The Mutual Admiration Society of Scotch Plains.—My Husband Becomes a Leader in Local Politics and Activities.—The Passing of the Mossbacks.—How We Gained a Public Library, a New School-house and a New Truck-house.—An Overseer of the Poor with Peculiar Methods.

DURING the summer of 1878 we tried the experiment of remaining in New Jersey. We never repeated it. The heat, especially in the eastern and inland part of the state, is much greater than that of New England. Miss Emily Coles, the sister of our landlord, desiring to do something pleasant for us, arranged a festivity in honor of my birthday. The event of the evening was the reading of tributes to my various excellent qualities, real or imaginary. These were neatly written on fancy cards adorned with pictures. As Miss Coles read each one, she gave the name of some lady or gentleman present. At first this puzzled me, for the guests looked very quiet and thoughtful—not in the least enthusiastic over my virtues. When Miss Coles handed me the basket with the cards the secret was revealed. She had written all the cards herself—and, in order to avoid monotony, had attributed the quotations to the Baptist dominie and the rest of the company. This was a meeting of the Mutual Admiration Society of the place—which existed, I fancy, chiefly in the fertile brain of our good friend Miss Coles.

We invited our neighbors to informal entertainments, without any mention of admiration to be either received or given. The refreshments were simple and appropriate to a small country place where ice-cream was not indigenous. Our friends came, and I learned later that people were glad to have us set an example of simplicity in entertainment.

During our first years in New Jersey I was principally occupied with household and nursery cares. My husband soon began to interest himself in the life of the little town. A few years before we came there the managers of the local railroad (the New Jersey Central) wished to move it nearer to Scotch Plains. But certain property-owners, thinking they had the railroad at their mercy, named an unreasonable price for their land. The managers, finding they could make a better bargain elsewhere, moved the railroad farther away, leaving Scotch Plains more than a mile from the new station.

It was governed by a triumvirate who gathered around the stove in the principal grocery-store. They were all hide-bound conservatives, not to say moss-backs. Their party—the Democratic—ruled the town. A witty friend of ours remarked that you could not do anything with a New Jersey town until the outlanders outnumbered the native inhabitants.

My husband was a Republican of the most ardent type. He was also very public-spirited and soon became the leader of those who wanted to see things done in the village. Before long the Democratic majority was definitely lost and a Republican one took its place.

There was no fire-engine in the town. One of the triumvirate could not see the necessity of having any. “Insure your house, and if it catches fire let it burn down.” It did not occur to him that if every one followed this sweet and simple creed the insurance companies would become bankrupt.

My husband was made president of the volunteer fire company, and a campaign for improvement began. The neighboring town of Plainfield was younger but much larger and more prosperous than our village. Here there dwelt a hand fire-engine, old and retired, but still capable of usefulness. Plainfield was persuaded to lend this to us. It was burnished and polished with enthusiasm, coming out almost like new. Next a better building was needed to house it and the fire-truck. Men who could not give money were persuaded to give labor, and before long we had a good building, with a large hall capable of holding half the village on ceremonial occasions. True, it housed the engine and truck—but these could be wheeled out of doors in a trice and brought back at the close of a performance. Many were the amateur theatricals and the church fairs held in that truck-house, for the town had sadly needed such a hall.

It also needed a public library. My husband determined to found one that should last. Mr. Andrew Carnegie had not yet become the sponsor of such institutions; outside of New England, they were apt to fade away and die.

Mr. Hall’s first step was to get a law passed by the Legislature making one thousand dollars sufficient endowment for a free library. A large part of this sum was raised by Miss Mary N. Mead, a lovely and unselfish young woman living near the village with her sister, Mrs. Augustus D. Shepard. Another sister was the wife of William Dean Howells. Miss Mead’s enthusiasm and personal charm enabled her to raise money where other people failed. She knew the funds were there, though to get them out resembled the task of Moses when he drew water from the rock.

In the new building of the fire company were several upper rooms used for their occasional meetings. Mr. Hall had the brilliant idea of installing the library here, at a nominal rent of one dollar a year, the trustees to carpet and furnish the rooms as a quid pro quo. The fire company generously entered into the plan, and the library was formally opened with amateur theatricals by the school children of the village. We had discovered, early in our residence in Scotch Plains, that the way to reach the parents was through their boys and girls. I wrote the little play which went off very successfully. The library was proudly thrown open for the inspection of the public. Magazines were provided for the reading-room, with games in the small rooms set apart for the children.

Among the obstacles we had to encounter was the opposition of a worthy lady who disapproved of public libraries because she feared some of the books might be objectionable. She had a long talk with my mother and me in which she freed her mind as to the iniquity of the theater, and expressed her grave doubts about the proposed library. “The works of Swedenborg might be placed there,” she declared! I doubt whether she had ever read any of the works of the famous mystic, but she fancied something must be wrong with him. She doubtless knew that his writings are sent free to any library desiring them.

