IN the autumn of 1865 we left No. 13 Chestnut1 Street, greatly to our regret. The owner of the house, Mr. Sargent, decided2 to live there himself, so we moved to No. 19 Boylston Place. My father never approved of this locality, as it was on made ground and rather low. It had been a part of old Mr. ——’s garden. However, I do not think it affected3 the health of the family unfavorably. Having some trouble with the drainage, he sent for the Master of the Drains. This official looked exactly as one might guess from his title—quaint, seedy, with bloodshot eyes. I suspect Boston did not then have a sewerage system.
The move from Chestnut Street had been a hurried one, as my father hoped almost to the last to find a situation better to his liking4 than Boylston Place. I was now at the age, twenty years, when young people feel the responsibility of the world resting heavily on their shoulders. During the preparations for removal I flew up and down stairs and attempted to do a hundred things, without any regard for my own strength, which I supposed to be unlimited5. The result was a strain that affected my health unfavorably for some years. The fault was my own, as no one had asked or expected me to do so much.
In these years I began to be interested in charitable work, conducting a sewing-school for poor children at our own house. Occasionally our sittings were interrupted by the merry raids of the young Howes, who launched sponges and other missiles at my scholars. The latter took refuge under the dining-room table, but appreciated the sport of the affair. When my father looked in upon the children at work his face lit up with a beautiful smile that was more than reward enough for my small efforts.
In our frequent drives between South Boston and Boston we passed through a somewhat squalid tenement-house district. Concern for the people dwelling7 there now began to oppress me, and I made efforts, though not always wise ones, to help them.
Among my protégées was a Mrs. Wallace, a stalwart Irish woman with several children, whose husband had pains in his legs whenever he held the baby. We started her in a fruit-stand and made various efforts in her behalf. She was later arrested for some misdemeanor and it required several policemen to take her, struggling all the way, to the station-house.
A very unpleasant though amusing incident of our life at Boylston Place was the arrival of a box containing six semi-wild cats, sent to my father by our friend, Mr. Thomas R. Hazard, as a species of joke When the box was opened the cats flew out of it, scattering8 in every direction. Fortunately for the Howe family, some of them escaped from the house. The most troublesome one persisted in rushing up the chimney-place in my room whenever we approached her.
About this time the family narrowly escaped a serious danger. One evening my mother, being up late, noticed on the ceiling a slight discoloration; she also thought she heard a low tick-tick as of flames. Being very sleepy, she reasoned thus with herself: “Even if there should be a fire and we should be burned up, why, then David and Flossy could be married.”
Arousing herself from this strange altruistic9 vein10, she called my father. In time of danger he was in his element. He speedily chopped open the floor of the parlor11 and the flames appeared! Meantime, brother Harry12, hastily attired13, rushed out for a policeman. The latter showed very languid interest.
“Fire—where?”
“At No. 19 Boylston Place.”
“O Lord!” ejaculated the officer of the law, and rushed for the spot. His own home was next door!
On the other side of us lived Mrs. Richards and her five stalwart sons. Whenever our furnace sent out smoke, it went into the Richards’ house. Hence the young men, smelling smoke, came in to see what was wrong with us. Sister Laura, who was a very pretty and charming girl, roused suddenly from sleep, appeared barefoot upon the scene, with her fine hair floating over her shoulders. Two or three years later she married the youngest of the fire-fighters.
I was staying in New York at the time, and so missed the great scene of the fire. It was put out without much damage.
