Part 14

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

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

Footnote 10:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” said my father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XV

MARRIED LIFE IN NEW JERSEY

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

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

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

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

My mother thus recorded the event in her journal:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CONTINENTAL, PHILADELPHIA, _April 13, Sunday_.

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

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

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

Love to Michael.

PAPA.

GLEN, _Sunday, Sept. 7th, ’73_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PAPA.

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

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

Footnote 11:

Sister Laura and I.

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

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

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

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

Edward Everett Hale said, in part: