MEMORIES AND ANECDOTES

By

KATE SANBORN

AUTHOR OF"ADOPTING AN ABANDONED FARM, " "ABANDONING ANADOPTED FARM, " "OLD-TIME WALL PAPERS, " ETC. 

_WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS_

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONSNEW YORK LONDONThe Knickerbocker Press1915

[Illustration, _Frontispiece_: GREETINGS AND WELCOME TO EVERY READER (KATE SANBORN)]

 To

 ALL MY FRIENDS EVERYWHERE

 ESPECIALLY TO MY BELOVED "NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS" IN MASSACHUSETTS, MY PUPILS IN SMITH COLLEGE, ALSO AT PACKER INSTITUTE, BROOKLYN, AND ALL THOSE WHO HAD THE PATIENCE TO LISTEN TO MY LECTURES, WITH GRATEFUL REGARDS TO THOSE DARTMOUTH GRADUATES WHO, LIKING MY FATHER, WERE ALWAYS GIVING HIS AMBITIOUS DAUGHTER A HELPING HAND

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

My Early Days--Odd Characters in our Village--Distinguished Visitorsto Dartmouth--Two Story-Tellers of Hanover--A "Beacon Light" and aMaster of Synonyms--A Day with Bryant in his Country Home--A WeddingTrip to the White Mountains in 1826 in "A One-Hoss Shay"--A GreatCareer which Began in a Country Store

CHAPTER II

A Friend at Andover, Mass. --Hezekiah Butterworth--A Few of my OwnFolks--Professor Putnam of Dartmouth--One Year at Packer Institute, Brooklyn--Beecher's Face in Prayer--The Poet Saxe as I Sawhim--Offered the Use of a Rare Library--Miss Edna Dean Proctor--NewStories of Greeley--Experiences at St. Louis

CHAPTER III

Happy Days with Mrs. Botta--My Busy Life in New York--PresidentBarnard of Columbia College--A Surprise from Bierstadt--ProfessorDoremus, a Universal Genius--Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "FunnyMan"--Mrs. Esther Herman, a Modest Giver

CHAPTER IV

Three Years at Smith College--Appreciation of Its Founder--ASuccessful Lecture Tour--My Trip to Alaska

CHAPTER V

Frances E. Willard--Walt Whitman--Lady Henry Somerset--Mrs. HannahWhitehall Smith--A Teetotaler for Ten Minutes--Olive ThornMiller--Hearty Praise for Mrs. Lippincott (Grace Greenwood. )

CHAPTER VI

In and near Boston--Edward Everett Hale--Thomas WentworthHigginson--Julia Ward Howe--Mary A. Livermore--A Day at the ConcordSchool--Harriet G. Hosmer--"Dora Distria, " our Illustrious Visitor

CHAPTER VII

Elected to be the First President of New Hampshire's Daughters inMassachusetts. Now Honorary President--Kind Words which I HighlyValue--Three, but not "of a Kind"--A Strictly Family Affair--TwoFavorite Poems--Breezy Meadows

ILLUSTRATIONS

GREETINGS AND WELCOME TO EVERY READER(KATE SANBORN) _Frontispiece_

THE STREET FRONTING THE SANBORN HOME AT HANOVER, N. H. 

MRS. ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA

PRESIDENT BARNARD OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE

PROFESSOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS

SOPHIA SMITH

PETER MacQUEEN

SAM WALTER FOSS

PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES

PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK

THE ISLAND WHICH WE MADE

TAKA'S TEA HOUSE AT LILY POND

THE LOOKOUT

THE SWITCH

HOW VINES GROW AT BREEZY MEADOWS

GRAND ELM (OVER TWO HUNDRED YEARS OLD)

MEMORIES AND ANECDOTES

CHAPTER I

My Early Days--Odd Characters in our Village--Distinguished Visitorsto Dartmouth--Two Story Tellers of Hanover--A "Beacon Light" and aMaster of Synonyms--A Day with Bryant in his Country Home--A WeddingTrip to the White Mountains in 1826 in "A One Hoss Shay"--A GreatCareer which Began in a Country Store. 

