in loving memory

in loving memory : Part 2

suggestion, but found it difficult to remove her tongue from the cold iron.

Among his many pranks at college, the most original was a nocturnal visit to a

fellow-collegian who had a*****e of good things in his room. “Sam” Howe

entered the window as a ghost and carried off a turkey. When the unfortunate

owner of the feast waked up and looked out of the window, he saw a dim white

figure rising in the air. Later on, the bones of the bird neatly picked were laid in

front of his door. The boy was greatly worried and fully convinced that some

supernatural being had visited his room. The affair so preyed on his mind that his

fellow-students finally explained the joke.

Strange to say, my father did not have much patience with his son when

brother Harry displayed at Harvard the same kind of mischievous ingenuity.

They had both inherited this quality from Grandfather Howe if we may judge by

the following story.

Having promised to pay Sammy a penny for every rat he caught, the old

gentleman surreptitiously withdrew the rodents from the trap. But Sammy was

quite equal to the occasion. He parried by making the same animal serve for

several mornings, until his father exclaimed, “Sammy, that rat begins to smell!”

Grandfather Howe was very fond of building, a taste inherited by his

descendants. When there was a question of his erecting a house on her property,

his second wife said to him, “But your children would never permit it.” The old

gentleman’s wavering resolve at once became fixed. He had no notion of

listening to dictation from his sons and daughters. So he built the house, which,

of course, became the property of our step-grandmother and went ultimately to

her heirs, instead of to his own descendants, the Howes.

My father always cherished the memory of his own mother, Patty Gridley,

who was a very beautiful woman, of a lovely and sympathetic nature.

He liked to see his daughters sitting at their needlework. “It reminds me of my

mother,” he would say. He could not bear to see bread wasted, because of her

early teachings of thrift. On the top of his father’s house, there had been a cask

or vat into which the lees of wine were thrown and left to ferment into vinegar.

With our mother, also, we had a delightful comradeship. Having been brought

up with undue strictness herself, she resolved that her children should not suffer

in the same way. Hence we had a happy familiarity with our parents; yet we felt

their superiority to ourselves. Mother taught us many things, after the fashion of

mothers—lessons in the conduct of life and in social observance, of course. To

be considerate of others, to enjoy small and simple pleasures, to take good things

in moderation—these were a part of her philosophy. If we made a noise after the

baby was asleep, we instantly heard her whispered warning, “Hush!” Indeed, it

was an offense in her eyes to disturb any one’s rest.

Her efforts to teach us punctuality were not altogether successful. There were

dreadful moments when sister Julia and I were so late in dressing for a party that

Mamma would be reduced almost to despair. Sister Laura saw these things and,

being a wise little maiden, resolved that when her turn came to go into society

she would be punctual. She carried out her resolution.

When we were old enough, our mother took us to the Church of the Disciples,

by my father’s desire. He himself went only occasionally, but then Papa had a

church of his own, which we sometimes attended. In the great hall of the

Institution for the Blind, he held at six o’clock every morning a brief service for

the pupils. The deep reverence of his voice as he read a lesson from the Bible,

the solemn tones of the organ, the sweetness and beauty of the fresh young

voices as the blind larks suddenly burst forth into their morning hymn of praise,

were things never to be forgotten. Truly Papa’s church was not like any other!

Many stories of her young days we heard from our mother. They were

different in many ways from our own happy and athletic childhood. It is true

that, like ourselves, she belonged to a family of six brothers and sisters, who had

merry times together. But the great misfortune of losing her mother shadowed

her young life. Aunt Eliza Cutler (afterward Mrs. Francis), who took, as far as

she was able, the latter’s place, was most conscientious in fulfilling her duties.

But she was very strict with her young charges. Witness the story of the little girl

whom Julia invited to tea. After this rash act her courage completely failed her.

She did not dare bring her visitor down-stairs, and sat miserably waiting the

course of events. The delay seemed to her interminable, but at length a message

was sent up, coldly inviting “Miss Ward,” as she was called even in childhood,

to bring her friend down to tea. She never repeated the offense.

Our mother was very fond of her grandmother Cutler, who spent the last years

of her life under her son-in-law’s roof. She was a woman of literary tastes as

well as of personal charm. The niece of General Francis Marion, the “Swamp

Fox,” Grandma Cutler possessed a goodly share of spirit. Thus when Wemyss,

the biographer of Washington and Marion, dined at the home of Grandfather

Ward, Mrs. Cutler took the careless historian to task:

“Mr. Wemyss, how is it that you say in your Life of the General that you have

never heard what became of his sister Esther, my mother?”

The old lady was a flaming Huguenot, as her letters show.

I fear that, despite the fact that she had been a belle in the Revolutionary

period, she took snuff. Our mother told us that the Ward family carriage was in

the habit of stopping at “Lorillard’s,” then a small tobacco-shop, to buy great-

grandmother’s favorite brand—this, if I remember aright, was Maccaboy.

