Chapter I: CANNOT remember when my father began his anti-slavery work, because at (2)

Another burlesque was that of the trio in the opera of “Lucrezia Borgia.” Mr. Otto Dresel played the air on the piano, while my mother enacted the title rôle. Hamilton Wilde represented her son, Gennaro, while the Duke’s part was taken by William Hunt, if I remember aright. All three joined hands in a line, keeping time to the music with exaggerated operatic motions. Mr. Wilde indicated his sufferings from poison, before the arrival of the antidote. It was extremely funny.

At our house in Chestnut Street the Brain Club was entertained by two charades written by my mother, “Pandemonium” and “Catastrophe.”

For “Cat” a scene was adapted from the classic but terrible story of Atreus and Thyestes. The unfortunate owner of the animal has it served up to her in a pie. After she has eaten it the dreadful nature of the pasty is revealed to her!

For “Ass” the second syllable, we acted the scene from “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” where Titania makes love to Bottom. Mr. James C. Davis took the latter part, wearing an ass’s head borrowed from the theater, while I took that of the Fairy Queen.

My mother was always proud of our small accomplishments. Her journal says that Flossy looked beautiful. Doubtless I did—to her maternal eyes.

The President of the Brain Club was called Mrs. Josiah Quincy, Jr., because her husband’s father, a very old gentleman, was still living. The four generations, all having the same name, had their photographs taken in a group when the youngest was only a babe in arms. This carrying on of the family name appeals to sentiment, but is not convenient in practice. The third Josiah Quincy, finding unutterable confusion in his mail, adopted a middle initial in self-defense. He thus became Josiah _P._ Quincy. His brother, Samuel Quincy, fought in the Civil War.

Their sister, Mary Quincy, had a fine contralto voice. We often saw her and her husband, Prof. B. A. Gould, as well as her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Josiah Quincy, Jr. I remember the former as a handsome man with beautiful snow-white hair and whiskers. These had turned prematurely, as he was still a vigorous man who took the trouble to make himself agreeable to the young. Perhaps this was owing to his political experience, for he had been Mayor of Boston. The house in Park Street was one of a series of spacious, pleasant residences, occupied by the Lowells, the Thomas Wards, the Misses Quincy, and other worthies of Boston. The last-named ladies were sisters of the ex-Mayor. Both he and they had pleasant summer places in Quincy, one of which has now become the Quincy Mansion School for Girls.

Unitarianism, as all the world knows, became firmly intrenched in Boston in the early part of the nineteenth century. Many Puritan ideals still prevailed, however, especially with regard to the observance of Sunday. Certain persons adhered to the idea that no gay doings should take place on Saturday evening, that time being devoted to preparation for the Sabbath. These were usually plain people. Indeed, some individuals went so far as to disapprove of the celebration of Christmas. It was not uncommon to substitute New Year’s Day as the time to exchange presents. The students at Harvard College were obliged to go to all the services of whatever church they attended. Hence many of them selected our church, that of the Disciples, since here there was only one service on Sunday. During the week, attendance at morning chapel was compulsory, the hour being six and in later years seven o’clock. Small wonder that the undergraduate body learned to dress in a very short space of time, high boots and an ulster covering many deficiencies.

The young Howes were always taken to church in the morning, but were free to spend the rest of Sunday very much as they liked. We were not expected to practise on the piano, however, and we entertained the usual superstition about the impropriety, not to say evil, of sewing on Sunday. Our aunt, Mrs. Crawford, who lived during the greater part of her life in Italy, brought back to us more liberal ideas about the use of the needle.

While we often took a drive on Sunday afternoon, I went with the feeling that it was not quite right, so strong was the influence of the prevalent opinion in the community.

My father liked to have us read aloud from the Bible on Sunday evening, and we often did so while living in South Boston. The friends of the family found it pleasant and convenient to come to high tea on that day, so that at “Green Peace” we often had a tableful of guests. After the removal to Boston these Sunday teas developed into evening receptions of a pleasant and informal character. For these our mother was duly taken to task by a lady who held the old-fashioned view of the day. In spite of this rebuke our mother continued serenely on her way. To entertain her friends was as essential to her happiness as to read and study. My father once said that if she were alone on a desert island, with one old negro, she would manage to have a party!

It had, indeed, required effort on her part, and on that of her friends, to have entertainments in South Boston. At No. 13 Chestnut Street it was much easier. Among the pleasant people who came there were William Hunt, the artist, and his wife. Her handsome and intelligent face lit up with interest and animation as she talked. I remember a little dinner at the Hunt house where my mother and I were the only guests. Mr. Hunt told us various anecdotes of the French circus—then known as the Hippodrome; of an old woman of eighty who still danced on the tight rope. He showed us how the little old bowed figure looked as she came forward to take her part in the performance.

He related, too, the story of two men, one standing on the top of a tall staff, the second performing on a tight rope attached to it. One day, as the latter was testing the rope, it snapped in two! He never loosened his grasp on his balance-pole, never lost his erect position, falling, splendid as Lucifer, through the fifty or more feet of air, till his feet struck the ground. Both legs were broken.

