CHAPTER VII

MARRIAGE: TOUR IN EUROPE

Quite other experiences were in store for me. I chanced to pass the

summer of 1841 at a cottage in the neighborhood of Boston, with my

sisters and a young friend much endeared to us as the betrothed of the

dearly loved brother Henry, whose recent death had greatly grieved us.

Longfellow and Sumner often visited us in our retirement. The latter

once made mention of Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe's wonderful achievement in

the case of Laura Bridgman, the first blind deaf mute who had ever been

taught the use of language. He also brought us some of the reports which

gave an account of the progress of her education. It was proposed that

we should drive over to the Perkins Institution on a given day. Mr.

Longfellow came for me in a buggy, while Mr. Sumner conducted my two

sisters and our friend.

We found Laura, then a child of ten years, seated at her little desk,

and beside her another girl of the same age, also a blind deaf mute. The

name of this last was Lucy Reed, and we learned that, until brought to

the Institution, she had been accustomed to cover her head and face with

a cotton bag of her own manufacture. Her complexion was very delicate

and her countenance altogether pleasing. While the two children were

holding converse through the medium of the finger alphabet, Lucy's face

was suddenly lit up by a smile so beautiful as to call forth from us an

involuntary exclamation. Unfortunately, this young girl was soon taken

away by her parents, and I have never had any further knowledge

concerning her.

Dr. Howe was absent when we arrived at the Institution, but before we

took leave of it, Mr. Sumner, looking out of a window, said, "Oh! here

comes Howe on his black horse." I looked out also, and beheld a noble

rider on a noble steed. The doctor dismounted, and presently came to

make our acquaintance. One of our party proposed to give Laura some

trinket which she wore, but Dr. Howe forbade this rather sternly. He

made upon us an impression of unusual force and reserve. Only when I was

seated beside Longfellow for the homeward drive, he mischievously

remarked, "Longfellow, I see that your horse has been down," at which

the poet seemed a little discomfited.

Mr. Sanborn, in the preface to his biography of Dr. Howe, says:--

"It has fallen to my lot to know, both in youth and in age, several of

the most romantic characters of our century; and among them one of the

most romantic was certainly the hero of these pages. That he was indeed

a hero, the events of his life sufficiently declare."

This writer, in his interesting memoir, often quotes passages from one

prepared by myself shortly after my husband's death. In executing this

work, I was forced to keep within certain limits, as my volume was

primarily intended for the use of the blind, a circumstance which

necessitated the printing of it in raised letters. As this process is

expensive, and its results very cumbersome, economy of space becomes an

important condition in its execution.

Mr. Sanborn, not having suffered this limitation, and having had many

documents at his disposal, has been able to add much interesting matter

to what I was only able to give in outline. An even fuller biography

than his will be published ere many years, by our children, but the best

record of the great philanthropist's life remains in the new influences

which he brought to bear on the community. Traces of these may be found

in the improved condition of the several classes of unfortunates whose

interests he espoused and vindicated, often to the great indignation of

parties less enlightened. He himself had, what he was glad to recognize

in Wendell Phillips, a prophetic quality of mind. His sanguine

temperament, his knowledge of principles and reliance upon them,

combined to lead him in advance of his own time. Experts in reforms and

in charities acknowledge the indebtedness of both to his unremitting

labors. What the general public should most prize and hold fast is the

conviction, so clearly expressed by him, that humanity has a claim to be

honored and aided, even where its traits appear most abnormal and

degraded. He demanded for the blind an education which would render them

self-supporting; for the idiot, the training of his poor and maimed

capabilities; for the insane and the criminal, the watchful and

redemptive tutelage of society. In the world as he would have had it,

there should have been neither paupers nor outcasts. He did all that one

man could do to advance the coming of this millennial consummation.

My husband, Dr. Howe, was my senior by nearly a score of years. If I

mention this discrepancy in our ages, it is that I may acknowledge in

him the superiority of experience which so many years of the most noble

activity had naturally given him. My own true life had been that of a

student and of a dreamer. Dr. Howe had read and thought much, but he had

also acquired the practical knowledge which is rarely attained in the

closet or at the desk. His career from the outset had been characterized

by energy and perseverance. In his college days, this energy had found

much of its vent in undertakings of boyish mischief. When he came to

man's estate, a new inspiration took possession of him. The devotion to

ideas and principles, the zeal for the rights of others which go to make

up the men of public spirit--those leading traits now appeared in him,

and at once gave him a place among the champions of human freedom.

The love of adventure and the example of Lord Byron had, no doubt, some

part in his determination to cast in his lot with the Greeks in the

memorable struggle which restored to them their national life. But the

solidity and value of the services which he rendered to that oppressed

people showed in time that he was endowed, not only with the generous

impulses of youth, but with the forethought of mature manhood.

After some years of gallant service, in which he shared all the

privations of the little army, accustoming himself to the bivouac by

night, to hunger, hard fare, and constant fighting by day, he became

convinced that the Greeks were in danger of being reduced to submission

by absolute starvation. All the able-bodied men of the nation were in

the field. The Turks had devastated the land, and there were no hands to

till it. He therefore returned to America, and there preached so

effectual a crusade in behalf of the Greeks that a considerable sum of

money was contributed for their relief. These funds were expended by Dr.

Howe in shiploads of clothing and provisions, of which he himself

superintended the distribution, thus enabling the Greeks to hold out

until a sudden turn in political affairs induced the diplomacy of

western Europe to espouse their cause.

When the liberation of Greece had become an assured fact, Dr. Howe

returned to America to find and take up his life-work. The education of

the blind presented a worthy field for his tireless activity. He

founded, built up, and directed the first institution for their benefit

known in this country. This was a work of great difficulty, and one for

which the means at hand appeared utterly inadequate. Beginning with the

training of three little blind children in his father's house, he

succeeded so well in enlisting the sympathies of the public in behalf of

the class which they represented that funds soon flowed in from various

sources. The present well-known institution, with its flourishing

workshop, printing establishment, and other dependencies, stands to

attest his work, and the support given to it by the community.

A new lustre was added to his name by the wonderful series of

experiments which brought the gifts of human speech and knowledge to a

blind deaf mute. The story of Laura Bridgman is too well known to need

repetition in these pages. As related by Charles Dickens in his

"American Notes," it carried Dr. Howe's fame to the civilized world.

When he visited Europe with this deed of merit put upon his record, it

was as one whom high and low should delight to honor.

Mr. Emerson somewhere speaks of the romance of some special

philanthropy. Dr. Howe's life became an embodiment of this romance. Like

all inspired men, he brought into the enterprises of his day new ideas

and a new spirit. Deep in his heart lay a sense of the dignity and

ability of human nature, which forced him to reject the pauperizing

methods then employed in regard to various classes of unfortunates. The

blind must not only be fed and housed and cared for; they must learn to

make their lives useful to the community; they must be taught and

trained to earn their own support. Years of patient effort enabled him

to accomplish this; and the present condition of the blind in American

communities attests the general acceptance of their claim to the

benefits of education and the dignity of useful labor.

Dr. Howe's public services, however, were by no means limited to the

duties of his especial charge. With keen power of analysis, he explored

the most crying evils of society, seeking to discover, even in their

sources, the secret of their prevention and cure. His masterly report on

idiocy led to the establishment of a school for feeble-minded children,

in which numbers of these were trained to useful industries, and

redeemed from brutal ignorance and inertia. He aided Dorothea Dix in her

heroic efforts to improve the condition of the insane. He worked with

Horace Mann for the uplifting of the public schools. He stood with the

heroic few who dared to advocate the abolition of slavery. In these and

many other departments of work his influence was felt, and it is worthy

of remark that, although employing his power in so many directions, his

use of it was wonderfully free from waste. He indulged in no vaporous

visions, in no redundancy of phrases. The documents in which he gave to

the public the results of his experience are models of statement, terse,

simple, and direct.

I became engaged to Dr. Howe during a visit to Boston in the winter of

1842-43, and was married to him on the 23d of April of the latter year.

A week later we sailed for Europe in one of the small Cunard steamers of

that time, taking with us my youngest sister, Annie Ward, whose state of

health gave us some uneasiness. My husband's great friend, Horace Mann,

and his bride, Mary Peabody, sailed with us. During the first two days

of the voyage I was stupefied by sea-sickness, and even forgot that my

sister was on board the steamer. On the evening of the second day I

remembered her, and managed with the help of a very stout stewardess to

visit her in her stateroom, where she had for her roommate a cousin of

the poet Longfellow. We bewailed our common miseries a little, but the

next morning brought a different state of things. As soon as I was

awake, my husband came to me bringing a small dose of brandy with

cracked ice. "Drink this," he said, "and ask Mrs. Bean [the stewardess]

to help you get on your clothes, for you must go up on deck; we shall be

at Halifax in a few hours." Magnetized by the stronger will, I struggled

with my weakness, and was presently clothed and carried up on deck.

