_Removal to Boylston Place.—W. D. Howells.—Marion Crawford as a Boy.—The
Romance of a Fire.—The Cretan Insurrection.—Sisters Julia and Laura
Accompany Our Parents to Greece.—A Grim Passenger.—A Price Is Set on
My Father’s Head.—Our Cretan Sewing-circle and Concert.—Over-modest
Amateurs.—The Sumner Bronzes._
IN the autumn of 1865 we left No. 13 Chestnut Street, greatly to our
regret. The owner of the house, Mr. Sargent, decided to live there
himself, so we moved to No. 19 Boylston Place. My father never approved
of this locality, as it was on made ground and rather low. It had been a
part of old Mr. ——’s garden. However, I do not think it affected the
health of the family unfavorably. Having some trouble with the drainage,
he sent for the Master of the Drains. This official looked exactly as
one might guess from his title—quaint, seedy, with bloodshot eyes. I
suspect Boston did not then have a sewerage system.
The move from Chestnut Street had been a hurried one, as my father hoped
almost to the last to find a situation better to his liking than
Boylston Place. I was now at the age, twenty years, when young people
feel the responsibility of the world resting heavily on their shoulders.
During the preparations for removal I flew up and down stairs and
attempted to do a hundred things, without any regard for my own
strength, which I supposed to be unlimited. The result was a strain that
affected my health unfavorably for some years. The fault was my own, as
no one had asked or expected me to do so much.
In these years I began to be interested in charitable work, conducting a
sewing-school for poor children at our own house. Occasionally our
sittings were interrupted by the merry raids of the young Howes, who
launched sponges and other missiles at my scholars. The latter took
refuge under the dining-room table, but appreciated the sport of the
affair. When my father looked in upon the children at work his face lit
up with a beautiful smile that was more than reward enough for my small
efforts.
In our frequent drives between South Boston and Boston we passed through
a somewhat squalid tenement-house district. Concern for the people
dwelling there now began to oppress me, and I made efforts, though not
always wise ones, to help them.
Among my protégées was a Mrs. Wallace, a stalwart Irish woman with
several children, whose husband had pains in his legs whenever he held
the baby. We started her in a fruit-stand and made various efforts in
her behalf. She was later arrested for some misdemeanor and it required
several policemen to take her, struggling all the way, to the
station-house.
A very unpleasant though amusing incident of our life at Boylston Place
was the arrival of a box containing six semi-wild cats, sent to my
father by our friend, Mr. Thomas R. Hazard, as a species of joke When
the box was opened the cats flew out of it, scattering in every
direction. Fortunately for the Howe family, some of them escaped from
the house. The most troublesome one persisted in rushing up the
chimney-place in my room whenever we approached her.
About this time the family narrowly escaped a serious danger. One
evening my mother, being up late, noticed on the ceiling a slight
discoloration; she also thought she heard a low tick-tick as of flames.
Being very sleepy, she reasoned thus with herself: “Even if there should
be a fire and we should be burned up, why, then David and Flossy could
be married.”
Arousing herself from this strange altruistic vein, she called my
father. In time of danger he was in his element. He speedily chopped
open the floor of the parlor and the flames appeared! Meantime, brother
Harry, hastily attired, rushed out for a policeman. The latter showed
very languid interest.
“Fire—where?”
“At No. 19 Boylston Place.”
“O Lord!” ejaculated the officer of the law, and rushed for the spot.
His own home was next door!
On the other side of us lived Mrs. Richards and her five stalwart sons.
Whenever our furnace sent out smoke, it went into the Richards’ house.
Hence the young men, smelling smoke, came in to see what was wrong with
us. Sister Laura, who was a very pretty and charming girl, roused
suddenly from sleep, appeared barefoot upon the scene, with her fine
hair floating over her shoulders. Two or three years later she married
the youngest of the fire-fighters.
I was staying in New York at the time, and so missed the great scene of
the fire. It was put out without much damage.