It will be judged from my mother’s remark that my engagement was a long one, my fiancé being a young lawyer studying in his father’s office. During the five years that elapsed before our marriage I found it pleasant to make visits in New York, staying with Great-uncle Richard Ward6. He possessed14 the courtly manners of a gentleman of the old school, his diction being somewhat old-fashioned. Thus he frequently said, “No, lady,” or “Yes, lady,” a form of address now used chiefly by dependents. Uncle Richard was a thorough Ward, of tall and massive frame, though not at all stout15. He had been six feet four inches tall in his younger days, and wore number eleven gloves, it was said. His shoes were on the same scale. During the life of Uncle John (when the two brothers lived together) there was a room at the rear of the house devoted16 to their footgear. It was a veritable acreage of shoes which resembled small cradles. Leather was then supposed to last longer if boots were given a rest instead of being used constantly. Uncle Richard wore one of the hideous17 wigs18 of the period, having lost his hair many years before. A family tradition declared that, from the receding19 of the gums, his teeth had all dropped out while still sound. He received us always with great kindness and hospitality. The only drawback to the pleasure of a visit at No. 8 Bond Street was the temperature of the house, which was cold for our modern taste. In addition to an old-fashioned and rather ineffectual furnace there were pleasant open-grate fires in all the rooms. We soon learned that we must not poke20 these too much when Uncle Richard was present, for a temperature comfortable to us was distressing21 to him. As we sat playing whist of an evening, he would get up and leave the room from time to time, in order to cool off in the hall.
He made it a point of pride not to wear an overcoat, and seldom did so, though he dressed very warmly beneath his invariable black suit. What he should wear on a cold day became in his later years a serious question. He would call in consultation22 his faithful old retainer. Mary Oliver would sometimes decide the matter by weighing the clothes!
Uncle Richard was very much interested in genealogy23 and took great pride in his ancestors. He informed me that the boys at school looked with respect on his brothers and himself because they were descended24 from four Governors! Dear deluded25 man! How could he so misunderstand boy nature! I’ve no doubt their schoolmates treated the brothers with due respect, the Wards26 being a large and powerful race. It is more prudent27 not to offend bigger boys.
He was showing me one day an old family Bible in which the names of seven generations of Wards were inscribed28. Seeing a visitor come up the front steps, he closed the book.
“Now, my dear, we will not talk about ancestors before Mr. So-and-so,” he observed. “Because if we speak of these before other people, they also talk about theirs, and that is not so interesting!”
I do not think he wrote any account of his forebears, leaving that for his successor in the cult29, Cousin John Ward. The latter does not mention the fourth awe30-inspiring Governor, but perhaps he was on the distaff side.
William Dean Howells was one of the noted31 people who came to see us in Boylston Place. Sister Julia and I fancied that he looked like an amiable32 Richard III. His black hair was parted in the middle—a thing not usual in the ’Sixties. Although cut short, it strayed over his forehead in a way to suggest the close-cropped hair of the medieval knight33, while his dark complexion34, short, compact figure, and something unusual about his face, suggested this resemblance to us. The comparison was not invidious, because we admired Edwin Booth in the r?le of Richard III.
We were interested in Mr. Howells’s india-rubbers, they were so small! Mr. and Mrs. Frank Leslie, with Mrs. Squiers, also spent an evening with us. Both ladies were in full evening dress, doubtless supposing the occasion would be a formal one. Mrs. Squiers was a striking-looking person whose face did not recommend itself to me. After the death of the first wife, she became the second Mrs. Frank Leslie. All suffragists owe her a debt of gratitude35 for her generous gift of her fortune to our cause.
One of our delightful36 visitors in these days was our cousin-german Frank, known later as Marion Crawford, the novelist. He was sent to this country to receive his early education, spending several years at St. Paul’s School in Concord37, New Hampshire. He was now about ten years old, a handsome, freshfaced boy, very much interested in locomotives. He brought a number of engravings of these, which I politely examined, in spite of my perfect indifference38 to engines of all sorts. In later years my youngest son, discovering with pain this trait in his mother’s character, observed, reflectively:
“It must be strange not to be interested in locomotives.”
Young Crawford was as full of fun as other boys of his age. With brother Harry he performed various antics at the house of my aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, in Bordentown, New Jersey40. Her family were surprised, when walking in the garden, to see the stand of the lost rocking-horse protruding41 from the chimney!
Dear old Mr. Joseph Greene Cogswell, who had been the first librarian of the Astor Library, was sitting quietly by the fire when boots suddenly came down the chimney. With perfect gravity he picked these out of the fire with the tongs42, causing great amusement to the naughty boys watching above.
