Chapter D: P. Hall (2)

“Ladybird, fly away home.
Your house is on fire,
Your children will burn.”

Mrs. Moore has since served as president of the General Federation and held other important public positions. She is one of the ablest and most public-spirited women of our country, a college graduate, and last but not least, decidedly handsome.

The trips to the West on the “Federation Specials” were delightful. No men save those in charge of the train—with one or two club husbands—were allowed on them. We flitted from one car to another, talking with old friends. A good deal of preliminary business was arranged on these jaunts. But, oh, the sufferings of the conductor!

Mrs. H——, having found a long-lost friend in car “Zenobia,” desired to have her berth changed. How many women made these thoughtless requests it would be impossible to say. I only know that I have seen the conductor, sitting in his little end seat, balancing his accounts, with an expression of utter desperation on his face!

One great club enthusiast was so anxious to take the trip on the “Federation Special” that she started without waiting for her baggage. She took a heavy cold, which was probably the cause of her death later in the summer. Our women have now learned to be more prudent and to husband their strength better.

As chairman of correspondence for New Jersey, the desirability of a closer organization in the state became evident to me. Mrs. Charlotte Emerson Brown and Mrs. Sarah Johnson, president of the Orange Woman’s Club, were of the same mind, and we issued a call for the formation of a state federation, thus becoming its founders.

It was my pleasant duty to assist in the direction of the state federation during the first eight years of its existence. Our beginnings were too sentimental for my taste. The discussions about a Federation flower seemed to me distinctly superfluous. We went on, however, from strength to strength, developing after much the same fashion as the G. F. W. C.

Our third president, Mrs. Emily E. Williamson, of Elizabeth, was one of the ablest women I have ever met. It was a pleasure to work with her, unless you happened to disagree with her in opinion. She made up her mind as to the best course, and could brook no opposition. In spite of this defect, which led to her making some mistakes, the State of New Jersey owes her gratitude for her public services on the Board of State Charities and elsewhere.

Among the things accomplished by the New Jersey Federation of Clubs in those early years was the inauguration of a system of state traveling libraries and the preservation of the Palisades. The former we owe especially to the indefatigable efforts of Mrs. Edward Houghton, of Cranford, the most devoted and unselfish of workers. The rescue of the Palisades from the greed and selfishness of the men who were digging them down was no easy task. The New York State women joined us, and after great efforts these beautiful natural monuments were saved from the maw of the stone-crusher.

New Jersey was the first state in the Union to confer the franchise upon women, who exercised it for more than thirty years.

When the modern agitation for suffrage began, the women of the state remembered their ancient rights, of which they had been illegally deprived. I well remember Lucy Stone, the noted suffrage leader, whose baby’s cradle was attached because she refused to pay taxes. She was a comely woman, with a motherly face and soft, sweet voice, but possessed of iron determination! It might have paid the anti-suffragists to redeem and restore that cradle, for the baby grew up to be Alice Stone Blackwell. She has carried on, with unfaltering and single-hearted devotion, the work so nobly begun by her parents, Lucy Stone and Henry Blackwell.

When they removed to Massachusetts the movement flagged for a time. Through the efforts of Dr. Mary D. Hussey, a most devoted and unselfish suffrage-worker, a state association was formed in 1890.

In 1893 I was elected to the office of president, bringing to it the experience already acquired in the club and Federation movement. The New Jersey Woman Suffrage Association now began the active career which has continued for a quarter of a century with ever-increasing momentum. When we, the pioneers, look at its wonderful growth, we are glad to think that ours was the privilege of doing the foundation work. Of this the inauguration of branch leagues was an important part. These we established in Essex County, Union County, Camden, Trenton, Asbury Park, Moorestown. In 1894 the law which permitted women to vote at school meetings was declared unconstitutional. The New Jersey state constitution of 1844 (adopted without consulting the women whom it disfranchised) limited the right of voting for officers elective by the people to male citizens.

School trustees are officers elective by the people, therefore women clearly could not vote for them. But this same constitution cheerfully forgot to forbid women to hold office or to vote for the issuance of bonds, etc.

Women were already serving acceptably as school trustees in different parts of the state. There seemed to be no reason why they should not continue to do so. They had also been voting during seven years for these officers and always for the benefit of the schools, according to the almost universal testimony of the educational authorities. A number of school-houses in New Jersey owe their existence to the votes of women combined with those of progressive men.

The feminine voters were discouraged by the adverse decision of the Supreme Court. It was a part of our task to point out to them the rights still remaining and to encourage them to use these, for the benefit of the children.

Finding that the constitution of the state was to be amended, we decided to ask the Legislature to pass an amendment restoring to us the rights of school suffrage that we had lost. We hoped to have these extended to towns and cities, but were assured that it would be impossible to procure any extension of the school suffrage.

“Asking the Legislature” is a task requiring time and patience. I now understood for the first time the practical meaning of the word “lobbyist” and the practical necessity of his work. We had no private ax to grind—we went to Trenton for the sake of the cause of education as well as for that of suffrage. Yet our only chance to state our case was as the legislators passed “on the wing.” We found them courteous, but always in a hurry. They gave us good advice: “Agitate the matter in the papers. Get the people behind you.” We could not expect them to pass an amendment to the constitution unless the people wanted it. It was a part of our duty to educate the public. We also had hearings before legislative committees.

