Title: Memories and Anecdotes
Author: Sanborn, Kate, 1839-1917
Language: English
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MEMORIES AND ANECDOTES


By

KATE SANBORN

AUTHOR OF
"ADOPTING AN ABANDONED FARM," "ABANDONING AN
ADOPTED FARM," "OLD-TIME WALL PAPERS," ETC.


_WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS_


G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK     LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1915


[Illustration, _Frontispiece_:
  GREETINGS AND WELCOME TO EVERY READER
                       (KATE SANBORN)]



                              To

                    ALL MY FRIENDS EVERYWHERE

                    ESPECIALLY TO MY BELOVED
            "NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS" IN MASSACHUSETTS,
                   MY PUPILS IN SMITH COLLEGE,
                ALSO AT PACKER INSTITUTE, BROOKLYN,
          AND ALL THOSE WHO HAD THE PATIENCE TO LISTEN TO MY
                           LECTURES,

          WITH GRATEFUL REGARDS TO THOSE DARTMOUTH GRADUATES
             WHO, LIKING MY FATHER, WERE ALWAYS GIVING HIS
                   AMBITIOUS DAUGHTER A HELPING HAND



CONTENTS


CHAPTER I

My Early Days--Odd Characters in our Village--Distinguished Visitors
to Dartmouth--Two Story-Tellers of Hanover--A "Beacon Light" and a
Master of Synonyms--A Day with Bryant in his Country Home--A Wedding
Trip to the White Mountains in 1826 in "A One-Hoss Shay"--A Great
Career which Began in a Country Store


CHAPTER II

A Friend at Andover, Mass.--Hezekiah Butterworth--A Few of my Own
Folks--Professor Putnam of Dartmouth--One Year at Packer Institute,
Brooklyn--Beecher's Face in Prayer--The Poet Saxe as I Saw
him--Offered the Use of a Rare Library--Miss Edna Dean Proctor--New
Stories of Greeley--Experiences at St. Louis


CHAPTER III

Happy Days with Mrs. Botta--My Busy Life in New York--President
Barnard of Columbia College--A Surprise from Bierstadt--Professor
Doremus, a Universal Genius--Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "Funny
Man"--Mrs. Esther Herman, a Modest Giver


CHAPTER IV

Three Years at Smith College--Appreciation of Its Founder--A
Successful Lecture Tour--My Trip to Alaska


CHAPTER V

Frances E. Willard--Walt Whitman--Lady Henry Somerset--Mrs. Hannah
Whitehall Smith--A Teetotaler for Ten Minutes--Olive Thorn
Miller--Hearty Praise for Mrs. Lippincott (Grace Greenwood.)


CHAPTER VI

In and near Boston--Edward Everett Hale--Thomas Wentworth
Higginson--Julia Ward Howe--Mary A. Livermore--A Day at the Concord
School--Harriet G. Hosmer--"Dora Distria," our Illustrious Visitor


CHAPTER VII

Elected to be the First President of New Hampshire's Daughters in
Massachusetts. Now Honorary President--Kind Words which I Highly
Value--Three, but not "of a Kind"--A Strictly Family Affair--Two
Favorite Poems--Breezy Meadows



ILLUSTRATIONS

GREETINGS AND WELCOME TO EVERY READER
(KATE SANBORN)     _Frontispiece_

THE STREET FRONTING THE SANBORN HOME AT HANOVER, N.H.

MRS. ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA

PRESIDENT BARNARD OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE

PROFESSOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS

SOPHIA SMITH

PETER MacQUEEN

SAM WALTER FOSS

PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES

PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK

THE ISLAND WHICH WE MADE

TAKA'S TEA HOUSE AT LILY POND

THE LOOKOUT

THE SWITCH

HOW VINES GROW AT BREEZY MEADOWS

GRAND ELM (OVER TWO HUNDRED YEARS OLD)



MEMORIES AND ANECDOTES



CHAPTER I

My Early Days--Odd Characters in our Village--Distinguished Visitors
to Dartmouth--Two Story Tellers of Hanover--A "Beacon Light" and a
Master of Synonyms--A Day with Bryant in his Country Home--A Wedding
Trip to the White Mountains in 1826 in "A One Hoss Shay"--A Great
Career which Began in a Country Store.


I make no excuse for publishing these memories. Realizing that I have
been so fortunate as to know an unusual number of distinguished men
and women, it gives me pleasure to share this privilege with others.

One summer morning, "long, long ago," a newspaper was sent by my
grandmother, Mrs. Ezekiel Webster, to a sister at Concord, New
Hampshire, with this item of news pencilled on the margin:

"Born Thursday morning, July 11, 1839, 4.30 A.M., a fine little girl,
seven pounds."

I was born in my father's library, and first opened my eyes upon a
scenic wall-paper depicting the Bay of Naples; in fact I was born just
under Vesuvius--which may account for my occasional eruptions of
temper and life-long interest in "Old Time Wall-papers." Later our
house was expanded into a college dormitory and has been removed to
another site, but Vesuvius is still smoking placidly in the old
library.

Mine was a shielded, happy childhood--an only child for six years--and
family letters show that I was "always and for ever talking," asking
questions, making queer remarks, or allowing free play to a vivid
imagination, which my parents thought it wise to restrain. Father felt
called upon to write for a child's paper about Caty's Gold Fish, which
were only minnows from Mink Brook.

"Caty is sitting on the floor at my feet, chattering as usual, and
asking questions." I seem to remember my calling over the banister to
an assembled family downstairs, "Muzzer, Muzzer, I dess I dot a
fezer," or "Muzzer, come up, I'se dot a headache in my stomach." I
certainly can recall my intense admiration for Professor Ira Young,
our next door neighbour, and his snowy pow, which I called "pity wite
fedders."

As years rolled on, I fear I was pert and audacious. I once touched
at supper a blazing hot teapot, which almost blistered my fingers, and
I screamed with surprise and pain. Father exclaimed, "Stop that noise,
Caty." I replied, "Put your fingers on that teapot--and don't
kitikize." And one evening about seven, my usual bedtime, I announced,
"I'm going to sit up till eight tonight, and don't you 'spute." I know
of many children who have the same habit of questions and sharp
retorts. One of my pets, after plying her mother with about forty
questions, wound up with, "Mother, how does the devil's darning needle
sleep? Does he lie down on a twig or hang, or how?" "I don't know,
dear." "Why, mother, it is surprising when you have lived so many
years, that you know so little!"

Mr. Higginson told an absurd story of an inquisitive child and wearied
mother in the cars passing the various Newtons, near Boston. At last
the limit. "Ma, why do they call this West Newton?" "Oh, I suppose for
fun." Silence for a few minutes, then, "Ma, what _was_ the fun in
calling it West Newton?"

I began Latin at eight years--my first book a yellow paper primer.

I was always interested in chickens, and dosed all the indisposed as:

          Dandy Dick
          Was very sick,
          I gave him red pepper
          And soon he was better.

In spring, I remember the humming of our bees around the sawdust, and
my craze for flower seeds and a garden of my own.

Father had a phenomenal memory; he could recite in his classroom pages
of Scott's novels, which he had not read since early youth. He had no
intention of allowing my memory to grow flabby from lack of use. I
often repeat a verse he asked me to commit to memory:

          In reading authors, when you find
          Bright passages that strike your mind,
          And which perhaps you may have reason
          To think on at another season;
          Be not contented with the sight,
          But jot them down in black and white;
          Such respect is wisely shown
          As makes another's thought your own.

Every day at the supper table I had to repeat some poetry or prose and
on Sunday a hymn, some of which were rather depressing to a young
person, as:

          Life is but a winter's day;
          A journey to the tomb.

And the vivid description of "Dies Irae":

          When shrivelling like a parched scroll
          The flaming heavens together roll
          And louder yet and yet more dread
          Swells the high Trump that wakes the dead.

Great attention was given to my lessons in elocution from the best
instructors then known, and I had the privilege of studying with
William Russell, one of the first exponents of that art. I can still
hear his advice: "Full on the vowels; dwell on the consonants,
especially at the close of sentences; keep voice strong for the close
of an important sentence or paragraph." Next, I took lessons from
Professor Mark Bailey of Yale College; and then in Boston in the
classes of Professor Lewis B. Monroe,--a most interesting, practical
teacher of distinctness, expression, and the way to direct one's voice
to this or that part of a hall. I was given the opportunity also of
hearing an occasional lecture by Graham Bell. Later, I used to read
aloud to father for four or five hours daily--grand practice--such
important books as Lecky's _Rationalism_, Buckle's _Averages_, Sir
William Hamilton's _Metaphysics_ (not one word of which could I
understand), Huxley, Tyndall, Darwin, and Spencer, till my head was
almost too full of that day's "New Thought."

Judge Salmon P. Chase once warned me, when going downstairs to a
dinner party at Edgewood, "For God's sake, Kate, don't quote the
_Atlantic Monthly_ tonight!" I realized then what a bore I had been.

What a treat to listen to William M. Evarts chatting with Judge Chase!
One evening he affected deep depression. "I have just been beaten
twice at 'High Low Jack' by Ben the learned pig. I always wondered why
two pipes in liquid measure were called a hogshead; now I know; it was
on account of their great capacity." He also told of the donkey's
loneliness in his absence, as reported by his little daughter.

I gave my first series of talks at Tilden Seminary at West Lebanon,
New Hampshire, only a few miles from Hanover. President Asa D. Smith
of Dartmouth came to hear two of them, and after I had given the whole
series from Chaucer to Burns, he took them to Appleton & Company, the
New York publishers, who were relatives of his, and surprised me by
having them printed.

I give an unasked-for opinion by John G. Whittier:

     I spent a pleasant hour last evening over the charming little
     volume, _Home Pictures of English Poets_, which thou wast kind
     enough to send me, and which I hope is having a wide
     circulation as it deserves. Its analysis of character and
     estimate of literary merit strike me as in the main correct.
     Its racy, colloquial style, enlivened by anecdote and citation,
     makes it anything but a dull book. It seems to me admirably
     adapted to supply a want in hearth and home.

I lectured next in various towns in New Hampshire and Vermont; as St.
Johnsbury, where I was invited by Governor Fairbanks; Bath, New
Hampshire, asked by Mrs. Johnson, a well-known writer on flowers and
horticulture, a very entertaining woman. At one town in Vermont I
lectured at the large academy there--not much opportunity for rest in
such a building. My room was just off the music room where duets were
being executed, and a little further on girls were taking singing
lessons, while a noisy little clock-ette on my bureau zigzagged out
the rapid ticks. At the evening meal I was expected to be agreeable,
also after the lecture to meet and entertain a few friends. When I at
last retired that blatant clock made me so nervous that I placed it at
first in the bureau drawer, where it sounded if possible louder than
ever. Then I rose and put it way back in a closet; no hope; at last I
partially dressed and carried it the full length of the long hall, and
laid it down to sleep on its side. And I think that depressed it. In
the morning, a hasty breakfast, because a dozen or more girls were
waiting at the door to ask me to write a "tasty sentiment" before I
left, in their autograph albums, with my autograph of course, and
"something of your own preferred, but at any rate characteristic."

My trips to those various towns taught me to be more humble, and to
admire the women I met, discovering how seriously they had studied,
and how they made use of every opportunity. I remember Somersworth,
New Hampshire, and Burlington, Vermont. I lectured twice at the Insane
Asylum at Concord, New Hampshire, invited by Dr. Bancroft. After
giving my "newspaper wits" a former governor of Vermont came up to
shake hands with me, saying frankly, "Miss Sanborn, your lecture was
just about right for us lunatics." A former resident of Hanover, in a
closed cell, greeted me the next morning as I passed, with a torrent
of abuse, profanity, and obscenity. She too evidently disliked my
lecture. Had an audience of lunatics also at the McLean Insane Asylum,
Dr. Coles, Superintendent.

I think I was the first woman ever invited to make an address to
farmers on farming. I spoke at Tilton, New Hampshire, to more than
three hundred men about woman's day on the farm. Insinuated that
women need a few days _off_ the farm. Said a good many other things
that were not applauded. Farmers seemed to know nothing of the
advantages of co-operation, and that they were as much slaves (to the
middlemen) as ever were the negroes in the South. They even tried to
escape from me at the noise of a dog-fight outside. I offered to
provide a large room for social meetings, to stock it with books of
the day, and to send them a lot of magazines and other reading. Not
one ever made the slightest response. Now they have all and more than
I suggested.

When but seventeen, I was sent for to watch with Professor Shurtleff,
really a dying man, and left all alone with him in the lower part of
the house; he begged about 2 A.M. to be taken up and placed in a
rocking-chair near the little open fire. The light was dim and the
effect was very weird. His wig hung on one bedpost, he had lost one
eye, and the patch worn over the empty eye socket had been left on the
bureau. My anxiety was great lest he should slip from the chair and
tip into the fire. I note this to mark the great change since that
time. Neighbours are not now expected to care for the sick and dying,
but trained nurses are always sought, and most of them are noble
heroines in their profession.

Once also I watched with a poor woman who was dying with cancer. I
tried it for two nights, but the remark of her sister, as I left
utterly worn out, "Some folks seem to get all their good things in
this life," deterred me from attempting it again.

Started a school a little later in the ell of our house for my friends
among the Hanover children--forty-five scholars in all. Kept it going
successfully for two years.

I dislike to tell a story so incredible and so against myself as this.
One evening father said, "I am going to my room early tonight, Katie;
do not forget to lock the back door." I sat reading until quite late,
then retired. About 2.30 A.M., I was startled to hear someone gently
open that back door, then take off boots and begin to softly ascend
the stairs, which stopped only the width of a narrow hall from my
room. I have been told that I said in trembling tones, "You're trying
to keep pretty quiet down there." Next moment I was at the head of the
stairs; saw a man whom I did not recognize on the last step but one. I
struck a heavy blow on his chest, saying, "Go down, sir," and down he
tumbled all the way, his boots clanking along by themselves. Then the
door opened, my burglar disappeared, and I went down and locked the
back door as I had promised father I would. I felt less proud of my
physical prowess and real courage when my attention was called to a
full account of my assault in the college papers of the day. The young
man was not rooming at our house, but coming into town quite late,
planned to lodge with a friend there. He threw gravel at this young
man's window in the third story to waken him, and failing thought at
last he would try the door, and if not locked he would creep up, and
disturb no one. But "Miss Sanborn knocked a man all the way
downstairs" was duly announced. I then realized my awful mistake, and
didn't care to appear on the street for some time except in recitation
hours.

The second time I lectured in Burlington, I was delayed nearly half an
hour at that dreadful Junction, about which place Professor Edward J.
Phelps, afterwards Minister to England, wrote a fierce rhyme to
relieve his rage at being compelled to waste so much precious time
there. I recall only two revengeful lines:

          "I hope in hell his soul may dwell,
           Who first invented Essex Junction."

Oh, yes, I do remember his idea that the cemetery near the station
contained the bodies of many weary ones who had died just before help
came and were shovelled over.

It happened that Mrs. Underwood, wife of the demented governor, who
had alluded so truthfully to my lecture, was in the audience, and
being gifted with genuine clairvoyant powers, she rose and begged the
audience not to disperse, as she could distinctly see me pacing
nervously up and down the platform at the Junction in a long sealskin
coat and hat trimmed with band of fur. I arrived at last with the
sealskin and the hat, proving her correct, and they cheered her as
well as myself.

Our little village had its share of eccentric characters, as the old
man who was impelled by the edict of the Bible to cut off his right
hand as it had "offended him." But lacking surgical facilities, the
effort left one hand hanging limp and useless. His long white beard,
how truly patriarchal!

Poor insane Sally Duget--a sad story! Her epitaph in our cemetery is
pathetic. With all her woe she was quick at repartee. A man once asked
her, "Shall you ever marry, Sally?" "Well, yes, if you and I can make
a bargain."

Elder Bawker with his difficulties in locomotion.

Rogers, who carried the students' washing home to his wife on Sunday
afternoons for a preliminary soak. The minister seeing him thus
engaged, stopped him, and inquired:

"Where do you think you will go to if you so constantly desecrate the
Holy Sabbath?"

"Guess I'll go right on doing laundry work for the boys."

The aged janitor who, in a brief scare about smallpox, was asked if he
had ever had it: "No, but I've had chances."

An old sinner who, being converted, used to serve as a lay evangelist
at the district schoolhouse where in winter religious meetings were
held. Roguish lads to test him sprinkled red pepper, a lot of it, on
the red hot stove. He almost suffocated, but burst out with: "By God,
there's enemies to religion in this house! Hist the winders!"

The rubicund butcher of that period (we had no choice) was asked by a
long-time patron how he got such a red face. "Cider apple sass." The
same patron said, "You have served me pretty well, but cheated me a
good deal." "Yes, sir, but you have no idea how much I've cheated
you."

Our one milliner, positively brilliant in her remarks, when a lady
sent back her bonnet twice on the ground that it was not becoming,
said, "Remember you have your face to contend with."

Our only and original gravedigger, manager in general of village
affairs.

After the death of a physician, his wife gave a stained-glass window
to the Episcopal Church of St. Luke, the beloved physician. She asked
Jason if he liked it. He said, "It don't strike me as a particular
speaking likeness of Dr. Tom."

To one of the new professors who ventured to make a few suggestions,
"Who be yaou anyway?"

He enjoyed buttonholing people he met in our "graveyard" and pointing
out where they "must shortly lie."

Our landlord--who that ever saw Horace Frary could forget him? If a
mother came to Hanover to see her boy on the 2.30 P.M. train, no meal
could be obtained. He would stand at the front door and explain,
"Dinner is over long ago." He cared personally for about thirty oil
lamps each day, trimmed the wicks with his fingers, and then wiped
them on his trousers. Also did the carving standing at the table and
cleaning the dull knife on the same right side--so the effect was
startling. One day when he had been ill for a short time his wife
said: "Dr. Dixi Crosby is coming this way now, I'll call him in."
"Don't let him in now," he begged, "why d---- it, I'm _sick_!"

I must not omit the strictly veracious witness who was sworn to
testify how many students were engaged in a noisy night frolic at
Norwich. "As fur as I know, there was betwixt six and seven."

"Webb Hall," who today would figure as a "down and out," made many
amusing statements. "By the way I look in these ragged clothes, you
might take me for a Democrat, but I'm a red hot Republican."

He was obsessed by the notion that he had some trouble with a judge in
Concord, New Hampshire. He said fiercely, "I will buy two guns, go to
Concord, kill Judge Stanton with one, and shoot myself with the other,
or else wait quietly till spring and see what will come of it." A
possible precursor of President Wilson's Mexican policy.

He was accused by a woman of milking a cow in her pasture; pleaded
guilty, but added, "I left a ten-cent piece on the fence."

An East Hanover man is remembered for his cheek in slyly picking
lettuce or parsley in the gardens of the professors and then selling
them at the back door to their wives.

And a farmer from Vermont who used to sell tempting vegetables from
his large farm. He was so friendly he cordially greeted the ladies who
bought from him with a kiss. Grandmother evaded this attention by
stating her age, and so was unmolested. The names of his family were
arranged in alphabetical order. "Hannah A., give Miss Kate another cup
of coffee; Noah B., pass the butter; Emma C., guess you better hand
round the riz biscuit."

Life then was a solemn business at Hanover. No dancing; no cards; no
theatricals; a yearly concert at commencement, and typhoid fever in
the fall. On the Lord's Day some children were not allowed to read the
_Youth's Companion_, or pluck a flower in the garden. But one old
working woman rebelled. "I ain't going to have my daughter Frances
brought up in no superstitious tragedy." She was far in advance of her
age.

I have always delighted in college songs from good voices, whether
sung when sitting on the old common fence (now gone) at the "sing out"
at the close of the year, or merrily trolling or tra-la-laing along
the streets. What a surprise when one glorious moonlight night which
showed up the magnificent elms then arching the street before our
house--the air was full of fragrance--I was suddenly aroused by
several voices adjuring me, a lady of beauty, to awake. I was
bewildered--ecstatic. This singing was for me. I listened intently and
heard the words of their song:

          Sweet is the sound of lute and voice
          When borne across the water.

Then two other sweets I could not quite catch, and the last lines sung
with fervor:

          But sweeter still is the charming voice
            Of Professor Sanborn's daughter.

Two more stanzas and each with the refrain:

          The prettiest girl on Hanover Plain is
            Professor Sanborn's daughter.

Then the last verse:

          Hot is the sun whose golden rays
            Can reach from heaven to earth,
          And hot a tin pan newly scoured
            Placed on the blazing hearth,
          And hot a boy's ears boxed for doing
            That which he hadn't orter,
          But hotter still is the love I bear
            For Professor Sanborn's daughter.

with chorus as before.

I threw down lovely flowers and timidly thanked them. They applauded,
sang a rollicking farewell, and were gone. If I could have removed my
heart painlessly, I believe that would have gone out too. They had
gone, but the blissful memory! I leaned on the window sill, and the
moon with its bounteous mellow radiance filled my room. But listen,
hark! Only two doors beyond, the same voices, the same melodious
tones, and alas, yes, the same words, every verse and the same
chorus--same masculine fervour--but somebody else's daughter.

A breakfast comment: "It's a terrible nuisance this caterwauling in
the middle of the night in front of the house!" For once I was silent.

Many distinguished men were invited to Dartmouth as orators at
commencement or on special occasions, as Rufus Choate, Edward Everett,
John G. Saxe, Wendell Phillips, Charles Dudley Warner, and Dr. Holmes,
whom I knew in his Boston study, overlooking the water and the gulls.
By the way, he looked so young when arriving at Hanover for a few
lectures to the Medical School that he was asked if he had come to
join the Freshman class.

There were also Edwin P. Whipple, the essayist, and Walt Whitman, who
was chosen one year for the commencement poet. He appeared on the
platform wearing a flannel shirt, square-cut neck, disclosing a
hirsute covering that would have done credit to a grizzly bear; the
rest of his attire all right. Joaquin Miller was another genius and
original.

Another visitor was James T. Fields of Boston, the popular publisher,
poet, author, lecturer, friend, and inimitable raconteur, who was
always one of my best friends.

When Mr. and Mrs. Fields were invited to Hanover, he and his beautiful
wife were always guests at our home. Their first visit to us was an
epoch for me. I worked hard the morning before they were to arrive,
sweeping, dusting, polishing silver, and especially brightening the
large, brass andirons in father's library. I usually scoured with
rotten stone and oil, but on this great occasion, adopting a receipt
which I had happened to see in a newspaper, I tried vinegar and
powdered pumice-stone. The result at first was fine.

I had barely time after all this to place flowers about the house and
dress, and then to drive in our old carryall, with our older horse, to
the station at Norwich, just across the Connecticut River, to meet the
distinguished pair and escort them to our house. As I heard the train
approaching, and the shrill whistle, I got nervous, and my hands
trembled. How would they know me? And what had I better say? My aged
and spavined horse was called by father "Rosinante" for Don Quixote's
bony steed, also "Blind Guide" and "Heathen Philosopher." He looked
it--and my shabby carryall! But the train was snorting for a stop,
and the two guests soon came easily to my vehicle, and Mr. Fields
seemed to know me. Both shook hands most cordially and were soon in
the back seat, full of pleasant chat and the first exciting ordeal was
over. At tea table Mr. and Mrs. Fields sat on either side of father,
and the stories told were different from any I had ever heard. I found
when the meal was over I had not taken a mouthful. Next we all went to
the College Church for the lecture, and on coming home we had an
evening lunch. All ate heartily but me. I ventured to tell one story,
when Mr. Fields clapped his hands and said, "Delightful." That was
food to me! I went to bed half starved, and only took enough breakfast
to sustain life. Before they left I had written down and committed to
memory every anecdote he had given. They have never been printed until
now, and you may be sure they are just as my hero told them. My only
grief was the appearance of my andirons. I invited our guests to the
open fire with pride, and the brass was covered with black and
green--not a gleam of shine.

Often Mr. Fields's jokes were on himself--as the opinion of a man in
the car seat just beyond him, as they happened to be passing Mr.
Fields's residence on the Massachusetts coast. The house was pointed
out on "Thunderbolt Hill" and his companion said, "How is he as a
lecturer?"

"Well," was the response, "he ain't Gough by a d----d sight."

How comically he told of a country druggist's clerk to whom he put the
query, "What is the most popular pill just now?" And the quick answer,
"Schenk's--they do say the Craowned Heads is all atakin' of 'em!"

Or the request for his funniest lecture for the benefit of a hearse in
a rural hamlet!

His experience in a little village where he and Mrs. Fields wanted to
find a boarding-house: The lady of the house demurred; she had "got
pretty tired of boarders," but at last capitulated with, "Well, I'll
let you come in if you'll do your own stretching." This proved to mean
no waitress at the table.

The morning after their arrival, he went out for a long walk in the
mountain air, and returning was accosted by his host: "I see you are
quite a predestinarian." As he was resting on one of the wooden
chairs, the man said: "I got those chairs for piazzary purposes," and
enlarged on the trouble of getting good help in haying time: "Why, my
neighbour, Jake Stebbins, had a boy in his gang named Henry Ward
Beecher Gooley. He was so dreadful pious that on extra hot mornings
he'd call 'em all together at eleven o'clock and ask 'em to join in
singing, 'Lord, Dismiss us with Thy Blessing.'"

All these anecdotes were told to me by Mr. Fields and I intend to give
only those memories which are _my own_.

Mr. Fields was wonderfully kind to budding authors. Professor Brown
sent him, without my knowledge, my two-column appreciation of dear Tom
Hood, after his memorials were written by his son and daughter. And
before many weeks came a box of his newest books for me, with a little
note on finest paper and wide margin, "hoping that your friendship may
always be continued towards our house."

I cannot speak of Mr. Fields and fail to pay my tribute of loving
admiration to his wife, Annie Fields. When I first met that lady in
her home at 148 Charles Street, she was so exquisitely dainty,
refined, spirituelle, and beautiful, I felt, as I expressed it,
"square-toed and common." She was sincerely cordial to all who were
invited to that sacred shrine; she was the perfect hostess and
housekeeper, the ever-busy philanthropist, a classic poet, a strong
writer of prose when eager to aid some needed reform. Never before had
I seen such a rare combination of the esthetic and practical, and she
shone wherever placed. Once when she was with us, I went up to her
room to see if I could help her as she was leaving. She was seated on
the floor, pulling straps tightly round some steamer rugs and a rainy
day coat, and she explained she always attended to such "little
things." As one wrote of her, after her death, she made the most of
herself, but she made more of her husband. Together they went forward,
side by side, to the last, comrades and true lovers.

Two of all the wonderful literary treasures in their drawing-room
produced a great impression on me, one a caricature of Thackeray's
face done by himself with no mercy shown to his flattened, broken
nose. A lady said to him: "There is only one thing about you I could
never get over, your nose." "No wonder, madam, there is no bridge to
it." The other was an invitation to supper in Charles Lamb's own
writing, and at the bottom of the page, "Puns at nine."

Two famous story-tellers of the old-fashioned type were Doctor Dixi
Crosby of Hanover, and his son "Ben," who made a great name for
himself in New York City as a surgeon, and also as a brilliant
after-dinner speaker. Doctor Crosby's preference was for the
long-drawn-out style, as this example, which I heard him tell several
times, shows:

A man gave a lecture in a New England town which failed to elicit much
applause and this troubled him. As he left early next morning on the
top of the stage-coach, he interviewed the driver, who seemed not
anxious to talk. "Did you hear much said about my lecture last night?
Do you think it pleased the audience?"

"Oh, I guess they were well enough satisfied; some were anyway."

"Were there any who expressed dissatisfaction?"

"I would not pry into it, stranger; there wasn't much said against it
anyhow."

"Now you have aroused my curiosity. I must beg you to let me know. Who
criticized it, and what did they say? It might help me to hear it."

"Well, Squire Jones was the man; he does not say much one way or
other. But I'll tell you he always gets the gist of it."

"And what was his verdict?"

"If you must know, Squire Jones he said, said he, he thought
'twas--awful shaller."

Doctor Ben's Goffstown Muster was a quicker tempo and had a better
climax. 'Twas the great occasion of the annual military reviews. He
graphically described boys driving colts hardly broken; mothers
nursing babies, very squally; girls and their beaux sitting in the
best wagon holding hands and staring about (as Warner said to me,
"Young love in the country is a solemn thing"); the booths for sale of
gingerbread, peanuts, cider, candies, and popcorn; the marshal of the
day dashing here and there on his prancing steed. All was excitement,
great crowds, and the blare of the band. Suddenly an aged pair,
seemingly skeletons, so bony and wan were they, were seen tottering
toward the fence, where they at last stopped. They had come from the
direction of the graveyard. The marshal rushed forward calling out,
"Go back, go back; this is not the general resurrection, it is only
the Goffstown Muster."

Doctor Ben Crosby was one of the most admirable mimics ever known and
without a suspicion of ill-nature. Sometimes he would call on us
representing another acquaintance, who had just left, so perfectly
that the gravest and stiffest were in danger of hysterics. This power
his daughter inherited.