Sister Julia was ten years older than Frank, but they were great chums. During one of our periodical stays at the Institution for the Blind they bought cream-cakes with the money given them for car fare, and walked the two or more miles from Boston to South Boston with cheerful hearts!
During our residence in Boylston Place my father did some of his writing in the house and asked us to make no noise near his room. We were so young and thoughtless as to think this request unreasonable43. True, we knew, in a general way, that he was writing the report for the Massachusetts Board of State Charities, but this meant little to us. In later years we came to understand what labor44 and fatigue45 the task involved, for the board was the pioneer body of its kind in the United States. My father’s wide experience made it inevitable46 that he should be summoned to sit on it. “The Nestor and Achilles of public charities in Massachusetts” soon became the chairman. In a series of annual reports he advocated a system of dealing47 with the dependent classes which was accepted and still remains48 in force, not only in Massachusetts, but in many other states and in some European countries.
Public institutions, he declared, should be built only in the last resort. The dependent classes should be diffused49 through the community, not gathered together. Children should be cared for in families, not in institutions. Defectives50 should be brought together only for purposes of instruction. They should not live together in homes, as their peculiarities51 thus become more strongly developed, but with normal people.
As a pioneer in eugenics he strongly disapproved52 of the policy of certain trustees of the Reform School for Girls. These wished to bury in oblivion the former bad life of the young women, allowing young men to marry them without any warning of their past misbehavior. My father knew this was all wrong and so declared, drawing upon himself sarcastic53 denunciations from the unwise trustees.
When it was proposed to build a large institution at Winthrop, he wrote to the newspapers, showing the evil of congregating54 so many people under one roof.
An unexpected ally appeared in a correspondent who wrote Doctor Howe, approving the stand he had taken “because, although it is not generally known, there are lions and tigers under the proposed site of the institution!”
My father’s labors55 have often seemed to me like those of Hercules. He succeeded in them because he had great confidence in the benevolence56 of his fellow-men; he knew they would respond to appeals made in the right spirit, if matters were clearly explained.
“Obstacles are things to be overcome,” was one of his mottoes. “Qui facit per alium, facit per se,” was another.
So long as the deed was done, it mattered not to him who did it or who received the praise. If some one else could carry out his plan, he was off to the next task. He was too busy to give any time to the recording57 of his own accomplishments58. Hence he had all the more for the work in hand.
In 1866 came the stirring news of the revolt of Crete against her Mohammedan oppressors. The island had earned its freedom with the rest of Greece in the war of independence, but by a cruel stroke of diplomacy59 had been put back under the heel of the Turk.
We shudder60 in the year 1918 at the cruelties of the Germans, the self-styled Huns. Yet they were once Christians62 and some remains of Christian61 thought and practice still linger among their soldiery. But the Turks have always been barbarians64. In the early days of the rising of 1866–68 we learned with horror of the fate of the brave and desperate Cretans who, gathered together in church or fortress65, blew themselves into eternity66 rather than fall into the savage67 hands of the Turks. Men did the same thing in the Greek revolution, to escape the same terrible fate!
My father was now sixty-five years old. Yet “he heard the voice of Greece calling him,” and he answered the call, as he had answered it nearly half a century before.
Then he had gone, in the enthusiasm of his bright youth, alone to a strange land, whose language he did not speak. Now he at once called a meeting in Music Hall, Boston, where Edward Everett Hale, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Wendell Phillips, the silver-tongued orator68, and others spoke69.
My father presided and made a brief speech:
“I knew hundreds of them [the Cretans]—good men and true. I had been in their beautiful island, had stood a siege with them in one of their beleaguered70 fortresses71, and witnessed their courage.... I see them now, the sons of my old companions, in their snowy chemise and their shaggy capote, saying, sadly, ‘Good-by, mother! Good-by, sister and child! Seek your refuge in the neighboring isles72, upon the main, wherever the hand of Christian mercy may aid you. We go to the mountains to keep the flag of freedom flying as long as we live!’ My friends, these unfortunate women and children are now suffering as many of their mothers suffered forty years ago. Your fathers and your mothers relieved them. Will you not relieve their children?”
