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Title: Reminiscences, 1819-1899
Author: Howe, Julia Ward, 1819-1910
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Reminiscences, 1819-1899" ***

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Julia Ward Howe.


REMINISCENCES. With many Portraits and other Illustrations. Crown 8vo,

Howe. Square 8vo, $1.50.


[Illustration: Photograph of Julia Ward Howe; signature]





[Decorative Illustration]



The Riverside Press, Cambridge





  CHAPTER                                                  PAGE

  I. BIRTH, PARENTAGE, CHILDHOOD                             1

  II. LITERARY NEW YORK                                     21

  III. NEW YORK SOCIETY                                     29

  IV. HOME LIFE: MY FATHER                                  43

  V. MY STUDIES                                             56

  VI. SAMUEL WARD AND THE ASTORS                            64

  VII. MARRIAGE: TOUR IN EUROPE                             81

  VIII. FIRST YEARS IN BOSTON                              144

  IX. SECOND VISIT TO EUROPE                               188

  X. A CHAPTER ABOUT MYSELF                                205

    WORK: TRIP TO CUBA                                     218



  XIV. MEN AND MOVEMENTS IN THE SIXTIES                    304

  XV. A WOMAN'S PEACE CRUSADE                              327

  XVI. VISITS TO SANTO DOMINGO                             345

  XVII. THE WOMAN SUFFRAGE MOVEMENT                        372

  XVIII. CERTAIN CLUBS                                     400

  XIX. ANOTHER EUROPEAN TRIP                               410




  JULIA WARD HOWE                               _Frontispiece_
  _From a photograph by Hardy, 1897._

  AND GRANDMOTHER OF MRS. HOWE                               4
  _From a painting by Waldo and Jewett._

  _From a miniature by Anne Hall._

  JULIA CUTLER WARD, MOTHER OF MRS. HOWE                    12
  _From a miniature by Anne Hall._

  SAMUEL WARD, FATHER OF MRS. HOWE                          46
  _From a miniature by Anne Hall._

  SAMUEL WARD, JR                                           68
  _From a painting by Baron Vogel._

  FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE                                     138
  _From a photograph._

  _From a painting in the possession of M. Anagnos._

  WENDELL PHILLIPS, AT THE AGE OF 48                       158
  _From a photograph lent by Francis J. Garrison, Boston._

  THEODORE PARKER                                          166
  _From a photograph by J. J. Hawes._

  JULIA WARD HOWE                                          176
  _From a painting (1847) by Joseph Ames._

  SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE, M. D.                               230
  _From a photograph by Black, about 1859._

  JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE                                     246
  _From a photograph by the Notman Photographic Company._

  JOHN BROWN                                               254
  _From a photograph (about 1857) lent by Francis J.
  Garrison, Boston._

  JOHN A. ANDREW                                           262
  _From a photograph by Black._

  JULIA WARD HOWE                                          270
  _From a photograph by J. J. Hawes, about 1861._

  OF THE REPUBLIC                                          276
  _From the original MS. in the possession of Mrs. E. P.
  Whipple, Boston._

  RALPH WALDO EMERSON                                      292
  _From a photograph by Black._

  FREDERIC HENRY HEDGE, D. D.                              302
  _From a photograph lent by his daughter, Charlotte A.

  SAMUEL GRIDLEY HOWE, M. D.                               328
  _From a photograph by A. Marshall (1870), in the possession
  of the Massachusetts Club._

  LUCY STONE                                               376
  _From a photograph by the Notman Photographic Company._

  MARIA MITCHELL                                           386
  _From a photograph._

  THE NEWPORT HOME OF MR. AND MRS. HOWE                    406
  _From a photograph by Briskham and Davidson._

  THOMAS GOLD APPLETON                                     432
  _From a photograph lent by Mrs. John Murray Forbes._

  JULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS                                     440
  _From a photograph._




I have been urgently asked to put together my reminiscences. I could
wish that I had begun to do so at an earlier period of my life, because
at this time of writing the lines of the past are somewhat confused in
my memory. Yet, with God's help, I shall endeavor to do justice to the
individuals whom I have known, and to the events of which I have had
some personal knowledge.

Let me say at the very beginning that I esteem this century, now near
its close, to have eminently deserved a record among those which have
been great landmarks in human history. It has seen the culmination of
prophecies, the birth of new hopes, and a marvelous multiplication both
of the ideas which promote human happiness and of the resources which
enable man to make himself master of the world. Napoleon is said to have
forbidden his subordinates to tell him that any order of his was
impossible of fulfillment. One might think that the genius of this age
must have uttered a like injunction. To attain instantaneous
communication with our friends across oceans and through every
continent; to command locomotion whose swiftness changes the relations
of space and time; to steal from Nature her deepest secrets, and to make
disease itself the minister of cure; to compel the sun to keep for us
the record of scenes and faces, of the great shows and pageants of time,
of the perishable forms whose charm and beauty deserve to remain in the
world's possession,--these are some of the achievements of our
nineteenth century. Even more wonderful than these may we esteem the
moral progress of the race; the decline of political and religious
enmities, the growth of good-will and mutual understanding between
nations, the waning of popular superstition, the spread of civic ideas,
the recognition of the mutual obligations of classes, the advancement of
woman to dignity in the household and efficiency in the state. All this
our century has seen and approved. To the ages following it will hand on
an inestimable legacy, an imperishable record.

While my heart exults at these grandeurs of which I have seen and known
something, my contribution to their history can be but of fragmentary
and fitful interest. On the world's great scene, each of us can only
play his little part, often with poor comprehension of the mighty drama
which is going on around him. If any one of us undertakes to set this
down, he should do it with the utmost truth and simplicity; not as if
Seneca or Tacitus or St. Paul were speaking, but as he himself, plain
Hodge or Dominie or Mrs. Grundy, is moved to speak. He should not borrow
from others the sentiments which he ought to have entertained, but
relate truthfully how matters appeared to him, as they and he went on.
Thus much I can promise to do in these pages, and no more.

I was born on May 27, 1819, in the city of New York, in Marketfield
Street, near the Battery. My father was of Rhode Island birth and
descent. One of his grandmothers was the beautiful Catharine Ray to whom
are addressed some of Benjamin Franklin's published letters. His father
attained the rank of lieutenant-colonel in the war of the Revolution,
being himself the son of Governor Samuel Ward, of Rhode Island,[1]
married to a daughter of Governor Greene, of the same state. My mother
was grandniece to General Francis Marion, of Huguenot descent, known in
the Revolution as the Swamp-fox of southern campaigns. Her father was
Benjamin Clarke Cutler, whose first ancestor in this country was John De
Mesmekir, of Holland.

[Footnote 1: Governor Samuel Ward refused to enforce the Stamp Act, and
also did valuable service as a member of the First and Second
Continental Congresses. He frequently served as chairman of the
Committee of the Whole, during the secret sessions of Congress. His
death, in the spring of 1776, is said to have been due in large measure
to the fatigue caused by his incessant labors in behalf of his country.
Although he did not live to sign the Declaration of Independence, he was
one of the first men to prophesy the separation of the colonies from the
mother country.]

[Illustration: SARAH MITCHELL (MRS. HOWE'S grandmother)

_From a painting by Waldo and Jewett._]

Let me here remark that an expert in chiromancy, after making a recent
examination of my hand, exclaimed, "You inherit military blood; your
hand shows it."

My own earliest recollections are of a fine house on the Bowling Green,
a region of high fashion in those days. In the summer mornings my nurse
sometimes walked abroad with me, and showed me the young girls of our
neighborhood, engaged with their skipping ropes. Our favorite resort was
the Battery, where the flagstaff used in the Revolution was still to be
seen. The fort at Castle Garden had already been converted into a
pleasure resort, where fireworks and ices might be enjoyed.

We were six children in all, yet Wordsworth's little maid would have
reckoned us as seven, as a sister of four years had died shortly before
my birth, leaving me her name and the dignity of eldest daughter. She
was always mentioned in the family as the _first little Julia_.

My two eldest brothers, Samuel and Henry Ward, were pupils at Round Hill
School. The third, Francis Marion, named for the General, was my junior
by fifteen months, and continued to be my constant playmate until, at
the proper age, he joined the others at Round Hill School.

A few words regarding my mother may not here be out of place. Married at
sixteen, she died at the age of twenty-seven, so beloved and mourned by
all who knew her that my early years were full of the testimony borne by
surviving friends to the beauty and charm of her character. She had been
a pupil at the school of Mrs. Elizabeth Graham, of saintly memory, and
had inherited from her own mother a taste for intellectual pursuits. She
was especially fond of poetry and a few lovely poems of hers remain to
show that she was no stranger to its sacred domain. One of these was
printed in a periodical of her own time, and is preserved in Griswold's
"Female Poets of America." Another set of verses is addressed to me in
the days of my babyhood. All of these bear the imprint of her deeply
religious character.

Mrs. Margaret Armstrong Astor, of whom more will be said in these
annals, remembered my mother as prominent in the society of her youth,
and spoke of her as beautiful in countenance. An old lady, resident in
Bordentown, N. J., where Joseph, ex-king of Spain, made his home for
many years, had seen my mother arrayed for a dinner at this royal
residence, in a white dress, probably of embroidered cambric, and a
lilac turban. Her early death was a lifelong misfortune to her children,
who, although tenderly bred and carefully watched, have been forced to
pass their days without the dear refuge of a mother's heart, the wise
guidance of a mother's inspiration.

A dear old cousin of my father's, who lived to the age of one hundred
and two years, loved to talk of a visit which she had made in her youth
to my grandfather Ward, then resident in New York. She had not quite
forgiven him for not allowing her to attend an assembly on which, being
only sixteen years of age, she had set her heart. Years after this time,
when such vanities had quite gone out of her mind, she again visited
relatives in the city, and came to spend the day with my mother. Of this
occasion she said to me: "Julia, your mother's tact was remarkable, and
she showed it on that day, for, knowing me to be a young woman of
serious character, she presented me on my arrival with a plain linen
collar which she had made for me. On a table beside her lay Law's
'Serious Call to the Unconverted.' Don't you see how well she had suited
matters to my taste?"

This aged relative used to boast that she had never read a novel. She
desired to make one exception in favor of the story of the
Schönberg-Cotta family, but, hearing that it was a work of fiction,
esteemed it safest to adhere to the rule which she had observed for so
many years.

Her son, lately deceased, once told me that when she felt called upon to
chastise him for some childish offense, she would pray over him so long
that he would cry out: "Mother, it's time to begin whipping."

Her husband was a son of General Nathanael Greene, of Revolutionary

The attention bestowed upon impressions of childhood to-day will, I
hope, justify me in recording some of the earliest points in
consciousness which I still recall. I remember when a thimble was first
given to me, some simple bit of work being at the same time placed in my
hand. Some one said, "Take the needle in this hand." I did so, and,
placing the thimble on a finger of the other hand, I began to sew
without its aid, to the amusement of my teacher. This trifle appears to
me an early indication of a want of perception as to the use of tools
which has accompanied me through life. I remember also that, being told
that I must ask pardon for some childish fault, I said to my mother,
with perfect contentment, "Oh yes, I pardon you," and was surprised to
hear that in this way I had not made the _amende honorable_.

I encountered great difficulty in acquiring the _th_ sound, when my
mother tried to teach me to call her by that name. "Muzzer, muzzer," was
all that I could manage to say. But the dear parent presently said, "If
you cannot do better than that, you will have to go back and call me
mamma." The shame of going back moved me to one last effort, and,
summoning my utmost strength of tongue, I succeeded in saying "mother,"
an achievement from which I was never obliged to recede.

A journey up the Hudson River was undertaken, when I was very young, for
the bettering of my mother's health. An older sister of hers went with
us, as well as a favorite waiting-woman, and a young physician whose
care had saved my father's life a year or more before my own birth.
After reaching Albany, we traveled in my father's carriage; the grown
persons occupying the seats, and I sitting in my little chair at their
feet. A book of short tales and poems was often resorted to for my
amusement, and I still remember how the young doctor read to me, "Pity
the sorrows of a poor old man," and how my tears came, and could not be


_From a miniature by Anne Hall._]

The sight of Niagara caused me much surprise. Playing on the piazza of
the hotel, one day, with only the doctor for my companion, I ventured to
ask him, "Who made that great hole where the water comes down?" He
replied, "The great Maker of all." "Who is that?" I innocently inquired;
and he said, "Do you not know? Our Father who art in heaven." I felt
that I ought to have known, and went away somewhat abashed.

Another day my mother told me that we were going to visit Red Jacket, a
great Indian chief, and that I must be very polite to him. She gave me a
twist of tobacco tied with a blue ribbon, which I was to present to him,
and bade me observe the silver medal which I should see hung on his
neck, and which, she said, had been given to him by General Washington.
We drove to the Indian encampment, of which I dimly remember the extent
and the wigwams. A tall figure advanced to the carriage. As its door was
opened, I sprang forward, clasped my arms around the neck of the noble
savage, and was astonished at his cool reception of such a greeting. I
was surprised and grieved afterwards to learn that I had not done
exactly the right thing. The Indians, in those days and long after,
occupied numerous settlements in the western part of the State of New
York, where one often saw the boys with their bows and arrows, and the
squaws carrying their papooses on their backs.

The journey here mentioned must have taken place when I was little more
than four years old. Another year and a half brought me the burden of a
great sorrow. I recall months of sweet companionship with the first and
dearest of friends, my mother. The last summer of her life was passed at
a fine country-seat in Bloomingdale, which was then a picturesque
country place, about six miles from New York, but is now incorporated in
the city.

My father was fond of fine horses, and the pets of the stable played no
unimportant part in our childish affection. The family coach was an
early institution with us, and in the days of which I now speak, its
exterior was of a delicate yellow, known as straw-color, while the
lining and cushions were of bright blue cloth. This combination of color
was effected to please my dear mother, who was accounted in her time a
woman of excellent taste.

I remember this summer as a particularly happy period. My younger
brother and I had our lessons in a lovely green bower. Our French
teacher came out at intervals in the Bloomingdale stage. My mother often
took me with her for a walk in the beautiful garden, from which she
plucked flowers that she arranged with great taste. There was much
mysterious embroidering of small caps and gowns, the purpose of which I
little guessed. The autumn came, and with it our return to town. And
then, one bitter morning, I awoke to hear the words, "Julia, your mother
is dead." Before this my father had announced to us that a little sister
had arrived. "And she can open and shut her eyes," he said, smiling.

His grief at the loss of my mother was so intense as to lay him
prostrate with illness. He told me, years after this time, that he had
welcomed the physical agony which perforce diverted his thoughts from
the cause of his mental suffering. The little sister of whose coming he
had told us so joyfully was for a long time kept from his sight. The
rest of us were gathered around him, but this feeble little creature was
not asked for. At last my dear old grandfather came to visit us, and
learned the state of my father's feelings. The old gentleman went into
the nursery, took the tiny infant from its nurse, and laid it in my
father's arms. The little one thenceforth became the object of his most
tender affection.

He regarded all his children with great solicitude, feeling, as he
afterward said to one of us, that he must now be mother as well as
father. My mother's last request had been that her unmarried sister, the
same one who had accompanied us on the journey to Niagara, should be
sent for to have charge of us, and this arrangement was speedily

This aunt of ours had long been a care-taker in her mother's household,
where she had had much to do with bringing up her younger sisters and
brothers. My mother had been accustomed to borrow her from time to time,
and my aunt had threatened to hang out a sign over the door with the
inscription, "Cheering done here by the job, by E. Cutler." She was a
person of rare honesty, entirely conscientious in character, possessed
of few accomplishments, but endowed with the keenest sense of humor. She
watched over our early years with incessant care. We little ones were
kept much in our warm nursery. We were taken out for a drive in fine
weather, but rarely went out on foot. As a consequence of this
overcherishing, we were constantly liable to suffer from colds and sore
throats. The young physician of whom I have already spoken became an
inmate of our house soon after my mother's death. He was afterward well
known in New York society as an excellent practitioner, and as a man of
a certain genius. Those were the days of mighty doses, and the slightest
indisposition was sure to call down upon us the administration of the
drugs then in favor with the faculty, but now rarely used.

[Illustration: JULIA CUTLER WARD (MRS. HOWE'S mother)

_From a miniature by Anne Hall._]

My father's affliction was such that a change of scene became necessary
for him. The beautiful house at the Bowling Green was sold, with the new
furniture which had been ordered expressly for my mother's pleasure, and
which we never saw uncovered. We removed to Bond Street, which was then
at the upper extremity of New York city. My father's friends said to
him, "Mr. Ward, you are going out of town." And so indeed it seemed at
that time. We occupied one of three white freestone houses, and saw from
our windows the gradual building up of the street, which is now in the
central part of New York. My father had purchased a large lot of land at
the corner of our street and Broadway. On a part of this he subsequently
erected a house which was considered one of the finest in the city.

My father was disposed to be extremely careful in the choice of our
associates, and intended, no doubt, that we should receive our education
at home. At a later day his plans were changed somewhat, and after some
experience of governesses and masters I was at last sent to a school in
the near neighborhood of our house. I was nine years old at this time,
somewhat precocious for my age, and endowed with a good memory. This
fact may have led to my being at once placed in a class of girls much
older than myself, especially occupied with the study of Paley's "Moral
Philosophy." I managed to commit many pages of this book to memory, in a
rather listless and perfunctory manner. I was much more interested in
the study of chemistry, although it was not illustrated by any
experiments. The system of education followed at that time consisted
largely in memorizing from the text-books then in use. Removing to
another school, I had excellent instruction in penmanship, and enjoyed a
course of lectures on history, aided by the best set of charts that I
have ever seen, the work of Professor Bostwick. In geometry I made quite
a brilliant beginning, but soon fell off from my first efforts. The
study of languages was very congenial to me; I had been accustomed to
speak French from my earliest years. To this I was enabled to add some
knowledge of Latin, and afterward of Italian and German.

The routine of my school life was varied now and then by a concert and
by Handel's oratorios, which were given at long intervals by an
association whose title I cannot now recall. I eagerly anticipated, and
yet dreaded, these occasions, for my enjoyment of them was succeeded by
a reaction of intense melancholy.

The musical "stars" of those days are probably quite out of memory in
these later times, but I remember some of them with pleasure. It is
worth noticing that, while the earliest efforts in music in Boston
produced the Handel and Haydn Society, and led to the occasional
performance of a symphony of Beethoven or of Mozart, the taste of New
York inclined more to operatic music. The brief visit of Garcia and his
troupe had brought the best works of Rossini before the public. These
performances were followed, at long intervals, by seasons of English
opera, in which Mrs. Austin was the favorite prima donna. This lady sang
also in oratorio, and I recall her rendering of the soprano solos in
Handel's "Messiah" as somewhat mannered, but on the whole quite

A higher grade of talent came to us in the person of Mrs. Wood, famous
before her marriage as Miss Paton. I heard great things of her
performance in "La Sonnambula," which I was not allowed to see. I did
hear her, however, at concerts and in oratorios, and I particularly
remember her rendering of the famous soprano song, "To mighty kings he
gave his acts." Her voice was beautiful in quality and of considerable
extent. It possessed a liquid and fluent flexibility, quite unlike the
curious staccato and tremolo effects so much in favor to-day.

My father's views of religious duty became much more stringent after my
mother's death. I had been twice taken to the opera during the Garcia
performances, when I was scarcely more than seven years of age, and had
seen and heard the Diva Malibran, then known as Signorina Garcia, in the
rôles of Cenerentola (Cinderella) and Rosina in the "Barbiere di
Seviglia." Soon after this time the doors were shut, and I knew of
theatrical matters only by hearsay. The religious people of that period
had set their faces against the drama in every form. I remember the
destruction by fire of the first Bowery Theatre, and how this was spoken
of as a "judgment" upon the wickedness of the stage and of its patrons.
A well-known theatre in Richmond, Va., took fire while a performance was
going on, and the result was a deplorable loss of life. The pulpits of
the time "improved" this event by sermons which reflected severely upon
the frequenters of such places of amusement, and the "judgment" was long
spoken of with holy horror.

My musical education, in spite of the limitations of opportunity just
mentioned, was the best that the time could afford. I had my first
lessons from a very irritable French artist, of whom I stood in such
fear that I could remember nothing that he taught me. A second teacher,
Mr. Boocock, had more patience, and soon brought me forward in my
studies. He had been a pupil of Cramer, and his taste had been formed by
hearing the best music in London, which then, as now, commanded all the
great musical talent of Europe. He gave me lessons for many years, and I
learned from him to appreciate the works of the great composers,
Beethoven, Handel, and Mozart. When I grew old enough for the training
of my voice, Mr. Boocock recommended to my father Signor Cardini, an
aged Italian, who had been an intimate of the Garcia family, and was
well acquainted with Garcia's admirable method. Under his care my voice
improved in character and in compass, and the daily exercises in holding
long notes gave strength to my lungs. I think that I have felt all my
life through the benefit of those early lessons. Signor Cardini
remembered Italy before the invasion of Napoleon I., and sometimes
entertained me with stories of the escapades of his student life. He had
resided long in London, and had known the Duke of Wellington. He related
to me that once, when he was visiting the great soldier at his
country-seat near the sea, the duke invited him to look through his
telescope, saying, "Signor Cardini, venez voir comme on travaille les
Français." This must have had reference to some manoeuvre of the English
fleet, I suppose. Mr. Boocock thought that it would be desirable for me
to take part in concerted pieces, with other instruments. This exercise
brought me great delight in the performance of certain trios and
quartettes. The reaction from this pleasure, however, was very painful,
and induced at times a visitation of morbid melancholy which threatened
to affect my health.

While I greatly disapprove of the scope and suggestions presented by
Count Tolstoï in his "Kreutzer Sonata," I yet think that, in the
training of young persons, some regard should be had to the
sensitiveness of youthful nerves, and to the overpowering response which
they often make to the appeals of music. The dry practice of a single
instrument and the simple drill of choral exercises will not be apt to
overstimulate the currents of nerve force. On the other hand, the power
and sweep of great orchestral performances, or even the suggestive charm
of some beautiful voice, will sometimes so disturb the mental
equilibrium of the hearer as to induce in him a listless melancholy, or,
worse still, an unreasoning and unreasonable discontent.

The early years of my youth were passed in the seclusion not only of
home life, but of a home most carefully and jealously guarded from all
that might be represented in the orthodox trinity of evil, the world,
the flesh, and the devil. My father had become deeply imbued with the
religious ideas of the time. He dreaded for his children the
dissipations of fashionable society, and even the risks of general
intercourse with the unsanctified many. He early embraced the cause of
temperance, and became president of the first temperance society formed
in this country. As a result, wine was excluded from his table. This
privation gave me no trouble, but my brothers felt it, especially the
eldest, who had passed some years in Europe, where the use of wine was,
as it still is, universal. I was walking with my father one evening when
we met my two younger brothers, each with a cigar in his mouth. My
father was much troubled, and said, "Boys, you must give this up, and I
will give it up, too. From this time I forbid you to smoke, and I will
join you in relinquishing the habit." I am afraid that this sacrifice on
my father's part did not have the desired effect, but am quite certain
that he never witnessed the infringement of his command.

At the time of which I speak, my father's family all lived in our
immediate neighborhood. He had considerably distanced his brothers in
fortune, and had built for himself the beautiful house of which I have
already spoken. In the same street with us lived my music-loving uncle,
Henry, somewhat given to good cheer, and of a genial disposition. In a
house nearer to us resided my grandfather, Samuel Ward, with an
unmarried daughter and three bachelor sons, John, Richard, and William.
The outings of my young girlhood were confined to this family circle. I
went to school, indeed, but never to dancing-school, a sober little
dancing-master giving us lessons at home. I used to hear, with some
envy, of Monsieur Charnaud's classes and of his "publics," where my
schoolfellows disported themselves in their best clothes. My grandfather
was a stately old gentleman, a good deal more than six feet in height,
very mild in manner, and fond of a game of whist. With us children he
used to play a very simple game called "Tom, come tickle me." Cards were
not allowed in my father's house, and my brothers used to resort to the
grand-paternal mansion when they desired this diversion.

The eldest of my father's unmarried brothers was my uncle John, a man
more tolerant than my father, and full of kindly forethought for his
nieces and nephews. In his youth he had sustained an injury which
deprived him of speech for more than a year. His friends feared that he
would never speak again, but his mother, trying one day to render him
some small assistance, did not succeed to her mind, and said, "I am a
poor, awkward old woman." "No, you are not!" he exclaimed, and at once
recovered his power of speech. He was anxious that his nieces should be
well instructed in practical matters, and perhaps he grudged a little
the extra time which we were accustomed to devote to books and music. He
was fond of sending materials for dresses to me and my sisters, but
insisted that we should make them up for ourselves. This we managed to
do, with a good deal of help from the family seamstress. When I had
published my first literary venture, uncle John showed me in a newspaper
a favorable notice of my work, saying, "This is my little girl who knows
about books, and writes an article and has it printed, but I wish that
she knew more about housekeeping,"--a sentiment which in after years I
had occasion to echo with fervor.



Although the New York of my youth had little claim to be recognized as a
literary centre, it yet was a city whose tastes and manners were much
influenced by people of culture. One of these, Robert Sands, was the
author of a poem entitled "Yamoyden," its theme being an Indian story or
legend. His family dated back to the Sands who once owned a considerable
part of Block Island, and from whom Sands Point takes its name. If I do
not mistake, these Sands were connected by marriage with one of my
ancestors, who were also settlers in Block Island. I remember having
seen the poet Sands in my childhood, a rather awkward, near-sighted man.
His life was not a long one. A sister of his, Julia Sands, wrote a
biographical sketch of her brother, and was spoken of as a literary

William Cullen Bryant resided in New York many years. He took a
prominent part in politics, but mingled little in general society, being
much absorbed in his duties as editor of the "Evening Post," of which he
was also the founder.

I first heard of Fitz-Greene Halleck as the author of various satirical
pieces of verse relating to personages and events of nearly eighty years
ago. He is now best remembered by his "Marco Bozzaris," a noble lyric
which we have heard quoted in view of recent lamentable encounters
between Greek and Barbarian.

Among the lecturers who visited New York, I remember Professor Silliman
of Yale College, Dr. Follen, who spoke of German literature, George
Combe, and Mr. Charles Lyell.

Charles King, for many years editor of a daily paper entitled "The New
York American," was a man of much literary taste. He had been a pupil at
Harrow when Byron was there. He was an appreciative friend of my father,
although as convivial in his tastes as my father was the reverse. I
remember that once, when a temperance meeting was going on in one of our
large parlors, Mr. King called and, finding my father thus engaged,
began to frolic with us young people. He even dared to say: "How I
should like to open those folding doors just wide enough to fire off a
bottle of champagne at those temperance folks!"

He was the patron of my early literary ventures, and kindly allowed my
fugitive pieces to appear in his paper. He always advocated the
abolition of slavery, and could never forgive Henry Clay his part in
effecting the Missouri Compromise. He and his brother James, my father's
junior partner, were sons of Rufus King, a man eminent in public life. I
was a child of perhaps eight years when I heard my elders say with
regret that "old Mr. King was dying."

Quite late in his life, Mr. Charles King became President of Columbia
College. This institution, with the houses of its officers, occupied the
greater part of Park Place. Its professors were well known in society.
The college was very conservative in its management. The professor of
mathematics was asked one day by one of his class whether the sun did
not really stand still in answer to the prayer of Joshua. He laughed at
the question, and was in consequence reprimanded by the faculty.

Professor Anthon, of the college, became known through his school and
college editions of many Latin classics. Professor Moore, in the
department of Hellenics, was popular among the undergraduates, partly,
it was said, on account of his very indulgent method of conducting
examinations. Professor McVickar, in the chair of Philosophy, was one of
the early admirers of Ruskin. The families of these gentlemen mingled a
good deal in the society of the time, and contributed no doubt to impart
to it a tone of polite culture. I should say that before the forties the
sons of the best families of New York city were usually sent to Columbia
College. My own brothers, three in number, were among its graduates. New
York parents in those days looked upon Harvard as a Unitarian
institution, and shunned its influence for their sons.

The venerable Lorenzo Da Ponte was for many years a resident of New
York, and a teacher of the Italian language and literature. When
Dominick Lynch introduced the first opera troupe to the New York public,
sometime in the twenties, the audience must surely have comprised some
of the old man's pupils, well versed in the language of the librettos.
In earlier life, he had furnished the text of several of Mozart's
operas, among them "Don Giovanni" and "Le Nozze di Figaro."

Dominick Lynch, whom I have just mentioned, was an enthusiastic lover of
music. His visits to my father's house were occasions of delight to me.
He was without a rival as an interpreter of ballads, and especially of
the songs of Thomas Moore. His voice, though not powerful, was clear and
musical, and his touch on the pianoforte was perfect. I remember
creeping under the instrument to hide my tears when I heard him sing the
ballad of "Lord Ullin's Daughter."

Charles Augustus Davis, the author of the "Letters of J. Downing, Major,
Downingville Militia, Second Brigade, to his old Friend Mr. Dwight, of
the New York Daily Advertiser," was a gentleman well known in the New
York society of my youth. The letters in question contained imaginary
reports of a tour which the writer professed to have made with General
Jackson, when the latter was a candidate for reëlection to the
Presidency. They were very popular at the time, but have long passed
into oblivion. I remember that in one of them, Major Downing describes
an occasion on which it was important that the general should interlard
his address with a few Latin quotations. Not possessing any learning of
that kind, he concluded his speech with: "E pluribus unum, gentlemen,
sine qua non."

The great literary boast of the city at the time of which I speak was
undoubtedly Washington Irving. I was still a child in the nursery when I
heard of his return to America, after a residence of some years in
Spain. A public dinner was given in honor of this event. One who had
been present at it told of Mr. Irving's embarrassment when he was called
upon for a speech. He rose, waved his hand in the air, and could only
utter a few sentences, which were heard with difficulty.

Many years after this time I was present, with other ladies, at a public
dinner given in honor of Charles Dickens by prominent citizens of New
York. We ladies were not bidden to the feast, but were allowed to occupy
a small anteroom whose open door commanded a view of the tables. When
the speaking was about to begin, a message came, suggesting that we
should take possession of some vacant seats at the great table. This we
were glad to do. Washington Irving was president of the evening, and
upon him devolved the duty of inaugurating proceedings by an address of
welcome to the distinguished guest. People who sat near me whispered,
"He'll break down--he always does." Mr. Irving rose, and uttered a
sentence or two. His friends interrupted him by applause which was
intended to encourage him, but which entirely overthrew his
self-possession. He hesitated, stammered, and sat down, saying, "I
cannot go on." It was an embarrassing and painful moment, but Mr. John
Duer, an eminent lawyer, came to his friend's assistance, and with
suitable remarks proposed the health of Charles Dickens, to which Mr.
Dickens promptly responded. This he did in his happiest manner, covering
Mr. Irving's defeat by a glowing eulogy of his literary merits.

"Whose books do I take to bed with me, night after night? Washington
Irving's! as one who is present can testify." This one was evidently
Mrs. Dickens, who was seated beside me. Mr. Dickens proceeded to speak
of international copyright, saying that the prime object of his visit to
America was the promotion of this important measure. I met Washington
Irving several times at the house of John Jacob Astor. He was silent in
general company, and usually fell asleep at the dinner-table. This
occurrence was indeed so common with him that the guests present only
noticed it with a smile. After a nap of some ten minutes he would open
his eyes and take part in the conversation, apparently unconscious of
having been asleep.

In his youth, Mr. Irving had traveled quite extensively in Europe. While
in Rome, he had received marked attention from the banker Torlonia, who
repeatedly invited him to dinner parties, the opera, and so on. He was
at a loss to account for this until his last visit to the banker, when
Torlonia, taking him aside, said, "Pray tell me, is it not true that you
are a grandson of the great Washington?"

Mr. Irving had in early life given offense to the descendants of old
Dutch families in New York by the publication of "Knickerbocker's
History of New York," in which he had presented some of their forbears
in a humorous light. The solid fame which he acquired in later days
effaced the remembrance of this old-time grievance, and in the days in
which I had the pleasure of his acquaintance, he held an enviable
position in the esteem and affection of the community.

He always remained a bachelor, owing, it was said, to an attachment, the
object of which had been removed by death. I have even heard that the
lady in question was a beautiful Jewess, the same one whom Walter Scott
has depicted in his well-known Rebecca. This legend of the beautiful
Jewess was current in my youth. A later authority informs us that Mr.
Irving was really engaged to Matilda, daughter of Josiah Ogden Hoffman,
a noted lawyer of New York, and that the death of the lady prevented the
intended marriage from taking place. "He could never, to his dying day,
endure to hear her name mentioned," it is said, "and, nearly thirty
years after her death, the accidental discovery of a piece of her
embroidery saddened him so that he could not speak."



It has been explained that the continued prosperity of France under very
varying forms of government is due to the fact that the municipal
administration of the country is not affected by these changes, but
continues much the same under king, emperor, and republican president.

I find something analogous to this in the perseverance of certain
underlying tendencies in society despite the continual variations which
diversify the surface of the domain of Fashion.

The earliest social function which I remember is a ball given by my
father and mother when I must have been about four years of age. Quite
late in the evening, I was taken out of bed and arrayed in an
embroidered cambric slip. Some one tried to fasten a pink rosebud on the
waist of my dress, but did not succeed to her mind. I was brought into
our drawing-rooms, which had undergone a surprising transformation. The
floors were bare, and from the ceiling of either room was suspended a
circle of wax lights and artificial flowers. The orchestra included a
double bass. I surveyed the company of the dancers, but soon curled
myself up on a sofa, where one of the dowagers fed me with ice-cream.
This entertainment took place at our house on Bowling Green, a
neighborhood which has long been given up to business.

As a child, I remember silver forks as in use at my father's dinner
parties. On ordinary occasions, we used the three-pronged steel fork
which is now rarely seen. My father sometimes admonished my maternal
grandmother not to put her knife into her mouth. In her youth every one
used the knife in this way.

Meats were carefully roasted in what was called a tin kitchen, before an
open fire. Desserts on state occasions consisted of pastry, wine jelly,
blanc-mange, with pyramids of ice-cream. This last was always supplied
by a French resident, Jean Contoit by name, whose very modest garden
long continued to be the principal place from which such a dainty could
be obtained. It may have been M. Contoit who, speaking to a compatriot
of his first days in America, said, "Imagine! when I first came to this
country, people cooked vegetables with water only, _and the calf's head
was thrown away_!"

Of the dress of that period I remember that ladies wore white cambric
gowns, finely embroidered, in winter as well as in summer, and walked
abroad in thin morocco slippers. Pelisses were worn in cold weather,
often of some bright color, rose pink or blue. I have found in a family
letter of that time the following description of a bride's toilet: "Miss
E. was married in a frock of white merino, with a full suit of steel:
comb, earrings, and so on." I once heard Mrs. William Astor, _née_
Armstrong, tell of a pair of brides, twin sisters, who appeared at
church dressed in pelisses of white merino, trimmed with chinchilla,
with caps of the same fur. They were much admired at the time.

Among the festivities of old New York, the observance of New Year's Day
held an important place. In every house of any pretension, the ladies of
the family sat in their drawing-rooms, arrayed in their best dresses,
and the gentlemen of their acquaintance made short visits, during which
wine and rich cakes were offered them. It was allowable to call as early
as ten o'clock in the morning. The visitor sometimes did little more
than appear and disappear, hastily muttering something about "the
compliments of the season." The gentlemen prided themselves upon the
number of visits paid, the ladies upon the number received. Girls at
school vexed each other with emulative boasting: "We had fifty calls on
New Year's Day." "Oh! but _we_ had sixty-five." This perfunctory
performance grew very tedious by the time the calling hours were ended,
but apart from this, the day was one on which families were greeted by
distant relatives rarely seen, while old friends met and revived their
pleasant memories.

In our house, the rooms were all thrown open. Bright fires burned in the
grates. My father, after his adoption of temperance principles, forbade
the offering of wine to visitors, and ordered it to be replaced by hot
coffee. We were rather chagrined at this prohibition, but his will was

I recall a New Year's Day early in the thirties, on which a yellow
chariot stopped before our door. A stout, elderly gentleman descended
from it, and came in to pay his compliments to my father. This gentleman
was John Jacob Astor, who was already known to be possessed of great

The pleasant custom just described was said to have originated with the
Dutch settlers of the olden time. As the city grew in size, it became
difficult and well-nigh impossible for gentlemen to make the necessary
number of visits. Finally, a number of young men of the city took it
upon themselves to call in squads at houses which they had no right to
molest, consuming the refreshments provided for other guests, and making
themselves disagreeable in various ways. This offense against good
manners led to the discontinuance, by common consent, of the New Year's

A younger sister of my mother, named Louisa Cordé Cutler, was one of the
historic beauties of her time. She was a frequent and beloved guest at
my father's house, but her marriage took place at my grandmother's
residence in Jamaica Plain. The bridegroom was the only son of Judge
McAllister, of Savannah, Georgia. One of my aunt's bridesmaids, Miss
Elizabeth Danforth, a lady much esteemed in the older Boston, once gave
me the following account of the marriage:--

"Yes, this is my beautiful bride. [My aunt was now about sixty years
old.] Well do I recall the evening of her marriage. I was to be her
bridesmaid, you know, and when the time came, I was all dressed and
ready. But the Dorchester coach was wanted for old Madam Blake's
funeral, and as there was no other conveyance to be had, I was obliged
to wait for it. The time seemed endless while I was walking up and down
the hall in my bridesmaid's dress, my mother from time to time exhorting
me to have patience, without much effect.

"At last the coach came, and in it I was driven to your grandmother's
house in Jamaica Plain. As I entered the door I met the bridal party
coming downstairs. Your mother said to me, 'Oh! Elizabeth, we thought
you were not coming.' After this all passed off pleasantly. Your
grandmother was dressed in a lilac silk gown of rather antiquated
fashion, adorned with frills and furbelows which had passed out of date.
Your mother, who had come on from New York for the ceremony, said to her
later in the evening, 'Dear mamma, you must make a present of that gown
to some theatrical friend. It is only fit for the boards.'"

The officiating clergyman of the occasion was the Reverend Benjamin
Clarke Cutler, brother of the bride. It was his first service of the
kind, and the company were somewhat amused when, in absence or confusion
of mind, he pronounced the nuptial blessing upon _M_ and _N_, the
letters which stand in the church ritual for the names of the parties
contracting. Accordingly, at the wedding supper, the first toast was
drunk "to the health and happiness of M and N," and responded to with
much merriment.

I have further been told that the bride's elder sister, afterwards known
as Mrs. Francis, danced "in stocking-feet" with my father's elder
brother, this having been the ancient rule when the younger children
were married before the older ones.

In spite of the costume which met with her daughter's disapproval, my
maternal grandmother was not indifferent to dress. She used to lament
the ugliness of modern fashions, and to extol those of her youth, in
which she was one of the _élégantes_ of Southern society. She remembered
with pleasure that General Washington once crossed a ball-room to speak
with her. This was probably when she was the wife or widow of Colonel
Herne, to whom she was married at the age of fourteen (when her dolls,
she told me, were taken away from her), and whose death occurred before
she had attained legal majority. She had received a good musical
education for those times, and Colonel Perkins of Boston once told me
that he remembered her as a fascinating young widow with a lovely voice.
It must have been during her visit to Boston that she met my grandfather
Cutler, who straightway fell in love with and married her. When past her
sixtieth year she would sometimes sing an old-time duet with my father.
She had a great love of good literature. Here is what she told me about
the fashions of her youth:

"We wore our hair short, and _créped_ all over in short curls, which
were kept in place by a spangled ribbon, bound around the head. Powder
was universally worn. The _Maréchale_ powder was most becoming to the
complexion, having a slight yellowish tinge. We wore trains, but had a
set of cords by which we pulled them up in festoons, when we went to
dance. Brocades were much worn. I wanted one, but could not find one at
the time, so I embroidered a pretty yellow silk dress of mine, and made
a brocade of it."

She once mentioned having known, in days long distant, of a company of
ladies who had banded themselves together for some new departure of a
patriotic intent, and who had waited upon General Washington in a body.
I have since ascertained that they called themselves "Daughters of
Liberty." A kindred association had been formed of "Sons of Liberty."
Perhaps these ladies were of the mind of Mrs. John Adams, who, when
congratulating her husband upon the liberties assured to American men by
the then new Constitution of the United States, thought it "a pity that
the legislators had not also done something for the ladies."

Among the familiar figures of my early life is that of Dr. John
Wakefield Francis. I wish it were in my power to give any adequate
description of this remarkable man, who was certainly one of the
worthies of his time. As already said, he was my uncle by marriage, and
for many years a resident in my father's house. He was of German origin,
florid in complexion and mercurial in temperament. His fine head was
crowned with an abundance of silken curly hair. He always wore
gold-bowed glasses, being very near-sighted, was a born humorist, and
delighted in jest and hyperbole. He was an omnivorous reader, and was so
constituted that four hours of sleep nightly sufficed to keep him in
health. This was fortunate for him, as he had an extensive practice, and
was liable to be called out at all hours of the night. A candle always
stood on a table beside his pillow, and with it a pile of books and
papers, which he habitually perused long before the coming of daylight.
It so happened, however, that he waked one morning at about four of the
clock, and saw his wife, wrapped in shawls, sitting near the fire,
reading something by candlelight. The following conversation ensued:--

"Eliza, what book is that you are reading?"

"'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' dear."

"Is it? I don't need to know anything more about it--it must be the
greatest book of the age."

His humor was extravagant. I once heard him exclaim, "How brilliant is
the light which streams through the fissure of a cracked brain!" Again
he spoke of "a fellow who couldn't go straight in a ropewalk." His
anecdotes of things encountered in the exercise of his profession were
most amusing.

He found us seated in the drawing-room, one evening, to receive a visit
from a very shy professor of Brown University. The doctor, surveying the
group, seized this poor man, lifted him from the floor, and carried him
round the circle, to express his pleasure at seeing an old friend. The
countenance of the guest meanwhile showed an agony of embarrassment and

The doctor was very temperate in everything except tea, which he drank
in the green variety, in strong and copious libations. Indeed, he had no
need of wine or other alcoholic stimulants, his temperament being almost
incandescent. Overflowing as he was with geniality, he yet accommodated
himself easily to the requirements of a sick room, and showed himself
tender, vigilant, and most sympathetic. He attended many people who
could not, and some who would not, pay for his visits. One of these
last, having been brought by him through an attack of cholera, was so
much impressed with the kindness and skill of the doctor that he at once
and for the first time sent him a check in recognition of services that
money could not repay.

After many years of residence with us, my uncle and aunt Francis
removed, first to lodgings, and later to a house of their own. Here my
aunt busied herself much with the needs of rich and poor. Ladies often
came to her seeking good servants, her recommendation being considered
an all-sufficient security. Women out of place came to her seeking
employment, which she often found for them. These acts of kindness,
often involving a considerable expenditure of time and trouble, the dear
lady performed with no thought of recompense other than the assurance
that she had been helpful to those who needed her assistance in manifold
ways. In her new abode Auntie lived with careful economy, dispensing her
simple hospitality with a generous hand. She was famous among her
friends for delicious coffee and for excellent tea, which she always
made herself, on the table.

She sometimes invited friends for an evening party, but made it a point
to invite those who were not her favorites for a separate occasion, not
wishing to dilute her enjoyment of the chosen few, and, on the other
hand, desiring not to hurt the feelings of any of her acquaintance by
wholly leaving them out. When Edgar Allan Poe first became known in New
York, Dr. Francis invited him to the house. It was on one of Auntie's
good evenings, and her room was filled with company. The poet arrived
just at a moment when the doctor was obliged to answer the call of a
patient. He accordingly opened the parlor door, and pushed Mr. Poe into
the room, saying, "Eliza, my dear, the Raven!" after which he
immediately withdrew. Auntie had not heard of the poem, and was entirely
at a loss to understand this introduction of the new-comer.

It was always a pleasure to welcome distinguished strangers to New York.
Mrs. Jameson's visit to the United States, in the year 1835, gave me the
opportunity of making acquaintance with that very accomplished lady and
author. I was then a girl of sixteen summers, but I had read the "Diary
of an Ennuyée," which first brought Mrs. Jameson into literary
prominence. I read afterwards with avidity the two later volumes in
which she gives so good an account of modern art work in Europe. In
these she speaks with enthusiasm of certain frescoes in Munich which I
was sorry, many years later, to be obliged to consider less beautiful
than her description of them would have warranted one in believing. When
I perused these works, having myself no practical knowledge of art,
their graphic style seemed to give me clear vision of the things
described. The beautiful Pinakothek and Glyptothek of Munich became to
me as if I actually saw them, and when it was my good fortune to visit
them I seemed, especially in the case of the marbles, to meet with old
friends. Mrs. Jameson's connoisseurship was not limited to pictorial and
sculptural art. Of music also she was passionately fond. In the book
just spoken of she describes an evening passed with the composer Wieck
in his German home. In this she speaks of his daughter Clara, and of her
lover, young Schumann. Clara Wieck, afterwards Madame Schumann, became
well known in Europe as a pianist of eminence, and of Schumann as a
composer it needs not now to speak. There were various legends regarding
Mrs. Jameson's private history. It was said that her husband, marrying
her against his will, parted from her at the church door, and thereafter
left England for Canada, where he was residing at the time of her visit.
I first met her at an evening party at the house of a friend. I was
invited to make some music, and sang, among other things, a brilliant
bravura air from "Semiramide." When I would have left the piano, Mrs.
Jameson came to me and said, "_Altra cosa_, my dear." My voice had been
cultivated with care, and though not of great power was considered
pleasing in quality, and was certainly very flexible. I met Mrs. Jameson
at several other entertainments devised in her honor. She was of middle
height, her hair red blond in color. Her face was not handsome, but
sensitive and sympathetic in expression. The elegant dames of New York
were somewhat scandalized at her want of taste in dress. I actually
heard one of them say, "How like the devil she does look!"

After a winter passed in Canada, Mrs. Jameson again visited New York, on
her way to England. She called upon me one day with a friend, and asked
to see my father's pictures. Two of these, portraits of Charles First
and his queen, were supposed to be by Vandyke. Mrs. Jameson doubted
this. She spoke of her intimacy with the celebrated Mrs. Somerville, and
said, "I think of her as a dear little woman who is very fond of
drawing." When I went to return her visit, I found her engaged in
earnest conversation with a son of Sir James Mackintosh. When he had
taken leave, she said to me, "Mr. Mackintosh and I were almost at
daggers drawing." So far as I could learn, their dispute related to
democratic forms of government, and the society therefrom resulting,
which he viewed with favor and she with bitter dislike. I inquired about
her winter in Canada. She replied, "As the Irishman said, I had
everything that a pig could want." A volume from her hand appeared soon
after this time, entitled "Winter Studies and Summer Rambles in Canada."
Her work on "Sacred and Legendary Art" and her "Legends of the Madonna"
were published some years later.



I left school at the age of sixteen, and began thereafter to study in
good earnest. Until that time a certain over-romantic and imaginative
turn of mind had interfered much with the progress of my studies. I
indulged in day-dreams which appeared to me far higher in tone than the
humdrum of my school recitations. When these were at an end, I began to
feel the necessity of more strenuous application, and at once arranged
for myself hours of study, relieved by the practice of vocal and
instrumental music.

At this juncture, a much esteemed friend of my father came to pass some
months with us. This was Joseph Green Cogswell, founder and principal of
Round Hill School, at which my three brothers had been among his pupils.
The school, a famous one in its day, was now finally closed. Our new
guest was an accomplished linguist, and possessed an admirable power of
imparting knowledge. With his aid, I resumed the German studies which I
had already begun, but in which I had made but little progress. Under
his tuition, I soon found myself able to read with ease the masterpieces
of Goethe and Schiller.

Rev. Leonard Woods, son of a well-known pastor of that name, was a
familiar guest at my father's house. He took some interest in my
studies, and at length proposed that I should become a contributor to
the "Theological Review," of which he was editor at that time. I
undertook to furnish a review of Lamartine's "Jocelyn," which had
recently appeared. When I had done my best with this, Dr. Cogswell went
over the pages with me very carefully, pointing out defects of style and
arrangement. The paper attracted a good deal of attention, and some
comments on it gave occasion to the admonition which my dear uncle
thought fit to administer to me, as already mentioned.

The house of my young ladyhood (I use this term, as it was the one in
use at the time of which I write) was situated at the corner of Bond
Street and Broadway. When my father built it, the fashion of the city
had not proceeded so far up town. The model of the house was a noble
one. Three spacious rooms and a small study occupied the first floor.
These were furnished with curtains of blue, yellow, and red silk. The
red room was that in which we took our meals. The blue room was the one
in which we received visits, and passed the evenings. The yellow room
was thrown open only on high occasions, but my desk and grand piano were
placed in it, and I was allowed to occupy it at will. This and the blue
room were adorned by beautiful sculptured mantelpieces, the work of
Thomas Crawford, afterwards known as a sculptor of great merit. Many
years after this time he became the husband of the sister next me in
age, and the father of F. Marion Crawford, the now celebrated novelist.

Our family was patriarchal in its dimensions, including my aunt and
uncle Francis, whose children were all born in my father's house, and
were very dear to him. My maternal grandmother also passed much time
with us. My two younger brothers, Henry and Marion, were at home with us
after a term of years at Round Hill School. My eldest brother, Samuel
(afterwards the Sam. Ward of the Lobby), a most accomplished and
agreeable young man, had recently returned from Europe, bringing with
him a fine library. My father, having already added to his large house a
spacious art gallery, now built a study, whose walls were entirely
occupied by my brother's books. I had free access to these, and did not
neglect to profit by it.

From what I have just said, it may rightly be inferred that my father
was a man of fine tastes, inclined to generous and even lavish
expenditure. He desired to give us the best educational opportunities,
the best and most expensive masters. He filled his art gallery with the
finest pictures that money could command in the New York of that day. He
gave largely to public undertakings, was one of the founders of the New
York University, and was one of the foremost promoters of church
building in the then distant West. He demurred only at expenses
connected with dress and fashionable entertainment, for he always
disliked and distrusted the great world. My dear eldest brother held
many arguments with him on this theme. He saw, as we did, that our
father was disposed to ignore the value of ordinary social intercourse.
On one occasion the dispute between them became quite animated.

"Sir," said my brother, "you do not keep in view the importance of the
social tie."

"The social what?" asked my father.

"The social tie, sir."

"I make small account of that," said the elder gentleman.

"I will die in defense of it!" impetuously rejoined the younger. My
father was so much amused at this sally that he spoke of it to an
intimate friend: "He will die in defense of the social tie, indeed!"

[Illustration: SAMUEL WARD (MRS. HOWE'S father)

_From a miniature by Anne Hall._]

Our way of living was simple. The table was abundant, but not with the
richest food. For many years, as I have said, no alcoholic stimulant
appeared on it. My father gave away by dozens the bottles of costly wine
stored in his cellar, but neither tasted their contents nor allowed us
to do so. He was for a great part of his life a martyr to rheumatic
gout, and a witty friend of his once said: "Ward, it must be the poor
man's gout that you have, as you drink only water."

We breakfasted at eight in winter, at half past seven in summer. My
father read prayers before breakfast and before bedtime. If my brothers
lingered over the morning meal, he would come in, hatted and booted for
the day, and would say: "Young gentlemen, I am glad that you can afford
to take life so easily. I am old and must work for my living," a speech
which usually broke up our morning coterie. Dinner was served at four
o'clock, a light lunch abbreviating the fast for those at home. At half
past seven we sat down to tea, a meal of which toast, preserves, and
cake formed the staple. In the evening we usually sat together with
books and needlework, often with an interlude of music. An occasional
lecture, concert, or evening party varied this routine. My brothers went
much into fashionable society, but my own participation in its doings
came only after my father's death, and after the two years' mourning
which, according to the usage of those days, followed it.

My father retained the Puritan feeling with regard to Saturday evening.
He would remark that it was not a proper evening for company, regarding
it as a time of preparation for the exercises of the day following, the
order of which was very strict. We were indeed indulged on Sunday
morning with coffee and muffins at breakfast, but, besides the morning
and afternoon services at church, we young folks were expected to attend
the two meetings of the Sunday-school. We were supposed to read only
Sunday books, and I must here acknowledge my indebtedness to Mrs.
Sherwood, an English writer now almost forgotten, whose religious
stories and romances were supposed to come under this head. In the
evening, we sang hymns, and sometimes received a quiet visitor.

My readers, if I have any, may ask whether this restricted routine
satisfied my mind, and whether I was at all sensible of the privileges
which I really enjoyed, or ought to have enjoyed. I must answer that,
after my school-days, I greatly coveted an enlargement of intercourse
with the world. I did not desire to be counted among "fashionables," but
I did aspire to much greater freedom of association than was allowed me.
I lived, indeed, much in my books, and my sphere of thought was a good
deal enlarged by the foreign literatures, German, French, and Italian,
with which I became familiar. Yet I seemed to myself like a young damsel
of olden time, shut up within an enchanted castle. And I must say that
my dear father, with all his noble generosity and overweening affection,
sometimes appeared to me as my jailer.

My brother's return from Europe and subsequent marriage opened the door
a little for me. It was through his intervention that Mr. Longfellow
first visited us, to become a valued and lasting friend. Through him in
turn we became acquainted with Professor Felton, Charles Sumner, and Dr.
Howe. My brother was very fond of music, of which he had heard the best
in Paris and in Germany. He often arranged musical parties at our house,
at which trios of Beethoven, Mozart, and Schubert were given. His wit,
social talent, and literary taste opened a new world to me, and enabled
me to share some of the best results of his long residence in Europe.

My father's jealous care of us was by no means the result of a
disposition tending to social exclusiveness. It proceeded, on the
contrary, from an over-anxiety as to the moral and religious influences
to which his children might become subjected. His ideas of propriety
were very strict. He was, moreover, not only a strenuous Protestant, but
also an ardent "Evangelical," or Low Churchman, holding the Calvinistic
views which then characterized that portion of the American Episcopal
church. I remember that he once spoke to me of the anguish he had felt
at the death of his own father, of the orthodoxy of whose religious
opinions he had had no sufficient assurance. My grandfather, indeed, was
supposed, in the family, to be of a rather skeptical and philosophizing
turn of mind. He fell a victim to the first visitation of the cholera in

Despite a certain austerity of character, my father was much beloved and
honored in the business world. He did much to give to the firm of Prime,
Ward and King the high position which it attained and retained during
his lifetime. He told me once that when he first entered the office, he
found it, like many others, a place where gossip circulated freely. He
determined to put an end to this, and did so. Among the foreign
correspondents of his firm were the Barings of London, and Hottinguer et
Cie. of Paris.

In the great financial troubles which followed Andrew Jackson's refusal
to renew the charter of the Bank of the United States, several States
became bankrupt, and repudiated the obligations incurred by their bonds,
to the great indignation of business people in both hemispheres. The
State of New York was at one time on the verge of pursuing this course,
which my father strenuously opposed. He called meeting after meeting,
and was unwearied in his efforts to induce the financiers of the State
to hold out. When this appeared well-nigh impossible, he undertook that
his firm should negotiate with English correspondents a loan to carry
the State over the period of doubt and difficulty. This he was able to
effect. My eldest brother came home one day and said to me:--

"As I walked up from Wall Street to-day, I saw a dray loaded with kegs
on which were inscribed the letters, 'P. W. & K.' Those kegs contained
the gold just sent to the firm from England to help our State through
this crisis."

My father once gave me some account of his early experiences in Wall
Street. He had been sent, almost a boy, to New York, to try his fortune.
His connection with Block Island families through his grandmother,
Catharine Ray Greene, had probably aided in securing for him a clerk's
place in the banking house of Prime and Sands, afterwards Prime, Ward
and King. He soon ascertained that the Spanish dollars brought to the
port by foreign trading vessels could be sold in Wall Street at a
profit. He accordingly employed his leisure hours in the purchase of
these coins, which he carried to Wall Street and there sold. This was
the beginning of his fortune.

A work published a score or more of years since, entitled "The Merchant
Princes of Wall Street," concluded some account of my father by the
statement that he died without fortune. This was far from true. His
death came indeed at a very critical moment, when, having made extensive
investments in real estate, his skill was requisite to carry this
extremely valuable property over a time of great financial disturbance.
His brother, our uncle, who became the guardian of our interests, was
familiar with the stock market, but little versed in real estate
transactions. By untimely sales, much of my father's valuable estate was
scattered; yet it gave to each of his six children a fair inheritance
for that time; for the millionaire fever did not break out until long

The death of this dear and noble parent took place when I was a little
more than twenty years of age. Six months later I attained the period of
legal responsibility, but before this a new sense of the import of life
had begun to alter the current of my thoughts. With my father's death
came to me a sense of my want of appreciation of his great kindness, and
of my ingratitude for the many comforts and advantages which his
affection had secured to me. He had given me the most delightful home,
the most careful training, the best masters and books. He had even, as I
have said, built a picture gallery for my especial instruction and
enjoyment. All this I had taken, as a matter of course, and as my
natural right. He had done his best to keep me out of frivolous society,
and had been extremely strict about the visits of young men to the
house. Once, when I expostulated with him upon these points, he told me
that he had early recognized in me a temperament and imagination
over-sensitive to impressions from without, and that his wish had been
to guard me from exciting influences until I should appear to him fully
able to guard and guide myself. It was hardly to be expected that a girl
in her teens, or just out of them, should acquiesce in this restrictive
guardianship, tender and benevolent as was its intention. My little acts
of rebellion were met with some severity, but I now recall my father's
admonitions as

  "Soft rebukes with blessings ended."

I cannot, even now, bear to dwell upon the desolate hush which fell upon
our house when its stately head lay, silent and cold, in the midst of
weeping friends and children. Six of us were made orphans, three sons
and three daughters. We had had our little disagreements and
dissensions, but the blow which now fell upon us drew us together with
the bond of a common sorrow. My eldest brother had recently gone to
reside in a house of his own. The second one, Henry by name, became at
this time my great intimate. He was a high-strung youth, very chivalrous
in disposition, full of fun and humor, but with a deep vein of thought.
He was already betrothed to one whom I held dear, and I looked forward
to many years brightened by his happiness, but alas! an attack of
typhoid fever took him from us in the bloom of his youth. I was with him
day and night during his illness, and when he closed his eyes, I would
gladly, oh, so gladly, have died with him! The great anguish of this
loss told heavily upon me, and I remember the time as one without light
or comfort. I sought these indeed. A great religious revival was going
on in New York, and a zealous young friend persuaded me to attend some
of the meetings held in a neighboring church. I had never taken very
seriously the doctrines of the religious body in which I had been
reared. They now came home to me with terrible force, and a season of
depression and melancholy followed, during which I remained in a measure
cut off from the wholesome influences which reconcile us to life, even
when it must be embittered by a sense of irreparable loss.

At the time of my father's death, my dear bachelor uncle John, already
mentioned, left his own house and came to live with us. When our
paternal mansion was sold, some years later, he removed with us to the
house of my eldest brother, who was already a widower. After my marriage
my uncle again occupied a house of his own, in which for many years he
made us all at home, even with our later incumbrances of children and
nurses. He was, in short, the best and kindest of uncles. In business he
was more adventurous than his rather deliberate manner would have led
one to suppose. It was said that, in the course of his life, he had made
and lost several fortunes. In the end he left a very fair estate, which
was divided among the several sets of his nieces and nephews.

Long before this he had become one of the worthies of Wall Street, and
was universally spoken of as "Uncle John." Shortly after his retirement
from active business, the Board of Brokers of New York requested him to
sit to A. H. Wenzler for a portrait, to be hung in their place of
meeting. The portrait was executed with entire success. I ought to
mention in this connection that the directors of the New York Bank of
Commerce, of which my father was the founder and first president,
ordered a portrait of him from the well-known artist, Huntington.



As a love of study has been a leading influence in my life, I will here
employ a little time, at the risk of some repetition, in tracing the way
in which my thoughts had mostly tended up to the period when, after two
years of deep depression, I suddenly turned to practical life with an
eager desire to profit by its opportunities.

From early days my dear mother noticed in me an introspective tendency,
which led her to complain that when I went with her to friends' houses I
appeared dreamy and little concerned with what was going on around me.
My early education, received at home, interested me more than most of my
school work. While one person devoted time and attention to me, I repaid
the effort to my best ability. In the classes of my school-days, the
contact between teacher and pupil was less immediate. I shall always
remember with pleasure Mrs. B.'s "Conversations" on Chemistry, which I
studied with great pleasure, albeit that I never saw one of the
experiments therein described. I remember that Paley's "Evidences of
Christianity" interested me more than his "Philosophy," and that Blair's
"Rhetoric," with its many quotations from the poets, was a delight to
me. As I have before said, I was not inapt at algebra and geometry, but
was too indolent to acquire any mastery in mathematics. The French
language was somehow _burnt_ into my mind by a cruel French teacher, who
made my lessons as unpleasant as possible. My fear of him was so great
that I really exerted myself seriously to meet his requirements. I have
profited in later life by his severity, having been able not only to
speak French fluently but also to write it with ease.

I was fourteen years of age when I besought my father to allow me to
have some lessons in Italian. These were given me by Professor Lorenzo
Da Ponte, son of the veteran of whom I have already spoken. With him I
read the dramas of Metastasio and of Alfieri.

Through all these years there went with me the vision of some great work
or works which I myself should give to the world. I should write the
novel or play of the age. This, I need not say, I never did. I made
indeed some progress in a drama founded upon Scott's novel of
"Kenilworth," but presently relinquished this to begin a play suggested
by Gibbon's account of the fall of Constantinople. Such successes as I
did manage to achieve were in quite a different line, that of lyric
poetry. A beloved music-master, Daniel Schlesinger, falling ill and
dying, I attended his funeral and wrote some stanzas descriptive of the
scene, which were printed in various papers, attracting some notice. I
set them to music of my own, and sang them often, to the accompaniment
of a guitar.

Although the reading of Byron was sparingly conceded to us, and that of
Shelley forbidden, the morbid discontent which characterized these poets
made itself felt in our community as well as in England. Here, as
elsewhere, it brought into fashion a certain romantic melancholy. It is
true that at school we read Cowper's "Task," and did our parsing on
Milton's "Paradise Lost," but what were these in comparison with:--

  "The cold in clime are cold in blood,"


  "I loved her, Father, nay, adored."

After my brother's return from Europe, I read such works of George Sand
and Balzac as he would allow me to choose from his library. Of the two
writers, George Sand appeared to me by far the superior, though I then
knew of her works only "Les Sept Cordes de la Lyre," "Spiridion,"
"Jacques," and "André." It was at least ten years after this time that
"Consuelo" revealed to the world the real George Sand, and thereby made
her peace with the society which she had defied and scandalized. Of my
German studies I have already made mention. I began them with a class of
ladies under the tuition of Dr. Nordheimer. But it was with the later
aid of Dr. Cogswell that I really mastered the difficulties of the
language. It was while I was thus engaged that my eldest brother
returned from Germany. In conversing with him, I acquired the use of
colloquial German. Having, as I have said, the command of his fine
library, I was soon deep in Goethe's "Faust" and "Wilhelm Meister,"
reading also the works of Jean Paul, Matthias Claudius, and Herder.

Thus was a new influence introduced into the life of one who had been
brought up after the strictest rule of New England Puritanism. I derived
from these studies a sense of intellectual freedom so new to me that it
was half delightful, half alarming. My father undertook one day to read
an English translation of "Faust." He presently came to me and said,--

"My daughter, I hope that you have not read this wicked book!"

I must say, even after an interval of sixty years, that I do not
consider "Wilhelm Meister" altogether good reading for the youth of our
country. Its great author introduces into his recital scenes and
personages calculated to awaken strange discords in a mind ignorant of
any greater wrong than the small sins of a well-ordered household.
Although disapproving greatly of Goethe, my father took a certain pride
in my literary accomplishments, and was much pleased, I think, at the
commendation which followed some of my early efforts. One of these, a
brief essay on the minor poems of Goethe and Schiller, was published in
the "New York Review," perhaps in 1848, and was spoken of in the "North
American" of that time as "a charming paper, said to have been written
by a lady."

I have already said that a vision of some important literary work which
I should accomplish was present with me in my early life, and had much
to do with habits of study acquired by me in youth, and never wholly
relinquished. At this late day, I find it difficult to account for a
sense of literary responsibility which never left me, and which I must
consider to have formed a part of my spiritual make-up. My earliest
efforts in prose, two review articles, were probably more remarked at
the time of their publication than their merit would have warranted. But
women writers were by no means as numerous sixty years ago as they are
to-day. Neither was it possible for a girl student in those days to find
that help and guidance toward a literary career which may easily be
commanded to-day.

The death, within one year, of my father and most dearly loved brother
touched within me a deeper train of thought than I had yet known. The
anguish which I then experienced sought relief in expression, and took
form in a small collection of poems, which Margaret Fuller urged me to
publish, but which have never seen the light, and never will.

Among the friends who frequented my father's house was the Rev. Francis
L. Hawkes, long the pastor of a very prominent and fashionable Episcopal
church in New York. I remember that on one occasion he began to abuse my
Germans in good earnest for their irreligion and infidelity, of which I,
indeed, knew nothing. I inquired whether he had read any of the authors
whom he so unsparingly condemned. He was forced to confess that he had
not, but presently turned upon me, quite indignant that I should have
asked such a question. I recall another occasion on which the
anti-slavery agitation was spoken of. Dr. Hawkes condemned it very
severely, and said: "If I could get hold of one of those men who are
trying to stir up the slaves of the South to cut their masters' throats,
I would hang him to that lamp-post." An uncle of mine who was present
said: "Doctor, I honor you!" but I felt much offended at the doctor's
violence. With these exceptions his society was a welcome addition to
our family circle. He was a man of genial temperament and commanding
character, widely read in English literature, and esteemed very eloquent
as a preacher.

I remember moments in which the enlargement of my horizon of thought and
of faith became strongly sensible to me, in the quiet of my reading, in
my own room. A certain essay in the "Wandsbecker Bote" of Matthias
Claudius ends thus: "And is he not also the God of the Japanese?"
Foolish as it may appear, it had never struck me before that the God
whom I had been taught to worship was the God of any peoples outside the
limits of Judaism and Christendom. The suggestion shocked me at first,
but, later on, gave me much satisfaction. Another such moment I recall
when, having carefully read "Paradise Lost" to the very end, I saw
presented before me the picture of an eternal evil, of Satan and his
ministers subjugated indeed by God, but not conquered, and able to
maintain against Him an opposition as eternal as his goodness. This
appeared to me impossible, and I threw away, once and forever, the
thought of the terrible hell which till then had always formed part of
my belief. In its place, I cherished the persuasion that the victory of
goodness must consist in making everything good, and that Satan himself
could have no shield strong enough to resist permanently the divine
power of the divine spirit.

