“I TAKE MY PEN IN HAND”
_Following the Family Tradition.—“Demorest’s” and “Jennie June.”—Marion
Crawford and the Little Green Parlor.—Town and Country Club.—Charles
Dudley Warner.—How I Came to Write About Manners.—Life of Laura
Bridgman.—Helen Keller at the Perkins Institution.—A Luncheon at
“Boothden,” the Home of Edwin Booth.—Joseph Jefferson and William
Warren._
THE five children of our parents have all written and published books.
We have thus followed their example and an hereditary impulse which made
writing an easy method of expression for us.
My father published a history of the Greek revolution while he was still
under thirty. Although essentially a man of action, he was accustomed
throughout his long life to write reports, pamphlets and letters to the
newspapers—in a word, to elicit the interest and good-will of his
fellow-men in his work.
My mother is best known as the author of the “Battle Hymn of the
Republic,” but she also published many volumes of verse and prose. In
later years she appealed much to the public, and especially to her
fellow-women.
Sister Julia wrote stories and verses from her earliest childhood. She
published a volume of poems, entitled _Stray Chords_, and a little book,
_Philosophicæ Quæstor_, describing the Concord School of Philosophy. Our
mother considered this, her eldest daughter, as the most talented of her
children. Brother Harry did not turn to literature until a later period
in life. His works, although primarily technical and scientific, are
thought to show a gift for literary expression. The award of gold medals
on both sides of the Atlantic and of decorations by foreign governments
was doubtless won by lucidity of expression as well as technical merit.
Sister Laura began to write rhymes for children soon after her marriage.
They were published in _Saint Nicholas_, with illustrations by J. A.
Mitchell, afterward the editor of _Life_. Their merit and charm were
quickly recognized. She at once won the favor of the public, and has
held it ever since. _Captain January_ is the best known of her many
books. She is also the author of _Journals and Letters of Samuel Gridley
Howe_ and, in collaboration with sister Maud, of _Julia Ward Howe_. In
the preparation of the last-named book, I gave some assistance.
Sister Maud published novels and stories before her marriage. Her later
books, _Beata Roma_, _Two in Italy_, etc., telling of her life and
experience in the Eternal City and elsewhere, have won a genuine
success.
Thus when I began to think of adding a little to our income, writing for
the newspapers and magazines seemed the easiest thing to do. We had now
four children, each of whom, as we held, had brought us good fortune.
This pleasant theory was probably suggested by Bret Harte’s “Luck of
Roaring Camp.”
They certainly brought us an incentive for new effort, which is the best
form of good fortune. In story-writing I was not very successful. My
natural mode of expression was in sketches and essays, often of a
humorous character.
My mother was much interested in my new venture, and gave me letters to
various editors, including Mrs. J. C. Croly (“Jennie June”), the editor
of _Demorest’s Magazine_. She was extremely kind to me, and I wrote many
articles for her. Mrs. Croly was very fair, if not pale, with blue eyes
and light hair. Her face wore a rather worried expression, for her life
was not an easy one. Her husband was then living, but his invalid
condition added to her cares. She held pleasant evening receptions, at
one of which I heard Marshall P. Wilder, the humorist. He had a real
power of mimicry, but his delineations were not always pleasant. One of
them was “The Idiot Boy.”
In these days I made pilgrimages to editorial dens, and was surprised at
the wonderful flow of conversation issuing from the mouths of powerful
personages. _Why_ do editors talk so much to the neophyte? They kindly
gave me a great deal of information, but it was gradually borne in upon
me that they talked in order to protect themselves from boredom at my
hands. Did they not know, from long and painful experience, just what
every beginner at the trade would inevitably say? Hence they forestalled
my uninteresting remarks—and answered my unformed questions in the
proper way. I noticed that, after a certain amount of information had
been imparted to me, the editor would take up a paper and become deeply
absorbed in its contents. This was the signal for me to go. I soon
learned not to invade the editor in his den, unless he or she encouraged
me to do so.
The following letter was written apropos of my pilgrimages to editorial
dens:
SCOTCH PLAINS,
_Sunday P.M.,_
_Nov. 1, ’85_.
DEAREST LAURA,—I was werry plose and thankful to receive your
kind letter with so many addresses—werry nice kind & tanky much.
But oh! Lovely as is a Haddress, it is perhaps the right address
which fills us with the most lasting joy—as hennabling a feller
to find the zbodd, as it were.
