Chapter I: HAVE spoken of the Institution for the Blind as our intermittent or (1)

occasional home. The autumn of 1854 found us established there for a stay of more than a year.

The Crimean War was then going on, our parents being much interested in it. Their sympathies were with the Allies as against Russia, the little Howes duly reflecting the opinion of their parents. We followed the course of events in _Punch_ and the _Illustrated London News_. Indeed, the _London Charivari_, with its excellent cartoons by Tenniel, John Leech and others, played quite a part in our early political education. We duly admired the sprightly Lord Palmerston, smiled at funny little Lord John Russell perpetually wheeling a reform bill in a perambulator, and entirely disapproved of “Dizzy” with his acrobatic tricks. Although _Punch_ approved of Louis Napoleon, ally of England, our parents never did. Popular sympathy in America was, if I remember aright, on the side of Russia, witness the ballad of “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

Queen Victoria’s very sick;
Napoleon’s got the measles;
Sebastopol’s not taken yet.
Pop goes the weasel!

This song would seem to indicate the prevalence of measles at that time. Certain it is that some cases developed in the other part of the Institution and the five Howe children promptly caught the disease, sister Julia becoming very ill. Our mother had a very anxious and fatiguing experience. She wrote to her sister Annie as follows:

See that your children get measles _young_. Baby suffered very
little. Each older one was worse in proportion to the
comparative age. Donald[3] has passed the whole week here, day
and night.

Footnote 3:

Mrs. McDonald, matron of the School for Idiots, who had been nurse and
housekeeper for my mother in Rome.

The delights of convalescence obliterate the memories of the sickness itself. “Dip” toast, prunes and the reading aloud of the “Leila” books we found very comforting.

Our literary activities seem to have been greatly stimulated at this period, although it must be confessed that they were principally carried on by sister Julia. It was she who wrote the plays that overcame our elders with laughter. It was she who, with my mother’s help, edited _The Listener_, a weekly periodical which chronicled all the doings of family, friends and the Stevenson School, touching also upon public affairs. Each issue covers four pages of large letter-paper. Some stories were contributed by our friend and schoolmate, Clara Gardner. The occasional editorials by my mother are in her own beautiful hand. But the main body of the paper was faithfully written by the little editor, in her quaint, crabbed, yet legible hand. The birth of our sister Maud was thus chronicled by Julia—then ten and a half years old:

EDITOR’S TABLE

A very curious little animal lies on the editor’s table this
week. It does not understand the use of cup, plate or spoon, yet
it feeds itself. It does not know any language, yet it makes
itself understood. It never bought itself a dress, yet it has a
whole wardrobe full of clothes. It does not know anybody, yet it
has plenty of friends. Can you guess what it is? It is our
little baby sister.

There were some questionings as to the name to be bestowed on the newcomer. My father suggested the Greek name of Thyrza, but the good, Anglo-Saxon name of Maud was finally and appropriately chosen. She was a beautiful baby—indeed, she has been beautiful all her life. Sister Julia began another editorial in _The Listener_, some five weeks later, apropos of the ceremony of weighing the infant:

Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king? George the
Fourth is said to have expressed himself in this manner when, in
his last illness, some water gruel was served to him in a silver
bowl. I wonder whether gruel would taste better out of a silver
dish, a silver spoon does not seem to add much to it.

Here my mother takes up the thread of the story.

The King had been used to the best of living—probably had always
had as much plum-cake as he wanted [did you, ever?] and so it
seemed rather an insult to set water gruel before him, even in
so rich a bowl. We happened to make the same remark as his
Majesty, to-day, when we saw our Baby Sister weighed in a
porcelain dish—she looked so fat and funny.

In the opinion of Julia and Flossy, at this tender age, the only form of marriage offering any romance was a fleeing one, so to speak, consummated after an elopement. Thus in Julia’s tale of _Leonora Mayre_, the hero and heroine run away from England to America, where they are married. The sequel is decidedly original. Leonora, now Mrs. Clough, repents deeply the desertion of her parents. She returns, with her maid but without her husband, to England and to her father’s house.

“The next day Mr. Mayre had a serious conversation with her.

“‘Leonora,’ he said, ‘did you not know that it was very wrong to
disobey me and run away?’

“‘I did not think so at the time, father. At least I did at
first. But then I loved Frank so much that I could not help it.’

“‘I knew, Leonora, that you would not have done it had it not
been for Mr. Clough.’

“‘Why?’

“‘Because I knew that you were too good a girl to do such a
thing.’

“‘I am not good, father,’ said Leonora, ‘or I should not have
been married without your permission.’

“‘Marry? You did not marry Mr. Clough, did you?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘Oh, Leonora! my child! Is it possible?’ said Mr. Mayre.

“He said no more, but looks were enough. He seemed perfectly
distracted. Leonora left the room and went up to her own; then,
throwing herself on the bed, burst into tears.”

We are glad to be able to reassure our readers about the sequel.
Mr. Mayre felt better in half an hour and ultimately forgave the
erring Frank, who returned from America. He argues the case with
his angry father-in-law.

“Frank was perfectly composed. ‘Mr. Mayre,’ said he, in answer
to the other’s angry words, ‘you think your daughter is good and
beautiful and attractive, do you not?’

“‘Certainly, sir.’

“‘And you love her very much?’

“‘Of course.’

“‘Well, then, if she has the same charms for others that she has
for you, can you blame me for loving her?’

