Theatrical Play, a burlesque of Victor Hugo's 'Notre Dame de Paris,'
with many saucy interjections. The fun and spirits of the young men were
very contagious, and must have cheered all present who needed
cheering...."
_To Laura_
129 MOUNT VERNON STREET,
March 24, 1881.
MY DARLING LAURA,--
The March wind blows, and gives me the spleen. I don't care about
anything, don't want my books, nor my friends, nor nothing. But you,
poor child, may not be in this wicked, not caring condition, and so I
will write you, having oughted to for a considerable time. Nothing stays
put, not even put-ty. Letters don't stay answered, faces don't stay
washed, clothes don't stay either clean or new. Children won't stay the
youngest. The world won't stay anywhere, anyhow. Forty years ago was
good enough for me. Why couldn't it stay? Now, I see you undertaking to
comfort me in good earnest, and know just how you would begin by saying:
"Well, it should!"... Nunc Richard[93] here yesterday. Remarked nothing
in particular, I replying in like manner. Kept his arm very dark, under
a sort of cloak. We condoled [with] each other upon our mental
stupidity, and parted with no particular views or sentiments. I have
been to-day at a worldly fashionable lunch. Nobody cared for anything
but what they had on and had to eat. "He! he!" said one: "ho! ho! ho!"
the other. "Is your uncle dead yet?" "No, but my aunt is." "Grandfather
Wobblestick used to say"--"Why, of course he did!" Which is all that I
remember of the conversation. Now, darling, this is perfectly hateful of
me to turn and snarl at the hand which has just been putting good
morsels into my mouth. But you see, this is a March wind in Boston, and
I can't help it. And I hobbled greatly up the big staircase, also down.
That's all. Auntie and Daisy and Maud lunched, too, munchingly. D. made
a new capote for Maud. Nobody made nothing new for me. I had no lace bow
under my chin, and looked so neglected! Maud and Daisy always on the
wing, concerts, theatres, lunches, etc., etc. Auntie and I have some
good evenings at home, in which we refresh the venerable intelligence
with the modern publication, we do, to wit, "Early Life of Charles James
Fox." We also play Russian backgammon. Big Frank Crawford has
enlargement of 's liver. This P.M. late Mrs. C. C. Perkins has recep.
for Miss Carl Schurz. Girls going, but going first to X.'s weekly weak
tea and weaker talk. Here again, you spleeny devil, get thee behind me!
I love my fellow-creatures, but, bless you, not in this month.... Julia
Nagnos takes tea round generally, and finds that it agrees with her....
I regard you, on the whole, with feeling. Farewell, Laura, I am your
poor old mad March hare Mamma. Love to Skip and the little ones.
[93] The late Richard Sullivan.
"_April 7._ Finished Carlyle's 'Reminiscences' to-day. Perhaps nothing
that he has left shows more clearly what he was, and was not. A loyal,
fervent, witty, keen man.... His characterizations of individuals are
keenly hit off with graphic humor. But he could make sad mistakes, and
could not find them out, as in the case of what he calls our 'beautiful
Nigger Agony'!!"
"I went out to the Cambridge Club, having had chills and fever all the
night before. Read my lecture on Paris, which was well received, and
followed by a good discussion with plenty of differences of opinion.
Evening at home; another chill and fever."
_To Laura_
129 MOUNT VERNON STREET,
April 24, 1881.
Bad old party, is and was. Badness mostly of heart, though head has a
decided crack in it. Unfeeling old Beast! Left Laura so long without a
word. Guess 't isn't worth while for her to write anything more.
My poor dear little Laura, how miserably you must have been feeling, I
know well by your long silence. Oh! posterity! posterity! how much you
cost, and how little you come to! Did I not cost as much as another? And
what do I come to? By Jingo!
Darling, I have got some little miserable mean excuses. Want 'em? Have
had much writing to do, many words for little money. For "Critic" (N.Y.)
and for "Youth's Companion" and other things. Then, have kept up great
correspondence with Uncle Sam, who has given me a house in Beacon
Street! _oh gonniac!_[94]
[94] Welsh for "glory": a favorite exclamation of hers, learned in
childhood from a Welsh servant.
We had lit'ry party last week. Dr. Holmes and William Dean Howells read
original things. James Freeman Clarke recited and we had ices and
punch. Maud thought it frumpy, but others liked it very much. Have been
to church to-day, heard J. F. C. 'Most off crutches now and hobble about
the house with a cane. Use crutches to go up and down stairs and to walk
in the street.... Have heard much music and have seen Salvini once, in
the "Gladiator," and hope to see him on Thursday, in "Macbeth." How are
the dear children? I do want to see them, 'specially July Ward....
"_May 27._ Soon after 7 A.M. arrived Uncle Sam with my dear sister Annie
Mailliard from California; the whole intended as a birthday surprise. My
sister is very little changed; always a most tender, sensitive woman.
Sister Louisa didn't know of this and came at 11 A.M. to bring my
greetings and gifts, with Mr. Terry, Daisy, and Uncle Sam. When Sister
Annie appeared, Sister Louisa almost fainted with delight and
astonishment."
"_June 20, Oak Glen_, Dear Flossy suffering at 6 A.M.--about all day.
Her child, a fine boy, born at 3 P.M. We are all very happy and
thankful. It was touching to see the surprise and joy of the little
children when they were admitted to a sight of their new relative. There
was something reverent in the aspect of the little creatures, as if they
partly felt the mystery of this new life which they could not
understand. Some one told them that it came from Heaven. Harry, four
years old, said: 'No, it didn't come from Heaven, for it hasn't any
wings.'"
_To Laura (who, as usual, wanted a letter)_
OAK GLEN, July 10, 1881.
Yes, she was a little injured, but not so bad as she pretends. Feelings
hurt dreadful? Self-esteem bruised and swollen? Spleen a little touched?
Well, she has had the doctor, and the doctor said: "Her mother is a
public character, what can we do about it?"
Could my ink forever flow,
Could my pen no respite know.
Well, my darling, it was too bad, so we'll make up, and kiss and be
friends. But now you look here. Besides all my lit'ry work, which seems
to be heaviest in summer time, I had an awful deal to do in taking care
of Flossy's children and the new baby. The babe is of the crying sort!
When anything is to be done for his Ma, the nurse expects some one to
hold him.... I returned last night from a journey to Vermont, where I
read a paper before the American Institute of Education, and also spoke
at a suffrage meeting and also at an outdoor mass meeting, and also at a
suffrage meeting in Montpelier, and came back, after four days' absence,
very tired. (Chorus, Don't tell Maud.)...
"_August 30._ My first performance at the Casino Theatre. It went off
very successfully, and I was much applauded, as were most of the others.
Supper afterwards at Mrs. Richard Hunt's, where I had to appear in
'plain clothes,' having been unable to accomplish evening dress after
the play. Dear Flossy went with me."
Another "performance" of that summer is not noted in the Journal; an
impromptu rendering of "Horatius at the Bridge," in the "green parlor"
at Oak Glen, with the following cast:--
Horatius F. Marion Crawford.
Spurius Lartius J. W. H.
Herminius Maud Howe.
The green parlor was an oval grass plot, thickly screened by tall
cedars. Laura recited the ballad, keeping her voice as she could while
the heroes waged desperate combat, but breaking down entirely when
Horatius "plunged headlong in the tide," and swam with magnificent
action across--the greensward!
"_September 18._ Preached in Tiverton to-day. Text: 'The fashion of this
world passeth away.' Subject: Fashion, an intense but transient power;
in contradistinction, the eternal things of God."
"_September 25._ Spent much of this day in composing a poem in
commemoration of President Garfield's death. Spared no pains with this
and succeeded better than I had expected."
"_September 26._ The President's funeral. Services held in most cities
of the United States, I should judge. Solemn services also in London and
Liverpool."
_To Samuel Ward_
241 BEACON STREET,
December 22, 1881.
DEAREST BROTHER,--
... _Your_ house, darling, was bright and lovely, yesterday. I had my
old pet, Edwin Booth, to lunch--we were nine at table, the poet Aldrich
disappointing us. From three to four we had a reception for Mr. Booth,
quite the _crême de la crême_, I assure you. Among others, Dr. Holmes
came. The rooms and furniture were much admired. We gave only tea at the
levee, but had some of your good wine at the luncheon.
P.S. Mr. Booth in "Lear" last night was sublime!
_To the same_
Edwin Booth had sent us his box for the evening. The play was "Hamlet,"
the performance masterly. People's tastes about plays differ, but I am
sure that no one on the boards can begin to do what Booth does. I saw
him for a moment after the play, and he told me that he had done his
best for me. Somehow, I thought that he was doing his very best, but did
not suppose that he was thinking of me particularly....
"_January 29, 1882._ Frank [Marion Crawford] had met Oscar Wilde the
evening before at Dr. Chadwick's; said that he expressed a desire to
make my acquaintance. Wrote before I went to church to invite him to
lunch. He accepted and Maud and Frank, or rather Marion, flew about to
get together friends and viands. Returning from a lifting and delightful
sermon of J. F. C.'s, I met Maud at the door. She cried: 'Oscar is
coming.' Mrs. Jack Gardner, Madame Braggiotti, and Julia completed our
lunch party. Perhaps ten or twelve friends came after lunch. We had what
I might call a 'lovely toss-up,' _i.e._, a social dish quickly
compounded and tossed up like an omelet."
During this year and the next, Crawford made his home at 241 Beacon
Street. Here he wrote his first three books, "Mr. Isaacs," "Dr.
Claudius," and "A Roman Singer." He was a delightful inmate, and the
months he spent under our mother's roof were happy ones. A tender
_camaraderie_ existed between aunt and nephew. During his first winter
in Boston he thought of going on the stage as a singer, and studied
singing with Georg Henschel. He had a fine voice, a dramatic manner,
full of fire, but an imperfect ear. This fault Henschel at first thought
could be remedied: for months they labored together, trying to overcome
it. Crawford delighted in singing, and "Auntie" in playing his
accompaniments. At dusk the two would repair to the old Chickering grand
to make music--Schubert, Brahms, and arias from the oratorios they both
loved. In the evening the three guitars would be brought out, and aunt
and nephew, with Maud or Brother Harry, would sing and play German
students' songs, or the folk-songs of Italy, Ireland, and Scotland. Our
mother was sure to be asked for Matthias Claudius's "_Als Noah aus dem
Kasten war_": Crawford would respond with "_Im schwarzen Wallfisch zu
Ascalon_."
This was the first of thirty happy years passed at 241 Beacon Street,
the house Uncle Sam bought for her. The day she moved in, a friend asked
her the number of her new house.
"241," she answered. "You can remember it because I'm the two-forty
one."
Oscar Wilde was at this time making a lecture tour through the United
States. This was the heyday of his popularity; he had been heralded as
the apostle of the æsthetic movement. At his first lecture, given at the
old Boston Music Hall, he appeared in a black velvet court suit with
ruffles, and black silk stockings, his hair long and curling on his
shoulders. A few moments after he had taken his place on the platform, a
string of Harvard students filed into the hall, dressed in caricature of
the lecturer's costume, each with a sunflower in his coat and a peacock
feather in his hand. Our mother, who was in the audience, recognized
near the head of the procession her favorite grand-nephew, Winthrop
Chanler. Wilde took this interruption in good part, welcoming the lads
and turning the laugh against them. "Imitation is the sincerest
flattery," he said, "though this is a case where I might say, 'Save me
from my friends.'"
Wilde came several times to the house in Boston; later Uncle Sam brought
him to spend a day or two at Oak Glen, where the household was thrown
into a flutter by the advent of his valet. It was one thing to entertain
the æsthete, another to put up the gentleman's gentleman. In spite of
all the affectation of the æsthetic pose, Wilde proved a rarely
entertaining guest. He talked amazingly well; in that company all that
was best in the man came to the surface. He recited his noble poem, "The
Ode to Albion," under the trees of Oak Glen, and told endless stories of
Swinburne, Whistler, and other celebrities of the day. The dreadful
tragedy came later; at this time he was one of the most brilliant
figures in the literary world.
"_March 4._ To Saturday Morning Club with Mrs. [John] Sherwood; very
busy; then with her to Blind Asylum in a carriage. Drove up to front
entrance and alighted, when the gale took me off my feet and threw me
down, spraining my left knee so badly as to render me quite helpless. I
managed to hobble into the Institution and to get through Julia's lunch,
after which I was driven home. Sent for Dr. Beach and was convicted of a
bad sprain, and sentenced to six weeks of (solitary) confinement."
"_March 5._ In bed all day."
"_March 6._ On the lounge; able to work."
"_March 8._ Day of mid-year conference of A.A.W. Business meeting at the
N.E.W.C., where I, of course, could not be present. Afternoon meeting
was in my room. On the whole satisfactory."
_To Laura_
241 BEACON STREET,
March 18, 1882.
Whereupon, my dearest, let there be no further pribbles and prabbles,
which I conjugate thus: I pribble, thou prabblest, he, she, or it
pribble prabbles. Maud leaveth on a Tuesday, come thou on that same
Tuesday, taking care to keep thy nose in front of thy countenance, and
not otherwisely, which were neither wisely nor too well. I hope thou
wilt not fail to come on Tuesday. And pray don't forget the baby, as the
nurse might find it lonesome to be here without her. During the period
of thy visit, I will change my name to _Jinkins_, we will have such high
Jinks!... Beacon Street looks as though it wanted something. I think
thou beest it....
Am ever thy lame game MOTHER.
"_March 24._ Longfellow died at about 3.30 P.M. to-day. He will be much
and deservedly lamented. The last of dear Chev's old set, the Five of
Clubs, nicknamed by Mary Dwight the 'Mutual Admiration Society.' On
hearing of this event, I put off my reception for the Zuñi chiefs, which
should have been on Monday, when the funeral will probably take place."
"_March 26._ Dear Brother Sam came on very unexpectedly to attend the
funeral service held at the Longfellow [house] for relatives and
intimates. I also was bidden to this, but thought it impossible for me
to go, lame as I am. Sent word out to Julia Anagnos, who came in, and
went in my place with Uncle Sam. The dear old fellow dined with us. I
got downstairs with great difficulty and fatigue. We had a delightful
evening with him, but he would go back to New York by the night train."
"_March 30._ To-day the Zuñi chiefs and Mr. Cushing, their interpreter
and adopted son, came to luncheon at 1.45. There were twelve Indian
chiefs in full Indian dress. Reception afterwards."
The Zuñi Indians live in Arizona. Once in the year they make a
pilgrimage to the seashore, and wading into the ocean at sunrise, offer
prayer to the Great Spirit, and fill their vessels of woven grass with
water to be used through the year in their religious exercises. This
pilgrimage had always been made to the Pacific; but in the hearts of the
tribe lingered a tradition that once in a hundred years the "Water of
Sunrise" should be visited, and they dreamed of the Eastern ocean. The
tradition was now confirmed, the dream fulfilled, through the friendly
offices of Mr. Cushing.