John Lord, the historical lecturer, was always a "beacon light" (which
was the name he gave his lectures when published) as he discussed the
subjects and persons he took for themes before immense audiences
everywhere. His conversation was also intensely interesting. He was a
social lion and a favourite guest. His lectures have still a large
annual sale--no one who once knew him or listened to his pyrotechnic
climaxes could ever forget him or them. It was true that he made nine
independent and distinct motions simultaneously in his most intense
delivery. I once met him going back to his rooms at his hotel carrying
a leather bag. He stopped, opened it, showing a bottle of Scotch
whiskey, and explained "I am starting in on a lecture on Moses." There
was a certain simplicity about the man. Once when his right arm was in
a sling, broken by a fall from a horse, he offered prayer in the old
church. And unable to use his arm as usual, he so balanced his
gyrations that he in some way drifted around until when he said "Amen"
his face fronted the whitewashed wall back of his pulpit. He turned to
the minister standing by him, saying in a very audible whisper, "Do
you think anybody noticed it?"

He was so genuinely hospitable that when a friend suddenly accepted
his "come up any time" invitation, he found no one at home but the
doctor, who proposed their killing a chicken. Soon one was let out,
but she evaded her pursuers. "You shoo, and I'll catch," cried the
kind host, but shrank back as the fowl came near, exclaiming: "Say,
West, has a hen got teeth?" At last they conquered, plucked, and
cooked her for a somewhat tardy meal, with some potatoes clawed up in
the potato field. Once, when very absent-minded, at a hotel table in a
country tavern, the waitress was astonished to watch him as he took
the oil cruet from the castor and proceeded to grease his boots.

Doctor John Ordronaux, Professor of Medical Jurisprudence at Dartmouth
and various other colleges and medical schools, was another erudite
scholar, who made a permanent impression on all he met. While yet at
college, his words were so unusual and his vocabulary so full that a
wag once advertised on the bulletin board on the door of Dartmouth
Hall, "Five hundred new adjectives by John Ordronaux."

He was haunted by synonyms, and told me they interfered with his
writing, so many clamouring for attention. He was a confirmed bachelor
with very regular habits; wanted his bed to be left to air the entire
day, he to make it himself at precisely 5.30 P.M., or as near as
possible. His walk was peculiar, with knees stiffly bent out and
elbows crooked as if to repel all feminine aggression, "a progressive
porcupine" as someone described his gait. His hour for retiring was
always the same; when calling leaving about 9.30. Rallied about his
methodical habits, he was apt to mention many of his old friends who
had indulged themselves in earthly pleasures, all of whom he had the
sad pleasure of burying.

He was a great admirer of my mother for her loveliness and kind
interest in the students; after her death he was a noble aid to me in
many ways. I needed his precautions about spreading myself too thin,
about being less flamboyantly loquacious, and subduing my excessive
enthusiasm and emotional prodigality. Once after giving me a drive, he
kindly said, as he helped me out, "I have quite enjoyed your cheerful
prattle." Fact was, he had monologued it in his most sesquipedalian
phraseology. I had no chance to say one word. He had his own way of
gaining magnetism; believed in associating with butchers. Did you ever
know one that was anæmic, especially at slaughtering time? From them
and the animals there and in stables, and the smell of the flowing
blood, he felt that surely a radiant magnetism was gained. Those he
visited "thought he was real democratic and a pleasant spoken man." He
told of an opportunity he once had for regular employment, riding on
the stage-coach by the side of a farmer's pretty daughter. She
suggested that he might like a milk route, and "perhaps father can
get you one." So formal, dignified, and fastidious was he that this
seems improbable, but I quote his own account.

Doctor Ordronaux visited at my uncle's, a physician, when I was
resting there from overwork. After his departure, uncle received a
letter from him which he handed to me saying, "Guess this is meant for
you." I quote proudly:

     I rejoice to have been permitted to enjoy so much of Miss
     Sanborn's society, and to discover what I never before fully
     appreciated, that beneath the scintillations of a brilliant
     intellect she hides a vigorous and analytic understanding, and
     when age shall have somewhat tempered her emotional
     susceptibilities she will shine with the steady light of a
     planet, reaching her perihelion and taking a permanent place in
     the firmament of letters.

Sounds something like a Johnsonian epitaph, but wasn't it great?

I visited his adopted mother at Roslyn, Long Island, and they took me
to a Sunday dinner with Bryant at "Cedarmere," a fitting spot for a
poet's home. The aged poet was in vigorous health, mind and body.
Going to his library he took down an early edition of his
_Thanatopsis_, pointing out the nineteen lines written some time
before the rest. Mottoes hung on the wall such as "As thy days so
shall thy strength be." I ventured to ask how he preserved such
vitality, and he said, "I owe a great deal to daily air baths and the
flesh brush, plenty of outdoor air and open fireplaces." What an
impressive personality; erect, with white hair and long beard; his
eyebrows looked as if snow had fallen on them. His conversation was
delightfully informal. "What does your name mean?" he inquired, and I
had to say, "I do not know, it has changed so often," and asked, "What
is the origin of yours?" "Briant--brilliant, of course." He told the
butler to close the door behind me lest I catch cold from a draught,
quoting this couplet:

          When the wind strikes you through a hole,
          Go make your will and mind your soul;

and informing me that this advice was found in every language, if not
dialect, in the world. He loved every inch of his country home, was
interested in farming, flowers, the water-view and fish-pond, fond of
long walks, and preferred the simple life. In his rooms were many
souvenirs of early travel. His walls were covered with the finest
engravings and paintings from the best American artists. He was too
willing to be imposed upon by young authors and would-be poets. He
said: "People expect too much of me, altogether too much." That Sunday
was his last before his address on Mazzini in Central Park. He
finished with the hot sun over his head, and walking across the park
to the house of Grant Wilson, he fell down faint and hopelessly ill on
the doorstep. He never rallied, and after thirteen days the end came.
An impressive warning to the old, who are selfishly urged to do hard
tasks, that they must conserve their own vitality. Bryant was
eighty-four when killed by over-exertion, with a mind as wonderful as
ever.

I will now recount the conditions when Ezekiel Webster and his second
wife took their wedding trip in a "one hoss shay" to the White
Mountains in 1826.

Grandma lived to be ninety-six, with her mind as clear as ever, and
two years before her death she gave me this story of their experiences
at that time. My mother told me she knew of more than thirty proposals
she had received after grandfather's death, but she said "she would
rather be the widow of Ezekiel Webster, than the wife of any other
man." The following is her own description.

     The only house near the Crawford Notch was the Willey House, in
     which the family were living. A week before a slide had come
     down by the side of the house and obstructed the road. Mr.
     Willey and two men came to our assistance, taking out the horse
     and lifting the carriage over the débris.

     They described the terrors of the night of the slide. The rain
     was pouring in torrents, the soil began to slide from the tops
     of the rocks, taking with it trees, boulders, and all in its
     way; the crashing and thundering were terrible. Three weeks
     later the entire family, nine in number, in fleeing to a place
     of refuge, were overtaken by a second slide and all buried.

     The notch was then as nature made it; no steam whistle or car
     clatter had intruded upon its solitude. The first moving object
     we saw after passing through was a man in the distance. He
     proved to be Ethan Crawford, who kept the only house of
     entertainment. He was walking leisurely, drawing a rattlesnake
     along by its tail. He had killed the creature and was taking it
     home as a trophy. He was a stalwart man, who had always lived
     among the mountains, and had become as familiar with the wild
     beasts as with the cat and dog of his own home. He said that
     only a few days before he had passed a bear drinking at a
     spring. He led the way to his house, a common farmhouse without
     paint, or carpet, or cushioned seat. The landlady was spinning
     wool in the kitchen.

     Mr. Crawford supplied the table when he could by his gun or
     fishing-rod; otherwise the fare was meagre. When asked for
     mustard for the salt meat, they said they had none, at least in
     the house, but they had some growing.

     A young turkey halted about in the dining-room gobbling in a
     noisy way, and the girl in attendance was requested by Mr.
     Webster, with imperturbable gravity, either to kindly take it
     out or to bring its companion in, for it seemed lonely. She
     stood in utter confusion for a minute, then seized the
     squawking fowl and disappeared.

     When Mr. Crawford was asked if ladies ever went up Mount
     Washington, he said two had been up, and he hoped never to see
     another trying it, for the last one he brought down on his
     shoulders, or she would have never got down alive.

     The first night I asked for a change of bed linen. No attention
     was paid to my request, and after waiting a long time I found
     the landlady and asked her if she would have the sheets
     changed. She straightened up and said she didn't think the bed
     would hurt anybody, for only two ministers from Boston had
     slept in it. We stayed some days and although it was the height
     of the season, we were the only guests. Nothing from the
     outside world reached us but one newspaper, and that brought
     the startling news of the death of Adams and Jefferson on the
     fourth of July, just fifty years after their signing the
     Declaration of Independence.

The large leghorn bonnet which Mrs. Webster wore on that eventful
journey hangs in my collection of old relics. She told me it used to
hit the wheel when she looked out. And near it is her dark-brown
"calash," a big bonnet with rattans stitched in so it would easily
move back and forward. Her winter hood was of dark blue silk, warmly
wadded and prettily quilted.

Who would not wish to live to be a hundred if health and mental
vigour could be retained? This rare old lady wrote lively, interesting
letters on all current topics, and was as eager to win at whist,
backgammon, or logomachy as a child. Her religion was the most
beautiful part of her life, the same every day, self-forgetting,
practical Christianity. She is not forgotten; her life is still a
stimulus, an inspiration, a benediction. The love and veneration of
those who gathered about her in family reunions were expressed by her
nephew Dr. Fred B. Lund, one of the most distinguished surgeons of
Boston:

          To her who down the pathway of the years
            Serene and calm her blessed way she trod,
          Has given smiles for smiles, and tears for tears,
            Held fast the good in life, and shown how God

          Has given to us His servants here below,
            A shining mark to follow in our strife,
          Who proves that He is good, and makes us know
            Through ten decades of pure and holy life

          How life may be made sweeter at its end,
            How graces from the seasons that have fled
          May light her eyes and added glory lend
            To saintly aureole about her head.

          We bring our Christmas greeting heartily,
            Three generations gathered at her feet,
          Who like a little child has led, while we
            Have lived and loved beneath her influence sweet.

  [Illustration: THE STREET FRONTING THE SANBORN HOME AT HANOVER, N.H.]

Levi Parsons Morton, born at Shoreham, Vermont, May 16, 1824, was
named for his mother's brother, Levi Parsons, the first American
missionary to Palestine. He was the son of a minister, Reverend Daniel
Morton, who with his wife Lucretia Parsons, like so many other
clergymen, was obliged to exist on a starvation salary, only six
hundred dollars a year. Among his ancestors was George Morton of
Battery, Yorkshire, financial agent in London of the _Mayflower_. Mr.
L.P. Morton may have inherited his financial cleverness from this
ancestor.

After studying at Shoreham Academy, he entered a country store at
Enfield, Massachusetts, and was there for two years, then taught a
district school, and later entered a general store at Concord, New
Hampshire, when only seventeen. His father was unable to send him to
college, and Mr. Estabrook, the manager of the store, decided to
establish him in a branch store at Hanover, New Hampshire, where
Dartmouth College is located, giving him soon afterward an interest in
the business. Here he stayed until nearly twenty-four years old. Mr.
Morton immediately engaged a stylish tailor from Boston, W.H. Gibbs,
or as all called him, "Bill Gibbs," whose skill at making even cheap
suits look smart brought him a large patronage from the college
students. Once a whole graduating class were supplied with dress suits
from this artist. Mr. Morton had a most interesting store, sunny and
scrupulously clean, with everything anyone could ask for, and few ever
went out of it without buying something, even if they had entered
simply from curiosity. The clerks were trained to be courteous without
being persistent. Saturday was bargain day, and printed lists of what
could be obtained on that day at an absurdly cheap rate were widely
distributed through the neighbouring towns. People came in large
numbers to those bargains. Long rows of all sorts of odd vehicles were
hitched up and down the street. A man would drop in for some smoking
tobacco and buy himself a good straw hat or winter cap. A wife would
call because soda was offered so cheaply and would end by buying a
black silk dress, "worth one dollar a yard but selling for today only
for fifty cents." Mr. Morton was perhaps the original pioneer in
methods which have built up the great department stores of the present
day. If he had received the education his father so craved for him he
would have probably had an inferior and very different career.

Mr. Morton greatly enjoyed his life at Hanover; he was successful and
looking forward to greater openings in his business career. My
father, taking a great fancy to this enterprising, cheery young man,
invited him to dine each day at our house for nearly a year. They were
great friends and had a happy influence upon each other. There were
many jolly laughs and much earnest talk. He met Miss Lucy Kimball of
Flatlands, Long Island, at our house at a Commencement reception, and
they were soon married. She lived only a few years.

Mr. Morton was next in Boston in the dry-goods house of James Beebe
Morgan & Company, and was soon made a partner. Mr. Morgan was the
father of Pierpont Morgan. It is everlastingly to Mr. Morton's honour
that after he failed in business in New York he was able before long
to invite his creditors to dinner, and underneath the service plate of
each creditor was a check for payment in full.

Preferring to give money while living, his whole path has been marked
by large benefactions. My memory is of his Hanover life and his
friendship with my father, but it is interesting to note the several
steps in his career: Honorary Commissioner, Paris Exposition, 1878;
Member 46th Congress, 1879-81, Sixth New York District; United States
Minister to France, 1881-85; Vice-President of the United States,
1889-93; Governor of New York, 1895-6.

Mr. Morton recently celebrated at his Washington home the ninety-first
anniversary in a life full of honours, and what is more important--of
honour.



CHAPTER II

A Friend at Andover, Mass.--Hezekiah Butterworth--A Few of my Own
Folks--Professor Putnam of Dartmouth--One Year at Packer Institute,
Brooklyn--Beecher's Face in Prayer--The Poet Saxe as I Saw
him--Offered the Use of a Rare Library--Miss Edna Dean Proctor--New
Stories of Greeley--Experiences at St. Louis.


Next a few months at Andover for music lessons--piano and organ. A
valuable friend was found in Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, who had
just published her _Gates Ajar_. She invited me to her study and
wanted to know what I meant to accomplish in life and urged me to
write. "I have so much work called for now that I cannot keep up my
contributions to _The Youth's Companion_. I want you to have my place
there. What would you like to write about?"

"Don't know."

"Haven't you anything at home to describe."

"No."

"Any pets?"

"Why I have a homely, ordinary dog, but he knows a lot."

And so I was roused to try "Our Rab and His Friends," which was
kindly mailed by Miss Phelps to Mr. Ford, the editor, with a wish that
he accept the little story, which he did, sending a welcome check and
asking for more contributions. I kept a place there for several years.

In Miss Phelps's case, one must believe in heredity and partly in
Huxley's statement that "we are automata propelled by our ancestors."
Her grandfather, Moses Stuart, was Professor of Sacred Literature at
Andover, a teacher of Greek and Latin, and a believer in that stern
school of theology and teleology. It was owing perhaps to a
combination of severity in climatic and in intellectual environment
that New England developed an austere type of scholars and
theologians. Their mental vision was focused on things remote in time
and supernatural in quality, so much so that they often overlooked the
simple and natural expression of their obligation to things nearby. It
sometimes happened that their tender and amiable characteristics were
better known to learned colleagues with whom they were in intellectual
sympathy, than to their own wives and children. Sometimes their finer
and more lovable qualities were first brought to the attention of
their families when some distinguished professor or divine feelingly
pronounced a funeral eulogy.

It's a long way from the stern Moses Stuart, who believed firmly in
hell and universal damnation and who, with Calvin, depicted infants a
span long crawling on the floor of hell, to his gifted granddaughter,
who, although a member of an evangelical church, wrote: "Death and
heaven could not seem very different to a pagan from what they seem to
me." Her heart was nearly broken by the sudden death of her lover on
the battlefield. "Roy, snatched away in an instant by a dreadful God,
and laid out there in the wet and snow--in the hideous wet and
snow--never to kiss him, never to see him any more." Her _Gates Ajar_
when it appeared was considered by some to be revolutionary and
shocking, if not wicked. Now, we gently smile at her diluted,
sentimental heaven, where all the happy beings have what they most
want; she to meet Roy and find the same dear lover; another to have a
piano; a child to get ginger snaps. I never quite fancied the
restriction of musical instruments in visions of heaven to harps
alone. They at first blister the fingers until they are calloused. The
afflicted washerwoman, whose only daughter had just died, was not in
the least consoled by the assurance that Melinda was perfectly happy,
playing a harp in heaven. "She never was no musicianer, and I'd rather
see her a-settin' by my tub as she used to set when I was a-wringin'
out the clothes from the suds, than to be up there a-harpin'." Very
different, as a matter of fact, were the instruments, more or less
musical, around which New England families gathered on Sunday evenings
for the singing of hymns and "sacred songs." Yet there was often real
faith and sincere devotion pedalled out of the squeaking old melodeon.

Professor Stuart's eldest daughter, Elizabeth Stuart, married Austin
Phelps in 1842; who was then pastor of Pine Street Church in Boston.
Their daughter was born in Boston in 1844, and named Mary Gray Phelps.
They moved to Andover in 1848, where two sons were born. Mrs. Phelps,
who died when Mary was seven years old, was bright, interesting,
unusual. She wrote _Tales of New England_, chiefly stories of clerical
life; also _Sunnyside Sketches_, remarkably popular at the time. Her
_nom de plume_ was "Trusta." Professor Phelps married her sister Mary,
for his second wife. She lived only a year, and it was after her death
that Mary changed her name to that of her mother, Elizabeth Stuart
Phelps. Professor Phelps had a most nervous temperament, so much so
that he could not sleep if a cricket chirped in his bedroom, and the
stamping of a horse in a nearby stable destroyed all hope of slumber.

Miss Phelps inherited her mother's talent for writing stories, also
her humour and her sensitive, loving nature, as is seen by her works
on _Temperance Reforms_, _Abuses of Factory Operators_, and her
arraignment of the vivisectionist. Later, when I was living at the
"Abandoned Farm," she had a liking for the farm I now own, about half
a mile farther on from my first agricultural experiment. She called on
me, and begged me as woman for woman in case she bought the
neighbouring farm, to seclude all my animals and fowls from 5 P.M.
till 10 A.M. each morning, as she must get her sleep, for, like her
father, she was a life-long sufferer from insomnia. I would have done
this if it were possible to repress the daybreak cries natural to a
small menagerie which included chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese,
besides two peacocks and four guinea fowls.

But to return to the _Youth's Companion_. When I found it impossible
to write regularly for Mr. Ford, he made a change for the better,
securing Mr. Hezekiah Butterworth, a poet, historian, and author of
the _Zigzag Series_, which had such large sales. Happening to be in
Boston, I called at the office and said to Mr. Ford: "It grieves me a
bit to see my column taken by someone else, and what a strange pen
name--'Hezekiah Butterworth.'"

"But that is his own name," said the editor.

"Indeed; I am afraid I shall hate that Hezzy."

"Well, just try it; come with me to his work-room."

When we had gone up one flight, Mr. Ford opened a door, where a
gentle, sweet-faced young man of slender build was sitting at a table,
the floor all around him literally strewn with at least three hundred
manuscripts, each one to be examined as a possible winner in a contest
for a five-hundred-dollar prize story. Both English and American
authors had competed. He was, as De Quincey put it, "snowed up." Then
my friend said with a laugh, "Miss Sanborn has come to see Hezzy whom
she fancies she shall hate." A painfully awkward introduction, but Mr.
Butterworth laughed heartily, and made me very welcome, and from that
time was ever one of my most faithful friends, honouring my large
Thanksgiving parties by his presence for many years.

I shall tell but two stories about my father in his classroom. He had
given Pope's _Rape of the Lock_ as subject for an essay to a young man
who had not the advantage of being born educated, but did his best at
all times. As the young man read on in class, father, who in later
years was a little deaf, stopped him saying, "Sir, did I understand
you to say Sniff?" "No, sir, I did not, I said Slyph."

In my father's Latin classes there were many absurd mistakes, as when
he asked a student, "What was ambrosia?" and the reply was, "The gods'
hair oil," an answer evidently suggested by the constant advertisement
of "Sterling's Ambrosia" for the hair.

I will now refer to my two uncles on my father's side. The older one
was Dyer H. Sanborn, a noted educator of his time, and a grammarian,
publishing a text-book on that theme and honouring the parts of speech
with a rhyme which began--

          A noun's the name of anything,
          As hoop or garden, ball or swing;
          Three little words we often see
          The articles, a, an, and the.

Mrs. Eddy, of Christian Science fame, spoke of him with pride as her
preceptor. He liked to constitute himself an examining committee of
one and visit the schools near him. Once he found only five very small
children, and remarked approvingly, "Good order here." He,
unfortunately, for his brothers, developed an intense interest in
genealogy, and after getting them to look up the family tree in
several branches, would soon announce to dear brother Edwin, or dear
brother John, "the papers you sent have disappeared; please send a
duplicate at once."

My other uncle, John Sewall Sanborn, graduated at Dartmouth, and after
studying law, he started for a career in Canada, landed in Sherbrooke,
P.Q., with the traditional fifty cents in his pocket, and began to
practise law. Soon acquiring a fine practice, he married the
strikingly handsome daughter of Mr. Brooks, the most important man in
that region, and rose to a position on the Queen's Bench. He was
twelve years in Parliament, and later a "Mr. Justice," corresponding
with a member of our Federal Supreme Court. In fact, he had received
every possible honour at his death except knighthood, which he was
soon to have received.

My great-grandfather, on the paternal side, was always called
"Grandsir Hook," and Dr. Crosby assured me that I inherited my fat,
fun, and asthma from that obese person, weighing nearly three hundred
pounds. When he died a slice had to be cut off, not from his body, but
from the side of the house, to let the coffin squeeze through. I
visited his grave with father. It was an immense elevation even at so
remote a date. David Sanborn married his daughter Hannah Hook, after
a formal courtship. The "love" letters to "Honoured Madam" are still
preserved. Fortunately the "honoured madam" had inherited the sense of
humour.

A few words about Mr. Daniel Webster. I remember going to Marshfield
with my mother, his niece, and sitting on his knee while he looked
over his large morning mail, throwing the greater part into the waste
basket. Also in the dining-room I can still recall the delicious meals
prepared by an old-time Southern mammy, who wore her red and yellow
turban regally. The capital jokes by his son Fletcher and guests
sometimes caused the dignified and impressive butler to rapidly
dart behind the large screen to laugh, then soon back to duty,
imperturbable as before.

The large library occupied one ell of the house, with its high ceiling
running in points to a finish. There hung the strong portraits of Lord
Ashburton and Mr. Webster. At the top of his own picture at the right
hung his large grey slouch hat, so well known. In the next room the
silhouette of his mother, and underneath it his words, "My excellent
mother." Also a portrait of Grace Fletcher, his first wife, and of his
son Edward in uniform. Edward was killed in the Mexican War.

There is a general impression that Mr. Webster was a heavy drinker
and often under the influence of liquor when he rose to speak; as
usual there are two sides to this question. George Ticknor of Boston
told my father that he had been with Webster on many public occasions,
and never saw him overcome but once. That was at the Revere House in
Boston, where he was expected to speak after dinner. "I sat next to
him," said Ticknor; "suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder and
whispered, 'Come out and run around the common.'" This they did and
the speech was a success. There is a wooden statue of Daniel Webster
that has stood for forty years in Hingham, Massachusetts. It is larger
than life and called a good portrait. It was made more than sixty
years ago as a figurehead for the ship _Daniel Webster_ but never put
on. That would have been appropriate if he was occasionally half seas
over. Daniel's devotion to his only brother "Zeke" is pleasant to
remember. By the way, there are many men who pay every debt promptly
and never take a drop too much, who would be proud to have a record
for something accomplished that is as worth while as his record. When
Daniel Webster entered Dartmouth College as a freshman directly from
his father's farm, he was a raw specimen, awkward, thin, and so dark
that some mistook him for a new Indian recruit. He was then called
"Black Dan." His father's second wife and the mother of Zeke and Dan
had decidedly a generous infusion of Indian blood. A gentleman at
Hanover who remembered Webster there said his large, dark, resplendent
eyes looked like coach lanterns on a dark night.

Mrs. Ezekiel Webster told me that her husband asked her after their
marriage to allow his mother to come home to them at Boscawen, New
Hampshire. She said she was a strikingly fine-looking woman with those
same marvellous eyes, long straight black hair, high cheekbones; a
tall person with strong individuality. Mrs. Webster was sure where the
swarthy infusion came from. This mother, who had been a hard worker
and faithful wife, now delighted in sitting by the open fire evenings
and smoking an old pipe she had brought with her.

Webster saved his Alma Mater, and after the favourable decision on the
College Case, Judge Hopkinson wrote to Professor Brown of Dartmouth
suggesting an inscription on the doors of the college building,
"Founded by Eleazer Wheelock, refounded by Daniel Webster." These
words are now placed in bronze at the portals of Webster Memorial
Hall.

To go back, as I did, from Andover to Hanover, I pay my tribute to
Professor John Newton Putnam, Greek Professor at Dartmouth. His
character was perfect; his face of rare beauty shone with kind and
helpful thought for everyone. I see him, as he talked at our mid-week
meetings. One could almost perceive an aura or halo around his classic
head; wavy black hair which seemed to have an almost purple light
through it; large dark eyes, full of love. What he said was never
perfunctory, never dull. He was called "John, the Beloved Disciple."
Still he was thoroughly human and brimming over with fun, puns, and
exquisitely droll humour, and quick in seeing a funny condition.

It is said that on one occasion when there happened to be a party the
same night as our "Thursday evening meeting," he was accosted by a
friend as he was going into the vestry with the inquiry, "Are you not
to be tempted by the social delights of the evening?" To which he
replied, "No, I prefer to suffer affliction with the people of God,
rather than enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season." The college
inspector reported to him that he was obliged to break into a room at
college where a riot was progressing and described a negro's efforts
to hide himself by scurrying under the bed.

"But how unnecessary; all he had to do was to keep dark."

Once he was found waiting a long time at the counter of a grocery
store. A friend passing said, "You've been there quite a while,
Putnam."

"Yes, I'm waiting all my appointed time until my change doth come."

Expecting "Help" from Norwich, he was gazing in that direction and
explained, "I'm looking unto the hills whence cometh our help."

We often diverted ourselves at his home with "Rounce," the duplicate
of euchre in dominoes. And we were startled by a Madonna dropping to
the floor, leaving its frame on the wall. Instantly Professor Putnam
remarked: "Her willing soul would not stay 'in such a frame as this.'"
And when called to preside at the organ when the college choir was
away, he whispered to me, "Listen to my interludicrous performance."

How sad the end! A delicate constitution conquered by tuberculosis.
With his wife he sought a milder climate abroad and died there. But no
one can compute the good accomplished even by his unconscious
influence, for everything was of the purest, highest, best.

Soon after my return from St. Louis, I received a call from Packer
Institute in Brooklyn, to teach English Literature, which was most
agreeable. But when I arrived, the principal, Mr. Crittenden, told me
that the woman who had done that work had decided to remain. I was
asked by Mr. Crittenden, "Can you read?" "Yes, I think so." "Then come
with me." He touched a bell and then escorted me to the large chapel
capable of holding nearly twelve hundred, where I found the entire
faculty assembled to listen to my efforts. I was requested to stand up
in the pulpit and read from a large Bible the fourteenth chapter of
John, and the twenty-third psalm. That was easy enough. Next request,
"Please recite something comic." I gave them "Comic Miseries." "Now
try a little pathos." I recited Alice Cary's "The Volunteer," which
was one of my favourite poems. Then I heard a professor say to Mr.
Crittenden, "She recites with great taste and expression; what a pity
she has that lisp!" And hitherto I had been blissfully unaware of such
a failing. One other selection in every-day prose, and I was let off.
The faculty were now exchanging their opinions and soon dispersed
without one word to me. I said to Mr. Crittenden, as I came down the
pulpit stairs, "I do not want to take the place." But he insisted that
they all wanted me to come and begin work at once. I had large
classes, number of pupils eight hundred and fifty. It was a great
opportunity to help young girls to read in such a way that it would be
a pleasure to their home friends, or to recite in company, as was
common then, naturally and without gestures. I took one more class of
little girls who had received no training before in that direction.
They were easy to inspire, were wholly free from self-consciousness,
and their parents were so much pleased that we gave an exhibition of
what they could do in reading and recitation in combination with their
gymnastics. The chapel was crowded to the doors. A plump little German
girl was the star of the evening. She stood perfectly serene, her
chubby arms stuck out stiffly from her sides, and in a loud, clear
voice she recited this nonsense:

          If the butterfly courted the bee,
            And the owl the porcupine;
          If churches were built on the sea,
            And three times one were nine;
          If the pony rode his master,
            And the buttercups ate the cows;
          And the cat had the dire disaster
            To be worried, sir, by a mouse;
          And mamma, sir, sold her baby,
            To a gypsy for half a crown,
          And a gentleman were a lady,
            This world would be upside down.
          But, if any or all these wonders
            Should ever come about,
          I should not think them blunders,
            For I should be inside out.

An encore was insisted on.

I offered to give any in my classes lessons in "how to tell a story"
with ease, brevity, and point, promising to give an anecdote of my own
suggested by theirs every time. This pleased them, and we had a jolly
time. The first girl who tried to tell a story said:

     I don't know how; never attempted any such thing, but what I am
     going to tell is true and funny.

     My grandfather is very deaf. You may have seen him sitting on a
     pulpit stair at Mr. Beecher's church, holding to his ear what
     looks like a skillet. Last spring we went to the country,
     house-hunting, leaving grandfather to guard our home. He was
     waked, in the middle of the night as he supposed, by a noise,
     and started out to find where it came from. It continued; so he
     courageously went downstairs and cautiously opened the kitchen
     door. He reached out his skillet-trumpet before him through the
     partly opened door and the milkman poured in a quart of milk.

This story, I am told, is an ancient chestnut. But I used to see the
deaf grandfather with his uplifted skillet on the steps of Beecher's
pulpit, and the young lady gave it as a real happening in her own
home. Did anyone hear of it before 1868 when she gave it to our
anecdote class? I believe this was the foundation or starter for
similar skillet-trumpet stories.

The girl was applauded, and deserved it. Then they asked me for a milk
story. I told them of a milkman who, in answer to a young mother's
complaint that the milk he brought for her baby was sour, replied:
"Well, is there anything outside the sourness that doesn't suit you?"
And Thoreau remarked that "circumstantial evidence is sometimes
conclusive, as when a trout is found in the morning milk."

This class was considered so practical and valuable that I was offered
pay for it, but it was a relief, after exhausting work.

We had many visitors interested in the work of the various classes.
One day Beecher strolled into the chapel and wished to hear some of
the girls read. All were ready. One took the morning paper; another
recited a poem; one read a selection from her scrapbook. Beecher
afterward inquired: "Whom have you got to teach elocution now? You
used to have a few prize pumpkins on show, but now every girl is doing
good original work." Mr. Crittenden warned me at the outset, "Keep an
eye out or they'll run over you." But I never had anything but
kindness from my pupils. I realized that cheerful, courteous requests
were wiser than commands, and sincere friendship more winning than
"Teachery" primness. I knew of an unpopular instructor who, being
annoyed by his pupils throwing a few peanuts at his desk, said, "Young
men, if you throw another peanut, I shall leave the room." A shower of
peanuts followed.

So, when I went to my largest class in the big chapel, and saw one of
my most interesting girls sitting on that immense Bible on the pulpit
looking at me in merry defiance, and kicking her heels against the
woodwork below, I did not appear to see her, and began the exercises,
hoping fervently that one of the detectives who were always on watch
might providentially appear. Before long I saw one come to the door,
look in with an amazed expression, only to bring two of the faculty to
release the young lady from her uneasy pre-eminence.

I hardly knew my own name at the Packer Institute. The students called
me "Canary," I suppose on account of my yellow hair and rather high
treble voice; Mr. Crittenden always spoke to me as Miss "Sunburn," and
when my laundry was returned, it was addressed to "Miss Lampoon."

Beecher was to me the clerical miracle of his age--a man of
extraordinary personal magnetism, with power to rouse laughter and
right away compel tears, I used to listen often to his marvellous
sermons. I can see him now as he went up the middle aisle in winter
wearing a clumsy overcoat, his face giving the impression of heavy,
coarse features, thick lips, a commonplace nose, eyes that lacked
expression, nothing to give any idea of the man as he would look after
the long prayer. When the audience reverently bowed their heads my own
eyes were irresistibly drawn toward the preacher. For he prayed as if
he felt that he was addressing an all-powerful, omnipresent, tender,
loving Heavenly Father who was listening to his appeal. And as he went
on and on with increasing fervour and power a marvellous change
transfigured that heavy face, it shone with a white light and
spiritual feeling, as if he fully realized his communion with God
Himself. I used to think of that phrase in Matthew:

          "And was transfigured before them,
           And his face did shine as the sun."

I never heard anyone mention this marvellous transformation. But I
remember that Beecher once acknowledged to a reporter that he never
knew what he had said in his sermon until he looked at the résumé in
Monday's paper.

During the hard days of Beecher's trial a lady who was a guest at the
house told me she was waked one morning by the merry laughter of
Beecher's little grandchildren and peeping into their room found Mr.
Beecher having a jolly frolic with them. He was trying to get them
dressed; his efforts were most comical, putting on their garments
wrong side out or buttoning in front when they were intended to fasten
in the back, and "funny Grandpa" enjoying it all quite as sincerely as
these little ones. A pretty picture.

Saxe (John Godfrey) called during one recess hour. The crowds of girls
passing back and forth interested him, as they seemed to care less for
eating than for wreathing their arms round each other, with a good
deal of kissing, and "deary," "perfectly lovely," etc. He described
his impressions in two words: "Unconscious rehearsing."

Once he handed me a poem he had just dashed off written with pencil,
"To my Saxon Blonde." I was surprised and somewhat flattered,
regarding it as a complimentary impromptu. But, on looking up his
poetry in the library, I found the same verses printed years before:

          "If bards of old the truth have told,
             The sirens had raven hair;
           But ever since the earth had birth,
             They paint the angels fair."

Probably that was a habit with him.

When a friend joked him about his very-much-at-home manner at the
United States Hotel at Saratoga, where he went every year, saying as
they sat together on the upper piazza, "Why, Saxe, I should fancy you
owned this hotel," he rose, and lounging against one of the pillars
answered, "Well, I have a 'lien' on this piazza."

His epigrams are excellent. He has made more and better than any
American poet. In Dodd's large collection of the epigrams of the
world, I think there are six at least from Saxe. Let me quote two:

          AN EQUIVOCAL APOLOGY

          Quoth Madame Bas-Bleu, "I hear you have said
          Intellectual women are always your dread;
            Now tell me, dear sir, is it true?"
          "Why, yes," answered Tom, "very likely I may
          Have made the remark in a jocular way;
            But then on my honour, I didn't mean you!"


          TOO CANDID BY HALF

          As John and his wife were discoursing one day
          Of their several faults, in a bantering way,
            Said she, "Though my _wit_ you disparage,
          I'm sure, my dear husband, our friends will attest
          This much, at the least, that my judgment is best."
            Quoth John, "So they said at our marriage."

When Saxe heard of a man in Chicago who threw his wife into a vat of
boiling hog's lard, he remarked: "Now, that's what I call going too
far with a woman."

After a railroad accident, in which he received some bruises, I said:
"You didn't find riding on the rails so pleasant?" "Not riding on, but
riding off the rail was the trouble."

He apostrophized the unusually pretty girl who at bedtime handed each
guest a lighted candle in a candlestick. She fancied some of the
fashionable young women snubbed her but Saxe assured her in rhyme:

          "There is not a single one of them all
           Who could, if they would, hold a candle to you."

He was an inveterate punster. Miss Caroline Ticknor tells us how he
used to lie on a couch in a back room at the Old Corner Bookstore in
Boston, at a very early hour, and amuse the boys who were sweeping and
dusting the store until one of the partners arrived. I believe he
never lost a chance to indulge in a verbal quibble. "In the meantime,
and 'twill be a very mean time."

I often regret that I did not preserve his comical letters, and those
of Richard Grant White and other friends who were literary masters.
Mr. Grant White helped me greatly when I was doubtful about some
literary question, saying he would do anything for a woman whose name
was Kate. And a Dartmouth graduate, whom I asked for a brief story of
Father Prout, the Irish poet and author, gave me so much material that
it was the most interesting lecture of my season. He is now a most
distinguished judge in Massachusetts.

Saxe, like other humourists, suffered from melancholia at the last.
Too sad!

After giving a lecture in the chapel of Packer Institute at the time I
was with Mrs. Botta in New York, I was surprised to receive a call the
next morning from Mr. Charles Storrs of 23 Monroe Place, Brooklyn,
asking me to go to his house, and make use of his library, which he
told me Horace Greeley had pronounced the best working and reference
library he had ever known. A great opportunity for anyone! Mr. Storrs
was too busy a man to really enjoy his own library. Mrs. Storrs and
Miss Edna Dean Proctor, who made her home with them, comprised his
family, as his only daughter had married Miss Proctor's brother and
lived in Peoria, Illinois. Mr. Storrs had made his own fortune,
starting out by buying his "time" of his father and borrowing an old
horse and pedlar's cart from a friend. He put into the cart a large
assortment of Yankee notions, or what people then called "short
goods," as stockings, suspenders, gloves, shoestrings, thread and
needles, tape, sewing silk, etc. He determined to make his own fortune
and succeeded royally for he became a "merchant prince." His was a
rarely noble and generous nature with a heart as big as his brain.
Several of his large rooms downstairs were crammed with wonderfully
beautiful and precious things which his soul delighted in picking up,
in ivory, jade, bronze, and glass. He was so devotedly fond of music
that at great expense he had a large organ built which could be played
by pedalling and pulling stops in and out, and sometimes on Sunday
morning he would rise by half-past six, and be downstairs in his shirt
sleeves hard at work, eliciting oratorio or opera music for his own
delectation. A self-made man, "who did not worship his creator." He
was always singularly modest, although very decided in his opinions.
Men are asking of late who can be called educated. Certainly not a
student of the ancient Assyrian or the mysteries of the Yogi, or the
Baha, or the Buddhistic legends, when life is so brief and we must
"act in the living present." But a man who has studied life and human
nature as well as the best form of books, gained breadth and culture
by wide travel, and is always ready for new truths, that man _is_
educated in the best sense, although entirely self-educated. Greeley
used to say, "Charles Storrs is a great man."

Greeley used to just rest and enjoy himself at Mr. Storrs's home,
often two weeks at a time, and liked to shut himself into that
wonderful library to work or read. Once when he returned unexpectedly,
the maid told Miss Proctor that Mr. Greeley had just come in from the
rain and was quite wet, and there was no fire in the library. He did
not at first care to change to Mr. Storrs's special den in the
basement. But Miss Proctor said "It is too cold here and your coat is
quite wet." "Oh, I am used to that," he said plaintively. But his
special desk was carried down to a room bright with an open fire, and
he seemed glad to be cared for.

Whitelaw Reid was photographed with Greeley when he first came on from
the West to take a good share of the responsibility of editing the
_Tribune_. He stood behind Greeley's chair, and I noticed his hair was
then worn quite long. But he soon attained the New York cut as well as
the New York cult. Both Reid and John Hay were at that time frequent
guests of Mr. Storrs, who never seemed weary of entertaining his
friends. Beecher was one of his intimate acquaintances and they often
went to New York together hunting for rare treasures.

I have several good stories about Mr. Greeley for which I am indebted
to Miss Proctor who told them to me.

1. He used to write way up in a small attic in the _Tribune_ building,
and seldom allowed anyone to interrupt him. Some man, who was greatly
disgusted over one of Greeley's editorials, climbed up to his sanctum,
and as soon as his head showed above the railing, he began to rave and
rage, using the most lurid style of profanity. It seemed as if he
never would stop, but at last, utterly exhausted and out of breath and
all used up, he waited for a reply.

Greeley kept on writing, never having looked up once. This was too
much to be endured, and the caller turned to go downstairs, when
Greeley called out: "Come back, my friend, come back, and free your
mind."

2. Mr. Greeley once found that one of the names in what he considered
an important article on the Board of Trade had been incorrectly
printed. He called Rooker, the head man in the printing department,
and asked fiercely what man set the type for this printing, showing
him the mistake. Rooker told him, and went to get the culprit, whom
Greeley said deserved to be kicked. But when he came, he brought Mr.
Greeley's article in his own writing, and showed him that the mistake
was his own. Mr. Greeley acknowledged he was the guilty one, and
begging the man's pardon, added, "Tom Rooker, come here and kick _me_
quick."

3. Once when Greeley was making one of his frequent visits to Mr. and
Mrs. Storrs, the widow of the minister who used to preach at
Mansfield, Connecticut, when Mr. Storrs was a boy, had been invited by
him to spend a week. She was a timid little woman, but she became so
shocked at several things that Greeley had said or written in his
paper that she inquired of Miss Proctor if she thought Mr. Greeley
would allow her to ask him two or three questions.

Miss Proctor found him in the dining-room, the floor strewn with
exchange papers, and having secured his consent, ushered in the lady.
She told me afterward that she heard the poor little questioner speak
with a rising inflection only two or three times. But Mr. Greeley was
always ready to answer at length and with extreme earnestness. He said
afterwards: "Why that woman is way back in the Middle Ages."

When she came away from the interview, she seemed excited and dazed,
not noticing anyone, but dashed upstairs to her room, closed the door,
and never afterward alluded to her attempt to modify Mr. Greeley's
views.

4. A little girl who was visiting Mr. Storrs said: "It would never
do for Mr. Greeley to go to Congress, he would make such a
slitter-slatter of the place."

Miss Proctor published _A Russian Journey_ after travelling through
that country; has published a volume of poems, and has made several
appeals in prose and verse for the adoption of the Indian corn as our
national emblem. She is also desirous to have the name of Mount
Rainier changed to Tacoma, its original Indian name, and has a second
book of poems ready for the press.

When I first met her at the home of Mrs. Storrs, I thought her one of
the most beautiful women I had ever seen--of the Andalusian type--dark
hair and lustrous starry eyes, beautiful features, perfect teeth, a
slender, willowy figure, and a voice so musical that it would lure a
bird from the bough. She had a way all her own of "telling" you a
poem. She was perfectly natural about it, a recitative semi-tone yet
full of expression and dramatic breadth, at times almost a chant. With
those dark and glowing eyes looking into mine, I have listened until
I forgot everything about me, and was simply spellbound. Mr. Fields
described Tennyson's reciting his own poems in much the same way.
Whittier once said to a friend, "I consider Miss Proctor one of the
best woman poets of the day," and then added, "But why do I say _one_
of the best; why not _the_ best?"

Miss Proctor has always been glad to assist any plan of mine, and
wrote a poem especially for my Christmas book, _Purple and Gold_. Mr.
Osgood, the publisher, when I showed him the poem, said, "But how do I
know that the public will care for your weeds?" (referring to the
asters and goldenrod). He said later: "The instant popularity and
large sale of that booklet attested the happiness of Miss Sanborn's
selection, and the kind contributions from her friends." Miss
Proctor's contribution was the first poem in the book and I venture to
publish it as it has never been in print since the first sale. My
friend's face is still beautiful, her mind is as active as when we
first met, her voice has lost none of its charm, and she is the same
dear friend as of yore.

          GOLDENROD AND ASTERS

          The goldenrod, the goldenrod,
            That glows in sun or rain,
          Waving its plumes on every bank
            From the mountain slope to the main,--
          Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine,
            Nor buttercups, gems of summer,
          Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white,
            Can rival this latest comer!

          On the plains and the upland pastures
            Such regal splendour falls
          When forth, from myriad branches green,
            Its gold the south wind calls,--
          That the tale seems true the red man's god
            Lavished its bloom to say,
          "Though days grow brief and suns grow cold,
            My love is the same for aye."

          And, darker than April violets
            Or pallid as wind-flowers grow,
          Under its shades from hill to meadow
            Great beds of asters blow.--
          Oh plots of purple o'erhung with gold
            That need nor walls nor wardens,
          Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen,
            Her Babylonian gardens!

          On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay,
            And England's lanes and fallows
          Are decked with broom whose winsome grace
            The hovering linnet hallows;
          But the robin sings from his maple bow,
            "Ah, linnet, lightly won,
          Your bloom to my blaze of wayside gold
            Is the wan moon to the sun!"

          And were I to be a bride at morn,
             Ere the chimes rang out I'd say,
          "Not roses red, but goldenrod
             Strew in my path today!
          And let it brighten the dusky aisle,
             And flame on the altar-stair,
          Till the glory and light of the fields shall flood
             The solemn dimness there."

          And should I sleep in my shroud at eve,
             Not lilies pale and cold,
          But the purple asters of the wood
             Within my hand I'd hold;--
          For goldenrod is the flower of love
             That time and change defies;
          And asters gleam through the autumn air
             With the hues of Paradise!
                               EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

Shortly before the Civil War, I went with father to St. Louis, he to
take a place in the Washington University, while I was offered a
position in the Mary Institute to teach classes of girls. Chancellor
Hoyt of the university had been lured from Exeter, New Hampshire. He
was widely known in the educational world, and was one of the most
brilliant men I ever knew, strong, wise, witty, critical, scholarly,
with a scorn of anything superficial or insincere.

I had thought of omitting my experience in this city, to
me so really tragic. Just before we were to leave Hanover, a
guest brought five of us a gift of measles. I had the
confluent-virulent-delirious-lose-all-your-hair variety. When
convalescent, I found that my hair, which had been splendidly thick
and long, was coming out alarmingly, and it was advised that my head
be shaved, with a promise that the hair would surely be curly and just
as good as before the illness. I felt pretty measly and "meachin" and
submitted. The effect was indescribably awful. I saw my bald pate
once, and almost fainted. I was provided with a fearsome wig, of
coarse, dark red hair, held in place by a black tape. Persons who had
pitied me for having "such a big head and so much hair" now found
reason for comment "on my small head with no hair." The most expensive
head cover never deceived anyone, however simple, and I was obliged to
make my début in St. Louis in this piteous plight.

We then had our first taste of western-southern cordiality and
demonstrativeness. It occurred to me that they showed more delight in
welcoming us than our own home folks showed regret at our departure.
It was a liberal education to me. They all seemed to understand about
the hideous wig, but never showed that they noticed it. One of our
first callers was a popular, eloquent clergyman, who kissed me "as
the daughter of my mother." He said, "I loved your mother and asked
her to marry me, but I was refused." Several young men at once wanted
to get up a weekly dancing class for me, but I was timid, fearing my
wig would fall off or get wildly askew. Whittier in one of his poems
has this couplet, which suggests the reverse of my experience:

          "She rose from her delicious sleep,
           And laid aside her soft-brown hair."

At bedtime my wig must come off and a nightcap take the place. In the
morning that wig must go on, with never one look in the glass. Soon
two persons called, both leaders in social life, one of them a
physician, who had suddenly lost every spear of hair. I was invited by
the unfortunate physician and his wife to dine with them. And, in his
own home, I noticed in their parlour a portrait of him before his
experience. He had been blessed with magnificently thick black hair, a
handsome face, adorned with a full beard and moustache. It was an
April evening and the weather was quite warm, and after dinner the
doctor removed his wig, placing it on a plaster head. He was now used
to his affliction. He told me, as he sat smoking, looking like a
waxwork figure, how several years ago he awoke in the dead of the
night to find something he could not understand on his pillow. He
roused his wife, lit the gas, dashed cold water on his face to help
him to realize what had happened and washed off all the rest of his
hair, even to eyebrows and eyelashes. That was a depressing story to
me. And I soon met a lady (the Mayor's wife) who had suffered exactly
in the same way. She also was resigned, as indeed she had to be. I
began to tremble lest my own hair should never return.

But I should be telling you about St. Louis. We were most cordially
received by clergymen from three churches and all the professors at
the university, and the trustees with their wives and daughters. Wyman
Crow, a trustee, was the generous patron of Harriet Hosmer, whose
_Zenobia_ was at that time on exhibition there. The Mary Institute was
founded in remembrance of Rev. Dr. Eliot's daughter Mary, who while
skating over one of the so-called "sink-holes," then existing about
the city, broke the ice, fell in, and the body was never recovered.
These sink holes were generally supposed to be unfathomable.

Since I could not dance, I took to art, although I had no more
capacity in that direction than a cow. I attempted a bunch of dahlias,
but when I offered the result to a woman cleaning our rooms she
looked at it queerly, held it at a distance, and then inquired: "Is
the frame worth anything?"

I acknowledge a lifelong indebtedness to Chancellor Hoyt. He was
suffering fearfully with old-fashioned consumption, but he used to
send for me to read to him to distract his thoughts. He would also
criticize my conversation, never letting one word pass that was
ungrammatical or incorrectly pronounced. If I said, "I am so glad," he
would ask, "So glad that what? You don't give the correlative." He
warned against reliance on the aid of alliteration. The books read to
him were discussed and the authors praised or criticized.

St. Louis was to me altogether delightful, and I still am interested
in that city, so enlarged and improved. I used to see boys riding
astride razor-back hogs in the street, where now stately limousines
glide over smooth pavements.

I have always had more cordiality towards strangers, homesick students
at Dartmouth, and the audiences at my lectures, since learning a
better habit. Frigidity and formality were driven away by the sunshine
that brightened my stay at St. Louis.

I do not wish to intrude my private woes, but I returned from the West
with a severe case of whooping-cough. I didn't get it at St. Louis,
but in the sleeping-car between that city and Chicago. I advise
children to see to it that both parents get through with all the
vastly unpleasant epidemics of childhood at an early age. It is one of
the duties of children to parents.



CHAPTER III

Happy Days with Mrs. Botta--My Busy Life in New York--President
Barnard of Columbia College--A Surprise from Bierstadt--Professor
Doremus, a Universal Genius--Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "Funny
Man"--Mrs. Esther Hermann, a Modest Giver.


I was obliged to give up my work at Packer Institute, when diphtheria
attacked me, but a wonderful joy came to me after recovery.

Mrs. Vincenzo Botta invited me to her home in West Thirty-seventh
Street for the winter and spring. Anne C. Lynch, many years before her
marriage to Mr. Botta, had taught at the Packer Institute herself, and
at that time had a few rooms on West Ninth Street. She told me she
used to take a hurried breakfast standing by the kitchen table; then
saying good-bye to the mother to whom she was devoted, walked from
Ninth Street to the Brooklyn ferry, then up Joralemon Street, as she
was required to be present at morning prayers. Her means were limited
at that time and carfare would take too much. But it was then that she
started and maintained her "Saturday Evenings," which became so
attractive and famous that N.P. Willis wrote of them that no one of
any distinction thought a visit to New York complete without spending
a Saturday evening with Miss Lynch. People went in such numbers that
many were obliged to sit on the stairs, but all were happy. Her
refreshments were of the simplest kind, lemonade and wafers or
sandwiches. It has often been said that she established the only salon
in this country, but why bring in that word so distinctively belonging
to the French?

Miss Lynch was just "at home" and made all who came to her happy and
at their best. Fredrika Bremer, the celebrated Norwegian writer, was
her guest for several weeks at her home in Ninth Street. Catherine
Sedgwick attended several of her receptions, wondering at the charm
which drew so many. There Edgar Poe gave the first reading of "The
Raven" before it was printed. Ole Bull, who knew her then, was a
life-long friend to her. Fanny Kemble, Bryant, Halleck, Willis were
all devoted friends.

After her marriage to Professor Vincenzo Botta, nephew of the
historian Botta, and their taking a house in Thirty-seventh Street,
she gathered around her table the most interesting and distinguished
men and women of the day, and the "Saturday Evenings" were continued
with increasing crowds. She had a most expressive face and beautiful
blue eyes. Never one of the prodigious talkers, dressed most quietly,
she was just herself, a sweet-faced, sincere woman, and was blessed
with an atmosphere and charm that were felt by all.

At one of her breakfasts I recollect Emerson, who often visited there,
Bryant, Bayard Taylor, and Grace Greenwood. At another, John Fiske,
President Andrew D. White, and other men interested in their line of
thought. I must mention a lady who in the midst of their inspiring
conversation broke forth in a loud tone to Mrs. Botta: "I found a
splendid receipt for macaroni; mix it, when boiled, with stewed
tomatoes and sprinkle freely with parmesan cheese before baking."

One evening Whitelaw Reid brought John Hay. He beckoned to me to come
to him, and presenting Mr. Hay said: "I want to make a prediction in
regard to this young man. If you live long enough you will hear of him
as the greatest statesman and diplomat our country has ever had." A
few evenings after, at a Dramatic Club of great talent, I saw Mr. Hay
figuring as Cupid in Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show. He looked and acted
his part, turning gracefully on his toes to show his wings and quiver
of arrows. And Mr. Reid, mounted on a step-ladder behind a draped
clothes-horse, represented the distressed Lord Ullin whose daughter
was seen eloping in a boat with her Highland chief, the tossing waves
being sheets in full motion.

For years it seemed as if this were the one truly cosmopolitan
drawing-room in the city, because it drew the best from all sources.
Italy and England, France and Germany, Spain, Russia, Norway and
Hungary, Siam, China, India, and Japan sent guests hither. Liberals
and Conservatives, peers and revolutionists, holders of the most
ancient traditions, and advocates of the most modern theories--all
found their welcome, if they deserved it, and each took away a new
respect for the position of his opponent.

Madame Ristori, Salvini, Fechter, Campanini, and Madame Gerster were
honoured with special receptions. Special receptions were also given
in honour of George P. Marsh, on the occasion of his appointment as
Minister to Turin in 1861, and to the officers of the Royal Navy of
Italy when they came to this country to take possession of two
frigates built by an American ship-builder for the Italian Government.

  [Illustration: MRS. ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA]

Emerson appreciated Mrs. Botta as a hostess. He enjoyed being in her
home, saying it "rested him." "I wish that I could believe that in
your miles of palaces were many houses and house-keepers as excellent
as I know at 25 West 37th Street, your house with the expanding
doors." He speaks of her invitation as "one of the happiest rainbows."
"Your hospitality has an Arabian memory, to keep its kind purpose
through such a long time. You were born under Hatem Yayi's own star,
and like him, are the genius of hospitality." (Haten Yayi was a
celebrated Oriental whose house had sixteen doors.)

And Mrs. Botta was greatly cheered by Emerson. She wrote:

     I always wish I had had my photograph taken when Mr. Emerson
     was staying in my house. Everyone felt his influence, even the
     servants who would hardly leave the dining-room. I looked like
     a different being, and was so happy I forgot to see that he had
     enough to eat.

Early in her time some of her friends--such as Ripley, Curtis, and
Cranch--had joined a small agricultural and educational association,
called the "Brook Farm," near Roxbury, Massachusetts. She visited them
once or twice, and saw Mr. Curtis engaged in washing dishes which had
been used by "The Community." She remarked to him that perhaps he
could be better employed for the progress of his fellow-men than in
wasting his energy on something more easily done by others.

At one time she invited Bronson Alcott, one of the leaders of a
similar movement, to preside over some _conversazioni_ in her
parlours, where he could elucidate his favourite subject. On one
occasion, a lady in the audience, impressed by some sentiments uttered
by the lecturer, inquired of him if his opinion was that we were gods.
"No," answered Mr. Alcott, "we are not gods, but only godlings," an
explanation which much amused Mrs. Botta, who was always quick in
perceiving the funny side of a remark. (I timidly suggest that _s_ be
substituted for _d_.)

Mrs. Botta having promised to see Mr. Greeley, and urge him to give a
favourable notice in the _Tribune_ of the concert where a young singer
was to make her début, went down to his office to plead for a lenient
criticism. But not one word appeared. So down she went to inquire the
reason. She was ushered into the Editor's Sanctum, where he was busily
writing and hardly looked up. She asked why he was so silent; it was
such a disappointment. No reply. She spoke once more. Then came the
verdict in shrill tones: "She can't sing. She can't sing. She can't
sing."

New Year's calls were then the custom, and more than three hundred
men paid their respects to Mr. and Mrs. Botta on the New Year's Day I
spent with them. And everyone looked, as Theodore Hook said, as if he
were somebody in particular. At one of these "Saturday Evenings," a
stranger walked through her rooms, with hands crossed under his coat
and humming execrably as he wandered along. The gentle hostess went to
him with her winning smile and inquired, "Do you play also?" That
proves her capacity for sarcasm and criticism which she seldom
employed. She conversed remarkably well, but after all it was what she
did not say that proved her greatness and self-control.

Mrs. Botta had talent in various directions. She made portrait busts
in plaster that really were like the subjects, with occasionally an
inspired success, and that without any teaching. She showed genius in
this work. When a bust of her modelling was sent to Rome to be put
into marble, the foremost of Italian sculptors, not knowing the maker,
declared that nothing would be beyond the reach of the artist if _he_
would come to Rome and study technique for a year. Mrs. Botta asked me
to let her try to get my face. That was delightful. To be with her in
her own studio and watch her interest! Later some discouragement, and
then enthusiasm as at last the likeness came. She said she took the
humorous side of my face. The other side she found sad. My friends not
only recognized my face, but they saw my mother's face inwrought.

