Chapter D: P. Hall (3)

Miss Nightingale’s house at 10 South Street, Park Lane, was in Mayfair, the aristocratic quarter of London. There was nothing especially striking about the quiet and commodious dwelling, with its air of dignified simplicity and retirement so well befitting the quiet tastes of its noble-hearted mistress. Florence Nightingale’s dislike of ostentation is well known. To serve her fellow-men and to relieve suffering was the ruling passion of her life, but she always shunned publicity, save as it might be necessary for the accomplishment of her work.

Upon my arrival I was met by a young lady, Miss Cochrane, who was, I presume, the secretary. She told me that Miss Nightingale had been interested in my letter and would enjoy seeing me. But she warned me not to stay long and to leave if my hostess seemed tired. Presently the nurse called me, and we ascended some flights of stairs till we reached a large pleasant room where I was ushered into the presence of Florence Nightingale. She was reclining in bed, propped up by pillows. A soft woolen shawl was around her shoulders. Her gray hair, still thick and not so white as that of most persons of her age (eighty-two), was parted in the middle and brushed smoothly down on each side beneath a plain cap. Her features were strong, the nose slightly aquiline, the eyes bright, apparently gray. She reminded me of Ralph Waldo Emerson in a certain shrewd and kindly look which seemed to betoken a strong sense of humor. Her complexion was good, her color also, with something of the English ruddiness. Her voice was strong and full, an unusual thing in a person of her age. A pad and pencil lay beside her, with which she made some notes in the course of our talk.

“What a dear old lady!” I said to myself as I looked at her. I had been warned that I must myself do the greater part of the talking, as it would not do to fatigue my distinguished hostess. In her _Notes_ _on Nursing_ she gives these vigorous and sensible hints for just such a visit as I was making.

Do you who are about the sick or who visit the sick, try and
give them pleasure, remember to tell them what will do so. How
often in such visits _the sick person has to do the whole
conversation_.... A sick person does so enjoy hearing good
news—for instance, of a love and courtship while in progress, to
a good ending.

(How glad I am to think that I had the sense to tell her two of my sons had taken wives unto themselves. “I am glad they are married,” said the dear lady.)

A sick person also intensely enjoys hearing of any _material_
good, any positive or practical success of the right. He has so
much of books and fiction, of principles and precepts and
theories; do, instead of advising him with advice he has heard
at least fifty times before, tell him of one benevolent act
which has really succeeded practically—_it is like a day’s
health to him_.

Instead of repining at her enforced inactivity and grieving over her sufferings, like the usual egotistical invalid, this glorious soul found its health and strength in hearing of the good works of others! What wonder that her presence was like a benediction! People said to me afterward:

“Is she alone in her old age?”

“Whom has she with her?”

It was evident that she was shielded and tended with thoughtful care and kindness. One could not associate the idea of loneliness with her, although she had survived most of her contemporaries and near relatives. Perhaps a glorious but invisible company made that quiet room so bright and cheerful!

It need scarcely be said that I would have much preferred to have her take the lead in conversation, but, since this could not well be, I endeavored to tell her things she would like to hear. Miss Nightingale was up to date and interested in the questions of the day. We talked of many things and she was a most sympathetic listener. The questions she asked showed what close attention she paid to the conversation. They showed also her sound and practical common sense. She had, be it said, that most important gift, a strong sense of humor. Thus she was decidedly amused at my quixotic views with regard to the Elgin marbles in the British Museum. Knowing her interest in Greece (which she visited in her young days), I ventured to tell her my real thought—namely, that these ought to be returned to the Acropolis.

“Why do not you suggest this to Parliament?” Miss Nightingale asked.

She wished to know if my husband and I had been long in England, and we spoke of the various attractions of London.

When I descanted on the horrors of the Tower, with its great display of weapons for men to kill one another with, she said she, too, thought it horrible. I expressed the hope that when women had more to say there would not be so much war. That in my opinion men were afraid to give us more power, because, although they pretended to think us less clever, they really thought us more so than themselves and were afraid we would get the upper hand. Miss Nightingale asked whether I thought the men considered themselves more clever, and, with a spice of roguishness, inquired whether I would like to have the upper hand!

She had a way of making a little semi-humorous gesture with her hand, drawing it back slightly and then bringing it forward again. The fact that women already had the suffrage in four states of the Union interested her, and she asked which those were. On hearing that women voted for President in Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, and Idaho, she asked the practical question:

“Have _you_ voted for President?”

I was obliged to confess that I had not.

Miss Nightingale said that women in America have more authority than they do in England.

She was pleased to hear about the _Woman’s Journal_, giving news of women all over the world. She asked for the address of the paper and wrote it down on the tablet lying beside her.

It was a pleasure to tell this dear lady of the health and vigor of her old friend and contemporary, my mother—that Mrs. Howe read Greek every morning.

That the blind had arranged and successfully carried out a celebration of the centennial of their benefactor and the friend of her youth, Doctor Howe, appealed to her, and she expressed a desire to have a copy of the monograph describing the occasion.

