Chapter I: CANNOT remember when my father began his anti-slavery work, because at (3)

I have sometimes thought there should be _one_ genealogist—and only one—in each generation. Yet, when I remember the lives of some of those I have known, it seems a little hard to condemn even _one_ person every thirty years to this gentle fate. For it is not to be denied that genealogists are often ineffective, though excellent, persons. It has been already said of Cousin John that he went to the Civil War. So he did his “bit” for his country.

During the seven months while the family were in Europe sister Maud remained under my charge. With the help of Miss Mary Paddock, we kept house in the “Doctor’s” part of the Institution, visiting various relatives later on. That Miss Paddock should thus come to help us out was quite in the usual order of things. We were all fond of her and accepted her aid as a matter of course. As the young Howes grew older, we saw and appreciated the sterling worth and rare unselfishness of her character.

It was a part of my father’s power to draw to his aid people of worth and ability. His chivalrous spirit thrilled through his assistants. They saw him devoting his life to the care of the maimed lambs of the human fold—they, too, would and did help in the good work. Working with the “Doctor” was no light service, yet all knew that he himself labored harder than any one else. Of necessity there was much steady, practical work, yet, as in all pioneer labor, there was the romance of hewing out new paths. To enlist under the “Doctor’s” banner was in itself an adventure. Mary Paddock did so enlist, becoming a teacher at the Institution for the Blind in her young womanhood. Her devotion to my father ended only with his life. She was with us often at “Lawton’s Valley” and “Green Peace” as faithful friend and helper. During the last years of my father’s life, when his health was failing badly, she was his amanuensis and nurse. For her memory we all feel deep affection and gratitude.

The blind children were often my playmates. We were so accustomed to seeing and being with them that we thought little about their privation of sight. My father’s aim was to make them as much like seeing people as possible. Thus they were taught to go about the house and grounds very freely, running down-stairs as rapidly as seeing boys and girls. Some of them walked in the streets and even traveled in the cars alone. Usually, however, a leader was required. Occasionally I went with them, as guide, to opera or concert. Many tickets were generously sent to them, especially for the less popular performances.

In the summer of 1867 sister Maud was in her thirteenth year—a handsome child of generous and noble impulses, but of an impetuous disposition that made her at times difficult to deal with. “Old Splendid” was the name given her by a dressmaker to whom we were all attached. “The Stormy Petrel” was another nickname.

Her lack of respect for the gods of the school-room filled my more conventional soul with horror. To call the excellent Mr. Greenleaf, the author of our arithmetic, a fool seemed to me eminently unreasonable. When, in a fit of exasperation over her studies, the ink-bottle was flung across the room, spattering the wall with its contents, I stood aghast. I did the best I could for my young charge while the family were in Europe and was rewarded a hundredfold by her affection and gratitude.

My mother and sisters assisted in the work of distributing to the Cretan refugees the ten thousand garments sent out from America. Sister Laura has described “the stately, dark-eyed Cretan women, majestic even in their rags and misery; the slender girls; the lovely, dirty children.” She has told us of many romantic incidents which found no place in my father’s reports.[10] He always suppressed his own part in any undertaking, writing down only what was necessary to secure the interest of the reader.

A price was set upon his head by the Turkish authorities of Crete. Nevertheless, he visited the island and the small rocky fortress where he had been besieged in the old days of the Greek Revolution.

Footnote 10:

_Letters and Journals of Samuel Gridley Howe._ Dana Estes & Co.

The Howe sisters made a trip on a small steamer where there was a grim passenger—the head of a famous brigand who had just been captured and killed. They would have liked to see this horrible trophy, but my father would not permit it.

On their return to America, my father and mother began to make preparations for a fair in behalf of the Cretans. My share was to revive the sewing-circle of the previous year. Instead of working on “pajamas” and “togas,” we now had the more interesting occupation of sewing on pretty things. White coats with colored silk trimmings were then in fashion. I conceived the brilliant idea of making them at our sewing-circle, and so reaping a handsome profit. The girls groaned at undertaking anything so serious as outside garments, but I persuaded them that they could—and ought. These sold for a high price—between thirty and forty dollars apiece!

The fair was a great success, more than thirty thousand dollars being raised. The work for the Cretans involved many meetings. Money was raised by lectures and in other ways. A poster in one of the theaters announcing a performance for their benefit drew this comment from a passer-by:

“The Cretans? Who in h—l are the Cretans?”

In spite of the splendid struggle made by the brave inhabitants of the island, they were at last obliged to go back under barbarian rule. But it was only for a time. My father did not live to see Crete freed, but we, the children of the Philhellene, rejoiced and were exceeding glad when the hated Mohammedan yoke was thrown off.

The Cretan episode had one very unexpected result. Among my father’s helpers in Athens was a young Greek, Michael Anagnostopoulos. When he was asked what payment he desired for his services, he replied:

“What do you receive for yours, Doctor Howe?”

“Nothing,” said my father.

“Neither do I wish to be paid,” the young Greek answered. But he _did_ want to see America!

He returned with the family to Boston, where, after mastering the difficulties of the English language, he became Doctor Howe’s assistant at the Institution for the Blind. In the year 1870 he married sister Julia, succeeding to the directorship after my father’s death in 1876.