This was a great emancipation for me, and I soon welcomed with joy every
evidence in literature which tended to show that religion has never been
confined to the experience of a particular race or nation, but has shown
itself at all times, and under every variety of form, as a seeking for
the divine and a reverence for the things unseen.

So much for study!



My first peep at the great world in grown-up days was at a dinner party
given by a daughter of General Armstrong, married to the eldest son of
the first John Jacob Astor. Mrs. Astor was a person of very elegant
taste. She had received a part of her education in Paris, at the time
when her father represented our government at the Court of France. Her
notions of propriety in dress were very strict. According to these,
jewels were not to be worn in the daytime. Glaring colors and striking
contrasts were to be avoided. Much that is in favor to-day would have
been ruled out by her as inadmissible. At the dinner of which I speak
the ladies were in evening dress, which in those days did not transcend
modest limits. One very pretty married lady wore a white turban, which
was much admired. Another lady was adorned with a coronet of fine stone
cameos,--which has recently been presented to the Boston Art Museum by a
surviving member of her family.

My head was dressed for this occasion by Martel, a dainty half Spanish
or French octoroon, endowed with exquisite taste, a ready wit, and a
saucy tongue. He was the Figaro of the time, and his droll sayings were
often quoted among his lady customers. The hair was then worn low at the
back of the head, woven into elaborate braids and darkened with French
_pomade_, while an ornament called a _féronière_ was usually worn upon
the forehead or just above it. This was sometimes a string of pearls
with a diamond star in the middle, oftener a gold chain or band
ornamented with a jewel. The fashion, while it prevailed, was so general
that evening dress was scarcely considered complete without it.

Not long after the dinner party just mentioned, my eldest brother
married the eldest daughter of the Astor family. I officiated at the
wedding as first bridesmaid, a sister of the bride and one of my own
completing the number. The bride wore a dress of rich white silk, and
was coiffed with a scarf of some precious lace, in lieu of a veil. On
her forehead shone a diamond star, the gift of her grandfather, Mr. John
Jacob Astor. The bridesmaids' dresses were of white _moire_, then a
material of the newest fashion. I had begged my father to give me a
_féronière_ for this occasion, and he had presented me with a very
pretty string of pearls, having a pearl pansy and drop in the centre.
This fashion, I afterwards learned, was very ill suited to the contour
of my face. At the time, however, I had the comfort of supposing that I
looked uncommonly well. The ceremony took place in the evening at the
house of the bride's parents. A very elaborate supper was afterwards
served, at which the first groomsman proposed the health of the bride
and groom, which was drunk without response. A wedding journey was not a
_sine qua non_ in those days, but a wedding reception was usual. In this
instance it took the form of a brilliant ball, every guest being in turn
presented to the bride. On the floor of the ball-room a floral design
had been traced in colored chalks. The evening was at its height when my
father gravely admonished me that it was time to go home. Paternal
authority was without appeal in those days.

In my character of bridesmaid, I was allowed to attend one or two of the
entertainments given in honor of this marriage. The gayeties of New York
were then limited to balls, dinners, and evening parties. The afternoon
tea was not invented until a much later period. One or two extra
_élégantes_ received on stated afternoons. My dear uncle John, taking up
a card left for me, with the inscription, "Mrs. S. at home on Thursday
afternoon," remarked, "At home on Thursday afternoon? I am glad to learn
that she is so domestic." This lady, who was a leading personage in the
social world, used also to receive privileged friends on one evening in
the week, giving only a cup of chocolate and some cakes or biscuits.

My eldest brother, Samuel Ward, the fourth of the same name, has been so
well known, both in public and in private life, that my reminiscences
would not be complete without some special characterization of him. In
my childhood he was my ideal and my idol. A handsome youth, quick of wit
and tender of heart, brilliant in promise, and with a great and
versatile power of work in him, I doubt whether Round Hill School ever
turned out a more remarkable pupil.

From Round Hill my brother passed to Columbia College, graduating
therefrom after a four years' course. His mathematical attainments were
considered remarkable, and my father, desiring to give him the best
opportunity of extending his studies, sent him to Europe before he had
attained his majority, with a letter of credit whose amount the banker,
Hottinguer, thought it best not to impart to the young student, so much
did he consider it beyond his needs.

My brother's career in Europe, where he spent some years at this time,
was not altogether in accordance with the promise of his early devotion
to mathematical science. He saw much of German student life, and studied
enough to obtain a degree from the University of Tübingen. Before his
departure from America he had written two articles for the "North
American Review." One of these was on Locke's "Essay on the Human
Understanding," the other on Euler's works. In Paris, he became the
intimate friend of the famous critic, Jules Janin, and made acquaintance
with other literary men of the time. He returned to America in 1835,
speaking French like a Parisian and German as fluently as if that had
been his native language. He had purchased a great part of the
scientific library of La Grange, and an admirable collection of French
and German works. At this period, he desired to make literature, rather
than science, the leading pursuit of his life. He devoted much time to
the composition of a work descriptive of Paris. He wrote many chapters
of this in French, and I was proud to be allowed to render them into
English. He brought into the Puritanic limits of our family circle a
flavor of European life and culture which greatly delighted me.

[Illustration: SAMUEL WARD JR. _From a painting by Baron Vogel._]

My brother had spent a great deal of money while in Europe, and my
father, who had done so much for him, began to think it time that this
darling of fortune should take steps to earn his own support. The
easiest way for him to accomplish this was to accept a post in the
banking house of Prime, Ward and King, with the prospect of partnership
later. He decided, with some reluctance, to pursue this course. His
first day's performance at the office was so faulty that my father, on
reviewing it, exclaimed, "You will play the very devil with the
check-book, sir, if you use it in this way." He, however, applied
himself diligently to his office work, and soon mastered its
difficulties, but without developing a taste for business pursuits.
Literature was still his ruling passion, and he devoted such leisure as
he could command to study and to the composition of several lectures,
which he delivered with some success.

I have already spoken of his marriage with a daughter of Mr. William B.
Astor. This union, a very happy one, was not of long duration. After a
few years of married life, he was left a widower, with a daughter still
in infancy, who became the especial charge and darling of my sister

After an interval of some years, my brother married Miss Grimes of New
Orleans, a lady of uncommon beauty and talent. In the mean time we had
to mourn the death of our beloved father, whose sober judgment and
strong will had exercised a most salutary influence upon my brother's
sanguine temperament. He now became anxious to increase his income; and
this anxiety led him to embark in various speculations, which were not
always fortunate. He left the firm of Prime, Ward and King, and was one
of the first who went to California after its cession to the United

The Indians were then in near proximity to San Francisco, and Uncle Sam,
as he came to be called, went much among them, and became so well versed
in their diverse dialects as to be able to act as interpreter between
tribes unacquainted with each other's forms of speech. He once wrote out
and sent me some tenses of an Indian verb which had impressed him with
its resemblance to corresponding parts of the Greek language. I showed
this to Theodore Parker, who considered it remarkable, and at once
caused my brother to be elected as a member of some learned association
devoted to philological research.

An anecdote of his experience with the Indians may be briefly narrated
here. He had been passing some time at a mining camp in the neighborhood
of an Indian settlement, and had entered into friendly relations with
the principal chief of the tribe. Thinking that a trip to San Francisco
would greatly amuse this noble savage, he with some difficulty persuaded
the elders of the tribe to allow their leader to accompany him to the
city, where they had no sooner landed than the chief slipped out of
sight and could not be found. Several days passed without any news of
him, although advertisements were soon posted and a liberal reward
offered to any one who should discover his whereabouts. My brother and
his party were finally obliged to return to camp without him. This they
did very unwillingly, knowing that the chief's prolonged absence would
arouse the suspicions of his followers that he had met with

And so indeed it proved. Soon after their arrival at the settlement they
were told that the Indians were becoming much excited, and that a
council and war-dance were in preparation. The whites, a handful of men,
armed themselves, and were preparing to sell their lives dearly, when
suddenly the chief himself appeared among them. The Indians were
pacified and the whites were overjoyed. The fugitive gave the following
explanation of his strange conduct. He had been much alarmed by the
noises heard on board the steamer, which he seemed to have mistaken for
a living creature. "He must be sick, he groans so!" was his expression.
Resolving that he would not return by that means of conveyance, he had
found for himself a hiding-place on a hill commanding a view of the
harbor. From this height of vantage he was able to observe the movements
of the party which had brought him to the city. When he saw the men
reëmbark on the steamer, he felt himself secure from recapture, and
managed to steal a horse and to find his way back to his own people. If
his misunderstanding of the nature of the boat should seem improbable,
we must remember the Highlander who picked up a watch on some
battlefield, and the next day sold it for a trifle, averring that "the
creature had died in the night."

During the period of the civil war, my brother resided in Washington,
where his social gifts were highly valued. His sympathies were with the
Democratic party, but his friendships went far beyond the limits of
partisanship. He had an unusual power of reconciling people who were at
variance with each other, and the dinners at which he presided furnished
occasions to bring face to face political opponents accustomed to avoid
each other, but unable to resist the _bonhomie_ which sought to make
them better friends. He became known as King of the Lobby, but much more
as the prince of entertainers. Although careful in his diet, he was well
versed in gastronomics, and his menus were wholly original and
excellent. He had friendly relations with the diplomats who were
prominent in the society of the capital. Lord Rosebery and the Duke of
Devonshire were among his friends, as were also the late Senator Bayard
and President Garfield.

Quite late in life, he enjoyed a turn of good fortune, and was most
generous in his use of the wealth suddenly acquired, and alas! as
suddenly lost. His last visit to Europe was in 1882-83, when, after
passing some months with Lord and Lady Rosebery, he proceeded to Rome to
finish the winter with our sister, Mrs. Terry. In his travels he had
contracted a fatal disease, and his checkered and brilliant career came
to an end at Pegli, near Genoa, in the spring of 1884. Of his oft
contemplated literary work there remains a volume of poems entitled
"Literary Recreations." The poet Longfellow, my brother's lifelong
friend and intimate, esteemed these productions of his as true poetry,
and more than once said to me of their author, "He is the most lovable
man that I have ever known." I certainly never knew one who took so much
delight in giving pleasure to others, or whose life was so full of
natural, overflowing geniality and beneficence.

Shortly after his first marriage my brother and his bride came to reside
with us. In their company I often visited the Astor mansion, which was
made delightful by good taste, good manners, and hospitable

Mr. William B. Astor, the head of the family, was a rather shy and
silent man. He had received the best education that a German university
could offer. The Chevalier Bunsen had been his tutor, and Schopenhauer,
then a student at the same university, had been his friend. He had a
love for letters, and might perhaps have followed this natural leading
to advantage, had he not become his father's man of business, and thus
been forced to devote much of his life to the management of the great
Astor estate. At the time of which I speak, he resided on the
unfashionable side of Broadway, not far below Canal Street.

At this time I was often invited to the house of his father, Mr. John
Jacob Astor. This house, which the old gentleman had built for himself,
was situated on Broadway, between Prince and Spring streets. Adjoining
it was one which he had built for a favorite granddaughter, Mrs. Boreel.
He was very fond of music, and sometimes engaged the services of a
professional pianist. I remember that he was much pleased at
recognizing, one evening, the strains of a brilliant waltz, of which he
said: "I heard it at a fair in Switzerland years ago. The Swiss women
were whirling round in their red petticoats." On another occasion, we
sang the well-known song, "Am Rhein;" and Mr. Astor, who was very stout
and infirm of person, rose and stood beside the piano, joining with the
singers. "Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachset süsses Leben," he sang, instead
of "Da wachsen unsere Reben."

My sister-in-law, Emily Astor Ward, was endowed with a voice whose
unusual power and beauty had been enhanced by careful training. We
sometimes sang together or separately at old Mr. Astor's musical
parties, and at one of these he said to us, as we stood together: "You
are my singing birds." Of our two _répertoires_, mine was the most
varied, as it included French and German songs, while she sang mostly
operatic music. The rich volume of her voice, however, carried her
hearers quite away. Her figure and carriage were fine, and in her
countenance beauty of expression lent a great charm to features which in
themselves were not handsome.

Although the elder Astor had led a life mainly devoted to business
interests, he had great pleasure in the society of literary men.
Fitz-Greene Halleck and Washington Irving were familiar visitors at his
house, and he conceived so great a regard for Dr. Joseph Green Cogswell
as to insist upon his becoming an inmate of his family. He finally went
to reside with Mr. Astor, attracted partly by the latter's promise to
endow a public library in the city of New York. This was accomplished
after some delay, and the doctor was for many years director of the
Astor Library.

He used to relate some humorous anecdotes of excursions which he made
with Mr. Astor. In the course of one of these, the two gentlemen took
supper together at a hotel recently opened. Mr. Astor remarked: "This
man will never succeed."

"Why not?" inquired the other.

"Don't you see what large lumps of sugar he puts in the sugar bowl?"

Once, as they were walking slowly to a pilot-boat which the old
gentleman had chartered for a trip down the harbor, Dr. Cogswell said:
"Mr. Astor, I have just been calculating that this boat costs you
twenty-five cents a minute." Mr. Astor at once hastened his pace,
reluctant to waste so much money.

In his own country Mr. Astor had been a member of the German Lutheran
Church. He once mentioned this fact to a clergyman who called upon him
in the interest of some charity. The visitor congratulated Mr. Astor
upon the increased ability to do good, which his great fortune gave him.
"Ah!" said Mr. Astor, "the disposition to do good does not always
increase with the means." In the last years of his life he was afflicted
with insomnia. Dr. Cogswell often sat with him through a great part of
the night, the coachman, William, being also in attendance. In these
sleepless nights, his mind appeared to be much exercised with regard to
a future state. On one of these occasions, when Dr. Cogswell had done
his best to expound the theme of immortality, Mr. Astor suddenly said to
his servant: "William, where do you expect to go when you die?" The man
replied: "Why, sir, I always expected to go where the other people

Young as my native city was in my youth, it still retained some fossils
of an earlier period. Conspicuous among these were two sisters, of whom
the elder had been a recognized beauty and belle at the time of the War
of Independence.

Miss Charlotte White was what was called "a character" in those days.
She was tall and of commanding figure, attired after an ancient fashion,
but with great care. I remember her calling upon my aunt one morning, in
company with a lady friend much inclined to _embonpoint_. The lady's
name was Euphemia, and Miss White addressed her thus: "Feme, thou female
Falstaff." She took some notice of me, and began to talk of the gayeties
of her youth, and especially of a ball given at Newport during the war,
at which she had received especial attention.

On returning the visit we found the sisters in the quaintest little
sitting-room imaginable, the floor covered with a green Brussels carpet,
woven in one piece, with a medallion of flowers in the centre, evidently
manufactured to order. The furniture was of enameled white wood. We were
entertained with cake and wine.

The younger of the sisters was much afraid of lightning, and had devised
a curious little refuge to which she always betook herself when a
thunderstorm appeared imminent. This was a wooden platform standing on
glass feet, with a seat and a silken canopy, which the good lady drew
closely around her, remaining thus enveloped until the dreaded danger
was past.

My father sometimes endeavored to overcome my fear of lightning by
taking me up to the cupola of our house, and bidding me admire the
beauty of the storm. Wishing to impress upon me the absurdity of giving
way to fear, he told me of a lady whom he had known in his youth who,
being overtaken by a thunderstorm at a place of public resort, so lost
her head that she seized the wig of a gentleman standing near her, and
waved it wildly in the air, to his great wrath and discomfiture. I am
sorry to say that this dreadful warning provoked my laughter, but did
not increase my courage.

The years of mourning for my father and beloved brother being at an end,
and the sister next to me being now of an age to make her début in
society, I began with her a season of visiting, dancing, and so on. My
sister was very handsome, and we were both welcome guests at fashionable

I was passionately fond of music, and scarcely less so of dancing, and
the history of the next two winters would, if written, chronicle a
series of balls, concerts, and dinners.

I did not, even in these years of social routine, abandon either my
studies or my hope of contributing to the literature of my generation.
Hours were not then unreasonably late. Dancing parties usually broke up
soon after one o'clock, and left me fresh enough to enjoy the next day's

We saw many literary people and some of the scientists with whom my
brother had become acquainted while in Europe. Among the first was John
L. O'Sullivan, the accomplished editor of the "Democratic Review." When
the poet Dana visited our city, he always called upon us, and we
sometimes had the pleasure of seeing with him his intimate friend,
William Cullen Bryant, who very rarely appeared in general society.

Among our scientific guests I especially remember an English gentleman
who was in those days a distinguished mathematician, and who has since
become very eminent. He was of the Hebrew race, and had fallen violently
in love with a beautiful Jewish heiress, well known in New York. His
wooing was not fortunate, and the extravagance of his indignation at its
result was both pathetic and laughable. He once confided to me his
intention of paying his addresses to the lady's young niece. "And Miss
---- shall become our Aunt Hannah!" he said, with extreme bitterness.

I exhorted him to calm himself by devotion to his scientific pursuits,
but he replied: "Something better than mathematics has waked up here!"
pointing to his heart. He wrote many verses, which he read aloud to our
sympathizing circle. I recall from one of these a distich of some merit.
Speaking of his fancied wrongs, and warning his fair antagonist to
beware of the revenge which he might take, he wrote:--

  "Wine gushes from the trampled grape,
  Iron's branded into steel."

In the end he returned to the science which had been his first love, and
which rewarded his devotion with a wide reputation.

These years glided by with fairy-like swiftness. They were passed by my
sisters and myself under my brother's roof, where the beloved uncle also
made his home with us so long as we remained together.

I have dwelt a good deal on the circumstances and surroundings of my
early life in my native city. If this state of things here described had
continued, I should probably have remained a frequenter of fashionable
society, a musical amateur, and a _dilettante_ in literature.



Quite other experiences were in store for me. I chanced to pass the
summer of 1841 at a cottage in the neighborhood of Boston, with my
sisters and a young friend much endeared to us as the betrothed of the
dearly loved brother Henry, whose recent death had greatly grieved us.

Longfellow and Sumner often visited us in our retirement. The latter
once made mention of Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe's wonderful achievement in
the case of Laura Bridgman, the first blind deaf mute who had ever been
taught the use of language. He also brought us some of the reports which
gave an account of the progress of her education. It was proposed that
we should drive over to the Perkins Institution on a given day. Mr.
Longfellow came for me in a buggy, while Mr. Sumner conducted my two
sisters and our friend.

We found Laura, then a child of ten years, seated at her little desk,
and beside her another girl of the same age, also a blind deaf mute. The
name of this last was Lucy Reed, and we learned that, until brought to
the Institution, she had been accustomed to cover her head and face with
a cotton bag of her own manufacture. Her complexion was very delicate
and her countenance altogether pleasing. While the two children were
holding converse through the medium of the finger alphabet, Lucy's face
was suddenly lit up by a smile so beautiful as to call forth from us an
involuntary exclamation. Unfortunately, this young girl was soon taken
away by her parents, and I have never had any further knowledge
concerning her.

Dr. Howe was absent when we arrived at the Institution, but before we
took leave of it, Mr. Sumner, looking out of a window, said, "Oh! here
comes Howe on his black horse." I looked out also, and beheld a noble
rider on a noble steed. The doctor dismounted, and presently came to
make our acquaintance. One of our party proposed to give Laura some
trinket which she wore, but Dr. Howe forbade this rather sternly. He
made upon us an impression of unusual force and reserve. Only when I was
seated beside Longfellow for the homeward drive, he mischievously
remarked, "Longfellow, I see that your horse has been down," at which
the poet seemed a little discomfited.

Mr. Sanborn, in the preface to his biography of Dr. Howe, says:--

"It has fallen to my lot to know, both in youth and in age, several of
the most romantic characters of our century; and among them one of the
most romantic was certainly the hero of these pages. That he was indeed
a hero, the events of his life sufficiently declare."

This writer, in his interesting memoir, often quotes passages from one
prepared by myself shortly after my husband's death. In executing this
work, I was forced to keep within certain limits, as my volume was
primarily intended for the use of the blind, a circumstance which
necessitated the printing of it in raised letters. As this process is
expensive, and its results very cumbersome, economy of space becomes an
important condition in its execution.

Mr. Sanborn, not having suffered this limitation, and having had many
documents at his disposal, has been able to add much interesting matter
to what I was only able to give in outline. An even fuller biography
than his will be published ere many years, by our children, but the best
record of the great philanthropist's life remains in the new influences
which he brought to bear on the community. Traces of these may be found
in the improved condition of the several classes of unfortunates whose
interests he espoused and vindicated, often to the great indignation of
parties less enlightened. He himself had, what he was glad to recognize
in Wendell Phillips, a prophetic quality of mind. His sanguine
temperament, his knowledge of principles and reliance upon them,
combined to lead him in advance of his own time. Experts in reforms and
in charities acknowledge the indebtedness of both to his unremitting
labors. What the general public should most prize and hold fast is the
conviction, so clearly expressed by him, that humanity has a claim to be
honored and aided, even where its traits appear most abnormal and
degraded. He demanded for the blind an education which would render them
self-supporting; for the idiot, the training of his poor and maimed
capabilities; for the insane and the criminal, the watchful and
redemptive tutelage of society. In the world as he would have had it,
there should have been neither paupers nor outcasts. He did all that one
man could do to advance the coming of this millennial consummation.

My husband, Dr. Howe, was my senior by nearly a score of years. If I
mention this discrepancy in our ages, it is that I may acknowledge in
him the superiority of experience which so many years of the most noble
activity had naturally given him. My own true life had been that of a
student and of a dreamer. Dr. Howe had read and thought much, but he had
also acquired the practical knowledge which is rarely attained in the
closet or at the desk. His career from the outset had been characterized
by energy and perseverance. In his college days, this energy had found
much of its vent in undertakings of boyish mischief. When he came to
man's estate, a new inspiration took possession of him. The devotion to
ideas and principles, the zeal for the rights of others which go to make
up the men of public spirit--those leading traits now appeared in him,
and at once gave him a place among the champions of human freedom.

The love of adventure and the example of Lord Byron had, no doubt, some
part in his determination to cast in his lot with the Greeks in the
memorable struggle which restored to them their national life. But the
solidity and value of the services which he rendered to that oppressed
people showed in time that he was endowed, not only with the generous
impulses of youth, but with the forethought of mature manhood.

After some years of gallant service, in which he shared all the
privations of the little army, accustoming himself to the bivouac by
night, to hunger, hard fare, and constant fighting by day, he became
convinced that the Greeks were in danger of being reduced to submission
by absolute starvation. All the able-bodied men of the nation were in
the field. The Turks had devastated the land, and there were no hands to
till it. He therefore returned to America, and there preached so
effectual a crusade in behalf of the Greeks that a considerable sum of
money was contributed for their relief. These funds were expended by Dr.
Howe in shiploads of clothing and provisions, of which he himself
superintended the distribution, thus enabling the Greeks to hold out
until a sudden turn in political affairs induced the diplomacy of
western Europe to espouse their cause.

When the liberation of Greece had become an assured fact, Dr. Howe
returned to America to find and take up his life-work. The education of
the blind presented a worthy field for his tireless activity. He
founded, built up, and directed the first institution for their benefit
known in this country. This was a work of great difficulty, and one for
which the means at hand appeared utterly inadequate. Beginning with the
training of three little blind children in his father's house, he
succeeded so well in enlisting the sympathies of the public in behalf of
the class which they represented that funds soon flowed in from various
sources. The present well-known institution, with its flourishing
workshop, printing establishment, and other dependencies, stands to
attest his work, and the support given to it by the community.

A new lustre was added to his name by the wonderful series of
experiments which brought the gifts of human speech and knowledge to a
blind deaf mute. The story of Laura Bridgman is too well known to need
repetition in these pages. As related by Charles Dickens in his
"American Notes," it carried Dr. Howe's fame to the civilized world.
When he visited Europe with this deed of merit put upon his record, it
was as one whom high and low should delight to honor.

Mr. Emerson somewhere speaks of the romance of some special
philanthropy. Dr. Howe's life became an embodiment of this romance. Like
all inspired men, he brought into the enterprises of his day new ideas
and a new spirit. Deep in his heart lay a sense of the dignity and
ability of human nature, which forced him to reject the pauperizing
methods then employed in regard to various classes of unfortunates. The
blind must not only be fed and housed and cared for; they must learn to
make their lives useful to the community; they must be taught and
trained to earn their own support. Years of patient effort enabled him
to accomplish this; and the present condition of the blind in American
communities attests the general acceptance of their claim to the
benefits of education and the dignity of useful labor.

Dr. Howe's public services, however, were by no means limited to the
duties of his especial charge. With keen power of analysis, he explored
the most crying evils of society, seeking to discover, even in their
sources, the secret of their prevention and cure. His masterly report on
idiocy led to the establishment of a school for feeble-minded children,
in which numbers of these were trained to useful industries, and
redeemed from brutal ignorance and inertia. He aided Dorothea Dix in her
heroic efforts to improve the condition of the insane. He worked with
Horace Mann for the uplifting of the public schools. He stood with the
heroic few who dared to advocate the abolition of slavery. In these and
many other departments of work his influence was felt, and it is worthy
of remark that, although employing his power in so many directions, his
use of it was wonderfully free from waste. He indulged in no vaporous
visions, in no redundancy of phrases. The documents in which he gave to
the public the results of his experience are models of statement, terse,
simple, and direct.

I became engaged to Dr. Howe during a visit to Boston in the winter of
1842-43, and was married to him on the 23d of April of the latter year.
A week later we sailed for Europe in one of the small Cunard steamers of
that time, taking with us my youngest sister, Annie Ward, whose state of
health gave us some uneasiness. My husband's great friend, Horace Mann,
and his bride, Mary Peabody, sailed with us. During the first two days
of the voyage I was stupefied by sea-sickness, and even forgot that my
sister was on board the steamer. On the evening of the second day I
remembered her, and managed with the help of a very stout stewardess to
visit her in her stateroom, where she had for her roommate a cousin of
the poet Longfellow. We bewailed our common miseries a little, but the
next morning brought a different state of things. As soon as I was
awake, my husband came to me bringing a small dose of brandy with
cracked ice. "Drink this," he said, "and ask Mrs. Bean [the stewardess]
to help you get on your clothes, for you must go up on deck; we shall be
at Halifax in a few hours." Magnetized by the stronger will, I struggled
with my weakness, and was presently clothed and carried up on deck.
"Now, I am going for Annie," said Dr. Howe, leaving me comfortably
propped up in a safe seat. He soon returned with my dear sister, as
helpless as myself. The fresh air revived us so much that we were able
to take our breakfast, the first meal we ate on board, in the saloon
with the other passengers. We went on shore, however, for a walk at
Halifax, and from that time forth were quite able-bodied sea-goers.

On the last day before that of our landing, an unusually good dinner was
served, and, according to the custom of the time, champagne was
furnished gratis, in order that all who dined together might drink the
Queen's health. This favorite toast was accordingly proposed and
responded to by a number of rather flat speeches. The health of the
captain of our steamer was also proposed, and some others which I cannot
now recall. This proceeding amused me so much that I busied myself the
next day with preparing for a mock celebration in the ladies' cabin. The
meeting was well attended. I opened with a song in honor of Mrs. Bean,
our kind and efficient stewardess.

  "God save our Mrs. Bean,
  Best woman ever seen,
  God save Mrs. Bean.
  God bless her gown and cap,
  Pour guineas in her lap,
  Keep her from all mishap,
  God save Mrs. Bean."

The company were invited to join in singing these lines, which were, of
course, a take-off on "God save our gracious Queen." I can still see in
my mind's eye dear old Madam Sedgwick, mother of the well-known jurist,
Theodore of that name, lifting her quavering, high voice to aid in the

Mrs. Bean was rather taken aback by the unexpected homage rendered her.
We all called out: "Speech! speech!" whereupon she curtsied and said:
"Good ladies makes good stewardesses; that's all I can say," which was
very well in its way.

Rev. Jacob Abbott was one of our fellow passengers, and had been much in
our cabin, where he busied himself in compounding various "soft drinks"
for convalescent lady friends. His health was accordingly proposed with
the following stanza:--

  "Dr. Abbott in our cabin,
  Mixing of a soda-powder,
  How he ground it,
  How did pound it,
  While the tempest threatened louder."

I next gave the cow's health, whereupon a lady passenger, with a Scotch
accent, demurred: "I don't want to drink her health at a'. I think she
is the poorest _coo_ I ever heard of."

Arriving in London, we found comfortable lodgings in Upper Baker Street,
and busied ourselves with the delivery of our many letters of

The Rev. Sydney Smith was one of the first to honor our introduction
with a call. His reputation as a wit was already world-wide, and he was
certainly one of the idols of London society. In appearance he was
hardly prepossessing. He was short and squat of figure, with a rubicund
countenance, redeemed by a pair of twinkling eyes. When we first saw
him, my husband was suffering from the result of a trifling accident.
Mr. Smith said, "Dr. Howe, I must send you my gouty crutches."

My husband demurred at this, and begged Mr. Smith not to give himself
that trouble. He insisted, however, and the crutches were sent. Dr. Howe
had really no need of them, and I laughed with him at their
disproportion to his height, which would in any case have made it
impossible for him to use them. The loan was presently returned with
thanks, but scarcely soon enough; for Sydney Smith, who had lost heavily
by American investments, published in one of the London papers a letter
reflecting severely upon the failure of some of our Western States to
pay their debts. The letter concluded with these words: "And now an
American, present at this time in London, has deprived me of my last
means of support." One questioned a little whether the loan had not been
made for the sake of the pleasantry.

In the course of the visit already referred to, Mr. Smith promised that
we should receive cards for an entertainment which his daughter, Mrs.
Holland, was about to give. The cards were received, and we presented
ourselves at the party. Among the persons there introduced to us was
Mme. Van de Weyer, wife of the Belgian minister, and daughter of Joshua
Bates, formerly of Massachusetts, and in after years the founder of the
Public Library of Boston, in which one hall bears his name. Mr. Van de
Weyer, we were told, was on very friendly terms with the Prince Consort,
and his wife was often invited by the Queen.

The historian Grote and his wife also made our acquaintance. I
especially remember her appearance because it was, and was allowed to
be, somewhat _grote_sque. She was very tall and stout in proportion, and
was dressed on this occasion in a dark green or blue silk, with a
necklace of pearls about her throat. I gathered from what I heard that
hers was one of the marked personalities of that time in London society.

At this party Sydney Smith was constantly the centre of a group of
admiring friends. When we first entered the rooms, he said to us, "I am
so busy to-night that I can do nothing for you."

Later in the evening he found time to seek me out. "Mrs. Howe," said he,
"this is a rout. I like routs. Do you have routs in America?"

"We have parties like this in America," I replied, "but we do not call
them routs."

"What do you call them there?"

"We call them receptions."

This seemed to amuse him, and he said to some one who stood near us:--

"Mrs. Howe says that in America they call routs re-cep-tions."

He asked what I had seen in London so far. I replied that I had recently
visited the House of Lords, whereupon he remarked:--

"Mrs. Howe, your English is excellent. I have only heard you make one
mispronunciation. You have just said 'House of Lords.' We say 'House of
Lards.'" Some one near by said, "Oh, yes! the house is always addressed
as 'my luds and gentlemen.'"

When I repeated this to Horace Mann, it so vexed his gentle spirit as to
cause him to exclaim, "House of Lords? You ought to have said 'House of

I have made several visits in London since that time, one quite
recently, and I have observed that people now speak of receptions, and
not of routs. I think, also, that the pronunciation insisted upon by
Sydney Smith has become a thing of the past.

I think that Mrs. Sydney Smith must have called or have left a card at
our lodgings, for I distinctly remember a morning call which I made at
her house. The great wit was at home on this occasion, as was also his
only surviving son. An elder son had been born to him, who probably
inherited something of his character and ability, and whose death he
laments in one or more of his published letters. The young man whom I
saw at this time was spoken of as much devoted to the turf, and the only
saying of his that I have ever heard quoted was his question as to how
long it took Nebuchadnezzar to get into condition after he had been out
to grass.

Mrs. Smith received me very pleasantly. She seemed a grave and silent
woman, presenting in this respect a striking contrast to her husband. I
knew very little of the political opinions of the latter, and innocently
inquired whether he and Mrs. Smith went sometimes to court. The question
amused him. He said to his wife, "My dear, Mrs. Howe wishes to know
whether you and I go to court." To me he said, "No, madam. That is a
luxury which I deny myself."

I last saw Sydney Smith at an evening party at which, as usual, he was
surrounded by friends. A very amiable young American was present,
apropos of whom I heard Mr. Smith say:--

"I think I shall go over to America and settle in Boston. Perkins here
says that he'll patronize me."

Thomas Carlyle was also one of our earliest visitors. Some time before
leaving home, Dr. Howe had received from him a letter expressing his
great interest in the story of Laura Bridgman as narrated by Charles
Dickens. In this letter he mentioned Laura's childish question, "Do
horses sit up late?" In the course of his conversation he said, laughing
heartily: "Laura Bridgman, dear child! Her question, Do horses sit up

Before taking leave of us he invited us to take tea with him on the
following Sunday. When the day arrived, my husband was kept at home by a
severe headache, but Mr. and Mrs. Mann, my sister, and myself drove out
to Chelsea, where Mr. Carlyle resided at that time. In receiving us he
apologized for his wife, who was also suffering from headache and could
not appear.

In her absence I was requested to pour tea. Our host partook of it
copiously, in all the strength of the teapot. As I filled and refilled
his cup, I thought that his chronic dyspepsia was not to be wondered at.
The repast was a simple one. It consisted of a plate of toast and two
small dishes of stewed fruit, which he offered us with the words,
"Perhaps ye can eat some of this. I never eat these things myself."

The conversation was mostly a monologue. Mr. Carlyle spoke with a strong
Scotch accent, and his talk sounded to me like pages of his writings. He
had recently been annoyed by some movement tending to the
disestablishment of the Scottish Church. Apropos of this he said, "That
auld Kirk of Scotland! To think that a man like Johnny Graham should be
able to wipe it out with a flirt of his pen!" Charles Sumner was spoken
of, and Mr. Carlyle said, "Oh yes; Mr. Sumner was a vera dull man, but
he did not offend people, and he got on in society here."

Carlyle's hair was dark, shaggy, and rather unkempt; his complexion was
sallow, with a slight glow of red on the cheek; his eye was full of
fire. As we drove back to town, Mr. Mann expressed great disappointment
with our visit. He did not feel, he said, that we had seen the real
Carlyle at all. I insisted that we had.

Soon after our arrival in London a gentleman called upon us whom the
servant announced as Mr. Mills. It happened that I did not examine the
card which was brought in at the same time. Dr. Howe was not within, and
in his absence I entertained the unknown guest to the best of my
ability. He spoke of Longfellow's volume of poems on slavery, then a
recent publication, saying that he admired them.

Our talk turning upon poetry in general, I remarked that Wordsworth
appeared to be the only poet of eminence left in England. Before taking
leave of me the visitor named a certain day on which he requested that
we would come to breakfast at his house. Forgetful of the card, I asked
"Where?" He said, "You will find my address on my card. I am Mr.
Milnes." On looking at the card I found that this was Richard Monckton
Milnes, afterward known as Lord Houghton. I was somewhat chagrined at
remembering the remark I had made in connection with Wordsworth. He
probably supposed that I was ignorant of his literary rank, which I was
not, as his poems, though never very popular, were already well known in

The breakfast to which Mr. Milnes had invited us proved most pleasant.
Our host had recently traveled in the East, and had brought home a
prayer carpet, which we admired. His sister, Lady Galway, presided at
table with much grace.

The breakfast was at this time a favorite mode of entertainment, and we
enjoyed many of these occasions. I remember one at the house of Sir
Robert Harry Inglis, long a leading Conservative member of the House of
Commons. Punch once said of him:--

  "The Inglis thinks the world grows worse,
  And always wears a rose."

And this flower, which always adorned his buttonhole, seemed to match
well with his benevolent and somewhat rubicund countenance. At the
breakfast of which I speak, he cut the loaf with his own hands, saying
to each guest, "Will you have a slice or a hunch?" and cutting a slice
from one end or a hunch from the other, according to the preference

These breakfasts were not luncheons in disguise. They were given at ten,
or even at half past nine o'clock. The meal usually consisted of fish,
cutlets, eggs, cold bread and toast, with tea and coffee. At Samuel
Rogers's I remember that plover's eggs were served.

We also dined one evening with Mr. Rogers, and met among the guests Mr.
Dickens and Lady B., one of the beautiful Sheridan sisters. A gentleman
sat next me at table, whose name I did not catch. I had heard much of
the works of art to be seen in Mr. Rogers's house, and so took occasion
to ask him whether he knew anything about pictures. He smiled, and
answered, "Well, yes." I then begged him to explain to me some of those
which hung upon the walls, which he did with much good-nature. Presently
some one at the table addressed him as "Mr. Landseer," and I became
aware that I was sitting next to the celebrated painter of animals. His
fine face had already attracted me. I apologized for the question which
I had asked, and which had somewhat amused him.

I had recently seen at Stafford House a picture of his, representing two
daughters of the Duke of Sutherland playing with a dog. He said that he
did not care much for that picture, that the Duchess had herself chosen
the subject, etc. Mr. Rogers, indeed, possessed some paintings of great
value, one a genuine Raphael, if I mistake not. He had also many objects
of _virtu_. I think it was after a breakfast at his house that he showed
us some Etruscan potteries. Dr. Howe took up one of these rather
carelessly. It was a cup, and the handle became separated from it. My
husband appeared so much disconcerted at this that I could not help
laughing a little at the expression of his countenance. Mr. Rogers
afterwards said to an American friend, "Mrs. Howe was quite cruel to
laugh at the doctor's embarrassment." On one occasion he showed us some
autograph letters of Lord Byron, with whom he had been well acquainted.
He read a passage from one of these, in which Lord Byron, after speaking
of the ancient custom of the Doge wedding the Adriatic, wrote: "I wish
the Adriatic would take my wife."

In after years I was sometimes questioned as to what had most impressed
me during my first visit in London. I replied unhesitatingly, "The
clever people collected there." The moment, indeed, was fortunate. We
had come well provided with letters of introduction. Besides this, my
husband was at the time a first-class lion, and this merit avails more
in England than any other, and more there than elsewhere.

Mr. Sumner had given us a letter to the Marquis of Lansdowne, which the
latter honored by a call, and further by sending us cards for a musical
evening at Lansdowne House. Lord Lansdowne was a gracious host. His lady
was more formal in manner. Their music-room was oblong in shape, and the
guests were seated along the wall on either side. Before the performance
began I noticed a movement among those present, the cause of which
became evident when the Duchess of Gloucester appeared, leaning on the
arm of the master of the house. She was attired, or, as newspapers put
it, "gowned," in black, wearing white plumes in her headdress, and with
bare neck and arms, according to the imperative fashion of the time. She
was well advanced in years, and had probably never been remarked for
good looks, but was said to be beloved by the Queen and by many friends.

The programme of the entertainment was one which to-day would seem
rather commonplace, though the performers were not so. A handsome young
man, of slender figure, opened the concert by singing the serenade from
the opera of "Don Pasquale." I felt at once that this must be Mario, but
that name cannot suggest to one who never heard him either the beauty of
his voice or the refinement of his intonation. I still feel a sort of
intoxication when I recall his rendering of "Com' é gentil." Grisi sang
several times. She was then in what some one has termed, "the insolence
of her youth and beauty." Mlle. Persiani, also of the grand opera, gave
an air by Gluck, which I myself had studied, "Pago fúi, fúi lieto un
di." Lord Lansdowne told me that this lady was the most obliging of
artists. I afterwards heard her in "Linda di Chamounix," which was then
in its first favor. The concert ended with the prayer from Rossini's
"Mosé in Egitto," sung by the artists already named with the addition of
the great Lablache.

At the conclusion of it we adjourned to the supper-room, which afforded
us a better opportunity of observing the distinguished company. My
husband was presently engaged in conversation with the Hon. Mrs. Norton,
who was then very handsome. Her hair, which was decidedly black, was
arranged in flat bandeaux, according to the fashion of the time. A
diamond chain, formed of large links, encircled her fine head. Her eyes
were dark and full of expression. Her dress was unusually _décolletée_,
but most of the ladies present would in America have been considered
extreme in this respect. Court mourning had recently been ordered for
the Duke of Sussex, uncle to the Queen, and many black dresses were
worn. My memory, nevertheless, tells me that the great Duchess of
Sutherland wore a dress of pink _moire_, and that her head was adorned
with a wreath of velvet leaves interspersed with diamonds. Her brother,
Lord Morpeth, was also present. I heard a lady say to him, "Are you
worthy of music?" He replied, "Oh, yes; very worthy." I heard the same
phrase repeated by others, and, on inquiring as to its meaning, was told
that it was a way of asking whether one was fond of music. The formula
has long since gone out of fashion.

Somewhat later in the season we were invited to dine at Lansdowne House.
Among the guests present I remember Lord Morpeth. I had some
conversation with the daughter of the house, Lady Louisa Fitzmaurice,
who was pleasing, but not pretty, and wore a dress of light blue silk,
with a necklace around her throat formed of many strands of fine gold
chain. I was asked at this dinner whether I should object to sitting
next to a colored person in, for example, a box at the opera. Were I
asked this question to-day, I should reply that this would depend upon
the character and cleanliness of the colored person, much as one would
say in the case of a white man or woman. I remember that Lord Lansdowne
wore a blue ribbon across his breast, and on it a flat star of silver.

Among the well-remembered glories of that summer, the new delight of the
drama holds an important place. I had been denied this pleasure in my
girlhood, and my enjoyment of it at this time was fresh and intense.
Among the attentions lavished upon us during that London season were
frequent offers of a box at Covent Garden or "Her Majesty's." These were
never declined. Of especial interest to me was a performance of Macready
as Claude Melnotte in Bulwer's "Lady of Lyons." The part of Pauline was
played by Helen Faucit. Both of these artists were then at their best.
Thomas Appleton, of Boston, and William Wadsworth, of Geneseo, were with
us in our box. The pathetic moments of the play moved me to tears, which
I tried to hide. I soon saw that all my companions were affected in the
same way, and were making the same effort. I saw Miss Faucit again at an
entertainment given in aid of the fund for a monument to Mrs. Siddons.
She recited an ode written for the occasion, of which I still recall the
closing line:--

  "And measure what we owe by what she gave."

I saw Grisi in the great rôle of Semiramide, and with her Brambilla, a
famous contralto, and Fornasari, a basso whom I had longed to hear in
the operas given in New York. I also saw Mlle. Persiani in "Linda di
Chamounix" and "Lucia di Lammermoor." All of these occasions gave me
unmitigated delight, but the crowning ecstasy of all I found in the
ballet. Fanny Elssler and Cerito were both upon the stage. The former
had lost a little of her prestige, but Cerito, an Italian, was then in
her first bloom and wonderfully graceful. Of her performance my sister
said to me, "It seems to make us better to see anything so beautiful."
This remark recalls the oft-quoted dialogue between Margaret Fuller and
Emerson apropos of Fanny Elssler's dancing:--

"Margaret, this is poetry."

"Waldo, this is religion."

I remember, years after this time, a talk with Theodore Parker, in which
I suggested that the best stage dancing gives us the classic in a fluent
form, with the illumination of life and personality. I cannot recall, in
the dances which I saw during that season, anything which appeared to me
sensual or even sensuous. It was rather the very ecstasy and embodiment
of grace.

A ball at Almack's certainly deserves mention in these pages, the place
itself belonging to the history of the London world of fashion. The one
of which I now speak was given in aid of the Polish refugees who were
then in London. The price of admission to this sacred precinct would
have been extravagant for us, but cards for it were sent us by some
hospitable friend. The same attention was shown to Mr. and Mrs. Mann,
who with us presented themselves at the rooms on the appointed evening.

We found them spacious enough, but with no splendor or beauty of
decoration. A space at the upper end of the ball-room was marked off by
rail or ribbon--I cannot remember which. While we were wondering what
this should mean, a brilliant procession made its appearance, led by the
Duchess of Sutherland in some historic costume. She was followed by a
number of persons of high rank, among whom I recognized her lovely
daughters, Lady Elizabeth Leveson-Gower and Lady Evelyn. These young
ladies and several others were attired in Polish costume, to wit,
polonaises of light blue silk, and short white skirts which showed the
prettiest little red boots imaginable. This high and mighty company took
possession of the space mentioned above, where they proceeded to dance a
quadrille in rather solemn state.

The company outside this limit stood and looked on. Among the groups
taking part in this state quadrille was one characterized by the dress
worn at court presentations: the ladies in pink and blue brocades, with
plumes and lappets; the gentlemen in small-clothes, with swords,--and
all with powdered hair.

I first met the Duchess of Sutherland at a dinner given in our honor by
Lord Morpeth's parents, the Earl and Countess of Carlisle. The Great
Duchess, as the Duchess of Sutherland was often called, was still very
handsome, though already the mother of grown-up children. She wore a
dress of brown gauze or barége over light blue satin, with a wreath of
brown velvet leaves and blue forget-me-nots in her hair, and on her arm,
among other jewels, a miniature of the Queen set in diamonds. At one
time she was Mistress of the Robes, but I am not sure whether she held
this office at the time of which I speak. Her relations with the palace
were said to be very intimate and friendly. In the picture of the
Queen's Coronation, so well known to us by engravings, hers is one of
the most striking figures.

We did, indeed, hear that on one occasion the Duchess had kept the Queen
waiting, and that the sovereign said to her on her arrival, "Duchess,
you must allow me to present you with my watch, yours evidently does not
keep good time." The eyes of the proud Duchess filled with tears, and,
on returning home, she sent to the palace a letter resigning her post in
the royal service. The Queen was, however, very fond of her, and the
little difficulty was soon amicably settled.

I recall a pleasantry about Lady Carlisle that was current in London
society in the season of which I write. Sydney Smith pretended to have
dreamed that Lord Morpeth had brought back a black wife from America,
and that his mother, on seeing her, had said, "She is not so very
black." Lady Carlisle was proverbial for her kindliness and good temper,
and it was upon this point that the humor of the story turned.

I will also mention a dinner given in our honor by John Kenyon, well
known as a Mæcenas of that period. Miss Sedgwick, in her book of
travels, speaks of him as a distinguished conversationalist, much given
to hospitality. He is also remembered as a cousin of Elizabeth Barrett

The scenes just described still remain quite vivid in my memory, but it
would be difficult for me to recount the visits made in those days by my
husband and Horace Mann to public institutions of all kinds. I did
indeed accompany the two philanthropists in some of their excursions,
which included schools, workhouses, prisons, and asylums for the insane.

We went one day, in company with Charles Dickens and his wife, to visit
the old prison of Bridewell. We found the treadmill in operation. Every
now and then a man would give out, and would be allowed to leave the
ungrateful work. The midday meal, bread and soup, was served to the
prisoners while we were still in attendance. To one or two, as a
punishment for some misdemeanor, bread alone was given. Charles Dickens
looked on, and presently said to Doctor Howe, "My God! if a woman thinks
her son may come to this, I don't blame her if she strangles him in

At Newgate prison we were shown the fetters of Jack Sheppard and those
of Dick Turpin. While we were on the premises the van arrived with fresh
prisoners, and one of the officials appeared to jest with a young woman
who had just been brought in, and who, it seemed, was already well known
to the officers of justice. Dr. Howe did not fail to notice this with

At one of the charity schools which we visited, Mr. Mann asked whether
corporal punishment was used. "Commonly, only this," said the master,
calling up a little girl, and snapping a bit of india rubber upon her
neck in a manner which caused her to cry out. I need not say that the
two gentlemen were indignant at this unprovoked infliction.

In strong contrast to old-time Bridewell appeared the model prison of
Pentonville, which we visited one day in company with Lord Morpeth and
the Duke of Richmond. The system there was one of solitary confinement,
much approved, if I remember rightly, by "my lord duke," who interested
himself in showing us how perfectly it was carried out. Neither at meals
nor at prayers could any prisoner see or be seen by a fellow prisoner.
The open yard was divided by brick walls into compartments, in each of
which a single felon, hooded, took his melancholy exercise. The prison
was extremely neat. Dr. Howe at the time approved of the solitary
discipline. I am not sure whether he ever came to think differently
about it.

At a dinner at Charles Dickens's we met his intimate friend, John
Forster, a lawyer of some note, later known as the author of a biography
of Dickens. When we arrived, Mr. Forster was amusing himself with a
small spaniel which had been sent to Mr. Dickens by an admiring friend,
who desired that the dog might bear the name of Boz. Somewhat impatient
of such tributes, Mr. Dickens had named it Snittel Timbury. Of the
dinner, I only remember that it was of the best so far as concerns food,
and that later in the evening we listened to some comic songs, of one of
which I recall the refrain; it ran thus:--

  "Tiddy hi, tiddy ho, tiddy hi hum,
  Thus was it when Barbara Popkins was young."

Mr. Forster invited us to dine at his chambers in the Inns of Court. Mr.
and Mrs. Dickens were of the party, and also the painter Maclise, whose
work was then highly spoken of. After dinner, while we were taking
coffee in the sitting-room, I had occasion to speak to my husband, and
addressed him as "darling." Thereupon Dickens slid down to the floor,
and, lying on his back, held up one of his small feet, quivering with
pretended emotion. "Did she call him 'darling'?" he cried.

I was sorry indeed when the time came for us to leave London, and the
more as one of the pleasures there promised us had been that of a
breakfast with Charles Buller. Mr. Buller was the only person who at
that time spoke to me of Thomas Carlyle, already so great a celebrity in
America. He expressed great regard for Carlyle, who, he said, had
formerly been his tutor. I was sorry to find in papers of Carlyle's,
recently published, a rather ungracious mention of this brilliant young
man, whose early death was much regretted in English society.

From England we passed on to Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. In the inn at
Llangollen we saw an engraving representing two aged ladies sitting
opposite to each other, engaged in some friendly game. These were the
once famous maids whose romantic elopement and companionship of many
years gave the place some celebrity. In the burying-ground of the parish
church we were shown their tomb, bearing an inscription not only
commemorating the ladies themselves, but making mention also of the
lifelong service of a faithful female attendant.

Of my visit to Scotland, never repeated, I recall with interest Holyrood
Palace, where the blood stain of Rizzio's murder was still shown on the
wooden floor, the grave of Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, and Stirling
Castle, where, if I mistake not, the regalia of Robert Bruce was shown
us. Among the articles composing it was a cameo of great beauty,
surrounded by diamonds, and a crown set with large turquoises and

We passed a Sunday at Melrose, and attended an open-air service in the
ruins of the ancient abbey. We saw little of Edinburgh besides its
buildings, the society people of the place being mostly in
_villeggiatura_. Mr. Sumner had given us letters to two of the law
lords. One of these invited us to a seaside dinner at some little
distance from town. The other entertained us at his city residence.

Of greater interest was our tour in Ireland. Lord Morpeth had given us
some introductions to friends in Dublin. At the same time he had written
Mr. Sumner that he hoped Dr. Howe would not in any way become
conspicuous as a friend to the Repeal measures which were then much in
the public mind. This Repeal portended nothing less than the disruption
of the existing political union between Ireland and England. The Dublin
Corn Exchange was the place in which Repeal meetings were usually held.
We attended one of these. My sister and I had seats in the gallery,
which was reserved for ladies. Dr. Howe remained on the floor. This
meeting had for one of its objects the acknowledgment of funds recently
sent from America. The women who sat near us in the gallery found out,
somehow, that we were Americans, and that an American gentleman had
accompanied us to the meeting. They insisted upon making this known, and
only forbore to do so at our earnest request.

These friends were vehement in their praise of O'Connell, who was the
principal speaker of the occasion. "He's the best man, the most
religious!" they said; "he communes so often." I remember his appearance
well, but can recall nothing of his address. He was tall, blond, and
florid, with remarkable vivacity of speech and of expression. His
popularity was certainly very great. While he was speaking, a gentleman
entered and approached him. "How d'ye do, Tom Steele?" said O'Connell,
shaking hands with the new-comer. The audience applauded loudly, Steele
being an intimate friend and ally of O'Connell, and, like him, an
earnest partisan of Repeal.

Mr. George Ticknor, of Boston, had given us a letter to Miss Edgeworth,
who resided at some distance from the city of Dublin. From her we soon
received an invitation to luncheon, of which we gladly availed
ourselves. Our hostess met us with a warm welcome. She had had some
correspondence with Dr. Howe, and seemed much pleased to make his
acquaintance. I remember her as a little old lady, with an old-fashioned
cap and curls. She was very vivacious, and had much to say to Dr. Howe
about Laura Bridgman. He in turn asked what she thought of the Repeal
movement. She said in reply, "I don't understand what O'Connell really

Some one present casually mentioned the new substitution of lard oil for
whale oil for use in lamps. Miss Edgeworth said, "I hear that, in
consequence of this new fashion, the whale cannot bear the sight of a
pig." We met on this occasion a half-brother and a half-sister of Miss
Edgeworth, much younger than herself. I think that they must have been
twins, so closely did they resemble each other in appearance. At parting
Miss Edgeworth gave each of us an etching of Irish peasants, the work of
a friend of hers. On the one which she gave to my husband she wrote,
"From a lover of truth to a lover of truth."

After leaving Dublin we traveled north as far as the Giant's Causeway.
The state of the country was very forlorn. The peasantry lived in
wretched hovels of one or two rooms, the floor of mud, the pig taking
his ease within doors, and the chickens roosting above the fireplace.
Beggars were seen everywhere, and of the most persistent sort. In most
places where we stopped for the night, accommodations were far from
satisfactory. The safest dishes to order were stirabout and potatoes.

My husband had received an urgent invitation from an Irish nobleman,
Lord Walcourt, to visit him at his estate, which was in the south of
Ireland. We found Lord Walcourt living very simply, with two young
daughters and a baby son. He told my husband that when he first read a
book of Fourier, he instantly went over to France to make the
acquaintance of the author, whom he greatly admired. "If I had only read
on to the end of the book," he said, "I should have seen that Fourier
was already dead."

He told us that Lady Walcourt spent much time in London or on the
Continent, from which we gathered that country life in Ireland was not
much to her taste. Dr. Howe and our host had a good deal of talk
together concerning socialistic and other reforms. My sister and I found
his housekeeping rather meagre. He was evidently a whole-souled man, but
we learned later on that he was considered very eccentric.

A visit to the poet Wordsworth was one of the brilliant visions that
floated before my eyes at this time. Mr. Ticknor had kindly furnished us
with an introduction to the great man, who was then at the height of his
popularity. To criticise Wordsworth and to praise Byron were matters
equally unpardonable in the London of that time, when London was, what
it has ceased to be, the very heart and centre of the literary world. Of
our journey to the lake country I can now recall little, save that its
last stage, a drive of ten or more miles from the railway station to the
poet's village, was rendered very comfortless by constant showers, and
by an ill-broken horse which more than once threatened mischief. Arrived
at the inn, my husband called at the Wordsworth residence, and left
there his card and the letter of introduction. In return a note was soon
sent, inviting us to take tea that evening with Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth.

Our visit was a very disappointing one. The widowed daughter of our host
had lost heavily by the failure of certain American securities. These
losses formed the sole topic of conversation not only between Wordsworth
and Dr. Howe, but also between the ladies of the family, my sister, and
myself. The tea to which we had been bidden was simply a cup of tea,
served without a table. We bore the harassing conversation as long as we
could. The only remark of Wordsworth's which I brought away was this:
"The misfortune of Ireland is that it was only a partially conquered
country." When we took leave, the poet expressed his willingness to
serve us during our stay in his neighborhood. We left it, however, on
the following morning, without seeing him or his again.

A little akin to this experience was that of a visit to the Bank of
England, made at the invitation of one of its officers whom I had known
and entertained in America. Another of the functionaries of the bank
volunteered his services as a cicerone. He showed us among other things
the treasure recently received from the Chinese government, in payment
of a war indemnity. It was all in little blocks, parallelograms and
horseshoes of gold and silver. An ingenious little machine was also
shown us for the detection of light weight sovereigns. We paid for his
attention by listening to many uncivil pleasantries regarding the
financial condition of our own country. I still remember the insolent
sneer with which this gentleman said, "By the bye, have you sold the
Bank of the United States yet?" He was presumably ignorant of the real
history of the bank, which had long ceased to be a government
institution, President Jackson having annulled its charter and removed
the government deposits.

I mention these incidents because they were the only exceptions to the
uniform kindness with which we were generally received, and to the
homage paid to my husband as one of the most illustrious of modern

Berlin would have been the next important stop in our journey but for an
impediment which we had hardly anticipated. In the days of the French
revolution of 1830, the Poles had made one of their oft-repeated
struggles to regain national independence. General Lafayette was much
interested in this movement, and at his request Dr. Howe undertook to
convey to some of the Polish chiefs funds sent for their aid by parties
in the United States. He succeeded in accomplishing this errand, but was
arrested on the very night of his arrival in Berlin, and was only
released by the intervention of our government, after a tedious
imprisonment _au secret_. He was then sent with a military escort to the
confines of Prussia with the warning to return no more.

Thirteen years had elapsed since these events took place. Dr. Howe had
meantime acquired a world-wide reputation as a philanthropist. The Poles
had long been subdued, and Europe seemed to be free from all
revolutionary threatenings. Through the intervention of Chevalier
Bunsen, who was then Prussian ambassador at the Court of St. James, Dr.
Howe applied for permission to revisit the kingdom of Prussia, but this
was refused him. Some years after this time, Dr. Howe received from the
Prussian government a gold medal in acknowledgment of his services to
the blind. On weighing it, he found that the value of the gold was equal
to the amount of money which he had been required to pay for his board
in the prison at Berlin. In spite of the prohibition, we managed to see
something of the Rhine, and journeyed through Switzerland and the
Austrian Tyrol to Vienna, where we remained for some weeks. We here made
the acquaintance of Madame von Walther and her daughter Theresa,
afterward known as Madame Pulszky, the wife of one of Louis Kossuth's
most valued friends.

Arriving in Milan, we presented a letter of introduction from Miss
Catharine Sedgwick to Count Confalonieri, after Silvio Pellico the most
distinguished of the Italian patriots who underwent imprisonment in the
Austrian fortress of Spielberg. His life had been spared only through
the passionate pleading of his wife, who traveled day and night to throw
herself at the feet of the Empress, imploring the commutation of the
death sentence passed upon her husband. This heroic woman did not long
survive the granting of her prayer. She died while her husband was still
in prison; but the men who had been his companions in misfortune so
revered her memory as always to lift their hats when they passed near
her grave. Years had elapsed since the events of which I speak, and the
count had married a second wife, a lively and attractive person, from
whom, as from the count, we received many kind attentions.

Dr. Howe was at this time called to Paris by some special business, and
I remained a month in Milan with my sister. We greatly enjoyed the
beauty of the cathedral and the hospitality of our new friends. Among
these were the Marchese Arconati and his wife, a lady of much
distinction, and in after years a friend of Margaret Fuller.

Some delightful entertainments were given us by these and other friends,
and I remember with pleasure an expedition to Monza, where the iron
crown of the Lombard kingdom is still shown. Napoleon is said to have
placed it on his head while he was still First Consul. Apropos of this,
we saw in one of the Milanese mansions a seat on which Napoleon had once
sat, and which, in commemoration of this, bore the inscription, "Egli ci
ha dato l'unione" (He gave us unity). Alas! this precious boon was only
secured to Italy many years later, and after much shedding of blood.

Several of the former captives of Spielberg were living in Milan at this
time. Of these I may mention Castiglia and the advocate Borsieri. Two
others, Foresti and Albinola, I had often seen in New York, where they
lived for many years, beloved and respected. In all of them, a perfectly
childish delight in living seemed to make amends for the long and dreary
years passed in prison. Every pulse-beat of freedom was a joy to them.
Yet the iron had entered deeply into their souls. Natural leaders and
men of promise, they had been taken out of the world of active life in
the very flower of their youth and strength. The fortress in which they
were confined was gloomy and desolate. For many months no books were
allowed them, and in the end only books of religion, so called. They had
begged for employment, and were given wool to knit stockings, and dirty
linen rags to scrape for lint, with the sarcastic remark that to people
of their benevolent disposition such work as this last should be most
congenial. The time, they said, seemed endless in passing, but little
when past, no events having diversified its dull blankness.

When I listened to the conversation of these men, and saw Italy so bound
hand and foot by Austrian and other tyrants, I felt only the hopeless
chaos of the political outlook. Where should freedom come from? The
logical bond of imprisonment seemed complete. It was sealed with four
impregnable fortresses, and the great spiritual tyranny sat enthroned in
the centre, and had its response in every other despotic centre of the
globe. I almost ask to-day, "By what miracle was the great structure
overthrown?" But the remembrance of this miracle forbids me to despair
of any great deliverance, however desired and delayed. He who maketh the
wrath of man to serve Him can make liberty blossom out of the very rod
that the tyrant wields.

The emotions with which people in general approach the historic sites of
the world have been so often described as to make it needless for me to
dwell upon my own. But I will mention the thrill of wonder which
overcame me as we drove over the Campagna and caught the first glimpse
of St. Peter's dome. Was it possible? Had I lived to come within sight
of the great city, Mistress of the World? Like much else in my
journeying, this appeared to me like something seen in a dream, scarcely
to be apprehended by the bodily senses.

The Rome that I then saw was mediæval in its aspect. A great gloom and
silence hung over it. Coming to establish ourselves for the winter, we
felt the pressure of many discomforts, especially that of the imperfect
heating of houses. Our first quarters were in Torlonia's palace on the
Piazza di Spagna. My husband found these gloomy and sunless, and was
soon attracted by a small but comfortable apartment in Via San Nicolà da
Tolentino, where we passed a part of the winter. There my husband
undertook one day to make a real Christmas fire. In doing so he dragged
the logs too far forward on the unsubstantial hearth, setting fire to
the crossbeams which supported the floor. This was fortunately
discovered before the danger became imminent, and the mischief was soon
remedied. I was not allowed to hear about it until long afterwards.

Dr. Howe went out early one morning, and did not return until late in
the evening. Had I known at the time the reason of his absence, I should
have felt great anxiety. He had gone to the post-office, but in doing so
had passed some spot at which a sentry was stationed. He happened to be
absorbed in his own thoughts, and did not notice the warning given. The
sentry seized him, and Dr. Howe began to beat him over the head. A crowd
soon gathered, and my husband was arrested and taken to the guard-house.
The situation was a grave one, but the doctor immediately sent for the
American consul, George Washington Greene. With the aid of this friendly
official the necessary explanations were made and accepted, and the
prisoner was liberated.

The consul just mentioned was a cousin of my father and a grandson of
the famous General Nathanael Greene of the Revolution. He was much at
home in Roman society, and through him we had access to the principal
houses in which were given the great entertainments of the season. The
first of these that I attended appeared to me a melancholy failure,
judging by our American ideas of a pleasant evening party. The great
ladies sat very quietly in the salon of reception, and the gentlemen
spoke to them in an undertone. There was none of the joyous effusion
with which even a "few friends" meet on similar occasions in Boston or
New York. Exceeding stiffness was obviously the "good form" of the

A ball given by the banker prince, Torlonia, presented a more animated
scene. The beautiful princess of the house, then in the bloom of her
youth, was conspicuous among the dancers. Her fair head was encircled by
a fine tiara of diamonds. She was by birth a Colonna. The attraction of
the great fortune was said to have led to her alliance with the prince,
who was equally her superior in age and her inferior in rank. I was told
that he had presented his bride with the pearls formerly belonging to
the shrine of the Madonna of Loretto, and I remember to have seen her
once in evening dress, adorned with pearls of enormous size, which were
probably those in question. I thought her quite as beautiful on another
occasion, when she wore a simple gown of _écru_ silk, with a necklace of
carved coral beads. This was at a reception given at the charity school
of San Michele, where a play was performed by the pupils of the
institution. The theme of the drama was the worship of the golden calf
by the Israelites and the overthrow of the idol by Moses.

The industrial school of San Michele, like every other institution in
the Rome of that time, was entirely under ecclesiastical control. If I
remember rightly, Monsignore Morecchini had to do with its management.
This interesting man stood at the time at the head of the administration
of public charities. He called one day at our lodgings, and I had the
pleasure of listening to a long conversation between him and my husband,
regarding chiefly the theme in which both gentlemen were most deeply
interested, the education of the working classes. I was present, some
time later, at a meeting of the Academy of St. Luke, at which the same
monsignore made an address of some length, and with his own hands
presented the medals awarded to successful artists. One of these was
given to an Italian lady, who appeared in the black costume and lace
veil which are still _de rigueur_ at all functions of the papal court. I
remember that the monsignore delivered his address with a sort of
rhythmic intoning, not unlike the singsong of the Quaker preaching of
fifty years ago.

Of the matter of his discourse I can recall only one sentence, in which
he mentioned as one of the boasts of Rome the fact that she possessed
_la maggiore basilica del mondo_, "the largest basilica in the world."
The Church of St. Peter, like that of Santa Maria Maggiore, is indeed
modeled after the design of the basilicas or courts of justice of
ancient Rome, and Italians are apt to speak of it as "la basilica di san
Pietro." To another monsignore, Baggs by name, and Bishop of Pella, we
owed our presentation to Pope Gregory Sixteenth, the immediate
predecessor of Pope Pius Ninth. Our cousin the consul, George W. Greene,
went with us to the reception accorded us. Papal etiquette was not
rigorous in those days. It only required that we should make three
genuflections, simply bows, as we approached the spot where the Pope
stood, and three more in retiring, as from a royal presence, without
turning our backs. Monsignore Baggs, after presenting my husband, said
to him, "Dr. Howe, you should tell his Holiness about the little blind
girl [Laura Bridgman] whom you educated." The Pope remarked that he had
been assured that the blind were able to distinguish colors by the
touch. Dr. Howe said that he did not believe this. His opinion was that
if a blind person could distinguish a stuff of any particular color, it
must be through some effect of the dye upon the texture of the cloth.

The Pope said that he had heard there had been few Americans in Europe
during the past season, and had been told that they had been kept at
home by the want of money, for which he made the familiar sign with his
thumb and forefinger. Apropos of I forget what, he remarked, "Chi mi
sente dare la benedizione del balcone di san Pietro intende ch'io non
sono un giovinotto," "Whoever hears me give the benediction from the
balcony of St. Peter's will understand that I am not a youth." The
audience concluded, the Pope obligingly turned his back upon us, as if
to examine something lying on the table which stood behind him, and thus
spared us the inconvenience of bowing, curtsying, and retiring backward.

I remember to have heard of a great floral festival held not long after
this time at some village near Rome. Among other exhibits appeared a
medallion of his Holiness all done in flowers, the nose being made
rather bright with carnations. The Pope visited the show, and on seeing
the medallion exclaimed, laughing, "Son brutto da vero, manon cosi", "I
am ugly indeed, but not like this."

