_How We Dressed and Danced in the ’Sixties.—War Prices.—Mrs. Jared
Sparks.—Visit of the Russian Fleet.—The Brain Club.—Oliver Wendell
Holmes.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.—William R. Alger.—William M.
Hunt.—“Mamma’s Owls.”—William and Henry James.—A Clever Group of
Society Women.—A Historic Nose-pulling._
IN Boston, your age is always carefully calculated in accordance with
the year of your début in society and the sewing-circle to which you
belong. In case of doubt, the maximum number of years are unfailingly
attributed to you. I had the fortune, bad or good, to come half-way
between two sets, and therefore to belong to neither of them. Our
mother, who liked to give her daughters a little glimpse of society,
took us to a few informal occasions while we were still at school. The
exact Boston mind was therefore baffled in the very beginning as to our
true age.
At school all the girls in my class were older than I, except my friend,
Louise Darling. Sister Julia and I were so nearly of the same age that
in our school-girl days, as in those of our childhood, we went to
parties together. Hence, when she began to go into society it was rather
hard for me to stay behind, although I was only seventeen and still at
school. By this time the unwisdom of exaggerating your age had appealed
to my Boston soul, which was greatly torn during that winter. The older
set, a number of whose members had been classmates at school, were now
in society. As by a flash of light, I saw the dangers of my position,
and drew back before it was too late. I joined the dancing-class of the
younger set—the girls not yet out—although at school there had been
little commerce between us.
When a dance was given at our house, sister Julia should really have had
all the honors. But she cared little for dancing, while I was very fond
of it. One of my special friends, Charlie Longfellow, the poet’s eldest
son, was my partner for the german. I carried a large bouquet and
altogether had a royal time. Julia danced with Mr. Braggiotti, a Greek
gentleman, and no doubt their conversation was less frivolous than ours.
Charlie Longfellow ran away to the war not long afterward.
When the time for my real entrance into society came, in the following
year, there were only three other débutantes, namely, the Misses Sara P.
Lowell, Cora Crowninshield, and Clara Gardner. Obviously no
sewing-circle could be formed for us, so I joined that of the older set.
Instead of the handsome lunch now customary at the meetings of these
societies, we enjoyed a modest repast, consisting exclusively of bread
and butter in endless variety—crumpets, brown bread, biscuits, etc.,
with tea or chocolate. It was served at eleven or twelve o’clock in the
forenoon, dinner being at half past two.
With gold going always higher, the price of everything soared in the
’Sixties, as in the present war. The sad part of it was that they did
not come down until years afterward. The highest point reached by gold
was three hundred, but, although it dropped later, prices did not. They
were so sensitive as to respond instantly to any rise, but were entirely
unaffected by a fall of the precious metal. This seemed to me very
unfair. With occasional help from my mother, I had bought my own clothes
after reaching the age of fifteen, when I was given an allowance for
dress.
It was indeed a problem for the girls of those days to dress suitably,
when everything was so dear. Some of my friends bought braid and made
their own straw hats. The price of kid gloves—even the short ones then
usually worn—was so high that certain girls with skilful fingers made
their own. We also made our own undersleeves and even a few linen
collars. The enormous hoops of this period required a large amount of
material for the skirts of gowns, especially as these were not gored,
the entire fullness being gathered or plaited at the waist-line. When
certain girls first appeared at the Assemblies, it was said that their
skirts were six yards in circumference! Our hoops were not quite so
large as this, but they were terrific in size, especially for evening
dress. For a lady to enter an omnibus at that time was no easy matter.
Fortunately, our wire cages were very light and elastic. You had to be
very careful, however, when you sat down in a crowded car, to pull up
the hoop behind, as otherwise it would stick straight out in front! At
one time these great bird-cages were arranged so that they teetered back
and forth as you moved along. The skirts, which were long, were then
looped up gracefully in scallops, when you walked abroad, showing your
balmoral, or ornamental petticoat of woolen cloth. The balmorals were
often pretty, and did prevent our skirts from trailing in the gutter.
They were much more economical, also, than the starched white skirts
which preceded them.