It did not seem as if our small and eminently reasonable request could be refused. So we perseveringly went to Trenton and finally succeeded in having our amendment passed. My husband drew it up for us and helped us in every possible way.

On the last day of the session we had a narrow escape from defeat. Receiving word that the Legislature was about to adjourn, I hurried to Trenton, where the lawmakers were already in that state of boyish nonsense which marks the last day. In the gallery I found one of our stanchest suffragists, scandalized by the playful exchange of books and courtesies going on below, and lurking, concealed, in a corner. Where was our bill? No one knew. I hastily hunted up the clerk and informed him that the document must be found without delay. To have the amendment, which had cost us three years of labor, mislaid at the last moment was unthinkable. Whether it had been pigeonholed by accident or on purpose we never knew, but presently he returned with it, duly draped with red tape. Having seen it started on its proper course, my friend and I returned to the gallery, where we took our seats in full view of the gentlemen below. The athletic interchange of dictionaries by a parcel of boys young enough to be my sons had no terrors for me, as my countenance plainly indicated. Our amendment was passed before the adjournment and our wrath was turned to rejoicing! We shook hands with the representatives and thanked them as they came out. They looked rather sheepish—perhaps on account of the dictionary incident.

We now began active work to influence the voters. Meetings were held in all parts of the state and many articles were published, explaining the scope of the amendment.

Our most valuable support came from the educational authorities, since theirs was expert opinion. We published letters from Hon. Charles J. Baxter, State Superintendent of Education and others, setting forth the good effect which the votes of women had already had upon the school system. The Republican State Executive Committee and many organizations endorsed the amendment. It was defeated by an adverse majority of ten thousand votes, sixty-five thousand persons voting for it. The opposition came almost entirely from the cities, where school suffrage had never existed, and especially from the Germans.

Our labor was not wasted, however, for the campaign widely advertised the fact that women still possessed the right to serve as school trustees and also to vote for appropriations and the issuance of bonds. We still held, in rural districts, the power of the purse-strings. It was a part of my policy to keep this fact always before the people of the state. Every spring, shortly before the time of the annual school meetings, I prepared a circular which was printed and sent to the three hundred newspapers of New Jersey. We were too poor, as an association, to afford clerk hire, devoted suffragists freely giving their time and labor.

The admission of women to the Bar of the state was secured at this time. Several of us spoke at a hearing of the judiciary committee of the Legislature, but the most telling speech was that of Mrs. Carrie Burnham Kilgore, a lawyer of Philadelphia.

She informed her hearers that, through interstate courtesy, she had been permitted to try cases in New Jersey. “Surely, gentlemen, you will not refuse to the women of your own state the privilege you have accorded to those from a neighboring commonwealth.” This argument produced a great effect on the men learned in the law. Miss Mary Philbrook was very active and energetic in getting the law passed under which she was the first woman to become a lawyer in New Jersey.

My husband gave her her first case—that of a neighbor whose husband had by his will tried to cut off her right of dower. Miss Philbrook won it.

The comments of the “antis,” or “remonstrants,” as we then called them, appealed strongly to one’s sense of humor.

I wrote a farce, “The Judgment of Minerva,” on this theme, and read it before the National Woman Suffrage Convention in Washington and elsewhere. It elicited much laughter. Later it was acted by the College Equal Suffrage League at one of the Boston theaters and by several other suffrage societies.

After serving as president of the New Jersey Woman Suffrage Association for eight years, I retired. Mrs. Cornelia Hussey, a devoted suffragist, whose generous financial support had been indispensable to the state association, made me a life member of the National and through the vote of the state association I became its first honorary president. Such recognitions of one’s work are always heartening because they testify to the approval of one’s fellow-workers. The greatest reward is the consciousness that one has done something, be it ever so little, for the “grand old cause of human freedom.”

My husband had been a “Pooh Bah” in Scotch Plains, and I now deserved the title in Plainfield. Our little Unitarian church needed a president for its Women’s Alliance, and during eleven years I held the office. This did not involve long-distance excursions, however. In addition to working for the church, we prepared and read papers. It was a pleasure to meet with this intelligent body of women. In our Plainfield chapter of the D. A. R. I enjoyed serving as regent and vice-regent for some years. As president of the local league I continued my work for suffrage.

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XX

JOYS AND SORROWS OF THE LECTURER

_The Treatment of “Talent.”—Visits to New England and to the West.—My
Mother’s Seventieth Birthday.—The papeterie Club.—Elisabeth Stewart
Phelps Ward.—Thomas Nelson Page._

IN the ’nineties the women’s clubs were beginning to offer a field for lecturers. After reading a paper before my own club in Plainfield I was emboldened to enter this, and during twenty-five years made lecture trips to New England and the middle West, as well as to near-by points. “The Art of Conversation,” and “Personal Reminiscences of Distinguished People” were among my most popular talks.

