UNCLE SAM WARD
While proud of being a Bostonian, I had from the beginning a sort of
sneaking affection for New York. My mother, though of mixed New England
and Southern descent, was born and bred a New Yorker. Some consciousness
of these different strains of blood made me resent equally the
disparagement with which Bostonians spoke of New York, and the
condescension with which New Yorkers mentioned Boston. Like Annie in
Enoch Arden, I wanted to be “little wife to both.”
My first visit in New York was in the spring of 1863. My mother and I
stayed at Number 8 Bond Street, the home of her uncle, John Ward. Bond
Street was already unfashionably downtown, though still dignified; its
stately houses had immaculate white doorsteps. The rooms of Number 8
were large and high, the doors of heavy Santo Domingo mahogany, the
furniture Georgian, in keeping with the rest.
Uncle John was adored by my mother and her sisters, to whom he was a
second father; to me he is but a shadowy memory, not so distinct as his
brother, Uncle Richard, who lived with him. Both were very tall men;
Uncle Richard was slender, Uncle John heavily built, with a clean-shaven
face, rare in those days when the moustache was almost universal. He was
the President of the New York Stock Exchange, where his portrait by
Wensler may still be seen. Did I hear Uncle Richard say to my mother,
speaking of himself and his five brothers, all men over six feet tall?
“They were fine men, dearie! I am the least of them!”
“The Corner”, the house Grandfather Ward built on the corner of Bond
Street, with the picture gallery extension running along Broadway, was
still standing, a handsome house of soft-toned brick with white marble
“trimmings.” The gallery had no windows, the lighting being from the
top. The other day a gentleman said to me _à prôpos_ of the extension:
“When I was a boy, I thought that was the city treasury and that all the
money in New York was kept there, because there were no doors or windows
for robbers to break in!”
“The Corner” was now owned by Mr. Sampson, from whom my mother got
permission to show me the home of her youth. I received an impression of
greater state than I had before known; it pleased me to think of my
mother as a girl receiving her guests in the long drawing-rooms, one
hung with blue, one with yellow, brocade. I admired the mantelpieces,
with graceful sculptured figures, the work of Thomas Crawford, while
still the marble cutter’s apprentice. There was ample space in the
entrance hall and well-balanced stairway, that might have been planned
by our own Boston architect, Bulfinch. We were not asked to go upstairs;
I never saw the room where my mother sat “tied to her chair”, studying
hour after hour. Was she thinking of that time of severe study when she
wrote?
Who sows in tears his early years
May bind the golden sheaves;
Who scatters flowers in summer bowers
Shall reap but their withered leaves.
At Number 23 Bond Street lived Aunt Henry, widow of my mother’s uncle,
Henry Ward, and mother of Cousin Henry.
“Mis’ Henry Ward will be pleased to see ye, Mis’ Julia,” the old negro
butler exclaimed, as he opened the door, grinning until he showed all
his ivories. In the darkened parlor I was startled by a savage cry:
“Good-by!”
“You shut up,” said the darkey, raising the blind. “It’s only the
parrot, Missie; dat bird is most one hundred years old.”
There was something depressing about Number 23--the gloom deepened when
I saw Aunt Henry--it is all too intangible to put into words. I was to
hear much about her later, and to read in her biography that she was
“noted for a remarkable talent for painting, intellectual power and
great benevolence!” I never heard her spoken of by her own name, she was
always “Aunt Henry” the widow of Mama’s Uncle Henry. _He_ must have been
a delightful person; whenever the Three Graces of Bond Street, my mother
and her two sisters, wanted to dance or sing, they always sent across
the street for Uncle Henry to play for them. All that was long ago, when
the parrot, the butler, Aunt Henry herself were young. Uncle Henry had
long been dead; Cousin Henry, his son, now lived with Aunt Henry at
Number 23. I was curious enough about him. I had heard him spoken of as
a “club man”; none of the people who came to our house were exactly
“club men”, and I wanted to see one badly. Mama, who was possessed to
nickname all her intimates, spoke of him as “poor dear Hutie.”
