Part 12
I remember a dinner at our house where Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rev. William R. Alger, John Weiss, and Doctor Holmes were the guests. The witty doctor became fairly launched on the stream of his own brilliant conversation, and let us into certain of his professional secrets by telling us something of his methods of composition and of the moods in which he wrote. I listened to this talk with a feeling akin to awe at being allowed to come so near to the sacred places of genius. The poet was inspired by his theme, and was led on, by the unfolding of his thought, to lay bare the secrets of his soul. It was a wonderful talk, and one could scarcely listen to it without emotion.
When Doctor Holmes went away he said to his hostess, by way of apology for having talked so much, “Well, I have told you a great deal about myself to-day.” Whereupon another member of the company, himself a literary man, but of a less expansive nature than the Doctor, said, with emphasis, “Others could have told of their experiences, too, Doctor, if you had given them a chance.”
During the Civil War my father and Doctor Holmes were among the medical men appointed to examine those who sought to escape the draft on the ground of physical disability. Among them was one very large young man who had evidently outgrown his strength. The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table was short and slight. There was such a contrast in the size of the two that the witty doctor thought it would be amusing if he, the little man, should examine the big one. So he called out, “Let me examine him, Doctor, let me examine him!” He accordingly proceeded to percuss the young giant.
Doctor Holmes liked better to talk than to listen, as the title which he assumed, “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table,” plainly shows. When my mother decided to give a course of talks on philosophical subjects, in the parlors of our house, she invited Doctor Holmes to be one of the guests. Meeting her in the street one rainy day, he explained to her at length why he was not interested in hearing other people lecture, the pair meanwhile walking up and down under their umbrellas.
On another occasion, when both had been listening to an uninteresting lecture, Doctor Holmes said he would as lief hear potatoes poured from one barrel into another!
Ralph Waldo Emerson was from time to time a visitor at our house. He was of the tall, slender New England type, with blue eyes and the large nose which is thought to indicate force. At the time of the execution of John Brown he compared the gallows on which the old man perished to the cross. A little later he was in the company of some conservative people who were shocked at this comparison. They asked Mr. Emerson if he had made it, and, without attempting to palliate or explain, he replied that he had said something of the sort.
In my youth the following remarks were attributed to him.
“Church? What is church? I do not see church, I do not hear church, I do not smell church!” It is very possible that he did make them, yet he was a man essentially devout, the descendant of a line of clergymen. When a distinguished clergyman of the Church of England came to America, some years later, he declared that, whoever occupied the pulpit, Emerson was always the preacher! Time thus brought to the latter a splendid revenge for the small satires of earlier days.
His table talk was fresh, quaint and delightful. Yet he was, on the whole, rather silent than talkative in company, as became the author of this passage:
“When people come to see us, we foolishly prattle, lest we be inhospitable. But things said for conversation are chalk eggs. Don’t _say_ things. What you are stands over you the while and thunders so that I cannot hear what you say to the contrary.”
If this saying bears too hard upon women, we may comfort ourselves with another dictum of his, “Woman, if not the queen, is the lawgiver of conversation.” While great men like Mr. Emerson may sit serenely silent, the feminine instinct bids us try, at least, to be agreeable!
The Sage of Concord, as he was called, staying one night at a hotel in Boston, received a long visit from a literary man who, rising to go at a late hour, said, “I am to give a lecture on Plato to-morrow and I haven’t written the first word of it yet.” To which Mr. Emerson, horrified at such carelessness, replied, “Good God!” This gentleman was Emanuel Scherb, a habitué of our house at one time. His negligence perhaps arose from the fact that he had once been insane. He then imagined that he was a monkey. A knowledge of this lingered in my mother’s subconscious mind. She once talked with him about monkeys, until she suddenly remembered his former delusion!
Mr. Emerson did not answer the persons who wrote to him asking for his autograph, even if they generously enclosed a stamp. It was said that his family found these stamps useful for their correspondence. Mrs. Emerson foresaw, at the beginning of the Civil War, that there would be a great rise in the price of cotton cloth. Hence she wisely laid in a closetful of this important commodity.
