FIRST YEARS IN BOSTON
In the autumn of 1844 we returned from our wedding journey, and took up
our abode in the near neighborhood of the city of Boston, of which at
intervals I had already enjoyed some glimpses. These had shown me
Margaret Fuller, holding high communion with her friends in her
well-remembered conversations; Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was then
breaking ground in the field of his subsequent great reputation; and
many another who has since been widely heard of. I count it as one of my
privileges to have listened to a single sermon from Dr. Channing, with
whom I had some personal acquaintance. I can remember only a few
passages. Its theme must have been the divine love; for Dr. Channing
said that God loved black men as well as white men, poor men as well as
rich men, and bad men as well as good men. This doctrine was quite new
to me, but I received it gladly.
The time was one in which the Boston community, small as it then was,
exhibited great differences of opinion, especially regarding the new
transcendentalism and the anti-slavery agitation, which were both held
much in question by the public at large. While George Ripley, moved by a
fresh interpretation of religious duty, was endeavoring to institute a
phalanstery at Brook Farm, the caricatures of Christopher Cranch gave
great amusement to those who were privileged to see them. One of these
represented Margaret Fuller driving a winged team attached to a chariot
on which was inscribed the name of her new periodical, "The Dial," while
the Rev. Andrews Norton regarded her with holy horror. Another
illustrated a passage from Mr. Emerson's essay on Nature--"I play upon
myself. I am my own music"--by depicting an individual with a nose of
preternatural length, pierced with holes like a flageolet, upon which
his fingers sought the intervals. Yet Mr. Cranch belonged by taste and
persuasion among the transcendentalists.
As my earliest relations in Boston were with its recognized society, I
naturally gave some heed to the views therein held regarding the
transcendental people. What I liked least in these last, when I met
them, was a sort of jargon which characterized their speech. I had been
taught to speak plain and careful English, and though always a student
of foreign languages, I had never thought fit to mix their idioms with
those of my native tongue. Apropos of this, I remember that the poet
Fitz-Greene Halleck once said to me of Margaret Fuller, "That young lady
does not speak the same language that I do,--I cannot understand her."
Mr. Emerson's English was as new to me as that of any of his
contemporaries; but in his case I soon felt that the thought was as
novel as the language, and that both marked an epoch in literary
history. The grandiloquence which was common at that time now appears to
me to have been the natural expression of an exhilaration of mind which
carried the speaker or writer beyond the bounds of commonplace speech.
The intellect of the time had outgrown the limits of Puritan belief. The
narrow literalism, the material and positive view of matters highly
spiritual, abstract, and indeterminate, which had been handed down from
previous generations, had become irreligious to the foremost minds of
that day. They had no choice but to enter the arena as champions of the
new interpretation of life which the cause of truth imperatively
demanded.
I speak now of the transcendental movement as I had opportunity to
observe it in Boston. Let us not ignore the fact that it was a world
movement. The name seems to have been borrowed from the German
phraseology, in which the philosophy of Kant was termed "the
transcendental philosophy." More than this, the breath which kindled
among us this new flame of hope and aspiration came from the same
source. For this was the period of Germany's true glory. Her
intellectual radiance outshone and outlived the military meteor which
for a brief moment obscured all else to human vision. The great vitality
of the German nation, the indefatigable research of its learned men, its
wholesome balance of sense and spirit, all made themselves widely felt,
and infused fresh blood into veins impoverished by ascetic views of
life. Its philosophers were apostles of freedom, its poets sang the joy
of living, not the bitterness of sin and death.
These good things were brought to us piecemeal, by translations, by
disciples. Dr. Hedge published an English rendering of some of the
masterpieces of German prose. Longfellow gave us lovely versions of many
poets. John S. Dwight produced his ever precious volume of translations
of the minor poems of Goethe and Schiller. Margaret Fuller translated
Eckermann's "Conversations with Goethe." Carlyle wrote his wonderful
essays, inspired by the new thought, and adding to it daring novelty of
his own. The whole is matter of history now, quite beyond the domain of
personal reminiscence.
I have spoken of the transcendentalists and the abolitionists as if they
had been quite distinct bodies of believers. Reflecting more deeply, I
feel that both were features of the new movement. In the
transcendentalists the enthusiasm of emancipated thought was paramount,
while the abolitionists followed the vision of emancipated humanity. The
lightning flash which illuminated the heaven of the poets and
philosophers fell also on the fetters of the slave, and showed them to
the thinking world as a disgrace no longer to be tolerated by civilized
peoples.
I recall my first years of life in Boston as nearly touched by the sense
of the unresolved discords which existed in its society. My husband was
much concerned in some of the changes of front which took place at this
time. An ardent friend both of Horace Mann and of Charles Sumner, he
shared the educational views of the first and the political convictions
of the second. In the year 1845, having been elected to serve on the
Boston School Board, Dr. Howe instituted so drastic a research into the
condition of the public schools as to draw upon himself much
animadversion and some ill-will. Horace Mann, on the other hand,
characterized this work as "one which only Sam Howe or an angel could
have done."
Dr. Howe and Mr. Mann, during their travels in Europe, had become much
interested in the system of training, new at that time, by which
deaf-mutes were enabled to use vocal speech, and to read on the lips the
words of those who addressed them. Soon after his return from Europe,
Mr. Mann published a report in which he dwelt much on the great benefit
of this new departure in the education of deaf-mutes, and advocated the
introduction of the system into our own schools. Dr. Howe expressed the
same views, and the two gentlemen were held up to the public as
disturbers of its peace. My husband disapproved of the use of signs,
which, up to that time, had figured largely in the instruction of
American deaf-mutes, and in their intercourse with each other. He felt
that the use of language was an important condition of definite thought,
and hailed the new powers conferred by the European system as a
liberation of its pupils from the greatest of their disabilities, the
privation of direct intercourse with their fellow creatures. His advice,
privately sought and given, induced a number of parents to undertake
themselves the education of their deaf children, or, at least, to have
that education conducted at home, and under their own supervision. In
after years such parents and children were forward in expressing their
gratitude for the advice given and followed. The Horace Mann school in
Boston, and the Clarke school in Northampton, attest the perseverance of
the advocates of the new method of instruction, and their ultimate
success.