We were all made happy by the purchase of No. 32 Mount Vernon Street, soon after the return of the family from Europe. This residence, on the top of Beacon Hill, was spacious and pleasant.

The preceding owner was a maiden lady with a great fondness for cats. They were not included in the bill of sale, but hung about the place. Cats seemed to be our fate!

As I had not fully recovered my strength, a room on the ground floor was allotted to me, so that I need not climb the stairs. A furnace burning wood was put into the house as being more wholesome than anthracite coal.

Once or twice I heard a friendly tap on the window-pane, and opened the door to admit brother Harry, who had forgotten his latch-key. From the lapel of his dress-coat gleamed many favors, tokens of the mimic victories of the german. For he was a good dancer and a favorite in society.

Fifty years later, when the John Fritz gold medal was presented to him, at a meeting of the United Engineering Societies held in his honor, I again saw stars shining upon his breast, the tokens not of mimic, but of real victories. For brother Harry has won golden opinions by his strenuous work, and many honors, from foreign countries as well as from England and America, have been bestowed on him. Yet he has taken them all with a modesty that disarms envy.

In 1869 he graduated from Harvard College. His class day was an event in the family, especially for sister Laura, who was then at the right age—nineteen—to enjoy the festival fully. Various desperate swains attended her on that day and made love to her amid the classic shades of the old Harvard Yard. She was a pretty, perhaps a beautiful girl, with a sweetness and freshness of disposition delightful to behold. Though clever and witty, she was too amiable to say sharp things. Hence great was the number of her admirers.

I had now assumed the cares of the family housekeeping, as well as a certain supervision over the clothes of the younger sisters. Sister Julia was not interested in these things. It must be regretfully admitted that under my sway plain living was too much accentuated. Finding a diet of prunes and toast for supper (dinner was still at two o’clock) monotonous and uninteresting, the family rebelled and declared they must have a more generous and varied bill of fare. Even my father questioned whether, in view of my natural tendencies to economy, it might have been a mistake to teach me bookkeeping! I do not think this was his real opinion, however. During one of my absences from home he wrote that he missed me as the regulating clock of the establishment. The high prices which continued to prevail long after the end of the Civil War made prudence in expenditure necessary for people of moderate income. I kept the family accounts, the central figure from whom we received funds, and who was supposed to demand an exact accounting of all moneys given out, being put down as “The House.” My father once jokingly exclaimed, “Who _is_ House? Every one seems to be against him!”

He was now requested to take part in a new enterprise which deeply interested him. The Republic of Santo Domingo having asked to be annexed to the United States, President Grant appointed Hon. Benjamin F. Wade, of Ohio, Hon. Andrew D. White, and my father as commissioners to visit the island and investigate the conditions there.

They sailed in the steamer _Tennessee_, after warning us that we must not be alarmed if no news was received from them for a month. Nevertheless, it was difficult to avoid worry when sensational stories appeared in the newspapers about the supposed foundering of the _Tennessee_. The wife of Andrew D. White suffered such anxiety that her hair turned white!

With the assistance of a corps of scientific observers, they made a careful investigation of conditions in the little republic and wrote a report heartily favoring annexation. I’m sorry to say that Charles Sumner, misled by designing people, made a speech in the Senate strongly opposing it, before this report had been presented. Others attacked it and the measure failed. Thus Grant’s plan of gaining a foothold in the tropics was for the moment defeated.

My father still hoped that something might be done for Santo Domingo through private enterprise. During his last visit to the island news came of the death of Charles Sumner. My father was deeply grieved, for in spite of the difference of opinion about Santo Domingo the old friendship remained unbroken.

To each of the Howe daughters, and I think to the Longfellow daughters also, Charles Sumner left a legacy of five hundred dollars. He also bequeathed his fine collection of bronzes to my father and Mr. Longfellow. Mother and sister Maud met the poet and made the division. Sister Maud complained afterward that our mother _would_ choose first some piece that she especially fancied, instead of selecting the largest and most valuable articles. Sister Maud was still in her teens!

The older three Howe sisters were all married within a twelvemonth, sister Julia choosing the thirtieth day of December, 1870, in order that she might begin the new life with the new year. She was married at home. Sister Laura’s wedding took place at the Church of the Disciples, on the 17th of June. We had forgotten that the procession of Bunker Hill Day might interfere with the going to and from the church. It did cause some delay.

My marriage took place at No. 32 Mount Vernon Street, in November, 1871. All three of us had simple weddings, followed by pleasant, informal receptions. We had no bridesmaids. Several of sister Laura’s disappointed lovers went off on an excursion together, instead of attending the ceremony.

She and her husband went to Europe on their wedding-tour, visiting Greece, Constantinople, Italy and other countries.

Brother Harry graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, at the head of his class, leaving Boston during this same fateful year 1871. Our parents were thus left with only one out of the five children—sister Maud—but she was a host in herself, while their many interests and many friends acted as a cheerful counter-irritant to loneliness.

Brother Harry married, in April, 1874, Miss Fannie Gay, daughter of Willard Gay, Esq., of Troy, New York. The wedding was in church, a handsome reception following it.

