Chapter I: HAVE spoken of the Institution for the Blind as our intermittent or (3)

After Mrs. Booth’s death we saw less of the great actor, as she had been the gracious link that united us all. When he came to spend his summers at Newport, a score of years later, the old friendship was pleasantly renewed.

Wilkes Booth I saw several times on the stage in the characters of Richard the Third, Shylock and Charles Moore in Schiller’s play of the “Robbers.” He also was handsome, taller and heavier than his brother.

Edwin Booth was filling an engagement in Boston at the time of Lincoln’s assassination. We had tickets bought before the dreadful news came, for his matinée on the fatal Saturday of the President’s death. All places of amusement were of course closed at once. The blow, a stunning one to the whole country, brought to Edwin Booth the additional shock of his brother’s terrible deed. It was reported at the time that he had resolved to quit the stage forever. The actors of the day were much troubled that a member of their profession should have perpetrated such a crime. It was said, in their defense, that actors had seldom committed deeds of violence.

Although Edwin Booth and Charlotte Cushman never acted in “Hippolytus,” they did appear together in “Macbeth.” He mischievously remarked to us that he longed to say to Miss Cushman: “Why don’t you kill him? You’re a great deal bigger than I am.” He did not consider himself heavy enough for the part of Macbeth. Yet his rendering of it was very impressive. All the dreadful drama of the murder, the knocking at the outer gate, the banquet scene where the ghost of Banquo appears, were thrilling to witness.

Who, indeed, has rendered Shakespeare like Edwin Booth? Sir Henry Irving could not, in my opinion, be compared with him.

Hamlet was thought his best part—indeed, we said he was the gentle Prince of Denmark. The gravity of his disposition, “sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,” his natural dignity and the grace of his movements, all recalled Hamlet. When my mother saw him at the funeral of his beloved wife she remembered how often she had beheld him, on the stage, follow Ophelia to the grave.

Shakespeare’s “Richard the Third” was another character in which we especially liked to see him. He was so handsome, so fascinating, that the scene with Lady Anne, where he wins her from the very bier of her murdered husband, did not seem unnatural. The scene in the tent he gave with tremendous power. After the ghosts of his victims have appeared to him, one after another, calling down defeat upon his head, he arouses himself from his uneasy slumber. Still half-asleep, and fighting his way with his sword, he staggers to the front of the stage, crying out, “Give me another horse; bind up my wounds!” Kneeling for a moment, his countenance still distorted, he cries out, “Have mercy, Jesu!” His movements as he blindly made his way forward, the awful expression of his face, with eyes rolled upward, made this scene more terrible in its way than that of his death on Bosworth Field.

Yet this revelation of the true soul of the hump-backed king lasted but a few moments. Soon he recovers and “Richard is himself again.” (This phrase must have been added by Colley Cibber, for it is not in Shakespeare.)

As “honest Iago,” the openness of his countenance somehow conveyed to the beholder that it was assumed. Only in the final scene did he allow the true villainy of the character to appear on his face. His Othello was beautiful and moving. As Cardinal Richelieu he was wonderful, portraying to the life the little, cunning, powerful, yet on the whole benevolent old man of Bulwer’s drama. With what telling effect he drew the magic circle and gave the curse of Rome!

I saw him as Shylock a number of times, the last time shortly before his retirement from the stage. This impersonation had gained greatly in power since the early days. The awful look of hatred that, during his talk with Tubal, he allowed for a moment to play over his face was a revelation. You caught a glimpse of the race hatred accumulated through centuries of oppression.

Once when I thoughtlessly spoke of the principles of Christianity to a Hebrew acquaintance, I was frightened to see something of the same terrible expression come over his face.

When Booth was a young man he often played in comedy. The rollicking mischief and fun of his Petruchio and Don Cæsar de Bazan we greatly enjoyed. He gave an abbreviated version of the “Taming of the Shrew” as companion piece to “The Iron Chest.”

His acting was of an intellectual and poetic type. It was said that those who saw Edwin Booth play Romeo to Mary Devlin’s Juliet were not likely to forget it. They were so young, so beautiful, so identified with their parts. I should not say that, ordinarily, he excelled in the lover’s rôle. Charles Fechter, in spite of his very plain face and ugly figure, could enact the love scenes of Claude Melnotte in “The Lady of Lyons,” with a power that Edwin Booth lacked. Was it his natural reserve which made it distasteful and difficult for him to simulate love-making in public? I think it was. Like Hamlet, he had loved once and deeply. After that I fancy he took little interest in affairs of the heart. It is true, he married again, perhaps for companionship. His second wife did not long survive their marriage.