The ceremony was one of touching interest; hundreds of people gathered
at City Point to watch it. Most of the spectators felt the beauty and
solemnity of the service (for such it was), but a few were inclined to
jeer, till they were sternly rebuked by Phillips Brooks.
As our mother could not go to see the Zuñis, they must come to see her,
and Mr. Cushing gladly brought them. They were grave, stalwart men, with
a beautiful dignity of carriage and demeanor. A picture not to be
forgotten is that of her in her white dress, bending eagerly forward to
listen while the chiefs, sitting in a circle on the floor, told stories,
Mr. Cushing interpreting for her benefit. At parting, each man took her
hand, and raised it to his forehead with a gesture of perfect grace. The
eldest chief, before this salute, held her hand a moment, and blew
across the palm, east and west. "Daughter," he said, "our paths have
crossed here. May yours be bright hereafter!"
"_April 1._ To-day Edward [Everett] Hale brought me a parting memento of
the Zuñis--the basket with which they had dipped up the water from the
'ocean of sunrise.' Mr. Cushing sent this. E. E. H. also spoke about
five hymns which should be written corresponding to the five great
hymns of the Catholic mass. He asked me to write one of these and I
promised to try."
"_April 16._ Splint off to-day. Waited for Dr. Beach, so could not go to
church. Had an interesting talk with the Doctor on the Immortality of
the Soul, in which he is a believer."
"_April 27._ Made to-day a good start in writing about Margaret Fuller.
This night at 8.50 P.M. died Ralph Waldo Emerson, _i.e._, all of him
that could die. I think of him as a father gone--father of so much
beauty, of so much modern thought."
"_May 7._ To church, going out for the first time without a crutch,
using only my cane.
"J. F. C.'s sermon was about Emerson, and was very interesting and
delicately appreciative. I think that he exaggerated Emerson's solid and
practical effect in the promotion of modern liberalism. The change was
in the air and was to come. It was in many minds quite independently of
Mr. Emerson. He was the foremost literary man of his day in America,
philosopher, poet, reformer, all in one. But he did not make his age,
which was an age of great men and of great things."
"_May 14._ Had a sudden thought in church of a minister preaching in a
pulpit and a fiend waiting to carry him off to hell. Made some verses
out of this.
"This is Whitsunday.... I do hope and pray for a fresh outpouring this
year. While I listened to Dr. Furness, two points grew clear to me: one
was, that I would hold my Peace Meeting, if I should hold it alone, as
a priest sometimes serves his mass. The second was, that I could preach
from the text: 'As ye have borne the image of the earthy, so shall ye
bear the image of the heavenly,' and this sermon I think I could preach
to the prisoners, as I once tried to do years ago when dear Chev found
the idea so intolerable that I had to give it up. I am twenty years
older now, and the Woman Ministry is a recognized fact.
"Still Sunday afternoon. I am now full of courage for this week's heavy
work."
"_May 30._ Alas! alas! dear Professor Rogers dropped dead to-day after
some exercise at the Institute of Technology. How he had helped me in
the Town and Country Club! Without his aid and that of his wife, I doubt
whether I could have started it at all: he was always vice-president as
I was president. I cannot think how I can do without him."
"_July 22._ Commemoration of Mr. Emerson at Concord Town Hall. Several
portraits of him and very effective floral decorations; no music. Prayer
by Rev. Dr. Holland; introductory remarks by F. B. Sanborn in which he
quoted a good part of a poem by W. E. Channing, R. W. E. its theme. Then
came an unmercifully long paper by Dr. X., much of which was interesting
and some of which was irrelevant. He insisted upon Mr. Emerson's having
been an evolutionist, and unfolded a good deal of his own tablecloth
along with the mortuary napkin."
"_July 29._ Had a studious and quiet day. Was in good time for the
performance [at the Casino]...."
In a letter to "Uncle Sam" she speaks of "the labor and fatigue of
preparing for the theatricals, which are happily over. We had rehearsals
every day last week. My part was a short one, but I took great pains to
make it as good as I could. Some points which I thought of on the spur
of the moment added greatly to the fun of the impersonation. We had a
fine house, and an enthusiastic reception. I had a floral tribute--only
think of it!--a basket of beautiful roses...."
"_September 18._ Left Newport to attend Saratoga Convention, being
appointed a delegate from the Channing Memorial Church, with its pastor,
Reverend C. W. Wendte."
"_November 8._ Cousin Nancy Greene, my father's cousin, enters to-day
upon her ninety-ninth year. I called to see her, going first to town to
buy her some little gift.... Had a very interesting talk with her. She
was nicely dressed in black, with a fresh cap and lilac ribbon, and a
little silk handkerchief. For her this was quite an unusual toilette. I
wished her a good year to come, but she said: 'Why should I want to live
another year? I can do nothing.' I suggested that she should dictate her
reminiscences to the girl who waits upon her and who writes, she says, a
good hand."
"_November 11._ I went to see the old Seventh Day Baptist Church, now
occupied by the Newport Historical Society, in which my
great-grandfather, Governor Samuel Ward, used to attend service...."
"_December 24, Boston._ Spoke at the Home for Intemperate Women at 6
P.M. I did my best. Text: 'Of whom the whole family in heaven and earth
are named.' Subject: The Christian family; God, its father, all mankind
brothers and sisters.... Afterwards went to the Christmas 'Messiah.'
Felt more sure than ever that no music so beautiful as this has ever
been written."
CHAPTER IV
241 BEACON STREET: THE NEW ORLEANS EXPOSITION
1883-1885; _aet._ 64-66
The full outpouring of power that stops at no frontier,
But follows _I would_ with _I can_, and _I can_ with _I do it_!
J. W. H.
The winter of 1882-83 found her once more with a family of some size,
her son and his wife joining forces with her at 241 Beacon Street. In
Harry's college days, mother and son had made much music together; now
the old music books were unearthed, and the house resounded with the
melodies of Rossini and Handel. It was a gay household, with Crawford
living in the reception room on the ground floor; play was the order of
the evening, as work was of the day.
The new inmates brought new friends to the circle, men of science, the
colleagues of her beloved "Bunko," now Professor Howe of the Institute
of Technology, Italians, and other Europeans introduced by Crawford.
There was need of these new friends, for old ones were growing fewer.
Side by side in the Journal with the mention of this one or that comes
more and more frequently the record of the passing of some dear
companion on life's journey. Those who were left of the great band that
made New England glorious in the nineteenth century held closely to each
other, and the bond between them had a touching significance. Across the
street lived Oliver Wendell Holmes; in Cambridge was Thomas Wentworth
Higginson; in Dorchester, Edward Everett Hale.
In a letter to her brother she speaks of "the constant 'tear and trot'
of my Boston life, in which I try to make all ends meet, domestic,
social, artistic, and reformatory, and go about, I sometimes think, like
a poor spider who spins no web.... Marion has been very industrious, and
is full of good work and of cheer. His book ["Mr. Isaacs"] has been such
a success as to give him at once a recognized position, of which the
best feature, economically, is that it enables him to command adequate
and congenial employment at fairly remunerative prices...."
_To Laura_
MY DARLING CHILD,--
Your letter makes me say that I don't know anything, whether I have
written or not, or ought to write, or not. Mammy's poor old head is very
much worse than ever, and I don't get time even to read letters, some
days. I can't tell why, except that there are many points and people to
be reached, in one way and another, and I rush hither and thither,
accomplishing, I fear, very little, but stirring many stews with my own
spoon. It seems to me that I could not bear another winter of this
stress and strain, which is difficult to analyze or account for, as "she
needn't have done it, you know." Why she must do it, notwithstanding, is
hard to tell, or what it is in doing it which so exhausts all nervous
energy and muscular strength. Now, darling, after this prelude in a
minor key, let me thank heaven that, after all, I am well in health,
and comfortable.
_Wednesday, 10th, 2.20_ P.M. I wrote the above at noon, yesterday,
expecting Salvini to lunch.... Mrs. Appleton came in, and kept me, until
2 minus 20 minutes, at which time, nearly beside myself with anxiety, I
tumbled upstairs, out of one garment and into another. Such was my
dressing. Salvini came and was charming. After luncheon came a
reception. Your little girls were there, looking delightfully. Porter
was pleased to say that the little ones, hanging around the (old)
grandmother made a pleasing picture.... No more from 'fection
MAR.
In later January she has "a peaceful day at Vassar College.... In the
afternoon met the teachers and read some poems, to wit, all of the
Egyptian ones, and the poem on the Vestal dug up in Rome. At bedtime
last night I had a thought of ghosts. I spoke of this to Maria Mitchell
to-day. She told me that Mr. Matthew Vassar's body had been laid in this
room and those of various persons since, which, had I known, I had been
less comfortable than I was."
"_February 18._ Young Salvini [Alessandro] and Ventura to luncheon, also
Lizzie Boott and Mrs. Jack [Gardner]. Salvini is beautiful to look at,
having a finely chiselled Greek head. He is frank, cordial, and
intelligent, and speaks very appreciatively of his parts, especially of
Romeo."
"To the Intemperate Women's Home where I spoke from the text, 'Repent,
for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.'"
_To Laura_
March 17, 1883.
DARLING CHILD,--
Just let drop everything, and take me up on your lap. I'se very tired,
writing, tugging at all sorts of things. Long silence b'tween us.
Growing estrangement, eh? Richardses are better, eh? Which nobody can
deny.... Have been hard at work upon a memoir of Maria Mitchell, which
is well-nigh finished.... Am spleeny to-day: the weather being
according....
_To "Uncle Sam"_
March 28, 1883.
MY DARLING BROTHER,--
I owe you two good long letters, and am ashamed to think how long it is
since you have seen my crabbed chirography. Of course, it is the old
story. I have been dreadfully busy with all sorts of work, in all of
which I take delight, while yet to quote St. Paul, "The good that I
would I do not." To give you a few items, I have just finished a short
memoir of Maria Mitchell, Professor of Astronomy at Vassar College. This
was an interesting task, but had to be very carefully done. At the same
time, I had to correct Maud's memoir of me, which is to be published in
the same collection of biographies of _eminent_ women! I think I am
eminent for undertaking ten times more than I can do, and doing about
one tenth of it. Well--I have given three Sunday preachments at a sort
of Woman's church which they have here. My themes were: "The Order of
the Natural and the Spiritual," "Tares and Wheat," and "The Power of
Religion in the Life." I was in New York last Wednesday, to preside over
the mid-year Conference of the Woman's Congress.... I had a visit from
Salvini the other day. He was most charming, and sent me a box for last
evening's performance of "The Outlaw," in Italian: "Morte Civile." I
went, with my Harry and Laura, I in my best attire. I had received some
very beautiful roses, which I threw upon the stage, at the recall after
the third Act. To-day I met Wendell Phillips in the street, and made him
come in to see Marion, whose letter on English rule in India, printed in
the New York "Tribune," he had liked very much. Phillips asked me how I
came to live in this part of the city, and I told him about your gift of
the house.... Marion is sitting by my fire, with Browning's "Jocoseria"
in his hands, from which he has been reading passages. It sounds strange
and silly....
_To the same_
OAK GLEN, May 10, 1883.
... --I have been here alone all these days, with many gentle ghosts of
past companionship, and with a task at which I work steadily every day.
This is a life of Margaret Fuller, rewritten mostly from the memoirs
already published, but also recast in my own thought. The publisher is
in a hurry for it, and I have to work without intermission, _i.e._, as
long as I can, every day; but with all the diligence in my power, I
cannot get along very rapidly. When I have finished my stint, I refresh
myself with a little Greek, and also with an Italian novel which I have
brought with me. The place looks lovely, and I sat, this afternoon, on
the western piazza, near that angle where you and I used to sit, last
summer, and enjoyed a bath of sunshine....
_To Laura_
OAK GLEN, August 21, 1883.
MY MUCH NEGLECTED DARLING,--
I give you to-day my first hour, or half-hour, as the case may be,
feeling that my long silence has been abominable, and must be broken,
even if you should feel it to be your duty to throw an inkstand at my
head, in return for my letter. It is partly Backbone's fault. Backbone
has been so scrouged and put upon by the summer's work that he sometimes
cuts up amazing. Said work is pretty well out of hand at this moment,
the last chapters of "Margaret Fuller" being ready for the press.... I
have so much felt the shocking uncharity of things in the way of diaries
and letters which have been published within the last few years. Not the
least bad exhibition in this kind has been made by Carlyle and his wife.
I have just finished reading the three volumes of her letters and
memorials, which were indeed interesting to me by the mention in them of
persons whom I myself have known. Still, the spirit of the book is
painful. It is sad to see how she adopted, at times, her husband's
harsh creed. I should think Froude, the editor, must be wanting in
common taste and decency, to have allowed the letters to appear in all
this crudeness. I am so glad that I never went near them, after that one
tea-drink, a very bad one, forty years ago. Is this enough about the
Carlyles? And is it strictly charitable? I dunno; I'm getting very old
to know anything....
The "Life of Margaret Fuller" (in Roberts Brothers' series of "Famous
Women") was a small book, yet it stood for much careful work, and was so
recognized and received. The recognition sometimes took a singular form,
_e.g._, a letter from a gentleman styling himself "Prof. Nat. & Geol.,"
who desires two copies of the "Margaret Fuller," and asks her to "accept
for them a choice selection of '_Lithological_,' Cabinet of Geological
Mineral specimens, representing the Glacial, and Emptus period, also the
Crystalline formation of the Earth's Strata, in Coolings, Rubbings, and
Scratchings of the Drift Age."
The exchange was not effected.
_To "Uncle Sam"_
December 15, 1883.
DARLING BRO' SAM,--
I must write you at once, or my silence will expand into a broad ocean
which I shall be afraid to cross.... I have had a very laborious year,
now screwed to my desk, and working at _timed_ tasks, now travelling
widely, and scattering my spoken words.... Well, so much for desk-work,
now for the witch broomstick on which I fly. The Congress was held in
Chicago, in mid-October. From this place, I went to Minneapolis....
Harry and his wife are here, paying handsomely their share of our
running expenses. The little house looks friendly and comfortable, and I
hope, after a few more flights, to enjoy it very much. These will now be
very short.... Boston is all alive with Irving's acting, Matthew
Arnold's lectures, Cable's readings, and the coming opera. _Père_
Hyacinthe also has been here, and a very eminent Hindoo, named Mozumdar.
I have lost many of these doings by my journeys, but heard Arnold's
lecture on Emerson last evening. I have also heard one of Cable's
readings. Arnold does not in the least understand Emerson, I think. He
has a positive, square-jawed English mind, with no super-sensible
_aperçûs_. His elocution is pitiable, and when, after his lecture,
Wendell Phillips stepped forward and said a few graceful words of
farewell to him, it was like the Rose complimenting the Cabbage....
