled, but only a little, because Mrs. Brown
was very amiable and had devoted much time to the
study of languages.

At a club festivity in Boston, Rev. Samuel Smith—“Sammy
Smith,” as he was familiarly called, told
us of the circumstances under which he wrote
“America.” They were not thrilling. He was in his
library, looking out upon the hills, if I remember
aright. He seemed a kindly old gentleman, still vigorous,
// 282.png
.pn +1
despite his silver hair. My mother also described
the train of events which led to the writing
of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” She was
often called upon to do this.

I had the pleasure of serving on the nominating
committee at several biennial conventions—but none
of the later ones resembled the lively session held at
Chicago in 1892. Miss Octavia Bates kindly consented
to act as our chairman, her good humor and
good sense helping to straighten out the knotty problems
that came before us. If the discussion became
too animated she thumped on the floor with an
umbrella!

One of the interesting women at these early conventions
was Dr. Jennie de la M. Lozier, a physician
herself and the wife of one. At Chicago in a moment
of irritation she took the reporters to task, alluding
to them as “the ink-slingers of the Press.” Fortunately,
Mrs. Sarah Perkins, of Cleveland, Ohio, came
to the defense of the newspaper men, telling the convention
how much a good cause often owed to them.
At its close the reporters presented Mrs. Perkins with
a beautiful basket of roses!

We learned some lessons in public speaking from
Miss Susan B. Anthony, the noted suffrage leader.
In her own vigorous way she told us not to immerse
our heads in our papers, but to hold them up, to look
at the man in the last row of the parquette and
address our remarks to him!

At the second biennial, held in Philadelphia, I had
the pleasure of taking part in the program of the
evening meeting at the Academy of Music. I had
// 283.png
.pn +1
received, shortly before, an absurd publication, treating
in solemn vein of the management of husbands.
This moved me to write, in serio-comic style, a short
paper on “The Duties of Women’s Clubs toward
Mankind.”

The club husband furnished food for humor in
those early days, although many men attended our
evening sessions.

It was interesting to me to see how the audience
took the points—sometimes after a moment’s delay—and
to note how waves of mirth one after another
passed over the great throng.

Kate Upson Clarke, always witty and delightful,
spoke of “Democracy in Women’s Clubs.”

In November, 1895, the General Federation Council
met at Atlanta, Georgia, where the “Cotton States
and International Exposition” was then in session.
We did not quite relish being asked whether we were
“Daughters of the Confederacy,” although the mistake
was a natural one. It was gratifying to see the
progress made by the Southern women.

From Atlanta we went on to New Orleans, where
a meeting of the Association for the Advancement of
Women was scheduled.

Here we were delightfully entertained by Mrs.
King and her daughters, one of them being Grace
King, the novelist. My mother was no stranger to
New Orleans, having spent the winter of 1884–85
there, when she had charge of the woman’s section of
the exposition.

Many friends welcomed her on her return to the
quaint old city. I had never seen it before, and was
// 284.png
.pn +1
much interested in exploring as much of it as our
short visit and the necessary attendance at the sessions
of A. A. W. permitted. We made a visit to the
Ursuline Convent on the occasion of the coronation
of the image of the Virgin with a crown of gold
studded with jewels, contributed by the women of
the city. When the crowning took place all applauded.
The singing of the Mass was very beautiful.
In the address of the day we were told that the
image had been brought over by the Ursuline nuns
from France. It was held to be of miraculous power.
The sisters prayed to it at the time of the battle of
New Orleans; to their prayers, as we were told, was
due the victory of General Jackson and the troops
under his command.

It is said that if you taste the water of the Mississippi
you will want to return to the Crescent City.
No one is rash enough to do that until the mud has
been allowed to settle—perhaps in one of the beautiful
great earthen jars resembling those in which the
Forty Thieves took refuge.

Clubwomen, as a rule, are very sensible. They all
wish to be nicely and suitably dressed, but a parade
of fine gowns is thought undesirable. It was amusing
as well as sad to see aspirants for office appear at a
convention in a succession of expensive dresses, which
insured the failure of their hopes. These dear ladies
could not understand why Jenny Wren in her simple
gray gown was preferred before them!

At the Milwaukee biennial we had the great
pleasure of listening to a speech from Octave Thanet.
She banished all possible stiffness by confessing to the
// 285.png
.pn +1
audience, “When I forget what I want to say, I stop
and take a drink of water.” After that, whenever she
raised the tumbler to her lips we all laughed.

During this biennial word came to Mrs. Philip N.
Moore, treasurer of the Federation, that her house in
St. Louis was on fire. She felt it her duty to remain
at her post until, as retiring treasurer, she had signed
all the checks. Some one quoted apropos of this:

.pm verse-start
“Ladybird, fly away home.
Your house is on fire,
Your children will burn.”
.pm verse-end

Mrs. Moore has since served as president of the
General Federation and held other important public
positions. She is one of the ablest and most public-spirited
women of our country, a college graduate,
and last but not least, decidedly handsome.

The trips to the West on the “Federation Specials”
were delightful. No men save those in charge of the
train—with one or two club husbands—were allowed
on them. We flitted from one car to another, talking
with old friends. A good deal of preliminary business
was arranged on these jaunts. But, oh, the
sufferings of the conductor!

Mrs. H——, having found a long-lost friend in
car “Zenobia,” desired to have her berth changed.
How many women made these thoughtless requests
it would be impossible to say. I only know that I
have seen the conductor, sitting in his little end seat,
balancing his accounts, with an expression of utter
desperation on his face!

One great club enthusiast was so anxious to take
// 286.png
.pn +1
the trip on the “Federation Special” that she started
without waiting for her baggage. She took a heavy
cold, which was probably the cause of her death later
in the summer. Our women have now learned to be
more prudent and to husband their strength better.

As chairman of correspondence for New Jersey,
the desirability of a closer organization in the state
became evident to me. Mrs. Charlotte Emerson
Brown and Mrs. Sarah Johnson, president of the
Orange Woman’s Club, were of the same mind, and
we issued a call for the formation of a state federation,
thus becoming its founders.

It was my pleasant duty to assist in the direction
of the state federation during the first eight years of
its existence. Our beginnings were too sentimental
for my taste. The discussions about a Federation
flower seemed to me distinctly superfluous. We went
on, however, from strength to strength, developing
after much the same fashion as the G. F. W. C.

Our third president, Mrs. Emily E. Williamson,
of Elizabeth, was one of the ablest women I
have ever met. It was a pleasure to work with her,
unless you happened to disagree with her in opinion.
She made up her mind as to the best course, and could
brook no opposition. In spite of this defect, which
led to her making some mistakes, the State of New
Jersey owes her gratitude for her public services on
the Board of State Charities and elsewhere.

Among the things accomplished by the New Jersey
Federation of Clubs in those early years was the inauguration
of a system of state traveling libraries and
the preservation of the Palisades. The former we
// 287.png
.pn +1
owe especially to the indefatigable efforts of Mrs.
Edward Houghton, of Cranford, the most devoted
and unselfish of workers. The rescue of the Palisades
from the greed and selfishness of the men who
were digging them down was no easy task. The New
York State women joined us, and after great efforts
these beautiful natural monuments were saved from
the maw of the stone-crusher.

New Jersey was the first state in the Union to confer
the franchise upon women, who exercised it for
more than thirty years.

When the modern agitation for suffrage began,
the women of the state remembered their ancient
rights, of which they had been illegally deprived. I
well remember Lucy Stone, the noted suffrage leader,
whose baby’s cradle was attached because she refused
to pay taxes. She was a comely woman, with a
motherly face and soft, sweet voice, but possessed
of iron determination! It might have paid the anti-suffragists
to redeem and restore that cradle, for the
baby grew up to be Alice Stone Blackwell. She has
carried on, with unfaltering and single-hearted devotion,
the work so nobly begun by her parents, Lucy
Stone and Henry Blackwell.

When they removed to Massachusetts the movement
flagged for a time. Through the efforts of
Dr. Mary D. Hussey, a most devoted and unselfish
suffrage-worker, a state association was formed in
1890.

In 1893 I was elected to the office of president,
bringing to it the experience already acquired in the
club and Federation movement. The New Jersey
// 288.png
.pn +1
Woman Suffrage Association now began the active
career which has continued for a quarter of a century
with ever-increasing momentum. When we, the
pioneers, look at its wonderful growth, we are glad
to think that ours was the privilege of doing the
foundation work. Of this the inauguration of branch
leagues was an important part. These we established
in Essex County, Union County, Camden, Trenton,
Asbury Park, Moorestown. In 1894 the law which
permitted women to vote at school meetings was declared
unconstitutional. The New Jersey state constitution
of 1844 (adopted without consulting the
women whom it disfranchised) limited the right of
voting for officers elective by the people to male citizens.

School trustees are officers elective by the people,
therefore women clearly could not vote for them.
But this same constitution cheerfully forgot to forbid
women to hold office or to vote for the issuance of
bonds, etc.

Women were already serving acceptably as school
trustees in different parts of the state. There seemed
to be no reason why they should not continue to do
so. They had also been voting during seven years
for these officers and always for the benefit of the
schools, according to the almost universal testimony
of the educational authorities. A number of school-houses
in New Jersey owe their existence to the votes
of women combined with those of progressive men.

The feminine voters were discouraged by the adverse
decision of the Supreme Court. It was a part
of our task to point out to them the rights still remaining
// 289.png
.pn +1
and to encourage them to use these, for the
benefit of the children.

Finding that the constitution of the state was to be
amended, we decided to ask the Legislature to pass
an amendment restoring to us the rights of school
suffrage that we had lost. We hoped to have these
extended to towns and cities, but were assured that
it would be impossible to procure any extension of the
school suffrage.

“Asking the Legislature” is a task requiring time
and patience. I now understood for the first time
the practical meaning of the word “lobbyist” and the
practical necessity of his work. We had no private
ax to grind—we went to Trenton for the sake of the
cause of education as well as for that of suffrage.
Yet our only chance to state our case was as the legislators
passed “on the wing.” We found them courteous,
but always in a hurry. They gave us good
advice: “Agitate the matter in the papers. Get the
people behind you.” We could not expect them to
pass an amendment to the constitution unless the people
wanted it. It was a part of our duty to educate
the public. We also had hearings before legislative
committees.

It did not seem as if our small and eminently reasonable
request could be refused. So we perseveringly
went to Trenton and finally succeeded in having
our amendment passed. My husband drew it up for
us and helped us in every possible way.

On the last day of the session we had a narrow
escape from defeat. Receiving word that the Legislature
was about to adjourn, I hurried to Trenton,
// 290.png
.pn +1
where the lawmakers were already in that state of
boyish nonsense which marks the last day. In the
gallery I found one of our stanchest suffragists, scandalized
by the playful exchange of books and courtesies
going on below, and lurking, concealed, in a corner.
Where was our bill? No one knew. I hastily
hunted up the clerk and informed him that the document
must be found without delay. To have the
amendment, which had cost us three years of labor,
mislaid at the last moment was unthinkable. Whether
it had been pigeonholed by accident or on purpose
we never knew, but presently he returned with it,
duly draped with red tape. Having seen it started on
its proper course, my friend and I returned to the
gallery, where we took our seats in full view of the
gentlemen below. The athletic interchange of dictionaries
by a parcel of boys young enough to be my
sons had no terrors for me, as my countenance plainly
indicated. Our amendment was passed before the
adjournment and our wrath was turned to rejoicing!
We shook hands with the representatives and thanked
them as they came out. They looked rather sheepish—perhaps
on account of the dictionary incident.

We now began active work to influence the voters.
Meetings were held in all parts of the state and many
articles were published, explaining the scope of the
amendment.

Our most valuable support came from the educational
authorities, since theirs was expert opinion.
We published letters from Hon. Charles J. Baxter,
State Superintendent of Education and others, setting
forth the good effect which the votes of women had
// 291.png
.pn +1
already had upon the school system. The Republican
State Executive Committee and many organizations
endorsed the amendment. It was defeated by
an adverse majority of ten thousand votes, sixty-five
thousand persons voting for it. The opposition came
almost entirely from the cities, where school suffrage
had never existed, and especially from the Germans.

Our labor was not wasted, however, for the campaign
widely advertised the fact that women still
possessed the right to serve as school trustees and also
to vote for appropriations and the issuance of bonds.
We still held, in rural districts, the power of the
purse-strings. It was a part of my policy to keep this
fact always before the people of the state. Every
spring, shortly before the time of the annual school
meetings, I prepared a circular which was printed and
sent to the three hundred newspapers of New Jersey.
We were too poor, as an association, to afford clerk
hire, devoted suffragists freely giving their time and
labor.