I had formerly seen Boston as a petted visitor from another city would
be apt to see it. I had found it altogether hospitable, and rather eager
to entertain a novelty. It was another matter to see it with its
consideration cap on, pondering whether to like or mislike a new
claimant to its citizenship. I had known what we may term the Boston of
the Forty, if New York may be called the city of the Four Hundred. I was
now to make acquaintance with quite another city,--with the Boston of
the teachers, of the reformers, of the cranks, and also--of the
apostles. Wondering and floundering among these new surroundings, I was
often at a loss to determine what I should follow, what relinquish. I
endeavored to enter reasonably into the functions and amusements of
general society, and at the same time to profit by the new resources of
intellectual life which opened out before me. One offense against
fashion I would commit: I would go to hear Theodore Parker preach. My
society friends shook their heads.
"What is Julia Howe trying to find at Parker's meeting?" asked one of
these one day in my presence.
"Atheism," replied the lady thus addressed.
I said, "Not atheism, but a theism."
The change had already been great, from my position as a family idol and
"the superior young lady" of an admiring circle to that of a wife
overshadowed for the time by the splendor of her husband's reputation.
This I had accepted willingly. But the change from my life of easy
circumstances and brilliant surroundings to that of the mistress of a
suite of rooms in the Institution for the Blind at South Boston was much
greater. The building was two miles distant from the city proper, the
only public conveyance being an omnibus which ran but once in two hours.
My friends were residents of Boston, or of places still more remote from
my dwelling-place, and South Boston was then, as it has continued to be,
a distinctly unfashionable suburb. My husband did not desire that I
should undertake any work in connection with the Institution under his
charge. I found its teachers pleasant neighbors, and was glad to have
Laura Bridgman continue to be a member of the household.
Dr. Howe had a great fancy for a piece of property which lay very near
the Institution. In due time he purchased it. We found an ancient
cottage on the place, and made it habitable by the addition of one or
two rooms. Our new domain comprised several acres of land, and my
husband took great pleasure in laying out an extensive fruit and flower
garden, and in building a fine hothouse. We removed to this abode on a
lovely summer day; and as I entered the grounds I involuntarily
exclaimed, "This is green peace!" Somehow, the nickname, jocosely given,
remained in use. The estate still stands on legal records as "The Green
Peace Estate." Friends would sometimes ask us, "How are you getting on
at Green Beans--is that the name?" My husband was so much attached to
this place that when, after a residence of many years in the city, he
returned thither to spend the last years of his life, he spoke of it as
"Paradise Regained."
It partly amuses, and partly saddens me to recall, at this advanced
period of my life, the altogether mistaken views which I once held
regarding certain sets of people in Boston, of whom I really knew little
or nothing. The veil of prejudgment through which I saw them was not,
indeed, of my own weaving, but I was content to dislike them at a
distance, until circumstances compelled a nearer and a truer view.
I had supposed the abolitionists to be men and women of rather coarse
fibre, abounding in cheap and easy denunciation, and seeking to lay rash
hands on the complex machinery of government and of society. My husband,
who largely shared their opinions, had no great sympathy with some of
their methods. Theodore Parker held them in great esteem, and it was
through him that one of my strongest imaginary dislikes vanished as
though it had never been. The object of this dislike was William Lloyd
Garrison, whom I had never seen, but of whose malignity of disposition I
entertained not the smallest doubt.
[Illustration: THE HOME AT SOUTH BOSTON
_From a painting in the possession of M. Anagnos._]
It happened that I met him at one of Parker's Sunday evenings at home. I
soon felt that this was not the man for whom I had cherished so great a
distaste. Gentle and unassuming in manner, with a pleasant voice, a
benevolent countenance, and a sort of glory of sincerity in his ways and
words, I could only wonder at the falsehoods that I had heard and
believed concerning him.
The Parkers had then recently received the gift of a piano from members
of their congregation. A friend began to play hymn tunes upon it, and
those of us who could sing gathered in little groups to read from the
few hymn-books which were within reach. Dr. Howe presently looked up and
saw me singing from the same book with Mr. Garrison. He told me
afterward that few things in the course of his life had surprised him
more. From this time forth the imaginary Garrison ceased to exist for
me. I learned to respect and honor the real one more and more, though as
yet little foreseeing how glad I should be one day to work with and
under him. The persons most frequently named as prominent abolitionists,
in connection with Mr. Garrison, were Maria Weston Chapman and Wendell
Phillips.
Mrs. Chapman presided with much energy and grace over the anti-slavery
bazaars which were held annually in Boston through a long space of
years. For this labor of love she was somewhat decried, and the
_sobriquet_ of "Captain Chapman" was given her in derision. She was
handsome and rather commanding in person, endowed also with an excellent
taste in dress. I cannot remember that she ever spoke in public, but her
presence often adorned the platform at anti-slavery meetings. She was
the editor of the "Liberty Bell," and was a valued friend and ally of
Wendell Phillips.
Of Mr. Phillips I must say that I at first regarded him through the same
veil of prejudice which had caused me so greatly to misconceive the
character of Mr. Garrison. I was a little softened by hearing that at
one of the bazaars he had purchased a copy of my first volume of poems,
with the remark, "She doesn't like me, but I like her poetry." This
naturally led me to suppose that he must have some redeeming traits of
character. I had not then heard him speak, and I did not wish to hear
him; but I met him, also, at one of the Parker Sunday evenings, and,
after a pleasant episode of conversation, I found myself constrained to
take him out of my chamber of dislikes.
