Chapter I: HAVE spoken of the Institution for the Blind as our intermittent or (2)

Mrs. Stearns was also full of public spirit, although sometimes rather sentimental. She once brought to “Green Peace” a bunch of nasturtiums of various colors, which were then something of a rarity. Apropos of these, she said to my father, who knew nothing of music:

“Doctor Howe, do not the palest of these nasturtiums remind you of the high notes of the soprano in the opera of ‘Semiramide’?”

The persons of note who came to “Green Peace” could all speak some language—Greek, French, Polish, German, or Italian—if not English.

There was one silent figure, however, who spoke only with her swift-flying fingers. Yet her fame had spread over the civilized world. The name of Laura Bridgman was a household word in the nineteenth century. That a girl, deaf, dumb, and blind from infancy, should be able to communicate her thoughts to others, write, cipher, and study like other children, was thought a miracle. People found it so hard to believe that they came in crowds to see the marvel with their own eyes. So many visitors—eleven hundred, on one occasion—appeared at the weekly exhibitions of the school that it was thought necessary to seat Laura in a little enclosure, lest her young head be turned by too much attention.

Charles Dickens thus saw her. His account of his visit to the school, with a beautiful tribute to my father, is to be found in his _American Notes_. If Byron’s helmet was the symbol of the latter’s earlier labors, Laura Bridgman was the living witness of the success of his later work.

She was often summoned to “Green Peace” to see foreigners of distinction, as well as to make familiar visits to the household. When I can first remember her she was a young woman in the early twenties. Her education had then been completed, but she was allowed to remain at the school, the true home of her spirit. Here every one could talk her finger language.

In appearance Laura was exquisitely neat. Her brown hair was brushed perfectly smooth and braided in a coil at the nape of the neck, thus showing to advantage her shapely head. She had good features and was comely, save for the heavy white scars at her throat made by the disease—scarlet fever—which had deprived her of her senses. Green shades covered the sightless eyes.

When sister Julia and I were very young we were naughty enough to tease Laura. One of us would lead her to a chair in which the other was already seated. When she attempted to sit in it she found the place occupied. Another silly joke was to pound with our feet and make such a racket that Laura, feeling the vibrations through the floor, would ask us to stop. Knowing that she was totally deaf, this seemed to us very amusing. My father’s step she knew at once. I have seen him tiptoe softly into the room where she was seated. She, not to be deceived, sprang up and followed him about the room, he walking always with the same light step and laughingly eluding her. Musical vibrations gave her real pleasure. In later years she was delighted with the present of a music-box to which she “listened” by placing her feet upon it!

We early learned to talk with Laura. She used the single-handed alphabet, making each letter very carefully for those who had not learned to understand her rapidly. As soon as you recognized the letter you tapped her hand gently as a sign for her to give the next one. When answering, you formed the letters in the hollow of her hand, which partly closed over your fingers while she quickly grasped your meaning. Conversation was carried on rapidly with those accustomed to talk with her. She was in the habit of speaking certain words and making some abbreviations, thus saving time. By feeling of the lips and throat of her interlocutor she had learned to articulate certain sounds. If you asked her to rehearse her little vocabulary, she would first spell the word on her fingers and then pronounce it. “Doc—Doc” was the abbreviation for her beloved “Doctor,” as my father was universally called at the institutions under his charge. She had nearly sixty sounds for persons.[6] My father regretted later that he had not taught Laura to speak. He was one of the earliest advocates in America of teaching articulation to deaf-mutes. One of his battles royal was with the authorities at Hartford, who were much opposed to this system, now the universally accepted one. I remember the visit of a German deaf-mute to my father when I was a child. He arranged that our cook, who was of the same nationality, should have a little talk with the man. When informed afterward that he was deaf she refused to believe it!

Footnote 6:

See Dr. Francis Lieber’s account of Laura Bridgman’s vocal sounds
printed by the Smithsonian Institution in Vol. II of the _Smithsonian
Contributions to Knowledge_.

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VII

YOUNG AMERICA GOES TO SCHOOL

_Our Schools and Teachers.—The South Boston Omnibus.—A Grand School
Sleigh-ride.—Memories of the Adams Family.—A Picnic on the State
House Steps._

OUR earliest school-days have been already described. I can first remember the dignity of traveling as _dames seules_ in an omnibus, in connection with the Stevenson School. In those primitive days Boston was a small city and the foreign population was not large. It was therefore considered quite safe for us to go from South Boston to our school in Hancock Street in the omnibus. This vehicle was a patriarchal affair, going on wheels the greater part of the year. They were changed for runners when snow lay on the ground. In my childhood this was never cleared away from the streets of Boston, the use of sleighs being universal. Unfortunately, the heavy teams soon made the surface of the snow extremely uneven so that you rose on a hillock at one moment and descended at the next into a valley called a “cradle-hole.” This was bad enough in an open vehicle—but in the closed sleighs of the period, booby-hacks or booby-huts as they were called, the motion was so violent as to make people seasick.

The snow-storms were terrific. Mountains of snow lined the thoroughfares and hid the sidewalks from our infant view. The omnibus seemed to be progressing to its destiny between lofty Alps. Fortunately, the designers of these vehicles realized that amusement would be necessary, to beguile the way. Above each window was a picture (?) to be studied and admired. The glass in the door bore the legend, “htuos notsob,” the meaning of which was for some time a mystery to us. Then there was the funny little lamp which used camphene, I suspect—a dangerous fluid eschewed by careful people.