It will be judged from my mother’s remark that my engagement was a long
one, my fiancé being a young lawyer studying in his father’s office.
During the five years that elapsed before our marriage I found it
pleasant to make visits in New York, staying with Great-uncle Richard
Ward. He possessed the courtly manners of a gentleman of the old school,
his diction being somewhat old-fashioned. Thus he frequently said, “No,
lady,” or “Yes, lady,” a form of address now used chiefly by dependents.
Uncle Richard was a thorough Ward, of tall and massive frame, though not
at all stout. He had been six feet four inches tall in his younger days,
and wore number eleven gloves, it was said. His shoes were on the same
scale. During the life of Uncle John (when the two brothers lived
together) there was a room at the rear of the house devoted to their
footgear. It was a veritable acreage of shoes which resembled small
cradles. Leather was then supposed to last longer if boots were given a
rest instead of being used constantly. Uncle Richard wore one of the
hideous wigs of the period, having lost his hair many years before. A
family tradition declared that, from the receding of the gums, his teeth
had all dropped out while still sound. He received us always with great
kindness and hospitality. The only drawback to the pleasure of a visit
at No. 8 Bond Street was the temperature of the house, which was cold
for our modern taste. In addition to an old-fashioned and rather
ineffectual furnace there were pleasant open-grate fires in all the
rooms. We soon learned that we must not poke these too much when Uncle
Richard was present, for a temperature comfortable to us was distressing
to him. As we sat playing whist of an evening, he would get up and leave
the room from time to time, in order to cool off in the hall.
He made it a point of pride not to wear an overcoat, and seldom did so,
though he dressed very warmly beneath his invariable black suit. What he
should wear on a cold day became in his later years a serious question.
He would call in consultation his faithful old retainer. Mary Oliver
would sometimes decide the matter by weighing the clothes!
Uncle Richard was very much interested in genealogy and took great pride
in his ancestors. He informed me that the boys at school looked with
respect on his brothers and himself because they were descended from
four Governors! Dear deluded man! How could he so misunderstand boy
nature! I’ve no doubt their schoolmates treated the brothers with due
respect, the Wards being a large and powerful race. It is more prudent
not to offend bigger boys.
He was showing me one day an old family Bible in which the names of
seven generations of Wards were inscribed. Seeing a visitor come up the
front steps, he closed the book.
“Now, my dear, we will not talk about ancestors before Mr. So-and-so,”
he observed. “Because if we speak of these before other people, they
also talk about theirs, _and that is not so interesting_!”
I do not think he wrote any account of his forebears, leaving that for
his successor in the cult, Cousin John Ward. The latter does not mention
the fourth awe-inspiring Governor, but perhaps he was on the distaff
side.
William Dean Howells was one of the noted people who came to see us in
Boylston Place. Sister Julia and I fancied that he looked like an
amiable Richard III. His black hair was parted in the middle—a thing not
usual in the ’Sixties. Although cut short, it strayed over his forehead
in a way to suggest the close-cropped hair of the medieval knight, while
his dark complexion, short, compact figure, and something unusual about
his face, suggested this resemblance to us. The comparison was not
invidious, because we admired Edwin Booth in the rôle of Richard III.
We were interested in Mr. Howells’s india-rubbers, they were so small!
Mr. and Mrs. Frank Leslie, with Mrs. Squiers, also spent an evening with
us. Both ladies were in full evening dress, doubtless supposing the
occasion would be a formal one. Mrs. Squiers was a striking-looking
person whose face did not recommend itself to me. After the death of the
first wife, she became the second Mrs. Frank Leslie. All suffragists owe
her a debt of gratitude for her generous gift of her fortune to our
cause.
One of our delightful visitors in these days was our cousin-german
Frank, known later as Marion Crawford, the novelist. He was sent to this
country to receive his early education, spending several years at St.
Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire. He was now about ten years old,
a handsome, freshfaced boy, very much interested in locomotives. He
brought a number of engravings of these, which I politely examined, in
spite of my perfect indifference to engines of all sorts. In later years
my youngest son, discovering with pain this trait in his mother’s
character, observed, reflectively:
“It must be strange not to be interested in locomotives.”