But, oh, how sad it was when each succeeding year brought an expansion
in the circumference of our gowns, obliging us to discard these before
they were half worn out! It is my firm belief that the persons who set
the fashions purposely change them in such a way as to promote as much
as possible the casting away of half-worn garments and the purchase of
new ones.
Fortunately, there were ingenious dressmakers in the ’Sixties who could
do wonders in the way of combination, a fine new dress coming out of two
old ones. The fashion of making evening dresses of tarlatan and similar
diaphanous materials enabled young girls to have a number of gowns for a
relatively small price. True, many layers of the stuff were
necessary—but the construction, with a little help from the dressmaker,
was easy, thus lessening the expense of labor. You can take grand large
stitches in tarlatan and they will not show!
We made many of our own bonnets, also, some clever girls actually
quilting the silk in diamonds instead of buying it ready made. It must
have been a hideous material, but we admired it when it was in fashion.
This reminds me that among my early memories are those of certain very
old gentlemen in Boston wearing high hats and overcoats of quilted silk!
Our ball dresses were made with bodice cut moderately low, a long point
in front and at the back and full sleeves reaching half-way to the
elbow. The effect of these pointed waists over the full skirts was
certainly elegant. Somebody had to lace you up behind, for obviously you
could not do this yourself. If you were clever, you could undo the
lacing on your return home from the ball. The Assemblies, usually held
in Papanti’s Hall, were the backbone of the winter’s entertainments for
the young set, although there were always private dances also.
In that primitive day a book was sent around to the families who were
considered eligible as subscribers for the Assemblies. Boston was then
extremely stern in its construction of who should and who should not
have the privilege of entering their names on this sacred scroll.
My mother, always generous in such matters, asked to have the book sent
to certain people who had not hitherto been subscribers, although they
were descendants of a good old family. Her request was not granted,
probably because it was suspected that the husband had engaged in some
financial transaction not altogether in accordance with the Puritan
notions of uprightness.
The young people of the ’Sixties owed a debt of gratitude, which they
did not fully recognize, to Mrs. Jared Sparks, the wife of the
historian. The unique form of her entertainments disturbed the
conventionality of the youthful mind. The good lady’s motive was
doubtless to prevent boredom by carrying out conceptions of striking
originality. As we did not live in Cambridge, we were not invited to the
pencil party, nor to that where, all the chairs being removed, the
guests sat on the floor. But I did go to the famous _thé dansant_ which
Boston discussed long and vigorously.
Mrs. Sparks thought it would be a pleasant thing to give a party early
in the evening, where the young people could dance till midnight and
then go home. So she asked us to a _thé dansant_ at Papanti’s Hall to
which we went, and had a very good time. Chocolate and cake were quite
sufficient for the dancers, but Mrs. Sparks had not calculated the
probable feelings of the dowagers. They found it hungry work to sit and
watch other people dance and highly disapproved of the simple repast. As
time went by, low and deep were the murmurings. Even the quality of the
cake was unkindly called in question. Mrs. Sparks’s friends sent a
sample, it was said, to a lady of the opposite faction, so that the
latter might see for herself the excellent quality of the butter and
eggs. But she declared it was now so stale (for the controversy lasted
for days or even weeks) she could tell nothing about the ingredients!
Mrs. Sparks’s original turn of mind also showed itself in the dealings
with her children. One of the daughters had a will of her own and it was
sometimes necessary to discipline her. This was done by taking a tuck in
her dress, thus doubly punishing her; she had the mortification of
appearing in childish array at an age when every girl desires to seem
grown up, and she was obliged also to betray to all friends and
acquaintances the fact that she had been naughty. You had only to look
at her skirts to know what her behavior had been.
The historian himself sometimes came to dances. From the expression of
his countenance, I am sure he did not enjoy them. The top of his head
was bald, yet the curly hair at the sides stood out in a way to show
that it had once been thick. If you had any doubt of it, you had only to
look at the tremendous crop of curly hair belonging to his son.
His harassed air made it evident that he had come in a spirit of
parental resignation, not in one of joy. A legend of that time described
Mr. and Mrs. Sparks driving together on a hot summer’s day. As the horse
showed signs of fatigue, Mr. Sparks suggested stopping. “Drive on, Mr.
