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....
Footnote 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.
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