"_October 24...._ I read my verse, my voice serving me very well. Bishop

Lawrence helped me both to rise and to return to my seat. He made a most

touching allusion to my dearest dear Julia's devotion to the blind, and

said where a man was engaged in a noble work there usually rose up a

noble woman to help him."

"_October 26._ Had a sudden blessed thought this morning, viz.: that the

'Tabernacle eternal in the heavens' is the eternity of truth and right.

I naturally desire life after death, but if it is not granted me, I

have yet a part in the eternal glory of this tabernacle."

"_October 29._ Dear H. M. H. left us this morning, after a short but

very pleasant visit. He brought here his decorations of his Russian

order to show us; they are quite splendid. He is the same dear old

simple music- and mischief-loving fellow, very sensitive for others,

very modest for himself, and very dear."

"_November 7...._ Prayed _hard_ this morning that my strength fail not."

During this summer, an electric elevator had been put into the Boston

house, and life was made much easier for her. From this time we became

familiar with the vision of her that still abides, flitting up or down

in her gilded car. Watching her ascent, clad in white, a smile on her

lips, her hand waving farewell, one could only think of "The chariot of

Israel and the horsemen thereof."

Another good gift was a Victor machine. When the after-dinner reading

was over, she would say, "Now bring my opera-box!"

The white armchair was wheeled into the passage between the two parlors.

Here she sat in state, while the great singers poured out their

treasures before her, while violinist and pianist gave her their best.

She listened with keen and critical enjoyment, recalling how Malibran

gave this note, how Grisi and Mario sang that duet. Then she would go to

the piano and play from memory airs from "Tancredi," "Il Pirata,"

"Richard Coeur de Lion," and other operas known to us only through

her. Or she would--always without notes--play the "Barber of Seville"

almost from beginning to end, with fingers still deft and nimble.

She loved the older operas best. After an air from "Don Giovanni," she

would say, "Mozart must be in heaven: they could never get on without

him!" She thought Handel's "Messiah" the most divine point reached by

earthly music. Beethoven awed and swayed her deeply, and she often

quoted his utterance while composing, "_Ich trat in der Nähe Gottes!_"

She thrilled with tender pleasure over Verdi's "_Non ti scordar_," or

"_Ai nostri monti_," and over "Martha." She enjoyed Chopin "almost too

much." "He is exquisite," she would say, "but somehow--rotten!"

Among the pleasures of this winter was a visit to New York. She writes

after it:--

"My last day in my dear son's house. He and Fannie have been devotedly

kind to me. They made me occupy their room, much to my bodily comfort,

but to the great disquiet of my mind, as I hated much to inconvenience

them. My son has now a very eminent position.... God bless the house and

all in it."

"_December 17._ The Old South Chapter of D.A.R.'s met in the real Old

South Church; there was much good speaking. I recited my 'Battle Hymn'

and boasted my descent from General Marion, the Swamp Fox, saying also,

'When, eluding the vigilance of children and grandchildren, I come to

such a meeting as this, without a previous promise not to open my lips,

I think that I show some of the dexterity of my illustrious relative.' I

also had to spring up and tell them that my grandmother, niece to

General Marion, gave her flannel petticoat to make cartridges for the

soldiers of the Revolution."

The path of the guardian (or jailer, as she sometimes put it) was not

always plain. The wayfaring woman might easily err therein.

After some severe fatigue, convention or banquet, she might say, "This

is the last time. Never let me do this again!"

Thereupon a promise would be exacted and made. The fatigue would pass

and be forgotten, and the next occasion be joyously prepared for.

"You told me not to let you go!" the poor jailer would say.

"Oh, I didn't mean it!"

"But you promised!"

"That was two weeks ago. Two weeks is a long time for me to keep a

promise!"

If the jailer still persisted, she played her last card and took the

trick.

"I can't talk about it. You tire my head!"

Now and then Greek met Greek. One snowy afternoon she encountered the

resident granddaughter, cloaked and hooded, preparing to brave the

storm.

"Dear child," said the grandmother, "I do not often use authority with

you young people, but this time I must. I cannot allow you to go out in

this blizzard!"

"Dearest grandmother," replied the maiden, "_where are you going

yourself_?"

There was no reply. The two generations dissolved in laughter, and

started out together.

She bids farewell to 1906 as "dear Year that hast brought me so many

comforts and pleasures!" and thus hails the New Year:--

"I earnestly pray for God's blessing on this year!... I might possibly

like one more European journey to see the Gallery at Madrid, and the

châteaux of Touraine, but I do not ask it, as I may have more important

occupation for my time and money.... _Du reste_, the dear Father has

done so much better for me, in many ways, than I have ingenuity to wish,

that I can only say, 'Thy will be done, only desert me not.'"

She determines "at last to be more prompt in response to letters and

bills. I am now apt to lose sight of them, to my great inconvenience and

that of other people."

It was pain to her to destroy even a scrap of paper that bore writing:

the drifts of notes and letters grew higher and higher among the piles

of books, new and old. The books were not all her own choice. Many a

firstling of verse found its way to her, inscribed with reverent or

loving words by the author. Would Mrs. Howe send a few lines of

appreciation or criticism? She would; mostly she did. She wrote in the

autograph albums, and on the pieces of silk and cotton for "autograph

quilts": she signed the photographs: she tried to do everything they

asked.

"_January 11._ Having hammered at some verses for General Lee, when I

lay down to rest a perfect flood of rhymes seized me. Nonsense verses

for to-morrow's festival; there seemed to be no end to them. I scrawled

some of them down as it was late and dark. Sanborn to dine--unexpected,

but always welcome."

"_January 12._ Copied and completed my lines for the evening. Found a

large assemblage of members and invited guests [of the Authors' Club]; a

dais and chair prepared for me, Colonel Higginson standing on my right.

Many presentations--Gilder and Clyde Fitch, Owen Wister, Norman Hapgood.

Aldrich [T. B.] took me in to dinner and sat on my right, Hon. John D.

Long on my left; next beyond A. sat Homans Womans.[149] I despaired of

making my jingle tell in so large and unfamiliar a company. At last I

took courage and read it, bad as I thought it. To my surprise, it told,

and created the merriment which had been my object so far as I had any.

My 'Battle Hymn' was sung finely by a male quartette. Colonel Higginson

and I were praised almost out of our senses. A calendar, got up with

much labor, was presented to each of us."

[149] Mrs. Charles Homans.

"_January 13._ To church, to take down my vanity after last evening's

laudations...."

"_January 15._ Made a final copy of my lines on Robert E. Lee,--read

them to Rosalind--the last line drew a tear from each of us, so I

concluded that it would do and sent it.

"To Tuesday Club, where the effort which I made to hear speakers tired

my head badly. Themes: 'Whether and how to teach Ethics in Public

Schools'; also, 'The English Education Bill.' Socrates having been

mentioned as an exemplar, I suddenly cried out that I thought he did

wrong to stay and suffer by unjust laws and popular superstition. A

first-class American would have got away and would have fought those

people to the bitter death. This fiery little episode provoked laughter,

and several privately told me they were glad of it."

"_January 25...._ Read Colonel Higginson's account of me in the

'Outlook.' Wrote him a note of thanks, saying that he has written

beautifully, with much tact and kindness. It remains true that he has

not much acquaintance with the serious side of my life and character, my

studies of philosophy, etc. He has described what he has seen of me and

has certainly done it with skill and with a most kind intention."

She said of the Colonel's paper, "He does not realize that my _life_ has

been here, the four walls of my room."

"_February 5...._ Began a sermon on the text, 'I saw Satan like

lightning fall from heaven.'..."

"_February 6._ Wrote a good bit on the sermon begun yesterday--the theme

attracts me much. If I give it, I will have Whittier's hymn sung: 'Oh!

sometimes gleams upon our sight--'

"Wrote to thank Higginson for sending me word that I am the first woman

member of the society of American Authors...."

"_February 14._ Luncheon at 3 Joy Street.... My seat was between T. W.

H. and President Eliot, with whom I had not spoken in many years. He

spoke to me at once and we shook hands and conversed very cordially. I

had known his father quite well--a lover of music, who had much to do

with the early productions of Beethoven's Symphonies in Boston,

collecting money in aid of the undertaking. President Eliot made a good

speech for Berea; others followed.... When my name was called, I had

already a good thought to express."

"_February 18._ To N.E.W.C., where Colonel Higginson and I spoke of

Longfellow; I from long and intimate acquaintance, he from a literary

point of view. He said, I thought rightly, that we are too near him to

be able to judge his merits as a poet; time must test them."

"_February 27...._ In evening went with the Jewett sisters to the

celebration of Longfellow's Centennial. I had copied my verses written

for the first Authors' Reading _in re_ Longfellow, rather hoping that I

might be invited to read them. This did not happen. I had had no reason

to suppose that it would, not having been thereunto invited. Had a seat

on the platform among the poet's friends, myself one of the oldest of

them. It seemed as if I could hardly hold my tongue, which, however, I

did. I remembered that God has given me many opportunities of speaking

my thoughts. If He withheld this one I am bound to suppose it was for

the best. I sat on the platform, where Sarah Jewett and I were the only

women in the charmed circle.

"Item. The audience rose and greeted me as I ascended to the platform at

Sanders Theatre."

She could not bear to be "left out"; indeed, she rarely was. In this one

respect she was, perhaps, the "spoiled child" that she sometimes called

herself.

March brought a new pleasure, in seeing and meeting Novelli, the great

Italian actor.

"_March 14._ The banquet of the Circolo at Lombardy Inn.... My seat was

at the head of the table with Novelli on my right and Tosti, the consul,

on my left. Had some pleasant talk with each. Then I had a good

inspiration for part of my speech, in which I mentioned the egg used by

Columbus, and made to stand, to show that things held to be impossible

often proved possible. I said that out of this egg 'was hatched the

American Eagle.' Madame Novelli shed tears at this, and Novelli kissed

my hand. The Italian servants listened eagerly to all the speaking, and

participated in the applause. President Geddes, Secretary Jocelyn, and

others spoke well and rather briefly. Dear Padre Roberto was really

eloquent."

"_March 16...._ In the evening to see Novelli in 'Morte Civile'; his

personation wonderfully fine, surpassing even Salvini in the part...."

"_March 17...._ Went to South Boston to say a word at the presentation

of dear Michael's portrait to the Perkins Institution by the Howe

Memorial Club.... Also had a wonderful fit of verse--wrote two sonnets

to Dante and a versification of my conceit about the hatching of the

American Eagle from the egg of Columbus."

"_March 23._ A 'boot-and-saddle' day.... I found that my Authors' Club

will meet to-day in Cambridge. Higginson telephoned, asking me to speak

of Aldrich; I asked permission to leave the College Club after the

speaking. Ordered a carriage at 4.30, sprang into it, and reached the

Authors' meeting in good time to say something about Aldrich.... Found a

man who has studied the Berber races in Africa. Had a good talk with

him. Came home dreadfully tired. To bed by 9.30. At the College Club I

said that to give women the vote in this State would not double the

illiterate vote--proposed a census of comparative illiteracy of the

sexes in Massachusetts at least."

* * * * *

We had long besought her to have her musical compositions written down,

and now this was done in part. Once or twice a week Mr. John M. Loud

came to the house and took down her melodies, she singing and playing

them to him. She always enjoyed the hour with the young composer. A

number of the melodies thus preserved were published in a "Song Album"

by G. Schirmer some months later.

"_April 8._ Great trouble of mind about attending the Peace Convention

in New York, which I have promised to do. Laura dead against it,

reinforced by Wesselhoeft, Sr., who pronounces it dangerous for me. I at

last wrote to ask my dear minister about it."

"_April 9...._ A violent snowstorm keeps me at home. Minister and wife

write, 'Don't go to Peace Convention.' I asked God in my prayer this

morning to make going possible or impossible for me. I took C. G. A.'s

letter as making it impossible, as I had decided to abide by his

decision. Wrote a letter of explanation to Anna Garlin Spencer. I am

much disappointed, but it is a relief not to cause Laura such painful

anxiety as she would have felt if I had decided to go. She wept with

joy when I gave it up. We had a very pleasant dinner party for the

Barrett Wendells with their friends, Professor Ames, of Berkeley

University, California, 'Waddy' Longfellow, Charles Gibson, Laura,

Betty, and I."

She sent a letter to the Convention, which was read by Florence. In

this, after recalling her Peace Crusade of 1872, she said:--

"Here and there, a sisterly voice responded to my appeal, but the

greater number said: 'We have neither time nor money that we can call

our own. We cannot travel, we cannot meet together.' And so my intended

Peace Congress of Women melted away like a dream, and my final meeting,

held in the world's great metropolis, did not promise to lead to any

important result.