Of course they would and did. Thirty-seven thousand dollars were raised, and in March, 1867, my father sailed for Greece, to be once more the almoner of American charity.
The Cretan refugees had been obliged to fly hastily, and were in a destitute73, almost naked condition. The good women of Boston responded to this call by forming sewing-circles to make clothing for these exiles.
I inaugurated one among my young friends, but looked in vain for a president. I appealed to Emily Russell, who had held this office in a similar society.
“Why aren’t you the president yourself?” she suggested. The idea had not previously74 occurred to me, as I had had no experience. However, I accepted her advice, learning then that if you start an enterprise you must expect to take the responsibility on your own shoulders.
Just what kind of undergarments the women of the Orient wore we did not know. Fortunately for us, a circle of older ladies took the responsibility, cutting out for us pattern “togas” and “pajamas.” They were of unbleached muslin—or cotton cloth. The price of this had been seventy-five cents a yard during the Civil War, and was still very high in 1867.
We were merry over the naming of the garments and over their unusual shape. My mother, who assisted in the distribution of the clothing to the refugees at Athens, tells us that they were suitable in pattern and quality.
One or more of our meetings were held at the Institution for the Blind, where Laura Bridgman, despite her lack of sight and hearing, ran the sewing-machine for us.
The year 1867 and a good part of 1868 were largely occupied with work for the Cretan cause. My mother and sisters, Julia and Laura, accompanied my father to Europe, I having remained behind from choice. This was partly out of deference75 to the wishes of my fiancé and partly because I had not yet recovered from the strain received during the removal to Boylston Place.
A quiet summer was indicated for me—but how was it possible to compass this when the letters from Greece were so moving? Sister Laura, in particular, wrote such harrowing accounts of the refugees that I could not remain inactive. Brother Harry, sister Maud and I were spending the greater part of the summer at our home in Lawton’s Valley, where our aunt, Mrs. Joseph N. Howe, and her daughters were installed for the season.
I rashly decided to arrange an amateur concert for the benefit of the Cretans. True, I knew something of music, but of the nature of amateur musicians I was blissfully ignorant. The first step was easy enough. The stirring letters from Greece afforded plenty of ammunition77 for a circular appeal to the leading people of Newport, of which we wrote many copies. Brother Harry, now a junior at Harvard College, was my right hand in the whole matter, working most unselfishly and constantly.
Day after day we took the six-mile drive to Newport, calling upon prospective78 patronesses and singers. The former responded nobly. Mrs. E. D. Morgan, wife of the war Governor of New York State, took fifty tickets, although her husband had already contributed to the cause.
But the singers! oh, the singers! Such backing and filling, such coy consents, withdrawn79 almost as soon as made! It had not occurred to my youthful mind that the amateur musician normally displays his talents before a private audience. In asking him to sing before the public, at an entertainment for which tickets were sold, I was requesting something unusual. Doubtless many felt their talents were not sufficient for the task. The Cretan concert might never have materialized except for the timely aid of Miss Jane Stuart. Daughter of the famous painter, Gilbert Stuart, and an artist herself, she was one of the characters of old Newport. Her father had been one of the few to give my father God-speed when the latter started for Greece in 1824, and he had reciprocated80 the kindness by helping81 Miss Jane in some undertaking82. She was extremely grateful, and once showed her feeling by embracing him. “My dear, I might just as well have kissed that door!” she afterward83 said to my mother. My father was a true New Englander in disliking all such demonstrations84, and Miss Jane was extremely plain.
She and her elder sister lived in a pleasant little cottage on Mill Street. This was practically headquarters for us during our Cretan concert campaign. Miss Jane gave us her aid and counsel in every possible way. I’m ashamed to think how often we imposed upon the kindness of the two ladies by staying to luncheon85. Miss Anne, born toward the close of the eighteenth or at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was a gentlewoman of the old school. She wore a black head-dress covering a great part of her head—the successor to the turban, perhaps. She was not so witty86 as Miss Jane, whose conversation was very charming. The agreeable women of the older generation whom I remember in my youth had grown up before the day of the short story and almost before that of the magazine. Hence it was a part of their social education, the knowledge of how to tell anecdotes87 in a truly interesting way.