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XV

MARRIED LIFE IN NEW JERSEY

_Nursery Days.—The Family of a New Jersey Commuter.—Sorrows of the
Country Housekeeper.—Death of My Father.—A Memorial Meeting.—The
Story of Sister Constance.—A Division of Heirlooms._

THE first six years of our married life were spent in New York City. Here we shared with my husband’s brother, Rowland Minturn Hall, and his two sisters, Elizabeth Prescott Hall and Frances Minturn Hall, the family home at No. 208 Second Avenue.

During this period our three older children were born, hence my time was much occupied with them. As my husband cared little for society, our life was extremely quiet, our social gaieties being for the most part confined to a pleasant family circle.

Our eldest son, Samuel Prescott, was born at “Green Peace,” South Boston.

My mother thus recorded the event in her journal:

_September 13_.—Before I open even my New Testament to-day I
must make record of the joyful birth of Flossy’s little son,
which took place soon after 1 A.M.... The boy is a handsome
infant.... I quieted him until 5 A.M., when I slept two hours.
God bless this dear little child. May he bring new peace and
love to the house where he comes a little too soon for
convenience—I mean for his uncle and aunts Hall. His father and
mother will bless God for him, as I do.

When I heard the baby’s first cry it seemed to me the sweetest music to which I had ever listened. The nurse had formerly been a Shaker, and soothed the child with quaint melodies of that sect.

He hears the ravens when they cry,
He clothes the shining mead,
And shall He not my wants supply
With everything I need?

The air was old, having little quavers savoring of the “tie-wig” period. Sammy was a nervous child and required much quieting. He took his daily nap out of doors, winter and summer. He was the first grandson, sister Laura’s first child, born a month or two before, being a daughter.

We named him for the two families, Samuel after my father, and Prescott for my husband’s great-grandmother, Elizabeth Prescott, wife of the Rev. David Hall. She was descended from the Rev. Peter Bulkley, the founder of Concord, Massachusetts, and the lineal descendant of stout old Baron Bulkley, one of the men who wrested Magna Charta from King John and thus laid the foundations of the liberties of England and America.

Samuel Prescott, my husband’s great-greatuncle, accompanied Paul Revere on his famous ride. It must be confessed, however, that his errand was in part, at least, one of sentiment, as he was going to see his sweetheart in Concord. When Paul Revere was captured, Prescott escaped and carried the news of the coming of the British to Concord. His name is duly inscribed on one of the sign-posts which indicate to the passer-by all the historic spots of the ancient town. I dislike this excess of labeling which leaves nothing to the imagination.

When I told my father that we should name our boy for him, substituting Prescott for Gridley because the latter was such an ugly name, he replied very quietly that it belonged to a good old New England family. Boasting about one’s ancestry was so repugnant to him that he did not think proper to tell us that Richard Gridley had been a distinguished engineer during the Revolution, while Samuel, his grandfather and namesake, had served as captain in the former’s artillery regiment.

Many times have I regretted not giving my son his grandfather’s full name. He has atoned for my failure to do so by calling _his_ son “Samuel Gridley.”

I had an excellent nurse to take care of the children, but the youngest always slept in our room. With Sam we had some terrible moments, owing to our extreme zeal in tucking him up. As he disliked the process, he often waked up and gave tongue. One night my husband grew so desperate that he proposed taking the baby down to the dining-room, two flights below, and allowing him to cry until he was tired! In reality, he was a most affectionate parent, but this wild utterance relieved his feelings!

I did groan sometimes about the loss of sleep. I remember with a blush that I foolishly made a complaint to a kinswoman of my husband’s, wife of the Mr. Grinnell who financed the Arctic Expedition. She was a calm, elderly lady who had borne nine children. It is to be feared that she thought David Hall’s wife was a grumbling young woman!

At the time of our marriage my husband and I were not aware of any relationship existing between us. Some years later old General Greene, a devoted genealogist, proved to us that a distant kinsmanship existed through the Greenes. People of Rhode Island descent almost inevitably have ancestors belonging to this family. Like the Legion of Honor, it is hard to escape from.

We had, also, a number of mutual relations, for two of his aunts, the Misses Eliza and Maria Hall, had married two of my greatuncles, Henry and William Ward. Evidently the families possessed mutual attraction. This did not prevent the two clans from taking a high attitude of impartial criticism each toward the other. I found, to my surprise, the traits which we had supposed to be Hall—and which we mildly criticized, were, on the contrary, Ward. They had been acquired by the Halls on their marriage with the latter family, so I was told!

These mutual relatives welcomed me very kindly to New York. Just across the way lived two cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Charles H. Ward, to whom we were much attached. Cousin Mary was only related to us by marriage, but her husband’s relatives were delighted to adopt her as their own. To her joyous and generous soul it was a great pleasure to make other people happy. In her youth she had had so many admirers that it was jokingly said she had gone through the alphabet and stopped at “W” because that was as far as she could go! One young man fell so much in love with her that he disguised himself as a gardener and entered her father’s employ.

The most intimate friend of my girlhood, Louise Darling, had preceded me to New York. She had entered the Protestant Episcopal Sisterhood of Saint Mary, and was now Sister Constance. Her friends and parents had in vain remonstrated against this step. Yet we might have seen that it was in accord with her natural bent of mind. Brought up as a Unitarian, she had always been very devout, and while still very young had contemplated becoming a missionary. Not long after leaving school she became a convert to the Episcopal faith, devoting herself enthusiastically to church work.