"What has made the difference between that time and this? New things, so

far as women are concerned, viz.: the higher education conceded to them,

and the discipline of associated action, with which later years have

made them familiar. Who shall say how great an element of progress has

existed in this last clause? Who shall say what fretting of personal

ambition has become merged in the higher ideal of service to the State

and to the world? The noble army of women which I saw as a dream, and to

which I made my appeal, has now come into being. On the wide field where

the world's great citizens band together to uphold the highest interests

of society, women of the same type employ their gifts and graces to the

same end. Oh, happy change! Oh, glorious metamorphosis! In less than

half a century the conscience of mankind has made its greatest stride

toward the control of human affairs. The women's colleges and the

women's clubs have had everything to do with the great advance which we

see in the moral efficiency of our sex. These two agencies have been

derided and decried, but they have done their work.

"If a word of elderly counsel may become me at this moment, let me say

to the women here assembled: Do not let us go back from what we have

gained. Let us, on the contrary, press ever forward in the light of the

new knowledge, of the new experience. If we have rocked the cradle, if

we have soothed the slumbers of mankind, let us be on hand at their

great awakening to make steadfast the peace of the world!"

She was glad afterward that she had not gone; but a significant

corollary to the matter appears on April 25:--

"Providence--a pleasant trip, made possible by dear Laura's departure."

(That is, "dear Laura" knew nothing about it till afterward. How often

we recalled the old Quaker's saying to her, "It was borne in upon me at

an early period that if I told no one what I intended to do, I should be

enabled to do it!")

In the last week of April ("dear Laura" being still absent) she spoke

four times in public, on four successive days. These addresses were at

the Kindergarten for the Blind ("I missed the snap which Michael's

presence was wont to give; I spoke praise of him to the children, as one

to be held in dear remembrance; to the visitors, as having left the

public a sacred legacy in these schools, which he created with so much

labor"), at Faneuil Hall, a meeting about Old Home Week, at the West

Newton High School, and at Providence. On the fifth day she was at the

Wintergreen Club, answering the question, "What is the Greatest Evil of

the Present Day?"--"False estimates of values, vehement striving for

what hinders rather than helps our spiritual development."

After this bout she was glad to rest a day or two, but in another week

was ready for the Woman Suffrage Festival. "I to open it, evening,

Faneuil Hall. A day of rushing. Lady Mary and Professor Gilbert Murray

to breakfast 9 A.M., which I much enjoyed. Then my little music man, who

took three tunes; then a snatch at preparation for the evening's

exercises. Jack and Elizabeth Chapman in the afternoon. At 4.45 got a

little rest and sleep. At 5.40 drove to Faneuil Hall, which I found not

so full as sometimes. Thought miserably of my speech. Light to read it

very dim. I called to order, introduced Mr. White and the ladies'

quartette, then read my poor little scribble.... I was thankful to get

through my part, and my speech in print wasn't bad at all."

In May she preached at the Church of the Disciples.

"A culmination of anxiety for this day, desired and yet dreaded. My head

growled a little at waking, but not badly. My voice seemed all right,

but how about the matter of my sermon? Was it all worth while, and on

Whitsunday too? I wore my white cashmere dress. Laura went with me to

church. C. G. A. was there. As he led me to the pulpit, the

congregation rose. The service was very congenial and calming to my

anxiety. I read the sermon quite audibly from beginning to end. It was

listened to with profound attention, if I may say so."

"_May 20...._ Marion Crawford arrived soon after three for a little

visit. He looks greatly improved in health since I last saw him. He must

have passed through some crisis and come out conqueror. He has all his

old charm...."

She was lamenting the death of her cousin and childhood playfellow, Dr.

Valentine Mott Francis, when "a much greater affliction" fell upon her

in the death of her son-in-law, David Prescott Hall. "This hurts me,"

she writes, "like a physical pain."

_To Florence_

OAK GLEN, July 3, 1907.

MY DEAREST DEAR FLOSSY,--

You are quite right in saying that we greatly need the consoling belief

in a future life to help us bear the painful separation which death

brings. Surely, the dear Christ believed in immortality, and promised it

to faithful souls. I have myself derived great comfort from this belief,

although I must confess that I know nothing about it. You may remember

what [Downer] said to your dear father: "I don't know anything about it,

but Jesus Christ certainly believed in immortality, and I pin my faith

on him, and _run for luck_."... Alice and her trio of babes came safe to

hand this morning. Frances at once began to spread the gravel from

outdoors on the best staircase, but desisted when forbidden to do

so.... Farewell, dearest child. You have had a grievous loss, and will

feel it more and more. We must trust in God, and take our sorrows

believing in the loving fatherhood. Maud writes me that she suffers an

_irreparable_ loss in dear David's death....

Your loving

MOTHER.

Much work was on hand this summer: a poem for Old Home Week in Boston,

another for the Cooperstown Centennial, a paper on the "Elegant

Literature of Fifty Years Since," one for the "Delineator" on "The Three

Greatest Men I Have Known." These were Ralph Waldo Emerson, Theodore

Parker, and Dr. Howe. She spent much time and pains on this article. She

read Elliot Cabot's "Life of Emerson," which she thought "certainly a

good piece of work, but deficient, it seems to me, in the romantic

sympathy which is the true interpretation of Emerson and of all his

kind."

She "hammered" hard on the two poems, with good results.

"_July 14._ I can hardly believe it, but my miserable verses, re-read

to-day, seemed quite possible, if I can have grace to fill out their

sketchiness. Last word ton-ight: I think I have got a poem. _Nil

desperandum!_"

"_July 24._ Difficult to exaggerate the record of my worry this morning.

I feel a painful uncertainty about going to Boston to read my poem for

Old Home Week. Worse than this is my trouble about two poems sent me

while in Boston, with original music, to be presented to the committee

for Home Week, which I have entirely forgotten and neglected. To do this

was far from my intention, but my old head fairly gave out in the

confusion of the various occasions in which I was obliged to take an

active part."

She yielded to entreaty and stayed at home, and was rewarded by "a most

gratifying letter from Edward Everett Hale, telling me that Josiah

Quincy read my poem with real feeling, and that it was warmly received."

"My prayer is answered. I have lived to see my dear girl again.... I

give thanks earnestly and heartily, but seem for a time paralyzed by her

presence."

With the early autumn came a great pleasure in a visit to the new "Green

Peace," the house which her son had built at Bedford Hills, New York.

She was delighted with the house and garden; the Journal tells of all

manner of pleasant gayeties.

"_September 12._ Fannie had a luncheon party even pleasanter than

yesterday's. Rev. Mr. Luquer is a grandson of Dominick Lynch, who used

to come to my father's house in my childhood and break my heart by

singing 'Lord Ullin's Daughter.' I remember creeping under the piano

once to hide my tears. He sang all the Moore melodies with great

expression.... This, his descendant, looks a good deal like him. Was

bred a lawyer. My good Uncle Cutler twice asked him whether he would

study for the ministry. He said, 'No.' My uncle said the second time,

'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own

soul?' This word, he told me, came back to him. ... Worked a good deal

on my poem. At least thought and thought much, and altered a little."

This was the poem which prefaces this chapter and which was written for

the forthcoming Unitarian Convention in Boston. She had been at work on

it for some time, first "_trying to try for it_," and later "hammering"

and polishing with great care. "It came to me like a flash," she says,

"but had to be much thought over and corrected." And again, "It was

given to me something as was my 'Battle Hymn.'..."

"_October 25._ Wrote to a very bumptious child, thirteen years old, who

proffers me her friendship and correspondence, claiming to have written

poems and magazine contributions praised by 'noted authors.' I sent her

back her letter, with three or four corrections and a little advice,

kindly meant, but which may not be so taken.... She will probably turn

and rend me, but I really felt it might do her good."

"_November 14. Gardiner._ A good meditation. The sense of God in the

universe seems to be an attribute of normal humanity. We cannot think of

our own personal identity without at the same time imagining a greater

self from which we derive. This idea may be crude and barbarous, great

minds have done much to make it otherwise; Christ most of all with His

doctrine of divine love, providence, and forgiveness. The idea of a life

beyond this one seems also to appertain to normal humanity. We had best

accept this great endowment which philosophy seeks to analyze much as a

boy will take a watch to pieces, but cannot put it together again so

that it will work."

"_November 15._ Another long sitting and meditation. What have

individual philosophers done for religion? As I recall what I could

learn of the Kantian philosophy, I think that it principally taught the

limitations of human knowledge, correcting thereby the assumptions of

systems of thought and belief to _absolute_ authority over the thinker

and believer. He calls conscience 'the categorical imperative'; but that

term in no wise explains either the origin or authority of the moral

law. His rule of testing the rectitude of the act by the way in which,

if it were made universal, it would affect the well-being of society, is

useful, but simply pragmatic, not in William James's sense. The German

idealism, the theory by which we evolve or create all that occupies our

senses and our mind, appears to me a monstrous expanse of egotism. No

doubt, dialectics serve as mental athletics, and speculative thought may

be useful as an exercise of the mental powers; but processes which may

be useful in this way might be very unfit to be held as permanent

possessions of persuasion. It occurs to me that it might be more blessed

to help the souls in hell than to luxuriate with saints in heaven."

"_November 20. Boston._ Began my screed on the 'Joys of Motherhood' for

the 'Delineator.' Wrote _currente calamo_...."

"_November 23._ Rather an off day. Found T. W. Higginson's little volume

of verses, presented to me on my seventieth birthday, and read a good

deal in it. When the Colonel gave it to me, he read a little poem,

'Sixty and Six,' very charmingly. Seems to me that I ought to have read

this little book through long before this time. One of the sweetest

poems in it is about the blue-eyed baby that they lost after some six

weeks' happy possession. I sent a pretty little baby wreath for it,

feeling very sorry for them both."

"_November 28._ Much troubled about my Whittier poem."

"_December 3._ Thanks be to God! I have written my Whittier rhyme. It

has cost me much labor, for I have felt that I could not treat a memory

so reverend with cheap and easy verses. I have tried to take his

measure, and to present a picture of him which shall deserve to

live."[150]

[150] This poem appears in _At Sunset_.

* * * * *

Mr. and Mrs. Cobden-Sanderson, the English suffragists, were in Boston

this winter. They dined with her, and proved "very agreeable. Mrs.

Sanderson's visit ought to help suffrage mightily, she is in such dead

earnest for it. After dinner I proposed that each one should name his

favorite Browning poem. I named 'Pippa,' Mrs. Sanderson 'Paracelsus,'

Mr. S., 'The Grammarian's Funeral,' etc., etc. The talk was so good that

we could not stop it to hear the Victor, which I regretted."

Another delightful dinner of this winter was one given in her honor by

her niece, Mrs. Richard Aldrich (Margaret Chanler), in New York. Among

the guests were Kneisel, the violinist, and Schelling, the pianist. Mrs.

Aldrich demanded "Flibbertigibbet," and our mother played and recited it

in such a manner that the two musicians were inspired to play, as the

people in the story were to dance. Kneisel flew home for his violin,

Schelling sat down at the piano, and the two played Bach for her and to

her delight.

"The occasion was memorable!" she says.

Returning from New York, she was able to attend the Whittier Centennial

at Haverhill.

"_December 17._ ... Sanborn came to take me.... I have been praying to

be well for this occasion, my last public engagement for some weeks. I

am thankful to have been able, at my advanced age, to read this poem at

the Whittier Celebration and to be assured by one present that I had

never been in better voice, and by others that I was generally heard

without difficulty by the large audience."

"_December 31._ Oh, blessed year 1907! It has been granted me to write

four poems for public occasions, all of which have proved acceptable;

also three fatiguing magazine articles, which have for the time bettered

my finances. I have lived in peace and goodwill with all men, and in

great contentment with my own family, to which this year added a

promising little great-grandson, taking away, alas! my dear son-in-law,

David Prescott Hall. I found a very competent and friendly young

musician who has taken down nearly all my songs.... A word was given me

to speak, namely, 'Thanks for the blessed, wonderful year just past.'"

CHAPTER XV

"MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE GLORY OF THE COMING OF THE LORD"

1908-1910; _aet._ 89-91

I have made a voyage upon a golden river,

'Neath clouds of opal and of amethyst.

Along its banks bright shapes were moving ever,

And threatening shadows melted into mist.

The eye, unpractised, sometimes lost the current,

When some wild rapid of the tide did whirl,

While yet a master hand beyond the torrent

Freed my frail shallop from the perilous swirl.

Music went with me, fairy flute and viol,

The utterance of fancies half expressed,

And with these, steadfast, beyond pause or trial,

The deep, majestic throb of Nature's breast.

My journey nears its close--in some still haven

My bark shall find its anchorage of rest,

When the kind hand, which ever good has given,

Opening with wider grace, shall give the best.

J. W. H.

The grandchildren were her chief playmates when Maud was in Europe. To

them, the grave tone of the Journal, the tale of her public work, is

almost unbelievable, recalling, as they do, the household life, so warm,

so rich, so intimate, it seemed enough in itself to fill the cup to

overflowing. She had said of herself that in social activities she "bled

at every pore": but in these later years it was light and warmth that

she shed around her, kindling whatever she touched. At her fire, as at

Uncle Sam's, we warmed our hands and our hearts. When she entered a

room, all faces lighted up, as if she carried a lamp in her hand.

Day in, day out, she was the _Guter Camerad_. The desire _not to

irritate_ had become so much a second nature that she was the easiest

person in the world to live with. If the domestic calm were disturbed,

"_Don't say anything!_" was her word. "_Wait a little!_"

She might wake with the deep depression so often mentioned in the

Journal. Pausing at her door to listen, one might hear a deep sigh, a

plaintive ejaculation; but all this was put out of sight before she left

her room, and she came down, as one of the grandchildren put it,

"bubbling like a silver tea-kettle."

Then came the daily festival of breakfast, never to be hurried or

"scamped." The talk, the letters, some of which we might read to her,

together with the newspaper. We see her pressing some tidbit on a child,

watching intently the eating of it, then, as the last mouthful

disappeared, exclaiming with tragic emphasis, "_I wanted it!_" Then, at

the startled face, would come peals of laughter; she would throw herself

back in her chair, cover her face with her hands, and tap the floor with

her feet.

"Look at her!" cried Maud. "_Rippling with sin!_"

How she loved to laugh!

"One day," says a granddaughter, "the house was overflowing with guests,

and she asked me to take my nap on her sofa, while she took hers on the

bed. We both lay down in peace and tranquillity, but after a while, when

she thought I was asleep, I heard her laughing, until she almost wept.

Presently she fell asleep, and slept her usual twenty minutes, to wake

in the same gales of mirth. She laughed until the bed shook, but softly,

trying to choke her laughter, lest I should wake.

"'What is it about?' I asked. 'What is so wonderful and funny?'

"'Oh, my dear,' she said, breaking again into laughter, 'it is nothing!

It is the most ridiculous thing! I was only trying to translate

"fiddle-de-dee" into Greek!'"

This was in her ninety-second year.

But we are still at the breakfast table. Sometimes there were guests at

breakfast, a famous actor, a travelling scholar, caught between other

engagements for this one leisure hour.

It was a good deal, perhaps, to ask people to leave a warm hotel on a

January morning; but it was warm enough by the soft-coal blaze of the

dining-room fire. Over the coffee and rolls, sausages and buckwheat

cakes, leisure reigned supreme; not the poet's "retired leisure," but a

friendly and laughter-loving deity. Everybody was full of engagements,

harried with work, pursued by business and pleasure: no matter! the talk

ranged high and far, and the morning was half gone before they

separated.

Soon after breakfast came the game of ball, played _à deux_ with

daughter or grandchild; the ball was tossed back and forth, the players

counting meanwhile up to ten in various languages. She delighted in

adding to her vocabulary of numerals, and it was a good day when she

mastered those of the Kutch-Kutch Esquimaux.

Then came the walk, gallantly taken in every weather save the very

worst. She battled with the west wind, getting the matter over as

quickly as might be. "_It is for my life!_" she would say. But on quiet,

sunny days she loved to linger along Commonwealth Avenue, watching the

parade of babies and little children, stopping to admire this one or

chat with that.

This function accomplished, she went straight to her desk, and "P. T."

reigned till noon. It was a less rigorous "P. T." than that of our

childhood. She could break off in a moment now, give herself entirely,

joyously, to the question of dinner for the expected guest, of dress for

the afternoon reception, then drop back into Aristotle or Æschylus with

a happy sigh. It was less easy to break off when she was writing; we

might be begged for "half a moment," as if our time were fully as

precious as her own; but there was none of the distress that

interruption brought in earlier years. Perhaps she took her writing less

seriously. She often said, "Oh, my dear, I am beginning to realize at

last that I shall never write my book now, my Magnum Opus, that was to

be so great!"

She practised her scales faithfully every day, through the later years.

Then she would play snatches of forgotten operas, and the granddaughter

would hear her--if she thought no one was near--singing the brilliant

_arias_ in "a sweet thread of a voice."

After her practising, if she were alone, she would sit at the window and

play her Twilight Game: counting the "passing," one for a biped, two for

a quadruped, ten for a white horse, and so on.

In the evening, before the "Victor" concert, came the reading aloud:

this was one of her great pleasures. No history or philosophy for the

evening reading; she must have a novel (not a "problem novel"; these she

detested!)--a good stirring tale, with plenty of action in it. She

thrilled over "With Fire and Sword," "Kim," "The Master of Ballantrae."

She could not bear to hear of financial anxieties or of physical

suffering. "It gives me a pain in my knee!"

We see her now, sitting a little forward in her straight-backed chair,

holding the hand of the reading granddaughter, alert and tense. When a

catastrophe appears imminent, "Stop a minute!" she cries. "I cannot bear

it!"--and the reader must pause while she gathers courage to face

disaster with the hero, or dash with him through peril to safety.

She would almost be sorry when the doorbell announced a visitor; almost,

not quite, for flesh and blood were better than fiction. If the caller

were a familiar friend, how her face lighted up!

"Oh! now we can have whist!"

The table is brought out, the mother-of-pearl counters (a Cutler relic:

we remember that Mr. Ward did not allow cards in his house!), and the

order for the rest of the evening is "A clear fire, a clean hearth, and

the rigor of the game!"--

It was a happy day when, as chanced once or twice, Mr. Ernest Schelling,

coming on from New York to play with the Boston Symphony Orchestra,

offered to come and play to her, "all by herself, whatever she wanted,

and for as long as she liked." She never forgot this pleasure, nor the

warm kindness of the giver.

One day Mr. Abel Lefranc, the French lecturer of the year at Harvard,

came to lunch with her. He apologized for only being able to stay for

the luncheon hour, owing to a press of engagements and work that had

grown overpowering. He stayed for two hours and a half after luncheon

was over, and during all that time the flow of poignant, brilliant talk,

_à deux_, held the third in the little company absorbed. She was

entirely at home in French, and the Frenchman talked over the problems

of his country as if to a compatriot.

A few days afterwards a Baptist minister from Texas, a powerfully built

and handsome man, came to wait on her. He also stayed two hours: and we

heard his "Amen!" and "Bless the Lord for that!" and her gentler "Bless

the Lord, indeed, my brother!" as their voices, fervent and grave,

mingled in talk.

She never tried to be interested in people. She _was_ interested, with

every fibre of her being. Little household doings: the economies and

efforts of brave young people, she thrilled to them all. Indeed, all

_human facts_ roused in her the same absorbed and reverent interest.

These are Boston memories, but those of Oak Glen are no less tender and

vivid. There, too, the meals were festivals, the midday dinner being now

the chief one, with its following hour on the piazza; "Grandmother" in

her hooded chair, with her cross-stitch embroidery or "hooked" rug,

daughters and grandchildren gathered round her. Horace and Xenophon

were on the little table beside her, but they must wait till she had

mixed and enjoyed her "social salad."

At Oak Glen, too, she had her novel and her whist, bézique or dominoes,

as the family was larger or smaller. She never stooped to solitaire; a

game must be an affair of companionship, of the "social tie" in defence

of which "Bro' Sam," in his youth, had professed himself ready to die.

Instead of the "Victor" concert, she now made music herself, playing

four-hand pieces with Florence, the "music daughter," trained in

childhood by Otto Dresel. This was another great pleasure. (Did any one,

we wonder, ever _enjoy_ pleasures as she did?) These duets were for the

afternoon; she almost never used her eyes in the evening. They were

perfectly good, strong eyes; in the latter years she rarely used

glasses; but the habit dated back to the early fifties, and might not be

shaken.

We see her, therefore, in the summer afternoons, sitting at the piano

with Florence, playing, "Galatea, dry thy tears!" "Handel's old tie-wig

music," as she called his operas. Or, if her son were there, she would

play accompaniments from the "Messiah" or "Elijah"; rippling through the

difficult music, transposing it, if necessary to suit the singer's

voice, with ease and accuracy. Musicians said that she was the ideal

accompanist, never asserting herself, but giving perfect sympathy and

support to the singer.

We return to the Journal.

"_January, 1908._ I had prayed the dear Father to give me this one more

poem, a verse for this year's Decoration Day, asked for by Amos Wells,

of Christian Endeavor belonging. I took my pen and the poem came quite

spontaneously. It seemed an answer to my prayer, but I hold fast the

thought that the great Christ asked _no sign_ from God and needed none,

so deeply did he enter into life divine. I also thought, regarding

Christ and Moses, that we must be content that a certain mystery should

envelop these heroic figures of human history. Our small measuring tape

or rod is not for them. If they were not exactly in fact what we take

them to be, let us deeply reverence the human mind which has conceived

and built up such splendid and immortal ideals. Was not Christ thinking

of something like this when he made the sin against the Holy Ghost and

its manifestations the only unpardonable error? He surely did not mean

to say that it was beyond the repentance which is the earnest of

forgiveness to every sin."

A day or two after this she met at luncheon "a young Reverend Mr.

Fitch.... He is earnest and clear-minded, and should do much good. I

spoke of the cup [of life], but advised him to use the spoon for

stirring up his congregation."

She was asked for a "long and exhaustive paper on Marion Crawford in

about a week. I wrote, saying that I could furnish an interesting paper

on the elder and younger Crawford, but without any literary estimate of

Marion's work, saying that family praise was too much akin to

self-praise; also the time allotted much too short."

One night she woke "suddenly and something seemed to say, 'They are on

the right tack now.' This microscopic and detailed study of the causes

of evil on society will be much forwarded by the direct agency of women.

They too will supply that inexhaustible element of hopefulness, without

which reforms are a mere working back and forth of machinery. These two

things will overcome the evil of the world by prevention first, and then

by the optimistic anticipation of good. This is a great work given to

Woman now to do. Then I caught at various couplets of a possible

millennial poem, but feared I should not write it. Have scrawled these

on a large pad. This line kept coming back to me, 'Living, not dying,

Christ redeemed mankind.'... This my first day at my desk since

Saturday, March 28. I may try some prose about the present patient

analysis of the evil of society, the patient intelligent women

associated in all this work. To reclaim waste earth is a glory. Why not

a greater to reclaim the moral wastes of humanity?"

This midnight vision impressed her deeply, and through the succeeding

days she wrote it out in full, bit by bit. On the envelope containing it

is written, "An account of my vision of the world regenerated by the

combined labor and love of Men and Women." In it she saw "men and women

of every clime working like bees to unwrap the evils of society and to

discover the whole web of vice and misery and to apply the remedies, and

also to find the influences that should best counteract the evil and its

attendant suffering.

"There seemed to be a new, a wondrous, ever-permeating light, the glory

of which I cannot attempt to put into human words--the light of the

newborn hope and sympathy--blazing. The source of this light was born of

human endeavor...."

She saw "the men and the women, standing side by side, shoulder to

shoulder, a common lofty and indomitable purpose lighting every face

with a glory not of this earth. All were advancing with one end in view,

one foe to trample, one everlasting goal to gain....

"And then I saw the victory. All of evil was gone from the earth. Misery

was blotted out. Mankind was emancipated and ready to march forward in a

new Era of human understanding, all-encompassing sympathy and

ever-present help, the Era of perfect love, of peace passing

understanding."

* * * * *

Mrs. Humphry Ward was in Boston this spring, and there were many

pleasant festivities in her honor.

A "luncheon with Mrs. Humphry Ward at Annie Fields'; very pleasant.

Edward Emerson there, easy and delightful...."

A fine reception at the Vendôme, where she and Mrs. Ward stood under "a

beautiful arch of roses" and exchanged greetings.

"A delightful call from Mrs. Humphry Ward. We had much talk of persons

admired in England and America. She has great personal attraction, is

not handsome, but very '_simpatica_' and is evidently whole-souled and

sincere, with much 'good-fellowship.' We embraced at parting."

In strong contrast to this is her comment on a writer whose work did not

appeal to her. "But she has merit; yes, she certainly has merit. In

fact--" with a flash--"she is meret-ricious!"

May brought the Free Religious Banquet, at which she "compared the

difference of sect to the rainbow which divides into its beauty the

white light of truth"; and the State Federation of Women's Clubs, where

another apt comparison occurred to her.

"I compared the old order among women to the juxtaposition of squares

set cornerwise to each other; the intensity of personal feeling and

interest infusing an insensible antagonism into our relations with each

other. 'Now,' I said, 'the comparison being removed, we no longer stand

cornerwise to each other, but so that we can fit into line, and stand

and act in concert.'..."

"_Newport._ I begin to feel something of the 'labor and sorrow' of

living so long. I don't even enjoy my books as I used to. My efforts to

find a fit word for the Biennial [of the General Federation of Women's

Clubs, to meet in Boston, June 22 and 23] are not successful...."