Another friend who helped us in our undertaking was Miss Anna Vernon, who thoroughly88 loved music and gave much time to it. She then lived in the historic Vernon house, the headquarters of Rochambeau. It is now decorated with a medallion portrait of him.
I was so much absorbed in my new undertaking as to suppose every one else would be interested in it. Perhaps that is the secret of successful canvassing89! To my urgent request that he would go with me to drum up recruits Col. Thomas Wentworth Higginson at last replied:
“Why, I am the only man in Newport who has anything to do!”
This gentle rebuke90 was disconcerting, but, having delivered it, and so freed his mind, the gallant91 colonel climbed into my pony-chaise and we made the projected calls together. At that time he and his first wife were living in Newport. She was a superior woman, but a victim of a form of rheumatism92 which made her almost helpless. Her husband was devoted to her.
The amateurs continuing hopelessly coy, we had, in a moment of desperation, an interview with the manager of an opera troupe93. It did not prove practicable, however, to hand the concert over to professionals.
We were obliged to call in the aid of one, Mrs. Flora94 Cary, afterward Mrs. Barry, a concert singer with a fine contralto voice. She generously gave us her services. My mother’s cousin, John Ward, possessed a well-cultivated tenor95 voice, and he, too, nobly volunteered. With the help of these and other performers the concert for the benefit of the Cretans at last came off. We cleared four hundred dollars, and a donation from the Misses Hazard, the sisters of Mr. Thomas Hazard, brought our profits up to five hundred.
Cousin John had taken degrees both as a doctor and as a lawyer, yet he practised neither profession. The possession of money was an effective damper on his activities. For many years he was a member of the well-known Mendelssohn Glee Club of New York. Unfortunately, he desired also to be a poet, a career for which nature had not intended him. He had a theory that perseverance96 was the main requisite97. Hence he would read his verses to some unfortunate friend, and if the latter made any criticism which seemed to him just he would call on the friend a second time, and recite a revised version, asking if that were any better!
His friends took refuge in polite lies. “Oh no, John, I have no taste for poetry. I’m no judge of it—it would not be of any use to read that to me!”
Even the most conscientious98 fell from truth, after a while. When it came to the third degree—listening to the same verses, altered slightly to suit your taste, for the third time you surrendered. You accepted them as faultless—anything, rather than listen to them again.
He printed a volume of poems, which he determined99 should be letter-perfect. Of course it was not—but the printer profited handsomely by the venture.
A more practical taste was that for genealogy. We owe to his painstaking100 industry biographies of our common ancestors, Governor Samuel Ward and his son, Lieutenant-Colonel Ward, as well as an account of the Continental101 Congress before the Declaration of Independence. Thereby102 hangs a tale. Governor Samuel Ward was not only a member of that Congress, but presided constantly over the body as chairman of the Committee of the Whole, until March 15, 1776, when he was obliged to leave the session, owing to a violent attack of smallpox103! He died shortly after, and so did not sign the famous document. His colleague, Stephen Hopkins, did live to sign it, yet it was the “physical disability” of the latter which threw such a burden of work on Governor Ward that he was in an entirely104 unfit state to cope with the disease!
We have found it a little hard to forgive our distinguished105 ancestor his imprudence. If he had only been inoculated107 beforehand all might have been well, but he could not take the time! However, we console ourselves by remembering that he was the only Colonial governor who refused to carry out the odious108 stamp act!
His son, Lieut-Col. Samuel Ward, did good service in the Revolution. Cousin John regarded these and other ancestors with a reverence109 that amounted almost to awe. He would let you take a peep at Governor Ward’s Congressional Journal, but you were not permitted to touch it. Yet he made no provision for the care of these beloved papers after his death. They were inherited by a relative who, possessing no taste for genealogical research, has locked them up in a safe-deposit box.