"Now, I am going for Annie," said Dr. Howe, leaving me comfortably

propped up in a safe seat. He soon returned with my dear sister, as

helpless as myself. The fresh air revived us so much that we were able

to take our breakfast, the first meal we ate on board, in the saloon

with the other passengers. We went on shore, however, for a walk at

Halifax, and from that time forth were quite able-bodied sea-goers.

On the last day before that of our landing, an unusually good dinner was

served, and, according to the custom of the time, champagne was

furnished gratis, in order that all who dined together might drink the

Queen's health. This favorite toast was accordingly proposed and

responded to by a number of rather flat speeches. The health of the

captain of our steamer was also proposed, and some others which I cannot

now recall. This proceeding amused me so much that I busied myself the

next day with preparing for a mock celebration in the ladies' cabin. The

meeting was well attended. I opened with a song in honor of Mrs. Bean,

our kind and efficient stewardess.

"God save our Mrs. Bean,

Best woman ever seen,

God save Mrs. Bean.

God bless her gown and cap,

Pour guineas in her lap,

Keep her from all mishap,

God save Mrs. Bean."

The company were invited to join in singing these lines, which were, of

course, a take-off on "God save our gracious Queen." I can still see in

my mind's eye dear old Madam Sedgwick, mother of the well-known jurist,

Theodore of that name, lifting her quavering, high voice to aid in the

singing.

Mrs. Bean was rather taken aback by the unexpected homage rendered her.

We all called out: "Speech! speech!" whereupon she curtsied and said:

"Good ladies makes good stewardesses; that's all I can say," which was

very well in its way.

Rev. Jacob Abbott was one of our fellow passengers, and had been much in

our cabin, where he busied himself in compounding various "soft drinks"

for convalescent lady friends. His health was accordingly proposed with

the following stanza:--

"Dr. Abbott in our cabin,

Mixing of a soda-powder,

How he ground it,

How did pound it,

While the tempest threatened louder."

I next gave the cow's health, whereupon a lady passenger, with a Scotch

accent, demurred: "I don't want to drink her health at a'. I think she

is the poorest _coo_ I ever heard of."

Arriving in London, we found comfortable lodgings in Upper Baker Street,

and busied ourselves with the delivery of our many letters of

introduction.

The Rev. Sydney Smith was one of the first to honor our introduction

with a call. His reputation as a wit was already world-wide, and he was

certainly one of the idols of London society. In appearance he was

hardly prepossessing. He was short and squat of figure, with a rubicund

countenance, redeemed by a pair of twinkling eyes. When we first saw

him, my husband was suffering from the result of a trifling accident.

Mr. Smith said, "Dr. Howe, I must send you my gouty crutches."

My husband demurred at this, and begged Mr. Smith not to give himself

that trouble. He insisted, however, and the crutches were sent. Dr. Howe

had really no need of them, and I laughed with him at their

disproportion to his height, which would in any case have made it

impossible for him to use them. The loan was presently returned with

thanks, but scarcely soon enough; for Sydney Smith, who had lost heavily

by American investments, published in one of the London papers a letter

reflecting severely upon the failure of some of our Western States to

pay their debts. The letter concluded with these words: "And now an

American, present at this time in London, has deprived me of my last

means of support." One questioned a little whether the loan had not been

made for the sake of the pleasantry.

In the course of the visit already referred to, Mr. Smith promised that

we should receive cards for an entertainment which his daughter, Mrs.

Holland, was about to give. The cards were received, and we presented

ourselves at the party. Among the persons there introduced to us was

Mme. Van de Weyer, wife of the Belgian minister, and daughter of Joshua

Bates, formerly of Massachusetts, and in after years the founder of the

Public Library of Boston, in which one hall bears his name. Mr. Van de

Weyer, we were told, was on very friendly terms with the Prince Consort,

and his wife was often invited by the Queen.

The historian Grote and his wife also made our acquaintance. I

especially remember her appearance because it was, and was allowed to

be, somewhat _grote_sque. She was very tall and stout in proportion, and

was dressed on this occasion in a dark green or blue silk, with a

necklace of pearls about her throat. I gathered from what I heard that

hers was one of the marked personalities of that time in London society.

At this party Sydney Smith was constantly the centre of a group of

admiring friends. When we first entered the rooms, he said to us, "I am

so busy to-night that I can do nothing for you."

Later in the evening he found time to seek me out. "Mrs. Howe," said he,

"this is a rout. I like routs. Do you have routs in America?"

"We have parties like this in America," I replied, "but we do not call

them routs."

"What do you call them there?"

"We call them receptions."

This seemed to amuse him, and he said to some one who stood near us:--

"Mrs. Howe says that in America they call routs re-cep-tions."

He asked what I had seen in London so far. I replied that I had recently

visited the House of Lords, whereupon he remarked:--

"Mrs. Howe, your English is excellent. I have only heard you make one

mispronunciation. You have just said 'House of Lords.' We say 'House of

Lards.'" Some one near by said, "Oh, yes! the house is always addressed

as 'my luds and gentlemen.'"

When I repeated this to Horace Mann, it so vexed his gentle spirit as to

cause him to exclaim, "House of Lords? You ought to have said 'House of

Devils.'"

I have made several visits in London since that time, one quite

recently, and I have observed that people now speak of receptions, and

not of routs. I think, also, that the pronunciation insisted upon by

Sydney Smith has become a thing of the past.

I think that Mrs. Sydney Smith must have called or have left a card at

our lodgings, for I distinctly remember a morning call which I made at

her house. The great wit was at home on this occasion, as was also his

only surviving son. An elder son had been born to him, who probably

inherited something of his character and ability, and whose death he

laments in one or more of his published letters. The young man whom I

saw at this time was spoken of as much devoted to the turf, and the only

saying of his that I have ever heard quoted was his question as to how

long it took Nebuchadnezzar to get into condition after he had been out

to grass.

Mrs. Smith received me very pleasantly. She seemed a grave and silent

woman, presenting in this respect a striking contrast to her husband. I

knew very little of the political opinions of the latter, and innocently

inquired whether he and Mrs. Smith went sometimes to court. The question

amused him. He said to his wife, "My dear, Mrs. Howe wishes to know

whether you and I go to court." To me he said, "No, madam. That is a

luxury which I deny myself."

I last saw Sydney Smith at an evening party at which, as usual, he was

surrounded by friends. A very amiable young American was present,

apropos of whom I heard Mr. Smith say:--

"I think I shall go over to America and settle in Boston. Perkins here

says that he'll patronize me."

Thomas Carlyle was also one of our earliest visitors. Some time before

leaving home, Dr. Howe had received from him a letter expressing his

great interest in the story of Laura Bridgman as narrated by Charles

Dickens. In this letter he mentioned Laura's childish question, "Do

horses sit up late?" In the course of his conversation he said, laughing

heartily: "Laura Bridgman, dear child! Her question, Do horses sit up

late?"

Before taking leave of us he invited us to take tea with him on the

following Sunday. When the day arrived, my husband was kept at home by a

severe headache, but Mr. and Mrs. Mann, my sister, and myself drove out

to Chelsea, where Mr. Carlyle resided at that time. In receiving us he

apologized for his wife, who was also suffering from headache and could

not appear.

In her absence I was requested to pour tea. Our host partook of it

copiously, in all the strength of the teapot. As I filled and refilled

his cup, I thought that his chronic dyspepsia was not to be wondered at.

The repast was a simple one. It consisted of a plate of toast and two

small dishes of stewed fruit, which he offered us with the words,

"Perhaps ye can eat some of this. I never eat these things myself."

The conversation was mostly a monologue. Mr. Carlyle spoke with a strong

Scotch accent, and his talk sounded to me like pages of his writings. He

had recently been annoyed by some movement tending to the

disestablishment of the Scottish Church. Apropos of this he said, "That

auld Kirk of Scotland! To think that a man like Johnny Graham should be

able to wipe it out with a flirt of his pen!" Charles Sumner was spoken

of, and Mr. Carlyle said, "Oh yes; Mr. Sumner was a vera dull man, but

he did not offend people, and he got on in society here."

Carlyle's hair was dark, shaggy, and rather unkempt; his complexion was

sallow, with a slight glow of red on the cheek; his eye was full of

fire. As we drove back to town, Mr. Mann expressed great disappointment

with our visit. He did not feel, he said, that we had seen the real

Carlyle at all. I insisted that we had.