As the omnibus went at infrequent intervals, we often made the trip in company with the same persons. We maintained, however, a proper maidenly reserve, entering into no conversation with our fellow-travelers. On one point their views differed from ours. Having paid three cents apiece (half-fare) for our seats, we felt it in accordance with our dignity to retain them under all circumstances. When the omnibus was full we would be invited to sit on some gentleman’s knee, thus making room for another lady. My firm refusal to do this led to my being called “Young America” by unappreciative fellow-passengers.

The seat next to the door was very pleasant, as it commanded a fine view to the rear. While occupying this agreeable post of vantage one day I incautiously put my forefinger in the crack of the door. The driver pulled the latter to with a bang, causing me sharp pain. Julia and I were alone in the omnibus, except for one stolid young woman who did nothing to comfort the weeping and frightened children. Fortunately we were near home. Alas! Papa, the good surgeon, was out. Mamma, who could not bear the sight of blood, would not look at the crushed finger, but instantly ordered the carriage and took me to see Dr. William Bigelow. He pronounced, to our great relief, that no bones were broken. The finger has never quite recovered its original shape. My mother was much worried at the moment, but made merry over the accident a little later in _The Listener_.[7]

Footnote 7:

See Chapter IV.

The school of the Misses Stevenson was just opposite the reservoir and a stone’s throw from the State House. The last named had not then received the additions which have doubtless increased its usefulness, but detracted from its beauty. It stood simple and majestic, a fitting crown to dear old Beacon Hill. No odious apartment-house then lifted a commercial head above it, dwarfing the height of the beautiful dome. The old Hancock house still stood near by. It had not yet made way for the mansion of the gentleman whose ambition was to have the handsomest house in Boston and the finest tomb in Mount Auburn. Alas for human ambition! I fancy that few people now remember either this man, his dwelling, or his tomb.

We children loved to play on the granite steps and balustrades of the State House, also to climb to the dome when permitted. A selfish and obstructionist legislature allowed no one to go there while the General Court was in session, asserting that the noise disturbed them.

In _The Listener_ we find many mentions of the Stevenson School. Prominent among our diversions was the holding of fairs.

I regret to say that these would seem to have been purely commercial transactions, if we may judge by the “advertisement” in _The Listener_. As it appeared _after_ the fair, it was a little different from an ordinary modern advertisement.

Every lady who helped to sell things, got 43 cents, and if the
fair should be held next year, we advise all who do not wish to
trouble their papas for pocket money to take a table at the
fair.

We note, however, that the young ladies are advised to remember the poor and forget the candy-shop, “as there are a great many little girls who want bread this hard winter.”

The articles sold were, to a great extent, contributed by our long-suffering elders. “The head of John the Baptist on a charger” was furnished, however, by one of the school-girls. The head of a small china doll was displayed on a tiny plate, adorned with vermilion paint!

The following _Listener_ editorial, from my mother’s pen, tells of an excursion to Fresh Pond and of her falling down. She never learned to be thoroughly at home on ice, like her own ducklings:

_The Listener_

_January 11th, 1855_.

EDITOR’S TABLE

We do not know that the week just past had in it any event more
important than the great Stevenson and Howe sleigh-ride, which
took place on Monday last—the Stevenson school sleigh-ride, in
the great Howe sleigh. The young ladies looked and behaved their
very best. Miss Loring’s bonnet and yellow ribbons were
remarkably becoming—shouldn’t wonder if other Judges than Judge
Loring thought “our Gal” very good looking. Arrived at the pond,
sliding became the order of the day. Misses Kate Selfridge and
Susie Sargent were last seen with Mrs. Howe between them, like
two little steam-tugs towing out a seventy-four. The 74 went
down (on the ice) and the tugs scattered. Mr. Henry Marion
(Bunker) Howe distinguished himself by a bump on the head, Mr.
Bradford went about like a dear old Puss in Boots. After a good
deal of slip-sliding, the party adjourned to the Hotel, where
hot lemonade was demanded, drunk, and paid for, the young ladies
supplying the spirits. The ride home was chiefly remarkable for
the hearty cheering of sleighs and dirt-carts and hissing of
toll-gate men.

Among our friends and playmates was Mary Adams, the youngest daughter of Charles Francis Adams, Sr. The town residence of the family was in Mount Vernon Street, only a stone’s-throw from the State House. It was a simple brick structure, of the fashion then prevailing. That early style of architecture gave an air of solidity and dignity not always found in the more ornate fashions of to-day. The Adams house was built in the English-basement style, the pleasant dining-room looking out upon Mount Vernon Street. Like the neighboring residences, it stood some twenty or thirty feet back from the sidewalk, a paved court leading up to the door and giving the abode a certain air of privacy and retirement. Spacious parlors ran across the entire front of the second story, the building being a wide one. At the rear, a ball-room had been built on, and I remember a delightful children’s party there. To say that we played at “pillows and keys” with John Quincy Adams and Charles Francis Adams, Jr., has a historic, almost a presidential sound.