The experience of our winter in Rome could not be repeated at this day
of the world. The Rome of fifty-five years ago was altogether mediæval
in its aspect. The great inclosure within its walls was but sparsely
inhabited. Convent gardens and villas of the nobility occupied much
space. The city attracted mostly students and lovers of art. The studios
of painters and sculptors were much visited, and wealthy patrons of the
arts gave orders for many costly works. Such glimpses as were afforded
of Roman society had no great attraction other than that of novelty for
persons accustomed to reasonable society elsewhere. The strangeness of
titles, the glitter of jewels, amused for a time the traveler, who was
nevertheless glad to return to a world in which ceremony was less
dominant and absolute.

Among the frequent visitors at our rooms were the sculptor Crawford,
Luther Terry, and Freeman, well known then and since as painters of
merit. Between the first named of these and the elder of my two sisters
an attachment sprang up, which culminated in marriage. Another artist of
repute, Törmer by name, often passed the evening with us. He was
somewhat deformed, and our man-servant always announced him as "Quel
gobbetto, signor," "That hunchback, sir."

The months slipped away very rapidly, and the early spring brought the
dear gift of another life to gladden and enlarge our own. My dearest,
eldest child was born at Palazzetto Torlonia, on the 12th of March,
1844. At my request, the name of Julia Romana was given to her. As an
infant she possessed remarkable beauty, and her radiant little face
appeared to me to reflect the lovely forms and faces which I had so
earnestly contemplated before her birth.

Of the months preceding this event I cannot at this date give any very
connected account. The experience was at once a dream and a revelation.
My mind had been able to anticipate something of the achievements of
human thought, but of the patient work of the artist I had not had the
smallest conception.

We visited, one day, the catacombs of St. Calixtus with a party of
friends, among whom was the then celebrated Padre Machi, an ecclesiastic
who was considered a supreme authority in this department of historic
research. Acting as our guide, he pointed out to us the burial-places of
martyrs, distinguished by the outline of a palm rudely impressed on the
tufa out of which the various graves have been hollowed. We explored
with him the little chapels which bear witness to the ancient holding of
religious services in this dark underground city of the dead. In these
chapels the pictured emblem of the fish is often met with. Scholars do
not need to be reminded that the Greek word [Greek: ichthus] was adopted
by the early Christians as an anagram of the name and title of their
leader. Each of us carried a lighted taper, and we were careful to keep
well together, mindful of the danger of losing ourselves in the depths
of these vast caverns. A story was told us of a party which was thus
lost, and could never be found again, although a band of music was sent
after them in the hope of bringing them into safety. While we were
giving heed to the instructive discourse of Padre Machi, a mischievous
youth of the company came near to me and said in a low voice, "Has it
occurred to you that if our guide should suddenly die here of apoplexy,
we should never be able to find our way out?" This thought was dreadful
indeed, and I confess that I was very thankful when at last we emerged
from the depths into the blessed daylight.

Among the wonderful sights of that winter, I recall an evening visit to
the sculpture gallery of the Vatican, where the statues were shown us by
torchlight. I had not as yet made acquaintance with those marble shapes,
which were rendered so lifelike by the artful illumination that when I
saw them afterward in the daylight, it seemed to me that they had died.

My husband visited one day the Castle of St. Angelo, which was then not
only a fortress but also a prison for political offenders. As he passed
through one of the corridors, a young man from an inner room or cell
rushed out and addressed him, apparently in great distress of mind. He
cried, "For the love of God, sir, try to help me! I was taken from my
home a fortnight since, I know not why, and was brought here, where I am
detained, utterly ignorant of the grounds of my arrest and
imprisonment." This incident disturbed my husband very much. Of course,
he could do nothing to aid the unfortunate man.

We were invited, one evening, to attend what the Romans still call an
"accademia," _i. e._ a sort of literary club or association. It was held
in what appeared to be a public hall, with a platform on which were
seated those about to take part in the exercises of the evening. Among
these were two cardinals, one of whom read aloud some Greek verses, the
other a Latin discourse, both of which were applauded. After or before
these, I cannot remember which, came a recitation from a once famous
improvisatrice, Rosa Taddei. She is mentioned by Sismondi in one of his
works as a young person, most wonderful in her performance. She was now
a woman of middle age, wearing a sober gown and cap. The poem which she
read was on the happiness to be derived from a family of adopted
children. I remember its conclusion. He who should give himself to the
care of other people's children would be entitled to say:--

  "Formai questa famiglia
  Sol colla mia virtu."

  "I built myself this family
  solely by my own merit."

The performances concluded with a satirical poem given by a layman, and
describing the indignation of an elegant ecclesiastic at the visit of a
man in poor and shabby clothes. His complaint is answered by a friend,
who remarks:--

          "La vostra eccellenza
  Vorrebbe tutti i poverelli ricchi."

          "Your Excellency
  would have every poor fellow rich."

The presence of the celebrated phrenologist, George Combe, in Rome at
this time added much to Dr. Howe's enjoyment of the winter, and to mine.
His wife was a daughter of the great actress, Mrs. Siddons, and was a
person of excellent mind and manners. Observing that she always appeared
in black, I asked one day whether she was in mourning for a near
relative. She replied, rather apologetically, that she adopted this
dress on account of its convenience, and that English ladies, in
traveling, often did so.

I remember that Fanny Kemble, who was a cousin of Mrs. Combe, once
related the following anecdote to Dr. Howe and myself: "Cecilia [Mrs.
Combe] had grown up in her mother's shadow, for Mrs. Siddons was to the
last such a social idol as to absorb the notice of people wherever she
went, leaving little attention to be bestowed upon her daughter. This
was rather calculated to sour the daughter's disposition, and naturally
had that effect." Mrs. Kemble then spoke of a visit which she had made
at her cousin's house after her marriage to Mr. Combe. In taking leave,
she could not refrain from exclaiming, "Oh, Cecilia, how you have
improved!" to which Mrs. Combe replied, "Who could help improving when
living with perfection?"

Dr. Howe and Mr. Combe sometimes visited the galleries in company,
viewing the works therein contained in the light of their favorite
theory. I remember having gone with them through the great sculpture
hall of the Vatican, listening with edification to their instructive
conversation. They stood for some time before the well-known head of
Zeus, the contour and features of which appeared to them quite orthodox,
according to the standard of phrenology.

In this last my husband was rather an enthusiastic believer. He was apt,
in judging new acquaintances, to note closely the shape of the head, and
at one time was unwilling even to allow a woman servant to be engaged
until, at his request, she had removed her bonnet, giving him an
opportunity to form his estimate of her character or, at least, of her
natural proclivities. In common with Horace Mann, he held Mr. Combe to
be one of the first intelligences of the age, and esteemed his work on
"The Constitution of Man" as one of the greatest of human productions.

When, in the spring of 1844, I left Rome, in company with my husband, my
sisters, and my baby, it seemed like returning to the living world after
a long separation from it. In spite of all its attractions, I was glad
to stand once more face to face with the belongings of my own time.

We journeyed first to Naples, which I saw with delight, thence by
steamer to Marseilles, and by river boat and diligence to Paris.

My husband's love of the unusual must, I think, have prompted him to
secure passage for our party on board the little steamer which carried
us well on our way to Paris. Its small cabin was without sleeping
accommodations of any kind. As the boat always remained in some port
overnight, Dr. Howe found it possible to hire mattresses for us, which,
alas, were taken away at daybreak, when our journey was resumed.

Of the places visited on our way I will mention only Avignon, a city of
great historic interest, retaining little in the present day to remind
the traveler of its former importance. My husband here found a bricabrac
shop, containing much curious furniture of ancient date. Among its
contents were two cabinets of carved wood, which so fascinated him that,
finding himself unable to decide in favor of either, he concluded to
purchase both of them. The dealer of whom he bought them promised to
have them packed so solidly that they might be thrown out of an upper
window without sustaining any injury, adding, "Et de plus, j'écrirai là
dessus 'très fragile'" (And in addition, I will mark it "very fragile"),
which amused my husband. He had justified this purchase to me by
reminding me that we should presently have our house to furnish. Indeed,
the two cabinets proved an excellent investment, and are as handsome as
ever, after much wear and tear of other household goods.

We made some stay in Paris, of which city I have chronicled elsewhere my
first impressions. Among these was the pain of hearing a lecture from
Philarète Chasles, in which he spoke most disparagingly of American
literature, and of our country in general. He said that we had
contributed nothing of value to the world of letters. Yet we had already
given it the writings of Irving, Hawthorne, Emerson, Longfellow, Bryant,
and Poe. It is true that these authors were little, if at all, known in
France at that time; but the speaker, proposing to instruct the public,
ought to have informed himself concerning that whereof he assumed to
speak with knowledge.

Dr. Howe attended one of the official receptions of M. Guizot, who was
prime minister at this time. I tried to persuade him to wear the
decorations given him by the Greek government in recognition of his
services in the Greek revolution, but he refused to do so, thinking such
ornaments unfitting a republican. I had the pleasure of witnessing one
of the last performances of the celebrated _danseuse_, Madame Taglioni.
She it was of whom one of the same profession said, "Nous autres, nous
sautons et nous tombons, mais elle monte et elle descend." The ballet
was "La Sylphide," in which she had achieved one of her earliest
triumphs. Remembering this, Dr. Howe found her somewhat changed for the
worse. I admired her very much, and her dancing appeared to me
characterized by a perfection and finish which placed her beyond
competition with more recent favorites.

I was fortunate also in seeing Mademoiselle Rachel in "La Czarina," a
part which did not give full scope for her great talent. The demerits of
the play, however, could not wholly overcloud the splendor of her unique
personality, which at moments electrified the audience.

Our second visit to England, in the autumn of the year 1844, on the way
back to our own country, was less brilliant and novel than our first,
but scarcely less in interest. We had received several invitations to
visit friends at their country residences, and these opened to us the
most delightful aspect of English hospitality. The English are nowhere
so much at home as in the country, and they willingly make their
visitors at home also.

Our first visit was at Atherstone, then the residence of Charles Nolte
Bracebridge, one of the best specimens of an English country gentleman
of the old school. His wife was a very accomplished gentlewoman,
skillful alike with pencil and with needle, and possessed of much
literary culture. We met here, among other guests, Mr. Henry Reeve, well
known in the literary society of that time. Mrs. Bracebridge told us
much of Florence Nightingale, then about twenty-four years old, already
considered a person of remarkable character. Our hosts had visited
Athens, and sympathized with my husband in his views regarding the
Greeks. They were also familiar with the farther East, and had brought
cedars from Mount Lebanon and Arab horses from I know not where.

Atherstone was not far from Coventry. Mr. Bracebridge claimed descent
from Lady Godiva, and informed me that a descendant of Peeping Tom of
Coventry was still to be found in that place. He himself was lord of the
manor, but had neither son nor daughter to succeed him. He told me some
rather weird stories, one of which was that he had once waked in the
night to see a female figure seated by his fireside. I think that the
ghost was that of an old retainer of the family, or possibly an
ancestress. An old prophecy also had been fulfilled with regard to his
property. This was that when a certain piece of land should pass from
the possession of the family, a small island on the estate would cease
to exist. The property was sold, and the island somehow became attached
to the mainland, and as an island ceased to exist.

My two sisters accompanied Dr. Howe and myself in the round of visits
which I am now recording. They were young women of great personal
attraction, the elder of the two an unquestioned beauty, the younger
gifted with an individual charm of loveliness. They were much admired
among our new friends. Thomas Appleton followed us at one of the houses
in which we stayed. He told me, long afterwards, that he was asked at
this time whether there were many young ladies in America as charming as
the Misses Ward.

Mrs. Bracebridge in speaking to me of Florence Nightingale as a young
person likely to make an exceptional record, told me that her mother
rather feared this, and would have preferred the usual conventional life
for her daughter. The father was a pronounced Liberal, and a Unitarian.
While we were still at Atherstone, we received an invitation to pass a
few days with the Nightingale family at Emblee, and betook ourselves
thither. We found a fine mansion of Elizabethan architecture, and a
cordial reception. The family consisted of father and mother and two
daughters, both born during their parents' residence in Italy, and
respectively christened Parthenope and Florence, one having first seen
the light in the city whose name she bore, the other in Naples.


_From a photograph._]

Of the two, Parthenope was the elder; she was not handsome, but was
_piquante_ and entertaining. Florence, the younger sister, was rather
elegant than beautiful; she was tall and graceful of figure, her
countenance mobile and expressive, her conversation most interesting.
Having heard much of Dr. Howe as a philanthropist, she resolved to
consult him upon a matter which she already had at heart. She
accordingly requested him one day to meet her on the following morning,
before the hour for the family breakfast. He did so, and she opened the
way to the desired conference by saying, "Dr. Howe, if I should
determine to study nursing, and to devote my life to that profession, do
you think it would be a dreadful thing?"

"By no means," replied my husband. "I think that it would be a very good

So much and no more of the conversation Dr. Howe repeated to me. We soon
heard that Miss Florence was devoting herself to the study of her
predilection; and when, years after this time, the Crimean war broke
out, we were among the few who were not astonished at the undertaking
which made her name world famous.

Just before our final embarkation for America, we passed a few days with
the same friends at Lea Hurst, a pretty country seat near Malvern. There
we met the well-known historian, Henry Hallam, celebrated also as the
father of Tennyson's lamented Arthur. "Martin Chuzzlewit" had recently
appeared, and I remember that Mr. Hallam read aloud with much amusement
the famous transcendental episode beginning, "To be introduced to a
Pogram by a Hominy." Mr. Hallam asked me whether talk of this sort was
ever heard in transcendental circles in America. I was obliged to
confess that the caricature was not altogether without foundation.

Soon after reaching London for the second time, we were invited to visit
Dr. and Mrs. Fowler at Salisbury. The doctor was much interested in
anthropology and kindred topics, and my husband found in him a congenial
friend. The house was a modest one, but the housekeeping was generous
and tasteful. As Salisbury was a cathedral town, the prominent people of
the place naturally belonged to the Anglican Church. At the Fowlers'
hospitable board we met the bishop, the dean, the rector, and the

I attended several services in the beautiful cathedral, and enjoyed very
much a visit to Stonehenge, which we made in company with our hosts, in
a carriage drawn by two small mules. I inquired why they used mules in
preference to horses, and was told that it was to avoid the tax imposed
upon the latter. Stonehenge was in the district of Old Sarum, once a
rotten borough, as certain places in England were termed which, with
little or no population, had yet the right to be represented in
Parliament. Dr. Fowler was familiar with the ancient history of the
place, which, as we saw it, contained nothing but an area of desolate
sand. The wonderful Druidical stones of Stonehenge commanded our
attention. They are too well known to need description. Our host could
throw no light upon their history, which belongs, one must suppose, with
that of kindred constructions in Brittany.

Bishop Denison, at the time of our visit, was still saddened by the loss
of a beloved wife. He invited us to a dinner at which his sister, Miss
Denison, presided. The dean and his wife were present, the Fowlers, and
one or two other guests. To my surprise, the bishop gave me his arm and
conducted me to the table, where he seated me on his right. Mrs. Fowler
afterwards remarked to me, "How charming it was of the bishop to take
you in to dinner. As an American you have no rank, and are therefore
exempt from all questions of precedence."

Mrs. Fowler once described to me an intimate little dinner with the poet
Rogers, for which he had promised to provide just enough, and no more.
Each dish exactly matched the three convives. Half of a chicken sufficed
for the roast. As his usual style of entertainment was very elegant, he
probably derived some amusement from this unnecessary economy.

We left Salisbury with regret, Dr. Fowler giving Dr. Howe a parting
injunction to visit Rotherhithe workhouse, where he himself had seen an
old woman who was blind, deaf, and crippled. My husband made this visit,
and wrote an account of it to Dr. Fowler.[2] He read this to me before
sending it. In the mischief of which I was then full to overflowing, I
wrote a humorous travesty of Dr. Howe's letter in rhyme, but when I
showed it to him, I was grieved to see how much he seemed pained at my

[Footnote 2: This old woman was one of a number of trebly-afflicted
persons--deaf, dumb, and blind--whom Dr. Howe found time to visit on
this wedding trip, beginning their instruction himself in some cases,
and interesting persons in the neighborhood in carrying it on. In his
report of the Institution for the Blind, written after his return from
Europe in 1844, he gives an account of these cases, closing with an
eloquent appeal in behalf of these neglected and suffering members of
the human family.

"And here the question will recur to you (for I doubt not it has
occurred a dozen times already), Can nothing be done to disinter this
human soul? It is late, but perhaps not too late. The whole neighborhood
would rush to save this woman if she were buried alive by the caving in
of a pit, and labor with zeal until she were dug out. Now if there were
one who had as much patience as zeal, and who, having carefully observed
how a little child learns language, would attempt to lead her gently
through the same course, he might possibly awaken her to a consciousness
of her immortal nature. The chance is small indeed; but with a smaller
chance they would have dug desperately for her in the pit; and is the
life of the soul of less import than that of the body?

"It is to be feared that there are many others whose cases are not known
out of their own families, who are regarded as beyond the reach of help,
and who are therefore left in their awful desolation.

"This ought not to be, either for the good of the sufferers, or of those
about them. It is hardly possible to conceive a case in which some
improvement could not be effected by patient perseverance; and the
effort ought to be made in every one of them.

"The sight of any being, in human shape, left to brutish ignorance, is
always demoralizing to the beholders. There floats not upon the stream
of life any wreck of humanity so utterly shattered and crippled that its
signals of distress should not challenge attention and command

      Dear Sir, I went south
      As far as Portsmouth,
  And found a most charming old woman,
      Delightfully void
      Of all that's enjoyed
  By the animal vaguely called human.

      She has but one jaw,
      Has teeth like a saw,
  Her ears and her eyes I delight in:
      The one could not hear
      Tho' a cannon were near,
  The others are holes with no sight in.

      Her cinciput lies
      Just over her eyes,
  Not far from the bone parietal;
      The crown of her head,
      Be it vulgarly said,
  Is shaped like the back of a beetle.

      Destructiveness great
      Combines with conceit
  In the form of this wonderful noddle,
      But benev'lence, you know,
      And a large _philopro_
  Give a great inclination to coddle.

And so on.



In the autumn of 1844 we returned from our wedding journey, and took up
our abode in the near neighborhood of the city of Boston, of which at
intervals I had already enjoyed some glimpses. These had shown me
Margaret Fuller, holding high communion with her friends in her
well-remembered conversations; Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was then
breaking ground in the field of his subsequent great reputation; and
many another who has since been widely heard of. I count it as one of my
privileges to have listened to a single sermon from Dr. Channing, with
whom I had some personal acquaintance. I can remember only a few
passages. Its theme must have been the divine love; for Dr. Channing
said that God loved black men as well as white men, poor men as well as
rich men, and bad men as well as good men. This doctrine was quite new
to me, but I received it gladly.

The time was one in which the Boston community, small as it then was,
exhibited great differences of opinion, especially regarding the new
transcendentalism and the anti-slavery agitation, which were both held
much in question by the public at large. While George Ripley, moved by a
fresh interpretation of religious duty, was endeavoring to institute a
phalanstery at Brook Farm, the caricatures of Christopher Cranch gave
great amusement to those who were privileged to see them. One of these
represented Margaret Fuller driving a winged team attached to a chariot
on which was inscribed the name of her new periodical, "The Dial," while
the Rev. Andrews Norton regarded her with holy horror. Another
illustrated a passage from Mr. Emerson's essay on Nature--"I play upon
myself. I am my own music"--by depicting an individual with a nose of
preternatural length, pierced with holes like a flageolet, upon which
his fingers sought the intervals. Yet Mr. Cranch belonged by taste and
persuasion among the transcendentalists.

As my earliest relations in Boston were with its recognized society, I
naturally gave some heed to the views therein held regarding the
transcendental people. What I liked least in these last, when I met
them, was a sort of jargon which characterized their speech. I had been
taught to speak plain and careful English, and though always a student
of foreign languages, I had never thought fit to mix their idioms with
those of my native tongue. Apropos of this, I remember that the poet
Fitz-Greene Halleck once said to me of Margaret Fuller, "That young lady
does not speak the same language that I do,--I cannot understand her."
Mr. Emerson's English was as new to me as that of any of his
contemporaries; but in his case I soon felt that the thought was as
novel as the language, and that both marked an epoch in literary
history. The grandiloquence which was common at that time now appears to
me to have been the natural expression of an exhilaration of mind which
carried the speaker or writer beyond the bounds of commonplace speech.
The intellect of the time had outgrown the limits of Puritan belief. The
narrow literalism, the material and positive view of matters highly
spiritual, abstract, and indeterminate, which had been handed down from
previous generations, had become irreligious to the foremost minds of
that day. They had no choice but to enter the arena as champions of the
new interpretation of life which the cause of truth imperatively

I speak now of the transcendental movement as I had opportunity to
observe it in Boston. Let us not ignore the fact that it was a world
movement. The name seems to have been borrowed from the German
phraseology, in which the philosophy of Kant was termed "the
transcendental philosophy." More than this, the breath which kindled
among us this new flame of hope and aspiration came from the same
source. For this was the period of Germany's true glory. Her
intellectual radiance outshone and outlived the military meteor which
for a brief moment obscured all else to human vision. The great vitality
of the German nation, the indefatigable research of its learned men, its
wholesome balance of sense and spirit, all made themselves widely felt,
and infused fresh blood into veins impoverished by ascetic views of
life. Its philosophers were apostles of freedom, its poets sang the joy
of living, not the bitterness of sin and death.

These good things were brought to us piecemeal, by translations, by
disciples. Dr. Hedge published an English rendering of some of the
masterpieces of German prose. Longfellow gave us lovely versions of many
poets. John S. Dwight produced his ever precious volume of translations
of the minor poems of Goethe and Schiller. Margaret Fuller translated
Eckermann's "Conversations with Goethe." Carlyle wrote his wonderful
essays, inspired by the new thought, and adding to it daring novelty of
his own. The whole is matter of history now, quite beyond the domain of
personal reminiscence.

I have spoken of the transcendentalists and the abolitionists as if they
had been quite distinct bodies of believers. Reflecting more deeply, I
feel that both were features of the new movement. In the
transcendentalists the enthusiasm of emancipated thought was paramount,
while the abolitionists followed the vision of emancipated humanity. The
lightning flash which illuminated the heaven of the poets and
philosophers fell also on the fetters of the slave, and showed them to
the thinking world as a disgrace no longer to be tolerated by civilized

I recall my first years of life in Boston as nearly touched by the sense
of the unresolved discords which existed in its society. My husband was
much concerned in some of the changes of front which took place at this
time. An ardent friend both of Horace Mann and of Charles Sumner, he
shared the educational views of the first and the political convictions
of the second. In the year 1845, having been elected to serve on the
Boston School Board, Dr. Howe instituted so drastic a research into the
condition of the public schools as to draw upon himself much
animadversion and some ill-will. Horace Mann, on the other hand,
characterized this work as "one which only Sam Howe or an angel could
have done."

Dr. Howe and Mr. Mann, during their travels in Europe, had become much
interested in the system of training, new at that time, by which
deaf-mutes were enabled to use vocal speech, and to read on the lips the
words of those who addressed them. Soon after his return from Europe,
Mr. Mann published a report in which he dwelt much on the great benefit
of this new departure in the education of deaf-mutes, and advocated the
introduction of the system into our own schools. Dr. Howe expressed the
same views, and the two gentlemen were held up to the public as
disturbers of its peace. My husband disapproved of the use of signs,
which, up to that time, had figured largely in the instruction of
American deaf-mutes, and in their intercourse with each other. He felt
that the use of language was an important condition of definite thought,
and hailed the new powers conferred by the European system as a
liberation of its pupils from the greatest of their disabilities, the
privation of direct intercourse with their fellow creatures. His advice,
privately sought and given, induced a number of parents to undertake
themselves the education of their deaf children, or, at least, to have
that education conducted at home, and under their own supervision. In
after years such parents and children were forward in expressing their
gratitude for the advice given and followed. The Horace Mann school in
Boston, and the Clarke school in Northampton, attest the perseverance of
the advocates of the new method of instruction, and their ultimate

I had formerly seen Boston as a petted visitor from another city would
be apt to see it. I had found it altogether hospitable, and rather eager
to entertain a novelty. It was another matter to see it with its
consideration cap on, pondering whether to like or mislike a new
claimant to its citizenship. I had known what we may term the Boston of
the Forty, if New York may be called the city of the Four Hundred. I was
now to make acquaintance with quite another city,--with the Boston of
the teachers, of the reformers, of the cranks, and also--of the
apostles. Wondering and floundering among these new surroundings, I was
often at a loss to determine what I should follow, what relinquish. I
endeavored to enter reasonably into the functions and amusements of
general society, and at the same time to profit by the new resources of
intellectual life which opened out before me. One offense against
fashion I would commit: I would go to hear Theodore Parker preach. My
society friends shook their heads.

"What is Julia Howe trying to find at Parker's meeting?" asked one of
these one day in my presence.

"Atheism," replied the lady thus addressed.

I said, "Not atheism, but a theism."

The change had already been great, from my position as a family idol and
"the superior young lady" of an admiring circle to that of a wife
overshadowed for the time by the splendor of her husband's reputation.
This I had accepted willingly. But the change from my life of easy
circumstances and brilliant surroundings to that of the mistress of a
suite of rooms in the Institution for the Blind at South Boston was much
greater. The building was two miles distant from the city proper, the
only public conveyance being an omnibus which ran but once in two hours.
My friends were residents of Boston, or of places still more remote from
my dwelling-place, and South Boston was then, as it has continued to be,
a distinctly unfashionable suburb. My husband did not desire that I
should undertake any work in connection with the Institution under his
charge. I found its teachers pleasant neighbors, and was glad to have
Laura Bridgman continue to be a member of the household.

Dr. Howe had a great fancy for a piece of property which lay very near
the Institution. In due time he purchased it. We found an ancient
cottage on the place, and made it habitable by the addition of one or
two rooms. Our new domain comprised several acres of land, and my
husband took great pleasure in laying out an extensive fruit and flower
garden, and in building a fine hothouse. We removed to this abode on a
lovely summer day; and as I entered the grounds I involuntarily
exclaimed, "This is green peace!" Somehow, the nickname, jocosely given,
remained in use. The estate still stands on legal records as "The Green
Peace Estate." Friends would sometimes ask us, "How are you getting on
at Green Beans--is that the name?" My husband was so much attached to
this place that when, after a residence of many years in the city, he
returned thither to spend the last years of his life, he spoke of it as
"Paradise Regained."

It partly amuses, and partly saddens me to recall, at this advanced
period of my life, the altogether mistaken views which I once held
regarding certain sets of people in Boston, of whom I really knew little
or nothing. The veil of prejudgment through which I saw them was not,
indeed, of my own weaving, but I was content to dislike them at a
distance, until circumstances compelled a nearer and a truer view.

I had supposed the abolitionists to be men and women of rather coarse
fibre, abounding in cheap and easy denunciation, and seeking to lay rash
hands on the complex machinery of government and of society. My husband,
who largely shared their opinions, had no great sympathy with some of
their methods. Theodore Parker held them in great esteem, and it was
through him that one of my strongest imaginary dislikes vanished as
though it had never been. The object of this dislike was William Lloyd
Garrison, whom I had never seen, but of whose malignity of disposition I
entertained not the smallest doubt.


_From a painting in the possession of M. Anagnos._]

It happened that I met him at one of Parker's Sunday evenings at home. I
soon felt that this was not the man for whom I had cherished so great a
distaste. Gentle and unassuming in manner, with a pleasant voice, a
benevolent countenance, and a sort of glory of sincerity in his ways and
words, I could only wonder at the falsehoods that I had heard and
believed concerning him.

The Parkers had then recently received the gift of a piano from members
of their congregation. A friend began to play hymn tunes upon it, and
those of us who could sing gathered in little groups to read from the
few hymn-books which were within reach. Dr. Howe presently looked up and
saw me singing from the same book with Mr. Garrison. He told me
afterward that few things in the course of his life had surprised him
more. From this time forth the imaginary Garrison ceased to exist for
me. I learned to respect and honor the real one more and more, though as
yet little foreseeing how glad I should be one day to work with and
under him. The persons most frequently named as prominent abolitionists,
in connection with Mr. Garrison, were Maria Weston Chapman and Wendell

Mrs. Chapman presided with much energy and grace over the anti-slavery
bazaars which were held annually in Boston through a long space of
years. For this labor of love she was somewhat decried, and the
_sobriquet_ of "Captain Chapman" was given her in derision. She was
handsome and rather commanding in person, endowed also with an excellent
taste in dress. I cannot remember that she ever spoke in public, but her
presence often adorned the platform at anti-slavery meetings. She was
the editor of the "Liberty Bell," and was a valued friend and ally of
Wendell Phillips.

Of Mr. Phillips I must say that I at first regarded him through the same
veil of prejudice which had caused me so greatly to misconceive the
character of Mr. Garrison. I was a little softened by hearing that at
one of the bazaars he had purchased a copy of my first volume of poems,
with the remark, "She doesn't like me, but I like her poetry." This
naturally led me to suppose that he must have some redeeming traits of
character. I had not then heard him speak, and I did not wish to hear
him; but I met him, also, at one of the Parker Sunday evenings, and,
after a pleasant episode of conversation, I found myself constrained to
take him out of my chamber of dislikes.

Mr. Phillips was entitled, by birth and education, to an unquestioned
position in Boston society. His family name was of the best. He was a
graduate both of Harvard College and of its Law School. No ungentlemanly
act had ever tarnished his fame. His offense was that, at a critical
moment, he had espoused an unpopular cause,--one which was destined, in
less than a score of years, so to divide the feeling of our community as
to threaten the very continuance of our national life. Oh, to have been
in Faneuil Hall on that memorable day when the pentecostal flame first
visited him; when he leaped to the platform, all untrained for such an
encounter, and his eloquent soul uttered itself in protest against a low
and sordid acquiescence in the claims of oppression and tyranny! In that
hour he was sealed as an apostle of the higher law, to whose advocacy he
sacrificed his professional and social interests. The low-browed,
chain-bound slave had now the best orator in America to plead his cause.
It was the beginning of the end. Mr. Phillips, without doubt, sometimes
used intemperate language. I myself have at times dissented quite
sharply from some of his statements. Nevertheless, a man who rendered
such great service to the community as he did has a right to be judged
by his best, not by his least meritorious performance. He was for years
an unwelcome prophet of evil to come. Society at large took little heed
of his warning; but when the evil days did come, he became a counselor
"good at need."

I recall now a scene in Tremont Temple just before the breaking out of
our civil war. An anti-slavery meeting had been announced, and a scheme
had been devised to break it up. As I entered I met Mrs. Chapman, who
said, "These are times in which anti-slavery people must stand by each
other." On the platform were seated a number of the prominent
abolitionists. Mr. Phillips was to be the second speaker, but when he
stepped forward to address the meeting a perfect hubbub arose in the
gallery. Shrieks, howls, and catcalls resounded. Again and again the
great orator essayed to speak. Again and again his voice was drowned by
the general uproar. I sat near enough to hear him say, with a smile,
"Those boys in the gallery will soon tire themselves out." And so,
indeed, it befell. After a delay which appeared to some of us endless,
the noise subsided, and Wendell Phillips, still in the glory of his
strength and manly beauty, stood up before the house, and soon held all
present spellbound by the magic of his speech. The clear silver ring of
his voice carried conviction with it. From head to foot, he seemed
aflame with the passion of his convictions. He used the simplest
English, and spoke with such distinctness that his lowest tones, almost
a whisper, could be heard throughout the large hall. Yerrinton, the only
man who could report Wendell Phillips's speeches, once told my husband
that it was like reporting chain lightning.

On the occasion of which I speak, the unruly element was quieted once
for all, and the further proceedings of the meeting suffered no
interruption. The mob, however, did not at once abandon its intention of
doing violence to the great advocate. Soon after the time just mentioned
Dr. Howe attended an evening meeting, at the close of which a crowd of
rough men gathered outside the public entrance, waiting for Phillips to
appear, with ugly threats of the treatment which he should receive at
their hands. The doors presently opened, and Phillips came forth,
walking calmly between Mrs. Chapman and Lydia Maria Child. Not a hand
was raised, not a threat was uttered. The crowd gave way in silence, and
the two brave women parted from Phillips at the door of his own house.
My husband spoke of this as one of the most impressive sights that he
had ever witnessed. His report of it moved me to send word to Mr.
Phillips that, in case of any recurrence of such a disturbance, I should
be proud to join his body-guard.

Mr. Phillips was one of the early advocates of woman suffrage. I
remember that I was sitting in Theodore Parker's reception room
conversing with him when Wendell Phillips, quite glowing with
enthusiasm, came in to report regarding the then recent woman's rights
convention at Worcester. Of the doings there he spoke in warm eulogy. He
complained that Horace Mann had written a non-committal letter, in reply
to the invitation sent him to take part in the convention. Ralph Waldo
Emerson, he said, had excused himself from attendance on the ground that
he was occupied in writing a life of Margaret Fuller, which, he hoped,
would be considered as a service in the line of the objects of the

This convention was held in October of the year 1850, before the claims
of women to political efficiency had begun to occupy the attention and
divide the feeling of the American public. When, after the close of the
civil war, the question was again brought forward, with a new zeal and
determination, Mr. Phillips gave it the great support of his eloquence,
and continued through a long course of years to be one of its most
earnest advocates.


At the age of 48

_From a photograph lent by Francis J. Garrison, Boston._]

The last time that I heard Wendell Phillips speak in public was in
December, 1883, at the unveiling of Miss Whitney's statue of Harriet
Martineau, in the Old South Meeting-House. Mrs. Livermore was one of the
speakers of the occasion. When the stated exercises were at an end, she
said to me, "Let us thank Mr. Phillips for what he has just said. We
shall not have him with us long." I expressed surprise at this, and she
said further, "He has heart disease, and is far from well." Soon after
this followed his death, and the splendid public testimonial given in
his honor. I was one of those admitted to the funeral exercises, in
which friends spoke of him most lovingly. I also saw his remains lying
in state in Faneuil Hall, on the very platform where, in his ardent
youth, he had uttered his first scathing denunciation of the slave power
and its defenders. The mournful and reverent crowd which gathered for
one last look at his beloved countenance told, better than words could
tell, of the tireless services which, in the interval, had won for him
the heart of the community. It was a sight never to be forgotten.

I first heard of Theodore Parker as the author of the sermon on "The
Transient and the Permanent in Christianity." At the time of its
publication I was still within the fold of the Episcopal Church, and,
judging by hearsay, was prepared to find the discourse a tissue of
impious and sacrilegious statements. Yet I ventured to peruse a copy of
it which fell into my hands. I was surprised to find it reverent and
appreciative in spirit, although somewhat startling in its conclusions.
At that time the remembrance of Mr. Emerson's Phi Beta address was fresh
in my mind. This discourse of Parker's was a second glimpse of a system
of thought very different from that in which I had been reared.

Not long after my marriage, being in Rome with my husband, I was
interested to hear of Parker's arrival there. As Dr. Howe had some
slight acquaintance with him, we soon invited him to dine with us. He
was already quite bald, and this untimely blemish appeared in strange
contrast with the youthful energy of his facial expression. He was
accompanied by his wife, whose mild countenance, compared with his,
suggested even more than the usual contrast between husband and wife.
One might have said of her that she came near being very handsome. Her
complexion was fair, her features were regular, and the expression of
her face was very naïf and gentle. A certain want of physical maturity
seemed to have prevented her from blossoming into full beauty. It was a
great grief both to her and to her husband that their union was

Theodore Parker's reputation had already reached Rome, and there as
elsewhere brought him many attentions from scholars, and even from
dignitaries of the Catholic Church. He remained in the Eternal City, as
we did, through the winter, and we saw him frequently.

When, in the spring, my eldest child was born, I desired that she should
be christened by Parker. This caused some uneasiness to my sisters, who
were with me at the time. One of them took occasion to call upon Parker
at his lodgings, and to inquire how the infant was to be christened, in
what name. Our friend replied that he had never heard of any baptismal
formula other than the usual one, "in the name of the Father, Son, and
Holy Ghost." My sister was much relieved, and the baptism was altogether

This was the beginning of a family intimacy which lasted many years,
ending only with Parker's life. After our return to America my husband
went often to the Melodeon, where Parker preached until he took
possession of the Music Hall. The interest which my husband showed in
these services led me in time to attend them, and I remember as among
the great opportunities of my life the years in which I listened to
Theodore Parker.

Those who knew Parker only in the pulpit did not half know him. Apart
from the field of theological controversy, he was one of the most
sympathetic and delightful of men. I have rarely met any one whose
conversation had such a ready and varied charm. His idea of culture was
encyclopædic, and his reading, as might have been inferred from the size
of his library, was enormous. The purchase of books was his single
extravagance. One whole floor was given up to them, and in spite of this
they overflowed into hall and drawing-room. He was very generous in
lending them, and I often profited by his kindness in this respect.

His affection for his wife was very great. From a natural love of
paradox, he was accustomed to style this mild creature "Bear," and he
delighted to carry out this pleasantry by adorning his _étagère_ with
miniature bears, in wood-carving, porcelain, and so on. His gold shirt
stud bore the impress of a bear. At one Christmas time he showed me a
breakfast cup upon which a bear had been painted, by his express order,
as a gift for his wife. At another he granted me a view of a fine silver
candlestick in the shape of a bear and staff, which was also intended
for her.

To my husband Parker often spoke of the excellence of his wife's
discernment of character. He would say, "My quiet little wife, with her
simple intuition, understands people more readily than I do. I sometimes
invite a stranger to my house, and tell her that she will find him as
pleasant as I have found him. It may turn out so; but if my wife says,
'Theodore, I don't like that man; there's something wrong about him,' I
always find in the end that I have been mistaken,--that her judgment was

Parker's ideal of culture included a knowledge of music. His endeavors
to attain this were praiseworthy, but unsuccessful. I have heard the
late John S. Dwight relate that when he was a student in Harvard
Divinity School, Parker, who was then his fellow student, desired to be
taught to sing the notes of the musical scale. Dwight volunteered to
give him lessons, and began, as is usual, by striking the dominant _do_
and directing Parker to imitate the sound. Parker responded, and found
himself able to sing this one note; but when Dwight passed on to the
second and the third, Parker could only repeat the note already sung. He
had no ear for music, and his friend advised him to give up the hopeless
attempt to cultivate his voice. In like manner, at an earlier date, Dr.
Howe and Charles Sumner joined a singing class, but both evincing the
same defect were dismissed as hopeless cases. Parker attended sedulously
the concerts of classical music given in Boston, and no doubt enjoyed
them, after a fashion. I remember that I once tried to explain to him
the difference between having an ear for music and not having one. I
failed, however, to convince him of any such distinction.

The years during which I heard him most frequently were momentous in the
history of our country and of our race. They presaged and preceded grave
crises on both sides of the Atlantic. In Europe was going on the ferment
of ideas and theories which led to the revolutions of 1848 and the
temporary upturning of states and of governments. In the United States,
the seed of thought sown by prophetic minds was ripening in the great
field of public opinion. Slavery and all that it involved became not
only hateful but intolerable to men of right mind, and the policy which
aimed at its indefinite extension was judged and condemned.

Parker at this time had need in truth of the two-edged sword of the
Spirit. On the one hand he encountered the foes of religious freedom, on
the other the advocates and instruments of political oppression. His
sermons on theism belonged to one of these domains, those which treated
of public men and measures to the other. Among these last, I remember
best that on Daniel Webster, and the terrible "Lesson for the Day" which
denounced Judge Loring for the part he had taken in the rendition of
Anthony Burns.

The discourse which treated of Webster was indeed memorable. I remember
well the solemnity of its opening sentences, and the earnest desire
shown throughout to do justice to the great gifts of the great man,
while no one of his public misdeeds was allowed to escape notice. The
whole performance, painful as it was in parts, was very uplifting, as
the exhibition of true mastery must always be. Its unusual length caused
me to miss the omnibus which should have brought me to South Boston in
good time for our Sunday dinner. As I entered the house and found the
family somewhat impatient of the unwonted delay, I cried, "Let no one
find fault! I have heard the greatest thing that I shall ever hear!"

At the time of the attempted rendition of the fugitive slave Shadrach a
meeting was held in the Melodeon, at which various speakers gave
utterance to the indignation which aroused the whole community. Parker
had been the prime mover in calling this meeting. He had written for it
some verses to be sung to the tune of "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,"
and he made the closing and most important address. It was on this
occasion that I first saw Colonel Higginson, who was then known as the
Rev. Thomas Wentworth Higginson, pastor of a religious society in
Worcester, Mass. The part assigned to him in the exercises was to read
portions of Scripture appropriate to the day. This he did with excellent
effect. Parker, in the course of his address, held up a torn coat, and
said, "This is the coat of our brother Shadrach," reverting in his mind
to the Bible story of the torn coat of Joseph over which his father
grieved so sorely. As I left the hall I heard some mischievous urchins
commenting upon this. "Nonsense!" cried one of them, "that wasn't
Shadrach's coat at all. That was Theodore's coat." Parker was amused
when I told him of this.

From time to time Parker would speak in his sermons of the position
which woman should hold in a civilized community. The question of
suffrage had not then been brought into prominence, and, as I remember,
he insisted most upon the claim of the sex to equality of education and
of opportunity. On one occasion he invited Lucretia Mott to his pulpit.
On another its privileges were accorded to Mrs. Seba Smith. I was
present one Sunday when he announced to his congregation that the Rev.
Antoinette L. Brown would address them on the Sunday following. As he
pronounced the word "Reverend," I detected an unmistakable and probably
unconscious curl of his lip. The lady was, I believe, the first woman
minister regularly ordained in the United States. She was a graduate of
Oberlin, in that day the only college in our country which received
among its pupils women and negroes. She was ordained as pastor by an
Orthodox Congregational society, and has since become better known as
Antoinette Brown Blackwell, a strenuous advocate of the rights of her
sex, an earnest student of religious philosophy, and the author of some
valuable works on this and kindred topics.

[Illustration: THEODORE PARKER

_From a photograph by J. J. Hawes._]

I am almost certain that Parker was the first minister who in public
prayer to God addressed him as "Father and Mother of us all." I can
truly say that no rite of public worship, not even the splendid Easter
service in St. Peter's at Rome, ever impressed me as deeply as did
Theodore Parker's prayers. The volume of them which has been published
preserves many of his sentences, but cannot convey any sense of the
sublime attitude of humility with which he rose and stood, his arms
extended, his features lit up with the glory of his high office. Truly,
he talked with God, and took us with him into the divine presence.

I cannot remember that the interest of his sermons ever varied for me.
It was all one intense delight. The luminous clearness of his mind, his
admirable talent for popularizing the procedures and conclusions of
philosophy, his keen wit and poetic sense of beauty,--all these combined
to make him appear to me one of the oracles of God. Add to these his
fearlessness and his power of denunciation, exercised in a community a
great part of which seemed bound in a moral sleep. His voice was like
the archangel's trump, summoning the wicked to repentance and bidding
the just take heart. It was hard to go out from his presence, all aglow
with the enthusiasm which he felt and inspired, and to hear him spoken
of as a teacher of irreligion, a pest to the community.

As all know, this glorious career came too soon to an end. While still
in the fullness of his powers, and at the moment when he was most
needed, the taint of hereditary disease penetrated his pure and
blameless life. He came to my husband's office one day, and said, "Howe,
that venomous cat which has destroyed so many of my people has fixed her
claws here," pointing to his chest. The progress of the fatal disease
was slow but sure. He had agreed with Dr. Howe that they should visit
South America together in 1860, when he should have attained his
fiftieth year. Alas! in place of that adventurous voyage and journey, a
sad exodus to the West Indies and thence to Europe was appointed, an
exile from which he never returned.

Many years after this time I visited the public cemetery in Florence,
and stood before the simple granite cross which marks the resting-place
of this great apostle of freedom. I found it adorned with plants and
vines which had evidently been brought from his native land. A dear
friend of his, Mrs. Sarah Shaw Russell, had said to me of this spot, "It
looks like a piece of New England." And I thought how this piece of New
England belonged to the world.

One of the most imposing figures in my gallery of remembrance is that of
Charles Sumner, senator and martyr. When I first saw him I was still a
girl in my father's house, from which the father had then but recently
passed. My eldest brother, Samuel Ward, had made Mr. Sumner's
acquaintance through a letter of introduction given to the latter by Mr.
Longfellow. At his suggestion we invited Mr. Sumner to pass a quiet
evening at our house, promising him a little music. Our guest had but
recently returned from England, where letters from Chief Justice Story
had given him access both to literary and to aristocratic circles. His
appearance was at that time rather singular. He was very tall and erect,
and the full suit of black which he wore added to the effect of his
height and slenderness of figure. Of his conversation, I remember
chiefly that he held the novels of Walter Scott in very light esteem,
and that he quoted with approbation Sir Adam Ferguson as having said
that Manzoni's "Promessi Sposi" was worth more than all of Sir Walter's
romances put together.

Mr. Sumner was at this time one of a little group of friends which an
ironical lady had christened "the Mutual Admiration Society." The other
members were the poet Longfellow, George S. Hillard, Cornelius Felton,
professor of Greek at Harvard College, of which at a later day he became
president, and Dr. Howe. These gentlemen were indeed bound together by
ties of intimate friendship, but the humorous designation just quoted
was not fairly applicable to them. They rejoiced in one another's
successes, and Sumner on one occasion wrote to Dr. Howe, apropos of some
new poem of Mr. Longfellow's, "What a club we are! I like to indulge in
a little _mutual_." The developments of later years made some changes in
these relations. When the Boston public became strongly divided on the
slavery question, Hillard and Felton were less pronounced in their views
than the others, while Longfellow, Sumner, and Dr. Howe remained united
in opinion and in feeling. Hillard, who possessed more scholarship and
literary taste than Sumner, could never understand the reason of the
high position which the latter in time attained. He remained a Webster
Whig, to use the language of those days, while Sumner was elected to
Webster's seat in the Senate. Felton was a man of very genial
temperament, devoted to the duties of his Greek professorship and to
kindred studies. He was by nature averse to strife, and the encounters
of the political arena had little attraction for him. The five always
remained friends and well-wishers. They became much absorbed in the
cares and business of public and private life, and the club as such
ceased to be spoken of.

In the days of their great intimacy, a certain grotesqueness of taste in
Sumner made him the object of some good-natured banter on the part of
the other "Mutuals." It was related that on a certain Fourth of July he
had given his office boy, Ben, a small gratuity, and had advised him to
pass the day at Mount Auburn, where he would be able to enjoy quiet and
profitable meditation. Felton was especially merry over this incident;
but he, in turn, furnished occasion for laughter when on a visit to New
York, in company with the same friends. A man-servant whom they had
brought with them was ordered to carry Felton's valise to the Astor
House. This was before the days of the baggage express. The man arrived
late in the day, breathless with fatigue, and when questioned replied,
"Faith! I went to all the _oyster_ houses in Broadway before I could
find yees."

I little thought when I first knew Mr. Sumner that his most intimate
friend was destined to become my own companion for life. Charles Sumner
was a man of great qualities and of small defects. His blemishes, which
were easily discerned, were temperamental rather than moral. He had not
the sort of imagination which enables a man to enter easily into the
feelings of others, and this deficiency on his part sometimes resulted
in unnecessary rudeness.

His father, Sheriff Sumner, had been accounted the most polite Bostonian
of his day. It was related of him that once, being present at the
execution of a criminal, and having trodden upon the foot of the
condemned man, the sheriff took off his hat and apologized for the
accident. Whereupon the criminal exclaimed, "Sheriff Sumner, you are the
politest man I ever knew, and if I am to be hanged, I had rather be
hanged by you than by any one else." It was sometimes remarked that the
sheriff's mantle did not seem to have fallen upon his son.

Charles Sumner's appearance was curiously metamorphosed by a severe
attack of typhoid fever, which he suffered, I think, in 1843 or 1844.
After his recovery he gained much in flesh, and entirely lost that
ungainliness of aspect which once led a friend to compare him to a
geometrical line, "length without breadth or thickness." He now became a
man of strikingly fine presence, his great height being offset by a
corresponding fullness of figure. His countenance was strongly marked
and very individual,--the features not handsome in themselves, but the
whole effect very pleasingly impressive.

He had but little sense of humor, and was not at home in the small
cut-and-thrust skirmishes of general society. He was made for serious
issues and for great contests, which then lay unguessed before him. Of
his literalness some amusing anecdotes have been told. At an official
ball in Washington, he remarked to a young lady who stood beside him,
"We are fortunate in having these places; for, standing here, we shall
see the first entrance of the new English and French ministers into
Washington society."

The young girl replied, "I am glad to hear it. I like to see lions break
the ice."

Sumner was silent for a few minutes, but presently said, "Miss ----, in
the country where lions live there is no ice."

During the illness of which I have spoken, he was at times delirious,
and his mother one day, going into his room, found that he was
endeavoring to put on a change of linen. She begged him to desist,
knowing him to be very weak. He said in reply, "Mother, I am not doing
it for myself, but for some one else."

Some debates on prison discipline, held in Boston in the year 1845,
attracted a good deal of attention. Dr. Howe had become much
dissatisfied with the management of prisons in Massachusetts, and
desired to see the adoption of the Pennsylvania system of solitary
confinement. Mr. Sumner entered warmly into his views. The matter was
brought before the Boston public, and the arguments for and against the
proposed change were very fully stated and discussed. Mr. Sumner spoke
several times in favor of the solitary system, and on each occasion
carried off the honors of the meeting. The secretary of the prison
discipline association at that time, a noted conservative, opposed very
strenuously the introduction of the Pennsylvania system. In the course
of the debates, Mr. Sumner turned upon him in a sudden and unexpected
manner, with these words: "In what I am about to say, I shall endeavor
to imitate the secretary's candor, but not his temper." Now the
secretary was one of the magnates of Boston, accustomed to be treated
with great consideration. The start that he gave on being thus
interpellated was so comic that it has impressed itself upon my memory.
The speaker proceeded to apply to this gentleman a well-known line of
Horace, descriptive of the character of Achilles:--

  "Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer."

I confess that to me this direct attack appeared uncalled for, and I
thought that the cause could have been as well advocated without
recourse to personalities.

I once invited Mr. Sumner to meet a distinguished guest at my house. He
replied, "I do not know that I wish to meet your friend. I have outlived
the interest in individuals." In my diary of the day I recorded the
somewhat ungracious utterance, with this comment: "God Almighty, by the
latest accounts, has not got so far as this." Mr. Sumner was told of
this, in my presence, though not by me. He said at once, "What a strange
sort of book your diary must be! You ought to strike that out

Sumner was often robbed in the street or at a railroad station; his tall
figure attracting attention, and his mind, occupied with things far
away, giving little heed to what went on in his immediate presence.
Members of his family were wont to say, "It is about time now for
Charles to have his pocket picked again." The fact often followed the

Mr. Sumner's eloquence differed much in character from that of Wendell
Phillips. The two men, although workers in a common cause, were very
dissimilar in their natural endowments. Phillips had a temperament of
fire, while that of Sumner was cold and sluggish. Phillips had a great
gift of simplicity, and always made a bee line for the central point of
interest in the theme which he undertook to present. Sumner was
recondite in language and elaborate in style. He was much of a student,
and abounded in quotations. In his senatorial days, I once heard a
satirical lady mention him as "the moral flummery member from
Massachusetts, quoting Tibullus!"

The first political speech which I heard from Mr. Sumner was delivered,
if I mistake not, at a schoolhouse in the neighborhood of Boston. I
found his oratory somewhat overloud and emphatic for the small hall and
limited attendance. He had not at that time found his proper audience.
When he was heard, later on, in Faneuil Hall or Tremont Temple, the
ringing roll of his voice was very effective. His gestures were forcible
rather than graceful. In argument he would go over the same ground
several times, always with new amplifications and illustrations of his
subject. There was a dead weight of honesty and conviction in what he
said, and it was this, perhaps, that chiefly gave him his command over
an audience. He had also in a remarkable degree the trait of mastery,
and the ability to present his topic in a large way.

I am not sure whether Sumner's idea of culture was as encyclopædic as
that of Theodore Parker, but he certainly aspired to be what is now
called "an all-round man," and especially desired to attain
connoisseurship in art. He had not the many-sided power of appreciation
which distinguished Parker, yet a reverence for the beautiful, rather
moral than æsthetic, led him to study with interest the works of the
great masters. In his later years, he never went abroad without bringing
back pictures, engravings, or rare missals. He had little natural
apprehension of music, but used to express his admiration of some
favorite operas, among them Mozart's "Don Giovanni" and Rossini's
"Barbiere di Seviglia." In the Senate Committee on Foreign Affairs, of
which he was chairman for many years, his acquaintance with foreign
languages was much valued. I remember a line of Tasso which he sometimes
quoted when beautiful hands were spoken of:--

  "Dove ne nodo appar, ne vena eccede."

On the other hand, I have heard him say that mathematics always remained
a sealed book to him; and that his professor at Harvard once exclaimed,
"Sumner, I can't whittle a mathematical idea small enough to get it into
your brain."

[Illustration: JULIA WARD HOWE

_From a painting by Joseph Ames in 1847._]

The period between 1851 and the beginning of the civil war found Mr.
Sumner at his post in the Senate of the United States. His position was
from the outset a difficult one. His election had displaced a popular
idol. His views regarding the heated question of the time, the extension
of slavery to the territories, were far in advance of those held by the
majority of the senatorial body or by the community at large. His
uncompromising method of attack, his fiery utterances, contrasting
strangely with the unusual mildness of his disposition, exasperated the
defenders of slavery. These, perhaps, seeing that he was no fighting
man, may have supposed him deficient in personal courage. He, however,
knew very well the risks to which he exposed himself. His friends
advised him to carry arms, and my husband once told old Mrs. Sumner, his
mother, that Charles ought to be provided with a pistol. "Oh, doctor,"
said the old lady, "he would only shoot himself with it."

In the most trying days of the civil war, this same old lady came to Dr.
Howe's office, anxious to learn his opinion concerning the progress of
the contest. Dr. Howe in reply referred her to her own son for the
desired information, saying, "Dear Madam Sumner, Charles knows more
about public affairs than I do. Why don't you ask him about them?"

"Oh, doctor, if I ask Charles, he only says, 'Mother, don't trouble
yourself about such things.'"

I was in Washington with Dr. Howe early in the spring of 1856. I
remember being present in the senate chamber when a rather stormy debate
took place between Stephen A. Douglas, of Illinois, and Henry Wilson, of
Massachusetts. Charles Sumner looked up and, seeing me in the gallery,
greeted me with a smile of recognition. I shall never forget the beauty
of that smile. It seemed to me to illuminate the whole precinct with a
silvery radiance. There was in it all the innocence of his sweet and
noble nature.

I asked my husband to invite Sumner to dine with us at Willard's Hotel,
where we were staying. "No, no," he said, "Sumner would consider it
_infra dig._ to dine with us at the hotel." He did, however, call upon
us. In the course of conversation he said to me, "I shall soon deliver a
speech in the Senate which will occasion a good deal of excitement. It
will not surprise me if people leave their seats and show signs of
unusual disturbance."

The speech was delivered soon after this time. It was a direct and
forcible arraignment of the slave power, which was then endeavoring to
change the free Territory of Kansas into a slave State. The disturbance
which Mr. Sumner had anticipated did not fail to follow, but in a manner
which neither he nor any of his friends had foreseen.

At the hotel I had remarked a handsome man, evidently a Southerner, with
what appeared to me an evil expression of countenance. This was Brooks
of South Carolina, the man who, not long after this time, attacked
Charles Sumner in his seat in the senate chamber, choosing a moment when
the personal friends of his victim were not present, and inflicting upon
him injuries which destroyed his health and endangered his life. I will
not enlarge here upon the pain and distress which this event caused to
us and to the community at large. For several weeks our senator's life
hung in the balance. For a very much longer time his vacant seat in the
senate chamber told of the severe suffering which incapacitated him for
public work. This time of great trial had some compensation in the
general sympathy which it called forth. Sumner had won the crown of
martyrdom, and his person thenceforth became sacred, even to his

It was after a residence of many years in Washington that Mr. Sumner
decided to build and occupy a house of his own. The spot chosen by him
was immediately adjoining the well-known Arlington Hotel. The house was
handsome and well appointed, adorned also with pictures and fine
bronzes, in both of which he took great delight. Dr. Howe and I were
invited to visit him there one evening, with other guests. Among these
was Caleb Cushing, with whom Mr. Sumner soon became engaged in an
animated discussion, probably regarding some question of the day. So
absorbed were the two gentlemen in their argument that each of them
frequently interrupted the other. The one interrupted would expostulate,
saying, "I have not finished what I have to say;" at which the other
would bow and apologize, but would presently offend again, in the same

At my own house in Boston, Mr. Sumner called one evening when we were
expecting other company. The invited guests presently arrived, and he
abruptly left the room without any parting word or gesture. I afterwards
spoke of this to Dr. Howe, who said, "That is Sumner's idea of taking
French leave." Whereupon our dear eldest said, "Why, mamma, Mr. Sumner's
way of taking French leave is as if the elephant should undertake to
walk incognito down Broadway."

The last important act of Mr. Sumner's public life was the elaborate
argument by which he defeated the proposed annexation of Santo Domingo
to the United States. This question presented itself during the first
term of General Grant's administration. The proposal for annexation was
made by the President of the Dominican Republic. General Grant, with the
forethought of a military commander, desired that the United States
should possess a foothold in the West Indies. A commission of three was
accordingly appointed to investigate and report upon the condition of
the island. The three were Hon. Benjamin F. Wade, of Ohio, Andrew D.
White, at that time president of Cornell University, and Dr. Howe. A
thorough visitation of the territory was made by these gentlemen, and a
report favorable to the scheme of annexation was presented by them on
their return. Dr. Howe was greatly interested for the Dominicans, who
had achieved political independence and separation from Hayti by a
severe struggle, which was always liable to be renewed on the part of
their former masters. Mr. Sumner, on the other hand, espoused the cause
of the Haytian government so warmly that he would not wait for the
report of the commission to be presented, but hastened to forestall
public opinion by a speech in which he displayed all his powers of
oratory, but showed something less than his usual acquaintance with
facts. His eloquence carried the day, and the plan of annexation was
defeated and abandoned, to the great regret of the commissioners and of
the Dominicans themselves.

I shall speak elsewhere of my visiting Santo Domingo in company with Dr.
Howe. Our second visit there was made in the spring of the year 1874. I
had gone one day to inspect a school high on the mountains of Samana,
when a messenger came after me in haste, bearing this written message
from my husband: "Please come home at once. Our dear, noble Sumner is no
more." The monthly steamer, at that time the only one that ran to Santo
Domingo, had just brought the news, deplored by many, to my husband
inexpressibly sad.

In the winter of 1846-47 I one day heard Dr. Holmes speak of Agassiz,
who had then recently arrived in America. He described him as a man of
great talent and reputation, who added to his mental gifts the endowment
of a superb physique. Soon after this time I had the pleasure of making
the acquaintance of the eminent naturalist, and of attending the first
series of lectures which he gave at the Lowell Institute.

The great personal attraction of Agassiz, joined to his admirable power
of presenting the results of scientific investigation in a popular form,
made a vivid impression upon the Boston public. All his lecture courses
were largely attended. These and his continued presence among us gave a
new impetus to the study of natural science. In his hands the record of
the bones and fossils became a living language, and the common thought
was enriched by the revelation of the wonders of the visible universe.
Agassiz's was an expansive nature, and his great delight lay in
imparting to others the discoveries in which he had found such intense
pleasure. This sympathetic trait relieved his discourse of all dryness
and dullness. In his college days he had employed his hour of
intermission at noon in explaining the laws of botany to a class of
little children. When required to furnish a thesis at the close of his
university course, he chose for his theme the proper education of women,
and insisted that it ought not to be inferior to that given to men.

I need hardly relate how a most happy marriage in later life made him
one of us, nor how this opened the way to the establishment in his house
of a school whose girl pupils, in addition to other valuable
instruction, enjoyed daily the privilege of listening to his clear and
lucid exposition of the facts and laws of his favorite science.

His memory is still bright among us. The story of his life and work is
beautifully told in the "Life and Correspondence" published soon after
his death by his widow, Mrs. Elizabeth Cary Agassiz, well known to-day
as the president of Radcliffe College. His children and grandchildren
are among our most valued citizens. His son, Professor Alexander
Agassiz, inherits his father's devotion to science, while his daughter,
Mrs. Quincy Shaw, has shown her public spirit in her great services to
the cause of education. An enduring monument to his fame is the
Cambridge Museum of Comparative Zoölogy, and I am but one of many still
surviving who recall with gratitude the enlargement of intellectual
interest which he brought to our own and other communities.

Women who wish well to their own sex should never forget that, on the
occasion of his first lectures delivered in the capital of Brazil, he
earnestly requested the emperor that ladies might be allowed to be
present,--a privilege till then denied them on grounds of etiquette. The
request was granted, and the sacred domain of science for the first time
was thrown open to the women of South America.

       *       *       *       *       *

I cannot remember just when it was that an English visitor, who brought
a letter of introduction to my husband, spoke to me of the "Bothie of
Tober-na-Fuosich" and its author, Arthur Hugh Clough. The gentleman was
a graduate of Oxford or of Cambridge. He came to our house several
times, and I consulted him with regard to the classic rhythms, in which
he was well versed. I had it in mind at this time to write a poem in
classic rhythm. It was printed in my first volume, "Passion Flowers;"
and Mr. Sanborn, in an otherwise very friendly review of my work,
characterized as "pitiable hexameters" the lines which were really not
hexameters at all, nor intended to pass for such. They were pentameters
constructed according to my own ideas; I did not have in view any
special school or rule.

I soon had the pleasure of reading the "Bothie," which I greatly
admired. While it was fresh in my mind Mr. Clough arrived in Boston,
furnished with excellent letters of introduction both for that city and
for the dignitaries of Cambridge. My husband at once invited him to pass
some days at our house, and I was very glad to welcome him there. In
appearance I thought him rather striking. He was tall, tending a little
to stoutness, with a beautifully ruddy complexion and dark eyes which
twinkled with suppressed humor. His sweet, cheery manner at once
attracted my young children to him, and I was amused, on passing near
the open door of his room, to see him engaged in conversation with my
little son, then some five or six years of age. In Dr. Howe's daily
absences I tried to keep our guest company a little, but I found him
very shy. I remember that I said to him, when we had made some
acquaintance, that I had often wished to meet Thackeray, and to give him
two buffets, saying, "This one is for your Becky Sharp and this one for
Blanche Amory,"--regarding both as slanders upon my sex. Mr. Clough
suggested that in the great world of London such characters were not out
of place. The device of Blanche Amory's book, "Mes Larmes," seemed to
have afforded him much amusement.

It happened that, while he was with us, I dined one day with a German
friend, who served us with quite a wonderful repast. The feast had been
a merry one, and at the dessert two such sumptuous dishes were presented
to us that I, having tasted of one of them, said to a friend across the
table, "Anna, this is poetry!" She was occupied with the opposite dish,
and, mindful of the old pleasantry to which I alluded, replied, "Julia,
this is religion." At breakfast, the next morning, I endeavored to
entertain those present with some account of the great dinner. As I
enlarged a little upon the excellence of the details, Mr. Clough said,
"Mrs. Howe, you seem to have a great appreciation of these matters." I
disclaimed this; whereupon he rejoined, "Mrs. Howe, you are modest."

Some months later I met Mr. Clough at a friend's house, where some
informal charades were about to be attempted. Being requested to take
part in one, I declined; and when urged, I replied, "No, no, I am
modest,--Mr. Clough once said so." He looked at me in some pretended
surprise, and said, "It must have been at a very early period in our
acquaintance." This "give and take" was all in great good humor, and Mr.
Clough was a delightful guest in all societies. Sorry indeed were we
when, having become quite at home among us, he returned to England,
there to marry and abide. I remember that he told me of one winter which
he had passed at his university without fire in his quarters. When I
heard of his illness and untimely death, it occurred to me that the
seeds of the fatal disease might have been sown during that season of



In June, 1850, after a seven years' residence in and near Boston, during
which I labored at study and literary composition, I enjoyed an interval
of rest and recreation in Europe. With me went Dr. Howe and our two
youngest children, one of them an infant in arms. We passed some weeks
in London, and went thence to renew our acquaintance with the
Nightingale family, at their summer residence in Derbyshire. Florence
Nightingale had been traveling in Egypt, and was still abroad. Her
sister, Parthenope, read us some of her letters, which, as may be
imagined, were full of interest.

Florence and her companions, Mr. and Mrs. Bracebridge, had made some
stay in Rome, on their way to Egypt. Margaret Fuller called one day at
their lodgings. Florence herself opened the door, and said to the
visitor, "Mr. and Mrs. Bracebridge are not at home." Margaret replied,
"My visit is intended for Miss Florence Nightingale;" and she was
admitted to a tête-à-tête of which one would be glad to know something.
It was during this visit that I learned the sad news of Margaret's
shipwreck and death.

Dr. Howe, with all his energy of body and of mind, was somewhat of a
valetudinarian. The traces of a severe malarial fever, contracted by him
in the Greek campaign of his youth, went with him through life. He was
subject to frightful headaches, and these and other ailments caused him
to take great interest in theories of hygiene, and among these in the
then new system of hydropathy, as formulated by Priessnitz. At the time
now spoken of he arranged to pass a period at Boppard on the Rhine,
where a water-cure had recently been established. He became an outside
patient of this institution, and seemed to enjoy thoroughly the routine
of bathing, douching, packing, etc. Beyond the limits of the water-cure
the little town presented few features of interest. Wandering about its
purlieus one day, I came upon a sort of open cave or recess in the rocks
in which I found two rude cradles, each occupied by a silent and stolid
baby. Presently two rough-looking women, who had been carrying stones
from the riverside, came in from their work. The little ones now broke
out into dismal wailing. "Why do they cry so?" I asked. "They ought to
be glad to see you." "Oh, madam, they cry because they know how soon we
must leave them again."

Tom Appleton disposed of the water-cure theory in the following fashion:
"Water-cure? Oh yes, very fine. Priessnitz forgot one day to wash his
face, and so he died."

My husband's leave of absence was for six months only, and we parted
company at Heidelberg; he to turn his face homewards, I to proceed with
my two sisters to Rome, where it had been arranged that I should pass
the winter.

