SAMUEL WARD AND THE ASTORS
My first peep at the great world in grown-up days was at a dinner party
given by a daughter of General Armstrong, married to the eldest son of
the first John Jacob Astor. Mrs. Astor was a person of very elegant
taste. She had received a part of her education in Paris, at the time
when her father represented our government at the Court of France. Her
notions of propriety in dress were very strict. According to these,
jewels were not to be worn in the daytime. Glaring colors and striking
contrasts were to be avoided. Much that is in favor to-day would have
been ruled out by her as inadmissible. At the dinner of which I speak
the ladies were in evening dress, which in those days did not transcend
modest limits. One very pretty married lady wore a white turban, which
was much admired. Another lady was adorned with a coronet of fine stone
cameos,--which has recently been presented to the Boston Art Museum by a
surviving member of her family.
My head was dressed for this occasion by Martel, a dainty half Spanish
or French octoroon, endowed with exquisite taste, a ready wit, and a
saucy tongue. He was the Figaro of the time, and his droll sayings were
often quoted among his lady customers. The hair was then worn low at the
back of the head, woven into elaborate braids and darkened with French
_pomade_, while an ornament called a _feroniere_ was usually worn upon
the forehead or just above it. This was sometimes a string of pearls
with a diamond star in the middle, oftener a gold chain or band
ornamented with a jewel. The fashion, while it prevailed, was so general
that evening dress was scarcely considered complete without it.
Not long after the dinner party just mentioned, my eldest brother
married the eldest daughter of the Astor family. I officiated at the
wedding as first bridesmaid, a sister of the bride and one of my own
completing the number. The bride wore a dress of rich white silk, and
was coiffed with a scarf of some precious lace, in lieu of a veil. On
her forehead shone a diamond star, the gift of her grandfather, Mr. John
Jacob Astor. The bridesmaids' dresses were of white _moire_, then a
material of the newest fashion. I had begged my father to give me a
_feroniere_ for this occasion, and he had presented me with a very
pretty string of pearls, having a pearl pansy and drop in the centre.
This fashion, I afterwards learned, was very ill suited to the contour
of my face. At the time, however, I had the comfort of supposing that I
looked uncommonly well. The ceremony took place in the evening at the
house of the bride's parents. A very elaborate supper was afterwards
served, at which the first groomsman proposed the health of the bride
and groom, which was drunk without response. A wedding journey was not a
_sine qua non_ in those days, but a wedding reception was usual. In this
instance it took the form of a brilliant ball, every guest being in turn
presented to the bride. On the floor of the ball-room a floral design
had been traced in colored chalks. The evening was at its height when my
father gravely admonished me that it was time to go home. Paternal
authority was without appeal in those days.
In my character of bridesmaid, I was allowed to attend one or two of the
entertainments given in honor of this marriage. The gayeties of New York
were then limited to balls, dinners, and evening parties. The afternoon
tea was not invented until a much later period. One or two extra
_elegantes_ received on stated afternoons. My dear uncle John, taking up
a card left for me, with the inscription, "Mrs. S. at home on Thursday
afternoon," remarked, "At home on Thursday afternoon? I am glad to learn
that she is so domestic." This lady, who was a leading personage in the
social world, used also to receive privileged friends on one evening in
the week, giving only a cup of chocolate and some cakes or biscuits.
My eldest brother, Samuel Ward, the fourth of the same name, has been so
well known, both in public and in private life, that my reminiscences
would not be complete without some special characterization of him. In
my childhood he was my ideal and my idol. A handsome youth, quick of wit
and tender of heart, brilliant in promise, and with a great and
versatile power of work in him, I doubt whether Round Hill School ever
turned out a more remarkable pupil.
From Round Hill my brother passed to Columbia College, graduating
therefrom after a four years' course. His mathematical attainments were
considered remarkable, and my father, desiring to give him the best
opportunity of extending his studies, sent him to Europe before he had
attained his majority, with a letter of credit whose amount the banker,
Hottinguer, thought it best not to impart to the young student, so much
did he consider it beyond his needs.
My brother's career in Europe, where he spent some years at this time,
was not altogether in accordance with the promise of his early devotion
to mathematical science. He saw much of German student life, and studied
enough to obtain a degree from the University of Tuebingen. Before his
departure from America he had written two articles for the "North
American Review." One of these was on Locke's "Essay on the Human
Understanding," the other on Euler's works. In Paris, he became the
intimate friend of the famous critic, Jules Janin, and made acquaintance
with other literary men of the time. He returned to America in 1835,
speaking French like a Parisian and German as fluently as if that had
been his native language. He had purchased a great part of the
scientific library of La Grange, and an admirable collection of French
and German works. At this period, he desired to make literature, rather
than science, the leading pursuit of his life. He devoted much time to
the composition of a work descriptive of Paris. He wrote many chapters
of this in French, and I was proud to be allowed to render them into
English. He brought into the Puritanic limits of our family circle a
flavor of European life and culture which greatly delighted me.
