_My Mother’s Beautiful Old Age.—How It Feels to Be an
Ancestor.—Grandmotherhood in the Twentieth Century.—Keeping Alive
the Sacred Fires of Noble Tradition.—Handing on the Lighted Torch._
IT has often seemed to me that my mother’s life was like that of the
century-plant—increasing in beauty as time went on. The last flowering,
the loveliest of all, came when she was well over four-score years of
age. Is not this the normal course of a well-spent life? The fruit
reaches its full beauty when ready to drop from the tree. The colors of
the sunset splendidly crown a perfect day.
In those last years she seemed to us like a lovely saint whose faults
had all been burned away by the fires of life, leaving only the ethereal
spirit behind. Yet she was by no means entirely absorbed in religious
meditation. This was an important part of her existence, but she also
enjoyed the things of this world and was often full of fun and gaiety.
For all who knew her, and for all, I hope, who have read the story of
her life, she has robbed old age of half its terrors. She met it
bravely, smilingly, wisely, submitting with good grace to certain
inevitable restrictions. Thus while she never gave up walking so far as
her strength permitted, since more fresh air was desirable, she accepted
the wheeled chair for additional exercise. To other limitations she
would not submit. She would attend meetings, public and private; she
would make the addresses which were so much prized by her audience; in a
word, she would continue the intellectual and social intercourse with
her fellow-men and women which was to her literally the breath of life.
For their love and sympathy, their interest in her words, were to her a
veritable elixir. The feeling that she still had a message which the
world wished to hear helped to keep her alive. The veteran who believes
that “he lags superfluous on the stage” is not likely to survive long.
When she attended the biennial of the General Federation of Women’s
Clubs in Boston, in 1908, I was her companion, as on many earlier club
occasions. She confessed afterward that she had feared the delivery of
her speech in the vast auditorium of Symphony Hall might kill her, but
this did not deter her from reading it! In the last summer of her life
we attended a suffrage meeting in Bristol Ferry at the house of Miss
Cora Mitchell, founder and president of the Newport County Suffrage
League. Here she told the ladies of her work for peace, begun shortly
after the Franco-Prussian War. It should be said that, despite her
interest in German philosophy, her sympathies in that conflict were
entirely with the French, whom she felt to be the victims of German
aggression. It was the wholly unnecessary nature of the conflict which
made the author of the “Battle Hymn” call in the early ’seventies a
Peace Congress of Women to protest against future wars of the sort. In
her correspondence we find that she met with no encouragement from the
women of Germany.
Her visit to Smith College, where the degree of Doctor of Laws was
conferred upon her, shortly before her death, has been described in her
_Life_. The story of the awarding to her of the degree of LL.D. at Tufts
College has a special interest because it was the first, and because in
her speech she made a protest against Turkish cruelty, thus carrying on
the work begun by her husband on the shores of Greece eighty years
before! Her grandson, Dr. Henry Marion Hall, who accompanied her, has
thus described the occasion:
Professor Evans, of the department of history, drove Grandmother
and me from No. 241 Beacon Street to the college, where we
remained in his rooms for a short while until Grandmother felt
rested. Then we walked across the campus, which was bright with
the colors seen only in coeducational institutions. Mrs. Howe
joined the academic procession just before it entered the hall,
and all at once she and I found ourselves on a platform,
surrounded by men in caps and gowns, the instructors and those
about to receive degrees. Grandmother was the only woman on the
platform, and everybody in the audience seemed particularly
interested in her. In spite of her great age I recall that there
was something quite simple and almost childlike in her
expression—absolutely different from the self-consciousness
peculiar to most people under similar circumstances. When she
rose to receive her degree there was a remarkable hush, such a
hush as I have seldom known of with so many people in a large
room. The hood was put about her shoulders by the president,
Doctor Chapin, and she flushed with pleasure at the burst of
applause.
At the dinner which followed the exercises she sat with the
guests of honor, among whom was Mr. Moody, Secretary of the
Navy. When Mrs. Howe arose to speak she took occasion to express
the hope that the Secretary might indicate whether or not the
government of the United States was going to exert its influence
to mitigate the horrors of the Armenian atrocities, for the
Turks were then carrying on systematic massacres. Mr. Moody
spoke next, and gave a fine oration, but said that circumstances
prevented him from indicating the policy of his government at
that time. He deprecated, of course, the villainous behavior of
the Turks. Grandmother was delighted to receive the degree, and
we drove back to Boston with Professor Evans, Grandmother still
wearing the hood and holding the sheepskin in her hands.
This grandson, Henry Marion Hall, received, a few years later, the
degrees of M.A. and Ph.D. from Columbia University. To our great
delight, his thesis, “The Idylls of Fishermen,” was warmly praised by
the critics.