Boston was my mother’s home and also a great center of club activity. Hence I was glad to give many talks in New England, combining them with visits to her delightful home at 241 Beacon Street. On one of these trips I attended an authors’ reading where the name of Elizabeth Stewart Phelps Ward was on the program. She duly took her part, but we learned afterward that she had told the chairman she might not feel like speaking. “When it is my turn, do not announce me unless I spring up and come forward.” As Mrs. Ward was sitting behind the chairman, the latter had some anxious moments before the author of “Gates Ajar” decided to “spring up.”

If not the first to speak on the subject of manners, I was a pioneer in the field. A friend surprised me by saying that my talks at schools had become the fashion in New York. A look at my engagement-book showed that she was right.

To talk to young girls is a great pleasure. We always seemed to understand one another perfectly; I interspersed my subject with anecdotes and with bits of fun which they cordially appreciated. My aim was to set before them the essentials of good nature rather than the formalism of mere etiquette.

A speaker on manners is confronted with many difficulties. She must not speak of elementary details as if her hearers were ignorant of them, yet she must enter somewhat into particulars. I thought it perfectly safe to speak of gum-chewing in public as an odious custom, permissible only to football players. Alas! One of my hearers always chewed gum while traveling, to avoid car-sickness!

I often asked the principals whether there were any special points they wished mentioned. One lady requested me to speak of mimicry, as she had a pupil much given to it. I willingly did so, quoting from Miss Edgeworth’s story of “The Mimic.” Unfortunately the girl for whom the admonition was especially intended was not feeling well. Either the other girls recognized the culprit or the weight of her own guilt overwhelmed her. I have a dim vision of a youthful figure reclining in an anteroom. I was never asked to speak in that school again!

If I had realized all the pitfalls lurking in the path of the speaker on manners, I should have embarked upon it with a less cheerful heart. But in all professions we learn by doing. To be “the Missionary of good manners” has been a pleasure. The principals have been kind and appreciative hostesses, and I have been truly glad to visit a great number of schools which afforded attractive homes as well as excellent educational advantages to the bright-faced, happy young girls of our country. It has been a privilege to see so much of the flower of young American womanhood.

Ruth McEnery Stewart has described in her inimitable way the treatment of the woman speaker in early days. Many of her experiences were also mine. She apparently preferred to stay with private families, and I certainly did. The cold isolation of a hotel in a small country town, the depressing furniture of the bedroom, the unappetizing menu and service of the dining-room, the chattering drummers in the distance, these were not at all to my taste.

As a guest in a private house one incurs additional fatigue, but this is more than compensated for by the pleasure of meeting and learning to know your fellow-men and women. Is there a little desire for incense in all this? It may be, but there is also a genuine liking for one’s kind. To get a peep into the lives and thoughts of others can hardly fail to be interesting. Your material comforts are also much better attended to in the nest of the average clubwoman than in the leading hotel of the small town. The former gives you the best she has; she does everything in her power to make you comfortable under her roof. The chief danger is that of killing you with kindness by putting you on exhibition through unduly long hours.

To be considered as a being apart is flattering, even though fatiguing. That you are like other women, capable of physical weariness, does not always occur to your kind entertainers. To find that you are to be the chief guest at a large luncheon given in your honor, just preceding your address, is disturbing. At such moments I sympathize with Mrs. Deland’s desire for the barbaric solitude of the hotel bedroom. Again, at the end of an hour, when you’ve done your best to entertain the audience, you would almost prefer not to shake hands with a couple of hundred persons.

Still, it is a pleasure to meet your audience and to hear them say the lecture interested them. You look as animated as you can and try to vary the expression of your voice when you say for the hundredth time, “I’m glad you liked it.” For you are genuinely glad—of that there is no doubt.

I learned ultimately to ask for a time of absolute quiet before speaking. This is more difficult to procure than the uninitiated suppose. It is a maxim with the average clubwoman that the “talent” must be on hand in very good season. Some clubs who are very secret about their affairs put you in a remote waiting-room which may or may not be warm. Others, remembering that you also are a clubwoman and likely to sympathize in their doings, give you a comfortable chair on the platform. As I am thoroughly in sympathy with the club idea and spirit, I like to hear the reports, provided they are not too long. At one enthusiastic club I sat during an hour or more while they thoroughly and conscientiously amended their constitution.

For these reasons the lecturer sometimes weakly desires to delay her coming. She has a subconscious feeling that the program proper cannot begin until she gets there, and that therefore she could take a later train. This proves to be impossible, because of the necessity of personally meeting and guiding the “talent” (who might have the wandering tendencies characteristic of genius) to the right hall. The escort, being herself a member of the club, cannot, without sin, lose any crumb of the afternoon’s performance.

To be obliged to await your turn, in a very cold hall, while another speaker gives an address with stereoscopic illustrations, is not enlivening to the spirits. In spite of the assurance that the first talk will be very brief, you have a dreadful foreknowledge that it will not be. You grow more and more depressed as he goes on and on, for you know full well that your audience will be already wearying before you begin. Those who have no sense of the passage of time should not be expected to divide the program with others. Thomas Nelson Page, when reading his own stories, is as genial and delightful as they are. We went to hear him speak on the literature of the South with the pleasantest anticipations. Richard Watson Gilder and Sister Maud were also to make addresses—or so we hoped. But as Mr. Page went on and on, these hopes faded away. In his amiable desire to do justice to all the writers of his section of the country, he forgot the limitations of time and space. A gentleman in my vicinity became actually savage in his impatience and was with difficulty restrained from violence by his wife. Mr. Page must have spoken for two hours—or so it seemed,—the other speakers’ time being reduced to a few minutes. When we met him next day and complimented him on his address, he naïvely replied, “I could have done better if I could have had more time!”