She soon revived under her green trees, and enjoyed her books as much as

ever: "got hold of" her screed, wrote it, went up to Boston to deliver

it, came back to meet an excursion party of "Biennial" ladies visiting

Newport. (N.B. She was late for the reception, and her neighbor,

Bradford Norman, drove her into Newport in his automobile "at a terrific

clip." On alighting, "Braddie," she said, "if I were ten years younger,

I would set up one of these hell-wagons myself!")

She enjoyed all this hugely, but the fatigue was followed by distress so

great that the next morning she "thought she should die with her door

locked." (She _would_ lock her door: no prayers of ours availed against

this. In Boston, an elaborate arrangement of keys made it possible for

her room to be entered; at Oak Glen there was but the one stout door. On

this occasion, after lying helpless and despairing for some time, she

managed to unlock the door and call the faithful maid.)

On June 30 she writes:--

"Oh, beautiful last day of June! Perhaps my last June on earth.... I

shall be thankful to live as long as I can be of comfort or help to any

one...."

"_July 12...._ Sherman to Corse [Civil War], 'Can you hold out till I

arrive?' Corse to Sherman, 'I have lost an arm, my cheekbone, and am

minus one ear, but I can lick _all hell_ yet.'"

"_July 30._ Have felt so much energy to-day that thought I must begin

upon my old philosophizing essays.... Could find only 'Duality of

Character.' What is the lesson of this two-foldness? This, that the most

excellent person should remember the dual member of his or her firm, the

evil possibility; and the most persistent offender should also remember

the better personality which is bound up with its opposite, and which

can come into activity, if invited to do so."

"_August 28._ Wrote an immediate reply to a Mrs. ----, who had written

to ask leave to use a part of my 'Battle Hymn' with some verses of her

own. I replied, refusing this permission, but saying that she should

rewrite her own part sufficiently to leave mine out, and should not call

it the 'Battle Hymn of the Republic.' The metre and tune, of course, she

might use, as they are not mine in any special sense, but my phrases

_not_."

After writing an article for the "Delineator," on "What I should like to

give my Country for a Christmas Gift," she dreads a failure of her

productive power, but is reassured by Maud's verdict. "I took much pains

with it, but think she overpraises it a little to raise my spirits." The

gift she would choose was "a more vigilant national conscience." The

little essay counts but seventy lines, but every word tells.

In early September she performed a "very small public service,"

unveiling in Newport a bronze tablet in honor of Count de Rochambeau.

She would have been glad to speak, but an anxious daughter had demurred,

and at the moment she "only thought of pulling the string the right

way."

"_September 21. Green Peace, New York._ A delightful drive with Mr. Seth

Low in his auto. A good talk with him about the multi-millionnaires and

the Hague Conferences which he has attended. We reached Green Peace in

time for Mr. Frank Potter to sing about half of my songs. He has a fine

tenor voice, well cultivated, and is very kind about my small

compositions. I had not counted upon this pleasure. I dreaded this

visit, for the troublesome journey, but it has been delightful. I am

charmed to see my son so handsomely and comfortably established, and

with a very devoted wife. Potter brought me some flowers and a curious

orchid from Panama."

"_November 3. Oak Glen._ Yesterday and to-day have had most exquisite

sittings in front of my house in the warm sunshine; very closely wrapped

up by the dear care of my daughters."

These sittings were on what she called her boulevard, a grassy space in

front of the house, bordering on the road, and taking the full strength

of the morning sun. Here, with the tall screen of cedars behind her, and

a nut tree spreading its golden canopy over her head, she would sit for

hours, drinking in the sweet air that was like no other to her.

A companion picture to this is that of the twilight hour, when she would

sit alone in the long parlor, looking out on the sunset. Black against

the glowing sky rose the pines of the tiny forgotten graveyard, where

long-ago neighbors slept, with the white rose tree drooping over the

little child's grave; a spot of tender and melancholy beauty. All about

were the fields she loved, fragrant with clover and wormwood, vocal with

time-keeping crickets. Here she would sit for an hour, meditating, or

repeating to herself the Odes of Horace, or some familiar hymn. Horace

was one of her best friends, all her life long. She knew many of the

Odes by heart, and was constantly memorizing new ones. They filled and

brightened many a sleepless or weary hour. Here, when the children came

back from their walk, they would find her, quiet and serene, but ready

instantly to break into laughter with them, to give herself, as always,

entirely and joyously. Now and then she wrote down a meditation; here is

one:--

"A thought comes to me to-day which gives me great comfort. This is

that, while the transitory incidentals of our life, important for the

moment, pass out of it, the steadfast divine life which is in our

earthly experience, perseveres, and can never die nor diminish. I feel

content that much of me should die. I interpret for myself Christ's

parable of the tares sown in the wheat field. As regards the individual,

these tares are our personal and selfish traits and limitations. We must

restrain and often resist them, but we cannot and must not seek to

eradicate them, for they are important agents not only in preserving,

but also in energizing our bodily life. Yet they are, compared with our

higher life, as the tares compared with the wheat, and we must be well

content to feel that, when the death harvest comes, these tares will

fall from us and perish, while the wheat will be gathered into the

granary of God.

"I do not desire ecstatic, disembodied sainthood, because I do not wish

to abdicate any one of the attributes of my humanity. I cherish even the

infirmities that bind me to my kind. I would be human, and American, and

a woman. Paul of Tarsus had one or two ecstasies, but I feel sure that

he lived in his humanity, strenuously and energetically. Indeed, the

list he gives us of his trials and persecutions may show us how much he

lived as a man among men, even though he did once cry out for

deliverance from the body of death, whose wants and pains were a sore

hindrance to him in his unceasing labors. That deliverance he found

daily in the service of Truth, and finally once for all, when God took

him.

"Another thought upholds me. With the recurrence of the cycle, I feel

the steady tramp and tread of the world's progress. This Spring is not

identical with last Spring, this year is not last year. The predominant

fact of the Universe is not the mechanical round and working of its

forces, but their advance as moral life develops out of and above

material life. Mysterious as the chain of causation is, we know one

thing about it, viz.: that we cannot reverse its sequence. Whatever may

change or pass away, my father remains my father, my child, my child.

The way before us is open--the way behind us is blocked with solid

building which cannot be removed. And in this great onward order, life

turns not back to death, but goes forward to other life, which we may

call immortality. If I would turn backward, I stand still in paralyzed

opposition to the mighty sweep of heavenly law. It must go on, and if I

could resist and refuse to go with it, I should die a moral death,

having isolated myself from the movement which is life. But, do what I

will, I cannot resist it. I am carried on perforce, as inanimate rocks

and trees are swept away in the course of a resistless torrent. Shall I

then abdicate my human privilege which makes the forces of nature Angels

to help and minister to me? Let me, instead, take hold of the guiding

cords of life with resolute hands and press onward, following the

illustrious army whose crowned chiefs have gone before. They too had

their weakness, their sorrow, their sin. But they are set as stars in

the firmament of God, and their torches flash heavenly light upon our

doubtful way, ay, even upon the mysterious bridge whose toll is silence.

Beyond that silence reigns the perfect harmony."

"_November 6._ Expecting to leave this dear place to-morrow before noon,

I write one last record in this diary to say that I am very thankful for

the season just at end, which has been busy and yet restful. I have seen

old friends and new ones, all with pleasure, and mostly with profit of a

social and spiritual kind. I have seen dear little Eleanor Hall, the

sweetest of babies. Have had all of my dear children with me, some of my

grandchildren, and four of my great-grands.

"Our Papéterie has had pleasant meetings.... I am full of hope for the

winter. Have had a long season of fresh air, delightful and very

invigorating.... _Utinam! Gott in Himmel sei Dank!_"

"_November 28. Boston._ Have been much troubled of late by uncertainties

about life beyond the present. Quite suddenly, very recently, it

occurred to me to consider that Christ understood that spiritual life

would not end with death, and that His expressed certainty as to the

future life was founded upon His discernment of spiritual things. So, in

so far as I am a Christian, I must believe in the immortality of the

soul, as our Master surely did. I cannot understand why I have not

thought of that before. I think now that I shall nevermore lose sight of

it.... Had a very fine call from Mr. Locke, author of the 'Beloved

Vagabond,' a book which I have enjoyed."

"_December 5...._ I learned to-day that my dear friend of many years

[the Reverend Mary H. Graves] passed away last night very peacefully....

This is a heart sorrow for me. She has been a most faithful,

affectionate and helpful friend. I scarcely know whether any one,

outside of my family, would have pained me more by their departure...."

This was indeed a loss. "Saint Mouse," as we called her, was a familiar

friend of the household: a little gray figure, with the face of a plain

angel. For many years she had been the only person who was allowed to

touch our mother's papers. She often came for a day or two and

straightened out the tangle. She was the only approach to a secretary

ever tolerated.

We used to grieve because our mother had no first-rate "Crutch"; it

seemed a waste of power. Now, we see that it was partly the instinct of

self-preservation,--keeping the "doing" muscles tense and strong,

because action was vital and necessary to her--partly the still deeper

instinct of giving her _self_, body and mind. She seldom failed in any

important thing she undertook; the "chores" of life she often left for

others to attend to or neglect.

The Christmas services, the Christmas oratorio, brought her the usual

serene joy and comfort. She insists that Handel wrote parts of the

"Messiah" in heaven itself. "Where else could he have got 'Comfort ye,'

'Thy rebuke,' 'Thou shalt break them,' and much besides?"

Late in December, 1908, came the horror of the Sicilian earthquake. She

felt at first that it was impossible to reconcile omnipotence and

perfect benevolence with this catastrophe.

"We must hold judgment in suspense and say, 'We don't and we can't

understand.'"

She had several tasks on hand this winter, among them a poem for the

Centenary of Lincoln's birth. On February 7 she writes:--

"After a time of despair about the poem for the Lincoln Centenary some

lines came to me in the early morning. I arose, wrapped myself warmly,

and wrote what I could, making quite a beginning."

She finished the poem next day, and on the 12th she went "with three

handsome grandchildren" to deliver it at Symphony Hall before the Grand

Army of the Republic and their friends.

"The police had to make an entrance for us. I was presently conducted to

my seat on the platform. The hall was crammed to its utmost capacity. I

had felt doubts of the power of my voice to reach so large a company,

but strength seemed to be given to me at once, and I believe that I was

heard very well. T. W. H. [Colonel Higginson] came to me soon after my

reading and said, 'You have been a good girl and behaved yourself

well.'"

The next task was an essay on "Immortality," which cost her much labor

and anxious thought.

"_March 3...._ Got at last some solid ground for my screed on

'Immortality.' Our experience of the goodness of God in our daily life

assures us of His mercy hereafter, and seeing God everywhere, we shall

dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

"_March 27._ I am succeeding better with my 'Immortality' paper. Had

to-day a little bit of visioning with which I think that I would

willingly depart, when my time comes. The dreadful fear of being buried

alive disappeared for a time, and I saw only the goodness of God, to

which it seemed that I could trust all question of the future life. I

said to myself--'The best will be for thee and me.'"

It was in this mood that she wrote:--

"I, for one, feel that my indebtedness grows with my years. And it

occurred to me the other day that when I should depart from this earthly

scene, 'God's poor Debtor' might be the fittest inscription for my

gravestone, if I should have one. So much have I received from the great

Giver, so little have I been able to return."

"_April 5...._ Heard May Alden Ward, N.E.W.C., on 'Current Events.'

_Praecipuë_ tariff reform. Proposed a small group to study the question

from the point of view of the consumer. What to protect and how?

American goods cheaper in Europe than here. Blank tells me of pencils

made here for a foreign market and sold in Germany and England at a

price impossible here. I said that the real bottomless pit is the depth

of infamous slander with which people will assail our public servants,

especially when they are faithful and incorruptible, apropos of

aspersions cast on Roosevelt and Taft. Mrs. Ward read a very violent

attack upon some public man of a hundred or more years ago. He was

quoted as a monster of tyranny and injustice. His name was George

Washington."

"_April 8...._ My prayer for this Easter is that I may not waste the

inspiration of spring...."

In these days came another real sorrow to her.

"_April 10._ To-day brings the sad news of Marion Crawford's death at

Sorrento. His departure seems to have been a peaceful one. He comforted

his family and had his daughter Eleanor read Plato's 'Dialogues' to him.

Was unconscious at the last. Poor dear Marion! The end, in his case,

comes early. His father was, I think, in the early forties when he died

of a cancer behind the eye which caused blindness. He, Thomas Crawford,

had a long and very distressing illness."

Crawford had been very dear to her, ever since the days when, a radiant

schoolboy, he came and went in his vacations. There was a complete

sympathy and understanding between them, and there were few people whom

she enjoyed more.

"I wrote a letter to be read, if approved, to-morrow evening at the

Faneuil Hall meeting held to advocate the revision of our extradition

treaty with the Russian Government, which at present seems to allow that

government too much latitude of incrimination, whereby political and

civil offences can too easily be confused and a revolutionist

surrendered as a criminal, which he may or may not be."