[Illustration: SAMUEL WARD JR. _From a painting by Baron Vogel._]
My brother had spent a great deal of money while in Europe, and my
father, who had done so much for him, began to think it time that this
darling of fortune should take steps to earn his own support. The
easiest way for him to accomplish this was to accept a post in the
banking house of Prime, Ward and King, with the prospect of partnership
later. He decided, with some reluctance, to pursue this course. His
first day's performance at the office was so faulty that my father, on
reviewing it, exclaimed, "You will play the very devil with the
check-book, sir, if you use it in this way." He, however, applied
himself diligently to his office work, and soon mastered its
difficulties, but without developing a taste for business pursuits.
Literature was still his ruling passion, and he devoted such leisure as
he could command to study and to the composition of several lectures,
which he delivered with some success.
I have already spoken of his marriage with a daughter of Mr. William B.
Astor. This union, a very happy one, was not of long duration. After a
few years of married life, he was left a widower, with a daughter still
in infancy, who became the especial charge and darling of my sister
Louisa.
After an interval of some years, my brother married Miss Grimes of New
Orleans, a lady of uncommon beauty and talent. In the mean time we had
to mourn the death of our beloved father, whose sober judgment and
strong will had exercised a most salutary influence upon my brother's
sanguine temperament. He now became anxious to increase his income; and
this anxiety led him to embark in various speculations, which were not
always fortunate. He left the firm of Prime, Ward and King, and was one
of the first who went to California after its cession to the United
States.
The Indians were then in near proximity to San Francisco, and Uncle Sam,
as he came to be called, went much among them, and became so well versed
in their diverse dialects as to be able to act as interpreter between
tribes unacquainted with each other's forms of speech. He once wrote out
and sent me some tenses of an Indian verb which had impressed him with
its resemblance to corresponding parts of the Greek language. I showed
this to Theodore Parker, who considered it remarkable, and at once
caused my brother to be elected as a member of some learned association
devoted to philological research.
An anecdote of his experience with the Indians may be briefly narrated
here. He had been passing some time at a mining camp in the neighborhood
of an Indian settlement, and had entered into friendly relations with
the principal chief of the tribe. Thinking that a trip to San Francisco
would greatly amuse this noble savage, he with some difficulty persuaded
the elders of the tribe to allow their leader to accompany him to the
city, where they had no sooner landed than the chief slipped out of
sight and could not be found. Several days passed without any news of
him, although advertisements were soon posted and a liberal reward
offered to any one who should discover his whereabouts. My brother and
his party were finally obliged to return to camp without him. This they
did very unwillingly, knowing that the chief's prolonged absence would
arouse the suspicions of his followers that he had met with
ill-treatment.
And so indeed it proved. Soon after their arrival at the settlement they
were told that the Indians were becoming much excited, and that a
council and war-dance were in preparation. The whites, a handful of men,
armed themselves, and were preparing to sell their lives dearly, when
suddenly the chief himself appeared among them. The Indians were
pacified and the whites were overjoyed. The fugitive gave the following
explanation of his strange conduct. He had been much alarmed by the
noises heard on board the steamer, which he seemed to have mistaken for
a living creature. "He must be sick, he groans so!" was his expression.
Resolving that he would not return by that means of conveyance, he had
found for himself a hiding-place on a hill commanding a view of the
harbor. From this height of vantage he was able to observe the movements
of the party which had brought him to the city. When he saw the men
reembark on the steamer, he felt himself secure from recapture, and
managed to steal a horse and to find his way back to his own people. If
his misunderstanding of the nature of the boat should seem improbable,
we must remember the Highlander who picked up a watch on some
battlefield, and the next day sold it for a trifle, averring that "the
creature had died in the night."
During the period of the civil war, my brother resided in Washington,
where his social gifts were highly valued. His sympathies were with the
Democratic party, but his friendships went far beyond the limits of
partisanship. He had an unusual power of reconciling people who were at
variance with each other, and the dinners at which he presided furnished
occasions to bring face to face political opponents accustomed to avoid
each other, but unable to resist the _bonhomie_ which sought to make
them better friends. He became known as King of the Lobby, but much more
as the prince of entertainers. Although careful in his diet, he was well
versed in gastronomics, and his menus were wholly original and
excellent. He had friendly relations with the diplomats who were
prominent in the society of the capital. Lord Rosebery and the Duke of
Devonshire were among his friends, as were also the late Senator Bayard
and President Garfield.