Tenderness of another kind he could well show forth. The scene in “King Lear,” where he brings in the dead Cordelia in his arms, hoping she is still alive, was an exquisite piece of acting.

Among my Booth relics is a bundle of playbills, the earliest dating back to November 6, 1858. This shows “Miss Mary Devlin” in the principal feminine rôle, Lady Helen, in “The Iron Chest.” The prices are astounding. “Parquet, Balcony, and First Tier of Boxes, fifty cents; Family Circle, twenty-five cents; Amphitheater, fifteen cents. Children under twelve years of age, half price. Private Boxes, $6.00.”

A young friend to whom I lately showed this list exclaimed, “No wonder Booth was a hero to the public, when the prices were so low that every one could afford to go to see him!”

From the collection of Booth letters I have selected two from Mrs. Booth and one from Mr. Booth himself, which will be found of interest:

MY DEAR MRS. HOWE,—I deeply regretted my absence from home
yesterday when you called—but my disappointment was greatly
soothed by soon after receiving your polite note of invitation
to visit you on Sunday.

We will “tea” with you with infinite pleasure, at the hour you
appoint—most happy, too, of another opportunity of meeting Miss
Cushman, whose near departure makes her presence doubly dear.

With great esteem,

Yours very sincerely,

MARY BOOTH.

_Wednesday, May 29th._

MY DEAR MRS. HOWE,—I should only be too delighted to be “stared
at” this evening at your little party, if I were not expressly
forbidden by my doctor to go into any excitement; I have been so
very feeble the past few days; so for once, dear friend,
pleasure must yield to duty. We will go over, “the Great B” and
myself, this week to see you. Please dance a “Redowa” for me and
believe me your disappointed little friend,

MARY BOOTH.

_Friday morn, June 28th._

The following letter shows Edwin Booth’s tender care for his little motherless daughter:

_Friday_.

DEAR MRS. HOWE,—To-morrow and Sunday night I am engaged—but
think I shall remain at home on account of ill-health; to-morrow
night I start for New York. I am sorry I have been unable to see
you, but hope to have that pleasure before I leave the city.

Baby Booth is not with me—I feared the climate and at the last
moment concluded not to bring her here. I hear from her every
day. She has grown to be a most splendid child and worships her
papa. I miss her very much.

My long winter’s work has completely unnerved me and it is as
much as I can do to drag through my performances.

Pray present my compliments to the young ladies and to Dr. Howe
and accept my thanks for your polite invitation.

Hoping soon to have an opportunity to call upon you, believe me,

Very truly,

Your servant,

EDWIN BOOTH.

Among my early memories of “Green Peace” is a large daguerreotype of Charlotte Cushman. It was probably lost in one of the many movings of the Howe family.

When Miss Cushman’s furniture and personal effects were sold at Newport, many years after her death, a portrait of my mother and one of Elizabeth Barrett Browning were still hanging in her bedroom! A photograph of the great actress, taken about the time of the Civil War, I still possess.

My parents were early interested in Charlotte Cushman’s acting, as they were in that of Edwin Booth, at the beginning of his career. They invited guests to meet her at “Green Peace,” and asked their friends in other cities to extend to her social recognition.

In the summer of 1850 they were her fellow-passengers on the voyage to England. Sister Laura was then an infant. Seeing her gnaw her little fist, the actress exclaimed that babies were funny things, at the same time mimicking exactly the child’s action.

Like Sally Battle, Charlotte Cushman believed in the rigor of the game. She and my mother were engaged one day in a game of whist when a gentleman was rash enough to talk to the latter and to keep on talking. Charlotte Cushman bore it as long as she could, then turned to the offender and said, in her great, deep voice, “Remember, this is whist.” The hint was sufficient.

Another story we had from my mother was of a certain holiday performance when the theater was crowded. Miss Cushman was acting with her sister, the play being, as I think, “Romeo and Juliet.” In the midst of the tender love-making a small boy called out from the gallery, “Oh, my stummick!” The sister was nearly convulsed with laughter, when Charlotte gave her a shake and brought her to herself with the words, “_Remember where you are_.”

On another occasion, when Miss Cushman came bounding upon the stage as Meg Merrilies, she trod upon a needle, dropped there by some careless actress, and had to be helped from the stage in an agony of pain.