Did I ever see the heroine of Number 23? I cannot be sure! She was the
affianced of Cousin Henry. Their union was opposed by Aunt Henry,
though some people believed them to be secretly married. Every day at
two o’clock Cousin Henry called upon the lady and passed the afternoon
with her. For many years, twenty--perhaps thirty--the lovers were
faithful to each other. In Spain such romances are common enough. Cousin
Henry was more like a Spanish _novio_ than an American lover. I have
known one other such case, of two lives that should have been passed
together, divided by the opposition of the lover’s mother: in both cases
the mother was able to control the son’s action, not his affections!
When Aunt Henry died at the age of eighty-five the family supposed the
lovers would marry, but Cousin Henry, as if still controlled by the
stronger will, followed his mother almost immediately. He left Number 23
and all his property to the lady. Then a strange thing happened. My
uncle had kept open house; even after he was gone Number 23 was a
friendly house, like all the Ward dwellings,--the family has strong
traditions of hospitality. The day the house came into the lady’s hands,
the family and friends were refused admittance. The old servants were
kept on with the parrot and the lap-dogs; everything was maintained
exactly as it had been in the lifetime of Aunt and Cousin Henry. At two
o’clock, every day in the year, the lady came to the house and spent the
afternoon alone there. She lived to be an old woman; when she died she
left Number 23 and all the property--even the family miniatures--to her
own relations. Perhaps it is not wonderful that to a child, Number 23
was already, in 1863, a house of mystery with a certain creeping sense
of hidden secrets, perhaps half divined, between mother and son.
The figures of my grandfather’s generation--even those I have
known--glimmer faintly in the background of my memory; they are hardly
more real than Grandfather Ward himself, who died before my mother’s
marriage and was the most important personage in the family. He was a
banker of the firm of Prime, Ward and King, founder and president of the
Bank of Commerce, patron of artists, literati, political exiles, and
poor relations to the third, fourth and fifth degree.
In calling up the memories of this, my first visit to New York, I touch
more solid ground, for I now met for the first time in my memory, my own
uncle, Sam Ward, my mother’s only surviving brother, “uncle to half the
human race”, as some one once called him. He was so universal and
generous a soul that I long confounded him with that greater national
figure, “Uncle Sam”, and applied all references in the comic papers to
him. My chagrin was poignant on finding out my mistake.
My first impression of Uncle Sam is characteristic of the man. We had
come to New York in the hope of distracting my mother from the black
grief that consumed her after little Sam’s death. She received a message
from her brother that we must all be ready at a certain hour when he
would call for us and take us down to Islip, Long Island, to pass a few
days at an hotel,--a new experience for me!
Punctual to the minute he arrived in a smart carriage, with a large
bouquet for Mama and a small bouquet for me. I have forgotten the name
of the hotel, but I remember certain splendors of the table, certain
luxuries in the way of handsome carriages, fine horses, and a confusing
number of servants. All these seemed in some magical manner to be
attached to Uncle Sam, to come and
[Illustration: UNCLE SAM WARD
From a photograph by W. & D. Downey]
[Illustration: MY FATHER, DR. SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE
From a photograph by Whipple]
go at his nod, purvey flowers, afternoon tea, sparkling wines, and other
luxuries unknown at home, which give to this memory of my first hotel a
rich flavor of careless expenditure in strong contrast to the New
England thrift I knew.
Uncle Sam was the most agreeable man I have ever known. He threw a spell
over me in those days at Islip that still holds, though he has been dead
more than thirty years. I knew, even then, that on most subjects his
views were directly opposed to my father’s. He was suspected of having
southern sympathies, and if not an out-and-out “copperhead”, he was
equally far from being an abolitionist.
He was rather French than American in appearance and manner, sparkling,
effervescent, full of laughter, motion, gesture. His dress was striking.