Our party occupied two thirds of the diligence in which we made a part
of the journey. My sister L. had with her two little daughters, my
youngest sister had one. These, with my two babies and the respective
nurses, filled the _rotonde_ of the vehicle. The three mammas occupied
the _coupé_, while my brother-in-law, Thomas Crawford, took refuge in
the _banquette_. The custom-house officer at one place approached with
his lantern, to ascertain the contents of the diligence. Looking into
the _rotonde_, he remarked, "Baby baggage," and inquired no further.

Dr. Howe had charged me to provide myself with a watch when I should
pass through Geneva, and had given me the address of a friend who, he
said, would advise me where best to make the purchase. Following his
instructions, I wrote Dr. G. a letter in my best French; and he, calling
at our hotel, expressed his surprise at finding that I was not a
Frenchwoman. He found us all at breakfast, and, after the first
compliments, began a voluble tirade in favor of the use of emetics,
which was scarcely in place at the moment. From this he went on to speak
of the management of children.

"When my son was born," he said, "and showed the first symptoms of
hunger, I would not allow him to be fed. If his cries had met with an
immediate response he would have said to himself, 'I have a servant.' I
made him wait for his food until he was obliged to say, 'I have a
master.'" I thought of my own dear nurslings and shook my head. Learning
that Mr. Crawford was a sculptor, he said, "I, too, in my youth desired
to exercise that art, and modeled a bust, in which I made concave the
muscle which should have been convex. A friend recommended to me the
study of anatomy, and following it I became a physician."

We reached Rome late in October. A comfortable apartment was found for
me in the street named Capo le Case. A donkey brought my winter's supply
of firewood, and I made haste to hire a grand piano. The artist Edward
Freeman occupied the suite of rooms above my own. In the apartment
below, Mrs. David Dudley Field and her children were settled for the
winter. Our little colony was very harmonious. When Mrs. Field
entertained company, she was wont to borrow my large lamp; when I
received, she lent me her teacups. Mrs. Freeman, on the floor above, was
a most friendly little person, partly Italian by birth, but wholly
English in education. She willingly became the companion and guide of my
walks about Rome, which were long and many.

I had begun the study of Hebrew in America, and was glad to find a
learned rabbi from the Ghetto who was willing to give me lessons for a
moderate compensation.

My sister, Mrs. Crawford, was at that time established at Villa Negroni,
an old-time papal residence. This was surrounded by extensive gardens,
and within the inclosure were an artificial fish pond and a lodge which
my brother-in-law converted into a studio. My days in Rome passed very
quietly. The time, which flew by rapidly, was divided between study
within doors, the care and companionship of my little children, and the
exploration of the wonderful old city. I dined regularly at two o'clock,
having with me at table my little son and my baby secured in her high
chair. I shared with my sisters the few dissipations of the season,--an
occasional ball, a box at the opera, a drive on the Campagna. On Sunday
mornings my youngest sister usually came to breakfast with me, and
afterward accompanied me to the Ara Coeli Church, where a military mass
was celebrated, the music being supplied by the band of a French
regiment. The time, I need scarcely say, was that of the early years of
the French occupation of the city, to which France made it her boast
that she had brought back the Pope.

As I chronicle these small personal adventures of mine, I am constrained
to blush at their insufficiency. I write as if I had forgotten the
wonderful series of events which had come to pass between my first visit
to Rome and this second tarrying within its walls. In the interval, the
days of 1848 had come and gone. France had dismissed her citizen king,
and had established a republic in place of the monarchy. The Pope of
Rome, for centuries the representative and upholder of absolute rule,
had stood before the world as the head of the Christianity which
liberalizes both institutions and ideas. In Germany the party of
progress was triumphant. Europe had trembled with the birth-pangs of
freedom. A new and glorious confederacy of states seemed to be promised
in the near future. The tyrannies of the earth were surely about to meet
their doom.

My own dear eldest son was given to me in the spring of this terrible
and splendid year of 1848. When his father wrote "_Dieu donné_" under
the boy's name in the family Bible, he added to the welcome record the
new device, "_Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité_." The first Napoleon had
overthrown rulers and dynasties. A greater power than his now came upon
the stage,--the power of individual conviction backed by popular

My husband, who had fought for Greek freedom in his youth, who had
risked and suffered imprisonment in behalf of Poland in his early
manhood, and who had devoted his mature life to the service of humanity,
welcomed the new state of things with all the enthusiasm of his generous
nature. To him, as to many, the final emancipation and unification of
the human race, the millennium of universal peace and good-will, seemed
near at hand. Alas! the great promise brought only a greater failure.
The time for its fulfillment had not yet arrived. Freedom could not be
attained by striking an attitude, nor secured by the issuing of a
document. The prophet could see the plan of the new Jerusalem coming
down from heaven, but the fact remained that the city of God must be
built by patient day's work. Such builders Europe could not bring to the
front. The Pope retreated before the logical sequence of his own
initiative. France elected for her chief a born despot of the meaner
order, whose first act was to overthrow the Roman Republic. Germany had
dreamed of freedom, but had not dreamed of the way to secure it.
Reaction everywhere asserted itself. The light of the great hope died

Coming to Rome while these events were still fresh in men's minds, I
could see no trace of them in the popular life. The waters were still as
death; the wrecks did not appear above the surface. I met occasionally
Italians who could talk calmly of what had happened. Of such an one I
asked, "Why did Pio Nono so suddenly forsake his liberal policy?" "Oh,
the Pope was a puppet moved from without. He never rightly understood
the import of his first departure. When the natural result of this came
about, he fled from it in terror." These things were spoken of only in
the secrecy of very private interviews. In general intercourse they were
not mentioned. Now and then, a servant, lamenting the dearness of
necessaries, the paper money, etc., would say, "And this has been
brought about by blessed [_benedetto_] Pio Nono!" People of higher
condition eulogized thus the pontiff's predecessor: "Gregorio was at
least a man of decided views. He knew what he wanted and how to obtain
it." Once only, in a village not far distant from Rome, I heard an
Italian peasant woman say to a prince, "We [her family] are
Republicans." Victor Emmanuel, Cavour, Garibaldi, your time was not yet

The French were not beloved in Rome. I was told that the mass of the
people would not endure the license of their conquerors in the matter of
sex, and that assassinations in consequence were frequent. In high
society it was said that a French officer had endeavored to compel one
of the Roman princes to invite to his ball a lady of doubtful
reputation, by threatening to send a challenge in case of refusal. The
invitation was nevertheless withheld, and the challenge, if sent, was
never accepted. In the English and American circles which I frequented,
I sometimes felt called upon to fight for the claim of Italy to freedom
and self-government. At a dinner party, at which the altercation had
been rather lively, I was invited to entertain the company with some
music. Seating myself at the piano, I made it ring out the Marseillaise
with a will. But I was myself too much disconcerted by the recent
failure to find in my thoughts any promise of better things. My friends
said, "The Italians are not fit for self-government." I may ask fifty
years later, "Who is?"

The progress of ideas is not indeed always visible to superficial
observers. I was engaged one day in making a small purchase at a shop,
when the proprietor leaned across the counter and asked, almost in a
whisper, for the loan of a Bible. He had heard of the book, he said, and
wished very much to see a copy of it. Our _chargé d'affaires_, Mr. Cass,
mentioned to me the fact that an entire edition of Deodati's Italian
translation of the New Testament had recently been seized and burned by
order of the papal government.

But to return to matters purely personal. As the Christmas of 1850 drew
near, my sister L., ever intent on hospitality, determined to have a
party and a Christmas tree at Villa Negroni. This last was then a
novelty unheard of in Rome. I was to dine with her, and had offered to
furnish the music for an informal dance.

On Christmas Eve I went with a party of friends to the church of Santa
Maria Maggiore, where the Pope, according to the custom of those days,
was to appear in state, bearing in his arms the cradle supposed to be
that of the infant Jesus, which was usually kept at St. Peter's. We were
a little late in starting, and were soon obliged to retire from the
highway, as the whole papal _cortége_ came sweeping by,--the state
coaches of crimson and gold, and the _Guardia Nobile_ with their
glittering helmets, white cloaks, and high boots. Their course was
illuminated by pans of burning oil, supported by iron staves, the spiked
ends of which were stuck in the ground. When the rapid procession had
passed on we hastened to overtake it, but arrived too late to witness
either the arrival of the Pope or his progress to the high altar with
the cradle in his arms.

On Christmas Day I attended high mass at St. Peter's. Although the
weather was of the pleasantest, an aguish chill disturbed my enjoyment
of the service. This discomfort so increased in the course of the day
that, as I sat at dinner, I could with difficulty carry a morsel from my
plate to my lips.

"This is a chill," said my sister. "You ought to go to bed at once."

I insisted upon remaining to play for the promised dance, and argued
that the fever would presently succeed the chill, and that I should then
be warm enough. I passed the evening in great bodily discomfort, but
managed to play quadrilles, waltzes, and the endless Virginia Reel. When
at last I reached home and my bed, the fever did come with a will. I was
fortunate enough to recover very quickly from this indisposition, and
did not forget the warning which it gave me of the dangers of the Roman
climate. The shivering evening left me a happier recollection. Among my
sister's guests was Horace Binney Wallace, of Philadelphia, whom I had
once met in his own city. He had angered me at that time by his ridicule
of Boston society, of which he really knew little or nothing. He was now
in a less aggressive frame of mind, and this second meeting with him was
the beginning of a much-valued friendship. We visited together many
points of historic interest in the city,--the Pantheon, the Tarpeian
Rock, the bridge of Horatius Cocles. He had some fanciful theories about
the traits of character usually found in conjunction with red hair. As
he and I were both distinguished by this feature, I was much pleased to
learn from him that "the highest effort of nature is to produce a
_rosso_." He was a devoted student of the works of Auguste Comte, and
had recently held some conversation with that remarkable man. In the
course of this, he told me, he asked the great Positivist how he could
account for the general religious instinct of the human race, so
contrary to the doctrines of his philosophy. Comte replied, "Que
voulez-vous, monsieur? Anormalité cérébrale." My new friend was good
enough to interest himself in my literary pursuits. He advised me to
study the most important of Comte's works, but by no means to become a
convert to his doctrines. In due time I availed myself of his counsel,
and read with great interest the volumes prescribed by him.

Horace Wallace was an exhilarating companion. I have never forgotten the
silvery _timbre_ of his rather high voice, nor the glee with which he
would occasionally inform me that he had discovered a new and most
remarkable _rosso_. This was sometimes a picture, but oftener a living
individual. If he found himself disappointed in the latter case, he
would account for it by saying that he had at first sight mistaken the
color of the hair, which shaded too much upon the yellow. Despite his
vivacity of temperament, he was subject to fits of severe depression.
Some years after this time, finding himself in Paris, he happened to
visit a friend whose mental powers had been impaired by severe illness.
He himself had been haunted for some time by the fear of becoming
insane, and the sad condition of his friend so impressed him with the
fear of suffering a similar disaster that he made haste to avoid the
dreaded fate by taking his own life.

The following lines, written not long after this melancholy event, bear
witness to my grateful and tender remembrance of him:--


  'Twas in the Via Felice
    My friend his dwelling made,
  The Roman Via Felice,
    Half sunshine, half in shade.

  But I lodged near the convent
    Whose bells did hallow noon,
  And all the lesser hours,
    With sweet recurrent tune.

  They lent their solemn cadence
    To all the thoughtless day;
  The heart, so oft it heard them,
    Was lifted up to pray.

  And where the lamp was lighted
    At twilight, on the wall,
  Serenely sat Madonna,
    And smiled to bless us all.

  I see him from the window
    That ne'er my heart forgets;
  He buys from yonder maiden
    My morning violets.

  Not ill he chose these flowers
    With mild, reproving eyes,
  Emblems of tender chiding,
    And love divinely wise.

  For his were generous learning
    And reconciling art;
  Oh, not with fleeting presence
    My friend and I could part.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, not where he is lying
    With dear ancestral dust,
  Not where his household traces
    Grow sad and dim with rust;

  But in the ancient city
    And from the quaint old door,
  I'm watching, at my window,
    His coming evermore.

  For Death's eternal city
    Has yet some happy street;
  'Tis in the Via Felice
    My friend and I shall meet.

Adolph Mailliard, the husband of my youngest sister, had been an
intimate friend of Joseph Bonaparte, Prince of Musignano. My sister was
in consequence invited more than once to the Bonaparte palace. The
father of the family was Prince Charles Bonaparte, who married his
cousin, Princess Zénaïde. She had passed some years at the Bonaparte
villa in Bordentown, N. J., the American residence of her father, Joseph
Bonaparte, ex-king of Spain. This princess, who was _tant soit peu
gourmande_ said one day to my sister, "What good things they have for
breakfast in America! I still remember those hot cakes." The
conversation was reported to me, and I managed, with the assistance of
the helper brought from home, to send the princess a very excellent
bannock of Indian meal, of which she afterwards said, "It was so good
that we ate what was left of it on the second day." This reminds me of a
familiar couplet:--

  "And what they could not eat that night
  The queen next morning fried."

Among the friends of that winter were Sarah and William Clarke, sister
and brother of the Rev. James Freeman Clarke. It was in their company
that Margaret Fuller made the journey recorded in her "Summer on the
Lakes." Both were devoted to her memory. I afterwards learned that
William Clarke considered her the good genius of his life, her counsel
and encouragement having come to his aid in a season of melancholy
depression and self-depreciation. Miss Clarke was characterized by an
exquisite refinement of feeling and of manner. She was also an artist of
considerable merit. This was the first of many winters passed by her in

I will further mention only a dinner given by American residents in Rome
on Washington's birthday, at which I was present. Mrs. Ann S. Stephens,
the well-known writer, was also one of the guests. She had composed for
the occasion a poem, of which I recall the opening line,--

  "We are met in the clime where the wild flowers abound,"

and the closing ones,--

  "To the halo that circles our Washington's head
  Let us pour a libation the gods never knew."

Among many toasts, my sister Annie proposed this one, "Washington's clay
in Crawford's hand," which was appropriate, as Thomas Crawford was known
at the time to be engaged in modeling the equestrian statue of
Washington which crowns his Richmond monument.

My Roman holiday came to an end in the summer of the year 1851, and my
return to my home and friends became imperative. As the time of my
departure approached, I felt how deeply the subtle fascination of Roman
life had entered into my very being. Pain, amounting almost to anguish,
seized me at the thought that I might never again behold those ancient
monuments, those stately churches, or take part in the society which had
charmed me principally through its unlikeness to any that I had known
elsewhere. I have indeed seen Rome and its wonders more than once since
that time, but never as I saw them then.

I made the homeward voyage with my sister Annie and her husband in an
old-fashioned Havre packet. We were a month at sea, and after the first
days of discomfort I managed to fill the hours of the long summer days
with systematic occupation. In the mornings I perused Swedenborg's
"Divine Love and Wisdom." In the afternoon I read, for the first and
only time, Eugène Sue's "Mystères de Paris," which the ship's surgeon
borrowed for me from a steerage passenger. In the evening we played
whist; and when others had retired for the night, I often sat alone in
the cabin, meditating upon the events and lessons of the last six
months. These lucubrations took form in a number of poems, which were
written with no thought of publication, but which saw the light a year
or two later.



If I may sum up in one term the leading bent of my life, I will simply
call myself a student. Dr. Howe used to say of me: "Mrs. Howe is not a
great reader, but she always studies."

Albeit my intellectual pursuits have always been such as to task my
mind, I cannot boast that I have acquired much in the way of technical
erudition. I have only drawn from history and philosophy some
understanding of human life, some lessons in the value of thought for
thought's sake, and, above all, a sense of the dignity of character
above every other dignity. Goethe chose well for his motto the words:--

"Die Zeit ist mein Vermächtniss, mein Acker ist die Zeit." "Time is my
inheritance; time is my estate."

But I may choose this for mine:--

"I have followed the great masters with my heart."

The first writer of importance with whom I made acquaintance after
leaving school was Gibbon, whose "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire"
occupied me during one entire winter. I have already mentioned my early
familiarity with the French and Italian languages. In these respective
literatures I read the works which in those days were usually commended
to young women. These were, in French, Lamartine's poems and travels,
Chateaubriand's "Atala" and "René," Racine's tragedies, Molière's
comedies; in Italian, Metastasio, Tasso, Alfieri's dramas and
autobiography. Under dear Dr. Cogswell's tuition, I read Schiller's
plays and prose writings with delight. In later years, Goethe, Herder,
Jean Paul Richter, were added to my repertory. I read Dante with Felice
Foresti, and such works of Sand and Balzac as were allowed within my
reach. I had early acquired some knowledge of Latin, and in later life
found great pleasure in reading the essays and Tusculan dissertations of
Cicero. The view of ethics represented in these writings sometimes
appeared to me of higher tone than the current morality of Christendom,
and I rejoiced in the thought that, even in the Rome of the
pre-Christian Cæsars, God had not left himself without a witness.

This enlarged notion of the ethical history of mankind might easily lead
one in life's novitiate to underestimate the comparative value of the
usually accepted traditions. I confess that I, personally, did not
escape this error, which I have seen largely prevalent among studious
people of my own time.

Who can say what joy there is in the rehabilitation of human nature,
which is one essential condition of the liberal Christian faith? I had
been trained to think that all mankind were by nature low, vile, and
wicked. Only a chosen few, by a rare and difficult spiritual operation,
could be rescued from the doom of a perpetual dwelling with the enemies
of God, a perpetual participation in the torments "prepared for them
from the beginning of the world." The rapture of this new freedom, of
this enlarged brotherhood, which made all men akin to the Divine Father
of all, every religion, however ignorant, the expression of a sincere
and availing worship, might well produce in a neophyte an exhilaration
bordering upon ecstasy. The exclusive doctrine which had made
Christianity, and special forms of it, the only way of spiritual
redemption, now appeared to me to commend itself as little to human
reason as to human affection. I felt that we could not rightly honor our
dear Christ by immolating at his shrine the souls of myriads of our
fellows born under the widely diverse influences which could not be
thought of as existing unwilled by the supreme Providence.

Antichrist was once a term of consummate reproach, often applied by
zealous Protestants to their arch enemy, the Pope of Rome. As will be
imagined, I intend a different use of it, and have chosen the term to
express the opposition which has sprung up within the Christian church,
not only to the worship of the son as a divine being, but even to the
notion of his long undisputed preëminence in wisdom, goodness, and
power. And here, as I once said that I had taken German in the natural
way, with no preconceived notion of the import and importance of German
literature, so I may say that I first received Christianity in the way
natural to one of my birth and education. I have since been called upon
to confront the topic in many ways. Swedenborg's theory of the divine
man, Parker's preaching, the Boston Radical Club, Frank Abbot's
depreciating comparison of Jesus with Socrates,--after following
unfoldings of this wonderful panorama, I must say that the earliest view
is that which I hold to most, that, namely, of the heavenly Being whose
presence was beneficence, whose word was judgment, whose brief career on
earth ended in a sacrifice, whose purity and pathos have had much to do
with the redemption of the human race from barbarism and the rule of the
animal passions.

During the first score of years of my married life, I resided for the
most part at South Boston. This remoteness from city life insured to me
a good deal of quiet leisure, much of which I devoted to my favorite
pursuits. It was in these days that I turned to my almost forgotten
Latin, and read the "Aeneid" and the histories of Livy and Tacitus. At a
later date my brother gave me Orelli's edition of Horace, and I soon
came to delight much in that quasi-Hellenic Roman. I remember especially
the odes which my brother pointed out to me as his favorites. These
were: "Mæcenas atavis edite regibus;" "Quis desiderio sit pudor aut
modus;" "O fons Bandusiæ;" and, above all, "Exegi monumentum ære

With no pretensions to correct scholarship, I yet enjoyed these Latin
studies quite intensely. They were so much in my mind that, when we sat
down to our two o'clock dinner, my husband would sometimes ask: "Have
you got those elephants over the river yet?" alluding to Hannibal and
the Punic war.

Prior to these Latin studies, I read a good deal in Swedenborg, and was
much fascinated by his theories of spiritual life. I remember "Heaven
and Hell," "Divine Love and Wisdom," and "Conjugal Love" as the writings
which interested me most; but the cumbrous symbolism of his Bible
interpretation finally shut my mind against further entertainment of so
fanciful a guest. Hegel was for some time my study among the German
philosophers. After some severe struggling with his extraordinary
diction, I became convinced that the obscurity of his style was
intentional, and left him in some indignation. The deep things of
philosophy are difficult enough when treated by one who desires to make
them clear. Where the intention is rather to mask than to unfold the
meaning which is in the master's mind, interpretation is difficult and
hazardous. Hegel's own saying about his lectures is well known: "One
only of my pupils understood me, and he misunderstood me."

George Bancroft, the historian, spoke of Hegel as a man of weak
character, and Dr. Francis Lieber, who had been under his instruction,
had the same opinion of him. In the days of the Napoleonic invasion of
Germany, Lieber had gone into the field, with other young men of the
university. When, recovered from a severe wound, he took his place again
among the students of philosophy, Hegel before beginning the day's
lecture cried: "Let all those fools who went out against the French
depart from this class."

I think that I must have had by nature an especial sensitiveness to
language, as the following trifling narration will show. I was perhaps
twelve years old when Rev. James Richmond, who had studied in Germany,
dining at my father's house, spoke of one of his German professors who
was wont, as the prelude to his exercise, to exclaim: "Aus, aus, ihr
Fremden." These words meant nothing to me then, but when, eight years
later, I mastered the German tongue, I recalled them perfectly, and
understood their meaning.

One of my first efforts, after my return from Europe in 1851, was to
acquaint myself with the "Philosophie Positive" of Auguste Comte. This
was in accordance with the advice of my friend, Horace Wallace, who,
indeed, lent me the first volume of the work. The synoptical view of the
sciences therein presented revealed to me an entirely new aspect of

I did not, for a moment, adopt Comte's views of religion, neither did I
at all agree in his wholesale condemnation of metaphysics, which
appeared to me self-contradictory, his own system involving metaphysical
distinctions as much, perhaps, as any other. On the other hand, the
objectivism of his point of view brought a new element into my too
concentrated habit of thought. I deemed myself already too old, being
about thirty years of age, to conquer the difficulties of the higher
mathematics, and of the several sciences in which these play so
important a part. But I had had a bird's-eye view of this wonderful
region of the natural sciences, and this, I think, never passed quite
out of my mind. I used to talk about the books with Parker, who read
everything worth reading. They had not greatly appealed to him. I also,
at this time, read Hegel's "Aesthetik," and endeavored to read his
"Logik," which I borrowed from Parker, and which he pronounced "so
crabbed as to be scarcely worth enucleating."

I cannot remember what it was which, soon after this time, led me to the
study of Spinoza. I followed this with great interest, and became for a
time almost intoxicated with the originality and beauty of his thoughts.
While still under his influence I spoke of him to Mr. Bancroft as "der
unentbehrliche," the indispensable Spinoza. He demurred at this,
acknowledged Spinoza's analysis of the passions to be admirable, but
assured me that Kant alone deserved to be called "indispensable;" and
this dictum of his made me resolve to become at once a student of the
"Critique of Pure Reason."

I found this at first rather dry, after the glowing and daring flights
of Spinoza, but I soon learned to hold the philosopher of Königsberg in
great affection and esteem. I have read extensively in his writings,
even in his minor treatises, and having attained some conception of his
system, was inclined to say with Romeo: "Here I set up my everlasting

I devoted some of the best years of my life to these studies, and to the
writings which grew out of them. I remember one summer at my Valley near
Newport, in which I felt that I had read and written quite as much as
was profitable. "I must go outside of my own thoughts, I must do
something for some one," I said to myself. Just then the teacher of my
sister's children broke out with malarial fever. She was staying with my
sister at a farmhouse near by. The call to assist in nursing her was
very welcome, and when I was thanked for my services I could truly say
that I had been glad of the opportunity of rendering them for my own

The Kantian volumes occupied me for many months, even years. In fact, I
have never gone beyond them. A new philosophy has sometimes appeared to
me like a new disease. If we have found our master, and are satisfied
with him, what need have we of starting again, to make the same journey
with a new guide. Once we have got there, it seems better to abide.

The early years of my married life interposed a barrier between my
literary dreams and their realization. Those years brought me much to
learn and much to do.

The burden of housekeeping was new to me, a sister of mine, highly
gifted in this respect, having charged herself with its duties so long
as we were "girls together." I accordingly found myself lamentably
deficient in household skill and knowledge. I endeavored to apply myself
to the remedying of these defects, but with indifferent success. I was
by nature far from observant, and often passed through a room without
much notion of its condition or contents, my thoughts being intent on
other matters. The period, too, was one of transition as regards
household service. The old-time American servants were no longer to be
obtained. The Irish girls who supplied their place were for the most
part ignorant and untrained, their performance calling for a discipline
and instruction which I, never having received, was quite unable to give

During the first years of my residence at the Institution for the Blind,
Dr. Howe delighted in inviting his friends to weekly dinners, which cost
me many unhappy hours. My want of training and of forethought often
caused me to forget some very important item of the repast. My husband's
eldest sister, who lived with us, and who had held the reins of the
housekeeping until my arrival, was averse to company, and usually
absented herself on the days of the dinner parties. In her absence, I
often did not know where to look for various articles which were
requisite and necessary. I remember one dinner for which I had relied
upon a form of ice as the principal feature of the dessert. The company
was of the best, and I desired that the feast should correspond with it.
The ice, which had been ordered from town, did not appear. I did my best
to conceal my chagrin, but was scarcely consoled when the missing
refreshment was found, the next morning, in a snowbank near our door,
where the messenger had deposited it without word or comment. The same
mischance might, indeed does sometimes happen at this later date. I
should laugh at it now, but then I almost wept over it. Our kitchen and
dining-room were on one floor, and a convenient slide allowed dishes to
be passed from one room to the other. On a certain occasion, my sister
being with me, I asked her whether my dinner had gone off well enough.
"Oh yes," she replied; "only the slide was left open, and through it I
saw the cook buttering the venison."

I especially remember one summer which I resolved to devote to the study
of cookery, for which there was then no school, and no teacher to be had
at will. Having purchased Miss Catherine Beecher's Cook-book, I devoted
some weeks to an experimental following of its recipes, with no
satisfactory result. A little later, my husband secured the services of
a very competent housekeeper, and my distresses and responsibilities
were much diminished. After some years of this indulgence, I felt bound
to make a second and more strenuous effort at housekeeping, and
succeeded much better than before, having by this time managed to learn
something of the nature and needs of household machinery.

As I now regard these matters, I would say to every young girl, rich or
poor, gifted or dull: "Learn to make a home, and learn this in the days
in which learning is easy. Cultivate a habit of vigilance and
forethought. With a reasonable amount of intelligence, a woman should be
able to carry on the management of a household, and should yet have time
for art and literature in some sort."

In more recent years, having been called upon to take part in a public
discussion regarding the compatibility of domestic with literary
occupation, I endeavored to formulate the results of my own experience
as follows:--

"If you have at your command three hours _per diem_, you may study art,
literature, and philosophy, not as they are studied professionally, but
in the degree involved in general culture.

"If you have but one hour in every day, read philosophy, or learn
foreign languages, living or dead.

"If you can command only fifteen or twenty minutes, read the Bible with
the best commentaries, and daily a verse or two of the best poetry."

As I write this, I recall the piteous image of two wrecks of women,
Americans and wives of Americans, who severally poured out their sorrows
to me, saying that the preparation of "three square meals a day," the
washing, baking, sewing, and child-bearing, had filled the measure of
their days and exceeded that of their strength: "And yet," each said, "I
wanted the Greek and Latin and college course as much as any one could
wish for it."

But surely, no love of intellectual pursuits should lead any of us to
disparage and neglect the household gifts and graces. A house is a
kingdom in little, and its queen, if she is faithful, gentle, and wise,
is a sovereign indeed.



Returning to Boston in 1851, I found the division of public sentiment
more strongly marked than ever. The Fugitive Slave Law was much in the
public mind. The anti-slavery people attacked it with might and main,
while the class of wealthy conservatives and their followers strongly
deprecated all opposition to its enactments. During my absence Charles
Sumner had been elected to the Senate of the United States, in place of
Daniel Webster, who had hitherto been the political idol of the
Massachusetts aristocracy. Mr. Sumner's course had warmly commended him
to a large and ever increasing constituency, but had brought down upon
him the anger of Mr. Webster's political supporters. My husband's
sympathies were entirely with the class then derided as "a band of
disturbers of the public peace, enemies of law and order." I deeply
regretted the discords of the time, and would have had all people good
friends, however diverse in political persuasion. As this could not be,
I felt constrained to cast in my lot with those who protested against
the new assumptions of the slave power. The social ostracism which
visited Charles Sumner never fell upon Dr. Howe. This may have been
because the active life of the latter lay without the domain of
politics, but also, I must think, because the services which he
continually rendered to the community compelled from all who knew him,
not only respect, but also cordial good-will.

I did not then, or at any time, make any willful breach with the society
to which I was naturally related. It did, however, much annoy me to hear
those spoken of with contempt and invective who, I was persuaded, were
only far in advance of the conscience of the time. I suppose that I
sometimes repelled the attacks made upon them with a certain heat of
temper, to avoid which I ought to have remembered Talleyrand's famous
admonition, "Surtout point de zèle." Better, perhaps, would it have been
to rest in the happy prophecy which assures us that "Wisdom is justified
of all her children." Ordinary society is apt to class the varieties of
individuals under certain stereotyped heads, and I have no doubt that it
held me at this time to be a seeker after novelties, and one disposed to
offer a premium for heresies of every kind. Yet I must say that I was
never made painfully aware of the existence of such a feeling. There was
always a leaven of good sense and good sentiment even in the worldly
world of Boston, and as time went on I became the recipient of much
kindness, and the happy possessor of a circle of substantial friends.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after my return to Boston, my husband spoke to me of a new
acquaintance,--a Polish nobleman, Adam Gurowski by name,--concerning
whom he related the following circumstances. Count Gurowski had been
implicated in one of the later Polish insurrections. In order to keep
his large estates from confiscation he had made them over to his younger
brother, upon the explicit condition that a sufficient remittance should
be regularly sent him, to enable him to live wherever his lot should
thenceforth be cast. He came to this country, but the remittances failed
to follow him, and he presently found himself without funds in a foreign
land. Being a man of much erudition, he had made friends with some of
the professors of Harvard University. They offered him assistance, which
he declined, and it soon appeared that he was working in the gardens of
Hovey & Co., in or near Cambridge. His new friends remonstrated with
him, pleading that this work was unsuitable for a man of his rank and
condition. He replied, "I am Gurowski; labor cannot degrade me." This
independence of his position commended him much to the esteem of my
husband, and he was more than once invited to our house. Some literary
employment was found for him, and finally, through influence exerted at
Washington, a position as translator was secured for him in the State
Department. He was at Newport during the summer that we passed at the
Cliff House, and he it was who gave it the title of Hotel Rambouillet.
His proved to be a character of remarkable contradictions, in which
really noble and generous impulses contrasted with an undisciplined
temper and an insatiable curiosity. While inveighing constantly against
the rudeness of American manners, he himself was often guilty of great
impoliteness. To give an example: At his boarding-house in Newport a
child at table gave a little trouble, upon which the count animadverted
with great severity. The mother, waxing impatient, said, "I think,
count, that you have no right to say so much about table manners; for
you yesterday broke the crust of the chicken pie with your fist, and
pulled the meat out with your fingers!"

His curiosity, as I have said, was unbounded. Meeting a lady of his
acquaintance at her door, and seeing a basket on her arm, he asked,
"Where are you going, Mrs. ----, so early, with that basket?" She
declined to answer the question, on the ground that the questioner had
no concern in her errand. On the evening of the same day he again met
the lady, and said to her, "I know now where you were going this morning
with that basket." If friends on whom he called were said to be engaged
or not at home, he was at great pains to find out how they were engaged,
or whether they were really at home in spite of the message to the
contrary. One gentleman in Newport, not desiring to receive the count's
visit, and knowing that he would not be safe anywhere in his own house,
took refuge in the loft of his barn and drew the ladder up after him.

And yet Adam Gurowski was a true-hearted man, loyal to every good cause
and devoted to his few friends. His life continued to the last to be a
very checkered one. When the civil war broke out, his disapprobation of
men and measures took expression in vehement and indignant protest
against what appeared to him a willful mismanagement of public business.
William H. Seward was then at the head of the Department of State, and
against his policy the count fulminated in public and in private. He was
warned by friends, and at last officially told that he could not be
retained in the department if he persisted in stigmatizing its chief as
a fool, a timeserver, no matter what. He persevered, and was dismissed
from his place. He had been on friendly terms with Charles Sumner, to
whom he probably owed his appointment. He tormented this gentleman to
such a degree as to terminate all relations between the two. Of this
breach Mr. Sumner gave the following account: "The count would come to
my rooms at all hours. When I left my sleeping-chamber in the morning, I
often found him in my study, seated at my table, perusing my morning
paper and probably any other matter which might excite his curiosity. If
he happened to come in while a foreign minister was visiting me, he
would stay through the visit. I bore with this for a long time. At last
the annoyance became insupportable. One evening, after a long sitting in
my room, he took leave, but presently returned for a fresh _séance_,
although it was already very late. I said to him, 'Count, you must go
now, and you must never return.' 'How is this, my dear friend?'
exclaimed the count. 'There is no explanation,' said I, 'only you must
not come to my room again.'" This ended the acquaintance! The count
after this spoke very bitterly of Mr. Sumner, whose procedure did seem
to me a little severe.

Unfortunately the lesson was quite lost upon Gurowski, and he continued
to make enemies of those with whom he had to do, until nearly every door
in Washington was closed to him. There was one exception. Mrs. Charles
Eames, wife of a well-known lawyer, was one of the notabilities of
Washington. Hers was one of those central characters which are able to
attract and harmonize the most diverse social elements. Her house had
long been a resort of the worthies of the capital. Men of mark and of
intelligence gathered about her, regardless of party divisions. No one
understood Washington society better than she did, and no one in it was
more highly esteemed or less liable to be misrepresented. Mrs. Eames
well knew how provoking and tormenting Count Gurowski was apt to be, but
she knew, too, the remarkable qualities which went far to redeem his
troublesome traits of character. And so, when the count seemed to be
entirely discredited, she stood up for him, warning her friends that if
they came to her house they would always be likely to meet this
unacceptable man. He, on his part, was warmly sensible of the value of
her friendship, and showed his gratitude by a sincere interest in all
that concerned her. The courageous position which she had assumed in his
behalf was not without effect upon the society of the place, and people
in general felt obliged to show some respect to a person whom Mrs. Eames
honored with her friendship.

I myself have reason to remember with gratitude Mrs. Eames's
hospitality. I made more than one visit at her house, and I well recall
the distinguished company that I met there. The house was simple in its
appointments, for the hosts were not in affluent circumstances, but its
atmosphere of cordiality and of good sense was delightful. At one of her
dinner parties I remember meeting Hon. Salmon P. Chase, afterwards Chief
Justice of the United States, Secretary Welles of the Navy, and Senator
Grimes of Iowa. I had seen that morning a life-size painting
representing President Lincoln surrounded by the members of his Cabinet.
Mr. Chase, I think, asked what I thought of the picture. I replied that
I thought Mr. Lincoln's attitude rather awkward, and his legs out of
proportion in their length. Mr. Chase laughed, and said, "Mr. Lincoln's
legs are so long that it would be difficult to exaggerate them."

I came to Washington soon after the conclusion of the war, and heard
that Count Gurowski was seriously ill at the home of his good friend. I
hastened thither to inquire concerning him, and learned that his life
was almost despaired of. Mr. Eames told me this, and said that his wife
and a lady friend of hers were incessant in their care of him. He
promised that I should see him as soon as a change for the better should
appear. Instead of this I received one day a message from Mrs. Eames,
saying that the count was now given up by his physician, and that I
might come, if I wished to see him alive once more. I went to the house
at once, and found Mrs. Eames and her friend at the bedside of the dying
man. He was already unconscious, and soon breathed his last. At Mr.
Eames's request I now gave up my room at the hotel and came to stay with
Mrs. Eames, who was prostrated with the fatigue of nursing the sick man
and with grief for his loss. While I sat and talked with her Mr. Eames
entered the room, and said, "Mrs. Howe, my wife has always had a
menagerie here in Washington, and now she has lost her faithful old

I was intrusted with some of the arrangements for the funeral. Mrs.
Eames said to me that, as the count had been a man of no religious
belief, she thought it would be best to invite a Unitarian minister to
officiate at his funeral. I should add that her grief prevented her from
perceiving the humor of the suggestion. I accordingly secured the
services of the Rev. John Pierpont, who happened to be in Washington at
the time. Charles Sumner came to the house before the funeral, and
actually shed tears as he looked on the face of his former friend. He
remarked upon the beauty of the countenance, saying in his rather
oratorical way, "There is a beauty of life, and there is a beauty of
death." The count's good looks had been spoiled in early life by the
loss of one eye, which had been destroyed, it was said, in a duel. After
death, however, this blemish did not appear, and the distinction of the
features was remarkable.

Among his few effects was a printed volume containing the genealogy of
his family, which had thrice intermarried with royal houses, once in the
family of Maria Lesczinska, wife of Louis XV. of France. Within this
book he had inclosed one or two cast-off trifles belonging to Mrs.
Eames, with a few words of deep and grateful affection. So ended this
troublous life. The Russian minister at Washington called upon Mrs.
Eames soon after the funeral, and spoke with respect of the count, who,
he said, could have held a brilliant position in Russia, had it not been
for his quarrelsome disposition. Despite his skepticism, and in all his
poverty, he caused a mass to be said every year for the soul of his
mother, who had been a devout Catholic. To the brother whose want of
faith added the distresses of poverty to the woes of exile, Gurowski
once addressed a letter in the following form: "To John Gurowski, the
greatest scoundrel in Europe." A younger brother of his, a man of great
beauty of person, enticed one of the infantas of Spain from the school
or convent in which she was pursuing her education. This adventure made
much noise at the time. Mrs. Eames once read me part of a letter from
this lady, in which she spoke of "the fatal Gurowski beauty."

It was in the early years of this decade (1850-1860) that I definitively
came before the world as an author. My first volume of poems, entitled
"Passion Flowers," was published by Ticknor and Fields, without my name.
In the choice and arrangement of the poems James T. Fields had been very
helpful to me. My lack of experience had led me to suppose that my
incognito might easily be maintained, but in this my expectations were
disappointed. The authorship of the book was at once traced to me. It
was much praised, much blamed, and much called in question. From the
highest literary authorities of the time it received encouraging
commendation. Mr. Emerson acknowledged the copy sent him, in a very kind
letter. Mr. Whittier did likewise. He wrote, "I dare say thy volume has
faults enough." For all this, he spoke warmly of its merits. Prescott,
the beloved historian, made me happy with his good opinion. George
Ripley, in the "New York Tribune," Edwin Whipple and Frank Sanborn in
Boston, reviewed the volume in a very genial and appreciative spirit. I
think that my joy reached its height when I heard Theodore Parker repeat
some of my lines from the pulpit. Miss Catharine Sedgwick, in speaking
of the poems to a mutual friend, quoted with praise a line from my long
poem on Rome. Speaking of my first hearing of the nightingale, it

                                  "A note
  Fell as a star falls, trailing sound for light."

Dr. Francis Lieber quoted the following passage as having a
Shakespearean ring:--

                  "But, as none can tell
  Among the sunbeams which unconscious one
  Comes weaponed with celestial will, to strike
  The stroke of Freedom on the fettered floods,
  Giving the spring his watchword--even so
  Rome knew not she had spoke the word of Fate
  That should, from out its sluggishness, compel
  The frost-bound vastness of barbaric life,
  Till, with an ominous sound, the torrent rose
  And rushed upon her with terrific brow,
  Sweeping her back, through all her haughty ways,
  To her own gates, a piteous fugitive."

I make mention of these things because the volume has long been out of
print. It was a timid performance upon a slender reed, but the great
performers in the noble orchestra of writers answered to its appeal,
which won me a seat in their ranks.

The work, such as it was, dealt partly with the stirring questions of
the time, partly with things near and familiar. The events of 1848 were
still in fresh remembrance: the heroic efforts of Italian patriots to
deliver their country from foreign oppression, the struggle of Hungary
to maintain her ancient immunities. The most important among my "Passion
Flowers" were devoted to these themes. The wrongs and sufferings of the
slave had their part in the volume. A second publication, following two
years later, and styled "Words for the Hour," was esteemed by some
critics as better than the first. George William Curtis, at that time
editor of "Putnam's Magazine," wrote me, "It is a better book than its
predecessor, but will probably not meet with the same success." And so,
indeed, it proved.

I had always contemplated writing for the stage, and was now emboldened
to compose a drama entitled, "The World's Own," which was produced at
Wallack's Theatre in New York. The principal characters were sustained
by Matilda Heron, then in the height of her popularity, and Mr. Sothern,
afterwards so famous in the rôle of Lord Dundreary. The play was
performed several times in New York and once in Boston. It was
pronounced by one critic "full of literary merits and of dramatic
defects." It did not, as they say, "keep the stage."

My next literary venture was a series of papers descriptive of a visit
made to the island of Cuba in 1859, under the following circumstances.

Theodore Parker had long intended to make this year one of foreign
travel. He had planned a journey in South America, and Dr. Howe had
promised to accompany him. The sudden failure of Parker's health at this
time was thought to render a change of climate imperative, and in the
month of February a voyage to Cuba was prescribed for him. In this, Dr.
Howe willingly consented to accompany him, deciding also that I must be
of the party.


_From a photograph about 1859._]

Our departure was in rough weather. George Ripley, formerly of Brook
Farm and then of the "New York Tribune," an early friend of Parker, came
to see us off. My husband insisted somewhat strenuously upon my coming
to table at the first meal served on board, as this would secure me a
place for the entire voyage. I felt very ill, and Parker, who was seated
at the same table, looked at my husband and said, "_Natura duce_," for
which I was very grateful. Presently the captain, who was carving a
roast of beef, asked some one whether a slice of fat was likewise
desired. At this I fled to my cabin without waiting for permission.
Parker also took refuge in his berth, and we did not meet again for some
time. We had encountered a head wind in the Gulf Stream, and were rolled
and tossed about in great discomfort. I persisted in being carried on
deck every day. My stewardess once said to the stout steward who
rendered me this service, "This lady has a great deal of energy and _no
power_." My bearer, seeking, no doubt, to comfort me, growled in my ear,
"Well now, I expect this sea-sickness is a dreadful thing." Soon a
brighter day dawned upon us, and Parker appeared on deck, limp and
helpless, and glad to lie upon a mattress. We had sad tales to tell of
what we had suffered. A pretty lady passenger, who sat with us, held up
a number of the "Atlantic Monthly" containing Colonel Higginson's
well-remembered paper, "Ought Women to learn the Alphabet?" "Yes," cried
her husband, "for they have got to teach it." By this time we had
reached the southern seas, and I had entirely recovered from my
sea-sickness. When I made my appearance, standing erect, and in my right
clothes and mind, people did not recognize me, and asked, "Where did
that lady come from?"

On our way to Havana we stopped for a day at Nassau. Here we were
entertained at luncheon by a physician of the island. Among the articles
served to us was the tropical breadfruit, which might really be mistaken
for a loaf fresh from the baker's oven. Before this we attended a
morning drill of soldiers at the fort. In the book which I published
afterwards, I spoke of the presiding officer as a lean Don Quixote on a
leaner Rosinante. The colonel, for such was his rank, sent me word that
he did not resent my mention of himself, but thought that I might have
spoken more admiringly of his horse, of which he was very proud. A drive
in the environs and an evening service at the church completed my
experience of the friendly little island. When we reëmbarked for Cuba a
gay party of young people accompanied us, all in light summer wear,
fluttering with frills and ribbons. The rough sea soon sent them all
below, to reappear only when we neared the end of our journey.

The voyage had been of small service to our friend Parker, who was a
wretched sailor. Arrived in Havana, he was able to go about somewhat
with Dr. Howe. He had, however, a longer voyage before him, and my
husband and I went with him to the Spanish steamer which was to carry
him to Vera Cruz, whence he sailed for Europe, never to return. Our
parting was a sad one. Parker embraced us both, probably feeling, as we
did, that he might never see us again. I still carry in my mind the
picture of his serious face, crowned with gray locks and a soft gray
hat, as he looked over the side of the vessel and waved us a last

The following extract from my "Trip to Cuba" preserves the record of our
mutual leave-taking.

"A pleasant row brought us to the side of the steamer. It was dusk
already as we ascended her steep gangway, and from that to darkness
there is at this season but the interval of a breath. Dusk too were our
thoughts at parting from Can Grande, the mighty, the vehement, the great
fighter. How were we to miss his deep music, here and at home! With his
assistance we had made a very respectable band; now we were to be only a
wandering drum and fife,--the fife particularly shrill and the drum
particularly solemn.

"And now came silence and tears and last embraces; we slipped down the
gangway into our little craft and, looking up, saw bending above us,
between the slouched hat and the silver beard, the eyes that we can
never forget, that seemed to drop back in the darkness with the
solemnity of a last farewell. We went home, and the drum hung himself
gloomily on his peg, and the little fife _shut up_ for the remainder of
the evening."

To our hotel in Havana came, one day, a lovely lady, with pathetic dark
eyes and a look of ill health. She was accompanied by her husband and
little son. This was Mrs. Frank Hampton, formerly Miss Sally Baxter, a
great belle in her time, and much admired by Mr. Thackeray. When we were
introduced to each other, I asked, "Are you _the_ Mrs. Hampton?" She
asked, "Are you _the_ Mrs. Howe?" We became friends at once. The
Hamptons went with us to Matanzas, where we passed a few pleasant days.
Dr. Howe was very helpful to the beautiful invalid. Something in the
expression of her face reminded him of a relative known to him in early
life, and on inquiry he found that Mrs. Hampton's father was a distant
cousin of his own. Mrs. Hampton talked much of Thackeray, who had been,
while in this country, a familiar visitor at her father's house. She
told me that she recognized bits of her own conversation in some of the
sayings of Ethel Newcome, and I have little doubt that in depicting the
beautiful and noble though wayward girl he had in mind something of the
aspect and character of the lovely Sally Baxter. In his correspondence
with the family he was sometimes very playful, as when he wrote to Mrs.
Baxter thanking her for the "wickled palnuts and pandy breaches," which
she had lately sent him.

When we left Havana our new friends went with us to Charleston, and
invited us to visit them at their home in Columbia, S. C. This we were
glad to do. The house at which the Hamptons received us belonged to an
elder brother, Wade Hampton, whose family were at this time traveling in
Europe. Wade Hampton called upon Dr. Howe, and soon introduced a topic
which we would gladly have avoided, namely, the strained relations
between the North and the South. "We mean to fight for it," said Wade
Hampton. But Dr. Howe afterwards said to me: "They cannot be in earnest
about meaning to fight. It would be too insane, too fatal to their own
interests." So indeed it proved, but they then knew us as little as we
knew them. They thought that we could not fight, and we thought that
they would not. Both parties were soon made wiser by sad experience.

My account of this trip, after publication in the "Atlantic Monthly,"
was issued in book form by Ticknor and Fields. Years after this time, a
friend of mine landed in Cuba with a copy of the book in her hand
luggage. It was at once taken from her by the custom-house officers, and
she never saw it again. This little work was favorably spoken of and
well received, but it did not please everybody. In one of its chapters,
speaking of the natural indolence of the negroes in tropical countries,
I had ventured to express the opinion that compulsory employment is
better than none. Good Mr. Garrison seized upon this sentence, and
impaled it in a column of "The Liberator" headed, "The Refuge of
Oppression." I certainly did not intend it as an argument in favor of
negro slavery. As an abstract proposition, and without reference to
color, I still think it true.

The publication of my Cuban notes brought me an invitation to chronicle
the events of the season at Newport for the "New York Tribune." This was
the beginning of a correspondence with that paper which lasted well into
the time of the civil war. My letters dealt somewhat with social doings
in Newport and in Boston, but more with the great events of the time. To
me the experience was valuable in that I found myself brought nearer in
sympathy to the general public, and helped to a better understanding of
its needs and demands.

It was in the days now spoken of that I first saw Edwin Booth. Dr. Howe
and I betook ourselves to the Boston Theatre one rainy evening,
expecting to see nothing more than an ordinary performance. The play was
"Richelieu," and we had seen but little of Mr. Booth's part in it before
we turned to each other and said, "This is the real thing." In every
word, in every gesture, the touch of genius made itself felt. A little
later I saw him in "Hamlet," and was even more astonished and delighted.
While he was still completing this his first engagement in Boston, I
received a letter from his manager, proposing that I should write a play
for Mr. Booth. My first drama, though not a success, had made me
somewhat known to theatrical people. I had been made painfully aware of
its defects, and desired nothing more than to profit by the lesson of
experience in producing something that should deserve entire
approbation. It was therefore with a good hope of success that I
undertook to write the play. Mr. Booth himself called upon me, in
pursuance of his request. The favorable impression which he had made
upon me was not lessened by a nearer view. I found him modest,
intelligent, and above all genuine,--the man as worthy of admiration as
the artist. Although I had seen Mr. Booth in a variety of characters, I
could only think of representing him as Hippolytus, a beautiful youth,
of heroic type, enamored of a high ideal. This was the part which I
desired to create for him. I undertook the composition without much
delay, and devoted to it the months of one summer's sojourn at Lawton's

This lovely little estate had come to us almost fortuitously. George
William Curtis, writing of the Newport of forty years ago, gives a
character sketch of one Alfred Smith, a well-known real estate agent,
who managed to entrap strangers in his gig, and drove about with them,
often succeeding in making them purchasers of some bit of property in
the sale of which he had a personal interest. In the summer of 1852 my
husband became one of his victims. I say this because Dr. Howe made the
purchase without much deliberation. In fact, he could hardly have told
any one why he made it. The farm was a very poor one, and the farmhouse
very small. Some necessary repairs rendered it habitable for our family
of little children and ourselves. I did not desire the purchase, but I
soon became much attached to the valley, which my husband's care greatly
beautified. This was a wooded gorge, perhaps an eighth of a mile from
the house, and extending some distance between high rocky banks. We
found it a wilderness of brambles, with a brook which ran much out of
its proper course. Dr. Howe converted it into a most charming
out-of-door _salon_. A firm green sod took the place of the briers, the
brook was restrained within its proper limits, and some fine trees
replaced as many decayed stumps. An old, disused mill added to the
picturesqueness of the scene. Below it rushed a small waterfall. Here I
have passed many happy hours with my books and my babies, but it was not
in this enchanting spot that I wrote my play.

I had at this time and for many years afterward a superstition about a
north light. My eyes had given me some trouble, and I felt obliged to
follow my literary work under circumstances most favorable for their
use. The exposure of our little farmhouse was south and west, and its
only north light was derived from a window at the top of the attic
stairs. Here was a platform just large enough to give room for a table
two feet square. The stairs were shut off from the rest of the house by
a stout door. And here, through the summer heats, and in spite of many
wasps, I wrote my five-act drama, dreaming of the fine emphasis which
Mr. Booth would give to its best passages and of the beautiful
appearance he would make in classic costume. He, meanwhile, was growing
into great fame and favor with the public, and was called hither and
thither by numerous engagements. The period of his courtship and
marriage intervened, and a number of years elapsed between the
completion of the play and his first reading of it.

At last there came a time in which the production of the play seemed
possible. Charlotte Cushman and Edwin Booth were both in Boston
performing, as I remember, but not at the same theatre. They agreed to
act in my play. E. L. Davenport, manager of the Howard Athenæum,
undertook to produce it, and my dream was very near becoming a reality.
But lo! on a sudden, the manager bethought him that the time was rather
late in the season; that the play would require new scenery; and, more
than all, that his wife, who was also an actress, was not pleased with a
secondary part assigned to her. A polite note informed me of his change
of mind. This was, I think, the greatest "let down" that I ever
experienced. It affected me seriously for some days, after which I
determined to attempt nothing more for the stage.

In truth, there appeared to be little reason for this action on the part
of the manager. Miss Cushman, speaking of it, said to me, "My dear, if
Edwin Booth and I had done nothing more than to stand upon the stage and
say 'good evening' to each other, the house would have been filled."

Mr. Booth, in the course of these years, experienced great happiness and
great sorrow. On the occasion of our first meeting he had spoken to me
of "little Mary Devlin" as an actress of much promise, who had recently
been admired in "several _heavy_ parts." In process of time he became
engaged to this young girl. Before the announcement of this fact he
appeared with her several times before the Boston public. Few that saw
it will ever forget a performance of Romeo and Juliet in which the two
true lovers were at their best, ideally young, beautiful, and identified
with their parts. I soon became well acquainted with this exquisite
little woman, of whose untimely death the poet Parsons wrote:--

  "What shall we do now, Mary being dead,
    Or say or write that shall express the half?
  What can we do but pillow that fair head,
    And let the spring-time write her epitaph?--

  "As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet,
    Windflower and columbine and maiden's tear;
  Each letter of that pretty alphabet
    That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.

       *       *       *       *       *

  "She hath fulfilled her promise and hath passed;
    Set her down gently at the iron door!
  Eyes look on that loved image for the last:
    Now cover it in earth,--her earth no more."

These lines recall to me the scene of Mary Booth's funeral, which took
place in wintry weather, the service being held at the chapel in Mount
Auburn. Hers was a most pathetic figure as she lay, serene and lovely,
surrounded with flowers. As Edwin Booth followed the casket, his eyes
heavy with grief, I could not but remember how often I had seen him
enact the part of Hamlet at the stage burial of Ophelia. Beside or
behind him walked a young man of remarkable beauty, to be sadly known at
a later date as Wilkes Booth, the assassin of Lincoln and the victim of
his own crime. Henry Ward Beecher, meeting Mary Booth one day at dinner
at my house, was so much impressed with her peculiar charm that, on the
occasion of her death, he wrote a very sympathetic letter to Mr. Booth,
and became thenceforth one of his most esteemed friends.

       *       *       *       *       *

The years between 1850 and 1857, eventful as they were, appear to me
almost a period of play when compared with the time of trial which was
to follow. It might have been likened to the tuning of instruments
before some great musical solemnity. The theme was already suggested,
but of its wild and terrible development who could have had any
foreknowledge? Parker, indeed, writing to Dr. Howe from Italy, said,
"What a pity that the map of our magnificent country should be destined
to be so soon torn in two on account of the negro, that poorest of human
creatures, satisfied, even in slavery, with sugar cane and a banjo." On
reading this prediction, I remarked to my husband: "This is poor, dear
Parker's foible. He always thinks that he knows what will come to pass.
How absurd is this forecast of his!"

"I don't know about that," replied Dr. Howe.



I must here ask leave to turn back a little in the order of my
reminiscences, my narrative having led me to pass by certain points
which I desire to mention.

The great comfort which I had in Parker's preaching came to an end when
my children attained an age at which it appeared desirable that they
should attend public worship. Concerning this my husband argued as

"The children [our two eldest girls] are now of an age at which they
should receive impressions of reverence. They should, therefore, see
nothing at the Sunday service which would militate against that feeling.
At Parker's meeting individuals read the newspapers before the exercises
begin. A good many persons come in after the prayer, and some go out
before the conclusion of the sermon. These irregularities offend my
sense of decorum, and appear to me undesirable in the religious
education of the family."

It was a grievous thing for me to comply with my husband's wishes in
this matter. I said of it to his friend, Horace Mann, that to give up
Parker's ministry for any other would be like going to the synagogue
when Paul was preaching near at hand. Parker was soon made aware of Dr.
Howe's views, but no estrangement ensued between the two friends. He
did, however, write to my husband a letter, in which he laid great
stress upon the depth and strength of his own concern in religion.

My husband cherished an old predilection for King's Chapel, and would
have been pleased if I had chosen to attend service there. My mind,
however, was otherwise disposed. Having heard Parker, at the close of
one of his discourses, speak in warm commendation of James Freeman
Clarke, announcing at the same time that Mr. Clarke was about to begin a
new series of services at Williams Hall, I determined to attend these.

With Mr. Clarke I had indeed some slight acquaintance, having once heard
him preach at Freeman Place Chapel, and having met him on divers
occasions. It is well known that this, his first pastorate in Boston,
was nearly lost to him in consequence of his inviting Theodore Parker on
one occasion to occupy his pulpit. The feeling against the latter was
then so strong as to cause an influential part of the congregation to
withdraw from the society, which therefore threatened to fail for want
of funds. Some years later Mr. Clarke resigned his charge and went
abroad for a prolonged stay, possibly with indefinite ideas as to the
future employment of his life. He was possessed of much literary and
artistic taste, and might easily have added one to the number of those
who, like George Bancroft, Jared Sparks, and others, had entered the
Unitarian ministry, to leave it, after a few years, for fields of labor
in which they were destined to achieve greater success.


_From a photograph by the Notman Photographic Company._]

Fortunately, the suggestion of such a course, if entertained by him at
all, did not prevail. Mr. Clarke's interest in the Christian ministry
was too deeply grounded to be easily overcome. Returning from a restful
and profitable sojourn in Europe, he sought to gather again those of his
flock who had held to him and to each other. He found them ready to
welcome him back with unabated love and trust. It was at this juncture
that I heard Theodore Parker make the mention of him which brought him
to my remembrance, bringing me also very reluctantly to his new place of

The hall itself was unattractive, and the aspect of its occupants
decidedly unfashionable. Indeed, a witty friend of mine once said to me
that the bonnets seen there were of so singular a description, as
constantly to distract her attention from the minister's sermon.

This absence of fashion rather commended the place to me; for I had had
in my life enough and too much of that church-going in which the
bonnets, the pews, and the doctrine appear to rest on one dead level of

Mr. Clarke's preaching was as unlike as possible to that of Theodore
Parker. While not wanting in the critical spirit, and characterized by
very definite views of the questions which at that time were foremost in
the mind of the community, there ran through the whole course of his
ministrations an exquisite tone of charity and good-will. He had not the
philosophic and militant genius of Parker, but he had a genius of his
own, poetical, harmonizing. In after years I esteemed myself fortunate
in having passed from the drastic discipline of the one to the tender
and reconciling ministry of the other. The members of the congregation
were mostly strangers to me, yet I felt from the first a respect for
them. In process of time I came to know something of their antecedents,
and to make friends among them.

After some years of attendance at Williams Hall, our society, somewhat
increased in numbers, removed to Indiana Place Chapel, where we remained
until we were able to erect for ourselves the commodious and homelike
building which we occupy to-day.

Our minister was a man of much impulse, but of more judgment. In his
character were blended the best traits of the conservative and of the
liberal. His ardent temperament and sanguine disposition bred in him
that natural hopefulness which is so important an element in all
attempted reform. His sound mind, well disciplined by culture, held fast
to the inherited treasures of society, while a fortunate power of
apprehending principles rendered him very steadfast, both in advance and
in reserve. In the agitated period which preceded the civil war and in
that which followed it, he in his modest pulpit became one of the
leaders, not of his own flock alone, but of the community to which he
belonged. I can imagine few things more instructive and desirable than
was his preaching in those troublous times, so full of unanswered
question and unreconciled discord. His church was like an organ, with
deep undertones and lofty, aspiring treble,--the master hand pressing
the keys, the heart of the congregation responding with a full melody.
Festivals of sorrow were held in Indiana Place Chapel, and many of
them,--James Buchanan's hollow fast, a day of mourning for John Brown,
and, saddest and greatest of all, a solemn service following the
assassination of Abraham Lincoln. We were led through these shadows of
death by the radiant light of a truly Christian faith, which our pastor
ever held before us. Among the many who stood by him in his labors of
love was a lady possessed of rare taste in the disposition of floral and
other decorations. We came at last to confer on her the title of the
Flower Saint. On the occasion last mentioned, when we entered the
building, full of hopeless sorrow, we saw pulpit and altar adorned with
a rich violet pall, on which, at intervals, hung wreaths of white
lilies. So something of the pomp of victory was mingled with our bitter
sense of loss. The nation's chief was gone, but with the noble army of
martyrs we now beheld him, crowned with the unfading glory of his work.

Mr. Clarke's life possesses an especial interest from the fact of its
having been one of those rare lives which start in youth with an ideal,
and follow it through manhood to old age; parting from it only at the
last breath, and bequeathing it to posterity in its full growth and
beauty. This ideal appeared to him in the guise of a free church, whose
pews should not be sold, whose seats should be open to all, with no
cumbrous encounter of cross-interests,--a church of true worship and
earnest interpretation, which should be held together by the bond of
veritable sympathy. This living church he built out of his own devout
and tender heart. A dream at first, he saw it take shape and grow, and
when he flitted from its sphere he felt that it would stand and endure.

In marriage Mr. Clarke had been most fortunate. He became attached early
in life to a young lady of rare beauty, and of character not less
uncommon, to whom he once wrote some charming lines, beginning,--

  "When shall we meet again, dearest and best?
  Thou going eastward, and I to the west?"

This attachment probably dated from the period of his theological
studies at Meadville, Pa. In due course of time the two lives became
united in a most happy and helpful partnership. Mrs. Clarke truly
attained the dignity of a mother in Israel. She went hand-in-hand with
her husband in all his church work. She made his home simple in
adornment but exquisite in comfort. She was less social in disposition
than he, less excitable, indeed, so calm of nature that her husband, in
giving her a copy of my first volume of poems, wrote on the fly-leaf,
"To the passionless, 'Passion Flowers,'" and in the lines that followed
compared her to the Jungfrau with its silvery light. This calmness,
which was not coldness, sometimes enabled her to render a service which
might have been difficult to many. I remember that a young minister, a
fresh convert from Calvinistic doctrine, preached one Sunday a rather
crude sermon, in Mr. Clarke's absence. After the close of the service
Mrs. Clarke went up to the speaker, who was expected to preach that
evening at a well-known church in the city, and said, "Mr. ----, if you
intend to give the sermon we have just heard at the ---- church this
evening, you will do well to omit certain things in it." She proceeded
to mention the changes which appeared to her desirable. Her advice, most
kindly given, was no doubt appreciated.

Let me here record my belief that society rarely attains anywhere a
higher level than that which all must recognize in the Boston of the
last forty years. The religious philosophy of the Unitarian pulpit; the
intercourse with the learned men of Harvard College, more frequent
formerly than at present; the inheritance of solid and earnest
character, most precious of estates; the nobility of thought developed
in Margaret Fuller's pupils; the cordial piety of such leaders as
Phillips Brooks, James Freeman Clarke, and Edward Everett Hale; the
presence of leading authors,--Holmes, Longfellow, Emerson, and
Lowell,--all these circumstances combined have given to Massachusetts a
halo of glory which time should not soon have power to dim.

Massachusetts, as I understand her, asks for no false leadership, for no
illusory and transient notoriety. Where Truth and Justice command, her
sons and daughters will follow; and if she should sometimes be found
first in the ranks, it will not be because her ambition has displaced
others, but because the strength of her convictions has carried her
beyond the ranks of the doubting and deliberate.

The decade preceding the civil war was indeed a period of much
agitation. The anomalous position of a slave system in a democratic
republic was beginning to make itself keenly felt. The political
preponderance of the slaveholding States, fostered and upheld by the
immense money power of the North, had led their inhabitants to believe
that they needed to endure no limits. Recent legislation, devised and
accomplished by their leaders, had succeeded in enforcing upon Northern
communities a tame compliance with their most extravagant demands. The
extension of the slave system to the new territories, soon to constitute
new States, became the avowed purpose of Southern politicians. The
conscience of the North, lulled by financial prosperity, awoke but
slowly to an understanding of the situation. To enlighten this
conscience was evidently the most important task of public-spirited men.
Among other devices to this end, a newspaper was started in Boston with
the name of "The Commonwealth." Its immediate object was to reach and
convince that important portion of the body politic which distrusts
rhetoric and oratory, but which sooner or later gives heed to
dispassionate argument and the advocacy of plain issues.

My husband took an active interest in the management of this paper, and
indeed assumed its editorship for one entire winter. In this task I had
great pleasure in assisting him. We began our work together every
morning,--he supervising and supplying the political department of the
paper, I doing what I could in the way of social and literary criticism.
Among my contributions to the work were a series of notices of Dr.
Holmes's Lowell lectures on the English poets, and a paper on Mrs. Stowe
and George Sand. "The Commonwealth" did good service in the battle of
opinion which unexpectedly proved a prelude to the most important event
in our history as a nation.

The reading public hardly needs to-day to be reminded that Mrs. Stowe's
story of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" played an important part in the change of
base, which in time became evident in the North. The torch of her
sympathy, held before the lurid pictures of slave life, set two
continents on fire with loathing and indignation against abuses so
little in accordance with civil progress and Christian illumination.
Europeans reproached us with this enthroned and persevering barbarism.
"Why is it endured?" they asked, and we could only answer: "It has a
legal right to exist."

Some time in the fifties, my husband spoke to me of a very remarkable
man, of whom, he said, I should be sure to hear sooner or later. This
man, Dr. Howe said, seemed to intend to devote his life to the
redemption of the colored race from slavery, even as Christ had
willingly offered his life for the salvation of mankind. It was enjoined
upon me that I should not mention to any one this confidential
communication; and to make sure that I should not, I allowed the whole
matter to pass out of my thoughts. It may have been a year or more later
that Dr. Howe said to me: "Do you remember that man of whom I spoke to
you,--the one who wished to be a saviour for the negro race?" I replied
in the affirmative. "That man," said the doctor, "will call here this
afternoon. You will receive him. His name is John Brown." Thus
admonished, I watched for the visitor, and prepared to admit him myself
when he should ring at the door.

[Illustration: JOHN BROWN

_From a photograph about 1857._]

This took place at our house in South Boston, where it was not at all
_infra dig._ for me to open my own door. At the expected time I heard
the bell ring, and, on answering it, beheld a middle-aged, middle-sized
man, with hair and beard of amber color, streaked with gray. He looked a
Puritan of the Puritans, forceful, concentrated, and self-contained. We
had a brief interview, of which I only remember my great gratification
at meeting one of whom I had heard so good an account. I saw him once
again at Dr. Howe's office, and then heard no more of him for some time.

I cannot tell how long after this it was that I took up the "Transcript"
one evening, and read of an attack made by a small body of men on the
arsenal at Harper's Ferry. Dr. Howe presently came in, and I told him
what I had just read. "Brown has got to work," he said. I had already
arrived at the same conclusion. The rest of the story is matter of
history: the failure of the slaves to support the movement initiated for
their emancipation, the brief contest, the inevitable defeat and
surrender, the death of the rash, brave man upon the scaffold. All this
is known, and need not be repeated here. In speaking of it, my husband
assured me that John Brown's plan had not been so impossible of
realization as it appeared to have been after its failure. Brown had
been led to hope that, upon a certain signal, the slaves from many
plantations would come to him in such numbers that he and they would
become masters of the situation with little or no bloodshed. Neither he
nor those who were concerned with him had it at all in mind to stir up
the slaves to acts of cruelty and revenge. The plan was simply to
combine them in large numbers, and in a position so strong that the
question of their freedom would be decided then and there, possibly
without even a battle.