“No, Jack, it is _not_ strange at all!”
Young Crawford was as full of fun as other boys of his age. With brother
Harry he performed various antics at the house of my aunt, Mrs.
Mailliard, in Bordentown, New Jersey. Her family were surprised, when
walking in the garden, to see the stand of the lost rocking-horse
protruding from the chimney!
Dear old Mr. Joseph Greene Cogswell, who had been the first librarian of
the Astor Library, was sitting quietly by the fire when boots suddenly
came down the chimney. With perfect gravity he picked these out of the
fire with the tongs, causing great amusement to the naughty boys
watching above.
Sister Julia was ten years older than Frank, but they were great chums.
During one of our periodical stays at the Institution for the Blind they
bought cream-cakes with the money given them for car fare, and walked
the two or more miles from Boston to South Boston with cheerful hearts!
During our residence in Boylston Place my father did some of his writing
in the house and asked us to make no noise near his room. We were so
young and thoughtless as to think this request unreasonable. True, we
knew, in a general way, that he was writing the report for the
Massachusetts Board of State Charities, but this meant little to us. In
later years we came to understand what labor and fatigue the task
involved, for the board was the pioneer body of its kind in the United
States. My father’s wide experience made it inevitable that he should be
summoned to sit on it. “The Nestor and Achilles of public charities in
Massachusetts” soon became the chairman. In a series of annual reports
he advocated a system of dealing with the dependent classes which was
accepted and still remains in force, not only in Massachusetts, but in
many other states and in some European countries.
Public institutions, he declared, should be built only in the last
resort. The dependent classes should be diffused through the community,
not gathered together. Children should be cared for in families, not in
institutions. Defectives should be brought together only for purposes of
instruction. They should not live together in homes, as their
peculiarities thus become more strongly developed, but with normal
people.
As a pioneer in eugenics he strongly disapproved of the policy of
certain trustees of the Reform School for Girls. These wished to bury in
oblivion the former bad life of the young women, allowing young men to
marry them without any warning of their past misbehavior. My father knew
this was all wrong and so declared, drawing upon himself sarcastic
denunciations from the unwise trustees.
When it was proposed to build a large institution at Winthrop, he wrote
to the newspapers, showing the evil of congregating so many people under
one roof.
An unexpected ally appeared in a correspondent who wrote Doctor Howe,
approving the stand he had taken “because, although it is not generally
known, there are lions and tigers under the proposed site of the
institution!”
My father’s labors have often seemed to me like those of Hercules. He
succeeded in them because he had great confidence in the benevolence of
his fellow-men; he knew they would respond to appeals made in the right
spirit, if matters were clearly explained.
“Obstacles are things to be overcome,” was one of his mottoes. “_Qui
facit per alium, facit per se_,” was another.
So long as the deed was done, it mattered not to him who did it or who
received the praise. If some one else could carry out his plan, he was
off to the next task. He was too busy to give any time to the recording
of his own accomplishments. Hence he had all the more for the work in
hand.
In 1866 came the stirring news of the revolt of Crete against her
Mohammedan oppressors. The island had earned its freedom with the rest
of Greece in the war of independence, but by a cruel stroke of diplomacy
had been put back under the heel of the Turk.
We shudder in the year 1918 at the cruelties of the Germans, the
self-styled Huns. Yet they were once Christians and some remains of
Christian thought and practice still linger among their soldiery. But
the Turks have always been barbarians. In the early days of the rising
of 1866–68 we learned with horror of the fate of the brave and desperate
Cretans who, gathered together in church or fortress, blew themselves
into eternity rather than fall into the savage hands of the Turks. Men
did the same thing in the Greek revolution, to escape the same terrible
fate!
My father was now sixty-five years old. Yet “he heard the voice of
Greece calling him,” and he answered the call, as he had answered it
nearly half a century before.