He wore handsome rings and scarfpins, checked trousers, superb
waistcoats, an overcoat of pale gray box cloth with large white pearl
buttons, unmistakably from London. I have heard men of fashion say that
his brilliant cravats suited him to a T, but could not have been worn by
any other living man.
On the train a gentleman spoke to him, calling him by name.
“You must excuse me, Sir,” said my uncle, “if I cannot remember your
name.”
“I am ----, to whom you were so kind in London.”
Still Uncle Sam could not remember.
“But, Mr. Ward, you must remember me--you saved my life!”
This was no help. Embarrassed and annoyed, the stranger pulled a gold
watch from his pocket.
“If you don’t remember me--you may remember this watch that you gave
me.”
Uncle Sam patted him on the shoulder and nodded with his wonderful
smile:
“Well, well! I shall know you next time: may it not be so many years
between meetings.”
“I can’t remember anything about that man!” he told us later. The scene
was characteristic of Uncle Sam: he seemed under some compulsion to
give, give, give,--expensive watches to strangers, jewels to all his
female relatives, flowers to every pretty woman he met, golden smiles to
all the world!
Uncle Sam was twice married. His first wife was Emily Astor, with whom
he lived happily during her short life. She died soon after the
marriage, leaving him one daughter, Emily Margaret Ward. Later he
married Medora Grimes. At that time I am now writing of, he was already
separated from his second wife, who with their two sons lived in Paris.
I knew vaguely that here was a mystery and unhappiness I must not ask
about. The two boys died young; I never saw either of them. My mother
neither criticized nor tolerated criticism of Uncle Sam’s second wife.
The marriage had not been happy--it was a case of incompatibility; that
was all there was to say about it. His first wife’s death was his
greatest misfortune. For posterity that brief union with Emily Astor was
a fortunate one, for from it sprang the Clan Chanler, those interesting
younger cousins of ours, Uncle Sam’s only descendants, who have
inherited much of his charm, many of his gifts, and are among the marked
men and women of their time. Their mother, my Cousin Maddie, married
Winthrop Chanler, and became the mother of eleven children, eight of
whom are now living. I remember Cousin Maddie as a gracious, delightful
woman and can see her now in fancy with her fine, red-gold hair and
beautifully shaped head, her little brood of children clustered about
her, at their Newport villa on the cliffs overlooking the first beach.
Was it on this, my first visit to New York, or a later one, that some
reckless New York relative took me to Niblo’s Garden to see the “Black
Crook”? It was a dazzling performance, revealing undreamed-of theatrical
possibilities. The shame which, I afterwards learned, I should have felt
at the sight of the lightly clad _corps de ballet_ was entirely lacking.
I only felt wonderment at their agility, at the flexibility of their
pink satin toes. The normal healthy child recognized instinctively the
art, the labor, the long training that enabled those nymphs, fairies,
and amazons to fly from wing to wing, rise on tiptoe, sink to earth,
whirl on one foot, the other extended at right angles! Far from being
shocked, I was delighted and spent hours in trying to copy the agility,
the poetry of motion of those poor _coryphées_ of the “Black Crook.” My
fixed resolve to become a bareback circus rider was shaken. Would it not
be even better than vaulting lightly through paper rings held up by a
clown, to shoot up from the stage in an enormous rose, descend lightly
and caper to hidden music?
There was a flying trip to Washington during the New York visit. To have
been in the Capital and have no memory of the great events and famous
men of the time is distressing. What I do remember is so trivial. We
stopped at Wilmington, Delaware, where a powerful negro dressed in white
boarded the train and passed through the cars calling out:
“Here’s your hot fried oysters! You, Miss? You, Sah?”
At home we had our oysters stewed or, as a rare concession, escalloped.
There was something worldly, sophisticated even, about these crisp fried
oysters that sustained us on our trip to Washington. This, like the
visit to Islip, was “seeing life.”