I make no excuse for publishing these memories. Realizing that I havebeen so fortunate as to know an unusual number of distinguished menand women, it gives me pleasure to share this privilege with others. 

One summer morning, "long, long ago, " a newspaper was sent by mygrandmother, Mrs. Ezekiel Webster, to a sister at Concord, NewHampshire, with this item of news pencilled on the margin:

"Born Thursday morning, July 11, 1839, 4. 30 A. M. , a fine little girl, seven pounds. "

I was born in my father's library, and first opened my eyes upon ascenic wall-paper depicting the Bay of Naples; in fact I was born justunder Vesuvius--which may account for my occasional eruptions oftemper and life-long interest in "Old Time Wall-papers. " Later ourhouse was expanded into a college dormitory and has been removed toanother site, but Vesuvius is still smoking placidly in the oldlibrary. 

Mine was a shielded, happy childhood--an only child for six years--andfamily letters show that I was "always and for ever talking, " askingquestions, making queer remarks, or allowing free play to a vividimagination, which my parents thought it wise to restrain. Father feltcalled upon to write for a child's paper about Caty's Gold Fish, whichwere only minnows from Mink Brook. 

"Caty is sitting on the floor at my feet, chattering as usual, andasking questions. " I seem to remember my calling over the banister toan assembled family downstairs, "Muzzer, Muzzer, I dess I dot afezer, " or "Muzzer, come up, I'se dot a headache in my stomach. " Icertainly can recall my intense admiration for Professor Ira Young, our next door neighbour, and his snowy pow, which I called "pity witefedders. "

As years rolled on, I fear I was pert and audacious. I once touchedat supper a blazing hot teapot, which almost blistered my fingers, andI screamed with surprise and pain. Father exclaimed, "Stop that noise, Caty. " I replied, "Put your fingers on that teapot--and don'tkitikize. " And one evening about seven, my usual bedtime, I announced, "I'm going to sit up till eight tonight, and don't you 'spute. " I knowof many children who have the same habit of questions and sharpretorts. One of my pets, after plying her mother with about fortyquestions, wound up with, "Mother, how does the devil's darning needlesleep? Does he lie down on a twig or hang, or how?" "I don't know, dear. " "Why, mother, it is surprising when you have lived so manyyears, that you know so little!"

Mr. Higginson told an absurd story of an inquisitive child and weariedmother in the cars passing the various Newtons, near Boston. At lastthe limit. "Ma, why do they call this West Newton?" "Oh, I suppose forfun. " Silence for a few minutes, then, "Ma, what _was_ the fun incalling it West Newton?"

I began Latin at eight years--my first book a yellow paper primer. 

I was always interested in chickens, and dosed all the indisposed as:

 Dandy Dick Was very sick, I gave him red pepper And soon he was better. 

In spring, I remember the humming of our bees around the sawdust, andmy craze for flower seeds and a garden of my own. 

Father had a phenomenal memory; he could recite in his classroom pagesof Scott's novels, which he had not read since early youth. He had nointention of allowing my memory to grow flabby from lack of use. Ioften repeat a verse he asked me to commit to memory:

 In reading authors, when you find Bright passages that strike your mind, And which perhaps you may have reason To think on at another season; Be not contented with the sight, But jot them down in black and white; Such respect is wisely shown As makes another's thought your own. 

Every day at the supper table I had to repeat some poetry or prose andon Sunday a hymn, some of which were rather depressing to a youngperson, as:

 Life is but a winter's day; A journey to the tomb. 

And the vivid description of "Dies Irae":

 When shrivelling like a parched scroll The flaming heavens together roll And louder yet and yet more dread Swells the high Trump that wakes the dead. 