She had already grown quite gray when I first remember her, in the Civil War period. Such a wonderfully expressive face could not be called altogether homely, although her retreating mouth prevented it from being handsome. Her teeth were small and insignificant, while the blue of her eyes contrasted well with the gray hair. She was built on a generous scale, her figure tall and commanding. As Queen Katherine in “Henry the Eighth” she was at her best. One of her great points was in the trial scene. When the insignificant Cardinal Campeius addressed her she turned to Wolsey, with splendid gesture, looking every inch a queen, as she gave with noble emphasis the lines, “My lord cardinal, to you I speak.”

In 1915–16 I again saw this play, after an interval of fifty years, with Sir Beerbohm Tree as the cardinal. Anne Boleyn was graceful and charming, making one understand as never before how Henry was won from Katharine. Bluff King Hal was extremely well portrayed. Cardinal Wolsey was magnificent in his vivid scarlet raiment, the costumes and scenery all beautiful. The whole was a feast of color for the eye. But the one great figure that had dominated the performance of early years I sadly missed. The actress who played Queen Katharine did not even attempt to make Charlotte Cushman’s great point in the trial scene. In the last sad scene Miss Cushman vividly portrayed for us the discarded queen, sick and suffering unto death.

I saw her also in “London Assurance,” when she took the part of Lady Gay Spanker. She was gay and rollicking enough, although her gray hair seemed a little incongruous in the part of a young woman. It was out of keeping also in “Fazio,” where she took the rôle of Bianca.

Charlotte Cushman possessed wigs, for these were sold, with the rest of her theatrical wardrobe, one being still in curl papers! When I saw her on the stage, however, she appeared with her own gray hair.

It will be remembered that she had intended to go on the operatic stage, but, owing to the loss of her singing-voice, was obliged to give this up. The mishap may have been a blessing in disguise. For the perfect development of Miss Cushman’s great dramatic talent the legitimate stage was the best agent.

I had the pleasure of hearing her sing, on the occasion of a visit to Lawton’s Valley. It was a wonderful performance. It was not like any other singing, but rather a species of chanting or weird crooning, in which she gave us the simple and moving story of “Mary, go and call the cattle home, across the sands o’ Dee.” The deep tones of her voice intensified the effect.

My mother also was accustomed to sing this pathetic ballad, to a tune of her own composition. With her high, clear voice the effect was very different from that produced by Charlotte Cushman; yet she, too, made her hearers feel the deep pathos of the ballad.

In the Newport days of which I speak we often saw Miss Cushman and her intimate friend, Emma Stebbins, the sculptress. The latter modeled the bronze statue of Horace Mann which stands in front of the State House in Boston, opposite that of Daniel Webster.

I do not think this proximity to the former idol of the Massachusetts Whigs was much relished by them. But my father had a way of putting through what he undertook. As an intimate friend and co-worker with Horace Mann, he was chairman of the committee for the erection of the memorial. I fancy it was he who gave the commission to Miss Stebbins and arranged for the contribution of their pennies by the school-children of Boston. Doubtless he persuaded those in power that Mann’s splendid services to the cause of education deserved this recognition from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. In the twentieth century my father’s views—he was usually some fifty years ahead of his time—have come to prevail.

It is sad to remember that Charlotte Cushman’s last years were clouded by an incurable disease—cancer. She made a splendid fight against it, keeping on with her work almost to the end of her life. She would not give it up until she had made a handsome provision for those near and dear to her.

I remember with pleasure a visit to Fanny Kemble—Mrs. Frances Anne Kemble, to give her her full name. My father took me as a little girl to see her at the Tremont House, where she received us very graciously and kindly. I also heard her read one of Shakespeare’s plays. This she did without any help of scenery or special costume. We saw only a middle-aged, rather stout lady, dressed quietly in black and seated at a table. Although there was much to admire in her character, she possessed a stormy temper. It was said that she once insisted so vehemently on having her washing brought to her without delay that the tub containing the wet garments in the suds was finally set down before her!

In these early days she did not admire the acting of Edwin Booth. At one of his performances she was seen “sniffing,” as the story went, her countenance showing her lack of approbation. He was already a favorite with the public, but certain friends of Mrs. Kemble followed her opinion. Vehement were the arguments which we as enthusiastic admirers of Booth had with the Kembelites among our young friends.