Sparks,” replied the lady, majestically. After two or three similar
stoppages the horse fell down dead!
Most of our dancing partners were Harvard students, with a sprinkling of
older men and returned soldiers. Two of these, Col. Francis Palfrey and
Capt. William Horton, had been wounded in the arm, so that the latter
was held in a sling. This did not prevent their dancing, however.
One of our amusements was going on board warships, not only those of our
own navy, but on Swedish and Russian vessels as well.
The visit of the latter to American waters was one of the political and
social events of the day. Among the hostesses who gave dances for the
officers were Mrs. Storer of Cambridge, our aunt, Mrs. Joseph N. Howe,
and our mother. We were also invited to dances on board the Russian
ships and to services of the Orthodox Church held there.
Uniforms are always attractive to young women. When worn by handsome
young foreigners the charm is doubled. My special partner, being in the
engineering department, wore silver instead of gold decorations. He was
nicknamed “Cranberry Cheeks” by the family. As neither of us could speak
the language of the other, our conversation was carried on entirely in
French. Now my education in this language at school had not dwelt
especially on the sentimental side, so that the explanation of words was
occasionally necessary. However, I always succeeded in grasping the
idea.
We were very sad when the Russian fleet sailed, taking away all our
delightful friends.
Among the pleasant entertainments of the ’Sixties were those given by
the Brain Club, as it was popularly called.
My mother’s position in it might fitly be described as “Queen of the
Revels,” for she devised and helped carry out many of the programs. We
of the younger generation were allowed to attend some of the meetings.
William Hunt, the artist, took part in a most ridiculous burlesque of a
tourney, where he and his competitor, Hamilton Wilde, mounted on
pasteboard hobbyhorses, engaged in a deadly encounter, prancing
meanwhile about the drawing-room. Mrs. Charles Homans, as the Queen of
Love and Beauty, wore a wonderful wig made of raveled tow. Mr. Hunt,
being overthrown, toppled over, pretending to be mortally wounded, and a
leech was summoned to prescribe for him. Mr. Jere Abbott, wearing a long
false nose, took this part admirably, making many absurd inquiries of
the patient: “Have any of your wife’s family suffered from this
disease?” etc.
Another burlesque was that of the trio in the opera of “Lucrezia
Borgia.” Mr. Otto Dresel played the air on the piano, while my mother
enacted the title rôle. Hamilton Wilde represented her son, Gennaro,
while the Duke’s part was taken by William Hunt, if I remember aright.
All three joined hands in a line, keeping time to the music with
exaggerated operatic motions. Mr. Wilde indicated his sufferings from
poison, before the arrival of the antidote. It was extremely funny.
At our house in Chestnut Street the Brain Club was entertained by two
charades written by my mother, “Pandemonium” and “Catastrophe.”
For “Cat” a scene was adapted from the classic but terrible story of
Atreus and Thyestes. The unfortunate owner of the animal has it served
up to her in a pie. After she has eaten it the dreadful nature of the
pasty is revealed to her!
For “Ass” the second syllable, we acted the scene from “Midsummer
Night’s Dream,” where Titania makes love to Bottom. Mr. James C. Davis
took the latter part, wearing an ass’s head borrowed from the theater,
while I took that of the Fairy Queen.
My mother was always proud of our small accomplishments. Her journal
says that Flossy looked beautiful. Doubtless I did—to her maternal eyes.
The President of the Brain Club was called Mrs. Josiah Quincy, Jr.,
because her husband’s father, a very old gentleman, was still living.
The four generations, all having the same name, had their photographs
taken in a group when the youngest was only a babe in arms. This
carrying on of the family name appeals to sentiment, but is not
convenient in practice. The third Josiah Quincy, finding unutterable
confusion in his mail, adopted a middle initial in self-defense. He thus
became Josiah _P._ Quincy. His brother, Samuel Quincy, fought in the
Civil War.
Their sister, Mary Quincy, had a fine contralto voice. We often saw her
and her husband, Prof. B. A. Gould, as well as her parents, Mr. and Mrs.