The year 1883 closed with a climax of triumphant fatigue in the
Merchants' and Mechanics' Fair, in which she was president of the
Woman's Department. This was to lead to a far more serious undertaking
in the autumn of 1884, that of the Woman's Department of the New Orleans
Exposition. The Journal may bridge the interval between the two.
"_February 3, 1884._ Wendell Phillips is dead.
"To speak at the meeting in memory of Cheshub Chunder Sen at Parker
Memorial Hall. Heard T. W. Higginson and Mrs. Cheney. H. spoke at length
of Phillips and said too much about his later mistakes, I thought,
saying nothing about his suffrage work, of which I took care to speak,
when it was my turn. Several persons thanked me for my words, which
treated very briefly of Phillips's splendid services to humanity."
[She spoke of him as "the most finished orator of our time," and as "the
Chrysostom of modern reform."]
"_February 6._ Wendell Phillips's funeral. I am invited to attend
memorial services at Faneuil Hall on Friday evening. I accept."
"_February 9...._ I was very glad that I had come to this, the People's
meeting, and had been able to be heard in Faneuil Hall, the place of all
others where the _People_ should commemorate Wendell Phillips. My task
was to speak of his services to the cause of Woman. Others spoke of him
in connection with Labor Reform, Anti-Slavery, Ireland, and Temperance."
_To Laura_
Just so, knowed you'd take advantage of my silence to write su'thin
saucy. Until I got your kammunikation I felt kind o' penitent
like--hadn't thanked for no Xmas nor nothing. Felt self to be shabby and
piglike in conduct, though perfectly angelic in intention. Pop comes
your letter--pop goes my repentance. "She's got even with me," I said:
"If she went into a tailor's shop to get a cabbage leaf, to make an
apple pie, what does it matter by what initials she calls herself? Who's
going to distress themselves about the set of her cloak? And she do
boast about it preposterous, and that are a fact."
Here endeth the first meditation, and I will now fall back upon the
"Dearly beloved," for the rest of the service....
_To the same_
241 BEACON STREET, February 11, 1884.
_Oh, thou, who art not quite a Satan!_
Question is, dost thou not come very near it?...
I have been very busy, and have _orated_ tremendous, this winter. I
didn't go for to do it, you know, but I cou'n' avoin it. [A household
expression, dating back to her childhood, when a gentleman with a defect
of speech, speaking of some trouble incurred by her father, said, "Poor
Mr. Warn! he cou'n' avoin it!" This gentleman was a clergyman, and was
once heard to assure his congregation that "their hens [heads] wou'n be
crownen with glory!"]
"_February 12._ Hearing at State House, Committee of Probate, etc., on
the petition of Julia Ward Howe and others that the laws concerning
married women may be amended in three respects. We had prepared three
separate bills, one providing that the mother shall have equal rights
with the father in their children, especially in determining their
residence and their education. A second ruling that on the wife's death,
the husband, who now gets all her real estate, may have one half, and
the children the other, and that the widow shall have the same right to
half the husband's real estate after his death. A third bill was devised
to enable husband and wife to contract valid money obligations toward
each other."
Through the untiring efforts of the Suffragists these bills were all
passed.
"_March 27...._ I heard with dismay of the injury done to my Newport
place by the breaking of Norman's dam. Was very much troubled about
this."
_To Laura_
March 29, 1884.
MY DEAREST DARLING,--
Dunno why I hain't wrote you, 'cept that, while I was lame, the attitude
of reclining with my foot extended was very fatiguing to me. The injury
was very slight. I only knocked my left foot pretty hard (_anglicé_,
stubbed my toe) hurrying upstairs, but the weak left knee gave way, and
turned, letting me down, and feloniously puffing itself up, which
Charity never does. It could not be concealed from Maud, and so Beach
was sent for, and a fortnight of _stay still_ ordered and enforced. On
Tuesday last I broke bounds and railed it to Buffalo, New York, with my
crutches, which were no longer needed. This was for the mid-year
Conference of our Congress. Before I say more under this head, let me
tell you that I returned from Buffalo this morning, much the better for
my trip. I had a lovely visit there, in a most friendly and comfortable
house, with carriages at my disposition. A beautiful luncheon was given
to us Congressers and I gave a lecture on Thursday evening, price $50,
and sat in a high chair, thinking it not prudent to stand so long....
"_April 4._ In the latter part of the eighteenth century a Christian
missionary, Chinese, but disguised as a Portuguese, penetrated into
Corea, and was much aided in his work by the courageous piety of Columba
Kang, wife of one of the lesser nobles. She and the missionary suffered
torture and death.... Merchants, not diplomatists, are the true apostles
of civilization.
"Questions for A.A.W. [_i.e._, for the annual Conference of the
Association for the Advancement of Women]: How far does the business of
this country fulfil the conditions of honest and honorable traffic?
"What is the ideal of a mercantile aristocracy?"
"_April 7._ General Armstrong called last evening. He spoke of the
negroes as individually quick-witted and capable, but powerless in
association and deficient in organizing power. This struck me as the
natural consequence of their long subjection to despotic power. The
exigencies of slavery quickened their individual perceptions, and
sharpened their wits, but left them little opportunity for concerted
action. Freedom allows men to learn how to coöperate widely and strongly
for ends of mutual good. Despotism heightens personal consciousness
through fear of danger, but itself fears nothing so much as association
among men, which it first prohibits and in time renders impossible."
"_April 15._ A delightful Easter. I felt this day that, in my
difficulties with the Anti-Suffragists, the general spread of Christian
feeling gives me ground to stand upon. The charity of Christendom will
not persist in calumniating the Suffragists, nor will its sense of
justice long refuse to admit their claims."
"_April 17._ Sam Eliot was in a horse-car, and told me that Tom Appleton
had died of pneumonia in New York. The last time I spoke with him was in
one of these very cars. He asked me if I had been to the funeral,
meaning that of Wendell Phillips. I was sure that he had been much
impressed by it. I saw him once more, on Commonwealth Avenue on a bitter
day. He walked feebly and was much bent. I did not stop to speak with
him which I now regret. He was very friendly to me, yet the sight of me
seemed to rouse some curious vein of combativeness in him. He had many
precious qualities, and had high views of character, although he was
sometimes unjust in his judgments of other people, particularly of the
come-outer reformers."
"_April 19._ To get some flowers to take to T. G. A.'s house. Saw him
lying placid in his coffin, robed in soft white cashmere, with his
palette and brushes in his hands...."
_To Florence_
April 20, 1884.
... I went yesterday to poor Tom Appleton's funeral. It is very sad to
lose him, and every one says that a great piece of the old Boston goes
with him.... I dined with George William Curtis yesterday at Mrs. Harry
Williams's. George William was one of Tom Appleton's pall-bearers,--so
were Dr. Holmes and Mr. Winthrop....
Curtis's oration on Wendell Phillips was very fine.
"_April 20._ Thought sadly of errors and shortcomings. At church a
penitential psalm helped me much, and the sermon more. I felt assured
that, whatever may be my fate beyond this life, I should always seek,
love, and rejoice in the good. Thus, even in hell, one might share by
sympathy the heavenly victory."
"_May 5._ I begin in great infirmity of spirit a week which brings many
tasks. First, I must proceed in the matter of Norman's injury to my
estate, either to a suit or a settlement by arbitration unless I can
previously come to an understanding with N."
A heavy affliction was soon to drive all other thoughts from her mind.
On May 19, a telegram arrived from Italy saying, "Samuel Ward expired
peacefully."
She writes: "Nothing could be more unexpected than this blow. Dear Bro'
Sam had long since been pronounced out of danger.... Latterly we have
heard of him as feeble, and have felt renewed anxiety, but were entirely
unprepared for his death."
"_May 20._ Dark days of nothingness these, to-day and yesterday. Nothing
to do but be patient and explore the past."
"_May 21._ Had a sitting all alone with dear Uncle Sam's picture this
afternoon. I thought it might be the time of his funeral. I read the
beautiful 90th Psalm and a number of his bright, sweet lyrics. A
sympathetic visit from Winthrop Chanler."
"_May 27...._ Dear Brother Sam's death has brought me well in sight of
the farther shore. May I be ready when it is my turn to cross."
_To her sister Louisa_
DEAREST SISTER,--
I was already in debt to you for one good letter when this later one
arrived, giving me the full, desired particulars of our dear one's last
days on earth. You and Annie both write as though the loss were heaviest
to me, and I only feel that I cannot feel it half enough. The pathos of
a life of such wonderful vicissitudes! I cannot half take it in. What
must he not have suffered in those lonely days of wandering and
privation, while I was comfortable in my household!... God knows, I had
every reason to love him, for he was heroically faithful to his
affection for me. Now, I feel how little I appreciated his devotion, and
how many chimeras, in my foolish wool-gathering head, crowded upon this
most precious affection, which was worthy of a much larger place in my
thoughts. His death is a severe loss to Maud and me.... We were always
hoping to rejoin him, and to pass some happy years with him. A great
object is withdrawn from our two lives. Nothing can take his place to
either of us.... As I write, the tears come. Like you, I long to sit
and talk it all over with the two who are all I have left of my own
generation. To our children, the event cannot be at all what it is to
us. They are made for the future, and our day is not theirs. I was
comforted, in your first letter, in reading of that pleasant, quiet talk
you had with him, when, among other things, you read to him the lovely
verses from St. John's Gospel, which have become a classic of
consolation among Christian people. I believe that he is in the heaven
accorded to those who have loved their fellow-men, for who ever coined
pure kindness into acts as he did? One of the lessons I learn from his
life is that it is very hard for us to judge rightly the merits and
demerits of others. Here was a man with many faults on the surface, and
a heart of pure gold beneath.... The thought of his lonely funeral and
solitary grave has wrung my heart at times, but sometimes I think of it
as a place where one might be glad to be at rest.... But now, dear, I
have had all the heart-break I can bear, writing this letter. Let me now
speak of the living and tell you where and how we are.... I left very
unwillingly to come down here, and try to get my poor wrecked place in
order. You know, of course, that the dam which was built to cut off my
water, and against which I obtained an injunction, burst this spring,
and destroyed my two ponds, my carriage, and a good part of my barn. I
have tried, in a lumbering way, to get justice, but have not yet
succeeded. I have had, too, a great deal of trouble in my presidency of
the Woman's Congress, this year. Almost as soon as I open my eyes in
the morning, these black dogs of worry spring upon me. I long to be
free from them....
"_June 28._ Senator Bayard to William A. Duncan about dear Bro' Sam: 'It
is just one of those little kindnesses of which his life was so full.
There is no doubt, as you say, that his later years were his best! The
wine of life fined itself.... He was readily sympathetic, and did in
Rome as Romans did, and kept time and tune to a great variety of
instruments. But the kind good heart _always beat truly_, and the array
of good deeds to his credit in the great book of account is delightful
to think of.'"
_To Laura_
NEWPORT, August 15, 1884.
Haven't I written to you? I have an idea of some long letter of mine not
answered by you. But this may be one of those imaginary good actions
which help to puff me up. Life, you see, gallops on to such a degree
with me that I don't know much difference between what I have intended
to do and what I have done....
I think novels is humbug. What you think? They don't leave you anything
but a sort of bad taste....
"_August 27._ Simply good for nothing, but to amuse the little Hall
children. A strange dead level of indifference. Do not see any
difference between one thing and another. This, I should think, must
come from a vagary of the liver. Worst sort of nervous prostration--to
prostrate one's self before one's nerves. To town in the afternoon, when
the dead indifference and lassitude went off somewhat."
"_August 29._ We dined at the Booths' to-day, meeting Mr. and Mrs.
Joseph Jefferson and William Warren. A rare and delightful occasion.
Jefferson talked much about art. He, Booth, and Warren all told little
anecdotes of forgetfulness on the stage. Jefferson had told a love-story
twice, Booth had twice given the advice to the players [in "Hamlet"],
Warren, in 'Our American Cousin,' should have tried to light a match
which would not light. He inadvertently turned the ignitable side, which
took fire, and so disconcerted him that he forgot where he was in the
play and had to ask some one what he had last said, which being told him
enabled him to go on."
"_September 25._ Finished to-day my Congress paper. I have written this
paper this week instead of going to the Unitarian Convention, which I
wished much to attend.... I did not go because I thought I ought neither
to leave home unnecessarily, to spend so much money, nor to put off the
writing of the A.A.W. paper.
"I shall look a little to see whether circumstances hereafter will not
show that it was best for me to follow this course. My Dæmon did not say
'go,' but he sometimes plays me false. I have certainly had the most
wonderful ease in writing this paper which, I thought, would occupy a
number of weary days, and lo! it has all written itself, _currente
calamo_."
"_October 5._ Is the law of progress one of harmony or of discord? Do
the various kinds of progress, moral, intellectual, political, and
economic or industrial, agree or disagree? Do they help or hinder each
other?"
_To Laura_
NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND, October 9, 1884.
MY DARLING LAURA,--
My poor wits, in these days, are like bits of sewing silk wound on a
card. You unwind a little and straightway come to an end. The wonder is,
there are so many ends. Here is a precise picture of our days as passed
at present. Morning, I wake early, lie and think over my past life, with
little satisfaction. Bathe. Breakfast. Walk with Maud, Sonny[95] tugging
alongside. Maud goes much further than I do. Sonny and I return, take a
basket and gather dry twigs to brighten the evening fire. I visit my
mare in her stable--a good custom, as my man is not over-careful of her
stall. Maud comes back, I _exercise_ her voice. I go to books, she to
desk. Study Greek a good deal, reading Thucydides and Aristophanes.
Dinner, coffee, more reading and writing, unless we go to town. Evening,
music, reading or cards, worrying about ----, bed. I have not mentioned
my own much writing, because you will understand it. I am trying to
compass a story, but have my fears about it. My paper for the Woman's
Congress is entitled "How to broaden the Views of Society Women."
Darling dear, what more can I tell you? Isn't this too much already?
Now, do spunk up and have some style about you.... Be cheerful and
resolute, my love, life comes but once, and is soon over....
[95] John Howe Hall.
"_October 13._ To New Bedford, for the Suffrage meeting; trains did not
connect at Myricks, where, after some delay and negotiation, I with
difficulty persuaded the conductor of a freight train to take me to New
Bedford in his caboose. This saved me time enough to go to the Delano
Mansion, restore my strength with food, and put on my cap and ruche. The
Delanos were very kind. I read my Congress paper on 'Benefits of
Suffrage to Women.'"
"_November 23._ To Louisburg Square to my old friend's funeral [Hamilton
Wilde].... Around and before me were the friends and associates of the
golden time in which his delightful humor and _bonhomie_ so often helped
me in charades and other high times. It was ghostly--there were Lizzie
Homans and Jerry Abbott, who took part with him and William Hunt in the
wonderful charade in which the two artists rode a tilt with theatre
hobbies. The gray heads which I had once seen black, brown, or blond,
heightened the effect of the picture. It was indeed a _sic transit_. I
said to Charles Perkins--'For some of us, it is the dressing bell!' Oh!
this mystery! So intense, so immense a fact and force as human life,
tapering to this little point of a final leave-taking and brief
remembrance!"