Soon after our arrival in London a gentleman called upon us whom the

servant announced as Mr. Mills. It happened that I did not examine the

card which was brought in at the same time. Dr. Howe was not within, and

in his absence I entertained the unknown guest to the best of my

ability. He spoke of Longfellow's volume of poems on slavery, then a

recent publication, saying that he admired them.

Our talk turning upon poetry in general, I remarked that Wordsworth

appeared to be the only poet of eminence left in England. Before taking

leave of me the visitor named a certain day on which he requested that

we would come to breakfast at his house. Forgetful of the card, I asked

"Where?" He said, "You will find my address on my card. I am Mr.

Milnes." On looking at the card I found that this was Richard Monckton

Milnes, afterward known as Lord Houghton. I was somewhat chagrined at

remembering the remark I had made in connection with Wordsworth. He

probably supposed that I was ignorant of his literary rank, which I was

not, as his poems, though never very popular, were already well known in

America.

The breakfast to which Mr. Milnes had invited us proved most pleasant.

Our host had recently traveled in the East, and had brought home a

prayer carpet, which we admired. His sister, Lady Galway, presided at

table with much grace.

The breakfast was at this time a favorite mode of entertainment, and we

enjoyed many of these occasions. I remember one at the house of Sir

Robert Harry Inglis, long a leading Conservative member of the House of

Commons. Punch once said of him:--

"The Inglis thinks the world grows worse,

And always wears a rose."

And this flower, which always adorned his buttonhole, seemed to match

well with his benevolent and somewhat rubicund countenance. At the

breakfast of which I speak, he cut the loaf with his own hands, saying

to each guest, "Will you have a slice or a hunch?" and cutting a slice

from one end or a hunch from the other, according to the preference

expressed.

These breakfasts were not luncheons in disguise. They were given at ten,

or even at half past nine o'clock. The meal usually consisted of fish,

cutlets, eggs, cold bread and toast, with tea and coffee. At Samuel

Rogers's I remember that plover's eggs were served.

We also dined one evening with Mr. Rogers, and met among the guests Mr.

Dickens and Lady B., one of the beautiful Sheridan sisters. A gentleman

sat next me at table, whose name I did not catch. I had heard much of

the works of art to be seen in Mr. Rogers's house, and so took occasion

to ask him whether he knew anything about pictures. He smiled, and

answered, "Well, yes." I then begged him to explain to me some of those

which hung upon the walls, which he did with much good-nature. Presently

some one at the table addressed him as "Mr. Landseer," and I became

aware that I was sitting next to the celebrated painter of animals. His

fine face had already attracted me. I apologized for the question which

I had asked, and which had somewhat amused him.

I had recently seen at Stafford House a picture of his, representing two

daughters of the Duke of Sutherland playing with a dog. He said that he

did not care much for that picture, that the Duchess had herself chosen

the subject, etc. Mr. Rogers, indeed, possessed some paintings of great

value, one a genuine Raphael, if I mistake not. He had also many objects

of _virtu_. I think it was after a breakfast at his house that he showed

us some Etruscan potteries. Dr. Howe took up one of these rather

carelessly. It was a cup, and the handle became separated from it. My

husband appeared so much disconcerted at this that I could not help

laughing a little at the expression of his countenance. Mr. Rogers

afterwards said to an American friend, "Mrs. Howe was quite cruel to

laugh at the doctor's embarrassment." On one occasion he showed us some

autograph letters of Lord Byron, with whom he had been well acquainted.

He read a passage from one of these, in which Lord Byron, after speaking

of the ancient custom of the Doge wedding the Adriatic, wrote: "I wish

the Adriatic would take my wife."

In after years I was sometimes questioned as to what had most impressed

me during my first visit in London. I replied unhesitatingly, "The

clever people collected there." The moment, indeed, was fortunate. We

had come well provided with letters of introduction. Besides this, my

husband was at the time a first-class lion, and this merit avails more

in England than any other, and more there than elsewhere.

Mr. Sumner had given us a letter to the Marquis of Lansdowne, which the

latter honored by a call, and further by sending us cards for a musical

evening at Lansdowne House. Lord Lansdowne was a gracious host. His lady

was more formal in manner. Their music-room was oblong in shape, and the

guests were seated along the wall on either side. Before the performance

began I noticed a movement among those present, the cause of which

became evident when the Duchess of Gloucester appeared, leaning on the

arm of the master of the house. She was attired, or, as newspapers put

it, "gowned," in black, wearing white plumes in her headdress, and with

bare neck and arms, according to the imperative fashion of the time. She

was well advanced in years, and had probably never been remarked for

good looks, but was said to be beloved by the Queen and by many friends.

The programme of the entertainment was one which to-day would seem

rather commonplace, though the performers were not so. A handsome young

man, of slender figure, opened the concert by singing the serenade from

the opera of "Don Pasquale." I felt at once that this must be Mario, but

that name cannot suggest to one who never heard him either the beauty of

his voice or the refinement of his intonation. I still feel a sort of

intoxication when I recall his rendering of "Com' e gentil." Grisi sang

several times. She was then in what some one has termed, "the insolence

of her youth and beauty." Mlle. Persiani, also of the grand opera, gave

an air by Gluck, which I myself had studied, "Pago fui, fui lieto un

di." Lord Lansdowne told me that this lady was the most obliging of

artists. I afterwards heard her in "Linda di Chamounix," which was then

in its first favor. The concert ended with the prayer from Rossini's

"Mose in Egitto," sung by the artists already named with the addition of

the great Lablache.

At the conclusion of it we adjourned to the supper-room, which afforded

us a better opportunity of observing the distinguished company. My

husband was presently engaged in conversation with the Hon. Mrs. Norton,

who was then very handsome. Her hair, which was decidedly black, was

arranged in flat bandeaux, according to the fashion of the time. A

diamond chain, formed of large links, encircled her fine head. Her eyes

were dark and full of expression. Her dress was unusually _decolletee_,

but most of the ladies present would in America have been considered

extreme in this respect. Court mourning had recently been ordered for

the Duke of Sussex, uncle to the Queen, and many black dresses were

worn. My memory, nevertheless, tells me that the great Duchess of

Sutherland wore a dress of pink _moire_, and that her head was adorned

with a wreath of velvet leaves interspersed with diamonds. Her brother,

Lord Morpeth, was also present. I heard a lady say to him, "Are you

worthy of music?" He replied, "Oh, yes; very worthy." I heard the same

phrase repeated by others, and, on inquiring as to its meaning, was told

that it was a way of asking whether one was fond of music. The formula

has long since gone out of fashion.

Somewhat later in the season we were invited to dine at Lansdowne House.

Among the guests present I remember Lord Morpeth. I had some

conversation with the daughter of the house, Lady Louisa Fitzmaurice,

who was pleasing, but not pretty, and wore a dress of light blue silk,

with a necklace around her throat formed of many strands of fine gold

chain. I was asked at this dinner whether I should object to sitting

next to a colored person in, for example, a box at the opera. Were I

asked this question to-day, I should reply that this would depend upon

the character and cleanliness of the colored person, much as one would

say in the case of a white man or woman. I remember that Lord Lansdowne

wore a blue ribbon across his breast, and on it a flat star of silver.

Among the well-remembered glories of that summer, the new delight of the

drama holds an important place. I had been denied this pleasure in my

girlhood, and my enjoyment of it at this time was fresh and intense.

Among the attentions lavished upon us during that London season were

frequent offers of a box at Covent Garden or "Her Majesty's." These were

never declined. Of especial interest to me was a performance of Macready

as Claude Melnotte in Bulwer's "Lady of Lyons." The part of Pauline was

played by Helen Faucit. Both of these artists were then at their best.

Thomas Appleton, of Boston, and William Wadsworth, of Geneseo, were with

us in our box. The pathetic moments of the play moved me to tears, which

I tried to hide. I soon saw that all my companions were affected in the

same way, and were making the same effort. I saw Miss Faucit again at an

entertainment given in aid of the fund for a monument to Mrs. Siddons.

She recited an ode written for the occasion, of which I still recall the

closing line:--

"And measure what we owe by what she gave."

I saw Grisi in the great role of Semiramide, and with her Brambilla, a

famous contralto, and Fornasari, a basso whom I had longed to hear in

the operas given in New York. I also saw Mlle. Persiani in "Linda di

Chamounix" and "Lucia di Lammermoor." All of these occasions gave me

unmitigated delight, but the crowning ecstasy of all I found in the

ballet. Fanny Elssler and Cerito were both upon the stage. The former

had lost a little of her prestige, but Cerito, an Italian, was then in

her first bloom and wonderfully graceful. Of her performance my sister

said to me, "It seems to make us better to see anything so beautiful."