Josiah Quincy, Jr. I remember the former as a handsome man with
beautiful snow-white hair and whiskers. These had turned prematurely, as
he was still a vigorous man who took the trouble to make himself
agreeable to the young. Perhaps this was owing to his political
experience, for he had been Mayor of Boston. The house in Park Street
was one of a series of spacious, pleasant residences, occupied by the
Lowells, the Thomas Wards, the Misses Quincy, and other worthies of
Boston. The last-named ladies were sisters of the ex-Mayor. Both he and
they had pleasant summer places in Quincy, one of which has now become
the Quincy Mansion School for Girls.
Unitarianism, as all the world knows, became firmly intrenched in Boston
in the early part of the nineteenth century. Many Puritan ideals still
prevailed, however, especially with regard to the observance of Sunday.
Certain persons adhered to the idea that no gay doings should take place
on Saturday evening, that time being devoted to preparation for the
Sabbath. These were usually plain people. Indeed, some individuals went
so far as to disapprove of the celebration of Christmas. It was not
uncommon to substitute New Year’s Day as the time to exchange presents.
The students at Harvard College were obliged to go to all the services
of whatever church they attended. Hence many of them selected our
church, that of the Disciples, since here there was only one service on
Sunday. During the week, attendance at morning chapel was compulsory,
the hour being six and in later years seven o’clock. Small wonder that
the undergraduate body learned to dress in a very short space of time,
high boots and an ulster covering many deficiencies.
The young Howes were always taken to church in the morning, but were
free to spend the rest of Sunday very much as they liked. We were not
expected to practise on the piano, however, and we entertained the usual
superstition about the impropriety, not to say evil, of sewing on
Sunday. Our aunt, Mrs. Crawford, who lived during the greater part of
her life in Italy, brought back to us more liberal ideas about the use
of the needle.
While we often took a drive on Sunday afternoon, I went with the feeling
that it was not quite right, so strong was the influence of the
prevalent opinion in the community.
My father liked to have us read aloud from the Bible on Sunday evening,
and we often did so while living in South Boston. The friends of the
family found it pleasant and convenient to come to high tea on that day,
so that at “Green Peace” we often had a tableful of guests. After the
removal to Boston these Sunday teas developed into evening receptions of
a pleasant and informal character. For these our mother was duly taken
to task by a lady who held the old-fashioned view of the day. In spite
of this rebuke our mother continued serenely on her way. To entertain
her friends was as essential to her happiness as to read and study. My
father once said that if she were alone on a desert island, with one old
negro, she would manage to have a party!
It had, indeed, required effort on her part, and on that of her friends,
to have entertainments in South Boston. At No. 13 Chestnut Street it was
much easier. Among the pleasant people who came there were William Hunt,
the artist, and his wife. Her handsome and intelligent face lit up with
interest and animation as she talked. I remember a little dinner at the
Hunt house where my mother and I were the only guests. Mr. Hunt told us
various anecdotes of the French circus—then known as the Hippodrome; of
an old woman of eighty who still danced on the tight rope. He showed us
how the little old bowed figure looked as she came forward to take her
part in the performance.
He related, too, the story of two men, one standing on the top of a tall
staff, the second performing on a tight rope attached to it. One day, as
the latter was testing the rope, it snapped in two! He never loosened
his grasp on his balance-pole, never lost his erect position, falling,
splendid as Lucifer, through the fifty or more feet of air, till his
feet struck the ground. Both legs were broken.
Among the interesting guests at No. 13 Chestnut Street were Celia
Thaxter and her husband. She was handsome and looked like the woman of
spirit that she undoubtedly was. What she said I cannot, alas! remember.
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes was in those days the most brilliant and
delightful of talkers. Not only did he talk without effort, but it
seemed to require an effort on his part to maintain silence. His very
mouth looked as if it were ready to overflow into brilliant conversation
of its own accord, and one fancied that he was obliged to exercise a
certain restraint over it.