She was as pleased as a young girl to hear that we were “going to give a
party” during that last summer. “Flossy shall do my hair!” she gaily
exclaimed. “The party” was only a small frolic for the Hall
grandchildren and their young friends, with a few elders to play cards
with her. No one enjoyed the occasion more than she did.
We still continued our duets on the piano, playing airs from “Il Pirata”
and other old operas which she loved, as well as Händel’s quaint arias.
Her fingers, which never lost their flexibility, played in these last
years for her great-grandchildren to dance, as she had played for
children and grandchildren.
An article published that autumn in the press, declaring that
protestantism was on the decline, troubled her. She desired to make some
reply, not in a controversial spirit, however. Her interest in religion
was too broad to be confined to any sect. We were glad to have her
preach whenever invited to do so, provided her strength permitted, but
unreasonable requests were sometimes made. Thus when the zealous pastor
of a negro church invited us, in the course of an afternoon call, to go
down on our knees in prayer, I protested successfully. If he had not
carried a large umbrella in his hand I might have yielded. But how
impossible would have been any approach to solemnity in the presence of
that most unecclesiastical object!
The memorial exercises after her death were held in Symphony Hall.
Tickets had been issued to persons having a special claim to be present,
but as soon as the doors were opened the great public, who also loved
her, would not be denied admittance. They surged in, tickets or no
tickets, and took possession of the great auditorium. The varied nature
of the program corresponded with her diversified talents. A
haunting-chorus of her own composition was sung by the blind pupils of
the Institution founded by her husband. Many were the beautiful tributes
paid to her by men and women of national reputation. None, however,
equaled in heartfelt eloquence the speech of Lewis, the distinguished
negro lawyer, as he poured out the gratitude of his race to the woman
who had written the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I suddenly realized
what the words meant to the colored people. The appeal, “Let us die to
make men free,” was for all men and for all time, yet in a special sense
it was meant for the despised slave for whose freedom the soldiers of
the Union laid down their lives in those dark days of the ’sixties.
Sister Laura and I were already rejoicing in several grandchildren while
our mother was still with us. People sometimes feel sorry for the
grandmothers whom they see in the streets in charge of little children.
The first impulse is to exclaim, “That old woman has earned a right to
rest. It is too bad she should still be burdened with the care of
babies.”
The second and saner impulse is to rejoice that she still has strength
for the day’s work. Our civilization should be so ordered that a
well-spent life may bring a certain degree of freedom toward its close.
But to have no responsibilities, to be an idle and frivolous elderly
woman, would be a sad fate.
No one need sink into it if she has grandchildren, the loveliest of all
flowers, who bloom in the evening of life. If she has grandchildren of
assorted ages she is especially fortunate, for she can then enjoy the
various stages of babyhood and childhood at the same time.
Life is full of pleasant surprises. Our sons and daughters grow to
maturity so gradually that we fail to realize the change from their
childhood’s days. They are still boys and girls to us when they are so
absurd as to suppose themselves men and women! They marry, and on some
fine day present us with a grandchild! Then we suddenly realize that we
are again to have the delightful experience—almost forgotten—of growing
up with a baby.
On our journey through life we have been disappointed in meeting many
people who did not come up to our ideals. We are weary of the petty
ambitions, the injustice of the world—of everybody’s faults, our own
included. In the twinkling of an eye we are transported back into the
lovely child-garden, where faith, love, and hope bloom! Little hands
cling trustingly to us, a little cheek is laid against ours, eyes like
stars smile up at us! There is a new heaven and a new earth!
The bond between age and childhood is known of all men. Are not the
glory of the sunrise and that of the sunset one and the same? The child
rejoices in the beautiful and wonderful things he sees all about him—in
birds, beasts, and flowers, the blue sky and the trees of the forest.
The woman declining into the vale of years has long known these things,
but in the light of the sunset they become transfigured and glorified.
With the little child she learns again lessons half forgotten; together
they enjoy the true pleasures of life—the simple, every-day things that
we forget to be thankful for during the years when we are busily hunting
for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
So the child and its grandame walk together for a while, until their
paths separate. The little one goes forward with eager feet into the
great battle of life, the grandmother advances with tranquil step to
meet the shadows. The coming into this world of the child has
strengthened her faith, as its companionship has strengthened her love.
It came, she knows not whence, “trailing clouds of glory.” Will not the
morning of a new and splendid day break for her, also, in a new world?
We enjoy our grandchildren all the more, in the twentieth century,
because we have other cares and responsibilities besides those of the
family and household. Hence we cannot be selfishly absorbed in our own
small circle. Our duties have multiplied since the great war began to
call the young men and women more and more into service.