Mr. Page is by no means the only person whom I have heard offend in this way. Hence the warning-bell of women’s conventions is an excellent institution. The local talent must sometimes be reckoned with. I am very fond of music, but, in my opinion, it is a mistake to present a mixed program, consisting half of concert and half of lecture, to a club audience. Such an occasion is of a mongrel order. A single song may pleasantly preface the literary exercises, but this it is difficult to have.

In the midst of a series of earnest talks on schools as social centers, or on votes for women, to have your train of thought suddenly interrupted by operatic quavers from the local soprano, with accompanying flower presentation, is disturbing.

Marion Crawford was a delightful speaker. It once happened, when we were in Boston, that several of us were to speak on the same day.

“Five of the family are going to make the platform creak to-night!” exclaimed Crawford.

At a lecture course which I arranged in Plainfield he was the great attraction. The talk was given in a hall of pleasant size, not too large to permit a certain intimacy between speaker and audience. Crawford was at his best. Feeling, as a lecturer so quickly does, the interest and sympathy of his hearers, he was as genial and delightful as if he had been talking to half a dozen of us in a parlor. Among those that surrounded him after the address was an enthusiastic lady who declared him to be the equal of Thackeray. The dear fellow deprecated this praise, yet he clearly liked it, as who would not?

Another relative, who wanted him to speak at her house, for a reduced price, did not secure him.

She wished, after the fashion of women, to give her guests a real treat—ice-cream and flowers as well as an address from Crawford—cutting down his fee to pay for the rest of the entertainment. I regret to say that her point of view is quite common among clubwomen. The secretary will naïvely ask you to come for a low price because the ladies wish to give ice-cream to their guests. It does not seem to occur to them that in this case it is the lecturer who pays for the refreshments!

It is—or was, for we will hope the bad custom is dying away—common for clubs to exact, whenever they can, cut prices from their women speakers, on the plea of their small means—and then end up the year with some very expensive man whose fee is _not_ subject to curtailment.

After my mother reached the age of seventy her birthday was always celebrated by family and friends as a joyous occasion. The house was transformed into a veritable bower of flowers, the fitting expression of the beautiful affection by which she was surrounded.

A lady from the West was invited, with her son, to one of these receptions. She endeavored to impress upon him, beforehand, the importance of the occasion when “we shall see all the _élite_ of Boston.” The day was rainy, and in the confusion of many umbrellas, that of the Western couple was mislaid.

“Ah, mother, the _élite_ got the better of us that time!” said her son.

In 1893 we all greatly enjoyed the Chicago World’s Fair, in spite of the fact that I had my pocket picked and that my oldest son had a very serious time with his eyes, which were half-blinded by the glare. My mother was so deeply interested in it, and especially in the parliaments connected with it, that she forgot about her lame knee. When she returned home this took its revenge, depressing her usually buoyant spirits.

Sister Maud, remembering our mother’s perennial interest in women’s clubs, invented the “Papeterie” as a restorative.

Its object, as the name implies, was an exchange of paper-covered novels. The members took these home to read, giving a report at the following meeting. We occasionally had musical, artistic, and dramatic programs. Our most serious undertaking was the writing of a novel, to which each member contributed a chapter. It was full of dash and adventure, but remains buried in the archives of the club. Our great modesty forbade the seeking of a publisher. We had a great deal of delightful fun and nonsense at our meetings. Our mother, with her wit and gaiety, was the moving spirit of the little club. She seldom missed a meeting, but when she did we were like salt that has lost its savor. The merriment which came so easily in her presence, faded and died away!

Some extracts from my minutes as recording secretary are given below, to show as far as may be the spirit of our meetings. Their object was to amuse the company rather than to preserve a strictly veracious record of our doings.

We had no regular fees and dues in the Papeterie, save occasional fines of five cents for some offense, real or imaginary, and assessments for postage or for a new record-book. Hence jests about our treasurer were among our stock jokes. She was christened “butterfly,” owing to her supposed fondness for society.

The first meeting of the renowned Papeterie Club for the season
of 1910 was held August 9th, at the house of our President, who
occupied the chair, as usual. She has wielded the gavel, OUR
gavel, with her accustomed dexterity and grace, rebuking
frivolous members with august raps on the table.

The annual report of the Rec. Sec. was read. The Chair suggested
in a voice of authority that the proper thing be done by this
report, and all voted to do the proper thing. What this was no
one mentioned.

The Treasurer’s report was a revelation in High Finance, as
follows:

Oct. 19th, 1908. There were five cents—these five cents to be
known hereafter as the Lost Chord.

In July, 1909, we began with this Lost Chord—which vanished,
leaving in its place $5.61 in October of that year.