Miss Nightingale’s sense of hospitality would not permit me to leave without partaking of some refreshment. As we sat chatting together, afternoon tea with the usual accompaniments—toast, etc.—was brought for my delectation, all with the immaculate neatness and daintiness so characteristic of the author of _Notes on Nursing_. Miss Nightingale herself took no tea, but a goblet with what appeared like lemonade was brought to her.

So I had the honor of taking tea with one of the world’s greatest heroines! One would never have guessed this from her bearing, however. It was characterized by perfect simplicity and an entire absence of self-assertion. In a word, she had the manners of a true English gentlewoman of high breeding.

She more than once expressed regret that we had so little time for England, owing to a prolonged stay in France. This evidently impressed her, as she recurred to it. She seemed really sorry that we were obliged to leave England so soon, and said we must come back again.

I was indeed reluctant to leave her serene and beautiful presence, but, remembering the caution of the secretary and feeling upon honor, as I had been left alone with my distinguished hostess, I arose in due season to take my leave. I shall not soon forget the sweetness and fullness of the voice in which the dear lady bade me farewell I seem to hear that “Good-by” still ringing in my ears and repeated more than once as a sort of benediction: “Good-by! Good-by!” Her voice was like my mother’s. No sign of age was in its full, rounded tones, wonderful in a woman more than eighty years old.

Thus a beautiful old age, serene and tranquil, fitly crowned her life of most beneficent activity.

“The Lady with the Lamp” who watched over the sick soldiers, flitting from room to room when all others slept, lived to see her work multiplied a thousandfold and spread all over the earth. What wonder that the evening of her days was serene and happy in the thought of so much suffering saved, so much blessing gained to the children of men!

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XXII

“WANDER-YEARS”

_Michael Anagnos, His Romantic Yet Practical Career.—Death of My
Husband.—Return to New York.—My Daughter’s Exhibitions.—High Bridge,
a Quaint Old Jersey Town.—Leader Twelfth Assembly District of
Manhattan.—Suffrage-worker at Newport, Rhode Island.—The Delights of
Canvassing and Out-of-door Speaking._

ONE morning in the summer of 1906 I took up the newspaper and saw that my brother-in-law, Michael Anagnos, had died in Rumania, after a brief illness.

The news was sad indeed for us; we were attached to him not only for his own sake, but for that of our sister Julia and of our father as well. With his death the close connection which had existed between the Howe family and the Institution for the Blind during nearly three-quarters of a century came to an end. It was the beginning of a new era! The removal of the Institution to Watertown, which shortly followed, emphasized the loss.

South Boston had now become so closely built as to make this change desirable. But my heart felt a dreadful pang at the abandonment of the beloved old Institution, dear to us from a thousand associations—the house where I was born!

The early story of Michael Anagnos was a romantic one. There was the unkind stepmother of tradition and the devoted great-grandmother who brought him up. When, in hunting for birds’ eggs, his thumb was bitten by the serpent already in the nest, this valiant soul bound the wounded member tightly with her gold chain, then sucked the poison from it. If he indulged in some boyish mischief, she would shake her head and say, “Aha! I told the ‘Papa’ he did not duck your head under thoroughly when he baptized you!” (In the Greek Orthodox Church baptism is by immersion.)

Like David of old, little Michael tended his father’s flocks, but the passion of the boy, true to the instincts of his race, was for education. He studied by the light of a pine torch, and copied out the school-books he could not afford to buy. By dint of extreme frugality he was able to complete his studies at the University of Athens.

For a time he was engaged in newspaper work and interested in politics. Then he met my father and became his assistant in ministering to the suffering Cretan exiles in Athens.

The story goes on like a true romance. Young Anagnos, accompanying Doctor Howe to America, struggled valiantly with the difficulties attending transplantation to a foreign soil, but finally overcame them all.

“You say you have only five vowels in English. You really have twenty-six,” he would plaintively remark.

How his faithfulness and tireless industry won one step after another, how he married sister Julia and succeeded my father as director of the Institution, has been already told.

It was indeed a triumph for a foreigner to win the appointment to such a responsible position in the conservative town of Boston.

He abundantly justified the trust reposed in him, devoting his whole soul and his considerable talents to the task. His signal success, like that of his predecessor, has become a part of the proud record of the state of Massachusetts.

The two men were very unlike. Doctor Howe was essentially a leader, original in thought, quick and daring in action, yet possessing great patience.

The work of the pioneer was eminently congenial to him. He laid the foundations of the education for the blind in this country on such broad lines, he so thoroughly thought out and left on record the principles governing it, that his reports are considered educational classics. Hence his successor took up a work already well established. The task of Anagnos was to administer and to enlarge. For this he was admirably fitted. He greatly augmented the work of the printing in embossed letters, by raising a Howe Memorial Fund, largely increasing, also, the financial assets of the Institution.

His most striking achievement was the foundation and maintenance of a kindergarten for the blind, the first of its kind in the world. Both he and sister Julia were extremely fond of children. She had been greatly interested in the enterprise, but died while it was still in its infancy. Her last words were, “Take care of the little blind children.”

Anagnos made very full reports of the work under his charge. After the death of my sister it fell to my lot to go through these in order to make sure that the English idioms, so difficult for a foreigner to catch, were all correct. Thus for some twenty years it was my annual task to criticize “Michael’s” reports.

The great, square, brown paper envelopes in which these were contained, directed in my brother-in-law’s beautiful copper-plate hand, were sometimes greeted with groans on their arrival. For they were due at a season of the year when I was very busy.

Yet the work was very helpful to me, because it called for careful consideration of the reasons for or against certain forms of speech. With the prepositions we had special difficulty. Anagnos, too, as a true Oriental, possessed a very flowery style which it was necessary to prune and restrain in order to adapt it to our cold New England climate. At first he would pile metaphor upon metaphor and add simile to simile until his sober Puritan sister-in-law stood aghast. We had special difficulties with the obituaries of deceased benefactors of the Institution, whose virtues his gratitude painted in the most glowing colors. To have excellent but matter-of-fact Boston citizens compared to spreading oak-trees of benevolence seemed to me a trifle incongruous. I also demurred to “the Ark of the Institution keeping step in the march of progress.”

Looking back on the matter now, I am inclined to think my brother-in-law knew human nature better than I did. My work in cutting down the adjectives of encomium was perhaps supererogatory.

Anagnos found it on the whole very satisfactory. My use of English was the best in the family, he averred—but then he was a foreigner!

To his countrymen he was always ready to lend a helping hand. On the wall of his sitting-room hung an immense piece of canvas showing a ruined Greek temple, done in cross-stitch—“All there is to show, my dear, for two thousand dollars!”

He had lent this sum to a compatriot desiring to engage in the confectionery business. It is not probable that he often lost money in this way, for the Greeks are a thrifty race.

He was deeply interested in the war between Turkey and Greece. I could appreciate the eloquence of his address to his fellow-countrymen, even though no word was intelligible to me. When he seized their national flag and waved it they burst into applause.

It was wonderful to hear the ancient language spoken as a living tongue.

One could fancy how it must have sounded from the lips of Demosthenes. When Anagnos at his desk added up a column of figures he would occasionally murmur their Greek names. Thus the shades of the old classic world seemed to brood above the prosaic office-table of our day!

A great meeting in Music Hall, held in honor of his memory, testified to the affection and respect in which he was held. Here, also, the Old and New Worlds mingled, a priest of the Greek Church, robed in mourning, taking part in the ceremonies; at a memorial function held by his fellow-countrymen funeral sweetmeats were given to those present.

Having devoted his life to the service of his adopted country, Anagnos bequeathed his fortune to the cause of education in his native land. He founded two schools for girls in Epiros, naming them for his mother.

Our trip to Europe had given my husband a much-needed rest from care, and his health had improved correspondingly.

But from the time he was sixteen, when his brother entered the Union army, his lifelong habit had been to take more than his share of responsibility and, sparing those around him, to work to the limit of his strength, often beyond it. We did induce him to relax his efforts somewhat, but his unselfish nature and gallant spirit alike urged him to go on with the work of his arduous profession, that of the law.

He returned from the office, one Saturday, apparently in his usual health. But some over-exertion in working in the garden brought on an attack which ended fatally in a few hours. Thus he died literally in harness.

I said to myself, “I have let a most precious jewel slip through my fingers.” How much I had been sheltered and shielded by my husband’s devotion, what his affection had meant to me during thirty-six years of married life, I now realized for the first time.

The suttee of the Indian widow, formerly incomprehensible, I began to understand. Fortunately, there was much work for me to do. Our daughter had returned from her art studies in Paris a year before, in order to give her father, whose health we knew to be precarious, the pleasure of her companionship.

She already had a studio in Plainfield, but New York afforded a much better opening. The charge of the moving she assumed, since it would have been simply impossible for me to empty the house of the accumulations of fourteen years in the two weeks at our disposal.

She is a young woman of great resolution, and somehow we accomplished the job. We took an apartment in Washington Square and a studio in the old Stokes Building. The latter Caroline arranged charmingly, after the fashion of artists. Here we received our friends. I enjoyed this glimpse into the art world and managed to pick up a few gleanings of knowledge.

It was essential, however, that daughter’s painting should help with the bread and butter, so “one-man shows” became a part of my education. She had an exhibition at the rooms of the Civic League in New York, and two in successive summers, at houses lent us for the purpose, in Newport. Here we had more friends than in the great city, and we had the powerful assistance of sister Maud, ever generous in helping others. Many pictures were sold, to our joy, though I sometimes hated to part with them. A little maternal partiality no doubt entered into this affection for my daughter’s paintings. But they certainly had charm, especially when a number were gathered together.

My mother was still living and the summer studio was under her hospitable roof at “Oak Glen.” Here it was a great pleasure to see the work grow under Caroline’s hands and to recognize the familiar and beloved island landscape, somewhat disguised by the requirements of art.

Here, too, she painted the portrait of her grandmother, studying closely the ever-changing face and sparing her subject as much as possible the tedium of sittings. A studio is the most delightful place in the world to those in sympathy with the artist. Here we have beauty, life, growth, creation, and, where a painter is concerned, the warmth and joy of color!