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X

LAWTON’S VALLEY, OUR SUMMER HOME

_The Beautiful Valley.—The Crawford Children.—“Yellers’ Day.”—“Vaucluse”
and the Hazards.—The Midshipmen Visit Us.—Dances on Board the
Frigate “Constitution.”—Parties in the Valley.—George Bancroft.—A
Party at His House.—Rev. Charles T. Brooks._

THE lovely island of Rhode Island is indented with a number of ravines on either shore. The most beautiful of these is Lawton’s Valley—a deep cut between the hills, running a mile into the land, from the waters of Narragansett Bay. The entrance into the valley is so masked with trees, the descent into it is so steep, that it lies securely hidden from the world above. You suddenly find yourself in a wooded gorge, the trees rising high above it on either side, and a brook running along the base of the cliff, leaping over waterfalls as it goes down to the sea. When my father bought the place, a grist-mill with a great terrifying wooden wheel stood at the head of the largest waterfall. My father, to whom gardening was a delight, greatly improved the appearance of the valley.

The mill was converted into a school-house containing also one or two chambers for the bestowal of masculine guests, when the house was full to over-flowing. There is a family legend that brother Harry, when a lad, once slept upon the grand piano, no other place being available! We were sometimes obliged to arise in the night and give up our rooms to make way for relatives arriving unexpectedly.

Some sudden emergency brought our especially beloved Aunt Annie Mailliard and her family to us in this way—for Lawton’s Valley is six miles from the post and telegraph offices. Telegrams then cost three dollars to deliver, and frightened us badly!

Aunt Annie was the very soul of hospitality, and did her full share of it by entertaining us all delightfully at her home in Bordentown, New Jersey.

Uncle Sam once occupied the mill-chamber and reported in the morning that the perpetual tap of the hydraulic ram sounded like a constant knocking at the door, causing him to murmur in his sleep, “Come in! Come in!” We could not do without the ram, however, as it supplied the house with water. It was sad when an eel got into the pipe, or some other accident stopped the water-supply. The pump, whence we obtained our drinking-water, was of a pattern calculated to drive one to the wine-cup. You turned the handle round and round furiously, and after a long time a refreshing stream appeared, borne in some mysterious way on two endless parallel chains. Then, if you went on pumping like mad, you could fill the pail. But if you stopped for one single second a horrible gurgling sound informed you that the water had retreated to the bottom of the well! Then you had to begin all over again the treadmill task of bringing it up! It was supposed to be remarkably fresh and pure when it appeared—for evidently it had not lingered in any pipe, as no pipe existed.

Sometimes food was hung down the well, country fashion, to keep cool. It was a sad day when the leg of mutton dropped in, since herculean efforts were required to bring it up. It was naturally mutton which made this unlucky descent, for at that time the local butcher kept little else. Sometimes my father had beef sent down by freight from Boston—only to have it seized by the agents of Kinsley’s express and carried to their office. This delayed the meat in transit and obliged us to pay express charges without express benefit. For this company did not deliver goods at Lawton’s Valley, nor did we desire to have them do so. Hence much friction between Kinsley’s express and my father.

Rhode Island mutton and lamb are, or were, very good. One day an old friend of my mother’s drove out from Newport and was invited to stay to midday dinner.

The feelings of the hostess can be imagined when the guest oracularly observed, “My grandfather Gray could never eat lamb, and I never can!”

Fortunately there was a little chicken to help out the situation. The words of Grandfather Gray became a byword in our family. Our house was not in the valley itself but stood half-way down the slope of a hill, being thus protected from the wind that blows constantly over the island. Mr. C——, who sold the place to my father, was the victim of the drink habit. Finding him lying prostrate on the ground, much the worse for liquor, father poured away the contents of the jug standing near, and led away the man’s horse, so that he would be obliged to sober up before starting to get a fresh supply of rum.

Some Lowestoft ware marked with the family initials and some good old furniture, which we bought, showed that the family had seen better days.

The inhabitants of the island, with some notable exceptions have suffered from an insular habit of intermarriage. This has, we will hope, lessened with the invasion of Rhode Island by outlanders, bringing prosperity with them. Not long ago, however, when a man or woman married “off the island,” it was mentioned with a certain regret, as being not quite the thing to do. The methods of cultivating the soil were surprisingly primitive. It was very much run down, the principal fertilizer being deceased fish. Car-loads of menhaden were scattered broadcast over the fields, and left there to rot. Oh, how they smelled to heaven! We did not cultivate our land after this fashion, but, alas! our neighbors did! Fortunately, menhaden became valuable for other purposes and their use as a fertilizer was abandoned.

As Rhode Island was founded by excellent but visionary people, refugees from the stern, logical rule of the Puritans, its laws are peculiar. On a Fourth of July in the ’Sixties, I inquired for brandy at an apothecary shop in Newport.