This remark recalls the oft-quoted dialogue between Margaret Fuller and

Emerson apropos of Fanny Elssler's dancing:--

"Margaret, this is poetry."

"Waldo, this is religion."

I remember, years after this time, a talk with Theodore Parker, in which

I suggested that the best stage dancing gives us the classic in a fluent

form, with the illumination of life and personality. I cannot recall, in

the dances which I saw during that season, anything which appeared to me

sensual or even sensuous. It was rather the very ecstasy and embodiment

of grace.

A ball at Almack's certainly deserves mention in these pages, the place

itself belonging to the history of the London world of fashion. The one

of which I now speak was given in aid of the Polish refugees who were

then in London. The price of admission to this sacred precinct would

have been extravagant for us, but cards for it were sent us by some

hospitable friend. The same attention was shown to Mr. and Mrs. Mann,

who with us presented themselves at the rooms on the appointed evening.

We found them spacious enough, but with no splendor or beauty of

decoration. A space at the upper end of the ball-room was marked off by

rail or ribbon--I cannot remember which. While we were wondering what

this should mean, a brilliant procession made its appearance, led by the

Duchess of Sutherland in some historic costume. She was followed by a

number of persons of high rank, among whom I recognized her lovely

daughters, Lady Elizabeth Leveson-Gower and Lady Evelyn. These young

ladies and several others were attired in Polish costume, to wit,

polonaises of light blue silk, and short white skirts which showed the

prettiest little red boots imaginable. This high and mighty company took

possession of the space mentioned above, where they proceeded to dance a

quadrille in rather solemn state.

The company outside this limit stood and looked on. Among the groups

taking part in this state quadrille was one characterized by the dress

worn at court presentations: the ladies in pink and blue brocades, with

plumes and lappets; the gentlemen in small-clothes, with swords,--and

all with powdered hair.

I first met the Duchess of Sutherland at a dinner given in our honor by

Lord Morpeth's parents, the Earl and Countess of Carlisle. The Great

Duchess, as the Duchess of Sutherland was often called, was still very

handsome, though already the mother of grown-up children. She wore a

dress of brown gauze or barege over light blue satin, with a wreath of

brown velvet leaves and blue forget-me-nots in her hair, and on her arm,

among other jewels, a miniature of the Queen set in diamonds. At one

time she was Mistress of the Robes, but I am not sure whether she held

this office at the time of which I speak. Her relations with the palace

were said to be very intimate and friendly. In the picture of the

Queen's Coronation, so well known to us by engravings, hers is one of

the most striking figures.

We did, indeed, hear that on one occasion the Duchess had kept the Queen

waiting, and that the sovereign said to her on her arrival, "Duchess,

you must allow me to present you with my watch, yours evidently does not

keep good time." The eyes of the proud Duchess filled with tears, and,

on returning home, she sent to the palace a letter resigning her post in

the royal service. The Queen was, however, very fond of her, and the

little difficulty was soon amicably settled.

I recall a pleasantry about Lady Carlisle that was current in London

society in the season of which I write. Sydney Smith pretended to have

dreamed that Lord Morpeth had brought back a black wife from America,

and that his mother, on seeing her, had said, "She is not so very

black." Lady Carlisle was proverbial for her kindliness and good temper,

and it was upon this point that the humor of the story turned.

I will also mention a dinner given in our honor by John Kenyon, well

known as a Maecenas of that period. Miss Sedgwick, in her book of

travels, speaks of him as a distinguished conversationalist, much given

to hospitality. He is also remembered as a cousin of Elizabeth Barrett

Browning.

The scenes just described still remain quite vivid in my memory, but it

would be difficult for me to recount the visits made in those days by my

husband and Horace Mann to public institutions of all kinds. I did

indeed accompany the two philanthropists in some of their excursions,

which included schools, workhouses, prisons, and asylums for the insane.

We went one day, in company with Charles Dickens and his wife, to visit

the old prison of Bridewell. We found the treadmill in operation. Every

now and then a man would give out, and would be allowed to leave the

ungrateful work. The midday meal, bread and soup, was served to the

prisoners while we were still in attendance. To one or two, as a

punishment for some misdemeanor, bread alone was given. Charles Dickens

looked on, and presently said to Doctor Howe, "My God! if a woman thinks

her son may come to this, I don't blame her if she strangles him in

infancy."

At Newgate prison we were shown the fetters of Jack Sheppard and those

of Dick Turpin. While we were on the premises the van arrived with fresh

prisoners, and one of the officials appeared to jest with a young woman

who had just been brought in, and who, it seemed, was already well known

to the officers of justice. Dr. Howe did not fail to notice this with

disapprobation.

At one of the charity schools which we visited, Mr. Mann asked whether

corporal punishment was used. "Commonly, only this," said the master,

calling up a little girl, and snapping a bit of india rubber upon her

neck in a manner which caused her to cry out. I need not say that the

two gentlemen were indignant at this unprovoked infliction.

In strong contrast to old-time Bridewell appeared the model prison of

Pentonville, which we visited one day in company with Lord Morpeth and

the Duke of Richmond. The system there was one of solitary confinement,

much approved, if I remember rightly, by "my lord duke," who interested

himself in showing us how perfectly it was carried out. Neither at meals

nor at prayers could any prisoner see or be seen by a fellow prisoner.

The open yard was divided by brick walls into compartments, in each of

which a single felon, hooded, took his melancholy exercise. The prison

was extremely neat. Dr. Howe at the time approved of the solitary

discipline. I am not sure whether he ever came to think differently

about it.

At a dinner at Charles Dickens's we met his intimate friend, John

Forster, a lawyer of some note, later known as the author of a biography

of Dickens. When we arrived, Mr. Forster was amusing himself with a

small spaniel which had been sent to Mr. Dickens by an admiring friend,

who desired that the dog might bear the name of Boz. Somewhat impatient

of such tributes, Mr. Dickens had named it Snittel Timbury. Of the

dinner, I only remember that it was of the best so far as concerns food,

and that later in the evening we listened to some comic songs, of one of

which I recall the refrain; it ran thus:--

"Tiddy hi, tiddy ho, tiddy hi hum,

Thus was it when Barbara Popkins was young."

Mr. Forster invited us to dine at his chambers in the Inns of Court. Mr.

and Mrs. Dickens were of the party, and also the painter Maclise, whose

work was then highly spoken of. After dinner, while we were taking

coffee in the sitting-room, I had occasion to speak to my husband, and

addressed him as "darling." Thereupon Dickens slid down to the floor,

and, lying on his back, held up one of his small feet, quivering with

pretended emotion. "Did she call him 'darling'?" he cried.

I was sorry indeed when the time came for us to leave London, and the

more as one of the pleasures there promised us had been that of a

breakfast with Charles Buller. Mr. Buller was the only person who at

that time spoke to me of Thomas Carlyle, already so great a celebrity in

America. He expressed great regard for Carlyle, who, he said, had

formerly been his tutor. I was sorry to find in papers of Carlyle's,

recently published, a rather ungracious mention of this brilliant young

man, whose early death was much regretted in English society.

From England we passed on to Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. In the inn at

Llangollen we saw an engraving representing two aged ladies sitting

opposite to each other, engaged in some friendly game. These were the

once famous maids whose romantic elopement and companionship of many

years gave the place some celebrity. In the burying-ground of the parish

church we were shown their tomb, bearing an inscription not only

commemorating the ladies themselves, but making mention also of the

lifelong service of a faithful female attendant.

Of my visit to Scotland, never repeated, I recall with interest Holyrood

Palace, where the blood stain of Rizzio's murder was still shown on the

wooden floor, the grave of Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, and Stirling

Castle, where, if I mistake not, the regalia of Robert Bruce was shown

us. Among the articles composing it was a cameo of great beauty,

surrounded by diamonds, and a crown set with large turquoises and

sapphires.

We passed a Sunday at Melrose, and attended an open-air service in the

ruins of the ancient abbey. We saw little of Edinburgh besides its

buildings, the society people of the place being mostly in

_villeggiatura_. Mr. Sumner had given us letters to two of the law

lords. One of these invited us to a seaside dinner at some little

distance from town. The other entertained us at his city residence.

Of greater interest was our tour in Ireland. Lord Morpeth had given us

some introductions to friends in Dublin. At the same time he had written

Mr. Sumner that he hoped Dr. Howe would not in any way become

conspicuous as a friend to the Repeal measures which were then much in

the public mind. This Repeal portended nothing less than the disruption

of the existing political union between Ireland and England. The Dublin

Corn Exchange was the place in which Repeal meetings were usually held.