I remember a dinner at our house where Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rev. William
R. Alger, John Weiss, and Doctor Holmes were the guests. The witty
doctor became fairly launched on the stream of his own brilliant
conversation, and let us into certain of his professional secrets by
telling us something of his methods of composition and of the moods in
which he wrote. I listened to this talk with a feeling akin to awe at
being allowed to come so near to the sacred places of genius. The poet
was inspired by his theme, and was led on, by the unfolding of his
thought, to lay bare the secrets of his soul. It was a wonderful talk,
and one could scarcely listen to it without emotion.
When Doctor Holmes went away he said to his hostess, by way of apology
for having talked so much, “Well, I have told you a great deal about
myself to-day.” Whereupon another member of the company, himself a
literary man, but of a less expansive nature than the Doctor, said, with
emphasis, “Others could have told of their experiences, too, Doctor, if
you had given them a chance.”
During the Civil War my father and Doctor Holmes were among the medical
men appointed to examine those who sought to escape the draft on the
ground of physical disability. Among them was one very large young man
who had evidently outgrown his strength. The Autocrat of the Breakfast
Table was short and slight. There was such a contrast in the size of the
two that the witty doctor thought it would be amusing if he, the little
man, should examine the big one. So he called out, “Let me examine him,
Doctor, let me examine him!” He accordingly proceeded to percuss the
young giant.
Doctor Holmes liked better to talk than to listen, as the title which he
assumed, “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,” plainly shows. When my
mother decided to give a course of talks on philosophical subjects, in
the parlors of our house, she invited Doctor Holmes to be one of the
guests. Meeting her in the street one rainy day, he explained to her at
length why he was not interested in hearing other people lecture, the
pair meanwhile walking up and down under their umbrellas.
On another occasion, when both had been listening to an uninteresting
lecture, Doctor Holmes said he would as lief hear potatoes poured from
one barrel into another!
Ralph Waldo Emerson was from time to time a visitor at our house. He was
of the tall, slender New England type, with blue eyes and the large nose
which is thought to indicate force. At the time of the execution of John
Brown he compared the gallows on which the old man perished to the
cross. A little later he was in the company of some conservative people
who were shocked at this comparison. They asked Mr. Emerson if he had
made it, and, without attempting to palliate or explain, he replied that
he had said something of the sort.
In my youth the following remarks were attributed to him.
“Church? What is church? I do not see church, I do not hear church, I do
not smell church!” It is very possible that he did make them, yet he was
a man essentially devout, the descendant of a line of clergymen. When a
distinguished clergyman of the Church of England came to America, some
years later, he declared that, whoever occupied the pulpit, Emerson was
always the preacher! Time thus brought to the latter a splendid revenge
for the small satires of earlier days.
His table talk was fresh, quaint and delightful. Yet he was, on the
whole, rather silent than talkative in company, as became the author of
this passage:
“When people come to see us, we foolishly prattle, lest we be
inhospitable. But things said for conversation are chalk eggs. Don’t
_say_ things. What you are stands over you the while and thunders so
that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.”
If this saying bears too hard upon women, we may comfort ourselves with
another dictum of his, “Woman, if not the queen, is the lawgiver of
conversation.” While great men like Mr. Emerson may sit serenely silent,
the feminine instinct bids us try, at least, to be agreeable!
The Sage of Concord, as he was called, staying one night at a hotel in
Boston, received a long visit from a literary man who, rising to go at a
late hour, said, “I am to give a lecture on Plato to-morrow and I
haven’t written the first word of it yet.” To which Mr. Emerson,
horrified at such carelessness, replied, “Good God!” This gentleman was
Emanuel Scherb, a habitué of our house at one time. His negligence
perhaps arose from the fact that he had once been insane. He then
imagined that he was a monkey. A knowledge of this lingered in my
mother’s subconscious mind. She once talked with him about monkeys,
until she suddenly remembered his former delusion!
Mr. Emerson did not answer the persons who wrote to him asking for his
autograph, even if they generously enclosed a stamp. It was said that
his family found these stamps useful for their correspondence. Mrs.
Emerson foresaw, at the beginning of the Civil War, that there would be
a great rise in the price of cotton cloth. Hence she wisely laid in a
closetful of this important commodity.