Among the interesting guests at No. 13 Chestnut Street were Celia Thaxter and her husband. She was handsome and looked like the woman of spirit that she undoubtedly was. What she said I cannot, alas! remember.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes was in those days the most brilliant and delightful of talkers. Not only did he talk without effort, but it seemed to require an effort on his part to maintain silence. His very mouth looked as if it were ready to overflow into brilliant conversation of its own accord, and one fancied that he was obliged to exercise a certain restraint over it.

I remember a dinner at our house where Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rev. William R. Alger, John Weiss, and Doctor Holmes were the guests. The witty doctor became fairly launched on the stream of his own brilliant conversation, and let us into certain of his professional secrets by telling us something of his methods of composition and of the moods in which he wrote. I listened to this talk with a feeling akin to awe at being allowed to come so near to the sacred places of genius. The poet was inspired by his theme, and was led on, by the unfolding of his thought, to lay bare the secrets of his soul. It was a wonderful talk, and one could scarcely listen to it without emotion.

When Doctor Holmes went away he said to his hostess, by way of apology for having talked so much, “Well, I have told you a great deal about myself to-day.” Whereupon another member of the company, himself a literary man, but of a less expansive nature than the Doctor, said, with emphasis, “Others could have told of their experiences, too, Doctor, if you had given them a chance.”

During the Civil War my father and Doctor Holmes were among the medical men appointed to examine those who sought to escape the draft on the ground of physical disability. Among them was one very large young man who had evidently outgrown his strength. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table was short and slight. There was such a contrast in the size of the two that the witty doctor thought it would be amusing if he, the little man, should examine the big one. So he called out, “Let me examine him, Doctor, let me examine him!” He accordingly proceeded to percuss the young giant.

Doctor Holmes liked better to talk than to listen, as the title which he assumed, “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,” plainly shows. When my mother decided to give a course of talks on philosophical subjects, in the parlors of our house, she invited Doctor Holmes to be one of the guests. Meeting her in the street one rainy day, he explained to her at length why he was not interested in hearing other people lecture, the pair meanwhile walking up and down under their umbrellas.

On another occasion, when both had been listening to an uninteresting lecture, Doctor Holmes said he would as lief hear potatoes poured from one barrel into another!

Ralph Waldo Emerson was from time to time a visitor at our house. He was of the tall, slender New England type, with blue eyes and the large nose which is thought to indicate force. At the time of the execution of John Brown he compared the gallows on which the old man perished to the cross. A little later he was in the company of some conservative people who were shocked at this comparison. They asked Mr. Emerson if he had made it, and, without attempting to palliate or explain, he replied that he had said something of the sort.

In my youth the following remarks were attributed to him.

“Church? What is church? I do not see church, I do not hear church, I do not smell church!” It is very possible that he did make them, yet he was a man essentially devout, the descendant of a line of clergymen. When a distinguished clergyman of the Church of England came to America, some years later, he declared that, whoever occupied the pulpit, Emerson was always the preacher! Time thus brought to the latter a splendid revenge for the small satires of earlier days.

His table talk was fresh, quaint and delightful. Yet he was, on the whole, rather silent than talkative in company, as became the author of this passage:

“When people come to see us, we foolishly prattle, lest we be inhospitable. But things said for conversation are chalk eggs. Don’t _say_ things. What you are stands over you the while and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.”

If this saying bears too hard upon women, we may comfort ourselves with another dictum of his, “Woman, if not the queen, is the lawgiver of conversation.” While great men like Mr. Emerson may sit serenely silent, the feminine instinct bids us try, at least, to be agreeable!

The Sage of Concord, as he was called, staying one night at a hotel in Boston, received a long visit from a literary man who, rising to go at a late hour, said, “I am to give a lecture on Plato to-morrow and I haven’t written the first word of it yet.” To which Mr. Emerson, horrified at such carelessness, replied, “Good God!” This gentleman was Emanuel Scherb, a habitué of our house at one time. His negligence perhaps arose from the fact that he had once been insane. He then imagined that he was a monkey. A knowledge of this lingered in my mother’s subconscious mind. She once talked with him about monkeys, until she suddenly remembered his former delusion!

Mr. Emerson did not answer the persons who wrote to him asking for his autograph, even if they generously enclosed a stamp. It was said that his family found these stamps useful for their correspondence. Mrs. Emerson foresaw, at the beginning of the Civil War, that there would be a great rise in the price of cotton cloth. Hence she wisely laid in a closetful of this important commodity.

Rev. William Rounceville Alger was one of the “intellectuals” of whom we saw a good deal. For a time he occupied Theodore Parker’s pulpit in Music Hall, where sister Maud enjoyed hearing him preach. I fear that we classed him as one of “mamma’s owls.” We so called, in a general way, the men of literary taste with whom she liked to converse. Among the persons of note who dined with us at 13 Chestnut Street was Mr. Olcott, vegetarian and reformer, now best known as the father of Louisa Olcott. He spoke of his poetic views about foodstuffs, declaring that grains were to be preferred to roots, since the former grew above the ground, hence nourished our higher faculties, whereas the latter, being of the earth, must be earthy. This singular theory did not appeal to my father, nor, indeed, to any of us, Carlyle said of it, “Olcott and his potato gospel won’t go down here.”