We attended one of these. My sister and I had seats in the gallery,

which was reserved for ladies. Dr. Howe remained on the floor. This

meeting had for one of its objects the acknowledgment of funds recently

sent from America. The women who sat near us in the gallery found out,

somehow, that we were Americans, and that an American gentleman had

accompanied us to the meeting. They insisted upon making this known, and

only forbore to do so at our earnest request.

These friends were vehement in their praise of O'Connell, who was the

principal speaker of the occasion. "He's the best man, the most

religious!" they said; "he communes so often." I remember his appearance

well, but can recall nothing of his address. He was tall, blond, and

florid, with remarkable vivacity of speech and of expression. His

popularity was certainly very great. While he was speaking, a gentleman

entered and approached him. "How d'ye do, Tom Steele?" said O'Connell,

shaking hands with the new-comer. The audience applauded loudly, Steele

being an intimate friend and ally of O'Connell, and, like him, an

earnest partisan of Repeal.

Mr. George Ticknor, of Boston, had given us a letter to Miss Edgeworth,

who resided at some distance from the city of Dublin. From her we soon

received an invitation to luncheon, of which we gladly availed

ourselves. Our hostess met us with a warm welcome. She had had some

correspondence with Dr. Howe, and seemed much pleased to make his

acquaintance. I remember her as a little old lady, with an old-fashioned

cap and curls. She was very vivacious, and had much to say to Dr. Howe

about Laura Bridgman. He in turn asked what she thought of the Repeal

movement. She said in reply, "I don't understand what O'Connell really

means."

Some one present casually mentioned the new substitution of lard oil for

whale oil for use in lamps. Miss Edgeworth said, "I hear that, in

consequence of this new fashion, the whale cannot bear the sight of a

pig." We met on this occasion a half-brother and a half-sister of Miss

Edgeworth, much younger than herself. I think that they must have been

twins, so closely did they resemble each other in appearance. At parting

Miss Edgeworth gave each of us an etching of Irish peasants, the work of

a friend of hers. On the one which she gave to my husband she wrote,

"From a lover of truth to a lover of truth."

After leaving Dublin we traveled north as far as the Giant's Causeway.

The state of the country was very forlorn. The peasantry lived in

wretched hovels of one or two rooms, the floor of mud, the pig taking

his ease within doors, and the chickens roosting above the fireplace.

Beggars were seen everywhere, and of the most persistent sort. In most

places where we stopped for the night, accommodations were far from

satisfactory. The safest dishes to order were stirabout and potatoes.

My husband had received an urgent invitation from an Irish nobleman,

Lord Walcourt, to visit him at his estate, which was in the south of

Ireland. We found Lord Walcourt living very simply, with two young

daughters and a baby son. He told my husband that when he first read a

book of Fourier, he instantly went over to France to make the

acquaintance of the author, whom he greatly admired. "If I had only read

on to the end of the book," he said, "I should have seen that Fourier

was already dead."

He told us that Lady Walcourt spent much time in London or on the

Continent, from which we gathered that country life in Ireland was not

much to her taste. Dr. Howe and our host had a good deal of talk

together concerning socialistic and other reforms. My sister and I found

his housekeeping rather meagre. He was evidently a whole-souled man, but

we learned later on that he was considered very eccentric.

A visit to the poet Wordsworth was one of the brilliant visions that

floated before my eyes at this time. Mr. Ticknor had kindly furnished us

with an introduction to the great man, who was then at the height of his

popularity. To criticise Wordsworth and to praise Byron were matters

equally unpardonable in the London of that time, when London was, what

it has ceased to be, the very heart and centre of the literary world. Of

our journey to the lake country I can now recall little, save that its

last stage, a drive of ten or more miles from the railway station to the

poet's village, was rendered very comfortless by constant showers, and

by an ill-broken horse which more than once threatened mischief. Arrived

at the inn, my husband called at the Wordsworth residence, and left

there his card and the letter of introduction. In return a note was soon

sent, inviting us to take tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth.

Our visit was a very disappointing one. The widowed daughter of our host

had lost heavily by the failure of certain American securities. These

losses formed the sole topic of conversation not only between Wordsworth

and Dr. Howe, but also between the ladies of the family, my sister, and

myself. The tea to which we had been bidden was simply a cup of tea,

served without a table. We bore the harassing conversation as long as we

could. The only remark of Wordsworth's which I brought away was this:

"The misfortune of Ireland is that it was only a partially conquered

country." When we took leave, the poet expressed his willingness to

serve us during our stay in his neighborhood. We left it, however, on

the following morning, without seeing him or his again.

A little akin to this experience was that of a visit to the Bank of

England, made at the invitation of one of its officers whom I had known

and entertained in America. Another of the functionaries of the bank

volunteered his services as a cicerone. He showed us among other things

the treasure recently received from the Chinese government, in payment

of a war indemnity. It was all in little blocks, parallelograms and

horseshoes of gold and silver. An ingenious little machine was also

shown us for the detection of light weight sovereigns. We paid for his

attention by listening to many uncivil pleasantries regarding the

financial condition of our own country. I still remember the insolent

sneer with which this gentleman said, "By the bye, have you sold the

Bank of the United States yet?" He was presumably ignorant of the real

history of the bank, which had long ceased to be a government

institution, President Jackson having annulled its charter and removed

the government deposits.

I mention these incidents because they were the only exceptions to the

uniform kindness with which we were generally received, and to the

homage paid to my husband as one of the most illustrious of modern

philanthropists.

Berlin would have been the next important stop in our journey but for an

impediment which we had hardly anticipated. In the days of the French

revolution of 1830, the Poles had made one of their oft-repeated

struggles to regain national independence. General Lafayette was much

interested in this movement, and at his request Dr. Howe undertook to

convey to some of the Polish chiefs funds sent for their aid by parties

in the United States. He succeeded in accomplishing this errand, but was

arrested on the very night of his arrival in Berlin, and was only

released by the intervention of our government, after a tedious

imprisonment _au secret_. He was then sent with a military escort to the

confines of Prussia with the warning to return no more.

Thirteen years had elapsed since these events took place. Dr. Howe had

meantime acquired a world-wide reputation as a philanthropist. The Poles

had long been subdued, and Europe seemed to be free from all

revolutionary threatenings. Through the intervention of Chevalier

Bunsen, who was then Prussian ambassador at the Court of St. James, Dr.

Howe applied for permission to revisit the kingdom of Prussia, but this

was refused him. Some years after this time, Dr. Howe received from the

Prussian government a gold medal in acknowledgment of his services to

the blind. On weighing it, he found that the value of the gold was equal

to the amount of money which he had been required to pay for his board

in the prison at Berlin. In spite of the prohibition, we managed to see

something of the Rhine, and journeyed through Switzerland and the

Austrian Tyrol to Vienna, where we remained for some weeks. We here made

the acquaintance of Madame von Walther and her daughter Theresa,

afterward known as Madame Pulszky, the wife of one of Louis Kossuth's

most valued friends.

Arriving in Milan, we presented a letter of introduction from Miss

Catharine Sedgwick to Count Confalonieri, after Silvio Pellico the most

distinguished of the Italian patriots who underwent imprisonment in the

Austrian fortress of Spielberg. His life had been spared only through

the passionate pleading of his wife, who traveled day and night to throw

herself at the feet of the Empress, imploring the commutation of the

death sentence passed upon her husband. This heroic woman did not long

survive the granting of her prayer. She died while her husband was still

in prison; but the men who had been his companions in misfortune so

revered her memory as always to lift their hats when they passed near

her grave. Years had elapsed since the events of which I speak, and the

count had married a second wife, a lively and attractive person, from

whom, as from the count, we received many kind attentions.

Dr. Howe was at this time called to Paris by some special business, and

I remained a month in Milan with my sister. We greatly enjoyed the

beauty of the cathedral and the hospitality of our new friends. Among

these were the Marchese Arconati and his wife, a lady of much

distinction, and in after years a friend of Margaret Fuller.

Some delightful entertainments were given us by these and other friends,

and I remember with pleasure an expedition to Monza, where the iron

crown of the Lombard kingdom is still shown. Napoleon is said to have

placed it on his head while he was still First Consul. Apropos of this,

we saw in one of the Milanese mansions a seat on which Napoleon had once

sat, and which, in commemoration of this, bore the inscription, "Egli ci

ha dato l'unione" (He gave us unity). Alas! this precious boon was only

secured to Italy many years later, and after much shedding of blood.

