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

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

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

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

My mother thus recorded the event in her journal:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love to Michael.

Darling Dudie,—Already I miss your sweet company and genial sympathy very much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Edward Everett Hale said, in part:

You ask for his epitaph. It is a very simple epitaph. He found idiots chattering, taunted, and ridiculed by each village fool, and he left them cheerful and happy. He found the insane shut up in their wretched cells, miserable, starving, cold, and dying, and he left them happy, hopeful, and brave. He found the blind sitting in darkness and he left them glad in the sunshine of the love of God.

The simplest tribute of all came from the poor children to whose minds he had brought light.

“They say Doctor Howe will take care of the blind in heaven. Won’t he take care of us, too?”

On receiving my mother’s Memoir of her husband, Florence Nightingale wrote as follows:

Dear Mrs. Howe,—It is like a breath from Heaven to one’s overworked and well-nigh overwhelmed mind, your Memoir of one of the best and greatest men of our age, and your remembrance.

You have shown his many-sided life as known to few. You have shown in him a rarer and more fruitful man than even we, who had known and loved him for so long, knew.

What has been a revealing to us of him will be even more so for the crowd of your readers who knew him but by the dramatic Greek life: and by his work among the blind, deaf mutes and idiots. No one will know him quite till after you have been read. That is the privilege of your community with him—with his unconsciously heroic life. A great duty has been fulfilled in making known his sympathy for every kind of misfortune,—his love of helping humanity, so to speak, ancient and modern,—his generous and persevering devotion to right,—his noble horror of helpless pity,—his indomitable faith in progress; thanks to you.

And how little he thought of reputation! That was the noblest thing of all.

The pressure of ever-increasing illness and business—how little I thought to survive him—makes it difficult for me to write one unnecessary line. Our common friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bracebridge, Dr. Fowler, and how many others, are all gone before us.

In their names and in his name I bid with all my heart,

Fare you very well,

Florence Nightingale.

On the anniversary of my birth, our only daughter, Caroline Minturn Hall, was born at Portsmouth, near Newport, Rhode Island. One of her pictures exhibited at the Paris Salon shows the beloved landscape of “Oak Glen,” which adjoins her birthplace.

When our second son, Henry Marion Hall, was born, we moved to the country, in order to give our three children greater liberty and more fresh air than they could enjoy in the city. For fifteen years we lived in Scotch Plains, a pretty, quaint old New Jersey town lying at the foot of the Watchung Mountains. The countryside in 1878 was still in a primitive condition. Scotch Plains was almost destitute of “modern conveniences,” the gods of the servant-girl. A delusive bath-tub appeared very effective until you found that it was necessary to drag all the hot water up-stairs. We had a series of pumps indoors and out, but no set wash-tubs.

There was neither gas, electricity, nor steam heat. We burned kerosene-oil and my husband wrestled with the hot-air furnace, which required such devotion that he christened it his black wife.

Gradually all these things were improved, by persistent effort. Our landlord, young Doctor Coles, was our good friend, whom we persuaded to make many improvements. But in the beginning housekeeping was very difficult. Cooks looked upon us with an unfavorable eye, especially as there was no Roman Catholic Church in the town.

My visits to the intelligence office were frequent and plaintive. Our neighbor, Mr. B——, grew desperate over the situation. When he was asked the searching question, “How many in fam’ly, sir?” he replied: “Seven children. But I will make away with some of them if you think that is too many!”

Some of our adventures were very funny—in the retrospect. One green cook was much disturbed in mind about the asparagus. She could not wait for my promised help, but prepared the vegetable by neatly whittling off the tops. Great was the grief of our children, as this was the first asparagus of the season.

Another cook of an ingenious turn of mind saved herself the trouble of going down one flight of stairs to fill her bedroom pitcher by immersing it in the tank in the attic. My husband could not understand why it took comparatively few strokes of the pump to fill the tank—which soon became empty again.

One night our little daughter was disturbed by plaster falling on her face as she lay in bed. A glance at the ceiling revealed the cause. The stalwart foot and leg of the cook protruded from it! In going to dip her pitcher into the tank she had unwarily deviated from the narrow pathway which led to it, putting her foot through the unprotected lath and plaster!

Perhaps the most singular Irish bull was that of the functionary who had been directed to make the sandwiches “half jelly and half mutton.” When we were well started on our travels we tasted the luncheon. It was horribly queer. Suddenly the truth flashed upon me! The literal-minded cook had combined these warring materials in every sandwich!

The mistress made some mistakes as well as the cook. Seeing a material of the color of the gingerbread often made in New England, I unhesitatingly mixed it with the batter. When the supposititious gingerbread came on the table it was very heavy and quite uneatable. Something must have been wrong with the oven! The next time I began to make gingerbread the cook caught my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Hall! Don’t put that in! That’s mustard.” My family were mercilessly merry over this mistake.

I described the misadventure in Demorest’s Magazine, receiving five dollars for the article. Thus every time any one poked fun at me about the mustard gingerbread I countered with the five dollars! Better still, by persistent efforts I learned—from Marion Harland’s excellent receipt-book—to make gingerbread that appeared seraphic to my children.

When my husband once heartlessly observed that our sons could never twit their wives with mother’s cooking, a chorus went around the table, “Oh, but Mamma makes such lovely gingerbread!” And so I was honorably avenged.

Fortunately we had a tower of strength in the children’s faithful nurse, Mary Thompson. When cooks periodically failed us she valiantly walked into the kitchen and did their work, as well as her own.

It must be confessed that Mary did not get along very well with the various cooks. She was greatly their superior in intelligence and character, as she well knew. Hence she did not always take enough pains to be agreeable to the reigning queen of the kitchen. One woman complained to me of this. “There we sit at table like two dumb brutes!” she indignantly remarked.

In spite of all the troubles and trials of suburban life my husband and I greatly enjoyed having a house of our own.

I was very anxious that my old friend, Sister Constance, should visit us during her summer vacation. She was at this time established at the head of a branch sisterhood in Memphis, Tennessee. Her parents had unavailingly remonstrated with the authorities over this change of domicile, for a Southern climate did not agree with her.

In reply to my letter of invitation, she wrote me she was so tired that it was an effort to get up and walk across the room! A violent epidemic of yellow fever suddenly broke out in her home district. Exhausted as she was, she did not hesitate, but returned at once to the post of duty. In ten days she was dead!

When she lay dying they asked if she was ready to go. “Aye, glad!” she replied. So died, at the age of thirty-two, a woman who gave her life for her people as truly and as nobly as any hero of the modern war!

I have always blamed the Mother Superior for permitting this useless sacrifice. It was self-evident that in Sister Constance’s exhausted condition she would at once fall a prey to the dreaded scourge. She should have been detained at the North long enough to recruit her strength before exposing her to an ordeal for which she was physically unfit.