There were no expenses except $1.20 for postal cards. Apparently
there were no receipts, but somehow the $5.61 has now become
$7.36. The third degree was here mercilessly applied to our
Butterfly Treasurer, also to the minutes, with the result that
it was found $2.75 had been received for special fines. The
Papeterie therefore voted NOT to burn the treasurer at the stake
as a witch. We should have been under this sad necessity had not
this increase in our Treasure been satisfactorily accounted for.

The election passed off with its accustomed serenity. The Club
understands so well how to re-elect the old officers, we could
really do this in our sleep. The old Board is unanimously
murmured into the offices which they will never leave, no never,
while life lasts. The only new feature of the election was that
our Treasurer, Mrs. Lyman Josephs, nobly consented to act as
Cor. Sec. _pro tem._ (in the absence of Mrs. Manson Smith), as
well as our eternal and brilliant Treasurer. And yet she has
been called a Butterfly.

FLORENCE H. HALL,
_Rec. Sec._

In addition to the usual officers of a club, the Papeterie had a “troubadour” (our musical member), an “archiviste” in charge of the archives, and a “penologist.” Our penal code was in the custody of the latter. We had a great deal of fun over the code—but I do not remember the actual infliction of any punishment, except fines of five cents.

The meeting of September 27, 1910, was the last but one held before my mother’s death, in October. Mrs. William Hunter Birckhead, who succeeded me as recording secretary, gave us an interesting account of the “Passion Play” at Oberammergau, and my mother told us of Newport in the old days. It was so sadly deserted after the Revolution that only one lady possessed a diamond ring!

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XXI

DARBY AND JOAN ON THEIR TRAVELS

_A Cathedral Pilgrimage.—Visit to a French Country House.—Madame
Blanc.—Cathedrals of Rheims, Chartres, Rouen, Beauvais,
Amiens.—English Hospitality.—Visit to Florence Nightingale._

IN the summer of 1902 my husband was badly out of health. It was decided that we should try a trip to Europe in the hope that the complete change of thought and scene would be beneficial to him. I had been on the point of going abroad with the family in 1867, and again toward the end of the century, when it was planned that I should bring my mother back from Rome. This was the first time, however, that I was to cross the ocean “in the flesh.” To me, Europe had always seemed a fairy-land of romance. I was delighted at the mere thought of going there. My husband, on the contrary, was quite indifferent about it. This was perhaps owing to his state of health. The task of parting him from his business proved extremely difficult. Like many conscientious persons, he felt that he simply could not leave the matters to which no one else could, in his opinion, properly attend. Fortunately, our daughter Caroline was going with us. With her help we managed to get off, but the final wrench was terrific! No sooner had the good ship _Zeeland_ sailed than a complete change came over the spirit of his dreams. He enjoyed every moment of our trip; indeed, we both did. “Darby and Joan on their travels” were like two middle-aged but very happy children.

To our delight, Mr. and Mrs. Larz Anderson, the latter an old friend of my daughter, proved to be among the passengers. We all sat at a table together, Miss Susie Dalton making the sixth of a merry party. I suspect that the Andersons ordered special cakes and ale, for the table had the most delightfully decorative appearance. They certainly treated us to champagne, which is well known to be a preventive of seasickness.

The only drawback to our joy in Antwerp was the constant striking of the cathedral chimes. Every rose has its thorns and every cathedral has its bells, but all do not keep up their music through the live-long night. We consoled ourselves by the remembrance that Thackeray also suffered!

The old houses especially charmed us wherever we went. The quaint Flemish dwellings with the rope and pulley at the top explained to us why the French attics are called _greniers_ or granaries.

A visit to the house of Mrs. George R. Fearing at Fontainebleau gave us a delightful glimpse of French country life. Even the name of the street where she lived, “rue de l’Arbre Sec,” had a promise of romance. Here we found “modern conveniences” and charming hospitality combined with the setting and atmosphere of a French country house. This kind friend had lived so long in France as to become thoroughly acclimated. Indeed, she did not return to America until the sound of the cannon at her gates in the battle of the Marne drove her from her beloved France.

The family came together at twelve o’clock, for an excellent luncheon, followed by coffee in the garden. Here the lofty walls gave us a delightful feeling of privacy, even though we were living in the midst of a small town. The European use of the garden as an annex to the house is so eminently reasonable that one can hardly understand why its introduction has been so fiercely fought in our own country.

In our friend’s garden, as everywhere in France, the combination of beauty with economy delighted us. Who but the French would think of using spinach as a border to the flower-beds?

At three o’clock came the daily drive into the wonderful forest, with a visit to some spot of interest. Our thoughtful hostess always provided a _goûter_ of bread and chocolate, our funny old driver taking his at a little distance apart. When we visited quaint Barbizon, we munched our _goûter_ under the shadow of the monument to its great artists. On our return we dined at seven, and so the pleasant day ended.

Among the villages on the borders of the forest, Moret, with its ancient, turreted gates and factory of beautiful chinaware, is especially charming. The dear old church, fast falling into decay, wrung our hearts. “Darby” was a zealous Protestant, but he felt it right to drop something in the “_tronc pour la restauration de l’église_.” Alas! one does not like to think of the decay that must, during the present war, have overtaken many of these beautiful old wayside churches.

