MEMORIES GRAVE AND GAY

❦

Florence Howe Hall

MEMORIES

GRAVE AND GAY

BY

FLORENCE HOWE HALL

Frontispiece portrait

Harper & Brothers Publishers

New York and London

Memories Grave and Gay

Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers

Printed in the United States of America

Published November, 1918

TO

MY SONS AND MY DAUGHTER

SAMUEL PRESCOTT HALL

CAROLINE MINTURN BIRCKHEAD

HENRY MARION HALL

JOHN HOWE HALL

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to express her cordial thanks to Messrs Houghton and Mifflin 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. Laura E. Richards for her kind permission to quote from “The Journals and Letters of Samuel Gridley Howe” (published by Dana Estes & Company in 1906).

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

It 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.

MEMORIES GRAVE AND GAY

MEMORIES

GRAVE AND GAY

I
INTRODUCTORY

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.”

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 Reminiscences. 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 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.”

Cambridge, March 6, 1843.

My Dear Sam,—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 more wisely—nor the Doctor so 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 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,

Henry W. Longfellow.

My mother has described in her Reminiscences 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!

II
STORIES TOLD US BY OUR PARENTS

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.

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, 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 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 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 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 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 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 Life 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 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.

III
MEMORIES OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

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 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 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.”[^[1]]

[1]. Frothingham’s Siege of Boston.

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 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.

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 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.

Embley, December 26.

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.

... 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 would 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.

In a later letter she writes of the two babies:

... 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 what materials in the parents’ characters kneaded together into what sort of pâte 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 God” which, I suppose, only means the men great in 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 men,” we see that their offspring, poor things! were strong and violent and restive and whatever else we may suppose symbolized under the character of “giants.” 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 “toutes sortes de prospérités et un peu plus de goût.” 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,

Yours till Doomsday i’ th’ afternoon,

Florence.

Florence Nightingale did not content herself with sending loving messages to her godchild. Her christening-gift—a beautiful edition of Knight’s Shakespeare—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 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.

New York, Oct., 1845.

To Mrs. Thomas Crawford.

... 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....

May 30, ’46.

To Mrs. Crawford.

... For this summer my great themes of interest are Annie’s[^[2]] 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....

[2]. My aunt, Anne Eliza Ward, who married Adolphe Mailliard.

June 17, 1847.

... I stay at home pretty much all day, and generally all the evening, too. I write stories and verses, and when my 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....

Nov. 31, ’47.

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

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 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 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 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.

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, look 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 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 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 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 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 HAS NO ARMS!”

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 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 retroussé 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.

IV
OUR EARLY LITERARY ACTIVITIES

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 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 Punch and the Illustrated London News. Indeed, the London Charivari, 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 Punch 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.”

Queen Victoria’s very sick;

Napoleon’s got the measles;

Sebastopol’s not taken yet.

Pop goes the weasel!

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:

See that your children get measles young. Baby suffered very little. Each older one was worse in proportion to the comparative age. Donald[^[3]] has passed the whole week here, day and night.

[3]. Mrs. McDonald, matron of the School for Idiots, who had been nurse and housekeeper for my mother in Rome.

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 The Listener, 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 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:

Editor’s Table

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.

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 The Listener, some five weeks later, apropos of the ceremony of weighing the infant:

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.

Here my mother takes up the thread of the story.

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.

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 Leonora Mayre, 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.

“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.”

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.’”

If “Miss Flossy Howe” did not write for The Listener, 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:

The Listener

March 11th.

Editor’s Table

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 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.

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.

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 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 with accompaniment, 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. 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, 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.

V
UNDER THE SHADOW OF BYRON’S HELMET

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.

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.

In the prison of the Kaiser,

By the barricades of Seine,[^[4]]

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.

Wherever rise the peoples,

Wherever sinks a throne,

The throbbing heart of Freedom finds

An answer in his own.[^[4]]

[4]. From Whittier’s poem, “The Hero,” written about Doctor Howe.

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 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 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, 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.

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 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 father 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 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 sick.”

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 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 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!

VI
NOTED VISITORS AT “GREEN PEACE”

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.

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 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, “Good night, child!” 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 kilter, 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 kilter was duly recorded there!

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.

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 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 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 Character and Characteristic Men 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 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 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. Do 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” 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 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.