At supper there was a ring in the cake, an essential feature of these juvenile entertainments. We drew lots out of a silk hat, and the prize fell to my share. As the slips were not folded up, “Ring,” written on one larger than the rest, was plainly discernible to my youthful eyes. The recording angel suggests in mitigation that greater care should have been taken to disguise that royal slip!

In the Adams’ nursery we had many merry times with our paper dolls and other toys. The favorite doll in that day was “Jenny Lind,” with changes of dress showing all the operatic rôles in which the famous prima donna had appeared.

I fear these recollections of mine will seem strange to those people who have heard that Boston society was opposed to theater-going in the ’Fifties and ’Sixties. There was, in some families, a disapproval of the theater, and certain of our young friends were not allowed to go to the play—save at the Boston Museum. This was considered a family place of resort, and many persons came to see performances there who would not have thought it right to go to a regular theater. The children liked to arrive early and to examine all the curiosities including the wax-works, which were terrible, yet fascinating. It seems strange now to think that a group representing the murder of a well-known Bostonian should have been exhibited here.

Boston people then dined at half past two o’clock, on the return of the children from school, business men coming home across the Common for the meal, and going back to their offices afterward. The dinner hour at the Adams’ was a little later, three o’clock, and this seemed in keeping with a certain stateliness that characterized the family, as well as great cordiality and hospitality. I remember that there was a profusion of silver plate, and all the appointments were handsome. A closed buffet with glass doors and glass shelves seemed to me especially elegant. Mr. Adams sat at the head of the table and carved, as the heads of families did at that time. I remember him as a quiet and dignified gentleman, yet kindly rather than stern. Doubtless we youngsters were impelled to behave well in his presence, yet I do not remember being afraid of him, as we should have been of an unkind or tyrannical man.

How quiet and primitive was the dear old Boston of that day! As girls of eight and ten years we loved to romp and play on the Common, tumbling about on the grass and having little feasts of strawberries in the small thimble-shaped baskets wherein those delectable berries were then sold. How delightful it would be, some of us thought, to have a real picnic on the State House steps!

The supplies having been secured from our respective homes, we met on the steps of Massachusetts’ Capitol, but, alas! unwelcome guests came too. Various boys of our acquaintance, led by Brooks Adams, the youngest of the family, appeared upon the scene, and we reluctantly beat a retreat, the boys forming a skirmish-line and hovering around us and our provisions. After this feat of daring we were never allowed to have picnics again within the city limits.

When summer came, the Adamses removed to the old family mansion in Quincy, and here, too, sister Julia and I had the pleasure of visiting them. I am afraid we did not think much about the presidential memories connected with the house, which was certainly a delightful one. On the second floor was a spacious drawing-room, only opened, I think, for state occasions. It was furnished in yellow damask, and I have a dim memory of family portraits as we sported about among the cushions.

Evidently the sturdy spirit of the old Adamses was not wanting to their descendants, and with Master Brooks we had some conflicts (he was seven or eight at this time). Perhaps we, being so many girls, in some way infringed upon his rights.

The older sons of the house, John Quincy and Charles Francis, Jr., were at this time students at Harvard College, or had recently graduated there-from. They were genial, witty and delightful, and showed great kindness to their little sister and her friends. Of course we were only too well pleased to listen to the conversation of such clever and agreeable young men, though too youthful to have developed much feminine coquetry. Yet it was a salve to our pride that we were considered old enough to be worthy any notice from such brilliant people. Master Brooks did not appreciate us as his elder brothers did.

“Green Peace” was not more than eight miles distant from Quincy. My father was extremely fond of riding on horseback and often took us with him. The younger generation of the Adamses were also fond of this exercise, hence we used occasionally to join forces and pace through the lovely country lanes together. By this time I had attained to the dignity of semi-young-ladyhood. An untoward event attended our return from one of these expeditions. As our hospitable hosts detained us to “high tea,” it was dark when we went to the gate to remount our horses, and one of the young gentlemen, in putting me on my palfrey, landed me on the horse’s neck. When this disaster was discovered every one laughed heartily, while I crawled back into the proper position, feeling my youthful dignity somewhat diminished.

My father, who was active in the councils of the Republican party and who was a friend of Charles Francis Adams, once called to see him about some matter connected with his approaching election to Congress, if I remember aright. We were received in the wonderful mahogany room. The existence of this was not known until recent times, when some workmen accidentally discovered beneath the plaster a wall of solid mahogany reaching from floor to ceiling. The plaster was removed and the mahogany paneled and varnished, thus making a beautiful and unusual interior.

Mrs. Charles Francis Adams was a fine-looking woman whose bright black eyes bespoke keenness of mind as well as geniality and vivacity of temperament. At the time of which I speak, her hair was jet black and worn in the smooth bandeaux then fashionable. Both in appearance and in disposition she formed a contrast with her distinguished husband, who was already bald and gray, with blue eyes.

Brother Harry and sister Laura went at this time to a school kept by Miss Susan Hale, a sister of Edward Everett Hale. Harry had been from his tenderest years an extremely mischievous child. If Miss Hale punished him by putting him in the closet, some damage to the clothing hanging there was sure to result. Laura was a very good and amiable little girl, and conscientious as well.

Nevertheless, when she was about five years old a curious indisposition was wont to attack her as the time approached for starting for school. With the brutal penetration of the older sister, I saw that this was only “shamming.” But the elders were more lenient. The child perhaps might not feel well, so she was allowed to remain at home. As soon as the rest of us had departed she recovered her health with surprising promptness!

