Following the Family Tradition.—“Demorest’s” and “Jennie June.”—Marion Crawford and the Little Green Parlor.—Town and Country Club.—Charles Dudley Warner.—How I Came to Write About Manners.—Life of Laura Bridgman.—Helen Keller at the Perkins Institution.—A Luncheon at “Boothden,” the Home of Edwin Booth.—Joseph Jefferson and William Warren.

THE five children of our parents have all written and published books. We have thus followed their example and an hereditary impulse which made writing an easy method of expression for us.

My father published a history of the Greek revolution while he was still under thirty. Although essentially a man of action, he was accustomed throughout his long life to write reports, pamphlets and letters to the newspapers—in a word, to elicit the interest and good-will of his fellow-men in his work.

My mother is best known as the author of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” but she also published many volumes of verse and prose. In later years she appealed much to the public, and especially to her fellow-women.

Sister Julia wrote stories and verses from her earliest childhood. She published a volume of poems, entitled Stray Chords, and a little book, PhilosophicÆ QuÆstor, describing the Concord School of Philosophy. Our mother considered this, her eldest daughter, as the most talented of her children. Brother Harry did not turn to literature until a later period in life. His works, although primarily technical and scientific, are thought to show a gift for literary expression. The award of gold medals on both sides of the Atlantic and of decorations by foreign governments was doubtless won by lucidity of expression as well as technical merit.

Sister Laura began to write rhymes for children soon after her marriage. They were published in Saint Nicholas, with illustrations by J. A. Mitchell, afterward the editor of Life. Their merit and charm were quickly recognized. She at once won the favor of the public, and has held it ever since. Captain January is the best known of her many books. She is also the author of Journals and Letters of Samuel Gridley Howe and, in collaboration with sister Maud, of Julia Ward Howe. In the preparation of the last-named book, I gave some assistance.

Sister Maud published novels and stories before her marriage. Her later books, Beata Roma, Two in Italy, etc., telling of her life and experience in the Eternal City and elsewhere, have won a genuine success.

Thus when I began to think of adding a little to our income, writing for the newspapers and magazines seemed the easiest thing to do. We had now four children, each of whom, as we held, had brought us good fortune. This pleasant theory was probably suggested by Bret Harte’s “Luck of Roaring Camp.”

They certainly brought us an incentive for new effort, which is the best form of good fortune. In story-writing I was not very successful. My natural mode of expression was in sketches and essays, often of a humorous character.

My mother was much interested in my new venture, and gave me letters to various editors, including Mrs. J. C. Croly (“Jennie June”), the editor of Demorest’s Magazine. She was extremely kind to me, and I wrote many articles for her. Mrs. Croly was very fair, if not pale, with blue eyes and light hair. Her face wore a rather worried expression, for her life was not an easy one. Her husband was then living, but his invalid condition added to her cares. She held pleasant evening receptions, at one of which I heard Marshall P. Wilder, the humorist. He had a real power of mimicry, but his delineations were not always pleasant. One of them was “The Idiot Boy.”

In these days I made pilgrimages to editorial dens, and was surprised at the wonderful flow of conversation issuing from the mouths of powerful personages. Why do editors talk so much to the neophyte? They kindly gave me a great deal of information, but it was gradually borne in upon me that they talked in order to protect themselves from boredom at my hands. Did they not know, from long and painful experience, just what every beginner at the trade would inevitably say? Hence they forestalled my uninteresting remarks—and answered my unformed questions in the proper way. I noticed that, after a certain amount of information had been imparted to me, the editor would take up a paper and become deeply absorbed in its contents. This was the signal for me to go. I soon learned not to invade the editor in his den, unless he or she encouraged me to do so.

The following letter was written apropos of my pilgrimages to editorial dens:

Dearest Laura,—I was werry plose and thankful to receive your kind letter with so many addresses—werry nice kind & tanky much.

But oh! Lovely as is a Haddress, it is perhaps the right address which fills us with the most lasting joy—as hennabling a feller to find the zbodd, as it were.