Mr. Phillips was entitled, by birth and education, to an unquestioned
position in Boston society. His family name was of the best. He was a
graduate both of Harvard College and of its Law School. No ungentlemanly
act had ever tarnished his fame. His offense was that, at a critical
moment, he had espoused an unpopular cause,--one which was destined, in
less than a score of years, so to divide the feeling of our community as
to threaten the very continuance of our national life. Oh, to have been
in Faneuil Hall on that memorable day when the pentecostal flame first
visited him; when he leaped to the platform, all untrained for such an
encounter, and his eloquent soul uttered itself in protest against a low
and sordid acquiescence in the claims of oppression and tyranny! In that
hour he was sealed as an apostle of the higher law, to whose advocacy he
sacrificed his professional and social interests. The low-browed,
chain-bound slave had now the best orator in America to plead his cause.
It was the beginning of the end. Mr. Phillips, without doubt, sometimes
used intemperate language. I myself have at times dissented quite
sharply from some of his statements. Nevertheless, a man who rendered
such great service to the community as he did has a right to be judged
by his best, not by his least meritorious performance. He was for years
an unwelcome prophet of evil to come. Society at large took little heed
of his warning; but when the evil days did come, he became a counselor
"good at need."
I recall now a scene in Tremont Temple just before the breaking out of
our civil war. An anti-slavery meeting had been announced, and a scheme
had been devised to break it up. As I entered I met Mrs. Chapman, who
said, "These are times in which anti-slavery people must stand by each
other." On the platform were seated a number of the prominent
abolitionists. Mr. Phillips was to be the second speaker, but when he
stepped forward to address the meeting a perfect hubbub arose in the
gallery. Shrieks, howls, and catcalls resounded. Again and again the
great orator essayed to speak. Again and again his voice was drowned by
the general uproar. I sat near enough to hear him say, with a smile,
"Those boys in the gallery will soon tire themselves out." And so,
indeed, it befell. After a delay which appeared to some of us endless,
the noise subsided, and Wendell Phillips, still in the glory of his
strength and manly beauty, stood up before the house, and soon held all
present spellbound by the magic of his speech. The clear silver ring of
his voice carried conviction with it. From head to foot, he seemed
aflame with the passion of his convictions. He used the simplest
English, and spoke with such distinctness that his lowest tones, almost
a whisper, could be heard throughout the large hall. Yerrinton, the only
man who could report Wendell Phillips's speeches, once told my husband
that it was like reporting chain lightning.
On the occasion of which I speak, the unruly element was quieted once
for all, and the further proceedings of the meeting suffered no
interruption. The mob, however, did not at once abandon its intention of
doing violence to the great advocate. Soon after the time just mentioned
Dr. Howe attended an evening meeting, at the close of which a crowd of
rough men gathered outside the public entrance, waiting for Phillips to
appear, with ugly threats of the treatment which he should receive at
their hands. The doors presently opened, and Phillips came forth,
walking calmly between Mrs. Chapman and Lydia Maria Child. Not a hand
was raised, not a threat was uttered. The crowd gave way in silence, and
the two brave women parted from Phillips at the door of his own house.
My husband spoke of this as one of the most impressive sights that he
had ever witnessed. His report of it moved me to send word to Mr.
Phillips that, in case of any recurrence of such a disturbance, I should
be proud to join his body-guard.
Mr. Phillips was one of the early advocates of woman suffrage. I
remember that I was sitting in Theodore Parker's reception room
conversing with him when Wendell Phillips, quite glowing with
enthusiasm, came in to report regarding the then recent woman's rights
convention at Worcester. Of the doings there he spoke in warm eulogy. He
complained that Horace Mann had written a non-committal letter, in reply
to the invitation sent him to take part in the convention. Ralph Waldo
Emerson, he said, had excused himself from attendance on the ground that
he was occupied in writing a life of Margaret Fuller, which, he hoped,
would be considered as a service in the line of the objects of the
meeting.
This convention was held in October of the year 1850, before the claims
of women to political efficiency had begun to occupy the attention and
divide the feeling of the American public. When, after the close of the
civil war, the question was again brought forward, with a new zeal and
determination, Mr. Phillips gave it the great support of his eloquence,
and continued through a long course of years to be one of its most
earnest advocates.
[Illustration: WENDELL PHILLIPS
At the age of 48
_From a photograph lent by Francis J. Garrison, Boston._]
The last time that I heard Wendell Phillips speak in public was in
December, 1883, at the unveiling of Miss Whitney's statue of Harriet
Martineau, in the Old South Meeting-House. Mrs. Livermore was one of the
speakers of the occasion. When the stated exercises were at an end, she
said to me, "Let us thank Mr. Phillips for what he has just said. We
shall not have him with us long." I expressed surprise at this, and she
said further, "He has heart disease, and is far from well." Soon after
this followed his death, and the splendid public testimonial given in
his honor. I was one of those admitted to the funeral exercises, in
which friends spoke of him most lovingly. I also saw his remains lying
in state in Faneuil Hall, on the very platform where, in his ardent
youth, he had uttered his first scathing denunciation of the slave power
and its defenders. The mournful and reverent crowd which gathered for
one last look at his beloved countenance told, better than words could
tell, of the tireless services which, in the interval, had won for him
the heart of the community. It was a sight never to be forgotten.
I first heard of Theodore Parker as the author of the sermon on "The
Transient and the Permanent in Christianity." At the time of its
publication I was still within the fold of the Episcopal Church, and,
judging by hearsay, was prepared to find the discourse a tissue of
impious and sacrilegious statements. Yet I ventured to peruse a copy of
it which fell into my hands. I was surprised to find it reverent and
appreciative in spirit, although somewhat startling in its conclusions.
At that time the remembrance of Mr. Emerson's Phi Beta address was fresh
in my mind. This discourse of Parker's was a second glimpse of a system
of thought very different from that in which I had been reared.
Not long after my marriage, being in Rome with my husband, I was
interested to hear of Parker's arrival there. As Dr. Howe had some
slight acquaintance with him, we soon invited him to dine with us. He
was already quite bald, and this untimely blemish appeared in strange
contrast with the youthful energy of his facial expression. He was
accompanied by his wife, whose mild countenance, compared with his,
suggested even more than the usual contrast between husband and wife.