In extenuation of this little piece of innocent deception it should be said that she was rather a delicate child.

She, as well as Julia, developed a literary turn of mind very early. When only five years old she delighted the rest of us by reciting “Annie of Lochroyan” and other ballads from _Thalatta_, a book of which we were all fond. A little later, when she went to the school kept by Mr. Henry Williams, he called her in to read before the older girls, for the instruction of the latter. Dear, good man, he did not realize the naughtiness of girls. They made the child’s life miserable by teasing her after this event.

I have already mentioned some of our foreign teachers. Among these was a German, Dr. D——, who had ten children and, as I think, no servant. Yet he told us that he never wanted to dine out, as his wife was such a good cook. This seemed to me a little hard on that good woman. He had the habit of learning, before breakfast, one hundred words of some foreign language! Evidently he was a man of attainments but not of scientific accuracy.

One could pardon, as a poetic flight of fancy, his statement that the mastodon—or some other extinct beast—was as large as the Institution for the Blind. But when it came to the price of cows, that was another matter. He made a misstatement on this subject to the blind boys, some of whom were country lads, and thus lost their confidence. Possibly they were unjust, for the learned professor might have confused German and American prices!

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VIII

THE AGASSIZ SCHOOL

_Professor and Mrs. Louis Agassiz.—Prof. Alexander Agassiz.—Papanti’s
Dancing-school.—I Invent Fancy Dances.—We Swim, Skate, and Ride on
Horseback.—Boston’s Purple-glass Windows._

AMONG the pleasant friends who came to “Green Peace” were Professor and Mrs. Louis Agassiz. Thus it naturally happened that I was sent to the Agassiz School. The journey from South Boston to Cambridge took so long, in those days, that I gave it up after three months’ trial. As I was then only twelve years of age, I did not fully appreciate the advantages offered by the school—advantages of which girls from distant parts of the United States were very glad to avail themselves. The special feature of the school, however, even the youngest pupils were old enough to enjoy. Who could help enjoying the closing hour of the day when the scholars assembled in the big class-room to listen to a delightful talk from the lips of the great naturalist himself? As he stood before the great blackboard, now drawing figures, now explaining to us the development of the little animals whose growth forms the coral reefs, the movement of the glaciers, or the reason of the gradual recession of Niagara Falls, we sat listening to his words with eager interest. He adapted himself to our youthful comprehension with the utmost ease—or, if there was any effort made, it was not an apparent one.

A great charm of these talks was that in them the professor brought us the fresh fruits of his own experience. He had personally investigated the glaciers before coming to America. The theory that they had once covered the earth originated with him, if I remember aright. He had also visited the coral reefs. I have understood from Prof. Alexander Agassiz that his father’s views about these were not fully accepted by later scientists. To the lay mind it would appear that Science is almost as fickle as Fashion!

Of Darwinism Professor Agassiz was a vigorous opponent. The new doctrine seemed to him irreconcilable with the idea of a divine Providence, and would, he feared, destroy the faith of mankind. Professor Agassiz and Professor Asa Gray found themselves diametrically opposed on this question. There is a legend of a lively meeting between them in Cambridge, where words almost led to blows!

An account of the Agassiz School would be incomplete if it did not mention the Agassiz omnibus, a white, high-stepped vehicle which took its winding way through the thoroughfares of old-fashioned Boston, calling for the girls at streets and places which have now vanished into the past like the old ’bus itself, or, if they exist at all, exist only as soulless business streets, with great granite blocks of shops replacing the dear old houses shaded by lofty trees.

The purple-glass windows which they had inherited from an earlier generation (some are still to be seen on Beacon Hill) furnished indisputable proof of the wonderful virtue of early Boston boys, or of the extreme watchfulness of Puritan parents.

While there were some very studious girls, about whose profound learning wonderful stories were whispered, who patronized the Agassiz omnibus, there were also fashionable and rather frivolous young ladies among our number—who danced at balls and parties in the evening and as a natural consequence came to school very tired in the morning. Human nature in mid-Victorian days was very much as it is now. One sad memory is indissolubly connected with the Agassiz omnibus. It relates to the hats I wore—and to those which, had fate permitted, I should have liked to wear. The views of my dear mother on the subject of headgear differed from those of her neighbors. In Boston the sumptuary laws of this period prescribed that your hat should be as nearly as possible the exact ditto of that worn by every other woman and girl in the town. During this particular spring white-straw bonnets, trimmed with green ribbon outside and pink ribbon inside, were the regulation wear. Now blue was my color, and my bonnet was garnished with a ribbon of bluish gray tint, more becoming to me than the universal pink. I was prepared to accept this variation from type, the bonnet being pretty in itself. But, alas! this was not the worst. Our mother also had an idea that round hats were more suitable for school-girls than bonnets. Accordingly, I was provided with a brown straw shade-hat, the brim of which seemed huge to my excited imagination. It was expected that I should wear this to school, reserving the bonnet for best.