The admission of women to the Bar of the state
was secured at this time. Several of us spoke at a
hearing of the judiciary committee of the Legislature,
but the most telling speech was that of Mrs. Carrie
Burnham Kilgore, a lawyer of Philadelphia.

She informed her hearers that, through interstate
courtesy, she had been permitted to try cases in New
Jersey. “Surely, gentlemen, you will not refuse to
the women of your own state the privilege you have
accorded to those from a neighboring commonwealth.”
This argument produced a great effect on
the men learned in the law. Miss Mary Philbrook
// 292.png
.pn +1
was very active and energetic in getting the law passed
under which she was the first woman to become a
lawyer in New Jersey.

My husband gave her her first case—that of a
neighbor whose husband had by his will tried to cut
off her right of dower. Miss Philbrook won it.

The comments of the “antis,” or “remonstrants,”
as we then called them, appealed strongly to one’s
sense of humor.

I wrote a farce, “The Judgment of Minerva,” on
this theme, and read it before the National Woman
Suffrage Convention in Washington and elsewhere.
It elicited much laughter. Later it was acted by the
College Equal Suffrage League at one of the Boston
theaters and by several other suffrage societies.

After serving as president of the New Jersey
Woman Suffrage Association for eight years, I retired.
Mrs. Cornelia Hussey, a devoted suffragist,
whose generous financial support had been indispensable
to the state association, made me a life member
of the National and through the vote of the state association
I became its first honorary president. Such
recognitions of one’s work are always heartening
because they testify to the approval of one’s fellow-workers.
The greatest reward is the consciousness
that one has done something, be it ever so little, for
the “grand old cause of human freedom.”

My husband had been a “Pooh Bah” in Scotch
Plains, and I now deserved the title in Plainfield.
Our little Unitarian church needed a president for its
Women’s Alliance, and during eleven years I held the
office. This did not involve long-distance excursions,
// 293.png
.pn +1
however. In addition to working for the church, we
prepared and read papers. It was a pleasure to meet
with this intelligent body of women. In our Plainfield
chapter of the D. A. R. I enjoyed serving as
regent and vice-regent for some years. As president
of the local league I continued my work for suffrage.
// 294.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch20
XX||<s>JOYS AND SORROWS OF THE LECTURER</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>The Treatment of “Talent.”—Visits to New England and to
the West.—My Mother’s Seventieth Birthday.—The papeterie
Club.—Elisabeth Stewart Phelps Ward.—Thomas Nelson
Page.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
IN the ’nineties the women’s clubs were beginning
to offer a field for lecturers. After reading a paper
before my own club in Plainfield I was emboldened
to enter this, and during twenty-five years made
lecture trips to New England and the middle West, as
well as to near-by points. “The Art of Conversation,”
and “Personal Reminiscences of Distinguished
People” were among my most popular talks.

Boston was my mother’s home and also a great
center of club activity. Hence I was glad to give
many talks in New England, combining them with
visits to her delightful home at 241 Beacon Street.
On one of these trips I attended an authors’ reading
where the name of Elizabeth Stewart Phelps Ward
was on the program. She duly took her part, but we
learned afterward that she had told the chairman she
might not feel like speaking. “When it is my turn, do
not announce me unless I spring up and come forward.”
As Mrs. Ward was sitting behind the chairman,
the latter had some anxious moments before
the author of “Gates Ajar” decided to “spring up.”
// 295.png
.pn +1

If not the first to speak on the subject of manners,
I was a pioneer in the field. A friend surprised me
by saying that my talks at schools had become the
fashion in New York. A look at my engagement-book
showed that she was right.

To talk to young girls is a great pleasure. We always
seemed to understand one another perfectly; I
interspersed my subject with anecdotes and with bits
of fun which they cordially appreciated. My aim
was to set before them the essentials of good nature
rather than the formalism of mere etiquette.

A speaker on manners is confronted with many
difficulties. She must not speak of elementary details
as if her hearers were ignorant of them, yet
she must enter somewhat into particulars. I thought
it perfectly safe to speak of gum-chewing in public
as an odious custom, permissible only to football players.
Alas! One of my hearers always chewed gum
while traveling, to avoid car-sickness!

I often asked the principals whether there were
any special points they wished mentioned. One lady
requested me to speak of mimicry, as she had a pupil
much given to it. I willingly did so, quoting from
Miss Edgeworth’s story of “The Mimic.” Unfortunately
the girl for whom the admonition was especially
intended was not feeling well. Either the other
girls recognized the culprit or the weight of her own
guilt overwhelmed her. I have a dim vision of a
youthful figure reclining in an anteroom. I was
never asked to speak in that school again!

If I had realized all the pitfalls lurking in the path
of the speaker on manners, I should have embarked
// 296.png
.pn +1
upon it with a less cheerful heart. But in all professions
we learn by doing. To be “the Missionary of
good manners” has been a pleasure. The principals
have been kind and appreciative hostesses, and I have
been truly glad to visit a great number of schools
which afforded attractive homes as well as excellent
educational advantages to the bright-faced, happy
young girls of our country. It has been a privilege to
see so much of the flower of young American womanhood.

Ruth McEnery Stewart has described in her inimitable
way the treatment of the woman speaker in
early days. Many of her experiences were also mine.
She apparently preferred to stay with private families,
and I certainly did. The cold isolation of a hotel
in a small country town, the depressing furniture of
the bedroom, the unappetizing menu and service of
the dining-room, the chattering drummers in the distance,
these were not at all to my taste.

As a guest in a private house one incurs additional
fatigue, but this is more than compensated for by
the pleasure of meeting and learning to know your
fellow-men and women. Is there a little desire for
incense in all this? It may be, but there is also a
genuine liking for one’s kind. To get a peep into the
lives and thoughts of others can hardly fail to be interesting.
Your material comforts are also much
better attended to in the nest of the average clubwoman
than in the leading hotel of the small town.
The former gives you the best she has; she does
everything in her power to make you comfortable
under her roof. The chief danger is that of killing
// 297.png
.pn +1
you with kindness by putting you on exhibition
through unduly long hours.

To be considered as a being apart is flattering, even
though fatiguing. That you are like other women,
capable of physical weariness, does not always occur
to your kind entertainers. To find that you are to be
the chief guest at a large luncheon given in your
honor, just preceding your address, is disturbing. At
such moments I sympathize with Mrs. Deland’s desire
for the barbaric solitude of the hotel bedroom.
Again, at the end of an hour, when you’ve done your
best to entertain the audience, you would almost prefer
not to shake hands with a couple of hundred persons.

Still, it is a pleasure to meet your audience and to
hear them say the lecture interested them. You look
as animated as you can and try to vary the expression
of your voice when you say for the hundredth time,
“I’m glad you liked it.” For you are genuinely glad—of
that there is no doubt.

I learned ultimately to ask for a time of absolute
quiet before speaking. This is more difficult to procure
than the uninitiated suppose. It is a maxim with
the average clubwoman that the “talent” must be on
hand in very good season. Some clubs who are very
secret about their affairs put you in a remote waiting-room
which may or may not be warm. Others, remembering
that you also are a clubwoman and likely
to sympathize in their doings, give you a comfortable
chair on the platform. As I am thoroughly in sympathy
with the club idea and spirit, I like to hear the
reports, provided they are not too long. At one enthusiastic
// 298.png
.pn +1
club I sat during an hour or more while
they thoroughly and conscientiously amended their
constitution.

For these reasons the lecturer sometimes weakly
desires to delay her coming. She has a subconscious
feeling that the program proper cannot begin until
she gets there, and that therefore she could take a
later train. This proves to be impossible, because of
the necessity of personally meeting and guiding the
“talent” (who might have the wandering tendencies
characteristic of genius) to the right hall. The escort,
being herself a member of the club, cannot, without
sin, lose any crumb of the afternoon’s performance.

To be obliged to await your turn, in a very cold
hall, while another speaker gives an address with
stereoscopic illustrations, is not enlivening to the spirits.
In spite of the assurance that the first talk will
be very brief, you have a dreadful foreknowledge
that it will not be. You grow more and more depressed
as he goes on and on, for you know full well
that your audience will be already wearying before
you begin. Those who have no sense of the passage
of time should not be expected to divide the program
with others. Thomas Nelson Page, when reading his
own stories, is as genial and delightful as they are.
We went to hear him speak on the literature of the
South with the pleasantest anticipations. Richard
Watson Gilder and Sister Maud were also to make addresses—or
so we hoped. But as Mr. Page went on
and on, these hopes faded away. In his amiable desire
to do justice to all the writers of his section of the
// 299.png
.pn +1
country, he forgot the limitations of time and space.
A gentleman in my vicinity became actually savage in
his impatience and was with difficulty restrained from
violence by his wife. Mr. Page must have spoken
for two hours—or so it seemed,—the other speakers’
time being reduced to a few minutes. When we met
him next day and complimented him on his address,
he naïvely replied, “I could have done better if I could
have had more time!”

Mr. Page is by no means the only person whom I
have heard offend in this way. Hence the warning-bell
of women’s conventions is an excellent institution.
The local talent must sometimes be reckoned with. I
am very fond of music, but, in my opinion, it is a
mistake to present a mixed program, consisting half
of concert and half of lecture, to a club audience.
Such an occasion is of a mongrel order. A single
song may pleasantly preface the literary exercises, but
this it is difficult to have.

In the midst of a series of earnest talks on schools
as social centers, or on votes for women, to have your
train of thought suddenly interrupted by operatic
quavers from the local soprano, with accompanying
flower presentation, is disturbing.

Marion Crawford was a delightful speaker. It
once happened, when we were in Boston, that several
of us were to speak on the same day.

“Five of the family are going to make the platform
creak to-night!” exclaimed Crawford.

At a lecture course which I arranged in Plainfield
he was the great attraction. The talk was given in
a hall of pleasant size, not too large to permit a
// 300.png
.pn +1
certain intimacy between speaker and audience.
Crawford was at his best. Feeling, as a lecturer so
quickly does, the interest and sympathy of his hearers,
he was as genial and delightful as if he had been
talking to half a dozen of us in a parlor. Among
those that surrounded him after the address was
an enthusiastic lady who declared him to be the
equal of Thackeray. The dear fellow deprecated
this praise, yet he clearly liked it, as who would
not?

Another relative, who wanted him to speak at her
house, for a reduced price, did not secure him.

She wished, after the fashion of women, to give
her guests a real treat—ice-cream and flowers as
well as an address from Crawford—cutting down his
fee to pay for the rest of the entertainment. I regret
to say that her point of view is quite common
among clubwomen. The secretary will naïvely ask
you to come for a low price because the ladies wish
to give ice-cream to their guests. It does not seem
to occur to them that in this case it is the lecturer who
pays for the refreshments!

It is—or was, for we will hope the bad custom is
dying away—common for clubs to exact, whenever
they can, cut prices from their women speakers, on
the plea of their small means—and then end up the
year with some very expensive man whose fee is
<i>not</i> subject to curtailment.

After my mother reached the age of seventy her
birthday was always celebrated by family and friends
as a joyous occasion. The house was transformed
into a veritable bower of flowers, the fitting expression
// 301.png
.pn +1
of the beautiful affection by which she was surrounded.

A lady from the West was invited, with her son,
to one of these receptions. She endeavored to impress
upon him, beforehand, the importance of the
occasion when “we shall see all the <i>élite</i> of Boston.”
The day was rainy, and in the confusion of many umbrellas,
that of the Western couple was mislaid.

“Ah, mother, the <i>élite</i> got the better of us that
time!” said her son.

In 1893 we all greatly enjoyed the Chicago World’s
Fair, in spite of the fact that I had my pocket picked
and that my oldest son had a very serious time with
his eyes, which were half-blinded by the glare. My
mother was so deeply interested in it, and especially
in the parliaments connected with it, that she forgot
about her lame knee. When she returned home this
took its revenge, depressing her usually buoyant spirits.

Sister Maud, remembering our mother’s perennial
interest in women’s clubs, invented the “Papeterie”
as a restorative.

Its object, as the name implies, was an exchange
of paper-covered novels. The members took these
home to read, giving a report at the following meeting.
We occasionally had musical, artistic, and dramatic
programs. Our most serious undertaking was
the writing of a novel, to which each member contributed
a chapter. It was full of dash and adventure,
but remains buried in the archives of the club. Our
great modesty forbade the seeking of a publisher.
We had a great deal of delightful fun and nonsense
// 302.png
.pn +1
at our meetings. Our mother, with her wit and
gaiety, was the moving spirit of the little club. She
seldom missed a meeting, but when she did we were
like salt that has lost its savor. The merriment which
came so easily in her presence, faded and died away!