Now came the New Orleans Exposition, in which she was to be chief of the
Woman's Department.
It was already late when she received the appointment, but she lost no
time. Establishing her headquarters at No. 5 Park Street (for many years
the home of the "Woman's Journal" and the New England Woman's Club), she
sent out circulars to every State in the Union, asking for exhibits, and
appealed to the editors of newspapers all over the country to send women
correspondents for a month or more to the Exposition. She called
meetings in Boston, New York, Providence, Philadelphia, and Hartford, at
all of which she spoke, imploring the women to bestir themselves, and,
late as it was, to make an effort to get together a proper showing of
women's work for the great Fair.
Beside all this, she kept up through the autumn an active correspondence
with the Exposition authorities at New Orleans.
The Exposition was scheduled to open on the 1st of December: it did
actually open on the 16th. She writes:--
"A steamer had been chartered to convey thither the officers of the
Exposition and their invited guests. Seated on the deck, the chief of
the Woman's Department and her fellow-workers watched the arrival of the
high dignitaries of the State and city, escorted by members of the
military, and by two bands of music; one, the famous Mexican Band. All
the craft on the river were adorned with flags and streamers. The
Crescent, which gives the city its familiar designation, was pointed
out, and the 'Father of Waters' was looked upon with admiring eyes. The
steamer brought us to the Exposition grounds, and here a procession was
formed in which the ladies of the Woman's Department were assigned a
place which they had some difficulty in keeping. The march led to the
Main Building. The opening prayer was made by the Reverend De Witt
Talmage. At a given moment a telegram was received from the President of
the United States, Chester A. Arthur, declaring the Exposition to be
formally open. Immediately after, the son of the Director-General, a
fine lad of twelve years, touched the electric button by which the
machinery of the Exposition was set in motion.
"Returning by land, we found the streets gay with decorations, in which
the colors of the orthodox flag were conspicuous."
Maud was with her, and shared her labors, as did her devoted friend
Isabel Greeley. At this time the floor of the gallery destined for the
women's exhibit was not laid. By December 29 the officers of the
department were able to hold a meeting in "an enclosure without doors or
suitable furniture." When all was supposed to be ready for the exhibits,
it was found that the roof leaked badly, the timber having so shrunk
under the action of the sun as to tear away the waterproof felting.
Moreover, there was not enough money to carry on the business of the
Department. Funds had been promised by the Board of Management, but
these funds were not forthcoming, the Board itself being in
difficulties. Our mother had foreseen this contingency.
"Ladies," she said, "we must remember that women have sometimes built
churches with no better instruments than thimbles and a teapot! If the
worst comes to the worst, we must come before the public and endeavor
with its aid to earn the money necessary to complete our enterprise."
This foreboding soon became a fact, and early in January she found
herself in rather a "tight corner." She had sent out the call for
exhibits to every State in the Union; with great effort the women of the
country had responded most generously. She now felt herself personally
responsible for these exhibits, and determined that, _coûte que coûte_,
they should be well displayed and the Woman's Department properly
installed.
There was no money: very well! she would earn some. She arranged a
series of entertainments, beginning with a lecture by herself. There
followed a time of great stress and anxiety, which taxed to the utmost
her mother-wit and power of invention. Faculties hitherto dormant awoke
to meet the task; she devised practical, hard, common-sense methods, far
removed from her life habit of intellectual labor. She had moved into a
new apartment in the house of life, one nearer the earth and not quite
so near the stars. She often quoted during these months Napoleon's
saying, on being told that something he wished to do was impossible,
"_Ne me dîtes pas ce bête de mot!_"
In spite of endless vexations, it was a time of tremendous enjoyment;
every nerve was strained, every gift exercised; the cup of life was
brimming over, even if it was not all filled with honey.
"_January 13, 1885._ Preparing for my lecture this evening. Subject, 'Is
Polite Society Polite?' Place, Werlein Hall. I was very anxious--the
lecture appeared to me very homely for a Southern audience accustomed to
rhetorical productions. My reception was most gratifying. The house was
packed and many were sent away. Judge Gayarré introduced me. Joaquin
Miller came first, reciting his 'Fortunate Isles.' I said in opening
that even if my voice should not fill the hall, my good-will embraced
them all. Every point in the lecture was perceived and applauded, and I
felt more than usually in sympathy with my audience."
"The second entertainment devised for the relief of the Woman's
Department was a '_Soirée Créole_,' the third and last a 'grand musical
_matinée_' at the French Opera House, for which we were indebted to the
great kindness of Colonel Mapleson, who granted us the use of the house,
and by whose permission several of his most distinguished artists gave
their services. Monsignor Gillow, Commissioner for Mexico, also allowed
his band to perform."
The difficulty of persuading the different artists to sing, of pacifying
their separate agents in the matter of place on the programme and size
of the letters in which names were advertised, of bringing harmony out
of all the petty rivalries and cabals between the different members of
the troupe, required a patience worthy of a better cause. Meanwhile
there were other troubles. Most of the women commissioners appointed by
the different States proved loyal comrades to their chief in her great
and distressful labor; but there were others who gave her endless
trouble.
"_February 6._ Our concert. The weather was favorable. Lieutenant Doyle
came to escort me to the theatre. My box was made quite gay by the
uniforms of several navy officers. The house was packed. We took $1500
and hope to have more. I particularly enjoyed the _Semiramide_ overture,
which the band gave grandly. Rossini's soul seemed to me to blossom out
of it like an immortal flower."
These entertainments brought in over two thousand dollars. This money
enabled the women to install such exhibits as were ready, to pay for a
time the necessary workmen, and to engage a special police force for the
protection of their goods. The United States ships in the harbor also
espoused the cause, Admiral Jouett, of the flagship Tennessee, and
Captain Kane, of the Galena, sending experienced craftsmen whose ready
and skilful work soon changed the somewhat desolate aspect of the
gallery.
The arrangements were as simple as might be, the greatest expense being
the purchase of showcases. The tables were of rough pine boards covered
with cambrics and flannels, the draperies of the simplest and cheapest,
the luxury of a carpet was enjoyed only here and there; but the
excellence of the exhibits, and the taste with which they were
displayed, made the department a pleasant place. The winter was cold;
the wooden walls of the Government Building let in many a chilling
blast; but there was a stove in the office of the chief of installation,
and with its help the daily cup of tea was made which kept the workers
alive.
Each State and Territory had a separate opening day for its exhibit.
These days were marked by public meetings at which compliments were
exchanged, addresses made, and the exhibits turned over to the
management. It was considered obligatory for all the commissioners to
attend these meetings, and the women spent many weary hours trying to
hear the addresses of distinguished individuals whose voices contended
in vain with the din of the machinery. The Mexican Band played, and
relieved the tedium of the long sittings; but the women commissioners
were upheld chiefly by the feeling that they were drawn together from
all parts of the country, and were taking an honored part in a great
industrial and peaceful pageant, whose results would be important to the
country and to mankind at large.
The Journal tells in February of the "opening of the colored people's
department; very interesting. A numerous assemblage of them showed a
wide range of types. Music, military, drumming especially good. Saw in
their exhibit a portrait of John A. Andrew which looked like a greeting
from the old heroic time."
The Woman's Department was formally opened on March 3, though it had
really been open to the public since early January. The day was one of
the gayest in the history of the Exposition. The gallery of the
Government Building was bright with flowers and gay with flags. Admiral
Jouett had sent the ship's band as a special compliment; the music was
delightful, the speeches excellent. We quote from Mrs. Howe's address:--
"I wish to speak of the importance, in an industrial point of view, of a
distinct showing of women's work in the great industrial exhibits. There
are few manufactures in which the hand and brain of woman have not their
appointed part. So long, however, as this work is shown merely in
conjunction with that of men, it is dimly recognized, and makes no
distinct impression. The world remains very imperfectly educated
concerning its women. They are liable to be regarded as a non-producing
class, supported by those to whom, in the order of nature, their life is
a necessary condition of existence itself.... Exhibits like the present,
then, are useful in summing up much of this undervalued work of women. A
greater moral use they have in raising the standard of usefulness and
activity for the sex in general. Good work, when recognized, acts as a
spur to human energy. Those who show how women can excel are examples to
shame those who do not try. They lay upon their sex an obligation to
stronger endeavor and better action, and society gains thereby.
"Still more have I at heart the association, in these enterprises, of
women who are not bound to each other by alliance of blood, or affinity
of neighborhood. Greater and more important than the acquisition of
skill is the cultivation of public spirit. '_Pro bono publico_' is a
motto whose meaning men should learn from their infancy, and at their
firesides. How shall they learn it unless the women, the guardian
spirits of the household, shall hold and teach, beyond all other
doctrines, that of devotion and loyalty to the public good?
"I value, then, for the sake of both men and women, the disinterested
association of women for the promotion of the great interests of
society....
"You were stirred the other day by the bringing back of a battle-flag
whose rents had been carefully mended. I tell you, sisters, we have all
one flag now, broad and bright enough to cover us all. Let us see that
no rent is made in it.
"All that the best and wisest men can imagine for the good of the human
race can be wrought if the best women will only help the best men."
* * * * *
One of her most arduous tasks was the arranging of a course of
twenty-four "Twelve-o'Clock Talks," which were given every Saturday from
the middle of February till the close of the Exposition. How she labored
over them her companion daughter well remembers: remembers too what
success crowned the effort. The subjects varied widely. Captain Bedford
Pym, R.N., discoursed on Arctic explorations; Charles Dudley Warner told
the story of the Elmira Reformatory; the Japanese Commissioner spoke of
woman's work in Japanese literature. These talks were free to the
public, and proved so popular that eight years later the same plan was
carried out in the Woman's Department of the Chicago World's Fair, and
again proved its excellence and value.
As if all this were not enough, she must found a Literary Association
among the young people of New Orleans. She named them the Pans, and
among their number were several whose names have since become well known
in literature. Grace King, Elizabeth Bisland, and others will remember
those evenings, when their bright youth flashed responsive to the call
of the elder woman of letters.
In all the stress and hurry, we find this entry:--
"My dear father's birthday. I left the Exposition early and walked to
visit dear Marion's grave in Girard Street Cemetery. A lovely place it
was. He is buried above ground in a sort of edifice formed of brick, the
rows of coffins being laid on stone floors, each single one divided from
those on either side of it by a stone partition. 'Francis Marion Ward,
died September 3rd, 1847.' Erected by William Morse, dear Marion's
friend."
"_May 16._ Gave my talk to the colored people, soon after two in the
afternoon in their department. A pretty hexagonal platform had been
arranged. Behind this was a fine portrait of Abraham Lincoln, with a
vase of beautiful flowers [gladiolus and white lilies] at its base. I
spoke of Dr. Channing, Garrison, Theodore Parker, Charles Sumner, John
A. Andrew, Lucretia Mott, and Wendell Phillips, occupying about an hour.
They gave me a fine basket of flowers and sang my 'Battle Hymn.'
Afterwards the Alabama cadets visited us. We gave them tea, cake and
biscuits and I made a little speech for them."
Winter and spring passed rapidly, each season bringing fresh interest.
The picturesqueness of New Orleans, the many friends she made among its
people, the men and women gathered from every corner of the world, well
made up to her for the vexations which inevitably attended her position.
Looking back on these days, she said of them: "It was like having a big,
big Nursery to administer, with children good, bad, and middling. The
good prevailed in the end, as it usually or always does, and yet I used
to say that Satan had a fresh flower for me every morning, when I came
to my office, and took account of the state of things."
The difficulties with which the unfortunate managers were struggling
made it impossible for them to keep their promises of financial support
to the Woman's Department. Things went from bad to worse. Finally she
realized that she herself must find the money to pay the debts of her
department and to return the exhibits to the various States. She wrote a
letter to John M. Forbes, of Boston, urging him to help her and her
assistants out of their alarming predicament. Through Mr. Forbes, the
Honorable George F. Hoar, Senator from Massachusetts, learned the state
of the case. The sum of $15,000 had been named as that necessary to pay
all just claims and wind up the affairs of the Department. At this time
a bill was before Congress for an appropriation to aid the Exposition.
Thanks to the efforts of Mr. Hoar, a sum of $15,000 was added to this
bill with the express clause, "For the Relief of the Woman's
Department." The bill was passed without discussion. The news was
received with great rejoicing in New Orleans, especially in the Woman's
Department, "where our need was the sorest." The promise brought new
life to the weary workers; but they were to be far more weary before the
end. The Exposition closed on the last day of May. Summer was upon them;
the Northern women, unused to the great heats of New Orleans, longed to
close up their business and depart, but the money had not come from
Congress, and they could not leave their post. Days dragged on; days of
torrid, relentless heat. Our mother must borrow money for the Department
here and there to bridge over the gap between promise and fulfilment.
Worn out by fatigue, anxiety, and the great heat, she fell seriously
ill. Those nearest her begged her to go home and leave to others the
final settlement of affairs, but she would not hear of this. She would
get well: she _must_ get well! Rallying her forces, mental and physical,
she did get well, though her illness for a time seemed desperate.
At long last, when June was nearly half over, the money came, and with
it the end of her long task. Accounts were audited, checks drawn,
exhibits despatched; and with farewell greetings and congratulations,
"the whole weary matter ended." Her report as President of the Woman's
Department tells the story:
"The business of the Woman's Department having thus been brought
successfully to a close, it only remains for its President to resign the
office she has filled, with some pain and much pleasure, for more than
six months,--to thank the officers of her staff for their able and
faithful services, the vice-presidents, and the lady commissioners in
general, for the friendly support she has had from them almost without
exception....
"The classification by States she considers to have justified itself,
partly through the more distinct knowledge thus gained of the work of
women in localities widely distant from each other, partly in the good
acquaintance and good-will developed by this method of work. The
friendly relations growing out of it still bind together those who are
now thousands of miles apart, but who, we may hope, will ever remain
united in a common zeal for promoting the industrial interests of women.
"Finally, she would say that she considers herself happy in having taken
part in an Exposition of so high and useful a character as that which
has latterly made New Orleans a centre of interest in the civilized
world. She takes leave with regret of a city in which she has enjoyed
much friendly intercourse and hospitality; a city in whose renewed
prosperity she must henceforth feel a deep and lasting interest."
_To Laura_
OAK GLEN, July 19, 1885.
How I left New Orleans, how I came North, how I let myself down here, is
no doubt known to you thro' inference. How hot New Orleans was before I
left it, you cannot know, nor how sick I was once upon a time, nor how I
came up upon iced champagne and recovered myself, and became strong
again. Ever since I came home, I have slaved at my report of the
Woman's Department. Weary pages have I written. Life seems at last to
consist in putting a pen into an inkstand, and taking it out again,
scribble, scribble, nibble, nibble (meal-times), and go to bed between
whiles....