When she entered the convent her heavy, beautiful blond hair was all cut off, for St. Mary’s is a High Church sisterhood. In her girdle of black rope were tied three knots, representing the three vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. The late Rev. Morgan Dix, at that time a single man, was the Father Confessor of the establishment. I never could understand by what process of logic he could reconcile his encouragement of celibacy in such a young, enthusiastic woman as my friend, with his own later entrance into matrimony. Perhaps he changed his mind—but Sister Constance had taken the vows!

The sisterhood did not spend all their time in devotional exercises, but engaged also in good works. Sister Constance painted religious pictures and taught in the school. She seemed entirely happy in her new life. I went to see her whenever I could, but she could not call upon us—or she thought she could not. She was one of those persons who carry out thoroughly whatever they had undertaken.

After our marriage Uncle Richard Ward kindly invited us to come and live with him. Although we did not accept the offer, it was gratifying.

The furniture and effects of No. 8 Bond Street belonged to Uncle John Ward, who had died some years before. On the death of Uncle Richard they were divided among the eight heirs of the former. The uncles had occupied the roomy, old-fashioned house for many years. Not only their own possessions, but those of their relatives, had accumulated. Furniture, busts and pictures which were not wanted for the moment were left under the hospitable care of Uncle John. The result was a perfect maze of possessions, some of them belonging to the estate of my grandfather, who had died thirty-five years before, some to Aunt Louisa Terry, who was living in Rome.

What we should have done without my mother I do not know. Her excellent memory gave us the history of each doubtful piece. That set of furniture was bought by Grandfather Ward when Uncle Sam married Emily Astor and the young couple came to live with him at the corner house. Those pictures belonged to grandfather’s gallery; the Copley portraits of our ancestors had been purchased by Uncle John. The other heirs wisely left these details to her judgment. The main division took a little time, but was accomplished without much difficulty. The heirs or their representatives had several meetings and chose what they wanted. My aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who was living in California, gave her share as a weddingpresent to her three married Howe nieces, Julia, Florence, and Laura. Hence I attended the meetings, as representing one of the eight heirs.

The other heirs, the main business over, departed with light hearts. It was left for Cousin John Ward and me to attend to the final details. Days and weeks passed over our devoted heads and found us still at our task. A faithful old retainer lived in the house and aided us in our work.

I noticed one singular fact—articles of furniture which no one wanted in the division assumed a priceless value when they were gone beyond recall. Did Cousin John and I, in solemn conclave, agree to sell, for the benefit of the eight heirs, a mahogany bedstead, then every one regretted our rash act.

Over Aunt Phebe’s knitting we pondered long and earnestly. It was a half-finished stocking and the wool was moth-eaten, for Greataunt Phebe had been dead for years. We decided to run the risk of sacrilege and destroy it. When Cousin John counted the great piles of plates he shut his eyes, saying it was easier for him to count in that way.

A death-mask found in the attic was hard to identify. When Uncle Sam called at No. 8 Bond Street, it was shown to him. “That is Maddie’s mother,” he said. I was grieved to have asked unwittingly such a painful question, for Maddie’s mother was his first wife, Emily Astor, who had died many years before. “Maddie” was their daughter, Margaret Astor Ward, afterward Mrs. Winthrop Chanler. Uncle Sam’s phrasing of his answer showed his tact and desire to avoid making me feel I had committed a stupid blunder.

My aunt’s present to us was a handsome one, even a third of an eighth representing quite a share of silver, furniture, etc. I also figured as a sort of residuary legatee, the heirs making me a number of presents ranging from a great mahogany bedstead down to small domestic articles of furniture. Hence I was well repaid for the trouble involved.

My father still walked with a light, quick step and maintained his gallant bearing till he was seventy-two years old. Soon afterward his health began to fail, but in spite of pain and weakness he kept at work. In 1874 he wrote a brief report of his life-work for the blind, of which it has been said:

“Were there no other monument to his memory, this would suffice.”

He still enjoyed his favorite exercise, riding on horseback, and took great pleasure in his grandchildren. In spite of his extremely busy life he had always found time to write to his children—were it only a few affectionate lines. Two notes to sister Julia lie before me.

CONTINENTAL, PHILADELPHIA,
_April 13, Sunday_.

DARLING DUDIE,—Journeying homeward from Washington I was obliged
to lie over here by sick headache, which, however, is passing
away.

I have seen dear Sumner, who lies stranded for life I fear—a
magnificent but mournful wreck.

Washington is looking beautifully in the full bloom of spring.
It is not cheering to leave it for the cold and still wintry
north, except when one thinks of the sunlight of dear faces and
the warmth of loving hearts.

Love to Michael.

PAPA.

GLEN, _Sunday, Sept. 7th, ’73_.

DARLING DUDIE,—Already I miss your sweet company and genial
sympathy very much.

Mamma and I had the most charming and felicitous journey down
that is conceivable....

The peace and quiet, however, is sadly broken in upon to-day,
and the confusion half-crazes me. Besides our immediate three
selves there are the two dear mothers[11] and two dear babies;
and two nurses and Zalinski and Maud Parks and Girlie [?]
Blackler, three men, two women and Pad [Miss Paddock]—nineteen,
all told!

The day is delicious indeed. I have taken both babies to ride on
horseback, and enjoyed their sweet enjoyment.