He held “conversations,” at one of which he observed, apropos of cannibalism, that if we were to eat flesh at all, he did not see why we should not eat the best. Whereupon Mr. Coolidge, a gentleman of a literal turn of mind, was so horrified that he made a bee-line for the door. Mr. Olcott kept a school at one time where punishment was vicarious: if the children did wrong they were to punish him. For the offenses of one of Mr. Olcott’s daughters, L—— L——, a very good little girl, received correction. One of the many stories told of this gentleman was that he believed persons of fair hair and blue eyes were children of light who need not labor, whereas dark-haired individuals were children of darkness appointed to perform the work of the world. Mr. Olcott himself had fair hair and blue eyes, but his wife was dark!

My father gave some breakfasts for gentlemen at the Chestnut Street house. I remember one where Alexander Hamilton, son of the great Federalist, was present and told various interesting stories. Among the family relics we have found a tiny lock of the hair of the statesman, sent by his son to my father.

My mother was away from home when one of these breakfasts took place, and I sat at the head of the table as lady of the house. I appreciated the honor, although it was rather overpowering to be the only woman present.

To No. 13 Chestnut Street, as well as to “Green Peace,” came clever and delightful women. The most original and brilliant of these was Mrs. Helen Bell, wife of Joseph Bell and the daughter of Rufus Choate, a famous lawyer of that day and a relative of Joseph H. Choate. She and her sister, Mrs. Ellerton Pratt, were a most charming and unique couple. They kept up a running fire of absurd sayings in which Yankee exaggeration played its part.

Thus when some one declared that a certain German gentleman had objectionable manners at table, Mrs. Bell exclaimed: “What do you suppose he does? Do his feet fly up over his head, after every mouthful, or does he throw the tender vegetables about!”

She had clear-cut features and a beautiful head, with wavy hair of a reddish tint. After crimping came into fashion, she remarked, “I put my hair up on lamp-wicks overnight, and people say I look like a Roman emperor.” Mrs. Pratt, with her fair hair and blue eyes, was very pretty and had a certain childlike expression of countenance that was very attractive. I never was so fortunate as to hear Mrs. Bell sing. Since her death, a few months ago, an old friend has thus described her singing, “To listen to the deep tones of that pathetic voice, song after song coming through the twilight, was an emotional experience never to be forgotten.” Mrs. Bell also played very well on the piano. Our master, Otto Dresel, once arranged that we should play together a concerto of Bach’s for three pianos, Miss Charlotte Heminway playing on the third, while he took the part of the orchestra on the fourth. We were obliged to practise in Chickering’s music-rooms, no private house containing so many instruments. I took much pleasure and pride in the performance, which was simply for our own gratification and improvement.

It may have been apropos of this concerto of Bach’s that Mr. Dresel said to my mother, “I have created Flossy.” I greatly enjoyed my music and it was cordially appreciated by our friends. In these days I often played—usually duets with Mr. Dresel—at our informal parties. A young friend, Miss Emily Appleton, gave a musical evening where each of us played some piece on the piano. Mr. Dresel’s constant drill, and a flexibility of fingering inherited from my mother, gave me an advantage over the others. The young friends were surprised, but generously praised my performance of a piece which called for rapid and constant motion of the fingers.

The express horses of the ’Sixties must have been very lively animals, for they managed to run away with our grand piano and to damage it materially. The instrument belonging to our friends, the Sam G. Wards, needed repairing at the same time. Mr. Dresel used to say jokingly that at the Chickering factory they had simply exchanged the actions of the two pianos!

Charlotte Heminway was the eldest daughter of Augustus Heminway and Mrs. Mary Heminway, whose memory is revered on account of her noble charities. Charlotte herself, a friend of sister Julia, was a young woman of fine character and promise. One day in New York, being in haste to reach the station, she and a party of friends hailed a passing hack. After entering it they noticed a peculiar odor. On her return to Boston this eldest and especially beloved daughter of the house died of a virulent fever, supposed to be typhus.

Among the clever and agreeable women who came to No. 13 Chestnut Street were two daughters of the Rev. Mr. Greenwood—Mrs. James Lodge and Mrs. William Howe. A third was Mrs. Charles Homans, daughter of our opposite neighbor, Rev. Samuel K. Lothrop. A handsome woman to the end of her days, she was then young, albeit her hair was turning gray.

In the ’Sixties Boston observed New Year’s Day as a fitting time to take account of stock. A few people followed the custom, then prevalent in New York, of receiving callers. Our mother, remembering the customs of her youth, was one of the first to do this, inviting a number of gentlemen to call. Mrs. Homans helped us receive one New Year’s Day, adding to the pleasure of the occasion by her presence and conversation.

Although she and my mother took opposite views of the suffrage question, they always maintained a cordial friendship. Mrs. Homans was active in public work of a charitable nature, interesting herself especially in prisoners.

Sister Julia and I enjoyed the intellectual society of our elders, yet we also had friends of our own age. Among these were two young men of promise, William Washburn and William James, well known later as the psychologist. The latter was a most genial and delightful person. When the question came up, possibly apropos of the Mormons, of the propriety of polygamy, he was inclined to think it might be a good thing to have more than one wife. I suggested that from the woman’s side of the question it would _not_ be desirable.