Later in the month she writes:--

"In the early morning I began to feel that I must attempt some sort of

tribute to my dear friend of many years, Dr. Holmes, the centenary of

whose birth is to be celebrated on Tuesday next. I stayed at home from

church to follow some random rhymes which came to me in connection with

my remembrance of my ever affectionate friend. I love to think of his

beautiful service to his age and to future ages. I fear that my rhymes

will fail to crystallize, but sometimes a bad beginning leads to

something better...."

The poem was finished, more or less to her satisfaction, but she was

weary with working over it, and with "reading heavy books, Max Müller on

metaphysics, Blanqui on political economy."

"_May 10._ I began this day the screed of 'Values' which I mentioned the

other day. I have great hopes of accomplishing something useful,

remembering, as I do, with sore indignation, my own mistakes, and

desiring to help young people to avoid similar ones."

The ninetieth birthday was a festival, indeed. Letters and telegrams

poured in, rose in toppling piles which almost--not quite--daunted her;

she would hear every one, would answer as many as flesh and blood could

compass. Here is one of them:--

Most hearty congratulations on your ninetieth birthday from the boy you

picked up somewhere in New York and placed in the New York Orphan Asylum

on April 6th, 1841. Sorry I have never been able to meet you in all that

time. You [were] one of the Board of Trustees at that time.

Respectfully and Thankfully,

WM. DAVIDSON.

I was then about five years old, now seventy-three.

Writing to her friend of many years, Mrs. Ellen Mitchell, she says:--

"Your birthday letter was and is much valued by me. Its tone of earnest

affection is an element in the new inspiration recently given me by such

a wonderful testimony of public and private esteem and goodwill as has

been granted me in connection with my attainment of ninety years. It all

points to the future. I must work to deserve what I have received. My

dearest wish would be to take up some thread of our A.A.W. work, and

continue it. I rather hope that I may find the way to do this in the

study of Economics which I am just starting with a small group...."

_To Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford_

DEAR MRS. SPOFFORD,--

You wrote me a lovely letter on my ninetieth birthday. I cannot help

feeling as if the impression expressed by you and so many other kind

friends of my personal merits must refer to some good work which I have

yet to do. What I have done looks small to me, but I have tried a good

deal for the best I have known. This is all I can say. I am much touched

by your letter, and encouraged to go on trying. Don't you think that the

best things are already in view? The opportunities for women, the

growing toleration and sympathy in religion, the sacred cause of peace?

I have lived, like Moses, to see the entrance into the Promised Land.

How much is this to be thankful for! My crabbed hand shows how Time

abridges my working powers, but I march to the brave music still, as

you and many of the juniors do.

Wishing that I might sometimes see you, believe me

Yours with affectionate regard,

JULIA WARD HOWE.

Close upon the Birthday came another occasion of the kind which we--in

these later years--at once welcomed and deplored. She enjoyed nothing so

much as a "function," and nothing tired her so much.

On June 16, Brown University, her husband's _alma mater_ and her

grandfather's, conferred upon her the degree of Doctor of Laws. She went

to Providence to receive it in person, and thus describes the

commencement exercises to Mrs. Mitchell:--

"The ordeal of the Doctorate was rather trying, but was made as easy as

possible for me. The venerable old church was well filled, and was quite

beautiful. I sat in one of the front pews--two learned people led me to

the foot of the platform from which President Faunce, with some

laudatory remarks, handed me my diploma, while some third party placed a

picturesque hood upon my shoulders. The band played the air of my

'Battle Hymn,' and applause followed me as I went back to my seat. So

there!"

Her companion on that occasion writes:--

"She sat listening quietly to the addresses, watched each girl and boy

just starting on the voyage of life as they marched to the platform and

received from the President's hand the scrap of paper, the parchment

diploma, reward of all their studies. Her name was called last. With

the deliberate step of age, she walked forward, wearing her son's

college gown over her white dress, his mortar-board cap over her lace

veil. She seemed less moved than any person present; she could not see

what we saw, the tiny gallant figure bent with fourscore and ten years

of study and hard labor. As she moved between the girl students who

stood up to let her pass, she whispered, 'How tall they are! It seems to

me the girls are much taller than they used to be.' Did she realize how

much shorter she was than she once had been? I think not.

"Then, her eyes sparkling with fun while all other eyes were wet, she

shook her hard-earned diploma with a gay gesture in the faces of those

girls, cast on them a keen glance that somehow was a challenge, 'Catch

up with me if you can!'

"She had labored long for the higher education of women, suffered

estrangement, borne ridicule for it--the sight of those girl graduates,

starting on their life voyage equipped with a good education, was like a

sudden realization of a life-long dream; uplifted her, gave her strength

for the fatigues of the day. At the dinner given for her and the college

dignitaries by Mrs. William Goddard, she was at her best."

She was asked for a Fourth of July message to the Sunday-School children

of the Congregational Church, and wrote:--

"I want them to build up character in themselves and in the community,

to give to the country just so many men and women who will be incapable

of meanness or dishonesty, who will look upon life as a sacred trust,

given to them for honorable service to their fellow men and women. I

would have them feel that, whether rich or poor, they are bound to be of

use in their day and generation, and to be mindful of the Scripture

saying that 'no man liveth unto himself.' We all have our part to do in

keeping up the character and credit of our country. For her sake we

should study to become good and useful citizens."

In the summer of 1909 the Cretan question came up again. Once more

Turkey attempted to regain active possession of Crete; once more the

voice of Christendom was raised in protest. She had no thought this time

of being "too old." Being called upon for help, she wrote at once to

President Taft, "praying him to find some way to help the Cretans in the

terrible prospect of their being delivered over, bound hand and foot, to

Turkish misrule." She was soon gladdened by a reply from the President,

saying that he had not considered the Cretans as he should, but

promising to send her letter to the Secretary of State. "I thank God

most earnestly," she writes, "for even thus much. To-day, I feel that I

must write all pressing letters, as my time may be short."

Accordingly she composed an open letter on the Cretan question. "It is

rather crude, but it is from my heart of hearts. I had to write it."

Suffrage, too, had its share of her attention this summer. There were

meetings at "Marble House" [Newport] in which she was deeply interested.

She attended one in person; to the next she sent the second and third

generations, staying at home herself to amuse and care for the fourth.

On the last day of August she records once more her sorrow at the

departure of the summer. She adds, "God grant me to be prepared to live

or die, as He shall decree. It is best, I think, to anticipate life, and

to cultivate forethought.... I think it may have been to-day that I read

the last pages of Martineau's 'Seat of Authority in Religion,' an

extremely valuable book, yet a painful one to read, so entirely does it

do away with the old-time divinity of the dear Christ. But it leaves Him

the divinity of character--no theory or discovery can take that away."

Late September brought an occasion to which she had looked forward with

mingled pleasure and dread; the celebration of the Hudson-Fulton

Centennial in New York. She had been asked for a poem, and had taken

great pains with it, writing and re-writing it, hammering and polishing.

She thought it finished in July, yet two days before the celebration she

was still re-touching it.

"I have been much dissatisfied with my Fulton poem. Lying down to rest

this afternoon, instead of sleep, of which I felt no need, I began to

try for some new lines which should waken it up a little, and think that

I succeeded. I had brought no manuscript paper, so had to scrawl my

amendments on Sanborn's old long envelope."

Later in the day two more lines came to her, and again two the day

after. Finally, on the morning of the day itself, on awakening, she

cried out,--

"I have got my last verse!"

The occasion was a notable one. The stage of the Metropolitan Opera

House was filled with dignitaries, delegates from other States, foreign

diplomats in brilliant uniforms. The only woman among them was the

little figure in white, to greet whom, as she came forward on her son's

arm, the whole great assembly rose and stood. They remained standing

while she read her poem in clear unfaltering tones; the applause that

rang out showed that she had once more touched the heart of the public.

This poem was printed in "Collier's Weekly," unfortunately from a copy

made before the "last verse" was finished to her mind. This distressed

her. "Let this be a lesson!" she said. "Never print a poem or speech

till it has been delivered; always give the eleventh hour its chance!"

This eleventh hour brought a very special chance; a few days before, the

world had been electrified by the news of Peary's discovery of the North

Pole: it was the general voice that cried through her lips,--

The Flag of Freedom crowns the Pole!

The following letter was written while she was at work on the poem:--

_To Laura_

OAK GLEN, July 9, 1909.

Why, yes, I'm doing the best I know how. Have written a poem for the

Hudson and Fulton celebration, September 28. Worked hard at it. Guess

it's only pretty good, if even that. Maud takes me out every day under

the pine tree, makes me sit while she reads aloud Freeman's shorter work

on Sicily. I enjoy this.... I have just read Froude's "Cæsar," which

Sanborn says he hates, but which I found as readable as a novel. Am also

reading a work of Kuno Fischer on "Philosophy," especially relating to

Descartes. Now you know, Miss, or should know, that _same_ had great

_fame_, and sometimes _blame_, as a philosopher. But he don't make no

impression on my mind. I never doubted that I was, so don't need no

"_cogito, ergo sum,_" which is what Carty, old Boy, amounts to. Your

letter, dear, was a very proper attention under the circumstances.

Shouldn't object to another. Lemme see! objects cannot be subjects, nor

_vice versa_. How do you know that you washed your face this morning?

You don't know it, and I don't believe that you did. You might consult

H. Richards about some of these particulars. He is a man of some sense.

You are, bless you, not much wiser than your affectionate

MA.

Returned to Oak Glen, after the celebration, she writes:--

_To her son and his wife_

OAK GLEN, October 1, 1909.

... I found my trees still green, and everything comfortable. I did not

dare to write to any one yesterday, my head was so full of nonsense.

Reaction from brain-fatigue takes this shape with me, and everything

goes "higgle-wiggledy, hi-cockalorum," or words to that effect.... We

had a delightful visit with you, dear F. G. and H. M. I miss you both,

and miss the lovely panorama of the hills, and the beauteous flower

parterres. Well, here's for next year in early Autumn, and I hope I may

see you both before that time. With thanks for kindest entertainment,

and best of love,

Your very affectionate

MOTHER AND DITTO-IN-LAW.

_To George H. Richards_[151]

OAK GLEN, October 1, 1909.

DEAR UNCLE GEORGE,--

I got through all right, in spite of prospective views, of fainting

fits, apoplexy, what not? Trouble is now that I cannot keep calling up

some thousands of people, and saying: "Admire me, do. I wrote it all my

little own self." Seriously, there is a little reaction from so much

excitement. But I hope to recover my senses in time. I improved the last

two stanzas much when I recited the poem. The last line read

The Flag of Freedom crowns the Pole!

I tell you, I brought it out with a will, and they all [the audience]

made a great noise....

[151] Her man of business and faithful friend. Though of her children's

generation, she had adopted him as an "uncle."

We doubt if any of the compliments pleased her so much as that of the

Irish charwoman who, mop in hand, had been listening at one of the side

doors of the theatre. "Oh, you dear little old lady!" she cried. "You

speaked your piece _real_ good!"

Late October finds her preparing for the move to Boston.

"I have had what I may call a spasm of gratitude to God for His great

goodness to me, sitting in my pleasant little parlor, with the lovely

golden trees in near view, and the devotion of my children and great

kindness of my friends well in mind. Oh! help me, divine Father, to

merit even a very little of Thy kindness!"

In this autumn she was elected a member of the American Academy of Arts

and Letters, and in December she wrote for its first meeting a poem

called "The Capitol." She greatly desired to read this poem before the

association, and Maud, albeit with many misgivings, agreed to take her

on to Washington. This was not to be. On learning of her intention,

three officers of the association, William Dean Howells, Robert

Underwood Johnson, and Thomas Nelson Page, sent her a "round-robin"

telegram, begging her not to run the risk of the long winter journey.

The kindly suggestion was not altogether well taken. "Ha!" she flashed

out. "They think I am too old, but there's a little ginger left in the

old blue jar!"

She soon realized the wisdom as well as the friendliness of the round

robin, and confided to the Journal that she had been in two minds about

it.

On Christmas Day she writes:--

"Thanks to God who gave us the blessed Christ. What a birth was this!

Two thousand years have only increased our gratitude for it. How it has

consecrated Babyhood and Maternity! Two infants, grown to man's estate,

govern the civilized world to-day, Christ and Moses. I am still thankful

to be here in the flesh, as they were once, and oh! that I may never

pass where they are not!"

The winter of 1909-10 was a severe one, and she was more or less housed;

yet the days were full and bright for her. "Life," she cried one day,

"is like a cup of tea; all the sugar is at the bottom!" and again, "Oh!

I must go so soon, and I am only just ready to go to college!"

When it was too cold for her to go out, she took her walk in the house,

with the windows open, pacing resolutely up and down her room and the

room opposite. She sat long hours at her desk, in patient toil. She was

always picking up dropped stitches, trying to keep every promise, answer

every note.

"Went through waste-paper basket, redeeming some bits torn to fragments,

which either should be answered or recorded. Wrote an autograph for Mr.