Some extracts from my minutes as recording secretary
are given below, to show as far as may be the
spirit of our meetings. Their object was to amuse the
company rather than to preserve a strictly veracious
record of our doings.

We had no regular fees and dues in the Papeterie,
save occasional fines of five cents for some offense,
real or imaginary, and assessments for postage or for
a new record-book. Hence jests about our treasurer
were among our stock jokes. She was christened
“butterfly,” owing to her supposed fondness for society.

.pm letter-start
The first meeting of the renowned Papeterie Club for the
season of 1910 was held August 9th, at the house of our President,
who occupied the chair, as usual. She has wielded the
gavel, OUR gavel, with her accustomed dexterity and grace,
rebuking frivolous members with august raps on the table.

The annual report of the Rec. Sec. was read. The Chair
suggested in a voice of authority that the proper thing be done
by this report, and all voted to do the proper thing. What this
was no one mentioned.

The Treasurer’s report was a revelation in High Finance,
as follows:

Oct. 19th, 1908. There were five cents—these five cents to be
known hereafter as the Lost Chord.

In July, 1909, we began with this Lost Chord—which vanished,
leaving in its place $5.61 in October of that year.

There were no expenses except $1.20 for postal cards. Apparently
there were no receipts, but somehow the $5.61 has now
// 303.png
.pn +1
become $7.36. The third degree was here mercilessly applied
to our Butterfly Treasurer, also to the minutes, with the result
that it was found $2.75 had been received for special fines.
The Papeterie therefore voted <sc>NOT</sc> to burn the treasurer at the
stake as a witch. We should have been under this sad necessity
had not this increase in our Treasure been satisfactorily
accounted for.

The election passed off with its accustomed serenity. The
Club understands so well how to re-elect the old officers, we
could really do this in our sleep. The old Board is unanimously
murmured into the offices which they will never leave, no never,
while life lasts. The only new feature of the election was that
our Treasurer, Mrs. Lyman Josephs, nobly consented to act as
Cor. Sec. <i>pro tem.</i> (in the absence of Mrs. Manson Smith),
as well as our eternal and brilliant Treasurer. And yet she
has been called a Butterfly.
.rj 2
<sc>Florence H. Hall</sc>,
<i>Rec. Sec.</i>
.pm letter-end

In addition to the usual officers of a club, the
Papeterie had a “troubadour” (our musical member),
an “archiviste” in charge of the archives, and a “penologist.”
Our penal code was in the custody of the
latter. We had a great deal of fun over the code—but
I do not remember the actual infliction of any
punishment, except fines of five cents.

The meeting of September 27, 1910, was the last
but one held before my mother’s death, in October.
Mrs. William Hunter Birckhead, who succeeded me
as recording secretary, gave us an interesting account
of the “Passion Play” at Oberammergau, and my
mother told us of Newport in the old days. It was
so sadly deserted after the Revolution that only one
lady possessed a diamond ring!
// 304.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch21
XXI||<s>DARBY AND JOAN ON THEIR TRAVELS</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>A Cathedral Pilgrimage.—Visit to a French Country House.—Madame
Blanc.—Cathedrals of Rheims, Chartres, Rouen,
Beauvais, Amiens.—English Hospitality.—Visit to Florence
Nightingale.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
IN the summer of 1902 my husband was badly out
of health. It was decided that we should try a
trip to Europe in the hope that the complete change
of thought and scene would be beneficial to him. I
had been on the point of going abroad with the family
in 1867, and again toward the end of the century,
when it was planned that I should bring my mother
back from Rome. This was the first time, however,
that I was to cross the ocean “in the flesh.” To me,
Europe had always seemed a fairy-land of romance.
I was delighted at the mere thought of going there.
My husband, on the contrary, was quite indifferent
about it. This was perhaps owing to his state of
health. The task of parting him from his business
proved extremely difficult. Like many conscientious
persons, he felt that he simply could not leave the matters
to which no one else could, in his opinion, properly
attend. Fortunately, our daughter Caroline was going
with us. With her help we managed to get off,
but the final wrench was terrific! No sooner had the
// 305.png
.pn +1
good ship <i>Zeeland</i> sailed than a complete change came
over the spirit of his dreams. He enjoyed every moment
of our trip; indeed, we both did. “Darby and
Joan on their travels” were like two middle-aged but
very happy children.

To our delight, Mr. and Mrs. Larz Anderson, the
latter an old friend of my daughter, proved to be
among the passengers. We all sat at a table together,
Miss Susie Dalton making the sixth of a merry party.
I suspect that the Andersons ordered special cakes
and ale, for the table had the most delightfully decorative
appearance. They certainly treated us to
champagne, which is well known to be a preventive
of seasickness.

The only drawback to our joy in Antwerp was the
constant striking of the cathedral chimes. Every
rose has its thorns and every cathedral has its bells,
but all do not keep up their music through the live-long
night. We consoled ourselves by the remembrance
that Thackeray also suffered!

The old houses especially charmed us wherever we
went. The quaint Flemish dwellings with the rope
and pulley at the top explained to us why the French
attics are called <i>greniers</i> or granaries.

A visit to the house of Mrs. George R. Fearing
at Fontainebleau gave us a delightful glimpse of
French country life. Even the name of the street
where she lived, “rue de l’Arbre Sec,” had a promise
of romance. Here we found “modern conveniences”
and charming hospitality combined with the setting
and atmosphere of a French country house. This
kind friend had lived so long in France as to become
// 306.png
.pn +1
thoroughly acclimated. Indeed, she did not return to
America until the sound of the cannon at her gates
in the battle of the Marne drove her from her beloved
France.

The family came together at twelve o’clock, for an
excellent luncheon, followed by coffee in the garden.
Here the lofty walls gave us a delightful feeling of
privacy, even though we were living in the midst of
a small town. The European use of the garden as an
annex to the house is so eminently reasonable that
one can hardly understand why its introduction has
been so fiercely fought in our own country.

In our friend’s garden, as everywhere in France,
the combination of beauty with economy delighted
us. Who but the French would think of using spinach
as a border to the flower-beds?

At three o’clock came the daily drive into the
wonderful forest, with a visit to some spot of interest.
Our thoughtful hostess always provided a <i>goûter</i> of
bread and chocolate, our funny old driver taking his
at a little distance apart. When we visited quaint
Barbizon, we munched our <i>goûter</i> under the shadow
of the monument to its great artists. On our return
we dined at seven, and so the pleasant day ended.

Among the villages on the borders of the forest,
Moret, with its ancient, turreted gates and factory
of beautiful chinaware, is especially charming. The
dear old church, fast falling into decay, wrung our
hearts. “Darby” was a zealous Protestant, but he
felt it right to drop something in the “<i>tronc pour la
restauration de l’église</i>.” Alas! one does not like to
think of the decay that must, during the present war,
// 307.png
.pn +1
have overtaken many of these beautiful old wayside
churches.

As the lovely Palace of Fontainebleau was almost
at our door we had excellent opportunities of becoming
acquainted with it. It is especially satisfactory to
the tourist, because the rooms still retain the old
artistic furniture. When wandering through them
you seem to catch a glimpse of the vanished past with
its grandeur.

When the time came for us to leave Fontainebleau
and start on our pilgrimage, we felt very much like
elderly Babes in the Wood, for Caroline was to stay
behind with Mrs. Fearing. She had fortified us,
however, with much advice. We were especially
cautioned to observe her instructions as to the proper
amount of the <i>pourboire</i>, in order that the hack-drivers
might perceive us to be, not perhaps exactly
natives, but persons of knowledge who could not be
easily imposed upon.

We each brought certain modest talents to our
combined stock as a company of adventure. Darby
had the splendid quality of enthusiasm and an intense
love of the beautiful. He had also a power of orientation
most surprising to his partner. He always
knew east from west; with guide-book and map in
hand, he could perform the most marvelous feats of
going about in strange places. Joan felt it to be an
unnecessary fatigue to bother your head about direction
when you could take an omnibus marked with
the name of the place you wanted to visit. If there
wasn’t any omnibus you could hire a cab, and the
driver always knew where to go!
// 308.png
.pn +1

She contributed to the common stock a knowledge
of French that enabled her to understand the spoken
word and to speak it herself—with some pauses. Being
of a hopeful disposition, she had a sublime confidence
that everything would go right, in spite of
appearances. This proved to be a good traveling
companion, although it did give us some anxious moments
in the matter of catching trains. For your
optimist is apt to cut her time allowance short.
Darby, who went abroad for nerves, felt positive we
never could catch that train, but we always did!

It was our great delight to go about on the top of
an omnibus. Darby would carry all his worldly
goods with him, so that it was necessary for Joan to
sit always on his right or pocketbook side. His agony
was great when a suspicious-looking character sat
down next to the pocketbook. We did see a few
ferocious-looking men who reminded us of the French
Revolution.

Darby’s indifference toward the Old World
changed rapidly into a chronic state of enthusiasm.
We were indifferent to shops, and the season was
late for theater-going. Our great pleasure lay in
looking up old houses and monuments of the past, as
well as in visiting the many museums, picture-galleries,
and churches which make Paris the most
wonderful city in the world.

A visit to Madame Henri Blanc (Thérèse de Solms
Bentzon), well known for her writings in the <i>Revue
des Deux Mondes</i>, was among the pleasures of my
stay in Paris. Either I was a little early in arriving
at her apartment or my hostess was a trifle late. She
// 309.png
.pn +1
soon came in, however, and entertained me with
afternoon tea, the adorable little French cakes, and
her own interesting conversation. After a little preliminary
maneuvering for position, we settled down
into the French language, Madame Blanc assuring
me, with true Gallic politeness, that my French was
better than her English.

I was very glad to have an opportunity to hear her
express her opinions unhampered by a foreign language.

Madame Blanc had much to say on the subject of
flirtations, of which she greatly disapproved. It was
evident to me that, using the word in a graver sense
than we do, she somewhat misjudged our American
flirtations. Yet how difficult it is to explain to a
foreigner our lenient view of what appears to her a
dangerous pastime! She doubtless thought of these
as a careless trifling with affairs of the heart on the
part of married women. A Frenchwoman cannot
fully understand the meaning of the half-playful,
usually quite harmless, flirtations of our young girls,
because their position and freedom of action are incomprehensible
to her. Yet, as Madame Blanc was
the translator of American romances and as she had
paid especial attention to our life and manners, her
opinions deserve careful consideration.

When I saw her in 1902 Madame Blanc was of
fair complexion, gray-haired, and rather stout. She
was dressed in black, with no pretensions to coquetry.
In fact, she was frankly a middle-aged Frenchwoman.

My husband had certain rooted prejudices in the
// 310.png
.pn +1
dietary line which were not easily overcome. Thus to
rabbit he bitterly objected.

Caroline and I one day found him in the midst of
an animated altercation with the waiter. The latter
had, he suspected, brought him the odious <i>lapin</i>,
which he wished instantly exchanged for something
else. The waiter vainly tried to point out that of the
two “meats” he was entitled only to one. He had not
only chosen <i>lapin</i>, but, like Proserpine, he had tasted
of the fatal dish. The waiter doubtless considered
the complaint to be of the <i>lapin</i> as <i>lapin</i>. That it
was a perfectly good rabbit he stoutly maintained.
<i>It was an intense international moment!</i> Caroline
deftly straightened out the tangle and soothed the
injured feelings of the waiter.

We were so fortunate as to see Mounet-Sully in
“œdipus.” The formalism of the play, the archaic
device of having the story related by the chorus,
caused Darby to sniff during the first part of the performance.
Darby was extremely fond of the theater,
especially of Shakespeare’s plays. When the climax
of “œdipus” was reached in the last act, his Puritan
self-control gave way. In his enthusiasm he shouted,
“Bravo! bravo!” This sudden flaming forth of
American admiration for the great actor surprised
the quiet French people—strangers to us—who had
seats in our box.

In Antwerp we had admired the cathedral, in spite
of the somewhat hybrid character of its architecture.
Within, the stalls for the clergy and choir—forests
of lovely carved wood—were a perfect revelation
to us. In Paris the Cathedral of Notre Dame especially
// 311.png
.pn +1
delighted us. Henceforth our trip, while it had
many interesting side features, became in truth a
cathedral pilgrimage. We became perfectly infatuated
with the beauty and the grandeur of these wonderful
dreams in stone, the finest buildings in the
world erected since the days of the Parthenon.

The height of the French cathedrals is astounding.
As we stood in the matchless nave of Amiens and
looked up one hundred and forty clear feet to the
vaulting far above our heads, we could hardly believe
that it was made of stone. How could such a weight
be sustained?