Mrs. Botta had talent in various directions. She published a large
book, _The Hand Book of Universal Literature_, once used at Harvard
and other colleges, and hoped to prepare one of similar style on
_Universal History_. She also wrote a small volume of poems, but her
days were given to the needs of others. Only a few mornings were we
able to work on her _Universal History_. There were too many calls for
advice, sympathy, or aid; the door-bell rang too often. I heard a
young girl once say of her: "She is great enough to have been an
inspired prophetess of olden times, and tender enough to have been the
mother of our Dear Saviour." Such were the words of impassioned praise
that fell from the lips of a young, motherless, Roman Catholic girl,
one of the many whom Mrs. Botta had taught and befriended. Once, when
reading to Mrs. Botta in connection with her "History," a man called
to see her about getting material for her biography. To my surprise,
she waved her hand to me saying, "This young lady is to be my
biographer." As I felt entirely unable to attempt such a work I told
her it should be made up of letters from a host of friends who had
known her so well and so long. This pleased her, and after her death
her husband wrote me urging me to edit such a composite picture, but
knowing his superior fitness for the work, I thanked him for the
compliment, but declined. What a delightful result was accomplished by
his good judgment, literary skill, and the biographical notes gladly
given by her intimate friends. I will give a few quotations from the
tributes:

     To me--as to others--her conversation was singularly inspiring;
     it suggested to a man his best trains of thought; it developed
     in him the best he had; it made him think better of himself and
     of mankind; it sent him away stronger for all good work.


     She seemed to me capable of worshipping in equal fervour with
     Roman Catholics or with Unitarians--in a cathedral or in a
     hovel; and this religious spirit of hers shone out in her life
     and in her countenance. Very pleasant was her optimism; she
     looked about her in this world without distrust, and beyond her
     into the next world without fear.


     She had a delightful sense of humour--so sweet, so delicate, so
     vivid. She had a gift of appreciation which I have never seen
     surpassed.


     If Mrs. Botta found more in society than most persons do, it
     was because she carried more there.

Horace Greeley once said to me, "Anne Lynch is the best woman that
God ever made."

     Few women known to me have had greater grace or ease in the
     entertainment of strangers, while in her more private
     intercourse, her frank, intelligent, courteous ways won her the
     warmest and most desirable friendships.


     The position of the Bottas in the literary and artistic world
     enabled them to draw together not only the best-known people of
     this country, but to a degree greater than any, as far as I
     know, the most distinguished visitors from abroad, beyond the
     ranks of mere title or fashion. No home, I think, in all the
     land compared with theirs in the number and character of its
     foreign visitors.


     I should like to introduce you to her home as it was--the hall,
     with its interesting pictures and fragrant with fresh flowers;
     the dining-room, the drawing-rooms, with their magnetized
     atmosphere of the past (you can almost feel the presence of
     those who have loved to linger there); her own sanctum, where a
     chosen few were admitted; but the limits of space forbid. The
     queens of Parisian salons have been praised and idealized till
     we are led to believe them unapproachable in their social
     altitude. But I am not afraid to place beside them an American
     woman, uncrowned by extravagant adulation, but fully their
     equal--the artist, poet, conversationist, Anne C. L. Botta.

She was absolutely free from egotism or conceit, always avoiding
allusion to what she had accomplished, or her unfulfilled longings.
But she once told me:

     Sandy (short for old, red sand stone), I would rather have had
     a child than to have made the most perfect statue or the finest
     painting ever produced. [She also said]: If I could only stop
     longing and aspiring for that which is not in my power to
     attain, but is only just near enough to keep me always running
     after it, like the donkey that followed an ear of corn which
     was tied fast to a stick.

Mrs. Botta came of a Celtic father, gay, humorous, full of impulsive
chivalry and intense Irish patriotism, and of a practical New England
mother, herself of Revolutionary stock, clear of judgment, careful of
the household economy, upright, exemplary, and "facultied." In the
daughter these inherited qualities blended in a most harmonious
whole. Grant Allen, the scientific writer, novelist, and student of
spiritualistic phenomena, thinks that racial differences often combine
to produce a genius.

I often think of that rarely endowed friend in full faith that she now
has the joys denied her here, and that her many-sided nature is
allowed progress, full and free and far, in many directions. I am also
sure that Heaven could not be Heaven to Mrs. Botta if she were not
able to take soul flights and use wireless telegraphy to still help
those she left behind, and hope that she can return to greet and
guide us as we reach the unknown land.

Through the kind suggestions of Mrs. Botta, I was asked to give talks
on literary matters at the house of one of New York's most influential
citizens. This I enjoyed immensely. Soon the large drawing-rooms were
too small for the numbers who came. Next we went to the Young Women's
Christian Association, to the library there, and later I decided to
engage the church parlours in Doctor Howard Crosby's Church, Fourth
Avenue and Twenty-second Street, New York. When I realized my
audacious venture, I was frightened. Ten lectures had been advertised
and some not written!

On the day for my first lecture the rain poured down, and I felt sure
of a failure. My sister went with me to the church. As we drew near I
noticed a string of carriages up and down the avenue. "There must be a
wedding or a funeral," I whispered, feeling more in the mood of the
latter, but never dreaming how much those carriages meant to me. As I
went timidly into the room I found nearly every seat full, and was
greeted with cordial applause. My sister took a seat beside me. My
subject was "Spinster Authors of England." My hands trembled so
visibly that I laid my manuscript on the table, but after getting in
magnetic touch with those before me, I did not mind.

The reading occupied only one hour, and afterwards I was surrounded by
New Hampshire women and New Yorkers who congratulated me warmly. There
were reporters sent from seven of the best daily papers, whom I
found sharpening their pencils expectantly. They gave correct and
complimentary notices, and my success was now assured.

Mr. James T. Fields not only advised his New York friends to hear me,
but came himself, bringing my father who was deeply gratified. Mr.
Fields told father that I had a remarkably choice audience, among the
best in the city. My father had felt very deeply, even to tears, the
sharp, narrow and adverse criticism of one of his associates who
considered that I unsexed myself by daring to speak in public, and who
advised strongly against encouraging me in such unwomanly behaviour.

I was a pioneer as a lecturer on literature quite unconsciously, for I
had gone along so gradually that I did not realize it--taken up and
set down in a new place with no planning on my part.

Invited by many of the citizens of Hanover, New Hampshire, my old
home, to go there and give my lecture on "Lady Morgan," the Irish
novelist, for the purpose of purchasing a new carpet for the
Congregational Church, I was surprised to feel again the same stern
opposition; I was not permitted to speak in the church, but
immediately was urged to accept the large recitation hall of the
Scientific School. It was crowded to the doors and the college boys
climbed up and swarmed about the windows. The carpet, a dark red
ingrain, was bought, put down, and wore well for years.

Now came a busy life. I was asked to lecture in many places near New
York, always in delightful homes. Had a class of married ladies at the
home of Dr. J.G. Holland, where I gave an idea of the newest books.
Doctor Holland gave me a department, "Bric-à-brac," in his
magazine--_Scribner's Magazine_; and I was honoured by a request from
the editors of the _Galaxy_ to take the "Club Room" from which Mark
Twain had just resigned. Meeting him soon after at a dinner, he said
with his characteristic drawl: "Awful solemn, ain't it, having to be
funny every month; worse than a funeral." I started a class in my own
apartment to save time for ladies who wanted to know about the most
interesting books as they were published, but whose constant
engagements made it impossible to read them entirely for themselves. I
suggested to the best publishers to send me copies of their
attractive publications which I would read, condense, and then talk
them over with these friends. All were glad to aid me. Their books
were piled on my piano and tables, and many were sold. I want to say
that such courtesy was a rare compliment. I used to go to various book
stores, asking permission to look over books at a special reading
table, and never met a refusal. I fear in these days of aiding the war
sufferers, and keeping our bodies limber and free from rheumatism by
daily dancing, this plan would not find patrons.

I was often "browsing," as they call it, at the Mercantile Library. At
first I would sit down and give the names of volumes desired. That
took too long. At last I was allowed to go where I liked and take what
I wanted. I sent a pair of handsome slippers at Christmas to the man
who had been my special servitor. He wrote me how he admired them and
wished he could wear them, but alas! his feet had both been worn to a
stub long ago from such continuous running and climbing to satisfy my
seldom-satisfied needs. He added that several of the errand boys had
become permanently crippled from over-exertion. I then understood why
he had married a famous woman doctor. It is hard to get the books
asked for in very large libraries. Once I was replying to an attack on
Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps's style by Miss Dodge, well known under
the pen name Gail Hamilton, and I gave this order: "Complete works of
Miss Abigail Dodge--and please hurry." After intolerable waiting, two
boys appeared looking very weary, bearing the many sermons and heavy
memoirs of the Reverend Narcissus Dodge.

In my special class at home I begged my friends to ask questions in an
off-hand way, and to comment upon my opinions. That was stimulating to
all. One morning my theme was "Genius and Talent." I said Genius was
something beyond--outside of--ourselves, which achieved great results
with small exertion. Not by any means was it a bit of shoemakers'
wax in the seat of one's chair (as Anthony Trollope put it). Talent
must work hard and constantly for development. I said: "Genius
is inspiration; Talent is perspiration." I had never heard that
definition and thought it was mine. Of late it has been widely quoted,
but with no acknowledgment, so I still think it is mine. Are there any
other claimants--and prior to 1880?

There were many questions and decided differences of opinion. At last
one lady said: "Please give us examples of men who possess genius
rather than talent." As she spoke, the door opened, and in walked
Mrs. Edmund Clarence Stedman, wife of the poet, and with her a most
distinguished-looking woman, Mrs. William Whitney. I was a little
embarrassed, but replied sweetly, "Sheets and Kelley," meaning "Keats
and Shelley." Then followed a wild laugh in which I joined.

Dr. John Lord once told me he had a similar shock. He spoke of
"Westford and Oxminster," instead of "Oxford and Westminster," and
never again could he get it correctly, try as he would. Neither his
twist nor mine was quite as bad as that of the speaker who said: "I
feel within me a half-warmed fish; I mean a half-formed wish."

     All genius [continued Lady Henrietta], whether it is artistic,
     or literary, or spiritual, is something given from outside. I
     once heard genius described as knowing by intuition what other
     people know by experience.

     Something, or, I should say, somebody, for it involves
     intelligence and knowledge, tells you these things, and you
     just can't help expressing them in your own particular way,
     with brush, or pen, or voice, whatever your individual
     instrument may be.

     From _Patricia_ by Hon. Mrs. ROBERT HAMILTON.

It was a pleasure to see that my theory of Genius was the same as Lady
Henrietta's in that charming book _Patricia_. I have enough collected
on that subject to give me shivers of amazement as I read the mass of
testimony. The mystery of Inspiration has always enthralled me.

I was invited to so many evenings "at home," dinners and luncheons,
that I decided to reciprocate and be surely at home on Tuesday
evenings. These affairs were very informal and exceedingly enjoyable.
There were many who gladly entertained us by their accomplishments.
Champney the artist, sent after blackboard and chalk, and did
wonderfully clever things. Some one described a stiff and stupid
reception where everyone seemed to have left themselves at home. Those
who came to me brought their best. Mrs. Barnard, wife of President
Barnard of Columbia College, urged me to give three lectures in her
parlour. I could not find the time, but her house was always open to
me. To know Mr. Barnard was a great privilege. When called to
Columbia, it was apparently dying from starvation for new ideas, and
stagnant from being too conservative and deep in set grooves. His
plans waked up the sleepers and brought constant improvements. Though
almost entirely deaf, he was never morose or depressed, but always
cheerful and courageous. I used to dine with them often. Tubes from
each guest extended into one through which he could hear quite well.
He delighted in discussion of current events, historical matters,
politics of the day, and was apparently well informed on every
question. Unlike Harriet Martineau, who always put down her trumpet
when anyone dared to disagree with her opinions, he delighted in a
friendly controversy with anyone worthy of his steel. He fought with
patience and persistence for the rights of women to have equal
education with men, and at last gained his point, but died before
Barnard College was in existence. Every student of Barnard ought to
realize her individual indebtedness to this great educator, regarding
him as the champion of women and their patron saint.

  [Illustration: PRESIDENT BARNARD OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE]

He was blessed in his home life. Mrs. Barnard was his shield,
sunshine, and strength.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                    Studio, 1271 Broadway,
                                        corner 32d Street.
                                            April 8, 1887.

     DEAR MISS SANBORN:

     I send you "Ovis Montana" or Mountain Sheep, who never enjoyed
     the daily papers or devoured a scrap of poetry. The only
     civilized thing he ever did was to give his life for a piece of
     cold lead and got swindled at that.

     To be grafted in your Album is immortality.

                                    Sincerely yours,
                                       ALBERT BIERSTADT.

This gift was a big surprise to me. I was then corresponding with two
Boston papers and one in the West. I thought it discourteous in the
artists of the new Impressionist school, to sneer a little at
Bierstadt's great paintings, as if he could ever be set back as a
bye-gone or a has-been. And it gave me great pleasure to say so. I
sent several letters to him, and one day I received a card asking me
to call at his studio to look over some sketches. He said he wanted me
to help him to select a sketch out of quite a pile on the table, as he
wished to make a painting of one for a friend. I assured him I did not
know enough to do that, but he insisted he was so busy that I must
tell him which I thought would be most effective. I looked at every
one, feeling quite important, and at last selected the Mountain Sheep
poised on a high peak in a striking pose. A rare sight then.

At Christmas that splendid picture painted by Bierstadt was sent to
our apartment for me. Never before had I received such appreciation
for my amateur scribbling.

Ah, me! I was both complimented and proud. But my humiliation soon
came. When I called to thank the kind donor and speak of the fine
frame the mountain big-horn was now in, I was surprised to have Mr.
Bierstadt present to me a tall, distinguished-looking foreigner as
Munkacsy, the well-known Hungarian artist. He was most cordial, saying
in French that he was glad to meet an American woman who could
doubtless answer many questions he was anxious to ask. I could only
partially get his meaning, so Bierstadt translated it to me. And I,
who could read and translate French easily, had never found time to
learn to chat freely in any language but my own. I could have cried
right there; it was so mortifying, and I was losing such a pleasure. I
had the same pathetic experience with a Russian artist, Verestchagin,
whose immense picture, revealing the horrors of war, was then on
exhibition in New York.

Again and again I have felt like a dummy, if not an idiot, in such a
position. I therefore beg all young persons to determine to speak and
write at least one language beside their own.

Tom Hood wrote:

          "Never go to France
           Unless you know the lingo
           If you do, like me,
           You'll repent by jingo."

But it's even worse to be unable in your own country to greet and talk
with guests from other countries.

I should like to see the dead languages, as well as Saxon and
Sanscrit, made elective studies every where; also the higher
mathematics, mystic metaphysics, and studies of the conscious and
subconscious, the ego and non-ego, matters of such uncertain study.
When one stops to realize the tragic brevity of life on this earth,
and to learn from statistics what proportion of each generation dies
in infancy, in childhood, in early maturity, and how few reach
the Biblical limit of life, it seems unnecessary to regard a
brain-wearying "curriculum" as essential or even sensible. Taine gives
us in his work on English Literature a Saxon description of life: "A
bird flying from the dark, a moment in the light, then swiftly passing
out into the darkness beyond."

And really why do we study as if we were to rival the ante-diluvians
in age. Then wake up to the facts. I have been assured, by those who
know, that but a small proportion of college graduates are successful
or even heard of. They appear at commencement, sure that they are to
do great things, make big money, at least marry an heiress; they are
turned out like buttons, only to find out how hard it is to get
anything to do for good pay. One multi-millionaire of Boston, whose
first wages he told me were but four dollars a month, said there was
no one he so dreaded to see coming into his office as a college man
who must have help,--seldom able to write a legible hand, or to add
correctly a column of figures. There is solid food for thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lowell said that "great men come in clusters." That is true, but it is
equally true that once in a great while, we are vouchsafed a royal
guest, a man who mingles freely with the ordinary throng, yet stands
far above them; a man who can wrest the primal secrets from nature's
closed hand, who makes astounding discoveries, only to gladly disclose
them to others.

Such an unusual genius was Professor Robert Ogden Doremus, whose
enthusiasm was only matched by his modesty. In studying what he
accomplished, I wonder whether he was not sent from the central yet
universal "powers that be" to give us answers to some of the riddles
of life; or had he visited so many planets further advanced than our
own--for as Jean Paul Richter wrote "There is no end"--that he had
learned that the supposedly impossible could be done. He assisted John
W. Draper in taking the first photograph of the human face ever made.
Science with him was never opposed to religion. His moving pictures
and spectral analysis were almost miracles at that time. He delighted
to show how the earth in forming was flattened at the poles, and he
would illustrate the growth of the rings of Saturn. As a lecturer he
was a star, the only chemist and scientist to offer experiments. His
lectures were always attended by crowds of admirers. As a toxicologist
he was marvellous in his accuracy; no poisoner could escape his exact
analysis. His compressed cartridges, made waterproof and coated with
collodion, were used in the blasting operations at the Mont Cenis
tunnel through eight miles of otherwise impenetrable stone, solid
Alpine rock, between France and Italy.

When the obelisk in Central Park showed signs of serious decay, he
saved the hieroglyphics by ironing it with melted parafine. He makes
us think of the juggler who can keep a dozen balls in the air as if it
were an easy trick, never dropping one.

  [Illustration: PROFESSOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS]

But I forget to give my own memories of Dr. and Mrs. Doremus in their
delightful home on Fourth Avenue between 18th and 19th Streets,--a
home full of harmony, melody, peace, and love. Vincenzo Botta called
Dr. Doremus the "Mæcenas of New York," and his beautiful wife, the
ideal wife and mother, was named by her adoring husband the "queen
of women." Mrs. Doremus was prominent in New York's various societies
and charities, but the interests of her own family came first. One of
her sons said: "She never neglected her children; we were always loved
and well cared for." Both Dr. Doremus and his wife were devoted to
music, always of the best. He was the first president of the
Philharmonic Society who was not a musician by profession. All the
preceding presidents had been selected from the active musicians in
the society. One evening he was serenaded by the Philharmonic Society
under the leadership of Carl Bergman, the recently elected president
of the society. After the classic music had ceased, Dr. Doremus
appeared and thanked the society for the compliment. All were invited
into the house, where a bountiful collation was served and speeches
made. If you could see the photograph of the Philharmonic Society
serenading Dr. and Mrs. Doremus at their home, you would get a rare
insight into the old New York life, as compared with the present, in
which such a thing would be impossible. He said that his mother used
to take a cup of tea at the Battery afternoons with her sons.

He was a lifelong friend of Christine Nilsson whom he considered the
greatest vocal and dramatic genius of the age. He wrote: "Never did
mortal woman sing as she sang that simple song that begins:

          'Angels, Angels, bright and fair,
           Take, O take me to thy care!'"

I saw Nilsson and Parepa introduced there, who were to sail on the
same steamer in a few days. Nilsson made the banjo fashionable in New
York society, accompanying herself charmingly. All the famous opera
singers regarded the house of Dr. Doremus a place where they were
thoroughly at home, and always welcome. Ole Bull was for many years
his most devoted friend. Dr. Doremus writes:

     I recall that once when I was dining with Ole Bull, at the
     house of a friend, our host said: 'Doctor, I don't think much
     of Ole Bull's fiddling; you know what I mean--I don't think
     much of his fiddling as compared with his great heart.'

Mr. Edwin Booth, once walking with me, dropped my arm and exclaimed
with a dramatic gesture: "Ole Bull wasn't a man--he was a god!"

The last time I had the privilege of listening to Ole Bull's witchery
with his violin, he gave an hour to Norwegian folk-songs, his wife at
the piano. She played with finish, feeling, and restraint. She first
went through the air, then he joined in with his violin with
indescribable charm. Critics said he lacked technique. I am glad he
did: his music went straight to the heart. At the last he told us he
would give the tune always played after a wedding when the guests had
stayed long enough--usually three days--and their departure was
desired. We were to listen for one shrill note which was imperative.
No one would care or dare to remain after that.

Dr. Doremus showed me one evening a watch he was wearing, saying:

     In Ole Bull's last illness when he no longer had strength to
     wind his watch, he asked his wife to wind it for him, and then
     send it to his best friend, saying: 'I want it to go ticking
     from my heart to his.'

That watch magnetized by human love passing through it is now in the
possession of Arthur Lispenard Doremus, to whom it was left by his
father. It had to be wound by a key in the old fashion, and it ran in
perfect time for twenty-nine years. Then it became worn and was sent
to a watchmaker for repairs. It is still a reliable timekeeper, quite
a surprising story, as the greatest length of time before this was
twenty-four years for a watch to run.

I think of these rare souls, Ole Bull and Dr. Doremus, as reunited,
and with their loved ones advancing to greater heights, constantly
receiving new revelations of omnipotent power, which "it is not in the
heart of man to conceive."

          LINES

          Read at the Celebration of the Seventieth Birthday
          of DOCTOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS, January
          11th, 1894, at 241 Madison Avenue,
          by LUTHER R. MARSH.


          What shall be said for good Doctor Doremus?
          To speak of him well, it well doth beseem us.
          Not one single fault, through his seventy years,
          Has ever been noticed by one of his peers.

          How flawless a life, and how useful withal!
          Fulfilling his duties at every call!
          Come North or come South, come East or come West,
          He ever is ready to work for the best.

          In Chemics, the Doctor stands first on the list;
          The nature, he knows, of all things that exist.
          He lets loose the spirits of earth, rock or water,
          And drives them through solids, cemented with mortar.

          How deftly he handles the retort and decanter!
          Makes lightning and thunder would scare Tam O'Shanter;
          Makes feathers as heavy as lead, in a jar,
          And eliminates spirits from coal and from tar.

          By a touch of his finger he'll turn lead or tin
          To invisible gas, and then back again;
          He will set them aflame, as in the last day,
          When all things are lit by the Sun's hottest ray.

          With oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen,--all--
          No gas can resist his imperative call--
          He'll solidify, liquefy, or turn into ice;
          Or all of them re-convert, back in a trice.

          Amid oxides and alkalies, bromides and salts,
          He makes them all dance in a chemical waltz;
          And however much he with acids may play,
          There's never a drop stains his pure mortal clay.

          He well knows what things will affect one another;
          What acts as an enemy, and what as a brother;
          He feels quite at home with all chemic affinities,
          And treats them respectfully, as mystic Divinities.

          His wisdom is spread from far Texas to Maine;
          For thousands on thousands have heard him explain
          The secrets of Nature, and all her arcana,
          From the youth of the Gulf, to the youth of Montana.

          In Paris, Doremus may compress'd powder compound,
          Or, at home, wrap the Obelisk with paraffine round;
          Or may treat Toxicology ever anew,
          To enrich the bright students of famous Bellevue.

          He believes in the spirits of all physical things,
          And can make them fly round as if they had wings;
          But ask him to show you the Spirit of Man--
          He hesitates slightly, saying, "See!--if you can."

          Wherever he comes there always is cheer;
          If absent, you miss him; you're glad when he's near;
          His voice is a trumpet that stirreth the blood;
          You feel that he's cheery, and you know that he's good.

          No doors in the city have swung open so wide,
          To artists at home, and to those o'er the tide;
          As, to Mario, Sontag, Badiali, Marini,
          To Nilsson and Phillips, Rachel and Salvini.

          Much, much does he owe, for the grace of his life,
          To the influence ever of his beautiful wife;
          She, so grand and so stately, so true and so kind,
          So lovely in person and so charming in mind!

I had the pleasure of being well acquainted with Mr. Charles H. Webb,
a truly funny "funny man," who had homes in New York and Nantucket.
His slight stutter only added to the effect of his humorous talk. His
letters to the New York _Tribune_ from Long Branch, Saratoga, etc.,
were widely read. He knew that he wrote absolute nonsense at times,
but nonsense is greatly needed in this world, and exquisitely droll
nonsensical nonsense is as uncommon as common sense. The titles of his
various books are inviting and informing, as _Seaweed and What We
Seed_. He wrote several parodies on sensational novels of his time.
_Griffith Gaunt_, he made fun of as "Liffith Lank"; _St. Elmo_, as
"St. Twelmo." _A Wicked Woman_ was another absurd tale. But I like
best a large volume, "_John Paul's Book_, moral and instructive,
travels, tales, poetry, and like fabrications, with several portraits
of the author and other spirited engravings." This book was dedicated,
"To the Bald-Headed, that noble and shining army of martyrs." When you
turn to look at his portrait, and the illuminated title page, you find
them not. The Frontispiece picture is upside down. The very
ridiculosity of his easy daring to do or say anything is taking. He
once wrote, in one of those trying books, with which we used to be
bored stiff, with questions such as "What is your favourite hour of
the day? He wrote dinner hour; what book not sacred would you part
with last? My pocket-book. Your favourite motto? When you must,--you
better." I especially liked the poem, "The Outside Dog in the Fight."
Here are two specimens of his prose:

     The fish-hawk is not an eagle. Mountain heights and clouds he
     never scales; fish are more in his way, he scales
     them--possibly regarding them as scaly-wags. For my bird is
     pious; a stern conservator is he of the public morals. Last
     Sunday a frivolous fish was playing not far from the beach, and
     Dr. Hawk went out and stopped him. 'Tis fun to watch him at
     that sort of work--stopping play--though somehow it does not
     seem to amuse the fish much. Up in the air he poises
     pensively, hanging on hushed wings as though listening for
     sounds--maybe a fish's. By and by he hears a herring--is he
     hard of herring, think you? Then down he drops and soon has a
     Herring Safe. (Send me something, manufacturers, immediately.)
     Does he tear his prey from limb to limb? No, he merely sails
     away through the blue ether--how happy can he be with
     either!--till the limb whereon his own nest is built is
     reached. Does the herring enjoy that sort of riding, think you?
     Quite as much, I should say, as one does hack-driving. From my
     point of view, the hawk is but the hackman of the air.
     Sympathize with the fish? Not much. Nor would you if you heard
     the pitiful cry the hawk sets up the moment he finds that his
     claws are tangled in a fish's back. Home he flies to seek
     domestic consolation, uttering the while the weeping cry of a
     grieved child; there are tears in his voice, so you know the
     fish must be hurting him. The idea that a hawk can't fly over
     the water of an afternoon without some malicious fish jumping
     up and trying to bite him!

     If a fish wants to cross the water safely, let him take a
     Fulton ferryboat for it. There he will find a sign reading:

     "No Peddling or Hawking allowed in this cabin." Strange that
     hawking should be so sternly prohibited on boats which are
     mainly patronized by Brooklynites chronically afflicted with
     catarrh!


     Never shall it be said that I put my hand to the plow and
     turned back. For that matter never shall it be said of me that
     I put hand to a plow at all, unless a plow should chase me
     upstairs and into the privacy of my bed-room, and then I should
     only put hand to it for the purpose of throwing it out of the
     window. The beauty of the farmer's life was never very clear to
     me. As for its boasted "independence," in the part of the
     country I came from, there was never a farm that was not
     mortgaged for about all it was worth; never a farmer who was
     not in debt up to his chin at "the store." Contented! When it
     rains the farmer grumbles because he can't hoe or do something
     else to his crops, and when it does not rain, he grumbles
     because his crops do not grow. Hens are the only ones on a farm
     that are not in a perpetual worry and ferment about "crops:"
     they fill theirs with whatever comes along, whether it be an
     angleworm, a kernel of corn, or a small cobblestone, and give
     thanks just the same.


          THE OUTSIDE DOG IN THE FIGHT

          You may sing of your dog, your bottom dog,
            Or of any dog that you please,
          I go for the dog, the wise old dog,
            That knowingly takes his ease,
          And, wagging his tail outside the ring,
            Keeping always his bone in sight,
          Cares not a pin in his wise old head
            For either dog in the fight.

          Not his is the bone they are fighting for,
            And why should my dog sail in,
          With nothing to gain but a certain chance
            To lose his own precious skin!
          There may be a few, perhaps, who fail
            To see it in quite this light,
          But when the fur flies I had rather be
            The outside dog in the fight.

          I know there are dogs--most generous dogs
           Who think it is quite the thing
          To take the part of the bottom dog,
           And go yelping into the ring.
          I care not a pin what the world may say
           In regard to the wrong or right;
          My money goes as well as my song,
           For the dog that keeps out of the fight!

Mr. Webb, like Charles Lamb and the late Mr. Travers, stammered just
enough to give piquancy to his conversation. To facilitate enunciation
he placed a "g" before the letters which it was hard for him to
pronounce. We were talking of the many sad and sudden deaths from
pneumonia, bronchitis, etc., during the recent spring season, and then
of the insincerity of poets who sighed for death and longed for a
summons to depart. He said in his deliciously slow and stumbling
manner: "I don't want the ger-pneu-m-mon-ia. I'm in no ger-hurry to
ger-go." Mrs. Webb's drawing-rooms were filled with valuable pictures
and bronzes, and her Thursday Evenings at home were a delight to many.