When he returned from Brazil he told us that the inhabitants beckoned with the whole hand, instead of with extended forefinger, as was then the custom in America. Finding it difficult to make out prices, he confidingly extended a handful of silver, allowing the Brazilians to pick out the proper amount.

William Washburn, who was a friend of William James, wrote a book of stories about Harvard, but did not make literature his profession. Henry James the younger, as he then was, came to see us occasionally, but we never knew him well. The coldness of his temperament was in strong contrast to the warmth and geniality of his brother’s. He was then pale, and looked, as I thought, like the great Napoleon. I believe that he was not in good health at that time, and possibly he was shy. Great was our surprise when he declared that some one was a hog. Who this selfish person was I cannot remember, but Henry James was ordinarily so calm that this forcible denunciation was startling. At a later period my mother grew to know him better and had real affection for him.

We knew also the two younger brothers, Wilkie and Robertson, who were pleasant fellows. Both fought in the Civil War, Wilkie being badly wounded.

Henry James, Sr., was a man of as much talent as his distinguished sons, although never so well known. He was a follower of Swedenborg, but did not consider that the Swedenborgian Church interpreted correctly the writings of the great mystic. I read with interest one of his books, _Substance and Shadow_, in which he expressed himself with vigor and originality. Mr. James knew that I was interested in his writings. Hence, when he saw me at the conclusion of his address at the Radical Club he exclaimed, reproachfully:

“You here, Flossy!”

“Why, Mr. James, I came to hear you!”

With the delightful inconsequence of the Irish mind, he regretted seeing me at so unorthodox a meeting, not reflecting that he was the magnet which brought me there!

My father’s experience as the head of two large institutions had shown him that, through changes in fortune, many women who never expected to earn their own living are obliged to do so. He thought all should be so educated as to be able to support themselves. Hence I was taught bookkeeping, and kept, for some years, the books of the School for Idiotic and Feeble-minded Youth. These included a ledger on the double-entry system, and obliged me to take from time to time a trial balance. On one occasion I carelessly overdrew the bank-account. The check went to protest, causing me an expense of two dollars or more and some mortification. The father of one of the inmates, finding that his correspondent was “Madam” and not “Sir,” wrote me in rather gallant style. Otherwise the work was calm and uneventful. I was paid a small salary, which helped out my allowance for dress. “The Town of Lee” was one of the headings in my ledger, this town being responsible for the maintenance of Charles Keep, who had a genius for catching rats without any trap. Why they did not bite his fingers is a mystery. At one time the authorities at the school were puzzled by a shortage in the milk. It was discovered that the feeble-minded boys who brought the cans from the Institution for the Blind, finding the load rather heavy, lightened it by pouring out part of the milk on the road!

Usually these poor children did not display special talent. I remember one who was proud of having only a single hand—a pride not more unreasonable than that often shown by persons of intelligence in matters for which they can not justly claim any credit. Another boy had such an exaggerated fear of Sabbath-breaking that his teacher was in despair on Sunday afternoons. If she proposed any occupation with the slightest tinge of secularity, Charlie would reject it with the simple explanation, “Hell!” The parents in many cases wrote an illiterate hand. The postal authorities were wont to indorse on letters bearing a cryptic address, “Try Doctor Howe.” Everybody who wanted help did “try Doctor Howe”—the rich as well as the poor. Thus while few of the mentally deficient children of the well-to-do came to the Institution, many were brought to his office in Bromfield Street for examination and advice. These he gave gladly, never charging any fee for his services.

Sister Julia, soon after leaving school, took up as her work teaching at the Institution for the Blind. For this she never received any remuneration, nor did she wish any. She was one of the most unworldly persons whom I have ever seen. While enjoying, in a natural, healthy way, the pleasures of this life as they came to her, the things of the mind and of the spirit were to her the true realities. The bond of affection between her and my father was especially strong. “Darlingest, Firstest, and Best Born” he calls her in one of his letters. It was a pleasure to see them start together for the daily trip to the Institution for the Blind at South Boston. Having special talent for languages, she here taught Latin, German and French. She also read aloud in English to some of the inmates.

A few years later, Mr. (afterward “Sir”) Francis Campbell, who had held a responsible position under my father, founded and carried on with much success “Norwood College” near London. This was the first school for the blind in England conducted on modern principles. My father did all in his power to help on the new enterprise, lending several teachers from the institution under his charge to start it. Among them was Miss Faulkner, who later became Lady Campbell.

Some of the American teachers were blind and had been sister Julia’s pupils. It was reported to us that, when traveling on the Continent of Europe, they found her instruction of real help.