We elders now have a new incentive to work with all our strength while
it is yet day for us. This summer I visited Camp Merryweather, where
sister Laura aids her husband in conducting a delightful place of
sojourn for forty boys. Of the sons whose help they have had in former
years one had gone as a soldier to France, the other and the sons-in-law
were attending drill and caring for war gardens. Upon the older
generation came the care and responsibility of the summer’s work and
play. Never have I seen them more resolute and courageous! No word was
said of added duties, but in their manner one could see a determination
to do their bit and to do it valiantly! Sister Laura’s relaxation will
be to go on a “grandmothering tour” to see her dozen grandchildren.
In this twentieth century, and especially in war-time, the public and
private duties of women sometimes conflict. We want very, very much to
go to some inspiring meeting on a day when we are needed at home. It is
best to give the latter the benefit of the doubt, when we feel any. Yet
we must sometimes go forth to gain inspiration, in order to give it out
again. The woman who stays always at home from a mistaken sense of duty
is in danger of becoming a dull drudge. The mother of sons and daughters
must, in these stirring times, teach them to have the love of freedom,
the public spirit, necessary for the salvation of our Republic.
She must take her share, too, in labors for the welfare of our native
land and for the comfort and protection of its brave defenders. If we
fail to do our part it may happen that no homes will be left us to care
for!
We return to them from work for the Red Cross or other civic service,
with renewed delight in children and grandchildren, with renewed ability
to minister to their welfare, both spiritual and material!
It is delightful to be able to help the boys and girls with those
dreadful mathematical problems and with the Latin authors, who in a
world turned topsy-turvy, remain always the same.
To give my little granddaughters lessons upon the piano has been my
great pleasure.
Countless women are now called upon to make the supreme sacrifice, to
give up the sons and daughters dearer to them than life, to the dreadful
Minotaur who devours hecatombs of youths and maidens. It is the duty of
every mother to prepare herself for that ordeal, so that she may not
hesitate to send her best-beloved, if the summons comes to her, as it
has come to thousands.
Terrible as are these years, their darkness is brightened by the light
of a self-sacrifice unparalleled in the history of mankind. We could not
bear the thought of those hideous trenches and of the awful destruction
of human life, if they had not shown us such splendid examples of
courage, devotion, self-immolation. These are wonderful days to live in,
despite all the horrors of the time. The young men going forward so
bravely into the mouth of hell, dying in defense of their ideals and
ours, seem to us like a consecrated army, like beings set apart from
their fellow-men. We have talked about freedom; we have been full of
enthusiasm. But _they_ have gone quietly forward, to suffer tortures
and, if need be, to lay down their lives. They are the heroes of the
hour, beside whom the rest of the world seem suddenly to have shrunken
into nothingness.
Yet we must not forget that America, like England, expects every man,
civilian as well as soldier, to do his duty, and every woman likewise.
The power of a democracy is built up of the strength of each individual
life. Let us give our brave soldiers their full meed of admiration, let
us support and uphold them in every possible way. But we must not be so
dazzled by their gallant deeds as to worship, like Germany, a military
autocracy. It is our duty to remember, and to help them to remember,
that among civilized nations war is temporary and abnormal, while peace
is normal and eternal. The first means destruction, the last means
construction. In the midst of peace we must prepare for war, that haply
we may avert it. In the midst of war we have the double duty of
upholding our armies to the utmost extent of our ability and at the same
time making ready for the righteous peace which we know must come. We
must bind up the wounds of the warriors and restore the devastated
lands. We must prepare to return, when the right time comes, to quiet,
every-day life. We shall still wage war, not against the bodies of men,
but against ignorance, greed, corruption, evil of all kinds. For Satan,
whom before the great European convulsion we hopefully thought to be
dead, is evidently very much alive. At each new atrocity we have seemed
to hear the wings of Apollyon, Prince of Darkness, rustling in the air,
as he dealt foul blows at the struggling Christian.
We have had a horrible glimpse of hell! The sight must convince us that
the devoted labor of every one of us is needed to prevent the overthrow
of the ideals of civilization! The hideous doctrine that might makes
right, that crafty murder, “leaving no trace behind,” treacherous
intrigue and shameless lying, are the proper occupation for “gentlemen”
must be combated not by arms alone, but by the upholding of the high
ideals of our own country. The memory of heroic deeds, of noble sayings,
is the most precious inheritance of mankind. We who are now living have
been inspired by it, we have held our course guided by its light,
however much we may have stumbled on the way and fallen short of our
ideals.
The sacred fires of noble tradition must not perish. To pass on to our
descendants the lighted torch received from our predecessors, glowing
ever brighter with the fervor inspired by the heroic deeds of the
present hour, is for us an imperative duty and a splendid privilege.