I confess that the whole scheme appeared to me wild and chimerical. Of
its details I knew nothing, and have never learned more. None of us
could exactly approve an act so revolutionary in its character, yet the
great-hearted attempt enlisted our sympathies very strongly. The weeks
of John Brown's imprisonment were very sad ones, and the day of his
death was one of general mourning in New England. Even there, however,
people were not all of the same mind. I heard a friend say that John
Brown was a pig-headed old fool. In the Church of the Disciples, on the
other hand, a special service was held on the day of the execution, and
the pastor took for his text the saying of Christ, "It is enough for the
disciple that he be as his master." Victor Hugo had already said that
the death of John Brown would thenceforth hallow the scaffold, even as
the death of Christ had hallowed the cross.

The record of John Brown's life has been fully written, and by a
friendly hand. I will only mention here that he had much to do with the
successful contest which kept slavery out of the territory of Kansas. He
was a leading chief in the border warfare which swept back the
pro-slavery immigration attempted by some of the wild spirits of
Missouri. In this struggle, he one day saw two of his own sons shot by
the Border Ruffians (as the Missourians of the border were then called),
without trial or mercy. Some people thought that this dreadful sight had
maddened his brain, as well it might.

I recall one humorous anecdote about him, related to me by my husband.
On one occasion, during the border war, he had taken several prisoners,
and among them a certain judge. Brown was always a man of prayer. On
this occasion, feeling quite uncertain as to whether he ought to spare
the lives of the prisoners, he retired into a thicket near at hand, and
besought the Lord long and fervently to inspire him with the right
determination. The judge, overhearing this petition, was so much amused
at it that, in spite of the gravity of his own position, he laughed
aloud. "Judge ----," cried John Brown, "if you mock at my prayers, I
shall know what to do with you without asking the Almighty."

I remember now that I saw John Brown's wife on her way to visit her
husband in prison and to see the last of him. She seemed a strong,
earnest woman, plain in manners and in speech.

This brings me to the period of the civil war. What can I say of it that
has not already been said? Its cruel fangs fastened upon the very heart
of Boston, and took from us our best and bravest. From many a stately
mansion father or son went forth, followed by weeping, to be brought
back for bitterer sorrow. The work of the women in providing comforts
for the soldiers was unremitting. In organizing and conducting the great
bazaars, which were held in furtherance of this object, many of these
women found a new scope for their activities, and developed abilities
hitherto unsuspected by themselves.

Even in gay Newport there were sad reverberations of the strife; and I
shall never forget an afternoon on which I drove into town with my son,
by this time a lad of fourteen, and found the main street lined with
carriages, and the carriages filled with white-faced people, intent on I
knew not what. Meeting a friend, I asked, "Why are these people here?
What are they waiting for, and why do they look as they do?"

"They are waiting for the mail. Don't you know that we have had a
dreadful reverse?" Alas! this was the second battle of Bull Run. I have
made some record of it in a poem entitled "The Flag," which I dare
mention here because Mr. Emerson, on hearing it, said to me, "I like the
architecture of that poem."

Prominent among the helpers called out by the war was our noble war
governor, John Albion Andrew. My first acquaintance with him was formed
in the early days of the Free-Soil Party, of which he and my husband
were leading members. This organization, if I remember rightly, grew out
of an earlier one which marked the very beginning of a new movement. Its
members were spoken of as "young Whigs," and its principles were
friendship for the negro and opposition to war, which at that time was
particularly directed against the Mexican war. It was as a young Whig
that Dr. Howe consented to become a candidate for a seat in the Congress
of the United States. The development of a pro-slavery policy on the
part of our government, and the intention made evident of not only
maintaining but also extending the area of slavery, soon gave to the new
party a very serious _raison d'être_, and under its influence the young
Whigs became Free Soilers.[3]

[Footnote 3: In the days here spoken of, the Cochituate water was first
brought into Boston. I was asked one day to furnish a toast for a
temperance festival, and felt moved to send the following: "Free
soil,--free water,--free grace," which was well received.]

Some of these gentlemen came often to our house, and among them I soon
learned to distinguish Mr. Andrew. As time went on, he became a familiar
friend in our household. Our mutual interest in the Church of the
Disciples, and our regard for its pastor were bonds which drew us
together. He was, indeed, a typical American of the best sort. Most
happy in temperament, with great vitality and enjoyment of life, he
united in his make-up the gifts of quick perception and calm
deliberation. His judgments were broad, sound, and charitable, his
disposition full of good-will, his tastes at once simple and
comprehensive. He was at home in high society, and not less so among the
lowly. He was very social in disposition, and much "given to
hospitality," but without show or pretense. He had been one of the
original members of the Church of the Disciples, and had certainly been
drawn toward Mr. Clarke by a deep and genuine religious sympathy.
Although a man of most serious convictions, he was able to enter
heartily into the spirit of every social occasion. He was with us
sometimes at our rural retreat on Newport Island, far from the scenes of
fashionable life. I once had the honor of entertaining in this place the
members of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. While we were all
busy with preparations for the reception of these eminent persons, Mr.
Andrew--he was not as yet governor--offered to compound for the company
a pleasing beverage. He took off his coat, and went to work with lemons,
sugar, and other ingredients, and was very near being found in his
shirt-sleeves by those of the scientists who were first upon the ground.

At another time we were arranging some tableaux for one of my children's
parties, and had chosen the subjects from Thackeray's fairy tale of the
"Rose and the Ring." I came to our friend in some perplexity, and said,
"Dear Mr. Andrew, in the tableaux this evening Dr. Howe is to personate
Kutasoff Hedzoff; would you be willing to pose as Prince Bulbo?" "By all
means," was the response. I brought the book, and Mr. Andrew studied and
imitated the costume of the prince, even to the necktie and the rose in
his buttonhole.

In the years that followed, he as well as we had little time for
merry-making. While the political sky was darkening and the thunder of
war was faintly rumbling in the air, Dr. Howe said to me one day,
"Andrew is going to be governor of Massachusetts." My first recollection
of him in war time concerns the attack made upon the United States
troops as they were passing through Baltimore. The telegram sent by him
to the mayor of that city seemed to give an earnest of what we might
expect from him. He requested that the bodies of our soldiers who had
fallen in the streets should be tenderly cared for, and sent to their
State, Massachusetts. We were present when these bodies were received at
King's Chapel burial-ground, and could easily see how deeply the
governor was moved at the sad sight of the coffins draped with the
national flag. This occasion drew from me the poem beginning,--

  "Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms,
    To deck our girls for gay delights:
  The crimson flower of battle blooms,
    And solemn marches fill the nights."

When James Freeman Clarke's exchanging pulpits with Theodore Parker
alienated from him a part of his congregation, Governor Andrew strongly
opposed the views of the seceders, and at a meeting called in connection
with the movement made so eloquent a plea against the separation as to
move his hearers to tears.

[Illustration: JOHN A. ANDREW

_From a photograph by Black._]

Very generous was his conduct in the case of John Brown, when the latter
lay in a Southern prison, about to be tried for his life, without
counsel and without money. Mr. Andrew, on becoming acquainted with his
condition, telegraphed to eminent lawyers in Washington to engage them
for the defense of the prisoner, and made himself responsible for the
legal expenses of the case, amounting to thirteen hundred dollars. He
was elected governor of Massachusetts in 1860, and his forethought and
sagacity were soon shown in the course of action instituted by him to
prepare the State for immediate and active participation in the military
movements which he felt to be near at hand. The measures then taken by
him were much derided; but, when the crisis came, the heart of the
public went out to him in gratitude, for every emergency had been
thought out and provided for.

The governor now became a very busy man. Who can number the hurried
journeys which he made between Boston and Washington, when his counsel
was imperatively demanded in the one place and no less needed in the
other? These exhausting labors, which continued throughout the war,
never disturbed the serenity of his countenance, always luminous with
cheerfulness. They were, no doubt, undermining his bodily vigor; but his
devotion to public duty was such that he was well content to spend and
be spent in its fulfillment.

I was present at the State House when Governor Andrew presented to the
legislature of Massachusetts the parting gift of Theodore Parker,--the
gun which his grandfather had carried at the battle of Lexington. After
a brief but very appropriate address, the governor pressed the gun to
his lips before giving it into the keeping of the official guardian of
such treasures. This scene was caricatured in one of the public prints
of the time. I remember it as most impressive.

The governor was an earnest Unitarian, and as already said a charter
member of the Church of the Disciples. His religious sympathies,
however, outwent all sectarian limits. He prized and upheld the truly
devout spirits, wherever found, and delighted in the Methodism of Father
Taylor. He used to say, "When I want to enjoy a good warm time, I go to
Brother Grimes's colored church."

Although himself a Protestant of the Protestants, he entertained a
sincere esteem for individuals among the Catholic clergy. Among these I
remember Father Finotti as one of whom he often spoke, and who was
sometimes a guest at his table. When Madame Ristori made her first visit
to this country, Father Finotti entertained her one day at dinner,
inviting also Governor and Mrs. Andrew. The governor told me afterward
that he enjoyed this meeting very much, and described some song or
recitation which the great actress gave at table, and which the aged
priest heard with emotion, recalling the days of his youth and the dear
land of his birth.

Once, when Governor Andrew was with us at our summer home, my husband
suddenly proposed that we should hold a Sunday service in the shade of
our beautiful valley. This was on the Sunday morning itself, and the
time admitted of no preparation. I had with me neither hymnal nor book
of sermons, and was rather at a loss how to carry out my husband's
design. The governor at once came to my assistance. He gave the
Scripture lessons from memory, and deaconed out the lines of a favorite

  "The dove let loose in eastern skies,
  Returning fondly home."

This we sang to the best of our ability. The governor had in memory some
writing of his own appropriate to the occasion; and, all joining in the
Lord's prayer, the simple and beautiful rite was accomplished.

The record of our State during the war was a proud one. The repeated
calls for men and for money were always promptly and generously
answered. And this promptness was greatly forwarded by the energy and
patriotic vigilance of the governor. I heard much of this at the time,
especially from my husband, who was greatly attached to the governor,
and who himself took an intense interest in all the operations of the

I am glad to remember that our house was one of the places in which
Governor Andrew used to take refuge, when the need of rest became
imperative. Having, perhaps, passed much of the night at the State
House, receiving telegrams and issuing orders, he would sometimes lie
down on a sofa in my drawing-room, and snatch a brief nap before dinner
would be announced.

I seemed to live in and along with the war, while it was in progress,
and to follow all its ups and downs, its good and ill fortune with these
two brave men, Dr. Howe and Governor Andrew. Neither of them for a
moment doubted the final result of the struggle, but both they and I
were often very sad and much discouraged. Andrew was especially
distressed at the disastrous retreat in the Wilderness, when medicines,
stores, and even wounded soldiers were necessarily left behind. He said
of this, "When I read the accounts of it I thought that the bottom had
dropped out of everything." He was not alone in feeling thus.

While Governor Andrew held himself at the command of the government, and
was ready to answer every call from the White House with his presence,
he was no less persistent in the visitations required in his own State.
Of some of these I can speak from personal experience, having often had
the pleasure of accompanying him and Mrs. Andrew in such excursions. I
went twice with the gubernatorial party to attend the Agricultural Fair
at Barnstable. The first time we were the guests of Mr. Phinney, the
veteran editor of a Barnstable paper. On another occasion we visited
Berkshire, and were entertained at Greenfield, North Adams, and
Stockbridge. Dress parades were usually held at these times. How well I
have in mind the governor's appearance as, in his military cloak,
wearing scrupulously white kid gloves, he walked from rank to rank,
receiving the salute of the men and returning it with great good humor!
He evidently enjoyed these meetings very much. His staff consisted of
several young men of high position in the community, who were most
agreeable companions,--John Quincy Adams, Henry Lee, handsome Harry
Ritchie, and one or two others whose names I do not recall. In the
jollity of these outings the governor did not forget to visit the public
institutions, prisons, reform schools, insane asylums, etc. His presence
carried cheer and sunshine into the most dreary places, and his deep
interest in humanity made itself felt everywhere.

From an early period in the war he saw that the emancipation of the
negroes of the South was imperatively demanded to insure the success of
the North. It had always been a moral obligation. It had now become a
military necessity. When the act was consummated, he not only rejoiced
in it, but bent all his energies upon the support of the President in an
act so daring and so likely to be deprecated by the half-hearted. His
efforts to this end were not confined to his own State. He did much to
promote unity of opinion and concert in action among the governors of
other States. He strongly advocated the organization of colored
regiments, and the first of these that reached the field of battle came
from his State.

All of us, I suppose, have met with people who are democratic in theory,
but who in practical life prefer to remain in relation mostly with
individuals of their own or a superior class. Our great governor's
democracy was not founded on intellectual conviction alone. It was a
democracy of taste and of feeling. I say of taste, because he discerned
the beauty of life which is often found among the lowly, the
faithfulness of servants, the good ambition of working people to do
their best with hammer and saw, with needle and thread. He earnestly
desired that people of all degrees, high and low, rich and poor, should
enjoy the blessings of civilization, should have their position of use
and honor in the great human brotherhood. And it was this sweet and
sincere humanity of heart which gave him so wide and varied a sphere of
influence. He could confer with the cook in her kitchen, with the
artisan at his task, with the convict in his cell, and always leave
behind him an impression of kindness and sympathy. I have often in my
mind compared society to a vast orchestra, which, properly led, gives
forth a heavenly music, and which, ill conducted, utters only harsh and
discordant sounds. The true leader of the orchestra has the music in his
mind. He can read the intricate scroll which is set up before him; and
so the army of melody responds to his tap, and instrument after
instrument wakes at his bidding and is silent at his command.

I cannot help thinking of Governor Andrew as such a leader. In his heart
was written the music of the law of love. Before his eyes was the scroll
of the great designs of Providence. And so, being at peace in himself,
he promoted peace and harmony among those with whom he had to do;
unanimity of action during the war, unanimity of consent and of
rejoicing when peace came.

So beneficent a presence has rarely shown itself among us. I trust that
something of its radiance will continue to enlighten our national
counsels and to cheer our hearts with the great hope which made him

During the years of the war, Washington naturally became the great
centre of interest. Politicians of every grade, adventurers of either
sex, inventors of all sorts of military appliances, and simple citizens,
good and bad, flocked thither in great numbers. My own first visit to it
was in the late autumn of 1861, and was made in company with Rev. James
Freeman Clarke, Governor Andrew, and my husband. Dr. Howe had already
passed beyond the age of military service, but was enabled to render
valuable aid as an officer of the Sanitary Commission, and also on the
commission which had in charge the condition and interests of the newly
freed slaves.

Although Dr. Howe had won his spurs many years before this time, in the
guerrilla contests of the Greek struggle for national life, his
understanding of military operations continued to be remarkable.
Throughout the course of the war, I never remember him to have been
deceived by an illusory report of victory. He would carefully consider
the plan of the battle, and when he would say, "This looks to me like a
defeat," the later reports were sure to justify his surmises.

[Illustration: JULIA WARD HOWE

_From a photograph by J. J. Hawes, about 1861._]

As we approached the city, I saw from time to time small groups of armed
men seated on the ground near a fire. Dr. Howe explained to me that
these were the pickets detailed to guard the railroad. The main body of
the enemy's troops was then stationed in the near neighborhood of
Washington, and the capture of the national capital would have been of
great strategic advantage to their cause. In order to render this
impossible, the great Army of the Potomac was encamped around the city,
with General McClellan in command. Within the city limits mounted
officers and orderlies galloped to and fro. Ambulances, drawn by four
horses, drove through the streets, stopping sometimes before Willard's
Hotel, where we had all found quarters. From my window I saw the office
of the "New York Herald," and near it the ghastly advertisement of an
agency for embalming and forwarding the bodies of those who had fallen
in the fight or who had perished by fever. William Henry Channing,
nephew of the great Channing, and heir to his spiritual distinction, had
left his Liverpool pulpit, deeply stirred by love of his country and
enthusiasm in a noble cause. On Sundays, his voice rang out, clear and
musical as a bell, within the walls of the Unitarian church. I went more
than once with him and Mr. Clarke to visit camps and hospitals. It was
on the occasion of one of these visits that I made my very first attempt
at public speaking. I had joined the rest of my party in a reconnoitring
expedition, the last stage of which was the headquarters of Colonel
William B. Greene, of the First Massachusetts Heavy Artillery. Our
friend received us with a warm welcome, and presently said to me, "Mrs.
Howe, you must speak to my men." Feeling my utter inability to do this,
I ran away and tried to hide myself in one of the hospital tents.
Colonel Greene twice found me and brought me back to his piazza, where
at last I stood, and told as well as I could how glad I was to meet the
brave defenders of our cause, and how constantly they were in my

Among my recollections of this period I especially cherish that of an
interview with President Abraham Lincoln, arranged for us by our kind
friend, Governor Andrew. The President was laboring at this time under a
terrible pressure of doubt and anxiety. He received us in one of the
drawing-rooms of the White House, where we were invited to take seats,
in full view of Stuart's portrait of Washington. The conversation took
place mostly between the President and Governor Andrew. I remember well
the sad expression of Mr. Lincoln's deep blue eyes, the only feature of
his face which could be called other than plain. Mrs. Andrew, being of
the company, inquired when we could have the pleasure of seeing Mrs.
Lincoln, and Mr. Lincoln named to us the day of her reception. He said
to Governor Andrew, apropos of I know not what, "I once heerd George
Sumner tell a story." The unusual pronunciation fixed in my memory this
one unimportant sentence. The talk, indeed, ran mostly on indifferent

When we had taken leave, and were out of hearing, Mr. Clarke said of Mr.
Lincoln, "We have seen it in his face; hopeless honesty; that is all."
He said it as if he felt that it was far from enough.

None of us knew then--how could we have known?--how deeply God's wisdom
had touched and inspired that devout and patient soul. At the moment few
people praised or trusted him. "Why did he not do this, or that, or the
other? He a President, indeed! Look at this war, dragging on so slowly!
Look at our many defeats and rare victories!" Such was the talk that one
constantly heard regarding him. The most charitable held that he meant
well. Governor Andrew was one of the few whose faith in him never

Meanwhile, through evil and good report, he was listening for the
mandate which comes to one alone, bringing with it the decision of a
mind convinced and of a conscience resolved. When the right moment came,
he issued the proclamation of emancipation to the slaves. He sent his
generals into the enemy's country. He lived to welcome them back as
victors, to electrify the civilized world with his simple, sincere
speech, to fall by the hand of an assassin, to bequeath to his country
the most tragical and sacred of her memories.

It would be impossible for me to say how many times I have been called
upon to rehearse the circumstances under which I wrote the "Battle Hymn
of the Republic." I have also had occasion more than once to state the
simple story in writing. As this oft-told tale has no unimportant part
in the story of my life, I will briefly add it to these records. I
distinctly remember that a feeling of discouragement came over me as I
drew near the city of Washington at the time already mentioned. I
thought of the women of my acquaintance whose sons or husbands were
fighting our great battle; the women themselves serving in the
hospitals, or busying themselves with the work of the Sanitary
Commission. My husband, as already said, was beyond the age of military
service, my eldest son but a stripling; my youngest was a child of not
more than two years. I could not leave my nursery to follow the march of
our armies, neither had I the practical deftness which the preparing and
packing of sanitary stores demanded. Something seemed to say to me, "You
would be glad to serve, but you cannot help any one; you have nothing to
give, and there is nothing for you to do." Yet, because of my sincere
desire, a word was given me to say, which did strengthen the hearts of
those who fought in the field and of those who languished in the prison.

We were invited, one day, to attend a review of troops at some distance
from the town. While we were engaged in watching the manoeuvres, a
sudden movement of the enemy necessitated immediate action. The review
was discontinued, and we saw a detachment of soldiers gallop to the
assistance of a small body of our men who were in imminent danger of
being surrounded and cut off from retreat. The regiments remaining on
the field were ordered to march to their cantonments. We returned to the
city very slowly, of necessity, for the troops nearly filled the road.
My dear minister was in the carriage with me, as were several other
friends. To beguile the rather tedious drive, we sang from time to time
snatches of the army songs so popular at that time, concluding, I think,

  "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the ground;
     His soul is marching on."

The soldiers seemed to like this, and answered back, "Good for you!" Mr.
Clarke said, "Mrs. Howe, why do you not write some good words for that
stirring tune?" I replied that I had often wished to do this, but had
not as yet found in my mind any leading toward it.

I went to bed that night as usual, and slept, according to my wont,
quite soundly. I awoke in the gray of the morning twilight; and as I lay
waiting for the dawn, the long lines of the desired poem began to twine
themselves in my mind. Having thought out all the stanzas, I said to
myself, "I must get up and write these verses down, lest I fall asleep
again and forget them." So, with a sudden effort, I sprang out of bed,
and found in the dimness an old stump of a pen which I remembered to
have used the day before. I scrawled the verses almost without looking
at the paper. I had learned to do this when, on previous occasions,
attacks of versification had visited me in the night, and I feared to
have recourse to a light lest I should wake the baby, who slept near me.
I was always obliged to decipher my scrawl before another night should
intervene, as it was only legible while the matter was fresh in my mind.
At this time, having completed my writing, I returned to bed and fell
asleep, saying to myself, "I like this better than most things that I
have written."

The poem, which was soon after published in the "Atlantic Monthly," was
somewhat praised on its appearance, but the vicissitudes of the war so
engrossed public attention that small heed was taken of literary
matters. I knew, and was content to know, that the poem soon found its
way to the camps, as I heard from time to time of its being sung in
chorus by the soldiers.

As the war went on, it came to pass that Chaplain McCabe, newly released
from Libby Prison, gave a public lecture in Washington, and recounted
some of his recent experiences. Among them was the following: He and the
other Union prisoners occupied one large, comfortless room, in which the
floor was their only bed. An official in charge of them told them, one
evening, that the Union arms had just sustained a terrible defeat. While
they sat together in great sorrow, the negro who waited upon them
whispered to one man that the officer had given them false information,
and that the Union soldiers had, on the contrary, achieved an important
victory. At this good news they all rejoiced, and presently made the
walls ring with my Battle Hymn, which they sang in chorus, Chaplain
McCabe leading. The lecturer recited the poem with such effect that
those present began to inquire, "Who wrote this Battle Hymn?" It now
became one of the leading lyrics of the war. In view of its success, one
of my good friends said, "Mrs. Howe ought to die now, for she has done
the best that she will ever do." I was not of this opinion, feeling
myself still "full of days' works," although I did not guess at the new
experiences which then lay before me.

While the war was still at its height, I received a kind letter from
Hon. George Bancroft, conveying an invitation to attend a celebration of
the poet Bryant's seventieth birthday, to be given by the New York
Century Club, of which Mr. Bancroft was the newly-elected president. He
also expressed the hope that I would bring with me something in verse or
in prose, to add to the tributes of the occasion.

Having accepted the invitation and made ready my tribute, I repaired to
the station on the day appointed, to take the train for New York. Dr.
Holmes presently appeared, bound on the same errand. As we seated
ourselves in the car, he said to me, "Mrs. Howe, I will sit beside you,
but you must not expect me to talk, as I must spare my voice for this
evening, when I am to read a poem at the Bryant celebration." "By all
means let us keep silent," I replied. "I also have a poem to read at the
Bryant celebration." The dear Doctor, always my friend, overestimated
his power of abstinence from the interchange of thought which was so
congenial to him. He at once launched forth in his ever brilliant vein,
and we were within a few miles of our destination when we suddenly
remembered that we had not taken time to eat our luncheon. I find in my
diary of the time this record: "Dr. Holmes was my companion. His
ethereal talk made the journey short and brilliant."

The journal further says: "Arriving in New York, Mr. Bancroft met us at
the station, intent upon escorting Dr. Holmes, who was to be his guest.
He was good enough to wait upon me also; carried my trunk, which was a
small one, and lent me his carriage. He inquired about my poem, and
informed me of its place in the order of exercises....

"At 8.15 drove to the Century Building, which was fast filling with
well-dressed men and women. Was conducted to the reception room, where I
waited with those who were to take part in the performances of the

I will add here that I saw, among others, N. P. Willis, already infirm
in health, and looking like the ghost of his former self. There also was
Dr. Francis Lieber, who said to me in a low voice: "_Nur verwegen!_"
(Only be audacious.) "Presently a double line was formed to pass into
the hall. Mr. Bancroft, Mr. Bryant, and I brought up the rear, Mr.
Bryant giving me his arm. On the platform were three armchairs, which
were taken by the two gentlemen and myself."

The assemblage was indeed a notable one. The fashion of New York was
well represented, but its foremost artists, publicists, and literary men
were also present. Mr. Emerson had come on from Concord. Christopher
Cranch united with other artists in presenting to the venerable poet a
portfolio of original drawings, to which each had contributed some work
of his own. I afterwards learned that T. Buchanan Read had arrived from
Washington, having in his pocket his newly composed poem on "Sheridan's
Ride," which he would gladly have read aloud had the committee found
room for it on their programme. A letter was received from the elder R.
H. Dana, in which he excused his absence on account of his seventy-seven
years and consequent inability to travel. Dr. Holmes read his verses
very effectively. Mr. Emerson spoke rather vaguely. For my part in the
evening's proceedings, I will once more quote from the diary:--

"Mr. Bryant, in his graceful reply to Mr. Bancroft's address of
congratulation, spoke of me as 'she who has written the most stirring
lyric of the war.' After Mr. Emerson's remarks my poem was announced. I
stepped to the middle of the platform, and read it well, I think, as
every one heard me, and the large room was crammed. The last two verses
were applauded. George H. Boker, of Philadelphia, followed me, and Dr.
Holmes followed him. This was, I suppose, the greatest public honor of
my life. I record it here for my grandchildren."

The existence of these grandchildren lay then in the problematic future.
I was requested to leave my poem in the hands of the committee for
publication in a volume which would contain the other tributes of the
evening. Dr. Holmes told me that he had declined to do this, and said in
explanation, "I want my _honorarium_ from the 'Atlantic Monthly.'" We
returned to Boston twenty-four hours later, by night train. Eschewing
the indulgence of the sleeper, we talked through the dark hours. The
Doctor gave me the nickname of "_Madame Comment_" (Mrs. Howe), and I
told him that he was the most perfect of traveling companions.



The Boston Radical Club appears to me one of the social developments
most worthy of remembrance in the third quarter of the nineteenth
century. From a published record of its meetings I gather that the first
of them was held at the residence of Dr. Bartol in the autumn of the
year 1867. I felt a little grieved and aggrieved at the time, in that no
invitation had been sent me to be present on this occasion, but was soon
consoled by a letter offering me membership in the new association,
which, it may be supposed, I did not decline. The government of the club
was of the simplest. Its meetings were held on the first Monday of every
month, and most frequently at the house of Rev. John T. Sargent, though
occasionally at that of Dr. Bartol. The master of the house usually
presided, but Mrs. Sargent was always present and aided much in
suggesting the names of the persons who should be called upon to discuss
the essay of the day. The proceedings were limited to the reading and
discussion of a paper, which rarely exceeded an hour in length. On
looking over the list of essayists, I find that it includes the most
eminent thinkers of the day, in so far as Massachusetts is concerned.
Among the speakers mentioned are Ralph Waldo Emerson, Dr. Hedge, David
A. Wasson, O. B. Frothingham, John Weiss, Colonel Higginson, Benjamin
Peirce, William Henry Channing, C. C. Everett, and James Freeman Clarke.
It was a glad surprise to me when I was first invited to read a paper
before this august assemblage. This honor I enjoyed more than once, but
I appreciated even more the privilege of listening and of taking part in
the discussions which, after the lapse of many years, are still
remembered by me as truly admirable and instructive.

I did indeed hear at these meetings much that pained and even irritated
me. The disposition to seek outside the limits of Christianity for all
that is noble and inspiring in religious culture, and to recognize
especially within these limits the superstition and intolerance which
have been the bane of all religions--this disposition, which was
frequently manifested both in the essays presented and in their
discussion, offended not only my affections, but also my sense of
justice. I had indeed been led to transcend the limits of the old
tradition; I had also devoted much time to studies of philosophy, and
had become conversant with the works of Auguste Comte, Hegel, Spinoza,
Kant, and Swedenborg. Nothing of what I had heard or read had shaken my
faith in the leadership of Christ in the religion which makes each man
the brother of all, and God the beneficent father of each and all,--the
religion of humanity. Neither did this my conviction suffer any
disturbance through the views presented by speakers at the Radical Club.

Setting this one point aside, I can but speak of the club as a high
congress of souls, in which many noble thoughts were uttered. Nobler
than any special view or presentation was the general sense of the
dignity of human character and of its affinity with things divine, which
always gave the master tone to the discussions.

The first essay read before the Radical Club of which I have any
distinct recollection was by Rev. John Weiss, and had for its title,
"The Immanence of God." It was highly speculative in character, and
appeared to me to suggest many insoluble questions, among others, that
of the origin of the sensible world.

Lord and Lady Amberley, who were present, expressed to me great
admiration of the essay. The occasion was rendered memorable by the
beautiful presence of Lucretia Mott.

Other discourses of John Weiss I remember with greater pleasure, notably
one on the legend of Prometheus, in which his love for Greece had full
scope, while his vivid imagination, like a blazing torch, illuminated
for us the deep significance of that ancient myth.

I remember, at one of these meetings, a rather sharp passage at arms
between Mr. Weiss and James Freeman Clarke. Mr. Weiss had been
declaiming against the insincerity which he recognized in ministers who
continue to use formulas of faith which have ceased to correspond to any
real conviction. The speaker confessed his own shortcoming in this

"All of us," he said,--"yes, I myself have prayed in the name of Christ,
when my own feeling did not sanction its use."

On hearing this, Mr. Clarke broke in.

"Let Mr. Weiss answer for himself," he said with some vehemence of
manner. "If in his pulpit he prayed in the name of Christ, and did not
believe in what he said, it was John Weiss that lied, and not one of
us." The dear minister afterwards asked me whether he had shown any heat
in what he said. I replied, "Yes, but it was good heat."

Another memorable day at the club was that on which the eminent French
Protestant divine, Athanase Coquerel, spoke of religion and art in their
relation to each other. After a brief but interesting review of classic,
Byzantine, and mediæval art, M. Coquerel expressed his dissent from the
generally received opinion that the Church of Rome had always been
foremost in the promotion and patronage of the fine arts. The greatest
of Italian masters, he averred, while standing in the formal relations
with that church, had often shown opposition to its spirit. Michael
Angelo's sonnets revealed a state of mind intolerant of ecclesiastical
as of other tyranny. Raphael, in the execution of a papal order, had
represented true religion by a portrait figure of Savonarola. Holbein
and Rembrandt were avowed Protestants. He considered the individuality
fostered by Protestantism as most favorable to the development of
originality in art.

With these views Colonel Higginson did not agree. He held that
Christianity had reached its highest point under the dispensation of the
Catholic faith, and that the progress of Protestantism marked its
decline. This assertion called forth an energetic denial from Dr. Hedge,
Mr. Clarke, and myself.

M. Coquerel paid a second visit to the Radical Club, and spoke again of
art, but without reference to any question between differing sects. He
began this discourse by laying down two rules which should be followed
by one aspiring to become an artist. In the first place, he must make
sure that he has something to say which can only be said through this
medium. In the second place, he must make himself master of the grammar
of the art which he intends to pursue.

While I cannot avoid recognizing the anti-Christian twist which mostly
prevailed in the Radical Club, I am far from wishing to convey the
impression that those of us who were otherwise affected were not allowed
the opportunity of expressing our own individual opinions. The presence
at the meetings of such men as James Freeman Clarke, Dr. Hedge, William
Henry Channing, and Wendell Phillips was a sufficient earnest of the
catholicity of intention which prevailed in the government of the club.
Only the intellectual bias was so much in the opposite direction that we
who stood for the preëminence of Christianity sometimes felt ourselves
at a disadvantage, and in danger of being set down as ignorant of much
that our opponents assumed to know.

In this connection I must mention a day on which, under the title of
"Jonathan Edwards," Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes favored the club with a
very graphic exposition of old-time New England Calvinism. The brilliant
doctor's treatment of this difficult topic was appreciative and
friendly, though by no means acquiescent in the doctrines presented. He
said, indeed, that "the feeling which naturally arises in contemplating
the character of Jonathan Edwards is that of deep reverence for a man
who seems to have been anointed from his birth; who lived a life pure,
laborious, self-denying, occupied with the highest themes, and busy in
the highest kind of labor."

Nevertheless, Wendell Phillips thought the paper, on the whole, unjust
to Edwards, and felt that there must have been in his doctrine another
side not fully brought forward by the essayist. These and other speakers
were heard with great interest, and the meeting was one of the best on
our record.

I have heard it said that Wendell Phillips's orthodoxy was greatly
valued among the anti-slavery workers, especially as the orthodox
pulpits of the time gave them little support or comfort. I was told that
Edmund Quincy, one day, saw Parker and Phillips walking arm in arm, and
cried out: "Parker, don't dare to pervert that man. We want him as he

I was thrice invited to read before the Radical Club. The titles of my
three papers were, "Doubt and Belief," "Limitations," "Representation,
and How to Secure it."

William Henry Channing was one of the bright lights of the Radical Club,
a man of fervent nature and of exquisite perceptions, presenting in his
character the rare combination of deep piety with breadth of view and
critical acumen. We were indebted to him for a discourse on "The
Christian Name," in which he vindicated the claim of Christianity to the
homage of the ages. His words, most welcome to me, came to us like
reconciling harmony after a succession of discords.

A singular over-appreciation of the value of the spoken as compared with
the written word led Mr. Channing to speak always or mostly without a
manuscript. It was much to be regretted that he in this way failed to
give a permanent literary form to the thoughts which he so eloquently
expressed, reminding some of his hearers of the costly pearl dissolved
in wine. The discourse of which I have just spoken, while arousing
considerable difference of opinion among those who listened to it, did
nevertheless leave behind it a sweetening and elevating influence, due
to a fresh outpouring of the divine spirit of charity and peace.

In this connection I may speak of a series of discourses upon questions
of religion, mostly critical in tone, which were given at Horticultural
Hall on Sunday afternoons in the palmy days of the Radical Club. I had
listened with pain to one of these, of which the drift appeared to me
particularly undevout, and was resting still under the weight of this
painful impression when I saw William Henry Channing coming towards me,
and detained him for a moment's speech. "What are we to say to all
this?" I inquired.

"Be of good cheer," said he; "the topic demanded a telescopic rifle, and
this man has been firing at something ten miles away with a

I was always glad of Mr. Channing's presence on occasions on which
matters of faith were likely to be called in question. I felt great
support in the assurance that he would always uphold the right, and in
the right spirit.

It was in the strength of this assurance that I betook myself to Mrs.
Sargent's house one evening, to hear Mr. Francis E. Abbot expound his
peculiar views to a little company of Unitarian ministers. Mr. Abbot, in
the course of his remarks, exclaimed: "The Christian Church is blind! it
is blind!" Mr. Wasson replied: "We cannot allow Brother Abbot to think
that he is the only one who sees." I remember of this evening that I
came away much impressed with the beautiful patience of the older

I must mention one more occasion at the Radical Club. I can remember
neither the topic nor the reader of the essay, but the discussion
drifted, as it often did, in the direction of woman suffrage, and John
Weiss delivered himself of the following utterance: "When man and woman
shall meet at the polls, and he shall hold out his hand and say to her,
Give me your quick intuition and accept in return my ratiocination"----A
ringing laugh here interrupted the speaker. It came from Kate Field.

Mr. Emerson had a brief connection with the Radical Club; and this may
be a suitable place in which to give my personal impressions of the
Prophet of New England. In remembering Mr. Emerson, we should analyze
his works sufficiently to be able to distinguish the things in which he
really was a leader and a teacher from other traits peculiar to himself,
and interesting as elements of his historic character, but not as
features of the ideal which we are to follow. Mr. Emerson objected
strongly to newspaper reports of the sittings of the Radical Club. The
reports sent to the New York "Tribune" by Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton
were eagerly sought and read in very distant parts of the country. I
rejoiced in this. It seemed to me that the uses of the club were thus
greatly multiplied and extended. It became an agency in the great church
universal. Mr. Emerson's principal objection to the reports was that
they interfered with the freedom of the occasion. When this objection
failed to prevail, he withdrew from the club almost entirely, and was
never more heard among its speakers.

I remember hearing Mr. Emerson, in his discourse on Henry Thoreau,
relate that the latter had once determined to manufacture the best lead
pencil that could possibly be made. Having attained this end, parties
interested at once besought him to make this excellent article
attainable in trade. He said, "Why should I do this? I have shown that I
am able to produce the best pencil that can be made. This was all that I
cared to do." The selfishness and egotism of this point of view did not
appear to have entered into Mr. Emerson's thoughts. Upon this principle,
which of the great discoverers or inventors would have become a
benefactor to the human race? Theodore Parker once said to me, "I do not
consider Emerson a philosopher, but a poet lacking the accomplishment of
rhyme." This may not be altogether true, but it is worth remembering.
There is something of the _vates_ in Mr. Emerson. The deep intuitions,
the original and startling combinations, the sometimes whimsical beauty
of his illustrations,--all these belong rather to the domain of poetry
than to that of philosophy. The high level of thought upon which he
lived and moved and the wonderful harmony of his sympathies are his
great lesson to the world at large. Despite his rather defective sense
of rhythm, his poems are divine snatches of melody. I think that, in the
popular affection, they may outlast his prose.

I was once surprised, in hearing Mr. Emerson talk, to find how
extensively read he was in what we may term secondary literature.
Although a graduate of Harvard, his reading of foreign literatures,
ancient and modern, was mostly in translations. I should say that his
intellectual pasture ground had been largely within the domain of
belles-lettres proper.


_From a photograph by Black._]

He was a man of angelic nature, pure, exquisite, just, refined, and
human. All concede him the highest place in our literary heaven. First
class in genius and in character, he was able to discern the face of the
times. To him was entrusted not only the silver trump of prophecy, but
also that sharp and two-edged sword of the Spirit with which the
legendary archangel Michael overcomes the brute Satan. In the great
victory of his day, the triumph of freedom over slavery, he has a record
not to be outdone and never to be forgotten.

A lesser light of this time was the Rev. Samuel Longfellow. I remember
him first as of a somewhat vague and vanishing personality, not much
noticed when his admired brother was of the company. This was before the
beginning of his professional career. A little later, I heard of his
ordination as a Unitarian minister from Rev. Edward Everett Hale, who
had attended, and possibly taken part in, the services. The poet
Longfellow had written a lovely hymn for the occasion, beginning with
this line:--

  "Christ to the young man said, 'Give me thy heart.'"

Mr. Hale spoke of "Sam Longfellow" as a valued friend, and remarked upon
the modesty and sweetness of his disposition. "I saw him the other day,"
said Mr. Hale. "He showed me a box of colors which he had long desired
to possess, and which he had just purchased. Sam said to me, 'I thought
I might have this now.'" He was fond of sketching from nature.

Years after this time, I heard Mr. Longfellow preach at the Hawes Church
in South Boston. After the service I invited him to take a Sunday dinner
with Dr. Howe and myself. He consented, and I remember that in the
course of our conversation he said, "Theodore Parker has made things
easier for us young ministers. He has demolished so much which it was
necessary to remove." The collection entitled "Hymns of the Spirit," and
published under the joint names of Samuel Longfellow and Samuel Johnson,
is a valuable one, and the hymns which Mr. Longfellow himself
contributed to the _répertoire_ of the denomination are deeply religious
in tone; and yet I must think that among Unitarians of thirty or more
years ago he was held to be something of a skeptic. Thomas G. Appleton
was speaking of him in my presence one day, and said, "He asked me
whether I could not get along without the idea of a personal God. I
replied, 'No, you ---- ----.'" Appleton shook his fist, and was very
vehement in his expression; but his indignation had reference to Mr.
Longfellow's supposed opinions, and not at all to his character, which
was esteemed of all men.

I myself was present when he read his essay on "Law" before the Radical
Club. Of this I especially recall a rather elaborate argument against
the popular notion of a directing and overruling Providence. He
supported his statement by the imagined story of a shipwreck or railroad
disaster, in which some would escape injury, while others quite as
worthy might be killed or maimed for life. "How," he asked, "could we
call a providence divine which, able to save all of those people, should
rescue only a part of them, leaving the rest to perish?"

When it became my turn to take part in the discussion of this paper, I
admitted the logical consistency of Mr. Longfellow's argument. I could
point out no flaw in it, and yet, I maintained that the faith in an
overruling Providence lay so deeply in my mind that it still persevered,
in spite of the ingenious statements to which we had just listened. Mrs.
Livermore, who was present on this occasion, expressed herself as much
of my opinion, acknowledging the consistency of the demonstration, but
declining to abide in the conclusion arrived at.

My last recollection of speech with Mr. Longfellow is of an evening on
which I lectured at his church in Germantown. He gave me a most
hospitable reception, and I found it very pleasant to be his guest.

       *       *       *       *       *

To speak of my first impressions of Dr. F. H. Hedge, I must turn back to
the autumn of 1841, when he delivered his first Phi Beta address at
Harvard College.

This was the summer already mentioned as having brought my first meeting
with Dr. Howe. Commencement and Phi Beta in those days were held in the
early autumn, and my sisters and I were staying at a cottage in
Dorchester when we received an invitation from Mrs. Farrar, of
hospitable memory, to pass the day at her house, with other guests,
among whom Margaret Fuller was mentioned. It was arranged that I should
go with Margaret to the church in which the morning meeting would be
held. I had never even heard of Dr. Hedge, but I listened to him with
close attention, and can still recall the steely ring of his voice, and
the effect of his clear-cut sentences. The poem was given by Charles
Sprague; and of this I only remember that in one couplet, speaking of
the wonderful talents which parents are apt to recognize in their
children, he asked whence could have come those ordinary men and women
whom we all know. This question provoked some laughter on the part of
the audience. As we left the church, I asked Margaret whether she had
not found Dr. Hedge's discourse very good. She replied, "Yes; it was
high ground for middle ground." Many years after this time, I asked Dr.
Hedge what Margaret could have meant by this saying. His answer was that
she had hoped to see him take a more pronounced position with regard to
the vexed questions of the time.

From the church we returned to dine with Mrs. Farrar, on whose pleasant
piazza I enjoyed a long walk and talk with Margaret. By and by a
carriage stopped before the door. She said, "It is Mr. Ripley; he has
come for me. I have promised to visit his wife." In a few words she told
me about this remarkable woman, who was long spoken of as "the wonderful
Mrs. Ripley."

It must have been, I think, some twelve years later that I met Dr. Hedge
for the first time at a friend's house in Providence, R. I. He was at
this time pastor of the first and only Unitarian church in that city. In
the course of the evening which I passed in his company, I was
repeatedly invited to sing, and did so, remarking at last that when I
began to sing I was like the minister when he began to pray, I never
knew when to leave off.

Years after this time, I met him walking in Washington Street, Boston,
with a mutual acquaintance. This person, whose name I cannot now recall,
stopped me and said, "Here is our friend, Dr. Hedge, who is henceforth
to be in our neighborhood." I replied that I was glad to hear it, and
was somewhat taken aback when Dr. Hedge, addressing me, said, "No, you
are not glad at all. You don't care anything about ministers."

"Why do you say so?" I rejoined. "I belong to James Freeman Clarke's
congregation, and I do care a great deal about some ministers."

Dr. Hedge then mischievously reminded me of my speech in Providence,
which I had entirely forgotten, and with a little mutual pleasantry he
went on his way and I on mine. Dr. Hedge's irony might have been
characterized as "a pleasant sour." I think that I felt, in spite of it,
the weight and value of his character, even when he appeared to treat me
with little consideration. I heard an excellent sermon from him one day,
at our own church, and went up after service to thank him for it. I had
with me three of my young children and, as I showed them, I said, "See
what a mother in Israel I have become." "It takes something more than a
large family to make a mother in Israel," said the doctor. I do not
quite know how it was that I took him, as the French say, into great
affection, inviting him frequently to my house, and feeling a sort of
illumination in his clear intellect and severe taste. Before I had come
to know him well, I asked Theodore Parker whether he did not consider
Dr. Hedge a very learned man. He replied, "Hedge is learned in spots."

Parker's idea of learning was of the encyclopædic kind. He wanted to
know everything about everything; his reading and research had no limits
but those of his own strength, and for many years he was able to set
these at naught. He was wonderfully well informed in many directions,
and his depth of thought enabled him to make his multifarious knowledge
available for the great work which was the joy of his life. Yet I
remember that even he, on one occasion, spoke of the cinnerian matter of
the brain, usually termed the _cineritious_. Horace Mann, who was
present, corrected this, and said, "Parker, that is the first mistake I
ever heard you make." Parker seemed a little annoyed at this small slip.

I heard a second Phi Beta discourse from Dr. Hedge some time in the
sixties. I remember of it that he compared the personal and petty
discipline of Harvard College with the independent régime of the German
universities, which he greatly preferred. He also said, quite
distinctly, that he considered the study of German literature to-day
more important than that of the Greek classics. This was a liberal
theologian's point of view. I agreed to it at the time, but have thought
differently since I myself have acquired some knowledge of the Greek
language, and especially since the multiplication of good translations
has brought the great works of German philosophy and literature so well
within the reach of those who have not mastered the cumbrous and
difficult language. Dr. Hedge's last removal was to Cambridge, whither
he had been called to fill the chair of the German professorship. I
recall with interest a course of lectures on philosophy, which he gave
at the university, and which outsiders were permitted to attend. I was
unwilling to miss any of these; and on one occasion, having passed the
night without sleeping, on the road between New York and Boston, I
determined, in spite of my fatigue, to attend the lecture appointed for
that day. I accordingly went out to Cambridge, and took my seat among
Dr. Hedge's hearers. From time to time a spasm of somnolence would seize
me, but the interest of the lecture was so great and my desire to hear
it so strong that I did not once catch myself napping.

Dr. Hedge was a lover of the drama. When Madame Janauschek first visited
Boston, he asked me to accompany him in a visit to her. The conversation
was in German, which the doctor spoke fluently. Madame J. said, among
other things, that she had intended coming a year earlier, and had sent
forward at that time her photograph and her biography. The doctor once
invited me to go with him to the Boston Theatre, which was then occupied
by a French troupe. This was at some period of our civil war. The most
important of the plays given was "La Joie fait Peur." As it proceeded,
Dr. Hedge said to me, "What a wonderful people these French are! They
have put passion enough into this performance to carry our war through
to a successful termination."

Dr. Hedge had known Margaret Fuller well in her youth and his own. His
judgment of her was perhaps more generous than hers of him, as indicated
in her criticism just quoted of his discourse, namely, that it occupied
"high ground for middle ground." In truth, the two were very unlike.
Margaret's nature impelled her to rush into "the imminent deadly
breach," while an element of caution and world-wisdom made the doctor
averse to all unnecessary antagonism and conflict. She probably
considered him timid where he felt her to be rash. In after years he
often spoke of her to me, always with great appreciation. I remarked
once to him that she had entertained a very good opinion of herself. He
replied, "Yes, and she was entitled to it." He recalled some passages of
her life in Cambridge. She once gave a party and invited only friends
from Boston, leaving out all her Cambridge acquaintances, who, in
consequence, were much offended, and ceased to make their usual calls. A
sister of his, Dr. Hedge said, was the only one of those ladies who
continued to visit her.

He saw Margaret for the last time in Rome, and found her much changed
and subdued. She was laboring at the time under one of those severe fits
of depression to which her letters from Rome bear witness. The
conversation between the two friends was long and intimate. Margaret
spoke of the terrible night which she had passed alone upon a mountain
in Scotland. Dr. Hedge more than once said to me, "Margaret experienced
religion during that night."

When, in process of time, the New England Women's Club celebrated what
would have been Margaret's sixtieth birthday, Dr. Hedge joined with
James Freeman Clarke in loving and reverent testimony to her unusual
talents and noble character.

I had the pleasure of twice hearing Dr. Hedge's admirable essay on
"Luther," which he first delivered at Arlington Street Church, and
repeated, some years later, before the Town and Country Club of Newport,
R. I. But my crowning recollection of him, and perhaps of the crowning
performance of his life, is of that memorable evening of anniversary
week in the year 1886, when he made his exhaustive and splendid
statement of the substance of the Unitarian faith. The occasion was a
happy one. The Music Hall was filled with the great Unitarian audience
furnished by Boston and its vicinity. George William Curtis was the
president of the evening, and introduced the several speakers with his
accustomed grace. He made some little pun on Dr. Hedge's name, and the
noble speaker quietly stepped forward, with the fire of unquenchable
youth in his eyes, with the balance and reserve of power in every word,
in every gesture. No note nor scrap of paper did he hold in his hand.
None did he need, for he spoke of that upon which his whole life had
been founded and built. Every one of his sentences was like a stone,
fitly squared and perfectly laid. And so he built up before us, with
crystal clearness, the beautiful fabric of our faith, lifting us, as it
rose, to a region of the highest peace and contentment. Oh, the joy of
it! My heart rests upon it still.


_From a photograph lent by his daughter, Charlotte A. Hedge._]

It is well known that Dr. Hedge received the most important part of his
education in Germany. He was accordingly one of the first of those who
helped to turn the fructifying current of German thought upon the
somewhat arid soil of Puritan New England. This soil had indeed produced
great things and great men, but the mind of New England was still too
much dominated by the traditions of scholasticism, embodied in the
system of Calvin. It needed an infusion of the æsthetic element, and the
larger outlook of a truly speculative philosophy. The philosophy which
it had inherited was one of dogmatism, sophistical in that it made its
own syllogisms the final limit and bound of truth. The few Americans who
had studied in real earnest in Germany brought back with them the wide
sweeping besom of the Kantian method, and much besides. This showed the
positive assumptions of the old school to have no such foundation of
absolute truth as had been conceded to them. Under their guidance men
had presumed to measure the infinite by their own petty standard, and to
impose upon the Almighty the limits and necessities with which they had
hedged the way of their fellow-men. God could not have mercy in any way
other than that which they felt bound to prescribe. His wisdom must
coincide with their conclusions. His charity must be as narrow as their
own. Those who could not or would not acquiesce in these views were
ruled outside of the domain of Christendom. Had it not been for
Channing, Freeman, Buckminster, and a few others in that early day, they
would have been as sheep without a shepherd. The history is well known.
I need not repeat it here.



This decade, 1860-1870, marks a new epoch in my intellectual life. In
the period already described, I had found my way to recognized
authorship. In this later time, an even greater enlargement of activity
was before me, unanticipated until, by gradual steps, I came into it.

The results of my more serious study now began to take form in writings
of a corresponding scope. I remember to have heard John Weiss use more
than once this phrase, "the poets and men of expression." The antithesis
to this, in his view, evidently was, "the philosophers and men of deep

I confess that I myself am one of those to whom expression, in some
form, is natural and even necessary; and yet I think that my best
studies have been those which have made me most desirous to give to my
own voice the echo of other voices, and to ascertain by experiment how
much or how little of my individual persuasion is in accordance with the
normal direction of human experience.

In the days of which I now write, it was borne in upon me (as the
Friends say) that I had much to say to my day and generation which could
not and should not be communicated in rhyme, or even in rhythm.

I once spoke to Parker of my wish to be heard, to commend my own
thoughts with my own voice. He found this not only natural, but also in
accordance with the spirit of the age, which, he said, "called for the
living presence and the living utterance." I did not act at once, or
even very soon, upon this prompting; the difficulties to be overcome
were many. My husband was himself averse to public appearances. Women
speakers were few in those days, and were frowned upon by general
society. He would have been doubly sensitive to such undesirable
publicity on my account. Meantime, the exigencies of the time were
calling one woman after another to the platform. Lucy Stone devoted the
first years of her eloquence to anti-slavery and the temperance reform.
Anna Dickinson achieved a sudden and brilliant popularity. I did not
dream of trying my strength with theirs, but I began to weave together
certain essays which might be read to an invited audience in private
parlors. I then commissioned certain of my friends to invite certain of
their friends to my house for an appointed evening, and began, with some
trepidation, my course of parlor lectures. We were residing, at this
time, in the house in Chestnut Street which was afterwards made famous
by the sittings of the Radical Club. The parlors were very roomy, and
were well filled by those who came to hear me. Among them was my
neighbor, Rev. Dr. Lothrop, who, in speaking of these occasions at a
later day, once said, "I think that they were the best meetings that I
ever knew. The conversation that followed the readings was started on a
high plane." This conversation was only informal talk among those who
had been listeners. My topics, so far as I can recall them, were as
follows: "How _not_ to teach Ethics;" "Doubt and Belief, the Two Feet of
the Mind;" "Moral Triangulation, or the Third Party;" "Duality of
Character;" "The Fact Accomplished." My audience consisted largely of my
society friends, but was by no means limited to them. The elder Agassiz,
Dr. Lothrop, E. P. Whipple, James Freeman Clarke, and William R. Alger
attended all my readings. After the first one, Mr. Clarke said to me,
"You have touched too many chords." After hearing my thesis on "Duality
of Character," he took my hand in his, and said, "Oh! you sweet soul!"

Mr. Emerson was not among my hearers, but expressed some interest in my
undertaking, and especially in my lecture on "The Third Party." Meeting
me one day, he said, "You have in this a mathematical idea." This was in
my opinion the most important lecture of my course. It really treated of
a third element in all twofold relations,--between married people, the
bond to which both alike owed allegiance; between States, the compact
which originally bound them together. The civil war was then in its
first stage. The air was full of secession. Many said, "If North and
South agree to set aside their bonds of union, and to become two
republics, why should they not do it?" Then the sacredness of the bond
possessed my mind. "Was an agreement, so solemnly entered into, so vital
in its obligations, to be so lightly canceled?" I labored with all my
might to prove that this could not be done. I remember too that in one
of my lectures I gave my own estimate of Auguste Comte, which differed
from the general impression concerning him. I am not sure that I should
take the same ground in these days.

Whether my hearers were the wiser for my efforts I cannot say, but of
this I am sure, that they brought me much instruction. I learned
somewhat to avoid anti-climax, and to seek directness and simplicity of
statement. On the morning of the day on which I was to give my lecture,
I would read it over, and a curious sense of the audience seemed to
possess me, a feeling of what it would and of what it would not follow.
My last corrections were made in accordance with this feeling.

A general regret was expressed when my little course was ended, and Dr.
Lothrop wrote me quite an earnest letter, requesting me to prolong it if
possible. I could not do this at the time; but while the war was at its
height, I made a second visit to Washington, where through the kindness
of friends a pleasant place was found in which I repeated these
lectures, having among my hearers some of the chief notabilities then
present at the capital. In my journal of this time, never published, I
find the following account of a day in Washington:--

"To the White House, to see Carpenter's picture of the President reading
the emancipation proclamation to his Cabinet. An interesting subject for
a picture. The heads of Lincoln, Stanton, and Seward nearly finished,
and good portraits.

"Dressed for dinner at Mrs. Eames's, where Secretary Chase and Senator
Sumner were expected. Mr. Chase is a stately man, very fine looking and
rather imposing. I sat by him at dinner; he was very pleasant. After
dinner came Mrs. Douglas in her carriage, to take me to my reading.
Senator Foster and Mr. Chase announced their intention of going to hear
me. Mr. Chase conducted me to Mrs. Douglas's carriage, promising to
follow. 'Proteus, or the Secret of Success,' was my topic. I had many
pleasant greetings after the lecture. Mr. Chase took me in his carriage
to his house, where his daughter had a party for Teresa Carreño. Here I
was introduced to Lord Lyons, British minister, and to Judge Harris.
Spoke with Bertinatti, the Italian minister. Mr. Chase took me in to

"Mr. Channing brought me into the room, which was well filled. People
were also standing in the entry and on the stairs. I read my lecture on
'The Third Party.' The audience proved very attentive, and included many
people of intelligence. George W. Julian and wife, Solomon Whiting,
Admiral Davis, Dr. Peter Parker, our former minister to China, Hon.
Thomas Eliot, Governor Boutwell, Mrs. Southworth, Professor Bache,--all
these, and many more, were present. They shook hands with me, very
cordially, after the lecture."

I had announced "Practical Ethics" as the theme of my lectures, and had
honestly written them out of my sense of the lapses everywhere
discernible in the working of society. Having accomplished so much, or
so little, I desired to go more deeply into the study of philosophy,
and, having greedily devoured Spinoza, I turned to Kant, whom I knew
only by name. I fed upon his volumes with ever increasing delight and
yet endeavored to obey one of his rules, by having a philosophy of my
own. Among my later productions was an essay entitled "Distinctions
between Philosophy and Religion." This was suggested by a passage in one
of Spinoza's letters, in which he says to his correspondent, "I thought
that we were to correspond upon matters of philosophy. I find that
instead of these you propose to me questions of religion." On reading
this sentence I felt that, in the religious teaching of our own time,
the two were apt to be confounded. It seemed to me that even Theodore
Parker had not always distinguished the boundary line, and I began to
reflect seriously upon the difference between a religious truth and a
philosophical proposition.

I confess that my nearer acquaintance with the philosophers, ancient and
modern, inspired me at this time with the desire of contributing
something of my own to the thought of the ages. The names of certain
essays of mine, composed after the series just mentioned, and never put
into print, will serve to show the direction in which my efforts were
tending. Of these, "Polarity" was the first, "Limitation" the second.
Then followed "The Fact Accomplished," "Man _a priori_ and _a
posteriori_," and finally, "Ideal Causation," which marked my last step
in this progress. These papers were designed to interest the studious
few who appreciate thought for thought's sake.

The paper on "Polarity" was read before the Boston Radical Club. Armed
with "Man _a priori_," I encountered an audience of scientists at
Northampton, where a scientific convention was in progress. Finally,
being invited to speak before the Parker Fraternity on a certain Sunday,
and remembering that Parker, in his day, had not feared to let out the
metaphysical stops of his organ pretty freely, I took with me into the
pulpit the paper on "Ideal Causation," which had seemed to me the crown
of my endeavor hitherto.

To my sorrow, I found that it did not greatly interest my hearers, and
that one who was reported to have wondered "what Mrs. Howe was driving
at" had spoken the mind of many of those present.

I laid this lesson much to heart, and, becoming convinced that
metaphysics did not supply the universal solvent for human evils, I
determined to find a _pou sto_ nearer to the sympathies of the average
community, from which I might speak for their good and my own.

From my childhood the Bible had been dear and familiar to me, and I now
began to consider texts and sermons, in place of the transcendental webs
which I had grown so fond of spinning. The passages of Scripture which
now occurred to me filled me with a desire to emphasize their wisdom by
a really spiritual interpretation. From this time on, I became more and
more interested in the religious ministration of women; and though it is
looking forward some way in my chronicle, this may be the proper place
to say that in the spring of the year 1875, I had much to do with
calling the first convention of women ministers, which was held in the
Church of the Disciples, in anniversary week. Among those who met with
us were some plain women from Maine, who told us that they had long
acted as evangelists in portions of the State in which churches were few
and far between. Several clergymen of different denominations attended
our exercises, and one of them, Rev. J. J. Hunting, pronounced ours the
best meeting of the week. Among the ordained women who took part with us
were Rev. Ellen Gustin, Mary H. Graves, Lorenza Haynes, and Eliza Tupper
Wilkes, a fair young mother, who went to her pulpit full of the
inspiration of her cradle songs.

I would gladly enlarge here, did my limits allow it, upon the theme of
the woman ministry, but must take up again the thread of my tale.

My husband was greatly moved by the breaking out of the Cretan
insurrection in 1866. He saw in this event an opportunity of assisting
his beloved Greece, and at once gathered together a committee for
collecting funds in aid of this cause. A meeting was held in Boston
Music Hall, at which Dr. Holmes, Wendell Phillips, Edward Everett Hale,
and other prominent speakers presented the claims of the Cretans to the
sympathy of the civilized world.

Dr. Howe's appearance did not indicate his age. His eye was bright, his
hair abundant, and but slightly touched with gray. When he rose and
said, "Fifty years ago I was very much interested in the Greek
Revolution," it seemed almost incredible that he should be speaking of
himself. The public responded generously to his appeal, and a
considerable sum of money was raised. The greater part of this was
devoted to the purchase of provisions and clothing for the families of
the Cretan combatants, which were known to be in a very destitute

In the spring of 1867 Dr. Howe determined to visit Greece, in order to
have a nearer view of the scene of action. I accompanied him, and with
us went two of our daughters, Julia Romana, remembered as the wife of
Michael Anagnos, and Laura, now Mrs. Henry Richards, known as the author
of "Captain January."

We received gratifying attentions from the wealthy Greeks of London.
Passing thence to the continent, we were soon in Rome, where I enjoyed
some happy days with my beloved sister, Louisa, then, after some years
of widowhood, the wife of Luther Terry. Dr. Howe hastened on to Athens,
taking with him our eldest daughter. I followed him later, bringing the
younger one with me.

Arriving at the Piræus, we were met by a messenger, who told us that Dr.
Howe had just escaped a serious danger at sea, and was too much fatigued
to be able to come to meet us. We soon joined him at the Hôtel des
Etrangers, and inquired eagerly regarding the accident which had
befallen him. He had started in a small steamer lent him by the
government, intending to visit one of the islands on which were
congregated a number of Cretan refugees, mostly women and children. The
steamer had proceeded some way on its course when the machinery gave
out, leaving them at the mercy of the waves. They were without
provisions, and were in danger of drifting out to sea, with no power of
controlling the course of the vessel. After many hours of anxious
uncertainty, a favorable breeze sprang up, and Dr. Howe tore down the
canvas canopy which had shielded the deck from the sun. This he managed
to spread for a sail, and by this the vessel was in time brought within
reach of the shore. A telegram summoned help from Athens, and the party
reached the city an hour or so before our arrival.

I here insert some passages from a book of travels, in which I recorded
the impressions of this first visit to Greece. The work was published
soon after my return to Boston, and was named "From the Oak to the

"Here is the Temple of Victory; within are the bas-reliefs of the
Victories arriving in the hurry of their glorious errands. Something so
they tumbled in upon us when Sherman conquered the Carolinas, and
Sheridan the valley of the Shenandoah, when Lee surrendered, and the
glad President went to Richmond. One of these Victories is untying her
sandal, in token of her permanent abiding. Yet all of them have trooped
away long since, scared by the hideous havoc of barbarians. And the
bas-reliefs, their marble shadows, have all been battered and mutilated
into the saddest mockery of their original tradition. The statue of
Wingless Victory that stood in the little temple has long been absent.
But the only Victory that the Parthenon now can seize or desire is this
very Wingless Victory, the triumph of a power that retreats not--the
power of Truth....

"Poor Greece, plundered by Roman, Christian, and Mussulman! Hers were
the lovely statues that grace the halls of the Vatican--at least, the
loveliest of them. And Rome shows to this day two colossal groups, of
which one bears the inscription, 'Opus Praxitelæ,' the other that of
'Opus Phidiæ.' And Naples has a Greek treasure or two, one thinks,
besides her wealth of sculptural gems, of which the best are of Greek
workmanship. And in England those bas-reliefs, which are the treasure of
art students and the wonder of the world, were pulled from the pediment
of the Parthenon, like the pearly teeth from a fair mouth, the mournful
gaps remaining open in the sight of the unforgiving world. 'Thou art old
and decrepit,' said England. 'I am still in strength and vigor. All else
has gone, as well thy dower as thy earnings. Thou hast but these left. I
want them, so give them me.'...

"We were ushered into a well-sized room, in which lay heaps of cotton
underclothing and of calico dresses, most of them in the shape of sacks
and skirts. These were the contents of one or two boxes recently arrived
from Boston. Some of them were recognized by me as the work of a hive of
busy bees who used to gather weekly in my own New England parlor,
summoned thither by my daughter Florence, now Mrs. David P. Hall. And
what stress there was at those meetings, and what hurrying! And how the
little maidens took off their feathery bonnets and dainty gloves,
wielding the heavy implements of cutting, and eagerly adjusting the arms
and legs, the gores and gathers! With patient pride the mother trotted
off to the bakery, that a few buns might sustain these strenuous little
cutters and sewers, whose tongues, however active over the charitable
work, talked, we may be sure, no empty nonsense nor unkind gossip.

"For charity begins indeed at home, in the heart, and, descending to the
fingers, rules also the rebellious member whose mischief is often done
before it is meditated. At the sight of these well-made garments a
little swelling of the heart seized me, with the love and pride of a
remembrance so dear. But sooner than we could turn from it to set about
our business, the Cretans were in presence.

"Here they come, called in order from a list, with names nine syllables
long, mostly ending in _poulos_, a term signifying descent, like the
Russian 'witzch.' Here they come,--the shapely maiden, the sturdy
matron, the gray-haired grandmother, with little ones of all small sizes
and ages. Many of the women carried infants at the breast; many were
expectant of maternity. Not a few of them were followed by groups of
boys and girls. Most of them were ill clothed; and many of them appeared
extremely destitute of attire. A strongly-marked race of people, with
dark eyes, fine black hair, healthy complexions, and symmetrical
figures. They bear traces of suffering. Some of the infants have pined,
but most of them promise to do well. Each mother cherishes and shows her
little beggar in the approved way. The children are usually robust,
although showing in their appearance the very limited resources of their
parents. Some of the women have tolerable gowns; to these we give only
underclothing. Others have but the rag of a gown--a few strips of stuff
over their coarse chemises. These we make haste to cover with the
beneficent growth of New England factories. They are admitted in groups
of three or four at a time. As many of us fly to the heaps of clothing,
and hastily measure them by the length and breadth of the individual. A
papa, or priest, keeps order among them. He wears his black hair uncut,
his narrow robe is much patched, and he holds in his hand a rosary of
beads, which he fingers mechanically.

"The dresses sent did not quite hold out, but sufficed to supply the
most needy, and, in fact, the greater number. Of the underclothes we
carried back a portion, having given something to every one. To an old
papa who came, looking ill and disconsolate, I sent two shirts and a
good dark woolen jacket. Among all of these only one discontented old
lady demurred at the gift bestowed. She wanted a gown; but there was not
one left, so that she was forced to content herself, much against her
will, with some underclothing. The garments supplied, of which many were
sent by the Boston Sewing Circle, under the superintendence of Miss Abby
W. May, proved to be very suitable in pattern and quality. As we
descended the steps we met with some of the children, already arrayed in
their little clean shirts, and strutting about with the inspiration of
fresh clothing, long unfelt by them....