In the late ’Sixties Boston was stirred by a ludicrous incident which ended in a tragedy. Three commuters, society men, had turned over a seat on a railway train and were chatting together when a stranger approached and took the vacant place. He was a large man, cumbered with a toy baby-carriage, and his presence disturbed the group of friends, who plainly showed their annoyance. When the interloper arose to go he said to one of the group, “Sir, you are no gentleman!” According to the masculine code, there is only one answer to this remark, although to a mere woman striking a man is a strange argument to prove that you are a gentleman. Mr. X., a small man with a quick temper, delivered the answer on the nose of the offender, knocking off and breaking his glasses. The bearer of the baby-carriage was a pacifist. He did not retort in kind, but brought suit against Mr. X. for assault and battery. The case was complicated by the fact that the three friends, of whom one at least was a director of the railroad, were thought by some of the traveling public to behave too much as if they owned the railway. It was a sort of town-and-gown affair. Hence when the lawyer for the defense made the mistake of treating the whole as a pure joke, the judge was angered and condemned Mr. X. to three months in prison. Having served this severe sentence, Mr. X. and his family left the United States, never to return.

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XIV

OUR LABORS IN BEHALF OF CRETE

_Removal to Boylston Place.—W. D. Howells.—Marion Crawford as a Boy.—The
Romance of a Fire.—The Cretan Insurrection.—Sisters Julia and Laura
Accompany Our Parents to Greece.—A Grim Passenger.—A Price Is Set on
My Father’s Head.—Our Cretan Sewing-circle and Concert.—Over-modest
Amateurs.—The Sumner Bronzes._

IN the autumn of 1865 we left No. 13 Chestnut Street, greatly to our regret. The owner of the house, Mr. Sargent, decided to live there himself, so we moved to No. 19 Boylston Place. My father never approved of this locality, as it was on made ground and rather low. It had been a part of old Mr. ——’s garden. However, I do not think it affected the health of the family unfavorably. Having some trouble with the drainage, he sent for the Master of the Drains. This official looked exactly as one might guess from his title—quaint, seedy, with bloodshot eyes. I suspect Boston did not then have a sewerage system.

The move from Chestnut Street had been a hurried one, as my father hoped almost to the last to find a situation better to his liking than Boylston Place. I was now at the age, twenty years, when young people feel the responsibility of the world resting heavily on their shoulders. During the preparations for removal I flew up and down stairs and attempted to do a hundred things, without any regard for my own strength, which I supposed to be unlimited. The result was a strain that affected my health unfavorably for some years. The fault was my own, as no one had asked or expected me to do so much.

In these years I began to be interested in charitable work, conducting a sewing-school for poor children at our own house. Occasionally our sittings were interrupted by the merry raids of the young Howes, who launched sponges and other missiles at my scholars. The latter took refuge under the dining-room table, but appreciated the sport of the affair. When my father looked in upon the children at work his face lit up with a beautiful smile that was more than reward enough for my small efforts.

In our frequent drives between South Boston and Boston we passed through a somewhat squalid tenement-house district. Concern for the people dwelling there now began to oppress me, and I made efforts, though not always wise ones, to help them.

Among my protégées was a Mrs. Wallace, a stalwart Irish woman with several children, whose husband had pains in his legs whenever he held the baby. We started her in a fruit-stand and made various efforts in her behalf. She was later arrested for some misdemeanor and it required several policemen to take her, struggling all the way, to the station-house.

A very unpleasant though amusing incident of our life at Boylston Place was the arrival of a box containing six semi-wild cats, sent to my father by our friend, Mr. Thomas R. Hazard, as a species of joke When the box was opened the cats flew out of it, scattering in every direction. Fortunately for the Howe family, some of them escaped from the house. The most troublesome one persisted in rushing up the chimney-place in my room whenever we approached her.

About this time the family narrowly escaped a serious danger. One evening my mother, being up late, noticed on the ceiling a slight discoloration; she also thought she heard a low tick-tick as of flames. Being very sleepy, she reasoned thus with herself: “Even if there should be a fire and we should be burned up, why, then David and Flossy could be married.”

Arousing herself from this strange altruistic vein, she called my father. In time of danger he was in his element. He speedily chopped open the floor of the parlor and the flames appeared! Meantime, brother Harry, hastily attired, rushed out for a policeman. The latter showed very languid interest.

“Fire—where?”

“At No. 19 Boylston Place.”

“O Lord!” ejaculated the officer of the law, and rushed for the spot. His own home was next door!

On the other side of us lived Mrs. Richards and her five stalwart sons. Whenever our furnace sent out smoke, it went into the Richards’ house. Hence the young men, smelling smoke, came in to see what was wrong with us. Sister Laura, who was a very pretty and charming girl, roused suddenly from sleep, appeared barefoot upon the scene, with her fine hair floating over her shoulders. Two or three years later she married the youngest of the fire-fighters.

I was staying in New York at the time, and so missed the great scene of the fire. It was put out without much damage.

It will be judged from my mother’s remark that my engagement was a long one, my fiancé being a young lawyer studying in his father’s office. During the five years that elapsed before our marriage I found it pleasant to make visits in New York, staying with Great-uncle Richard Ward. He possessed the courtly manners of a gentleman of the old school, his diction being somewhat old-fashioned. Thus he frequently said, “No, lady,” or “Yes, lady,” a form of address now used chiefly by dependents. Uncle Richard was a thorough Ward, of tall and massive frame, though not at all stout. He had been six feet four inches tall in his younger days, and wore number eleven gloves, it was said. His shoes were on the same scale. During the life of Uncle John (when the two brothers lived together) there was a room at the rear of the house devoted to their footgear. It was a veritable acreage of shoes which resembled small cradles. Leather was then supposed to last longer if boots were given a rest instead of being used constantly. Uncle Richard wore one of the hideous wigs of the period, having lost his hair many years before. A family tradition declared that, from the receding of the gums, his teeth had all dropped out while still sound. He received us always with great kindness and hospitality. The only drawback to the pleasure of a visit at No. 8 Bond Street was the temperature of the house, which was cold for our modern taste. In addition to an old-fashioned and rather ineffectual furnace there were pleasant open-grate fires in all the rooms. We soon learned that we must not poke these too much when Uncle Richard was present, for a temperature comfortable to us was distressing to him. As we sat playing whist of an evening, he would get up and leave the room from time to time, in order to cool off in the hall.