“‘You had a right to love her, but you had no right to marry her
against my will.’

“‘I don’t suppose I had, but you ought to pardon me if I am
sorry.’

“‘I have not heard that you were sorry.’

“‘You now hear it, then. Have I your forgiveness or your anger;
your daughter or your scorn?’

“‘My daughter,’ said Mr. Mayre, with emphasis, ‘for she could
never have had a better husband.’”

If “Miss Flossy Howe” did not write for _The Listener_, the editors were, nevertheless, generous enough to “figure her” in its pages. Her appearance at sister Julia’s birthday party in the drama of “The Three Bears” is thus chronicled by Mamma’s faithful pen. The Three Bears were acted by my father and sisters Julia and Laura:

_The Listener_

_March 11th._

EDITOR’S TABLE

A great deal more might have been said about our Birthday party.
Was not Miss Florence Howe bewitching in the character of
“Silverhair”? Where did Miss F. get so much powdered wig? Does
she keep a maid, on purpose to put up her hair and powder it,
when she plays Silverhair? We know all about it, but we won’t
tell. We know, too, about those three Bears, and especially that
biggest one with a ferocious and hairy expression of
countenance. Think of the three real chairs, real beds, real
bowls of porridge! Think, too, of a real window for Silverhair
to jump out of—what’s all your empty scene-painting to that? If
we had wanted a real waterfall for our piece, our Papa would
have had one for us—that’s his way of doing things. Every one
knows those Bears were real—they could have growled a great deal
louder, only they did not want to frighten the company; and when
the performance was over, they put on their coats so politely,
and went back to their menagerie.

We were so fortunate as to secure Mr. William Story, the artist, and his wife, for the title rôles of King Valoroso and his queen in “The Rose and the Ring.” According to tradition their daughter Edith was one of the children for whom Thackeray wrote the story. Certain it is that the portraits of the royal pair, drawn by the author himself, look a good deal like Mr. and Mrs. Story, due allowance being made for caricature. Hence they were able to reproduce Thackeray’s royal couple with exactitude. Mrs. Story wore a very beautiful amethyst necklace belonging to my mother. Mabel Lowell, daughter of the poet, and I took the parts of the royal children, Angelica and Rosalba.

As for the warming-pan, dear Mrs. George Russell, wife of my father’s chum, lent hers for the affair. It had been a part of her housekeeping outfit, but she said to my mother, “You may keep it, as I never use it now.” It is still in my possession, a pleasant reminder of my first appearance upon any stage.

We saw the Storys quite often at this time. One evening, when mince pie was set upon the table, my father, who was obliged to be extremely careful about his diet, remarked:

“Well, we might as well all die together.”

To which Mr. Story at once replied, “Yes, and all dye the same color.”

Puns were not then frowned upon so severely as they are now. Thackeray was in Boston during this period and the Storys invited us to a children’s party at which the great man was present. I remember him only as a large person in black, with thick gray hair, who did his best, I do not doubt, to amuse the children.

Mr. William Story gave us an impersonation of a dwarf which was truly delightful. To our immeasurable surprise, we saw this gentleman, suddenly shrunk to less than half his natural height. Arrayed in a Turkish fez and white garments, with slippers and stockings to match, he danced very high, if not disposedly, on a table, with many rollings of the eyes and gestures of the arms. The explanation of the trick was that his hands formed the feet of the dwarf, while the arms and hands were furnished by another person kneeling behind him.

To invent a language is a common device of children, who usually content themselves with simply adding a termination or a prefix to each word. Our attempt was more ambitious as we boldly undertook to construct an entire language. It is needless to say that we did not get very far with our venture. I fancy that we chose Patagonian because the account in our geography of the inhabitants of that country—large men, imperfectly clothed and very slightly civilized—appealed to our infant imaginations. Also, the land being so remote, it was very unlikely that any returned travelers would suddenly speak to us in true Patagonian accents and so put us to the blush.

There were to be many irregular verbs, the wise Julia counseled, since that would render our task easier! Of the surviving fragments of our language, it suffices to give two.

“Bis von snout?” (“Are you well?”)

“Brunk tu touchy snout.” (“I am very well.”)

It will be observed that these are reminiscent of more than one modern tongue.

The scope of our language was hardly great enough to account for its fame (it has been duly chronicled in at least one published volume). Doubtless it was the boldness of the venture and the happy choice of a name which immortalized the Howe Patagonian tongue.

If Julia shone in the family on account of her literary productions, Flossy achieved a certain distinction as a musical composer. It must be confessed that she produced only one song, consisting of a single verse with repetitionary chorus. But did she not write out the score, words and music _with accompaniment_, treble and bass clef being duly marked? “Play on the shovel” lies before me now, preserved by fond parents during many years.

The early interest of Florence in financial affairs was shown by the arrangements for our concert. From the hothouse at “Green Peace” we procured—without charge—flowers which we arranged in tiny bouquets. These were sold to the audience for a cent apiece, our friends obligingly throwing them back at us, in token of admiration for our performance. By this simple yet remunerative scheme we secured both the flowers and the price thereof. Some of them were, I hope, given to Miss Ellen Burns, our prima donna, on the occasion of her benefit. I had often seen, on theatrical bill-boards, the phrase, “Benefit of So-and-so.” This seemed to me a much more alluring and attractive word than “Concert.” When I was informed that this name implied the giving of the profits to the beneficiary, I refused, with the horrid obstinacy of childhood, to accept any such paltry explanation.