As the lovely Palace of Fontainebleau was almost at our door we had excellent opportunities of becoming acquainted with it. It is especially satisfactory to the tourist, because the rooms still retain the old artistic furniture. When wandering through them you seem to catch a glimpse of the vanished past with its grandeur.

When the time came for us to leave Fontainebleau and start on our pilgrimage, we felt very much like elderly Babes in the Wood, for Caroline was to stay behind with Mrs. Fearing. She had fortified us, however, with much advice. We were especially cautioned to observe her instructions as to the proper amount of the _pourboire_, in order that the hack-drivers might perceive us to be, not perhaps exactly natives, but persons of knowledge who could not be easily imposed upon.

We each brought certain modest talents to our combined stock as a company of adventure. Darby had the splendid quality of enthusiasm and an intense love of the beautiful. He had also a power of orientation most surprising to his partner. He always knew east from west; with guide-book and map in hand, he could perform the most marvelous feats of going about in strange places. Joan felt it to be an unnecessary fatigue to bother your head about direction when you could take an omnibus marked with the name of the place you wanted to visit. If there wasn’t any omnibus you could hire a cab, and the driver always knew where to go!

She contributed to the common stock a knowledge of French that enabled her to understand the spoken word and to speak it herself—with some pauses. Being of a hopeful disposition, she had a sublime confidence that everything would go right, in spite of appearances. This proved to be a good traveling companion, although it did give us some anxious moments in the matter of catching trains. For your optimist is apt to cut her time allowance short. Darby, who went abroad for nerves, felt positive we never could catch that train, but we always did!

It was our great delight to go about on the top of an omnibus. Darby would carry all his worldly goods with him, so that it was necessary for Joan to sit always on his right or pocketbook side. His agony was great when a suspicious-looking character sat down next to the pocketbook. We did see a few ferocious-looking men who reminded us of the French Revolution.

Darby’s indifference toward the Old World changed rapidly into a chronic state of enthusiasm. We were indifferent to shops, and the season was late for theater-going. Our great pleasure lay in looking up old houses and monuments of the past, as well as in visiting the many museums, picture-galleries, and churches which make Paris the most wonderful city in the world.

A visit to Madame Henri Blanc (Thérèse de Solms Bentzon), well known for her writings in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, was among the pleasures of my stay in Paris. Either I was a little early in arriving at her apartment or my hostess was a trifle late. She soon came in, however, and entertained me with afternoon tea, the adorable little French cakes, and her own interesting conversation. After a little preliminary maneuvering for position, we settled down into the French language, Madame Blanc assuring me, with true Gallic politeness, that my French was better than her English.

I was very glad to have an opportunity to hear her express her opinions unhampered by a foreign language.

Madame Blanc had much to say on the subject of flirtations, of which she greatly disapproved. It was evident to me that, using the word in a graver sense than we do, she somewhat misjudged our American flirtations. Yet how difficult it is to explain to a foreigner our lenient view of what appears to her a dangerous pastime! She doubtless thought of these as a careless trifling with affairs of the heart on the part of married women. A Frenchwoman cannot fully understand the meaning of the half-playful, usually quite harmless, flirtations of our young girls, because their position and freedom of action are incomprehensible to her. Yet, as Madame Blanc was the translator of American romances and as she had paid especial attention to our life and manners, her opinions deserve careful consideration.

When I saw her in 1902 Madame Blanc was of fair complexion, gray-haired, and rather stout. She was dressed in black, with no pretensions to coquetry. In fact, she was frankly a middle-aged Frenchwoman.

My husband had certain rooted prejudices in the dietary line which were not easily overcome. Thus to rabbit he bitterly objected.

Caroline and I one day found him in the midst of an animated altercation with the waiter. The latter had, he suspected, brought him the odious _lapin_, which he wished instantly exchanged for something else. The waiter vainly tried to point out that of the two “meats” he was entitled only to one. He had not only chosen _lapin_, but, like Proserpine, he had tasted of the fatal dish. The waiter doubtless considered the complaint to be of the _lapin_ as _lapin_. That it was a perfectly good rabbit he stoutly maintained. _It was an intense international moment!_ Caroline deftly straightened out the tangle and soothed the injured feelings of the waiter.

We were so fortunate as to see Mounet-Sully in “œdipus.” The formalism of the play, the archaic device of having the story related by the chorus, caused Darby to sniff during the first part of the performance. Darby was extremely fond of the theater, especially of Shakespeare’s plays. When the climax of “œdipus” was reached in the last act, his Puritan self-control gave way. In his enthusiasm he shouted, “Bravo! bravo!” This sudden flaming forth of American admiration for the great actor surprised the quiet French people—strangers to us—who had seats in our box.

In Antwerp we had admired the cathedral, in spite of the somewhat hybrid character of its architecture. Within, the stalls for the clergy and choir—forests of lovely carved wood—were a perfect revelation to us. In Paris the Cathedral of Notre Dame especially delighted us. Henceforth our trip, while it had many interesting side features, became in truth a cathedral pilgrimage. We became perfectly infatuated with the beauty and the grandeur of these wonderful dreams in stone, the finest buildings in the world erected since the days of the Parthenon.