He made it a point of pride not to wear an overcoat, and seldom did so, though he dressed very warmly beneath his invariable black suit. What he should wear on a cold day became in his later years a serious question. He would call in consultation his faithful old retainer. Mary Oliver would sometimes decide the matter by weighing the clothes!

Uncle Richard was very much interested in genealogy and took great pride in his ancestors. He informed me that the boys at school looked with respect on his brothers and himself because they were descended from four Governors! Dear deluded man! How could he so misunderstand boy nature! I’ve no doubt their schoolmates treated the brothers with due respect, the Wards being a large and powerful race. It is more prudent not to offend bigger boys.

He was showing me one day an old family Bible in which the names of seven generations of Wards were inscribed. Seeing a visitor come up the front steps, he closed the book.

“Now, my dear, we will not talk about ancestors before Mr. So-and-so,” he observed. “Because if we speak of these before other people, they also talk about theirs, _and that is not so interesting_!”

I do not think he wrote any account of his forebears, leaving that for his successor in the cult, Cousin John Ward. The latter does not mention the fourth awe-inspiring Governor, but perhaps he was on the distaff side.

William Dean Howells was one of the noted people who came to see us in Boylston Place. Sister Julia and I fancied that he looked like an amiable Richard III. His black hair was parted in the middle—a thing not usual in the ’Sixties. Although cut short, it strayed over his forehead in a way to suggest the close-cropped hair of the medieval knight, while his dark complexion, short, compact figure, and something unusual about his face, suggested this resemblance to us. The comparison was not invidious, because we admired Edwin Booth in the rôle of Richard III.

We were interested in Mr. Howells’s india-rubbers, they were so small! Mr. and Mrs. Frank Leslie, with Mrs. Squiers, also spent an evening with us. Both ladies were in full evening dress, doubtless supposing the occasion would be a formal one. Mrs. Squiers was a striking-looking person whose face did not recommend itself to me. After the death of the first wife, she became the second Mrs. Frank Leslie. All suffragists owe her a debt of gratitude for her generous gift of her fortune to our cause.

One of our delightful visitors in these days was our cousin-german Frank, known later as Marion Crawford, the novelist. He was sent to this country to receive his early education, spending several years at St. Paul’s School in Concord, New Hampshire. He was now about ten years old, a handsome, freshfaced boy, very much interested in locomotives. He brought a number of engravings of these, which I politely examined, in spite of my perfect indifference to engines of all sorts. In later years my youngest son, discovering with pain this trait in his mother’s character, observed, reflectively:

“It must be strange not to be interested in locomotives.”

“No, Jack, it is _not_ strange at all!”

Young Crawford was as full of fun as other boys of his age. With brother Harry he performed various antics at the house of my aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, in Bordentown, New Jersey. Her family were surprised, when walking in the garden, to see the stand of the lost rocking-horse protruding from the chimney!

Dear old Mr. Joseph Greene Cogswell, who had been the first librarian of the Astor Library, was sitting quietly by the fire when boots suddenly came down the chimney. With perfect gravity he picked these out of the fire with the tongs, causing great amusement to the naughty boys watching above.

Sister Julia was ten years older than Frank, but they were great chums. During one of our periodical stays at the Institution for the Blind they bought cream-cakes with the money given them for car fare, and walked the two or more miles from Boston to South Boston with cheerful hearts!

During our residence in Boylston Place my father did some of his writing in the house and asked us to make no noise near his room. We were so young and thoughtless as to think this request unreasonable. True, we knew, in a general way, that he was writing the report for the Massachusetts Board of State Charities, but this meant little to us. In later years we came to understand what labor and fatigue the task involved, for the board was the pioneer body of its kind in the United States. My father’s wide experience made it inevitable that he should be summoned to sit on it. “The Nestor and Achilles of public charities in Massachusetts” soon became the chairman. In a series of annual reports he advocated a system of dealing with the dependent classes which was accepted and still remains in force, not only in Massachusetts, but in many other states and in some European countries.

Public institutions, he declared, should be built only in the last resort. The dependent classes should be diffused through the community, not gathered together. Children should be cared for in families, not in institutions. Defectives should be brought together only for purposes of instruction. They should not live together in homes, as their peculiarities thus become more strongly developed, but with normal people.

As a pioneer in eugenics he strongly disapproved of the policy of certain trustees of the Reform School for Girls. These wished to bury in oblivion the former bad life of the young women, allowing young men to marry them without any warning of their past misbehavior. My father knew this was all wrong and so declared, drawing upon himself sarcastic denunciations from the unwise trustees.