Then he had gone, in the enthusiasm of his bright youth, alone to a
strange land, whose language he did not speak. _Now_ he at once called a
meeting in Music Hall, Boston, where Edward Everett Hale, Oliver Wendell
Holmes, Wendell Phillips, the silver-tongued orator, and others spoke.
My father presided and made a brief speech:
“I knew hundreds of them [the Cretans]—good men and true. I had been in
their beautiful island, had stood a siege with them in one of their
beleaguered fortresses, and witnessed their courage.... I see them now,
the sons of my old companions, in their snowy chemise and their shaggy
capote, saying, sadly, ‘Good-by, mother! Good-by, sister and child! Seek
your refuge in the neighboring isles, upon the main, wherever the hand
of Christian mercy may aid you. We go to the mountains to keep the flag
of freedom flying as long as we live!’ My friends, these unfortunate
women and children are now suffering as many of their mothers suffered
forty years ago. Your fathers and your mothers relieved them. Will you
not relieve their children?”
Of course they would and did. Thirty-seven thousand dollars were raised,
and in March, 1867, my father sailed for Greece, to be once more the
almoner of American charity.
The Cretan refugees had been obliged to fly hastily, and were in a
destitute, almost naked condition. The good women of Boston responded to
this call by forming sewing-circles to make clothing for these exiles.
I inaugurated one among my young friends, but looked in vain for a
president. I appealed to Emily Russell, who had held this office in a
similar society.
“Why aren’t you the president yourself?” she suggested. The idea had not
previously occurred to me, as I had had no experience. However, I
accepted her advice, learning then that if you start an enterprise you
must expect to take the responsibility on your own shoulders.
Just what kind of undergarments the women of the Orient wore we did not
know. Fortunately for us, a circle of older ladies took the
responsibility, cutting out for us pattern “togas” and “pajamas.” They
were of unbleached muslin—or cotton cloth. The price of this had been
seventy-five cents a yard during the Civil War, and was still very high
in 1867.
We were merry over the naming of the garments and over their unusual
shape. My mother, who assisted in the distribution of the clothing to
the refugees at Athens, tells us that they were suitable in pattern and
quality.
One or more of our meetings were held at the Institution for the Blind,
where Laura Bridgman, despite her lack of sight and hearing, ran the
sewing-machine for us.
The year 1867 and a good part of 1868 were largely occupied with work
for the Cretan cause. My mother and sisters, Julia and Laura,
accompanied my father to Europe, I having remained behind from choice.
This was partly out of deference to the wishes of my fiancé and partly
because I had not yet recovered from the strain received during the
removal to Boylston Place.
A quiet summer was indicated for me—but how was it possible to compass
this when the letters from Greece were so moving? Sister Laura, in
particular, wrote such harrowing accounts of the refugees that I could
not remain inactive. Brother Harry, sister Maud and I were spending the
greater part of the summer at our home in Lawton’s Valley, where our
aunt, Mrs. Joseph N. Howe, and her daughters were installed for the
season.
I rashly decided to arrange an amateur concert for the benefit of the
Cretans. True, I knew something of music, but of the nature of amateur
musicians I was blissfully ignorant. The first step was easy enough. The
stirring letters from Greece afforded plenty of ammunition for a
circular appeal to the leading people of Newport, of which we wrote many
copies. Brother Harry, now a junior at Harvard College, was my right
hand in the whole matter, working most unselfishly and constantly.
Day after day we took the six-mile drive to Newport, calling upon
prospective patronesses and singers. The former responded nobly. Mrs. E.
D. Morgan, wife of the war Governor of New York State, took fifty
tickets, although her husband had already contributed to the cause.