* * * * *
So ended one of the most interesting and arduous experiences of her
life. She always held in affectionate remembrance the city where she had
enjoyed and suffered so much, and the friends she made there.
_To Laura_
OAK GLEN, November 4, 1885.
YOU LITTLE HATEFUL THING!
Herewith returned is the letter you wrote for. I had a mind to send it
to you, beast that you are, without one word, just to pay you for that
postal. Of course, I meant to write you immediately afterward in a
separate envelope, telling you that I still love you. But there! I
reflected that you could have a bad feeling if you opened the envelope
and found no greeting from me. For the sake of posterity, Madam, I
declined to give you this bad feeling. I do also retain some
proprietorship in a certain pair of eyes which are like Sapphira's. Oh!
I mean sapphires, and I don't want to dim them with any tear diamonds.
"You flatter yourself," replies the Good-Natured One,[96] "to think of
my shedding tears about anything that you could say or do, or leave
unsaid or undone." Just so. All right. I have got beefsteak for dinner
to-day. What do you think of the weather, and does your husband know
when your blacking is out?
[96] Laura had once been told that she "would not amount to much without
her good nature."
Now, my sweet darling, your old Mammy is just back from a _tremendous_
jaunt. I had a beautiful time in Iowa, and am as well as possible. Only
think, travelling and at work for one calendar month, and not a finger
ache, 'cept one day, when I had a slight headache. And I brought home
over $200 earned by lectures....
_To the same_
THE BERKELEY NUISANCE,[97] NEW YORK,
December 26, 1885.
... What have I been doing for the last eight weeks? Never you mind, my
little dear. Mostly putting a girdle round the earth by correspondence,
and some-ly worrying about my poor relations. Don't you flatter yourself
that I ever thought of you under this head. But the ----, and the ----,
and the ----, taken together, are enough to give one a turn at the
worry-cat system. Well 'm, I had also to see the distribution of the
whole edition of my New Orleans Report, and I can only compare this to
the process of taking down a house, and of sending each individual brick
somewhere, labelled with your compliments; supposing the bricks to be
one thousand in number, it would take some time to distribute them,
Harry Richards will be able to tell you how much time, and how many
masculine oaths would go to each hundred of the articles. Well, that's
enough about that. You have had one of my bricks sent you, and hang me
if I believe you have read it. Sweetison (a new little 'spression which
I have this minute invented), I stayed at Oak Glen until Monday last,
which was the 21st. Then I came here by the way of Boston, and arrove on
Tuesday evening. Our quarters, or rather eighths, are small, considering
my papers and Maud's clothes. The food is fine, the style first-rate,
the rigs imposing to a degree, but, ah! I kind of hate it all. New York
is too frightfully dirty! and then so stereotyped and commonplace.
Boston losing its prestige? Not as I am at present advised....
[97] Berkeley Chambers, where she and Maud spent this winter.
CHAPTER V
MORE CHANGES
1886-1888; _aet._ 67-69
GIULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS
Giulia Romana! how thy trembling beauty,
That oft would shudder at one breath of praise,
Comes back to me! before the trump of duty
Had marshalled thee in life's laborious ways.
We used to wonder at thy blush in hearing
Thy parents praised. We now know what it meant:
A consciousness of their gifts reappearing
Perchance in thine--to consummation blent.
Oh, she was beautiful, beyond all magic
Of sculptor's hand, or pencil to portray!
Something angelical, divinely tragic,
Tempered the smile that round her lips would play.
Dear first-born daughter of a hero's heart!
Pass to perfection, all but perfect here!
We weep not much, remembering where thou art,
Yet, child of Poesy! receive a tear.
T. W. PARSONS.
The years 1886 and 1887 were marked by two events which changed
materially the course of her private life: the death of Julia, the
beloved eldest daughter, and the marriage of Maud, the house-mate and
comrade.
During the winter of 1885-86 she made her headquarters in New York.
Lecture engagements, conferences, and sermons took her hither and
thither, and much of the time that should have been "precious" was
passed in trains and boats.
In the last days of February, Julia was stricken with rheumatic fever,
which soon developed into typhoid. The weather was "direful: bitter cold
and furious wind." Our mother went at once to South Boston, where
"arriving, found my dear child seriously but not dangerously ill. Her
joy at my coming was very pathetic."
On the 28th she writes:--
"I cannot be sure whether it was on this day that she said to me:
'Mamma, don't you remember the dream you had when Flossy and I were
little children, and you were in Europe? You dreamed that you saw us in
a boat and that the tide was carrying us away from you. Now the dream
has come true, and the tide is bearing me away from you.'
"This saying was very sad to me; but my mind was possessed with the
determination that death was not to be thought of."
For a time conditions seemed to improve, and she hastened to New York,
where her presence was imperative; but a telegram summoned her back:
Julia was not so well, and "a pain as of death" fell on the anxious
mother.
"Saw by Katie's face when she opened the door that things were worse. I
flew up the stairs and found my darling little changed, except that her
breathing seemed rather worse. She was so glad to see me!... About this
time I noticed a change come over her sweet face.... I felt, but would
not believe, that it was the beginning of the end. Julia was presently
very happy, with Michael on one side of her and myself on the other.
Each of us held a hand. She said: 'I am very happy now: if one has
one's parents and one's husband, what more can one want?' And presently,
'The angels have charge of me now, mamma and Mimy.'[98] She said to me:
'What does the Lord want to kill me for? I am dying.' I said, 'No, my
darling, you are going to get well.' She said: 'Remember, if anything
happens to me, you two must stay together.'... A little later Michael
and I were alone with her. She began to wander, and talk as if with
reference to her club or some such thing. 'If this is not the right
thing,' she said, 'call another priestess'; then, very emphatically:
'Truth, truth.' These were her last words.
[98] Michael.
"My darling should have been forty-two years old this day...."
A few days later she writes to Mary Graves:--
"I am not wild, nor melancholy, nor inconsolable, but I feel as America
might if some great, fair State were blotted from its map, leaving only
a void for the salt and bitter sea to overwhelm. I cannot, so far, get
any comfort from other worldly imaginings. If God says anything to me
now, he says, 'Thou fool.' The truth is that we have no notion of the
value and beauty of God's gifts until they are taken from us. Then He
may well say: 'Thou fool,' and we can only answer to our name."
The Journal says:--
"This is the last day of this sorrowful March which took my dear one
from me. I seem to myself only dull, hard, and confused under this
affliction. I pray God to give me comfort by raising me up that I may
be nearer to the higher life into which she and her dear father have
passed. And thou? _eleison_...."
"Have had an uplifting of soul to-day. Have written to Mary Graves: 'I
am at last getting to stand where I can have some spiritual outlook.'
The confusion of 'is not' is giving place to the steadfastness of 'is.'
Have embodied my thoughts in a poem to my dear Julia and in some pages
which I may read at the meeting intended to commemorate her by the New
England Woman's Club."
The Journal of this spring is full of tender allusions to the beloved
daughter. The dreams of night often brought back the gracious figure;
these visions are accurately described, each detail dwelt on with loving
care.
In the "Reminiscences" she tells of Julia's consecrated life, of her
devotion to her father, and to the blind pupils; describes, too, her
pleasure in speaking at the Concord School of Philosophy (where her
"mind seemed to have found its true level") and in a Metaphysical Club
of her own founding.
"It was beautiful to see her seated in the midst of this thoughtful
circle, which she seemed to rule with a staff of lilies. The club was
one in which diversity of opinion sometimes brought individuals into
sharp contrast with each other; but her gentle government was able to
bring harmony out of discord, and to subdue alike the crudeness of
scepticism and the fierceness of intolerance."
In the "Reminiscences" we find also the record of Julia's parting
injunction to her husband: "Be kind to the little blind children, for
they are papa's children."
"These parting words," our mother adds, "are inscribed on the wall of
the Kindergarten for the Blind at Jamaica Plain. Beautiful in life, and
most beautiful in death, her sainted memory has a glory beyond that of
worldly fame."
She considered Julia the most gifted of her children. The
"Reminiscences" speak of her at some length, making mention of her
beneficent life, and of her published works, a volume of poems entitled
"Stray Chords," and "Philosophiæ Quæstor," a slender volume in which she
described the Concord School of Philosophy and her pleasure therein.
In our mother's house of life, each child had its special room, though
no door was locked to any. In all things pertaining to philosophy, Julia
was her special intimate. For help and sympathy in suffrage and club
doings, she turned naturally to Florence, an ardent worker in these
fields; with Harry she would specially enjoy music; with Laura would
talk of books; while Maud was the "Prime Minister" in social and
household matters. So, till the very last, we gray-haired children
leaned on her, clung to her, as in the days when we were children
indeed.
A few years before Julia's death, our mother wrote to Mrs. Cheney, who
had lost her only daughter: "This combat of the soul with deadly sorrow
is a single-handed one, so far as human help is concerned. I do believe
that God's sweet angels are with us when we contend against the extreme
of calamity."
Heavy as this affliction was, it brought none of the paralysis of grief
caused by Sammy's death: rather, as after the passing of the Chevalier,
she was urged by the thought of her dead child to more and higher
efforts.
In the quiet of Oak Glen she wrote this summer a careful study of Dante
and Beatrice, for the Concord School of Philosophy.[99] July 20 found
her at Concord, where she and Julia had been wont to go together. She
says, "I cannot think of the sittings of the School without a vision of
the rapt expression of her face as she sat and listened to the various
speakers."[100]
[99] This was a summer school of ten years (1879-88) in which Emerson,
Alcott, and W. T. Harris took part.
[100] _Reminiscences_, p. 440.
Spite of her grief in missing this sweet companionship she found the
sessions of the School deeply interesting. She was "much more nervous
than usual" about her lecture; which "really sounded a good deal better
than it had looked to me. It was wonderfully well received."
We are told by the last living representative of the School of
Philosophy, Mr. F. B. Sanborn, that she was the most attractive, and
sometimes the most profound, of its lecturers; "had the largest
audiences, and gave the most pleasure; especially when she joined
delicate personal criticism or epigrammatic wit with high philosophy."
The meetings of the School were always a delight to her; the papers
written for it were among her most valuable essays; indeed, we may look
upon them as the flowering of all her deep and painful toil in the
field of philosophy.[101]
[101] These essays were published in a volume entitled _Is Polite
Society Polite?_
September finds her planning an "industrial circle" in each State; a
woman's industrial convention hereafter; and attending a Suffrage
Convention at Providence.
"Spoke of the divine right, not of kings or people, but of
righteousness. Spoke of Ouida's article in the 'North American Review.'
It had been reported that I declined to answer it. I said: 'You cannot
mend a stocking which is _all_ holes. If you hold it up it will fall to
pieces of itself.'
"In the afternoon spoke about the Marthas, male and female, who see only
the trouble and inconvenience of reform: of the Marys who rely upon
principle."
After this we have "a day of dreadful hurry, preparing to go West and
also to shut up this house. Had to work _tight_ every minute...."
This Western lecture trip was like many others, yet it had its own
peculiar pleasures and mishaps.
"_October 12._ Dunkirk, lecture.... No one must know that I got off at
the wrong station--Perrysburg, a forlorn hamlet. No train that would
bring me to Dunkirk before 6.30 P.M. Ought to have arrived at 1.30. Went
to the 'hotel,' persuaded the landlord to lend his buggy and a kindly
old fellow to harness his horses to it, and drove twenty miles or more
over the mountains, reaching Dunkirk by 5.10 P.M. When the buggy was
brought to the door of the hotel, I said: 'How am I to get in?' 'Take
it slow and learn to pedal,' said my old driver. Presently he said, 'I
guess you ain't so old as I be.' I replied, 'I am pretty well on toward
seventy.' 'Well, I am five years beyond,' said he. He drives an
accommodation wagon between Perrysburg and Versailles, a small town
where a man once wanted to set up a mill, and to buy land and water
power, and they wouldn't sell either. Whereupon he went to Tonawanda and
made the place. 'Guess they'd have done better to gin him the land and
water, and to set up his mill for him,' said my man, Hinds."
On this trip she saw the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, taking the seven-mile
walk; went as far as Kansas City; was received everywhere with
delightful warmth.
_To Laura_
December 1, 1886.
You see, I was waiting for the winter to begin, in order to write you,
and that you ought to have known. But bless you, in Gardiner, Maine, you
don't know when real _Winter_ begins, 'cause you have so much sham
winter. Well, better late than never. Here's thanking you very much for
the delightful [tea] cozy. Maud said, "What are you going to do with
it?" sarcastic-like. I replied, "Put it on my head"; to which she
_inquit_, "Most natural thing for you to do." The sight of the monogram
gave me real satisfaction and a sense of inborn dignity. You boil down
to your monogram, after all, and this one was beyond my highest
expectations. I am only thinking, dear, whether you would not have
shown more respect by putting the crimson satin bow on the monogram
side, and thus, as it were, calling attention to the distinguished
initials.... I am grinding now in all of my mills, of which one is a
paper for the "Woman Suffrage Bazaar," which paper I am doing my best to
edit. I cannot in conscience ask you to send me anything for its
columns, because, poor dear, you have to do so much work on your own
account. At the same time, a trifling overflow into the hat would be
very welcome....
Winter brought another grave anxiety. Florence in her turn developed
rheumatic fever and became alarmingly ill. The mother-bird flew to her
in terror. On the way she met Henry Ward Beecher and told him of her
deep distress, made still more poignant by the thought of the little
children who might be left motherless. She was scarcely comforted by his
assurance that he "had known stepmothers who were very good to their
stepchildren"!
It was Christmas time, and she divided her time between the beloved
patient and the children who must not lack their holiday cheer.
"_December 27._ The day was a very distressing one to me. I sat much of
the time beside Flossy with a strange feeling that I could keep her
alive by some effort of my will. I seemed to contend with God, saying,
'I gave up Julia, I can't give up Flossy--she has children.'..."
"_December 28._ Most of the day with dear Flossy, who seems a little
better. I sat up with her until 1.30 A.M., and made a great effort of
will to put her to sleep. I succeeded--she slept well for more than an
hour and slept again for a good while without any narcotic."
Throughout the illness she fought against the use of narcotics.
The cloud of danger and anxiety passed, and the year closed in happiness
and deep thankfulness. The last entry reads:--
"God bless all my dear people, sisters, children, grandchildren, and
cousins. God grant me also to serve while I live, and not to fail of the
high and holy life. Amen!"
_To Laura_
Monday, January 31, 1887.
Now, you just look here.
Daughter began her school and music to-day. Nobody's a-neglecting of
her. What you mean? Grandma took her to Clarke church, prouder than a
peacock,--Grandma, I mean.
Congregation _inquit_: "Whose child is that?"
"Laura's," _responsa sum_.
"_Id cogitavi_" was the general answer. And she's pop'lar, she is.
Little fourteen-year-olds keep a-coming and a-coming. And I draws her
bath, and tucks her up in bed. And she's having a splendid time. And I
want some more of this paper. And my feelings won't allow me to say any
more. No--my dearest sweetest pug pie, your darling won't be forgotten
for a moment. We couldn't get at the lessons before, and last week,
like strong drink, was raging.
'Fectionate
MA.
Maud was now engaged to John Elliott, a young Scottish painter, whose
acquaintance they had made in Europe in 1878. The marriage took place on
February 7, 1887. Though there were many periods of separation, the
Elliotts, when in this country, made their home for the most part with
our mother. The affection between her and her son-in-law was deep; his
devotion to her constant. Through the years that were to follow, the
comradeship of the three was hardly less intimate than that of the two
had been.
The Journal carries us swiftly onward. In place of the long meditations
on philosophy and metaphysics, we have brief notes of comings and
goings, of speaking and preaching, writing and reading. She works hard
to finish her paper on "Women in the Three Professions, Law, Medicine,
and Theology," for the "Chautauquan." "Very tired afterwards."
She speaks at the Newport Opera House with Mrs. Livermore (who said she
did not know Mrs. Howe could speak so well); she takes part in the
Authors' Reading for the Longfellow Memorial in the Boston Museum,
reciting "Our Orders" and the "Battle Hymn," with her lines to
Longfellow recently composed.
"I wore my velvet gown, my mother's lace, Uncle Sam's _Saint Esprit_,
and did my best, as did all the others."
The next day she speaks at a suffrage meeting in Providence, and makes
this comment:--
"Woman suffrage represents individual right, integral humanity, ideal
justice. I spoke of the attitude and action of Minerva in the
'Eumenides';[102] her resistance to the Furies, who I said personified
popular passion fortified by ancient tradition; her firm stand for a
just trial, and her casting the decisive ballot. I hoped that this would
prefigure a great life-drama in which this gracious prophecy would be
realized."
[102] Cf. Æschylus.
In a "good talk with Miss Eddy,"[103] she devises a correspondence and
circular to obtain information concerning art clubs throughout the
country. "I am to draft the circular."
[103] Miss Sarah J. Eddy, then of Providence, a granddaughter of Francis
Jackson.
She makes an address at the Unitarian Club in Providence.
"The keynote to this was given me yesterday, by the sight of the people
who thronged the popular churches, attracted, in a great measure no
doubt, by the Easter decoration and music. I thought: 'What a pity that
everybody cannot hear Phillips Brooks.' I also thought: 'They can all
hear the lesson of heavenly truth in the great Church of All Souls and
of All Saints; _there_ is room enough and to spare.'"
She writes a poem for the Blind Kindergarten at Jamaica Plain.
"I worked at my poem until the last moment and even changed it from the
manuscript as I recited it. The occasion was most interesting. Sam Eliot
presided, and made a fine opening address, in which he spoke
beautifully of dear Julia and her service to the blind; also of her
father. I was joined by Drs. Peabody and Bartol, Brooke Herford and
Phillips Brooks. They all spoke delightfully and were delightful to be
with. I recited my poem as well as I could. I think it was well liked,
and I was glad of the work I bestowed on it."
She preaches at Parker Fraternity[104] on "The Ignorant Classes."
[104] Boston.
Small wonder that at the Club Tea she finds herself "not over-bright."
Still, she had a "flash or two. The state of Karma [calmer], orchestral
conversation, and solo speaking."
She hears the Reverend William Rounceville Alger's paper on the "Blessed
Life." "Very spiritual and in a way edifying; but marred by what I
should call 'mixed metaphysic.' One goes beyond his paper to feel a deep
sympathy with him, a man of intense intellectual impulse, in following
which he undergoes a sort of martyrdom; while yet he does not seem to me
to hit the plain, practical truth so much as one might wish. He is an
estray between Western and Eastern thought, inclining a good deal,
though not exclusively, to the latter."
She goes to conferences of women preachers, to peace meetings; to
jubilee meetings, in honor of Queen Victoria; she conducts services at
the Home for Intemperate Women, and thinks it was a good time.
She "bites into" her paper on Aristophanes, "with a very aching head";
finishes it, delivers it at Concord before the School of Philosophy.
"Before I began, I sent this one word to Davidson,[105] _eleison_. This
because it seemed as if he might resent my assuming to speak at all of
the great comedian. He seemed, however, to like what I said, and in the
discussion which followed, he took part with me, against Sanborn, who
accuses Aristophanes of having always lent his wit to the service of the
old aristocratic party. Returned to Boston and took train for Weirs, New
Hampshire, where arrived more dead than alive."
[105] Thomas Davidson, founder of the "New Fellowship" (London and New
York) and of the "Breadwinners' College."
She is at Newport now, and there are tender notes of pleasure with the
Hall grandchildren, of "reading and prayers" with them on Sunday, of
picnics and sailing parties.
Still, in dreams, she calls back the lost daughter; still records with
anxious care each visionary word and gesture.
"Dreamed this morning of Charles Sumner and dearest Julia. She was
talking to me; part of the time reclining on a sort of lounge. I said to
some one, 'This is our own dear Julia, feel how warm she is.'... I think
I said something about our wanting to see her oftener. She said
pathetically, 'Can't you talk of me?' I said, 'We do, darling.' 'Not
very often,' I think was her reply. Then she seemed to come very near
me, and I said to her, 'Darling, do they let you come here as often as
you want to?' She said, 'Not quite.' I asked why, and she answered
almost inaudibly, 'They are afraid of my troubling people.' I stirred
and woke; but the dear vision remains with me, almost calling me across
the silent sea."
She writes innumerable letters; date and address of each is carefully
noted, and now and then an abstract of her words.
"The bane of all representative action is that the spur of personal
ambition will carry people further than larger and more generous
considerations of good are apt to do. So the mean-hearted and ambitious
are always forward in politics; while those who believe in great
principles are perhaps too much inclined to let the principles do all
the work...."
The following extracts hurry the year to its close:--
"_November 7._ Left for Boston by 10.20 A.M. train, to attend the
celebration of Michael's [Anagnos] fiftieth birthday at the Institution,
and the opening meeting of the N.E.W.C.... Arriving in Boston, I ran
about somewhat, fatiguing myself dreadfully. Reached the Institution by
4.30 P.M., when, throwing myself on the bed for necessary rest, the
desired rhymes for Anagnos's birthday flashed upon me, 'all of a
sudden,' and instead of napping, I called for pen and ink and wrote
them. The meeting was very good; I presided. Dwight and Rodocanachi made
speeches, the latter presenting the beautiful chain given to Michael by
the teachers of the Institution. Michael was much moved and could not
but be much gratified. I proposed three cheers at the end."
"I stole half an hour to attend a meeting in memory of Hannah
Stephenson [the friend and house-mate of Theodore Parker] of whom much
good was said that I did not know of. I reproached myself for having
always been repelled by her ugliness of countenance and tart manner, and
having thus failed to come within the sphere of her really noble
influence. The occasion recalled a whole vision of the early and painful
struggle in Boston; of the martyrdom of feeling endured by friends of
the slave--of Parker's heroic house and pulpit. It seemed, as it often
does, great to have known these things, little to have done so little in
consequence."
"_November 27._ Finished my lecture on 'Woman in the Greek Drama.' It
was high time, as my head and eyes are tired with the persistent
strain.... All the past week has been hard work. No pleasure reading
except a very little in the evening."
"_December 1...._ Took 2.30 train for Melrose.... I read my new
lecture--'Woman as shown by the Greek Dramatists': of whom I quoted from
Æschylus, Sophocles, and Aristophanes. A Club Tea followed: a pleasant
one. I asked the mothers present whether they educated their daughters
in hygiene and housekeeping. The response was not enthusiastic, and
people were more disposed to talk of the outer world, careers of women,
business or profession, than to speak of the home business. One young
girl, however, told us that she was a housekeeping girl; a very pleasant
lady, Mrs. Burr, had been trained by her mother, to her own great
advantage."
"_December 18._ For the [Parker] Fraternity a text occurs to me, 'Upon
this rock I will build my church.' Will speak of the simple religious
element in human nature, the loss of which no critical skill or insight
could replace. Will quote some of the acts and expressions of the true
religious zeal of other days, and ask why this means nothing for us of
to-day."
Her first act of 1888 was to preach this sermon before the Parker
Fraternity. It was one of those best liked by herself and others.
The great event of this year was her visit to California. She had never
seen the Pacific Coast; the Elliotts were going to Chicago for an
indefinite stay; her sister Annie, whom she had not seen in many years,
begged earnestly for a visit from the "Old Bird."
She decided to make the journey, and arranged a lecture tour to cover
its expenses.
The expedition was throughout one of deepest interest. It began with "a
day of frightful hurry and fatigue. I had been preparing for this
departure for some time past; yet when the time came, it seemed as if I
could hardly get off. Maud worked hard to help me. She insisted upon
arranging matters for me; went to the bank; got my ticket. We parted
cheerfully, yet I felt the wrench. God knows whether she will ever be in
my house again, as my partner in care and responsibility...."
After an "A.A.W." conference in Boston, and a Woman's Council in
Washington, she took the road. Her first stop was at Chicago. Here she
was "very busy and not quite well. Divided the day between Maud and some
necessary business. At 3.15 P.M. the dreadful wrench took place. Maud
was very brave, but I know that she felt it as I did...."
_To Maud_
MERCHANTS' HOTEL,
ST. PAUL, MINNESOTA, April 10.
So far, so good, my dear sweet child. I got me off as well as possible,
though we had many complications and delays as to the ticket. My section
was very comfortable. I had supper in the dining-car, and slept well, no
theatre-troupe nor D. T. being aboard. I have now got my ticket all
straight to 'Frisco, and won't I frisk oh! when I get there!
The next stop was at Spokane Falls. Here she had "a bronchial attack;
very hoarse and sore in my throat and chest. Went over my lecture
carefully, leaving out some pages. Felt absolute need of tea-stimulant,
and went downtown, finding some in a grocer's shop. The good servant
Dora made me a hot cup which refreshed me greatly. Very hoarse at my
lecture. Opera House a good one enough; for a desk, a box mounted on a
barrel, all covered with a colored paper; decent enough. Lecture:
'Polite Society'; well received." The Spokane of to-day may smile at the
small things of yesterday; yet our mother always spoke with pleasure of
her cordial reception there.
Walla Walla, Walula, Paser. In the last-named place she "found a tavern
with many claimants for beds. Mrs. Isaacs, who came with me from Walla
Walla for a little change of air, could not have a separate room, and
we were glad to share not only a small room but also a three-quarters
bed. I was cramped and slept miserably. She was very quiet and amiable."
At Tacoma again (on the way whither she felt as if her life hung by a
thread while crossing the Notch), there was but one room for the two
ladies, but they occupied it "very peacefully."
After church at Tacoma "we heard singing in one of the parlors, and went
in quest of it. In the great parlor of the hotel where hops take place,
we found an assemblage of men and women, mostly young, singing Gospel
hymns, with an accompaniment of grand piano. The Bishop of New Zealand
stood in the middle of the apartment singing with gusto. Presently he
took his place at the instrument, his wife joining him as if she thought
his situation dangerous for a 'lone hand.' A little later, some one, who
appeared to act as master of ceremonies, asked me to come over and be
introduced to the Bishop, to which I consented. His first question was:
'Are you going to New Zealand immediately?' He is a Londoner. 'Ah, come;
with all your States, you can show nothing like London.' Being asked for
a brief address, he spoke very readily, with a frank, honest face, and
in a genial, offhand manner. A good specimen of his sort, not
fine-brained, nor over-brained, but believing in religion and glad to
devote his life to it. The Bishop has blue eyes and a shaggy head of
grizzled hair."
After Tacoma came "hospitable Seattle"; where she lectured and attended
a meeting of the Seattle Emerson Club; then to Olympia, by a small Sound
steamer.
"A queer old bachelor on board, hearing me say that I should like to
live in Washington Territory, said he would give me a handsome house and
lot if I would live in Olympia, at which several Olympians present
laughed."
She left Olympia by train, _en route_ for Portland. The conductor,
"Brown by name," saw the name on her valise, and claimed acquaintance,
remembering her when she lived in Boylston Place. Soon after, passing a
lovely little mill-stream, with a few houses near it, by name Tumwater,
she consulted him as to the value of land there, with the result that
she bought several acres of "good bottom land."
This was one of several small purchases of land made during her various
journeyings. She always hoped that they would bring about large results:
the Tumwater property was specially valued by her, though she never set
foot in the place. The pioneer was strong in her, as it was in the
Doctor; the romance of travel never failed to thrill her. Speeding
hither and thither by rail, her eye caught beauty and desirableness in a
flash; the settler stirred in her blood, and she longed to possess and
to develop. Tumwater she fondly hoped was to bring wealth to the two
eldest grandchildren, to whom she bequeathed it.
In Portland she spent several days, lectured three times, and was most
hospitably entertained. On her one disengaged evening she went down into
the hotel parlor, played for the guests to dance, played accompaniments
for them to sing. She spoke to the school children; "she made slight
acquaintance with various people," most of whom told her the story of
their lives. Briefly, she touched life at every point.
Finally, on May 5, she reached San Francisco, and a few hours later the
ranch of San Geronimo, where the Mailliards had been living for some
years.
"Situation very beautiful," she says; "a cup in the mountains." Here she
found her beloved sister Annie, the "little Hitter" of her early
letters; here she spent happy days, warm with outer and inner sunshine.
California was a-tiptoe with eagerness to see and hear the author of the
"Battle Hymn"; many lectures were planned, in San Francisco and
elsewhere. The Journal gives but brief glimpses of this California
visit, which she always recalled with delight as one of the best of all
her "great good times." In the newspaper clippings, preserved in a
scrapbook, we find the adjectives piled mountain high in praise and
appreciation. Though not yet seventy, she was already, in the eye of the
youthful reporter, "aged"; her silver hair was dwelt on lovingly; people
were amazed at her activity. One of the great occasions was the
celebration of Decoration Day by the Grand Army of the Republic in the
Grand Opera House, at which she was the guest of honor. The house was
packed; the stage brilliant with flowers and emblems. Her name was
cheered to the echo. She spoke a few words of acknowledgment.
"I join in this celebration with thrilled and uplifted heart. I remember
those camp-fires, I remember those dreadful battles. It was a question
with us women, 'Will our men prevail? Until they do they will not come
home.' How we blessed them when they did; how we blessed them with our
prayers when they were in the battlefield. Those were times of sorrow;
this is one of joy. Let us thank God, who has given us these victories."
The audience rose _en masse_, and stood while the "Battle Hymn" was
sung, author and audience joining in the chorus.
After her second lecture in Santa Barbara, she "sauntered a little, and
spent a little money. Bought some imperfect pearls which will look well
when set. Wanted a handsome brooch which I saw; thought I had best
conquer my desire, and did so."