How little we sometimes know of the real spirit and the inner life of
some noble man or woman. Mrs. Hermann was a remarkable instance of
this. I thought I was well acquainted with Mrs. Esther Hermann, who,
in her home, 59 West fifty-sixth Street New York, was always
entertaining her many friends. Often three evenings a week were given
to doing something worth while for someone, or giving opportunity for
us to hear some famous man or woman speak, who was interested in some
great project. And her refreshments, after the hour of listening was
over, were of the most generous and delicious kind. Hers was a lavish
hospitality. It was all so easily and quietly done, that no one
realized that those delightful evenings were anything but play to her.
She became interested in me when I was almost a novice in the lecture
field, gave me two benefits, invited those whom she thought would
enjoy my talks, and might also be of service to me. There was never
the slightest stiffness; if one woman was there for the first time,
and a stranger, Mrs. Hermann and her daughters saw that there were
plenty of introductions and an escort engaged to take the lady to the
supper room. Mrs. Hermann in those early days, often took me to drive
in the park--a great treat. We chatted merrily together, and I still
fancied I knew her. But her own family did not know of her great
benefactions; her son only knew by looking over her check books, after
her death, how much she had given away. Far from blazoning it abroad,
she insisted on secrecy. She invited Mr. Henry Fairfield Osborn to
call, who was keenly interested in securing money to start a Natural
History Museum, he bringing a friend with him. After they had owned
that they found it impossible even to gain the first donation, she
handed Mr. Osborn, after expressing her interest, a check for ten
thousand dollars. At first he thought he would not open it in her
presence, but later did so. He was amazed and said very gratefully:
"Madam, I will have this recognized at once by the Society." She said:
"I want no recognition. If you insist, I shall take back the
envelope." Her daughter describes her enthusiasm one very stormy, cold
Sunday. Stephen S. Wise, the famous rabbi, was advertised to preach in
the morning at such a place. "Mother was there in a front seat early,
eager to get every word of wisdom that fell from his lips." Mr. Wise
spoke at the Free Synagogue Convention at three o'clock P.M. "Mother
was there promptly again, in front, her dark eyes glowing with intense
interest." At eight P.M. he spoke at another hall on the other side of
the city, "Mother was there." At the close, Mr. Wise stepped down from
the platform to shake hands with Mrs. Hermann, and said, "I am
surprised at seeing you at these three meetings, and in such bad
weather." She replied,

"Why should you be surprised; you were at all three, weren't you?"

She had a long life of perfect health and never paid the least
attention to the worst of weather if she had a duty to perform.

There was something of the fairy godmother in this large-hearted
woman, whose modesty equalled her generosity. She dropped gifts by the
way, always eager to help, and anxious to keep out of sight. Mrs.
Hermann was one of those women who sow the seeds of kindness with a
careless hand, and help to make waste places beautiful. She became
deeply interested in education early in life, and her faith was
evidenced by her work. She was one of the founders of Barnard College.
Her checks became very familiar to the treasurers of many educational
enterprises. She was one of the patrons of the American Association
for the Advancement of Sciences, and many years ago gave one thousand
dollars to aid the Association. Since then she has added ten thousand
dollars as a nucleus toward the erection of a building to be called
the Academy of Science. With the same generous spirit she contributed
ten thousand dollars to the Young Men's Hebrew Association for
educational purposes. It was for the purpose of giving teachers the
opportunity of studying botany from nature, that she gave ten
thousand dollars to the Botanical Garden in the Bronx.

Her knowledge of the great need for a technical school for Jewish boys
preyed on her mind at night so that she could not sleep, and she felt
it was wrong to be riding about the city when these boys could be
helped. She sold her carriages and horses, walked for three years
instead of riding, and sent a large check to start the school. It is
pleasant to recall that the boys educated there have turned out
wonderfully well, some of them very clever electricians.

I could continue indefinitely naming the acts of generosity of this
noble woman, but we have said enough to show why her many friends
desired to express their appreciation of her sterling virtues, and
their love for the gentle lady, whose kindness has given happiness to
countless numbers. To this end, some of her friends planned to give
her a a testimonial, and called together representatives from the
hundred and twenty-five different clubs and organizations of which she
was a member, to consider the project. This suggestion was received
with such enthusiasm that a committee was appointed who arranged a
fitting tribute worthy of the occasion.

The poem with which I close my tribute to my dear friend, Mrs.
Hermann, is especially fitting to her beautiful life. Her family, even
after they were all married and in happy homes of their own, were
expected by the mother every Sunday evening. These occasions were
inexpressibly dear to her warm heart, devoted to her children and
grandchildren. But owing to her reticence she was even to them really
unknown.

I had given at first many more instances of her almost daily
ministrations but later this seemed to be in direct opposition to her
oft-expressed wish for no recognition of her gifts. "We are spirits
clad in veils," but of Mrs. Hermann this was especially true and I
love her memory too well not to regard her wishes as sacred.

          GNOSIS

          Thought is deeper than all speech,
            Feeling deeper than all thought;
          Souls to souls can never teach
            What unto themselves was taught.

          We are spirits clad in veils;
            Man by man was never seen;
          All our deep communing fails
            To remove the shadowy screen.

          Heart to heart was never known;
            Mind with mind did never meet;
          We are columns left alone
            Of a temple once complete.

          Like the stars that gem the sky,
            Far apart, though seeming near,
          In our light we scattered lie;
            All is thus but starlight here.

          What is social company,
            But the babbling summer stream?
          What our wise philosophy
            But the glancing of a dream?

          Only when the sun of love
            Melts the scattered stars of thought,
          Only when we live above
            What the dim-eyed world hath taught,

          Only when our souls are fed
            By the fount which gave them birth,
          And by inspiration led
            Which they never drew from earth.

          We, like parted drops of rain,
            Swelling till they meet and run,
          Shall be all absorbed again,
            Melting, flowing into one.

              CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH (1813-1892).

Cranch's own title for this poem was "Enosis," not "Gnosis" as now
given; "Enosis" being a Greek word meaning "all in one," which is
illustrated by the last verse.

It was first published in the _Dial_ in 1844. "Stanzas" appeared at
the head, and at the end was his initial, "C."



CHAPTER IV

Three Years at Smith College--Appreciation of Its Founder--A
Successful Lecture Tour--My Trip to Alaska.


"There is nothing so certain as the unexpected," and "if you fit
yourself for the wall, you will be put in."

I was in danger of being spoiled by kindness in New York and the
surrounding towns, if not in danger of a breakdown from constant
activity, literary and social, with club interests and weekend visits
at homes of delightful friends on the Hudson, when I was surprised and
honoured by a call from President L. Clark Seelye of Smith College,
Northampton, Massachusetts, who invited me to take the position of
teacher of English Literature at that college.

I accepted, and remained at Northampton for three years, from
1880-1883. It was a busy life. I went on Saturday afternoons to a
class of married ladies at Mrs. Terhune's (Marion Harland) in
Springfield, Massachusetts, where her husband was a clergyman in one
of the largest churches in that city. I also published several books,
and at least two Calendars, while trying to make the students at Smith
College enthusiastic workers in my department.

Mrs. Terhune was a versatile and entertaining woman, a most practical
housekeeper; and she could tell the very best ghost story I ever
heard, for it is of a ghost who for many years was the especial
property of her father's family.

When I gave evening lectures at Mrs. Terhune's while at Smith College,
I was accustomed to spend the night there. She always insisted upon
rising early to see that the table was set properly for me, and she
often would bring in something specially tempting of her own cooking.
A picture I can never forget is that of Doctor Terhune who, before
offering grace at meals, used to stretch out a hand to each of his
daughters, and so more closely include them in his petition.

I used no special text-book while at Smith College, and requested my
class to question me ten minutes at the close of every recitation.
Each girl brought a commonplace book to the recitation room to take
notes as I talked. Some of them showed great power of expression while
writing on the themes provided. There was a monthly examination,
often largely attended by friends out of town. I still keep up my
interest in my pupils of that day. One of them told me that they
thought at first I was currying popularity, I was so cordial and even
affectionate, but they confessed they were mistaken.

Under President Seelye's wise management, Smith College has taken a
high position, and is constantly growing better. The tributes to his
thirty-seven years in service when he resigned prove how thoroughly he
was appreciated. I give a few extracts:

     We wish to record the fact that this has been, in a unique
     degree, your personal work. If you had given the original sum
     which called the College into being, and had left its
     administration to others, you would have been less truly the
     creator of the institution than you have been through your
     executive efficiency. Your plans have seldom been revised by
     the Board of Trustees, and your selection of teachers has
     brought together a faculty which is at least equal to the best
     of those engaged in the education of women. You have secured
     for the teachers a freedom of instruction which has inspired
     them to high attainment and fruitful work. You, with them, have
     given to the College a commanding position in the country, and
     have secured for it and for its graduates universal respect.
     The deep foundations for its success have been intellectual and
     spiritual, and its abiding work has been the building up of
     character by contact with character.


     Fortunate in her location, fortunate in her large minded
     trustees, fortunate in the loyal devotedness of her faculty and
     supremely fortunate has our College been in the consecrated
     creative genius of her illustrious president. Bringing to his
     task a noble ideal, with rare sagacity as an administrator;
     with financial and economic skill rarely found in a scholar and
     idealist, but necessary to foster into fullest fruitfulness the
     slender pecuniary resources then at hand; with tact and suavity
     which made President Seelye's "no," if no were needed, more
     gracious than "yes" from others; with the force which grasps
     difficulties fearlessly; with dignified scholarship and a
     courtly manner, the master builder of our College, under whose
     hand the little one has become a thousand and the small one a
     strong republic, has achieved the realization of his high ideal
     and is crowned with honour and affection.


     He has made one ashamed of any but the highest motives, and has
     taught us that sympathy and love for mankind are the traits for
     which to strive. The ideals of womanly life which he instilled
     will ever be held high before us.


     There are many distinguished qualities which a college
     president must possess. He must be idealist, creator, executor,
     financier, and scholar. President Seelye--is all these--but he
     had another and a rarer gift which binds and links these
     qualities together, as the chain on which jewels are
     strung--President Seelye had immense capacity for work and
     patient attention for details. It is this unusual combination
     which has given us a great College, and has given to our
     president a unique position among educators.

I realize that I must at times have been rather a trying proposition
to President Seelye for I was placed in an entirely new world, and
having been almost wholly educated by my father, by Dartmouth
professors, and by students of the highest scholarship, I never knew
the mental friction and the averaging up and down of those accustomed
to large classes. I gained far more there than I gave, for I learned
my limitations, or some of them, and to try to stick closely to my own
work, to be less impulsive, and not offer opinions and suggestions,
unasked, undesired, and in that early stage of the college,
objectionable. Still, President Seelye writes to me: "I remember you
as a very stimulating teacher of English Literature, and I have often
heard your pupils, here and afterwards, express great interest in your
instruction."

The only "illuminating" incident in my three years at Smith College
was owing to my wish to honour the graduating reception of the Senior
class. I pinned my new curtains carefully away, put some candles in
the windows, leaving two young ladies of the second year to see that
all was safe. The house was the oldest but one in the town; it
harboured two aged paralytics whom it would be difficult, if not
dangerous, to remove. Six students had their home there. As my
fire-guards heard me returning with my sister and some gentlemen of
the town, they left the room, the door slammed, a breeze blew the
light from the candles to the curtains, and in an instant the curtains
were ablaze.

And now the unbelievable sequel. The room seemed all on fire in five
minutes. Next, the overhead beam was blazing. I can tell you that the
fire was extinguished by those gentlemen, and no one ever knew we had
been so near a conflagration until three years later when the kind
lady of the house wrote to me: "Dear Friend, did you ever have a fire
in your room? In making it over I found some wood badly scorched." I
have the most reliable witnesses, or you would never have believed it.
In the morning my hostess said to the girls assembled at breakfast:
"Miss Sanborn is always rather noisy when she has guests, but I never
did hear such a hullabaloo as she made last evening."

It is certain that President Seelye deserves all the appreciation and
affectionate regard he received. He has won his laurels and he needs
the rest which only resignation could bring. The college is equally
fortunate in securing as his successor, Marion LeRoy Burton, who in
the coming years may lead the way through broader paths, to greater
heights, always keeping President Seelye's ideal of the truly womanly
type, in a distinctively woman's college.

As the Rev. Dr. John M. Greene writes me (the clergyman who suggested
to Sophia Smith that she give her money to found a college for women,
and who at eighty-five years has a perfectly unclouded mind): "I want
to say that my ambition for Smith College is that it shall be a real
women's college. Too many of our women's colleges are only men's
colleges for women."

I desire now to add my tribute to that noble woman, Sophia Smith of
Hatfield, Massachusetts.

On April 18, 1796, the town of Hatfield, in town meeting assembled,
"voiced to set up two schools, for the schooling of girls four months
in the year." The people of that beautiful town seemed to have heard
the voice of their coming prophetess, commissioned to speak a word for
woman's education, which the world has shown itself ready to hear.

In matters of heredity, Sophia Smith was fortunate. Her paternal
grandmother, Mary Morton, was an extraordinary woman. After the death
of her husband, she became the legal guardian of her six sons, all
young, cared for a large farm, and trained her boys to be useful and
respected in the community.

Sophia Smith was born in Hatfield, August 27, 1796; just six months
before Mary Lyon was born in Ashfield, Massachusetts, about seventeen
miles distant. Sophia remembered her grandmother and said: "I looked
up to my grandmother with great love and reverence. She, more than
once, put her hands on my head and said, 'I want you should grow up,
and be a good woman, and try to make the world better.'" And her
mother was equally religious, efficient, kind to the poor, sympathetic
but not impulsive. Sophia lived in a country farmhouse near the
Connecticut River for sixty-eight years. She was sadly hampered
physically. One of the historians of Hatfield writes me:

     Her infirmity of deafness was troublesome to some extent when
     she was young, making her shy and retiring. At forty she was
     absolutely incapable of hearing conversation. She also was lame
     in one foot and had a withered hand. In spite of this, I think
     she was an active and spirited girl, about like other girls.
     She was very fond of social intercourse, especially later in
     life when my father knew her, but this intercourse was confined
     to a small circle. Doctor Greene speaks of her timidity also. I
     know of no traditions about her girlhood. As an example of the
     thrift of the Smiths, or perhaps I should say, their exactness
     in all business dealings, my father says that Austin Smith
     never asked his sisters to sew a button or do repairs on his
     clothing without paying them a small sum for it, and he
     always received six cents for doing chores or running errands.
     No doubt this was a practice maintained from early youth, for
     when Sophia Smith was born, in 1796, the family was in very
     moderate circumstances. The whole community was poor for some
     time after the Revolution, and everyone saved pennies.

As to her education, she used to sit on the doorsteps of the
schoolhouse and hear the privileged boys recite their lessons. She
also had four or five months of instruction in the schoolhouse, and
was a student in Hopkins Academy for a short time and, when fourteen
years old, attended school at Hartford, Connecticut, for a term of
twelve weeks.

  [Illustration: SOPHIA SMITH]

Then a long, uneventful, almost shut-in life, and in 1861 her brother
Austin left her an estate of about four hundred and fifty thousand
dollars.

Hon. George W. Hubbard of Hatfield was her financial adviser. He
advised her to found an academy for Hatfield, which she did; and after
Doctor Greene had caused her to decide on a college for women, Mr.
Hubbard insisted on having it placed at Northampton, Massachusetts,
instead of Hatfield, Massachusetts. With her usual modesty, she
objected to giving her full name to the college, as it would look as
if she were seeking fame for herself. She gave thirty thousand dollars
to endow a professorship in the Andover Theological Seminary at
Andover, Massachusetts.

She grew old gracefully, never soured by her infirmities, always
denying herself to help others and make the world better for her
living in it.

Her name must stand side by side with the men who founded Vassar,
Wellesley, and Barnard, and that of Mary Lyon to whom women owe the
college of Mt. Holyoke.

As Walt Whitman wrote:

     I am the poet of the woman the same as the man,
     And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,
     And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

She was a martyr physically, and mentally a heroine. Let us never fail
to honour the woman who founded Smith College.

Extracts from a letter replying to my question: "Is there a
full-length portrait of Sophia Smith, now to be seen anywhere in the
principal building at Smith College, Northampton?"

     How I wish that some generous patron of Smith College might
     bestow upon it two thousand dollars for a full-length portrait
     of Sophia Smith to be placed in the large reading room, at the
     end of which is a full-length portrait of President Seelye. The
     presence of such a commanding figure seen by hundreds of girls
     every day would be a subtle and lasting influence.

I like to nibble at a stuffed date, but do not enjoy having my memory
stuffed with dates, though I am proud rather than sensitive in regard
to my age.

Lady Morgan was unwilling her age should be known, and pleads:

     What has a woman to do with dates--cold, false, erroneous,
     chronological dates--new style, old style, precession of the
     equinoxes, ill-timed calculation of comets long since due at
     their station and never come? Her poetical idiosyncrasy,
     calculated by epochs, would make the most natural points of
     reference in woman's autobiography. Plutarch sets the example
     of dropping dates in favour of incidents; and an authority more
     appropriate, Madame de Genlis, who began her own memoires at
     eighty, swept through nearly an age of incident and revolution
     without any reference to vulgar eras signifying nothing (the
     times themselves out of joint), testifying to the pleasant
     incidents she recounts and the changes she witnessed. I mean to
     have none of them!

I hesitate to allude to my next experience after leaving Smith
College, for it was so delightful that I am afraid I shall scarcely be
believed, and am also afraid that my readers will consider me a "swell
head" and my story only fit for a "Vanity Box." Yet I would not leave
out one bit of the Western lecture trip. If it were possible to tell
of the great kindness shown me at every step of the way without any
mention of myself, I would gladly prefer to do that.

After leaving Smith College, I was enjoying commencement festivities
in my own home--when another surprising event! Mr. George W.
Bartholomew, a graduate of Dartmouth, who was born and brought up in a
neighbouring Vermont town, told me when he called that he had
established a large and successful school for young ladies in
Cincinnati, Ohio, taking a few young ladies to live in his pleasant
home. He urged me to go to his school for three months to teach
literature, also giving lectures to ladies of the city in his large
recitation hall. And he felt sure he could secure me many invitations
to lecture in other cities.

Remembering my former Western experience with measles and
whooping-cough, I realized that mumps and chicken-pox were still
likely to attack me, but the invitation was too tempting, and it was
gladly accepted, and I went to Cincinnati in the fall of 1884.

Mrs. Bartholomew I found a charming woman and a most cordial friend.
Every day of three months spent in Cincinnati was full of happiness.
Mrs. Broadwell, a decided leader in the best social matters, as well
as in all public spirited enterprises, I had known years before in
Hanover, N.H. Her brother, General William Haines Lytle, had been
slain at Chickamauga during the Civil War, just in the full strength
and glory of manhood. He wrote that striking poem, beginning: "I am
dying, Egypt, dying." Here are two verses of his one poem:

          As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!
            Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
          Light the path to Stygian horrors
            With the splendors of thy smile.
          Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,
            Let his brow the laurel twine;
          I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,
            Triumphing in love like thine.

          I am dying, Egypt, dying;
            Hark! the insulting foeman's cry,
          They are coming! quick, my falchion!
            Let me front them ere I die.
          Ah! no more amid the battle
            Shall my heart exulting swell--
          Isis and Osiris guard thee!
            Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!

He was engaged to Miss Sarah Doremus, a sister of Professor Doremus of
New York. After the terrible shock of his sudden death she never
married, but devoted her life to carrying out her sainted mother's
missionary projects, once taking a trip alone around the world to
visit the missionary stations started by her mother.

As soon as I had arrived at Mr. Bartholomew's, Mrs. Broadwell gave me
a dinner. Six unmarried ladies and seven well-known bachelors were the
guests, as she wished to give me just what I needed, an endorsement
among her own friends. The result was instant and potent.

Everyone at that dinner did something afterwards to entertain me. I
was often invited to the opera, always had a box (long-stemmed roses
for all the ladies), also to dinner and lunches. If anyone in the city
had anything in the way of a rare collection, from old engravings to
rare old books, an evening was devoted to showing the collection to me
with other friends. One lady, Miss Mary Louise McLaughlin, invited me
to lunch with her alone. Her brother, a bachelor lawyer, had at that
time the finest private library in the city. She was certainly the
most versatile in her accomplishments of anyone I have ever known. She
had painted the best full-length portrait of Judge Longworth, father
of the husband of Alice Roosevelt. She was a china painter to beat the
Chinese, and author of four books on the subject. She was an artist
in photography; had a portfolio of off-hand sketches of street gamins,
newsboys, etc., full of life and expression. She brought the art of
under glaze in china-firing to this country and had discovered a
method of etching metal into fine woods for bedroom furniture. She was
an expert at wood-carving, taking lessons from Ben Pitman. Was fond of
housekeeping and made a success of it in every way. Anything else?
Yes, she showed me pieces of her exquisite embroidery and had made an
artistic and wholly sane "crazy-quilt" so much in vogue at that time.
Her own beautiful china was all painted and finished by herself. As I
left her, I felt about two feet high, with a pin head. And yet she was
free from the slightest touch of conceit.

Miss Laura MacDonald (daughter of Alexander MacDonald, the business
man who took great risks with Mr. John D. Rockefeller in borrowing
money to invest largely in oil fields) was my pupil in the school, and
through her I became acquainted with her lovely mother, who invited me
to her home at Clifton, just out of Cincinnati, to lecture to a select
audience of her special friends.

My lectures at Mr. Bartholomew's school were very well attended. Lists
of my subjects were sent about widely, and when the day came for my
enthusiastic praise of Christopher North (John Wilson), a sweet-faced
old lady came up to the desk and placed before me a large bunch of
veritable Scotch heather for which she had sent to Scotland.

In Cleveland, where I gave a series of talks, President Cutler, of
Adelbert University, rose at the close of the last lecture and,
looking genially towards me, made this acknowledgment: "I am free to
confess that I have often been charmed by a woman, and occasionally
instructed, but never before have I been charmed and instructed by the
same woman."

Cleveland showed even then the spirit of the Cleveland of today, which
is putting that city in the very first rank of the cities not only of
the United States but of the world in civic improvement and municipal
progress, morally and physically. Each night of my lectures I was
entertained at a different house while there, and as a trifle to show
their being in advance of other cities, I noticed that the ladies wore
wigs to suit their costumes. That only became the fashion here last
winter, but I saw no ultra colours such as we saw last year, green and
pink and blue, but only those that suited their style and their
costume.

At Chicago I was the guest of Mrs. H.O. Stone, who gave me a dinner
and an afternoon reception, where I met many members of various
clubs, and the youngest grandmothers I had ever seen. At a lunch given
for me by Mrs. Locke, wife of Rev. Clinton B. Locke, I met Mrs. Potter
Palmer, Mrs. Wayne MacVeagh, and Mrs. Williams, wife of General
Williams, and formerly the wife of Stephen Douglas. Mrs. Locke was the
best _raconteur_ of any woman I have ever heard. Dartmouth men drove
me to all the show places of that wonderful city. Lectured in Rev. Dr.
Little's church parlors. He was not only a New Hampshire man, but born
in Boscawen, New Hampshire, where my grandfather lived, and where my
mother lived until her marriage.

It is pleasant to record that I was carried along on my lecture tour,
sometimes by invitation of a Dartmouth man, again by college girls who
had graduated at Smith College; then at Peoria, Illinois; welcomed
there by a dear friend from Brooklyn, New York, wife of a business man
of that city. I knew of Peoria only as a great place for the
manufacture of whisky, and for its cast-iron stoves, but found it a
city, magnificently situated on a series of bold bluffs. And when I
reached my friend's house, a class of ladies, who had been easily
chatting in German, wanted to stay and ask me a few questions. These
showed deep thought, wide reading, and finely disciplined minds. Only
one reading there in the Congregational Church, where there was such a
fearful lack of ventilation that I turned from my manuscript and
quoted a bit from the "Apele for Are to the Sextant of the Old Brick
Meetinouse by A. Gasper," which proved effectual.

I give this impressive exhortation entire as it should be more
generally known.

     A APELE FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT

         BY ARABELLA WILSON

     O Sextant of the meetinouse which sweeps
     And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fiers,
     And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose,
     In which case it smells orful--wus than lampile;
     And wrings the Bel and toles it, and sweeps paths;
     And for these servaces gits $100 per annum;
     Wich them that thinks deer let 'em try it;
     Gittin up before starlite in all wethers, and
     Kindlin fiers when the wether is as cold
     As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlins,
     (I wouldn't be hierd to do it for no sum;)
     But o Sextant there are one kermodity
     Wuth more than gold which don't cost nuthin;
     Wuth more than anything except the Sole of man!
     I mean pewer Are, Sextant, I mean pewer Are!
     O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no
     What on airth to do with itself, but flize about
     Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hats;
     In short its jest as free as Are out dores;
     But O Sextant! in our church its scarce as piety,
     Scarce as bankbills when ajunts beg for mishuns,
     Which sum say is purty often, taint nuthin to me,
     What I give aint nuthing to nobody; but O Sextant!
     You shet 500 men women and children
     Speshily the latter, up in a tite place,
     Sum has bad breths, none of em aint too sweet,
     Sum is fevery, sum is scroflus, sum has bad teeth
     And sum haint none, and sum aint over clean;
     But evry one of em brethes in and out and in
     Say 50 times a minnet, or 1 million and a half breths an hour;
     Now how long will a church full of are last at that rate?
     I ask you; say fifteen minnets, and then what's to be did?
     Why then they must brethe it all over agin,
     And then agin and so on, till each has took it down
     At least ten times and let it up agin, and what's more,
     The same individible doant have the privilege
     Of brethin his own are and no one else,
     Each one must take wotever comes to him.
     O Sextant! doant you know our lungs is belluses
     To bio the fier of life and keep it from
     Going out: and how can bellusses blo without wind?
     And aint wind are? I put it to your konshens,
     Are is the same to us as milk to babies,
     Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox,
     Or roots and airbs unto an Injun doctor,
     Or little pills unto an omepath.
     Or Boze to girls. Are is for us to brethe.
     What signifize who preaches ef I can't brethe?
     What's Pol? What's Pollus to sinners who are ded?
     Ded for want of breth! Why Sextant when we dye
     Its only coz we cant brethe no more--that's all.
     And now O Sextant! let me beg of you
     To let a little are into our cherch
     (Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews);
     And dew it week days and on Sundys tew--
     It aint much trobble--only make a hoal,
     And then the are will come in of itself
     (It loves to come in where it can git warm).
     And O how it will rouze the people up
     And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps
     And yorns and fijits as effectool
     As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels
     Of.

I went as far as Omaha, and then was asked if I were not going West.
The reason for this charming reception was that it was a novelty then
to hear a young woman talk in a lively way on striking themes which
had been most carefully prepared, and a light touch added, with
frequent glints of humour. Byron declared that easy writing was very
hard reading. I reversed that method, always working hard over each
lecture. For instance, I spent two months in preparing "Bachelor
Authors," cramming and condensing, and passing quickly over dangerous
ground. With my vocal training I could easily be heard by an audience
of five hundred.

A friend was eager to go to Alaska by Seattle; then, after our return,
visit Yellowstone Park and San Francisco. She urged me so eloquently
to accompany her, that I left my home in Metcalf, Massachusetts,
taking great risks in many ways, but wonderful to relate, nothing
disastrous occurred.

We scurried by fastest trains across the country to Seattle, just in
time to take the Steamer _Topeka_ from Seattle on August 8, 1899, the
last boat of the season, and the last chance tourists ever had to see
the Muir Glacier in its marvellous glory, as it was broken badly
before the next summer.

My friend advised me kindly to ask no questions of the captain, as she
knew well what a bore that was. I promised to be exceedingly careful.
So, next morning, when that tall and handsome Captain Thompson came
around the deck, with a smiling "Good morning," and bowing right and
left, I was deeply absorbed in a book; the next time I was looking at
a view; another time I played I was fast asleep. He never spoke to me,
only stopped an instant before me and walked on. At last, a bow-legged
pilot came directly from the captain's office to my open window,
bringing to Miss Sanborn a bowl of extra large and luscious
strawberries from Douglas Island, quite famous on account of the size
and sweetness of this berry. With this gift came a note running thus:

     DEAR MISS SANBORN:

     I am a little puzzled by your frigid manner. Have you any
     personal prejudice against me? Walter Raymond wrote me before
     he sailed, to look you up, and do what I could for you, as you
     were quite a favourite on the Eastern coast, and any kindness
     shown to you would be considered a personal favour to him, and
     that he only wished he could take the trip with us.

I was amazed and mortified. I had obeyed my directions too literally,
and must and did explain and apologize. After that, such pleasant
attentions from him! Invited to call at his office with my friends, to
meet desirable passengers, something nice provided for refreshment,
and these gentlemen were always ready for cards or conversation. But
the great occasion was when I had no idea of such an honour, that the
captain said:

"We are soon to pass through the Wrangel Narrows, a dangerous place,
and the steering through zigzag lines must be most careful. I am going
to smuggle you on to the bridge to see me steer and hear me give my
orders that will be repeated below. But as it is against the rule to
take a woman up there at such a time, promise me to keep perfectly
silent. If you make one remark you lose your life."