Blank. It was asked for in 1905. Had been _put away_ and forgotten."

She got too tired that morning, and could not fully enjoy the Authors'

Club in the afternoon.

"Colonel Higginson and I sat like two superannuated old idols. Each of

us said a little say when the business was finished."

It is not recalled that they presented any such appearance to others.

She went to the opera, a mingled pleasure and pain.

"It was the 'Huguenots,' much of which was known to me in early youth,

when I used to sing the 'Rataplan' chorus with my brothers. I sang also

Valentine's prayer, '_Parmi les fleurs mon rêve se ranime_,' with

obligato bassoon accompaniment, using the 'cello instead. I know that I

sang much better that night than usual, for dear Uncle John said to me,

'You singed good!' Poor Huti played the 'cello. Now, I listened for the

familiar bits, and recognized the drinking chorus in Act 1st, the

'Rataplan' in Act 2d. Valentine's prayer, if given, was so overlaid with

_fioritura_ that I did not feel sure of it. The page's pretty song was

all right, but I suffered great fatigue, and the reminiscences were

sad."

Through the winter she continued the study of economics with some

fifteen members of the New England Woman's Club. She read Bergson too,

and now and then "got completely bogged" in him, finding no "central

point that led anywhere."

About this time she wrote:--

_"Some Rules for Everyday Life_

"1. Begin every day with a few minutes of retired meditation, tending to

prayer, in order to feel within yourself the spiritual power which will

enable you to answer the demands of practical life.

"2. Cultivate systematic employment and learn to estimate correctly the

time required to accomplish whatever you may undertake.

"3. Try to occupy both your mind and your muscles, since each of these

will help the other, and both deteriorate without sufficient exercise.

"4. Remember that there is great inherent selfishness in human nature,

and train yourself to consider adequately the advantage and pleasure of

others.

"5. Be thankful to be useful.

"6. Try to ascertain what are real uses, and to follow such maxims and

methods as will stand the test of time, and not fail with the passing

away of a transient enthusiasm.

"7. Be neither over distant nor over familiar in your intercourse;

friendly rather than confidential; not courting responsibility, but not

declining it when it of right belongs to you.

"8. Be careful not to falsify true principles by a thoughtless and

insufficient application of them.

"9. Though actions of high morality ensure in the end the greatest

success, yet view them in the light of obligation, not in that of

policy.

"10. Whatever your talents may be, consider yourself as belonging to the

average of humanity, since, even if superior to many in some respects,

you will be likely to fall below them in others.

"11. Remember the Christian triad of virtues. Have faith in principles,

hope in God, charity with and for all mankind."

A windy March found her "rather miserably ailing." Dr. Langmaid came,

and pronounced her lungs "sound as a bass drum"; nothing amiss save a

throat irritated by wind and dust. Thereupon she girded herself and

buckled to her next task, a poem for the centenary of James Freeman

Clarke.

"I have despaired of a poem which people seem to expect from me for the

dear James Freeman's centennial. To-day the rhymes suddenly flowed, but

the thought is difficult to convey--the reflection of heaven in his soul

is what he gave, and what he left us."

"_April 1._ Very much tossed up and down about my poem...."

"_April 2._ Was able at last, _D.G._, to make the poem explain itself.

Rosalind, my incorruptible critic, was satisfied with it. I think and

hope that all my trouble has been worth while. I bestowed it most

unwillingly, having had little hope that I could make my figure of

speech intelligible. I am very thankful for this poem, cannot be

thankful enough."

This was her third tribute to the beloved Minister, and is, perhaps, the

best of the three. The thought which she found so difficult of

conveyance is thus expressed:--

Lifting from the Past its veil,

What of his does now avail?

Just a mirror in his breast

That revealed a heavenly guest,

And the love that made us free

Of the same high company.

These he brought us, these he left,

When we were of him bereft.

She thus describes the occasion:--

"Coughed in the night, and at waking suffered much in mind, fearing that

a wild fit of coughing might make my reading unacceptable and even

ridiculous. Imagine my joy when I found my voice clear and strong, and

read the whole poem [forty-four lines] without the slightest inclination

to cough. This really was the granting of my prayer, and my first

thought about it was, 'What shall I render to the Lord for all His

goodness to me?' I thought, 'I will interest myself more efficiently in

the great questions which concern Life and Society at large.' If I have

'the word for the moment,' as some think, I will take more pains to

speak it."

A little later came a centenary which--alas!--she did not enjoy. It was

that of Margaret Fuller, and was held in Cambridge. She was asked to

attend it, and was assured that she "would not be expected to speak."

This kindly wish to spare fatigue to a woman of ninety-one was the last

thing she desired. She could hardly believe that she would be left

out--she, who had known Margaret, had talked and corresponded with her.

"They have not asked me to speak!" she said more than once as the time

drew near.

She was reassured; of course they would ask her when they saw her!

"I have a poem on Margaret!"

"Take it with you! Of course you will be asked to say something, and

then you will be all ready with your poem in your pocket."

Thus Maud, in all confidence. Indeed, if one of her own had gone with

her, the matter would have been easily arranged; unfortunately, the

companion was a friend who could make no motion in the matter. She

returned tired and depressed. "They did not ask me to speak," she said,

"and I was the only person present who had known Margaret and remembered

her."

For a little while this incident weighed on her. She felt that she was

"out of the running"; but a winning race was close at hand.

The question of pure milk was before the Massachusetts Legislature, and

was being hotly argued. An urgent message came by telephone; would Mrs.

Howe say a word for the good cause? Maud went to her room, and found her

at her desk, the morning's campaign already begun.

"There is to be a hearing at the State House on the milk question; they

want you dreadfully to speak. What do you say?"

"Give me half an hour!" she said.

Before the half-hour was over she had sketched out her speech and

dressed herself in her best flowered silk cloak and her new lilac hood,

a birthday gift from a poor seamstress. Arrived at the State House, she

sat patiently through many speeches. Finally she was called on to speak;

it was noticed that no oath was required of her. As she rose and came

forward on her daughter's arm,--"You may remain seated, Mrs. Howe," said

the benevolent chairman.

"I prefer to stand!" was the reply.

She had left her notes behind; she did not need them. Standing in the

place where, year after year, she had stood to ask for the full rights

of citizenship, she made her last thrilling appeal for justice.

"We have heard," she said, "a great deal about the farmers' and the

dealers' side of this case. We want the matter settled on the ground of

justice and mercy; it ought not to take long to settle what is just to

all parties. Justice to all! Let us stand on that. There is one deeply

interested party, however, of whom we have heard nothing. He cannot

speak for himself; I am here to speak for him: the infant!"

The effect was electrical. In an instant the tired audience, the dull or

dogged or angry debaters, woke to a new interest, a new spirit. No

farmer so rough, no middle-man so keen, no legislator so apathetic, but

felt the thrill. In a silence charged with deepest feeling all listened

as to a prophetess, as, step by step, she unfolded the case of the

infant as against farmers and dealers.

As Arthur Dehon Hill, counsel for the Pure Milk Association, led her

from the room, he said, "Mrs. Howe, you have saved the day!"

This incident was still in her mind on her ninety-first birthday, a few

days later.

"My parlors are full of beautiful flowers and other gifts, interpreted

by notes expressive of much affection, and telegrams of the same sort.

What dare I ask for more? Only that I may do something in the future to

deserve all this love and gratitude. I have intended to deserve it all

and more. Yet, when in thought I review my life, I feel the waste and

loss of power thro' want of outlook. Like many another young person, I

did not know what my really available gifts were. Perhaps the best was a

feeling of what I may call 'the sense of the moment,' which led a French

friend to say of me: '_Mme. Howe possède le mot à un dégré

remarquable._' I was often praised for saying 'just the right word,'

and I usually did this with a strong feeling that it ought to be said."

Early in June, just as she was preparing for the summer flitting, she

had a bad fall, breaking a rib. This delayed the move for a week, no

more, the bone knitting easily. She was soon happy among her green

trees, her birds singing around her.

The memories of this last summer come flocking in, themselves like

bright birds. She was so well, so joyous, giving her lilies with such

full hands; it was a golden time.

As the body failed, the mind--or so it seemed to us--grew ever clearer,

the veil that shrouds the spirit ever more transparent. She "saw things

hidden."

One day a summer neighbor came, bringing her son, a handsome, athletic

fellow, smartly dressed, a fine figure of gilded youth. She looked at

him a good deal: presently she said suddenly,--

"You write poetry!"

The lad turned crimson: his mother looked dumfounded. It proved that he

had lately written a prize poem, and that literature was the goal of his

ambition. Another day she found a philosopher hidden in what seemed to

the rest of the family merely "a callow boy in pretty white duck

clothes." So she plucked out the heart of each man's mystery, but so

tenderly that it was yielded gladly, young and old alike feeling

themselves understood.

Among the visitors of this summer none was more welcome than her

great-grandson, Christopher Birckhead,[152] then an infant in arms. She

loved to hold and watch the child, brooding over him with grave

tenderness: it was a beautiful and gracious picture of Past and Future.

[152] Son of Caroline Minturn (Hall) and the Reverend Hugh Birckhead.

Maud had just written a book on Sicily, and, as always, our mother read

and corrected the galley proofs. She did this with exquisite care and

thoughtfulness, never making her suggestions on the proof itself, but on

a separate sheet of paper, with the number of the galley, the phrase,

and her suggested emendations. This was her invariable custom: the

writer must be perfectly free to retain her own phrase, if she preferred

it.

Walking tired her that summer, but she was very faithful about it.

"Zacko," she would command John Elliott, "take me for a walk."

The day before she took to her bed, he remembers that she clung to him

more than usual and said,--

"It tires me very much." (This after walking twice round the piazza.)

"Once more!" he encouraged.

"No--I have walked all I can to-day."

"Let me take you back to your room this way," he said, leading her back

by the piazza. "That makes five times each way!"

She laughed and was pleased to have done this, but he thinks she had a

great sense of weakness too.

Her favorite piece on the "Victor" that summer was "The Artillerist's

Oath." The music had a gallant ring to it, and there was something

heroic about the whole thing, something that suggested the Forlorn

Hope--how many of them she had led! When nine o'clock came, she would

ask for this piece by the nickname she had given it, taken from one of

its odd lines,--

"I'll wed thee in the battle's front!"

While the song was being given, she was all alert and alive, even if she

may have been sleepy earlier in the evening. She would get up with a

little gesture of courage, and take leave of us, always with a certain

ceremony, that was like the withdrawing of royalty. The evening was then

over, and we too went to bed!

As we gather up our treasures of this last summer, we remember that

several things might have prepared us for what was coming, had not our

eyes been holden. She spoke a great deal of old times, the figures of

her childhood and girlhood being evidently very near to her. She quoted

them often; "My grandma used to say--" She spoke as naturally as the boy

in the next room might speak of her.

She would not look in the glass; "I don't like to see my old face!" she

said. She could not see the beauty that every one else saw. Yet she kept

to the very last a certain tender coquetry. She loved her white dresses,

and the flowered silk cloak of that last summer. She chose with care the

jewels suited to each costume, the topaz cross for the white, the

amethysts for the lilac. She had a great dread of old people's being

untidy or unprepossessing in appearance, and never grudged the moments

spent in adjusting the right cap and lace collar.

There was an almost unearthly light in her face, a transparency and

sweetness that spoke to others more plainly than to us: Hugh Birckhead

saw and recognized it as a look he had seen in other faces of saintly

age, as their translation approached. But we said joyously to her and to

each other, "She will round out the century; we shall all keep the

Hundredth Birthday together!" And we and she partly believed it.

The doctor had insisted strongly that she should keep, through the

summer at least, the trained nurse who had ministered to her after her

fall. She "heard what he said, but it made no difference." In early

August she records "a passage at arms with Maud, in which I clearly

announced my intention of dispensing with the services of a trained

nurse, my good health and simple habits rendering it entirely

unnecessary."

She threatened to write to her man of business.

"_I would rather die_," she said, "than be an old woman with a nurse!"

Maud and Florence wept, argued, implored, but the nurse was dismissed.

The Journal acknowledges that "her ministrations and Dr. Cobb's

diagnosis have been very beneficial to my bodily health." On the same

day she records the visit of a Persian Prince, who had come to this

country chiefly to see two persons, the President of the United States

and Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. "He also claims to be a reincarnation of some

remarkable philosopher; and to be so greatly interested in the cause of

Peace that he declines to visit our ships now in the harbor here, to

which he has been invited."

Reading Theodore Parker's sermon on "Wisdom and Intellect," she found it

so full of notable sayings that she thought "a little familiar book of

daily inspiration and aspiration" might be made from his writings: she

wrote to Mr. Francis J. Garrison suggesting this, and suggesting also,

what had been long in her mind, the collecting and publishing of her

"Occasional Poems."

In late September, she was "moved to write one or more open letters on

what religion really is, for some one of the women's papers"; and the

next day began upon "What is Religion?" or rather, "What Sort of

Religion makes Religious Liberty possible?"