Those were happy days, yet there were moments when I remembered that canvases and paints are dead things, compared with living human companionship. Therefore, when my daughter became engaged to be married to the Rev. Hugh Birckhead I knew that she had chosen wisely. Doubtless to all mothers the marriage of an only daughter, even under the very brightest auspices, is an occasion of mingled joy and sorrow. We rejoice at the new happiness; we regret the ending of the old home life and intimate companionship. In the midst of the strange confusion of feeling, on the great day, I did not fail to observe the gallant bearing of the groom as he came down the chancel steps to meet the bride, who looked her very best. Yet I was very near to tears. All that saved me from them was the comic look of a chorister marching in the wedding procession, a stout, short man with a round face and an open mouth that looked like the letter O. Since that time I have never _quite_ liked Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.”

Without my daughter’s companionship life proved lonely. After a year of it the youngest son came to his mother’s rescue, proposing that we should keep house together, at High Bridge, New Jersey, where his work was.

“But, my dear, are you _sure_ you want me? Would not you rather continue bachelor housekeeping with your young friends?”

He was very sure he _did_ want Mother, evidently sharing my opinion that family life, even of two, is better than the existence of six or eight young men without any womankind. We took up our residence in the late Crucible Club—so named for the connection of its inmates with the steel industry. With a sigh of relief Jack laid aside the cares of the establishment, which had naturally fallen upon him. (He has his father’s talent for taking responsibilities off the shoulders of others.) He protested that he was willing to eat _anything_ for dinner, provided he did not have to order it!

High Bridge is a picturesque New Jersey borough, some fifty-odd miles from New York. It is situated among the hills of the northwestern part of the state, four hundred feet above sea-level. To those knowing only the flatlands of eastern Jersey, this region with its rolling country and lovely views comes as a surprise.

The town, considered from an economic standpoint, consists principally of the Taylor-Wharton Iron and Steel Company. This patriarchal institution was established in the eighteenth century by the Taylor family and still continues under their jurisdiction. It has grown from a small iron-foundry into a plant with branches in other towns employing three thousand men in all. Its one hundred and seventy-fifth anniversary has recently been celebrated.

Every one living in the village is either connected in some way with the steel-plant or keeps a shop to supply the wants of the workers. The latter are of a class not commonly employed in such industries at the present day. There are some Hungarians and other foreigners, but the great backbone of the establishment consists of American men and women. Many of these have their own homes in the surrounding country, coming to work in the Ford cars which have nearly driven out the primeval High Bridge buggy. It is a proud boast of the company that there have been practically no strikes in its history.

In little gate-houses and other odd places one sees the figures of quaint old men, still employed for little services instead of being flung into the discard. The Taylor Company has proved that kindness of heart helps rather than hinders success in business. Old retainers, here as elsewhere, sometimes take advantage of their position, but on the whole the system works well.

The great distance from the metropolis and the small measure of railroad communication tend to isolate the village. If you miss a train you may be obliged to wait four hours for the next. All these conditions tend to produce quaint characters and a unique use of English.

In High Bridge we are very careful never to say _seen_ under any circumstances, substituting the elegant phrase, “I have saw.” Persons of a weakly constitution are held to lack “stamania,” while “financially” is considered more elegant than “finally.” If we wish to postpone a trip, we “refer” it till to-morrow.

The combinations in shopkeeping are also out of the common. To have a barber sell oysters and ice-cream, and a clothier act as optician, surprises the city resident. High Bridge has an atmosphere all its own. One becomes readily attached to the quaint little town.

My son’s business calling him to New York, we spent some winters there, settling this time in Stuyvesant Square near old St. George’s Church.

I was soon drawn into the maelstrom of the old, beloved work. The Twelfth Assembly District, familiarly known as “Charlie Murphy’s,” was clamoring for a leader of the Woman Suffrage party. Mrs. Frederick Gillette, who had conducted its affairs with great ability and signal devotion, absolutely refused to take office again, as her health would not permit it. Her predecessor, the first leader, a lovely woman idolized by her fellow-suffragists, had died in harness! I was on the wrong side of sixty and had been advised by the doctor to take life quietly.

Putting aside all misgivings as to possible fatal results, I accepted the office. A new rôle was now before me, for modern suffrage activities have opened a field of effort very different from that of our earlier experience in New Jersey.

Instead of expecting the people to come to us, we now went to them—opening “suffrage shops,” as the temporary headquarters are called; speaking at street corners; visiting our neighbors in their own homes; last but not least, watching at the polls, both inside and out. The canvassing was the most interesting of all, when we had once gathered the courage to do it ourselves. It was by no means so difficult as we had feared.

We had full directions from the finely organized parent association, the Woman Suffrage party, and the neighboring twenty-fifth district launched us on our task. Then we used our own mother wits. Team-work and a supplementary supper were found to be essential to the task. This was not only on account of the good-fellowship and the good cheer involved, but also because we ourselves had omitted our own evening meal in order to catch the voters while partaking of theirs!