We had such faith in its stability, however, that
here and in other cathedrals we walked about in a
sort of vast attic between this stone vaulting and the
outer roof. The young French girl who guided us
was as nimble as a goat. She seemed to have no
fear of falling in places where I stepped with fear
and trembling.

It was a slight shock to find that the famous spires
of Chartres are not alike, having been built at different
periods, yet they are held to be unsurpassed in
France. The older one is much simpler than its
younger brother. We had been delighted with the
stained glass of Notre Dame in Paris, and we had
enjoyed—with some reservations—that of the Sainte-Chapelle.
But the windows at Chartres were a revelation.
They were like gleaming jewels on an enormous
scale, wonderful, wonderful to behold. The
deep-blue tones I especially remember. The windows
in the clearstory of the nave are very beautiful, the
superior height of the French cathedrals making
// 312.png
.pn +1
these much larger and more beautiful than the corresponding
windows in the English minsters. In
the latter the choir is often fenced off from the nave by
an ugly jube, or rood screen, surmounted by an organ,
instead of being left open, as in France. The reason
of this difference is that the French churches were
built by the people, in an almost literal sense, for they
not only gave money, but in some instances actually
hauled the great blocks of stone in their pious zeal.
Hence the French people rightly felt that these splendid
buildings belonged to them.

At Chartres it makes one’s heart ache to see that
the exquisite lacework in stone of the choir screen is
broken in a number of places, though still most beautiful.
The great triple porches, with their portals
fairly crowded with sculptured figures, delighted us.
Even the layman can see that the quaint, exaggerated
elongation of the statues serves a definite architectural
purpose.

At Beauvais we visited the famous tapestry-works
and saw the workmen carrying on their craft. Each
held a little mirror in his lap, showing the right side
of the texture, the wrong, on which he wrought, being
turned toward him. Their hands looked white
and soft like a woman’s. Beauvais has its heroine,
who seems to be little known outside the limits of
the town. When Charles the Bold of Burgundy
attacked the place the inhabitants defended it successfully,
the women helping. In the market-place stands
a statue of Jeanne Lainé, or Hachette, the heroine of
the fight. The banner which she captured with her
own hands is still preserved.
// 313.png
.pn +1

It seems fitting that the boldest and highest flight
of Gothic architecture should have been attempted in
a place with such traditions. Alas! The result proved
that it is best not to be overbold. The Cathedral of
St. Pierre was and is a magnificent fragment, for it
was never finished. When the noble and beautiful
spire fell, five years after its completion, on Ascension
Day, 1573, it was said that with it fell the pointed
style in France.

We reached the Cathedral of Beauvais in time to
witness a procession in honor of the Virgin’s Assumption.
It was pleasant to see the townspeople thus
making active use of their “enormous, though ill-proportioned
and yet magnificent, church.”

We entered by the south transept, which is most
beautiful and impressive. Standing before it, one
does not see that the nave is wanting; one only
admires a vast structure, richly carved. We found
the choir made beautifully light and bright by its
three lofty stories of stained glass. The building
gives one no sense of repose, for in the desire to
realize the vast height the eye constantly follows the
course of the colossal piers as they rise up, up, up in
the air. Alas! various scaffoldings erected in the
interior to strengthen weak parts give one a feeling
of insecurity.

From certain points of view, the Cathedral of
Beauvais looks like a stranded monster of the past.
Its vast height is exaggerated by the lack of a nave,
making it appear high-shouldered and out of proportion.
Yet other views of it are so beautiful and
so impressive that we felt well repaid for our trip.
// 314.png
.pn +1

Before the year 1914 we thought of Rheims
Cathedral as the most beautiful of the great sister
churches of France. Now we think of her as of a
loved one no longer living. We cannot speak her
name without sorrow, for the crown of martyrdom
has been added to her other glories.

We were so anxious to see as much as possible of
the cathedral that we took rooms in the hotel opposite
it. From our windows we looked directly out
at the wonderful façade. There was one terrible
drawback, however, to our proximity to the cathedral.
We were awakened at about five in the morning by
a loud and persistent ringing of the bells of the great
church. The repetition of the same tone over and
over again, several hundred times, drove Darby almost
to distraction. Later we learned that it had
been the custom to ring this tocsin at this time for
four or five hundred years! What a comment on the
industry of the place, and indeed of the French
people generally!

We viewed the building from many points, noting
the wonderful way in which the beautiful features
of the structure echo from one part to another till
they reach the highest pinnacle and vanish into the
heavens, as the great church itself has now vanished,
all but a few ruins. Perhaps it has again taken
shape there. May we not hope to see its image,
etherealized, in the Celestial City?

As to the façade, in these stirring days of the
twentieth century it is splendid to think of it as the
unsurpassed and unsurpassable triumph of democracy!
For it was owing to the popular ownership
// 315.png
.pn +1
of these buildings in France that the façade, or people’s
end, became so wonderfully developed. For the
same reason the French cathedrals stand in the streets
of the town, always readily accessible to the people.
Whereas the great English churches are shut away in
closes, indicating the more aristocratic and exclusive
rule of the clergy.

Darby irreverently observed that the English
clergy in the cathedrals seemed as snug as mice in a
cheese!

We saw many beautiful doorways in France, both
in cathedrals and in smaller churches, but none can
compare with those of Rheims. Their shape is of
very great and peculiar beauty. These vast arched
portals curve inward and downward almost like
a cup.

I had some talk with the workmen engaged in
making the restorations. These are imperative, as
without them the cathedrals would go to decay.
Rheims is built of a beautiful yellowish-brown material,
but the stone is too soft to wear well. The
repairs were made in a spirit of reverence. The
method we found surprising. In reconstructing a
pinnacle they build it up into the form of a single
block of stone, and then carve it as a sculptor carves
a statue out of a block of marble.

Late one August afternoon we stood before the
lofty portals. I fancied the great figures near their
base—the rows of saints—grew more lifelike in the
twilight, as if preparing to step down from their
niches. As evening fell the army of figures carved
in stone seemed to give the cathedral a human look.
// 316.png
.pn +1
They were almost alive in the twilight. What tales
of the centuries were they prepared to tell us, these
dumb witnesses of many a grand pageant and of the
coronation of the kings of France for more than six
hundred years! Did they feel a glow of national
pride when the Maid of Orléans brought the recreant
Charles VII hither to be crowned and achieved her
greatest triumph under that vast roof?

The summit of our pilgrimage of joy had now
been reached; after this there was a gentle descent
to glories still great, but lesser than the five supreme
examples of Gothic art we had already seen. To be
sure, the Abbey Church of St. Ouen at Rouen is
thought the most beautiful thing of its kind in
Europe. We should have been only too happy to
enjoy it as it stood, without criticism, save for one
sad fault. The western facade—the glory of our
other cathedrals—is very disappointing, for it is modern,
and looks so! Indeed, it seems cheap and commonplace.
It was built by Viollet-le-Duc, who
did not adhere to the original plans, <i>which still
exist!</i>

We admired greatly the façade of the Cathedral
of Rouen, with its wonderful decoration. Monet has
made a series of lovely paintings of it. We realized,
however, that there was a distinct descent from the
earlier, nobler, and more reserved monuments of
Gothic art. It lacks the tremendous sincerity of
these.

Ascending the towers of the various cathedrals we
found a mystic and sometimes an alarming task. If a
guide went with us, well and good, but often he
// 317.png
.pn +1
trustingly left us to our own devices. Evidently we
could not run away with the tower. A sacristan,
however pious, is, after all, human, especially as to
his legs. No matter how aspiring his soul, his frame
cannot endure an infinite number of ascensions in
the company of successive squads of tourists. So he
often pressed a lighted taper into the hands of
Darby, receiving in return a franc or so. Round and
round the dark spiral staircase we wound our way,
stepping always on the damp stones worn by the feet
of countless pilgrims of the centuries. We could see
but a short way before us. Suppose pickpockets or
cutthroats were lurking around the next turn of the
winding stairway, what could we do? Fortunately,
we never met any one more alarming than tourists
like ourselves, who passed us without hostile demonstrations.

Our stay in France had been a period of enchantment.
When we reached Le Havre and embarked
for England we began once more to touch the ground
of real life. When every one about you speaks your
language there is an end of the wonderful mystery
that seems to encompass the traveler on foreign soil.

Things in England were not like things in America,
but both were prose, whereas in France all had been
poetry. The universal provisions against rain of
course amused us—the reversible seats on the tops
of the omnibuses, the rubber trousers which the policemen
calmly folded up and laid, when not in use,
at the feet of the lions of Trafalgar.

The cathedrals were beautiful, but we missed the
soaring height of their French sisters. The English
// 318.png
.pn +1
cathedrals are not true Gothic, like those of northern
France, neither do they possess the wonderful wealth
and variety of ornamentation of the latter.

At Plymouth we had the great pleasure of staying
in an English country house, our hosts being Colonel
and Mrs. Dudley Mills. Here we found the true
British hospitality which is so delightful. The fact
that some one—either your host or his myrmidons—is
constantly thinking of your comfort is certainly
pleasant. Cans of hot water, brought constantly to
your door, are not so convenient, in reality, as faucets,
but they add a personal and human touch, like the
open-grate fires which some one must constantly
tend!

The Devonshire clotted cream we especially liked.
Also, after our continental experience, it was refreshing
to see church floors actually washed!

To have Devonshire designated in the newspapers
as the “West” of England seemed very funny. It
had not occurred to us that the country was large
enough to have any “West”!

Nothing in England impressed me more than the
sculptures from the Parthenon in the British Museum.
Not even the incongruity of their surroundings,
in a bare, stuffy room, can mar their wonderful
beauty. The grace of the recumbent figures in their
marvelous drapery, the heads of the horses of the
setting sun, the pageant of the Panathenaic procession,
all the figures so stately, yet so graceful—truly
the ruins of Greece are more glorious than any sculpture
the modern world can show!

People said that it would be impossible for me to
// 319.png
.pn +1
see Florence Nightingale, then a confirmed invalid
living in extreme retirement.

But I felt confident that for the sake of her old
friends, my parents, as well as for my own, she would
receive her goddaughter if her health permitted. It
was more than fifty years since she had written, “I
shall hope to see my little Florence before long in
this world,” and the time was growing short.

She had said, too, she trusted a tie had been formed
between us which should continue in eternity: “If
she is like you I shall know her again there without
her body on, perhaps the better for not having known
her here with it.”

With the extraordinary promptness characteristic
of the London post, a reply to my letter came from
Miss Nightingale’s secretary, appointing a time for
me to call.

Our landlady tried to impress upon me the greatness
of the privilege thus granted. Like all her countrywomen,
she greatly admired Florence Nightingale,
although, with the curious British reserve, the
expression of her admiration was to be mortuary
only.

“When she dies I shall send her a funeral wreath!”
quoth Miss X. She also specified that the price was
to be five dollars, if I remember aright.

Miss Nightingale’s house at 10 South Street, Park
Lane, was in Mayfair, the aristocratic quarter of
London. There was nothing especially striking about
the quiet and commodious dwelling, with its air of
dignified simplicity and retirement so well befitting
the quiet tastes of its noble-hearted mistress. Florence
// 320.png
.pn +1
Nightingale’s dislike of ostentation is well
known. To serve her fellow-men and to relieve suffering
was the ruling passion of her life, but she
always shunned publicity, save as it might be necessary
for the accomplishment of her work.

Upon my arrival I was met by a young lady, Miss
Cochrane, who was, I presume, the secretary. She
told me that Miss Nightingale had been interested in
my letter and would enjoy seeing me. But she
warned me not to stay long and to leave if my hostess
seemed tired. Presently the nurse called me, and we
ascended some flights of stairs till we reached a large
pleasant room where I was ushered into the presence
of Florence Nightingale. She was reclining in bed,
propped up by pillows. A soft woolen shawl was
around her shoulders. Her gray hair, still thick and
not so white as that of most persons of her age
(eighty-two), was parted in the middle and brushed
smoothly down on each side beneath a plain cap. Her
features were strong, the nose slightly aquiline, the
eyes bright, apparently gray. She reminded me of
Ralph Waldo Emerson in a certain shrewd and kindly
look which seemed to betoken a strong sense of
humor. Her complexion was good, her color also,
with something of the English ruddiness. Her voice
was strong and full, an unusual thing in a person of
her age. A pad and pencil lay beside her, with which
she made some notes in the course of our talk.

“What a dear old lady!” I said to myself as I
looked at her. I had been warned that I must myself
do the greater part of the talking, as it would not
do to fatigue my distinguished hostess. In her <i>Notes</i>
// 321.png
.pn +1
<i>on Nursing</i> she gives these vigorous and sensible hints
for just such a visit as I was making.