“Play on the shovel,” which was much liked, was included in the program. Our audience consisted principally of the teachers and officers of the Institution. They nobly paid one or more pins for their seats, according to desirability.

From all this it will be judged that our musical education was already well begun, Mr. Otto Dresel being our master.

I will not say that we regarded him as belonging to the same class as the family dentist, because the latter we considered a species of ogre. But we duly feared and respected Mr. Dresel as a person who might at any time stamp his feet or say, with energy, “How stupid!” as we no doubt were.

It now seems to me that he was wonderfully patient with us and our little stumbling fingers. For, like most artists, he was a man of highly nervous organization. He was not only one of Boston’s leading pianists, but a composer of merit.

Our kind friends, the Bensons and Schlessingers, allowed us to take our music lessons at their house in Boston, in these early days, thus saving our master the long trip to South Boston.

A most pleasant eleven-o’clock lunch was provided for the little people, to our great joy.

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V

UNDER THE SHADOW OF BYRON’S HELMET

_Echoes of the Greek Revolution.—The Enchanted Garden.—“Green Peace” an
International Resort.—Political Exiles Teach Us Foreign Languages
and the Love of Freedom.—Louis Kossuth._

WHILE the Institution for the Blind was our pleasant refuge, our permanent and dearly loved home was “Green Peace.”

As you came in the main door of entrance and looked down the long hallway of the house you saw directly opposite to you Byron’s helmet, fitting symbol of the man who dwelt there. My father had hung it up, as a returned pilgrim did his staff and cockle-hat in the olden time, or a warrior his sword and shield.

True, father had never worn that or any other helmet; unless I am much mistaken, neither had Byron. Yet the noble example and stirring verses of the poet had much to do with young Howe’s sailing for Greece, where for seven long years he helped carry out the work which Byron had begun. When, broken in health, he at length left ancient Hellas, she was once more free! Thus the helmet reminded those who knew, not only of the poet’s devotion to the cause for which he died, but also of the work of his admirer and successor, Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe, the “Chevalier,” as he was called by his intimates.

In the prison of the Kaiser,
By the barricades of Seine,[4]

in Greece, and later, in slavery-ridden America, had he striven for human freedom.

The helmet not only reminded of past deeds; it was also an incentive to generous efforts in the present. My father was deeply interested in all attempts to throw off the yoke of kings and welcomed to “Green Peace” political exiles and refugees from many countries.

Wherever rise the peoples,
Wherever sinks a throne,
The throbbing heart of Freedom finds
An answer in his own.[4]

Footnote 4:

From Whittier’s poem, “The Hero,” written about Doctor Howe.

Thus it came about that we, the Howe children, were brought up under the shadow of Byron’s helmet, the helmet of the Philhellene. And now, in this time of the Great War, all America is thrilling to the magic words that we were taught to lisp from the cradle—“the cause of humanity,” “the brotherhood of man!” These phrases that we now hear everywhere seem to me wonderful echoes of that far-away time when Kossuth, the Hungarian patriot, was welcomed at “Green Peace,” as Joffre has been welcomed in New York and Boston! Was not I as a child taught the stirring story of William Tell and his resistance to the tyrant Gessler, by one who had himself resisted the tyranny of the Austrian emperor?

The helmet, like some magic helm of romance, was a magnet to which all who came to “Green Peace” were irresistibly drawn. As for the house itself, it had the charm of an old dwelling which has “just naturally grown” to suit the needs of the inmates. The original cottage dated back to pre-Revolutionary days. The old and new parts of the house were connected by a dining-room looking out on a small conservatory. The carpet of the former was from the famous Gobelin looms in France and had belonged to Joseph Bonaparte, ex-King of Spain. It was woven all in one piece, with a medallion in the center showing the profiles of Joseph and his brother, the great Napoleon. There were various delightful figures in the border—butterflies, owls and dolphins. For dancing, that carpet had a special and unique charm.

A third historic object of interest stood in one of the drawing-rooms. This was a large and beautiful carved cabinet which my father had bought in Avignon while on his wedding-tour. It is said to have come from the Pope’s palace there, as well as its mate, which was kept in our rooms at the Institution.

The estate, as an Englishman would call it, was ideally situated on the southern side of a hill which sloped gradually down to the waters of Dorchester Bay. From the windows we saw not only the sea, but, in the distance, beautiful Savin Hill. The Institution for the Blind, where my father’s work lay, was not a quarter of a mile away, yet concealed from our view by a portion of Dorchester Heights.

These were already blasted away, to some extent, a steep cut in the hills separating us from the Institution. Word once came to my father, sitting at the dinner-table of “Green Peace,” that the Institution was on fire. Without a moment’s delay he started for the scene of trouble, scrambling in some extraordinary way down the face of the vertical cliff. The feat was made possible by his early experiences when he had learned to clamber with the Greek soldiers over steep mountains.

To the west of us was another portion of old Dorchester Heights, then crowned with a reservoir and some cannon which were fired on the Fourth of July. Thus “Green Peace” lay snugly sheltered among hills, connected with the outside world only by a short, tree-lined roadway called “Bird’s Lane.” Yet paved streets and the omnibus, though invisible to us, were less than a quarter of a mile away.