"Despite the velvet flatteries and smiling treasons of diplomacy, the
present government of Greece is, as every government should be, on its
good behavior before the people. Wonderfully clever, enterprising, and
liberal have the French people made the author of the 'Life of Julius
Cæsar.' Wonderfully reformative did the radicals of 1848 make the Pope.
And the Greek nation, taken in the large, may prove to have some common
sense to impart to its symbolical head, of whom we can only hope that
the 'something rotten in the state of Denmark' may not have been taken
from it to corrupt the state of Greece."

But it was not through one sense alone that I received in Athens the
delight of a new enchantment. My ear drank in the music of the Greek
tongue which I constantly heard spoken by those around me. My husband's
Greek committee held their sessions in our hotel parlors, and I found
that, by closely listening to their talk, I could make out a word here
and there. Encouraged by this, I presently purchased a primer and
devoted myself to the study of its contents. I had in earlier life made
one or two futile attempts to master the language. Now that it became a
living tongue to me, I determined to acquire it, and in some measure
succeeded. From that time to the present I have never ceased the serious
pursuit of what I then began almost in play.

In spite of the fact that a price had been set upon his head by the
Turkish authorities in Crete, Dr. Howe persisted in his determination to
visit the island. His stay there was necessarily limited to a few hours,
but what he was able to observe of the character and disposition of the
inhabitants led him to anticipate a triumph for their cause.

We returned to Boston in the autumn of the same year, and at once began
to make arrangements for a fair by which we hoped to raise some money
for the Cretans. A great part of the winter was devoted to this work,
and in the early spring a beautiful bazaar was held at Boston Music
Hall, where the post of president was assigned to me. I was supported by
a very efficient committee of ladies and gentlemen, and it was in this
work that I became well acquainted with Miss Abby W. May, whose
invaluable method and energy had much to do with the success of the
undertaking. The fair lasted one week, and our sales and entertainments
realized something more than thirty thousand dollars. But alas! the
emancipation of Crete was not yet to be.

We passed the summer of 1868 at Stevens Cottage, which was very near the
town of Newport. I do not exactly remember how it came about that my
dear friend and pastor, Rev. Charles Brooks, invited me to read some of
my essays at his church on Sunday afternoons. I had great pleasure in
doing this. The church was well filled, and the audience excellent in
character, and a lady among these one day kissed me after my lecture,
saying, "This is the way I want to hear women speak." Another lady, it
is true, was offended at some saying of mine. I think that it was to
this effect. Speaking of the idle lives of some rich women, I said, "If
God works, Madam, you can afford to work also." At this the person in
question rose and went away, saying, "I won't listen to such stuff as
this." I was not at all aware of the occurrence at the time, nor did I
hear of it until the same lady having sent me cards for a reception at
her house, I attended it, thereby provoking some comment. I was glad
afterwards that I had done so, as the lady in question paid me every
friendly attention, and made me quite sure that she had only yielded to
a momentary ebullition of temper, to which, indeed, she was too prone.

I read the "Phædo" of Plato in the original Greek this summer, and was
somewhat helped in this by an English scholar, a university man, who was
passing the summer in Newport. He was "coaching" two young men who
intended to enter one of the English universities, and was obliged to
pass my house on his way to his lessons. He often paid me a visit, and
was very willing to help me over a difficult passage.

The report of my parlor readings soon brought me invitations to speak in
public. The first of these that I remember came from a committee having
in charge a meditated course of Sunday afternoon lectures on ethical
subjects, to be given without other exercises, in Horticultural Hall. I
was heard more than once in this course, and remember that one of my
themes was "Polarity," on which I had written an essay, of which I
thought, perhaps, too highly. In the course of the season I was engaged
in preparing for another reading. Meeting Rev. Phillips Brooks one day
in my sunset outing, I said to him, "Do you ever, in writing a sermon,
lose sight of your subject? I have a discourse to prepare and have lost
sight of mine." "Oh, yes," he replied, "it often happens to me." This
confession encouraged me to persevere in my work, and I finished my
lecture, and read it with acceptance.

I suppose that I may have greatly exaggerated in my own mind the value
of these writings to other people. To me, they brought much reflection
and unfolding of thought. As I have said in another place, I read the
two first named to a small circle of friends at my own house, and was
somewhat disappointed at the result, as none of those present seemed
willing to assume my point of view. Repeating one of them under similar
circumstances at the house of a friend, Henry James, the elder, called
upon me to explain some point which my lecture had brought into view. I
asked if he could explain the point at issue. He replied that he could
not. Being somewhat disconcerted, I said to him, "You should not ask
questions which you yourself cannot answer." I meant by this to say that
one must not be called upon to explain what is evidently inexplicable.
Mr. James, however, did not so understand me, but told me afterwards
that he considered this the most extraordinary statement that he had
ever heard. He discoursed a good deal after my lecture with much color
and brilliancy, as was his wont. His views of the Divine were highly
anthropomorphic, and I remember that he said among other things, "My
dear Madam, God is working all the time in his shirt-sleeves with all
his might."

This dear man was a great addition to the thought-power current in
Boston society. He had lived much abroad, and was for many years a
student of Swedenborg and of Fourier. His cast of mind was more
metaphysical than logical, and he delighted in paradox. In his writings
he would sometimes overstate greatly, in order to be sure of impressing
his meaning upon his readers or hearers. Himself a devout Christian, he
nevertheless once said, speaking on Sunday in the Church of the
Disciples, that the moral law and the Christian Church were the meanest
of inventions. He intended by this phrase to express his sense of the
exalted moral and religious obligation of the human mind, the dignity of
which ought to transcend the prescriptions of the Decalogue and the
discipline of the church. My eldest daughter, then a girl of sixteen,
said to me as we left the church, "Mamma, I should think that Mr. James
would wish the little Jameses not to wash their faces for fear it should
make them suppose that they were clean." Mr. Emerson, to whom I repeated
this remark, laughed quite heartily at it. In anecdote Mr. James was
inexhaustible. His temperament was very mercurial, almost explosive. I
remember a delightful lecture of his on Carlyle. I recall, too, a rather
metaphysical discourse which he read in John Dwight's parlors, to a
select audience. When we went below stairs to put on our wraps, I asked
a witty friend whether she had enjoyed the lecture. She replied that she
had, but added, "I would give anything at this moment for a look at a
good fat idiot," which seemed to show that the tension of mind produced
by the lecture had not been without pain.

I once had a long talk with Mr. James on immortality. I had recently
lost my youngest child, a beautiful little boy of three years. The
question of a future life then came to me with an agonized intensity.
Should I ever meet again the exquisite little creature who had been
taken from my arms? Mr. James was certain that I should have this
coveted joy. He illustrated his belief in a singular way. "I lost a
leg," he said, "in early youth. I have had a consciousness of the limb
itself all my life. Although buried and out of sight, it has always
remained a part of me." This reassuring did not appeal to me strongly,
but his positive faith in a life after death gave me much comfort. Mr.
James occasionally paid me a visit. As he was sitting in my parlor one
day my little Maud, some seven or eight years old, passed by the open
door. Mr. James called out, "Come here, Maud. You are the wickedest
looking thing I have seen in some time." The little girl came, and Mr.
James took her up on his knee. Presently, to my horror, she exclaimed,
"Oh, how ugly you are! You are the ugliest creature I ever saw." This
freak of the child so impressed my visitor that, meeting some days later
with a lady friend, he could not help saying to her, "Mrs. ----, I know
that I am ugly, but am I the ugliest person that you ever saw? Maud Howe
said the other day that she had never seen any one so ugly."

My friend was in truth far from ill-looking. His features were
reasonably good, and his countenance fairly glowed with amiability,
geniality, and good-will. I found afterwards that my Maud had seriously
resented the epithet "wicked looking" applied to her, and had simply
sought to take a childish revenge in accusing Mr. James of ugliness.
Although Mr. James held much to Swedenborg's point of view, he did not
belong to the Swedenborgian denomination. I have heard that, on the
contrary, he was considered by its members as decidedly heterodox. I
think that he rarely attended any church services. I have heard of his
holding a communion service with one member of his family. He published
several works on topics connected with religion.



I had felt a great opposition to Louis Napoleon from the period of the
infamous act of treachery and violence which made him emperor. The
Franco-Prussian war was little understood by the world at large. To us
in America its objects were entirely unknown. On general principles of
good-will and sympathy we were as much grieved as surprised at the
continual defeats sustained by the French. For so brave and soldierly a
nation to go through such a war without a single victory seemed a
strange travesty of history. When to the immense war indemnity the
conquerors added the spoliation of two important provinces, indignation
added itself to regret. The suspicion at once suggested itself that
Germany had very willingly given a pretext for the war, having known
enough of the demoralized condition of France to be sure of an easy
victory, and intending to make the opportunity serve for the forcible
annexation of provinces long coveted.

As I was revolving these matters in my mind, while the war was still in
progress, I was visited by a sudden feeling of the cruel and unnecessary
character of the contest. It seemed to me a return to barbarism, the
issue having been one which might easily have been settled without
bloodshed. The question forced itself upon me, "Why do not the mothers
of mankind interfere in these matters, to prevent the waste of that
human life of which they alone bear and know the cost?" I had never
thought of this before. The august dignity of motherhood and its
terrible responsibilities now appeared to me in a new aspect, and I
could think of no better way of expressing my sense of these than that
of sending forth an appeal to womanhood throughout the world, which I
then and there composed. I did not dare to make this public without the
advice of some wise counselor, and sought such an one in the person of
Rev. Charles T. Brooks of Newport, a beloved friend and esteemed pastor.

The little document which I drew up in the heat of my enthusiasm
implored women, all the world over, to awake to the knowledge of the
sacred right vested in them as mothers to protect the human life which
costs them so many pangs. I did not doubt but that my appeal would find
a ready response in the hearts of great numbers of women throughout the
limits of civilization. I invited these imagined helpers to assist me in
calling and holding a congress of women in London, and at once began a
wide task of correspondence for the realization of this plan. My first
act was to have my appeal translated into various languages, to wit:
French, Spanish, Italian, German, and Swedish, and to distribute copies
of it as widely as possible. I devoted the next two years almost
entirely to correspondence with leading women in various countries. I
also held two important meetings in New York, at which the cause of
peace and the ability of women to promote it were earnestly presented.
At the first of these, which took place in the late autumn of 1870, Mr.
Bryant gave me his venerable presence and valuable words. At the second,
in the spring following, David Dudley Field, an eminent member of the
New York bar, and a lifelong advocate of international arbitration, made
a very eloquent and convincing address.


_From a photograph by A. Marshall, 1870, in the
possession of the Massachusetts Club._]

In the spring of the year 1872 I visited England, hoping by my personal
presence to effect the holding of a Woman's Peace Congress in the great
metropolis of the civilized world. In Liverpool, I called upon Mrs.
Josephine Butler, whose labors in behalf of her sex were already well
known in America. Mrs. Butler said to me, "Mrs. Howe, you have come at a
fortunate moment. The cruel immorality of our army regulations,
separating so great a number of our men from family life, is much in the
public mind just at present. This is a good time in which to present the
merits and the bearings of peace." Mrs. Butler suggested that I might
easily find opportunities of speaking in various parts of England, and
added some names to the list of friends of peace with which I had
already provided myself. Among these were Mr. and Mrs. Stephen
Winkworth, whose hospitality I enjoyed for some days, on my way to
London. This couple belonged to the society of Friends, but had much to
say about the theistic movement in the society. In London Mrs. Winkworth
went with me, one Sunday, to the morning service of Rev. Charles Voysey.
The lesson for the day was taken from the writings of Theodore Parker.
We spoke with Mr. Voysey after the sermon. He said, "I had chosen those
passages from Parker with great care." After my own copious experiences
of dissent in various forms, Mr. Voysey's sermon did not present any
very novel interest.

I had come to London to do everything in my power to found and foster
what I may call "a Woman's Apostolate of Peace," though I had not then
hit upon that name. For aid and counsel, I relied much upon the presence
in London of my friend, Rev. William Henry Channing, a man of almost
angelic character. I think it must have been through his good offices
that I was invited both as guest and as speaker to the public banquet of
the Unitarian Association. I confess that it was not without trepidation
that I heard the toast-master say to the assembled company, "I crave
your attention for Julia Ward Howe." My heart, however, was so full of
my theme that I spoke very readily, without hesitation, and, if I might
judge by the applause which followed, with some acceptance. Sir John
Bowring now made my acquaintance, and complimented me upon my speech.
The eloquent French preacher, Athanase Coquerel, also spoke with me. The
occasion was to me a memorable one.

I had already attended the anniversary meeting of the English Peace
Society, and had asked permission to speak, which had been denied me on
the ground that women never had spoken at these meetings. Finding but
little encouragement for my efforts from existing societies in London, I
decided to hire a hall of moderate size, where I myself might speak on
Sunday afternoons. The Freemasons' Tavern presented one just suited to
my undertaking. With the help of a friend, the meeting was properly
advertised, and I betook myself thither on the first Sunday afternoon,
strong in the belief that my effort was of the right sort, but very
uncertain as to its result. Arriving at Freemasons' Tavern, I asked the
doorkeeper whether there was any one in the hall. "Oh, yes! a good
many," he said. I entered and found quite a numerous company. My
procedure was very simple,--a prayer, the reading of a hymn, and a
discourse from a Scripture text. I had prepared this last with
considerable care, and kept the manuscript of it beside me, but my
memory enabled me to give the substance of what I had written without
referring to the paper.

My impression is that I spoke in this way on some five or six Sundays.
Of all these discourses, I remember only the last one, of which the text
was, "I am persuaded that neither height nor depth, nor any other
creature," etc. The attendance was very good throughout, and I cherished
the hope that I had sown some seed which would bear fruit thereafter. I
remember that our own poet, Thomas William Parsons, happening to be in
London at this time, suggested to me a poem of Mrs. Stowe's as very
suitable to be read at one of my Sunday services. It was the one

  "When winds are raging o'er the upper ocean,"

and I am glad to remember that I did read it as advised.

My work in London brought me in contact with a number of prominent
workers in various departments of public service. My acquaintance with
Miss Frances Power Cobbe was pleasantly renewed, and I remember
attending an afternoon reception at her house, at which a number of
literary notabilities were present, among them the brilliant historian,
Mr. Froude. I had the pleasure also of meeting Mrs. Peter Taylor,
founder of a college for working women; she and her husband had been
very friendly to the Northern side during the civil war.

An important movement had been set on foot just at this time by Mrs.
Grey and her sister, Miss Sherret. This was the institution of schools
for girls of the middle class, whose education, up to that time, had
usually been conducted at home by a governess. Mrs. Grey encountered a
good deal of opposition in carrying out her plans. She invited me to
attend a meeting in the Albert Hall, Kensington, where these plans were
to be fully discussed. The Bishop of Manchester spoke in opposition to
the proposed schools. He took occasion to make mention of a visit which
he had recently made to the United States, and to characterize the
education there given to girls as merely "ambitious." The scheme, in his
view, involved a confusion of ranks which, in England, would be
inadmissible. "Lady Wilhelmina from Grosvenor Square," he averred,
"would never consent to sit beside the grocer's daughter."

I was invited to speak after the bishop, and could not avoid taking him
up on this point. "In my own country," I said, "the young lady who
corresponds to the lady from Grosvenor Square does sit beside the
grocer's daughter, and when the two have enjoyed the same advantages of
education, it is not always easy to be sure which is which." I had been
privately requested to say nothing about woman suffrage, to which Mrs.
Grey had not then given in her adhesion. I did, however, mention the
opening of the professions to women in my own country. Mrs. Grey thanked
me for my speech, but said, "Oh, dear Mrs. Howe, why did you speak of
the women ministers?" Some five or six years after this time I chanced
to meet Mrs. Grey in Rome. She assured me that the middle-class schools
had proved a great success, and said that young girls differing much
from each other in social rank had indeed sat beside each other, without
difficulty or trouble of any kind. I had heard that Mrs. Grey had become
a convert to woman suffrage, and asked her if this was true. She
replied, "Oh, yes; the moment that I began practically to work for
women, I found the suffrage an absolute necessity."

One of my pleasantest recollections of my visit to England is that of a
day or two passed in Cambridge, where I enjoyed the hospitality of
Professor J. R. Seeley, author of "Ecce Homo." I do not now recall the
circumstances which took me to the great university town, but I remember
with gratitude the Seeley mansion, as one should do who was made at home
there. Mr. Seeley lent a kind ear to my plea for a combination of women
in behalf of a world's peace. I had also the pleasure of hearing a
lecture from him on Edmund Burke, whose liberalism he considered rather
sporadic than chronic, an expression of sentiment called forth by some
exceptional emergency, while the eloquent speaker remained a
conservative at heart. He did not, as he might have done, explain such
inconsistencies on the simple ground of Burke's Irish blood, which gave
him genius but not the logic of consistency. Mrs. Seeley was a very
amiable and charming woman. I remember that her husband read to me
Calverley's clever take-off of Browning, and that we all laughed
heartily over it. A morning ramble made me aware of the beauty of the
river banks. I attended a Sunday service in King's College Chapel, with
its wonderful stone roof. Here also I made the acquaintance of Miss
Clough, sister to the poet. She presided at this time over a household
composed of young lady students, to whom some of the university courses
were open, and who were also allowed to profit by private lessons from
some of the professors of the university. Miss Clough was tall and
dark-eyed, like her brother, her hair already whitening, though she was
still in the vigor of middle age. She appeared to be greatly interested
in her charge. I spoke with some of her students, and learned that most
of them intended to become teachers.

So ends this arduous but pleasant episode of my peace crusade. I will
only mention one feature more in connection with it. I had desired to
institute a festival which should be observed as mothers' day, and which
should be devoted to the advocacy of peace doctrines. I chose for this
the second day of June, this being a time when flowers are abundant, and
when the weather usually allows of open-air meetings. I had some success
in carrying out this plan. In Boston I held the Mothers' Day meeting for
quite a number of years. The day was also observed in other places, once
or twice in Constantinople, and often in places nearer home. My heart
was gladdened, this last year, by learning from a friend that a peace
association in Philadelphia still celebrates Mothers' Day.

I was very sorry to give up this special work, but in my prosecution of
it I could not help seeing that many steps were to be taken before one
could hope to effect any efficient combination among women. The time for
this was at hand, but had not yet arrived. Insensibly, I came to devote
my time and strength to the promotion of the women's clubs, which are
doing so much to constitute a working and united womanhood.

During my stay in England, I received many invitations to address
meetings in various parts of the country. In compliance with these, I
visited Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Bristol, and Carlisle. In Bristol
I was the guest of Mary Carpenter, who gave me some friendly advice
regarding the convention which I hoped to hold in London. She assured me
that such a meeting could have no following unless the call for it were
dignified by the name of some prominent member of the English
aristocracy. In this view, she strongly advised me to write to the
Duchess of Argyll, requesting an interview at which I might speak to her
of my plans. I did write the letter, and obtained the interview. The
Duchess, with whom I had had some acquaintance for many years, invited
me to luncheon on a certain day. I found her, surrounded by her numerous
family of daughters, the youngest of whom carried round a dish of fruit
at dessert. Luncheon being at an end, the Duchess granted me a short
tête-à-tête. "My only objection to a lady's speaking in public," she
said, "is based upon St. Paul's saying: 'I suffer not a woman to teach,'
etc." I replied, "Yes; but remember that, in another place, he says that
a woman may prophesy wearing a veil." She assented to this statement,
but did not appear to interest herself much in my plan of a Woman's
Peace Congress. She had always been much interested in Dr. Howe's work,
and began to ask me about him, and about Charles Sumner, for whom she
entertained great regard. Messages were presently sent in to the effect
that the carriage was waiting for the afternoon drive, and I took my
leave, expecting no help from this very amiable and estimable lady.

Before the beginning of my Sunday services, I received a letter from Mr.
Aaron Powell of New York, asking me to attend a Peace Congress about to
be held in Paris, as a delegate. I accordingly crossed the Channel, and
reached Paris in time to attend the principal séance of the congress. It
was not numerously attended. The speakers all read their discourses from
manuscript. The general tone was timid and subdued. Something was said
regarding the then recent Franco-Prussian war, and the growing humanity
shown by both of the contending parties in the mutual arrangements for
taking care of the wounded. I presented my credentials, and asked leave
to speak. With some embarrassment, I was told that I might speak to the
officers of the society, when the public meeting should be adjourned. I
accordingly met a dozen or more of these gentlemen in a side room, where
I simply spoke of my endeavors to enlist the sympathies and efforts of
women in behalf of the world's peace.

Returning to London, I had the privilege of attending as a delegate one
of the great Prison Reform meetings of our day.

As well as I can remember, each day of the congress had its own
president, and not the least interesting of these days was that on which
Cardinal Manning presided. I remember well his domed forehead and pale,
transparent complexion, telling unmistakably of his ascetic life. He was
obviously much interested in Prison Reform, and well cognizant of its
progress. An esteemed friend and fellow country-woman of mine, Mrs.
Elizabeth B. Chace of Rhode Island, was also accredited as a delegate to
this congress. At one of its meetings she read a short paper, giving
some account of her own work in the prisons of her State. At this
meeting, the question of flogging prisoners came up, and a rather brutal
jailer of the old school told an anecdote of a refractory prisoner who
had been easily reduced to obedience by this summary method. His rough
words stirred my heart within me. I felt that I must speak; and Mrs.
Chace kindly arose, and said to the presiding officer, "I beg that Mrs.
Julia Ward Howe of Boston may be heard before this debate is closed."
Leave being given, I stood up and said my say, arguing earnestly that no
man could be made better by being degraded. I can only well recall a
part of my little speech, which was, I need scarcely say, quite

"It is related of the famous Beau Brummel that a gentleman who called
upon him one morning met a valet carrying away a tray of neckcloths,
more or less disordered. 'What are these?' asked the visitor; and the
servant replied, 'These are our failures.' Even thus may society point
to the criminals whom she dismisses from her presence. Of these men and
women, whom she has failed to train in the ways of virtue and of
industry, she may well say: 'These are our failures.'"

My words were much applauded, and I think the vote taken was against the
punishment in question. The sittings of the congress were mainly held in
the hall of the Temple, which is enriched with carvings and coats of
arms. Here, also, a final banquet was held, at which I was invited to
speak, and did so. Rev. Frederick Wines had an honored place in this
assembly, and his words were listened to with great attention. Miss
Carpenter came from Bristol to attend the congress, and I was present
when she presided over a section especially devoted to women prisoners.

A number of the addresses presented at the congress were in foreign
languages. A synopsis of these was furnished on the spot by an apt
translator. I recall the whole occasion as one of great interest.

I must not forget to mention the fact that the only daughter of Edward
Livingston, author of the criminal code of the State of Louisiana, was
an honored guest at this congress. The meetings at which I spoke in
different parts of England were usually presided over by some important
personage, such as the mayor of the city. On one occasion a man of the
people, quite popular in his way, expressed his warm approval of my
peace doctrine, and concluded his remarks by saying, "Mrs. Howe, I offer
you the hand of the Tyne-side Orator."

All these efforts were intended to lead up to the final meeting which I
had determined to hold in London, and which I did hold in St. George's
Hall, a place very suitable for such occasions. At this meeting, Mr. and
Mrs. Jacob Bright sat with me on the platform, and the venerable Sir
John Bowring spoke at some length, leaning on his staff as became his
age. The attendance was very good. The meeting was by no means what I
had hoped that it might be. The ladies who spoke in public in those days
mostly confined their labors to the advocacy of woman suffrage, and were
not much interested in my scheme of a world-wide protest of women
against the cruelties of war. I found indeed some helpful allies among
my own sex. Two sisters of John Bright, Mrs. Margaret Lucas and Mrs.
Maclaren, aided me with various friendly offices, and through their
instrumentality the money which I had expended in the hire of halls was
returned to me. I had not in any way suggested or expected this, but as
I was working entirely at my own cost the assistance was very welcome
and opportune.

I cannot leave this time without recalling the gracious figure of
Athanase Coquerel. I had met this remarkable man in London at the
anniversary banquet of the British Unitarian Association. It was in this
country, however, that I first heard his eloquent and convincing speech,
the occasion being a sermon given by him at the Unitarian Church of
Newport, R. I., in the summer of the year 1873. It happened on this
Sunday that the poet Bryant, John Dwight, and Parke Godwin were seated
near me. All of them expressed great admiration of the discourse, and
one exclaimed, "That French art, how wonderful it is!" The text chosen
was this: "And greater works than these shall ye do."

"How could this be?" asked the preacher. "How could the work of the
disciples be greater than that of the Master? In one sense only. It
could not be greater in spirit or in character. It could be greater in

The revolution in France occasioned by the Franco-Prussian war was much
in the public mind at this time, and the extraordinary crisis of the
Commune was almost unexplained. As soon as I found an opportunity of
conversing with Monsieur Coquerel, I besought him to set before us the
true solution of these matters in the lectures which he was about to

He consented to do so, and in one of his discourses represented the
Commune as the result of a state of exasperation on the part of the
people of Paris. They saw their country invaded by hostile armies, their
sacred city beleaguered. In the desperation of their distress, all
longed to take active part in some counter movement, and the most brutal
and ignorant part of the populace were turned, by artful leaders, to
this work of destruction. The speaker gave a very moving account of the
hardships of the siege of Paris, the privations endured of food and
fuel, the sacrifice of costly furniture as fire-wood to keep alive
children in imminent danger of death. In the midst of the tumults and
horrors enumerated, he introduced the description of the funeral of an
eminent scientist. The quiet cortége moved on to the cemetery where halt
was made, and the several speakers of the occasion, as if oblivious of
the agonies of the hour, bore willing testimony to the merits and good
work of their departed colleague.

The principal object of Monsieur Coquerel's visit to this country was to
collect funds for the building of a church in Paris which should grandly
and truly represent liberal Christianity. I fear that his success in
this undertaking fell far short of the end which he had hoped to attain.
His death occurred not long after his return to France, and I do not
know whether the first stone of his proposed edifice was ever laid.



In the year 1872, Dr. Howe was appointed one of three commissioners to
report upon the advisability of annexing Santo Domingo to the United
States. The two other commissioners were Hon. Benjamin F. Wade of Ohio,
and Hon. Andrew D. White. A government steamer was placed at the
disposal of the commissioners, and a number of newspaper correspondents
accompanied them. Prominent among these was William Henry Hurlburt, at
that time identified with the "New York World." Before taking leave of
his family, Dr. Howe said, "Remember that you cannot hear from us sooner
than a month under the most favorable circumstances, so do not be
frightened at our long silence." I have never heard an explanation of
the motives which led the press in general to speak slightingly of the
Tennessee, the war steamer upon which the commission embarked for Santo
Domingo. Scarcely a week after her departure, a sensational account was
published of a severe storm in the southern seas, and of a large steamer
seen in unavailing struggle with the waves. "The steamer was probably
the Tennessee, and it is most likely that she foundered in the storm and
went down with all on board."

In spite of my husband's warning, I could not but feel great anxiety in
view of this statement. The days of suspense that followed it were dark
indeed and hard to live through. In due time, however, came intelligence
of the safe arrival of the Tennessee, and of the good condition of all
on board.

It happened that I had gone out for a walk on the morning when this good
news reached Boston. On my return I found Dr. Dix waiting, his eyes full
of tears, to tell me that the Tennessee had been heard from. The
numerous congratulations which I now received showed how general had
been the fear of the threatened mishap, and how great the public
interest in Dr. Howe's safety.

In later years, I made the acquaintance of Hon. Andrew D. White and his
most charming wife. Though scarcely on the verge of middle age, her
beautiful dark hair had turned completely white, in the unnecessary
agony which she suffered in the interval between her husband's departure
and the first authentic news received of the expedition.

It was a year later than this that Dr. Howe was urged by parties
interested to undertake a second visit to Santo Domingo, with the view
of furthering the interests of the Samana Bay Company. He had been so
much impressed with the beauty of the island that he wished me to share
its enchantments with him. We accordingly set sail in a small steamer,
the Tybee, in February of the year 1873. Our youngest daughter, Maud,
went with us, and our party consisted of Maud's friend, Miss Derby, now
Mrs. Samuel Richard Fuller, my husband's three nieces, and Miss Mary C.
Paddock, a valued friend. Colonel Fabens, a man much interested in the
prospects of the island, also embarked with us. The voyage was a stormy
one, the seas being exceeding rough, and the steamer most uneasy in her
action. After some weary days and nights, we cast anchor in the harbor
of Puerta Plata, and my husband came to the door of my stateroom
crying, "Come out and see the great glory!" I obeyed, and beheld a scene
which amply justified his exclamation. Before us, sheer out of the
water, rose Mount Isabel, clothed with tropical verdure. At its foot lay
the picturesque little town. Small carts, drawn each by a single
bullock, were already awaiting the unloading of the cargo. We were soon
on shore, and within the shelter of a tolerable hotel, where fresh
fruits and black coffee restored our sea-worn spirits. The day was
Sunday, and I managed to attend a Methodist service held in a commodious
chapel. The aspect of the little town was very cheerful and friendly.
Negro women ran about the streets, with red turbaned heads and clad in
trailing gowns of calico. The prancing little horses delighted me with
their swift and easy motion. On the day subsequent to our landing, we
accepted an invitation to breakfast at a sugar plantation, not very far
from the town. A cart drawn by a bullock furnished the only vehicle to
be had in the place. Our entertainers were a young Cuban and his
American wife. They had embarked a good deal of capital in machinery; I
regretted to learn later that their enterprise had not been altogether

The merchants in Puerta Plata were largely Germans and Jews. They were
at heart much opposed to the success of the Samana Bay enterprise,
fearing that it would build up Samana at the expense of their own town.
So, a year later, their money was used to inaugurate a revolution, which
overthrew President Baez, and installed in his place a man greatly his
inferior in talent, but one who could be made entirely subservient to
the views of the Puerta Plata junta.

After a day and a night in Puerta Plata we returned to our steamer,
which was now bound for Samana Bay, and thence for the capital, Santo
Domingo. Let me say in passing that it is quite incorrect to speak of
the island as "San Domingo," This might be done if Domingo were the name
of a saint, but Santo Domingo really means "Holy Sunday," and is so
named in commemoration of the first landing of Columbus upon the island.
Of Samana itself I will speak hereafter. After two more days of rough
sea travel we were very glad to reach the capital, where the Palacio
Nacional had been assigned as our residence.

This was a spacious building surrounding a rectangular court. A guard of
soldiers occupied the lower story, and the whole of the second floor was
placed at our disposal. Furniture there was little or none, but we had
brought with us a supply of beds, bedding, and articles necessary for
the table. The town afforded us chairs and tables, and with the help of
our friend, Miss Paddock, we were soon comfortably installed in our new
quarters. The fleas at first gave us terrible torment, but a copious
washing of floors and the use of some native plant, the name of which I
cannot remember, diminished this inconvenience, to which also we
gradually became accustomed.

The population of Santo Domingo is much mixed, and I could not see that
the blacks were looked down upon by the whites, the greater part of whom
gave evidence of some admixture of African blood. In the harbor of the
capital, before leaving the steamer, I had had some conversation with
one François, a man of color, who had come on board to secure the
services of one of our fellow-passengers, an aged clergyman, for his
church. The old gentleman insisted that he was past preaching, on
account of his age and infirmities. I began to question François about
his church, and found that it consisted of a small congregation of very
poor colored people, all Americans by birth or descent. They held their
services only on Sunday evenings, having neither clothes nor shoes fit
for appearance in the daytime. Their real minister had died, and an
elder who had taken his place was too lame to cross the river in order
to attend the services, so they had to do without preaching. I cannot
remember just how it came about, but I engaged to hold service for them
on Sunday evenings during my stay at the capital.

Behold me then, on my first Sunday evening, entering the little wooden
building with its mud floor. It boasted a mahogany pulpit of some size,
but I took my seat within the chancel rail and began my ministration. I
gave out the hymns, and the tattered hymn-books were turned over. I soon
learned that this was a mere form, few of those present being able to
read. They knew the hymns by heart and sang them with a will. I had
prepared my sermon very carefully, being anxious really to interest
these poor shepherdless sheep. They appeared to listen very thankfully,
and I continued these services until nearly the time of my departure
from the island. I had not brought any written sermons with me, nor had
I that important aid in sermonizing, a concordance. A young daughter of
Colonel Fabens, a good Bible scholar, used to find my texts for me. I
remember that, after my first preaching, a young woman called upon me
and quoted some words from my sermon, very much in the sense of the old
anecdote about "that blessed word Mesopotamia."

When Good Friday and Easter came my colored people besought me to hold
extra services, in order that their young folks might understand that
these sacred days were of as much significance to them as to the
Catholics, by whom they were surrounded. I naturally complied with their
request, and arranged to have the poor little place decorated with palms
and flowers for the Easter service. I have always remembered with
pleasure one feature of my Easter sermon. In this I tried to describe
Dante's beautiful vision of a great cross in the heavens, formed of
clusters of stars, the name of Christ being inscribed on each cluster.
The thought that the mighty poet of the fourteenth century should have
had something to impart to these illiterate negroes was very dear to me.

As soon as the report of my preaching became noised abroad, the aged
elder, whose place I had taken, bestirred himself and managed to put in
an appearance at the little church. He mounted the stairs of the
mahogany pulpit, and seemed to keep guard over the congregation, while I
continued to speak from the chancel. I invited him to give out the
hymns, which he did, mentioning also the page on which they would be
found. He afterwards told me that his wife, who could read, had taught
him those hymns. "I never could do nothing with books," he said.

We found but little English spoken at the capital except among the
colored people. I always recall with amusement a bit of conversation
which I had with one of the merchants who was fond of speaking our
language. He had sent his errand boy to us with a message. Meeting him
later in the day, I said, "I saw your servant this morning." "Yes, ze
nigger. He mudder fooley in St. Thomas." I made some effort to ascertain
what were the educational advantages afforded in the capital. I found
there a school for boys, under the immediate charge of the Catholic
clergy. Hearing also of a school for girls, founded and administered by
a young woman of the city, I called one day to find out what I could of
her and of her work. She was the daughter of a woman physician who had
much reputation in the place. Her mother had received no technical
medical education, but had practiced nursing under the best doctors, and
had also acquired through experience a considerable understanding of the
uses of herbs. She was a devout Catholic, and having once been
desperately ill, had vowed her infant daughter to the Virgin in case of
her recovery. The daughter had not entered a convent, but had devoted
herself to the training of young girls. She appeared to be a very modest
and simple person, and was pleased to have me inspect the needlework,
maps, and copy books of her pupils.

"At any rate, I keep them out of the street," she said. François, my
first colored acquaintance at the capital, had spoken to me of a Bible
society formed there. It was a secret association, and he told me
several times that its members earnestly desired to make my
acquaintance. I finally arranged with him to attend one of their
meetings, and went, in his company, to a building in which an inner room
was set apart for their use. I was ushered into this with some ceremony,
and found a company of natives of various shades of color. On a raised
platform were seated the presiding officers of the occasion. Presently
one of these rang his bell and began to address me in a rather
high-flown style, assuring me that my noble works were well understood
by those present, and that they greatly desired to hear from me. I was
much puzzled at this address, feeling almost certain that nothing that I
had ever done would have been likely to penetrate the atmosphere of this
isolated spot. The speech was in Spanish and I was expected to reply in
the same language. This I was not able to do, my knowledge of Spanish
being limited to a few colloquial phrases. The French language answered
pretty well, however, and in this I managed to express my thanks for the
honor done me and my sincere interest in the welfare of the island. All
present had risen to receive me. There seemed to be nothing further for
me to do, and I took leave, followed by clapping of hands. To this day I
have never been able to understand the connection of this association
with any Bible society, and still less the flattering mention made of
some supposed merits on my part. François warned me that this meeting
was not to be generally spoken of, and I endeavored to preserve a
discreet silence regarding it.

On another evening we were all invited to attend the public exercises of
a debating club of young men. The question to be argued was whether it
is permissible to do evil in view of a supposed good result. The debate
was a rather spirited one. The best of the speakers, who had been
educated in Spain, had much to say of the philosopher Balmés, whose
sayings he more than once quoted. The question having been decided in
the negative, the speaker who had maintained the unethical side of the
question explained that he had done this only because it was required of
him, his convictions and sympathies being wholly on the other side.

President Baez had received us with great cordiality. He called upon us
soon after our arrival, having previously sent us a fine basket of
fruit. He seemed an intelligent man, and my husband's estimate of him
was much opposed to that conveyed in Mr. Sumner's invective against "a
traitor who sought to sell his own country." Baez had sense enough to
recognize the security which annexation to the United States would give
to his people.

The English are sometimes spoken of as "a nation of shopkeepers." Santo
Domingo might certainly be called a city of shopkeepers. When we visited
it, all of the principal families were engaged in trade. When daughters
were considered of fit age to enter society, they made their début
behind the counter of their father or uncle.

My husband decided, soon after our arrival, to invite the townspeople to
a dance. In preparation for this festivity, the largest room in the
palace was swept and garnished with flowers. A native band of musicians
was engaged, and a merry and motley throng invaded our sober premises.
The favorite dances were mostly of the order of the "contradanza," which
I had seen in Cuba. This is a slow and stately measure, suited to the
languor of a hot climate. I ventured to introduce a Virginia Reel, which
was not much enjoyed by the natives. President Baez did not honor us
with his presence, but his brother Damian and his sister Rosita were
among our guests. A United States warship was in the harbor, and its
officers were a welcome reinforcement to our company. Among these was
Lieutenant De Long, well remembered now as the leader of the ill-fated
Jeannette expedition.

At two o'clock in the morning my husband showed signs of extreme
fatigue. I felt that the gayeties must cease, and was obliged to say to
some of the older guests that Dr. Howe's health would not permit him to
entertain them longer. It seemed like sending children home from a
Christmas party, the dancers appeared so much taken aback. They had
expected to dance until day dawn. Still they departed without objecting.
The next day those of us who visited the principal street of the city
saw the beaux of the night before busy in their shops, some of them in

Our days passed very quietly. Dr. Howe took his accustomed ride before
breakfast. One feature of this meal consisted of water-cocoanuts,
gathered while the night dew was on them, and of a delicious coolness.
The water having been poured out, the nuts were thrown into the court
below, where the soldiers of the guard ate them greedily. The rations
served out to these men consisted simply of strips of sugar cane. Their
uniforms were of seersucker, and the homely palm-leaf hat completed
their costume.

After breakfast I usually sat at my books, often preparing my Sunday
sermon. A siesta followed the noonday repast, and after this the
greatest amusement of the day began. The little, fiery steeds were
brought into the courtyard, and I rode forth, followed by my young
companions and escorted by the assistant secretary of the treasury.
Several of the young gentlemen of the town who could command the use of
a horse would join our cavalcade, as we swept out of the city limits and
into the beautiful regions beyond. The horses have a peculiarly easy
gait, and are yet very swift and gentle. As the season advanced, and the
spring showers began to fall, we were sometimes glad to take refuge
under a mango tree, its spreading branches and thick foliage sheltering
us like a tent. Our cavaliers, in view of this emergency, were apt to
provide themselves with umbrellas, to the opening and shutting of which
the horses were well accustomed. In case of any chill "a little rum" was
always recommended. The careless mention of this typical beverage amused
and almost frightened me, accustomed to hear rum spoken of with bated
breath, as if unfit even for mention.

The besetting evil of the island seemed to be lockjaw. I was told that
the smallest wound or scratch, or even a chill, might produce it. I
distinctly remember having several times felt an unusual stiffness of
the lower jaw, consequent upon a slight check of perspiration.

I cannot imagine a more delightful winter climate than that of Santo
Domingo. Dr. Howe used sometimes to come to my study and ask, "Are you

"Perfectly comfortable. Why do you ask?"

"Because the thermometer stands at 86° Fahrenheit." A delicious
sea-breeze blew in at the wide open window, and we who sat in it had no
feeling of extreme heat.

I remember a little excursion which we made on horseback to a village
some twelve miles distant from the capital. We started in the very early
morning, wishing to reach the place of our destination before the
approach of noon. It was still quite dark when we mounted our horses,
with a faithful escort of Dominican friends.

"_Sabrosa mañana!_" exclaimed the assistant secretary of the treasury,
who rode beside me.

Our road lay through a beautiful bit of forest land. The dawn found us
at a pretty and primitive ferry, which we crossed without dismounting.
The beauty of the scenery was beyond description. The air was refreshed
by a succession of little mountain streamlets, which splashed with a
cool sound about our horses' feet. Arriving at the village we found a
newly erected _bohio_, or hut of palm-wood strips, prepared for us. It
was hung with hammocks and furnished with rockingchairs, with a clean
floor of sand and pebbles. At a neighboring _fonda_ luncheon was served
to our party. We returned to our _bohio_ for a much needed siesta,
reserving the afternoon for a ramble. A service was going on at the
village church. After a late dinner we went to visit the priest. His
servant woman appeared reluctant to admit us. This we understood when
the old gentleman came forward to receive us, dressed like a peasant,
and wearing a handkerchief tied about his head in peasant fashion. To
me, as the senior lady of the party, he offered a cigar.

He took pains to return our visit the next day, but came to our _bohio_
in full canonicals. He was anxious to possess a certain Spanish work on
botany, and offered me a sum of money in prepayment of its price. This I
declined to receive, feeling that the chances were much against my ever
being able to fulfill his commission.

Immediately after his visit we mounted our steeds and rode back to the
capital, which we reached after the great gate had been closed for the
night, a narrow postern opening to admit our party one by one.

Before our departure from the island, President Baez invited us to a
state dinner at his residence. The appointments of the table were
elegant and tasteful. The repast was a long one, consisting of a great
variety of Dominican dishes, which appeared and disappeared with great
celerity. Before the dessert was served, we were requested to leave the
table and return to the sitting-room. Presently we came back to the
table, and found it spread with fruits and sweets innumerable.

Two years after this time, my husband's health required a change of
climate. He decided to visit Santo Domingo once more, and was anxious
that I should accompany him. I was rather unwilling to do so, being much
engaged at home. Wishing to offer me the greatest inducement, he said,
"You shall preach to your colored folks as much as you like." In March
of 1875, accordingly, we set sail in the same Tybee which had carried us
on our first voyage to the beautiful island. The political situation
meantime had greatly changed. The revolution already spoken of had
expelled President Baez, and had put in his place a man devoted to the
interests of Puerta Plata, as opposed to the growth of Samana.

We landed at the capital, and as we walked up the street to our hotel
familiar forms emerged from the shops on the right and on the left.
These friends all accosted us with eager questions:--

"Addonde estan las muchachas?" (Where are the girls?)

"Addonde esta Maud?"

"Addonde esta Lucia?"

We were obliged to say that they were not with us, and the blank,
disappointed faces showed that we, the elders, counted for little in the
absence of "metal more attractive."

After a short stay at the capital, we reëmbarked for Samana, where we
passed some weeks of delightful quiet in a pretty cottage on the
outskirts of the little town. On the evening of our taking possession, I
stood at the door of our new abode, watching the moon rise and overtop
two stately palms which formed the immediate foreground of our
landscape. On the left was the pretty crescent-shaped beach, and beyond
it the lights of the town shone brightly. This was a foretaste of many
delightful hours in which my soul was fed with the beauty of my

Our cottage was distant about a mile from the town, which my husband
liked to visit every morning. It was possible to go thither by the
beach, but he preferred to take a narrow bridle path on the side of a
very steep hill. I had never been a bold rider, and I must confess that
I suffered agonies of fear in following him on these expeditions. If I
lagged behind, he would cry, "Come on! it's as bad as going to a funeral
to ride with you." And so, I suppose, it was. I remember one day when a
great palm branch had fallen across our path. I thought that my horse
would certainly slip on it, sending me to depths below. Fortunately he
did not. That very day, while Dr. Howe was taking his siesta, I went to
the place where this impediment lay, and with a great effort threw it
over the steep mountain-side. The whole neighborhood of Samana is very
mountainous, and I sometimes found it impossible to obey the word of
command. One day my husband spurred his horse and made a gallant dash at
a very steep ascent, ordering me to follow him. I tried my best, but
only got far enough to find myself awkwardly at a standstill, and unable
to go either backward or forward. The Doctor was obliged to dismount and
to lead my horse down to the level ground. This, he assured me, was a
severe mortification for him.

Dr. Howe desired at this time to make a journey on horseback to a part
of the interior which he had not visited. He engaged as a guide a man
familiar with the region and able on foot to keep pace with any ordinary
horse. I remember that this man asked for a warning of some days, in
order that he might purchase his _combustibles_, meaning comestibles.
This journey, often talked of, was never undertaken. We sometimes varied
the even tenor of our days in Samana by a sail in the pretty steam
launch belonging to the Samana Bay Company. On one occasion we took a
rowboat and went to visit an English carpenter who had built himself a
hut in the forest not far from the shore. We found his wife surrounded
by her young family. The cabin was provided with berths for sleeping
accommodation. The household work was done mostly in the open air. On a
rude table I found some Greek books. "Whose are those?" I asked. "Oh,
they belong to my husband. He studies Greek in order to understand the
New Testament." Yet this man was so illiterate as to allow some pupils
of his to use a small i for our personal pronoun. In spite of my
husband's permission, I did not preach very much during this visit to
Samana. I found there a Methodist church with a settled pastor. I did
take part in an open-air service one Sunday afternoon. The place chosen
was well up on the side of a mountain, the assembly consisting entirely
of colored people. I arrived a little after time and found a zealous
elder speaking. When he saw me he said, "And now dat de lady hab come I
will _obdunk_ [abdicate] from de place."

A little school kept by the carpenter was not far from this spot. It
occupied a shed in a region magnificent with palms. I went one day, by
special arrangement, to speak to the pupils, who were of both sexes. The
ascent was so steep that I was glad to avail myself of the offer of a
steer with a straw saddle on his back, led by a youth of the
neighborhood. From the school I went to the hut of a colored woman, who
had requested the honor of entertaining me at lunch, and who waited upon
me with great good-will. While I was still resting in the shade of the
cabin a man appeared, leading two saddle horses and bearing a missive
from Dr. Howe, requesting my immediate return. I have elsewhere alluded
to this and to Dr. Howe's touching words, "Our dear, noble Sumner is no
more. Come home at once. I am much distressed."

My husband had been greatly chagrined by Mr. Sumner's conduct with
regard to the proposed annexation of Santo Domingo. The death of his
lifelong friend seemed to bring back all his old tenderness and he
grieved deeply over his loss.

Of the longevity of the negro population of Santo Domingo we heard
wonderful accounts. I myself, while in Samana, saw and spoke with a
colored woman who was said to have reached the age of one hundred and
thirty years. She was a native of Maryland, and had become a mother and
a grandmother before leaving the United States. In Samana she married
again and had a second set of children and grandchildren. These
particulars I learned from a daughter of her second marriage, herself a
woman of forty. The aged mother and grandmother came up to Samana during
my stay there to make some necessary purchases. Her figure was slender
and, as the French say, "_bien-prise_." Her only infirmity appeared to
be her deafness.

A curious custom in this small community was the consecration of all
houses as soon as completed. This was usually made the occasion of what
we term a house-warming. Friends were invited, and were expected to make
contributions of cake. The priest of the parish offered prayer and
sprinkled the premises with holy water, after which the festivities
commenced. The music consisted of a harmonicon and a notched gourd,
which was scraped with an iron rod to mark the time. Cakes and lemonade
were handed about in trays. Grandmothers sat patient with their
grandbabes on their laps while the mothers danced to their hearts'

It chanced one day that I attended one of these merry-makings. While the
dance was in progress a superbly handsome man, bronze in complexion and
very polite in manner, commanded from the musicians, "Una polka por
Madama Howe." I had neither expected nor desired to dance, but felt
obliged to accept this invitation.

A large proportion of the Dominicans, be it said in passing, are of
mixed race, the white element in them being mostly Spanish. This last so
predominates that the leading negro characteristics are rarely observed
among them. They are intelligent people, devout in their Catholicism and
generally very honest. Families of the wealthier class are apt to send
their sons to Spain for education.

Quite distinct from these are the American blacks, who are the remnant
and in large part the descendants of an exodus of free negroes from our
Middle States, which took place in the neighborhood of the year 1840.
These people are Methodists, but are, for some reason, entirely
neglected by the denomination, both in England and in America. They are
anxious to keep their young folks within the pale of Protestantism. Of
such was composed my little congregation in the city of Santo Domingo.

In the place last named I made the acquaintance of a singular family of
birds, individuals of which were domesticated in many houses. These
creatures could be depended upon to give the household warning of the
approach of a stranger. They also echoed with notes of their own the
hourly striking of the city clocks, and zealously destroyed all the
insects which are generated by the heat of a tropical climate. The _per
contra_ is that they themselves are rather malodorous.

During my stay in Samana a singular woman attached herself to me. She
was a mulatto, and her home was on a mountain side in the neighborhood
of the school of which I have just spoken. Here she was rarely to be
found; and her husband bewailed her frequent absences and consequent
neglect of her large family. She had some knowledge of herbs, which she
occasionally made available in nursing the sick. She one day brought her
aged mother to visit me, and the elder woman, speaking of her, said,
"Oh, yes! Rosanna's got edication." Of this "edication" I had a specimen
in a letter which she wrote me after my departure, and which began thus,
"Hailyal [hallelujah], Mrs. Howe, here's hopin."

In these days the brilliant scheme of the Samana Bay Company came to its
final failure. The Dominican government now insisted that the flag of
the company should be officially withdrawn. The Tybee having departed on
her homeward voyage, the one warship of the republic made its appearance
in the harbor, a miserable little schooner, but one that carried a gun.

On the morrow of her arrival, a scene of some interest was enacted. The
employees of the company, all colored men, marched to the building over
which the flag was floating. Every man carried a fresh rose at the end
of his musket. Dr. Howe made a pathetic little speech, explanatory of
the circumstances, and a military salute was fired as the flag was
hauled down. A spiteful caricature appeared in a paper published, I
think, at the capital, representing the transaction just mentioned, with
Dr. Howe in the foreground in an attitude of deep dejection, Mrs. Howe
standing near, and saying, "Never mind."

       *       *       *       *       *

From my own memoir of Dr. Howe I quote the following record of his last
days on earth.

"The mild climate and exercise in the open air had done all that could
have been expected for Dr. Howe, and he returned from Santo Domingo much
improved in health. The seeds of disease, however, were still lurking in
his system, and the change from tropical weather to our own uncertain
spring brought on a severe attack of rheumatism, by which his strength
was greatly reduced. He rallied somewhat in the autumn, and was able to
pass the winter in reasonable comfort and activity.

"The first of May, 1875, found him at his country seat in South
Portsmouth, R. I., where the planting of his garden and the supervision
of his poultry afforded him much amusement and occupation. In the early
summer he was still able to ride the beautiful Santo Domingo pony which
President Baez had sent him three years before. This resource, however,
soon failed him, and his exercise became limited to a short walk in the
neighborhood of his house. His strength constantly diminished during the
summer, yet he retained his habits of early rising and of active
occupation, as well as his interest in matters public and private. He
returned to Boston in the autumn, and seemed at first benefited by the
change. He felt, however, and we felt, that a change was impending.

"On Christmas day he was able to dine with his family, and to converse
with one or two invited guests. On the first of January he said to an
intimate friend: 'I have told my people that they will bury me this
month.' This was merely a passing impression, as in fact he had not so
spoken to any of us. On January 4th, while up and about as usual, he was
attacked by sudden and severe convulsions, followed by insensibility;
and on January 9th he breathed his last, surrounded by his family, and
apparently without pain or consciousness. Before the end Laura Bridgman
was brought to his bedside, to touch once more the hand that had
unlocked the world to her. She did so, weeping bitterly."

A great mourning was made for Dr. Howe. Eulogies were pronounced before
the legislature of Massachusetts, and resolutions of regret and sympathy
came to us from various beneficent associations. From Greece came back a
touching echo of our sorrow, and by an order, sent from thence, a floral
tribute was laid upon the casket of the early friend and champion of
Greek liberties. A beautiful helmet and sword, all of violets, the
parting gift of the household, seemed a fitting recognizance for one
whom Whittier has named "The Modern Bayard."

Shortly after this sad event a public meeting was held in Boston Music
Hall in commemoration of Dr. Howe's great services to the community. The
governor of Massachusetts (Hon. Alexander H. Rice) presided, and
testimonials were offered by many eminent men.

Poems written for the occasion were contributed by Oliver Wendell
Holmes, William Ellery Channing, and Rev. Charles T. Brooks. Of these
exercises I will only say that, although my husband's life was well
known to me, I listened almost with amazement to the summing up of its
deeds of merit. It seemed almost impossible that so much good could be
soberly said of any man, and yet I knew that it was all said truthfully
and in grave earnest.

My husband's beloved pupil, Laura Bridgman, was seated upon the
platform, where a friend interpreted the proceedings to her in the
finger language. The music, which was of a high order, was furnished by
the pupils of the institution for the blind at South Boston.

The occasion was one never to be forgotten. As I review it after an
interval of many years, I find that the impression made upon me at the
time does not diminish. I still wonder at the showing of such a solid
power of work, such untiring industry, such prophetic foresight and
intuition, so grand a trust in human nature. These gifts were well-nigh
put out of sight by a singularly modest estimate of self. Truly, this
was a knight of God's own order. I cannot but doubt whether he left his
peer on earth.



I sometimes feel as if words could not express the comfort and
instruction which have come to me in the later years of my life from two
sources. One of these has been the better acquaintance with my own sex;
the other, the experience of the power resulting from associated action
in behalf of worthy objects.

During the first two thirds of my life I looked to the masculine ideal
of character as the only true one. I sought its inspiration, and
referred my merits and demerits to its judicial verdict. In an
unexpected hour a new light came to me, showing me a world of thought
and of character quite beyond the limits within which I had hitherto
been content to abide. The new domain now made clear to me was that of
true womanhood,--woman no longer in her ancillary relation to her
opposite, man, but in her direct relation to the divine plan and
purpose, as a free agent, fully sharing with man every human right and
every human responsibility. This discovery was like the addition of a
new continent to the map of the world, or of a new testament to the old

"Oh, had I earlier known the power, the nobility, the intelligence which
lie within the range of true womanhood, I had surely lived more wisely
and to better purpose." Such were my reflections; yet I must think that
the great Lord of all reserved this new revelation as the crown of a
wonderful period of the world's emancipation and progress.

It did not come to me all at once. In my attempts at philosophizing I at
length reached the conclusion that woman must be the moral and spiritual
equivalent of man. How, otherwise, could she be entrusted with the awful
and inevitable responsibilities of maternity? The quasi-adoration that
true lovers feel, was it an illusion partly of sense, partly of
imagination? or did it symbolize a sacred truth?

While my mind was engaged with these questions, the civil war came to an
end, leaving the slave not only emancipated, but endowed with the full
dignity of citizenship. The women of the North had greatly helped to
open the door which admitted him to freedom and its safeguard, the
ballot. Was this door to be shut in their face?

While I followed, rather unwillingly, this train of thought, an
invitation was sent me to attend a parlor meeting to be held with the
view of forming a woman's club in Boston. I presented myself at this
meeting, and gave a languid assent to the measures proposed. These were
to hire a parlor or parlors in some convenient locality, and to furnish
and keep them open for the convenience of ladies residing in the city
and its suburbs. Out of this small and modest beginning was gradually
developed the plan of the New England Woman's Club, a strong and stately
association destined, I believe, to last for many years, and leaving
behind it, at this time of my writing, a record of three decades of
happy and acceptable service.

While our club life was still in its beginning, I was invited and
induced to attend a meeting in behalf of woman suffrage. Indeed, I had
given my name to the call for this meeting, relying upon the assurance
given me by Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson, that it would be
conducted in a very liberal and friendly spirit, without bitterness or
extravagance. The place appointed was Horticultural Hall. The morning
was inclement; and as I strayed into the hall in my rainy-day suit,
nothing was further from my mind than the thought that I should take any
part in the day's proceedings.

I had hoped not to be noticed by the officers of the meeting, and was
rather disconcerted when a message reached me requesting me to come up
and take a seat on the platform. This I did very reluctantly. I was now
face to face with a new order of things. Here, indeed, were some whom I
had long known and honored: Garrison, Wendell Phillips, Colonel
Higginson, and my dear pastor, James Freeman Clarke. But here was also
Lucy Stone, who had long been the object of one of my imaginary
dislikes. As I looked into her sweet, womanly face and heard her earnest
voice, I felt that the object of my distaste had been a mere phantom,
conjured up by silly and senseless misrepresentations. Here stood the
true woman, pure, noble, great-hearted, with the light of her good life
shining in every feature of her face. Here, too, I saw the husband whose
devotion so ably seconded her life-work.

The arguments to which I now listened were simple, strong, and
convincing. These champions, who had fought so long and so valiantly for
the slave, now turned the searchlight of their intelligence upon the
condition of woman, and demanded for the mothers of the community the
civil rights which had recently been accorded to the negro. They asked
for nothing more and nothing less than the administration of that
impartial justice for which, if for anything, a Republican government
should stand.

When they requested me to speak, which they did presently, I could only
say, "I am with you." I have been with them ever since, and have never
seen any reason to go back from the pledge then given. Strangely, as it
then seemed to me, the arguments which I had stored up in my mind
against the political enfranchisement of women were really so many
reasons in its favor. All that I had felt regarding the sacredness and
importance of the woman's part in private life now appeared to me
equally applicable to the part which she should bear in public life.

[Illustration: LUCY STONE

_From a photograph by the Notman Photographic Company._]

One of the comforts which I found in the new association was the relief
which it afforded me from a sense of isolation and eccentricity. For
years past I had felt strongly impelled to lend my voice to the
convictions of my heart. I had done this in a way, from time to time,
always with the feeling that my course in so doing was held to call for
apology and explanation by the men and women with whose opinions I had
hitherto been familiar. I now found a sphere of action in which this
mode of expression no longer appeared singular or eccentric, but simple,
natural, and, under the circumstances, inevitable.

In the little band of workers which I had joined, I was soon called upon
to perform yeoman's service. I was expected to attend meetings and to
address audiences, at first in the neighborhood of Boston, afterwards in
many remote places, Cleveland, Chicago, St. Louis. Among those who led
or followed the new movement, I naturally encountered some individuals
in whom vanity and personal ambition were conspicuous. But I found
mostly among my new associates a great heart of religious conviction and
a genuine spirit of selfsacrifice.

My own contributions to the work appeared to me less valuable than I had
hoped to find them. I had at first everything to learn with regard to
public speaking, and Lucy Stone and Mrs. Livermore were much more at
home on the platform than I was. I was called upon to preside over
conventions, having never learned the rules of debate. I was obliged to
address large audiences, having been accustomed to use my voice only in
parlors. Gradually all this bettered itself. I became familiar with the
order of proceedings, and learned to modulate my voice. More important
even than these things, I learned something of the range of popular
sympathies, and of the power of apprehension to be found in average
audiences. All of these experiences, the failures, the effort, and the
final achievement, were most useful to me.

In years that followed I gave what I could to the cause, but all that I
gave was repaid to me a thousandfold. I had always had to do with women
of character and intelligence, but I found in my new friends a clearness
of insight, a strength and steadfastness of purpose, which enabled them
to take a position of command, in view of the questions of the hour.

Among the manifold interests which now opened up before me, the cause of
woman suffrage was for a time predominant. The novelty of the topic in
the mind of the general public brought together large audiences in
Boston and in the neighboring towns. Lucy Stone's fervent zeal, always
guided by her faultless feeling of propriety, the earnest pleading of
her husband, the brilliant eloquence and personal magnetism of Mary A.
Livermore,--all these things combined to give to our platform a novel
and sustained attraction. Noble men, aye, the noblest, stood with us in
our endeavor,--some, like Senator Hoar and George S. Hale, to explain
and illustrate the logical sequence which should lead to the recognition
of our citizenship; others, like Wendell Phillips, George William
Curtis, and Henry Ward Beecher, able to overwhelm the crumbling defenses
of the old order with the storm and flash of their eloquence.

We acted, one and all, under the powerful stimulus of hope. The object
which we labored to accomplish was so legitimate and rational, so
directly in the line of our religious belief, of our political
institutions, that it appeared as if we had only to unfold our new
banner, bright with the blazon of applied Christianity, and march on to
victory. The black man had received the vote. Should the white woman be
less considered than he?

During the recent war the women of our country had been as ministering
angels to our armies, forsaking homes of ease and luxury to bring succor
and comfort to the camp-hospital and battlefield. Those who tarried at
home had labored incessantly to supply the needs of those at the front.
Should they not be counted among the citizens of the great Republic?
Moreover, we women had year after year worked to build, maintain, and
fill the churches throughout the land with a patient industry akin to
that of coral insects. Surely we should be invited to pass in with our
brothers to the larger liberty now shown to be our just due.

We often spoke in country towns, where our morning meetings could be but
poorly attended, for the reason that the women of the place were busy
with the preparation of the noonday meal. Our evening sessions in such
places were precious to school-teachers and factory hands.

Ministers opened to us their churches, and the women of their
congregations worked together to provide for us places of refreshment
and repose. We met the real people face to face and hand to hand. It was
a period of awakened thought, of quickened and enlarged sympathy.

I recall with pleasure two campaigns which we made in Vermont, where the
theme of woman suffrage was quite new to the public mind. I started on
one of these journeys with Mr. Garrison, and enjoyed with him the great
beauty of the winter landscape in that most lovely State. The evergreen
forests through which we passed were hung with icicles, which glittered
like diamonds in the bright winter sun. Lucy Stone, Mr. Blackwell, and
Mrs. Livermore had preceded us, and when we reached the place of
destination we found everything in readiness for our meeting. At one
town in Vermont some opposition to our coming had been manifested
beforehand. We found, on arriving, that the chairman of our committee of
arrangements had left town suddenly as if unwilling to befriend us. A
vulgar and silly ballad had been printed and circulated, in which we
three ladies were spoken of as three old crows. The prospect for the
evening was not encouraging. We deliberated for a moment in the anteroom
of our hall. I said, "Let me come first in the order of exercises, as I
read from a manuscript, and shall not be disconcerted even if they throw
chairs at us." As we entered some noise was heard from the gallery. Mr.
Garrison came forward and asked whether we were to be given a hearing or
not. Instantly a group of small boys were ejected from their seats by
some one in authority. Mrs. Livermore now stepped to the front and
looked the audience through and through. Silence prevailed, and she was
heard as usual with repeated applause. I read my paper without
interruption. The honors of the evening belonged to us.

I remember another journey, a nocturnal one, which I undertook alone, in
order to join the friends mentioned above at a suffrage meeting
somewhere in New England. As I emerged from the Pullman in the cold
twilight of an early winter morning, carrying a heavy bag, and feeling
friendless and forlorn, I met Mrs. Livermore, who had made the journey
in another car. At sight of her I cried, "Oh, you dear big Livermore!"
Moved by this appeal, she at once took me under her protection, ordered
a hotel porter to relieve me of my bag, and saw me comfortably housed
and provided for. It was fortunate for us that the time of our
deliverance appeared to us so near, as fortunate perhaps as the
misinterpretation which led the early Christians to look daily for the
reappearing on earth of their Master.

Among my most valued recollections are those of the many legislative
hearings in which I have had the privilege of taking part, and which
cover a period of more than twenty years. Mr. Garrison, Lucy Stone, and
Mr. Blackwell long continued to be our most prominent advocates,
supported at times by Colonel Higginson, Wendell Phillips, and James
Freeman Clarke. Mrs. Livermore was with us whenever her numerous lecture
engagements allowed her to be present. Mrs. Cheney, Judge Sewall, and
several lawyers of our own sex gave us valuable aid. These hearings were
mostly held in the well-known Green Room of the Boston State House, but
a gradual _crescendo_ of interest sometimes led us to ask for the use of
Representatives' Hall, which was often crowded with the friends and
opponents of our cause. Among the remonstrants who spoke at these
hearings occasionally appeared some illiterate woman, attracted by the
opportunity of making a public appearance. I remember one of these who,
after asking to be heard, began to read from an elaborate manuscript
which had evidently been written for her. After repeatedly substituting
the word "communionism" for "communism," she abandoned the text and
began to abuse the suffragists in language with which she was more
familiar. When she had finished her diatribe the chairman of the
legislative committee said to our chairman, Mr. Blackwell, "A list of
questions has been handed to me which the petitioners for woman suffrage
are requested to answer. The first on the list is the following:--

"If the suffrage should be granted to women, would not the ignorant and
degraded ones hasten to crowd the polls while those of the better sort
would stay away from them?"

Mr. Garrison, rising, said in reply, "Mr. Chairman, it seems to me that
the question just propounded is answered by the present occasion. Here
are education, character, intelligence, asking for suffrage, and here
are ignorance and vulgarity protesting against it." This crushing
sentence was uttered by Mr. Garrison in a tone of such bland simplicity
that it did not even appear unkind.

On a later occasion a lady of excellent character and position appeared
among the remonstrants, and when asked whether she represented any
association replied rather haughtily, "I think that I represent the
educated women of Massachusetts," a goodly number of whom were present
in behalf of the petition.

The remonstrants had hearings of their own, at one of which I happened
to be present. On this occasion one of their number, after depicting at
some length the moral turpitude which she considered her sex likely to
evince under political promise, concluded by saying: "No woman should be
allowed the right of suffrage until _every_ woman shall be perfectly
wise, perfectly pure, and perfectly good."

This dictum, pronounced in a most authoritative manner, at once brought
to my mind the homely proverb, "What is sauce for the goose is sauce for
the gander;" and I could not help asking permission to suggest a single
question, upon which a prominent Boston lawyer instantly replied: "No,
Mrs. Howe, you may not [speak]. We wish to use all our time." The
chairman of the committee here interposed, saying: "Mr. Blank, it does
not belong to you to say who shall or shall not be heard here." He
advised me at the same time to reserve my question until the
remonstrants should have been fully heard. As no time then remained for
my question, I will ask it now: "If, as is just, we should apply the
test proposed by Mrs. W. to the men of the community, how long would it
be before they could properly claim the privilege of the franchise?"

_Du reste_, the gentleman in question, with whom my relations have
always been entirely friendly, explained himself to me at the close of
the hearing by saying: "I treated you as I would have treated a man
under similar circumstances."

I now considered my occupations as fully equal to the capacity of my
time and strength. My family, my studies, and my club demanded much
attention. My elder children were now grown up, and some social
functions were involved in this fact, such as chaperonage, the giving of
parties, and much entertainment of college and school friends.

Nevertheless, a new claimant for my services was about to come upon the
scene. In the early summer of the year 1868, the Sorosis of New York
issued a call for a congress of women to be held in that city in the
autumn of the same year. Many names, some known, others unknown to me,
were appended to the document first sent forth in this intention. My own
was asked for. Should I give or withhold it? Among the signatures
already obtained, I saw that of Maria Mitchell, and this determined me
to give my own.