Rev. William Rounceville Alger was one of the “intellectuals” of whom we saw a good deal. For a time he occupied Theodore Parker’s pulpit in Music Hall, where sister Maud enjoyed hearing him preach. I fear that we classed him as one of “mamma’s owls.” We so called, in a general way, the men of literary taste with whom she liked to converse. Among the persons of note who dined with us at 13 Chestnut Street was Mr. Olcott, vegetarian and reformer, now best known as the father of Louisa Olcott. He spoke of his poetic views about foodstuffs, declaring that grains were to be preferred to roots, since the former grew above the ground, hence nourished our higher faculties, whereas the latter, being of the earth, must be earthy. This singular theory did not appeal to my father, nor, indeed, to any of us, Carlyle said of it, “Olcott and his potato gospel won’t go down here.”
He held “conversations,” at one of which he observed, apropos of cannibalism, that if we were to eat flesh at all, he did not see why we should not eat the best. Whereupon Mr. Coolidge, a gentleman of a literal turn of mind, was so horrified that he made a bee-line for the door. Mr. Olcott kept a school at one time where punishment was vicarious: if the children did wrong they were to punish him. For the offenses of one of Mr. Olcott’s daughters, L—— L——, a very good little girl, received correction. One of the many stories told of this gentleman was that he believed persons of fair hair and blue eyes were children of light who need not labor, whereas dark-haired individuals were children of darkness appointed to perform the work of the world. Mr. Olcott himself had fair hair and blue eyes, but his wife was dark!
My father gave some breakfasts for gentlemen at the Chestnut Street house. I remember one where Alexander Hamilton, son of the great Federalist, was present and told various interesting stories. Among the family relics we have found a tiny lock of the hair of the statesman, sent by his son to my father.
My mother was away from home when one of these breakfasts took place, and I sat at the head of the table as lady of the house. I appreciated the honor, although it was rather overpowering to be the only woman present.
To No. 13 Chestnut Street, as well as to “Green Peace,” came clever and delightful women. The most original and brilliant of these was Mrs. Helen Bell, wife of Joseph Bell and the daughter of Rufus Choate, a famous lawyer of that day and a relative of Joseph H. Choate. She and her sister, Mrs. Ellerton Pratt, were a most charming and unique couple. They kept up a running fire of absurd sayings in which Yankee exaggeration played its part.
Thus when some one declared that a certain German gentleman had objectionable manners at table, Mrs. Bell exclaimed: “What do you suppose he does? Do his feet fly up over his head, after every mouthful, or does he throw the tender vegetables about!”
She had clear-cut features and a beautiful head, with wavy hair of a reddish tint. After crimping came into fashion, she remarked, “I put my hair up on lamp-wicks overnight, and people say I look like a Roman emperor.” Mrs. Pratt, with her fair hair and blue eyes, was very pretty and had a certain childlike expression of countenance that was very attractive. I never was so fortunate as to hear Mrs. Bell sing. Since her death, a few months ago, an old friend has thus described her singing, “To listen to the deep tones of that pathetic voice, song after song coming through the twilight, was an emotional experience never to be forgotten.” Mrs. Bell also played very well on the piano. Our master, Otto Dresel, once arranged that we should play together a concerto of Bach’s for three pianos, Miss Charlotte Heminway playing on the third, while he took the part of the orchestra on the fourth. We were obliged to practise in Chickering’s music-rooms, no private house containing so many instruments. I took much pleasure and pride in the performance, which was simply for our own gratification and improvement.
It may have been apropos of this concerto of Bach’s that Mr. Dresel said to my mother, “I have created Flossy.” I greatly enjoyed my music and it was cordially appreciated by our friends. In these days I often played—usually duets with Mr. Dresel—at our informal parties. A young friend, Miss Emily Appleton, gave a musical evening where each of us played some piece on the piano. Mr. Dresel’s constant drill, and a flexibility of fingering inherited from my mother, gave me an advantage over the others. The young friends were surprised, but generously praised my performance of a piece which called for rapid and constant motion of the fingers.