I went to the Tribune Building—there was no Andrews Bazar there—the hoary bearded Janitor suggested Morse building the jan. of latter, said try Tract Building. At last after I had wandered up and down a kindly news paper advertising man told me he didn’t think there was “no such a person.” Or rather he told me he thought it had changed its name and become “The American Bazaar” where of he gimme the number but was too tired to look it up that day.

Newport life furnished an excellent opportunity for summer correspondence. We lived near enough the town to enjoy something of its pleasures, yet far enough away to avoid absorption in the whirlpool of gaiety. When we were girls going into society we should have preferred to be nearer the center of things. But the six-mile trip to Newport was in reality a blessing. It enabled us to view the summer doings with a critical though friendly eye.

Those who suppose that Newport society is entirely composed of frivolous people do not know the place. Its matchless climate, delightful air and peaceful beauty have always attracted people of quiet tastes, men of letters and artists. Colonel Waring, who did such important work in conquering yellow fever, lived for many years in Newport, where he had a model farm.

He was a very handsome man, with dark eyes, gray hair, and a waxed mustache. In the early days of the Town and Country Club he took part in the “admirable fooleries” of which Colonel Higginson and my mother have both given accounts. Kate Field often came to the meetings, but did not, so far as I remember, take any part in the program. When at Newport she stayed at the house of her aunt, Mrs. Sanford, in the latter’s villa on the Point. From her “Juliet” window with its little balcony hung high in the air she could look out over the peaceful waters of the harbor and watch the beautiful Newport sunsets. Kate Field had very handsome hair which at one time she wore floating over her shoulders. This fashion, which lasted only a short time, was not becoming to her. As she was rather short, the long and heavy hair tended to dwarf her height, while its mass seemed out of proportion to her slender figure.

The diction of General Cullom, one of the officers of the Town and Country Club, was peculiar. When at a loss for a word, he deliberately remarked, “Pup-pup-pup,” occasionally changing it for “Pam-pam-pam.” To hear this courtly, elderly gentleman say with perfect gravity, “Did you go, pam-pam-pam to the Casino this morning?” was surprising.

When General Cullom kindly offered to give before the club a talk on the French chÂteaux, illustrated by lantern slides, we all felt anxiety. Wonderful to say, neither “pup-pups” nor “pam-pams” marred the smoothness of the address!

Prof. Alexander Agassiz, whose summers were spent at Newport, when he was not traveling about the world on his yacht, gave an illustrated lecture on the Panama Canal which was of especial interest. The French had then abandoned their attempt and the United States had not yet undertaken to build it. A series of mournful lantern slides showed the wrecks of the French machinery, and the excavations, which seemed small enough compared with the gigantic nature of the undertaking. Professor Agassiz was clearly of the opinion that, owing to the overflowing of the ChÁgres River, it was not possible to build a canal at that point.

Charles Dudley Warner, who read extremely well, gave us, with realistic effect, his delightful sketch, “The Bear Is Coming on.” We almost saw the raspberry-bushes and felt the animal bearing down upon us. Another sketch, relating to heaven and hell, was witty, but too frivolous in tone to suit the orthodox members of the club. They were rather scandalized at it.

In the summer of 1881 we had the happiness of counting our aunt Louisa and her family as our quasi-neighbors. She had been the family beauty, but was less clever than her sisters Julia and Annie. She was a woman of much charm and, like Uncle Sam, showed signs of her French descent. With her husband and their daughter Margaret she spent the season at one of the cliff cottages at Newport. “Daisy” was a dÉbutante; and interested in the gaieties of the season. Hence her half-brother, Marion Crawford, who loved the quiet of the country, spent much of his time with us at “Oak Glen.” He was devoted to my mother and she was very fond of him. Her house in Boston and her Newport home were harbors of refuge to him in the years of his bachelorhood, many of which he spent in this country. We found him the most delightful of housemates. Genial, cheery and charming, he never availed himself of the masculine privilege of grumbling, but took things as he found them. Mother said of him, “He is as easy as an old shoe.” My youngest child, John Howe Hall, was born that summer. The stairs at “Oak Glen” were rather fatiguing for me to climb, when I first came down-stairs after his birth. So Cousin Marion, who was both tall and strong, would pick me up like a baby and carry me up-stairs. He was a very handsome man, with blue eyes like his father’s, regular features, and curly brown hair. This, alas! was already beginning to show a small bare place on the crown, in spite of his mother’s faithful efforts with hair tonic.