.pm letter-start
Do you who are about the sick or who visit the sick, try
and give them pleasure, remember to tell them what will do so.
How often in such visits <i>the sick person has to do the whole
conversation</i>.... A sick person does so enjoy hearing good
news—for instance, of a love and courtship while in progress,
to a good ending.
.pm letter-end

(How glad I am to think that I had the sense to
tell her two of my sons had taken wives unto themselves.
“I am glad they are married,” said the dear
lady.)

.pm letter-start
A sick person also intensely enjoys hearing of any <i>material</i>
good, any positive or practical success of the right. He has
so much of books and fiction, of principles and precepts and
theories; do, instead of advising him with advice he has heard
at least fifty times before, tell him of one benevolent act which
has really succeeded practically—<i>it is like a day’s health to him</i>.
.pm letter-end

Instead of repining at her enforced inactivity and
grieving over her sufferings, like the usual egotistical
invalid, this glorious soul found its health and
strength in hearing of the good works of others!
What wonder that her presence was like a benediction!
People said to me afterward:

“Is she alone in her old age?”

“Whom has she with her?”

It was evident that she was shielded and tended
with thoughtful care and kindness. One could not
associate the idea of loneliness with her, although she
had survived most of her contemporaries and near
// 322.png
.pn +1
relatives. Perhaps a glorious but invisible company
made that quiet room so bright and cheerful!

It need scarcely be said that I would have much
preferred to have her take the lead in conversation,
but, since this could not well be, I endeavored to tell
her things she would like to hear. Miss Nightingale
was up to date and interested in the questions of the
day. We talked of many things and she was a most
sympathetic listener. The questions she asked showed
what close attention she paid to the conversation.
They showed also her sound and practical common
sense. She had, be it said, that most important gift,
a strong sense of humor. Thus she was decidedly
amused at my quixotic views with regard to the
Elgin marbles in the British Museum. Knowing her
interest in Greece (which she visited in her young
days), I ventured to tell her my real thought—namely,
that these ought to be returned to the
Acropolis.

“Why do not you suggest this to Parliament?”
Miss Nightingale asked.

She wished to know if my husband and I had been
long in England, and we spoke of the various attractions
of London.

When I descanted on the horrors of the Tower,
with its great display of weapons for men to kill
one another with, she said she, too, thought it horrible.
I expressed the hope that when women had
more to say there would not be so much war. That
in my opinion men were afraid to give us more
power, because, although they pretended to think us
less clever, they really thought us more so than themselves
// 323.png
.pn +1
and were afraid we would get the upper hand.
Miss Nightingale asked whether I thought the men
considered themselves more clever, and, with a spice
of roguishness, inquired whether I would like to have
the upper hand!

She had a way of making a little semi-humorous
gesture with her hand, drawing it back slightly and
then bringing it forward again. The fact that women
already had the suffrage in four states of the Union
interested her, and she asked which those were. On
hearing that women voted for President in Colorado,
Wyoming, Utah, and Idaho, she asked the practical
question:

“Have <i>you</i> voted for President?”

I was obliged to confess that I had not.

Miss Nightingale said that women in America have
more authority than they do in England.

She was pleased to hear about the <i>Woman’s Journal</i>,
giving news of women all over the world. She
asked for the address of the paper and wrote it down
on the tablet lying beside her.

It was a pleasure to tell this dear lady of the health
and vigor of her old friend and contemporary, my
mother—that Mrs. Howe read Greek every morning.

That the blind had arranged and successfully carried
out a celebration of the centennial of their benefactor
and the friend of her youth, Doctor Howe,
appealed to her, and she expressed a desire to have a
copy of the monograph describing the occasion.

Miss Nightingale’s sense of hospitality would not
permit me to leave without partaking of some refreshment.
As we sat chatting together, afternoon
// 324.png
.pn +1
tea with the usual accompaniments—toast, etc.—was
brought for my delectation, all with the immaculate
neatness and daintiness so characteristic of the
author of <i>Notes on Nursing</i>. Miss Nightingale herself
took no tea, but a goblet with what appeared like
lemonade was brought to her.

So I had the honor of taking tea with one of the
world’s greatest heroines! One would never have
guessed this from her bearing, however. It was
characterized by perfect simplicity and an entire absence
of self-assertion. In a word, she had the manners
of a true English gentlewoman of high breeding.

She more than once expressed regret that we had
so little time for England, owing to a prolonged stay
in France. This evidently impressed her, as she recurred
to it. She seemed really sorry that we were
obliged to leave England so soon, and said we must
come back again.

I was indeed reluctant to leave her serene and
beautiful presence, but, remembering the caution of
the secretary and feeling upon honor, as I had been
left alone with my distinguished hostess, I arose in
due season to take my leave. I shall not soon forget
the sweetness and fullness of the voice in which the
dear lady bade me farewell I seem to hear that
“Good-by” still ringing in my ears and repeated more
than once as a sort of benediction: “Good-by!
Good-by!” Her voice was like my mother’s. No
sign of age was in its full, rounded tones, wonderful
in a woman more than eighty years old.

Thus a beautiful old age, serene and tranquil, fitly
crowned her life of most beneficent activity.
// 325.png
.pn +1

“The Lady with the Lamp” who watched over the
sick soldiers, flitting from room to room when all
others slept, lived to see her work multiplied a thousandfold
and spread all over the earth. What wonder
that the evening of her days was serene and happy
in the thought of so much suffering saved, so much
blessing gained to the children of men!
// 326.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch22
XXII||<s>“WANDER-YEARS”</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>Michael Anagnos, His Romantic Yet Practical Career.—Death
of My Husband.—Return to New York.—My Daughter’s
Exhibitions.—High Bridge, a Quaint Old Jersey Town.—Leader
Twelfth Assembly District of Manhattan.—Suffrage-worker
at Newport, Rhode Island.—The Delights of Canvassing
and Out-of-door Speaking.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
ONE morning in the summer of 1906 I took up
the newspaper and saw that my brother-in-law,
Michael Anagnos, had died in Rumania, after a brief
illness.

The news was sad indeed for us; we were attached
to him not only for his own sake, but for that of our
sister Julia and of our father as well. With his death
the close connection which had existed between the
Howe family and the Institution for the Blind during
nearly three-quarters of a century came to an
end. It was the beginning of a new era! The removal
of the Institution to Watertown, which shortly
followed, emphasized the loss.

South Boston had now become so closely built as
to make this change desirable. But my heart felt a
dreadful pang at the abandonment of the beloved old
Institution, dear to us from a thousand associations—the
house where I was born!

The early story of Michael Anagnos was a romantic
// 327.png
.pn +1
one. There was the unkind stepmother of tradition
and the devoted great-grandmother who brought
him up. When, in hunting for birds’ eggs, his
thumb was bitten by the serpent already in the
nest, this valiant soul bound the wounded member
tightly with her gold chain, then sucked the
poison from it. If he indulged in some boyish mischief,
she would shake her head and say, “Aha! I
told the ‘Papa’ he did not duck your head under thoroughly
when he baptized you!” (In the Greek
Orthodox Church baptism is by immersion.)

Like David of old, little Michael tended his father’s
flocks, but the passion of the boy, true to the instincts
of his race, was for education. He studied by the
light of a pine torch, and copied out the school-books
he could not afford to buy. By dint of extreme frugality
he was able to complete his studies at the
University of Athens.

For a time he was engaged in newspaper work and
interested in politics. Then he met my father and
became his assistant in ministering to the suffering
Cretan exiles in Athens.

The story goes on like a true romance. Young
Anagnos, accompanying Doctor Howe to America,
struggled valiantly with the difficulties attending
transplantation to a foreign soil, but finally overcame
them all.

“You say you have only five vowels in English.
You really have twenty-six,” he would plaintively
remark.

How his faithfulness and tireless industry won one
step after another, how he married sister Julia and
// 328.png
.pn +1
succeeded my father as director of the Institution,
has been already told.

It was indeed a triumph for a foreigner to win
the appointment to such a responsible position in the
conservative town of Boston.

He abundantly justified the trust reposed in him,
devoting his whole soul and his considerable talents
to the task. His signal success, like that of his predecessor,
has become a part of the proud record of the
state of Massachusetts.

The two men were very unlike. Doctor Howe was
essentially a leader, original in thought, quick and
daring in action, yet possessing great patience.

The work of the pioneer was eminently congenial
to him. He laid the foundations of the education for
the blind in this country on such broad lines, he so
thoroughly thought out and left on record the principles
governing it, that his reports are considered
educational classics. Hence his successor took up a
work already well established. The task of Anagnos
was to administer and to enlarge. For this he was
admirably fitted. He greatly augmented the work of
the printing in embossed letters, by raising a Howe
Memorial Fund, largely increasing, also, the financial
assets of the Institution.

His most striking achievement was the foundation
and maintenance of a kindergarten for the blind, the
first of its kind in the world. Both he and sister Julia
were extremely fond of children. She had been
greatly interested in the enterprise, but died while it
was still in its infancy. Her last words were, “Take
care of the little blind children.”
// 329.png
.pn +1

Anagnos made very full reports of the work under
his charge. After the death of my sister it fell to my
lot to go through these in order to make sure that
the English idioms, so difficult for a foreigner to
catch, were all correct. Thus for some twenty years
it was my annual task to criticize “Michael’s” reports.

The great, square, brown paper envelopes in which
these were contained, directed in my brother-in-law’s
beautiful copper-plate hand, were sometimes greeted
with groans on their arrival. For they were due at a
season of the year when I was very busy.

Yet the work was very helpful to me, because it
called for careful consideration of the reasons for or
against certain forms of speech. With the prepositions
we had special difficulty. Anagnos, too, as a
true Oriental, possessed a very flowery style which it
was necessary to prune and restrain in order to adapt
it to our cold New England climate. At first he
would pile metaphor upon metaphor and add simile to
simile until his sober Puritan sister-in-law stood
aghast. We had special difficulties with the obituaries
of deceased benefactors of the Institution, whose
virtues his gratitude painted in the most glowing
colors. To have excellent but matter-of-fact Boston
citizens compared to spreading oak-trees of benevolence
seemed to me a trifle incongruous. I also demurred
to “the Ark of the Institution keeping step in
the march of progress.”

Looking back on the matter now, I am inclined to
think my brother-in-law knew human nature better
than I did. My work in cutting down the adjectives
of encomium was perhaps supererogatory.
// 330.png
.pn +1

Anagnos found it on the whole very satisfactory.
My use of English was the best in the family, he
averred—but then he was a foreigner!

To his countrymen he was always ready to lend a
helping hand. On the wall of his sitting-room hung
an immense piece of canvas showing a ruined Greek
temple, done in cross-stitch—“All there is to show,
my dear, for two thousand dollars!”

He had lent this sum to a compatriot desiring to
engage in the confectionery business. It is not probable
that he often lost money in this way, for the
Greeks are a thrifty race.

He was deeply interested in the war between Turkey
and Greece. I could appreciate the eloquence of
his address to his fellow-countrymen, even though
no word was intelligible to me. When he seized their
national flag and waved it they burst into applause.

It was wonderful to hear the ancient language
spoken as a living tongue.

One could fancy how it must have sounded from
the lips of Demosthenes. When Anagnos at his desk
added up a column of figures he would occasionally
murmur their Greek names. Thus the shades of the
old classic world seemed to brood above the prosaic
office-table of our day!

A great meeting in Music Hall, held in honor of
his memory, testified to the affection and respect in
which he was held. Here, also, the Old and New
Worlds mingled, a priest of the Greek Church, robed
in mourning, taking part in the ceremonies; at a memorial
function held by his fellow-countrymen
funeral sweetmeats were given to those present.
// 331.png
.pn +1

Having devoted his life to the service of his
adopted country, Anagnos bequeathed his fortune to
the cause of education in his native land. He founded
two schools for girls in Epiros, naming them for his
mother.

Our trip to Europe had given my husband a much-needed
rest from care, and his health had improved
correspondingly.

But from the time he was sixteen, when his brother
entered the Union army, his lifelong habit had been
to take more than his share of responsibility and,
sparing those around him, to work to the limit of his
strength, often beyond it. We did induce him to
relax his efforts somewhat, but his unselfish nature
and gallant spirit alike urged him to go on with the
work of his arduous profession, that of the law.

He returned from the office, one Saturday, apparently
in his usual health. But some over-exertion
in working in the garden brought on an attack which
ended fatally in a few hours. Thus he died literally
in harness.