Rev. William Rounceville Alger was one of the “intellectuals” of whom we
saw a good deal. For a time he occupied Theodore Parker’s pulpit in
Music Hall, where sister Maud enjoyed hearing him preach. I fear that we
classed him as one of “mamma’s owls.” We so called, in a general way,
the men of literary taste with whom she liked to converse. Among the
persons of note who dined with us at 13 Chestnut Street was Mr. Olcott,
vegetarian and reformer, now best known as the father of Louisa Olcott.
He spoke of his poetic views about foodstuffs, declaring that grains
were to be preferred to roots, since the former grew above the ground,
hence nourished our higher faculties, whereas the latter, being of the
earth, must be earthy. This singular theory did not appeal to my father,
nor, indeed, to any of us, Carlyle said of it, “Olcott and his potato
gospel won’t go down here.”
He held “conversations,” at one of which he observed, apropos of
cannibalism, that if we were to eat flesh at all, he did not see why we
should not eat the best. Whereupon Mr. Coolidge, a gentleman of a
literal turn of mind, was so horrified that he made a bee-line for the
door. Mr. Olcott kept a school at one time where punishment was
vicarious: if the children did wrong they were to punish him. For the
offenses of one of Mr. Olcott’s daughters, L—— L——, a very good little
girl, received correction. One of the many stories told of this
gentleman was that he believed persons of fair hair and blue eyes were
children of light who need not labor, whereas dark-haired individuals
were children of darkness appointed to perform the work of the world.
Mr. Olcott himself had fair hair and blue eyes, but his wife was dark!
My father gave some breakfasts for gentlemen at the Chestnut Street
house. I remember one where Alexander Hamilton, son of the great
Federalist, was present and told various interesting stories. Among the
family relics we have found a tiny lock of the hair of the statesman,
sent by his son to my father.
My mother was away from home when one of these breakfasts took place,
and I sat at the head of the table as lady of the house. I appreciated
the honor, although it was rather overpowering to be the only woman
present.
To No. 13 Chestnut Street, as well as to “Green Peace,” came clever and
delightful women. The most original and brilliant of these was Mrs.
Helen Bell, wife of Joseph Bell and the daughter of Rufus Choate, a
famous lawyer of that day and a relative of Joseph H. Choate. She and
her sister, Mrs. Ellerton Pratt, were a most charming and unique couple.
They kept up a running fire of absurd sayings in which Yankee
exaggeration played its part.
Thus when some one declared that a certain German gentleman had
objectionable manners at table, Mrs. Bell exclaimed: “What do you
suppose he does? Do his feet fly up over his head, after every mouthful,
or does he throw the tender vegetables about!”
She had clear-cut features and a beautiful head, with wavy hair of a
reddish tint. After crimping came into fashion, she remarked, “I put my
hair up on lamp-wicks overnight, and people say I look like a Roman
emperor.” Mrs. Pratt, with her fair hair and blue eyes, was very pretty
and had a certain childlike expression of countenance that was very
attractive. I never was so fortunate as to hear Mrs. Bell sing. Since
her death, a few months ago, an old friend has thus described her
singing, “To listen to the deep tones of that pathetic voice, song after
song coming through the twilight, was an emotional experience never to
be forgotten.” Mrs. Bell also played very well on the piano. Our master,
Otto Dresel, once arranged that we should play together a concerto of
Bach’s for three pianos, Miss Charlotte Heminway playing on the third,
while he took the part of the orchestra on the fourth. We were obliged
to practise in Chickering’s music-rooms, no private house containing so
many instruments. I took much pleasure and pride in the performance,
which was simply for our own gratification and improvement.
It may have been apropos of this concerto of Bach’s that Mr. Dresel said
to my mother, “I have created Flossy.” I greatly enjoyed my music and it
was cordially appreciated by our friends. In these days I often
played—usually duets with Mr. Dresel—at our informal parties. A young
friend, Miss Emily Appleton, gave a musical evening where each of us
played some piece on the piano. Mr. Dresel’s constant drill, and a
flexibility of fingering inherited from my mother, gave me an advantage
over the others. The young friends were surprised, but generously
praised my performance of a piece which called for rapid and constant
motion of the fingers.