I adopted the desperate expedient of wearing my winter bonnet out of the proper season. Oh, how I scrutinized the girls, as they entered the omnibus, to see how many still wore their winter bonnets! Several obligingly did so, but their number became daily less. At last I was driven from the burrow—or trench—of that velvet bonnet and obliged to come out into the open. A few times I tremblingly wore the huge round hat—the only one in the stage. Once or twice I took refuge in the Cambridge street-cars—but here lurked the danger of Harvard students with their critical eyes. At last I boldly put on the Sunday blue bonnet. What if it did fade and wither from too frequent exposure? At least I should be saved from wearing the despised round hat!

Even then, however, there were exceptions to this sumptuary law, practised in Cambridge itself, had I only known it.

It was perhaps in this very year, 1858, that Charles Francis Adams, Jr., then a student at Harvard, drew upon himself a remonstrance from his fellows on account of his headgear, to which he made the following reply:

_“An Adams can wear any sort of hat he wishes.”_

His fellow-student, my brother-in-law, related this story to me many years afterward, in a grieved spirit. I assured, him that Charles Francis Adams, Jr., was right. Certain families of the Hub possessed at that date a prescriptive right to dress as they pleased, every one knowing who they were.

Young Mr. Adams, far from showing conceit, was simply illumining the way for us all in the direction of personal independence.

The Agassiz School was held in the professor’s own pleasant house on Quincy Street, Cambridge, very near Harvard College. Probably the older girls were conscious of this fact, but I was too young to bear it much in mind. The students whom I met occasionally in the street seemed to me great and august beings. Time, however, brings its revenges. In later life, when my sons were undergraduates, I had occasion to revisit Cambridge. The students no longer inspired me with awe; whether they were afraid of me or not I cannot say.

In his charming wife Professor Agassiz had a most efficient helpmeet who entered into all his plans and followed his work with loving zeal and intelligence. Mrs. Agassiz, who survived her husband for many years, was a very charming woman. She had a noble and whole-souled nature, which one fancied was contagious, for the moment at least. I think it would have been impossible to do a mean thing while in her company.

In the days of the Agassiz School she was still a young woman, and we all felt that she was the presiding genius of the establishment as she flitted from room to room in her pretty, trim morning dress and cap with its fresh flowing ribbons, which seemed to correspond so well with the sweetness and freshness of her disposition. She heard the lessons of the younger pupils, but I am sure that she exercised a sweet and wholesome influence over all the scholars, old and young.

Prof. Alexander Agassiz taught in his father’s school. I remember him in those days as a handsome, rather melancholy-looking young man who was suspected of being afraid of the biggest girls. Not long afterward he married one of them, Miss Anna Russell, daughter of my father’s old chum, George Russell. Prof. Alexander Agassiz was much more reserved and grave than his father, whose genial temperament was full of warmth and sunshine. Occasionally he also gave us a lecture.

During many years of his life, Louis Agassiz worked through a great part of the night, sleeping very late in the morning. It is said that one Sunday morning Mrs. Agassiz, while dressing for church, suddenly called out, “Agassiz! there is a snake in my boot!” To which the Professor drowsily replied, “I wonder where the others are!”

I remember a lecture where he showed us an orange to represent a sea-urchin. With a sudden movement he opened the fruit, which we then saw had been cut, into the form of a starfish, thus showing the relationship between the two types of creatures, and the audience burst into applause.

In 1859 our parents made a visit to the West Indies which our mother described in _A Trip to Cuba_. We children stayed with various relatives and friends, Mrs. Charles H. Dorr, at that time living in Jamaica Plain, hospitably receiving me. I thus came to know the young girls living in that pleasant suburb, and to attend the school of Miss Lucia M. Peabody. The double attraction was so strong that I was willing to take the trip of some six miles daily, for more than three years, walking from South Boston to the Jamaica Plain horse-car in Boston.

Miss Peabody not only loved study herself, but made it attractive to others. She was an excellent teacher, to whom I owe much gratitude.

If it had not been for Charlotte Bowditch, I should have been the first scholar in arithmetic. But Charlotte, who was a granddaughter or great-niece of the famous navigator, was hopelessly ahead of us all. This was an excellent thing for my vanity.

Among my school memories is that of a very extraordinary dictionary belonging to one of my friends. The learned German—he must have been a German—who compiled it had evidently been imposed upon by some wag. Thus the synonyms for “to die” were given as “to kick the bucket,” “to hop the twig,” “to go to Davy Jones’s locker.” I do not think the book was vicious, but it abounded in slang. Perhaps it was prepared for the use of sailors in foreign ports!

Our physical culture began early. We learned to swim without especial instruction, each one of us following out his or her own ideas, brother Harry keeping his head under water, sister Julia paddling dog-fashion, I swimming on my back.

We learned to ride very young, beginning with José, a little Spanish donkey presented to us by Albert Sumner, a brother of Charles. He had been for some years the mount of Mr. Sumner’s daughter Kate, and was an animal of high character. In his letter of introduction Mr. Sumner duly sets forth José’s many excellent traits, mentioning also that as he came from Barbary he must be a pure Barb! He was a gentle animal, but possessed of the amiable determination characteristic of his species. He never bit, kicked, nor scratched, but he was a person of dignity and his movements were marked by great deliberation. The only way in which we could coax him out of a walk was to run before him, holding out a piece of bread. This soon became fatiguing to the advance courier.