“I’m sorry I can’t let you have any, but the laws of the state forbid the sale of liquor to females,” said the salesman. My mortification may be imagined! On my explaining that the brandy was wanted, not for “reveling,” but for covering preserves, he kindly sold me some alcohol, declaring it to be “just as good” for my purpose.

Shortly afterward, my purse disappeared, and by the advice of friends I had the loss proclaimed by the town crier—a quaint old figure with his long beard and prehistoric hat. He alternately rang an immense bell and “cried” the lost article. His fee was a modest one, but I never recovered the purse. Was he recommended to me as a joke?

Summers at Lawton’s Valley were always delightful, but we especially enjoyed them when Aunt Louisa Crawford brought her children to stay at a neighboring farm-house. Marion Crawford, the novelist, was about two years old when they first came. With his three elder sisters, Annie, Jennie, and Mimoli, we had many merry times. Wading in the valley brook was a favorite pastime. As the stones were very slippery, we frequently fell down, and then appeared at the valley home a dripping crowd of little girls. As the farm where the Crawfords lived was some little distance away, our mother felt it to be her duty to provide raiment for her nieces as well as for her own children. She found these double drafts upon our wardrobe rather trying. Annie, the eldest daughter, was full of talent. We were inseparable companions and had a studio where we painted dolls and sets of jewelry—all on paper.

When she grew older she painted lovely designs in flowers. She also published anonymously at least one volume of stories which possessed merit. She had quite as much talent as her brother Marion, but lacked his power of application. Her Prussian Junker husband, Baron von Rabe, considered any literary activities as _infra dig._ for his wife. My aunt had the unspeakable sorrow of losing her second daughter, Jennie, when the latter was a young and lovely girl of nineteen. Mimoli, the third daughter, became the wife of Hugh Fraser, of the English diplomatic service. She is well known as a writer and is a woman of much personal charm. One of her sons and one of Marion Crawford’s have been killed in the present war.

According to family tradition I may claim the honor of inventing “Yellers’ Day.” The observance of the day flourished in full vigor only during our sojourn at Lawton’s Valley. We were accustomed to celebrate it on top of the hill behind the house, whence we had a view of Narragansett Bay. Our elders did not join us, but wisely permitted our activities. Hence “Yellers’ Day,” having no flavor of forbidden fruit, fell gradually into innocuous desuetude. The celebration described in the following letter has a melancholy interest as being in all probability the last of its kind.

_August 3, 1860._

DEAR PAPA,—Wednesday we had some young ladies to spend the day
and had a jolly time. At sunset we all went up on the rocks to
yell, for it was the 1st of August, “Yellers’ Day.” We made a
terrible noise and finally Mamma came to the door and said she
thought “St. Yeller was satisfied.” We had a very nice tea, and
in the evening, after looking at the moon, danced till we were
fairly worn out. The evening was wound up by Mr. Turner’s (the
brother of one of the young ladies, who came out about 6½)
knocking one-half of the gate off its hinges, which accident
gave us an opportunity of hopping onto the carriage steps and
renewing our vows of eternal friendship besides a great deal of
hugging and kissing.

Thomas Crawford, our uncle by marriage, came to the valley during one of these summers. He was one of the foremost American sculptors of his day, having designed some of the bronze doors at the Capitol, also the statue of Liberty that crowns the dome of the building. This is familiar to all Americans, since it has been reproduced on our five-dollar bills.

Uncle Crawford had worked beyond his strength and complained, that summer, of trouble in one of his eyes. I remember an excursion to the shores of the Bay, when Albert Sumner, the donor of our donkey, Uncle Crawford and my father were of the party. The gentlemen amused themselves with throwing sticks or stones into the water. This trivial scene impressed itself upon my memory because of the tragic death, not long afterward, of two of the actors in it. Albert Sumner, his wife and daughter were at this time planning a trip to Europe. Mr. Summer was a stout man, and some one jokingly remarked that fat people make good swimmers. This speech was sadly recalled to our minds when the steamer in which they sailed, the _Lyonnaise_, went to the bottom with all on board.

No particulars of their fate were known. It was said that in cases of shipwreck the law considered that the man would live longer than the woman, being stronger physically. Hence he and his heirs would inherit property. I notice that the law always has some very wise reason for favoring the man rather than the woman. The heirs of Albert Sumner and his daughter could thus have laid claim to such share of Mrs. Sumner’s property as he would have inherited, as the supposititious survivor. Charles Sumner and his family were not the sort of people to take advantage of any such legal quibble. Mrs. Albert Sumner was a woman of means and left heirs by a former husband, who very properly inherited her fortune.