The express horses of the ’Sixties must have been very lively animals,
for they managed to run away with our grand piano and to damage it
materially. The instrument belonging to our friends, the Sam G. Wards,
needed repairing at the same time. Mr. Dresel used to say jokingly that
at the Chickering factory they had simply exchanged the actions of the
two pianos!
Charlotte Heminway was the eldest daughter of Augustus Heminway and Mrs.
Mary Heminway, whose memory is revered on account of her noble
charities. Charlotte herself, a friend of sister Julia, was a young
woman of fine character and promise. One day in New York, being in haste
to reach the station, she and a party of friends hailed a passing hack.
After entering it they noticed a peculiar odor. On her return to Boston
this eldest and especially beloved daughter of the house died of a
virulent fever, supposed to be typhus.
Among the clever and agreeable women who came to No. 13 Chestnut Street
were two daughters of the Rev. Mr. Greenwood—Mrs. James Lodge and Mrs.
William Howe. A third was Mrs. Charles Homans, daughter of our opposite
neighbor, Rev. Samuel K. Lothrop. A handsome woman to the end of her
days, she was then young, albeit her hair was turning gray.
In the ’Sixties Boston observed New Year’s Day as a fitting time to take
account of stock. A few people followed the custom, then prevalent in
New York, of receiving callers. Our mother, remembering the customs of
her youth, was one of the first to do this, inviting a number of
gentlemen to call. Mrs. Homans helped us receive one New Year’s Day,
adding to the pleasure of the occasion by her presence and conversation.
Although she and my mother took opposite views of the suffrage question,
they always maintained a cordial friendship. Mrs. Homans was active in
public work of a charitable nature, interesting herself especially in
prisoners.
Sister Julia and I enjoyed the intellectual society of our elders, yet
we also had friends of our own age. Among these were two young men of
promise, William Washburn and William James, well known later as the
psychologist. The latter was a most genial and delightful person. When
the question came up, possibly apropos of the Mormons, of the propriety
of polygamy, he was inclined to think it might be a good thing to have
more than one wife. I suggested that from the woman’s side of the
question it would _not_ be desirable.
When he returned from Brazil he told us that the inhabitants beckoned
with the whole hand, instead of with extended forefinger, as was then
the custom in America. Finding it difficult to make out prices, he
confidingly extended a handful of silver, allowing the Brazilians to
pick out the proper amount.
William Washburn, who was a friend of William James, wrote a book of
stories about Harvard, but did not make literature his profession. Henry
James the younger, as he then was, came to see us occasionally, but we
never knew him well. The coldness of his temperament was in strong
contrast to the warmth and geniality of his brother’s. He was then pale,
and looked, as I thought, like the great Napoleon. I believe that he was
not in good health at that time, and possibly he was shy. Great was our
surprise when he declared that some one was a hog. Who this selfish
person was I cannot remember, but Henry James was ordinarily so calm
that this forcible denunciation was startling. At a later period my
mother grew to know him better and had real affection for him.
We knew also the two younger brothers, Wilkie and Robertson, who were
pleasant fellows. Both fought in the Civil War, Wilkie being badly
wounded.
Henry James, Sr., was a man of as much talent as his distinguished sons,
although never so well known. He was a follower of Swedenborg, but did
not consider that the Swedenborgian Church interpreted correctly the
writings of the great mystic. I read with interest one of his books,
_Substance and Shadow_, in which he expressed himself with vigor and
originality. Mr. James knew that I was interested in his writings.
Hence, when he saw me at the conclusion of his address at the Radical
Club he exclaimed, reproachfully:
“You here, Flossy!”
“Why, Mr. James, I came to hear you!”
With the delightful inconsequence of the Irish mind, he regretted seeing
me at so unorthodox a meeting, not reflecting that he was the magnet
which brought me there!