Several of the former captives of Spielberg were living in Milan at this

time. Of these I may mention Castiglia and the advocate Borsieri. Two

others, Foresti and Albinola, I had often seen in New York, where they

lived for many years, beloved and respected. In all of them, a perfectly

childish delight in living seemed to make amends for the long and dreary

years passed in prison. Every pulse-beat of freedom was a joy to them.

Yet the iron had entered deeply into their souls. Natural leaders and

men of promise, they had been taken out of the world of active life in

the very flower of their youth and strength. The fortress in which they

were confined was gloomy and desolate. For many months no books were

allowed them, and in the end only books of religion, so called. They had

begged for employment, and were given wool to knit stockings, and dirty

linen rags to scrape for lint, with the sarcastic remark that to people

of their benevolent disposition such work as this last should be most

congenial. The time, they said, seemed endless in passing, but little

when past, no events having diversified its dull blankness.

When I listened to the conversation of these men, and saw Italy so bound

hand and foot by Austrian and other tyrants, I felt only the hopeless

chaos of the political outlook. Where should freedom come from? The

logical bond of imprisonment seemed complete. It was sealed with four

impregnable fortresses, and the great spiritual tyranny sat enthroned in

the centre, and had its response in every other despotic centre of the

globe. I almost ask to-day, "By what miracle was the great structure

overthrown?" But the remembrance of this miracle forbids me to despair

of any great deliverance, however desired and delayed. He who maketh the

wrath of man to serve Him can make liberty blossom out of the very rod

that the tyrant wields.

The emotions with which people in general approach the historic sites of

the world have been so often described as to make it needless for me to

dwell upon my own. But I will mention the thrill of wonder which

overcame me as we drove over the Campagna and caught the first glimpse

of St. Peter's dome. Was it possible? Had I lived to come within sight

of the great city, Mistress of the World? Like much else in my

journeying, this appeared to me like something seen in a dream, scarcely

to be apprehended by the bodily senses.

The Rome that I then saw was mediaeval in its aspect. A great gloom and

silence hung over it. Coming to establish ourselves for the winter, we

felt the pressure of many discomforts, especially that of the imperfect

heating of houses. Our first quarters were in Torlonia's palace on the

Piazza di Spagna. My husband found these gloomy and sunless, and was

soon attracted by a small but comfortable apartment in Via San Nicola da

Tolentino, where we passed a part of the winter. There my husband

undertook one day to make a real Christmas fire. In doing so he dragged

the logs too far forward on the unsubstantial hearth, setting fire to

the crossbeams which supported the floor. This was fortunately

discovered before the danger became imminent, and the mischief was soon

remedied. I was not allowed to hear about it until long afterwards.

Dr. Howe went out early one morning, and did not return until late in

the evening. Had I known at the time the reason of his absence, I should

have felt great anxiety. He had gone to the post-office, but in doing so

had passed some spot at which a sentry was stationed. He happened to be

absorbed in his own thoughts, and did not notice the warning given. The

sentry seized him, and Dr. Howe began to beat him over the head. A crowd

soon gathered, and my husband was arrested and taken to the guard-house.

The situation was a grave one, but the doctor immediately sent for the

American consul, George Washington Greene. With the aid of this friendly

official the necessary explanations were made and accepted, and the

prisoner was liberated.

The consul just mentioned was a cousin of my father and a grandson of

the famous General Nathanael Greene of the Revolution. He was much at

home in Roman society, and through him we had access to the principal

houses in which were given the great entertainments of the season. The

first of these that I attended appeared to me a melancholy failure,

judging by our American ideas of a pleasant evening party. The great

ladies sat very quietly in the salon of reception, and the gentlemen

spoke to them in an undertone. There was none of the joyous effusion

with which even a "few friends" meet on similar occasions in Boston or

New York. Exceeding stiffness was obviously the "good form" of the

occasion.

A ball given by the banker prince, Torlonia, presented a more animated

scene. The beautiful princess of the house, then in the bloom of her

youth, was conspicuous among the dancers. Her fair head was encircled by

a fine tiara of diamonds. She was by birth a Colonna. The attraction of

the great fortune was said to have led to her alliance with the prince,

who was equally her superior in age and her inferior in rank. I was told

that he had presented his bride with the pearls formerly belonging to

the shrine of the Madonna of Loretto, and I remember to have seen her

once in evening dress, adorned with pearls of enormous size, which were

probably those in question. I thought her quite as beautiful on another

occasion, when she wore a simple gown of _ecru_ silk, with a necklace of

carved coral beads. This was at a reception given at the charity school

of San Michele, where a play was performed by the pupils of the

institution. The theme of the drama was the worship of the golden calf

by the Israelites and the overthrow of the idol by Moses.

The industrial school of San Michele, like every other institution in

the Rome of that time, was entirely under ecclesiastical control. If I

remember rightly, Monsignore Morecchini had to do with its management.

This interesting man stood at the time at the head of the administration

of public charities. He called one day at our lodgings, and I had the

pleasure of listening to a long conversation between him and my husband,

regarding chiefly the theme in which both gentlemen were most deeply

interested, the education of the working classes. I was present, some

time later, at a meeting of the Academy of St. Luke, at which the same

monsignore made an address of some length, and with his own hands

presented the medals awarded to successful artists. One of these was

given to an Italian lady, who appeared in the black costume and lace

veil which are still _de rigueur_ at all functions of the papal court. I

remember that the monsignore delivered his address with a sort of

rhythmic intoning, not unlike the singsong of the Quaker preaching of

fifty years ago.

Of the matter of his discourse I can recall only one sentence, in which

he mentioned as one of the boasts of Rome the fact that she possessed

_la maggiore basilica del mondo_, "the largest basilica in the world."

The Church of St. Peter, like that of Santa Maria Maggiore, is indeed

modeled after the design of the basilicas or courts of justice of

ancient Rome, and Italians are apt to speak of it as "la basilica di san

Pietro." To another monsignore, Baggs by name, and Bishop of Pella, we

owed our presentation to Pope Gregory Sixteenth, the immediate

predecessor of Pope Pius Ninth. Our cousin the consul, George W. Greene,

went with us to the reception accorded us. Papal etiquette was not

rigorous in those days. It only required that we should make three

genuflections, simply bows, as we approached the spot where the Pope

stood, and three more in retiring, as from a royal presence, without

turning our backs. Monsignore Baggs, after presenting my husband, said

to him, "Dr. Howe, you should tell his Holiness about the little blind

girl [Laura Bridgman] whom you educated." The Pope remarked that he had

been assured that the blind were able to distinguish colors by the

touch. Dr. Howe said that he did not believe this. His opinion was that

if a blind person could distinguish a stuff of any particular color, it

must be through some effect of the dye upon the texture of the cloth.

The Pope said that he had heard there had been few Americans in Europe

during the past season, and had been told that they had been kept at

home by the want of money, for which he made the familiar sign with his

thumb and forefinger. Apropos of I forget what, he remarked, "Chi mi

sente dare la benedizione del balcone di san Pietro intende ch'io non

sono un giovinotto," "Whoever hears me give the benediction from the

balcony of St. Peter's will understand that I am not a youth." The

audience concluded, the Pope obligingly turned his back upon us, as if

to examine something lying on the table which stood behind him, and thus

spared us the inconvenience of bowing, curtsying, and retiring backward.

I remember to have heard of a great floral festival held not long after

this time at some village near Rome. Among other exhibits appeared a

medallion of his Holiness all done in flowers, the nose being made

rather bright with carnations. The Pope visited the show, and on seeing

the medallion exclaimed, laughing, "Son brutto da vero, manon cosi", "I

am ugly indeed, but not like this."

The experience of our winter in Rome could not be repeated at this day

of the world. The Rome of fifty-five years ago was altogether mediaeval

in its aspect. The great inclosure within its walls was but sparsely

inhabited. Convent gardens and villas of the nobility occupied much

space. The city attracted mostly students and lovers of art. The studios

of painters and sculptors were much visited, and wealthy patrons of the

arts gave orders for many costly works. Such glimpses as were afforded

of Roman society had no great attraction other than that of novelty for

persons accustomed to reasonable society elsewhere. The strangeness of

titles, the glitter of jewels, amused for a time the traveler, who was

nevertheless glad to return to a world in which ceremony was less

dominant and absolute.

Among the frequent visitors at our rooms were the sculptor Crawford,

Luther Terry, and Freeman, well known then and since as painters of

merit. Between the first named of these and the elder of my two sisters

an attachment sprang up, which culminated in marriage. Another artist of

repute, Toermer by name, often passed the evening with us. He was

somewhat deformed, and our man-servant always announced him as "Quel

gobbetto, signor," "That hunchback, sir."