I have sometimes thought there should be one genealogist—and only one—in each generation. Yet, when I remember the lives of some of those I have known, it seems a little hard to condemn110 even one person every thirty years to this gentle fate. For it is not to be denied that genealogists are often ineffective, though excellent, persons. It has been already said of Cousin John that he went to the Civil War. So he did his “bit” for his country.
During the seven months while the family were in Europe sister Maud remained under my charge. With the help of Miss Mary Paddock, we kept house in the “Doctor’s” part of the Institution, visiting various relatives later on. That Miss Paddock should thus come to help us out was quite in the usual order of things. We were all fond of her and accepted her aid as a matter of course. As the young Howes grew older, we saw and appreciated the sterling111 worth and rare unselfishness of her character.
It was a part of my father’s power to draw to his aid people of worth and ability. His chivalrous112 spirit thrilled through his assistants. They saw him devoting his life to the care of the maimed lambs of the human fold—they, too, would and did help in the good work. Working with the “Doctor” was no light service, yet all knew that he himself labored113 harder than any one else. Of necessity there was much steady, practical work, yet, as in all pioneer labor, there was the romance of hewing114 out new paths. To enlist115 under the “Doctor’s” banner was in itself an adventure. Mary Paddock did so enlist, becoming a teacher at the Institution for the Blind in her young womanhood. Her devotion to my father ended only with his life. She was with us often at “Lawton’s Valley” and “Green Peace” as faithful friend and helper. During the last years of my father’s life, when his health was failing badly, she was his amanuensis and nurse. For her memory we all feel deep affection and gratitude.
The blind children were often my playmates. We were so accustomed to seeing and being with them that we thought little about their privation of sight. My father’s aim was to make them as much like seeing people as possible. Thus they were taught to go about the house and grounds very freely, running down-stairs as rapidly as seeing boys and girls. Some of them walked in the streets and even traveled in the cars alone. Usually, however, a leader was required. Occasionally I went with them, as guide, to opera or concert. Many tickets were generously sent to them, especially for the less popular performances.
In the summer of 1867 sister Maud was in her thirteenth year—a handsome child of generous and noble impulses, but of an impetuous disposition116 that made her at times difficult to deal with. “Old Splendid” was the name given her by a dressmaker to whom we were all attached. “The Stormy Petrel” was another nickname.
Her lack of respect for the gods of the school-room filled my more conventional soul with horror. To call the excellent Mr. Greenleaf, the author of our arithmetic, a fool seemed to me eminently117 unreasonable. When, in a fit of exasperation118 over her studies, the ink-bottle was flung across the room, spattering the wall with its contents, I stood aghast. I did the best I could for my young charge while the family were in Europe and was rewarded a hundredfold by her affection and gratitude.
My mother and sisters assisted in the work of distributing to the Cretan refugees the ten thousand garments sent out from America. Sister Laura has described “the stately, dark-eyed Cretan women, majestic119 even in their rags and misery120; the slender girls; the lovely, dirty children.” She has told us of many romantic incidents which found no place in my father’s reports.[10] He always suppressed his own part in any undertaking, writing down only what was necessary to secure the interest of the reader.
A price was set upon his head by the Turkish authorities of Crete. Nevertheless, he visited the island and the small rocky fortress where he had been besieged121 in the old days of the Greek Revolution.
10. Letters and Journals of Samuel Gridley Howe. Dana Estes & Co.
The Howe sisters made a trip on a small steamer where there was a grim passenger—the head of a famous brigand122 who had just been captured and killed. They would have liked to see this horrible trophy123, but my father would not permit it.
On their return to America, my father and mother began to make preparations for a fair in behalf of the Cretans. My share was to revive the sewing-circle of the previous year. Instead of working on “pajamas” and “togas,” we now had the more interesting occupation of sewing on pretty things. White coats with colored silk trimmings were then in fashion. I conceived the brilliant idea of making them at our sewing-circle, and so reaping a handsome profit. The girls groaned124 at undertaking anything so serious as outside garments, but I persuaded them that they could—and ought. These sold for a high price—between thirty and forty dollars apiece!