When we had a children’s party, he was brought out for the entertainment of the visitors. José did not like to have strange children on his back, and could tell at once when the reins were in the hands of an inexperienced rider. In this case he would turn toward the fence, putting his head and forefeet under the lowest board. He thus obliged the child either to dismount or to come in contact with the fence. Sometimes he would vary the proceedings by running to the barn.

Indeed, running away was one of José’s accomplishments, so inconsistent is donkey nature. The fences at South Boston were from time to time adorned with little posters bearing the legend: “Lost—a small brown donkey. The finder will please return him,” etc.

Once my brother Harry, who was perhaps eight years of age, received an official letter beginning, “Sir, your ass is in the pound.”

José was from time to time the shrine of a singular pilgrimage. A group of people, bearing a child sick with whooping-cough, would arrive at “Green Peace” and ask to interview our donkey. The parents took their station, one on each side of José, and passed the child to each other three times over and under the animal. In order to make the cure complete, a piece of bread was put in the donkey’s mouth and then given to the child. The superstition rests on the theory that the donkey is a sacred animal, since Christ once rode on him; witness the cross upon his back.

We owned for a time another donkey—Billy—who possessed a most unamiable disposition. He was not our friend and companion like José, and we did not ride on his back. He formed part of a donkey tandem which we drove at Newport, our uncle Sam having given us a delightful pony-carriage and harness. When we went abroad in this little conveyance a dreadful danger lurked by the wayside, for the Andersons’ donkey lived in a field bordering on the road over which we were obliged to pass. Like the evil spirit in the story of the _Three Goats Brausewind_, he accosted us in a very rude way. José and Billy were evidently moved by the appeal of their fellow-donkey, and we were greatly troubled in mind. For a tandem, as every one knows, is a most difficult team to drive, even when undisturbed by asinine conversation.

My father trained us all to ride first with a leading-rein, afterward alone. By his side we rode many miles about the country. With Cora, our pretty but imperfectly broken colt, I had some terrifying moments. We were in the habit of going out tête-à-tête, she and I, and all would go well until we met an ice-wagon, or crossed a certain railroad bridge. Then she would shy and run, but fortunately I did not fall off.

Lorenzo Papanti, his dancing-classes and his hall, were among the institutions of old Boston. It was said that this accomplished veteran had instructed three generations of Bostonians in the art of dancing. He was by no means young when I first remember him, although his dark wig doubtless made him look older than he really was; his blue-gray eyes would have appeared less fishlike, his complexion less red and mottled, had he appeared before us without this adornment. For a man with a bald head to teach dancing might, it is true, seem incongruous. He was always in evening dress, dignified and graceful in his movements, as became one of his profession. Age had no power to wither him. He bore a strong resemblance to William Warren, the noted actor. When I saw portraits of the latter on cigar-boxes labeled “Boston’s favorite,” I supposed they were likenesses of Papanti.

In these days of division of labor it seems wonderful to remember that he had no assistant. He taught us to dance, playing at the same time on his fiddle. He kept us in good order, routing the truants out of the dressing-rooms if we stayed there too long to play and talk. He had the Italian genius for governing, inherited, doubtless, from the ancient Romans.

When Mr. Papanti sounded a preliminary flourish on his fiddle and asked us to take partners for the quadrille or the lancers, the boys did not rush joyously forward, as might have been expected. Our master was often obliged to lead them out in a long, reluctant line, dragging back as much as they dared. With some twenty or thirty boys in tow, he would approach the girls, who were not very encouraging. It was pleasanter to dance with your girl friends than with strange boys who had little to say. A certain Master J—— once ejaculated, “My stars!” in talking to his partner. We considered this very bad form. There were one or two little boys of greater conversational powers whom we admired.

Mr. Papanti duly instructed the elect of the class in the gavotte. It was a proud moment when you were chosen to take part in this. The “shawl” dance was even more select. The single couple—a brother and sister—who danced this had reached the height of human ambition at Papanti’s.

The hall had a delightful spring floor, the like of which I have never beheld. It yielded beneath your feet like a live thing!

When we were children dancing was one of our home pleasures. Our mother, who had an endless store of operatic airs in her memory, would sit down at the grand piano at the children’s hour. As her nimble fingers struck the keys away we all went, each doing a _pas seul_ of some sort.

To sister Julia belongs the credit of inventing the “frog” minuet. This is only suitable for very young children. You go down on your hands and knees, then you lift first the right arm and knee, after that the left, all in time to the music. The movement is rather slow.

My mother’s passionate fondness for music and love of dancing in her youth have been mentioned elsewhere. Small wonder that these dramatic airs, as she played them, stirred the little daughter to whom dancing was the natural mode of expression. My performances were no doubt admired by the family much more than they deserved. As we were still lingering in a certain degree of Puritanism, the invention of fancy dances was then rare.

Among those which I “originated” were dances for the four seasons, and the dagger dance—usually performed with a silver fruit-knife—of Lady Macbeth. Intimate friends of the family were allowed to witness these. Alas! I once cast the dagger from me with so noble a passion that it narrowly missed one of the guests. After that greater reserve was necessary.

Our mother was quick to recognize and to praise any little manifestation of talent or originality on our part. She did not look with an entirely favorable eye upon our competitors. Thus neither she nor I wholly approved of the performance of a little girl who danced the cachucha, with castanets, at a party in Providence. In the daytime the child was not as pretty as by gaslight. I suspect that she was freckled. However, she did not again cross my orbit.