The express horses of the ’Sixties must have been very lively animals, for they managed to run away with our grand piano and to damage it materially. The instrument belonging to our friends, the Sam G. Wards, needed repairing at the same time. Mr. Dresel used to say jokingly that at the Chickering factory they had simply exchanged the actions of the two pianos!
Charlotte Heminway was the eldest daughter of Augustus Heminway and Mrs. Mary Heminway, whose memory is revered on account of her noble charities. Charlotte herself, a friend of sister Julia, was a young woman of fine character and promise. One day in New York, being in haste to reach the station, she and a party of friends hailed a passing hack. After entering it they noticed a peculiar odor. On her return to Boston this eldest and especially beloved daughter of the house died of a virulent fever, supposed to be typhus.
Among the clever and agreeable women who came to No. 13 Chestnut Street were two daughters of the Rev. Mr. Greenwood—Mrs. James Lodge and Mrs. William Howe. A third was Mrs. Charles Homans, daughter of our opposite neighbor, Rev. Samuel K. Lothrop. A handsome woman to the end of her days, she was then young, albeit her hair was turning gray.
In the ’Sixties Boston observed New Year’s Day as a fitting time to take account of stock. A few people followed the custom, then prevalent in New York, of receiving callers. Our mother, remembering the customs of her youth, was one of the first to do this, inviting a number of gentlemen to call. Mrs. Homans helped us receive one New Year’s Day, adding to the pleasure of the occasion by her presence and conversation.
Although she and my mother took opposite views of the suffrage question, they always maintained a cordial friendship. Mrs. Homans was active in public work of a charitable nature, interesting herself especially in prisoners.
Sister Julia and I enjoyed the intellectual society of our elders, yet we also had friends of our own age. Among these were two young men of promise, William Washburn and William James, well known later as the psychologist. The latter was a most genial and delightful person. When the question came up, possibly apropos of the Mormons, of the propriety of polygamy, he was inclined to think it might be a good thing to have more than one wife. I suggested that from the woman’s side of the question it would _not_ be desirable.
When he returned from Brazil he told us that the inhabitants beckoned with the whole hand, instead of with extended forefinger, as was then the custom in America. Finding it difficult to make out prices, he confidingly extended a handful of silver, allowing the Brazilians to pick out the proper amount.
William Washburn, who was a friend of William James, wrote a book of stories about Harvard, but did not make literature his profession. Henry James the younger, as he then was, came to see us occasionally, but we never knew him well. The coldness of his temperament was in strong contrast to the warmth and geniality of his brother’s. He was then pale, and looked, as I thought, like the great Napoleon. I believe that he was not in good health at that time, and possibly he was shy. Great was our surprise when he declared that some one was a hog. Who this selfish person was I cannot remember, but Henry James was ordinarily so calm that this forcible denunciation was startling. At a later period my mother grew to know him better and had real affection for him.
We knew also the two younger brothers, Wilkie and Robertson, who were pleasant fellows. Both fought in the Civil War, Wilkie being badly wounded.
Henry James, Sr., was a man of as much talent as his distinguished sons, although never so well known. He was a follower of Swedenborg, but did not consider that the Swedenborgian Church interpreted correctly the writings of the great mystic. I read with interest one of his books, _Substance and Shadow_, in which he expressed himself with vigor and originality. Mr. James knew that I was interested in his writings. Hence, when he saw me at the conclusion of his address at the Radical Club he exclaimed, reproachfully:
“You here, Flossy!”
“Why, Mr. James, I came to hear you!”
With the delightful inconsequence of the Irish mind, he regretted seeing me at so unorthodox a meeting, not reflecting that he was the magnet which brought me there!