I agreed and kept my mouth shut without a muzzle. That "memory" is as
clear today as if it had happened yesterday.

One day while reading in my fine stateroom, a lady came to the open
door and asked me if I would go out with her on the deck that pleasant
afternoon and meet some friends of hers. I thanked her, but refused as
I was reading one of Hon. Justin McCarthy's books, and as I had the
honour of meeting him and his most interesting wife in New York City
at the home of Mrs. Henry M. Field, I was much engrossed in what he
wrote. Again, another person came and entreated me to go to the deck;
not suspecting any plot to test me, I went with her, and found a crowd
gathered there, and a good-looking young man seemed to be haranguing
them. He stopped as we came along and after being introduced went on
with: "As I was saying, Miss Sanborn, I regard women as greatly our
inferiors; in fact, essentially unemotional,--really bovine. Do you
really not agree to that?" I almost choked with surprise and wrath,
but managed to retort: "I am sorry to suppose your mother was a cow,
but she must have been to raise a calf like you." And I walked away to
the tune of great applause. It seems someone had said that I was never
at a loss when a repartee was needed, and it was proposed to give me
an opportunity. Next surprise: a call as we were nearing Seattle from
a large and noticeable lady who introduced herself saying:

"I am the president of a club which I started myself, and feel bound
to help on. I have followed you about a good deal, and shall be much
obliged if you will jot down for me to read to this club everything
you have said since you came on board. I know they will enjoy it." I
was sorry my memory failed me entirely on that occasion. Still it was
a great compliment!

But the Muir Glacier! We had to keep three and a half miles away, lest
the steamer be injured by the small icebergs which broke off the
immense mass into the water with a thunderous roar. A live glacier
advances a certain distance each day and retreats a little. Those who
visited the glacier brought back delicate little blue harebells they
found growing in the clefts of ice. No description of my impressions?
Certainly not! Too much of that has been done already.

We saw curious sights along the way, such as the salmon leaping into a
fenced-in pool to deposit their spawn; there they could be easily
speared, dried, and pitched into wagons as we pitch hay in New
England. I saw the Indians stretching the salmon on boards put up in
the sun, their color in the sun a brilliant pinkish red.

I saw bears fishing at the edge of water, really catching fish in
their clumsy paws. Other bears were picking strawberries for their
cubs. As I watched them strolling away, I thought they might be
looking for a stray cow to milk to add flavour to the berries.

We stopped at Wrangel to look at the totem poles, many of which have
since been stolen as the Indians did not wish to sell them; our usual
method of business with that abused race. Totem poles are genealogical
records, and give the history of the family before whose door they
stand. No one would quietly take the registered certificates of
Revolutionary ancestors searched for with great care from the Colonial
Dames or members of the New England Society, and coolly destroy them.
I agree with Charles Lamb who said he didn't want to be like a potato,
all that was best of him under ground.

At Sitka the brilliant gardens and the large school for Indian girls
were the objects of interest. It is a sad fact that the school which
teaches these girls cleanly habits, the practical arts of sewing, and
cooking simple but appetizing dishes, has made the girls unwilling to
return to their dirty homes and the filthy habits of their parents.
That would be impossible to them. So they are lured to visit the dance
halls in Juneau, where they find admirers of a transient sort, but
seldom secure an honest husband.

We called at Skagway, and the lady who was known by us told us there
was much stress there placed upon the most formal attention to rigid
conventionalities, calls made and returned, cards left and received at
just the right time, more than is expected in Boston. And yet that
town was hardly started, and dirt and disorder and chaos reigned
supreme.

A company of unlucky miners came home in our steamer; no place for
them to sleep but on deck near the doors of our stateroom, and they
ate at one of the tables after three other hungry sets had been
satisfied. A few slept on the tables. All the poultry had been killed
and eaten. We found the Chinese cooks tried to make tough meat
attractive by pink and yellow sauces. We were glad to leave the
steamer to try the ups and downs of Seattle.



CHAPTER V

Frances E. Willard--Walt Whitman--Lady Henry Somerset--Mrs. Hannah
Whitehall Smith--A Teetotaler for Ten Minutes--Olive Thorne
Miller--Hearty Praise for Mrs. Lippincott (Grace Greenwood).


I was looking over some letters from Frances E. Willard last week.
What a powerful, blessed influence was hers!

Such a rare combination of intense earnestness, persistence, and
devotion to a "cause" with a gentle, forgiving, compassionate spirit,
and all tempered by perfect self-control.

Visiting in Germantown, Pennsylvania, at the hospitable home of Mrs.
Hannah Whitehall Smith, the Quaker Bible reader and lay evangelist,
and writer of cheerful counsel, I found several celebrities among her
other guests. Miss Willard and Walt Whitman happened to be present.
Whitman was rude and aggressively combative in his attack on the
advocate of temperance, and that without the slightest provocation. He
declared that all this total abstinence was absolute rot and of no
earthly use, and that he hated the sight of these women who went out
of their way to be crusading temperance fanatics.

After this outburst he left the room. Miss Willard never alluded to
his fiery criticism, didn't seem to know she had been hit, but chatted
on as if nothing unpleasant had occurred.

In half an hour he returned; and with a smiling face made a manly
apology, and asked to be forgiven for his too severe remarks. Miss
Willard met him more than half-way, with generous cordiality, and they
became good friends. And when with the women of the circle again she
said: "Now wasn't that just grand in that dear old man? I like him the
more for his outspoken honesty and his unwillingness to pain me."

How they laboured with "Walt" to induce him to leave out certain of
his poems from the next edition! The wife went to her room to pray
that he might yield, and the husband argued. But no use, it was all
"art" every word, and not one line would he ever give up. The old poet
was supposed to be poor and needy, and an enthusiastic daughter of
Mrs. Smith had secured quite a sum at college to provide bed linen and
blankets for him in the simple cottage at Camden. Whitman was a great,
breezy, florid-faced out-of-doors genius, but we all wished he had
been a little less _au naturel_.

To speak once more of Miss Willard, no one enjoyed a really laughable
thing more than she did, but I never felt like being a foolish trifler
in her presence. Her outlook was so far above mine that I always felt
not rebuked, but ashamed of my superficial lightness of manner.

Just one illustration of the unconscious influence of her noble soul
and her convincing words:

Many years ago, at an anniversary of Sorosis in New York, I had half
promised the persuasive president (Jennie June) that I would say
something. The possibility of being called up for an after-dinner
speech! Something brief, terse, sparkling, complimentary,
satisfactory, and something to raise a laugh! O, you know this agony!
I had nothing in particular to say; I wanted to be quiet and enjoy the
treat. But between each course I tried hard, while apparently
listening to my neighbour, to think up something "neat and
appropriate."

This coming martyrdom, which increases in horror as you advance with
deceptive gayety, from roast to game, and game to ices, is really one
of the severest trials of club life.

Miss Willard was one of the honoured guests of the day, and was
called on first. When she arose and began to speak, I felt instantly
that she had something to say; something that she felt was important
we should hear, and how beautifully, how simply it was said! Not a
thought of self, not one instant's hesitation for a thought or a word,
yet it was evidently unwritten and not committed to memory. Every eye
was drawn to her earnest face; every heart was touched. As she sat
down, I rose and left the room rather rapidly; and when my name was
called and my fizzling fireworks expected, I was walking up Fifth
Avenue, thinking about her and her life-work. The whole experience was
a revelation. I had never met such a woman. No affectation, nor
pedantry, nor mannishness to mar the effect. It was in part the
humiliating contrast between her soul-stirring words and my silly
little society effort that drove me from the place, but all petty
egotism vanished before the wish to be of real use to others with
which her earnestness had inspired me.

One lady told me that after hearing her she felt she could go out and
be a praying band all by herself. Indeed she was

          A noble woman, true and pure,
          Who in the little while she stayed,
          Wrought works that shall endure.

She was asked who she would prefer to write a sketch of her and her
work and she honoured me by giving me that great pleasure. The book
appeared in 1883, entitled _Our Famous Women_.

Once when Miss Willard was in Boston with Lady Henry Somerset and Anna
Gordon, I was delighted by a letter from Frances saying that Lady
Henry wanted to know me and could I lunch with them soon at the
Abbottsford. I accepted joyously, but next morning's mail brought this
depressing decision: "Dear Kate, we have decided that there will be
more meat in going to you. When can we come?" I was hardly settled in
my house of the Abandoned Farm. There was no furnace in the house,
only two servants with me. And it would be impossible to entertain
those friends properly in the dead of the winter, and I nearly ready
to leave for a milder clime. So I told them the stern facts and lost a
rare treat.

This is the end of Miss Willard's good-bye letter to me when returning
to England with Lady Henry:

     Hoping to see you on my return, and hereby soliciting an
     exchange of photographs between you and Lady Henry and me,

                                I am ever and as ever
                                                  Yours,
                                            FRANCES WILLARD.

While at Mrs. Smith's home in Germantown, both she and Miss Willard
urged me to sign a Temperance Pledge that lay on the table in the
library. I would have accepted almost anything either of those good
friends presented for my attention. So after thinking seriously I
signed. But after going to my room I felt sure that I could never keep
that pledge. So I ran downstairs and told them to erase my name, which
was done without one word of astonishment or reproof from either.

I wish I knew how to describe Hannah Whitehall Smith as she was in her
everyday life. Such simple nobility, such tenderness for the tempted,
such a love for sinners, such a longing to show them the better way.
She said to me: "If my friends must go to what is called Hell I want
to go with them." When a minister, who was her guest, was greatly
roused at her lack of belief in eternal punishment and her infinite
patience with those who lacked moral strength, he said: "There are
surely some sins your daughters could commit which would make you
drive them from your home." "There are no sins my daughters could
commit which would not make me hug them more closely in my arms and
strive to bring them back." Wherewith he exclaimed bitterly: "Madam,
you are a mere mucilaginous mess." She made no reply, but her husband
soon sent him word that a carriage would be at the door in one hour to
convey him to the train for New York.

       *        *        *        *        *

"If you do not love the birds, you cannot understand them."

I remember enjoying an article on the catbird several years ago in the
_Atlantic Monthly_, and wanting to know more of the woman who had
observed a pair of birds so closely, and could make so charming a
story of their love-affairs and housekeeping experiences, and thinking
that most persons knew next to nothing about birds, their habits, and
homes.

Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller, who wrote that bird talk, is now a dear
friend of mine, and while spending a day with me lately was kind
enough to answer all my questions as to how and where and when she
began to study birds. She is not a young woman, is the proud
grandmother of seven children; but her bright face crowned with
handsome white hair, has that young, alert, happy look that comes with
having a satisfying hobby that goes at a lively pace. She said: "I
never thought of being anything but a housekeeping mother until I was
about thirty-one and my husband lost all his property, and want, or a
thousand wants, stared us in the face. Making the children's clothes
and my own, and cooking as well, broke down my health, so I bethought
me of writing, which I always had a longing to do."

"What did you begin with?"

"Well, pretty poor stuff that no one was anxious to pay for; mostly in
essay form expressing my own opinions on various important subjects.
But it didn't go. I was complaining of my bad luck to a plain-spoken
woman in charge of a circulating library, and she gave me grand
advice. 'No one cares a snap for your opinions. You must tell
something that folks want to know.'"

"Did you then take up birds?"

"O no; I went into the library, read some of Harriet Martineau's talks
on pottery, and told children how a teacup was made and got one dollar
for that. But those pot-boilers were not inspiring, and about ten
years later a second woman adviser turned my course into another
channel."

"How did that come about?"

"I had a bird-loving friend from the West visiting me, and took her to
Prospect Park, Brooklyn, to see our birds. She pointed out several,
and so interested me in their lives that from that day I began to
study them, especially the wood-thrush and catbird. After I had
studied them for two years, I wrote what I had seen. From that time
my course has seemed marked out for me, and my whole time has been
given to this one theme. I think every woman over forty-five ought to
take up a fad; they would be much happier and better off."

"You told me once that three women had each in turn changed your
career. Do give me the third."

"Well, after my articles and books had met with favour (I have brought
out fifteen books), invitations to lecture or talk about birds kept
pouring in. I was talking this over with Marion Harland (Mrs.
Terhune), declaring I could never appear in public, that I should be
frightened out of my wits, and that I must decline. My voice would all
go, and my heart jump into my mouth. She exclaimed, 'For a sensible
woman, you are the biggest fool I ever met!' This set me thinking, and
with many misgivings I accepted an invitation."

"And did you nearly expire with stage fright?"

"Never was scared one bit, my dear. All bird-lovers are the nicest
kind of folks, either as an audience or in their own homes. I have
made most delightful acquaintances lecturing in fifteen different
States; am now booked for a tour in the West, lecturing every day and
taking classes into the fields and woods for actual observation.
Nesting-time is the best time to study the birds, to know them
thoroughly."

"Do you speak about dead birds on hats?"

"Yes, when I am asked to do so. Did you ever hear that Celia Thaxter,
finding herself in a car with women whose head-gear emulated a
bird-museum, was moved to rise and appeal to them in so kindly a way
that some pulled off the feathers then and there, and all promised to
reform? She loved birds so truly that she would not be angry when
spring after spring they picked her seeds out of her 'Island Garden.'"

"Have you any special magnetic power over birds, so that they will
come at your call or rest on your outstretched finger?"

"Not in the least. I just like them, and love to get acquainted with
them. Each bird whose acquaintance I make is as truly a discovery to
me as if he were totally unknown to the world."

We were sitting by a southern window that looks out on a
wide-spreading and ancient elm, my glory and pride. Not one bird had I
seen on it that cold, repellent middle of March. But Mrs. Miller
looked up, and said: "Your robins have come!" Sure enough I could now
see a pair.

"And there are the woodpeckers, but they have stayed all winter. No
doubt you have the hooting owls. There's an oriole's nest, badly
winter-worn; but they will come back and build again. I see you feed
your chickadees and sparrows, because they are so tame and fearless.
I'd like to come later and make a list of the birds on your place."

I wonder how many she would find. Visiting at Deerfield,
Massachusetts, I said one day to my host, the artist J.W. Champney:
"You don't seem to have many birds round you."

"No?" he replied with a mocking rising inflection. "Mrs. Miller, who
was with us last week, found thirty-nine varieties in our front yard
before breakfast!" Untrained eyes are really blind.

Mrs. Miller is an excellent housekeeper, although a daughter now
relieves her of that care. But, speaking at table of this and that
dish and vegetable, she promised to send me some splendid receipts for
orange marmalade, baked canned corn, scalloped salmon, onion _à la
crème_ (delicious), and did carefully copy and send them.

She told me that in Denmark a woman over forty-five is considered
gone. If she is poor, a retreat is ready for her without pay; if rich,
she would better seek one of the homes provided for aged females who
can pay well for a home.

Another thing of interest was the fact that when Mrs. Miller eats no
breakfast, her brain is in far better condition to write. She is a
Swedenborgian, and I think that persons of that faith have usually a
cheerful outlook on life. She was obliged to support herself after
forty years of age.

I would add to her advice about a hobby: don't wait till middle age;
have one right away, now. Boys always do. I know of one young lady who
makes a goodly sum out of home-made marmalade; another who makes
dresses for her family and special friends; another who sells three
hundred dozen "brown" eggs to one of the best groceries in Boston, and
supports herself. By the way, what can you do?

Mrs. Lippincott had such a splendid, magnetic presence, such a
handsome face with dark poetic eyes, and accomplished so many unusual
things, that, knowing her as I did, I think I should be untrue to her
if I did not try to show her as she was in her brilliant prime, and
not merely as a punster or a _raconteur_, or as she appeared in her
dramatic recitals, for these were but a small part of the many-sided
genius.

When my friend, Mrs. Botta, said one evening to her husband: "Grace
writes me that she will be here tomorrow, to spend the Sabbath," and
then said to me, "Grace Greenwood, I mean; have you ever met her?" my
heart beat very quickly in pleasant anticipation of her coming. Grace
Greenwood! Why, I had known her and loved her, at least her writings,
ever since I was ten years old.

Those dear books, bound in red, with such pretty pictures--_History of
My Pets_ and _Recollections of My Childhood_, were the most precious
volumes in my little library. Anyone who has had pets and lost them
(and the one follows the other, for pets always come to some tragic
end) will delight in these stories.

And then the _Little Pilgrim_, which I used to like next best to the
_Youth's Companion_; and in later years her spirited, graceful poetry;
her racy magazine stories; her _Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe_;
her sparkling letters to the _Tribune_, full of reliable news from
Washington, graphic descriptions of prominent men and women, capital
anecdotes and atrocious puns;--O how glad I should be to look in her
face and to shake hands with the author who had given me so much
pleasure!

Well, she came, I heard the bell ring, just when she was expected,
with a vigorous pull, and, as the door opened, heard her say, in a
jolly, soothing way: "Don't get into a passion," to the man who was
swearing at her big trunk. And then I ran away, not wishing to
intrude, and waited impatiently for dinner and an introduction to my
well-beloved heroine.

Grace--Mrs. Lippincott--I found to be a tall, fine-looking lady, with
a commanding figure and a face that did not disappoint me, as faces so
often do which you have dreamed about. She had dark hair, brown rather
than black, which was arranged in becoming puffs round her face; and
such eyes! large, dark, magnetic, full of sympathy, of kind, cordial
feelings and of quick appreciation of fun. She talked much and well.
If I should repeat all the good stories she told us, that happy
Saturday night, as we lingered round the table, you would be convulsed
with laughter, that is, if I could give them with her gestures,
expressions, and vivid word-pictures.

She told one story which well illustrated the almost cruel persistent
inquiries of neighbours about someone who is long in dying. An
unfortunate husband was bothered each morning by repeated calls from
children, who were sent by busy mothers to find out "Just how Miss
Blake was feeling this morning." At last this became offensive, and he
said: "Well, she's just the same--she ain't no better and she ain't no
worse--she keeps just about so--she's just about dead, you can say
she's dead."

One Sunday evening she described her talks with the men in the
prisons and penitentiaries, to whom she had been lately lecturing,
proving that these hardened sinners had much that was good in them,
and many longings for a nobler life, in spite of all their sins.

No, I was not disappointed in "G.G." She was just as natural, hearty,
and off-hand as when some thirty years ago, she was a romping,
harum-scarum, bright-eyed schoolgirl, Sara Clarke, of western New
York, who was almost a gypsy in her love for the fields and forests.
She was always ready for any out-door exercise or sport. This gave her
glorious health, which up to that time she had not lost.

Her _nom de plume_, which she says she has never been able to drop,
was only one of the many alliterative names adopted at that time. Look
over the magazines and Annuals of those years, and you will find many
such, as "Mary Maywood," "Dora Dashwood," "Ella Ellwood" "Fanny
Forrester," "Fanny Fern," "Jennie June," "Minnie Myrtle," and so on
through the alphabet, one almost expecting to find a "Ninny Noodle."
Examining one of Mrs. Lippincott's first scrapbooks of "Extracts from
Newspapers," etc., which she had labelled, "Vanity, all is Vanity," I
find many poems in her honour, much enthusiasm over her writings, and
much speculation as to who "Grace Greenwood" might really be. The
public curiosity was piqued to find out this new author who added to
forceful originality "the fascination of splendid gayety and brilliant
trifling." John Brougham, the actor and dramatist, thus expressed his
interest in a published letter to Willis:

     The only person that I am disposed to think, write or talk
     about at present is your dazzling, bewitching correspondent,
     "Grace Greenwood." Who is she? that I may swear by her! Where
     is she? that I may fling myself at her feet! There is a
     splendour and dash about her pen that carry my fastidious
     soul captive by a single charge. I shall advertise for her
     throughout the whole Western country in the terms in which they
     inquire for Almeyda in Dryden's _Don Sebastian_: "Have you
     seen aught of a woman who lacks two of the four elements, who has
     nothing in her nature but air and fire?"

And here is one of the poetical tributes:

          If to the old Hellenes
            Thee of yore the gods had given
          Another Muse, another Grace
            Had crowned the Olympian heaven.

Whittier at that time spoke most cordially of her "earnest
individuality, her warm, honest, happy, hopeful, human heart; her
strong loves and deep hates."

E.P. Whipple, the Boston critic and essayist, when reviewing her
poems, spoke of their "exceeding readableness"; and George Ripley,
then of the New York _Tribune_, said:

     One charm of her writings is the frankness with which she takes
     the reader into her personal confidence. She is never formal,
     never a martyr to artificial restraint, never wrapped in a
     mantle of reserve; but, with an almost childlike simplicity,
     presents a transparent revelation of her inmost thoughts and
     feelings, with perfect freedom from affectation.

She might have distinguished herself on the stage in either tragedy or
comedy, but was dissuaded from that career by family friends. I
remember seeing her at several receptions, reciting the rough Pike
County dialect verse of Bret Harte and John Hay in costume. Standing
behind a draped table, with a big slouch hat on, and a red flannel
shirt, loose at the neck, her disguise was most effective, while her
deep tones held us all. Her memory was phenomenal, and she could
repeat today stories of good things learned years ago.

Her recitation was wonderful; so natural, so full of soul and power. I
have heard many women read, some most execrably, who fancied they were
famous elocutionists; some were so tolerable that I could sit and
endure it; others remarkably good, but I was never before so moved as
to forget where I was and merge the reader in the character she
assumed.

Grace Greenwood probably made more puns in print than any other woman,
and her conversation was full of them. It was Grace Greenwood who, at
a tea-drinking at the New England Woman's Club in Boston, was begged
to tell one more story, but excused herself in this way: "No, I cannot
get more than one story high on a cup of tea."

Her conversation was delightful, and what a series of reminiscences
she could have given; for she knew, and in many cases intimately, most
of the leading authors, artists, politicians, philanthropists,
agitators, and actors of her time in both her own land and abroad. In
one of her letters she describes the various authors she saw while
lounging in Ticknor's old bookstore in Boston.

     Here, many a time, we saw Longfellow, looking wonderfully like
     a ruddy, hearty, happy English gentleman, with his full lips
     and beaming blue eyes. Whittier, alert, slender and long; half
     eager, half shy in manner; both cordial and evasive; his
     deep-set eyes glowing with the tender flame of the most humane
     genius of our time.

Emerson's manner was to her "a curious mingling of Athenian
philosophy and Yankee cuteness."

Saxe was "the handsome, herculean punster," and so on with many
others.

She resided with Miss Cushman in Rome, and in London she saw many
lions--Mazzini, Kossuth, Dickens and Talfourd, Kingsley, Lover, the
Howellses, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Muloch Craik, George Eliot, etc.

She was the first Washington correspondent of her sex, commencing in
1850 in a series of letters to a Philadelphia weekly; was for some
years connected with the _National Era_, making her first tour in
Europe as its correspondent, and has written much for _The Hearth and
Home_, _The Independent_, _Christian Inquirer_, _Congregationalist_,
_Youth's Companion_; also contributing a good deal to English
publications, as _Household Words_ and _All the Year Round_.

She was the special correspondent from Washington of the New York
_Tribune_, and later of the _Times_. Her letters were racy, full of
wit, sentiment, and discriminating criticism, plenty of fun and a
little sarcasm, but not so audaciously personal and aggressive as some
letter-writers from the capital. They attracted attention and were
widely copied, large extracts being made for the _London Times_.

She lectured continually to large audiences during the Civil War on
war themes, and subjects in a lighter strain; was the first woman
widely received as a lecturer by the colleges and lyceums. With a
commanding presence, handsome face, an agreeable, permeating voice, a
natural offhand manner, and something to say, she was at once a
decided favourite, and travelled great distances to meet her
engagements. She often quoted that ungallant speech from the Duke of
Argyle: "Woman has no right on a platform--except to be hung; then
it's unavoidable"; and by her eloquence and wit proved its falsity and
narrowness. Without the least imitation of masculine oratory, her
best remembered lectures are, "The Heroic in Common Life," and
"Characteristics of Yankee Humour." She always had the rare gift of
telling a story capitally, with ease, brevity, and dramatic effect,
certain of the point or climax. I cannot think of any other woman of
this country who has caused so much hearty laughter by this enviable
gift. She can compress a word-picture or character-sketch into a few
lines, as when she said of the early Yankee: "No matter how large a
man he was, he had a look of shrinking and collapse about him. It
looked as if the Lord had made him and then pinched him." And a woman
who has done such good work in poetry, juvenile literature,
journalism, on the platform, and in books of travel and biography,
will not soon be forgotten. There is a list of eighteen volumes from
her pen.

She never established a _salon_, but the widespread, influential daily
paper and the lecture hall are the movable _salon_ to the women of
genius in this Republic.

This is just a memory. After all, we are but "Movie Pictures," seen
for a moment, and others take our place.



CHAPTER VI

In and Near Boston--Edward Everett Hale--Thomas Wentworth
Higginson--Julia Ward Howe--Mary A. Livermore--A Day at the Concord
School--Harriet G. Hosmer--"Dora D'Istria," our Illustrious Visitor.


Edward Everett Hale was kind to me, as he was to all who came within
his radius. He once called to warn me to avoid, like poison, a
rascally imposter who was calling on many of the authors in and near
Boston to get one thousand dollars from each to create a publishing
company, so that authors could have their books published at a much
cheaper rate than in the regular way. This person never called on me,
as I then had no bank account. He did utterly impoverish many other
credulous persons, both writers, and in private families. All was
grist that came to his mill, and he ground them "exceeding small."

I met Mr. Hale one early spring at Pinehurst, North Carolina, with his
wife and daughter. He always had a sad face, as one who knew and
grieved over the faults and frailties of humanity, but at this time
he was recovering from a severe fall, and walked with a slow and
feeble step. When he noticed me sitting on the broad piazza, he came,
and taking a chair beside me, began to joke in his old way, telling
comical happenings, and inquired if I knew where Noah kept his bees.
His answer: "In the Ark-hives, of course." Once when I asked his
opinion of a pompous, loud-voiced minister, he only said, "Self, self,
self!"

I wonder how many in his audiences or his congregation could
understand more than half of what he was saying. I once went to an
Authors' Reading in Boston where he recited a poem, doubtless very
impressive, but although in a box just over the stage, I could not get
one word. He placed his voice at the roof of his mouth, a fine
sounding board, but the words went no farther than the inside of his
lips. I believe his grand books influence more persons for better
lives than even his personal presence and Christ-like magnetism.

Mr. Thomas Wentworth Higginson never failed me. Once only I ventured
alone into the Authors' Club Saturday meeting, and none of my own
friends happened to be there. Evidently I was not known. Mr. Higginson
saw the situation at once, and coming quickly to me escorted me to a
comfortable seat. He ordered two cups of tea with wafers, and
beckoned to some delightful men and women to whom he introduced me as
his friend Miss Sanborn, thus putting me at my ease. He was also ever
patient about my monomania of trying to prove that women possess both
wit and humour. He spoke of his first wife as the wittiest woman he
had ever known, giving convincing proof. A few men were on my side,
but they could be counted on one hand omitting the thumb. But I worked
on this theme until I had more than sufficient material for a
good-sized volume. If a masculine book reviewer ever alluded to the
book, it was with a sneer. He generally left it without a word, as men
still ignore the fact when a woman wins in an essay-writing
competition against men in her class or gets the verdict for her
powers in a mixed debate. At last Mr. Higginson wrote me most kindly
to stop battering on that theme. "If any man is such a fool as to
insist that women are destitute of wit or humour, then he is so big a
fool that it is not worth while to waste your good brains on him. T.W.
Higginson." That reproof chilled my ardour. Now you can hardly find
any one who denies that women possess both qualities, and it is
generally acknowledged that not a few have the added gift of comedy.

As most biographers of Mrs. Julia Ward Howe dwell on her other gifts
as philanthropist, poet, and worker for the equality of women with
men, I call attention to her effervescent, brilliant wit. Julia Ward
Howe was undeniably witty. Her concurrence with a dilapidated
bachelor, who retained little but his conceit, was excellent. He said:
"It is time now for me to settle down as a married man, but I want so
much; I want youth, health, wealth, of course; beauty, grace--" "Yes,"
she interrupted sympathetically, "you poor man, you do want them all."

Of a conceited young man airing his disbelief at length in a magazine
article, she said: "Charles evidently thinks he has invented atheism."
After dining with a certain family noted for their chilling manners
and lofty exclusiveness, she hurried to the house of a jolly friend,
and, seating herself before the glowing fire, sought to regain a
natural warmth, explaining: "I have spent three hours with the Mer de
Glace, the Tête-Noire, and the Jungfrau, and am nearly frozen."

Pathos and humour as twins are exemplified by her tearful horror over
the panorama of Gettysburg, and then by her saying, when urged by Mrs.
Livermore to dine with her: "O no! my dear, it's quarter past two, and
Mr. Howe will be wild if he does not get--not his burg--but his
dinner."