A day or two later, she was giving an "offhand talk" on the early

recollections of Newport at the Papéterie, and going to an afternoon tea

at a musical house, where, after listening to Schumann Romances and

Chopin waltzes, and to the "Battle Hymn" on the 'cello, she was moved to

give a performance of "Flibbertigibbet." This occasion reminded her

happily of her father's house, of Henry "playing tolerably on the

'cello, Marion studying the violin, Bro' Sam's lovely tenor voice."

Now came the early October days when she was to receive the degree of

Doctor of Laws from Smith College. She hesitated about making the

tiresome journey, but finally, "Grudging the trouble and expense, I

decide to go to Smith College, for my degree, but think I won't do so

any more."

She started accordingly with daughter and maid, for Northampton,

Massachusetts. It was golden weather, and she was in high spirits.

Various college dignitaries met her at the station; one of these had

given up a suite of rooms for her use; she was soon established in much

peace and comfort.

Wednesday, October 5, was a day of perfect autumn beauty. She was early

dressed in her white dress, with the college gown of rich black silk

over it, the "mortar-board" covering in like manner her white lace cap.

Thus arrayed, a wheeled chair conveyed her to the great hall, already

packed with visitors and graduates, as was the deep platform with

college officials and guests of honor. Opposite the platform, as if hung

in air, a curving gallery was filled with white-clad girls, some two

thousand of them; as she entered they rose like a flock of doves, and

with them the whole audience. They rose once more when her name was

called, last in the list of those honored with degrees; and as she came

forward, the organ pealed, and the great chorus of fresh young voices

broke out with

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord--"

It was the last time.

Later in the day the students of Chapin House brought their guest-book,

begging for her autograph. She looked at Laura with a twinkle.

"Do you think they would like me to write something?"

Assured on that point, she waited a moment, and then wrote after her

signature,--

Wandered to Smith College

In pursuit of knowledge;

Leaves so much the wiser,

Nothing can surprise her!

She reached home apparently without undue fatigue. "She will be more

tired to-morrow!" we said; but she was not. Her son came for the

week-end, and his presence was always a cordial. Sunday was a happy day.

In the evening we gathered round the piano, she playing, son and

daughters singing the old German student songs brought by "Uncle Sam"

from Heidelberg seventy years before.

On the Tuesday she went to the Papéterie, and was the life and soul of

the party, sparkling with merriment. Driving home, it was so warm that

she begged to have the top of the carriage put back, and so she enjoyed

the crowning pageant of the autumn, the full hunter's moon and the

crimson ball of the sun both visible at once.

Wednesday found her busy at her desk, confessing to a slight cold, but

making nothing of it. The next day bronchitis developed, followed by

pneumonia. For several days the issue seemed doubtful, the strong

constitution fighting for life. Two devoted physicians were beside her,

one the friend of many years, the other a young assistant. The presence

of the latter puzzled her, but his youth and strength seemed tonic to

her, and she would rest quietly with her hand in his strong hand.

On Sunday evening the younger physician thought her convalescent; the

elder said, "If she pulls through the next twenty-four hours, she will

recover."

But she was too weary. That night they heard her say, "God will help

me!" and again, toward morning, "I am so tired!"

Being alone for a moment with Maud, she spoke one word: a little word

that had meant "good-bye" between them in the nursery days.

So, in the morning of Monday, October 17, her spirit passed quietly on

to God's keeping.

Those who were present at her funeral will not forget it. The

flower-decked church, the mourning multitude, the white coffin borne

high on the shoulders of eight stalwart grandsons, the words of age-long

wisdom and beauty gathered into a parting tribute, the bugle sounding

Taps, as she passed out in her last earthly triumph, the blind children

singing round the grave on which the autumn sun shone with a final

golden greeting.

* * * * *

We have told the story of our mother's life, possibly at too great

length; but she herself told it in eight words.

"Tell me," Maud asked her once, "what is the ideal aim of life?"

She paused a moment, and replied, dwelling thoughtfully on each word,--

"To learn, to teach, to serve, to enjoy!"

THE END

INDEX

Abbott, J., I, 214, 215; II, 99.

Abdin Palace, II, 35, 36.

Abdul Hamid II, II, 42.

Abdul Hassan, mosque of, II, 36.

Aberdeen, Countess of, II, 165, 166.

Aberdeen, J. C. H. Gordon, Earl of, II, 165.

Abolitionists, I, 177, 305; II, 171.

Academy of Fine Arts, French, II, 23.

Acroceraunian Mountains, I, 272.

Acropolis, II, 43.

Adamowski, Timothée, II, 55, 58.

Adams, Charles Follen, II, 270, 273;

verse by, II, 335.

Adams, Mrs. C. F., I, 266.

Adams, John, I, 4.

Adams, John Quincy, II, 312.

Adams, Nehemiah, I, 168.

_Advertiser, Boston_, II, 195, 222.

Ægina, I, 73.

Æschylus, II, 130, 282, 348, 372.

Agassiz, Alexander, II, 50.

Agassiz, Elizabeth Cary, I, 124, 345, 361; II, 228, 287, 292.

Agassiz, Louis, I, 124, 151, 251, 345; II, 150, 158.

Aidé, Hamilton, II, 251.

Airlie, Lady, II, 254.

_Alabama_, II, 108.

Albania, I, 272.

Albany, I, 342.

Albert of Savoy, II, 303.

Albert Victor, II, 9.

Albinola, Sig., I, 94.

Alboni, Marietta, I, 87.

Alcott, A. Bronson, I, 285, 290; II, 57, 120.

Aldrich, Mrs. Richard, II, 367.

Aldrich, T. B., I, 244, 262; II, 70, 354, 357, 358.

Aldrich, Mrs. T. B., I, 245.

Alger, Wm. R., I, 207, 244, 245; II, 127, 139, 140.

Allston, John, I, 12.

Alma-Tadema, Lady, II, 168, 169.

Alma-Tadema, Laurence, II, 168, 169, 171.

Almy, Mr., II, 139.

Amadeo, II, 31, 278.

Amalfi, II, 33.

Amberley, Lady, I, 266.

Amélie, Queen, II, 30.

America, I, 7, 11, 207, 247, 267, 273, 320, 344; II, 18, 21, 189.

American Academy of Arts and Letters, II, 399.

American Academy of Science, I, 251, 259.

American Authors, Society of, II, 355.

American Branch, International Peace Society, I, 306.

American Civil War, I, 176, 186, 219-22; II, 253.

American Institute of Education, II, 68.

_American Notes_, I, 81.

American Peace Society, I, 303.

American Revolution, I, 6.

American School of Archæology, Athens, II, 243.

American Woman Suffrage Association, I, 365.

Ames, Mr., II, 166, 167.

Ames, Charles Gordon, I, 392; II, 187,193, 216, 229, 273, 280, 287,

288, 298, 324, 328, 358, 361.

Ames, Fanny, II, 297.

Ames, Mrs. Sheldon, II, 22.

Amsterdam, II, 11.

Anacreon, I, 289.

Anagnos, Julia R., I, 96, 104, 106, 114, 115, 116, 119, 122, 126,

128, 133, 159-63, 172, 181, 216, 249-51, 264, 265, 267, 297,

349, 350, 352; II, 46, 59, 65, 70, 73, 74, 115-20, 123, 127,

128, 129, 164, 349.

Anagnos, Michael, I, 273, 281, 288-90, 297, 331, 332; II, 116-18,

129, 228, 229, 293, 300, 347, 348, 349, 357, 360.

Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company, I, 232.

Anderson, Hendrik, II, 240, 243, 244, 248, 252.

Anderson, Isabel, II, 233.

Anderson, Larz, I, 169; II, 233, 287.

Andrew, John A., I, 150, 151, 186, 189, 195, 220, 231, 233, 238, 239,

246, 261, 283, 381; II, 105, 265, 323.

Andrew, Mrs. J. A., I, 186, 231.

Andrews, E. B., II, 187.

Anniversary Week, I, 389; II, 151.

Anthony, Susan, II, 344.

Antioch College, I, 169.

Antonayades, Mr., II, 34.

Antwerp, I, 279; II, 11, 172.

Antwerp Cathedral, II, 11, 172.

Antwerp Musée, II, 11, 172, 173.

Ap Thomas, Mr., I, 266.

Apocrypha, I, 317.

Appleton, Fanny. _See_ Longfellow.

Appleton, Maud, II, 58.

Appleton, T. G., I, 159, 359; II, 92, 93.

Argos, I, 275, 277.

Argyll, Elizabeth, Duchess of, I, 267.

Argyll, G. D., Campbell, Duke of, I, 267.

Argyll, ninth Duke of, I, 267; II, 223.

Arion Musical Society, II, 173.

Aristophanes, I, 329; II, 98, 128, 130.

Aristotle, I, 335; II, 7, 169, 174, 348, 372.

Armenia, II, 189, 190, 209, 215.

Armenia, Friends of, II, 190, 191.

Armstrong, S. C., II, 91.

Army Register, I, 344.

Arnold, Benedict, I, 5.

Arnold, Matthew, II, 87.

Arthur, Chester A., II, 101.

Ascension Church, I, 70.

Assiout, II, 36.

Association for the Advancement of Women, I, 361, 373-76, 383, 384;

II, 29, 58, 73, 84, 90, 91, 95, 97, 98, 131, 141, 152, 162,

178, 180, 183, 199, 200, 207, 209, 268.

Astor, Emily. _See_ Ward.

Astor, John, I, 121.

Astor, Wm. B., I, 57, 99.

Athens, I, 273, 274, 275, 278, 287; II, 43, 243.

Athens Museum, II, 43.

Atherstone, I, 97, 280.

Athol, I, 119.

Atkinson, Edward, II, 62, 177.

Atlanta, II, 207, 208.

Atlantic, II, 75.

_Atlantic Monthly_, I, 176, 188; II, 295.

Augusta, Empress, II, 22.

Austria, I, 94.

Authors Club, Boston, II, 270, 271, 320, 334, 340, 341, 354, 357.

Avignon, I, 97.

Babcock, Mrs. C. A., II, 215.

Bacon, Gorham, II, 49.

Baddeley, Mr., II, 246.

Baez, Buenaventura, I, 323, 325, 328, 329, 334.

Bailey, Jacob, I, 37, 52.

Bairam, feast of, II, 34.

Baker, Lady, I, 267.

Baker, Sir Samuel, I, 266.

Baltimore, I, 169, 240; II, 343, 344.

Baluet, Judith. _See_ Marion.

Balzac, Honoré de, I, 67.

Bancroft, George, I, 46, 209, 230; II, 139.

Bank of Commerce, I, 17, 63.

Bank of England, I, 62.

Bank of the United States, I, 62.

Banks, N. P., I, 172.

Barlow, Gen. Francis, I, 192; II, 61.

Barlow, Mrs. Francis, I, 192.

Barnardo, T. J., II, 165.

Barnstable, I, 231, 232, 233.

Barrows, S. J., II, 229.

Barrows, Mrs. S. J., II, 209, 228.

Bartenders' Union, I, 391.

Bartol, C. A., I, 221, 222, 234, 245, 286, 346; II, 127.

Barton, Clara, II, 210, 215.

Batcheller, Mrs. Alfred, II, 269.

Batcheller, Mrs. Frank, II, 292.

Battle Abbey, I, 4.

_Battle Hymn_, I, 9, 173, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 230, 234; II, 108,

125, 136, 155, 191, 233, 250, 265, 273, 279, 311, 327, 349,

351, 354, 365, 381, 392, 411, 412.

Baur, F. C., I, 329, 332, 333, 335, 356.

Bayard, T. F., II, 96.

Beach, H. P., II, 61, 73, 76, 90.

Beal, J. A., II, 322.

Bedford, Duchess of, II, 171.

Bedford Hills, II, 364.

Beecher, Catherine, I, 110.

Beecher, H. W., I, 226, 365; II, 123, 235.

Beethoven, L. van, II, 19, 157, 351.

Belgium, I, 279, 280; II, 172.

Belknap, Jane, I, 128.

Bell, Helen, II, 150.

Bellini, Vincenzo, II, 313.

Bellows, H. W., II, 57.

Benzon, Mrs., I, 265, 266.

Berdan, Mrs., II, 227.

Bergson, Henri, II, 401.

Berlin, I, 93, 94; II, 12, 19.

Bernhardt, Sarah, II, 227.

Besant, Walter, II, 171.

Bethany, II, 40.

Bethlehem, II, 38.

Bible, I, 46, 53, 109, 208, 254, 310, 323, 336, 340, 344, 385;

II, 95, 174, 231.

Bigelow, Mary, I, 145.

Bigelow, Susan, I, 145; II, 231.

Birckhead, Caroline, II, 233.

Birckhead, Christopher, II, 407.

Birckhead, Hugh, II, 410.

Bird, F. W., Sr., II, 187.