One might have said of her that she came near being very handsome. Her
complexion was fair, her features were regular, and the expression of
her face was very naif and gentle. A certain want of physical maturity
seemed to have prevented her from blossoming into full beauty. It was a
great grief both to her and to her husband that their union was
childless.
Theodore Parker's reputation had already reached Rome, and there as
elsewhere brought him many attentions from scholars, and even from
dignitaries of the Catholic Church. He remained in the Eternal City, as
we did, through the winter, and we saw him frequently.
When, in the spring, my eldest child was born, I desired that she should
be christened by Parker. This caused some uneasiness to my sisters, who
were with me at the time. One of them took occasion to call upon Parker
at his lodgings, and to inquire how the infant was to be christened, in
what name. Our friend replied that he had never heard of any baptismal
formula other than the usual one, "in the name of the Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost." My sister was much relieved, and the baptism was altogether
satisfactory.
This was the beginning of a family intimacy which lasted many years,
ending only with Parker's life. After our return to America my husband
went often to the Melodeon, where Parker preached until he took
possession of the Music Hall. The interest which my husband showed in
these services led me in time to attend them, and I remember as among
the great opportunities of my life the years in which I listened to
Theodore Parker.
Those who knew Parker only in the pulpit did not half know him. Apart
from the field of theological controversy, he was one of the most
sympathetic and delightful of men. I have rarely met any one whose
conversation had such a ready and varied charm. His idea of culture was
encyclopaedic, and his reading, as might have been inferred from the size
of his library, was enormous. The purchase of books was his single
extravagance. One whole floor was given up to them, and in spite of this
they overflowed into hall and drawing-room. He was very generous in
lending them, and I often profited by his kindness in this respect.
His affection for his wife was very great. From a natural love of
paradox, he was accustomed to style this mild creature "Bear," and he
delighted to carry out this pleasantry by adorning his _etagere_ with
miniature bears, in wood-carving, porcelain, and so on. His gold shirt
stud bore the impress of a bear. At one Christmas time he showed me a
breakfast cup upon which a bear had been painted, by his express order,
as a gift for his wife. At another he granted me a view of a fine silver
candlestick in the shape of a bear and staff, which was also intended
for her.
To my husband Parker often spoke of the excellence of his wife's
discernment of character. He would say, "My quiet little wife, with her
simple intuition, understands people more readily than I do. I sometimes
invite a stranger to my house, and tell her that she will find him as
pleasant as I have found him. It may turn out so; but if my wife says,
'Theodore, I don't like that man; there's something wrong about him,' I
always find in the end that I have been mistaken,--that her judgment was
correct."
Parker's ideal of culture included a knowledge of music. His endeavors
to attain this were praiseworthy, but unsuccessful. I have heard the
late John S. Dwight relate that when he was a student in Harvard
Divinity School, Parker, who was then his fellow student, desired to be
taught to sing the notes of the musical scale. Dwight volunteered to
give him lessons, and began, as is usual, by striking the dominant _do_
and directing Parker to imitate the sound. Parker responded, and found
himself able to sing this one note; but when Dwight passed on to the
second and the third, Parker could only repeat the note already sung. He
had no ear for music, and his friend advised him to give up the hopeless
attempt to cultivate his voice. In like manner, at an earlier date, Dr.
Howe and Charles Sumner joined a singing class, but both evincing the
same defect were dismissed as hopeless cases. Parker attended sedulously
the concerts of classical music given in Boston, and no doubt enjoyed
them, after a fashion. I remember that I once tried to explain to him
the difference between having an ear for music and not having one. I
failed, however, to convince him of any such distinction.
The years during which I heard him most frequently were momentous in the
history of our country and of our race. They presaged and preceded grave
crises on both sides of the Atlantic. In Europe was going on the ferment
of ideas and theories which led to the revolutions of 1848 and the
temporary upturning of states and of governments. In the United States,
the seed of thought sown by prophetic minds was ripening in the great
field of public opinion. Slavery and all that it involved became not
only hateful but intolerable to men of right mind, and the policy which
aimed at its indefinite extension was judged and condemned.
Parker at this time had need in truth of the two-edged sword of the
Spirit. On the one hand he encountered the foes of religious freedom, on
the other the advocates and instruments of political oppression. His
sermons on theism belonged to one of these domains, those which treated
of public men and measures to the other. Among these last, I remember
best that on Daniel Webster, and the terrible "Lesson for the Day" which
denounced Judge Loring for the part he had taken in the rendition of
Anthony Burns.
The discourse which treated of Webster was indeed memorable. I remember
well the solemnity of its opening sentences, and the earnest desire
shown throughout to do justice to the great gifts of the great man,
while no one of his public misdeeds was allowed to escape notice. The
whole performance, painful as it was in parts, was very uplifting, as
the exhibition of true mastery must always be. Its unusual length caused
me to miss the omnibus which should have brought me to South Boston in
good time for our Sunday dinner. As I entered the house and found the
family somewhat impatient of the unwonted delay, I cried, "Let no one
find fault! I have heard the greatest thing that I shall ever hear!"
At the time of the attempted rendition of the fugitive slave Shadrach a
meeting was held in the Melodeon, at which various speakers gave
utterance to the indignation which aroused the whole community. Parker
had been the prime mover in calling this meeting. He had written for it
some verses to be sung to the tune of "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"
and he made the closing and most important address. It was on this
occasion that I first saw Colonel Higginson, who was then known as the
Rev. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, pastor of a religious society in
Worcester, Mass. The part assigned to him in the exercises was to read
portions of Scripture appropriate to the day. This he did with excellent
effect. Parker, in the course of his address, held up a torn coat, and
said, "This is the coat of our brother Shadrach," reverting in his mind
to the Bible story of the torn coat of Joseph over which his father
grieved so sorely. As I left the hall I heard some mischievous urchins
commenting upon this. "Nonsense!" cried one of them, "that wasn't
Shadrach's coat at all. That was Theodore's coat." Parker was amused
when I told him of this.