Sister Maud spent the summer of 1881 with my aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who then lived on a great ranch in California. Some of her experiences there are described in her novel, The San Rosario Ranch. My mother was invited to take part in amateur theatricals at Newport during this eventful season. In spite of her sixty-seven years, she was the first of the company to master her lines.

She acted her part with spirit and gaiety, but could not resist the temptation to “gag” the lines. Thus in speaking of doctors who arranged, in Bob Sawyer style, to have themselves called out, she mentioned the names of Doctor Cleveland and other physicians spending the summer in Newport.

As bad luck would have it, this gentleman, who had a large practice, was actually summoned from the hall and arose to go, blushing furiously!

Crawford had come to America, intending to live here. He thought seriously of taking up the profession of philology, having a talent for languages. As he possessed a good voice, he also thought of going on the operatic stage. His ear for music was somewhat faulty, but this defect, he was assured, need not, after the proper training of his voice, prevent his singing correctly.

While he was in an undecided frame of mind he wrote, as an experiment, his first novel, Mr. Isaacs. Its immediate success banished all doubt as to his career.

It was in the “little green parlor” at “Oak Glen” that he composed a large part of this story. Here, also, sister Maud and I often sat with our writing. The little green parlor is a grassy crescent surrounded on all sides by a hedge of tall cedar-trees. These have now grown so tall as almost to conceal the house from the view of passers-by.

In these days Messrs. Dana Estes & Co. proposed to my mother the preparation of a book on manners, dwelling especially on the origin of customs. She did not care to undertake it, but Crawford thought he might possibly do so, and sister Maud wrote a chapter. When both abandoned the idea it seemed to me a great pity to let this opportunity go to waste. I wrote to Mr. Estes, asking whether he would like me to write the book. He approved of my suggestion, and Social Customs was the result. I was glad to carry out, within certain limits, his plan of noting the meaning and origin of customs. It was not possible, however, with the time at my command, to make an exhaustive historic study of the subject. But I was able to analyze it and so present general rules, rather than a mass of unexplained technical details. Looking thus at the matter, from an outside point of view, it was possible to treat it with a light touch instead of in the ponderous vein formerly considered necessary. I thought it right to speak occasionally of the humorous aspects of the subject, while emphasizing the intrinsic value and importance of good manners. The critics hailed the book as a new departure in the literature of the subject, and spoke very handsomely of it. It was especially gratifying to receive from the Brussels Institute of Sociology a good-sized volume containing, among other things, a notice of my book. The following letter accompanied it:

Madame:—The attention of a group of searchers at the Solvay Institute of Sociology has been directed upon one of your last works, and they are anxious to have a biographical note relating to you inserted in the sociological record recently organized at the said institute.

It has been already said that the case of Laura Bridgman excited deep interest. My father’s reports were awaited as eagerly as novels, and were translated into several foreign languages. In 1846, when she had been nine years under instruction, he thought of writing an account of her education and of communicating with Messrs. Harper about its publication.

He never found time to carry out his purpose. There was always some class of unfortunates who needed his championship, some wrong that must be set right. It is deeply to be regretted that he never had the leisure to tell the story of his most conspicuous achievement. The materials were all at hand. A minute account of Laura’s progress had been kept in the school journals. There were also my father’s own reports, notes and correspondence, as well as Laura’s letters and the journals which she kept for some years. By the desire of our brother-in-law, Michael Anagnos, and with his help, sister Maud and I undertook to carry out our father’s intention and tell the story of Laura Bridgman. Our chief difficulty lay in the wealth of material. We held many consultations, but to my sister belongs the chief credit of the work. My share consisted principally in describing the technical part of Laura’s education.

The work was of absorbing interest. In tracing this drama of the birth of a human soul, we felt an echo of the thrill which came to my father when he saw Laura’s face suddenly “lighted up with a human expression: it was no longer a dog or parrot—it was an immortal spirit, eagerly seizing upon a new link of union with other spirits!”

No wonder that he exclaimed, “Eureka!”

His graphic description of these first wonderful steps is quoted—with due credit to Doctor Howe—in Dickens’ American Notes.