The good nature and patience of the men, thus interrupted, was pleasant to see. We announced ourselves as representatives of the Woman Suffrage party. A quiet and assured manner, with the absence of all airs and graces, gained us ready admittance. The men fully understanding that we came to talk with them as one fellow-citizen with another, received us in a frank and friendly spirit. It is wonderful to see how well we all get on together in these United States, when we meet on this common ground!

Our visits were usually brief. We did not stop to argue long, leaving behind us literature and postal cards where the voters were absent. The replies sent on these were, with one or two exceptions, brief and formal. One man of an illogical turn of mind wrote that we were a lot of old maids and should stay at home to mend our husbands’ stockings!

The climbing the stairs of many tenement-houses (voters seemed always to live on the top floor), with halls half-lighted in the early summer evenings, was rather fatiguing. There was, too, quite a little dirt and occasional evil smells. But the work was extremely interesting. We set out to educate the voters, and in the process educated ourselves, learning a great deal about human nature in general and our neighbors of the district in particular. The dwellings, poor as they were, were much better than I had anticipated—probably “voters” do not live in the worst class of tenement-houses, leaving these to aliens. We went, however, to localities where, politicians told us afterward, they were afraid to go themselves.

We were almost always received with courtesy and listened to with respect. We had some amusing experiences. One friend, a middle-aged man slightly the worse for drink, tried to explain to us the residence of his sons, the family arrangements being rather complicated. Every now and then he would turn to his good wife and ask _her_ to explain. She stood there, quiet and dignified, yet evidently mortified at her husband’s condition!

Some ladies living in our own apartment-house were amused by our visit. We could hear them afterward describing over the telephone, amid peals of laughter, the call of the suffragettes!

The working-people, both men and women, understood the matter. Those whose wives and daughters are as much in the struggle for life as themselves do not take the “pedestal” view of the sex. The fathers, especially, were quick to see the benefit the possession of a vote would bring their girls.

One of my pleasantest visits was to a young Hebrew physician and her family. They were of the intellectual type of their race, while Doctor —— herself was of noble spirit.

When we remember how the glad tidings of the Christian religion were first spread by sermons in the open air, when we call to mind Peter the Hermit and John Wesley, we see that the soap-box is only a modern representative of a very ancient institution.

“Soap-box” is only a generic name nowadays. During our 1915 campaign in New York City, we used automobiles, or, failing these, borrowed a chair from a neighboring shop.

Perched on this, with our banner of the Twelfth Assembly District waving near by, and with one or two members on hand to distribute literature, collect signatures, and pass the hat, we addressed the public. Permission was obtained beforehand from the police, and an officer was sent to look out for us in case of possible trouble.

Valiant little Corporal Klatschkin did receive a douche of cold water from a neighboring window, but the rest of us had no trouble. The fact of her Hebrew blood, and some incautious criticisms, were responsible for the amenities extended to her.

The literally pressing interest of the children on the East Side was flattering, but inconvenient. They would pack themselves so closely around the speaker, many of them little tots who could hardly understand anything of the address, that we were often obliged to ask for more room. But we, the suffragists, were the show of the hour, and those babies were determined to lose no moment of it. Indeed, they were sometimes extended in such a wide circle around us as to place the grown-ups at an inconvenient distance for our voices to reach. From Tompkins Square the boys escorted us and our banner in such a solid phalanx, one evening, as to make it difficult to get on the trolley. We were sometimes applauded, the majority of the crowd being “with us.” The obligations of hospitality were not so personal as during our domiciliary visits, but we were well received. In the foreign neighborhoods where we spoke our audiences were especially quiet, though it is doubtful whether they understood much of the speeches.

In the course of our campaign work people related their woes to us or asked us to help them get a job. We were recognized as friends of the people. One man had much to say about the iniquity of the women who watched the street workers and reported absences, thereby causing a person to lose his job, “when very likely he was somewhere else.” I thought it probable that he was.

We spoke indoors as well as out, notably at the Memorial Building of St. George’s Episcopal Church, where we held a debate with the “antis.” Even the Tammany chieftains consented to listen to us in the room of the Anawanda Club. Here we were so fortunate as to secure the help of Mrs. Margaret Chanler Aldrich, a favorite great-niece of my mother’s. They had worked together in the Association for the Advancement of Women. Mrs. Aldrich, the treasurer of the New York City Woman Suffrage party, is an ardent suffragist. She is also strong in the Democratic faith, as becomes the daughter of Mr. Winthrop Chanler. She produced an excellent effect by reminding her hearers that her father had represented this very district in Congress! I prudently refrained from mentioning my own political faith.

To hunt the elusive politician to his lair, ascertain his views, and, if possible, enlist him to our side, was a part of our duties. It was so difficult to do this that we sometimes interviewed him over the telephone. Wherever possible, we arrived as a delegation at his office. The appointment once made, we found it well to have plenty of time at our disposal, for the politician may desire to do the talking himself. Then you listen patiently while he tells you his views, or what he wants you to think are his views. I, a black Republican born and bred, have harkened, with outward resignation, to a panegyric on the benevolence of Tammany Hall. One man talked to us for half an hour or more, explaining his chivalrous feelings toward women. Incidentally he told us of one of our sex who received a salary of three thousand dollars. Whenever he saw her he thought of some man who might have had the job. The chivalry of this point of view was not clear to us.