I went to the Tribune Building—there was no Andrews Bazar
there—the hoary bearded Janitor suggested Morse building the
jan. of latter, said try Tract Building. At last after I had
wandered up and down a kindly news paper advertising man told me
he didn’t think there was “no such a person.” Or rather he told
me he thought it had changed its name and become “The American
Bazaar” where of he gimme the number but was too tired to look
it up that day.
Newport life furnished an excellent opportunity for summer
correspondence. We lived near enough the town to enjoy something of its
pleasures, yet far enough away to avoid absorption in the whirlpool of
gaiety. When we were girls going into society we should have preferred
to be nearer the center of things. But the six-mile trip to Newport was
in reality a blessing. It enabled us to view the summer doings with a
critical though friendly eye.
Those who suppose that Newport society is entirely composed of frivolous
people do not know the place. Its matchless climate, delightful air and
peaceful beauty have always attracted people of quiet tastes, men of
letters and artists. Colonel Waring, who did such important work in
conquering yellow fever, lived for many years in Newport, where he had a
model farm.
He was a very handsome man, with dark eyes, gray hair, and a waxed
mustache. In the early days of the Town and Country Club he took part in
the “admirable fooleries” of which Colonel Higginson and my mother have
both given accounts. Kate Field often came to the meetings, but did not,
so far as I remember, take any part in the program. When at Newport she
stayed at the house of her aunt, Mrs. Sanford, in the latter’s villa on
the Point. From her “Juliet” window with its little balcony hung high in
the air she could look out over the peaceful waters of the harbor and
watch the beautiful Newport sunsets. Kate Field had very handsome hair
which at one time she wore floating over her shoulders. This fashion,
which lasted only a short time, was not becoming to her. As she was
rather short, the long and heavy hair tended to dwarf her height, while
its mass seemed out of proportion to her slender figure.
The diction of General Cullom, one of the officers of the Town and
Country Club, was peculiar. When at a loss for a word, he deliberately
remarked, “Pup-pup-pup,” occasionally changing it for “Pam-pam-pam.” To
hear this courtly, elderly gentleman say with perfect gravity, “Did you
go, pam-pam-pam to the Casino this morning?” was surprising.
When General Cullom kindly offered to give before the club a talk on the
French châteaux, illustrated by lantern slides, we all felt anxiety.
Wonderful to say, neither “pup-pups” nor “pam-pams” marred the
smoothness of the address!
Prof. Alexander Agassiz, whose summers were spent at Newport, when he
was not traveling about the world on his yacht, gave an illustrated
lecture on the Panama Canal which was of especial interest. The French
had then abandoned their attempt and the United States had not yet
undertaken to build it. A series of mournful lantern slides showed the
wrecks of the French machinery, and the excavations, which seemed small
enough compared with the gigantic nature of the undertaking. Professor
Agassiz was clearly of the opinion that, owing to the overflowing of the
Chágres River, it was not possible to build a canal at that point.
Charles Dudley Warner, who read extremely well, gave us, with realistic
effect, his delightful sketch, “The Bear Is Coming on.” We almost saw
the raspberry-bushes and felt the animal bearing down upon us. Another
sketch, relating to heaven and hell, was witty, but too frivolous in
tone to suit the orthodox members of the club. They were rather
scandalized at it.
In the summer of 1881 we had the happiness of counting our aunt Louisa
and her family as our quasi-neighbors. She had been the family beauty,
but was less clever than her sisters Julia and Annie. She was a woman of
much charm and, like Uncle Sam, showed signs of her French descent. With
her husband and their daughter Margaret she spent the season at one of
the cliff cottages at Newport. “Daisy” was a débutante; and interested
in the gaieties of the season. Hence her half-brother, Marion Crawford,
who loved the quiet of the country, spent much of his time with us at
“Oak Glen.” He was devoted to my mother and she was very fond of him.
Her house in Boston and her Newport home were harbors of refuge to him
in the years of his bachelorhood, many of which he spent in this
country. We found him the most delightful of housemates. Genial, cheery
and charming, he never availed himself of the masculine privilege of
grumbling, but took things as he found them. Mother said of him, “He is
as easy as an old shoe.” My youngest child, John Howe Hall, was born
that summer. The stairs at “Oak Glen” were rather fatiguing for me to
climb, when I first came down-stairs after his birth. So Cousin Marion,
who was both tall and strong, would pick me up like a baby and carry me
up-stairs. He was a very handsome man, with blue eyes like his father’s,
regular features, and curly brown hair. This, alas! was already
beginning to show a small bare place on the crown, in spite of his
mother’s faithful efforts with hair tonic.