Since Laura’s was the first case of the sort in the world, it was necessary for my father to devise his own methods. A special teacher was employed for her, several devoted women filling this post in turn.

My father always superintended her education, and recorded every step—telling us how he taught her the use of prepositions, adjectives and verbs.

An excellent speller herself, in her later years she taught the little blind children how to spell. Laura Bridgman had the pride of intellect, in spite of her infirmities, and was inclined to look down upon people of inferior mind or education. The lessons in conduct which the ordinary child learns from the example of those around him Laura had to learn from books or from conversation with her teacher. Moral, ethical, and later spiritual problems aroused her deep interest. Her writings—and they are many—show a soul as white and innocent as that of a little child.

Laura was well trained in the domestic arts. She was an exquisite needlewoman, her darning being a “poem in linen.” She could also knit and crochet extremely well, making the fine beaded purses then in fashion. Indeed, the sale of her handiwork contributed to her own support. She kept her room in beautiful order, dusting the most delicate objects without injury to them. One of Laura’s amusements was to arrange my mother’s bureau drawers. The latter disliked having any one meddle with her things, but Laura’s touch was so delicate that she was allowed thus to officiate as “mistress of the wardrobe.”

Best of all, she enjoyed life in spite of her many deprivations, making the most of the little pleasures that came to her. The following is one of her “poems”:

In the late ’eighties the father of Helen Keller wrote to Mr. Anagnos, then director of the Perkins Institution, asking his assistance in the education of his little daughter. My brother-in-law chose Miss Annie Sullivan, herself partially blind and a graduate of the Institution, for Helen’s instructor. Miss Sullivan spent six months studying Doctor Howe’s reports before entering upon her task. Every step that Laura had taken little Helen now followed exactly. Her progress was more rapid, as that of my father’s later blind deaf-mute pupils had been. But the details of her case were very much like that of Laura Bridgman. Helen spent three years at the Perkins Institution under the charge of her special teacher, Miss Sullivan.

There I had the pleasure of seeing her a number of times in her childhood, and of talking with her in the finger language. When we spoke of a brook, she illustrated its movements by dancing. I noticed with surprise that she did not move about with the perfect freedom common to the blind children brought up at the Institution. They were accustomed to walk about alone, and to dash up and down stairs with utter fearlessness. Whether Helen later learned to go about in this way I cannot say. When she was about fifteen, we met again at the Kindergarten for the Blind, an off-shoot of the Perkins Institution founded and administered by Mr. Anagnos. In conversing with Helen I was struck with her intelligence. In these days I heard her talk with her voice as well as with her fingers.

Helen wrote me the following letter, after reading my sketch of my father’s life, published in the Wide Awake magazine.

My dear Mrs. Hall,—I want to tell you how much I enjoyed hearing about your dear Father, and all the brave, generous things he did for the Greeks, and for all who were poor and unhappy. I think the children who read Wide Awake must have been greatly interested in your story, but they cannot love Dr. Howe as we little blind girls do. Teacher says, she would not have known how to teach me if your Father had not taught Laura Bridgman first, and that is why I feel so grateful to him. How dreadful it would have been if I could not have learned like other boys and girls! I am sure I should have been very sorrowful with no one to talk to me, and so would Edith and many others, but it is too sad to think about, is it not? When you come to Boston I hope you will tell me more about your Father, and what you did when you were a little girl. Mr. Anagnos is going to show me Byron’s helmet some day. Teacher sends her kind regards to you.

Lovingly your little friend,

In these years Edwin Booth spent the summer at his pretty red-roofed villa, “Boothden,” on Indian Avenue. It was then a quiet and retired part of the island of Rhode Island, yet within easy reach of Newport. The house was placed so near the rocky shore that the ocean breezes might have been too boisterous had not awnings screened the wide piazzas. A large and pleasant boat-house equipped with a sitting- or lounging-room stood on the shore.

“Boothden” was only four miles from “Oak Glen,” so that we were country neighbors of Mr. Booth and his charming daughter. We had the pleasure of seeing them from time to time. When we were invited to take luncheon at their villa, to meet Joseph Jefferson, his wife and daughter, and William Warren, the veteran comedian of the Boston Museum, it seemed too wonderful to be true.