When it was proposed to build a large institution at Winthrop, he wrote to the newspapers, showing the evil of congregating so many people under one roof.

An unexpected ally appeared in a correspondent who wrote Doctor Howe, approving the stand he had taken “because, although it is not generally known, there are lions and tigers under the proposed site of the institution!”

My father’s labors have often seemed to me like those of Hercules. He succeeded in them because he had great confidence in the benevolence of his fellow-men; he knew they would respond to appeals made in the right spirit, if matters were clearly explained.

“Obstacles are things to be overcome,” was one of his mottoes. “_Qui facit per alium, facit per se_,” was another.

So long as the deed was done, it mattered not to him who did it or who received the praise. If some one else could carry out his plan, he was off to the next task. He was too busy to give any time to the recording of his own accomplishments. Hence he had all the more for the work in hand.

In 1866 came the stirring news of the revolt of Crete against her Mohammedan oppressors. The island had earned its freedom with the rest of Greece in the war of independence, but by a cruel stroke of diplomacy had been put back under the heel of the Turk.

We shudder in the year 1918 at the cruelties of the Germans, the self-styled Huns. Yet they were once Christians and some remains of Christian thought and practice still linger among their soldiery. But the Turks have always been barbarians. In the early days of the rising of 1866–68 we learned with horror of the fate of the brave and desperate Cretans who, gathered together in church or fortress, blew themselves into eternity rather than fall into the savage hands of the Turks. Men did the same thing in the Greek revolution, to escape the same terrible fate!

My father was now sixty-five years old. Yet “he heard the voice of Greece calling him,” and he answered the call, as he had answered it nearly half a century before.

Then he had gone, in the enthusiasm of his bright youth, alone to a strange land, whose language he did not speak. _Now_ he at once called a meeting in Music Hall, Boston, where Edward Everett Hale, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips, the silver-tongued orator, and others spoke.

My father presided and made a brief speech:

“I knew hundreds of them [the Cretans]—good men and true. I had been in their beautiful island, had stood a siege with them in one of their beleaguered fortresses, and witnessed their courage.... I see them now, the sons of my old companions, in their snowy chemise and their shaggy capote, saying, sadly, ‘Good-by, mother! Good-by, sister and child! Seek your refuge in the neighboring isles, upon the main, wherever the hand of Christian mercy may aid you. We go to the mountains to keep the flag of freedom flying as long as we live!’ My friends, these unfortunate women and children are now suffering as many of their mothers suffered forty years ago. Your fathers and your mothers relieved them. Will you not relieve their children?”

Of course they would and did. Thirty-seven thousand dollars were raised, and in March, 1867, my father sailed for Greece, to be once more the almoner of American charity.

The Cretan refugees had been obliged to fly hastily, and were in a destitute, almost naked condition. The good women of Boston responded to this call by forming sewing-circles to make clothing for these exiles.

I inaugurated one among my young friends, but looked in vain for a president. I appealed to Emily Russell, who had held this office in a similar society.

“Why aren’t you the president yourself?” she suggested. The idea had not previously occurred to me, as I had had no experience. However, I accepted her advice, learning then that if you start an enterprise you must expect to take the responsibility on your own shoulders.

Just what kind of undergarments the women of the Orient wore we did not know. Fortunately for us, a circle of older ladies took the responsibility, cutting out for us pattern “togas” and “pajamas.” They were of unbleached muslin—or cotton cloth. The price of this had been seventy-five cents a yard during the Civil War, and was still very high in 1867.

We were merry over the naming of the garments and over their unusual shape. My mother, who assisted in the distribution of the clothing to the refugees at Athens, tells us that they were suitable in pattern and quality.

One or more of our meetings were held at the Institution for the Blind, where Laura Bridgman, despite her lack of sight and hearing, ran the sewing-machine for us.

The year 1867 and a good part of 1868 were largely occupied with work for the Cretan cause. My mother and sisters, Julia and Laura, accompanied my father to Europe, I having remained behind from choice. This was partly out of deference to the wishes of my fiancé and partly because I had not yet recovered from the strain received during the removal to Boylston Place.

A quiet summer was indicated for me—but how was it possible to compass this when the letters from Greece were so moving? Sister Laura, in particular, wrote such harrowing accounts of the refugees that I could not remain inactive. Brother Harry, sister Maud and I were spending the greater part of the summer at our home in Lawton’s Valley, where our aunt, Mrs. Joseph N. Howe, and her daughters were installed for the season.

I rashly decided to arrange an amateur concert for the benefit of the Cretans. True, I knew something of music, but of the nature of amateur musicians I was blissfully ignorant. The first step was easy enough. The stirring letters from Greece afforded plenty of ammunition for a circular appeal to the leading people of Newport, of which we wrote many copies. Brother Harry, now a junior at Harvard College, was my right hand in the whole matter, working most unselfishly and constantly.

Day after day we took the six-mile drive to Newport, calling upon prospective patronesses and singers. The former responded nobly. Mrs. E. D. Morgan, wife of the war Governor of New York State, took fifty tickets, although her husband had already contributed to the cause.