Mrs. Howe's wit never failed her. I once told her I was annoyed by
seeing in big headlines in the morning's paper, "Kate Sanborn
moralizes," giving my feeble sentiments on some subject which must
have been reported by a man whom I met for the first time the evening
before at a reception, though I was ignorant of the fact that I was
being interviewed. She comforted me by saying: "But after all, how
much better that was than if he had announced, 'Kate Sanborn
demoralizes.'" Or when Charles Sumner refusing to meet some friends of
hers at dinner explained languidly: "Really, Julia, I have lost all my
interest in individuals." She retorted, "Why, Charles, God hasn't got
as far as that yet!" Once walking in the streets of Boston with a
friend she looked up and read on a public building, "Charitable Eye
and Ear Infirmary." She said: "I did not know there were any
charitable eyes and ears in Boston." She showed indomitable courage to
the last. A lady in Boston, who lived opposite Mrs. Howe's home on
Beacon Street, was sitting at a front window one cold morning in
winter, when ice made the steps dangerous. A carriage was driven up to
Mrs. Howe's door to take her to the station to attend a federation at
Louisville. She came out alone, slipped on the second step, and rolled
to the pavement. She was past eighty, but picked herself up with the
quickness of a girl, looked at her windows to see if anyone noticed
it, then entered the carriage and drove away.

Was ever a child as unselfish as Mary Rice, afterwards Mary Livermore?
Sliding on ice was for her a climax of fun. Returning to the house
after revelling in this exercise, she exclaimed: "Splendid, splendid
sliding." Her father responded: "Yes, Mary, it's great fun, but
wretched for shoes."

Those words kept ringing in her ears, and soon she thought how her
father and mother had to practise close economy, and she decided: "I
ought not to wear out my shoes by sliding, when shoes cost so much,"
and she did not slide any more. There was no more fun in it for her.

She would get out of bed, when not more than ten years old, and
beseech her parents to rise and pray for the children. "It's no matter
about me," she once said to them, "if they can be saved, I can bear
anything."

She was not more than twelve years old, when she determined to aid her
parents by doing work of some kind; so it was settled that she should
become a dressmaker. She went at once into a shop to learn the trade,
remained for three months, and after that was hired at thirty-seven
cents a day to work there three months more. She also applied for
work at a clothing store, and received a dozen red flannel shirts to
make up at six and a quarter cents a piece. When her mother found this
out, she burst into tears, and the womanly child was not allowed to
take any more work home. We all know Mrs. Livermore's war record and
her power and eloquence as an orator.

I would not say she was a spiritualist, but she felt sure that she
often had advice or warning on questions from some source, and always
listened, and was saved from accidents and danger. And she said that
what was revealed to her as she rested on her couch, between twilight
and dusk, would not be believed, it was so wonderful.

Mrs. Livermore had a terrible grief to bear,--the lifelong illness of
her daughter from a chronic and incurable disease. She told me, when I
was at her house, that she kept on lecturing, and accepting
invitations, to divert her mind somewhat. She felt at times that she
could not leave her unfortunate child behind, when she should be
called from earth, but she was enabled to drive that thought away.
From a child, always helping others, self-sacrificing, heroic, endowed
with marvellous energy and sympathy, hers was a most exceptional life;
now "Victor Palms" are her right.

I spent one day at the famous Concord School of Philosophy during its
first season. Of course I understood nothing that was going on.

Emerson, then a mere wreck of his former self, was present, cared for
by his wife or his daughter Ellen. Alcott made some most remarkable
statements, as: "We each can decide when we will ascend." Then he
would look around as if to question all, and add: "Is it not so? Is it
not so?" I remember another of his mystic utterances: "When the mind
is izzing, it is thinking things. Is it not so? Is it not so?" Also,
"When we get angry or lose our temper, then fierce four-footed beasts
come out of our mouths, do they not, do they not?"

After Mr. Harris, the great educational light, had closed his remarks,
and had asked for questions, one lady timidly arose and inquired: "Can
an atom be said to be outside or inside of potentiality?"

He calmly replied that "it could be said to be either inside or
outside potentiality, as we might say of potatoes in a hat; they are
either inside or outside the hat." That seemed to satisfy her
perfectly.

Mr. Frank B. Sanborn read his lecture on American Literature, and I
ventured to ask: "How would you define literature?"

He said: "Anything written that gives permanent pleasure." And then
as he was a relative, I inquired, but probably was rather pert: "Would
a bank check, if it were large enough, be literature?" which was
generally considered as painfully trifling.

Jones of Jacksonville was on the program, and talked and talked, but
as I could not catch one idea, I cannot report.

It was awfully hot on that hill with the sun shining down through the
pine roof, so I thought one day enough.

As I walked down the hill, I heard a man who seemed to have a lot of
hasty pudding in his mouth, say in answer to a question from the lady
with him: "Why, if you can't understand that, you can have no idea of
the first principles (this with an emphatic gesture) of the Hegelian
philosophy."

Alcott struck me as a happy dreamer. He said to me joyously: "I'm
going West in Lou's chariot," and of course with funds provided by his
daughter.

An article written by her, entitled "Transcendental Wild Oats," made a
great impression on my mind.

It appeared in a long-ago _Independent_ and I tried in vain to find it
last winter. Houghton and Mifflin have recently published Bronson
Alcott's "_Fruitlands_," compiled by Clara Endicott Sears, with
"Transcendental Wild Oats" by Louisa M. Alcott, so it is brought to
the notice of those who will appreciate it.

I called once on Miss Hosmer, who then was living with relatives in
Watertown, Massachusetts, her old home; the house where she was born
and where she did her first modelling. Recently reading in Miss
Whiting's record of Kate Field's life, of Miss Hosmer as a universal
favourite in Rome, a dearly loved friend of the Brownings, and
associated with the literary and artistic coterie there, a living part
of that memorable group, most of whom are gone, I longed to look in
her eyes, to shake her hand, to listen to her conversation. Everyone
knows of her achievements as a sculptor.

After waiting a few minutes, into the room tripped a merry-faced,
bright-eyed little lady, all animation and cordiality as she said: "It
is your fault that I am a little slow in coming down, for I was
engrossed in one of your own books, too much interested to remember to
dress."

The question asked soon brought a flow of delightful recollection of
Charlotte Cushman, Frances Power Cobbe, Grace Greenwood, Kate Field,
and the Brownings. "Yes," she said, "I dined with them all one winter;
they were lovely friends." She asked if we would like to see
some autograph letters of theirs. One which seemed specially
characteristic of Robert Browning was written on the thinnest of paper
in the finest hand, difficult to decipher. And on the flap of the
envelope was a long message from his wife. Each letter was addressed
to "My dearest Hattie," and ended, "Yours most affectionately." There
was one most comical impromptu sent to her by Browning, from some
country house where there was a house party. They were greatly grieved
at her failure to appear, and each name was twisted into a rhyme at
the end of a line. Sir Roderick Murchison, for instance, was run in
thus:

          As welcome as to cow is fodder-rick
          Would be your presence to Sir Roderick.

A poor pun started another vein. "You must hear some of Miss Cobbe's
puns," said Miss Hosmer, and they were so daringly, glaring bad, as to
be very good. When lame from a sprain, she was announced by a pompous
butler at a reception as "Miss Cobble." "No, Miss Hobble," was her
instant correction. She weighed nearly three hundred pounds and, one
day, complaining of a pain in the small of her back her brother
exclaimed: "O Frances, where _is_ the small of your back?"

Miss Hosmer regarded Grace Greenwood (Mrs. Lippincott) as one of the
best _raconteurs_ and wittiest women she had known. She was with her
at some museum where an immense antique drinking cup was exhibited,
large enough for a sitz bath. "A goblet for a Titan," said Harriet.
"And the one who drained it would be a tight un," said Grace.

She thought the best thing ever said about seasickness was from Kate
Field, who, after a tempestuous trip, said: "Lemonade is the only
satisfactory drink on a sea voyage; it tastes as well coming up as
going down."

       *       *       *       *       *

The last years of this brilliant and beloved woman were devoted to
futile attempts to solve the problem of Perpetual Motion. I wish she
had given us her memories instead.


     Helen Ghika was born at Bucharest, Wallachia, the 22nd of
     January, 1829. The Ghika family is of an ancient and noble
     race. It originated in Albania, and two centuries ago the head
     of it went to Wallachia, where it had been a powerful and
     ruling family. In 1849, at the age of twenty, the Princess was
     married to a Russian, Prince Koltzoff Massalsky, a descendant
     of the old Vikings of Moldavia; her marriage has not been a
     congenial one.

     A sketch of the distinguished woman, Helen Ghika, the Princess
     Massalsky, who, under the _nom de plume_ of Dora D'Istria, has
     made for herself a reputation and position in the world of
     letters among the great women of our century, will at least
     have something of the charm of novelty for most American
     readers. In Europe this lady was everywhere known, beloved by
     many personal friends, and admired by all who had read her
     works. Her thought was profound and liberal, her views were
     broad and humane. As an author, philanthropist, traveller,
     artist, and one of the strongest advocates of freedom and
     liberty for the oppressed of both sexes, and of her suffering
     sisters especially, she was an honour to the time and to
     womanhood. The women of the old world found in her a powerful,
     sympathizing, yet rational champion; just in her arguments in
     their behalf, able in her statements of their needs, and
     thoroughly interested in their elevation and improvement.

     Her works embrace a vast range of thought, and show profound
     study and industry. The subjects are many. They number about
     twenty volumes on nationality, on social questions more than
     eight, on politics eighteen or twenty. Her travels fill fifteen
     books, and, beside all this, she wrote three romances, numerous
     letters and articles for the daily papers, and addresses to be
     read before various learned societies, of which she was an
     honoured member. M. Deschanel, the critic of the _Journal des
     Débats_, has said of her that "each one of her works would
     suffice for the reputation of a man." As an artist, her
     paintings have been much admired. One of her books of travel,
     _A Summer on the Banks of the Danube_, has a drawing by its
     author, a view of Borcia in Roumania. From a notable exhibition
     at St. Petersburg she received a silver medal for two pictures
     called "The Pine" and "The Palm," suggested to her by Heine's
     beautiful little poem:

          "A pine-tree sleeps alone
            On northern mountain-side;
          Eternal stainless snows
            Stretch round it far and wide.

          "The pine dreams of a palm
            As lonely, sad, and still,
          In glowing eastern clime
            On burning, rocky hill."

     This princess was the idol of her native people, who called
     her, with the warm enthusiasm of their race, "The Star of
     Albania." The learned and cultivated also did her homage. Named
     by Frederika Bremer and the Athenians, "The New Corinne," she
     was invested by the Greeks with the citizenship of Greece for
     her efforts to assist the people of Candia to throw off the
     oppressor's yoke, this being the first time this honour had
     ever been granted to a woman.

     The catalogue of her writings fills several pages, the list of
     titles given her by learned societies nearly as many more and,
     while born a princess of an ancient race and by marriage one
     also, she counted these titles of rank as nothing compared with
     her working name, and was more widely known as Dora D'Istria
     than as the Princess Koltzoff Massalsky.

     There is a romantic fascination about this woman's life as
     brilliant as fiction, but more strange and remarkable in that
     it is all sober truth--nay, to her much of it was even sad
     reality. Her career was a glorious one, but lonely as the
     position of her pictured palm-tree, and oftentimes only upheld
     by her own consciousness of the right; she has felt the trials
     of minds isolated by greatness. Singularly gifted by nature
     with both mental and physical, as well as social superiority,
     the Princess united in an unusual degree masculine strength of
     character, grasp of thought, philosophical calmness, love of
     study and research, joined to an ardent and impassioned love of
     the grand, the true, and the beautiful. She had the grace and
     tenderness of the most sensitive of women, added to mental
     endowments rare in a man. Her beauty, which had been
     remarkable, was the result of perfect health, careful training,
     and an active nature. Her physical training made her a fearless
     swimmer, a bold rider, and an excellent walker--all of which
     greatly added to her active habits and powers of observation in
     travelling, for she travelled much. Only a person of uncommon
     bodily vigour can so enjoy nature in her wildest moods and
     grandest aspects.


This quotation is from a long article which Mrs. Grace L. Oliver, of
Boston, published in an early number of _Scribner's Magazine_. I never
had known of the existence of this learned, accomplished woman, but
after reading this article I ventured to ask her to send me the
material for a lecture and she responded most generously, sending
books, many sketches of her career, full lists of the subjects which
had most interested her, poems addressed to her as if she were a
goddess, and the pictures she added proved her to have been certainly
very beautiful. "She looked like Venus and spoke like Minerva."

My audience was greatly interested. She was as new to them as to me
and all she had donated was handed round to an eager crowd. In about
six months I saw in the papers that Dora D'Istria was taking a long
trip to America to meet Mrs. Oliver, Edison, Longfellow, and myself!

I called on her later at a seashore hotel near Boston. She had just
finished her lunch, and said she had been enjoying for the first time
boiled corn on the cob. She was sitting on the piazza, rather shabbily
dressed, her skirt decidedly travel-stained. Traces of the butter used
on the corn were visible about her mouth and she was smoking a large
and very strong cigar, a sight not so common at that time in this
country. A rocking chair was to her a delightful novelty and she had
already bought six large rocking chairs of wickerwork. She was sitting
in one and busily swaying back and forward and said: "Here I do repose
myself and I take these chairs home with me and when de gentlemen and
de ladies do come to see me in Florence, I do show them how to repose
themselves."

Suddenly she looked at me and began to laugh immoderately. "Oh," she
explained, seeing my puzzled expression, "I deed think of you as so
_deeferent_, I deed think you were very tall and theen, with leetle,
wiggly curls on each side of your face."

She evidently had in mind the typical old maid with gimlet ringlets!
So we sat and rocked and laughed, for I was equally surprised to meet
a person so "different" from my romantic ideal. Like the two Irishmen,
who chancing to meet were each mistaken in the identity of the other.
As one of them put it, "We looked at each other and, faith, it turned
out to be nayther of us."

The Princess Massalsky sent to Mrs. Oliver and myself valuable tokens
of her regard as souvenirs.



CHAPTER VII

Elected to be the First President of New Hampshire Daughters in
Massachusetts and New Hampshire--Now Honorary President--Kind Words
which I Highly Value--Three, but not "of a Kind"--A Strictly Family
Affair--Two Favourite Poems--Breezy Meadows.


On May 15, 1894, I was elected to be the first president of the New
Hampshire Daughters in Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and held the
position for three years. Was then made Honorary President.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some unsolicited approval:

     Hers was a notable administration, and brought to the
     organization a prestige which remains. Rules might fail, but
     the brilliant president never. She governed a merry company,
     many of them famous, but she was chief. They loved her, and
     that affection and pride still exist.


     A daughter of the "Granite State," who can certainly take front
     rank among business women, is Kate Sanborn, the beloved
     president of New Hampshire's Daughters.


     Another thing that has occupied Miss Sanborn's time this
     summer aside from farming and writing is the program for the
     coming winter's work for the Daughters of New Hampshire. It is
     all planned, and if all the women's clubs carry such a program
     as the one which Miss Sanborn has planned, and that means that
     it will be carried out, the winter's history of women's clubs
     will be one of unprecedented prosperity.


     If New Hampshire's daughters now living out of their own State
     do not keep track of each other, and become acquainted into the
     bargain, it will not be the fault of their president, who has
     carried on correspondence with almost every one of them, and
     who has planned a winter's work that will enable them to learn
     something about their own State, as well as to meet for the
     promoting of acquaintance.


     OUR FIRST MEETING

     This meeting was presided over by our much loved
     First-President, Kate Sanborn, and it was the most informal,
     spontaneous, and altogether enjoyable organization meeting that
     could be imagined, and the happy spirit came that has guided
     our way and helped us over the rough places leading us always
     to the light.

     Our first resolve was to enjoy to the utmost the pleasure of
     being together, and with it to do everything possible to help
     our native State. To these two objects we have been steadfastly
     true in all the years; and how we have planned, and what we
     have done has been recorded to our credit, so that we may now
     say in looking back, "We have kept the faith and been true."

     At this time there are so many memories, all equally precious
     and worthy of mention here, but we must be brief and only a few
     can be recalled.

     In our early years _our_ Kate Sanborn led us through so many
     pleasant paths, and with her "twin President," Julia K. Dyer,
     brought the real New Hampshire atmosphere into it all.

     That was a grand Dartmouth Day, when the good man, Eleazar
     Wheelock, came down from his accustomed wall space to grace our
     program and the Dartmouth Sons brought their flag and delighted
     us with their college songs.

     Since then have come to us governors, senators, judges, mayors,
     and many celebrities, all glad to bring some story with the
     breath of the hills to New Hampshire's Daughters. Kate
     Sanborn first called for our county tributes, to renew old
     acquaintances and promote rivalry among the members. We adorned
     ourselves with the gold buttercup badges, and adopted the grey
     and garnet as our colors.


     NEW HAMPSHIRE'S DAUGHTERS

     _Members of the Society Hold an Experience Meeting._

     The first meeting of the season of New Hampshire's Daughters
     was held at the Hotel Vendome, Boston, Saturday afternoon, and
     was a most successful gathering, both in point of attendance
     and of general interest. The business of the association was
     transacted under the direction of the president, Miss Kate
     Sanborn, whose free construction of parliamentary law and
     independent adherence to common sense as against narrow
     conventionality, results in satisfactory progress and rapid
     action. The 150 or more ladies present were more convinced than
     ever that Miss Sanborn is the right woman in the right place,
     although she herself indignantly repudiates the notion that she
     is fitted to the position.


     The Daughters declare that the rapid growth of the organization
     is due to Miss Sanborn more than to any other influence. Her
     ability, brightness, wit, happy way of managing, and her strong
     personality generally are undoubtedly at present the mainstays
     of the Daughters' organization. She is ably assisted by an
     enthusiastic corps of officers.


     MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

     Your calendar about old age is simply _au fait_. After reading
     it, I want to hurry up and grow old as fast as I can. It is the
     best collection of sane thoughts upon old age that I know in
     any language. Life coming from the Source of Life must be
     glorious throughout. The last of life should be its best.
     October is the king of all the year. A man should be more
     wonderful at eighty than at twenty; a woman should make her
     seventieth birthday more fascinating than her seventeenth.
     Merit never deserts the soul. God is with His children always.

                        Yours for a long life and happiness,
                                               PETER MacQUEEN.

  [Illustration: PETER MacQUEEN]

     DEAR KATE SANBORN:

     The "Indian Summer Calendar" is the best thing you have done
     yet. I have read it straight through twice, and now it lies on
     my desk, and I read daily selections from it, as some of the
     good people read from their "Golden Treasury of Texts."

                                               MARY A. LIVERMORE.


     DEAR MISS SANBORN:

     It gives me pleasure to offer my testimonial to your unique,
     original, and very picturesque lectures. The one to which I
     recently listened, in the New England Conservatory of Music,
     was certainly the most entertaining of any humorous lecture to
     which I have ever listened, and it left the audience _talking_,
     with such bright, happy faces, I can see it now in my mind. And
     they _continued_ to repeat the happy things you said; at least
     my own friends did. It was not a "plea for cheerfulness," it
     _was_ cheerfulness. I hope you may give it, and make the world
     laugh, a thousand times. "He who makes what is useful
     agreeable," said old Horace of literature, "wins every vote."
     You have the wit of making the useful agreeable, and the spirit
     and genius of it.

                                                 Sincerely,
                                            HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

I published a little volume, _A Truthful Woman in Southern
California_, which had a large sale for many years. Women tourists
bought it to "enlarge" with their photographs. Stedman wrote me, after
I had sent him my book:

     MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

     I think it especially charming that you should so remember me
     and send me a gift-copy of Truthful Kate's breezy and
     fascinating report of Southern California. For I had been so
     taken with your adoption of that Abandoned Farm that I had
     made a note of your second book. Your chapters give me as vivid
     an idea of Southern California as I obtained from Miss Hazard's
     watercolors, and that is saying a good deal. We all like you,
     and indeed who does not? And your books, so fresh and
     sparkling, make us like you even more. Believe that I am
     gratified by your unexpected gift, and by the note that
     convoyed it.
                                           EDMUND C. STEDMAN.


     New York Public Library,
     Office of Circulation Department,
     209 West 23rd Street,
     February 19,1907.

     MISS KATE SANBORN,
     Metcalf, Mass.

     DEAR MISS SANBORN:

     You may be interested to know that your book on old wall-papers
     is included in a list of books specially recommended for
     libraries in Great Britain, compiled by the Library Association
     of the United Kingdom, recently published in London. As there
     seems to be a rather small proportion of American works
     included in the list, I think that this may be worthy of note.

     With kindest regards, I remain,
                                      Very truly yours,
                                            ARTHUR E. BOSTWICK.
                          _Chief of the Circulation Department_.


     MY DEAR MISS KATE SANBORN:

     How kind and generous you are to my books, and therefore, to
     me! How thoroughly you understand them and know why I wrote
     them!

     When a book of mine is sent out into the cold world of
     indifferent reviewers, I read their platitudinous words, trying
     to be grateful; but waiting, waiting, knowing that ere long I
     shall get a little clipping from the _Somerville Journal_,
     written by Kate Sanborn; and then I shall know what the book
     is. If it's good, she'll say so, and if it isn't, I think she
     would say so; but that alternative never has come to me. But I
     would far rather have her true words of dispraise than all
     machine-made twaddle of nearly all the book columns of our
     great American press.

     It is such generous minds as yours that have kept me writing. I
     should have stopped long ago if I had not had them.

                                               ALICE MORSE EARLE.


     It is impossible to give you a perfect pen picture of Breezy
     Meadows or of its mistress, Kate Sanborn, just as it is
     impossible to paint the tints of a glorious sunset stretching
     across the winter sky. Breezy Meadows is an ideal country home,
     and the mistress of it all is a grand woman--an honor to her
     sex, and a loyal friend. Her whole life seems to be devoted to
     making others happy, and a motto on one of the walls of the
     house expresses better than I can, her daily endeavour:

          "Let me, also, cheer a spot,
          Hidden field or garden grot,
          Place where passing souls may rest,
          On the way, and be their best."
                                               BARBARA GALPIN.


     As a lecturer, Miss Kate Sanborn is thoroughly unique. Whatever
     her topic, one is always sure there will be wit and the
     subtlest humour in her discourse, bits of philosophy of life,
     and the most practical common sense, flashes of laughable
     personal history, and gems of scholarship. It is always certain
     that the lecture will be rendered in inimitably bright and
     cheery style that will enliven her audience, which, while
     laughing and applauding, will listen intently throughout. No
     wonder she is a favourite with lecture goers, for few can give
     them so delightful an evening as she.--MARY A. LIVERMORE.


     There is only one Kate Sanborn. Her position as a lecturer is
     unique. In the selection and treatment of her themes she has no
     rival. She touches nothing that she does not enliven and adorn.
     Pathos and humour, wit and wisdom, anecdote and incident, the
     foibles, fancies, freaks, and fashions of the past and present,
     pen pictures of great men and famous women, illustrious poets
     and distinguished authors, enrich her writings, as if the ages
     had laid their wealth of love and learning at her feet, and
     bidden her help herself. With a discriminating and exacting
     taste, she has brought together, in book and lecture, the
     things that others have overlooked, or never found. She has
     been a kind of discoverer of thoughts and things in the
     by-paths of literature. She also understands "the art of
     putting things." But vastly more than the thought, style, and
     utterance is the striking personality of the writer herself. It
     is not enough to read the writings of Miss Sanborn, though you
     cannot help doing this. She must be heard, if one would know
     the secret of her power--subtle, magnetic, impossible of
     transfer to books. The "personal equation" is everything--the
     strong, gifted woman putting her whole soul into the
     interpretation and transmission of her thought so that it may
     inspire the hearts of those who listen; the power of
     self-radiation. It is not surprising that Miss Sanborn is
     everywhere greeted with enthusiasm when she speaks.--ARTHUR
     LITTLE.


     Miss Kate Sanborn is one of the best qualified women in this
     country to lecture on literary themes. The daughter of a
     Dartmouth professor, she was cradled in literature, and has
     made it in a certain way the work of her life. There is
     nothing, however, of the pedantic about her. She is the
     embodiment of a woman's wit and humour; but her forte is a
     certain crisp and lively condensation of persons and qualities
     which carry a large amount of information under a captivating
     cloak of vivacious and confidential talk with her audience,
     rather than didactic statement.

                                      J.C. CROLY, "Jenny June."

One of the friends I miss most at the farm is Sam Walter Foss. He was
the poet, philosopher, lecturer and "friend of man." His folk songs
touched every heart and even the sombre vein lightened with pictures
of hope and cheer. He was humorous and even funny, but in every line
there is a dignity not often reached by writers of witty verse or
prose. Mr. Foss was born in Candia, N.H., in June, 1858. Through his
ancestor, Stephen Batcheller, he had kinship with Daniel Webster, John
Greenleaf Whittier, and William Pitt Fessenden.

Mr. Foss secured an interest in the Lynn _Union_, and it was while
engaged in publishing that newspaper that he made the discovery that
he could be a "funny man." The man having charge of the funny column
left suddenly, and Mr. Foss decided to see what he could do in the way
of writing something humorous to fill the column. He had never done
anything of this kind before, and was surprised and pleased to have
some of his readers congratulate him on his new "funny man." He
continued to write for this column and for a long time his identity
was unknown, he being referred to simply as the "Lynn _Union_ funny
man." His ability finally attracted the attention of Wolcott
Balestier, the editor of _Tit-Bits_, who secured Mr. Foss's services
for that paper. Before long he became connected with _Puck_, _Judge_,
and several other New York periodicals, including the New York _Sun_.

Mr. Foss's first book was published in 1894, and was entitled _Back
Country Poems_ and has passed through several editions. _Whiffs from
Wild Meadows_ issued in 1896 has been fully as successful. Later books
are _Dreams in Homespun_, _Songs of War and Peace_, _Songs of the
Average Man_.

  [Illustration: SAM WALTER FOSS]

He had charge of the Public Library at Somerville, Massachusetts,
and his influence in library matters extended all over New England.

His poems are marked by simplicity. Most of his songs are written in
New England dialect which he has used with unsurpassed effect. But
this poetry was always of the simplest kind, of the appealing nature
which reaches the heart. Of his work and his aim, he said in his first
volume:

          "It is not the greatest singer
             Who tries the loftiest themes,
           He is the true joy bringer
             Who tells his simplest dreams,
           He is the greatest poet
             Who will renounce all art
           And take his heart and show it
             To any other heart;
           Who writes no learnèd riddle,
             But sings his simplest rune,
           Takes his heart-strings for a fiddle,
             And plays his easiest tune."

Mr. Foss _always_ had to recite the following poem when he called
at Breezy Meadows

  THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNKHEAD

  I'm a lunkhead, an' I know it; 'taint no use to squirm an' talk,
  I'm a gump an' I'm a lunkhead, I'm a lummux, I'm a gawk,
  An' I make this interduction so that all you folks can see
  An' understan' the natur' of the critter thet I be.

  I allus wobble w'en I walk, my j'ints are out er gear,
  My arms go flappin' through the air, jest like an el'phunt's ear;
  An' when the womern speaks to me I stutter an' grow weak,
  A big frog rises in my throat, an' he won't let me speak.

  Wall, that's the kind er thing I be; but in our neighborhood
  Lived young Joe Craig an' young Jim Stump an' Hiram Underwood.
  We growed like corn in the same hill, jest like four sep'rit stalks;
  For they wuz lunkheads, jest like me, an' lummuxes and gawks.

  Now, I knew I wuz a lunkhead; but them fellers didn't know,
  Thought they wuz the biggest punkins an' the purtiest in the row.
  An' I, I uster laff an' say, "Them lunkhead chaps will see
  W'en they go out into the worl' w'at gawky things they be."

  Joe Craig was a lunkhead, but it didn't get through his pate;
  I guess you all heerd tell of him--he's governor of the state;
  Jim Stump, he blundered off to war--a most uncommon gump--
  Didn't know enough to know it--'an he came home General Stump.

  Then Hiram Underwood went off, the bigges' gawk of all,
  We hardly thought him bright enough to share in Adam's fall;
  But he tried the railroad biz'ness, an' he allus grabbed his share,--
  Now this gawk, who didn't know it, is a fifty millionaire.

  An' often out here hoein' I set down atween the stalks,
  Thinkin' how we four together all were lummuxes an' gawks,
  All were gumps and lunkheads, only they didn't know, yer see;
  An' I ask, "If I hadn' known it, like them other fellers there,
  Today I might be settin' in the presidential chair."

  We all are lunkheads--don't get mad--an' lummuxes and gawks,
  But us poor chaps who know we be--we walk in humble walks.
  So, I say to all good lunkheads, "Keep yer own selves in the dark;
  Don't own to reckernize the fact, an' you will make your mark."

Next is the poem which is most quoted and best known:

          THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

          "He was a friend to man, and lived in a house
           by the side of the road."--HOMER.