I said to myself, “I have let a most precious jewel
slip through my fingers.” How much I had been
sheltered and shielded by my husband’s devotion,
what his affection had meant to me during thirty-six
years of married life, I now realized for the first
time.

The suttee of the Indian widow, formerly incomprehensible,
I began to understand. Fortunately,
there was much work for me to do. Our daughter
had returned from her art studies in Paris a year
before, in order to give her father, whose health we
// 332.png
.pn +1
knew to be precarious, the pleasure of her companionship.

She already had a studio in Plainfield, but New
York afforded a much better opening. The charge
of the moving she assumed, since it would have been
simply impossible for me to empty the house of the
accumulations of fourteen years in the two weeks at
our disposal.

She is a young woman of great resolution, and
somehow we accomplished the job. We took an
apartment in Washington Square and a studio in the
old Stokes Building. The latter Caroline arranged
charmingly, after the fashion of artists. Here we
received our friends. I enjoyed this glimpse into the
art world and managed to pick up a few gleanings of
knowledge.

It was essential, however, that daughter’s painting
should help with the bread and butter, so “one-man
shows” became a part of my education. She had an
exhibition at the rooms of the Civic League in New
York, and two in successive summers, at houses lent
us for the purpose, in Newport. Here we had more
friends than in the great city, and we had the powerful
assistance of sister Maud, ever generous in helping
others. Many pictures were sold, to our joy,
though I sometimes hated to part with them. A little
maternal partiality no doubt entered into this affection
for my daughter’s paintings. But they certainly
had charm, especially when a number were gathered
together.

My mother was still living and the summer studio
was under her hospitable roof at “Oak Glen.” Here
// 333.png
.pn +1
it was a great pleasure to see the work grow under
Caroline’s hands and to recognize the familiar and
beloved island landscape, somewhat disguised by the
requirements of art.

Here, too, she painted the portrait of her grandmother,
studying closely the ever-changing face and
sparing her subject as much as possible the tedium
of sittings. A studio is the most delightful place in
the world to those in sympathy with the artist. Here
we have beauty, life, growth, creation, and, where a
painter is concerned, the warmth and joy of color!

Those were happy days, yet there were moments
when I remembered that canvases and paints are
dead things, compared with living human companionship.
Therefore, when my daughter became engaged
to be married to the Rev. Hugh Birckhead I knew
that she had chosen wisely. Doubtless to all mothers
the marriage of an only daughter, even under the
very brightest auspices, is an occasion of mingled
joy and sorrow. We rejoice at the new happiness;
we regret the ending of the old home life and intimate
companionship. In the midst of the strange confusion
of feeling, on the great day, I did not fail to observe
the gallant bearing of the groom as he came down the
chancel steps to meet the bride, who looked her very
best. Yet I was very near to tears. All that saved
me from them was the comic look of a chorister
marching in the wedding procession, a stout, short
man with a round face and an open mouth that looked
like the letter O. Since that time I have never <i>quite</i>
liked Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.”

Without my daughter’s companionship life proved
// 334.png
.pn +1
lonely. After a year of it the youngest son came to
his mother’s rescue, proposing that we should keep
house together, at High Bridge, New Jersey, where
his work was.

“But, my dear, are you <i>sure</i> you want me? Would
not you rather continue bachelor housekeeping with
your young friends?”

He was very sure he <i>did</i> want Mother, evidently
sharing my opinion that family life, even of two, is
better than the existence of six or eight young men
without any womankind. We took up our residence
in the late Crucible Club—so named for the connection
of its inmates with the steel industry. With
a sigh of relief Jack laid aside the cares of the establishment,
which had naturally fallen upon him. (He
has his father’s talent for taking responsibilities off
the shoulders of others.) He protested that he was
willing to eat <i>anything</i> for dinner, provided he did
not have to order it!

High Bridge is a picturesque New Jersey borough,
some fifty-odd miles from New York. It is
situated among the hills of the northwestern part of
the state, four hundred feet above sea-level. To
those knowing only the flatlands of eastern Jersey,
this region with its rolling country and lovely views
comes as a surprise.

The town, considered from an economic standpoint,
consists principally of the Taylor-Wharton Iron and
Steel Company. This patriarchal institution was
established in the eighteenth century by the Taylor
family and still continues under their jurisdiction.
It has grown from a small iron-foundry into a plant
// 335.png
.pn +1
with branches in other towns employing three thousand
men in all. Its one hundred and seventy-fifth
anniversary has recently been celebrated.

Every one living in the village is either connected
in some way with the steel-plant or keeps a shop to
supply the wants of the workers. The latter are of a
class not commonly employed in such industries at the
present day. There are some Hungarians and other
foreigners, but the great backbone of the establishment
consists of American men and women. Many
of these have their own homes in the surrounding
country, coming to work in the Ford cars which have
nearly driven out the primeval High Bridge buggy.
It is a proud boast of the company that there have
been practically no strikes in its history.

In little gate-houses and other odd places one sees
the figures of quaint old men, still employed for little
services instead of being flung into the discard. The
Taylor Company has proved that kindness of heart
helps rather than hinders success in business. Old
retainers, here as elsewhere, sometimes take advantage
of their position, but on the whole the system
works well.

The great distance from the metropolis and the
small measure of railroad communication tend to
isolate the village. If you miss a train you may be
obliged to wait four hours for the next. All these
conditions tend to produce quaint characters and a
unique use of English.

In High Bridge we are very careful never to say
<i>seen</i> under any circumstances, substituting the elegant
phrase, “I have saw.” Persons of a weakly constitution
// 336.png
.pn +1
are held to lack “stamania,” while “financially”
is considered more elegant than “finally.” If we wish
to postpone a trip, we “refer” it till to-morrow.

The combinations in shopkeeping are also out of the
common. To have a barber sell oysters and ice-cream,
and a clothier act as optician, surprises the
city resident. High Bridge has an atmosphere all its
own. One becomes readily attached to the quaint
little town.

My son’s business calling him to New York, we
spent some winters there, settling this time in Stuyvesant
Square near old St. George’s Church.

I was soon drawn into the maelstrom of the old,
beloved work. The Twelfth Assembly District, familiarly
known as “Charlie Murphy’s,” was clamoring
for a leader of the Woman Suffrage party. Mrs.
Frederick Gillette, who had conducted its affairs with
great ability and signal devotion, absolutely refused
to take office again, as her health would not permit it.
Her predecessor, the first leader, a lovely woman
idolized by her fellow-suffragists, had died in harness!
I was on the wrong side of sixty and had been advised
by the doctor to take life quietly.

Putting aside all misgivings as to possible fatal
results, I accepted the office. A new rôle was now
before me, for modern suffrage activities have opened
a field of effort very different from that of our earlier
experience in New Jersey.

Instead of expecting the people to come to us, we
now went to them—opening “suffrage shops,” as the
temporary headquarters are called; speaking at street
corners; visiting our neighbors in their own homes;
// 337.png
.pn +1
last but not least, watching at the polls, both inside
and out. The canvassing was the most interesting of
all, when we had once gathered the courage to do it
ourselves. It was by no means so difficult as we had
feared.

We had full directions from the finely organized
parent association, the Woman Suffrage party, and
the neighboring twenty-fifth district launched us on
our task. Then we used our own mother wits.
Team-work and a supplementary supper were found
to be essential to the task. This was not only on
account of the good-fellowship and the good cheer
involved, but also because we ourselves had omitted
our own evening meal in order to catch the voters
while partaking of theirs!

The good nature and patience of the men, thus
interrupted, was pleasant to see. We announced ourselves
as representatives of the Woman Suffrage
party. A quiet and assured manner, with the absence
of all airs and graces, gained us ready admittance.
The men fully understanding that we came to talk
with them as one fellow-citizen with another, received
us in a frank and friendly spirit. It is wonderful
to see how well we all get on together in these United
States, when we meet on this common ground!

Our visits were usually brief. We did not stop to
argue long, leaving behind us literature and postal
cards where the voters were absent. The replies sent
on these were, with one or two exceptions, brief and
formal. One man of an illogical turn of mind wrote
that we were a lot of old maids and should stay at
home to mend our husbands’ stockings!
// 338.png
.pn +1

The climbing the stairs of many tenement-houses
(voters seemed always to live on the top floor), with
halls half-lighted in the early summer evenings, was
rather fatiguing. There was, too, quite a little dirt
and occasional evil smells. But the work was extremely
interesting. We set out to educate the voters,
and in the process educated ourselves, learning a
great deal about human nature in general and our
neighbors of the district in particular. The dwellings,
poor as they were, were much better than I had
anticipated—probably “voters” do not live in the
worst class of tenement-houses, leaving these to
aliens. We went, however, to localities where, politicians
told us afterward, they were afraid to go
themselves.

We were almost always received with courtesy and
listened to with respect. We had some amusing experiences.
One friend, a middle-aged man slightly
the worse for drink, tried to explain to us the residence
of his sons, the family arrangements being
rather complicated. Every now and then he would
turn to his good wife and ask <i>her</i> to explain. She
stood there, quiet and dignified, yet evidently mortified
at her husband’s condition!

Some ladies living in our own apartment-house
were amused by our visit. We could hear them afterward
describing over the telephone, amid peals of
laughter, the call of the suffragettes!

The working-people, both men and women, understood
the matter. Those whose wives and daughters
are as much in the struggle for life as themselves
do not take the “pedestal” view of the sex. The
// 339.png
.pn +1
fathers, especially, were quick to see the benefit the
possession of a vote would bring their girls.

One of my pleasantest visits was to a young
Hebrew physician and her family. They were of the
intellectual type of their race, while Doctor —— herself
was of noble spirit.

When we remember how the glad tidings of the
Christian religion were first spread by sermons in the
open air, when we call to mind Peter the Hermit and
John Wesley, we see that the soap-box is only
a modern representative of a very ancient institution.

“Soap-box” is only a generic name nowadays.
During our 1915 campaign in New York City, we
used automobiles, or, failing these, borrowed a chair
from a neighboring shop.

Perched on this, with our banner of the Twelfth
Assembly District waving near by, and with one or
two members on hand to distribute literature, collect
signatures, and pass the hat, we addressed the public.
Permission was obtained beforehand from the police,
and an officer was sent to look out for us in case of
possible trouble.

Valiant little Corporal Klatschkin did receive a
douche of cold water from a neighboring window, but
the rest of us had no trouble. The fact of her Hebrew
blood, and some incautious criticisms, were responsible
for the amenities extended to her.

The literally pressing interest of the children on
the East Side was flattering, but inconvenient. They
would pack themselves so closely around the speaker,
many of them little tots who could hardly understand
// 340.png
.pn +1
anything of the address, that we were often obliged
to ask for more room. But we, the suffragists, were
the show of the hour, and those babies were determined
to lose no moment of it. Indeed, they were
sometimes extended in such a wide circle around us as
to place the grown-ups at an inconvenient distance
for our voices to reach. From Tompkins Square the
boys escorted us and our banner in such a solid phalanx,
one evening, as to make it difficult to get on the
trolley. We were sometimes applauded, the majority
of the crowd being “with us.” The obligations of
hospitality were not so personal as during our domiciliary
visits, but we were well received. In the foreign
neighborhoods where we spoke our audiences
were especially quiet, though it is doubtful whether
they understood much of the speeches.

In the course of our campaign work people related
their woes to us or asked us to help them get a job.
We were recognized as friends of the people. One
man had much to say about the iniquity of the women
who watched the street workers and reported absences,
thereby causing a person to lose his job,
“when very likely he was somewhere else.” I thought
it probable that he was.

We spoke indoors as well as out, notably at the
Memorial Building of St. George’s Episcopal Church,
where we held a debate with the “antis.” Even the
Tammany chieftains consented to listen to us in the
room of the Anawanda Club. Here we were so fortunate
as to secure the help of Mrs. Margaret Chanler
Aldrich, a favorite great-niece of my mother’s. They
had worked together in the Association for the Advancement
// 341.png
.pn +1
of Women. Mrs. Aldrich, the treasurer
of the New York City Woman Suffrage party, is an
ardent suffragist. She is also strong in the Democratic
faith, as becomes the daughter of Mr. Winthrop
Chanler. She produced an excellent effect by reminding
her hearers that her father had represented
this very district in Congress! I prudently refrained
from mentioning my own political faith.

To hunt the elusive politician to his lair, ascertain
his views, and, if possible, enlist him to our side, was
a part of our duties. It was so difficult to do this that
we sometimes interviewed him over the telephone.
Wherever possible, we arrived as a delegation at his
office. The appointment once made, we found it well
to have plenty of time at our disposal, for the politician
may desire to do the talking himself. Then you
listen patiently while he tells you his views, or what
he wants you to think are his views. I, a black Republican
born and bred, have harkened, with outward
resignation, to a panegyric on the benevolence of
Tammany Hall. One man talked to us for half an
hour or more, explaining his chivalrous feelings toward
women. Incidentally he told us of one of our
sex who received a salary of three thousand dollars.
Whenever he saw her he thought of some man who
might have had the job. The chivalry of this point
of view was not clear to us.