My father’s experience as the head of two large institutions had shown
him that, through changes in fortune, many women who never expected to
earn their own living are obliged to do so. He thought all should be so
educated as to be able to support themselves. Hence I was taught
bookkeeping, and kept, for some years, the books of the School for
Idiotic and Feeble-minded Youth. These included a ledger on the
double-entry system, and obliged me to take from time to time a trial
balance. On one occasion I carelessly overdrew the bank-account. The
check went to protest, causing me an expense of two dollars or more and
some mortification. The father of one of the inmates, finding that his
correspondent was “Madam” and not “Sir,” wrote me in rather gallant
style. Otherwise the work was calm and uneventful. I was paid a small
salary, which helped out my allowance for dress. “The Town of Lee” was
one of the headings in my ledger, this town being responsible for the
maintenance of Charles Keep, who had a genius for catching rats without
any trap. Why they did not bite his fingers is a mystery. At one time
the authorities at the school were puzzled by a shortage in the milk. It
was discovered that the feeble-minded boys who brought the cans from the
Institution for the Blind, finding the load rather heavy, lightened it
by pouring out part of the milk on the road!
Usually these poor children did not display special talent. I remember
one who was proud of having only a single hand—a pride not more
unreasonable than that often shown by persons of intelligence in matters
for which they can not justly claim any credit. Another boy had such an
exaggerated fear of Sabbath-breaking that his teacher was in despair on
Sunday afternoons. If she proposed any occupation with the slightest
tinge of secularity, Charlie would reject it with the simple
explanation, “Hell!” The parents in many cases wrote an illiterate hand.
The postal authorities were wont to indorse on letters bearing a cryptic
address, “Try Doctor Howe.” Everybody who wanted help did “try Doctor
Howe”—the rich as well as the poor. Thus while few of the mentally
deficient children of the well-to-do came to the Institution, many were
brought to his office in Bromfield Street for examination and advice.
These he gave gladly, never charging any fee for his services.
Sister Julia, soon after leaving school, took up as her work teaching at
the Institution for the Blind. For this she never received any
remuneration, nor did she wish any. She was one of the most unworldly
persons whom I have ever seen. While enjoying, in a natural, healthy
way, the pleasures of this life as they came to her, the things of the
mind and of the spirit were to her the true realities. The bond of
affection between her and my father was especially strong. “Darlingest,
Firstest, and Best Born” he calls her in one of his letters. It was a
pleasure to see them start together for the daily trip to the
Institution for the Blind at South Boston. Having special talent for
languages, she here taught Latin, German and French. She also read aloud
in English to some of the inmates.
A few years later, Mr. (afterward “Sir”) Francis Campbell, who had held
a responsible position under my father, founded and carried on with much
success “Norwood College” near London. This was the first school for the
blind in England conducted on modern principles. My father did all in
his power to help on the new enterprise, lending several teachers from
the institution under his charge to start it. Among them was Miss
Faulkner, who later became Lady Campbell.
Some of the American teachers were blind and had been sister Julia’s
pupils. It was reported to us that, when traveling on the Continent of
Europe, they found her instruction of real help.
In the late ’Sixties Boston was stirred by a ludicrous incident which
ended in a tragedy. Three commuters, society men, had turned over a seat
on a railway train and were chatting together when a stranger approached
and took the vacant place. He was a large man, cumbered with a toy
baby-carriage, and his presence disturbed the group of friends, who
plainly showed their annoyance. When the interloper arose to go he said
to one of the group, “Sir, you are no gentleman!” According to the
masculine code, there is only one answer to this remark, although to a
mere woman striking a man is a strange argument to prove that you are a
gentleman. Mr. X., a small man with a quick temper, delivered the answer
on the nose of the offender, knocking off and breaking his glasses. The
bearer of the baby-carriage was a pacifist. He did not retort in kind,
but brought suit against Mr. X. for assault and battery. The case was
complicated by the fact that the three friends, of whom one at least was
a director of the railroad, were thought by some of the traveling public
to behave too much as if they owned the railway. It was a sort of
town-and-gown affair. Hence when the lawyer for the defense made the
mistake of treating the whole as a pure joke, the judge was angered and
condemned Mr. X. to three months in prison. Having served this severe
sentence, Mr. X. and his family left the United States, never to return.
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