Our reception was always courteous, sometimes encouraging and sometimes not. We were glad to know the real opinions of the men, even if these were unfavorable. The ignorance in high places about woman suffrage is surprising. People will talk to you about the dangers of the ignorant vote, and in the same breath will make statements showing great ignorance not only of what the ballot in the hands of women has accomplished, but of human nature itself. I suspect this ignorance among politicians is wilful.

Our activities increased as November drew nearer, coming to a climax on Election Day. The Legislature had granted us permission to have a watcher at each polling-place then and on the preceding registration days. The same leave was given to the “antis,” at their request, but they failed to attend. If they had not demanded the place, we should perhaps have been allowed to fill it. To be the only woman at a polling-booth was a little trying. But we knew that we were fulfilling our duty as citizens, and we felt great confidence in American men. Since the law had given us a right to be at the polls, we were sure we should be protected.

It was part of my duty as leader to make the round of the election precincts. The streets grew very dark and lonely before we reached the outermost edge of the “gas-house” district on our tour of inspection. Evidently this locality, with rare altruism, gives all its light to others and keeps none for itself!

Driving through the deserted streets, we remembered grim stories of this part of the city and rejoiced in the protection of the taxicab. The bright colors of our national flag cheerfully illuminated the window of the polling-place, reminding us of our citizenship in the greatest country of the world!

With a bearing intended to show great confidence I passed through the little knot of men gathered at the door and entered the barber’s shop. Was not one of my lambs clothed with due authority from the Empire State there as watcher? It was “up to the leader” to see that all was going well with her. At the end of the long table farthest from the door sat Mrs. V——. (To prevent hysterics on the part of the “antis” it should be said that she was a grandmother and that the duties of her home were attended to by her grown daughter.)

“Everything going all right?”

“Yes, indeed. I’ve been treated with every courtesy. Let me introduce you to the chairman of the board, Mr. ——.”

I looked about for the filthy pool of politics, but could not discover any. Several men were busily writing in enormous books, in regular _Alice in Wonderland style_. A policeman clothed with all the majesty of the law sat at the other end of the long table. Several candidates for registration stood in line, awaiting their turn, while the man at the head of it struggled through the third degree. The floating population of New York sometimes finds difficulty in recalling where it lived and voted from a year ago!

Everything in and about the place was as quiet and orderly as possible. Gentlemen seemed to find it more convenient to smoke outside! Yet our women have made no objection to tobacco.

At another election district I found that the watcher in charge was on such good terms with her election board that they had regaled her with the strains of the victrola and a cup of tea!

On the great day itself we were “on the job” before the opening of the polls at six o’clock. I started on my round of the twenty-one districts in the cold dusk of the winter morning, finding all the watchers in their places. We visited them a second and a third time in the course of the day. At only one polling-place had the men in charge made any trouble for us. There they did not want the watcher to go behind the bar, but as this was her undoubted right they eventually yielded. The day was clear, but raw and windy. The political atmosphere was also less balmy on this day of the struggle. The Tammany leaders were less cordial than earlier in the campaign, and on some faces a suspicion of a frown lurked. We were treated with all courtesy, however, and some of the gentlemen were so gallant as to help me in and out of the automobile.

This was the first Election Day when women were given the authority to visit the polls and watch the count in the metropolis. We had not yet won the vote, but we were the advance-guard of victory! It was a most interesting experience and I greatly enjoyed it. Our Twelfth Assembly District had been thoroughly canvassed. Every registered voter had been called upon and duplicate lists of those in our favor had been compiled. One copy was given each watcher, that she might check off the names as the men came into the polls. The other copy was reserved for those who were later in the day, to “get out the vote.” It would seem that there are always indolent or tardy freemen who have to be reminded of their privilege of casting a ballot, before the day draws to a close.

This duty is assigned by politicians to youths, and here as elsewhere we took advantage of their experience. Election Day being a holiday, we found it difficult to procure boys. Some made promises—then failed to appear. My son Henry came to the rescue with two squads of bright, active lads, his pupils from the High School of Commerce. Armed with the lists and led by two adult women workers, the boys started off in excellent spirits. The neighborhoods visited were much impressed. Beholding the boys and the decorated automobiles, they exclaimed, “Tammany has nothing on the Woman Suffrage party.” Tammany Hall and the home of “Charlie” Murphy are both in the Twelfth Assembly District.

Our watchers stuck faithfully to their posts until the count was completed—their long day’s work having extended from six in the morning till nine, ten, and eleven o’clock at night.

As they came one after another into our temporary headquarters and announced the result, district by district, it was evident that we had lost. But the American women had been invited to enter the sacred precincts of the polling-place and given authority to watch the returns. November 6, 1915, was a historic day in the Empire State, marking the beginning of a new era.