The library once established, she sent tracts to it, but these Mr. Hall firmly refused to place on the tables.

In selecting the trustees he took great pains that all cliques and sets of the little place should be represented, no one being given an overwhelming preponderance. He drew up the constitution making the governing body a close corporation, with the thought of perpetuating this balance of parties.

The little library had distinguished friends. Mr. Howells sent boxes of books from time to time, while Mrs. Elliott F. Shepard, sister-in-law of our Mr. Shepard (Augustus D.), contributed liberally. But, best of all, the people of the village, both rich and poor, became interested in it, and adopted it as their own. Many were the fairs given to raise money for it. It has passed through various vicissitudes, but was still living and flourishing at last accounts.

I have said that my husband served as trustee of the public library, president of the truck (fire) company, overseer of the poor and vestryman of All Souls’ Church. He was soon called upon to fill so many honorable but unremunerative offices that we called him “Pooh Bah.” Thus he became a school trustee and a member of the town committee of three. The affairs of the village were managed by this body. The school-house had grown old in service, so that a new one was badly needed. Between the floors lived rats, for which the boys fished through the cracks.

As our sons attended this school in their early years, we sadly realized its deficiencies. My husband determined that there should be a new one. The people of means in the village sent their children to private schools elsewhere; some had none to send. Hence most of them were inclined to oppose the erection of a new building, as it would increase their taxes without being of any personal benefit to them. The moss-back faction murmured mechanically their shibboleth, “What was good enough for our fathers is good enough for us.” The project was at first defeated. Then my husband “got mad” and made things move.

A law had recently been enacted in New Jersey empowering women to vote at school meetings. Mr. Hall determined to fall back on this, should other means fail. On the fateful evening a number of women were gathered in our parlors, ready to march over to the neighboring school-house and vote, should our ballots be needed. A pretty young married woman said, “Oh, I’m so afraid!” I myself was not at all frightened, neither do I think the others were.

After a time my husband entered, triumphant! He and his friends had carried the day—the new school-house was won and our votes had not been needed. He had a wonderful power of enthusiasm which, combined with hard work, enabled him to carry out many projects.

The little town of Scotch Plains won not only a new, but a beautiful school building. Through the good offices of Mr. Augustus D. Shepard, brother-in-law of William Rutherford Mead, the firm of McKim, Mead & White consented to erect this at a low price. My husband and the other trustees gave the most careful attention to all the details, in order that the school might be as convenient, yet as inexpensive, as possible. I believe he enjoyed the laying of every brick!

Since we women had not actually attended the meeting which decided the fate of the school-house, it was thought well that our initial entrance upon the educational and political arena should be at an election that did not promise to stir up excitement. Accordingly three or four of us attended the meeting in March of the following year and voted peaceably on all questions.

A magic change took place on that day! At previous school meetings peanut shells and other dÉbris had been scattered about the floor, and the electors had mistaken the ink-wells in the children’s desks for cuspidors! It had always been necessary to close the school for a day in order to clear up after the “illicthors.” Behold, on the coming of the women neatness and order reigned. Next day school kept as usual.

The overseer of the poor in our little village was in his private capacity a landlord. A certain family failing to pay their rent, he turned them out of doors in the middle of winter. They camped out on a piazza until they could find other quarters. My husband was so indignant that at the next election he ran for the office, and was duly elected. Quite a little work but no salary was attached to it. The four dollars which he received were presumably for expenses.

His friends amused themselves with guying the new overseer of the poor by sending tramps to call on him. I remember only one real pauper with whom he had to deal—a respectable old woman no longer able to maintain herself. There was outside aid to be given, notably to the family of a man in jail.

At the instigation of the owner, a woman, he had set fire to her house, and was caught in the act. When the trial came she had her children in court, and was let off. S—— had children, also, but they were at home. Hence he was sent to prison. He no doubt deserved it, but, as the civil authorities made no provision for the maintenance of his family, they had a hard time to get along. We realized the terrible injustice of taking away the breadwinner and expecting his wretched wife and children to care for themselves without outside assistance.

There were, when we came to Scotch Plains, a Baptist and a Methodist church, and a struggling little Episcopal mission. My husband and I decided to throw in our fortunes with the last named. We liked the clergyman in charge, Rev. Charles L. Sykes, very much, and we both had a tendency to take the part of the under dog. Mr. Sykes’ talents qualified him to occupy a more important position, but clergyman’s sore throat obliged him to choose a small cure. He was one of the most devout men that I have ever known. He did not read nor recite prayers, like most ministers. When he prayed we felt that his soul was lifted up to God. His wife was a woman of ability, cheery and courageous; we soon became great friends.