But the singers! oh, the singers! Such backing and filling, such coy
consents, withdrawn almost as soon as made! It had not occurred to my
youthful mind that the amateur musician normally displays his talents
before a private audience. In asking him to sing before the public, at
an entertainment for which tickets were sold, I was requesting something
unusual. Doubtless many felt their talents were not sufficient for the
task. The Cretan concert might never have materialized except for the
timely aid of Miss Jane Stuart. Daughter of the famous painter, Gilbert
Stuart, and an artist herself, she was one of the characters of old
Newport. Her father had been one of the few to give my father God-speed
when the latter started for Greece in 1824, and he had reciprocated the
kindness by helping Miss Jane in some undertaking. She was extremely
grateful, and once showed her feeling by embracing him. “My dear, I
might just as well have kissed that door!” she afterward said to my
mother. My father was a true New Englander in disliking all such
demonstrations, and Miss Jane was extremely plain.
She and her elder sister lived in a pleasant little cottage on Mill
Street. This was practically headquarters for us during our Cretan
concert campaign. Miss Jane gave us her aid and counsel in every
possible way. I’m ashamed to think how often we imposed upon the
kindness of the two ladies by staying to luncheon. Miss Anne, born
toward the close of the eighteenth or at the beginning of the nineteenth
century, was a gentlewoman of the old school. She wore a black
head-dress covering a great part of her head—the successor to the
turban, perhaps. She was not so witty as Miss Jane, whose conversation
was very charming. The agreeable women of the older generation whom I
remember in my youth had grown up before the day of the short story and
almost before that of the magazine. Hence it was a part of their social
education, the knowledge of how to tell anecdotes in a truly interesting
way.
Another friend who helped us in our undertaking was Miss Anna Vernon,
who thoroughly loved music and gave much time to it. She then lived in
the historic Vernon house, the headquarters of Rochambeau. It is now
decorated with a medallion portrait of him.
I was so much absorbed in my new undertaking as to suppose every one
else would be interested in it. Perhaps that is the secret of successful
canvassing! To my urgent request that he would go with me to drum up
recruits Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson at last replied:
“Why, I am the only man in Newport who has anything to do!”
This gentle rebuke was disconcerting, but, having delivered it, and so
freed his mind, the gallant colonel climbed into my pony-chaise and we
made the projected calls together. At that time he and his first wife
were living in Newport. She was a superior woman, but a victim of a form
of rheumatism which made her almost helpless. Her husband was devoted to
her.
The amateurs continuing hopelessly coy, we had, in a moment of
desperation, an interview with the manager of an opera troupe. It did
not prove practicable, however, to hand the concert over to
professionals.
We were obliged to call in the aid of one, Mrs. Flora Cary, afterward
Mrs. Barry, a concert singer with a fine contralto voice. She generously
gave us her services. My mother’s cousin, John Ward, possessed a
well-cultivated tenor voice, and he, too, nobly volunteered. With the
help of these and other performers the concert for the benefit of the
Cretans at last came off. We cleared four hundred dollars, and a
donation from the Misses Hazard, the sisters of Mr. Thomas Hazard,
brought our profits up to five hundred.
Cousin John had taken degrees both as a doctor and as a lawyer, yet he
practised neither profession. The possession of money was an effective
damper on his activities. For many years he was a member of the
well-known Mendelssohn Glee Club of New York. Unfortunately, he desired
also to be a poet, a career for which nature had not intended him. He
had a theory that perseverance was the main requisite. Hence he would
read his verses to some unfortunate friend, and if the latter made any
criticism which seemed to him just he would call on the friend a second
time, and recite a revised version, asking if that were any better!
His friends took refuge in polite lies. “Oh no, John, I have no taste
for poetry. I’m no judge of it—it would not be of any use to read that
to me!”
Even the most conscientious fell from truth, after a while. When it came
to the third degree—listening to the same verses, altered slightly to
suit your taste, for the third time you surrendered. You accepted them
as faultless—anything, rather than listen to them again.
He printed a volume of poems, which he determined should be
letter-perfect. Of course it was not—but the printer profited handsomely
by the venture.