Sister Maud spent the summer of 1881 with my aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who
then lived on a great ranch in California. Some of her experiences there
are described in her novel, _The San Rosario Ranch_. My mother was
invited to take part in amateur theatricals at Newport during this
eventful season. In spite of her sixty-seven years, she was the first of
the company to master her lines.
She acted her part with spirit and gaiety, but could not resist the
temptation to “gag” the lines. Thus in speaking of doctors who arranged,
in Bob Sawyer style, to have themselves called out, she mentioned the
names of Doctor Cleveland and other physicians spending the summer in
Newport.
As bad luck would have it, this gentleman, who had a large practice,
_was_ actually summoned from the hall and arose to go, blushing
furiously!
Crawford had come to America, intending to live here. He thought
seriously of taking up the profession of philology, having a talent for
languages. As he possessed a good voice, he also thought of going on the
operatic stage. His ear for music was somewhat faulty, but this defect,
he was assured, need not, after the proper training of his voice,
prevent his singing correctly.
While he was in an undecided frame of mind he wrote, as an experiment,
his first novel, _Mr. Isaacs_. Its immediate success banished all doubt
as to his career.
It was in the “little green parlor” at “Oak Glen” that he composed a
large part of this story. Here, also, sister Maud and I often sat with
our writing. The little green parlor is a grassy crescent surrounded on
all sides by a hedge of tall cedar-trees. These have now grown so tall
as almost to conceal the house from the view of passers-by.
In these days Messrs. Dana Estes & Co. proposed to my mother the
preparation of a book on manners, dwelling especially on the origin of
customs. She did not care to undertake it, but Crawford thought he might
possibly do so, and sister Maud wrote a chapter. When both abandoned the
idea it seemed to me a great pity to let this opportunity go to waste. I
wrote to Mr. Estes, asking whether he would like me to write the book.
He approved of my suggestion, and _Social Customs_ was the result. I was
glad to carry out, within certain limits, his plan of noting the meaning
and origin of customs. It was not possible, however, with the time at my
command, to make an exhaustive historic study of the subject. But I was
able to analyze it and so present general rules, rather than a mass of
unexplained technical details. Looking thus at the matter, from an
outside point of view, it was possible to treat it with a light touch
instead of in the ponderous vein formerly considered necessary. I
thought it right to speak occasionally of the humorous aspects of the
subject, while emphasizing the intrinsic value and importance of good
manners. The critics hailed the book as a new departure in the
literature of the subject, and spoke very handsomely of it. It was
especially gratifying to receive from the Brussels Institute of
Sociology a good-sized volume containing, among other things, a notice
of my book. The following letter accompanied it:
Instituts Solvay.
Institut de Sociologie Bruxelles (Belgium).
Madame:—The attention of a group of searchers at the Solvay
Institute of Sociology has been directed upon one of your last
works, and they are anxious to have a biographical note relating
to you inserted in the sociological record recently organized at
the said institute.
Yours sincerely,
D. WARNOTH, _Chief of the Service of Documentation._
It has been already said that the case of Laura Bridgman excited deep
interest. My father’s reports were awaited as eagerly as novels, and
were translated into several foreign languages. In 1846, when she had
been nine years under instruction, he thought of writing an account of
her education and of communicating with Messrs. Harper about its
publication.
He never found time to carry out his purpose. There was always some
class of unfortunates who needed his championship, some wrong that must
be set right. It is deeply to be regretted that he never had the leisure
to tell the story of his most conspicuous achievement. The materials
were all at hand. A minute account of Laura’s progress had been kept in
the school journals. There were also my father’s own reports, notes and
correspondence, as well as Laura’s letters and the journals which she
kept for some years. By the desire of our brother-in-law, Michael
Anagnos, and with his help, sister Maud and I undertook to carry out our
father’s intention and tell the story of Laura Bridgman. Our chief
difficulty lay in the wealth of material. We held many consultations,
but to my sister belongs the chief credit of the work. My share
consisted principally in describing the technical part of Laura’s
education.
The work was of absorbing interest. In tracing this drama of the birth
of a human soul, we felt an echo of the thrill which came to my father
when he saw Laura’s face suddenly “lighted up with a human expression:
it was no longer a dog or parrot—it was an immortal spirit, eagerly
seizing upon a new link of union with other spirits!”
No wonder that he exclaimed, “Eureka!”