Uncle Crawford also crossed the ocean, leaving his wife and children in America. The slight trouble in his eye grew gradually worse. In the midst of a winter of unprecedented severity Aunt Louisa started to rejoin him. Boston Harbor, whence all Cunard steamers then sailed, was frozen solid. It was necessary to postpone the start until a patch could be cut for the ship through the solid ice. In those days nothing was supposed to prevent the sailing of a Cunarder, but Jack Frost did delay it this once.

Mr. Crawford’s illness proved to come from a cancer behind the eye. He died after a long period of suffering.

Aunt Louisa, a woman of a most affectionate and sympathetic nature, was much worn with the long nursing and overcome with deep sorrow. She returned to America, dressed in mourning so deep that her sisters thought it excessive and unwholesome. It was said that her widow’s crape veil reached the ground, being double up to the eyes, and that her back never recovered from the bad effects of sustaining this load of mourning. A photograph of her taken at this time was marked “The over-solemn look.”

And yet, after a suitable interval of time, she married again, as the inconsolable usually do. Instead of smiling at the fickleness of the human mind, we should remember that for persons of a highly sympathetic nature the loneliness caused by the loss of a beloved helpmeet is almost insupportable. They must, for their own happiness, find another mate. The woman who can live alone, after the loss of her husband, is made of sterner stuff.

Lawton’s Valley is on the west side of the island of Aquidneck. On the east side lived Mr. Thomas R. Hazard—“Shepherd Tom,” as he was familiarly called—in the historic mansion of “Vaucluse,” the finest example of Colonial architecture north of Virginia. The grounds were worthy of the house. They were adorned with a labyrinth of box surrounding a sun-dial, and with a number of summer-houses scattered through groves of trees.

Mr. Hazard was a remarkable but eccentric person. He had a genuine love for his fellow-man and a hatred of tyranny and oppression. He did great service in securing better treatment for the insane in Rhode Island, as Dorothea Dix and my father did in Massachusetts.

After the death of his beautiful wife he became much absorbed in spiritualism. When we first made his acquaintance he was a widower with a delightful family of four daughters and one little boy.

The eldest, Fannie, kept house for her father, while a governess instructed the children. Mr. Hazard was the very soul of hospitality. Relations, young and old, made “Vaucluse” their headquarters for long stays during the summer, while friends also paid copious visits.

“Vaucluse” was liable to sudden inroads of aunts bringing their six children, even though there were already visitors in the house. The hospitality of those days was not confined to the South. My mother once jestingly said to our nearest neighbor that she kept a boarding-house.

“Well, if you do, then I keep a hotel,” replied Mrs. Anderson, whose large house was well filled by the family connection. To take high tea at “Vaucluse” was always delightful. I should be afraid to say how many people sat around the long, well-polished mahogany table. Yet there were always plenty of hot Indian-meal griddle-cakes, as well as other good things, for every one. When there were many guests, it was necessary to set the table a second time. Fannie, who presided over the household, was as hospitable as her father, but the strain of this heavy entertaining was too much for her strength. Her housekeeping ideals were high, and servants hard to get and to keep. In one of his crusades Mr. Hazard, who had been brought up in the Society of Friends or Quakers, attacked the Roman Catholic Church. This made it more difficult for him to procure servants, who, at that time, were almost all Roman Catholic Irishwomen.

So Fannie and her sisters did a great deal of the housework themselves. Mr. Hazard was a most devoted father, but, being extremely vigorous himself, he failed to realize that his daughters were of a less robust type. All four died before reaching the age of forty, three of tuberculosis.

He himself held various singular beliefs upon which he loved to expatiate to his friends. Chief among his hobbies was spiritualism. He would quote to my mother, as remarkable new truths, views with which she, a student of philosophy, was perfectly familiar. We were all gathered at the Anderson mansion one evening, to witness a clever exhibition of legerdemain by Mr. Elbert Anderson. After witnessing the various conjuror’s tricks, Mr. Hazard declared that they were done by spiritualism! When he was with difficulty convinced that they were not, he naïvely observed that just such things were done by spiritualists! Toward the end of his life, when his wife appeared to him as a materialized spirit, he gladly received some cotton lace from her celestial robe!

In the efficacy of Brandreth’s pills for typhoid fever and minor ills he was a fervent believer. Even calves he dosed with them. He scorned the aid of surgeons, holding that the only persons who could properly attend to broken bones were a certain family of Sweets, “natural bone-setters,” as they were called. In spite of all these eccentricities, he was a very intelligent man. His extreme credulity was due, in part, to lack of early education.

