Many interesting visitors came and went, both at Green Peace and the Valley,—many more than I can recollect. The visit of Kossuth, the great Hungarian patriot, made no impression upon me, as I was only a year old when he came to this country; but there was a great reception for him at Green Peace, and many people assembled to do honor to the brave man who had tried so hard to free his country from the Austrian yoke, and had so nearly succeeded. I remember a certain hat, which we younger children firmly believed to have been his, though I have since been informed that we were mistaken. At all events, we used to play with the hat (I wonder whose it was!) under this impression, and it formed an important element in “dressing up,” which was one of our chief delights.

One child would put on Kossuth’s hat, another Lord Byron’s helmet,—a superb affair of steel and gold, which had been given to our father in Greece, after Byron’s death (we ought not to have been allowed to touch so precious a relic, far less to dress up in it!); while a third would appropriate a charming little square Polish cap of fine scarlet, which ought to have belonged to Thaddeus of Warsaw, but did not, I fear.

What pleasant things we had to dress up in! There was our father’s wedding-coat, bright blue, with brass buttons; and the waistcoat he had worn with it, white satin with raised velvet flowers,—such a fine waistcoat! There were two embroidered crape gowns which had been our grandmother’s, with waists a few inches long, and long, skimp skirts; and the striped blue and yellow moirÉ, which our mother had worn in some private theatricals,—that was beyond description! And the white gauze with gold flounces—oh! and the peach-blossom silk with flowers all over it—ah!

But this is a digression, and has nothing whatever to do with our guests, who never played “dressing up,” that I can remember.

One of our most frequent visitors at Green Peace was the great statesman and patriot, Charles Sumner. He was a very dear friend of our father, and they loved to be together whenever the strenuous business of their lives would permit.

We children used to call Mr. Sumner “the Harmless Giant;” and indeed he was very kind to us, and had always a pleasant word for us in that deep, melodious voice which no one, once hearing it, could ever forget. He towered above us to what seemed an enormous height; yet we were told that he stood six feet in his stockings,—no more. This impression being made on Laura’s mind, she was used to employ the great senator as an imaginary foot-rule (six-foot rule, I should say), and, until she was almost a woman grown, would measure a thing in her own mind by saying “two feet higher than Mr. Sumner,” or “twice as high as Mr. Summer,” as the case might be. I can remember him carrying the baby Maud on his shoulder, and bowing his lofty crest to pass through the doorway. Sometimes his mother, Madam Sumner, came with him, a gracious and charming old lady. I am told that on a day when she was spending an hour at Green Peace, and sitting in the parlor window with our mother, Laura felt it incumbent upon her to entertain the distinguished visitor; so, being arrayed in her best white frock, she took up her station on the gravel path below the window, and filling a little basket with gravel, proceeded to pour it over her head, exclaiming, “Mit Humner! hee my ektibiton!” This meant “exhibition.” Laura could not pronounce the letter S in childhood’s happy hour. “Mamma,” she would say, if she saw our mother look grave, “Id you had? Why id you had?” and then she would bring a doll’s dish, or it might be a saucepan, and give it to her mother and say, with infinite satisfaction, “Dere! ’mooge you’helf wid dat!”

Another ever welcome guest was John A. Andrew, the great War Governor, as we loved to call him. He was not governor in those days,—that is, when I first remember him; but he was then, as always, one of the most delightful of men. Who else could tell a story with such exquisite humor? The stories themselves were better than any others, but his way of telling them set every word in gold. The very sound of his voice made the air brighter and warmer, and his own delightful atmosphere of sunny geniality went always with him. That was a wonderful evening when at one of our parties some scenes from Thackeray’s “The Rose and the Ring” were given. Our mother was Countess Gruffanuff, our father Kutasoff Hedzoff; Governor Andrew took the part of Prince Bulbo, while Flossy made a sprightly Angelica, and Julia as Betsinda was a vision of rarest beauty. I cannot remember who was Prince Giglio, but the figure of Bulbo, with closely curling hair, his fine face aglow with merriment, and the magic rose in his buttonhole, comes distinctly before me.