At Ventura: "Got so tired that I could hardly dress for lecture." The
next day she proposed to Mrs. S. at dinner (1 P.M.) to invite some young
people for the evening, promising to play for them to dance. "She [Mrs.
S.] ordered a buggy and drove about the village. Her son stretched a
burlap on the straw matting and waxed it. About thirty came. We had some
sweet music, singers with good voices, and among others a pupil of
Perabo, who was really interesting and remarkable."
At one of the hospitable cities, a gentleman asked her to drive with
him, drove her about for a couple of hours, descanting upon the beauties
of the place, and afterwards proclaimed that Mrs. Howe was the most
agreeable woman he had ever met. "And I never once opened my lips!" she
said.
On June 10 she preached in Oakland: "the one sermon which I have felt
like preaching in these parts: 'Thou art Peter, and upon this rock.' The
house was well filled.... After service as I leaned over to speak to
those who stopped to greet me, I saw one of our old church-members, who
told me, with eyes full of tears, that our dear James Freeman Clarke is
no more. This was like an ice-bolt; I could not realize it at first.
"'A very tender history
Did in your passing fall.'
"Years of sweet converse, of following and dependence, end with this
event."
* * * * *
So we come to the last day at the ranch, the parting with the dear
sister; the departure for San Francisco, laden with roses and good
wishes.
On the way eastward she stopped at Salt Lake City, and went to the
Mormon Tabernacle; "an enormous building with a roof like the back of a
turtle; many tourists present. The Mormons mostly an ill-looking and
ill-smelling crowd. Bishop Whitney, a young man, preached a cosmopolite
sermon, quoting Milton and Emerson. He spoke of the Christian Church
with patronizing indulgence; insisted upon the doctrine of immediate and
personal revelation, and censured the Mormons for sometimes considering
their families before their church. Communion, bread in silver baskets
and water in silver cups, handed to every one, children partaking with
the rest; no solemnity."
"_June 26._ To visit the penitentiary, where thirty Mormon bishops are
imprisoned for polygamy. Spoke with one, Bishop of Provo, a rather
canny-looking man, whom we found in the prison library, reading. The
librarian (four years' term for forgery) told me it was the result of
liquor and bad company. I said a few motherly words to him and presently
proposed to speak to the prisoners, to which the jailer gladly assented.
I began by saying, 'I feel to speak to you, my brothers.' Said that all
of us make mistakes and many of us do wrong at times. Exhorted them to
give, in future, obedience to the laws upon which the existence of
society depends. The convict Montrose sent to me a little chain and
ornaments of his own making. I promised to send one or two books for the
library...."
So, through "bowery and breezy Nebraska; such a relief to eyes and
nerves!" to Chicago, where Maud kept and comforted her as long as might
be, and sent her refreshed on her way; finally to Boston, where she
arrived half-starved, and so to Newport.
_To Maud_
July 8, 1888.
Grumble, grumble--tumble, tumble,
For something to eat,
Fast-y fast-y nasty, nasty,
At last, at last-y,
Ma's dead beat!
"Oh! the dust of it, and the swirl, in which the black porter and the
white babies all seemed mixed up together. A few dried and withered old
women, like myself, were thrown in, an occasional smoky gent, and the
gruel 'thick and slab,' was what is called Human Nature! This is the
spleeny vein, and I indulge it to make you laugh, but really, my journey
was as comfortable as heat and speed would allow. Imagine my feelings on
learning that there was no dining or buffet car! Do not grieve about
this, the biscuits and bananas which you put up carried me quite a way.
We got a tolerable breakfast at Cleveland, and a bad dinner at Buffalo,
but dry your eyes, the strawberry shortcake was uncommonly good. And
think how good it is that I have got through with it all and can now
rest good and handsome."
The summer entries in the Journal are varied and picturesque. "My cow,
of which I was fond, was found dead this morning.... My neighbor Almy
was very kind.... I feel this a good deal, but complaining will not help
matters."
"Mr. Bancroft [George], historian, brought Dr. Hedge to call after
dinner. Mr. B. kissed me on both cheeks for the first time in his life.
We had a very pleasant and rather brilliant talk, as might have been
expected where such men meet."
She writes to Maud:--
"Mr. Alger seized upon my left ear metaphorically and emptied into it
all the five-syllable words that he knew, and the result was a mingling
of active and passive lunacy, for I almost went mad and he had not far
to go in that direction."
And again; apropos of ----: "How the great world does use up a man! It
is not merely the growing older, for that is a natural and simple
process; but it is the coating of worldliness which seems to varnish
the life out of a man; dead eyes, dead smile, and (worst of all) dead
breath."
"_September 23_. To church in Newport. A suggestive sermon from Mr.
Alger on 'Watching,' _i.e._, upon all the agencies that watch us,
children, foes, friends, critics, authorities, spirits, God himself.
"As we drove into town [Newport] I had one of those momentary glimpses
which in things spiritual are so infinitely precious. The idea became
clear and present to my mind that God, an actual presence, takes note of
our actions and intentions. I thought how helpful it would be to us to
pass our lives in a sense of this divine supervision. After this inward
experience I was almost startled by the theme of Alger's sermon. I spoke
to him of the coincidence, and he said it must have been a thought wave.
The thought is one to which I have need to cling. I have at this moment
mental troubles, obsessions of imagination, from which I pray to be
delivered. While this idea of the divine presence was clear to me, I
felt myself lifted above these things. May this lifting continue."
"_November 4._ In my prayer this morning I thanked God that I have come
to grieve more over my moral disappointments than over my intellectual
ones. With my natural talents I had nothing to do: with my use or abuse
of them, everything.
"I have thought, too, lately, of a reason why we should not neglect our
duty to others for our real or supposed duty to ourselves. It is this:
ourselves we have always with us; our fellows flit from our company, or
pass away and we must help them when and while we can."
On December 5 she hears "the bitter news of Abby May's death. Alas! and
alas! for the community, for her many friends, and for the Club and the
Congress in which she did such great silent service. God rest her in His
sweet peace!"
On Christmas Day she went to "Trinity Church, where I enjoyed Phillips
Brooks's sermon. Felt much drawn to go to communion with the rest; but
thought it might occasion surprise and annoyance. Going into a remote
upper gallery I was present at the scene, and felt that I had my
communion without partaking of the 'elements.' These lines also
suggested themselves as I walked home:--
"The Universal bread,
The sacrificial wine,
The glory of the thorn-crowned head,
Humanity divine."
"The last day of the year dawned upon me, bringing solemn thoughts of
the uncertainty of life, and sorrow for such misuse of its great gifts
and opportunities as I am well conscious of. This has been a good year
to me. It carried me to the Pacific slope, and showed me indeed a land
of promise. It gave me an unexpected joy in the harmonious feelings
toward me and the members of A.A.W. at the Detroit Congress. It has,
alas! taken from me my dear pastor, most precious to me for help and
instruction, and other dear and valued friends, notably Sarah Shaw
Russell,[106] Abby W. May and Carrie Tappan.[107] I desire to set my
house in order, and be ready for my departure; thankful to live, or
willing to cease from my mortal life when God so wills...."
[106] Mrs. George Russell, widow of the Doctor's friend and college
chum.
[107] Caroline Tappan was Caroline Sturgis, daughter of Captain William
Sturgis, and sister of Ellen (Sturgis) Hooper,--member of the inmost
Transcendentalist circle, and friend of Emerson, Ellery Channing, and
Margaret Fuller.
CHAPTER VI
SEVENTY YEARS YOUNG
1889-1890; _aet._ 70-71
The seven decades of my years
I figure like those Pleiad spheres
Which, thro' the heaven's soft impulse moved,
Still seek a sister star beloved.
Thro' many sorrows, more delight,
Thro' miracles in sound and sight,
Thro' battles lost and battles won,
These star-spaced years have led me on.
Though long behind me shows the path,
The future still its promise hath,
For tho' the past be fair and fond,
The perfect number lies beyond.
J. W. H.
She was dissatisfied with herself in these days.
"_January 1, 1889._ In my prayer this night I asked for weight and
earnestness of purpose. I am too frivolous and frisky."
"On waking I said, 'If God does not help me this day, I shall not be
able to finish my address' [for a Washington's Birthday celebration at
Newport]."
She thinks He did help her, as she found the vein of what she wished to
say, and finished it to her "tolerable satisfaction."
"As I entered the hall in the evening, the thought of Cinderella struck
me, and I used it by comparing the fashion, of which we make so much
account, to Cinderella with her rat horses and pumpkin carriage, so
resplendent until her hour came; then the horses would not carry her,
the golden coach would not hold her, her illusory grandeur was at an
end. Our cause of truth and justice I compared to the Princess in her
enchanted sleep, who lies spellbound until the true champion comes to
rescue her, and the two go forth together, to return to sleep and
diversion, oh, never more."
This is the note throughout the Journal; the record of work, the prayer
for strength. Yet the friskiness was there; no one but herself would
have had less of it.
She had already entered the happy estate of grandmotherhood, and enjoyed
it to the full. New songs must be made for the little new people, new
games invented. We see her taking a grandchild's hands in hers, and
improvising thus:--
"We have two hands,
To buckle bands!
We have ten fingers,
To make clotheswringers!
We have two thumbs,
To pick up crumbs!
We have two heels,
To bob for eels!
We have ten toes,
To match our nose!"
If the child be tired or fretful, "Hush!" says the grandmother. "Be
good, and I will play you the 'Canarybird's Funeral.'" Off they go to
the piano, and the "Canarybird's Funeral" is improvised, and must be
played over and over, for this and succeeding grandchildren. For them,
too, she composed the musical drama of "Flibbertigibbet," which she was
to play and recite for so many happy children, and grown folks too.
Flibbertigibbet was a black imp who appeared one day in the
market-place, and playing a jig on his fiddle, set all the people
dancing whether they would or no. She played the jig, and one did not
wonder at the people. Next came Flibbertigibbet's march, which he played
on his way to prison; his melancholy, as he sat in durance; the cats on
the roof of his prison; finally, entrance of the benevolent fairy, who
whisks him off in a balloon to fairyland. All these, voice and piano
gave together: nobody who heard "Flibbertigibbet" ever forgot it. She
set Mother Goose to music for the grandchildren; singing of Little Boy
Blue, and the Man in the Moon. She thought these nursery melodies among
her best compositions; from time to time, however, other and graver airs
came to her, dreamed over the piano on summer evenings, or in twilight
walks among the Newport meadows. Some of these airs were gathered and
published in later years.[108]
[108] _Song Album._ Published by G. Schirmer & Co.
In May of this year she notes the closing of a life long associated with
hers.
"_May 24._ Laura Bridgman died to-day at about 12 M. This event brings
with it solemn suggestions, which my overcrowded brain cannot adequately
follow. Her training was a beautiful out-blossoming from the romance of
my husband's philanthropy. She has taught a great lesson in her time,
and unfortunates of her sort are now trained, without question of the
result. This was to S. G. H. an undiscovered country in the first
instance. I cannot help imagining him as standing before the face of
the Highest and pointing to his work: happy, thrice happy man, with all
his sorrow!"
The close of her seventieth year was a notable milestone on the long
road. May found her still carrying full sail; a little more tired after
each exertion, a little puzzled at the occasional rebellion of "Sister
Body," her hard-worked "A.B.,"; but not yet dreaming of taking in a
reef.
The seventieth birthday was a great festival. Maud, inviting Oliver
Wendell Holmes to the party, had written, "Mamma will be _seventy years
young_ on the 27th. Come and play with her!"
The Doctor in his reply said, "It is better to be seventy years young
than forty years old!"
Dr. Holmes himself was now eighty years old. It was in these days that
she went with Laura to call on him, and found him in his library, a big,
bright room, looking out on the Charles River, books lining the walls, a
prevailing impression of atlases and dictionaries open on stands. The
greeting between the two was pleasant to see, their talk something to
remember. "Ah, Mrs. Howe," said the Autocrat, "you at seventy have much
to learn about life. At eighty you will find new vistas opening in every
direction!"
Ten years later she was reminded of this. "It is true!" she said.
At parting he kissed her, which touched her deeply.
He was in another mood when they met at a reception shortly after this.
"Ah! Mrs. Howe," he said, "you see I still hang on as one of the old
wrecks!"
"Yes, you are indeed _Rex_!" was the reply.
"Then, Madam," he cried with a flash, "you are _Regina_!"
To return to the birthday! Here are a few of the letters received:--
_From George William Curtis_
WEST NEW BRIGHTON, STATEN ISLAND, N.Y.,
May 9, 1889.
MY DEAR MRS. ELLIOTT,--
I shall still be too lame to venture so far away from home as your kind
invitation tempts me to stray, but no words of my regard and admiration
for Mrs. Howe will ever limp and linger. I doubt if among the hosts who
will offer their homage upon her accession to the years of a ripe youth
there will be many earlier friends than I, and certainly there will be
none who have watched her career with more sympathy in her varied and
humane activities. Poet, scholar, philanthropist, and advocate of true
Democracy, her crown is more than triple, and it is her praise as it may
well be her pride to have added fresh lustre to the married name she
bears.
I am sincerely sorry that only in this inadequate way can I join my
voice to the chorus of friendly rejoicing and congratulation on the
happy day, which reminds us only of the perpetual youth of the warm
heart and the sound mind.
Very truly yours,
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.
_From W. W. Story_
MY DEAR JULIA,--
(I suppose I may still call you so--we are both so young and
inexperienced) I cannot let this anniversary of your birth go by,
without stretching out my hands to you across the ocean, and throwing to
you all they can hold of good wishes, and affectionate thought, and
delightful memories. Though years have gone by since I have seen you,
you are still fresh, joyous, and amusing, and charming as ever. Of this
I am fully persuaded, and often I look into that anxious mirror of my
mind, and see you and wander with you, and jest with you and sing with
you, as I used in the olden days; and never will I be so faithless as to
believe that you are any older than you were--and I hope earnestly you
are no wiser and that a great deal of folly is still left in you--as it
is, I am happy to say, in me.
For, after all, what is life worth when its folly is all departed? When
we have grown wise and sad as well as old--it is time to say Good-bye.
But that time has not come for us yet. So let us still shout _Evviva_!
I do not mention the fact of your age,--I don't know it,--but if I
should guess, from what I know I should say twenty-five. I was
twenty-eight when I left America--and that is such a few months ago--and
I know you were born somewhat about the same time.
You will receive a great many congratulations and expressions of
friendship, but none more sincere than those of
Your old friend--I mean
Your young friend,
W. W. STORY.
ROME, PALAZZO BARBERINI,
MAY 10, 1889.
_From James Russell Lowell_
68 BEACON STREET,
13th MAY, 1889.
DEAR MRS. HOWE,--
I shouldn't have suspected it, but if you say so, I am bound to believe
this improbability, as absurd as Leporello's Catalogue for its numerals.
If it be so--I beg pardon--since it is so, I am glad that you are going
to take it cheerfully as who should say to Time, "Another turn of the
glass, please, my young friend, I'm writing." But alas, I can't be there
to take a glass with you. You say, "if there be no obstacle." No less
than a couple of thousand miles of water, harder to get over than the
years themselves, which indeed get behind more swiftly than they ought.
I can at least wish you many happy returns of the day and will drink to
your health on the 27th. I sail on the 18th.
Pray accept my thanks and regrets and make them acceptable to your
children.
Faithfully yours,
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
The Journal thus notes the occasion.
"My seventieth birthday. A very busy day for all of us.... My head was
dressed at eleven. All my children were here, with daughter- and
sons-in-law. I had many lovely gifts. The house was like a garden of
costly flowers. Breakfast was at 12.30; was in very good style. Guests:
General Walker, John S. Dwight, E. E. Hale, Mrs. Jack Gardner, Mmes.
Bell, Pratt, and Agassiz. Walker made the first speech at the table, H.
M. H.[109] being toastmaster. Walker seemed to speak very feelingly,
calling me the first citizeness of the country; stood silent a little
and sat down. Dwight read a delightful poem; Hale left too soon to do
anything. H. introduced J. S. D. thus: 'Sweetness and light, your name
is Dwight.' While we sat at table, baskets and bouquets of wonderful
flowers kept constantly arriving; the sweet granddaughters brought them
in, in a sort of procession lovely to see. It rained in the afternoon,
but the house was thronged with visitors, all the same."
[109] Henry Marion Howe.
A sober entry, written the next day, when she was "very tired, with a
delightful fatigue": but on the day itself she was gay, enjoying her
"party" to the full, treasuring every flower, wondering why people were
so good to her.
The festivities lasted several days, for every one wanted to "play
Birthday" with her. The New England Woman's Club gave her a luncheon,
which she valued next to the home celebration; the blind children of the
Perkins Institution must hear her speak, and in return sing some of her
songs, and give her flowers, clustering round her with tender, groping
fingers that sought to clasp hers. Moreover, the last week of May is
Anniversary Week in Boston. Suffragists, women ministers, Unitarians,
"uplifters" of every description, held their meetings (traditionally in
a pouring rain) and one and all wanted Mrs. Howe.
"I have said to God on every morning of these busy days: 'Give me this
day,' and He has given them all: _i.e._, He has given me power to fulfil
the task appointed for each."
When she finally got to Newport, she was "dazed with the quiet after the
strain of heart and fatigue."
The ministry was much in her mind this summer.
"I take for my guidance a new motto: 'I will ascend'; not in my
ambition, but in my thoughts and aims."
"A dry Sunday, _i.e._, no church, it being the women's turn to go. I
shelled peas for dinner. Began Rambaud's 'History of Russia.'... I think
of two sermons to write, one, 'A spirit of Power'; one, 'Behold, I show
you a more excellent way.'"
Suffrage had its meed too in these summer days.
"Have copied my Call for the Congress. In my coming suffrage talks will
invite women to study the history of their sex in the past, and its
destiny in the future; inertia and ignorance are the great dangers of
society. The old condition of women largely increased instead of
diminishing these sources of evil. The women were purposely kept
ignorant, in order that they might be enslaved and degraded. Inertia is
largely fostered by the paralysis of independent action...."
"I feel just now that we ought to try hard to have all the Far West
represented at the Denver Congress."
"Thought a book or article about 'Fooleries' would be entertaining and
instructive. The need of this element in human society is shown by the
ancient jesters and court fools.... In Bible times Samson made sport for
the Philistines. People now do their own dancing and their own fooling:
some of it very dull. Query: What ancient jests have been preserved?
'The Fools of old and of all time' would not be a bad title."
* * * * *
In October came the Woman's Congress in Denver; she was there,
"attending all meetings and sessions."
"Mrs. ----'s paper on 'The Redemptive Power of Art' was very so-so, and
did not touch my conception of the theme, viz., art made valuable for
the reform of criminals. I spoke of this with warmth."
After the Congress "the visiting ladies enjoyed a drive about the city
of Denver. I went early to the High School with A. A. B.[110] Found Mrs.
Cheney speaking to the pupils assembled. She did not notice our entrance
and spoke of me very warmly. Presently, turning round, she saw us and we
all laughed. I spoke to them of my 'drink of youth'; compared the
spirits of youth to steam given to carry them on a celestial railroad;
compared youth to wine in a beautiful vase; spoke of ancient libations
to the gods; our libation to be poured to the true Divine; urged them
not to starve their studies in order to feed their amusements. 'Two ways
of study, one mean, the other generous.' Told them not to imitate
savages, who will barter valuable land for worthless baubles; not so to
barter their opportunities for barren pleasures."
[110] The Reverend Antoinette Blackwell.
She preached at Unity Church Sunday morning.
"At Grace Church [Methodist] in the afternoon. Spoke to the text, 'God
hath not left himself without a witness.' This witness is in every human
heart; which, with all its intense desires, desires most of all, law,
order, religion.... I applied my text to the coming out into the new
territories; a rough Exodus stimulated by the love of gold; but with the
army of fortune-seekers go faithful souls, and instead of passing out of
civilization, they extend its bounds. 'Praise waiteth for thee in
Zion'--yes, but the Prophet says: 'The solitary places shall be glad for
them,' et cetera. I set this down for future use."
* * * * *
The Denver people were most friendly, and she enjoyed the visit greatly.
Thence she stepped westward once more, lecturing and preaching as she
went, everywhere welcomed with cordial warmth, everywhere carrying her
ministry with her.
"A sweet young mother was dreadfully plagued with two babies; I helped
her as much as I could."
"A delicate young woman was travelling with her father, a boy of five
years, and a semi-friend, semi-help, not much of either. This party sat
opposite me in the Pullman, and soon made acquaintance. She is going for
her health from Tacoma to California. An odd-looking genius, something
like ---- in his youth, got in somewhere and attracted my attention by
his restless manner. I took him for no good; a gambler, perhaps. He
seemed to notice me a good deal....
"Made acquaintance with the odd-looking young man. He is a timber-land
broker. He had noticed me because I reminded him of his mother. We
became friends. He told me his story. He brought another gentleman, a
man more of society than himself, and we and Mrs. Campbell played whist.
We were quite gay all day. In the evening a sad, elderly man whom I had
observed, came over and showed me his wife's photograph as she had
looked in health, and then a photograph of her in her last illness; he
holding her up in his arms. He said he was travelling to help his
sorrow.
"At Reading my two whist gentlemen cried out, '_Tamales!_' and rushed
out. They presently returned, bringing some curious Mexican eatables,
corn meal with chicken and red peppers rolled in corn leaves. These folk
all left at Sacramento at three in the morning."
California was once more her goal. This second visit was brief and
hurried.
"Hurry, scurry to dress for the Forefathers' Day celebration. Oakley was
my squire. I was taken down to dinner by Professor Moore, President of
the occasion.... I was suddenly and unexpectedly called for, and all
were requested to rise, which was a great honor done me. I spoke of two
Congregationalists whom I had known, Antoinette Blackwell, of whose
ordination I told; then of Theodore Parker, of whom I said, 'Nothing
that I have heard here is more Christian than what I heard from him.' I
told of his first having brought into notice the hymn, 'Nearer, My God,
to Thee,' and said that I had sung it with him; said that in advising
with all women's clubs, I always urged them to include in their
programmes pressing questions of the day. Was much applauded.... They
then sang the 'Battle Hymn' and we adjourned."
* * * * *
She spent Christmas with Sister Annie, in great contentment; her last
word before starting for home is, "Thank God for much good!"
_To Maud_
BOSTON.
I reached Boston very comfortably on Monday night about eleven o'clock.
I was slower than usual [on the journey] in making friends with those
around me, but finally thought I would speak to the pleasant-looking
woman on my left. She had made acquaintance with the people who had the
two sections behind mine. I had observed a gaunt young man going back
and forth, with a look on his face which made me say to my friend in
Number Nine: "That man must have committed a murder." Who do you think
he turned out to be? Lieutenant Ripley, of the Vandalia, U.S.N., the
great ship which went to pieces on the Samoan reef. I, of course,
determined to hear about it from his own lips, and we had a most
interesting talk. He is very slight, but must be all nerve and muscle.
All the sailors in the top in which he was clinging for his life fell
off and were drowned. He held on till the Trenton came down upon them,
when, with the others who were saved in other parts of the rigging, he
crept along a hawser and somehow reached the Trenton. Fearing that she
would go to pieces, he started with fifteen sailors to swim ashore--he
alone was saved--he says he is much practised in swimming. I spoke of
this all as a dreadful experience. "Yes," said he, with a twinkle in his
eye, "but the storm cleared out the Germans for us." He was thrown
ashore insensible, but soon recovered consciousness--had been naked and
without food for thirty-six hours. Took a cup of coffee in one hand, and
a cup of brandy in the other, and swallowed a little from each
alternately, his refection lasting from nine in the evening till one
o'clock at night....
_To the same_
We have not seen the sun in some days. I hope that he has shined upon
you. Item, I have almost finished my anxious piece of work for the N.Y.
"Evening Post," after which I shall say, "Now, frolic, soul, with thy
coat off!"
In January, 1890, she "heard young Cram[111] explain Tristram and
Iseult,' and young Prescott execute some of the music. It seemed to me
like _broken china_, no complete chord; no perfect result; no
architectonic."
[111] Ralph Adams Cram, architect and _littérateur_.
She never learned to like what was in those days "the new music." Wagner
and Brahms were anathema to her, as to many another music-lover of her
time, notably John Sullivan Dwight, long-time Boston's chief musical
critic. Many a sympathetic talk they had together; one can see him now,
his eyes burning gentle fire, head nodding, hands waving, as he
denounced what seemed to him wanton cacophony. She avoided the Symphony
Concerts at which "the new music" was exploited; but it was positive
pain to her to miss a symphony of Beethoven or Schubert.
In March of this year the Saturday Morning Club of Boston gave a
performance of the "Antigone" of Sophocles.
"In afternoon to the second representation of the 'Antigone.'... On the
whole very pathetic and powerful. Mrs. Tilden full of dramatic fire;
Sally Fairchild ideally beautiful in dress, attitude, and expression.
The whole a high feast of beauty and of poetry. The male parts
wonderfully illusive, especially that of Tiresias, the seer...."
_To Laura_
241 BEACON STREET, BOSTON,
April 26, 1890.
I'se very sorry for unhandsome neglect complained of in your last. What
are we going to do about it? I have now and then made efforts to reclaim
the old Party, but have long considered her incorrigible. What shall we
say, then? "Where sin doth abound, Grace shall much more abound," or
words to that effect, are recorded of one Paul, of whom I have no mean
opinion. So, there's Scripture for you, do you see? As I wrote you
yes'day or day before, things have been _hoppy_ here since my return.
The elder Agassiz used to mention in his lectures the _Lepidoptera_, and
I think that's the creature (insect, I b'lieve) which infests Boston.
What I have hopped for, and whither to, I cannot in the least remember.
Flossy was here, as you know, and I hop't for her. I also 'tended two of
the festival Oratorios, which were fine, but to me very fatiguing. I
find that I must take public amusements, when I do take them, in the
afternoon, as in the evening bodily fatigue overmasters even the
æsthetic sense, and it is not worth while to pay a large price for the
pleasure of wishing one's self at home.... The benefit at Boston Museum
for the Vincent Hospital netted over $1600. It was a brilliant success,
but I caught there the first cold I have had since my return from the
Far West. Maud is very busy with the flower table, which she has
undertaken, _having nothing to do_. This is for the Vincent Fair, which
will take place on Tuesday, 29th.... Have got a few lovely books from
Libbie's sale of the Hart collection--among other things, a fine French
edition of "Les Misérables," which I am at last glad never to have read,
as I shall enjoy it, _D.V._, in some of the long reading days of
summer....
Your ownty donty
MA.
P.S. Before the Libbie sale I wickedly bid $25 upon a small but very
precious missal. It brought $825!!
* * * * *
When she reached Oak Glen in mid-June, she felt a "constant
discouragement"; was lonely, and missed the cheerful converse of her
club and suffrage friends. "My work seems to me to amount to nothing at
all." She soon revived, and "determined to fulfil in due order all the
tasks undertaken for this summer; so attacked the Kappa poem and wrote
at a stretch twenty-two verses, of four lines each, which was pretty
much my day's work. Read in Martineau, in J. F. C., a little Greek, and
the miserable 'Les Misérables.'"
She decided to hold some conversations in the Unitarian parsonage, and
wrote out the following topics for them:--
"Useful undertakings in this city as existing and needed."
"How to promote public spirit in American men and women."
"How to attain a just average estimate of our own people."
"How far is it wise to adopt the plan of universal reading for ourselves
and our young people?"
"In what respects do the foreign civilizations retard, in what do they
promote the progress of our own civilization?"
In August she preached to the women in Sherborn Prison, choosing a "text
of cheer and uplifting: 'Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the
glory.' Read part of Isaiah 40th. Said that I had wished to bring them
some word of comfort and exhilaration. Pointed out how the Lord's Prayer
begins with solemn worship and ascription, aspiring to God's Kingdom,
praying for daily bread and for deliverance from temptation and all
evil; at the close it rises into this joyous strain, 'Thine is the
kingdom,' et cetera. Tried to show how the kingdom is God, the great
providential order, before and beyond all earthly government; then the
power, that of perfect wisdom and goodness, the power to know and rule
all things, to be everywhere and ever present, to regulate the mighty
sweep of stars and planets, and, at the same time, to take note of the
poorest and smallest of us; the glory first of the visible universe,
glory of the day and night, of the seasons, glory of the redeeming power
of truth, glory of the inexhaustible patience, of boundless compassion
and love."
She enjoyed the visit to the prison and was thankful for it.
A few days later, at a meeting in Newport, she heard a lady demand that
the children of genius should be set apart from others for special
education and encouragement, receiving a pension even in their early
years. She demanded colleges of genius, and a retreat for people of
genius. By thus fostering juvenile promise, we should produce giants and
demigods.
"I, being called upon, gave the card house a tolerable shaking, and, I
think, brought it down, for which several people thanked me."
Vividly as she lived in the present, the past was never far from her.
"Had in the morning at first waking a very vivid mind-picture of my
sweet young mother lying dead, with two or three of us little ones
standing about her. My brother Henry, two years my senior, laid his
little hand upon her forehead and said: 'It is as cold as a stone,' or
some such comparison. I felt strangely, this morning, the very pain and
agony of that moment, preceding the tragical vision of a life in which
that central point of nurture, a mother's affection and wisdom, has been
wanting. The scene in my mind was only a vivid reminiscence of what
actually took place, which I never forgot, but I had not felt it as I
did to-day in many years."