From time to time Parker would speak in his sermons of the position
which woman should hold in a civilized community. The question of
suffrage had not then been brought into prominence, and, as I remember,
he insisted most upon the claim of the sex to equality of education and
of opportunity. On one occasion he invited Lucretia Mott to his pulpit.
On another its privileges were accorded to Mrs. Seba Smith. I was
present one Sunday when he announced to his congregation that the Rev.
Antoinette L. Brown would address them on the Sunday following. As he
pronounced the word "Reverend," I detected an unmistakable and probably
unconscious curl of his lip. The lady was, I believe, the first woman
minister regularly ordained in the United States. She was a graduate of
Oberlin, in that day the only college in our country which received
among its pupils women and negroes. She was ordained as pastor by an
Orthodox Congregational society, and has since become better known as
Antoinette Brown Blackwell, a strenuous advocate of the rights of her
sex, an earnest student of religious philosophy, and the author of some
valuable works on this and kindred topics.
[Illustration: THEODORE PARKER
_From a photograph by J. J. Hawes._]
I am almost certain that Parker was the first minister who in public
prayer to God addressed him as "Father and Mother of us all." I can
truly say that no rite of public worship, not even the splendid Easter
service in St. Peter's at Rome, ever impressed me as deeply as did
Theodore Parker's prayers. The volume of them which has been published
preserves many of his sentences, but cannot convey any sense of the
sublime attitude of humility with which he rose and stood, his arms
extended, his features lit up with the glory of his high office. Truly,
he talked with God, and took us with him into the divine presence.
I cannot remember that the interest of his sermons ever varied for me.
It was all one intense delight. The luminous clearness of his mind, his
admirable talent for popularizing the procedures and conclusions of
philosophy, his keen wit and poetic sense of beauty,--all these combined
to make him appear to me one of the oracles of God. Add to these his
fearlessness and his power of denunciation, exercised in a community a
great part of which seemed bound in a moral sleep. His voice was like
the archangel's trump, summoning the wicked to repentance and bidding
the just take heart. It was hard to go out from his presence, all aglow
with the enthusiasm which he felt and inspired, and to hear him spoken
of as a teacher of irreligion, a pest to the community.
As all know, this glorious career came too soon to an end. While still
in the fullness of his powers, and at the moment when he was most
needed, the taint of hereditary disease penetrated his pure and
blameless life. He came to my husband's office one day, and said, "Howe,
that venomous cat which has destroyed so many of my people has fixed her
claws here," pointing to his chest. The progress of the fatal disease
was slow but sure. He had agreed with Dr. Howe that they should visit
South America together in 1860, when he should have attained his
fiftieth year. Alas! in place of that adventurous voyage and journey, a
sad exodus to the West Indies and thence to Europe was appointed, an
exile from which he never returned.
Many years after this time I visited the public cemetery in Florence,
and stood before the simple granite cross which marks the resting-place
of this great apostle of freedom. I found it adorned with plants and
vines which had evidently been brought from his native land. A dear
friend of his, Mrs. Sarah Shaw Russell, had said to me of this spot, "It
looks like a piece of New England." And I thought how this piece of New
England belonged to the world.
One of the most imposing figures in my gallery of remembrance is that of
Charles Sumner, senator and martyr. When I first saw him I was still a
girl in my father's house, from which the father had then but recently
passed. My eldest brother, Samuel Ward, had made Mr. Sumner's
acquaintance through a letter of introduction given to the latter by Mr.
Longfellow. At his suggestion we invited Mr. Sumner to pass a quiet
evening at our house, promising him a little music. Our guest had but
recently returned from England, where letters from Chief Justice Story
had given him access both to literary and to aristocratic circles. His
appearance was at that time rather singular. He was very tall and erect,
and the full suit of black which he wore added to the effect of his
height and slenderness of figure. Of his conversation, I remember
chiefly that he held the novels of Walter Scott in very light esteem,
and that he quoted with approbation Sir Adam Ferguson as having said
that Manzoni's "Promessi Sposi" was worth more than all of Sir Walter's
romances put together.
Mr. Sumner was at this time one of a little group of friends which an
ironical lady had christened "the Mutual Admiration Society." The other
members were the poet Longfellow, George S. Hillard, Cornelius Felton,
professor of Greek at Harvard College, of which at a later day he became
president, and Dr. Howe. These gentlemen were indeed bound together by
ties of intimate friendship, but the humorous designation just quoted
was not fairly applicable to them. They rejoiced in one another's
successes, and Sumner on one occasion wrote to Dr. Howe, apropos of some
new poem of Mr. Longfellow's, "What a club we are! I like to indulge in
a little _mutual_." The developments of later years made some changes in
these relations. When the Boston public became strongly divided on the
slavery question, Hillard and Felton were less pronounced in their views
than the others, while Longfellow, Sumner, and Dr. Howe remained united
in opinion and in feeling. Hillard, who possessed more scholarship and
literary taste than Sumner, could never understand the reason of the
high position which the latter in time attained. He remained a Webster
Whig, to use the language of those days, while Sumner was elected to
Webster's seat in the Senate. Felton was a man of very genial
temperament, devoted to the duties of his Greek professorship and to
kindred studies. He was by nature averse to strife, and the encounters
of the political arena had little attraction for him. The five always
remained friends and well-wishers. They became much absorbed in the
cares and business of public and private life, and the club as such
ceased to be spoken of.
In the days of their great intimacy, a certain grotesqueness of taste in
Sumner made him the object of some good-natured banter on the part of
the other "Mutuals." It was related that on a certain Fourth of July he
had given his office boy, Ben, a small gratuity, and had advised him to
pass the day at Mount Auburn, where he would be able to enjoy quiet and
profitable meditation. Felton was especially merry over this incident;
but he, in turn, furnished occasion for laughter when on a visit to New
York, in company with the same friends. A man-servant whom they had
brought with them was ordered to carry Felton's valise to the Astor
House. This was before the days of the baggage express. The man arrived
late in the day, breathless with fatigue, and when questioned replied,
"Faith! I went to all the _oyster_ houses in Broadway before I could
find yees."