Bishop, Mr., I, 240, 241.

Bisland, Elizabeth, II, 108.

Bismarck, Otto von, II, 19, 303.

Björnson, Björnstjerne, II, 243, 247.

Black, Wm., II, 9.

Blackstone, Wm., I, 73.

Blackwell, Alice, II, 190, 233, 325.

Blackwell, Antoinette, I, 375; II, 152, 154.

Blackwell, Henry, I, 332; II, 190.

Blair, Montgomery, I, 238.

Blanc, Louis, II, 24.

Blind, work for the, I, 73; II, 347. _See also_ Perkins Institution

_and_ Kindergarten.

Bloomsbury, II, 4, 7.

_Boatswain's Whistle_, I, 210, 211.

Boer War, II, 272.

Bologna, II, 27.

Bonaparte, Joseph, I, 147, 328.

Bond Street, I, 22.

Bonheur, Rosa, II, 20.

Boocock, Mr., I, 43, 44.

Booth, Charles, II, 166.

Booth, Edwin, I, 172, 177, 203-05, 219, 327; II, 69, 70, 97,

183, 198, 345.

Booth, J. Wilkes, I, 220, 221.

Booth, Mary, I, 200, 204.

Boppart, I, 133.

Boston, I, 67, 70, 74, 75, 102-04, 111, 123, 126, 127, 129, 130,

132, 156, 176, 203, 207, 249, 261, 294; II, 60, 87, 92, 130,

168, 171, 181, 363.

Boston Armenian Relief Committee, II, 189.

Boston Conservatory of Music, II, 181, 217.

Boston Museum, I, 166; II, 158.

Boston Symphony Orchestra, II, 373.

Boston Theatre, I, 203, 210, 350; II, 210.

Bostwick, Mr., II, 225.

Bottomore, Billy, I, 53, 54.

Bourbon dynasty, I, 310.

Bowditch, H. I., II, 187.

Bowles, Ada C., I, 318, 390.

Boys' Reform School, I, 233.

Bracebridge, C. N., I, 97, 280.

Bracebridge, Mrs. C. N., I, 97, 280.

Brahms, Johannes, II, 71, 156, 210.

Brain Club, I, 201, 202, 215, 257, 264, 281.

Brattleboro, I, 118, 119.

Breadwinners' College, II, 128.

Breschkovskaya, Catherine, II, 187, 188.

Bridgman, Laura, I, 73, 74, 89, 95, 101, 102, 133; II, 8, 145,

262, 293.

Bright, Jacob, I, 314.

Broadwood, Louisa, II, 247, 255.

Brontë, Charlotte, I, 170.

Brooke, Lord, II, 165.

Brooke, Stopford, II, 167.

Brooklyn, I, 27; II, 202.

Brooks, C. T., I, 255; II, 56.

Brooks, Phillips, II, 75, 126, 127, 141, 162, 171, 172, 179.

Brooks, Preston, I, 168.

Brown, Anna, II, 57.

Brown, Charlotte Emerson, II, 182.

Brown, John, I, 151, 177, 179, 187, 381; II, 234.

Brown, Mrs. John, I, 177.

Brown, Olympia, I, 389.

Brown University, I, 72, 297; II, 392.

Browning, E. B., I, 201, 266; II, 167.

Browning, Robert, I, 266; II, 5, 84, 171, 227, 306, 367.

Bruce, Mr., II, 167.

Bruce, Mrs. E. M., I, 389, 391.

Bruges, I, 280.

Brummel, G. B., I, 316.

Brussels, I, 279.

Bryant, W. C., I, 209, 304; II, 197, 198.

Bryce, James, II, 168.

Buck, Florence, I, 391.

Buffalo, I, 376; II, 90, 139.

Buller, Charles, I, 82.

Bullock, A. H., I, 249.

Bulwer-Lytton, E., I, 262; II, 206.

Burne-Jones, Mrs. E., II, 169.

Burns, Robert, I, 139.

Burr, Mrs., II, 130.

Burt, Mr., II, 248.

Busoni, Sig., II, 192.

Butcher, S. H., II, 323.

Butler, Josephine, II, 21.

Butler, W. A., II, 248, 306.

Butterworth, Hezekiah, II, 228, 270.

Byron, G. Gordon, Lord, I, 68; II, 296.

Cable, G. W., II, 87.

Cabot, Elliot, II, 363.

Caine, Hall, II, 243, 248, 250.

Cairo, II, 34, 35, 36, 182.

California, II, 131, 135, 154.

Calypso, I, 272.

Cambridge Club, II, 66.

Campagna, I, 95, 134.

Campanari, Sig., II, 270.

Campbell, Dudley, II, 8.

Campello, Count Salome di, II, 273, 285, 302.

Cardini, Sig., I, 43, 44.

Carignan, Prince de, II, 31.

Carlisle, Lady, I, 85, 87; II, 166.

Carlisle, G. W. F. Howard, Earl of, I, 81, 85, 88.

Carlyle, Thomas, I, 84, 86, 172; II, 65, 85, 86.

Carlyle, Mrs. Thomas, I, 84; II, 85, 86.

Cary, Mrs., I, 159.

Casino Theatre, II, 54, 68, 77.

Catlin, Mrs., II, 179.

Catucci, Count, II, 243.

Catucci, Countess, II, 243.

Century Club, I, 258.

Cerito, I, 87, 88.

Ceuta, II, 234.

Chabreuil, Vicomte de, I, 257.

Chambrun, Marquis de, I, 239.

Chamounix, II, 20.

Chanler, Alida, II, 225.

Chanler, Margaret. _See_ Aldrich, Mrs. Richard.

Chanler, Margaret Terry, II, 55, 57, 60, 65, 67, 174, 176, 202,

220, 224, 240, 243, 244, 253, 254, 303.

Chanler, T. W., II, 303, 304.

Chanler, Winthrop, II, 72, 94, 174, 225, 243, 303.

Channing, Eva, II, 208.

Channing, W. E., I, 70, 72, 200; II, 56, 57, 77, 108, 142.

Channing, W. H., I, 286; II, 57, 194.

Channing Memorial Church, II, 78.

Chapman, Elizabeth, II, 215, 224, 289.

Chapman, J. J., II, 361.

Charitable Eye and Ear Infirmary, I, 129.

Charity Club, II, 228.

Charleston, I, 11.

Chase, Jacob, II, 57, 58.

Chase, Mrs. Jacob, II, 57.

Châtelet, Mme. du, II, 23.

Chaucer, Geoffrey, II, 271.

Cheney, E. D., I, 341, 375; II, 88, 119, 152, 195, 208, 266, 302,

324, 328.

Chester, II, 4, 164.

Chicago, I, 374; II, 87, 131, 138, 178, 180, 184.

Chickering, Mr., I, 120.

Chopin, Frédéric, II, 55, 170, 351.

_Christian Herald_, II, 278.

_Christian Register_, II, 62.

Church of Rome, II, 241.

Church of the Disciples, I, 186, 237, 284, 346, 392; II, 56.

Cincinnati, I, 169.

City Point, II, 75.

Clarke, Bishop, II, 198.

Clarke, J. F., I, 177, 185, 186, 187, 198, 211, 219, 236, 239,

247, 257, 263, 286, 290, 346, 362, 375, 392; II, 66, 67,

70, 76, 137, 159, 234, 280, 402, 403.

Clarke, Mrs. J. F., II, 217.

Clarke, Sarah, I, 237.

Claudius, Matthias, I, 67, 68; II, 71.

Clay, Henry, I, 98.

Clemens, S. L., II, 50, 187, 341.

Clement, E. H., II, 320;

verse by, 335.

Cleveland, I, 365, 377; II, 139.

Cleveland, Henry, I, 74.

Cobb, Dr., II, 410.

Cobbe, Frances P., I, 266, 314; II, 62.

Cobden-Sanderson, Mr., II, 367.

Cobden-Sanderson, Mrs., II, 367.

Cochrane, Jessie, II, 240, 246, 249.

Coggeshall, Joseph, I, 253; II, 57.

Cogswell, J. G., I, 46, 104, 184.

Colby, Clara, II, 180.

Cole, Thomas, I, 42.

Colfax, Schuyler, I, 378.

Collegio Romano, II, 255.

_Colliers' Weekly_, II, 391.

Collyer, Robert, II, 62, 230, 255, 344.

Cologne, I, 92; II, 173.

Colonial Dames, II, 198.

Colorado, I, 372.

Columba Kang, II, 91.

Columbia University, II, 227.

Columbian Exposition, II, 107, 178, 181, 182, 184.

Columbus, Christopher, I, 323; II, 178, 194, 244, 357.

Combe, George, I, 95.

_Commonwealth_, I, 141, 142.

Concord, Mass., I, 152, 177; II, 57, 61, 77, 128, 194.

Concord, N.H., I, 254.

Concord Prison, II, 252.

Concord School of Philosophy, II, 118, 119, 120, 128.

Constantinople, I, 345; II, 35, 42.

Continental Congress, I, 4.

Conway, M. D., I, 306.

Cook's agency, II, 34, 41.

Cookson, Mr., II, 170.

Coolidge, Joseph, II, 313.

Copperheads, I, 239.

Coquelin, B. C., II, 288, 289.

Coquerel, Athanase, I, 286; II, 315.

Corday, Charlotte, I, 12.

Cordés, Charlotte, I, 12.

Corea, II, 91.

Corfù, I, 272.

Corné, Father, I, 53, 54.

Corot, J. B. C., II, 172.

Corse, Gen., II, 380.

Cotta, J. F., I, 202.

Council of Italian Women, II, 254, 255.

Cowell, Mary, I, 13.

Crabbe, George, I, 13.

Cram, R. A., II, 156.

Cramer, J. B., I, 43.

Crawford, Annie. _See_ Rabé.

Crawford, Eleanor, II, 389.

Crawford, F. Marion, I, 130, 254, 255, 362; II, 28, 31, 65, 69-71,

80, 81, 84, 240, 362, 376, 389.

Crawford, Mrs. F. M., II, 240.

Crawford, Harold, II, 240.

Crawford, Louisa W., I, 18, 19, 30, 34, 35, 58, 59, 70, 78, 79, 95,

103, 115, 118, 130, 134.

Letters to, I, 81, 84, 88, 92, 110, 111, 113-17, 119-22, 125-29, 130,

131, 155-59, 168, 170-72. _See also_ Terry, Louisa.

Crawford, Thomas, I, 41, 95, 115; II, 55, 389.

Crete, I, 260-62, 264, 275-77, 278, 287; II, 43, 44, 225, 394.

Crimea, I, 294.

Crimean War, II, 189.

_Critic, N.Y._, II, 66.

Crothers, S. McC., II, 320.

Crusaders, II, 15.

Cuba, I, 173, 176, 177, 326.

Cuckson, Mr., II, 203.

Cumberland Lakes, I, 92.

Curiel, Señor, I, 324.

Curtis, G. W., I, 143, 159, 160; II, 93.

Letter of, II, 147.

Cushing, Mr., II, 74, 75.

Cushing, Louisa, II, 227.

Cushman, Charlotte, I, 204; II, 345.

Cutler, B. C., Sr., I, 10, 13, 17.

Cutler, B. C., 2d, I, 27, 28, 38, 39, 107; II, 222, 364.

Cutler, Eliza. _See_ Francis.

Cutler, John, I, 10, 12.

Cutler, Julia. _See_ Ward.

Cutler, Louisa. _See_ McAllister.

Cutler, Sarah M. H., I, 10, 12, 13, 17, 39, 40, 42; II, 319.

Cyclades, I, 272.

Cyprus, II, 42.

Czerwinsk, II, 12, 13, 14.

Dana, R. H., Jr., I, 226.

D'Annunzio, II, 285.

Dante, Alighieri, I, 174, 330; II, 26, 27, 120,357.

Dantzig, II, 15, 18.

Daubigny, C. F., II, 172.

Daughters of the American Revolution, II, 179, 194, 351.

Davenport, E. L., I, 204.

Davidson, Thomas, II, 128.

Davidson, Wm., letter of, II, 390.

Davis, James C., I, 201, 251.

Davis, Jefferson, I, 222.

Davis, Mary F., I, 304.

Davis, Theodore, II, 251.

Dead Sea, II, 38, 39.

Declaration of Independence, I, 4.

DeKoven, Reginald, II, 195.

Deland, Lorin, II, 332, 333.

Deland, Margaret, II, 303, 332.

_Delineator_, II, 381.

DeLong, G. W., I, 322, 325.

Demesmaker. _See_ Cutler, John.

Denver, II, 152, 153.

Descartes, René, II, 397.

Desgrange, Mme., II, 240.

Detroit, II, 141.

Devonshire, Duchess of, II, 8.

Devonshire, Wm. Cavendish, Duke of, II, 8.

DeWars, Mr., II, 224.

Diana, Temple of, II, 6.

Diaz, Abby M., II, 323.