Quite late in life, he enjoyed a turn of good fortune, and was most
generous in his use of the wealth suddenly acquired, and alas! as
suddenly lost. His last visit to Europe was in 1882-83, when, after
passing some months with Lord and Lady Rosebery, he proceeded to Rome to
finish the winter with our sister, Mrs. Terry. In his travels he had
contracted a fatal disease, and his checkered and brilliant career came
to an end at Pegli, near Genoa, in the spring of 1884. Of his oft
contemplated literary work there remains a volume of poems entitled
"Literary Recreations." The poet Longfellow, my brother's lifelong
friend and intimate, esteemed these productions of his as true poetry,
and more than once said to me of their author, "He is the most lovable
man that I have ever known." I certainly never knew one who took so much
delight in giving pleasure to others, or whose life was so full of
natural, overflowing geniality and beneficence.
Shortly after his first marriage my brother and his bride came to reside
with us. In their company I often visited the Astor mansion, which was
made delightful by good taste, good manners, and hospitable
entertainment.
Mr. William B. Astor, the head of the family, was a rather shy and
silent man. He had received the best education that a German university
could offer. The Chevalier Bunsen had been his tutor, and Schopenhauer,
then a student at the same university, had been his friend. He had a
love for letters, and might perhaps have followed this natural leading
to advantage, had he not become his father's man of business, and thus
been forced to devote much of his life to the management of the great
Astor estate. At the time of which I speak, he resided on the
unfashionable side of Broadway, not far below Canal Street.
At this time I was often invited to the house of his father, Mr. John
Jacob Astor. This house, which the old gentleman had built for himself,
was situated on Broadway, between Prince and Spring streets. Adjoining
it was one which he had built for a favorite granddaughter, Mrs. Boreel.
He was very fond of music, and sometimes engaged the services of a
professional pianist. I remember that he was much pleased at
recognizing, one evening, the strains of a brilliant waltz, of which he
said: "I heard it at a fair in Switzerland years ago. The Swiss women
were whirling round in their red petticoats." On another occasion, we
sang the well-known song, "Am Rhein;" and Mr. Astor, who was very stout
and infirm of person, rose and stood beside the piano, joining with the
singers. "Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachset suesses Leben," he sang, instead
of "Da wachsen unsere Reben."
My sister-in-law, Emily Astor Ward, was endowed with a voice whose
unusual power and beauty had been enhanced by careful training. We
sometimes sang together or separately at old Mr. Astor's musical
parties, and at one of these he said to us, as we stood together: "You
are my singing birds." Of our two _repertoires_, mine was the most
varied, as it included French and German songs, while she sang mostly
operatic music. The rich volume of her voice, however, carried her
hearers quite away. Her figure and carriage were fine, and in her
countenance beauty of expression lent a great charm to features which in
themselves were not handsome.
Although the elder Astor had led a life mainly devoted to business
interests, he had great pleasure in the society of literary men.
Fitz-Greene Halleck and Washington Irving were familiar visitors at his
house, and he conceived so great a regard for Dr. Joseph Green Cogswell
as to insist upon his becoming an inmate of his family. He finally went
to reside with Mr. Astor, attracted partly by the latter's promise to
endow a public library in the city of New York. This was accomplished
after some delay, and the doctor was for many years director of the
Astor Library.
He used to relate some humorous anecdotes of excursions which he made
with Mr. Astor. In the course of one of these, the two gentlemen took
supper together at a hotel recently opened. Mr. Astor remarked: "This
man will never succeed."
"Why not?" inquired the other.
"Don't you see what large lumps of sugar he puts in the sugar bowl?"
Once, as they were walking slowly to a pilot-boat which the old
gentleman had chartered for a trip down the harbor, Dr. Cogswell said:
"Mr. Astor, I have just been calculating that this boat costs you
twenty-five cents a minute." Mr. Astor at once hastened his pace,
reluctant to waste so much money.
In his own country Mr. Astor had been a member of the German Lutheran
Church. He once mentioned this fact to a clergyman who called upon him
in the interest of some charity. The visitor congratulated Mr. Astor
upon the increased ability to do good, which his great fortune gave him.