I little thought when I first knew Mr. Sumner that his most intimate
friend was destined to become my own companion for life. Charles Sumner
was a man of great qualities and of small defects. His blemishes, which
were easily discerned, were temperamental rather than moral. He had not
the sort of imagination which enables a man to enter easily into the
feelings of others, and this deficiency on his part sometimes resulted
in unnecessary rudeness.
His father, Sheriff Sumner, had been accounted the most polite Bostonian
of his day. It was related of him that once, being present at the
execution of a criminal, and having trodden upon the foot of the
condemned man, the sheriff took off his hat and apologized for the
accident. Whereupon the criminal exclaimed, "Sheriff Sumner, you are the
politest man I ever knew, and if I am to be hanged, I had rather be
hanged by you than by any one else." It was sometimes remarked that the
sheriff's mantle did not seem to have fallen upon his son.
Charles Sumner's appearance was curiously metamorphosed by a severe
attack of typhoid fever, which he suffered, I think, in 1843 or 1844.
After his recovery he gained much in flesh, and entirely lost that
ungainliness of aspect which once led a friend to compare him to a
geometrical line, "length without breadth or thickness." He now became a
man of strikingly fine presence, his great height being offset by a
corresponding fullness of figure. His countenance was strongly marked
and very individual,--the features not handsome in themselves, but the
whole effect very pleasingly impressive.
He had but little sense of humor, and was not at home in the small
cut-and-thrust skirmishes of general society. He was made for serious
issues and for great contests, which then lay unguessed before him. Of
his literalness some amusing anecdotes have been told. At an official
ball in Washington, he remarked to a young lady who stood beside him,
"We are fortunate in having these places; for, standing here, we shall
see the first entrance of the new English and French ministers into
Washington society."
The young girl replied, "I am glad to hear it. I like to see lions break
the ice."
Sumner was silent for a few minutes, but presently said, "Miss ----, in
the country where lions live there is no ice."
During the illness of which I have spoken, he was at times delirious,
and his mother one day, going into his room, found that he was
endeavoring to put on a change of linen. She begged him to desist,
knowing him to be very weak. He said in reply, "Mother, I am not doing
it for myself, but for some one else."
Some debates on prison discipline, held in Boston in the year 1845,
attracted a good deal of attention. Dr. Howe had become much
dissatisfied with the management of prisons in Massachusetts, and
desired to see the adoption of the Pennsylvania system of solitary
confinement. Mr. Sumner entered warmly into his views. The matter was
brought before the Boston public, and the arguments for and against the
proposed change were very fully stated and discussed. Mr. Sumner spoke
several times in favor of the solitary system, and on each occasion
carried off the honors of the meeting. The secretary of the prison
discipline association at that time, a noted conservative, opposed very
strenuously the introduction of the Pennsylvania system. In the course
of the debates, Mr. Sumner turned upon him in a sudden and unexpected
manner, with these words: "In what I am about to say, I shall endeavor
to imitate the secretary's candor, but not his temper." Now the
secretary was one of the magnates of Boston, accustomed to be treated
with great consideration. The start that he gave on being thus
interpellated was so comic that it has impressed itself upon my memory.
The speaker proceeded to apply to this gentleman a well-known line of
Horace, descriptive of the character of Achilles:--
"Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer."
I confess that to me this direct attack appeared uncalled for, and I
thought that the cause could have been as well advocated without
recourse to personalities.
I once invited Mr. Sumner to meet a distinguished guest at my house. He
replied, "I do not know that I wish to meet your friend. I have outlived
the interest in individuals." In my diary of the day I recorded the
somewhat ungracious utterance, with this comment: "God Almighty, by the
latest accounts, has not got so far as this." Mr. Sumner was told of
this, in my presence, though not by me. He said at once, "What a strange
sort of book your diary must be! You ought to strike that out
immediately."
Sumner was often robbed in the street or at a railroad station; his tall
figure attracting attention, and his mind, occupied with things far
away, giving little heed to what went on in his immediate presence.
Members of his family were wont to say, "It is about time now for
Charles to have his pocket picked again." The fact often followed the
prediction.
Mr. Sumner's eloquence differed much in character from that of Wendell
Phillips. The two men, although workers in a common cause, were very
dissimilar in their natural endowments. Phillips had a temperament of
fire, while that of Sumner was cold and sluggish. Phillips had a great
gift of simplicity, and always made a bee line for the central point of
interest in the theme which he undertook to present. Sumner was
recondite in language and elaborate in style. He was much of a student,
and abounded in quotations. In his senatorial days, I once heard a
satirical lady mention him as "the moral flummery member from
Massachusetts, quoting Tibullus!"
The first political speech which I heard from Mr. Sumner was delivered,
if I mistake not, at a schoolhouse in the neighborhood of Boston. I
found his oratory somewhat overloud and emphatic for the small hall and
limited attendance. He had not at that time found his proper audience.
When he was heard, later on, in Faneuil Hall or Tremont Temple, the
ringing roll of his voice was very effective. His gestures were forcible
rather than graceful. In argument he would go over the same ground
several times, always with new amplifications and illustrations of his
subject. There was a dead weight of honesty and conviction in what he
said, and it was this, perhaps, that chiefly gave him his command over
an audience. He had also in a remarkable degree the trait of mastery,
and the ability to present his topic in a large way.
I am not sure whether Sumner's idea of culture was as encyclopaedic as
that of Theodore Parker, but he certainly aspired to be what is now
called "an all-round man," and especially desired to attain
connoisseurship in art. He had not the many-sided power of appreciation
which distinguished Parker, yet a reverence for the beautiful, rather
moral than aesthetic, led him to study with interest the works of the
great masters. In his later years, he never went abroad without bringing
back pictures, engravings, or rare missals. He had little natural
apprehension of music, but used to express his admiration of some
favorite operas, among them Mozart's "Don Giovanni" and Rossini's
"Barbiere di Seviglia." In the Senate Committee on Foreign Affairs, of
which he was chairman for many years, his acquaintance with foreign
languages was much valued. I remember a line of Tasso which he sometimes
quoted when beautiful hands were spoken of:--
"Dove ne nodo appar, ne vena eccede."