A more practical taste was that for genealogy. We owe to his painstaking
industry biographies of our common ancestors, Governor Samuel Ward and
his son, Lieutenant-Colonel Ward, as well as an account of the
Continental Congress before the Declaration of Independence. Thereby
hangs a tale. Governor Samuel Ward was not only a member of that
Congress, but presided constantly over the body as chairman of the
Committee of the Whole, until March 15, 1776, when he was obliged to
leave the session, owing to a violent attack of smallpox! He died
shortly after, and so did not sign the famous document. His colleague,
Stephen Hopkins, _did_ live to sign it, yet it was the “physical
disability” of the latter which threw such a burden of work on Governor
Ward that he was in an entirely unfit state to cope with the disease!
We have found it a little hard to forgive our distinguished ancestor his
imprudence. If he had only been inoculated beforehand all might have
been well, but he could not take the time! However, we console ourselves
by remembering that he was the _only_ Colonial governor who refused to
carry out the odious stamp act!
His son, Lieut-Col. Samuel Ward, did good service in the Revolution.
Cousin John regarded these and other ancestors with a reverence that
amounted almost to awe. He would let you take a peep at Governor Ward’s
Congressional Journal, but you were not permitted to touch it. Yet he
made no provision for the care of these beloved papers after his death.
They were inherited by a relative who, possessing no taste for
genealogical research, has locked them up in a safe-deposit box.
I have sometimes thought there should be _one_ genealogist—and only
one—in each generation. Yet, when I remember the lives of some of those
I have known, it seems a little hard to condemn even _one_ person every
thirty years to this gentle fate. For it is not to be denied that
genealogists are often ineffective, though excellent, persons. It has
been already said of Cousin John that he went to the Civil War. So he
did his “bit” for his country.
During the seven months while the family were in Europe sister Maud
remained under my charge. With the help of Miss Mary Paddock, we kept
house in the “Doctor’s” part of the Institution, visiting various
relatives later on. That Miss Paddock should thus come to help us out
was quite in the usual order of things. We were all fond of her and
accepted her aid as a matter of course. As the young Howes grew older,
we saw and appreciated the sterling worth and rare unselfishness of her
character.
It was a part of my father’s power to draw to his aid people of worth
and ability. His chivalrous spirit thrilled through his assistants. They
saw him devoting his life to the care of the maimed lambs of the human
fold—they, too, would and did help in the good work. Working with the
“Doctor” was no light service, yet all knew that he himself labored
harder than any one else. Of necessity there was much steady, practical
work, yet, as in all pioneer labor, there was the romance of hewing out
new paths. To enlist under the “Doctor’s” banner was in itself an
adventure. Mary Paddock did so enlist, becoming a teacher at the
Institution for the Blind in her young womanhood. Her devotion to my
father ended only with his life. She was with us often at “Lawton’s
Valley” and “Green Peace” as faithful friend and helper. During the last
years of my father’s life, when his health was failing badly, she was
his amanuensis and nurse. For her memory we all feel deep affection and
gratitude.
The blind children were often my playmates. We were so accustomed to
seeing and being with them that we thought little about their privation
of sight. My father’s aim was to make them as much like seeing people as
possible. Thus they were taught to go about the house and grounds very
freely, running down-stairs as rapidly as seeing boys and girls. Some of
them walked in the streets and even traveled in the cars alone. Usually,
however, a leader was required. Occasionally I went with them, as guide,
to opera or concert. Many tickets were generously sent to them,
especially for the less popular performances.
In the summer of 1867 sister Maud was in her thirteenth year—a handsome
child of generous and noble impulses, but of an impetuous disposition
that made her at times difficult to deal with. “Old Splendid” was the
name given her by a dressmaker to whom we were all attached. “The Stormy
Petrel” was another nickname.
Her lack of respect for the gods of the school-room filled my more
conventional soul with horror. To call the excellent Mr. Greenleaf, the
author of our arithmetic, a fool seemed to me eminently unreasonable.
When, in a fit of exasperation over her studies, the ink-bottle was
flung across the room, spattering the wall with its contents, I stood
aghast. I did the best I could for my young charge while the family were
in Europe and was rewarded a hundredfold by her affection and gratitude.