We arrived at night. Congress was in session; my mother pointed out from
the train the great dome glowing, its welcoming windows all aflame. The
next morning I received my first impression of the Capitol. Mixed with
awe and admiration was the sense that it was all mine, as no other
Capitol, palace, or temple could ever be mine.
“Look up!” said Mama, pointing to the Indian on the summit of the dome.
“That statue was made by your Uncle Crawford, whose fireplaces you saw
at the Corner.”
Either on this visit or a later one, my mother, going early to some
function at the Capitol, was obliged to stand for some time before the
closed doors. A panel of sculptured bronze in one of the doors caught
her eye.
“Why, this is my family!” she exclaimed. “That is Louisa with Frank,
Annie, and Mimoli.”
In the bronze bas-relief Crawford had put portraits of his wife and
children. Frank was later to become famous as Marion Crawford the
novelist.
The contrast between the fine government buildings and the shabby
Washington streets and down-at-heel houses was startling, even to a
child. The manners and dress of the law-makers of the land were not
those of Mr. Sumner or Governor Andrew. The hotel was thronged with men
in black frock coats and tall hats worn at an acute angle. The corridors
and even the richly furnished parlors were provided with spittoons,
which were in constant use. The man who did not chew tobacco smoked long
black cigars. We stayed at Wormley’s Hotel, where Uncle Sam seemed more
at home than any one else, ruling the proprietor, an intelligent
mulatto, the servants, and the guests, with his persuasive authority.
Though at home we heard constant talk about the negroes, my parents
being forever busy in their interests, I had until now seen very few of
them and was much interested in the black servants at the hotel.
Uncle Sam’s rooms were near Wormley’s, and here I passed the happiest
hours of that Washington visit. My father, who had joined us, was
occupied with Sanitary Commission business, leaving my mother free to
enjoy Uncle Sam’s companionship.
“What do you think I saw?” a sharp-faced woman was heard to say to a
friend, “Mrs. Howe--_the_ Mrs. Howe--being kissed in the parlor of
Wormley’s hotel by Sam Ward--what is more, she kissed him back. What do
you think of that?”
“I think that if Sam Ward were my brother, I should have done the same
thing!” was the answer.
The gossiping woman did not know of the relationship between the two
well-known figures, though she knew both by sight. I have often
remembered this incident, which justifies the wise old saw:
“Believe nothing that you hear, and half that you see!”
Uncle Sam had the remains of a lovely tenor voice. He and Mama sang
together the songs of many countries. We owe to him the Heidelberg
_lieder_, the Polish drinking song, and the Russian chorus which still
resound in the nurseries of my nieces and nephews.
On one of our visits to his rooms Mama took with us a pretty young
friend, who sang for Uncle Sam. He applauded generously until she began
the song,
“_Si tu savais comme je t’aime._”
“That song again!” he cried. “I have heard it once too often.”
It must have been on this trip that I made my first visit to Bordentown,
the home of my mother’s sister Annie Ward, married to the handsome
Frenchman, Adolph Mailliard, called by us children “Uncle Do.” They
lived on a large estate in Bordentown with their four children,--Louisa,
Joseph, Cora, and John. Uncle Do raised thoroughbred colts and race
horses and grew the finest peaches that could be raised outside of Green
Peace. He was a man of great beauty and charm. His eyes were among the
most remarkable I have seen, and I did not wonder that my aunt had a
miniature painted of one of them which she always wore in a locket. I
was afraid of Uncle Do, but from first to last Aunt Annie was a loving
and loyal friend. She was a saint, but such a witty, gay, unconscious
saint that nobody could hold her sainthood against her. We had family
prayers at Bordentown, a new experience to me. I gave some offense by
refusing to repeat part of the Lord’s Prayer. My aunt asked my reason
for this.
“I do not forgive those who trespass against me, and I will not say that
I do!” I exclaimed. My aunt somehow made my scruples disappear.