The height of the French cathedrals is astounding. As we stood in the matchless nave of Amiens and looked up one hundred and forty clear feet to the vaulting far above our heads, we could hardly believe that it was made of stone. How could such a weight be sustained?

We had such faith in its stability, however, that here and in other cathedrals we walked about in a sort of vast attic between this stone vaulting and the outer roof. The young French girl who guided us was as nimble as a goat. She seemed to have no fear of falling in places where I stepped with fear and trembling.

It was a slight shock to find that the famous spires of Chartres are not alike, having been built at different periods, yet they are held to be unsurpassed in France. The older one is much simpler than its younger brother. We had been delighted with the stained glass of Notre Dame in Paris, and we had enjoyed—with some reservations—that of the Sainte-Chapelle. But the windows at Chartres were a revelation. They were like gleaming jewels on an enormous scale, wonderful, wonderful to behold. The deep-blue tones I especially remember. The windows in the clearstory of the nave are very beautiful, the superior height of the French cathedrals making these much larger and more beautiful than the corresponding windows in the English minsters. In the latter the choir is often fenced off from the nave by an ugly jube, or rood screen, surmounted by an organ, instead of being left open, as in France. The reason of this difference is that the French churches were built by the people, in an almost literal sense, for they not only gave money, but in some instances actually hauled the great blocks of stone in their pious zeal. Hence the French people rightly felt that these splendid buildings belonged to them.

At Chartres it makes one’s heart ache to see that the exquisite lacework in stone of the choir screen is broken in a number of places, though still most beautiful. The great triple porches, with their portals fairly crowded with sculptured figures, delighted us. Even the layman can see that the quaint, exaggerated elongation of the statues serves a definite architectural purpose.

At Beauvais we visited the famous tapestry-works and saw the workmen carrying on their craft. Each held a little mirror in his lap, showing the right side of the texture, the wrong, on which he wrought, being turned toward him. Their hands looked white and soft like a woman’s. Beauvais has its heroine, who seems to be little known outside the limits of the town. When Charles the Bold of Burgundy attacked the place the inhabitants defended it successfully, the women helping. In the market-place stands a statue of Jeanne Lainé, or Hachette, the heroine of the fight. The banner which she captured with her own hands is still preserved.

It seems fitting that the boldest and highest flight of Gothic architecture should have been attempted in a place with such traditions. Alas! The result proved that it is best not to be overbold. The Cathedral of St. Pierre was and is a magnificent fragment, for it was never finished. When the noble and beautiful spire fell, five years after its completion, on Ascension Day, 1573, it was said that with it fell the pointed style in France.

We reached the Cathedral of Beauvais in time to witness a procession in honor of the Virgin’s Assumption. It was pleasant to see the townspeople thus making active use of their “enormous, though ill-proportioned and yet magnificent, church.”

We entered by the south transept, which is most beautiful and impressive. Standing before it, one does not see that the nave is wanting; one only admires a vast structure, richly carved. We found the choir made beautifully light and bright by its three lofty stories of stained glass. The building gives one no sense of repose, for in the desire to realize the vast height the eye constantly follows the course of the colossal piers as they rise up, up, up in the air. Alas! various scaffoldings erected in the interior to strengthen weak parts give one a feeling of insecurity.

From certain points of view, the Cathedral of Beauvais looks like a stranded monster of the past. Its vast height is exaggerated by the lack of a nave, making it appear high-shouldered and out of proportion. Yet other views of it are so beautiful and so impressive that we felt well repaid for our trip.

Before the year 1914 we thought of Rheims Cathedral as the most beautiful of the great sister churches of France. Now we think of her as of a loved one no longer living. We cannot speak her name without sorrow, for the crown of martyrdom has been added to her other glories.

We were so anxious to see as much as possible of the cathedral that we took rooms in the hotel opposite it. From our windows we looked directly out at the wonderful façade. There was one terrible drawback, however, to our proximity to the cathedral. We were awakened at about five in the morning by a loud and persistent ringing of the bells of the great church. The repetition of the same tone over and over again, several hundred times, drove Darby almost to distraction. Later we learned that it had been the custom to ring this tocsin at this time for four or five hundred years! What a comment on the industry of the place, and indeed of the French people generally!

We viewed the building from many points, noting the wonderful way in which the beautiful features of the structure echo from one part to another till they reach the highest pinnacle and vanish into the heavens, as the great church itself has now vanished, all but a few ruins. Perhaps it has again taken shape there. May we not hope to see its image, etherealized, in the Celestial City?

As to the façade, in these stirring days of the twentieth century it is splendid to think of it as the unsurpassed and unsurpassable triumph of democracy! For it was owing to the popular ownership of these buildings in France that the façade, or people’s end, became so wonderfully developed. For the same reason the French cathedrals stand in the streets of the town, always readily accessible to the people. Whereas the great English churches are shut away in closes, indicating the more aristocratic and exclusive rule of the clergy.

Darby irreverently observed that the English clergy in the cathedrals seemed as snug as mice in a cheese!

We saw many beautiful doorways in France, both in cathedrals and in smaller churches, but none can compare with those of Rheims. Their shape is of very great and peculiar beauty. These vast arched portals curve inward and downward almost like a cup.