The months slipped away very rapidly, and the early spring brought the

dear gift of another life to gladden and enlarge our own. My dearest,

eldest child was born at Palazzetto Torlonia, on the 12th of March,

1844. At my request, the name of Julia Romana was given to her. As an

infant she possessed remarkable beauty, and her radiant little face

appeared to me to reflect the lovely forms and faces which I had so

earnestly contemplated before her birth.

Of the months preceding this event I cannot at this date give any very

connected account. The experience was at once a dream and a revelation.

My mind had been able to anticipate something of the achievements of

human thought, but of the patient work of the artist I had not had the

smallest conception.

We visited, one day, the catacombs of St. Calixtus with a party of

friends, among whom was the then celebrated Padre Machi, an ecclesiastic

who was considered a supreme authority in this department of historic

research. Acting as our guide, he pointed out to us the burial-places of

martyrs, distinguished by the outline of a palm rudely impressed on the

tufa out of which the various graves have been hollowed. We explored

with him the little chapels which bear witness to the ancient holding of

religious services in this dark underground city of the dead. In these

chapels the pictured emblem of the fish is often met with. Scholars do

not need to be reminded that the Greek word [Greek: ichthus] was adopted

by the early Christians as an anagram of the name and title of their

leader. Each of us carried a lighted taper, and we were careful to keep

well together, mindful of the danger of losing ourselves in the depths

of these vast caverns. A story was told us of a party which was thus

lost, and could never be found again, although a band of music was sent

after them in the hope of bringing them into safety. While we were

giving heed to the instructive discourse of Padre Machi, a mischievous

youth of the company came near to me and said in a low voice, "Has it

occurred to you that if our guide should suddenly die here of apoplexy,

we should never be able to find our way out?" This thought was dreadful

indeed, and I confess that I was very thankful when at last we emerged

from the depths into the blessed daylight.

Among the wonderful sights of that winter, I recall an evening visit to

the sculpture gallery of the Vatican, where the statues were shown us by

torchlight. I had not as yet made acquaintance with those marble shapes,

which were rendered so lifelike by the artful illumination that when I

saw them afterward in the daylight, it seemed to me that they had died.

My husband visited one day the Castle of St. Angelo, which was then not

only a fortress but also a prison for political offenders. As he passed

through one of the corridors, a young man from an inner room or cell

rushed out and addressed him, apparently in great distress of mind. He

cried, "For the love of God, sir, try to help me! I was taken from my

home a fortnight since, I know not why, and was brought here, where I am

detained, utterly ignorant of the grounds of my arrest and

imprisonment." This incident disturbed my husband very much. Of course,

he could do nothing to aid the unfortunate man.

We were invited, one evening, to attend what the Romans still call an

"accademia," _i. e._ a sort of literary club or association. It was held

in what appeared to be a public hall, with a platform on which were

seated those about to take part in the exercises of the evening. Among

these were two cardinals, one of whom read aloud some Greek verses, the

other a Latin discourse, both of which were applauded. After or before

these, I cannot remember which, came a recitation from a once famous

improvisatrice, Rosa Taddei. She is mentioned by Sismondi in one of his

works as a young person, most wonderful in her performance. She was now

a woman of middle age, wearing a sober gown and cap. The poem which she

read was on the happiness to be derived from a family of adopted

children. I remember its conclusion. He who should give himself to the

care of other people's children would be entitled to say:--

"Formai questa famiglia

Sol colla mia virtu."

"I built myself this family

solely by my own merit."

The performances concluded with a satirical poem given by a layman, and

describing the indignation of an elegant ecclesiastic at the visit of a

man in poor and shabby clothes. His complaint is answered by a friend,

who remarks:--

"La vostra eccellenza

Vorrebbe tutti i poverelli ricchi."

"Your Excellency

would have every poor fellow rich."

The presence of the celebrated phrenologist, George Combe, in Rome at

this time added much to Dr. Howe's enjoyment of the winter, and to mine.

His wife was a daughter of the great actress, Mrs. Siddons, and was a

person of excellent mind and manners. Observing that she always appeared

in black, I asked one day whether she was in mourning for a near

relative. She replied, rather apologetically, that she adopted this

dress on account of its convenience, and that English ladies, in

traveling, often did so.

I remember that Fanny Kemble, who was a cousin of Mrs. Combe, once

related the following anecdote to Dr. Howe and myself: "Cecilia [Mrs.

Combe] had grown up in her mother's shadow, for Mrs. Siddons was to the

last such a social idol as to absorb the notice of people wherever she

went, leaving little attention to be bestowed upon her daughter. This

was rather calculated to sour the daughter's disposition, and naturally

had that effect." Mrs. Kemble then spoke of a visit which she had made

at her cousin's house after her marriage to Mr. Combe. In taking leave,

she could not refrain from exclaiming, "Oh, Cecilia, how you have

improved!" to which Mrs. Combe replied, "Who could help improving when

living with perfection?"

Dr. Howe and Mr. Combe sometimes visited the galleries in company,

viewing the works therein contained in the light of their favorite

theory. I remember having gone with them through the great sculpture

hall of the Vatican, listening with edification to their instructive

conversation. They stood for some time before the well-known head of

Zeus, the contour and features of which appeared to them quite orthodox,

according to the standard of phrenology.

In this last my husband was rather an enthusiastic believer. He was apt,

in judging new acquaintances, to note closely the shape of the head, and

at one time was unwilling even to allow a woman servant to be engaged

until, at his request, she had removed her bonnet, giving him an

opportunity to form his estimate of her character or, at least, of her

natural proclivities. In common with Horace Mann, he held Mr. Combe to

be one of the first intelligences of the age, and esteemed his work on

"The Constitution of Man" as one of the greatest of human productions.

When, in the spring of 1844, I left Rome, in company with my husband, my

sisters, and my baby, it seemed like returning to the living world after

a long separation from it. In spite of all its attractions, I was glad

to stand once more face to face with the belongings of my own time.

We journeyed first to Naples, which I saw with delight, thence by

steamer to Marseilles, and by river boat and diligence to Paris.

My husband's love of the unusual must, I think, have prompted him to

secure passage for our party on board the little steamer which carried

us well on our way to Paris. Its small cabin was without sleeping

accommodations of any kind. As the boat always remained in some port

overnight, Dr. Howe found it possible to hire mattresses for us, which,

alas, were taken away at daybreak, when our journey was resumed.

Of the places visited on our way I will mention only Avignon, a city of

great historic interest, retaining little in the present day to remind

the traveler of its former importance. My husband here found a bricabrac

shop, containing much curious furniture of ancient date. Among its

contents were two cabinets of carved wood, which so fascinated him that,

finding himself unable to decide in favor of either, he concluded to

purchase both of them. The dealer of whom he bought them promised to

have them packed so solidly that they might be thrown out of an upper

window without sustaining any injury, adding, "Et de plus, j'ecrirai la

dessus 'tres fragile'" (And in addition, I will mark it "very fragile"),

which amused my husband. He had justified this purchase to me by

reminding me that we should presently have our house to furnish. Indeed,

the two cabinets proved an excellent investment, and are as handsome as

ever, after much wear and tear of other household goods.

We made some stay in Paris, of which city I have chronicled elsewhere my

first impressions. Among these was the pain of hearing a lecture from

Philarete Chasles, in which he spoke most disparagingly of American

literature, and of our country in general. He said that we had

contributed nothing of value to the world of letters. Yet we had already

given it the writings of Irving, Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, Bryant,

and Poe. It is true that these authors were little, if at all, known in

France at that time; but the speaker, proposing to instruct the public,

ought to have informed himself concerning that whereof he assumed to

speak with knowledge.

Dr. Howe attended one of the official receptions of M. Guizot, who was

prime minister at this time. I tried to persuade him to wear the

decorations given him by the Greek government in recognition of his

services in the Greek revolution, but he refused to do so, thinking such

ornaments unfitting a republican. I had the pleasure of witnessing one

of the last performances of the celebrated _danseuse_, Madame Taglioni.

She it was of whom one of the same profession said, "Nous autres, nous

sautons et nous tombons, mais elle monte et elle descend." The ballet

was "La Sylphide," in which she had achieved one of her earliest

triumphs. Remembering this, Dr. Howe found her somewhat changed for the

worse. I admired her very much, and her dancing appeared to me

characterized by a perfection and finish which placed her beyond

competition with more recent favorites.

I was fortunate also in seeing Mademoiselle Rachel in "La Czarina," a

part which did not give full scope for her great talent. The demerits of

the play, however, could not wholly overcloud the splendor of her unique

personality, which at moments electrified the audience.