“Green Peace” was all a garden, the most delightful in the world. The house stood in the center of an oval lawn dotted with lilac-bushes and pink-and-white hawthorn trees. Near the driveway was the wonderful Chinese junk, or rocking-boat, capable of holding nearly a score of happy children. An arbor-vitæ hedge separated the house and lawns from the main garden, which lay still farther down the hill. Passing under an arch of white lilacs, you descended to this by a flight of wooden steps. Three tiny trim gardens with oval beds and paths all surrounded by borders of box belonged, respectively, to Julia, Henry, and myself. We were supposed to care for them ourselves, but I fear we never did so. We took an honorable pride in our possessions, walked in the paths and admired the flowers—but that was all! Ours was the aristocratic pose of benevolent ownership with only vague responsibilities attached.

Just beyond lay the truly enchanted part of the garden, where a captive princess might have passed her time happily enough. We were accustomed to read in our fairy-stories of the Garden of the Hesperides and other remarkable places where grew apples of pure gold and glittering precious stones in the form of peaches and plums. But what were these cold, stony and thoroughly indigestible objects compared with the warm, glowing, and luscious fruit of “Green Peace”? Moreover, the magic supply of this was inexhaustible. For, after frosts had settled the business of the last grapes on the trellis and the last lingering apples on the trees, the fruit of the garden was by no means exhausted. You had but to peep into the shallow drawers in the pear-room to see supplies of delicious winter pears—Easter Beurré’s and winter Nellis, to say nothing of barrels of glorious golden-russet apples. In the center of the garden was a sort of shrine to Pomona, consisting of a hothouse and bowling-alley, with school-house (later used as a pear-room) adjoining.

There were at least four strawberry-beds filled with different varieties of the fruit, also raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries of many colors, plums, nectarines, peaches, apples, quinces, and, last but not least, pears.

Of the last-named fruit my father was especially fond. He cultivated with the greatest care many varieties of these. In recent years I have learned that the delicious French pears for which the neighborhood of Boston is famous were brought there by the French Huguenots.

Our parents often had bowling parties in our childhood, and it amused us to observe the different ways in which the players handled the balls. Inexperienced persons would choose a small ball and toss it up in the air in a delightfully ridiculous way, instead of rolling it swiftly along the floor of the alley. I seem to remember Mr. Seguin, the famous authority on idiots, thus maneuvering with a small ball. My father had brought him to South Boston to assist in the work of starting the Massachusetts School for Idiots, the first to be established in America.

“The dogs,” as they were called generically, guarded this paradise from urchins over-appreciative of the flavor of the celestial fruit. The backbone of this canine police force was a very large and not thoroughly amiable Newfoundland dog, named Arthur. An enemy dog called Lion lived in Boston, and would occasionally cross the bridge and take a two-mile trot over to “Green Peace” to try conclusions with Arthur. A battle royal would thereupon ensue, the gardener and my father or another employee each holding one of the combatants by the tail and belaboring him until he consented to let go of his enemy. We watched the encounter from a respectful distance.

It has been said that visitors were always interested in Byron’s helmet. They sometimes tried to put it on, but seldom succeeded. The poet, it will be remembered, had a very small though beautiful head. Sister Laura was the only one of the Howe family who could wear it. She and sister Julia were the most poetical of the children. A tintype is still in existence showing the former, at the age of fourteen, crowned with the Byron helmet, her long hair flowing over her shoulders.

The Greek War of Independence (1822–29) was a comparatively recent event in the ’Fifties, and people often spoke of it and of the Philhellenes. My father looked much younger than he really was, and occasionally, when asked about his share in the struggle, he would jestingly say, “Oh, it was my _father_ who fought in Greece.” His children knew something of this early career, but he never told us of his deeds of heroism. That would have seemed too much like boasting for a reserved New-Englander.

If we complained of the food, he would sometimes remind us that we should be grateful for it and tell us of the strange articles which had constituted the diet of his companions and himself.

Roasted wasps did not sound very attractive, even after the removal of the stings. As for sorrel, we used to sample the plants which grew wild—always pitying poor Papa for having been obliged to eat such sour stuff. We could well imagine how tough donkey’s flesh might be, from our encounter with our own José, whose back and sides appeared to be made of iron.

Of the primitive ways and ideas of the Greeks at that time he would occasionally tell us. Great was their astonishment because he could remove one of his teeth and replace it. Wheeled vehicles were unknown, and one constructed by his faithful follower (a man whose life my father had saved) caused much surprise. As for tea, if you invited a Greek to partake of a cup he would reply, “No, thank you, I am not _sick_.”

A great many people of all sorts and kinds came to “Green Peace.” All European travelers of note wished to see Laura Bridgman, the Helen Keller of the nineteenth century, and the man who had brought her into the human fold. While my father did not cross the seas to take part in European revolutions after 1832 until the Cretan uprising of 1867, he was, of course, deeply interested in them and in their promoters. Thus when the Hungarian patriot, Louis Kossuth, came to America to try to enlist the sympathies of our countrymen in his projects, my father saw a great deal of him and helped in his plans as much as possible.

By Kossuth’s desire, the committee in charge appointed my father as the person to whom “he could reveal in confidence so much of his plans and prospects as would show there was reason for hope and for immediate action.” He greatly impressed Doctor Howe who wrote to Charles Sumner, “Surely he is an inspired man.”

I can remember the Hungarian patriot standing with many other men, doubtless his suite, in the hall where hung Byron’s helmet. My childish imagination was much exercised about the Kossuth hat, which I heard talked about. This was of black felt, high and of Alpine shape. I was greatly disappointed because the sober citizens of Boston did not adopt the little black feather as well as the Kossuth hat!

Lowell, Longfellow, Theodore Parker, George Sumner, George S. Hillard, and Miss Catharine Sedgwick were among the guests on this occasion. Laura Bridgman was brought in after dinner. All were so much interested in her, and in the Hungarian patriot’s story of his cause, that teatime presently arrived and my mother entertained them with the remnants of the earlier feast!

Many of the foreigners who came to “Green Peace” were political refugees—Poles, Austrians, Hungarians. There were, of course, many Greeks also. One of my father’s self-imposed duties was finding employment for these people, who naturally were quite helpless in a strange land. Thus many of our early teachers and governesses were foreigners. We grew up in an international atmosphere less common in those early days than now. Professor Fiester, doubtless a very learned Austrian, gave us some rudimentary lessons in Latin and German. He was a very stout, large man, with fair, curly hair and gold spectacles. Some one nicknamed him “the mastodon calf.” He understood perfectly how to amuse children, and made us the most fascinating fly-houses and other paper objects. It is evident that I was a naughty child and quite determined to have my own way. One morning the patience of our gentle master came to an end.

“No, Mees!” he exclaimed. “I haf refused to opey the Emperor of Austria, and do you think I will opey you, you little thing?”

I was about eight years old when I was thus classed with the Hapsburg tyrant of the day!

One of our early teachers, Jules M——, had deserted from the French army. The family of his Greek wife had aided him in some way, and he married her, out of gratitude. Of course they found their way, like other foreigners, to my father’s office in Boston, No. 20 Bromfield Street. As neither of them could speak the other’s language, he interpreted between husband and wife when they got into difficulties. She wore an embroidered cap on the back of her head, with her hair braided outside of it.

M—— was of the blond French type, with a military air. It was his soldierly training, doubtless, which caused him to ring the door-bell in a very decided way, and then, without waiting for the maid to answer it, open the door himself and march straight into the parlor. This gave me an injured feeling, for I was apt to be late, and counted on those few minutes in which he should have waited, to get ready.

He wrote a beautiful copper-plate hand and was a good teacher. With a military desire to see everything in good order, he one day informed me that my stockings needed pulling up. This was more than the dignity of my nine years could brook, and I made no reply. He repeated his observation several times, but in vain! The peer of the Emperor of Austria was not going to yield to a deserter from the French army!

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VI

NOTED VISITORS AT “GREEN PEACE”

_Charles Simmer and His Brother George.—Edwin P. Whipple. James T.
Fields.—Doctor Kane.—Rev. Thomas Starr King.—Prof. Cornelius C.
Felton.—Arthur Hugh Clough.—Frederika Bremer.—Laura Bridgman._

AMONG those who came to “Green Peace” was Charles Sumner, my father’s most intimate friend. The great Massachusetts Senator towered above his fellow-men physically as well as intellectually. He was a man of noble proportions, and his great height and size seemed to correspond with entire fitness to his massive brain and solid mental acquirements. The great dignity of his character and manner made him seem even larger than he really was. I cannot give his exact height, but it was at least six feet two inches. Brother Harry once said to our younger sister:

“There are two kinds of giants, Laura. There are the ogres who eat people up, and there are the harmless giants. Now Mr. Sumner is a harmless giant!”

He was a handsome man, always well dressed and scrupulously exact about his personal appearance. When I first remember him he usually wore drab-cloth gaiters with white-pearl buttons, which gave him a look of immaculate neatness. Yet we know he was not a dandy, because Mr. Longfellow tells us so. A large man—who is necessarily the target for many eyes—should certainly be careful about his appearance. Six feet three with breadth in proportion would make a large area of untidiness sad to contemplate! We children, as I have said, considered him as a good-natured giant, but he was not familiar with little people and their ways. We did not have much intercourse with him, save from an admiring distance. But he well understood that children like presents. He brought two dolls for Julia and Flossy from the anti-slavery fair. I am ashamed to say that, although the younger, I insisted on having the beautiful wax doll dressed in white with “Effie” marked on her handkerchief! Julia received the companion doll, dressed in black as a nun. She did not compare with Effie in beauty.

On a certain evening, as he was going out of the front door of “Green Peace,” I valiantly called out to him, “Good night, Mr. Sumner.” And a great voice answered me out of the darkness, “_Good night, child!_” He was very careful and exact in his use of English, as became a man of scholarly attainments, and did not like to have other people take liberties with our mother-tongue. Thus he rebuked our governess for saying that the clock was out of kilter. There was no such word as _kilter_, he averred, in the English language. Miss Seegar was rather indignant at being forbidden the use of this quaint Yankee expression; after Mr. Sumner had gone she took down the dictionary and found that _kilter_ was duly recorded there!

It is evidently one of the many so-called Americanisms which are, in reality, words formerly used in England.

He once went away from a party at our house without taking leave of any one. My mother was rather troubled at this, and my father, who had known Mr. Sumner long and intimately, said, “Why, that is Sumner’s idea of taking French leave.” Whereupon sister Julia observed, “I should as soon think of an elephant walking incognito down Broadway as of Mr. Sumner’s taking French leave without being observed.”