Who were the guests at those dinner-parties so well remembered? Alas! I know not. Great people they often were, famous men and women, who talked, no doubt, brilliantly and delightfully. But is it their conversation which lingers like a charm in my memory? Again, alas! my recollection is of finger-bowls, crimson and purple, which sang beneath the wetted finger of some kindly elder; of almonds and raisins, and bonbons mystic, wonderful, all gauze and tinsel and silver paper, with flat pieces of red sugar within. The red sugar was something of an anticlimax after the splendors of its envelope, being insipidly sweet, with no special flavor. The scent of coffee comes back to me, rich, delicious, breathing of “the golden days of good Haroun Alraschid.” We were never allowed to drink coffee or tea; but standing by our mother’s chair, just before saying good-night, we received the most exquisite dainty the world afforded,—a “coffee-duck,” which to the ignorant is explained to be a lump of sugar dipped in coffee (black coffee, bien entendu) and held in the amber liquid till it begins to melt in delicious “honeycomb” (this was probably the true ambrosia of the gods); and then we said good-night, and—and—went and begged the cook for a “whip,” or some “floating-island,” or a piece of frosted cake! Was it strange that occasionally, after one of these feasts, Laura could not sleep, and was smitten with the “terror by night” (it was generally a locomotive which was coming in at the window to annihilate her; Julia was the one who used to weep at night for fear of foxes), and would come trotting down into the lighted drawing-room, among all the silks and satins, arrayed in the simple garment known as a “leg-nightgown,” demanding her mother? Ay, and I remember that she always got her mother, too.

But these guests? I remember the great Professor Agassiz, with his wise, kindly face and genial smile. I can see him putting sugar into his coffee, lump after lump, till it stood up above the liquid like one of his own glaciers. I remember all the “Abolition” leaders, for our own parents were stanch Abolitionists, and worked heart and soul for the cause of freedom. I remember when Swedish ships came into Boston Harbor, probably for the express purpose of filling our parlors with fair-haired officers, wonderful, magnificent, shining with epaulets and buttons. There may have been other reasons for the visit; there may have been deep political designs, and all manner of mysteries relating to the peace of nations I know not. But I know that there was a little midshipman in white trousers, who danced with Laura, and made her a bow afterward and said, “I tanks you for de polska.” He was a dear little midshipman! There was an admiral too, who corresponded more or less with Southey’s description,—

The admiral said to Harry, “I understand you shall not go to sea in future times?” and that is all I remember about him.

I remember Charlotte Cushman, the great actress and noble woman, who was a dear friend of our mother; with a deep, vibrating, melodious voice, and a strong, almost masculine face, which was full of wisdom and kindliness.

I remember Edwin Booth, in the early days, when his brilliant genius and the splendor of his melancholy beauty were taking all hearts by storm. He was very shy, this all-powerful Richelieu, this conquering Richard, this princely Hamlet. He came to a party given in his honor by our mother, and instead of talking to all the fine people who were dying for a word with him, he spent nearly the whole evening in a corner with little Maud, who enjoyed herself immensely. What wonder, when he made dolls for her out of handkerchiefs, and danced them with dramatic fervor? She was very gracious to Mr. Booth, which was a good thing; for one never knew just what Maud would say or do. Truth compels me to add that she was the enfant terrible of the family, and that the elders always trembled when visitors noticed or caressed the beautiful child.