The fair was a great success, more than thirty thousand dollars being raised. The work for the Cretans involved many meetings. Money was raised by lectures and in other ways. A poster in one of the theaters announcing a performance for their benefit drew this comment from a passer-by:
“The Cretans? Who in h—l are the Cretans?”
In spite of the splendid struggle made by the brave inhabitants of the island, they were at last obliged to go back under barbarian63 rule. But it was only for a time. My father did not live to see Crete freed, but we, the children of the Philhellene, rejoiced and were exceeding glad when the hated Mohammedan yoke125 was thrown off.
The Cretan episode had one very unexpected result. Among my father’s helpers in Athens was a young Greek, Michael Anagnostopoulos. When he was asked what payment he desired for his services, he replied:
“What do you receive for yours, Doctor Howe?”
“Nothing,” said my father.
“Neither do I wish to be paid,” the young Greek answered. But he did want to see America!
He returned with the family to Boston, where, after mastering the difficulties of the English language, he became Doctor Howe’s assistant at the Institution for the Blind. In the year 1870 he married sister Julia, succeeding to the directorship after my father’s death in 1876.
We were all made happy by the purchase of No. 32 Mount Vernon Street, soon after the return of the family from Europe. This residence, on the top of Beacon126 Hill, was spacious127 and pleasant.
The preceding owner was a maiden128 lady with a great fondness for cats. They were not included in the bill of sale, but hung about the place. Cats seemed to be our fate!
As I had not fully76 recovered my strength, a room on the ground floor was allotted129 to me, so that I need not climb the stairs. A furnace burning wood was put into the house as being more wholesome130 than anthracite coal.
Once or twice I heard a friendly tap on the window-pane, and opened the door to admit brother Harry, who had forgotten his latch-key. From the lapel of his dress-coat gleamed many favors, tokens of the mimic131 victories of the german. For he was a good dancer and a favorite in society.
Fifty years later, when the John Fritz gold medal was presented to him, at a meeting of the United Engineering Societies held in his honor, I again saw stars shining upon his breast, the tokens not of mimic, but of real victories. For brother Harry has won golden opinions by his strenuous132 work, and many honors, from foreign countries as well as from England and America, have been bestowed133 on him. Yet he has taken them all with a modesty134 that disarms135 envy.
In 1869 he graduated from Harvard College. His class day was an event in the family, especially for sister Laura, who was then at the right age—nineteen—to enjoy the festival fully. Various desperate swains attended her on that day and made love to her amid the classic shades of the old Harvard Yard. She was a pretty, perhaps a beautiful girl, with a sweetness and freshness of disposition delightful to behold136. Though clever and witty, she was too amiable to say sharp things. Hence great was the number of her admirers.
I had now assumed the cares of the family housekeeping, as well as a certain supervision137 over the clothes of the younger sisters. Sister Julia was not interested in these things. It must be regretfully admitted that under my sway plain living was too much accentuated138. Finding a diet of prunes139 and toast for supper (dinner was still at two o’clock) monotonous140 and uninteresting, the family rebelled and declared they must have a more generous and varied141 bill of fare. Even my father questioned whether, in view of my natural tendencies to economy, it might have been a mistake to teach me bookkeeping! I do not think this was his real opinion, however. During one of my absences from home he wrote that he missed me as the regulating clock of the establishment. The high prices which continued to prevail long after the end of the Civil War made prudence106 in expenditure142 necessary for people of moderate income. I kept the family accounts, the central figure from whom we received funds, and who was supposed to demand an exact accounting143 of all moneys given out, being put down as “The House.” My father once jokingly exclaimed, “Who is House? Every one seems to be against him!”
He was now requested to take part in a new enterprise which deeply interested him. The Republic of Santo Domingo having asked to be annexed144 to the United States, President Grant appointed Hon. Benjamin F. Wade145, of Ohio, Hon. Andrew D. White, and my father as commissioners146 to visit the island and investigate the conditions there.