My father’s experience as the head of two large institutions had shown him that, through changes in fortune, many women who never expected to earn their own living are obliged to do so. He thought all should be so educated as to be able to support themselves. Hence I was taught bookkeeping, and kept, for some years, the books of the School for Idiotic and Feeble-minded Youth. These included a ledger on the double-entry system, and obliged me to take from time to time a trial balance. On one occasion I carelessly overdrew the bank-account. The check went to protest, causing me an expense of two dollars or more and some mortification. The father of one of the inmates, finding that his correspondent was “Madam” and not “Sir,” wrote me in rather gallant style. Otherwise the work was calm and uneventful. I was paid a small salary, which helped out my allowance for dress. “The Town of Lee” was one of the headings in my ledger, this town being responsible for the maintenance of Charles Keep, who had a genius for catching rats without any trap. Why they did not bite his fingers is a mystery. At one time the authorities at the school were puzzled by a shortage in the milk. It was discovered that the feeble-minded boys who brought the cans from the Institution for the Blind, finding the load rather heavy, lightened it by pouring out part of the milk on the road!
Usually these poor children did not display special talent. I remember one who was proud of having only a single hand—a pride not more unreasonable than that often shown by persons of intelligence in matters for which they can not justly claim any credit. Another boy had such an exaggerated fear of Sabbath-breaking that his teacher was in despair on Sunday afternoons. If she proposed any occupation with the slightest tinge of secularity, Charlie would reject it with the simple explanation, “Hell!” The parents in many cases wrote an illiterate hand. The postal authorities were wont to indorse on letters bearing a cryptic address, “Try Doctor Howe.” Everybody who wanted help did “try Doctor Howe”—the rich as well as the poor. Thus while few of the mentally deficient children of the well-to-do came to the Institution, many were brought to his office in Bromfield Street for examination and advice. These he gave gladly, never charging any fee for his services.
Sister Julia, soon after leaving school, took up as her work teaching at the Institution for the Blind. For this she never received any remuneration, nor did she wish any. She was one of the most unworldly persons whom I have ever seen. While enjoying, in a natural, healthy way, the pleasures of this life as they came to her, the things of the mind and of the spirit were to her the true realities. The bond of affection between her and my father was especially strong. “Darlingest, Firstest, and Best Born” he calls her in one of his letters. It was a pleasure to see them start together for the daily trip to the Institution for the Blind at South Boston. Having special talent for languages, she here taught Latin, German and French. She also read aloud in English to some of the inmates.
A few years later, Mr. (afterward “Sir”) Francis Campbell, who had held a responsible position under my father, founded and carried on with much success “Norwood College” near London. This was the first school for the blind in England conducted on modern principles. My father did all in his power to help on the new enterprise, lending several teachers from the institution under his charge to start it. Among them was Miss Faulkner, who later became Lady Campbell.
Some of the American teachers were blind and had been sister Julia’s pupils. It was reported to us that, when traveling on the Continent of Europe, they found her instruction of real help.
In the late ’Sixties Boston was stirred by a ludicrous incident which ended in a tragedy. Three commuters, society men, had turned over a seat on a railway train and were chatting together when a stranger approached and took the vacant place. He was a large man, cumbered with a toy baby-carriage, and his presence disturbed the group of friends, who plainly showed their annoyance. When the interloper arose to go he said to one of the group, “Sir, you are no gentleman!” According to the masculine code, there is only one answer to this remark, although to a mere woman striking a man is a strange argument to prove that you are a gentleman. Mr. X., a small man with a quick temper, delivered the answer on the nose of the offender, knocking off and breaking his glasses. The bearer of the baby-carriage was a pacifist. He did not retort in kind, but brought suit against Mr. X. for assault and battery. The case was complicated by the fact that the three friends, of whom one at least was a director of the railroad, were thought by some of the traveling public to behave too much as if they owned the railway. It was a sort of town-and-gown affair. Hence when the lawyer for the defense made the mistake of treating the whole as a pure joke, the judge was angered and condemned Mr. X. to three months in prison. Having served this severe sentence, Mr. X. and his family left the United States, never to return.