Among the many faithful workers in the Twelfth Assembly District, one who overcame difficulties insuperable to most women deserves special mention. This was Mrs. Clara Deutsch. As the wife of a young physician beginning practice and the mother of a little girl of four she had many domestic cares. She did her own housework, helped her husband administer anesthetics, and yet found time to do excellent service in the suffrage cause.

“Yes, I can help on Thursday, since you need me badly. Mrs. ——, the wife of the Methodist minister, will take care of Mary for me. She has five children of her own and is expecting a sixth, so one more makes little difference. _She_ is a good suffragist, too, so by keeping Mary she also will be helping the cause that day.”

If more contributions were called for than she could well afford, Mrs. Deutsch would say, cheerfully: “That is all right. We’ll go without dessert for a time.” Mrs. Deutsch had been a trained nurse and thus had learned how to do and to plan. No matter at what hour I called to see her she always appeared at the door looking as neat as a pin. She was a handsome young woman, tall and powerfully built; strong, yet tender to the sick and weak. No one was more eminently fitted than she to carry our banner in a suffrage parade.

We had college graduates and women of wealth among our members. Ours is a truly democratic cause in which riches and social position are held to be of secondary importance.

Four days after the election the youngest son who had been my housemate for five years took unto himself a bride, thus giving me a third daughter-in-law who was to become, like the others, very dear to me.

It was evidently wise to allow the young couple to start housekeeping for themselves, hence, while they were still on their honeymoon, I set out on a long-deferred trip to California. As I closed the door of our house behind me, again it seemed that a new page in life had been turned!

The visit to the Pacific coast was indeed a delightful experience. I enjoyed every moment of the journey in both directions, and of my stay under the hospitable roof of our dear cousins, Joseph and Louisa Mailliard. Time fails me in which to tell of the beauties of the International Exposition (the “P.-P. I. E.”), the marvels of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado, or the wonderful glimpse of the Pacific shore. The glory of that matchless surf, as the long line of distant waves tossed their splendid crests beneath the opaline light of an afternoon sun covered with soft gray clouds, was a thing never to be forgotten.

In 1916 I was invited to come to Newport to assist my sister, Mrs. Maud Howe Elliott, president of the Newport County Woman Suffrage League, during the summer. She had greatly increased its membership and broadened its activities, but was, at the moment, heavily burdened with other matters of importance. Hence I was appointed executive secretary and put in charge of the work of the society.

My recent experience in New York enabled me to organize this along the lines so admirably laid out by the Woman Suffrage party of that city. Especial emphasis was laid on canvassing, which politicians consider of great importance. In preaching a new cause like ours, it is indispensable, for we are obliged not only to round up the members of a party as the Republicans and Democrats do, but to explain its doctrines and increase its membership.

The women at Newport were more timid about canvassing than their New York sisters. The summer capital is a very conservative place, and the question, “What will my friends and acquaintances say?” is more vital than in a big city where no one knows and few care what their neighbors do.

A corps of good workers was finally enlisted. Our canvassing luncheons proved a decided success, especially where the hostess possessed an attractive villa and garden. Our calls were made, for the most part, on persons of moderate means. Few of the rich people have their permanent residence in Newport, hence do not vote there. It is also easier to canvass among the former, because no supercilious flunky, anxious to guard his mistress from unwelcome visitors, comes to the door. It is opened, instead, by the voter’s wife, with whom one can at once establish pleasant relations, unless the baby is crying. In that case it is kinder not to detain her.

Friends often lent us their automobiles, the distances being much greater than in our densely inhabited district in New York. Instead of high tenement-buildings we found two-story wooden houses where our chats took place at the open doorway. Altogether it was pleasant work, chiefly among women, the men being usually absent from home. We assured them that the possession of the franchise did not necessitate deserting the home, and explained its advantages. It is strange that, after nearly seventy years of agitation, the question of woman suffrage should still be considered so mysterious! We found most of our hearers open to conviction where their opinions were not already favorable to us. Many names were secured for our yellow (favorable) slips, and only a few for the white (undecided); still fewer for the blue (opposed).

Our labor was repaid a hundredfold by the victory of our cause a few months later. For our formidable list of persons favorable to suffrage was copied on a catalogue of imposing proportions and presented to the Rhode Island Legislature. It was one of the arguments which persuaded them to grant the presidential franchise to the women of the state in 1917. In New York, while our stirring campaign of 1915 met temporary defeat, it paved the way for the great victory of November, 1917, when the women of the Empire State won full citizenship.

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XXIII

UNTO THE THIRD AND FOURTH GENERATION

_My Mother’s Beautiful Old Age.—How It Feels to Be an
Ancestor.—Grandmotherhood in the Twentieth Century.—Keeping Alive
the Sacred Fires of Noble Tradition.—Handing on the Lighted Torch._

IT has often seemed to me that my mother’s life was like that of the century-plant—increasing in beauty as time went on. The last flowering, the loveliest of all, came when she was well over four-score years of age. Is not this the normal course of a well-spent life? The fruit reaches its full beauty when ready to drop from the tree. The colors of the sunset splendidly crown a perfect day.