My mother and sisters assisted in the work of distributing to the Cretan
refugees the ten thousand garments sent out from America. Sister Laura
has described “the stately, dark-eyed Cretan women, majestic even in
their rags and misery; the slender girls; the lovely, dirty children.”
She has told us of many romantic incidents which found no place in my
father’s reports.[10] He always suppressed his own part in any
undertaking, writing down only what was necessary to secure the interest
of the reader.
A price was set upon his head by the Turkish authorities of Crete.
Nevertheless, he visited the island and the small rocky fortress where
he had been besieged in the old days of the Greek Revolution.
Footnote 10:
_Letters and Journals of Samuel Gridley Howe._ Dana Estes & Co.
The Howe sisters made a trip on a small steamer where there was a grim
passenger—the head of a famous brigand who had just been captured and
killed. They would have liked to see this horrible trophy, but my father
would not permit it.
On their return to America, my father and mother began to make
preparations for a fair in behalf of the Cretans. My share was to revive
the sewing-circle of the previous year. Instead of working on “pajamas”
and “togas,” we now had the more interesting occupation of sewing on
pretty things. White coats with colored silk trimmings were then in
fashion. I conceived the brilliant idea of making them at our
sewing-circle, and so reaping a handsome profit. The girls groaned at
undertaking anything so serious as outside garments, but I persuaded
them that they could—and ought. These sold for a high price—between
thirty and forty dollars apiece!
The fair was a great success, more than thirty thousand dollars being
raised. The work for the Cretans involved many meetings. Money was
raised by lectures and in other ways. A poster in one of the theaters
announcing a performance for their benefit drew this comment from a
passer-by:
“The Cretans? Who in h—l are the Cretans?”
In spite of the splendid struggle made by the brave inhabitants of the
island, they were at last obliged to go back under barbarian rule. But
it was only for a time. My father did not live to see Crete freed, but
we, the children of the Philhellene, rejoiced and were exceeding glad
when the hated Mohammedan yoke was thrown off.
The Cretan episode had one very unexpected result. Among my father’s
helpers in Athens was a young Greek, Michael Anagnostopoulos. When he
was asked what payment he desired for his services, he replied:
“What do you receive for yours, Doctor Howe?”
“Nothing,” said my father.
“Neither do I wish to be paid,” the young Greek answered. But he _did_
want to see America!
He returned with the family to Boston, where, after mastering the
difficulties of the English language, he became Doctor Howe’s assistant
at the Institution for the Blind. In the year 1870 he married sister
Julia, succeeding to the directorship after my father’s death in 1876.
We were all made happy by the purchase of No. 32 Mount Vernon Street,
soon after the return of the family from Europe. This residence, on the
top of Beacon Hill, was spacious and pleasant.
The preceding owner was a maiden lady with a great fondness for cats.
They were not included in the bill of sale, but hung about the place.
Cats seemed to be our fate!
As I had not fully recovered my strength, a room on the ground floor was
allotted to me, so that I need not climb the stairs. A furnace burning
wood was put into the house as being more wholesome than anthracite
coal.
Once or twice I heard a friendly tap on the window-pane, and opened the
door to admit brother Harry, who had forgotten his latch-key. From the
lapel of his dress-coat gleamed many favors, tokens of the mimic
victories of the german. For he was a good dancer and a favorite in
society.
Fifty years later, when the John Fritz gold medal was presented to him,
at a meeting of the United Engineering Societies held in his honor, I
again saw stars shining upon his breast, the tokens not of mimic, but of
real victories. For brother Harry has won golden opinions by his
strenuous work, and many honors, from foreign countries as well as from
England and America, have been bestowed on him. Yet he has taken them
all with a modesty that disarms envy.
In 1869 he graduated from Harvard College. His class day was an event in
the family, especially for sister Laura, who was then at the right
age—nineteen—to enjoy the festival fully. Various desperate swains
attended her on that day and made love to her amid the classic shades of
the old Harvard Yard. She was a pretty, perhaps a beautiful girl, with a
sweetness and freshness of disposition delightful to behold. Though
clever and witty, she was too amiable to say sharp things. Hence great
was the number of her admirers.
