_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]
Footnote 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!
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