Our second visit to England, in the autumn of the year 1844, on the way

back to our own country, was less brilliant and novel than our first,

but scarcely less in interest. We had received several invitations to

visit friends at their country residences, and these opened to us the

most delightful aspect of English hospitality. The English are nowhere

so much at home as in the country, and they willingly make their

visitors at home also.

Our first visit was at Atherstone, then the residence of Charles Nolte

Bracebridge, one of the best specimens of an English country gentleman

of the old school. His wife was a very accomplished gentlewoman,

skillful alike with pencil and with needle, and possessed of much

literary culture. We met here, among other guests, Mr. Henry Reeve, well

known in the literary society of that time. Mrs. Bracebridge told us

much of Florence Nightingale, then about twenty-four years old, already

considered a person of remarkable character. Our hosts had visited

Athens, and sympathized with my husband in his views regarding the

Greeks. They were also familiar with the farther East, and had brought

cedars from Mount Lebanon and Arab horses from I know not where.

Atherstone was not far from Coventry. Mr. Bracebridge claimed descent

from Lady Godiva, and informed me that a descendant of Peeping Tom of

Coventry was still to be found in that place. He himself was lord of the

manor, but had neither son nor daughter to succeed him. He told me some

rather weird stories, one of which was that he had once waked in the

night to see a female figure seated by his fireside. I think that the

ghost was that of an old retainer of the family, or possibly an

ancestress. An old prophecy also had been fulfilled with regard to his

property. This was that when a certain piece of land should pass from

the possession of the family, a small island on the estate would cease

to exist. The property was sold, and the island somehow became attached

to the mainland, and as an island ceased to exist.

My two sisters accompanied Dr. Howe and myself in the round of visits

which I am now recording. They were young women of great personal

attraction, the elder of the two an unquestioned beauty, the younger

gifted with an individual charm of loveliness. They were much admired

among our new friends. Thomas Appleton followed us at one of the houses

in which we stayed. He told me, long afterwards, that he was asked at

this time whether there were many young ladies in America as charming as

the Misses Ward.

Mrs. Bracebridge in speaking to me of Florence Nightingale as a young

person likely to make an exceptional record, told me that her mother

rather feared this, and would have preferred the usual conventional life

for her daughter. The father was a pronounced Liberal, and a Unitarian.

While we were still at Atherstone, we received an invitation to pass a

few days with the Nightingale family at Emblee, and betook ourselves

thither. We found a fine mansion of Elizabethan architecture, and a

cordial reception. The family consisted of father and mother and two

daughters, both born during their parents' residence in Italy, and

respectively christened Parthenope and Florence, one having first seen

the light in the city whose name she bore, the other in Naples.

[Illustration: FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

_From a photograph._]

Of the two, Parthenope was the elder; she was not handsome, but was

_piquante_ and entertaining. Florence, the younger sister, was rather

elegant than beautiful; she was tall and graceful of figure, her

countenance mobile and expressive, her conversation most interesting.

Having heard much of Dr. Howe as a philanthropist, she resolved to

consult him upon a matter which she already had at heart. She

accordingly requested him one day to meet her on the following morning,

before the hour for the family breakfast. He did so, and she opened the

way to the desired conference by saying, "Dr. Howe, if I should

determine to study nursing, and to devote my life to that profession, do

you think it would be a dreadful thing?"

"By no means," replied my husband. "I think that it would be a very good

thing."

So much and no more of the conversation Dr. Howe repeated to me. We soon

heard that Miss Florence was devoting herself to the study of her

predilection; and when, years after this time, the Crimean war broke

out, we were among the few who were not astonished at the undertaking

which made her name world famous.

Just before our final embarkation for America, we passed a few days with

the same friends at Lea Hurst, a pretty country seat near Malvern. There

we met the well-known historian, Henry Hallam, celebrated also as the

father of Tennyson's lamented Arthur. "Martin Chuzzlewit" had recently

appeared, and I remember that Mr. Hallam read aloud with much amusement

the famous transcendental episode beginning, "To be introduced to a

Pogram by a Hominy." Mr. Hallam asked me whether talk of this sort was

ever heard in transcendental circles in America. I was obliged to

confess that the caricature was not altogether without foundation.

Soon after reaching London for the second time, we were invited to visit

Dr. and Mrs. Fowler at Salisbury. The doctor was much interested in

anthropology and kindred topics, and my husband found in him a congenial

friend. The house was a modest one, but the housekeeping was generous

and tasteful. As Salisbury was a cathedral town, the prominent people of

the place naturally belonged to the Anglican Church. At the Fowlers'

hospitable board we met the bishop, the dean, the rector, and the

curate.

I attended several services in the beautiful cathedral, and enjoyed very

much a visit to Stonehenge, which we made in company with our hosts, in

a carriage drawn by two small mules. I inquired why they used mules in

preference to horses, and was told that it was to avoid the tax imposed

upon the latter. Stonehenge was in the district of Old Sarum, once a

rotten borough, as certain places in England were termed which, with

little or no population, had yet the right to be represented in

Parliament. Dr. Fowler was familiar with the ancient history of the

place, which, as we saw it, contained nothing but an area of desolate

sand. The wonderful Druidical stones of Stonehenge commanded our

attention. They are too well known to need description. Our host could

throw no light upon their history, which belongs, one must suppose, with

that of kindred constructions in Brittany.

Bishop Denison, at the time of our visit, was still saddened by the loss

of a beloved wife. He invited us to a dinner at which his sister, Miss

Denison, presided. The dean and his wife were present, the Fowlers, and

one or two other guests. To my surprise, the bishop gave me his arm and

conducted me to the table, where he seated me on his right. Mrs. Fowler

afterwards remarked to me, "How charming it was of the bishop to take

you in to dinner. As an American you have no rank, and are therefore

exempt from all questions of precedence."

Mrs. Fowler once described to me an intimate little dinner with the poet

Rogers, for which he had promised to provide just enough, and no more.

Each dish exactly matched the three convives. Half of a chicken sufficed

for the roast. As his usual style of entertainment was very elegant, he

probably derived some amusement from this unnecessary economy.

We left Salisbury with regret, Dr. Fowler giving Dr. Howe a parting

injunction to visit Rotherhithe workhouse, where he himself had seen an

old woman who was blind, deaf, and crippled. My husband made this visit,

and wrote an account of it to Dr. Fowler.[2] He read this to me before

sending it. In the mischief of which I was then full to overflowing, I

wrote a humorous travesty of Dr. Howe's letter in rhyme, but when I

showed it to him, I was grieved to see how much he seemed pained at my

frivolity.

[Footnote 2: This old woman was one of a number of trebly-afflicted

persons--deaf, dumb, and blind--whom Dr. Howe found time to visit on

this wedding trip, beginning their instruction himself in some cases,

and interesting persons in the neighborhood in carrying it on. In his

report of the Institution for the Blind, written after his return from

Europe in 1844, he gives an account of these cases, closing with an

eloquent appeal in behalf of these neglected and suffering members of

the human family.

"And here the question will recur to you (for I doubt not it has

occurred a dozen times already), Can nothing be done to disinter this

human soul? It is late, but perhaps not too late. The whole neighborhood

would rush to save this woman if she were buried alive by the caving in

of a pit, and labor with zeal until she were dug out. Now if there were

one who had as much patience as zeal, and who, having carefully observed

how a little child learns language, would attempt to lead her gently

through the same course, he might possibly awaken her to a consciousness

of her immortal nature. The chance is small indeed; but with a smaller

chance they would have dug desperately for her in the pit; and is the

life of the soul of less import than that of the body?

"It is to be feared that there are many others whose cases are not known

out of their own families, who are regarded as beyond the reach of help,

and who are therefore left in their awful desolation.

"This ought not to be, either for the good of the sufferers, or of those

about them. It is hardly possible to conceive a case in which some

improvement could not be effected by patient perseverance; and the

effort ought to be made in every one of them.

"The sight of any being, in human shape, left to brutish ignorance, is

always demoralizing to the beholders. There floats not upon the stream

of life any wreck of humanity so utterly shattered and crippled that its

signals of distress should not challenge attention and command

assistance."]

Dear Sir, I went south

As far as Portsmouth,

And found a most charming old woman,

Delightfully void

Of all that's enjoyed

By the animal vaguely called human.

She has but one jaw,

Has teeth like a saw,

Her ears and her eyes I delight in:

The one could not hear

Tho' a cannon were near,

The others are holes with no sight in.

Her cinciput lies

Just over her eyes,

Not far from the bone parietal;

The crown of her head,

Be it vulgarly said,

Is shaped like the back of a beetle.

Destructiveness great

Combines with conceit

In the form of this wonderful noddle,

But benev'lence, you know,

And a large _philopro_

Give a great inclination to coddle.

And so on.