Laura and some of them have been to see Parker Lawton and
carried to him fruit and flowers.

I sent also a basket this afternoon to your old protégée Miss
Taggart.

Dear love to the ascetic Epirote and to all friends and the
residuary legatee of all my affections.

PAPA.

When he died in January, 1876, beautiful tributes were paid to his memory by all sorts and conditions of men—from the Governor and Legislature down to the feeble-minded children whom he had brought into the human fold. A great memorial meeting was held in his honor, where Laura Bridgman, with her pale, sorrow-stricken face, was “the silent orator of the occasion.”

Her health was seriously affected by my father’s death, as was also that of sister Julia.

Footnote 11:

Sister Laura and I.

From the poem of Oliver Wendell Holmes, I quote a few verses:

How long the wreck-strewn journey seems
To reach the far-off past
That woke his youth from peaceful dreams
With Freedom’s trumpet-blast!

Along her classic hillsides rung
The Paynims’ battle-cry,
And like a red-cross knight he sprung
For her to live or die.

No trustier service claimed the wreath
For Sparta’s bravest son;
No truer soldier sleeps beneath
The mould of Marathon.

Edward Everett Hale said, in part:

You ask for his epitaph. It is a very simple epitaph. He found
idiots chattering, taunted, and ridiculed by each village fool,
and he left them cheerful and happy. He found the insane shut up
in their wretched cells, miserable, starving, cold, and dying,
and he left them happy, hopeful, and brave. He found the blind
sitting in darkness and he left them glad in the sunshine of the
love of God.

The simplest tribute of all came from the poor children to whose minds he had brought light.

“They say Doctor Howe will take care of the blind in heaven. Won’t he take care of us, too?”

On receiving my mother’s Memoir of her husband, Florence Nightingale wrote as follows:

LONDON, _June 7, ’77_.

DEAR MRS. HOWE,—It is like a breath from Heaven to one’s
overworked and well-nigh overwhelmed mind, your Memoir of one of
the best and greatest men of our age, and your remembrance.

You have shown his many-sided life as known to few. You have
shown in him a rarer and more fruitful man than even we, who had
known and loved him for so long, knew.

What has been a revealing to us of him will be even more so for
the crowd of your readers who knew him but by the dramatic Greek
life: and by his work among the blind, deaf mutes and idiots. No
one will know him quite till after you have been read. That is
the privilege of your community with him—with his unconsciously
heroic life. A great duty has been fulfilled in making known his
sympathy for every kind of misfortune,—his love of helping
humanity, so to speak, ancient and modern,—his generous and
persevering devotion to right,—his noble horror of helpless
pity,—his indomitable faith in progress; thanks to you.

And how little he thought of reputation! That was the noblest
thing of all.

The pressure of ever-increasing illness and business—how little
I thought to survive him—makes it difficult for me to write one
unnecessary line. Our common friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bracebridge,
Dr. Fowler, and how many others, are all gone before us.

In their names and in his name I bid with all my heart,

Fare you very well,

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

On the anniversary of my birth, our only daughter, Caroline Minturn Hall, was born at Portsmouth, near Newport, Rhode Island. One of her pictures exhibited at the Paris Salon shows the beloved landscape of “Oak Glen,” which adjoins her birthplace.

When our second son, Henry Marion Hall, was born, we moved to the country, in order to give our three children greater liberty and more fresh air than they could enjoy in the city. For fifteen years we lived in Scotch Plains, a pretty, quaint old New Jersey town lying at the foot of the Watchung Mountains. The countryside in 1878 was still in a primitive condition. Scotch Plains was almost destitute of “modern conveniences,” the gods of the servant-girl. A delusive bath-tub appeared very effective until you found that it was necessary to drag all the hot water up-stairs. We had a series of pumps indoors and out, but no set wash-tubs.

There was neither gas, electricity, nor steam heat. We burned kerosene-oil and my husband wrestled with the hot-air furnace, which required such devotion that he christened it his black wife.

Gradually all these things were improved, by persistent effort. Our landlord, young Doctor Coles, was our good friend, whom we persuaded to make many improvements. But in the beginning housekeeping was very difficult. Cooks looked upon us with an unfavorable eye, especially as there was no Roman Catholic Church in the town.

My visits to the intelligence office were frequent and plaintive. Our neighbor, Mr. B——, grew desperate over the situation. When he was asked the searching question, “How many in fam’ly, sir?” he replied: “Seven children. But I will make away with some of them if you think that is too many!”

Some of our adventures were very funny—in the retrospect. One green cook was much disturbed in mind about the asparagus. She could not wait for my promised help, but prepared the vegetable by neatly whittling off the tops. Great was the grief of our children, as this was the first asparagus of the season.

Another cook of an ingenious turn of mind saved herself the trouble of going down one flight of stairs to fill her bedroom pitcher by immersing it in the tank in the attic. My husband could not understand why it took comparatively few strokes of the pump to fill the tank—which soon became empty again.

One night our little daughter was disturbed by plaster falling on her face as she lay in bed. A glance at the ceiling revealed the cause. The stalwart foot and leg of the cook protruded from it! In going to dip her pitcher into the tank she had unwarily deviated from the narrow pathway which led to it, putting her foot through the unprotected lath and plaster!