They sailed in the steamer Tennessee, after warning us that we must not be alarmed if no news was received from them for a month. Nevertheless, it was difficult to avoid worry when sensational147 stories appeared in the newspapers about the supposed foundering148 of the Tennessee. The wife of Andrew D. White suffered such anxiety that her hair turned white!
With the assistance of a corps149 of scientific observers, they made a careful investigation150 of conditions in the little republic and wrote a report heartily151 favoring annexation152. I’m sorry to say that Charles Sumner, misled by designing people, made a speech in the Senate strongly opposing it, before this report had been presented. Others attacked it and the measure failed. Thus Grant’s plan of gaining a foothold in the tropics was for the moment defeated.
My father still hoped that something might be done for Santo Domingo through private enterprise. During his last visit to the island news came of the death of Charles Sumner. My father was deeply grieved, for in spite of the difference of opinion about Santo Domingo the old friendship remained unbroken.
To each of the Howe daughters, and I think to the Longfellow daughters also, Charles Sumner left a legacy153 of five hundred dollars. He also bequeathed his fine collection of bronzes to my father and Mr. Longfellow. Mother and sister Maud met the poet and made the division. Sister Maud complained afterward that our mother would choose first some piece that she especially fancied, instead of selecting the largest and most valuable articles. Sister Maud was still in her teens!
The older three Howe sisters were all married within a twelvemonth, sister Julia choosing the thirtieth day of December, 1870, in order that she might begin the new life with the new year. She was married at home. Sister Laura’s wedding took place at the Church of the Disciples154, on the 17th of June. We had forgotten that the procession of Bunker Hill Day might interfere155 with the going to and from the church. It did cause some delay.
My marriage took place at No. 32 Mount Vernon Street, in November, 1871. All three of us had simple weddings, followed by pleasant, informal receptions. We had no bridesmaids. Several of sister Laura’s disappointed lovers went off on an excursion together, instead of attending the ceremony.
She and her husband went to Europe on their wedding-tour, visiting Greece, Constantinople, Italy and other countries.
Brother Harry graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, at the head of his class, leaving Boston during this same fateful year 1871. Our parents were thus left with only one out of the five children—sister Maud—but she was a host in herself, while their many interests and many friends acted as a cheerful counter-irritant to loneliness.
Brother Harry married, in April, 1874, Miss Fannie Gay, daughter of Willard Gay, Esq., of Troy, New York. The wedding was in church, a handsome reception following it.
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1
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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2
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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4
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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5
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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6
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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7
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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13
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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16
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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17
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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18
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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19
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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20
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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21
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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22
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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25
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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27
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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29
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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30
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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32
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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33
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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34
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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35
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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38
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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39
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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40
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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41
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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42
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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43
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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44
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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45
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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46
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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47
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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48
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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49
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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50
defectives
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| 次品 | |
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51
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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52
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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54
congregating
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的现在分词 ) | |
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55
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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56
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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57
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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58
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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59
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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60
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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61
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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63
barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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65
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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66
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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67
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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69
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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72
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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73
destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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76
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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77
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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79
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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80
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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81
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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82
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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83
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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84
demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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85
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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86
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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87
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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88
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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89
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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91
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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94
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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95
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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96
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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100
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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101
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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102
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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104
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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inoculated
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| v.给…做预防注射( inoculate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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109
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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110
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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111
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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112
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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113
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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114
hewing
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的现在分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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115
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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116
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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117
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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118
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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119
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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120
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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121
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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123
trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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125
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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126
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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128
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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129
allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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131
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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132
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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133
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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135
disarms
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| v.裁军( disarm的第三人称单数 )；使息怒 | |
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136
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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137
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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138
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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139
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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140
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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141
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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142
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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annexed
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| [法] 附加的，附属的 | |
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145
wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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146
commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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148
foundering
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| v.创始人( founder的现在分词 ) | |
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149
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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150
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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151
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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152
annexation
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| n.吞并，合并 | |
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153
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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154
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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155
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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