I had now assumed the cares of the family housekeeping, as well as a
certain supervision over the clothes of the younger sisters. Sister
Julia was not interested in these things. It must be regretfully
admitted that under my sway plain living was too much accentuated.
Finding a diet of prunes and toast for supper (dinner was still at two
o’clock) monotonous and uninteresting, the family rebelled and declared
they must have a more generous and varied bill of fare. Even my father
questioned whether, in view of my natural tendencies to economy, it
might have been a mistake to teach me bookkeeping! I do not think this
was his real opinion, however. During one of my absences from home he
wrote that he missed me as the regulating clock of the establishment.
The high prices which continued to prevail long after the end of the
Civil War made prudence in expenditure necessary for people of moderate
income. I kept the family accounts, the central figure from whom we
received funds, and who was supposed to demand an exact accounting of
all moneys given out, being put down as “The House.” My father once
jokingly exclaimed, “Who _is_ House? Every one seems to be against him!”
He was now requested to take part in a new enterprise which deeply
interested him. The Republic of Santo Domingo having asked to be annexed
to the United States, President Grant appointed Hon. Benjamin F. Wade,
of Ohio, Hon. Andrew D. White, and my father as commissioners to visit
the island and investigate the conditions there.
They sailed in the steamer _Tennessee_, after warning us that we must
not be alarmed if no news was received from them for a month.
Nevertheless, it was difficult to avoid worry when sensational stories
appeared in the newspapers about the supposed foundering of the
_Tennessee_. The wife of Andrew D. White suffered such anxiety that her
hair turned white!
With the assistance of a corps of scientific observers, they made a
careful investigation of conditions in the little republic and wrote a
report heartily favoring annexation. I’m sorry to say that Charles
Sumner, misled by designing people, made a speech in the Senate strongly
opposing it, before this report had been presented. Others attacked it
and the measure failed. Thus Grant’s plan of gaining a foothold in the
tropics was for the moment defeated.
My father still hoped that something might be done for Santo Domingo
through private enterprise. During his last visit to the island news
came of the death of Charles Sumner. My father was deeply grieved, for
in spite of the difference of opinion about Santo Domingo the old
friendship remained unbroken.
To each of the Howe daughters, and I think to the Longfellow daughters
also, Charles Sumner left a legacy of five hundred dollars. He also
bequeathed his fine collection of bronzes to my father and Mr.
Longfellow. Mother and sister Maud met the poet and made the division.
Sister Maud complained afterward that our mother _would_ choose first
some piece that she especially fancied, instead of selecting the largest
and most valuable articles. Sister Maud was still in her teens!
The older three Howe sisters were all married within a twelvemonth,
sister Julia choosing the thirtieth day of December, 1870, in order that
she might begin the new life with the new year. She was married at home.
Sister Laura’s wedding took place at the Church of the Disciples, on the
17th of June. We had forgotten that the procession of Bunker Hill Day
might interfere with the going to and from the church. It did cause some
delay.
My marriage took place at No. 32 Mount Vernon Street, in November, 1871.
All three of us had simple weddings, followed by pleasant, informal
receptions. We had no bridesmaids. Several of sister Laura’s
disappointed lovers went off on an excursion together, instead of
attending the ceremony.
She and her husband went to Europe on their wedding-tour, visiting
Greece, Constantinople, Italy and other countries.
Brother Harry graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,
at the head of his class, leaving Boston during this same fateful year
1871. Our parents were thus left with only one out of the five
children—sister Maud—but she was a host in herself, while their many
interests and many friends acted as a cheerful counter-irritant to
loneliness.
Brother Harry married, in April, 1874, Miss Fannie Gay, daughter of
Willard Gay, Esq., of Troy, New York. The wedding was in church, a
handsome reception following it.
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