Perhaps the most singular Irish bull was that of the functionary who had been directed to make the sandwiches “half jelly and half mutton.” When we were well started on our travels we tasted the luncheon. It was horribly queer. Suddenly the truth flashed upon me! The literal-minded cook had combined these warring materials in every sandwich!

The mistress made some mistakes as well as the cook. Seeing a material of the color of the gingerbread often made in New England, I unhesitatingly mixed it with the batter. When the supposititious gingerbread came on the table it was very heavy and quite uneatable. Something must have been wrong with the oven! The next time I began to make gingerbread the cook caught my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Hall! Don’t put that in! _That’s mustard._” My family were mercilessly merry over this mistake.

I described the misadventure in _Demorest’s Magazine_, receiving five dollars for the article. Thus every time any one poked fun at me about the mustard gingerbread I countered with the five dollars! Better still, by persistent efforts I learned—from Marion Harland’s excellent receipt-book—to make gingerbread that appeared seraphic to my children.

When my husband once heartlessly observed that our sons could never twit their wives with mother’s cooking, a chorus went around the table, “Oh, but Mamma makes such lovely gingerbread!” And so I was honorably avenged.

Fortunately we had a tower of strength in the children’s faithful nurse, Mary Thompson. When cooks periodically failed us she valiantly walked into the kitchen and did their work, as well as her own.

It must be confessed that Mary did not get along very well with the various cooks. She was greatly their superior in intelligence and character, as she well knew. Hence she did not always take enough pains to be agreeable to the reigning queen of the kitchen. One woman complained to me of this. “There we sit at table like two dumb _brutes_!” she indignantly remarked.

In spite of all the troubles and trials of suburban life my husband and I greatly enjoyed having a house of our own.

I was very anxious that my old friend, Sister Constance, should visit us during her summer vacation. She was at this time established at the head of a branch sisterhood in Memphis, Tennessee. Her parents had unavailingly remonstrated with the authorities over this change of domicile, for a Southern climate did not agree with her.

In reply to my letter of invitation, she wrote me she was so tired that it was an effort to get up and walk across the room! A violent epidemic of yellow fever suddenly broke out in her home district. Exhausted as she was, she did not hesitate, but returned at once to the post of duty. In ten days she was dead!

When she lay dying they asked if she was ready to go. “Aye, glad!” she replied. So died, at the age of thirty-two, a woman who gave her life for her people as truly and as nobly as any hero of the modern war!

I have always blamed the Mother Superior for permitting this useless sacrifice. It was self-evident that in Sister Constance’s exhausted condition she would at once fall a prey to the dreaded scourge. She should have been detained at the North long enough to recruit her strength before exposing her to an ordeal for which she was physically unfit.

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XVI

RECONSTRUCTING A NEW JERSEY VILLAGE

_The Mutual Admiration Society of Scotch Plains.—My Husband Becomes a
Leader in Local Politics and Activities.—The Passing of the
Mossbacks.—How We Gained a Public Library, a New School-house and a
New Truck-house.—An Overseer of the Poor with Peculiar Methods._

DURING the summer of 1878 we tried the experiment of remaining in New Jersey. We never repeated it. The heat, especially in the eastern and inland part of the state, is much greater than that of New England. Miss Emily Coles, the sister of our landlord, desiring to do something pleasant for us, arranged a festivity in honor of my birthday. The event of the evening was the reading of tributes to my various excellent qualities, real or imaginary. These were neatly written on fancy cards adorned with pictures. As Miss Coles read each one, she gave the name of some lady or gentleman present. At first this puzzled me, for the guests looked very quiet and thoughtful—not in the least enthusiastic over my virtues. When Miss Coles handed me the basket with the cards the secret was revealed. She had written all the cards herself—and, in order to avoid monotony, had attributed the quotations to the Baptist dominie and the rest of the company. This was a meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society of the place—which existed, I fancy, chiefly in the fertile brain of our good friend Miss Coles.

We invited our neighbors to informal entertainments, without any mention of admiration to be either received or given. The refreshments were simple and appropriate to a small country place where ice-cream was not indigenous. Our friends came, and I learned later that people were glad to have us set an example of simplicity in entertainment.

During our first years in New Jersey I was principally occupied with household and nursery cares. My husband soon began to interest himself in the life of the little town. A few years before we came there the managers of the local railroad (the New Jersey Central) wished to move it nearer to Scotch Plains. But certain property-owners, thinking they had the railroad at their mercy, named an unreasonable price for their land. The managers, finding they could make a better bargain elsewhere, moved the railroad farther away, leaving Scotch Plains more than a mile from the new station.

It was governed by a triumvirate who gathered around the stove in the principal grocery-store. They were all hide-bound conservatives, not to say moss-backs. Their party—the Democratic—ruled the town. A witty friend of ours remarked that you could not do anything with a New Jersey town until the outlanders outnumbered the native inhabitants.

My husband was a Republican of the most ardent type. He was also very public-spirited and soon became the leader of those who wanted to see things done in the village. Before long the Democratic majority was definitely lost and a Republican one took its place.

There was no fire-engine in the town. One of the triumvirate could not see the necessity of having any. “Insure your house, and if it catches fire let it burn down.” It did not occur to him that if every one followed this sweet and simple creed the insurance companies would become bankrupt.