Our reception was always courteous, sometimes
encouraging and sometimes not. We were glad to
know the real opinions of the men, even if these were
unfavorable. The ignorance in high places about
woman suffrage is surprising. People will talk to
// 342.png
.pn +1
you about the dangers of the ignorant vote, and in the
same breath will make statements showing great ignorance
not only of what the ballot in the hands of
women has accomplished, but of human nature itself.
I suspect this ignorance among politicians is wilful.

Our activities increased as November drew nearer,
coming to a climax on Election Day. The Legislature
had granted us permission to have a watcher at
each polling-place then and on the preceding registration
days. The same leave was given to the “antis,”
at their request, but they failed to attend. If they
had not demanded the place, we should perhaps have
been allowed to fill it. To be the only woman at a
polling-booth was a little trying. But we knew that
we were fulfilling our duty as citizens, and we felt
great confidence in American men. Since the law
had given us a right to be at the polls, we were sure
we should be protected.

It was part of my duty as leader to make the round
of the election precincts. The streets grew very dark
and lonely before we reached the outermost edge of
the “gas-house” district on our tour of inspection.
Evidently this locality, with rare altruism, gives all
its light to others and keeps none for itself!

Driving through the deserted streets, we remembered
grim stories of this part of the city and rejoiced
in the protection of the taxicab. The bright colors of
our national flag cheerfully illuminated the window
of the polling-place, reminding us of our citizenship
in the greatest country of the world!

With a bearing intended to show great confidence I
passed through the little knot of men gathered at the
// 343.png
.pn +1
door and entered the barber’s shop. Was not one of
my lambs clothed with due authority from the Empire
State there as watcher? It was “up to the leader”
to see that all was going well with her. At the end
of the long table farthest from the door sat Mrs.
V——. (To prevent hysterics on the part of the
“antis” it should be said that she was a grandmother
and that the duties of her home were attended to by
her grown daughter.)

“Everything going all right?”

“Yes, indeed. I’ve been treated with every courtesy.
Let me introduce you to the chairman of the
board, Mr. ——.”

I looked about for the filthy pool of politics, but
could not discover any. Several men were busily
writing in enormous books, in regular <i>Alice in Wonderland
style</i>. A policeman clothed with all the majesty
of the law sat at the other end of the long table.
Several candidates for registration stood in line,
awaiting their turn, while the man at the head of it
struggled through the third degree. The floating
population of New York sometimes finds difficulty
in recalling where it lived and voted from a year ago!

Everything in and about the place was as quiet and
orderly as possible. Gentlemen seemed to find it more
convenient to smoke outside! Yet our women have
made no objection to tobacco.

At another election district I found that the
watcher in charge was on such good terms with her
election board that they had regaled her with the
strains of the victrola and a cup of tea!

On the great day itself we were “on the job” before
// 344.png
.pn +1
the opening of the polls at six o’clock. I started on
my round of the twenty-one districts in the cold dusk
of the winter morning, finding all the watchers in
their places. We visited them a second and a third
time in the course of the day. At only one polling-place
had the men in charge made any trouble for us.
There they did not want the watcher to go behind
the bar, but as this was her undoubted right they
eventually yielded. The day was clear, but raw and
windy. The political atmosphere was also less balmy
on this day of the struggle. The Tammany leaders
were less cordial than earlier in the campaign, and on
some faces a suspicion of a frown lurked. We were
treated with all courtesy, however, and some of the
gentlemen were so gallant as to help me in and out of
the automobile.

This was the first Election Day when women were
given the authority to visit the polls and watch the
count in the metropolis. We had not yet won the
vote, but we were the advance-guard of victory! It
was a most interesting experience and I greatly enjoyed
it. Our Twelfth Assembly District had been
thoroughly canvassed. Every registered voter had
been called upon and duplicate lists of those in our
favor had been compiled. One copy was given each
watcher, that she might check off the names as the
men came into the polls. The other copy was reserved
for those who were later in the day, to “get out the
vote.” It would seem that there are always indolent
or tardy freemen who have to be reminded of their
privilege of casting a ballot, before the day draws to
a close.
// 345.png
.pn +1

This duty is assigned by politicians to youths, and
here as elsewhere we took advantage of their experience.
Election Day being a holiday, we found it difficult
to procure boys. Some made promises—then
failed to appear. My son Henry came to the rescue
with two squads of bright, active lads, his pupils from
the High School of Commerce. Armed with the lists
and led by two adult women workers, the boys started
off in excellent spirits. The neighborhoods visited
were much impressed. Beholding the boys and the
decorated automobiles, they exclaimed, “Tammany
has nothing on the Woman Suffrage party.” Tammany
Hall and the home of “Charlie” Murphy are
both in the Twelfth Assembly District.

Our watchers stuck faithfully to their posts until
the count was completed—their long day’s work having
extended from six in the morning till nine, ten,
and eleven o’clock at night.

As they came one after another into our temporary
headquarters and announced the result, district by
district, it was evident that we had lost. But the
American women had been invited to enter the sacred
precincts of the polling-place and given authority to
watch the returns. November 6, 1915, was a historic
day in the Empire State, marking the beginning
of a new era.

Among the many faithful workers in the Twelfth
Assembly District, one who overcame difficulties insuperable
to most women deserves special mention.
This was Mrs. Clara Deutsch. As the wife of a
young physician beginning practice and the mother of
a little girl of four she had many domestic cares. She
// 346.png
.pn +1
did her own housework, helped her husband administer
anesthetics, and yet found time to do excellent
service in the suffrage cause.

“Yes, I can help on Thursday, since you need me
badly. Mrs. ——, the wife of the Methodist minister,
will take care of Mary for me. She has five
children of her own and is expecting a sixth, so one
more makes little difference. <i>She</i> is a good suffragist,
too, so by keeping Mary she also will be helping the
cause that day.”

If more contributions were called for than she could
well afford, Mrs. Deutsch would say, cheerfully:
“That is all right. We’ll go without dessert for a
time.” Mrs. Deutsch had been a trained nurse and
thus had learned how to do and to plan. No matter
at what hour I called to see her she always appeared
at the door looking as neat as a pin. She was a handsome
young woman, tall and powerfully built; strong,
yet tender to the sick and weak. No one was more
eminently fitted than she to carry our banner in a
suffrage parade.

We had college graduates and women of wealth
among our members. Ours is a truly democratic
cause in which riches and social position are held to
be of secondary importance.

Four days after the election the youngest son who
had been my housemate for five years took unto himself
a bride, thus giving me a third daughter-in-law
who was to become, like the others, very dear to me.

It was evidently wise to allow the young couple to
start housekeeping for themselves, hence, while they
were still on their honeymoon, I set out on a long-deferred
// 347.png
.pn +1
trip to California. As I closed the door of
our house behind me, again it seemed that a new page
in life had been turned!

The visit to the Pacific coast was indeed a delightful
experience. I enjoyed every moment of the journey
in both directions, and of my stay under the hospitable
roof of our dear cousins, Joseph and Louisa
Mailliard. Time fails me in which to tell of the
beauties of the International Exposition (the “P.-P.
I. E.”), the marvels of the Grand Cañon of the
Colorado, or the wonderful glimpse of the Pacific
shore. The glory of that matchless surf, as the long
line of distant waves tossed their splendid crests beneath
the opaline light of an afternoon sun covered
with soft gray clouds, was a thing never to be forgotten.

In 1916 I was invited to come to Newport to assist
my sister, Mrs. Maud Howe Elliott, president of
the Newport County Woman Suffrage League, during
the summer. She had greatly increased its membership
and broadened its activities, but was, at the
moment, heavily burdened with other matters of
importance. Hence I was appointed executive secretary
and put in charge of the work of the
society.

My recent experience in New York enabled me to
organize this along the lines so admirably laid out by
the Woman Suffrage party of that city. Especial emphasis
was laid on canvassing, which politicians consider
of great importance. In preaching a new cause
like ours, it is indispensable, for we are obliged not
only to round up the members of a party as the Republicans
// 348.png
.pn +1
and Democrats do, but to explain its doctrines
and increase its membership.

The women at Newport were more timid about canvassing
than their New York sisters. The summer
capital is a very conservative place, and the question,
“What will my friends and acquaintances say?”
is more vital than in a big city where no one knows
and few care what their neighbors do.

A corps of good workers was finally enlisted. Our
canvassing luncheons proved a decided success, especially
where the hostess possessed an attractive
villa and garden. Our calls were made, for the most
part, on persons of moderate means. Few of the rich
people have their permanent residence in Newport,
hence do not vote there. It is also easier to canvass
among the former, because no supercilious flunky,
anxious to guard his mistress from unwelcome visitors,
comes to the door. It is opened, instead, by the
voter’s wife, with whom one can at once establish
pleasant relations, unless the baby is crying. In that
case it is kinder not to detain her.

Friends often lent us their automobiles, the distances
being much greater than in our densely inhabited
district in New York. Instead of high tenement-buildings
we found two-story wooden houses where
our chats took place at the open doorway. Altogether
it was pleasant work, chiefly among women,
the men being usually absent from home. We assured
them that the possession of the franchise did
not necessitate deserting the home, and explained its
advantages. It is strange that, after nearly seventy
years of agitation, the question of woman suffrage
// 349.png
.pn +1
should still be considered so mysterious! We found
most of our hearers open to conviction where their
opinions were not already favorable to us. Many
names were secured for our yellow (favorable) slips,
and only a few for the white (undecided); still fewer
for the blue (opposed).

Our labor was repaid a hundredfold by the victory
of our cause a few months later. For our formidable
list of persons favorable to suffrage was copied on a
catalogue of imposing proportions and presented to
the Rhode Island Legislature. It was one of the
arguments which persuaded them to grant the presidential
franchise to the women of the state in 1917.
In New York, while our stirring campaign of 1915
met temporary defeat, it paved the way for the great
victory of November, 1917, when the women of the
Empire State won full citizenship.
// 350.png
.pn +1
.sp 2
.pb
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch23
XXIII||<s>UNTO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION</s>
.pm ch-hd-start
<i>My Mother’s Beautiful Old Age.—How It Feels to Be an Ancestor.—Grandmotherhood
in the Twentieth Century.—Keeping
Alive the Sacred Fires of Noble Tradition.—Handing
on the Lighted Torch.</i>
.pm ch-hd-end
.dc 0.25 0.65
IT has often seemed to me that my mother’s life
was like that of the century-plant—increasing in
beauty as time went on. The last flowering, the
loveliest of all, came when she was well over four-score
years of age. Is not this the normal course of
a well-spent life? The fruit reaches its full beauty
when ready to drop from the tree. The colors of the
sunset splendidly crown a perfect day.

In those last years she seemed to us like a lovely
saint whose faults had all been burned away by the
fires of life, leaving only the ethereal spirit behind.
Yet she was by no means entirely absorbed in religious
meditation. This was an important part of her existence,
but she also enjoyed the things of this world
and was often full of fun and gaiety.

For all who knew her, and for all, I hope, who have
read the story of her life, she has robbed old age of
half its terrors. She met it bravely, smilingly, wisely,
submitting with good grace to certain inevitable restrictions.
Thus while she never gave up walking so
far as her strength permitted, since more fresh air
// 351.png
.pn +1
was desirable, she accepted the wheeled chair for additional
exercise. To other limitations she would not
submit. She would attend meetings, public and private;
she would make the addresses which were so
much prized by her audience; in a word, she would
continue the intellectual and social intercourse with
her fellow-men and women which was to her literally
the breath of life. For their love and sympathy,
their interest in her words, were to her a veritable
elixir. The feeling that she still had a message which
the world wished to hear helped to keep her alive.
The veteran who believes that “he lags superfluous
on the stage” is not likely to survive long.

When she attended the biennial of the General
Federation of Women’s Clubs in Boston, in 1908, I
was her companion, as on many earlier club occasions.
She confessed afterward that she had feared the delivery
of her speech in the vast auditorium of Symphony
Hall might kill her, but this did not deter her
from reading it! In the last summer of her life we
attended a suffrage meeting in Bristol Ferry at the
house of Miss Cora Mitchell, founder and president of
the Newport County Suffrage League. Here she
told the ladies of her work for peace, begun shortly
after the Franco-Prussian War. It should be said
that, despite her interest in German philosophy, her
sympathies in that conflict were entirely with the
French, whom she felt to be the victims of German
aggression. It was the wholly unnecessary nature of
the conflict which made the author of the “Battle
Hymn” call in the early ’seventies a Peace Congress
of Women to protest against future wars of the sort.
// 352.png
.pn +1
In her correspondence we find that she met with no
encouragement from the women of Germany.