In West Roxbury lived another young girl who danced, Miss Emily Russell, a daughter of Mr. George Russell. Her performances were more ambitious than mine, being conducted on the footboard of a bedstead. Friends were invited to see these, one lady appearing in diamonds and a corn-colored barège. The costume aroused some criticism. I have already intimated that in old Boston it was necessary to dress with discretion.

My father taught us to skate first with one foot, thereby avoiding some tumbles. There was a great revival of skating shortly before the Civil War. Jamaica Pond was in high favor, the cars going there being jammed with people. Father revived his skating, as did many older people, a certain general arousing unfavorable comment by appearing on double runners—_i.e._, skates with two blades.

To me the exercise was even more delightful than riding on horseback. I still dream of flying along on skates in the most wonderful manner.

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IX

EDWIN BOOTH AND CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN

_Why They Did Not Act My Mother’s Play, “Hippolytus.”—A Bundle of Old
Playbills.—Letters from Edwin and Mary Booth.—Mrs. Frances Ann
Kemble.—Statue of Horace Mann.—My Father Introduces Written
Examinations into the Public Schools, amid Angry Protests from the
Masters._

WE usually accepted the appearance of distinguished visitors at “Green Peace” in a spirit of philosophic calm. Young people are little moved by what does not directly concern them.

Great was our excitement and delight, however, when Edwin Booth called on my mother. We did not then know how it happened that our house should receive such a delightful visitation. The explanation, however, was very simple. Our mother, who had already had a play presented on the stage, was asked by Mr. Booth’s manager to write one for him. Hence he came to see her, accompanied by his intimate friend with whom she also was acquainted, Walter Brackett, the artist.

She was very liberal in allowing us to see visitors, but evidently it was not desirable to permit school-girls of a tender and impressionable age to make the acquaintance of a young and very handsome actor. The visit took place in the room with the Gobelin carpet, thus enabling Julia and Florence to get fleeting glimpses of the great man from the adjoining conservatory. We never knew whether he heard us rustling about among the plants, but it is highly probable that he did. It was aggravating to get only furtive glimpses of him through the glass, yet we had a fair opportunity to see the young actor.

He had not yet lost the bright color in his cheeks. His purple-black hair was at that time short, curling close to his head. “Short,” however, did not then mean close-cropped, as in the present day.

After the departure of the visitors I seized upon the chair in which Edwin Booth had sat and marked the seat (underneath) with a “B,” worked in silver thread. It will be guessed that we had already seen him upon the stage and worshiped him from afar. There were young women bold and foolish enough to write to this object of their adoration. He disliked very much to be thus admired by silly and sentimental girls. Our respectful homage was of a very different sort. We considered him a species of superman, as may be judged from the incident of the chair.

When I branded the chair for eternal fame, I little dreamed that our hero would revisit us, and that we should have a chance to speak to him, if we dared, a year or two later. We were no longer obliged to lurk in the conservatory, for Booth was now a benedict, and brought his lovely wife to “Green Peace.”

When I first saw him on the stage this lady—then Miss Mary Devlin—took the principal woman’s part. The play was “The Iron Chest,” a tale of secret guilt. The mystery of a murder, the guilty man’s remorse and fear of discovery, form a tragic theme which always interests the human mind.

The opening scene is dramatic. An old servant incautiously narrates to the new private secretary the story of his master’s trial and acquittal. In the midst of it they are interrupted by a voice calling from behind the scenes, “Adam Winterton, Adam Winterton, come hither to me!” With what telling effect the great actor pronounced these his first words in the drama may be guessed by those who remember Edwin Booth. The sadness in that wonderful voice struck the key-note of the tragedy. The end of the play savors of melodrama. On the discovery of his guilt, Sir Edward Mortimer falls upon the stage and dies to slow music, as his lady-love rushes in and supports his head. I fancy the play would not be tolerated, except by a Bowery audience, in these days, but with Booth in the principal rôle it was a favorite in the middle of the nineteenth century.

Mary Devlin became engaged to be married to him soon afterward, and left the stage. This was a real loss to theater-goers, for the actresses who succeeded her in the principal rôles were by no means so satisfactory. It outraged our youthful ideals of fitness to have Mrs. E. L. Davenport take such parts as Katharine in the “Taming of the Shrew,” or Ophelia. She was middle-aged, thin and not beautiful. Hence, no matter how good her acting, she did not please critical school-girls. Losing Mrs. Booth from the stage brought us compensation, however, since we soon had the pleasure of seeing both “the great B and the little B,” as my mother playfully called them, in private life.

It should here be said that the latter had earned the lasting gratitude of the great actor by her generous tribute of praise, bestowed at a moment when he was hurt and discouraged by harsh criticism. Her poem, “Hamlet at the Boston,” published in the _Atlantic Monthly_, was a word spoken in season.

Mary Booth was an exquisite little woman, slender, graceful, with a charm of manner more winning than that of beauty alone. She and my mother soon became well acquainted, their pleasant friendship being cut short by her untimely death, at the age of twenty-five.