Of the attack upon him in the Senate I shall speak later. Suffice it to say here that the intense and prolonged physical suffering caused by this murderous assault was not the only form of political martyrdom which he was destined to endure.

The aristocratic element of Boston was, in ante-bellum days, strongly opposed to anti-slavery doctrines and those who held them. Charles Sumner’s heroic defense of the principles of liberty gained for him social ostracism in his native city. This never fell upon my father, whose work for the public schools, for the blind, the idiots, the insane, and other unfortunates, insured him the cordial good-will of the community, in spite of his anti-slavery activities. It should also be remembered that he did not, like his friend, hold political office. It is sad to recall the unkind treatment of Sumner; it is pleasanter to remember that in his later years the great Senator was fully appreciated and honored in the city of his birth.

Charles Sumner had not what is called social talent, and I do not think that he cared much for society. His busy life of constant political activity did not leave him much leisure, and his tastes were those of a scholar and lover of books.

As he grew older and busier he had less time to devote to social functions. But he would show his interest and sympathy on all great festive occasions in the families of his intimate friends by making his appearance among the guests, even though he seldom stayed long.

The gods were ever wont, however, to make brief visits among the children of men—and if Charles Sumner stayed only fifteen minutes and said only a dozen words, at a wedding or a class-day, we rejoiced that he had been there, and his smile brightened the feast as much as the sun. His smile was one of rare sweetness and beauty; beneath the reserved exterior which distinguished him there beat a warm and true heart. He had, be it said, beautiful white teeth, and my mother remembered with amusement a certain dinner in his younger days when he resolutely refused, for obvious reasons, to eat huckleberry pie.

The reserve and apparent coldness which we New Englanders have inherited from our English forefathers—and, owing to the severity of the climate, have been unable to modify—are often a misfortune to their possessor and cause him to be considered as unsympathetic, when he is not so in reality. The great Massachusetts Senator was a man without guile and of an almost childlike simplicity of nature. His pocket was constantly picked, literally as well as figuratively. He would go to the station to start for Washington, and, presto! his pocketbook would be gone. At fairs, he was an easy victim—and at the great fair held in Boston, for the benefit of the sailors of the navy, I should be afraid to say in how many raffles he was induced to invest. My contemporaries will remember that we had not then discovered the wickedness of raffles. To have them prohibited by law is a great protection to the modern purse.

While no one could attack a political enemy with greater vigor than Charles Sumner, he seldom bore personal malice or ill-will. He met in the street, one day, a gentleman, Mr. Robert C. Winthrop, whose political opinions he had, in the discharge of his public duty, vigorously denounced. He held out his hand, and was surprised and pained to have it refused. It may be said in Mr. Winthrop’s excuse that Mr. Sumner’s action contributed to his being politely shelved!

Charles Sumner’s conversation was very interesting and instructive, and he would sometimes pour out very freely the treasures of his well-stored mind. But while one felt that he was a man of learning, he was almost wholly destitute of the sense of humor. This is very evident in the correspondence of the “Five of Clubs,” the other members occasionally making merry at his expense. Who can blame them when dear Mr. Sumner, in the innocence of his heart, advised his office-boy, a young fellow from the country, to visit Mount Auburn, Boston’s principal cemetery, on the Fourth of July?

I had the pleasure of hearing him speak in public, two hours at a time, after the political fashion of that day. That as a young girl I was able to listen so long proves that the speech must have been interesting. The following sketch of him as a public speaker was given me by my mother:

“Mr. Sumner was a forcible speaker. His custom was to recapitulate the chief points of his discourse, with ever-increasing amplification and emphasis. In this way he established his points in the minds of his hearers, whom he led step by step to his own conclusions. He was majestic in person, habitually reserved and rather distant in manner, but sometimes unbent to a smile in which the real geniality of his soul seemed to shed itself abroad. His voice was ringing and melodious, his gestures somewhat constrained, his whole manner, like his matter, weighty and full of dignity.”

Among the many interesting men and women who were guests in the household of my father and mother, none was more amusing than Mr. Edwin P. Whipple, author of _Character and Characteristic Men_ and well known as a lecturer and essayist. He was a homely man, but his homeliness was of an agreeable character. He had large and prominent blue eyes, which gave him somewhat the appearance of a good-natured frog. These eyes seemed to be dancing with fun behind his spectacles. As he was also pitted with smallpox, he could not be called handsome. Nevertheless, Mr. Whipple’s face was an attractive one, and he had an absurd manner of saying funny things which made them doubly amusing.

I remember a picnic at the “Glen,” near Newport, where he kept us all laughing by his sallies of wit. If any one else said anything funny on this occasion, Mr. Whipple would gravely feel in his waistcoat pocket and, drawing thence a dime, would offer it to the perpetrator of the joke, saying, “If you’ll let me have that joke I’ll give you ten cents for it.” His connection with the press gave a realistic flavor to this performance.

On a certain rainy evening, when he and his wife were attending one of my mother’s parties, Mrs. Whipple lingered after the announcement of her carriage. Mr. Whipple came up to her and said, with a low bow and in a tone of mock gravity:

“Madam, stay or go, just as you like, but before you make up your mind you should come to the front door and listen to your coachman, who is blaspheming so that he can be heard all the way up and down Blank Street.”