His graphic description of these first wonderful steps is quoted—with
due credit to Doctor Howe—in Dickens’ _American Notes_.
Since Laura’s was the first case of the sort in the world, it was
necessary for my father to devise his own methods. A special teacher was
employed for her, several devoted women filling this post in turn.
My father always superintended her education, and recorded every
step—telling us how he taught her the use of prepositions, adjectives
and verbs.
An excellent speller herself, in her later years she taught the little
blind children how to spell. Laura Bridgman had the pride of intellect,
in spite of her infirmities, and was inclined to look down upon people
of inferior mind or education. The lessons in conduct which the ordinary
child learns from the example of those around him Laura had to learn
from books or from conversation with her teacher. Moral, ethical, and
later spiritual problems aroused her deep interest. Her writings—and
they are many—show a soul as white and innocent as that of a little
child.
Laura was well trained in the domestic arts. She was an exquisite
needlewoman, her darning being a “poem in linen.” She could also knit
and crochet extremely well, making the fine beaded purses then in
fashion. Indeed, the sale of her handiwork contributed to her own
support. She kept her room in beautiful order, dusting the most delicate
objects without injury to them. One of Laura’s amusements was to arrange
my mother’s bureau drawers. The latter disliked having any one meddle
with her things, but Laura’s touch was so delicate that she was allowed
thus to officiate as “mistress of the wardrobe.”
Best of all, she enjoyed life in spite of her many deprivations, making
the most of the little pleasures that came to her. The following is one
of her “poems”:
LIGHT AND DARKNESS
BY
LAURA BRIDGMAN
Light represents day.
Light is more brilliant than ruby, even diamond.
Light is whiter than snow.
Darkness is nightlike.
It looks as black as iron
Darkness is a sorrow.
Joy is a thrilling rapture.
Light yields a shooting joy through the human [heart].
Light is sweet as honey, but
Darkness is bitter as salt and even vinegar.
Light is finer than gold and even finest gold.
Joy is a real light,
Joy is a blazing flame.
Darkness is frosty.
A good sleep is a white curtain.
A bad sleep is a black curtain.
In the late ’eighties the father of Helen Keller wrote to Mr. Anagnos,
then director of the Perkins Institution, asking his assistance in the
education of his little daughter. My brother-in-law chose Miss Annie
Sullivan, herself partially blind and a graduate of the Institution, for
Helen’s instructor. Miss Sullivan spent six months studying Doctor
Howe’s reports before entering upon her task. Every step that Laura had
taken little Helen now followed exactly. Her progress was more rapid, as
that of my father’s later blind deaf-mute pupils had been. But the
details of her case were very much like that of Laura Bridgman. Helen
spent three years at the Perkins Institution under the charge of her
special teacher, Miss Sullivan.
There I had the pleasure of seeing her a number of times in her
childhood, and of talking with her in the finger language. When we spoke
of a brook, she illustrated its movements by dancing. I noticed with
surprise that she did not move about with the perfect freedom common to
the blind children brought up at the Institution. They were accustomed
to walk about alone, and to dash up and down stairs with utter
fearlessness. Whether Helen later learned to go about in this way I
cannot say. When she was about fifteen, we met again at the Kindergarten
for the Blind, an off-shoot of the Perkins Institution founded and
administered by Mr. Anagnos. In conversing with Helen I was struck with
her intelligence. In these days I heard her talk with her voice as well
as with her fingers.
Helen wrote me the following letter, after reading my sketch of my
father’s life, published in the _Wide Awake_ magazine.
SOUTH BOSTON, MASS.,
_December 2, 1890_.
MY DEAR MRS. HALL,—I want to tell you how much I enjoyed hearing
about your dear Father, and all the brave, generous things he
did for the Greeks, and for all who were poor and unhappy. I
think the children who read _Wide Awake_ must have been greatly
interested in your story, but they cannot love Dr. Howe as we
little blind girls do. Teacher says, she would not have known
how to teach me if your Father had not taught Laura Bridgman
first, and that is why I feel so grateful to him. How dreadful
it would have been if I could not have learned like other boys
and girls! I am sure I should have been very sorrowful with no
one to talk to me, and so would Edith and many others, but it is
too sad to think about, is it not? When you come to Boston I
hope you will tell me more about your Father, and what you did
when you were a little girl. Mr. Anagnos is going to show me
Byron’s helmet some day. Teacher sends her kind regards to you.
Lovingly your little friend,