On the other hand, I have heard him say that mathematics always remained
a sealed book to him; and that his professor at Harvard once exclaimed,
"Sumner, I can't whittle a mathematical idea small enough to get it into
your brain."
[Illustration: JULIA WARD HOWE
_From a painting by Joseph Ames in 1847._]
The period between 1851 and the beginning of the civil war found Mr.
Sumner at his post in the Senate of the United States. His position was
from the outset a difficult one. His election had displaced a popular
idol. His views regarding the heated question of the time, the extension
of slavery to the territories, were far in advance of those held by the
majority of the senatorial body or by the community at large. His
uncompromising method of attack, his fiery utterances, contrasting
strangely with the unusual mildness of his disposition, exasperated the
defenders of slavery. These, perhaps, seeing that he was no fighting
man, may have supposed him deficient in personal courage. He, however,
knew very well the risks to which he exposed himself. His friends
advised him to carry arms, and my husband once told old Mrs. Sumner, his
mother, that Charles ought to be provided with a pistol. "Oh, doctor,"
said the old lady, "he would only shoot himself with it."
In the most trying days of the civil war, this same old lady came to Dr.
Howe's office, anxious to learn his opinion concerning the progress of
the contest. Dr. Howe in reply referred her to her own son for the
desired information, saying, "Dear Madam Sumner, Charles knows more
about public affairs than I do. Why don't you ask him about them?"
"Oh, doctor, if I ask Charles, he only says, 'Mother, don't trouble
yourself about such things.'"
I was in Washington with Dr. Howe early in the spring of 1856. I
remember being present in the senate chamber when a rather stormy debate
took place between Stephen A. Douglas, of Illinois, and Henry Wilson, of
Massachusetts. Charles Sumner looked up and, seeing me in the gallery,
greeted me with a smile of recognition. I shall never forget the beauty
of that smile. It seemed to me to illuminate the whole precinct with a
silvery radiance. There was in it all the innocence of his sweet and
noble nature.
I asked my husband to invite Sumner to dine with us at Willard's Hotel,
where we were staying. "No, no," he said, "Sumner would consider it
_infra dig._ to dine with us at the hotel." He did, however, call upon
us. In the course of conversation he said to me, "I shall soon deliver a
speech in the Senate which will occasion a good deal of excitement. It
will not surprise me if people leave their seats and show signs of
unusual disturbance."
The speech was delivered soon after this time. It was a direct and
forcible arraignment of the slave power, which was then endeavoring to
change the free Territory of Kansas into a slave State. The disturbance
which Mr. Sumner had anticipated did not fail to follow, but in a manner
which neither he nor any of his friends had foreseen.
At the hotel I had remarked a handsome man, evidently a Southerner, with
what appeared to me an evil expression of countenance. This was Brooks
of South Carolina, the man who, not long after this time, attacked
Charles Sumner in his seat in the senate chamber, choosing a moment when
the personal friends of his victim were not present, and inflicting upon
him injuries which destroyed his health and endangered his life. I will
not enlarge here upon the pain and distress which this event caused to
us and to the community at large. For several weeks our senator's life
hung in the balance. For a very much longer time his vacant seat in the
senate chamber told of the severe suffering which incapacitated him for
public work. This time of great trial had some compensation in the
general sympathy which it called forth. Sumner had won the crown of
martyrdom, and his person thenceforth became sacred, even to his
enemies.
It was after a residence of many years in Washington that Mr. Sumner
decided to build and occupy a house of his own. The spot chosen by him
was immediately adjoining the well-known Arlington Hotel. The house was
handsome and well appointed, adorned also with pictures and fine
bronzes, in both of which he took great delight. Dr. Howe and I were
invited to visit him there one evening, with other guests. Among these
was Caleb Cushing, with whom Mr. Sumner soon became engaged in an
animated discussion, probably regarding some question of the day. So
absorbed were the two gentlemen in their argument that each of them
frequently interrupted the other. The one interrupted would expostulate,
saying, "I have not finished what I have to say;" at which the other
would bow and apologize, but would presently offend again, in the same
way.
At my own house in Boston, Mr. Sumner called one evening when we were
expecting other company. The invited guests presently arrived, and he
abruptly left the room without any parting word or gesture. I afterwards
spoke of this to Dr. Howe, who said, "That is Sumner's idea of taking
French leave." Whereupon our dear eldest said, "Why, mamma, Mr. Sumner's
way of taking French leave is as if the elephant should undertake to
walk incognito down Broadway."
The last important act of Mr. Sumner's public life was the elaborate
argument by which he defeated the proposed annexation of Santo Domingo
to the United States. This question presented itself during the first
term of General Grant's administration. The proposal for annexation was
made by the President of the Dominican Republic. General Grant, with the
forethought of a military commander, desired that the United States
should possess a foothold in the West Indies. A commission of three was
accordingly appointed to investigate and report upon the condition of
the island. The three were Hon. Benjamin F. Wade, of Ohio, Andrew D.
White, at that time president of Cornell University, and Dr. Howe. A
thorough visitation of the territory was made by these gentlemen, and a
report favorable to the scheme of annexation was presented by them on
their return. Dr. Howe was greatly interested for the Dominicans, who
had achieved political independence and separation from Hayti by a
severe struggle, which was always liable to be renewed on the part of
their former masters. Mr. Sumner, on the other hand, espoused the cause
of the Haytian government so warmly that he would not wait for the
report of the commission to be presented, but hastened to forestall
public opinion by a speech in which he displayed all his powers of
oratory, but showed something less than his usual acquaintance with
facts. His eloquence carried the day, and the plan of annexation was
defeated and abandoned, to the great regret of the commissioners and of
the Dominicans themselves.