Mrs. Whipple was as handsome as her husband was plain. She was a decided brunette, with black hair and eyes, sweet-tempered and sympathetic, yet not wanting in firmness. She must have been of very vigorous, physical habit, for, meeting a friend in the street, she would grasp her warmly by the hand and detain her in conversation longer than the sharp Boston east wind rendered agreeable to one of a chilly disposition. It was Mrs. Whipple, if I remember aright, who once lay in a stupor during an attack of smallpox. The doctor, supposing her to be unconscious, purred gently that she would not recover. Aroused by his words, she proceeded to do so. The same thing happened to one of the idiots under my father’s charge during an attack of the same dread disease. Three of them lay in the same room, one being seriously ill, the others not in so dangerous a condition. The first, hearing his companions discuss his probable fate, connected with a tarred sheet and lowering out of the window, roused himself from his lethargy and recovered!

Another couple who came often to “Green Peace” were Mr. and Mrs. James T. Fields. When I can first remember them the latter was still a young woman and very comely. She wore her dark wavy hair in puffs at the side, which later expanded to a size that was no doubt artistic, but not pleasing to the conservative eye of childhood. I did admire, however, her beautiful golden net. Mr. Fields was a fine-looking man, his long black beard giving him something the look of a Jewish prophet. The expression of his face was humorous rather than serious, as I remember it. I saw him, however, in his lighter moods, when he was witty and amusing. The Whipples and the Fields once made a visit at Lawton’s Valley, our summer home, where the two humorists led each other on to say one funny thing after another.

Mr. Fields told a story of a lady who desired to be thought a person of culture, despite the defects in her early education. Espying the approaching carriage of certain literary persons, she called out to her son:

“Oh, James! There are the So-and-sos driving up. _Do_ get out the works of Mr. Ensign-Clompedos and give the place a litt’ry and conversashioshonary appearance!”

In those days of “high thinking and plain living” it was the pleasant custom, at informal dinners, for the host or hostess to peel and cut fruit in slices. These were then handed around the table, each person taking a piece. I remember a dinner at the Fields’ house in Charles Street, where red bananas were served in this fashion. In my childhood they were comparatively rare, costing sometimes fifteen cents apiece!

As Ticknor & Fields published our mother’s writings, my sister and I were accustomed to go to their well-known corner book-store for our new school-books. My delight in these was connected more with their appearance than with the stores of knowledge they contained. Those fresh, new, clean books with their crisp paper well finished at the edges appealed to my childish imagination. Did they not preach, too, a lesson of neatness? I am so sorry for the children who, at some public schools, are obliged to use old, worn books! Why should we not make learning attractive by clothing it in a nice fresh dress?

Doctor Kane, the Arctic explorer, came at least once to “Green Peace.” I was so young at the time that I thought, on account of his name, he must be in some way connected with a cane. A small and slender man, he did, as I think, appear with one, and so justify my youthful imaginings. I remember a dinner in the room with the Gobelin carpet where Rev. Thomas Starr King, the noted divine, and his handsome wife, were among the guests. Mr. King had large white teeth, and wore his brown hair parted far on one side. Not long after this time he went to the Pacific coast, where his splendid advocacy of the cause of the Union had a large share in keeping California loyal. Alas! He paid the penalty of over-exertion with his life soon afterward. But his memory is cherished and revered on both shores of our great continent. At the East, the everlasting hills are his monument, for “Thomas Starr King” is one of the peaks of the White Mountain range.

The following letter to my mother explains itself.

SAN FRANCISCO, _January 20, 1862_.

MY DEAR MRS. HOWE,—How I long to get back into
civilization,—where they speak the English language, raise
regiments for the war, and write about Lyons looms.[5]

Do you know why I have the impudence to write to you? Simply for
your card photograph and the Doctor’s and your autograph under a
copy of the “Weave no more silks.”[5]

You see how modest my requests are. That quality is a grace that
thrives in California air.

You ought not to refuse. I am a missionary and should be
encouraged by all good Christians.... You are patriotic. I read
your glorious verses to a crowded house in San Francisco at a
festival for Volunteers, and the spirit so upheld the reading
that the audience were thrilled....

Do be gracious!...

Love to everybody and to you, if you send the cards, etc.; if
not, _not_.

Conditionally your friend,
Unconditionally your admirer,

T. S. KING.

Footnote 5:

A quotation from Mrs. Howe’s poem, “Our Orders.”

Prof. Cornelius C. Felton has already appeared in this eventful history as a member of the “Five of Clubs.” In addition to being professor of Greek, he was for a time president of Harvard College.

Among his friends he was genial and jolly, with a gift of hearty laughter. “Heartiest of Greek professors,” Charles Dickens called him. He was sturdy and thick-set, with close-curling black hair covering his round head. At Memorial Hall, Cambridge, there is a portrait of him in his robes of office. This picture is characterized by due dignity of mien and bearing, but I like best to think of him with those merry eyes gleaming behind his spectacles as his cheery laugh broke upon our ears.

Professor Felton related to us the story of his visit to the Maid of Athens, who was no longer young and beautiful as in Byron’s day. He was much impressed by the superior quality of her pickled olives, and told us that he longed to repeat the poet’s verses, with a slight change. Instead of saying,

Maid of Athens, ere we part
Give, oh, give me back my heart,

he wanted to exclaim,

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me a jar of pickled olives!