In our mother’s story of her early life the dominating figure was that of her

father, Samuel Ward, the third of the name. She fully recognized his great

affection for his children and his almost painful desire to shield them from all

evil. Evidently to Grandfather Ward “the world, the flesh, and the devil” were

not outworn features of a half-forgotten creed, but dreadful realities. He was as

liberal in giving money to good causes as he was illiberal in his religious views.

During a period of hard times (perhaps in 1837), he suggested to our mother that

they should take care of the conservatory themselves, sending away the

gardener.

“For I will not cut down my charities,” quoth Grandfather Ward.

He left a large fortune for those days, but it was a good deal diminished by the

management of his brother, who did not understand real estate. The Grange,

formerly the property of Alexander Hamilton, was a part of it. The Ward family

desired to have this sold to a great-uncle, for the nominal price of ten thousand

dollars. My father very properly protested, yielding in the end, for the sake of

peace. Some twenty-five years later it was worth one or two million dollars, but

the family were unable to hold it after the panic of Black Friday, September,

1869.

III

MEMORIES OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

The Perkins Institution for the Blind.—South Boston in the ’Fifties and ’Sixties.—Migratory Habits of the

Howe Family.—“Cliff House” at Newport.—George William Curtis and the Howe Children.—A

Children’s Party at the Longfellow Mansion.—Professor “Stubby” Child Plays with Us in the Hay.

“I REMEMBER, I remember, the house where I was born.” Indeed, I can hardly

do otherwise, for the Perkins Institution for the Blind was one of the landmarks

of Boston in the nineteenth century. It was also, so to speak, the intermittent

home of our family for many years. My father bought “Green Peace” and moved

the family there soon after my birth, hence we lived at the Institution only from

time to time.

The “Doctor’s” wing of the great building was always at his disposal. In the

summer, when the family were at Newport, he often stayed there. It was a refuge

to us in time of trouble. Did our city house catch fire, or other circumstances

make a change desirable—presto! we departed, servants and all, for the

Institution! My brother-in-law, Henry Richards, complained mildly during his

courtship that no notice was given of these intended hegiras. He would come to

see sister Laura one evening and bid her good-by, with every expectation of

calling on her the following day. When, twenty-four hours later, he rang the

door-bell, there was no response! The Howe family had folded their tents, like

the Arabs, and silently moved over to the Institution. It will be judged, from this

story, that the Doctor’s part was fully furnished, save that the halls, like all those

in the building, had uncarpeted marble floors. For the Perkins Institution for the

Blind had originally been a hotel, the Mount Washington House.

The building, simple, massive, and dignified, stood on a hill commanding a

lovely view of Boston Harbor with its many islands. Just behind it rose

Dorchester Heights. As children we played among the earthworks whence the

cannon of Washington’s army had forced the British to evacuate Boston. We did

not then know that Col. Richard Gridley, one of our ancestors, had planned those

fortifications and the defenses of Bunker Hill as well. He was a veteran of the

French wars who had “won laurels as an accomplished engineer at Louisburg.”

[1]

1. Frothingham’s Siege of Boston.

When the Institution for the Blind was moved to South Boston, Ward twelve

was more highly esteemed as a place of residence than it is now. A peninsula

connected with the mainland only by Dorchester Neck, it enjoys the full sweep

of the famous Boston east wind. Hence it is cool in summer, and the extended

shore gives opportunities for sea-bathing. One of the sad memories of my

childhood is the booming of cannon fired in the hope of bringing to the surface

the bodies of those who had been drowned while bathing.

South Boston has so many natural advantages of climate and scenery that it

was hoped the city would grow in that direction. But the situation has its

drawbacks. In order to reach Boston proper it is necessary either to take a long

and circuitous route through Dorchester, or else to cross one of the bridges which

span the harbor. These were, when I can first remember, fitted with primitive

wooden drawbridges through which vessels seemed always to be passing, if one

were in a hurry. Boston was at this time a seaport in reality as well as in name,

the wharves filled with shipping. To a child it was alarming to see the solid floor

of the bridge divide in two portions and rise slowly in the air, disclosing an open

space of water. It diminished very much one’s feeling of security. To be sure,

after the vessel had finally passed through, and the great wooden jaws had again

snapped together, a large iron bolt restrained further vagaries on their part. But

what was to prevent the draw from sinking down under the weight of the passing

vehicles? Then there were legends of adventurous and unfortunate little boys

who had been caught between the descending jaws. If you and your driver were

fair-minded persons, your carriage took its proper place in the line and patiently

waited its turn to cross. Despite the warning sign, “Keep to the Right as the Law

Directs,” there were people so unfair as to try to form a second line and so cross

ahead of earlier comers. These we regarded with righteous indignation.

The neighborhood of the bridges was occupied by tenement-houses, making

the approach to South Boston rather squalid. The House of Correction and other

public institutions then established there lessened the attractiveness of the

peninsula. So when Boston began to expand in earnest it took the usual course of

cities and grew toward the west. The Back Bay was duly filled in, for the new

part of Boston is on made ground. My father considered this much less

wholesome than the original soil.

In the days of my childhood, South Boston, while not a fashionable suburb,....