Thus Edwin Booth is one of those whom I remember standing beneath Byron’s helmet at “Green Peace.” His manners were perfectly simple and natural. I suspect that he was a little shy in private life. He once told us that when called before the curtain between the acts or after the play he suffered from stage fright. I do not think this is surprising. During the performance of the play the actor loses himself in his part—he is no longer Edwin Booth, but Hamlet. When he is called before the curtain, however, his position is a curious one. He is wearing the trappings and the suits of woe of the Prince of Denmark; yet he must bow, and perhaps make a speech, as Edwin Booth. If we had a higher appreciation of dramatic values we should not call an actor before the curtain. Where this is done, in the course of the play, it breaks the continuity of the impression and summons us from our dream to the prose of daily life.

Negotiations were now under way for the performance of my mother’s play, “Hippolytus,” with a cast including Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman. This was the drama which she had written for him some years before. Mr. Booth and Miss Cushman agreed to take part in the play; the manager of the Howard Athenæum, Mr. E. L. Davenport, agreed to put it on the stage. Alas! his wife, the actress of whom I have already spoken, did not like the part assigned to her; other reasons, more or less valid, were brought forward by the manager, and the matter was dropped, to my mother’s great disappointment. The question of its production was again brought up, long after Edwin Booth’s death and toward the end of my mother’s life. If she had lived a little longer she might have seen it appreciatively given in Boston by Margaret Anglin and a good company. Edwin Booth’s opinion of the play is given in the following letter:

BALTIMORE, _Aug. 26th, 1858_.

MY DEAR MADAM,—“Hippolytus” arrived safely a day or two since,
and I have read it once. Being troubled with a bilious attack, I
have not been able to give it a very careful reading, but am
satisfied, even from my hasty perusal of it, that I shall like
it infinitely. Mr. Barry promises to _get it up_ in superior
style, and, believe me, I shall use my best endeavors to do
justice, as far as the _acting_ goes, to the youthful hero; the
_make-up_ to accord with Phedra’s description I fear is beyond
my art. It needs very little, if any, curtailing or alteration,
but ’twere best to submit to Mr. Barry’s judgment, having a
better knowledge of such matters than myself.

I shall be in Boston in _Oct._ next, my engagement being for
three weeks. I shall have plenty of time to rehearse and assist
in _getting up_ the piece to the best advantage.

My best wishes for its success and your own prosperity, Madam, I
remain your servant,

EDWIN BOOTH.

As entertaining was always a delight to my mother, she gave several Booth parties. It is chronicled that at one of them he spent much of his time playing with little Maud, then some eight years old. Clearly he did not enjoy being lionized. I have already intimated that we older girls regarded him as a species of Olympian god. This attitude of silent homage must have been trying to a man of his good sense and modesty. Yet he doubtless was wise enough to make allowance for school-girls’ little harmless follies.

The most important of these Booth parties was given at No. 13 Chestnut Street, the house in Boston to which we removed in 1862. Every one wanted to come to it, all sorts of people, artistic, literary and fashionable, being anxious to meet Edwin Booth. The party was a great success, as my mother’s entertainments usually were. I remember that Mrs. Booth wore a high-necked silk dress of some delicate color. While we wore _décolleté_ dresses for dances, we did not in those days think it necessary to wear our shoulders bare on all evening occasions. At her throat was a brooch composed of a single large opal. Her sudden death, a few months later, recalled to us sadly the superstition about this stone which is supposed to portend the early death of the wearer.

Sister Julia went with my mother to the funeral at Mount Auburn. Edwin Booth was overwhelmed with grief by his wife’s sudden death. He was acting in New York at the time, and did not reach Boston until all was over. The sad news was not broken to him by the friends who came to meet him until he was in the carriage. On learning it his agony was so intense that they could with difficulty hold him.

I saw him that winter on the Brighton Road, then the gay resort of rapidly moving sleighs. Some hopeful friend had evidently thought the scene might divert him from his sorrow. A glance at his face and figure showed the utter futility of this hope. Such an image of sorrow I have never seen. His wonderfully expressive features mirrored the grief within as only such features can, while his long black hair seemed a fitting frame for the dark, melancholy face as he sat huddled together in the cutter, his head sunk upon his breast. I doubt whether he saw any one of that gay throng of people. He saw only one face, invisible to us, and a grave in Mount Auburn a few miles away.

Fortunately he had good friends and true to help him through this sad time. Among these were the two poets, R. H. Stoddard and Thomas W. Parsons. In my collection of Booth relics is a note from the former to my mother, written soon after the death of Mrs. Booth. Being very sympathetic by nature, she did not shrink from her friends in time of sorrow, but strove to comfort them. Mr. Stoddard writes that Booth will see her, adding, “I think you can do him good and I have told him so.”

Doctor Parsons’ lovely verses give a true picture of Mary Booth’s exquisite personality.

We saw a good deal of Doctor Parsons at this time. He was a man of the greatest refinement, absolutely free from self-assertion. He had, withal, a touch of genius. One day, on looking up from his work, he saw Edwin Booth standing before him. The poet could but say, “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” his friend answering in the same sportive strain.

Walking in the neighborhood of the old Revere House one day, I saw Edwin Booth and a friend driving in a buggy. He had doubtless been visiting the grave of his wife at Mount Auburn. To my surprise and pleasure, he recognized me by a grave bow. As he had seen us all a number of times, at the house of our parents, there was really nothing surprising in this. But, as I have said, we regarded him as a species of superman.