XIV
OUR LABORS IN BEHALF OF CRETE
_Removal to Boylston Place.—W. D. Howells.—Marion Crawford as a Boy.—The Romance of a Fire.—The Cretan Insurrection.—Sisters Julia and Laura Accompany Our Parents to Greece.—A Grim Passenger.—A Price Is Set on My Father’s Head.—Our Cretan Sewing-circle and Concert.—Over-modest Amateurs.—The Sumner Bronzes._
IN the autumn of 1865 we left No. 13 Chestnut Street, greatly to our regret. The owner of the house, Mr. Sargent, decided to live there himself, so we moved to No. 19 Boylston Place. My father never approved of this locality, as it was on made ground and rather low. It had been a part of old Mr. ——’s garden. However, I do not think it affected the health of the family unfavorably. Having some trouble with the drainage, he sent for the Master of the Drains. This official looked exactly as one might guess from his title—quaint, seedy, with bloodshot eyes. I suspect Boston did not then have a sewerage system.
The move from Chestnut Street had been a hurried one, as my father hoped almost to the last to find a situation better to his liking than Boylston Place. I was now at the age, twenty years, when young people feel the responsibility of the world resting heavily on their shoulders. During the preparations for removal I flew up and down stairs and attempted to do a hundred things, without any regard for my own strength, which I supposed to be unlimited. The result was a strain that affected my health unfavorably for some years. The fault was my own, as no one had asked or expected me to do so much.
In these years I began to be interested in charitable work, conducting a sewing-school for poor children at our own house. Occasionally our sittings were interrupted by the merry raids of the young Howes, who launched sponges and other missiles at my scholars. The latter took refuge under the dining-room table, but appreciated the sport of the affair. When my father looked in upon the children at work his face lit up with a beautiful smile that was more than reward enough for my small efforts.
In our frequent drives between South Boston and Boston we passed through a somewhat squalid tenement-house district. Concern for the people dwelling there now began to oppress me, and I made efforts, though not always wise ones, to help them.
Among my protégées was a Mrs. Wallace, a stalwart Irish woman with several children, whose husband had pains in his legs whenever he held the baby. We started her in a fruit-stand and made various efforts in her behalf. She was later arrested for some misdemeanor and it required several policemen to take her, struggling all the way, to the station-house.
A very unpleasant though amusing incident of our life at Boylston Place was the arrival of a box containing six semi-wild cats, sent to my father by our friend, Mr. Thomas R. Hazard, as a species of joke When the box was opened the cats flew out of it, scattering in every direction. Fortunately for the Howe family, some of them escaped from the house. The most troublesome one persisted in rushing up the chimney-place in my room whenever we approached her.
About this time the family narrowly escaped a serious danger. One evening my mother, being up late, noticed on the ceiling a slight discoloration; she also thought she heard a low tick-tick as of flames. Being very sleepy, she reasoned thus with herself: “Even if there should be a fire and we should be burned up, why, then David and Flossy could be married.”
Arousing herself from this strange altruistic vein, she called my father. In time of danger he was in his element. He speedily chopped open the floor of the parlor and the flames appeared! Meantime, brother Harry, hastily attired, rushed out for a policeman. The latter showed very languid interest.
“Fire—where?”
“At No. 19 Boylston Place.”
“O Lord!” ejaculated the officer of the law, and rushed for the spot. His own home was next door!
On the other side of us lived Mrs. Richards and her five stalwart sons. Whenever our furnace sent out smoke, it went into the Richards’ house. Hence the young men, smelling smoke, came in to see what was wrong with us. Sister Laura, who was a very pretty and charming girl, roused suddenly from sleep, appeared barefoot upon the scene, with her fine hair floating over her shoulders. Two or three years later she married the youngest of the fire-fighters.
I was staying in New York at the time, and so missed the great scene of the fire. It was put out without much damage.