Many were the merry picnics that the Howes, Hazards and sometimes the Andersons had at the “Glen” and at “Paradise.” Lawton’s Valley itself was a favorite place for picnics when my father bought it. It was soon evident, however, that we and the public could not jointly use it, because the latter were so extremely inconsiderate. To have your place treated like an inn, to have strange omnibuses loaded with unknown people arrive without warning at your back door, destroys all privacy. The tendency of Americans to leave behind unpleasant mementoes in the shape of the débris of the feast, and to carry off floral tributes, is a thing to be deplored. It is to be hoped that our new Anglo-French alliance will teach our people to respect private property.

When the Civil War came, the Naval Academy was moved from Annapolis to Newport. The older classes were sent to take their part in the conflict, the younger remaining at Newport. Their coming brought gay doings for the young girls. Weekly hops were held on Saturday afternoons, aboard the famous old frigate _Constitution_. To these we all repaired, being rowed over in the ship’s boats. The dancing took place between decks where a very tall man might easily have bumped his head. The naval band furnished the music, a certain tune giving us a gentle hint to depart when the dance was over.

The midshipmen were extremely young, but so were we! I myself was nearly sixteen, but some of my partners looked to me like mere children. Others were old enough to be “real beaux.” However, we entered their names on our cards impartially and danced with them, young or old, as they came along. The gallant and ill-fated De Long was at Newport that summer, but I do not remember him among my partners.

A few young men who were not navy officers came to these hops. I remember among the dancers a tall, handsome fellow with fair hair. Some of the girls disapproved of him, thinking him dandified, because he wore a white tie. I, however, admired him and learned later, from one of the older girls, that he had said complimentary things about me. She did not, however, offer to introduce us, nor did I have the skill to manage an introduction. Whether dandified or not, W—— T—— was no slacker, but fought for his country on land, as the midshipmen did on the sea.

The next time I met him was on the New York boat. As my mother and I boarded it, to go to Boston, a figure shrouded in shawls emerged from the darkness of the boat, on his way to the shore. It was W—— T—— returning wounded to his aunt’s home in Newport, which we had just left. I never saw him again, for he went back to the army and was killed. So ended this shadow of a war romance!

Parties were given for the midshipmen both at Lawton’s Valley and at “Vaucluse.” The ice-cream for our entertainment missed connections, so David Hall, always obliging, was commissioned to drive to Newport and bring it out. Meantime the lady of his affections, the present writer, was left to philander about with the midshipmen. The feelings of the boy, who was not yet sixteen, as he drove the ice-cream, a chilling passenger, out in his buggy may be imagined!

Our cousin, Louisa Mailliard, a tall, slender girl of fourteen, very pretty and very mischievous, was then with us. One of the midshipmen, Mr. N——, became desperately infatuated with her. When the omnibus containing the young men was starting for Newport, he could not refrain from turning and gazing fondly at her.

“Eyes right!” sang out his mates, who made very merry over the lovesick swain.

The landsmen were jealous of the embryo sailors, and could not understand the attraction of the latter for the young girls. Some of our youthful friends arranged an expedition to Fort Adams, where a drill of the midshipmen was to be held. Cousin Louisa and I were the girls of the party, while the mother of one of the boys acted as matron. All went well during the sail across the harbor. But no sooner had we reached the landing than midshipmen appeared and we paired off quite happily, without paying the smallest attention to the boys who had brought us over.

This was not polite to our escorts, but we were very young and uniforms are ever attractive. Serenely we walked over the fort, the discarded boys grumbling ominously in our rear. We were too late for the drill, but we had a pleasant promenade, returning peacefully to our sail-boat.

As she drew away from the landing, one of the boys could contain his feelings no longer. He shouted his views of their conduct after the midshipmen on the wharf, in language sufficiently abusive. It was the same boy, David Hall, my future husband, who was obliged to conduct the ice-cream party! He _did_ have a hard time with the midshipmen!

The girls were extremely indignant. Of course we walked with the middies! What did they think we went over for? etc., etc. The return voyage was rather stormy. It transpired that _one_ of the boys, possessed of a meaner spirit than the others, had proposed sailing away without us!

The midshipmen were transferred later to the Atlantic House, one of the chief hotels of Newport in the early days. Here also were hops given, but they could not compare in fascination with the dances on board ship.