One day, I remember, a very wise and learned man came to Green Peace to see our mother,—a man of high reputation, and withal a valued friend. He was fond of children, and took Maud on his knee, meaning to have a pleasant chat with her. But Maud fixed her great gray eyes on him, and surveyed him with an air of keen and hostile criticism. “What makes all those little red lines in your nose?” she asked, after an ominous silence. Mr. H——, somewhat taken aback, explained as well as he could the nature of the veins, and our mother was about to send the child on some suddenly-bethought-of errand, when her clear, melodious voice broke out again, relentless, insistent: “Do you know, I think you are the ugliest man I ever saw in my life!” “That will do, Maud!” said Mr. H——, putting her down from his knee. “You are charming, but you may go now, my dear.” Then he and our mother both tried to become very much interested in metaphysics; and next day he went and asked a mutual friend if he were really the ugliest man that ever was seen, telling her what Maud had said.

Again, there was a certain acquaintance—long since dead—who was in the habit of making interminable calls at Green Peace, and who would talk by the hour together without pausing. Our parents were often wearied by this gentleman’s conversational powers, and one of them (let this be a warning to young and old) chanced one day to speak of him in Maud’s hearing as “a great bore.” This was enough! The next time the unlucky talker appeared, the child ran up to him, and greeted him cordially with, “How do you do, bore? Oh, you great bore!” A quick-witted friend who was in the room instantly asked Mr. S—— if he had seen the copy of Snyder’s “Boar Hunt” which our father had lately bought, thinking it better that he should fancy himself addressed as a beast of the forest than as Borus humanus; but he kept his own counsel, and we never knew what he really thought of Maud’s greeting.

But of all visitors at either house, there was one whom we loved more than all others put together. Marked with a white stone was the happy day which brought the wonderful uncle, the fairy godfather, the realization of all that is delightful in man, to Green Peace or the Valley. Uncle Sam Ward!—uncle by adoption to half the young people he knew, but our very own uncle, our mother’s beloved brother. We might have said to him, with Shelley,—

for he was a busy man, and Washington was a long way off; but when he did come, as I said, it was a golden day. We fairly smothered him,—each child wanting to sit on his knee, to see his great watch, and the wonderful sapphire that he always wore on his little finger. Then he must sing for us; and he would sing the old Studenten Lieder in his full, joyous voice; but he must always wind up with “Balzoroschko Schnego” (at least that is what it sounded like), a certain Polish drinking-song, in which he sneezed and yodeled, and did all kinds of wonderful things.

Then would come an hour of quiet talk with our mother, when we knew enough to be silent and listen,—feeling, perhaps, rather than realizing that it was not a common privilege to listen to such talk.

“No matter how much I may differ from Sam Ward in principles or opinion,” said Charles Sumner once, “when I have been with him five minutes, I forget everything except that he is the most delightful man in the world.”

Again (but this was the least part of the pleasure), he never came empty-handed. Now it was a basket of wonderful peaches, which he thought might rival ours; now a gold bracelet for a niece’s wrist; now a beautiful book, or a pretty dress-pattern that had caught his eye in some shop-window. Now he came direct from South America, bringing for our mother a silver pitcher which he had won as a prize at a shooting-match in Paraguay. One of us will never forget being waked in the gray dawn of a summer morning at the Valley, by the sound of a voice singing outside,—will never forget creeping to the window and peeping out through the blinds. There on the door-step stood the fairy uncle, with a great basket of peaches beside him; and he was singing the lovely old French song, which has always since then seemed to me to belong to him:

There is no sweeter song. And do you think we did not tumble into our clothes and rush down, in wrappers, in petticoats, in whatever gown could be most quickly put on, and unbar the door, and bring the dear wanderer in, with joyful cries, with laughter, almost with tears of pure pleasure?

All, that was “long ago and long ago;” and now the kind uncle, the great heart that overflowed with love and charity and goodwill to all human kind, has passed through another door, and will not return! Be sure that on knocking at that white portal, he found hospitality within.

And now it is time that these rambling notes should draw to a close. There are many things that I might still speak of. But, after all, long ago is long ago, and these glimpses of our happy childhood must necessarily be fragmentary and brief. I trust they may have given pleasure to some children. I wish all childhood might be as bright, as happy, as free from care or sorrow, as was ours.

THE END.