Miss Edwina Booth (whom I remembered as Baby Booth) received us with a grace and charm that vividly recalled her lovely young mother, dead many years before. The resemblance to Mrs. Booth was almost startling. It seemed as if the beloved wife, young and fair as of old, had returned to this earth. We saw the same slender figure, the same movements, as I fancied. What a strange thing is the inheritance of gesture! There could have been no conscious imitation, for Miss Booth could not have remembered her mother.

The three distinguished actors had rashly gone for a sail in Mr. Booth’s yacht. It is always rash to go out in a sail-boat if you expect to return at any particular hour.

When they finally arrived their entrance was like a scene upon the stage. Their behavior was not at all theatrical, but they were mariners returning from a stormy trip. A good stiff breeze had blown them all about, the waves had given them a good wetting, while Mr. Jefferson had lost his hat overboard.

They took all these small mishaps in the best possible humor, as a part of life’s comedy. Joe Jefferson had substituted a red bandanna handkerchief for the lost hat and treated the whole affair as a delightful joke. Presently we all sat down to a luncheon elegant and elaborate, after the fashion of the time, the table being faultless in its service and appointments.

Joseph Jefferson was brilliant and delightful, evidently enjoying the conversation. The geniality and cheeriness of his stage characters were but a reflection of his own sunny disposition. If he had stood in the shoes of Rip Van Winkle, Caleb Plummer, or Bob Acres, he would have taken life as cheerfully as they did. After seeing him in private life I understood better the spirit of his acting. The Jefferson of the parlor was the Jefferson of the stage, save that the man himself was more brilliant, more original than the men of a simple type whom he habitually portrayed. He possessed that highest form of art which conceals itself. At the Booth luncheon he talked of many things—of art, his pictures, the proper light for the stage, his children, his farm in Florida, his delight in roaming through the woods with his fishing-rod.

We enjoyed hearing many theatrical anecdotes which gave us peeps behind the scenes. Mr. Jefferson told us of a mistake he once made in “Lend Me Five Shillings.” Forgetting that he had already delivered certain lines, he repeated them—no applause followed! Just as he was wondering what the matter was, the actress with whom he was playing whispered, “You have repeated your lines.” William Warren confessed that he had had a somewhat similar experience in “Our American Cousin,” when he struck a match by the right end, lighting it, to his horror and surprise. According to the play, he should have struck the wrong end—and the mistake drove his part out of his head for a moment, when a fellow-actor gave him his lines, in a stage whisper! William Warren, “the Boston favorite,” was a relative of Joseph Jefferson or of Mrs. Jefferson. They called him “Uncle William,” and all treated him with the most affectionate respect. He was the eldest of the three actors, and already in failing health. Hence he was grave and quiet in manner when we saw him in private life, although inimitably funny on the stage. It seldom happens that so excellent an actor is content to remain all his life a member of a stock company, performing in a single city—but this was Warren’s choice. The strong affection in which he was held was doubtless a compensation to this inimitable actor for the loss of a wider fame. He died not long after this time.

We found our hospitable and kindly host, Edwin Booth, little changed from the old days when we had so devoutly admired him. There were the same charm and simplicity of manner, the same sense of humor. His eyes still had the old fire, while the cheerful serenity of middle life replaced the buoyant happiness of his younger days. He spoke very simply of the time when he was a young man. I did not like to think that Edwin Booth ever could grow old. He was still in the prime of life, handsome and vigorous.

Of his profession, of the stage and of Shakespeare, he liked to talk, and we liked only too well to listen. He had recently brought home from Germany some of the tokens of intense admiration that were showered upon him there—wreaths of silver, and perhaps of gold, also.

What to do with these he did not know. Mantel lambrequins then afflicted the world. I fear it was I who suggested that the classic garlands might be sewn on these with decorative effect!

Edwin Booth was too reserved and too kind-hearted to play the habitual mimic, yet he could, upon occasion, imitate to the life the person described. Once, when telling us of an experience in the far West while he was traveling with his father, he suddenly became a knock-kneed, shambling man. In a moment he was again Edwin Booth, grave and dignified.