Bordentown is associated with some of our most cherished family
possessions, the Gobelin carpet at Green Peace and the pair of bronze
candelabra at Oak Glen. Some years before the time of which I am writing
Joseph Bonaparte, ex-king of Spain, lived here in such state as an
ex-king could then find in the United States. When he returned to Europe
the house was broken up, the furniture sold at auction, and these
articles were secured for us by my aunt. Uncle Do’s father, _Père
Mailliard_, had been attached to King Joseph’s suite at Madrid and
followed him into exile; that is how the Mailliards came to settle in
Bordentown.
At my aunt’s house were many Bonaparte relics,--Napoleon’s camp equipage
with gold knives, forks, and spoons, a locket with some of his hair, and
most precious of all, a manuscript diary kept by his physician at Elba,
giving a minute account of the daily happenings. One of the members of
the suite contrived a process by which ice cream could be made. Napoleon
was very much interested in the experiment, and for many days the
chronicler puts down what the emperor said on the subject. The pathos of
this deeply impressed me, that the mind that had planned the subjugation
of Europe should occupy itself with the petty contrivances of an
ice-cream freezer!
Inextricably confused with my reminiscences of Bordentown and the
Mailliards are memories of the Gilder family, their friends and
neighbors. Did I really see Richard Watson Gilder there, a romantic
looking boy in a short jacket with a round collar, or is the impression
received from an old daguerreotype? I can’t quite recover this faintest
impression, but it will not “down.” The Gilders, Richard, Joseph, and
Jeanette, were the playmates of my cousins, and in the chance meetings
of later years the word “Bordentown” opened for them and for me a long
vista peopled by the same figures; my aunt with her white teeth and
smoothly parted dark hair, Uncle Do, and the lovely Louisa, one of the
most distinguished looking girls I ever saw. The atmosphere of my aunt’s
house was unlike any other. The children were repressed and demure, the
language was French, the point of view European. Slight as was my
contact with Uncle Do, he gave me fresh ideas, and my experience under
his roof threw out a new wing to my house of life. It is fortunate that
aunts and uncles, especially “in laws”, rarely realize their influence
upon nieces and nephews. It would be more than they could bear. It is
bad enough to be responsible for your own children; to be responsible
for other people’s is out of the question. And yet, next to our parents,
some of us are influenced more by uncles and aunts than by any other
people.
When I returned to Boston after this wonder trip, I had gained a deal of
experience and had opened two accounts in the bank of family affection
upon which I was henceforward to draw heavily. One stood in the name of
my Uncle Sam Ward, the other of my Aunt Annie Mailliard.
During the World War I received from a stranger a request for an
autograph letter of Uncle Sam’s for a private collection. I chose one
from my treasured correspondence full of the warm charm of the man. It
described a breakfast he had given for Sara Bernhardt and dwelt on his
last gift to me, a certain web of glimmering yellow satin, reminding me
that a blonde need not fear to wear yellow, as Paul Veronese and Rubens
both painted fair-haired women in golden satins.
Shortly after I sent the letter off, I received two epistles from
England, both bearing coronets. I quote from one of them.
27 Old Burlington St. W.
Dear Mrs. Elliott
I have just received from Mr. Louis C. May the very interesting
autograph letter of Mr. Samuel Ward that you have so kindly given
for the collection of His Majesty. It is a great addition and is
greatly appreciated by Sir Dighton Probyn, who has been interesting
himself in getting the collection together. Out of 1600 signatures
there are only seven now outstanding, which will give you an idea
of the success Sir Dighton has met with.
He has just written me that he is sending you a line of thanks for
your courtesy. I take the opportunity of adding my own and remain,
Yours sincerely,
Fairfax.
June 13, 1917.
I was pleased that dear Uncle Sam’s letter was wanted for King George’s
collection, impressed with the good manners that prompted the two
gentlemen to take the trouble to acknowledge it, and cheered by this
side light of the way the English “carried on” their peaceful avocations
during that year of chaos, 1917.