Her visit to Smith College, where the degree of
Doctor of Laws was conferred upon her, shortly before
her death, has been described in her <i>Life</i>. The
story of the awarding to her of the degree of LL.D.
at Tufts College has a special interest because it was
the first, and because in her speech she made a protest
against Turkish cruelty, thus carrying on the
work begun by her husband on the shores of Greece
eighty years before! Her grandson, Dr. Henry Marion
Hall, who accompanied her, has thus described
the occasion:

.pm letter-start
Professor Evans, of the department of history, drove Grandmother
and me from No. 241 Beacon Street to the college,
where we remained in his rooms for a short while until Grandmother
felt rested. Then we walked across the campus, which
was bright with the colors seen only in coeducational institutions.
Mrs. Howe joined the academic procession just before
it entered the hall, and all at once she and I found ourselves
on a platform, surrounded by men in caps and gowns, the instructors
and those about to receive degrees. Grandmother
was the only woman on the platform, and everybody in the
audience seemed particularly interested in her. In spite of her
great age I recall that there was something quite simple and
almost childlike in her expression—absolutely different from
the self-consciousness peculiar to most people under similar
circumstances. When she rose to receive her degree there was
a remarkable hush, such a hush as I have seldom known of with
so many people in a large room. The hood was put about her
shoulders by the president, Doctor Chapin, and she flushed with
pleasure at the burst of applause.

At the dinner which followed the exercises she sat with the
guests of honor, among whom was Mr. Moody, Secretary of
the Navy. When Mrs. Howe arose to speak she took occasion
to express the hope that the Secretary might indicate whether
// 353.png
.pn +1
or not the government of the United States was going to exert
its influence to mitigate the horrors of the Armenian atrocities,
for the Turks were then carrying on systematic massacres.
Mr. Moody spoke next, and gave a fine oration, but said that
circumstances prevented him from indicating the policy of his
government at that time. He deprecated, of course, the villainous
behavior of the Turks. Grandmother was delighted to
receive the degree, and we drove back to Boston with Professor
Evans, Grandmother still wearing the hood and holding the
sheepskin in her hands.
.pm letter-end

This grandson, Henry Marion Hall, received, a
few years later, the degrees of M.A. and Ph.D. from
Columbia University. To our great delight, his thesis,
“The Idylls of Fishermen,” was warmly praised
by the critics.

She was as pleased as a young girl to hear that
we were “going to give a party” during that last summer.
“Flossy shall do my hair!” she gaily exclaimed.
“The party” was only a small frolic for the Hall
grandchildren and their young friends, with a few
elders to play cards with her. No one enjoyed the
occasion more than she did.

We still continued our duets on the piano, playing
airs from “Il Pirata” and other old operas which she
loved, as well as Händel’s quaint arias. Her fingers,
which never lost their flexibility, played in these last
years for her great-grandchildren to dance, as she had
played for children and grandchildren.

An article published that autumn in the press, declaring
that protestantism was on the decline, troubled
her. She desired to make some reply, not in a controversial
spirit, however. Her interest in religion
was too broad to be confined to any sect. We were
// 354.png
.pn +1
glad to have her preach whenever invited to do so,
provided her strength permitted, but unreasonable
requests were sometimes made. Thus when the zealous
pastor of a negro church invited us, in the course
of an afternoon call, to go down on our knees in
prayer, I protested successfully. If he had not carried
a large umbrella in his hand I might have yielded.
But how impossible would have been any approach to
solemnity in the presence of that most unecclesiastical
object!

The memorial exercises after her death were held
in Symphony Hall. Tickets had been issued to persons
having a special claim to be present, but as soon
as the doors were opened the great public, who also
loved her, would not be denied admittance. They
surged in, tickets or no tickets, and took possession
of the great auditorium. The varied nature of the
program corresponded with her diversified talents. A
haunting-chorus of her own composition was sung by
the blind pupils of the Institution founded by her
husband. Many were the beautiful tributes paid to
her by men and women of national reputation. None,
however, equaled in heartfelt eloquence the speech of
Lewis, the distinguished negro lawyer, as he poured
out the gratitude of his race to the woman who
had written the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
I suddenly realized what the words meant to
the colored people. The appeal, “Let us die to make
men free,” was for all men and for all time, yet in a
special sense it was meant for the despised slave for
whose freedom the soldiers of the Union laid down
their lives in those dark days of the ’sixties.
// 355.png
.pn +1

Sister Laura and I were already rejoicing in several
grandchildren while our mother was still with us.
People sometimes feel sorry for the grandmothers
whom they see in the streets in charge of little children.
The first impulse is to exclaim, “That old
woman has earned a right to rest. It is too bad she
should still be burdened with the care of babies.”

The second and saner impulse is to rejoice that she
still has strength for the day’s work. Our civilization
should be so ordered that a well-spent life may
bring a certain degree of freedom toward its close.
But to have no responsibilities, to be an idle and frivolous
elderly woman, would be a sad fate.

No one need sink into it if she has grandchildren,
the loveliest of all flowers, who bloom in the evening
of life. If she has grandchildren of assorted ages
she is especially fortunate, for she can then enjoy the
various stages of babyhood and childhood at the
same time.

Life is full of pleasant surprises. Our sons and
daughters grow to maturity so gradually that we fail
to realize the change from their childhood’s days.
They are still boys and girls to us when they are so
absurd as to suppose themselves men and women!
They marry, and on some fine day present us with a
grandchild! Then we suddenly realize that we are
again to have the delightful experience—almost forgotten—of
growing up with a baby.

On our journey through life we have been disappointed
in meeting many people who did not come up
to our ideals. We are weary of the petty ambitions,
the injustice of the world—of everybody’s faults,
// 356.png
.pn +1
our own included. In the twinkling of an eye we are
transported back into the lovely child-garden, where
faith, love, and hope bloom! Little hands cling trustingly
to us, a little cheek is laid against ours, eyes
like stars smile up at us! There is a new heaven and
a new earth!

The bond between age and childhood is known of
all men. Are not the glory of the sunrise and that
of the sunset one and the same? The child rejoices
in the beautiful and wonderful things he sees all
about him—in birds, beasts, and flowers, the blue sky
and the trees of the forest. The woman declining
into the vale of years has long known these things,
but in the light of the sunset they become transfigured
and glorified. With the little child she learns again
lessons half forgotten; together they enjoy the true
pleasures of life—the simple, every-day things that
we forget to be thankful for during the years when
we are busily hunting for the pot of gold at the end
of the rainbow.

So the child and its grandame walk together for
a while, until their paths separate. The little one
goes forward with eager feet into the great battle
of life, the grandmother advances with tranquil step
to meet the shadows. The coming into this world of
the child has strengthened her faith, as its companionship
has strengthened her love.

It came, she knows not whence, “trailing clouds of
glory.” Will not the morning of a new and splendid
day break for her, also, in a new world?

We enjoy our grandchildren all the more, in the
twentieth century, because we have other cares and
// 357.png
.pn +1
responsibilities besides those of the family and household.
Hence we cannot be selfishly absorbed in our
own small circle. Our duties have multiplied since
the great war began to call the young men and women
more and more into service.

We elders now have a new incentive to work with
all our strength while it is yet day for us. This summer
I visited Camp Merryweather, where sister
Laura aids her husband in conducting a delightful
place of sojourn for forty boys. Of the sons whose
help they have had in former years one had gone as
a soldier to France, the other and the sons-in-law were
attending drill and caring for war gardens. Upon
the older generation came the care and responsibility
of the summer’s work and play. Never have I seen
them more resolute and courageous! No word was
said of added duties, but in their manner one could
see a determination to do their bit and to do it valiantly!
Sister Laura’s relaxation will be to go on a
“grandmothering tour” to see her dozen grandchildren.

In this twentieth century, and especially in war-time,
the public and private duties of women sometimes
conflict. We want very, very much to go to
some inspiring meeting on a day when we are needed
at home. It is best to give the latter the benefit of the
doubt, when we feel any. Yet we must sometimes
go forth to gain inspiration, in order to give it out
again. The woman who stays always at home from
a mistaken sense of duty is in danger of becoming a
dull drudge. The mother of sons and daughters must,
in these stirring times, teach them to have the love
// 358.png
.pn +1
of freedom, the public spirit, necessary for the salvation
of our Republic.

She must take her share, too, in labors for the
welfare of our native land and for the comfort and
protection of its brave defenders. If we fail to do
our part it may happen that no homes will be left us
to care for!

We return to them from work for the Red Cross
or other civic service, with renewed delight in children
and grandchildren, with renewed ability to minister
to their welfare, both spiritual and material!

It is delightful to be able to help the boys and girls
with those dreadful mathematical problems and with
the Latin authors, who in a world turned topsy-turvy,
remain always the same.

To give my little granddaughters lessons upon the
piano has been my great pleasure.

Countless women are now called upon to make the
supreme sacrifice, to give up the sons and daughters
dearer to them than life, to the dreadful Minotaur
who devours hecatombs of youths and maidens. It
is the duty of every mother to prepare herself for
that ordeal, so that she may not hesitate to send her
best-beloved, if the summons comes to her, as it has
come to thousands.

Terrible as are these years, their darkness is brightened
by the light of a self-sacrifice unparalleled in the
history of mankind. We could not bear the thought
of those hideous trenches and of the awful destruction
of human life, if they had not shown us such
splendid examples of courage, devotion, self-immolation.
These are wonderful days to live in, despite all
// 359.png
.pn +1
the horrors of the time. The young men going forward
so bravely into the mouth of hell, dying in defense
of their ideals and ours, seem to us like a consecrated
army, like beings set apart from their fellow-men.
We have talked about freedom; we have been
full of enthusiasm. But <i>they</i> have gone quietly forward,
to suffer tortures and, if need be, to lay down
their lives. They are the heroes of the hour, beside
whom the rest of the world seem suddenly to have
shrunken into nothingness.

Yet we must not forget that America, like England,
expects every man, civilian as well as soldier, to do
his duty, and every woman likewise. The power of
a democracy is built up of the strength of each individual
life. Let us give our brave soldiers their full
meed of admiration, let us support and uphold them
in every possible way. But we must not be so dazzled
by their gallant deeds as to worship, like Germany, a
military autocracy. It is our duty to remember, and
to help them to remember, that among civilized nations
war is temporary and abnormal, while peace is
normal and eternal. The first means destruction, the
last means construction. In the midst of peace we
must prepare for war, that haply we may avert it.
In the midst of war we have the double duty of upholding
our armies to the utmost extent of our ability
and at the same time making ready for the righteous
peace which we know must come. We must bind
up the wounds of the warriors and restore the devastated
lands. We must prepare to return, when the
right time comes, to quiet, every-day life. We shall
still wage war, not against the bodies of men, but
// 360.png
.pn +1
against ignorance, greed, corruption, evil of all kinds.
For Satan, whom before the great European convulsion
we hopefully thought to be dead, is evidently very
much alive. At each new atrocity we have seemed to
hear the wings of Apollyon, Prince of Darkness, rustling
in the air, as he dealt foul blows at the struggling
Christian.

We have had a horrible glimpse of hell! The sight
must convince us that the devoted labor of every one
of us is needed to prevent the overthrow of the ideals
of civilization! The hideous doctrine that might
makes right, that crafty murder, “leaving no trace
behind,” treacherous intrigue and shameless lying,
are the proper occupation for “gentlemen” must be
combated not by arms alone, but by the upholding of
the high ideals of our own country. The memory of
heroic deeds, of noble sayings, is the most precious
inheritance of mankind. We who are now living
have been inspired by it, we have held our course
guided by its light, however much we may have
stumbled on the way and fallen short of our ideals.

The sacred fires of noble tradition must not perish.
To pass on to our descendants the lighted torch
received from our predecessors, glowing ever brighter
with the fervor inspired by the heroic deeds of the
present hour, is for us an imperative duty and a splendid
privilege.
.sp 2
.nf c
THE END
.nf-
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.ul
.it Transcriber’s Notes:
.ul indent=1
.it The description of chapter XI. in the Table of Contents was truncated—\
“Parade of”. This was amended to “Parade of the Ancient and Honorable Artillery.”
.it Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
.it Typographical errors were silently corrected.
.it Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a\
predominant form was found in this book.
.if t
.it Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
.if-
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