But the singers! oh, the singers! Such backing and filling, such coy consents, withdrawn almost as soon as made! It had not occurred to my youthful mind that the amateur musician normally displays his talents before a private audience. In asking him to sing before the public, at an entertainment for which tickets were sold, I was requesting something unusual. Doubtless many felt their talents were not sufficient for the task. The Cretan concert might never have materialized except for the timely aid of Miss Jane Stuart. Daughter of the famous painter, Gilbert Stuart, and an artist herself, she was one of the characters of old Newport. Her father had been one of the few to give my father God-speed when the latter started for Greece in 1824, and he had reciprocated the kindness by helping Miss Jane in some undertaking. She was extremely grateful, and once showed her feeling by embracing him. “My dear, I might just as well have kissed that door!” she afterward said to my mother. My father was a true New Englander in disliking all such demonstrations, and Miss Jane was extremely plain.

She and her elder sister lived in a pleasant little cottage on Mill Street. This was practically headquarters for us during our Cretan concert campaign. Miss Jane gave us her aid and counsel in every possible way. I’m ashamed to think how often we imposed upon the kindness of the two ladies by staying to luncheon. Miss Anne, born toward the close of the eighteenth or at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was a gentlewoman of the old school. She wore a black head-dress covering a great part of her head—the successor to the turban, perhaps. She was not so witty as Miss Jane, whose conversation was very charming. The agreeable women of the older generation whom I remember in my youth had grown up before the day of the short story and almost before that of the magazine. Hence it was a part of their social education, the knowledge of how to tell anecdotes in a truly interesting way.

Another friend who helped us in our undertaking was Miss Anna Vernon, who thoroughly loved music and gave much time to it. She then lived in the historic Vernon house, the headquarters of Rochambeau. It is now decorated with a medallion portrait of him.

I was so much absorbed in my new undertaking as to suppose every one else would be interested in it. Perhaps that is the secret of successful canvassing! To my urgent request that he would go with me to drum up recruits Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson at last replied:

“Why, I am the only man in Newport who has anything to do!”

This gentle rebuke was disconcerting, but, having delivered it, and so freed his mind, the gallant colonel climbed into my pony-chaise and we made the projected calls together. At that time he and his first wife were living in Newport. She was a superior woman, but a victim of a form of rheumatism which made her almost helpless. Her husband was devoted to her.

The amateurs continuing hopelessly coy, we had, in a moment of desperation, an interview with the manager of an opera troupe. It did not prove practicable, however, to hand the concert over to professionals.

We were obliged to call in the aid of one, Mrs. Flora Cary, afterward Mrs. Barry, a concert singer with a fine contralto voice. She generously gave us her services. My mother’s cousin, John Ward, possessed a well-cultivated tenor voice, and he, too, nobly volunteered. With the help of these and other performers the concert for the benefit of the Cretans at last came off. We cleared four hundred dollars, and a donation from the Misses Hazard, the sisters of Mr. Thomas Hazard, brought our profits up to five hundred.

Cousin John had taken degrees both as a doctor and as a lawyer, yet he practised neither profession. The possession of money was an effective damper on his activities. For many years he was a member of the well-known Mendelssohn Glee Club of New York. Unfortunately, he desired also to be a poet, a career for which nature had not intended him. He had a theory that perseverance was the main requisite. Hence he would read his verses to some unfortunate friend, and if the latter made any criticism which seemed to him just he would call on the friend a second time, and recite a revised version, asking if that were any better!

His friends took refuge in polite lies. “Oh no, John, I have no taste for poetry. I’m no judge of it—it would not be of any use to read that to me!”

Even the most conscientious fell from truth, after a while. When it came to the third degree—listening to the same verses, altered slightly to suit your taste, for the third time you surrendered. You accepted them as faultless—anything, rather than listen to them again.

He printed a volume of poems, which he determined should be letter-perfect. Of course it was not—but the printer profited handsomely by the venture.

A more practical taste was that for genealogy. We owe to his painstaking industry biographies of our common ancestors, Governor Samuel Ward and his son, Lieutenant-Colonel Ward, as well as an account of the Continental Congress before the Declaration of Independence. Thereby hangs a tale. Governor Samuel Ward was not only a member of that Congress, but presided constantly over the body as chairman of the Committee of the Whole, until March 15, 1776, when he was obliged to leave the session, owing to a violent attack of smallpox! He died shortly after, and so did not sign the famous document. His colleague, Stephen Hopkins, _did_ live to sign it, yet it was the “physical disability” of the latter which threw such a burden of work on Governor Ward that he was in an entirely unfit state to cope with the disease!

We have found it a little hard to forgive our distinguished ancestor his imprudence. If he had only been inoculated beforehand all might have been well, but he could not take the time! However, we console ourselves by remembering that he was the _only_ Colonial governor who refused to carry out the odious stamp act!

His son, Lieut-Col. Samuel Ward, did good service in the Revolution. Cousin John regarded these and other ancestors with a reverence that amounted almost to awe. He would let you take a peep at Governor Ward’s Congressional Journal, but you were not permitted to touch it. Yet he made no provision for the care of these beloved papers after his death. They were inherited by a relative who, possessing no taste for genealogical research, has locked them up in a safe-deposit box.