My husband was made president of the volunteer fire company, and a campaign for improvement began. The neighboring town of Plainfield was younger but much larger and more prosperous than our village. Here there dwelt a hand fire-engine, old and retired, but still capable of usefulness. Plainfield was persuaded to lend this to us. It was burnished and polished with enthusiasm, coming out almost like new. Next a better building was needed to house it and the fire-truck. Men who could not give money were persuaded to give labor, and before long we had a good building, with a large hall capable of holding half the village on ceremonial occasions. True, it housed the engine and truck—but these could be wheeled out of doors in a trice and brought back at the close of a performance. Many were the amateur theatricals and the church fairs held in that truck-house, for the town had sadly needed such a hall.

It also needed a public library. My husband determined to found one that should last. Mr. Andrew Carnegie had not yet become the sponsor of such institutions; outside of New England, they were apt to fade away and die.

Mr. Hall’s first step was to get a law passed by the Legislature making one thousand dollars sufficient endowment for a free library. A large part of this sum was raised by Miss Mary N. Mead, a lovely and unselfish young woman living near the village with her sister, Mrs. Augustus D. Shepard. Another sister was the wife of William Dean Howells. Miss Mead’s enthusiasm and personal charm enabled her to raise money where other people failed. She knew the funds were there, though to get them out resembled the task of Moses when he drew water from the rock.

In the new building of the fire company were several upper rooms used for their occasional meetings. Mr. Hall had the brilliant idea of installing the library here, at a nominal rent of one dollar a year, the trustees to carpet and furnish the rooms as a _quid pro quo_. The fire company generously entered into the plan, and the library was formally opened with amateur theatricals by the school children of the village. We had discovered, early in our residence in Scotch Plains, that the way to reach the parents was through their boys and girls. I wrote the little play which went off very successfully. The library was proudly thrown open for the inspection of the public. Magazines were provided for the reading-room, with games in the small rooms set apart for the children.

Among the obstacles we had to encounter was the opposition of a worthy lady who disapproved of public libraries because she feared some of the books might be objectionable. She had a long talk with my mother and me in which she freed her mind as to the iniquity of the theater, and expressed her grave doubts about the proposed library. “The works of Swedenborg might be placed there,” she declared! I doubt whether she had ever read any of the works of the famous mystic, but she fancied something must be wrong with him. She doubtless knew that his writings are sent free to any library desiring them.

The library once established, she sent tracts to it, but these Mr. Hall firmly refused to place on the tables.

In selecting the trustees he took great pains that all cliques and sets of the little place should be represented, no one being given an overwhelming preponderance. He drew up the constitution making the governing body a close corporation, with the thought of perpetuating this balance of parties.

The little library had distinguished friends. Mr. Howells sent boxes of books from time to time, while Mrs. Elliott F. Shepard, sister-in-law of _our_ Mr. Shepard (Augustus D.), contributed liberally. But, best of all, the people of the village, both rich and poor, became interested in it, and adopted it as their own. Many were the fairs given to raise money for it. It has passed through various vicissitudes, but was still living and flourishing at last accounts.

I have said that my husband served as trustee of the public library, president of the truck (fire) company, overseer of the poor and vestryman of All Souls’ Church. He was soon called upon to fill so many honorable but unremunerative offices that we called him “Pooh Bah.” Thus he became a school trustee and a member of the town committee of three. The affairs of the village were managed by this body. The school-house had grown old in service, so that a new one was badly needed. Between the floors lived rats, for which the boys fished through the cracks.

As our sons attended this school in their early years, we sadly realized its deficiencies. My husband determined that there should be a new one. The people of means in the village sent their children to private schools elsewhere; some had none to send. Hence most of them were inclined to oppose the erection of a new building, as it would increase their taxes without being of any personal benefit to them. The moss-back faction murmured mechanically their shibboleth, “What was good enough for our fathers is good enough for us.” The project was at first defeated. Then my husband “got mad” and made things move.

A law had recently been enacted in New Jersey empowering women to vote at school meetings. Mr. Hall determined to fall back on this, should other means fail. On the fateful evening a number of women were gathered in our parlors, ready to march over to the neighboring school-house and vote, should our ballots be needed. A pretty young married woman said, “Oh, I’m so afraid!” I myself was not at all frightened, neither do I think the others were.

After a time my husband entered, triumphant! He and his friends had carried the day—the new school-house was won and our votes had not been needed. He had a wonderful power of enthusiasm which, combined with hard work, enabled him to carry out many projects.

The little town of Scotch Plains won not only a new, but a beautiful school building. Through the good offices of Mr. Augustus D. Shepard, brother-in-law of William Rutherford Mead, the firm of McKim, Mead & White consented to erect this at a low price. My husband and the other trustees gave the most careful attention to all the details, in order that the school might be as convenient, yet as inexpensive, as possible. I believe he enjoyed the laying of every brick!

Since we women had not actually attended the meeting which decided the fate of the school-house, it was thought well that our initial entrance upon the educational and political arena should be at an election that did not promise to stir up excitement. Accordingly three or four of us attended the meeting in March of the following year and voted peaceably on all questions.

A magic change took place on that day! At previous school meetings peanut shells and other débris had been scattered about the floor, and the electors had mistaken the ink-wells in the children’s desks for cuspidors! It had always been necessary to close the school for a day in order to clear up after the “illicthors.” Behold, on the coming of the women neatness and order reigned. Next day school kept as usual.

The overseer of the poor in our little village was in his private capacity a landlord. A certain family failing to pay their rent, he turned them out of doors in the middle of winter. They camped out on a piazza until they could find other quarters. My husband was so indignant that at the next election he ran for the office, and was duly elected. Quite a little work but no salary was attached to it. The four dollars which he received were presumably for expenses.

His friends amused themselves with guying the new overseer of the poor by sending tramps to call on him. I remember only one real pauper with whom he had to deal—a respectable old woman no longer able to maintain herself. There was outside aid to be given, notably to the family of a man in jail.

At the instigation of the owner, a woman, he had set fire to her house, and was caught in the act. When the trial came she had her children in court, and was let off. S—— had children, also, but they were at home. Hence he was sent to prison. He no doubt deserved it, but, as the civil authorities made no provision for the maintenance of his family, they had a hard time to get along. We realized the terrible injustice of taking away the breadwinner and expecting his wretched wife and children to care for themselves without outside assistance.

There were, when we came to Scotch Plains, a Baptist and a Methodist church, and a struggling little Episcopal mission. My husband and I decided to throw in our fortunes with the last named. We liked the clergyman in charge, Rev. Charles L. Sykes, very much, and we both had a tendency to take the part of the under dog. Mr. Sykes’ talents qualified him to occupy a more important position, but clergyman’s sore throat obliged him to choose a small cure. He was one of the most devout men that I have ever known. He did not read nor recite prayers, like most ministers. When he prayed we felt that his soul was lifted up to God. His wife was a woman of ability, cheery and courageous; we soon became great friends.

When the mission services were temporarily discontinued, we invited Mr. Sykes to deliver a series of parlor lectures. Miss Mead and I arranged the course, our friends and neighbors subscribing and giving their parlors. We were only able to give a small fee for the talks, but Mr. and Mrs. Sykes were so fond of literature that the preparation of the lectures was a labor of love. By and by a pretty little stone church was built for the mission. Unfortunately, the expense of the building was greater than the small congregation could afford, and for years there was a desperate struggle with a debt, which was finally paid off. My husband was too wise to advise this injudicious outlay, but he served for some years as a vestryman.

The sister who had been my mate and dear companion from early childhood, Julia Romana Anagnos, died of typhoid fever in March, 1886.

The Metaphysical Club, of which she was the founder and president, published a little volume containing the tributes to her memory. The following verses are by Dr. T. W. Parsons.

GIULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS

Giulia Romana! how thy trembling beauty,
That oft would shudder at one breath of praise,
Comes back to me! before the trump of duty
Had marshalled thee in life’s laborious ways.

We used to wonder at thy blush in hearing
Thy parents praised. We now know what it meant:
A consciousness of their gifts reappearing
Perchance, in thine—to consummation blent.

* * * * *

Oh, she was beautiful, beyond all magic
Of sculptor’s hand, or pencil to portray!
Something angelical, divinely tragic,
Tempered the smile that round her lips would play.

Dear first born daughter of a hero’s heart!
Pass to perfection, all but perfect here!
We weep not much, remembering where thou art,
Yet, child of Poesy! receive a tear.

T. W. PARSONS.

Some nine months after the death of sister Julia I was attacked with rheumatic fever. It did not, however, as in her case, turn into typhoid. My mother and husband were greatly alarmed, especially as Gen. John A. Logan died of the same disease, during my illness. In the midst of her distress my mother had a strange feeling that she could save my life by an effort of will. She did not content herself with praying only, but strongly opposed the administration of narcotics which the nurse in attendance was only too ready to give me in order that she herself might sleep. My mother determined that I should no longer be dosed with these. She sat by my bedside one night till the small hours of the morning, when I dropped off into a natural sleep. To her vigilance I probably owe my life.

One morning while I lay very ill she went quietly into my husband’s room, asking him to come down-stairs at once. He went immediately and found the kitchen on fire, the Irish servant-women in a panic of alarm. Seeing at a glance the cause of the trouble, he caught up the blazing student-lamp and hurled it out into the snow. It was then an easy task for him to scrape down the flames from the woodwork. All this was done so quietly that I knew nothing of the matter.

The physician who attended me was Dr. Abraham Coles, the father of our landlord. He was an excellent doctor and our very good friend. Doctor Coles was an elderly man, large and heavy. He was still handsome, with a wealth of hair that was almost white. The winter of 1886–87 was a very severe one, the ground covered with ice. Mother made a little path to the gate with the poker. She noticed with pleasure that Doctor Coles walked in her little poker path.

She wrote many letters to my husband, as he attended to some of her business affairs. In this correspondence she chronicles with affectionate interest the doings of the Hall family, telling us also of her own proceedings.

BOSTON, _June 8th, ’93_.

MY DEAR DAVID—, ... I telegraphed you to-day to send some
flowers for me to the Players’ Club for my dear friend, Edwin
Booth. If you have not done this before receiving this letter it
will be too late, as the service will be at 9 A.M. to-morrow in
N. Y., the burial to be here, the same evening, I suppose. You
will send me the bill....

241 BEACON ST., BOSTON,
_June 8th, 1896_.