In her correspondence with my father Florence Nightingale appeals to him for advice and assistance for the martyrs of the cause of progress, political and religious. One of the latter was Arthur Hugh Clough, the English poet, whom she thus introduced:

EMBLEY ROMSAY, _Oct. 28 (1852)_.

MY DEAR DR. HOWE,—I have never thanked you for your most kind
and valuable letter about my friend. But herewith comes my
friend in person, to profit by that most kind sentence of yours,
“Do not fail to give him a letter to me.”

His name is Arthur Hugh Clough, M.A. (late Fellow and Tutor of
Oriel College, Oxford). He was a favorite pupil of Dr. Arnold of
Rugby, and was elected Tutor of Oriel at twenty-two. He has
given up very high prospects, because he was unwilling to pledge
himself to inculcate the doctrines of the English Church. This
has stopped his progress in his own country. He comes to seek a
more impartial mother in yours.

He is about to marry a very charming cousin of mine—but his
untimely integrity has lessened his means, and he is now going
to try to make her a position in the New World.

He was Professor of English Literature at University College,
London. He is a first-rate classical scholar; he would undertake
to prepare young men for college who are anxious for advanced
classical knowledge, and also to teach (or lecture upon) English
Literature and Language.

He is known in England as an author and poet, and has been a
contributor to our more liberal Reviews.

I have tried to enlist your and Mrs. Howe’s sympathies in his
favour. But, indeed, my dear Dr. Howe, I know your kindness so
well that it seems as if I thought it impossible to trespass
upon it....

Believe me, with best love to dear Mrs. Howe and my godchild,
yours most truly and gratefully,

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

Mr. Clough made a visit at “Green Peace” which I shall never forget, since it produced one of the small tragedies of my childhood.

Our house was one of those rambling structures, built at different periods of time, wherein the space is not disposed of to the best advantage. Hence, as we were a large family and each of us had a separate room, some one had to be, turned out in order to accommodate Mr. Clough. He was accordingly established in the housekeeper’s room, and we children were duly warned not to go there, as was our custom. But I forgot this caution, and next morning turned with some difficulty the old-fashioned brass handle of the housekeeper’s door and peeped into the room.

Little Red Riding-Hood was not more surprised at the transformation of her grandmother into the wolf than I was at the sudden change which had come over our young and handsome housekeeper. As some one sat up in bed (after the fashion of the wolf in the story) to ask what I wanted, I said to myself, “Why, Mrs. S—— has grown bald and gray in one night!” Then the true state of the case flashed upon my infant consciousness and I went away suddenly and much abashed. It is to be feared that I left the door open.

When I came down to breakfast Mr. Clough looked up and said, as it seemed to me rather cruelly, “_I think that I have seen this young lady before, this morning._”

Mr. Clough’s poem, “The Bothie of Toper-na-Fuosich,” was republished in this country, and was widely read both here and in England. He was present at one time where some thoughtless young men were amusing themselves with laughing at the new aspirant for poetical honors.

“Who is this old Clough?” says one.

“I should like to see him,” says another.

After listening to their remarks for some time, the grave, quiet man rose to leave the room, and as he passed the group who were making so merry at his expense he simply said, “The name is _Clough_” [Cluff].

Frederika Bremer, the Swedish authoress, visited us when I was a very little child. She traveled extensively in America and related her experiences in _Homes of the New World_. In this she described “the dark, energetic father and two charming little girls, all lilies and roses.” After it had been translated into English, people told us that we had been put into a printed book. Our young friends wished that they, too, could have the great happiness of being put into a book, like Julia and Flossy Howe.

Miss Bremer gave an account of Mr. George Sumner and his visit to the Czar of Russia, representing him as an awkward, ungainly youth and making fun of him. He did carry to the Czar of Russia, be it said in passing, an acorn from the grave of Washington. The Czar was much pleased and paid the young man a good deal of attention. When Charles Sumner learned what our young friends had said, he mischievously remarked to his brother, “Some people would prefer not to have been put in a book.”

A number of Frederika Bremer’s books have been translated into English; we read her stories with much pleasure in our school-girl days. _The H—— Family_, _The Neighbors_, _The Home_, are the titles of some of them. Her description of Swedish family life is delightful.

George Sumner, like the Senator, was a man of intellectual tastes and possessed a wide knowledge of books. In mid-Victorian days there was no complete catalogue of the library in the Vatican. Some one in Rome who was anxious to find a certain volume was referred to “a young American who knows more about the books there than any one else.” This was George Sumner. He was one of the habitués of our house. I remember a visit he paid us at Lawton’s Valley when a lame knee gave him anxiety. We heard him walk heavily and perseveringly up and down his room, in the vain hope of curing it by exercise. One day there was a crash! In the effort to save himself from falling he had pulled over the light iron washstand. When he again visited us my father had him placed, chair and all, in an open wagon that he might enjoy a drive. I last saw him at the Massachusetts General Hospital when he could move little save his head. Thus was a brilliant man in the prime of life turned gradually into a marble statue!

George L. Stearns was a striking figure, with his beautiful brown beard, long, soft, and silky as a woman’s hair. He was greatly interested in the anti-slavery cause, and when the Civil War came entered the army as a major. He wished to serve without pay, which my father thought a mistake, because an unpaid volunteer might feel unwilling to submit to the regular discipline of the army. It is true that my father had served in the army of Greece without pay, but the conditions there were very different from those prevailing in the United States during the Civil War.