          There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
            In the peace of their self-content;
          There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart,
            In a fellowless firmament;
          There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
            Where highways never ran;--
          But let me live by the side of the road
            And be a friend to man.

          Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
            Where the race of men go by--
          The men who are good and the men who are bad,
            As good and as bad as I.
          I would not sit in the scorner's seat,
            Or hurl the cynic's ban;--
          Let me live in a house by the side of the road
            And be a friend to man.

          I see from my house by the side of the road,
            By the side of the highway of life,
          The men who press with the ardour of hope,
            The men who are faint with the strife.
          But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears--
            Both parts of an infinite plan;--
          Let me live in my house by the side of the road
            And be a friend to man.

          I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead
            And mountains of wearisome height;
          That the road passes on through the long afternoon
            And stretches away to the night.
          But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice,
            And weep with the strangers that moan,
          Nor live in my house by the side of the road
            Like a man who dwells alone.

          Let me live in my house by the side of the road
            Where the race of men go by--
          They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
            Wise, foolish--so am I.
          Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat
            Or hurl the cynic's ban?--
          Let me live in my house by the side of the road
            And be a friend to man.

Mr. Foss's attribution to Homer used as a motto preceding his poem,
"The House by the Side of the Road," is, no doubt, his translation of
a passage from the _Iliad_, book vi., which, as done into English
prose in the translation of Lang, Leaf and Myers, is as follows:

     Then Diomedes of the loud war-cry slew Axylos, Teuthranos' son
     that dwelt in stablished Arisbe, a man of substance dear to his
     fellows; _for his dwelling was by the road-side and he
     entertained all men_.

       *       *       *       *       *

     SAM WALTER FOSS

     Sam Walter Foss was a poet of gentle heart. His keen wit never
     had any sting. He has described our Yankee folk with as clever
     humour as Bret Harte delineated Rocky Mountain life. Like
     Harte, Mr. Foss had no unkindness in his make-up. He told me
     that he never had received an anonymous letter in his life.

     Our American nation is wonderful in science and mechanical
     invention. It was the aim of Sam Walter Foss to immortalize the
     age of steel. "Harness all your rivers above the cataracts'
     brink, and then unharness man." He told me he thought the
     subject of mechanics was as poetical as the song of the lark.
     "The Cosmos wrought for a billion years to make glad for a
     day," reminds us of the most resonant periods of Tennyson.

     "The House by the Side of the Road," is from a text of Homer.
     "The Lunkhead" shows Foss in his happiest mood: gently
     satirizing the foibles and harmless, foolish fancies of his
     fellow-men. There is a haunting misty tenderness in such a poem
     as "The Tree Lover."

          "Who loves a tree he loves the life
           That springs in flower and clover;
           He loves the love that gilds the cloud,
           And greens the April sod;
           He loves the wide beneficence,
           His soul takes hold of God."

     We have too little love for the tender out-of-door nature. "The
     world is too much with us."

     It was a loss to American life and letters when Sam Walter Foss
     passed away from us at the height of his strong true manhood.
     Later he will be regarded as an eminent American.

     He was true to our age to the core. Whether he wrote of the
     gentle McKinley, the fighting Dewey, the ludicrous schoolboy,
     the "grand eternal fellows" that are coming to this world after
     we have left it--he was ever a weaver at the loom of highest
     thought. The world is not to be civilized and redeemed by the
     apostles of steel and brute force. Not the Hannibals and Cæsars
     and Kaisers but the Shelleys, the Scotts, and the Fosses are
     our saviours. They will have a large part in the future of the
     world to heighten and brighten life and justify the ways of God
     to men.

     These and such as these are our consolation in life's thorny
     pathway. They keep alive in us the memory of our youth and many
     a jaded traveller as he listens to their music, sees again the
     apple blossoms falling around him in the twilight of some
     unforgotten spring.

                                                PETER MacQUEEN.

Peter MacQueen was brought to my house years ago by a friend when he
happened to be stationary for an hour, and he is certainly a unique
and interesting character, a marvellous talker, reciter of Scotch
ballads, a maker of epigrams, and a most unpractical, now-you-see-him
and now-he's-a-far-away-fellow. I remember his remark, "Breakfast is a
fatal habit." It was not the breakfast to which he referred but to the
gathering round a table at a stated hour, far too early, when not in a
mood for society or for conversation. And again: "I have decided never
to marry. A poor girl is a burden; a rich girl a boss." But you never
can tell. He is now a Benedict.

I wrote to Mr. MacQueen lately for some of his press notices, and a
few of the names which he called himself when I received his letters.

     MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:--Yours here and I hasten to reply. Count
     Tolstoi remarked to me: "Your travels have been so vast and you
     have been with so many peoples and races, that an account of
     them would constitute a philosophy in itself."

Theodore Roosevelt said, "No other American has travelled over our new
possessions more universally, nor observed the conditions in them so
quickly and sanely."

Kennan was _persona non grata_ to the Russians, especially after his
visit to Siberia, but Mr. MacQueen was most cordially welcomed.

What an odd scene at Tolstoi's table! The countess and her daughter in
full evening dress with the display of jewels, and at the other end
Tolstoi in the roughest sort of peasant dress and with bare feet. At
dinner Count Tolstoi said to Mr. MacQueen: "If I had travelled as much
as you have, I should today have had a broader philosophy."

Mr. MacQueen says of Russia:

     During the past one hundred years the empire of the Czar has
     made slow progress; but great bodies move slowly, and Russia
     is colossal. Two such republics as the United States with our
     great storm door called Alaska, could go into the Russian
     empire and yet leave room enough for Great Britain, Germany,
     and Austria.


Journeys taken by Mr. MacQueen:

  1896--to Athens and Greece.

  1897--to Constantinople and Asia Minor.

  1898--in the Santiago Campaign with the Rough
          Riders, and in Porto Rico with General
          Miles.

  1899--with General Henry W. Lawton to the
          Philippines, returning through Japan.

  1900--with DeWet, Delarey, and Botha in the
          Boer Army; met Oom Paul, etc.

  1901--to Russia and Siberia on pass from the Czar,
          visiting Tolstoi, etc.

  1902--to Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, and Porto
          Rico.

  1903--to Turkey, Macedonia, Servia, Hungary,
          Austria, etc.


In the meantime Mr. MacQueen has visited every country in Europe,
completing 240,000 miles in ten years, a distance equal to that which
separates this earth from the moon.

Last winter he was four months in the war zone, narrowly escaping
arrest several times, and other serious dangers, as they thought him
a spy with his camera and pictures. I gave a stag dinner for him just
after his return from his war experiences, and the daily bulletins of
war's horrors seemed dull reading after his stories.

Here is an extract from a paper sent by Peter MacQueen from Iowa,
where he long ago was in great demand as a lecturer, which contained
several of the best anecdotes told by this irresistible _raconteur_,
which may be new to you, if not, read them again and then tell them
yourself.

     Mr. MacQueen, who is to lecture at the Chautauqua here, has
     many strange stories and quaint yarns that he picked up while
     travelling around the globe. While in the highlands of Scotland
     he met a canny old "Scot" who asked him, "Have you ever heard
     of Andrew Carnegie in America?" "Yes, indeed," replied the
     traveller. "Weel," said the Scot, pointing to a little stream
     near-by, "in that wee burn Andrew and I caught our first trout
     together. Andrew was a barefooted, bareheaded, ragged wee
     callen, no muckle guid at onything. But he gaed off to America,
     and they say he's doin' real weel."

While in the Philippines Mr. MacQueen was marching with some of the
colored troops who have recently been dismissed by the President. A
big coloured soldier walking beside Mr. MacQueen had his white
officer's rations and ammunition and can-kit, carrying them in the
hot tropical sun. The big fellow turned to the traveller and said:
"Say, there, comrade, this yere White Man's Burden ain't all it's
cracked up to be."

     In the Boer war Mr. MacQueen, war correspondent and lecturer,
     tells of an Irish Brigade man from Chicago on Sani river. The
     correspondent was along with the Irish-Americans and saw them
     take a hill from a force of Yorkshire men very superior in
     numbers. Mr. MacQueen also saw a green flag of Ireland in the
     British lines. Turning to his Irish friend, he remarked: "Isn't
     it a shame to see Irishmen fighting for the Queen, and Irishmen
     fighting for the Boers at the same time?" "Sorra the bit,"
     replied his companion, "it wouldn't be a proper fight if there
     wasn't Irishmen on both sides."

Here's hoping that during Mr. MacQueen's long vacation from sermons,
lectures, and tedious conventionalities in the outdoors of the darkest
and deepest Africa, the wild beasts, including the man-eating tiger,
may prove the correctness of Mrs. Seton Thompson's good words for them
and only approach him to have their photos taken or amiably allow
themselves to be shot. The cannibals will decide he is too thin and
wiry for a really tempting meal.

       *       *       *       *       *

Doctor Edwin C. Bolles has been for fifteen years on the Faculty of
Tufts College, Massachusetts, and still continues active service at
the age of seventy-eight.

His history courses are among the popular ones in the curriculum, and
his five minutes' daily talks in Chapel have won the admiration of the
entire College.

He was for forty-five years in active pastoral service in the
Universalist ministry; was Professor of Microscopy for three years at
St. Lawrence University. Doctor Bolles was one of the pioneers in the
lecture field and both prominent and popular in this line, and the
first in the use of illustrations by the stereopticon in travel
lectures.

The perfection of the use of microscopic projection which has done so
much for the popularization of science was one of his exploits.

For several years his eyesight has been failing, an affliction which
he has borne with Christian courage and cheerfulness and keeps right
on at his beloved work.

He has been devoted to photography in which avocation he has been most
successful. His wife told me they were glad to accept his call to New
York as he had almost filled every room in their house with his
various collections. One can appreciate this when he sees a card
displayed on the door of Doctor Bolles's sanctum bearing this motto:

"A man is known by the Trumpery he keeps."

He has received many honorary degrees, but his present triumph over
what would crush the ambition of most men is greater than all else.

       *       *       *       *       *

Exquisite nonsense is a rare thing, but when found how delicious it
is! I found a letter from a reverend friend who might be an American
Sidney Smith if he chose, and I am going to let you enjoy it; it was
written years ago.

Speaking of the "Purple and Gold," he says:

     I should make also better acknowledgments than my thanks. But
     what can I do? My volume on _The Millimetric Study of the Tail
     of the Greek Delta, in the MSS. of the Sixth Century_, is
     entirely out of print; and until its re-issue by the Seaside
     Library I cannot forward a copy. Then my essay, "Infantile
     Diseases of the Earthworm" is in Berlin for translation, as it
     is to be issued at the same time in Germany and the United
     States. "The Moral Regeneration of the Rat," and "Intellectual
     Idiosyncracies of Twin Clams," are resting till I can get up my
     Sanscrit and Arabic, for I wish these researches to be
     exhaustive.

He added two poems which I am not selfish enough to keep to myself.

          GOLDEN ROD

          O! Golden Rod! Thou garish, gorgeous gush
            Of passion that consumes hot summer's heart!
          O! yellowest yolk of love! in yearly hush
            I stand, awe sobered, at thy burning bush
          Of Glory, glossed with lustrous and illustrious art,
            And moan, why poor, so poor in purse and brain I am,
          While thou into thy trusting treasury dost seem to cram
            Australia, California, Sinai and Siam.

And the other such a capital burlesque of the modern English School
with its unintelligible parentheses:

          ASTER

          I kissed her all day on her red, red mouth
            (Cats, cradles and trilobites! Love is the master!)
          Too utterly torrid, a sweet, spicy South
            (Of compositæ, fairest the Aster.)
          Stars shone on our kisses--the moon blushed warm
            (Ursa major or minor, Pollux and Castor!)

          How long the homeward! And where was my arm?
            (Crushed, crushed at her waist was the Aster!)

          No one kisses me now--my winter has come:
            (To ice turns fortune when once you have passed her.)
          I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum)
            (For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!)

  [Illustration: PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES]


Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems.
A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost
every woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of the
odour of a good cigar."

    DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM

    When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered
          and gone,
    And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on,
    In the times when he's idle or thoughtful,
    When he's lonesome, jolly or blue,
    And he fingers his useless matches,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is
          gathered in;
    From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin;
    A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two;
    In this female republic of virtue,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea,
    And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he
          may be;
    But when the mild cheese has been passed, and the chocolate mint
          drops are few,
    And the coffee comes in and he hankers,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    It's all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine
          grows,
    And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their
          clothes;
    No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly
          crew;
    If _this_ is heaven, and he gets there,
    What is a poor fellow to do?

    He'll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break
          jail,
    With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet's tail;
    He'll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory's
          spell,
    He'll go back on the women who saved him,
    And ask for a ticket to _Hell_!

An exact description of the usual happenings at "Breezy" in the
beginning, by my only sister, Mrs. Babcock, who was devoted to me and
did more than anyone to help to develop the Farm. I feel that this
chapter must be the richer for two of her poems.

          LIGHT AND SHADE AT "BREEZY MEADOWS" FARM

          This charming May morning we'll walk to the grove!
            And give the dear dogs all a run;
          Over the meadows 'tis pleasant to rove
            And bask in the light of the sun.

          Last night a sly fox took off our best duck!
            Run for a gun! there a hen hawk flies!
          We always have the very worst of luck,
            The anxious mistress of the chickens cries.

          We stop to smell the lilacs at the gate,
            And watch the bluebirds in the elm-tree's crest--
          The finest farm it is in all the state,
            Which corner of it do you like the best?

          Just think! a rat has eaten ducklings two,
            Now isn't that a shame! pray set a trap!
          The downiest, dearest ones that ever grew,
            I think this trouble will climax cap!

          At "Sun Flower Rock," in joy we stand to gaze;
            The distant orchard, flowering, show so fair:
          Surely my dear, abandoned farming pays,
            How heavenly the early morning air!

          Now only see! those horrid hens are scratching!
            They tear the Mountain Fringe so lately set!
          Some kind of mischief they are always hatching,
            Why did I ever try a hen to pet?

          Here's "Mary's Circle," and the birches slender,
            And Columbine which grows the rocks between,
          Red blossoms showing in a regal splendour!
            We must be happy in this peaceful scene.

          The puppies chew the woodbine and destroy
            The dainty branches sprouting on the wall!
          How can the little wretches so annoy?
            There's Solomon Alphonzo--worst of all!

          Now we will go to breakfast--milk and cream,
            Eggs from the farm, surely it is a treat!
          How horrid city markets really seem
            When one can have fresh things like these to eat!

          What? Nickodee has taken all the hash?
            And smashed the dish which lies upon the floor!
          I thought just now I heard a sudden crash!
            And it was he who slammed the kitchen door!

          By "Scare Crow Road" we take our winding way,
            Tiger and Jerry in the pasture feed.
          See, Mary,--what a splendid crop of hay!
            Now, don't you feel that this is joy indeed?

          The incubator chickens all are dead!
            Max fights with Shep, he scorns to follow me!
          Some fresh disaster momently I dread;
            Is that a skunk approaching?--try to see!

          Come Snip and Snap and give us song and dance!
            We'll have a fire and read the choicest books,
          While the black horses waiting, paw and prance!
            And see how calm and sweet all nature looks.

          So goes the day; the peaceful landscape smiles;
            At times the live stock seems to take a rest.
          But fills our hearts with worry other whiles!
            We think each separate creature is possessed!

                                         MARY W. BABCOCK.

  [Illustration: PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK]

          THE OLD WOMAN

          The little old woman, who wove and who spun,
          Who sewed and who baked, did she have any fun?

          In housewifely arts with her neighbour she'd vie,
          Her triumph a turkey, her pleasure a pie!

          She milked and she churned, and the chickens she fed,
          She made tallow dips, and she moulded the bread.

          No club day annoyed her, no program perplext,
          No themes for discussion her calm slumber vexed.

          By birth D.A.R. or Colonial Dame,
          She sought for no record to blazon her fame--

          No Swamies she knew, she cherished no fad,
          Of healing by science, no knowledge she had.

          She anointed with goose grease, she gave castor oil,
          Strong sons and fair daughters rewarded her toil.

          She studied child nature direct from the child,
          And she spared not the rod, though her manner was mild.

          All honour be paid her, this heroine true,
          She laid the foundation for things we call new!

          Her hand was so strong, and her brain was so steady,
          That for the New Woman she made the world ready.

                                             MARY W. BABCOCK.

  [Illustration: THE ISLAND WHICH WE MADE]

Here is one of the several parodies written by my brother while
interned in a log camp in the woods of New Brunswick, during a severe
day's deluge of rain. It was at the time when Peary had recently
reached the North Pole, and Dr. Cook had reported his remarkable
observations of purple snows:

    DON'T YOU HEAR THE NORTH A-CALLIN'?

    Ship me somewhere north o' nowhere, where the worst
          is like the best;
    Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, an' a man can
          get a rest;
    Where a breeze is like a blizzard, an' the weather at
          its best;
    Dogs and Huskies does the workin' and the Devil does
          the rest.

              On the way to Baffin's Bay,
              Where the seal and walrus play,
              And the day is slow a-comin', slower
              Still to go away.

    There I seen a walrus baskin'--bloomin' blubber to
          the good;
    Could I 'it 'im for the askin'? Well--I missed 'im where
          he stood.
    Ship me up there, north o' nowhere, where the best is like
          the worst;
    Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, and the last one
          gets there first.

              Take me back to Baffin's Bay,
              Where the seal and walrus play;
              And the night is long a-comin', when it
              Comes, it comes to stay.

  [Illustration: TAKA'S TEA HOUSE AT LILY POND]

          THE WOMAN WITH THE BROOM

          _A Mate for "The Man With The Hoe."_

          (Written after seeing a farmer's wife cleaning house.)

          Bowed by the cares of cleaning house she leans
          Upon her broom and gazes through the dust.
          A wilderness of wrinkles on her face,
          And on her head a knob of wispy hair.
          Who made her slave to sweeping and to soap,
          A thing that smiles not and that never rests,
          Stanchioned in stall, a sister to the cow?
          Who loosened and made shrill this angled jaw?
          Who dowered this narrowed chest for blowing up
          Of sluggish men-folks and their morning fire?

          Is this the thing you made a bride and brought
          To have dominion over hearth and home,
          To scour the stairs and search the bin for flour,
          To bear the burden of maternity?
          Is this the wife they wove who framed our law
          And pillared a bright land on smiling homes?
          Down all the stretch of street to the last house
          There is no shape more angular than hers,
          More tongued with gabble of her neighbours' deeds,
          More filled with nerve-ache and rheumatic twinge,
          More fraught with menace of the frying-pan.

          O Lords and Masters in our happy land,
          How with this woman will you make account,
          How answer her shrill question in that hour
          When whirlwinds of such women shake the polls,
          Heedless of every precedent and creed,
          Straight in hysteric haste to right all wrongs?
          How will it be with cant of politics,
          With king of trade and legislative boss,
          With cobwebs of hypocrisy and greed,
          When she shall take the ballot for her broom
          And sweep away the dust of centuries?

                                     EDWARD W. SANBORN.

          NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS

          New Hampshire Daughters meet tonight
            With joy each cup is brimmin';
          We've heard for years about her men,
            But why leave out her wimmin?

          In early days they did their share
            To git the state to goin',
          And when their husbands went to war,
            Could fight or take to hoein'.

          They bore privations with a smile,
            Raised families surprisin',
          Six boys, nine gals, with twins thrown in,
            O, they were enterprisin'.

          Yet naught is found their deeds to praise
            In any book of hist'ry,
          The brothers wrote about themselves,
            And--well, that solves the myst'ry.

          But now our women take their place
            In pulpit, court, and college,
          As doctors, teachers, orators,
            They equal men in knowledge.

          And when another history's writ
            Of what New Hampshire's done,
          The women all will get their due,
            But not a single son.

          But no, on sober second thought,
            We lead, not pose as martyrs,
          We'll give fair credit to her sons,
            But not forget her Darters.

                                    KATE SANBORN.


  [Illustration: THE LOOKOUT]

A little of my (not doggerel) but pupperell to complete the family
trio.

Answer to an artist friend who begged for a "Turkey dinner."

           Delighted to welcome you dear;
             But you can't have a Turkey dinner!
           Those fowls are my friends--live here:
             To eat, not be eat, you sinner!

           I like their limping, primping mien,
             I like their raucous gobble;
           I like the lordly tail outspread,
             I like their awkward hobble.

           Yes, Turkey is my favourite meat,
             Hot, cold, or réchauffée;
          *But my own must stay, and eat and eat;
             You may paint 'em, and so take away.

                                     KATE SANBORN.

         [*Metre adapted to the peculiar feet of this bird.]

          SPRING IN WINTER

          _A Memory of "Breezy Meadows"_

          'Twas winter--and bleakly and bitterly came
          The winds o'er the meads you so breezily name;
          And what tho' the sun in the heavens was bright,
          'Twas lacking in heat altho' lavish in light.
          And cold were the guests who drew up to your door,
          But lo, when they entered 'twas winter no more!

          Without, it might freeze, and without, it might storm,
          Within, there was welcome all glowing and warm.
          And oh, but the warmth in the hostess's eyes
          Made up for the lack of that same in the skies!
          And fain is the poet such magic to sing:
          Without, it was winter--within, it was spring!

          Yea, spring--for the charm of the house and its cheer
          Awoke in us dreams of the youth of the year;
          And safe in your graciousness folded and furled,
          How far seemed the cold and the care of the world!
          So strong was the spell that your magic could fling,
          We _knew_ it was winter--we _felt_ it was spring!

          Yea, spring--in the glow of your hearth and your board
          The springtime for us was revived and restored,
          And everyone blossomed, from hostess to guest,
          In story and sentiment, wisdom and jest;
          And even the bard like a robin must sing--
          And, sure, after that, who could doubt it was spring!

                                              DENIS A. McCARTHY.

          _New Year's Day_, 1909.

Mr. McCarthy is associate editor of _The Sacred Heart_, Boston, and a
most popular poet and lecturer.

His dear little book, _Voices from Erin_, adorned with the Irish harp
and the American shield fastened together by a series of true-love
knots, is dedicated "To all who in their love for the new land have
not forgotten the old." There is one of these poems which is always
called for whenever the author attends any public function where
recitations are in order, and I do not wonder at its popularity, for
it has the genuine Irish lilt and fascination:

      "Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring time of the year,
        When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow,
      When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble
        With their singing and their winging to and fro;
      When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant vesture on,
        And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring;
      When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance;
        Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!"

I have always wanted to write a poem about my own "Breezy" and the
bunch of lilacs at the gate; but not being a poet I have had to keep
wanting; but just repeating this gaily tripping tribute over and over,
I suddenly seized my pencil and pad, and actually under the
inspiration, imitated (at a distance) half of this first verse.

      How sweet to be at Breezy in the springtime of the year,
        With the lilacs all abloom at the gate,
      And everything so new, so jubilant, so dear,
        And every little bird is a-looking for his mate.

There, don't you dare laugh! Perhaps another time I may swing into
the exact rhythm.

The Rev. William Rankin Duryea, late Professor at Rutgers College, New
Brunswick, was before that appointment a clergyman in Jersey City. His
wife told me that he once wrote some verses hoping to win a prize of
several hundred dollars offered for the best poem on "Home." He dashed
off one at a sitting, read it over, tore it up, and flung it in the
waste basket. Then he proceeded to write something far more serious
and impressive. This he sent to the committee of judges who were to
choose the winner. It was never heard of. But his wife, who liked the
rhythm of the despised jingle, took it from the waste basket, pieced
it together, copied it, and sent it to the committee. It took the
prize. And he showed me in his library, books he had long wanted to
own, which he had purchased with this "prize money," writing in each
"Bought for a Song."

          1

          Dark is the night, and fitful and drearily
          Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea,
          Little care I as here I sing cheerily,
          Wife at my side and my baby on knee;
          King, King, crown me the King!
          Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

          2

          Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces
          Dearer and dearer as onward we go,
          Forces the shadow behind us and places
          Brightness around us with warmth in the glow
          King, King, crown me the King!
          Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

          3

          Flashes the love-light increasing the glory,
          Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul,
          Telling of trust and content the sweet story,
          Lifting the shadows that over us roll;
          King, King, crown me the King!
          Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

          4

          Richer than miser with perishing treasure,
          Served with a service no conquest could bring,
          Happy with fortune that words cannot measure,
          Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing,
          King, King, crown me the King!
          Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King.

                                   WM. RANKIN DURYEA, D.D.

  [Illustration: THE SWITCH]

Breezy Meadows, my heart's delight. I was so fortunate as to purchase
it in a ten-minute interview with the homesick owner, who longed to
return to Nebraska, and complained that there was not grass enough on
the place to feed a donkey. I am sure this was not a personal
allusion, as I saw the donkey and he did look forlorn.

I was captivated by the big elms, all worthy of Dr. Holmes's
wedding-ring, and looked no further, never dreaming of the great
surprises in store for me. As, a natural pond of water lilies, some
tinted with pink. These lilies bloom earlier and later than any others
about here.

An unusual variety of trees, hundreds of white birches greatly adding
to the beauty of the place, growing in picturesque clumps of family
groups and their white bark, especially white.

  [Illustration: HOW VINES GROW AT BREEZY MEADOWS]

Two granite quarries, the black and white, and an exquisite pink, and
we drive daily over long stretches of solid rock, going down two or
three hundred feet--But I shall never explore these for illusive
wealth.

A large chestnut grove through which my foreman has made four
excellent roads. Two fascinating brooks, with forget-me-nots,
blue-eyed and smiling in the water, and the brilliant cardinal-flower
on the banks in the late autumn.

From a profusion of wild flowers I especially remark the
moccasin-flower or stemless lady's-slipper.

My _Nature's Garden_ says--"Because most people cannot forbear picking
this exquisite flower that seems too beautiful to be found outside a
millionaire's hothouse, it is becoming rarer every year, until the
picking of one in the deep forest where it must now hide, has become
the event of a day's walk." Nearly 300 of this orchid were found in
our wooded garden this season.

In the early spring, several deer are seen crossing the field just a
little distance from the house. They like to drink at the brooks and
nip off the buds of the lilac trees. Foxes, alas, abound.

Pheasants, quail, partridges are quite tame, perhaps because we feed
them in winter.

I found untold bushes of the blueberry and huckleberry, also enough
cranberries in the swamp to supply our own table and sell some. Wild
grape-vines festoon trees by the brooks.

Barberries, a dozen bushes of these which are very decorative, and
their fruit if skilfully mixed with raisins make a foreign-tasting and
delicious conserve.

We have the otter and mink, and wild ducks winter in our brooks. Large
birds like the heron and rail appear but rarely; ugly looking and
fierce.

The hateful English sparrow has been so reduced in numbers by sparrow
traps that now they keep away and the bluebirds take their own boxes
again. The place is a safe and happy haven for hosts of birds.

I have a circle of houses for the martins and swallows and wires
connecting them, where a deal of gossip goes on.

The pigeons coo-oo-o on the barn roof and are occasionally utilized in
a pie, good too!

  [Illustration: GRAND ELM
   (OVER TWO HUNDRED YEARS OLD)]

     "I wonder how my great trees are coming on this summer."

     "Where are your trees, Sir?" said the divinity student.

     "Oh, all around about New England. I call all trees mine that I
     have put my wedding ring on, and I have as many tree-wives as
     Brigham Young has human ones." "One set's as green as the
     other," exclaimed a boarder, who has never been identified.
     "They're all Bloomers,"--said the young fellow called John. (I
     should have rebuked this trifling with language, if our
     landlady's daughter had not asked me just then what I meant by
     putting my wedding-ring on a tree.) "Why, measuring it with my
     thirty-foot tape, my dear, said I.--I have worn a tape almost
     out on the rough barks of our old New England elms and other
     big trees. Don't you want to hear me talk trees a little now?
     That is one of my specialties."

     "What makes a first-class elm?"

     "Why, size, in the first place, and chiefly anything over
     twenty feet clear girth five feet above the ground and with a
     spread of branches a hundred feet across may claim that title,
     according to my scale. All of them, with the questionable
     exception of the Springfield tree above referred to, stop, so
     far as my experience goes, at about twenty-two or twenty-three
     feet of girth and a hundred and twenty of spread."

Three of my big elms easily stand the test Dr. Holmes prescribed, and
seem to spread themselves since being assured that they are worthy of
one of his wedding-rings if he were alive, and soon there will be
other applicants in younger elms.

       *       *       *       *       *

I am pleased that my memory has brought before me so unerringly the
pleasant pictures of the past. But my agreeable task is completed.

The humming-birds have come on this fifteenth of July to sip at early
morn the nectar from the blossoms of the trumpet-vine, now beginning
its brilliant display. That is always a signal for me to drop all
indoor engagements and from this time, the high noon of midsummer
fascinations, to keep out of doors enjoying to the full the
ever-changing glories of Nature, until the annual Miracle Play of
the Transfiguration of the Trees.



THE END





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