I had some talk with the workmen engaged in making the restorations. These are imperative, as without them the cathedrals would go to decay. Rheims is built of a beautiful yellowish-brown material, but the stone is too soft to wear well. The repairs were made in a spirit of reverence. The method we found surprising. In reconstructing a pinnacle they build it up into the form of a single block of stone, and then carve it as a sculptor carves a statue out of a block of marble.

Late one August afternoon we stood before the lofty portals. I fancied the great figures near their base—the rows of saints—grew more lifelike in the twilight, as if preparing to step down from their niches. As evening fell the army of figures carved in stone seemed to give the cathedral a human look. They were almost alive in the twilight. What tales of the centuries were they prepared to tell us, these dumb witnesses of many a grand pageant and of the coronation of the kings of France for more than six hundred years! Did they feel a glow of national pride when the Maid of Orléans brought the recreant Charles VII hither to be crowned and achieved her greatest triumph under that vast roof?

The summit of our pilgrimage of joy had now been reached; after this there was a gentle descent to glories still great, but lesser than the five supreme examples of Gothic art we had already seen. To be sure, the Abbey Church of St. Ouen at Rouen is thought the most beautiful thing of its kind in Europe. We should have been only too happy to enjoy it as it stood, without criticism, save for one sad fault. The western facade—the glory of our other cathedrals—is very disappointing, for it is modern, and looks so! Indeed, it seems cheap and commonplace. It was built by Viollet-le-Duc, who did not adhere to the original plans, _which still exist!_

We admired greatly the façade of the Cathedral of Rouen, with its wonderful decoration. Monet has made a series of lovely paintings of it. We realized, however, that there was a distinct descent from the earlier, nobler, and more reserved monuments of Gothic art. It lacks the tremendous sincerity of these.

Ascending the towers of the various cathedrals we found a mystic and sometimes an alarming task. If a guide went with us, well and good, but often he trustingly left us to our own devices. Evidently we could not run away with the tower. A sacristan, however pious, is, after all, human, especially as to his legs. No matter how aspiring his soul, his frame cannot endure an infinite number of ascensions in the company of successive squads of tourists. So he often pressed a lighted taper into the hands of Darby, receiving in return a franc or so. Round and round the dark spiral staircase we wound our way, stepping always on the damp stones worn by the feet of countless pilgrims of the centuries. We could see but a short way before us. Suppose pickpockets or cutthroats were lurking around the next turn of the winding stairway, what could we do? Fortunately, we never met any one more alarming than tourists like ourselves, who passed us without hostile demonstrations.

Our stay in France had been a period of enchantment. When we reached Le Havre and embarked for England we began once more to touch the ground of real life. When every one about you speaks your language there is an end of the wonderful mystery that seems to encompass the traveler on foreign soil.

Things in England were not like things in America, but both were prose, whereas in France all had been poetry. The universal provisions against rain of course amused us—the reversible seats on the tops of the omnibuses, the rubber trousers which the policemen calmly folded up and laid, when not in use, at the feet of the lions of Trafalgar.

The cathedrals were beautiful, but we missed the soaring height of their French sisters. The English cathedrals are not true Gothic, like those of northern France, neither do they possess the wonderful wealth and variety of ornamentation of the latter.

At Plymouth we had the great pleasure of staying in an English country house, our hosts being Colonel and Mrs. Dudley Mills. Here we found the true British hospitality which is so delightful. The fact that some one—either your host or his myrmidons—is constantly thinking of your comfort is certainly pleasant. Cans of hot water, brought constantly to your door, are not so convenient, in reality, as faucets, but they add a personal and human touch, like the open-grate fires which some one must constantly tend!

The Devonshire clotted cream we especially liked. Also, after our continental experience, it was refreshing to see church floors actually washed!

To have Devonshire designated in the newspapers as the “West” of England seemed very funny. It had not occurred to us that the country was large enough to have any “West”!

Nothing in England impressed me more than the sculptures from the Parthenon in the British Museum. Not even the incongruity of their surroundings, in a bare, stuffy room, can mar their wonderful beauty. The grace of the recumbent figures in their marvelous drapery, the heads of the horses of the setting sun, the pageant of the Panathenaic procession, all the figures so stately, yet so graceful—truly the ruins of Greece are more glorious than any sculpture the modern world can show!

People said that it would be impossible for me to see Florence Nightingale, then a confirmed invalid living in extreme retirement.

But I felt confident that for the sake of her old friends, my parents, as well as for my own, she would receive her goddaughter if her health permitted. It was more than fifty years since she had written, “I shall hope to see my little Florence before long in this world,” and the time was growing short.

She had said, too, she trusted a tie had been formed between us which should continue in eternity: “If she is like you I shall know her again there without her body on, perhaps the better for not having known her here with it.”

With the extraordinary promptness characteristic of the London post, a reply to my letter came from Miss Nightingale’s secretary, appointing a time for me to call.

Our landlady tried to impress upon me the greatness of the privilege thus granted. Like all her countrywomen, she greatly admired Florence Nightingale, although, with the curious British reserve, the expression of her admiration was to be mortuary only.

“When she dies I shall send her a funeral wreath!” quoth Miss X. She also specified that the price was to be five dollars, if I remember aright.