"Ah!" said Mr. Astor, "the disposition to do good does not always
increase with the means." In the last years of his life he was afflicted
with insomnia. Dr. Cogswell often sat with him through a great part of
the night, the coachman, William, being also in attendance. In these
sleepless nights, his mind appeared to be much exercised with regard to
a future state. On one of these occasions, when Dr. Cogswell had done
his best to expound the theme of immortality, Mr. Astor suddenly said to
his servant: "William, where do you expect to go when you die?" The man
replied: "Why, sir, I always expected to go where the other people
went."
Young as my native city was in my youth, it still retained some fossils
of an earlier period. Conspicuous among these were two sisters, of whom
the elder had been a recognized beauty and belle at the time of the War
of Independence.
Miss Charlotte White was what was called "a character" in those days.
She was tall and of commanding figure, attired after an ancient fashion,
but with great care. I remember her calling upon my aunt one morning, in
company with a lady friend much inclined to _embonpoint_. The lady's
name was Euphemia, and Miss White addressed her thus: "Feme, thou female
Falstaff." She took some notice of me, and began to talk of the gayeties
of her youth, and especially of a ball given at Newport during the war,
at which she had received especial attention.
On returning the visit we found the sisters in the quaintest little
sitting-room imaginable, the floor covered with a green Brussels carpet,
woven in one piece, with a medallion of flowers in the centre, evidently
manufactured to order. The furniture was of enameled white wood. We were
entertained with cake and wine.
The younger of the sisters was much afraid of lightning, and had devised
a curious little refuge to which she always betook herself when a
thunderstorm appeared imminent. This was a wooden platform standing on
glass feet, with a seat and a silken canopy, which the good lady drew
closely around her, remaining thus enveloped until the dreaded danger
was past.
My father sometimes endeavored to overcome my fear of lightning by
taking me up to the cupola of our house, and bidding me admire the
beauty of the storm. Wishing to impress upon me the absurdity of giving
way to fear, he told me of a lady whom he had known in his youth who,
being overtaken by a thunderstorm at a place of public resort, so lost
her head that she seized the wig of a gentleman standing near her, and
waved it wildly in the air, to his great wrath and discomfiture. I am
sorry to say that this dreadful warning provoked my laughter, but did
not increase my courage.
The years of mourning for my father and beloved brother being at an end,
and the sister next to me being now of an age to make her debut in
society, I began with her a season of visiting, dancing, and so on. My
sister was very handsome, and we were both welcome guests at fashionable
entertainments.
I was passionately fond of music, and scarcely less so of dancing, and
the history of the next two winters would, if written, chronicle a
series of balls, concerts, and dinners.
I did not, even in these years of social routine, abandon either my
studies or my hope of contributing to the literature of my generation.
Hours were not then unreasonably late. Dancing parties usually broke up
soon after one o'clock, and left me fresh enough to enjoy the next day's
study.
We saw many literary people and some of the scientists with whom my
brother had become acquainted while in Europe. Among the first was John
L. O'Sullivan, the accomplished editor of the "Democratic Review." When
the poet Dana visited our city, he always called upon us, and we
sometimes had the pleasure of seeing with him his intimate friend,
William Cullen Bryant, who very rarely appeared in general society.
Among our scientific guests I especially remember an English gentleman
who was in those days a distinguished mathematician, and who has since
become very eminent. He was of the Hebrew race, and had fallen violently
in love with a beautiful Jewish heiress, well known in New York. His
wooing was not fortunate, and the extravagance of his indignation at its
result was both pathetic and laughable. He once confided to me his
intention of paying his addresses to the lady's young niece. "And Miss
---- shall become our Aunt Hannah!" he said, with extreme bitterness.
I exhorted him to calm himself by devotion to his scientific pursuits,
but he replied: "Something better than mathematics has waked up here!"
pointing to his heart. He wrote many verses, which he read aloud to our
sympathizing circle. I recall from one of these a distich of some merit.
Speaking of his fancied wrongs, and warning his fair antagonist to
beware of the revenge which he might take, he wrote:--
"Wine gushes from the trampled grape,
Iron's branded into steel."
In the end he returned to the science which had been his first love, and
which rewarded his devotion with a wide reputation.
These years glided by with fairy-like swiftness. They were passed by my
sisters and myself under my brother's roof, where the beloved uncle also
made his home with us so long as we remained together.
I have dwelt a good deal on the circumstances and surroundings of my
early life in my native city. If this state of things here described had
continued, I should probably have remained a frequenter of fashionable
society, a musical amateur, and a _dilettante_ in literature.