Who was Maria Mitchell? A woman from Nantucket, and of Quaker origin,
who had been brought to public notice by her discovery of a new comet, a
service which the King of Denmark had offered to reward with a gold
medal. This prize was secured for her through the intervention of Hon.
Edward Everett. She had also been appointed Professor of Astronomy at
Vassar College.

What was Maria Mitchell? A gifted, noble, lovable woman, devoted to
science, but heartloyal to every social and personal duty. I seemed to
know this of her when I knew her but slightly.

At the time appointed, the congress assembled, and proved to be an
occasion of much interest. Mrs. Livermore, Mrs. Stanton, Mrs. Isabella
Beecher Hooker, Lucy Stone, Mrs. Charlotte B. Wilbour were prominent
among the speakers heard at its sessions. I viewed its proceedings a
little critically at first, its plan appearing to me rather vast and
vague. But it had called out the sympathy of many earnest women, and the
outline of an association presented was a good one, although the
machinery for filling it up was deficient. Mrs. Livermore was elected
president, Mrs. Wilbour chairman of executive committee, and I was glad
to serve on a sub-committee, charged with the duty of selecting topics
and speakers for the proposed annual congress.

Mrs. Livermore's presidency lasted but two years, her extraordinary
success as a lecturer making it impossible for her to give to the new
undertaking the attention which it required. Mrs. Wilbour would no doubt
have proved an efficient aid to her chief, but at this juncture a change
of residence became desirable for her, and she decided to reside abroad
for some years. Miss Alice Fletcher, now so honorably known as the
friend and champion of our Indian tribes, was a most efficient

The governing board was further composed of a vice president and
director from each of the States represented by membership in the
association. The name had been decided upon from the start. It was the
Association for the Advancement of Women, and its motto was: "Truth,
Justice, and Honor."

[Illustration: MARIA MITCHELL

_From a photograph._]

Maria Mitchell succeeded Mrs. Livermore in the office of president. I
think that the congress held in Philadelphia in the Centennial year was
the occasion of her first presiding. Her customary manner had in it a
little of the Quaker shyness, but when she appeared upon the platform
the power of command, or rather of control, appeared in all that she
said or did. In figure she was erect and above middle height. Her dress
was a rich black silk, made after a plain but becoming fashion. The
contrast between her silver curls and black eyes was striking. Her voice
was harmonious, her manner at once gracious and decided. The question of
commencing proceedings with prayer having been raised, Miss Mitchell
invited those present to unite in a silent prayer, a form of worship
common among the Friends.

The impression made by our meetings was such that we soon began to
receive letters from distant parts of the country, inviting us to
journey hither and thither, and to hold our congresses east, west,
north, and south. Our year's work was arranged by committees, which had
reference severally to science, art, education, industrial training,
reforms, and statistics.

Our association certainly seemed to have answered an existing need.
Leading women from many States joined us, and we distributed our
congresses as widely as the limits of our purses would allow. Journeys
to Utah and California were beyond the means of most of our workers, and
we regretfully declined invitations received from friends in these
States. In our earlier years our movements were mainly west and east. We
soon felt, however, that we must make acquaintance with our Southern
sisters. In the face of some discouragement, we arranged to hold a
congress in Baltimore, and had every reason to be satisfied with its
result. Kentucky followed on our list of Southern States, and the
progressive women of Louisville accorded us a warm welcome and a three
days' hearing in one of the finest churches of the city. To Tennessee,
east and west, we gave two visits, both of which were amply justified by
the cordial reception given us. In process of time Atlanta and New
Orleans claimed our presence.

Among the many mind-pictures left by our congresses, let me here outline

The place is the court-house of Memphis, Tenn., which has been
temporarily ceded for our use. The time is that of one of our public
sessions, and the large audience is waiting in silent expectancy, when
the entrance of a quaint figure attracts all eyes to the platform. It is
that of a woman of middle height and past middle age, dressed in plain
black, her nearly white hair cut short, and surmounted by a sort of
student's cap of her own devising. Her appearance at first borders on
the grotesque, but is presently seen to be nearer the august. She turns
her pleasant face toward the audience, takes off her cap, and unrolls
the manuscript from which she proposes to read. Her eyes beam with
intelligence and kindly feeling. The spectators applaud her before she
has opened her lips. Her aspect has taken them captive at once.

Her essay, on some educational theme, is terse, direct, and full of good
thought. It is heard with close attention and with manifest approbation,
and whenever, in the proceedings that follow, she rises to say her word,
she is always greeted with a murmur of applause. This lady is Miss Mary
Ripley, a public school teacher of Buffalo city, wise in the instruction
of the young and in the enlightenment of elders. We all rejoice in her
success, which is eminently that of character and intellect.

I feel myself drawn on to offer another picture, not of our congress,
but of a scene which grew out of it.

The ladies of our association have been invited to visit a school for
young girls, of which Miss Conway, one of our members, is the principal.
After witnessing some interesting exercises, we assemble in the large
hall, where a novel entertainment has been provided for us. A band of
twelve young ladies appear upon the platform. They wear the colors of
"Old Glory," but after a new fashion, four of them being arrayed from
head to foot in red, four in blue, and four in white. While the John
Brown tune is heard from the piano, they proceed to act in graceful dumb
show the stanzas of my Battle Hymn. How they did it I cannot tell, but
it was a most lovely performance.

In the year 1898, for the first time since its first meeting, our
association issued no call for a congress of women. The reasons for our
failure to do so may be briefly stated. Some of our most efficient
members had been removed by death, some by unavoidable circumstances.
But more than this, the demands made upon the time and strength of women
by the women's clubs, which are now numerous and universal, had come to
occupy the attention of many who in other times had leisure to interest
themselves in our work. The biennial conventions of the general
federation of women's clubs no doubt appear to many to fill the place
which we have honorably held, and may in some degree answer the ends
which we have always had in view. Yet a number of us still hold
together, united in heart and in hand. Although we have sadly missed our
departed friends, I have never felt that the interest or value of our
meetings suffered any decline. The spirit of those dear ones has seemed,
on the contrary, to abide among us, holding us pledged to undertake the
greater effort made necessary by their absence. We still count among our
members many who keep the inspiration under which we first took the
field. We feel, moreover, that our happy experience of many years has
brought us lessons too precious to hide or to neglect.

The coming together either of men or of women from regions widely
separate from each other naturally gives occasion for comparison. So far
as I have known, the comparisons elicited by our meetings have more and
more tended to resolve imagined discords into prevailing harmony. The
sympathy of feeling aroused by our unity of object has always risen
above the distinctions of section and belonging. Honest differences of
opinion, honestly and temperately expressed, tend rather to develop good
feeling than to disturb it. I am glad to be able to say that sectional
prejudice has appeared very little, if at all, in the long course of our
congresses, and that self-glorification, whether of State or individual,
has never had any place with us, while the great instruction of meeting
with earnest and thoughtful workers from every part of our country's
vast domain has been greatly appreciated by us and by those who, in
various places, have met with us.

We have presented at our meetings reports on a variety of important
topics. Our congress of three days usually concluding on Saturday, such
of our speakers as are accustomed to the pulpit have often been invited
to hold forth in one or more of the churches. In Knoxville, Tenn., for
example, I was cordially bidden to lift up my voice in an orthodox
Presbyterian church, Mrs. Ednah D. Cheney spoke before the Unitarian
society, Rev. Antoinette Brown Blackwell preached to yet another
congregation, and Mrs. Henrietta L. T. Wolcott improved the Sunday by a
very interesting talk on waifs, of which class of unfortunates she has
had much official and personal knowledge.

An extended account of our many meetings would be out of place in this
volume, but some points in connection with them may be of interest. It
often happened that we visited cities in which no associations of women,
other than the church and temperance societies, existed. After our
departure, women's clubs almost invariably came into being.

Our eastern congresses have been held in Portland, Providence,
Springfield, and Boston. In the Empire State, we have visited Buffalo,
Syracuse, and New York. Denver and Colorado Springs have been our limit
in the west. Northward, we have met in Toronto and at St. John. In the
south, as already said, our pilgrimages have reached Atlanta and New

We have sometimes been requested to supplement our annual congress by an
additional day's session at some place easily reached from the city in
which the main meeting had been appointed to be held. Of these
supplementary congresses I will mention a very pleasant one at St. Paul,
Minn., and a very useful one held by some of our number in Salt Lake

At the congress held in Boston in the autumn of 1879, I was elected
president, my predecessor in the office, Mrs. Daggett, declining further

As the years have gone on, Death has done his usual work upon our
number. I have already spoken of our second president, Maria Mitchell,
who continued, after her term of office, to send us valuable statements
regarding the scientific work of women. Mrs. Kate Newell Daggett, our
third president, had long been recognized as a leader of social and
intellectual progress in her adopted city of Chicago. The record in our
calendar is that of an earnest worker, well fitted to commend the
woman's cause by her attractive presence and cultivated mind.

Miss Abby W. May was a tower of strength to our association. She
excelled in judgment, and in the sense of measure and of fitness. Her
sober taste in dress did not always commend her to our assemblage,
composed largely of women, but the plainness of her garb was redeemed by
the beauty of her classic head and by the charm of her voice and manner.
She was grave in demeanor, but with an undertone of genuine humor which
showed her to be truly human. She was the worthy cousin of Rev. Samuel
Joseph May, and is remembered by me as the crown of a family of more
than common distinction.

The progress of the woman question naturally developed a fresh interest
in the industrial capacity of the sex. Experts in these matters know
that the work of woman enters into almost every department of service
and of manufacture. In order to make this more evident, it seemed
advisable to ask that a separate place might be assigned at some of the
great industrial fairs, for the special showing of the inventions and
handicraft of women. Such a space was conceded to us at one of the
important fairs held in Boston in 1882, and I was invited to become
president of this, the first recognized Woman's Department. In this work
I received valuable aid from Mrs. Henrietta L. T. Wolcott, who, in the
capacity of treasurer, was able to exercise a constant supervision over
the articles consigned to our care.

On the opening day of the fair General Butler, who was then governor of
Massachusetts, presided. In introducing me, he said, in a playfully
apologetic manner, "Mrs. Howe may say some things which we might not
wish to hear, but it is my office to present her to this audience." He
probably thought that I was about to speak of woman suffrage. My
address, however, did not touch upon that topic, but upon the present
new departure, its value and interest. General Butler, indeed, sometimes
claimed to be a friend of woman suffrage, but one of our number said of
him in homely phrase: "He only wants to have his dish right side up when
it rains."

The most noticeable points in our exhibit were, first, the number of
useful articles invented by women; secondly, a very creditable
exhibition of scientific work, largely contributed by the lady students
and graduates of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology; lastly, a
collection of books composed by women, among which were some volumes of
quite ancient date.

I suppose that my connection with this undertaking led to my receiving
and accepting an invitation to assume the presidency of a woman's
department in a great World's Fair to be held in New Orleans in the late
autumn and winter of 1883-84. Coupled with this invitation was the
promise of a sum of money amply sufficient to defray all the expenses
involved in the management of so extensive a work. My daughter Maud was
also engaged to take charge of an alcove especially devoted to the
literary work of women.

We arrived in New Orleans in November, and found our affairs at a
standstill. Our "chief of exposition," as she was called, Mrs. Cloudman,
had measured and marked off the spaces requisite for the exhibits of the
several States, but no timber was forthcoming with which to erect the
necessary stands, partitions, etc. On inquiry, I was told that the funds
obtained in support of the enterprise had proved insufficient, and that
some expected contributions had failed. There was naturally some censure
of the manner in which the resources actually at hand had been employed,
and some complaining of citizens of New Orleans who had been expected to
contribute thousands of dollars to the exposition, and who had
subscribed only a few hundreds.

I proceeded at once to organize a board of direction for the department,
composed of the lady commissioners in charge of exhibits from their
several States. One or two of these ladies objected to the separate
showing of woman's work, and were allowed to place their goods in the
general exhibit of their States. I had friendly relations with these
ladies, but they were not under my jurisdiction. Our embarrassing
deadlock lasted for some time, but at length a benevolent lumber dealer
endowed us with three thousand feet of pine boards. The management
furnished no workman for us, but the commanders of two United States
warships in the harbor lent us the services of their ship-carpenters,
and in process of time the long gallery set apart for our use was
partitioned off in pretty alcoves, draped with bright colors, and filled
with every variety of handiwork.

I was fond of showing, among other novelties, a heavy iron chain, forged
by a woman-blacksmith, and a set of fine jewelry, entirely made by
women. The exposition was a very valuable one, and did not fail to
attract a large concourse of people from all parts of the country. In
the great multitude of things to be seen, and in the crowded attendance,
visitors were easily confused, and often failed to find matters which
might most interest them.

In order to improve the opportunity offered, I bethought me of a series
of short talks on the different exhibits, to be given either by the
commissioners in charge of them, or by experts whose services could be
secured. These twelve o'clock talks, as they were called, became very
popular, and were continued during the greater part of the season.

In the same gallery with ourselves was the exhibit made by the colored
people of New Orleans. Of this I remember best a pathetic little art
gallery, in which was conspicuous a portrait of Governor Andrew. I
proposed one day to the directors of this exhibit that they should hold
a meeting in their compartment, and that I should speak to them of their
great friends at the North, whom I had known familiarly, and whose faces
they had never seen. They responded joyfully to my offer; and on a
certain day assembled in their alcove, which they had decorated with
flowers, surrounding a portrait of Abraham Lincoln. A choir of melodious
voices sang my Battle Hymn, and all listened while I spoke of Garrison,
Sumner, Andrew, Phillips, and Dr. Howe. A New Orleans lady who was
present, Mrs. Merritt, also made a brief address, bidding the colored
people remember that "they had good friends at the South also," which I
was glad to hear and believe.

The funds placed at our disposal falling far short of what had been
promised us at the outset, we found ourselves under the necessity of
raising money to defray our necessary expenses, among which was that of
a special police, to prevent pilfering. To this end, a series of
entertainments was devised, beginning with a lecture of my own, which
netted over six hundred dollars.

Several other lectures were given, and Colonel Mapleson allowed some of
his foremost artists to give a concert for the benefit of our
department, by which something over a thousand dollars was realized. We
should still have suffered much embarrassment had not Senator Hoar
managed to secure from Congress an appropriation of ten thousand
dollars, from which our debts were finally paid in full.

The collection over which my daughter presided, of books written by
women, scientific drawings, magazines, and so on, attracted many
visitors. Her colleague in this charge was Mrs. Eveline M. Ordway.
Through their efforts, the authors of these works permitted the
presentation of them to the Ladies' Art Association of New Orleans. This
gift was much appreciated.

My management of the woman's department brought upon me some vulgar
abuse from local papers, which was more than compensated for by the
great kindness which I received from leading individuals in the society
of the place. At the exposition I made acquaintance with many delightful
people, among whom I will mention Captain Pym, who claimed to be the
oldest Arctic voyager living, President Johnston of Tulane University,
and Mrs. Townsend, a poet of no mean merit, who had had the honor of
being chosen as the laureate of the opening exposition.

When my duties as president were at an end, I parted from my late
associates with sincere regret, and turned my face northward, with
grateful affection for the friends left behind me.



At a tea-party which took place quite early in my club career, Dr.
Holmes expatiated at some length upon his own unfitness for club
association of any kind. He then turned to me and said, "Mrs. Howe, I
consider you eminently _clubable_." The hostess of the occasion was Mrs.
Josiah Quincy, Jr., a lady of much mark in her day, interested in all
matters of public importance, and much given to hospitality.

I shall make the doctor's remark the text for a chapter giving some
account of various clubs in which I have had membership and office.

The first of these was formed in the early days of my residence in
Boston. It was purely social in design, and I mention it here only
because it possessed one feature which I have never seen repeated. It
consisted of ten or more young women, mostly married, and all well
acquainted with one another. Our meetings took place fortnightly, and on
the following plan. Each of us was allowed to invite one or two
gentlemen friends. The noble pursuit of crochet was then in great favor,
and the ladies agreed to meet at eight o'clock, to work upon a crochet
quilt which was to be made in strips and afterwards joined. At nine
o'clock the gentlemen were admitted. Prior invitations had been given
simply in the name of the club, and their names were not disclosed until
they made their appearance. The element of comic mystery thus introduced
gave some piquancy to our informal gathering. Some light refreshments
were then served, and the company separated in great good humor. This
little club was much enjoyed, but it lasted only through one season, and
the crochet quilt never even approached completion.

My next club experience was much later in date and in quite another
locality. The summers which I passed in my lovely Newport valley brought
me many pleasant acquaintances. Though at a considerable distance from
the town of Newport, I managed to keep up a friendly intercourse with
those who took the trouble to seek me out in my retirement.

The historian Bancroft and his wife were at this time prominent figures
in Newport society. Their hospitality was proverbial, and at their
entertainments one was sure to meet the notabilities who from time to
time visited the now reviving town.

Mrs. Ritchie, only daughter of Harrison Gray Otis, of Boston, resided on
Bellevue Avenue, as did Albert Sumner, a younger brother of the senator,
a handsome and genial man, much lamented when, with his wife and only
child, he perished by shipwreck in 1858. Colonel Higginson and his
brilliant wife, a sad sufferer from chronic rheumatism, had taken up
their abode at Mrs. Dame's Quaker boarding-house. The elder Henry James
also came to reside in Newport, attracted thither by the presence of his
friends, Edmund and Mary Tweedy.

These notices of Newport are intended to introduce the mention of a club
which has earned for itself some reputation and which still exists. Its
foundation dates back to a summer which brought Bret Harte and Dr. J. G.
Holland to Newport, and with them Professors Lane and Goodwin of Harvard
University. My club-loving mind found sure material for many pleasant
meetings, and a little band of us combined to improve the beautiful
summer season by picnics, sailing parties, and household soirées, in all
of which these brilliant literary lights took part. Helen Hunt and Kate
Field were often of our company, and Colonel Higginson was always with
us. Our usual place of meeting was the house of a hospitable friend who
resided on the Point. Both house and friend have to do with the phrase
"a bully piaz," which has erroneously been supposed to be of my
invention, but which originated in the following manner: Colonel
Higginson had related to us that at a boarding-house which he had
recently visited, he found two children of a Boston family of high
degree, amusing themselves on the broad piazza. The little boy presently
said to the little girl:--

"I say, sis, isn't this a bully piaz?"

My friend on the Point had heard this, and when she introduced me to the
veranda which she had added to her house, she asked me, laughing,
"whether I did not consider this a bully piaz." The phrase was
immediately adopted in our confraternity, and our friend was made to
figure in a club ditty beginning thus:--

  "There was a little woman with a bully piaz,
   Which she loved for to show, for to show."

This same house contained a room which the owner set apart for dramatic
and other performances, and here, with much mock state, we once held a
"commencement," the Latin programme of which was carefully prepared by
Professor Lane of Harvard University. I acted as president of the
occasion, Colonel Higginson as my aid; and we both marched up the aisle
in Oxford caps and gowns, and took our places on the platform. I opened
the proceedings by an address in Latin, Greek, and English; and when I
turned to Colonel Higginson, and called him, "Filie meum dilectissime,"
he wickedly replied with three bows of such comic gravity that I almost
gave way to unbecoming laughter. Not long before this he had published
his paper on the Greek goddesses. I therefore assigned as his theme the
problem, "How to sacrifice an Irish bull to a Greek goddess." Colonel
Waring, the well-known engineer, being at that time in charge of a
valuable farm in the neighborhood, was invited to discuss "Social small
potatoes; how to enlarge the eyes." An essay on rhinosophy was given by
Fanny Fern, the which I, chalk in hand, illustrated on the blackboard by
the following equation:--

  "Nose + nose + nose = proboscis
   Nose - nose - nose = snub."

A class was called upon for recitations from Mother Goose in seven
different languages. At the head of this Professor Goodwin, then and now
of Harvard, honored us with a Greek version of "The Man in the Moon." A
recent Harvard graduate recited the following:--

  "Heu! iter didulum,
    Felis cum fidulum,
  Vacca transiluit lunam,
    Caniculus ridet
    Quum talem videt,
  Et dish ambulavit cum spoonam."

The question being asked whether this last line was in strict accordance
with grammar, the scholar gave the following rule: "The conditions of
grammar should always give way to the exigencies of rhyme."

A supposed graduate of the department of law coming forward to receive
her degree, was thus addressed: "Come hither, my dear little lamb, I
welcome you to a long career at the _baa_."

As I record these extravagances, I seem to hear faint reverberations of
the laughter of some who are no longer in life, and of others who will
never again meet in such lightness of heart.

This brilliant conjunction of stars was now no more in Newport, and the
delicious fooling of that unique summer was never repeated. Out of it
came, however, the more serious and permanent association known as the
Town and Country Club of Newport. Of this I was at once declared
president, but my great good fortune lay in my having for vice-president
Professor William B. Rogers, illustrious as the founder of the
Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

The rapid _crescendo_ of the fast world which surrounded us at this time
made sober people a little anxious lest the Newport season should
entirely evaporate into the shallow pursuit of amusement. This rampant
gayety offered little or nothing to the more thoughtful members of
society,--those who love to combine reasonable intercourse with work and

[Illustration: THE HOME AT NEWPORT

_From a photograph by Briskham and Davidson._]

I felt the need of upholding the higher social ideals, and of not
leaving true culture unrepresented, even in a summer watering-place.
Professor Rogers entered very fully into these views. With his help a
simple plan of organization was effected, and a small governing board
was appointed. Colonel Higginson became our treasurer, Miss Juliet R.
Goodwin, granddaughter of Hon. Asher Robbins, was our secretary. Samuel
Powel, formerly of Philadelphia, a man much in love with natural
science, was one of our most valued members. Our membership was limited
to fifty. Our club fee was two dollars. Our meetings took place once in
ten days. At each meeting a lecture was given on some topic of history,
science, or general literature. Tea and conversation followed, and the
party usually broke up after a session of two hours. Colonel Higginson
once deigned to say that this club made it possible to be sensible even
at Newport and during the summer. The names of a few persons show what
we aimed at, and how far we succeeded. We had scientific lectures from
Professor Rogers, Professor Alexander Agassiz, Dr. Weir Mitchell, and
others. Maria Mitchell, professor of astronomy at Vassar College, gave
us a lecture on Saturn. Miss Kate Hillard spoke to us several times.
Professor Thomas Davidson unfolded for us the philosophy of Aristotle.
Rev. George E. Ellis gave us a lecture on the Indians of Rhode Island,
and another on Bishop Berkeley. Professor Bailey of Providence spoke on
insectivorous plants, and on one occasion we enjoyed in his company a
club picnic at Paradise, after which the wild flowers in that immediate
vicinity were gathered and explained. Colonel Higginson ministered to
our instruction and entertainment, and once unbent so far as to act with
me and some others in a set of charades. The historian George Bancroft
was one of our number, as was also Miss Anna Ticknor, founder of the
Society for the Encouragement of Studies at Home. Among the worthies
whom we honor in remembrance I must not omit to mention Rev. Charles T.
Brooks, the beloved pastor of the Unitarian church. Mr. Brooks was a
scholar of no mean pretensions, and a man of most delightful presence.
He had come to Newport immediately after graduating at Harvard Divinity
School, and here he remained, faithfully at work, until the close of his
pastoral labors, a period of forty years. He was remarkably youthful in
aspect, and retained to the last the bloom and bright smile of his
boyhood. His sermons were full of thought and of human interest; but
while bestowing much care upon them, he found time to give to the world
a metrical translation of Goethe's "Faust" and an English version of the
"Titan" of Jean Paul Richter.

Professor Davidson's lecture on Aristotle touched so deeply the chords
of thought as to impel some of us to pursue the topic further. Dear
Charles Brooks invited an adjourned meeting of the club to be held in
his library. At this several learned men were present. Professor Boyesen
spoke to us of the study of Aristotle in Germany; Professor Botta of its
treatment in the universities of Italy. The laity asked many questions,
and the fine library of our host afforded the books of reference needed
for their enlightenment.

The club proceedings here enumerated cover a period of more than thirty
years. The world around us meanwhile had reached the height of
fashionable success. An entertainment, magnificent for those days, was
given, which was said to have cost ten thousand dollars. Samuel Powel
prophesied that a collapse must follow such extravagance. A change
certainly did follow. The old, friendly Newport gradually disappeared.
The place was given over to the splendid festivities of fashion, which
is "nothing if not fashionable." Under this influence it still abides.
The four-in-hand is its climax. Dances can be enjoyed only by those who
can begin them at eleven o'clock at night, and end in the small hours of
the morning. If one attends a party, one sees the hall as full of
lackeys as would be displayed at a London entertainment in high life.
They are English lackeys, too, and their masters and mistresses affect
as much of the Anglican mode of doing things as Americans can fairly
master. The place has all its old beauty, with many modern improvements
of convenience; but its exquisite social atmosphere, half rustic, half
cosmopolitan, and wholly free, is found no longer. The quiet visitors of
moderate fortunes find their tastes better suited across the bay, at
Jamestown and Narragansett Pier. Thus whole generations of the
transients have come and gone since the time of my early memories.



In 1877 I went abroad with my daughter Maud, now Mrs. Elliott, and with
her revisited England, France, and Italy. In London we had the pleasure
of being entertained by Lord Houghton, whom I had known, thirty or more
years earlier, as a bachelor. He was now the father of two attractive
daughters, and of a son who later succeeded to his title. At a breakfast
at his house I met Mr. Waddington, who was at that time very prominent
in French politics. At one of Lord Houghton's receptions I witnessed the
entrance of a rather awkward man, and was told that this was Mr. Irving,
whose performance of Hamlet was then much talked of. Here I met the
widow of Barry Cornwall, who was also the mother of the lamented
Adelaide Procter.

An evening at Devonshire House and a ball at Mr. Goschen's were among
our gayeties. At the former place I saw Mr. Gladstone for the first
time, and met Lord Rosebery, whom I had known in America. I had met Mrs.
Schliemann and had received from her an invitation to attend a meeting
(I think) of the Royal Geographical Society, at which she was to make an
address. Her theme was a plea in favor of the modern pronunciation of
Greek. It was much applauded, and the discussion of the views presented
by her was opened by Mr. Gladstone himself.

Lord Houghton one day asked whether I should like to go to breakfast
with Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone. One reply only to such a question was
possible, and on the morning appointed we drove together to the
Gladstone mansion. We were a little early, for Mrs. Gladstone complained
that the flowers ordered from her country seat had but just arrived. A
daughter of the house proceeded to arrange them. Breakfast was served at
two round tables, exactly alike.

I was glad to find myself seated between the great man and the Greek
minister, John Gennadius. The talk ran a good deal upon Hellenics, and I
spoke of the influence of the Greek in the formation of the Italian
language, to which Mr. Gladstone did not agree. I know that scholars
differ on this point, but I still retain the opinion which I then
expressed. I ventured a timid remark regarding the great number of Greek
derivatives used in our common English speech. Mr. Gladstone said very
abruptly, "How? What? English words derived from Greek?" and almost

  "Frightened Miss Muffet away."

He was said to be habitually disputatious, and I thought that this must
certainly be the case; for he surely knew better than most people how
largely and familiarly we incorporate the words of Plato, Aristotle, and
Xenophon in our every-day talk.

Lord Houghton also took me one evening to a reception at the house of
Mr. Palgrave. At a dinner given in our honor at Greenwich, I was
escorted to the table by Mr. Mallock, author of "The New Republic." I
remember him as a young man of medium height and dark complexion. Of his
conversation I can recall only his praise of the Church of Rome. William
Black, the well-known romancer, took tea with me at my lodgings one
afternoon. Here I also received Mr. Green, author of "A Short History of
the English People," and Mr. Knowles, editor of the "Nineteenth

Mrs. Delia Stuart Parnell, whom I had known in America, had given me a
letter of introduction to her son Charles, who was already conspicuous
as an advocate of Home Rule for Ireland. He called upon me and appointed
a day when I should go with him to the House of Commons. He came for me
in his brougham, and saw me safely deposited in the ladies' gallery. He
was then at the outset of his stormy career, and his younger sister told
me that he had in Parliament but one supporter of his views, "a man
named Biggar." He certainly had admirers elsewhere, for I remember
having met a disciple of his, O'Connor by name, at a "rout" given by
Mrs. Justin McCarthy. I asked this lady if her husband agreed with Mr.
Parnell. She replied with warmth, "Of course; we are all Home Rulers

We passed some weeks in Paris, where I found many new objects of
interest. I here made acquaintance with M. Charles Lemonnier, who for
many years edited a radical paper named "Les Etats Unis d'Europe." He
was the husband of Elise Lemonnier, the founder of a set of industrial
schools for women which bore her name, in grateful memory of this great

I had met M. Desmoulins at a Peace Congress in America, and was indebted
to him for the pleasure of an evening visit to Victor Hugo at his own
residence. In "The History of a Crime," which was then just published,
M. Hugo mentions M. Desmoulins as one who suffered, as he did, from the
_coup d'état_ which made Louis Napoleon emperor.

A congress of _gens de lettres_ was announced in those days, and I
received a card for the opening meeting, which was held in the large
Châtelet Theatre. Victor Hugo presided, and read from a manuscript an
address of some length, in a clear, firm voice. The Russian novelist,
Tourgenieff, was also one of the speakers. He was then somewhat less
than sixty years of age. Victor Hugo was at least fifteen years older,
but, though his hair was silver white, the fire of his dark eyes was

I sought to obtain entrance to the subsequent sittings of this congress,
but was told that no ladies could be admitted. I became acquainted at
this time with Frederic Passy, the well-known writer on political
economy. Through his kindness I was enabled to attend a meeting of the
French Academy, and to see the Immortals in their armchairs, and in
their costume, a sort of quaint long coat, faced with the traditional
palms stamped or embroidered on green satin.

The entertainment was a varied one. The principal discourse eulogized
several deceased members of the august body, and among them the young
artist, Henri Regnault, whose death was much deplored. This was followed
by an essay on Raphael's pictures of the Fornarina, and by another on
the social status of the early Christians, in which it was maintained
that wealth had been by no means a contraband among them, and that the
holding of goods in common had been but a temporary feature of the new
discipline. The exercises concluded with the performance by chorus and
orchestra of a musical composition, which had for its theme the familiar
Bible story of "Rebecca at the Well." A noticeable French feature of
this was the indignation of Laban when he found his sister "alone with a
man," the same being the messenger sent by Abraham to ask the young
girl's hand in marriage for his son. The prospect of an advantageous
matrimonial alliance seemed to set this right, and the piece concluded
with reëstablished harmony.

My friend M. Frederic Passy asked me one day whether I should like to
see the crowning of a _rosière_ in a suburban town. He explained to me
that this ceremony was of annual occurrence, and that it usually had
reference to some meritorious conduct on the part of a young girl who
was selected to be publicly rewarded as the best girl of her town or
village. This honor was accompanied by a gift of some hundreds of
francs, intended to serve as the marriage portion of the young girl. I
gladly accepted the ticket of admission offered me by M. Passy, the more
as he was to be the orator of the occasion, fixed for a certain Sunday

After a brief railroad journey I reached the small town, the name of
which escapes my memory, and found the notables of the place assembled
in a convenient hall, the mayor presiding. Soon a band of music was
heard approaching, and the _rosière_, with her escort, entered and took
the place assigned her. She was dressed in white silk, with a wreath of
white roses around her head. A canopy was held over her, and at her side
walked another young girl, dressed also in white, but of a less
expensive material. This, they told me, was the _rosière_ of the year
before who, according to custom, waited upon her successor to the

Upon the mayor devolved the duty of officially greeting and
complimenting the _rosière_. M. Passy's oration followed. His theme was
religious toleration. As an instance of this he told us how, at the
funeral of the great Channing in Boston, Archbishop Chevereux caused the
bells of the cathedral to be tolled, as an homage to the memory of his
illustrious friend. It appeared to me whimsical that I should come to an
obscure suburb of Paris to hear of this. At home I had never heard it
mentioned. Mrs. Eustis, Dr. Channing's daughter, on being questioned,
assured me that she perfectly remembered the occurrence.
M. Passy presented me with a volume of his essays on questions of
political economy. Among the topics therein treated was the vexed
problem, "Does expensive living enrich the community?" I was glad to
learn that he gave lectures upon his favorite science to classes of
young women as well as of young men.

Among my pleasant recollections of Paris at this time is that of a visit
to the studio of Gustave Doré, which came about on this wise. An English
clergyman whom we had met in London happened to be in Paris at this
time, and one day informed us that he had had some correspondence with
Doré, and had suggested to the latter a painting of the Resurrection
from a new point of view. This should represent, not the opening grave,
but the gates of heaven unclosing to receive the ascending form of the
Master. The artist had promised to illustrate this subject, and our new
friend invited us to accompany him to the studio, where he hoped to find
the picture well advanced. Accordingly, on a day appointed, we knocked
at the artist's door and were admitted. The apartment was vast, well
proportioned to the unusual size of many of the works of art which hung
upon the walls.

Doré received us with cordiality, and showed Mr. ---- the picture which
he had suggested, already nearly completed. He appeared to be about
forty years of age, in figure above medium height, well set up and
balanced. His eyes were blue, his hair dark, his facial expression very
genial. After some conversation with the English visitor, he led the way
to his latest composition, which represented the van of a traveling
showman, in front of which stood its proprietor, holding in his arms the
body of his little child, just dead, in the middle of his performance.
Beside him stood his wife, in great grief, and at her feet the trick
dogs, fantastically dressed, showed in their brute countenances the
sympathy which those animals often evince when made aware of some
misfortune befalling their master.

Here we also saw a model of the enormous vase which the artist had sent
to the exposition of that year (1879), and which William W. Story
contemptuously called "Doré's bottle."

The artist professed himself weary of painting for the moment. He seemed
to have taken much interest in his recent modeling, and called our
attention to a genius cast in bronze, which he had hoped that the
municipality would have purchased for the illumination of the "Place de
l'Opéra." The head was surrounded by a coronet intended to give forth
jets of flame, while the wings and body should be outlined by lights of
another color.

In the course of conversation, I remarked to him that his artistic
career must have begun early in life. He replied:--

"Indeed, madam, I was hardly twenty years of age when I produced my
illustrations of the 'Wandering Jew.'"

I had more than once visited the Doré Gallery in London, and I spoke to
him of a study of grasses there exhibited, which, with much else, I had
found admirable.

I believe that Doré's works are severely dealt with by art critics, and
especially by such of them as are themselves artists. Whatever may be
the defects of his work, I feel sure that he has produced some paintings
which deserve to live in the public esteem. Among these I would include
his picture of Christ's Entry into Jerusalem, for the contrast therein
shown between the popular enthusiasm and the indifference of a group of
richly dressed women, seated in a balcony, and according no attention
whatever to the procession passing in the street just below them.

Worthy to be mentioned with this is his painting of Francesca da Rimini
and her lover, as Dante saw them in his vision of hell. Mrs. Longfellow
once showed me an engraving of this work, exclaiming, as she pointed to
Francesca, "What southern passion in that face!"

I was invited several times to speak while in Paris. I chose for the
theme of my first lecture, "Associations of Women in the United States."
The chairman of the committee of invitation privately requested me
beforehand not to speak either of woman suffrage or of the Christian
religion. He said that the first was dreaded in France because many
supposed that the woman's vote, if conceded, would bring back the
dominion of the Catholic priesthood; while the Christian religion, to a
French audience, would mean simply the Church of Rome. I spoke in French
and without notes, though not without preparation. No tickets were sold
for these lectures and no fee was paid. A large salver, laid on a table
near the entrance of the hall, was intended to receive voluntary
contributions towards the inevitable expenses of the evening. I was
congratulated, after the lecture, for having spoken with "_tant de bonne

Before leaving Paris I was invited to take part in a congress of woman's
rights (_congrès du droit des femmes_). It was deemed proper to elect
two presidents for this occasion, and I had the honor of being chosen as
one of them, the other being a gentleman well known in public life. My
co-president addressed me throughout the meeting as "Madame la
Présidente." The proceedings naturally were carried on in the French
language. Colonel T. W. Higginson was present, as was Theodore Stanton,
son of Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Among the lady speakers was one, of
whom I was told that she possessed every advantage of wealth and social
position. She was attired like a woman of fashion, and yet she proved to
be an ardent suffragist. Somewhat in contrast with these sober doings
was a ball given by the artist Healy at his residence. In accepting the
invitation to attend this party, I told Mrs. Healy in jest that I should
insist upon dancing with her husband, whom I had known for many years.
Soon after my entrance Mrs. Healy said to me, "Mrs. Howe, your quadrille
is ready for you. See what company you are to have." I looked and beheld
General Grant and M. Gambetta, who led out Mrs. Grant, while her husband
had Mrs. Healy for his partner.

At this ball I met Mrs. Evans, wife of the well-known dentist, who, in
1870, aided the escape of the Empress Eugénie. Mrs. Evans wore in her
hair a diamond necklace, said to have been given to her by the Empress.

I found in Paris a number of young women, students of art and medicine,
who appeared to lead very isolated lives and to have little or no
acquaintance with one another. The need of a point of social union for
these young people appearing to me very great, I invited a few of them
to meet me at my lodgings. After some discussion we succeeded in
organizing a small club which, I am told, still exists.

Marshal MacMahon was at this time President of the French republic. I
attended an evening reception given by him in honor of General and Mrs.
Grant. Our host was supposed to be the head of the Bonapartist faction,
and I heard some rumors of an intended _coup d'état_ which should bring
back imperialism and place Plon-Plon[4] on the throne. This was not to
be. The legitimist party held the Imperialists in check, and the
Republicans were strong enough to hold their own.

[Footnote 4: The nickname for Prince Napoleon.]

I remember Marshal MacMahon as a man of medium height, with no very
distinguishing feature. He was dressed in uniform and wore many

We passed on to Italy. Soon after my arrival in Florence I was asked to
speak on suffrage at the _Circolo Filologico_, one of the favorite halls
of the city. The attendance was very large. I made my argument in
French, and when it was ended a dear old-fashioned conservative in the
gallery stood up to speak, and told off all the counter pleas with which
suffragists are familiar,--the loss of womanly grace, the neglect of
house and family, etc. When he had finished speaking a charming Italian
matron, still young and handsome, sprang forward and took me by the
hand, saying, "I feel to take the hand of this sister from America."
Cordial applause followed this and I was glad to hear my new friend
respond with much grace to our crabbed opponent in the gallery. The
sympathy of the audience was evidently with us.

A morning visit to the Princess Belgioiosa may deserve a passing
mention. This lady was originally Princess Ghika, of a noble Roumanian
family. She had married a Russian--Count Murherstsky. I never knew the
origin of the Italian title. My dear friend, Mrs. Ednah D. Cheney, went
with me to the princess's villa, which was at some distance from the
city proper. Although the winter was well begun she received us in a
room without fire. She was wrapped in furs from head to foot while we
shivered with cold. She appeared to be about sixty years of age, and
showed no traces of the beauty which I had seen in a portrait of her
taken in her youth. She spoke English fluently, but with idioms derived
from other languages, in some of which I should have understood her more
easily than in my own.

Our first winter abroad was passed in Rome, which I now saw for the
first time as the capital of a united Italy. The king, "_Il Re
Galantuomo_," was personally popular with all save the partisans of the
Pope's temporal dominion. I met him more than once driving on Monte
Pinciano. He was of large stature, with a countenance whose extreme
plainness was redeemed by an expression of candor and of good humor.

In the course of this winter Victor Emmanuel died. The marks of public
grief at this event were unmistakable. The ransomed land mourned its
sovereign as with one heart.

I recall vividly the features of the king's funeral procession, which
was resplendent with wreaths and banners sent from every part of Italy.
The monarch's remains were borne in a crimson coach of state, drawn by
six horses. His own favorite war-horse followed, veiled in crape. Nobles
and servants of noble houses walked before and after the coach in
brilliant costumes, bareheaded, carrying in their hands lighted torches
of wax. I stood to see this wonderful sight with my dear friend Sarah
Clarke, at a window of her apartment opposite to the Barberini Palaces.
As the cortége swept by I dropped my tribute of flowers.

I was also present when King Umberto took the oath of office before the
Italian Parliament, to whose members in turn the oath of allegiance was
administered. In a box, in full view, were seated a number of royalties,
to wit, Queen Margherita, her sister-in-law, the Queen of Portugal, the
Prince of Wales, and the then Crown Prince of Germany, loved and
lamented as "_unser Fritz_." The little Prince of Naples sat with his
royal mother, and kindly Albert Edward of England lifted him in his arms
at the crowning moment in order that he might better see what was going

By a curious chance I had one day the pleasure of taking part with
Madame Ristori in a reading which made part of an entertainment given in
aid of a public charity. Madame Ristori had promised to read on this
occasion the scene from the play of Maria Stuart, in which she meets and
overcrows her rival, Queen Elizabeth. The friend who should have read
the part of this latter personage was suddenly disabled by illness, and
I was pressed into the service. Our last rehearsal was held in the
anteroom of the hall while the musical part of the entertainment was
going on. Madame Ristori made me repeat my part several times, insisting
that my manner was too reserved and would make hers appear extravagant.
I did my best to conform to her wishes, and the reading was duly

Another historic death followed that of Victor Emmanuel after the
interval of a month. Pope Pius IX. had reigned too long to be deeply
mourned by his spiritual subjects, one of whom remarked in answer to my
condolence, "I should think that he had lived long enough." This same
friend, however, claimed for Pio the rare merit of having abstained from
enriching his own family, and said that when the niece of the Pontiff
was married her uncle bestowed on her nothing save the diamonds which
had been presented to him by the Sultan of Turkey. Be it also
remembered, to his eternal credit, that Pio would not allow the last
sacraments to be denied to the king, who had been his political enemy.
"He was always a sincere Catholic," said the Pope, "and he shall not die
without the sacraments."

My dear sister, Mrs. Terry, went with me to attend the consecration of
the new Pope, which took place in the Sistine Chapel. Leo XIII. was
brought into the church with the usual pomp, robed in white silk,
preceded by a brand new pair of barbaric fans, and wearing his triple
crown. He was attended by a procession of high dignitaries, civil and
ecclesiastic, the latter resplendent with costly silks, furs, and
jewels. I think that what interested me most was the chapter of the
Gospel which the Pope read in Greek, and which I found myself able to
follow. After the elevation of the host, the new Pontiff retired for a
brief space of time to partake, it was said, of some slight refreshment.
As is well known, the celebrant and communicant at the Mass must remain
in a fasting condition from the midnight preceding the ceremony until
after its conclusion. For some reason which I have never heard
explained, Pope Leo, in his receptions, revived some points of ceremony
which his predecessors had allowed to lapse. In the time of Gregory
XVI., Protestants had only been expected to make certain genuflections
on approaching and on leaving the pontifical presence. Pope Leo required
that all persons presented to him should kneel and kiss his hand. This,
as a Protestant, I could never consent to do, and so was obliged to
forego the honor of presentation. It was said in Rome that a brother of
the Pope, a plain man from the country, called upon him just before or
after his coronation. He was very stout in person, and objected to the
inconvenience of kneeling for the ceremonial kiss. The Pope, however,
insisted, and his relative departed, threatening never to return.



Time would fail me if I should undertake to mention the valued
friendships which have gladdened my many years in Boston, or to indicate
the social pleasures which have alternated with my more serious
pursuits. One or two of these friends I must mention, lest my
reminiscences should be found lacking in the good savor of gratitude.

I have already spoken of seeing the elder Richard H. Dana from time to
time during the years of my young ladyhood in New York. He himself was
surely a transcendental, of an apart and individual school.
Nevertheless, the transcendentals of Boston did not come within either
his literary or his social sympathies. I never heard him express any
admiration for Mr. Emerson. He may, indeed, have done so at a later
period; for Mr. Emerson in the end won for himself the heart of New
England, which had long revolted at his novelties of thought and
expression. Mr. Dana's ideal evidently was Washington Allston, for whom
his attachment amounted almost to worship. The pair were sometimes
spoken of in that day as "two old-world men who sat by the fire
together, and upheld each other in aversion to the then prevailing state
of things."

I twice had the pleasure of seeing Washington Allston. My first sight of
him was in my early youth when, being in Boston with my father for a
brief visit, my dear tutor, Joseph G. Cogswell, undertook to give us
this pleasure. Mr. Allston's studio was in Cambridgeport. He admitted no
one within it during his working hours, save occasionally his friend
Franklin Dexter, who was obliged to announce his presence by a
particular way of knocking at the door. Mr. Cogswell managed to get
possession of this secret, and when we drove to the door of the studio
he made use of the well-known signal. "Dexter, is that you?" cried a
voice from within. A moment later saw us within the sanctuary.

My father was intending to order a picture from Mr. Allston, and this
circumstance amply justified Mr. Cogswell, in his own opinion, for the
stratagem employed to gain us admittance. Mr. Allston was surprised but
not disconcerted by our entrance, and proceeded to do the honors of the
rather bare apartment with genial grace. He had not then unrolled his
painting of Belshazzar's Feast, which, begun many years before that
time, had long been left in an unfinished condition.

As I remember, the great artist had but little to show us. My father was
especially pleased with a group, one figure of which was a copy of
Titian's well-known portrait of his daughter, the other being a somewhat
commonplace representation of a young girl of modern times.

My father afterwards told me that he had thought of purchasing this
picture. While he was deliberating about it Thomas Cole the landscape
painter called upon him, bringing the design of four pictures
illustrating the course of human life. The artist's persuasion induced
him to give an order for this work, which was not completed until after
my dear parent's death, when we found it something of a white elephant.
The pictures were suitable only for a gallery, and as none of us felt
able to indulge in such a luxury they were afterward sold to some public
institution, with a considerable loss on our part.

Some years after my marriage I encountered Mr. Allston in Chestnut
Street, Boston, on a bitter winter day. He had probably been visiting
his friend Mr. Dana, who resided in that street. The ground was covered
with snow, and Mr. Allston, with his snowy curls and old-fashioned
attire, looked like an impersonation of winter, his luminous dark eyes
suggesting the fire which warms the heart of the cold season. The
wonderful beauty of the face, intensified by age, impressed me deeply.
He did not recognize me, having seen me but once, and we passed without
any salutation; but his living image in my mind takes precedence of all
the shadowy shapes which his magic placed upon canvas.

Boston should never forget the famous dinner given to Charles Dickens on
the occasion of his first visit to America in 1842. Among the wits who
made the feast one to be remembered Allston shone, a bright particular
star. He was a reader of Dickens, but was much averse to serials, and
waited always for the publication of the stories in book form. He died
while one of these was approaching completion, I forget which it was,
but remember that Felton, commenting upon this, said, "This shows what a
mistake it is not to read the numbers as they are issued. He has thereby
lost the whole of this story when he might have enjoyed a part of it."

One other singular figure comes back to me across the wide waste of
years, and seems to ask some mention at my hands.

The figure is that of Thomas Gold Appleton, a man whom, in his own
despite, the old Boston dearly cherished. In appearance he was of rather
more than medium height, and his countenance, which was not handsome,
bore a curious resemblance to that of his beautiful sister Fanny, the
beloved wife of the poet Longfellow. He wore his hair in what might have
been called elf locks, and the expression of his dark blue eyes varied
from one of intense melancholy to amused observation.


_From a photograph lent by Mrs. John Murray Forbes._]

Tom Appleton, as he was usually called, was certainly a man of parts and
of great reputation as a wit, but I should rather have termed him a
humorist. He cultivated a Byronic distaste for the Puritanic ways of New
England. In truth, he was always ready for an encounter of arms
(figuratively speaking) with institutions and with individuals, while
yet in heart he was most human and humane. Born in affluence, he did not
embrace either business or profession, but devoted much time to the
study of painting, for which he had more taste than talent. It was as a
word artist that he was remarkable; and his graphic felicities of
expression led Mr. Emerson to quote him as "the first conversationalist
in America," an eminence which I, for my part, should have been more
inclined to accord to Dr. Holmes.

He loved European life, and had many friends among the notabilities of
English society. He was a fellow passenger on the steamer which carried
Dr. Howe and myself as far as Liverpool on our wedding journey. People
in our cabin were apt to call for a Welsh rabbit before turning in for
the night. Apropos of this, he remarked to me, "You eat a rabbit before
going to bed, and presently you dream that you are a shelf with a large
cheese resting upon it."

He was much attached to his father, of whom he once said to me, "We
don't dare to mention anything pathetic at our table. If we did, father
would be sure to spoil the soup" (with his tears, being understood). The
elder Appleton belonged to the congregation of the Federal Street
Church. I asked his son if he ever attended service there. He said, "Oh,
yes; I sometimes go to hear the minister exhort that assemblage of weary
ones to forsake the vanities of life. Looking at the choir, I see some
forlorn women who seem, from the way in which they open their mouths, to
mistake the congregation for a dentist." He did not care for music. At a
party devoted to classical performances, he turned to me: "Mrs. Howe,
are you going to give us something from the symphony in P?"

He was much of an amateur in art, literature, and life, never appearing
to take serious hold of matters either social or political. Wendell
Phillips had been his schoolmate, and the two, in company with John
Lothrop Motley, had fought many battles with wooden swords in the
Appleton garret. For some unexplained reason, he had but little faith in
Phillips's philanthropy, and the relations of childhood between the two
did not extend to their later life.

His Atlantic voyages became so frequent that he once said to a friend,
"I always keep my steamer ticket in my pocket, like a soda-water
ticket." Indeed, his custom almost carried out this saying. I have heard
that once, being in New York, he invited friends to breakfast with him
at his hotel. On arriving they found only a note informing them of his
departure for Europe on that very morning.

I myself one day invited him to dinner with other friends, among whom
was his sister, Mrs. Longfellow. We waited long for him, and I at last
said to Mrs. Longfellow, "What can it be that detains your brother so

"I don't know, indeed," was her reply.

"Your brother?" cried one of the guests. "I met him this morning on his
way to the steamer. He must have sailed some hours since."

A friend once spoke to him of matrimony, of which he said in reply,
"Marriage? I could never undergo it unless I was held, and took

Yet those who knew him well supposed that he had had some romance of his
own. To his praise be it said that he was a man of many friendships, and
by no means destitute of public spirit.

It was from Mr. Dana that I first heard of John Sullivan Dwight, whom he
characterized as a man of moderate calibre, who had "set up for an
infidel," and who had dared to speak of the Apostle to the Gentiles as
Paul, without the prefix of his saintship. In the early years of my
residence in Boston I sometimes heard of Mr. Dwight as a disciple of
Fourier, a transcendental of the transcendentals, and a prominent member
of a socialist club.

I first came to know him well when Madame Sontag was singing in Boston.
We met often at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Schlesinger-Benzon, a house
which deserves grateful remembrance from every lover of music who was
admitted to its friendly and æsthetic interior. Many were the merry and
musical festivities enjoyed under that hospitable roof. The house was of
moderate dimensions and in a part of Boylston Street now wholly devoted
to business. Mrs. Benzon was a sister of the well-known Lehmann artists
and of the father of the late coach of the Harvard boating crew. She was
very fond of music, and it was at one of her soirées that Elise Hensler
made her first appearance and sang, with fine expression and a beautiful
fresh voice, the air from "Robert le Diable:"--

  "Va, dit-elle, va, mon enfant,
   Dire au fils qui m'a delaissée."

These friends, with others, interested themselves in Miss Hensler's
musical education and enabled her to complete her studies in Paris. As
is well known, she became a favorite prima donna in light opera, and was
finally heard of as the morganatic wife of the King (consort) Ferdinand
of Portugal.

Madame Sontag and her husband, Count Rossi, came often to the Benzon
house. I met them there one day at dinner, when in the course of
conversation Madame Sontag said that she never acted in private life.
The count remarked rather rudely, "I saw you enact the part of Zerlina
quite recently." This was probably intended for a harmless pleasantry,
but the lady's change of color showed that it did not amuse her.

Before this time Dwight's "Journal of Music" had published a very
friendly review of my first volume of poems. It did not diminish my
appreciation of this kind service to learn in later years that it had
been rendered by Mrs. Ednah D. Cheney, then scarcely an acquaintance of
mine, to-day an esteemed friend of many years, whom I have found
excellent in counsel and constant and loyal in regard.

During the many years of my life at South Boston, Mr. Dwight and his
wife were among the faithful few who would brave the disagreeable little
trip in the omnibus and across the bridge with the low draw, to enliven
my fireside. I valued these guests very highly, having had occasion to
perceive that Bostonians are apt to limit their associations to the
regions in which they are most at home. Speaking of this once with a
friend, I said, "In Boston Love crosses the bridge, but Friendship stops
at the Common."

After the death of his wife Mr. Dwight had many lonely years. He was
very fond of young people, and as my younger children grew up he became
strongly attached to them. As editor of the "Journal of Music" he was
the recipient of tickets for musical entertainments of all sorts. His
enjoyment of these was heightened by congenial company, and to my
children, and later to my grandchildren, he was the great dispenser of
musical delights. He was to us almost as one of the family, and to him
our doors were never closed. His was a very individual strain of
character, combining a rather flamboyant imagination with a severe
taste. He could never accept the Wagner cult, and stood obstinately for
the limits of classical music, insisting even that the performance of
Wagner's operas perverted the tone both of strings and brasses, and that
it took some time for the instruments to recover from this misuse. He
had much to do with the formation of the Harvard Musical Association,
and the programmes which he arranged for its concerts are precious in

Dr. Holmes sat near me at Mr. Dwight's funeral, which took place in the
Harvard rooms, whose presiding genius he had been. The services were
very simple and genial. Some lovely singing, a poetical tribute or so,
some heart-warm words spoken by friends, mingled with the customary
prayer and scripture reading. In the interval of silence before these
began, Dr. Holmes said to me, in a low tone, "Mrs. Howe, we may almost
imagine the angels who announced a certain nativity to be hovering near
these remains."

Otto Dresel, beloved as an artist and dreaded as a critic, was an
intimate of the Benzon household, and was almost idolized by Mr. Dwight.
He had the misfortune to be over-critical, but no less so of himself
than of others. He did much to raise the appreciation of music in
Boston, possessed as he was with a sense of the dignity and sacredness
of the art. His compositions, not many in number, had a deep poetical
charm, as had also his soulful interpretation of Chopin's works. As a
teacher he was unrivaled. Two of my daughters were indebted to him for a
very valuable musical education.

Boston has seemed darker to me since the light of this eminent musical
intelligence has left it. I subjoin a tribute of my affection for him in
these lines, which were suggested by Mr. Loeffler's rendering of
Handel's "Largo" at a concert, especially dedicated to the memory of
this dear friend. I also add a verse descriptive of the effect of the
funeral march from Beethoven's "Heroica," which made part of the
programme in question.


    _Boston Music Hall, October 11, 1890._


  On every shining stair an angel stood,
    And to our dear one said, "Walk higher, friend."
  Till, rapt from earth, in a celestial mood,
    He passed from sight to blessings without end;
  And where his feet had trod, a radiant flood
    His lofty message of content did send.


  The heavy steps that 'neath new burdens tread,
  The heavy hearts that wait upon the dead,
  The struggling thoughts that single out, through tears,
  The happy memories of bygone years,
  And on the deaf and silent presence call:
  O friend belov'd! O master! is this all?
  But as the cadence moves, the song flowers fling
  To us the promise of eternal spring,
  Love that survives the wreck of its delight,
  And goes, torch bearing, into darksome night.
  Trumpet and drum have marked the victor's way,
  The seraph voices now their legend say:
  "O loving friends! refrain your waiting fond;
  The gates are passed, and heaven is bright beyond."

In March, 1885, I had the unspeakable grief of losing my dear eldest
daughter, Julia Romana, of whose birth in Rome I have made mention. She
was a person of rare endowments and of great originality of character,
inheriting much of her father's personal shyness, but more of his
benevolence and public spirit. She was the constant companion and
faithful ally of that beloved parent. During the years of our residence
in the city, she would often walk over with him to South Boston before
breakfast. She delighted in giving lessons to the blind pupils of the
Institution, and succeeded so well in teaching German to a class of the
blind teachers that these were enabled, on visiting Germany, to use and
understand the language. She read extensively, and was gifted with so
retentive a memory that we were accustomed to refer to her disputed
dates and other questions in history. A small volume of her verses has
been printed, with the title of "Stray Chords." Some of these poems show
remarkable depth of thought and great felicity of expression.


_From a photograph._]

A new source of delight was opened to her by the summer school of
philosophy held for some years at Concord, Mass. Here her mind seemed to
have found its true level, and I cannot think of the sittings of the
school without a vision of the rapt expression of her face as she sat
and listened to the various speakers. Something of this pleasure found
expression in a slender volume named "Philosophiæ Quæstor," in which she
has preserved some features of the school, now, alas! a thing of remote
remembrance. The impressions of it also took shape in a club which she
gathered about her, and to which she gave the name of the Metaphysical
Club. It was beautiful to see her seated in the midst of this thoughtful
circle, which she seemed to rule with a staff of lilies. The club was
one in which diversity of opinion sometimes brought individuals into
sharp contrast with each other, but her gentle government was able to
bring harmony out of discord, and to subdue alike the crudeness of
skepticism and the fierceness of intolerance.

Her interest in her father's pupils was unremitting. A friend said to me
not long ago, "It was one of the sights of Boston in the days of the
Harvard musical concerts to see your Julia's radiant face as she would
come into Music Hall, leading a blind pupil by either hand."

In December, 1869, she became the wife of Michael Anagnos, who was then
my husband's assistant, and who succeeded him as principal of the
Institution at South Boston. After fifteen years of happy wedlock, she
suffered a long and painful illness which terminated fatally. Almost her
last thought was of her beloved club, and she asked that a valued friend
might be summoned, that she might consult with him, no doubt, as to its
future management. To her husband she said, "Be kind to the little blind
children, for they are papa's children." These parting words of hers are
inscribed on the wall of the Kindergarten for the Blind at Jamaica
Plain. Beautiful in life, and most beautiful in death, her sainted
memory has a glory beyond that of worldly fame.

       *       *       *       *       *

A writer of my own sex, years ago, desiring to do me some pen-service,
wrote to me asking for particulars of my life, and emphasizing her
wishes with these words: "I wish to hear not of your literary work, but
of your social successes." I could not at the time remember that I had
had any, and so did not respond to her request. But let us ask what are
social successes? A climb from obscurity to public notice? An abiding
place on the stage of fashionable life? A wardrobe that newspaper
correspondents may report? Fine equipages, furniture, and
entertainments? These things have had small part in my thoughts.

As I take account of my long life, I become well aware of its failures.
What may I chronicle as its successes? It was a great distinction for me
when the foremost philanthropist of the age chose me for his wife. It
was a great success for me when, having been born and bred in New York
city, I found myself able to enter into the intellectual life of Boston,
and to appreciate the "high thinking" of its choice spirits. I have sat
at the feet of the masters of literature, art, and science, and have
been graciously admitted into their fellowship. I have been the chosen
poet of several high festivals, to wit, the celebration of Bryant's
sixtieth birthday, the commemoration of the centenary of his birth, and
the unveiling of the statue of Columbus in Central Park, New York, in
the Columbian year, so called. I have been the founder of a club of
young girls, which has exercised a salutary influence upon the growing
womanhood of my adopted city, and has won for itself an honorable place
in the community, serving also as a model for similar associations in
other cities. I have been for many years the president of the New
England Woman's Club, and of the Association for the Advancement of
Women. I have been heard at the great Prison Congress in England, at
Mrs. Butler's convention _de moralité publique_ in Geneva, Switzerland,
and at more than one convention in Paris. I have been welcomed in
Faneuil Hall, when I have stood there to rehearse the merits of public
men, and later, to plead the cause of oppressed Greece and murdered
Armenia. I have written one poem which, although composed in the stress
and strain of the civil war, is now sung South and North by the
champions of a free government. I have been accounted worthy to listen
and to speak at the Boston Radical Club and at the Concord School of
Philosophy. I have been exalted to occupy the pulpit of my own dear
church and that of others, without regard to denominational limits.
Lastly and chiefly, I have had the honor of pleading for the slave when
he was a slave, of helping to initiate the woman's movement in many
States of the Union, and of standing with the illustrious champions of
justice and freedom, for woman suffrage, when to do so was a thankless
office, involving public ridicule and private avoidance.

  I have made a voyage upon a golden river,
    'Neath clouds of opal and of amethyst.
  Along its banks bright shapes were moving ever,
    And threatening shadows melted into mist.

  The eye, unpracticed, sometimes lost the current,
    When some wild rapid of the tide did whirl,
  While yet a master hand beyond the torrent
    Freed my frail shallop from the perilous swirl.

  Music went with me, fairy flute and viol,
    The utterance of fancies half expressed,
  And with these, steadfast, beyond pause or trial,
    The deep, majestic throb of Nature's breast.

  My journey nears its close--in some still haven
    My bark shall find its anchorage of rest,
  When the kind hand, which every good has given,
    Opening with wider grace, shall give the best.


  Abbott, Francis E.,
    his comparison of Jesus and Socrates, 208;
    expounds his views, 289.

  Abbott, Rev. Jacob,
    stanza to, 91.

  "Accademia," an,
    in Rome, 130.

  Adams, John Quincy,
    on Governor Andrew's staff, 266.

  Adams, Mrs. John (Abigail Smith),
    anecdote of, 36.

  Agassiz, Alexander, 184;
    lectures to the Town and Country Club, 406.

  Agassiz, Louis,
    personal appearance, 182;
    scientific interests, 183;
    attends Mrs. Howe's parlor lectures, 306.

  Agassiz, Mrs. Louis (Elizabeth Cary),
    president of Radcliffe College, 183.

    an Italian patriot, 120.

    dramas of, 57, 206.

  Alger, William R.,
    attends Mrs. Howe's parlor lectures, 306.

  Allston, Washington,
    his studio, 429;
    at a dinner to Charles Dickens, 431.

    ball at, 105, 106.

  Anagnos, Michael, 313;
    marries Julia Romana Howe, 441.

  Anagnos, Mrs. Michael,
    born at Rome, 128;
    accompanies her parents to Europe, 313;
    her death, 439;
    her work and study, 440;
    her Metaphysical Club, and interest in the blind, 441.

  Andrew, John A.,
    war governor of Massachusetts, 258;
    his character, 259;
    his genial nature, 260;
    becomes governor of Massachusetts, 261;
    pays for the legal defense of John Brown, 262;
    a Unitarian: broad religious sympathies, 263, 264;
    his energy in national affairs, 265;
    his trips about the State, 266;
    supports emancipation, 267;
    arranges an interview with Lincoln for the Howes, 271;
    his faith in Lincoln, 272.

  Anthon, Charles,
    professor at Columbia College, 23.

  Appleton, Thomas G.,
    of Boston, 104;
    conversation with Samuel Longfellow, 293;
    his appearance, 431;
    his wit and culture, 432;
    lack of serious application, 433;
    his voyages to Europe, 434.

  Arconati, Marchese,
    his hospitality to the Howes, 119.

  Argyll, Duchess of,
    declines to aid the woman's peace crusade plan, 338.

  Armstrong, General John,
    father of Mrs. William B. Astor, 64.

  Association for the Advancement of Women, the,
    founded, 386;
    distribution of its congresses, 392.

  Astor, John Jacob,
    Washington Irving at the house of, 27;
    calls on Mrs. Howe's father on New Year's Day, 32;
    wedding gift of, to his granddaughter, 65;
    fondness for music, 74;
    anecdotes of, 75, 76.

  Astor, William B.,
    his culture and education, 73.

  Astor, Mrs. William B. (Margaret Armstrong),
    her recollection of Mrs. Howe's mother, 5;
    describes a wedding, 31;
    gives a dinner: her good taste, 64.

    the Howes at, 136.

  "Atlantic Monthly, The," 232, 236, 280;
    first published the "Battle Hymn of the Republic," 275.

  Austin, Mrs.,
    sings in New York, 15.

    the Howes at, 133.

  Bache, Prof. A. D.,
    at Mrs. Howe's lecture in Washington, 309.

      President of Santo Domingo,
    calls upon the Howes, 355;
    invites them to a state dinner: is expelled by a revolution, 360.

      Monsignore, Bishop of Pella,
    presents the Howes to the Pope, 125.

  Bailey, Prof. J. W.,
    lectures on insectivorous plants, 407.

  Balzac, Honoré de,
    his works read, 58, 206.

  Bancroft, George,
      the historian,
    his estimate of Hegel, 210;
    invites Mrs. Howe to write something for the Bryant celebration, 277;
    his part therein, 279;
    his life at Newport, 401;
    in the Town and Country Club, 407.

  "Barbiere di Seviglia,"
    given in New York, 15;
    admired by Charles Sumner, 176.

  Bartol, Dr. C. A.,
    first meeting of the Boston Radical Club held at his house, 281.

  Bates, Joshua,
    founder of the Boston Public Library, 93.

  "Battle Hymn of the Republic," the,
    writing of, 273-275.

  Baxter, Sally.
    See Hampton, Mrs. Frank.

  Bean, Mrs.,
    stewardess of Cunard steamer, 89;
    lines to, 90.

  Beecher, Miss Catherine,
    her "Cook Book," 215.

  Beecher, Henry Ward,
    his letter on Mary Booth's death, 242;
    advocates woman's suffrage, 378.

    symphonies of, in Boston, 14;
    appreciation of his work taught, 16;
    selections from, given at the Wards', 49.

  Belgioiosa, Princess,
    her origin and marriage, 422.

  Benzon, Mr. Schlesinger,
    his house a musical centre, 435.

    Dr. Howe imprisoned at, 118.

  Black, William,
    the novelist, 412.

  Blackwell, Henry B.,
    his efforts in the cause of woman suffrage, 380-382.

  Blackwell, Rev. Mrs. S. C. (Antoinette Brown),
    first woman minister in the United States, 166;
    preaches, 392.

  Blair's Rhetoric, 57.

    country-seat of Mrs. Howe's father at, 10.

  Boker, George H.,
    at the Bryant celebration, 279.

  Bonaparte, Charles, 202.

  Bonaparte, Joseph,
    ex-king of Spain, 5, 202.

  Bonaparte, Joseph,
    Prince of Musignano, 202.

  Boocock, Mr.,
    a music teacher, 16.

  Booth, Edwin,
    at the Boston Theatre, requests Mrs. Howe to write him a play, 237;
    his marriage, 241;
    his wife's death, 242.

  Booth, Mrs. Edwin (Mary Devlin),
    her marriage and death, 241, 242.

  Booth, Wilkes,
    at Mary Booth's funeral, 242.

    water-cure at, 189.

  Bordentown, N. J.,
    residence of Joseph, ex-king of Spain, 5, 202.

    an Italian patriot, 120.

    Mrs. Howe spends the summer of 1842-43 near, 81;
    her first years in, 144-187;
    its workers and thinkers, 150;
    high level of society in, 251.