In the following letter sister Julia describes some of our “civilian” gaieties:

_Tuesday Morning, Aug. 13, 1861._

DEAR PAPA,— ... We have enjoyed Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Pratt[8]
exceedingly. What little jewels they are! Mrs. Dorr was to have
a party for the governor (Andrew) in the evening. Mamma decided
that it would not be very interesting for us girls, so we stayed
at home, expecting to entertain Woody, who we supposed would
arrive in the evening. What was our surprise when, at about half
past eight o’clock, a carriage arrived whose driver bore a
message from Mamma to the effect that we were to dress and go
into town to Mrs. Dorr’s house. What cogitation and agitation
followed can be only pictured by those who have a thorough
knowledge of young girls.

Mrs. Dorr had told Mamma, I believe, that the party would be
pleasant for us, and that she wished to have us come. So there
was a confusion and indecision, and brushing, braiding, and
curling, in our one little room, quite amusing to behold. How
the best white skirts were whisked about! How poor Ann and Mary
frisked up and down stairs! How much had to be done before,
fully prinked, we squeezed our crape and piña selves into the
little rockaway! But it makes even careless _me_ blush to think
of the state in which we left our room. What mountains of
skirts, sleeves, and gowns, with here and there a stray comb or
pomatum-pot, met the eye of the astonished bystander. And
yet,—would you believe it?—when we returned next day we found
the apartment in order. (Oh dear, Papa! I _never_ shall finish
this letter. Mamma is in the room, and she is so witty that I
write my words wrong.) Mrs. Pratt and Mrs. Bell looked finely,
as the graceful diminutive darlings always do.... In order that
they might all get into the carriage poor Mamma slipped
up-stairs and slipped off her crinoline. You cannot imagine how
droll her figure looked without it. Floss and I slept together
and a merry time we had. Of course we were somewhat excited by
the party, and the clock struck half past twelve before we
slept. Just think of us, your bread-and-butter nine o’clock
girls, being so dissipated! Mamma was to have had a party this
afternoon, but the weather is so stormy that no one has come. We
all dressed ourselves out in our best, but silks would not bring
visitors, so they have made a pleasant little circle down
stairs, and are chatting gaily.

Ever your loving

J.

Footnote 8:

Daughters of Rufus Choate.

During the Civil War Portsmouth Grove, some three miles away, became a military camp and hospital. The soldiers often strolled over to Lawton’s Valley, finding it a pleasant place in which to do their laundry work. This somewhat restricted the family’s use of the valley, although the soldiers were never uncivil.

One of the prominent figures in Newport life was that of George Bancroft, the historian. Like President Wilson, he was a schoolmaster turned politician. He had taught at the famous Round Hill School for Boys, and had also held various political offices, including that of Secretary of the Navy. Hence, if he came on board the _Constitution_ while we were there, our ears were deafened by the official salute, sixteen guns, as I think, fired in his honor. Greatness certainly has its inconveniences.

He was already gray when I first remember him, but slender and active. Evidently he felt much younger than he looked. It was rumored that he said to one young lady, “_Call me George_.” In a word, he was inclined at this time to be “frisky.”

He and his wife set an example of steadfast loyalty to the Union, in Newport, where there was a good deal of secession sentiment among the summer residents early in the Civil War. I remember a party at their house, where we school-girls as well as our elders were present. We had patriotic recitations, everything being done in the pleasant, informal fashion of that day. It was after this party that my mother made her “Remember R——n” resolve.

In a spirit of pure fun, she rallied this gentleman on his attentions to one of the young girls present who was hardly more than a child. Mr. R—— solemnly asseverated that Mrs. Howe was entirely mistaken. On her return home, she declared her intention of hanging up a placard reading, “Remember R——n,” as a warning to her never to try to joke with persons devoid of a sense of humor.

Mrs. Bancroft set a good example by substituting gray silk or thread gloves for kid during the Civil War. She attended the Unitarian church, where Rev. Charles T. Brooks then officiated. He was a genial and delightful man, whose buoyant spirit made it wholly unnecessary to affect youth. Mr. Brooks never seemed to grow old, though he lived to be seventy or more. He was a German scholar and translated Goethe’s “Faust” into English verse. He enjoyed Teutonic humor, preparing for the church fairs numerous booklets with little German jokes and illustrations.

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XI

ANTI-SLAVERY AND CIVIL WAR MEMORIES

_Deep Interest of My Parents in the Anti-Slavery Movement and in the
Civil War.—We Learn the Evil of Compromise.—A Trip to
Kansas.—Manners on the Mississippi Steamboats.—Fort Sumter Is
Attacked.—Mother’s Poems of the War.—Father’s Work on the Sanitary
Commission.—How the Flag Was Treated at Newport.—We Ride in the
“Jeff Davis.”_