I shall speak elsewhere of my visiting Santo Domingo in company with Dr.
Howe. Our second visit there was made in the spring of the year 1874. I
had gone one day to inspect a school high on the mountains of Samana,
when a messenger came after me in haste, bearing this written message
from my husband: "Please come home at once. Our dear, noble Sumner is no
more." The monthly steamer, at that time the only one that ran to Santo
Domingo, had just brought the news, deplored by many, to my husband
inexpressibly sad.
In the winter of 1846-47 I one day heard Dr. Holmes speak of Agassiz,
who had then recently arrived in America. He described him as a man of
great talent and reputation, who added to his mental gifts the endowment
of a superb physique. Soon after this time I had the pleasure of making
the acquaintance of the eminent naturalist, and of attending the first
series of lectures which he gave at the Lowell Institute.
The great personal attraction of Agassiz, joined to his admirable power
of presenting the results of scientific investigation in a popular form,
made a vivid impression upon the Boston public. All his lecture courses
were largely attended. These and his continued presence among us gave a
new impetus to the study of natural science. In his hands the record of
the bones and fossils became a living language, and the common thought
was enriched by the revelation of the wonders of the visible universe.
Agassiz's was an expansive nature, and his great delight lay in
imparting to others the discoveries in which he had found such intense
pleasure. This sympathetic trait relieved his discourse of all dryness
and dullness. In his college days he had employed his hour of
intermission at noon in explaining the laws of botany to a class of
little children. When required to furnish a thesis at the close of his
university course, he chose for his theme the proper education of women,
and insisted that it ought not to be inferior to that given to men.
I need hardly relate how a most happy marriage in later life made him
one of us, nor how this opened the way to the establishment in his house
of a school whose girl pupils, in addition to other valuable
instruction, enjoyed daily the privilege of listening to his clear and
lucid exposition of the facts and laws of his favorite science.
His memory is still bright among us. The story of his life and work is
beautifully told in the "Life and Correspondence" published soon after
his death by his widow, Mrs. Elizabeth Cary Agassiz, well known to-day
as the president of Radcliffe College. His children and grandchildren
are among our most valued citizens. His son, Professor Alexander
Agassiz, inherits his father's devotion to science, while his daughter,
Mrs. Quincy Shaw, has shown her public spirit in her great services to
the cause of education. An enduring monument to his fame is the
Cambridge Museum of Comparative Zooelogy, and I am but one of many still
surviving who recall with gratitude the enlargement of intellectual
interest which he brought to our own and other communities.
Women who wish well to their own sex should never forget that, on the
occasion of his first lectures delivered in the capital of Brazil, he
earnestly requested the emperor that ladies might be allowed to be
present,--a privilege till then denied them on grounds of etiquette. The
request was granted, and the sacred domain of science for the first time
was thrown open to the women of South America.
* * * * *
I cannot remember just when it was that an English visitor, who brought
a letter of introduction to my husband, spoke to me of the "Bothie of
Tober-na-Fuosich" and its author, Arthur Hugh Clough. The gentleman was
a graduate of Oxford or of Cambridge. He came to our house several
times, and I consulted him with regard to the classic rhythms, in which
he was well versed. I had it in mind at this time to write a poem in
classic rhythm. It was printed in my first volume, "Passion Flowers;"
and Mr. Sanborn, in an otherwise very friendly review of my work,
characterized as "pitiable hexameters" the lines which were really not
hexameters at all, nor intended to pass for such. They were pentameters
constructed according to my own ideas; I did not have in view any
special school or rule.
I soon had the pleasure of reading the "Bothie," which I greatly
admired. While it was fresh in my mind Mr. Clough arrived in Boston,
furnished with excellent letters of introduction both for that city and
for the dignitaries of Cambridge. My husband at once invited him to pass
some days at our house, and I was very glad to welcome him there. In
appearance I thought him rather striking. He was tall, tending a little
to stoutness, with a beautifully ruddy complexion and dark eyes which
twinkled with suppressed humor. His sweet, cheery manner at once
attracted my young children to him, and I was amused, on passing near
the open door of his room, to see him engaged in conversation with my
little son, then some five or six years of age. In Dr. Howe's daily
absences I tried to keep our guest company a little, but I found him
very shy. I remember that I said to him, when we had made some
acquaintance, that I had often wished to meet Thackeray, and to give him
two buffets, saying, "This one is for your Becky Sharp and this one for
Blanche Amory,"--regarding both as slanders upon my sex. Mr. Clough
suggested that in the great world of London such characters were not out
of place. The device of Blanche Amory's book, "Mes Larmes," seemed to
have afforded him much amusement.
It happened that, while he was with us, I dined one day with a German
friend, who served us with quite a wonderful repast. The feast had been
a merry one, and at the dessert two such sumptuous dishes were presented
to us that I, having tasted of one of them, said to a friend across the
table, "Anna, this is poetry!" She was occupied with the opposite dish,
and, mindful of the old pleasantry to which I alluded, replied, "Julia,
this is religion." At breakfast, the next morning, I endeavored to
entertain those present with some account of the great dinner. As I
enlarged a little upon the excellence of the details, Mr. Clough said,
"Mrs. Howe, you seem to have a great appreciation of these matters." I
disclaimed this; whereupon he rejoined, "Mrs. Howe, you are modest."
Some months later I met Mr. Clough at a friend's house, where some
informal charades were about to be attempted. Being requested to take
part in one, I declined; and when urged, I replied, "No, no, I am
modest,--Mr. Clough once said so." He looked at me in some pretended
surprise, and said, "It must have been at a very early period in our
acquaintance." This "give and take" was all in great good humor, and Mr.
Clough was a delightful guest in all societies. Sorry indeed were we
when, having become quite at home among us, he returned to England,
there to marry and abide. I remember that he told me of one winter which
he had passed at his university without fire in his quarters. When I
heard of his illness and untimely death, it occurred to me that the
seeds of the fatal disease might have been sown during that season of
privation.