  Boston Radical Club, 208;
    founded, 281;
    its essayists: subjects discussed, 282;
    John Weiss at, 283, 284;
    Athanase Coquerel at, 284-286;
    Mrs. Howe reads her paper on "Polarity" before, 311.

  Bostwick, Professor,
    his historical charts, 14.

  "Bothie of Tober-na-Fuosich,"
    Clough's, 184.

  Botta, Prof.,
    speaks on Aristotle, 408.

  Boutwell, Gov. George S.,
    attends Mrs. Howe's lecture in Washington, 309.

  Bowery Theatre,
    fire in, 16.

  Bowling Green,
    early recollections of, 4.

  Bowring, Sir John, 331;
    speaks at woman's peace crusade meeting in London, 341.

  Boyesen, Prof. H. H.,
    speaks on Aristotle, 408.

  Bracebridge, Charles N., 136;
    travels in Egypt with Florence Nightingale, 188.

  Bracebridge, Mrs. C. N., 136;
    her opinion of Florence Nightingale, 137;
    travels in Egypt with her, 188.

    an opera singer, 104.

    as a form of entertainment, 98.

  Bridewell Prison, 108.

  Bridgman, Laura,
    first blind deaf mute taught the use of language, 81;
    referred to in Dickens's "American Notes," 87;
    mentioned by Thomas Carlyle, 95;
    by Maria Edgeworth, 113;
    described to the Pope, 126;
    lives with the Howes, 151;
    at Dr. Howe's death-bed, 369;
    at the memorial meeting to him, 370.

  Bright, Mr. and Mrs. Jacob,
    at Mrs. Howe's peace meeting in London, 341.

  Brokers, New York Board of,
    portrait of John Ward in their rooms, 55.

  Brook Farm, 145.

  Brooks, Rev. Charles T.,
    invites Mrs. Howe to speak in his church, 321;
    his advice asked with regard to starting the woman's
      peace crusade, 328;
    writes a poem for the memorial meeting for Dr. Howe, 370;
    in the Town and Country Club, 407.

  Brooks, Rev. Phillips,
    anecdote of, 322.

  Brooks, Preston Smith, 179.

  Brown, John,
    calls on Dr. Howe, 254;
    his attack on Harper's Ferry, 255;
    in Missouri, 256;
    anecdote of, 257.

  Bruce, Robert,
    regalia of, 111.

  Bryant, William Cullen,
    editor of the "Evening Post," 21;
    visitor at the Ward home, 79;
    celebration of his seventieth birthday, 277-280;
    at the meetings for promoting the woman's peace crusade, 329;
    admires the sermon of Athanase Coquerel at Newport, 342.

  Bull Run,
    second battle of, 258.

  Buller, Charles,
    his appreciation of Carlyle, 110.

  Bunsen, Chevalier,
    Prussian ambassador to England, 118.

  Burns, Anthony, 164.

  Butler, Benjamin F.,
    disinterestedness of his friendship for
      woman suffrage questioned, 395.

  Butler, Mrs. Josephine,
    encourages the woman's peace congress idea, 329.

  Byron, Lord,
    at Harrow, 22;
    his works unwillingly allowed in the Ward family, 58;
    his example leads Dr. Howe to Greece, 85;
    autograph letter of, 100;
    praise of, unpardonable in London, 115.

  Cardini, Signor,
    Mrs. Howe's instructor in vocal music, 16;
    his anecdote of the Duke of Wellington, 17.

  Carlisle, Earl of,
    dinner given by, 106.

  Carlisle, Countess of,
    dinner given by, 106;
    her good nature: pleasantry about, 107.

  Carlyle, Thomas,
    his courtesy to the Howes, 96;
    appearance, 97.

  Carreño, Teresa,
    party for, at Secretary Chase's house, 309.

  Cass, Lewis,
    _chargé d'affaires_ in the Papal States, 196.

    an Italian patriot, 120.

  Castle Garden, 4.

    her dancing, 104.

  Chace, Mrs. Elizabeth B.,
    at the Prison Reform meetings, 339.

  Channing, William Ellery,
      the preacher,
    sermon by, 144;
    bells tolled in France at the death of, 416.

  Channing, William Ellery,
      the poet,
    writes a poem for the memorial meeting for Dr. Howe, 370;

  Channing, William Henry,
    his ministry in Washington in war time, 270;
    in the Radical Club, 286;
    his attitude in that organization, 287-289;
    introduces Mrs. Howe at her Washington lecture, 309;
    aids her woman's peace crusade movement, 330.

  Chapman, Mrs. Maria Weston,
    a leading abolitionist, 153;
    at an abolition meeting, 156;
    acts as body-guard to Wendell Phillips, 157.

  Charnaud, Monsieur,
    his dancing classes, 19.

  Chase, Hon. Salmon P., 225;
    his courtesy to Mrs. Howe, 308, 309.

  Chasles, Philarète,
    his disparaging lecture on American literature, 134.

    his "Atala" and "René," 206.

    Mrs. B.'s "Conversations" on, 56.

  Cheney, Mrs. Ednah D.,
    aids the woman suffrage movement, 382;
    speaks before a Unitarian society, 392;
    introduces Mrs. Howe to Princess Belgioiosa, 423;
    her review of Mrs. Howe's first book of poems, 436.

  Child, Mrs. Lydia Maria,
    acts as body-guard to Wendell Phillips, 157.

    Mrs. Howe's views on, 207, 208;
    attitude of the Boston Radical Club towards, 286.

  Civil War, the, 257, 258, 265;
    condition of Washington during, 270.

  Clarke, James Freeman,
    his meetings at Williams Hall, 245;
    goes abroad, 246;
    at Indiana Place Chapel, 247;
    his marriage, 249;
    always supported by Gov. Andrew, 261;
    goes to Washington in 1861, 269;
    visits hospitals, 270;
    his opinion of Abraham Lincoln, 272;
    opposes Weiss at the Radical Club, 284;
    upholds the Christian tone of that organization, 286;
    his tribute to Margaret Fuller, 301;
    attends Mrs. Howe's parlor lectures, 306;
    in the woman suffrage movement, 375, 382.

  Clarke, Mrs. J. F.,
    her character, 250.

  Clarke, Sarah, 202;
    at the coronation of King Umberto at Rome, 424.

  Clarke, William, 202.

  Claudius, Matthias,
    works of, 59;
    his "Wandsbecker Bote," 62.

  Clay, Henry,
    advocates the Missouri Compromise, 22.

  Clough, Miss Anne J., 335.

  Clough, Arthur Hugh,
    visits the Howes, 184;
    his manner and appearance, 185;
    his repartee, 187.

  Cobbe, Frances Power, 332.

  Cogswell, Dr. Joseph Green,
    principal of the Round Hill School, 43;
    teaches Mrs. Howe German, 44, 59, 206;
    resides at the Astor mansion, 75;
    anecdotes of, 76;
    introduces the Wards to Washington Allston, 429.

  Columbia College,
    its situation on Park Place, its
      conservatism: eminent professors at, 23;
    Samuel Ward attends, 67.

  Combe, George, 22;
    in Rome, 131, 132;
    his "Constitution of Man," 133.

  Combe, Mrs. George (Cecilia Siddons),
    anecdote of, 132.

  "Commonwealth, The," 252.

  Comte, Auguste,
    his "Philosophie Positive," 211;
    Mrs. Howe's estimate of, 307.

  "Conjugal Love,"
    Swedenborg's, 209.

    the fall of, drama upon, 57.

  "Consuelo," George Sand's,
    reveals the author's real character, 58.

  Contoit, Jean,
    a French cook, 30.

  Conway, Miss,
    exercises by her school, 389.

  Copyright, International,
    urged by Charles Dickens, 26.

  Coquerel, Athanase,
      the French Protestant divine,
    at the Radical Club, 284, 285;
    sees Mrs. Howe in London, 331;
    his sermon in Newport, 342;
    his explanation of the Paris commune, 343.

  Corporal punishment, 109.

  Coventry, England, 136.

  Cowper, William,
    his "Task" read by Mrs. Howe at school, 58.

  Cramer, John Baptist,
    a London musician, 16.

  Cranch, Christopher P.,
    caricatures the transcendentalists, 145;
    his present to Bryant on his seventieth birthday, 278.

  Crawford, F. Marion,
    the novelist, 45.

  Crawford, Thomas,
      the sculptor,
    his work in the Ward mansion, 45;
    meets the Howes in Rome: marries Louisa Ward, 127;
    travels to Rome with Mrs. Howe, 190;
    his statue of Washington, 203.

  Crawford, Mrs. Thomas.     See Ward, Louisa.

  Cretan insurrection of 1866,
    Dr. Howe's efforts in behalf of, 312, 313;
    distribution of clothes to the refugees of, 317-319;
    bazaar in aid of the sufferers, 320.

  "Critique of Pure Reason,"
    Kant's, 212.

  Curtis, George William,
    his opinion of "Words for the Hour," 230;
    writes about Newport, 238;
    presides at the Unitarian anniversary in 1886, 302;
    advocates woman suffrage, 378.

  Cushing, Caleb, 180.

  Cushman, Miss Charlotte, 240.

  Cutler, Benjamin Clarke,
    Mrs. Howe's grandfather, 4.

  Cutler, Rev. Benjamin Clarke (son of the preceding),
    officiates at his sister's wedding, 34.

  Cutler, Mrs. Benjamin Clarke,
      Mrs. Howe's grandmother,
    her costume at her daughter Louisa's wedding, 34;
    her beauty and charm, 35;
    describes the dress of her younger days, 35, 36.

  Cutler, Eliza.
    See Francis, Mrs. John W.

  Cutler, Louisa Cordé.
    See McAllister, Mrs. Julian.

  Daggett, Mrs. Kate Newell,
    third president of the Association for the Advancement of Women, 393.

  Dana, Richard H., the elder,
    a visitor at the Ward home, 79;
    a kind of transcendentalist, 428.

  Danforth, Elizabeth,
    describes Louisa Cutler's wedding, 33, 34.

    his works read, 206.

  Da Ponte, Lorenzo,
      teacher of Italian in New York,
    his earlier career, 24.

  Da Ponte, Lorenzo (son of preceding),
    teaches Mrs. Howe Italian, 57.

  Davenport, E. L.,
      manager of the Howard Athenæum,
    declines Mrs. Howe's drama, 240.

  Davidson, Prof. Thomas,
    lectures on Aristotle, 406, 408.

  Davis, Charles Augustus,
    his "Downing Letters," 24, 25.

  Davis, Admiral Charles H.,
    attends one of Mrs. Howe's lectures, 309.

  De Long, Lieut. G. W.,
    at the dance given by the Howes in Santo Domingo, 356.

  De Mesmekir, John, 4.

  Denison, Bishop, 140.

  Desmoulins, M. Benoit C.,
    his kindness to Mrs. Howe, 413.

  Devlin, Mary.
    See Booth, Mrs. Edwin.

  Dexter, Franklin,
    a friend of Allston, 429.

  "Dial, The,"
    Margaret Fuller's paper, 145.

  "Diary of an Ennuyée,"
    Mrs. Jameson's, 40.

  Dickens, Charles,
    dinner to, in New York, 26;
    at Mr. Rogers's dinner, 99;
    takes the Howes to Bridewell Prison, 108;
    gives a dinner for them, 110.

  Dickinson, Anna, 305.

  Disciples, Church of the, 256;
    Governor Andrew a member of, 263.

  "Divine Love and Wisdom,"
    Swedenborg's, 204, 209.

  Dix, Dorothea L.,
    her work for the insane, 88.

  "Don Giovanni,"
    its libretto, 24;
    admired by Charles Sumner, 176.

  Doré, Gustave, the artist,
    his studio and work, 416-419.

  Douglas, Stephen A., 178.

  "Downing Letters,"
    those of C. A. Davis, 25.

  Dresel, Otto,
    musical critic and teacher, 438;
    tribute to his memory, 439.

    in the thirties, 30, 31;
    at Mrs. Astor's dinner, 64, 65;
    at Samuel Ward's wedding, 65;
    at Lansdowne House, 102, 103;
    at the ball at Almack's, 106.

    the Howes in, 112-114.

  Duer, John,
    at the Dickens dinner, 26.

  Dwight, John S.,
    translates Goethe and Schiller, 147;
    tries to teach Theodore Parker to sing, 162, 163;
    Henry James reads a paper at the house of, 324;
    admires Athanase Coquerel's sermon at Newport, 342;
    Dana's estimate of, 435;
    his "Journal of Music," 436;
    his kindness to Mrs. Howe's children, 437;
    Dr. Holmes's remark at his funeral, 438.

  Eames, Charles, 223, 224.

  Eames, Mrs. Charles,
    her kindness to Count Gurowski, 223-226;
    invites Mrs. Howe to dinner, 308.

  Edgeworth, Maria,
    the Howes' visit to, 113.

  Edinburgh, 121.

  Edwards, Jonathan,
    Dr. Holmes's paper on, 286.

  Eliot, Thomas,
    attends a lecture by Mrs. Howe in Washington, 309.

  Elliott, Mrs. (Maud Howe),
    her remark to Henry James, the elder, 325;
    goes to Santo Domingo with her parents, 347;
    takes charge of the woman's literary work
      at the New Orleans exposition, 395;
    goes abroad with her mother, 410.

  Ellis, Rev. George E.,
    lectures on the Rhode Island Indians, 407.

  Elssler, Fanny,
    a ballet dancer, 104;
    opinions of Emerson and Margaret Fuller on her dancing, 105.

    the Nightingales at, 138.

  Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 87;
    remark on Fanny Elssler's dancing, 105;
    begins his work, 144;
    caricatured by Cranch, 145;
    avoids woman suffrage, 158;
    praises "Passion Flowers," 228;
    at the Bryant celebration, 279;
    a member of the Radical Club, 282;
    objects to having its meetings reported: his paper
      on Thoreau, 290;
    Theodore Parker's opinion of, 291;
    character and attainments, 292;
    his interest in Mrs. Howe's parlor lectures, 307.

  England, Bank of,
    visited, 116, 117.

  Evans, Mrs., 421.

  Everett, C. C.,
    a member of the Radical Club, 282.

  "Evidences of Christianity,"
    Paley's, 56.

  Fabens, Colonel,
    on the voyage to Santo Domingo, 347.

  Farrar, Mrs.,
    visited by Mrs. Howe, 295, 296.

  Faucit, Helen,
    the actress, 104.

  "Faust," Goethe's,
    condemned by Mr. Ward, 59.

  Felton, Prof. C. C.,
    first known by the Ward family through
      Mrs. Howe's brother Samuel, 49;
    his friends, 169.

  "Female Poets of America,"
    Griswold's, 5.

  Fern, Fanny,
    her essay on _rhinosophy_, 404.

  Field, David Dudley,
    addresses the second meeting of the woman's peace
      crusade, 329.

  Field, Mrs. D. D., 191.

  Field, Kate,
    at the Radical Club, 290;
    at Newport, 402.

  Fields, James T., 228.

  Finotti, Father, 263, 264.

  Fitzmaurice, Lady Louisa,
    daughter of the Marquis of Lansdowne, 103.

  Fletcher, Alice,
    prominent at the woman's congress, 386.

  Follen, Dr. Karl, 22.

  Foresti, Felice,
    an Italian patriot, 120;
    reads Dante with Mrs. Howe, 206.

      three-pronged steel,
    in general use, 30.

    an opera singer, 104.

  Forster, John,
    at Charles Dickens's dinner: invites the Howes
      to dine, 110.

  Fowler, Dr. and Mrs.,
    their courtesy to the Howes, 139-141.

  Francis, Dr. John W.,
    accompanies Mrs. Ward to Niagara, 8;
    becomes a member of the Ward household, 12;
    his appearance, 36;
    his humor, 37;
    his habits, 38;
    his introduction of Edgar Allan Poe, 39.

  Francis, Mrs. John W. (Eliza Cutler),
    takes charge of the Ward family at her sister's death, 11, 12;
    dances in "stocking-feet" at her sister's wedding, 34;
    her kindness, 38;
    her hospitality, 39.

      a colored man in Santo Domingo,
    invites Mrs. Howe to hold religious services, 350, 353.

  Freeman, Edward,
    the artist, 127;
    a neighbor of Mrs. Howe in Rome, 191.

  Freeman, Mrs. Edward, 192.

  "From the Oak to the Olive,"
    extracts from, 315-319.

  Frothingham, O. B.,
    a member of the Radical Club, 282.

  Froude, James Anthony,
      the historian,
    at Miss Cobbe's reception, 333.

  Fuller, Margaret,
    urges Mrs. Howe to publish her earlier poems, 61;
    her remark on Fanny Elssler's dancing, 105;
    in Cranch's caricature, 145;
    translates Eckermann's "Conversations with Goethe," 147;
    life of, undertaken by Emerson, 158;
    criticises Dr. Hedge's Phi Beta address, 296;
    highly esteemed by Dr. Hedge, 300;
    the sixtieth anniversary of her birth celebrated, 301.

  Fuller, Mrs. Samuel R.,
    goes to Santo Domingo with the Howes, 347.

  Galway, Lady, 98.

  Gambetta, M.,
    at Mr. Healey's ball, 421.

    the opera singer, 14.

  Garrison, William Lloyd,
    Mrs. Howe's dislike of, dispelled, 152, 153;
    attacks a statement of hers, 236;
    joins the woman suffrage movement, 375;
    his work for that cause, 380, 381.

  Gennadius, John,
    Greek minister to England, 411.

  German scholarship,
    its beneficial effect on New England, 303.

  Gibbon, Edward, 57;
    his "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," 205.

  Gladstone, William E.,
    at Devonshire House, 410;
    breakfast with him, 411.

  Gloucester, Duchess of,
    her appearance, 101.

  Godwin, Parke,
    admires Athanase Coquerel's sermon at Newport, 342.

    his "Faust" and "Wilhelm Meister," 59;
    Mrs. Howe's essay on his minor poems, 60;
    his motto, 205.

  Gonfalonieri, Count,
      an Italian patriot imprisoned at Spielberg:
    his life saved by his wife, 119.

  Goodwin, Juliet R.,
    becomes secretary of the Town and Country Club, 406.

  Goodwin, Prof. William W., 402;
    his Latin version of the "Man in the Moon," 404.

  Graham, Mrs. Elizabeth,
    school of, 5.

  Grant, Gen. U. S.,
    at the ball at Mr. Healy's, 421.

  Graves, Rev. Mary H.,
    takes part in the convention of women ministers, 312.

    Dr. Howe's labors for, 85, 86, 313, 319.

  "Green Peace Estate, The," 152.

  Green, J. R.,
    the historian, 412.

  Greene, George Washington,
      American consul at Rome,
    helps Dr. Howe, 123;
    accompanies the Howes to the papal reception, 125.

  Greene, Gen. Nathanael, 7, 123.

  Greene, Mrs. N. R.,
      cousin of Mrs. Howe's father,
    anecdote of, 6.

  Greene, William,
    governor of Rhode Island, 4.

  Greene, Mrs. William (Catharine Ray),
    an ancestress of Mrs. Howe, 3;
    her connection with Block Island families of service, 51.

  Greene, William B.,
    colonel of the First Mass. Heavy Artillery, 271.

  Gregory XVI., Pope,
    receives the Howes, 125;
    anecdote of, 126, 127.

  Grey, Mrs.,
    her interest in schools for girls of the middle class, 333.

  Grimes, Brother,
    a colored preacher, 263.

  Grimes, James W.,
    senator from Iowa, 225.

  Grimes, Medora.
    See Ward, Mrs. Samuel.

    sings at Lansdowne House, 101;
    in "Semiramide," 104.

  Griswold, R. W.,
    his "Female Poets of America," 5.

  Grote, George,
    the historian, 93.

  Grote, Mrs. George (Harriet Lewin),
    somewhat _grote_sque, 93.

  Guizot, M.,
    prime minister of France, 135.

  Gurowski, Adam,
    Count, 220;
    employed by the State Department: his temper and
      curiosity, 221, 222;
    dismissed by Seward, 222;
    his breach with Sumner, 223;
    befriended by Mrs. Eames, 223, 224;
    his death, 225;
    his family affairs, 227.

  Gurowski, John, 227.

  Gustin, Rev. Ellen,
    at the convention of women ministers, 312.

    mode of dressing, 65.

  Hale, Rev. Edward Everett,
    his opinion of Samuel Longfellow, 293;
    speaks at the meeting in behalf of the Cretan insurgents, 313.

  Hale, George S.,
    a friend of woman suffrage, 378.

  Hall, Mrs. David P. (Florence Howe),
    her interest in sewing for the Cretan refugees, 316.

  Hallam, Henry,
    the historian, 139.

  Halleck, Fitz-Greene,
    his "Marco Bozzaris," 22;
    frequent visitor at the Astor mansion, 77;
    his remarks on Margaret Fuller's English, 146.

  Hampton, Mrs. Frank (Sally Baxter),
    meets the Howes in Havana, 234;
    invites them to her home in South Carolina, 235.

  Hampton, Wade,
    his statement with regard to slavery, 235.

    his "Messiah" given in New York, 15;
    appreciation of his work taught, 16.

  Handel and Haydn Society, 14.

  Harte, Bret,
    at Newport, 402.

  Harvard College,
    shunned as a Unitarian institution, 24.

  Harvard Divinity School,
    Theodore Parker at, 162.

  Hawkes, Rev. Francis L.,
    his abuse of Germans and abolitionists, 61.

  Haynes, Rev. Lorenza,
    takes part in the convention of women ministers, 312.

  Healy, G. P. A.,
    the artist, ball at his residence, 420, 421.

  Healy, Mrs., 420.

  Hedge, Dr. F. H.,
    his translations, 147;
    member of the Radical Club, 282;
    defends Protestant progress, 285;
    his Phi Beta address, 295;
    pastorates in Providence and Boston, 296, 297;
    second Phi Beta address, 298;
    becomes professor of German at Harvard, 299;
    fondness for the drama, 299, 300;
    his high opinion of Margaret Fuller, 300, 301;
    his statement of the Unitarian faith, 302;
    broadening effect of his studies in Germany, 303.

    the German philosopher, 209;
    estimates of, 210;
    his "Aesthetik" and "Logik," 212.

    ideas of, 62.

  Hensler, Miss Elise,
    sings first at Mrs. Benzon's house, 435.

      works of,
    read, 59, 206.

  Herne, Colonel,
    first husband of Mrs. Cutler, Mrs. Howe's grandmother, 35.

  Heron, Matilda,
    in "The World's Own," 230.

  Higginson, Colonel Thomas Wentworth,
    at the Shadrach meeting, 165;
    his paper "Ought Women to learn the Alphabet," 232;
    his position on Christianity at the Radical Club, 285;
    at the woman suffrage meeting, 375;
    aids that cause, 382;
    at Newport, 402;
    at a mock "Commencement," 403;
    becomes treasurer of the Town and Country Club, 406;
    at the woman's rights congress in Paris, 420.

  Hillard, George S.,
    his friends and character, 169, 170.

  Hillard, Kate,
    speaks at the Town and Country Club, 406.

      Mrs. Howe's drama of,
    proposed by Booth, 237;
    ultimately declined, 240.

  Hoar, Hon. George Frisbie,
    a friend of woman suffrage, 378;
    secures an appropriation for the New Orleans Exposition, 398.

  Hoffman, Matilda,
    engaged to Washington Irving, 28.

  Holland, Mrs. Henry (Saba Smith),
    reception at her house, 92.

  Holland, Dr. J. G.,
    at Newport, 402.

  Holmes, Dr. Oliver Wendell,
    at the Bryant celebration, 277-280;
    as a traveling companion, 277, 280;
    his paper at the Radical Club on Jonathan Edwards, 286;
    speaks at the meeting to help the Cretan insurgents, 313;
    writes a poem for the memorial meeting to Dr. Howe, 370.

  Hooker, Mrs. Isabella Beecher,
    speaks at the woman's congress, 385.

  Horace, 174;
    Orelli's edition of, 209.

  Houghton, Lord (Richard Monckton Milnes),
      the poet,
    Mrs. Howe meets, 97;
    entertains her in 1877, 410;
    takes her to Mr. Gladstone's, 411.

    the trials of, 213-215;
    every girl should learn the art of, 216.

  Howe, Florence.
    See Hall, Mrs. David P.

  Howe, Julia Romana.
    See Anagnos, Mrs. Michael.

  Howe, Mrs. Julia Ward,
    asked to write her reminiscences, 1;
    birth and parentage, 3, 4;
    brothers and sisters, 4, 5;
    early indication of inaptness with tools, 7;
    travels to Niagara, 8, 9;
    childish incidents, 7-10;
    her mother's death, 10;
    early education, 13, 14;
    musical training, 16, 17;
    seclusion of her home, 18;
    first ball, 29;
    acquaintance with Mrs. Jameson, 41, 42;
    leaves school: studies German with Dr. Cogswell, 43;
    reviews Lamartine's "Jocelyn," 44;
    manner of living at home, 47;
    her social intercourse restricted, 48;
    feelings on the death of her father, 52;
    his guidance of, 53;
    effect of her brother Henry's death, 54;
    her studies, 56-63;
    in chemistry, 56;
    in French and Italian, 57;
    literary work, dramas and lyrics, 57, 58;
    reading, 58;
    German studies, 59;
    further literary work, essays and poems, 60, 61;
    religious growth, 62;
    first dinner party, 64;
    her attire: bridesmaid at her brother's wedding, 65;
    fear of lightning, 78;
    social opportunities, 78, 79;
    spends the summer of 1841 near Boston: visits
      the Perkins Institution, 81;
    sees Dr. Howe, 82;
    her memoir of Dr. Howe for the blind, 83;
    engagement and marriage, 88;
    voyage to Europe, 89-91;
    entertained in London, 92-110;
    in Scotland, 111;
    in Dublin, 112;
    visits Miss Edgeworth, 113;
    the poet Wordsworth, 115;
    at Vienna, 118;
    at Milan, 119;
    arrival in Rome, 121;
    birth of eldest daughter, 128;
    leaves Rome, 133;
    returns to England, 133-135;
    visits Atherstone, 136, 137;
    sees the Nightingales, 138;
    goes to Lea Hurst, 139;
    Salisbury, 139-143;
    her travesty of Dr. Howe's letter, 142;
    attends Theodore Parker's meetings, 150;
    life in South Boston, 151, 152;
    in Washington, 178;
    second trip abroad, 188;
    reaches Rome, 191;
    returns to America, 204;
    studious nature, 205;
    ideas on Christianity, 206-208;
    work in Latin, 209;
    philosophical studies, 210-213;
    housekeeping trials, 214-217;
    free-soil preferences, 219;
    at Count Gurowski's death-bed, 226;
    her "Passion Flowers" published, 228;
    her "Words of the Hour"
      and "The World's Own" published, 230;
    trip to Cuba, 231;
    parting with Theodore Parker, 233, 234;
    her book about the Cuban trip, 236;
    writes for the "New York Tribune," 236, 237;
    requested by Booth to write a play, 237;
    disappointed at its nonappearance, 240;
    attends James Freeman Clarke's meetings, 245;
    helps Dr. Howe edit "The Commonwealth," 253;
    sees John Brown, 254;
    goes on some trips with Gov. and Mrs. Andrew, 266;
    visits Washington in 1861, 269;
    first attempt at public speaking, 271;
    meets Abraham Lincoln, 272;
    how she came to write the "Battle Hymn," 273-275;
    takes part in the Bryant celebration, 277-280;
    her papers before the Radical Club, 287;
    pleasantry with Dr. Hedge, 297;
    increasing desire to write and speak, 304, 305;
    gives parlor lectures at her home, 306;
    repeats the course in Washington, 308, 309;
    various philosophical papers and essays, 310;
    reads a paper on "Polarity" before the Radical Club,
      and one on "Ideal Causation" to the Parker Fraternity, 311;
    interested in calling the first convention of woman ministers, 312;
    starts for Greece, 313;
    arrival in Athens, 314;
    distributes clothes to the Cretan refugees, 316-318;
    returns to Boston: conducts the Cretan Bazaar, 320;
    lectures in Newport and Boston, 321, 322;
    starts a woman's peace crusade, 328;
    holds meetings to advance the cause in New York, 329;
    visits England to organize a Woman's Peace Congress, 329;
    speaks at the banquet of the Unitarian Association, 331;
    her Sunday afternoon meetings at Freemasons' Tavern, 331, 332;
    meets Mrs. Grey, 333;
    visits Prof. Seeley, 335;
    is constrained to apply her energy to the woman's club movement, 336;
    her peace addresses in England, where made, 337;
    asked to attend the Peace Congress in Paris, 338;
    attends a Prison Reform meeting, 339;
    her speech there, 340;
    holds a final meeting to further her peace crusade in London, 341;
    goes to Santo Domingo with Dr. Howe, 349;
    holds religious services for the negroes there, 350-352;
    visits a girls' school, 352;
    invited to speak to a secret Bible society, 353;
    every-day life there, 357, 358;
    invited to a state dinner by President Baez, 360;
    her second visit to Santo Domingo, 360;
    her difficulties in riding horseback, 362;
    her interest in the emancipation of woman takes more
      definite form, 372, 373;
    attends the meeting to found the New England Woman's Club, 374;
    joins the woman suffrage movement, 375;
    her efforts for that cause, 376;
    gains experience, 377;
    trips to promote the cause, 379-381;
    at legislative hearings, 381-384;
    attends the woman's congress in 1868, 385;
    elected fourth president of the Association
      for the Advancement of Women, 393;
    directs the woman's department at a Boston fair, 394;
    at the New Orleans Exposition, 395;
    difficulties encountered there, 396;
    speech to the negroes, 398;
    considered _clubable_ by Dr. Holmes, 400;
    presides at a mock "Commencement," 403;
    goes abroad with her daughter Maud in 1877:
      entertained by Lord Houghton, 410;
    breakfasts with Mr. Gladstone, 411;
    goes to the House of Commons with Charles Parnell, 412;
    visits Paris, 413;
    goes to the French Academy, 414;
    at the crowning of a _rosière_, 415;
    visits Doré's studio, 416-419;
    lectures in Paris, 419;
    president of a woman's rights congress, 420;
    at the Healys' ball, 421;
    speaks on suffrage in Italy, 422;
    visits Princess Belgioiosa, 422, 423;
    sees Umberto crowned, 424;
    reads with Madame Ristori, 424, 425;
    sees Leo XIII. consecrated, 426;
    meets Washington Allston, 429;
    first acquaintance with John S. Dwight, 435;
    feeling of loss at Otto Dresel's death, 438;
    her eldest daughter's death, 439;
    successes and failures of her life, 442-444.

  Howe, Maud.
    See Elliott, Mrs.

  Howe, Dr. Samuel Gridley,
    first known to the Wards through Mrs. Howe's brother Samuel, 49;
    his achievement in Laura Bridgman's case, 81;
    Mr. Sanborn's estimate of, 83;
    his philanthropic efforts, 84;
    espouses the cause of Greece, 85, 86;
    his work for the blind, 86, 87;
    other activities: marries Julia Ward, 88;
    goes abroad, 89;
    entertained in London, 92-107, 110, 111;
    visits London prisons, 108, 109;
    in Scotland, 111;
    in Dublin, 112;
    visits Miss Edgeworth, 113;
    the poet Wordsworth, 115;
    his connection with the Polish rebellion, 117, 118;
    excluded from Prussia, 118;
    tour through Europe to Rome, 118-121;
    arrested in Rome, 123;
    presented to the Pope, 126;
    with George Combe, 131, 132;
    leaves Rome, 133;
    conversation with Florence Nightingale, 138;
    his visit to Rotherhithe workhouse, 141;
    his activity on the Boston School Board, 148;
    advocates the teaching of speech to deaf-mutes, 149;
    inability to sing, 163;
    his circle of friends, 169, 170;
    his interest in prison reforms, 173;
    commissioner on the annexation of Santo Domingo, 181;
    visits Europe in 1850, 188;
    takes the water cure at Boppard, 189;
    his abolition sympathies, 218;
    trip to Cuba, 230;
    buys Lawton's Valley at Newport, 238;
    objects to his children attending the Parker meetings, 244;
    edits "The Commonwealth," 252;
    his friendship with Gov. Andrew, 253;
    his judgment in military affairs, 269;
    averse to women speaking in public, 305;
    his interest in the Cretan insurrection, 312, 313;
    starts for Greece, 313;
    arrival in Athens: his life endangered, 314;
    visits Crete: returns to Boston, 320;
    visits Santo Domingo to report on the advisibility
      of annexing it, 345;
    goes to Santo Domingo again, 347;
    gives a dance for the people, 355;
    goes to Santo Domingo a third time, 360;
    hears of Sumner's death, 364;
    returns to Boston, 368;
    his death, 369;
    tributes to his memory, 370.

  Hudson River,
    journey up the, 8.

  Hugo, Victor,
    remark on John Brown, 256;
    at the congress of _gens de lettres_, 413.

  Hunt, Helen,
    at Newport, 402.

  Hunting, Rev. J. J.,
    commends the exercises of the convention of woman ministers, 312.

  Huntington, Daniel,
    paints portrait of Mrs. Howe's father, 55.

  "Hymns of the Spirit,"
    collected by Samuel Longfellow and Samuel Johnson, 293.

  Indians, the,
    in New York State, 9;
    Samuel Ward's intercourse with, in California, 70.

  Inglis, Sir Robert Harry, 98.

  Iron Crown of Lombardy, 119, 120.

  Irving, Sir Henry, 410.

  Irving, Washington,
    his embarrassment in public speaking, 25;
    at the dinner to Charles Dickens, 26;
    his manners and travels, 27;
    his love affair, 28;
    frequent visitor at the Astor mansion, 75.

    emancipation of, 121, 193-196.

  Jackson, Andrew,
    ridiculed in the "Downing Letters," 25;
    crushes the bank of the United States, 50.

  James, Henry, the elder,
    his character and culture, 323, 324;
    his views on immortality, 325;
    Swedenborgian tendencies, 326;
    at Newport, 402.

  Jameson, Mrs. (Anna Brownell Murphy),
    visits New York: her books and ability, 40;
    private history and appearance, 41;
    Mrs. Howe's acquaintance with her, 41, 42;
    describes Canada: later books by, 42.

  Janauschek, Madame,
    visited by Dr. Hedge and Mrs. Howe in Boston, 299.

  Janin, Jules,
      French critic,
    friend of Mrs. Howe's brother Samuel, 68.

  Johnson, Samuel,
    joint editor of "Hymns of the Spirit," 293.

  Johnston, William P.,
    president of Tulane University, 399.

  Julian, George W.,
    attends Mrs. Howe's lecture in Washington, 309.

  Kant, Immanuel,
    his transcendental philosophy, 146;
    his "Critique of Pure Reason," 212;
    influence on Mrs. Howe, 310.

  Kemble, Fanny,
    story of, 131, 132.

    Scott's novel of, play founded on, 57.

  Kenyon, John,
    his dinner for the Howes, 108.

  King, Charles,
    editor of the "New York American," 22;
    president of Columbia College, 23.

  King, James,
    junior partner of Samuel Ward, 23.

  King, Rufus, 23.

  Knowles, James,
    editor of the "Nineteenth Century," 412.

  Lafayette, General,
    interested in the Polish revolution, 117.

    his poems and travels, 206.

  Landseer, Sir Edwin,
    at the Rogers dinner, 99.

  Lane, Prof. George M., 402.

  Lansdowne, Marquis of,
    his courtesy to the Howes, 100, 101.

  Lansdowne, Marchioness of, 100.

  Lansdowne House,
    musical evening at, 100-102;
    dinner at, 103.

  Lawton's Valley,
    the Howes' summer home at Newport, 238.

  Lee, Henry,
    on Gov. Andrew's staff, 266.

  Lemonnier, M. Charles,
    editor, 413.

  Lemonnier, Mme. Elise,
    founder of industrial schools for women, 413.

  Leo XIII.,
    consecrated: revives certain points of ceremony, 426.

  Lesczinska, Maria,
    wife of Louis XV., 227.

  Leveson-Gower, Lady Elizabeth, 106.

  Leveson-Gower, Lady Evelyn, 106.

  Libby Prison,
    the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" sung at, 276.

  "Liberator, The," 236.

  "Liberty Bell, The," 154.

  Lieber, Dr. Francis,
    his opinion of Hegel, 210;
    commends a passage from "Passion Flowers," 229;
    at the Bryant celebration, 278.

  Lincoln, Abraham,
    services at his death, 248;
    Mrs. Howe's interview with, 271, 272.

  "Linda di Chamounix," 104.

  "Literary Recreations,"
    poems by Samuel Ward, 73.

  Livermore, Mrs. Mary, 158, 294;
    her eloquence and skill, 377, 378;
    labors for woman suffrage, 380-382;
    prominent in the woman's congress, 385, 386.

    histories of, 209.

    story of the two maids of, 111.

    the Howes in, 91-111;
    Mrs. Howe's work there for the peace crusade, 330-336;
    her last stay there, 410-413.

  Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth,
    becomes a friend of Mrs. Howe through her brother Samuel, 49;
    his opinion of Samuel Ward, 73;
    takes Mrs. Howe to the Perkins Institution, 81, 82;
    his translations, 147.

  Longfellow, Rev. Samuel,
    ordained, 292;
    his character and convictions: hymns, 293;
    his essay on "Law" before the Radical Club, 294.

  Loring, Judge,
    denounced by Theodore Parker, 164.

  Lothrop, Rev. Samuel K.,
    attends Mrs. Howe's parlor lectures, 306;
    requests her to prolong the course, 308.

  Lucas, Mrs. Margaret,
    assists Mrs. Howe in her woman's peace movement, 341.

  "Lucia di Lammermoor," 104.

    Dr. Hedge's essay on, 301.

  Lynch, Dominick,
    introduces the first opera troupe to New York, 24.

  Lyons, Richard, Lord,
    British minister at Washington, 309.

  Machi, Padre,
    visits the catacombs with the Howes, 128.

  Mackintosh, Robert James,
    calls on Mrs. Jameson, 42.

  Maclaren, Mrs.,
    assists Mrs. Howe in her peace movement, 341.

  Maclise, Daniel,
    the painter, 110.

  MacMahon, Marshal,
    his reception to Gen. and Mrs. Grant, 421.

  Macready, William Charles,
    the actor, 104.

  Mailliard, Adolph, 201.

  Mailliard, Mrs. Adolph (Annie Ward),
    sister of Mrs. Howe: accompanies her to Europe, 88;
    dines with Carlyle at Chelsea, 96;
    her loveliness, 137;
    her husband, 201;
    her toast at the Washington's Birthday dinner in Rome, 203;
    returns to America with Mrs. Howe, 204.

  Malibran, Madame,
    in the rôles of Cenerentola and Rosina, 15.

  Mallock, William H.,
    at a dinner for Mrs. Howe, 412.

  Manchester, Bishop of,
    opposes the founding of schools for girls of the middle class, 333.

  Mann, Horace,
    uplifts the public schools, 88;
    goes to Europe, 89;
    visits Carlyle at Chelsea, 96;
    inspects the London prisons, 108, 109;
    opinion of George Combe, 133;
    praises Dr. Howe's work in the Boston schools, 148;
    advocates the teaching of speech to deaf-mutes, 149;
    shrinks from woman suffrage, 157.

  Mann, Mrs. Horace (Mary Peabody),
    goes to Europe with the Howes, 89;
    visits Thomas Carlyle, 96.

  Manning, Cardinal,
    presides at a Prison Reform meeting, 339.

  "Marco Bozzaris," 22.

  Margherita, Queen,
    at King Umberto's coronation, 424.

    sings at Lansdowne House, 101.

  Marion, Gen. Francis, 4.

    a hair-dresser, 65.

  "Martin Chuzzlewit,"
    transcendental episode in, 139.

  Martineau, Harriet,
    statue of, 158.

  May, Abby W.,
    aids bazaar in behalf of the Cretans, 320;
    her energy in the Association for the Advancement of Women, 393.

  May, Rev. Samuel J., 394.

  McAllister, Julian,
    marries Louisa Cutler, 33.

  McAllister, Mrs. Julian, 33.

  McAllister, Judge Matthew H., 33.

  McCabe, Chaplain,
    mentions the singing of the "Battle Hymn" in Libby Prison, 276.

  McCarthy, Mrs. Justin,
    "rout" given by, 413.

  McVickar, John,
    professor of philosophy at Columbia College, 23.

  "Merchant Princes of Wall Street, The,"
    inaccuracy of, 52.

  Merritt, Mrs.,
      a New Orleans lady,
    addresses the colored people, 398.

  Metastasio, dramas of,
    read, 57, 206.

    the Howes in, 119, 120.

  Milnes, Richard Monckton.
    See Houghton, Lord.

  Milton, John,
    his "Paradise Lost" used as a text-book, 58.

  Mitchell, Maria,
      her character and attainments:
    signs the call for a congress of women, 385;
    becomes the president in 1876, 387;
    lectures to the Town and Country Club, 406.

  Mitchell, Dr. Weir,
    lectures to the Town and Country Club, 406.

    his comedies read, 206.

    trip to, 119.

  Moore, Prof.,
    at Columbia College, 23.

  "Moral Philosophy,"
    William Paley's, 13.

  Morecchini, Monsignore,
    minister of public charities at Rome, 124.

  Morpeth, George, Lord
      (afterwards seventh earl of Carlisle),
    at Lansdowne House, 102, 103;
    Sydney Smith's dream about, 107;
    takes the Howes to Pentonville prison, 109.

  Motley, John Lothrop,
    at school with Tom Applet on, 433.

  Mott, Lucretia, 166;
    at the Radical Club, 283.

  Moulton, Mrs. William U. (Louise Chandler),
    reports the Radical Club meetings for the
      "New York Tribune," 290.

    symphonies of, given in Boston, 14;
    appreciation of his work taught, 16;
    his work given at the Wards', 49;
    admired by Sumner, 176.

      works of art at,
    described by Mrs. Jameson, 40.

  Museum of Fine Arts, The,
    in Boston, 44.

    early efforts for, in Boston and New York, 14, 15;
    effect on youthful nerves considered, 17, 18.

  "Mystères de Paris,"
    Eugène Sue's, 204.

  Napoleon I.,
    anecdote of, 1;
    invasion of Italy by, 17;
    incidents of that invasion, 120.

    visit to, 232.

  Newgate prison,
    visit to, 108.

    Mrs. Howe spends a summer at the Cliff House there, 221;
    Dr. Howe buys an estate at, 238;
    Mrs. Howe writes her play there, 239;
    people who stayed at, 401, 402;
    the Town and Country Club of, formed, 405.

  New Year's Day,
    custom of visiting on, 31, 32.

  New York City,
    growth of, shown, 12, 13;
    first musical ventures in, 14, 15;
    its people of culture, 21-25;
    social events in, 29, 66;
    Bryant celebration at, 277-280;
    meetings in, to encourage the woman's peace crusade, 329.

  "New York Review,"
    publishes an essay by Mrs. Howe, 60.

  New York State,
    Indians of, 9;
    in the financial crisis of 1837, 51.

    surprise at the first sight of, 8.

  Nightingale, Florence, 136;
    her character: conversation with Dr. Howe, 138;
    studies nursing, 139;
    travels abroad: visited by Margaret Fuller, 188.

  Nightingale, Parthenope, 138, 188.

  Nineteenth century, the,
    its mechanical and intellectual achievements, 1, 2.

  Nordheimer, Dr. Isaac,
    teaches Mrs. Howe German, 59.

  "North American Review, The,"
    articles by Samuel Ward in, 68.

  Norton, Rev. Andrews,
    in Cranch's caricature, 145.

  Norton, Hon. Mrs. (Caroline Sheridan),
    at Lansdowne House: her attire, 102.

  "Nozze di Figaro, Le,"
    libretto of, by whom, 24.

  O'Connell, Daniel,
    the Irish agitator, 113.

  Ordway, Mrs. Eveline M.,
    with Mrs. Elliott at the New Orleans Exposition, 399.

  O'Sullivan, John L.,
    editor of the "Democratic Review," 79.

  Paddock, Mary C.,
    goes to Santo Domingo with the Howes, 347.

  Paley, William,
    his "Moral Philosophy," 13;
    his "Evidences of Christianity," 56.

  Palgrave, F. T.,
    reception at his house, 412.

  "Paradise Lost,"
    used as a text-book, 58;
    religious interpretation of, 62.

    Samuel Ward in: his work descriptive of, 68;
    the Howes arrive in, 134;
    peace congress at, 338;
    Mrs. Howe's last visit to, 413.

  Parker, Dr. Peter,
    attends Mrs. Howe's lecture in Washington, 309.

  Parker, Theodore, 105;
    Mrs. Howe attends his meetings, 150;
    his Sunday evenings, 153;
    his sermon on "The Transient and the Permanent in Christianity," 159;
    his visit to Rome: christens Mrs. Howe's eldest daughter, 160;
    his culture, 161;
    affection for his wife, 162;
    musical attainments, 163;
    his great sermons, 164;
    at the Shadrach meeting, 165;
    women admitted to his pulpit, 166;
    his personal characteristics, 167;
    death, 168;
    compared with Sumner, 176;
    his opinion of Hegel, 211;
    repeats lines from "Passion Flowers," 228;
    goes to Cuba accompanied by the Howes, 231;
    continues to Vera Cruz and Europe, 233;
    his meetings, 244;
    his parting gift to Massachusetts, 263;
    his opinion of Emerson, 291;
    of Dr. Hedge, 298;
    sympathizes with Mrs. Howe's desire for expression, 305.

  Parker, Mrs. Theodore, 160, 162.

  Parnell, Charles S.,
    escorts Mrs. Howe to the House of Commons, 412.

  Parnell, Mrs. Delia Stuart,
    gives Mrs. Howe a note of introduction to her son, 412.

  Parsons, Thomas W.,
    his poem on the death of Mary Booth, 241;
    suggests a poem for Mrs. Howe's Sunday meetings in London, 332.

  "Passion Flowers,"
    Mrs. Howe's first volume of poems, 228, 229;
    reviewed in Dwight's "Journal of Music" by Mrs. E. D. Cheney, 436.

  Passy, Frederic,
    takes Mrs. Howe to the French Academy, 414;
    also to the crowning of a _rosière_, 415;
    presents her with a volume of his essays, 416.

  Paul, Jean,
    works of, read, 59.

    Samuel Ward dies at, 73.

  Peirce, Benjamin,
    a member of the Radical Club, 282.

  Pellico, Silvio,
    an Italian patriot, 119.

  Pentonville prison,
    visited, 109.

  Perkins, Col. Thomas H.,
    his recollection of Mrs. Cutler, 35.

  Persiani, Mlle.,
    an opera singer, 104.

    read by Mrs. Howe, 321.

  Phillips, Wendell,
    his prophetic quality of mind recognized, 84;
    leader of the abolitionists: his birth and education, 154;
    at anti-slavery meetings, 155-157;
    an advocate of woman suffrage, 157, 158;
    his death, 159;
    compared with Sumner, 175;
    effect of his presence at the Radical Club, 286;
    his orthodoxy, 287;
    speaks at the meeting to help the Cretan insurgents, 313;
    at the woman suffrage meeting, 375;
    supports that cause, 378, 382;
    at school with Tom Appleton, 433.

  "Philosophie Positive,"
    Comte's, 211.

    belief in, 132, 133.

  Pius IX.,
    Pope, 125;
    his weakness, 194, 195;
    his death, 425.

  Poe, Edgar Allan,
    his visit to Dr. Francis, 39.

  Polish insurrection of 1830, the,
    connection of Dr. Howe with, 117.

  Polish refugees,
    ball in aid of, 105.

  Powel, Samuel,
    his prophecy in regard to Newport, 408.

  Powell, Mr. Aaron,
    asks Mrs. Howe to attend the Paris Peace Congress as a delegate, 338.

    his water cure, 189.

  Prime, Ward & King,
      firm of,
    Mrs. Howe's father a member, 50, 51;
    her brother Samuel admitted, 69.

    visited by Dr. Howe, 108, 109.

  Pulszky, Mme. (Theresa von Walther), 118.

  Pym, Capt.,
    an Arctic voyager, 399.

  Quincy, Edmund,
    his remark to Theodore Parker, 287.

  Quincy, Jr., Mrs. Josiah,
    woman's club started at her house, 400.

  Rachel, Madame,
    the actress, 135.

    his tragedies read, 206.

  Red Jacket,
    an Indian Chief, 9.

  Reed, Lucy,
    a blind deaf mute, 81, 82.

  Regnault, Henri,
    eulogized at the French Academy, 414.

  Repeal Measures,
    agitation for, in Dublin, 112.

  Rice, A. H.,
      governor of Massachusetts,
    presides at the Music Hall meeting in memory of Dr. Howe, 370.

  Richards, Mrs. Henry (Laura Howe),
    accompanies her parents to Europe, 313.

  Richmond, Duke of,
    visits Bridewell prison with the Howes, 109.

  Richmond, Rev. James, 210.

  Richmond, Va.,
    theatre in, burned, 16;
    Crawford's statue of Washington for, 203.

  Ripley, George,
    his efforts at Brook Farm, 145;
    reviews "Passion Flowers," 228;
    sees the Howes and Parkers off for Cuba, 231.

  Ripley, Mrs. George (Sophia Dana), 296.

  Ripley, Mary,
    speaks at the woman's congress in Memphis, 389.

  Ristori, Mme.,
    the actress, 264;
    reads Marie Stuart in Rome, 424.

  Ritchie, Harry,
      the handsome,
    on Gov. Andrew's staff, 266.

  Ritchie, Mrs.,
    daughter of Harrison Gray Otis, 401.

  Rogers, Samuel,
      the poet,
    dinner at his house, 99, 100;
    his economical dinner, 141.

  Rogers, Prof. William B.,
    vice-president of the Town and Country Club, 405;
    lectures to the club, 406.

    the Howes' arrival in, 121;
    stiffness of society in, 123, 127;
    Mrs. Howe's second visit to, 191;
    political condition of, 193-195;
    Mrs. Howe's stay in, on her way to Greece, 313;
    spends the winter of 1877-78 in, 423-427.

  Rosebery, Lord,
    a friend of Samuel Ward, 72;
    visited by, 73;
    at Devonshire House, 410.

  Rosebery, Lady, 73.

  Rossi, Count,
    at Mrs. Benzon's, 436.

    works of performed in New York, 14;
    admired by Sumner, 176.

  Round Hill School, 5;
    its principal, 43;
    Mrs. Howe's brother Samuel at, 67.

    receptions so called, 93.

  Russell, Mrs. Sarah Shaw,
    a friend of Theodore Parker, 168.

  St. Angelo,
    Castle of, 130.

  St. Calixtus,
    catacombs of, 128.

  St. Luke,
    academy of, 124.

  St. Peter,
    church of, 121, 125, 126.

    the Howes at, 139-141.

  Samana Bay,
    the Howes' first visit to, 348;
    later stay at, 361-368;
    school at, 364.

  Samana Bay Company,
    Dr. Howe visits Santo Domingo in its interests, 346;
    ended by order of the Dominican government, 367.

  San Francisco,
    Samuel Ward at, 70.

  San Michele,
    industrial school of, 124.

  Sanborn, Franklin B.,
    his biography of Dr. Howe, 82;
    reviews "Passion Flowers," 185, 228.

  Sand, George,
    her works read by Mrs. Howe, 58, 206.

  Sands, Julia,
    her biography of her brother, 21.

  Sands, Robert,
      the poet,
    of an old New York family, 21.

  Santa Maria Maggiore,
    church of, 125.

  Santo Domingo,
    annexation of, considered by a commission, 180, 345;
    proper way to spell the name, 348;
    religious meetings for the negroes in the city of, 349-351;
    small amount of English spoken there, 352;
    secret Bible society in, 353;
    debating club there, 354;
    a city of shopkeepers, 355;
    pleasant winter climate of, 358;
    longevity of the negroes in, 364;
    characteristics of the people, 366.

  Sargent, Rev. John T.,
    meetings of the Boston Radical Club at his house, 281.

    idea of, 62.

    Mrs. Howe's essay on his minor poems, 60;
    plays read, 206.

  Schlesinger, Daniel,
      Mrs. Howe's music teacher,
    stanzas on his death, 58.

  Schliemann, Mrs., 410.

  "Schönberg-Cotta family, The," 6.

    his music played at the Ward home, 49.

    the composer, 40.

  Schumann, Madame (Clara Wieck),
    mentioned by Mrs. Jameson, 40.

    the Howes in, 111, 112.

  Scott, Sir Walter, 28;
    his novel "Kenilworth," play founded on, 57;
    grave of, at Abbotsford, 111;
    works lightly esteemed by Charles Sumner, 169.

  Sedgwick, Catharine Maria,
    on John Kenyon, 108;
    her letter of introduction to Count Gonfalonieri, 119;
    praises a line from "Passion Flowers," 228.

  Sedgwick, Mrs. Theodore (Susan Ridley), 90.

  Seeley, Prof. J. R.,
      hospitality and kindness to Mrs. Howe: his lecture on Burke, 335.

  Sewall, Judge Samuel E.,
    aids the woman suffrage movement, 382.

  Seward, William H.,
      secretary of state,
    stigmatized by Count Gurowski, 222.

  Shaw, Mrs. Quincy A., 184.

  Shelley, Percy Bysshe,
    his books prohibited in the Ward family, 58.

  Sherret, Miss,
    her interest in schools for girls of the middle class, 333.

  Sherwood, Mrs. (Mary Martha Butt),
    her stories, 48.

  Siddons, Mrs. William (Sarah Kemble),
    fund for her monument, 104;
    her daughter, 131.

  Silliman, Prof. Benjamin,
    of Yale College, 22.

  Smith, Alfred,
    real estate agent of Newport, 238.

  Smith, Mrs. Seba, 166.

  Smith, Rev. Sydney,
    calls on the Howes: his reputation as a wit, 91;
    appearance, 92;
    anecdotes of, 92-95;
    pleasantry about Lord Morpeth, 107.

  Smith, Mrs. Sydney,
    Mrs. Howe calls on, 94.

  Somerville, Mrs. (Mary Fairfax),
    intimate with Mrs. Jameson, 42.

  "Sonnambula, La,"
    given in New York, 15.

  Sontag, Mme.,
    at Mrs. Benzon's, 435.

  Sothern, Edward Askew,
    in "The World's Own," 230.

  Southworth, Mrs. F. H. (Emma D. E. Nevitt),
    attends Mrs. Howe's lecture in Washington, 309.

      the Austrian fortress of,
    Italian patriots imprisoned in, 119, 120.

  Spinoza, 212, 309.

  Stanton, Theodore, 420.

  Steele, Tom,
    friend of Daniel O'Connell, 113.

  Stone, Lucy, 305;
    speaks for woman suffrage in Boston, 375;
    her skill and zeal, 377, 378;
    her work for that cause, 380, 381;
    prominent at the woman's congress, 385.

  Stonehenge, Druidical stones at, 140.

  Story, Chief Justice, 169.

  Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher,
    her "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 253.

  Sue, Eugène,
    his "Mystères de Paris," 204.

  Sumner, Albert,
    brother of the senator, 402.

  Sumner, Charles,
    first known to the Wards through Mrs. Howe's brother Samuel, 49;
    takes the Wards to the Perkins Institution, 81, 82;
    Thomas Carlyle's estimate of, 96, 97;
    inability to sing, 163;
    his first appearance at the Ward home, 168;
    his friends, 169;
    his political opinions, 170;
    his temperament and aspect, 171-173;
    attitude on prison reform, 173, 174;
    his eloquence, 175;
    his culture, 176;
    his life in Washington, 177-180;
    opposes the annexation of Santo Domingo, 181;
    his death, 182;
    defeats Webster for the Senate, 218;
    his breach with Count Gurowski, 223;
    grieves at Gurowski's death, 226;
    dines at Mrs. Eames's, 308.

  Sumner, Charles Pinckney,
    sheriff, anecdote of, 171, 172.

  Sumner, Mrs. C. P.,
    anecdotes of, 177, 178.

    observance of, in the Ward family, 48.

  Sutherland, Duke of, 99.

  Sutherland, Duchess of (Harriet Howard), 99;
    her attire at Lansdowne House, 102;
    at the ball at Almack's, 106;
    at the Countess of Carlisle's dinner, 106, 107;
    her relations with the Queen, 107.

  Swedenborg, Emanuel,
    his "Divine Love and Wisdom," 204;
    his theory of the divine man, 208;
    works read, 209.

  "Sylphide, La," 135.

  Taddei, Rosa, 130.

  Taglioni, Madame,
    _danseuse_, 135.

  "Task, The,"
    William Cowper's, 58.

  Tasso, 176, 206.

  Taylor, "Father" (Edward T.),
    Boston Methodist city missionary, 263.

  Taylor, Mrs. Peter,
    founds a college for working women, 333.

  Terry, Luther,
    an artist in Rome, 127;
    married to Mrs. Crawford, 312.

  Terry, Mrs. Luther.
    See Ward, Louisa.

  Thackeray, William M.,
    his admiration for Mrs. Frank Hampton, 234;
    depicts her in Ethel Newcome, 235.

  Theatre, the,
    frowned down in New York, 15, 16.

  Thoreau, Henry D.,
    Emerson's paper on, 290.

  Ticknor, Miss Anna,
    in the Town and Country Club, 407.

  Ticknor, George,
      letter of introduction from,
    to Miss Edgeworth, 113;
    to Wordsworth, 115.

  Tolstoi, Count Lyeff,
    his "Kreutzer Sonata" disapproved of, 17.

      a Roman banker,
    anecdote of, 27;
    ball given by, 123.

  Torlonia's Palace, 122, 128.

    an artist, 127.

    the Russian novelist, 412.

  Town and Country Club of Newport
    founded, 405;
    its eminent lecturers, 406, 407.

  Townsend, Mrs. Gideon (Mary A. Van Voorhis),
    poet of the opening of the New Orleans Exposition, 399.

    ridiculed by Dickens, 139;
    by Cranch, 145;
    a world movement, 146, 147.

  "Trip to Cuba,"
      Mrs. Howe's book,
    extract from, 233;
    published in the "Atlantic Monthly" and in book form: attacked, 236.

  Tübingen, University of,
    confers a degree on Samuel Ward, Mrs. Howe's brother, 68.

    their devastation of Greece, 85.

  Tweedy, Edmund, 402.

  Tweedy, Mary, 402.

      king of Italy,
    crowned, 424.

  "Uncle Tom's Cabin,"
    Mrs. Stowe's, 253.

  United States, Bank of,
    Jackson's refusal to renew charter of, 50;
    English sneer at, 117.

  Van de Weyer, Mr. Sylvain,
    Belgian minister to England, 93.

  Van de Weyer, Mrs. Sylvain, 92.

    evening visit to, 129;
    head of Zeus in, 132.

  "Via Felice,"
    a poem, 200.

  Victor Emmanuel,
    his popularity and death, 423.

    Queen, 93.

    the Howes at, 118.

  Von Walther, Mme., 118.

  Voysey, Rev. Charles,
    sermon by, 330.

  Waddington, W. H., 410.

  Wade, Benjamin F.,
    commissioner on the annexation of Santo Domingo, 181, 345.

  Wadsworth, William,
    of Geneseo, 104.

  Walcourt, Lord,
    visited by the Howes, 114, 115.

  Walcourt, Lady, 115.

  Wall Street,
    Samuel Ward in, 51;
    John Ward in, 55.

  Wallace, Horace Binney,
    a delightful companion, 198, 199;
    sad death, 200;
    lines to, 200, 201;
    recommends Comte's work, 211.

  "Wandsbecker Bote,"
    Matthias Claudius's, 62.

  Ward, Annie.
    See Mailliard, Mrs. Adolph.

  Ward, Frances Marion,
    sent to Round Hill School, 5;
    at home, 45.

  Ward, Henry,
      uncle of Mrs. Howe,
    a lover of music and good cheer, 19.

  Ward, Henry,
      brother of Mrs. Howe,
    sent to Round Hill School, 5;
    at home, 45;
    his character, 53;
    death, 54.

  Ward, John,
    uncle of Mrs. Howe, 19;
    a practical man, 20;
    notes of his life, 54-55;
    anecdote of, 66.

  Ward, Louisa,
    wife of Thomas Crawford, 45;
    at Rome, 73;
    her beauty, 137;
    her journey to Rome with Mrs. Ward, 190;
    established at Villa Negroni, 192;
    marries Luther Terry: visited in 1867 by Mrs. Howe, 313;
    goes to the consecration of Leo XIII., 425.

  Ward, Richard, 19.

  Ward, Gov. Samuel,
    of Rhode Island, 3, note.

  Ward, Samuel,
      grandfather of Mrs. Howe,
    appearance and manner, 19;
    her father's grief at his death, 50.

  Ward, Samuel,
      father of Mrs. Howe,
    his birth and descent, 3;
    grief at his wife's death, 11;
    care for his children, 11;
    plans for their education, 13;
    religious views become more stringent, 15;
    gives up wine, tobacco, and cards, 18-20;
    his fine taste, 45;
    generosity: discussion with his son
      regarding social intercourse, 46;
    his family habits, 47;
    his observance of Sunday, 48;
    ideas of propriety; religious faith, 49;
    business ability, 50;
    carries New York State through the crisis of 1837, 50, 51;
    his early experience in Wall St., 51;
    his death, 52;
    his careful restraint of his daughter, 52, 53;
    his portrait in the New York Bank of Commerce, 55;
    condemns Goethe's "Faust," 59;
    displeased with his son Samuel's work, 69.

  Ward, Mrs. Samuel (Julia Rush),
      mother of Mrs. Howe:
    marriage and education: her charm of character, 5;
    anecdotes of, 5, 6;
    her tact, 6;
    death, 10, 11.

  Ward, Samuel,
      brother of Mrs. Howe,
    sent to Round Hill School, 5;
    travels in Europe: at home, 45;
    his defense of society, 46;
    enlivens the austerity of the Ward household, 49;
    establishes a home of his own, 53;
    marries Emily Astor, 65;
    his appearance and education, 67;
    travels abroad, 68;
    his lack of interest in business, his second marriage, 69;
    goes to California, 70;
    Indian adventures, 70, 71;
    life in Washington: becomes "King of the Lobby," 72;
    his friends, 72, 73;
    his visit to Lord Rosebery: death at Pegli: volume
      of poems, 73.

  Ward, Mrs. Samuel (Emily Astor),
    her marriage, 65;
    her fine voice, 74, 75.

  Ward, Mrs. Samuel (Medora Grimes),
    married, 69.

  Ward, William, 19.

  Waring, Col. George E., 404.

    Samuel Ward in, 72;
    Charles Sumner's residence in, 180;
    Count Gurowski in, 221-223;
    Mrs. Eames's position there, 224;
    funeral of Gurowski in, 226;
    condition of, during the civil war, 269, 270;
    Mrs. Howe lectures in, 308.

  Washington, Gen. George, 9;
    his attention to Mrs. Cutler, 35;
    waited on by "Daughters of Liberty," 36;
    birthday celebrated in Rome, 203.

  Wasson, David A.,
    a member of the Radical Club, 282;
    his reply to Mr. Abbott, 289.

  Webster, Daniel,
    Theodore Parker's sermon on, 164;
    defeated for the senatorship by Sumner, 218.

  Wedding ceremonies described, 33, 34, 65, 66.

  Weiss, Rev. John,
    at the Boston Radical Club, 283, 284;
    on woman suffrage, 289;
    on poets and philosophers, 304.

  Welles, Gideon,
    secretary of the navy, 225.

  Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of,
    anecdote of, 17.

  Wentzler, A. H.,
    paints portrait of John Ward, 55.

  Whipple, Edwin P.,
    reviews "Passion Flowers," 228;
    attends Mrs. Howe's parlor lectures, 306.

  White, Andrew D.,
    commissioner on the annexation of Santo Domingo, 181, 345.

  White, Mrs. Andrew D., 346.

  White, Charlotte,
    a "character" in early New York, 77.

  Whiting, Solomon,
    attends Mrs. Howe's lecture in Washington, 309.

  Whitney, Miss Anne,
    her statue of Harriet Martineau, 158.

  Whittier, John G.,
    praises "Passion Flowers," 228;
    his characterization of Dr. Howe, 370.

      the German composer,
    described by Mrs. Jameson, 40.

  Wilbour, Mrs. Charlotte B.,
    prominent in the woman's congress, 385, 386.

    battle of, 265.

  "Wilhelm Meister,"
    discussed, 59.

  Wilkes, Rev. Eliza Tupper,
    takes part in the convention of woman ministers, 312.

  Willis, N. P.,
    at the Bryant celebration, 278.

  Wilson, Henry, 178.

  Wines, Rev. Frederick,
    at the Prison Reform meetings, 340.

  Winkworth, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen,
    friends of peace, their hospitality, 330.

  Wolcott, Mrs. Henrietta L. T.,
    her talk on waifs, 392;
    helps Mrs. Howe with the woman's department
      of a fair in Boston in 1882, 394.

  Woman suffrage,
    championed by Wendell Phillips, 157, 158;
    by John Weiss, 289;
    meeting in favor of, in Boston, 375;
    other efforts, 376;
    workers for it, 378;
    urged in Vermont, 380;
    legislative hearings upon, 381-384.

  Wood, Mrs.,
    sings in New York: her voice, 15.

  Woods, Rev. Leonard,
    invites Mrs. Howe to contribute to the "Theological
      Review," 44.

  "Words for the Hour,"
    Mrs. Howe's second publication, 230.

  Wordsworth, William,
      the poet,
    the Howes' visit to, 115, 116.

  "World's Own, The,"
    a drama by Mrs. Howe, 230.

  Yerrington, James B., 156.

  Zénaïde, Princess, 202.

[Transcribers' note: Original spelling has been maintained and not
standardized. Footnotes have been renumbered for consistency. To indicate
text in italic font, _underscores_ have been used. Typographical errors
that were corrected:

'an-answered'-->'answered': It was a timid performance upon a slender reed,
but the great performers in the noble orchestra of writers answered to its
appeal, which won me a seat in their ranks.

'Gary'-->'Cary': The story of his life and work is beautifully told in the
"Life and Correspondence" published soon after his death by his widow, Mrs.
Elizabeth Cary Agassiz, well known to-day as the president of Radcliffe

'spoken or'-->'spoken of': The young man whom I saw at this time was spoken
of as much devoted to the turf, and the only saying of his that I have ever
heard quoted was his question as to how long it took Nebuchadnezzar to get
into condition after he had been out to grass.

'sum'-->'summer': spends the summer of 1841 near Boston: visits the Perkins

'Vermöchtniss'-->'Vermächtniss': "Die Zeit ist mein Vermächtniss, mein
Acker ist die Zeit."

The index entries for 'William Ellery Channing', the preacher, referred to
on pp. 144 and 416; and the poet, referred to on p. 370, were separated.]

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