In those last years she seemed to us like a lovely saint whose faults had all been burned away by the fires of life, leaving only the ethereal spirit behind. Yet she was by no means entirely absorbed in religious meditation. This was an important part of her existence, but she also enjoyed the things of this world and was often full of fun and gaiety.

For all who knew her, and for all, I hope, who have read the story of her life, she has robbed old age of half its terrors. She met it bravely, smilingly, wisely, submitting with good grace to certain inevitable restrictions. Thus while she never gave up walking so far as her strength permitted, since more fresh air was desirable, she accepted the wheeled chair for additional exercise. To other limitations she would not submit. She would attend meetings, public and private; she would make the addresses which were so much prized by her audience; in a word, she would continue the intellectual and social intercourse with her fellow-men and women which was to her literally the breath of life. For their love and sympathy, their interest in her words, were to her a veritable elixir. The feeling that she still had a message which the world wished to hear helped to keep her alive. The veteran who believes that “he lags superfluous on the stage” is not likely to survive long.

When she attended the biennial of the General Federation of Women’s Clubs in Boston, in 1908, I was her companion, as on many earlier club occasions. She confessed afterward that she had feared the delivery of her speech in the vast auditorium of Symphony Hall might kill her, but this did not deter her from reading it! In the last summer of her life we attended a suffrage meeting in Bristol Ferry at the house of Miss Cora Mitchell, founder and president of the Newport County Suffrage League. Here she told the ladies of her work for peace, begun shortly after the Franco-Prussian War. It should be said that, despite her interest in German philosophy, her sympathies in that conflict were entirely with the French, whom she felt to be the victims of German aggression. It was the wholly unnecessary nature of the conflict which made the author of the “Battle Hymn” call in the early ’seventies a Peace Congress of Women to protest against future wars of the sort. In her correspondence we find that she met with no encouragement from the women of Germany.

Her visit to Smith College, where the degree of Doctor of Laws was conferred upon her, shortly before her death, has been described in her _Life_. The story of the awarding to her of the degree of LL.D. at Tufts College has a special interest because it was the first, and because in her speech she made a protest against Turkish cruelty, thus carrying on the work begun by her husband on the shores of Greece eighty years before! Her grandson, Dr. Henry Marion Hall, who accompanied her, has thus described the occasion:

Professor Evans, of the department of history, drove Grandmother
and me from No. 241 Beacon Street to the college, where we
remained in his rooms for a short while until Grandmother felt
rested. Then we walked across the campus, which was bright with
the colors seen only in coeducational institutions. Mrs. Howe
joined the academic procession just before it entered the hall,
and all at once she and I found ourselves on a platform,
surrounded by men in caps and gowns, the instructors and those
about to receive degrees. Grandmother was the only woman on the
platform, and everybody in the audience seemed particularly
interested in her. In spite of her great age I recall that there
was something quite simple and almost childlike in her
expression—absolutely different from the self-consciousness
peculiar to most people under similar circumstances. When she
rose to receive her degree there was a remarkable hush, such a
hush as I have seldom known of with so many people in a large
room. The hood was put about her shoulders by the president,
Doctor Chapin, and she flushed with pleasure at the burst of
applause.

At the dinner which followed the exercises she sat with the
guests of honor, among whom was Mr. Moody, Secretary of the
Navy. When Mrs. Howe arose to speak she took occasion to express
the hope that the Secretary might indicate whether or not the
government of the United States was going to exert its influence
to mitigate the horrors of the Armenian atrocities, for the
Turks were then carrying on systematic massacres. Mr. Moody
spoke next, and gave a fine oration, but said that circumstances
prevented him from indicating the policy of his government at
that time. He deprecated, of course, the villainous behavior of
the Turks. Grandmother was delighted to receive the degree, and
we drove back to Boston with Professor Evans, Grandmother still
wearing the hood and holding the sheepskin in her hands.

This grandson, Henry Marion Hall, received, a few years later, the degrees of M.A. and Ph.D. from Columbia University. To our great delight, his thesis, “The Idylls of Fishermen,” was warmly praised by the critics.

She was as pleased as a young girl to hear that we were “going to give a party” during that last summer. “Flossy shall do my hair!” she gaily exclaimed. “The party” was only a small frolic for the Hall grandchildren and their young friends, with a few elders to play cards with her. No one enjoyed the occasion more than she did.

We still continued our duets on the piano, playing airs from “Il Pirata” and other old operas which she loved, as well as Händel’s quaint arias. Her fingers, which never lost their flexibility, played in these last years for her great-grandchildren to dance, as she had played for children and grandchildren.

An article published that autumn in the press, declaring that protestantism was on the decline, troubled her. She desired to make some reply, not in a controversial spirit, however. Her interest in religion was too broad to be confined to any sect. We were glad to have her preach whenever invited to do so, provided her strength permitted, but unreasonable requests were sometimes made. Thus when the zealous pastor of a negro church invited us, in the course of an afternoon call, to go down on our knees in prayer, I protested successfully. If he had not carried a large umbrella in his hand I might have yielded. But how impossible would have been any approach to solemnity in the presence of that most unecclesiastical object!