When the mission services were temporarily discontinued, we invited Mr. Sykes to deliver a series of parlor lectures. Miss Mead and I arranged the course, our friends and neighbors subscribing and giving their parlors. We were only able to give a small fee for the talks, but Mr. and Mrs. Sykes were so fond of literature that the preparation of the lectures was a labor of love. By and by a pretty little stone church was built for the mission. Unfortunately, the expense of the building was greater than the small congregation could afford, and for years there was a desperate struggle with a debt, which was finally paid off. My husband was too wise to advise this injudicious outlay, but he served for some years as a vestryman.

The sister who had been my mate and dear companion from early childhood, Julia Romana Anagnos, died of typhoid fever in March, 1886.

The Metaphysical Club, of which she was the founder and president, published a little volume containing the tributes to her memory. The following verses are by Dr. T. W. Parsons.

GIULIA ROMANA ANAGNOS

Some nine months after the death of sister Julia I was attacked with rheumatic fever. It did not, however, as in her case, turn into typhoid. My mother and husband were greatly alarmed, especially as Gen. John A. Logan died of the same disease, during my illness. In the midst of her distress my mother had a strange feeling that she could save my life by an effort of will. She did not content herself with praying only, but strongly opposed the administration of narcotics which the nurse in attendance was only too ready to give me in order that she herself might sleep. My mother determined that I should no longer be dosed with these. She sat by my bedside one night till the small hours of the morning, when I dropped off into a natural sleep. To her vigilance I probably owe my life.

One morning while I lay very ill she went quietly into my husband’s room, asking him to come down-stairs at once. He went immediately and found the kitchen on fire, the Irish servant-women in a panic of alarm. Seeing at a glance the cause of the trouble, he caught up the blazing student-lamp and hurled it out into the snow. It was then an easy task for him to scrape down the flames from the woodwork. All this was done so quietly that I knew nothing of the matter.

The physician who attended me was Dr. Abraham Coles, the father of our landlord. He was an excellent doctor and our very good friend. Doctor Coles was an elderly man, large and heavy. He was still handsome, with a wealth of hair that was almost white. The winter of 1886–87 was a very severe one, the ground covered with ice. Mother made a little path to the gate with the poker. She noticed with pleasure that Doctor Coles walked in her little poker path.

She wrote many letters to my husband, as he attended to some of her business affairs. In this correspondence she chronicles with affectionate interest the doings of the Hall family, telling us also of her own proceedings.

My dear David—, ... I telegraphed you to-day to send some flowers for me to the Players’ Club for my dear friend, Edwin Booth. If you have not done this before receiving this letter it will be too late, as the service will be at 9 A.M. to-morrow in N. Y., the burial to be here, the same evening, I suppose. You will send me the bill....

My dear David,—I will do my best to copy a verse of the “Battle Hymn” to-day, but, oh! I write, every day, until I fairly ache, and it is mostly, or in great part, for other people’s pleasure or benefit. I shall write to dear Flossy as soon as I can. Tell her for me that I heard pleasant things about our dear Carrie from Mrs. Sally Whitman, recently returned from a brief stay in Paris.

Always your affect.

Julia W. Howe.

P. S.—You see, I have done it.

The baby mentioned in the following letter was our mother’s first great-grandchild, little Julia Ward Howe Hall.

Dear David,— ... I saw your dear Harry last evening. He seemed well—I thought him rather sober, as well he may be, with a family to provide for. The Baby, not the less, is a very welcome little creature, and it was a pleasant surprise when, on my birthday, the little Mother laid the little daughter on my lap. I returned on Sunday from a long visit in Gardiner. Always

Your very affectionate

Julia Ward Howe.

In the following letter, we see my mother making her annual pilgrimage to the State House to attend the suffrage hearing. Neither the bitter winter weather nor the infirmities of age could restrain her dauntless spirit.

My dear David,— ... Tell Flossy that I have passed the morning at a State House hearing in behalf of a bill to have the school committee here appointed by the Mayor, instead of being elected by the people. I spoke against the bill, and hope you would have done so in my place.

My husband was greatly delighted with my mother’s Reminiscences and wrote her as follows:

Dear Mrs. Howe,—Though I was a long time getting to it, when once I started in to read your Reminiscences I was obliged to finish them at as nearly one sitting as the exigencies of the “wrastle for hash” would permit.

I have not been so fascinated with any book since the old days when as a boy I used to sit up half the night to finish one of the Waverly Novels.

I had but two regrets when late last evening I read the beautiful lines with which the book concludes:—the first that there was not another volume, and the second that, charming as it all is, it is after all such an inadequate presentation of the life which is of such inexpressible value to us all. May I add that I hope you will take better care of it than you have recently been taking?

With best love

Ever very affectionately

D. P. Hall.