Great attention was given to my lessons in elocution from the bestinstructors then known, and I had the privilege of studying withWilliam Russell, one of the first exponents of that art. I can stillhear his advice: "Full on the vowels; dwell on the consonants, especially at the close of sentences; keep voice strong for the closeof an important sentence or paragraph. " Next, I took lessons fromProfessor Mark Bailey of Yale College; and then in Boston in theclasses of Professor Lewis B. Monroe, --a most interesting, practicalteacher of distinctness, expression, and the way to direct one's voiceto this or that part of a hall. I was given the opportunity also ofhearing an occasional lecture by Graham Bell. Later, I used to readaloud to father for four or five hours daily--grand practice--suchimportant books as Lecky's _Rationalism_, Buckle's _Averages_, SirWilliam Hamilton's _Metaphysics_ (not one word of which could Iunderstand), Huxley, Tyndall, Darwin, and Spencer, till my head wasalmost too full of that day's "New Thought. "

Judge Salmon P. Chase once warned me, when going downstairs to adinner party at Edgewood, "For God's sake, Kate, don't quote the_Atlantic Monthly_ tonight!" I realized then what a bore I had been. 

What a treat to listen to William M. Evarts chatting with Judge Chase!One evening he affected deep depression. "I have just been beatentwice at 'High Low Jack' by Ben the learned pig. I always wondered whytwo pipes in liquid measure were called a hogshead; now I know; it wason account of their great capacity. " He also told of the donkey'sloneliness in his absence, as reported by his little daughter. 

I gave my first series of talks at Tilden Seminary at West Lebanon, New Hampshire, only a few miles from Hanover. President Asa D. Smithof Dartmouth came to hear two of them, and after I had given the wholeseries from Chaucer to Burns, he took them to Appleton & Company, theNew York publishers, who were relatives of his, and surprised me byhaving them printed. 

I give an unasked-for opinion by John G. Whittier:

 I spent a pleasant hour last evening over the charming little volume, _Home Pictures of English Poets_, which thou wast kind enough to send me, and which I hope is having a wide circulation as it deserves. Its analysis of character and estimate of literary merit strike me as in the main correct. Its racy, colloquial style, enlivened by anecdote and citation, makes it anything but a dull book. It seems to me admirably adapted to supply a want in hearth and home. 

I lectured next in various towns in New Hampshire and Vermont; as St. Johnsbury, where I was invited by Governor Fairbanks; Bath, NewHampshire, asked by Mrs. Johnson, a well-known writer on flowers andhorticulture, a very entertaining woman. At one town in Vermont Ilectured at the large academy there--not much opportunity for rest insuch a building. My room was just off the music room where duets werebeing executed, and a little further on girls were taking singinglessons, while a noisy little clock-ette on my bureau zigzagged outthe rapid ticks. At the evening meal I was expected to be agreeable, also after the lecture to meet and entertain a few friends. When I atlast retired that blatant clock made me so nervous that I placed it atfirst in the bureau drawer, where it sounded if possible louder thanever. Then I rose and put it way back in a closet; no hope; at last Ipartially dressed and carried it the full length of the long hall, andlaid it down to sleep on its side. And I think that depressed it. Inthe morning, a hasty breakfast, because a dozen or more girls werewaiting at the door to ask me to write a "tasty sentiment" before Ileft, in their autograph albums, with my autograph of course, and"something of your own preferred, but at any rate characteristic. "

My trips to those various towns taught me to be more humble, and toadmire the women I met, discovering how seriously they had studied, and how they made use of every opportunity. I remember Somersworth, New Hampshire, and Burlington, Vermont. I lectured twice at the InsaneAsylum at Concord, New Hampshire, invited by Dr. Bancroft. Aftergiving my "newspaper wits" a former governor of Vermont came up toshake hands with me, saying frankly, "Miss Sanborn, your lecture wasjust about right for us lunatics. " A former resident of Hanover, in aclosed cell, greeted me the next morning as I passed, with a torrentof abuse, profanity, and obscenity. She too evidently disliked mylecture. Had an audience of lunatics also at the McLean Insane Asylum, Dr. Coles, Superintendent. 

I think I was the first woman ever invited to make an address tofarmers on farming. I spoke at Tilton, New Hampshire, to more thanthree hundred men about woman's day on the farm. Insinuated thatwomen need a few days _off_ the farm. Said a good many other thingsthat were not applauded. Farmers seemed to know nothing of theadvantages of co-operation, and that they were as much slaves (to themiddlemen) as ever were the negroes in the South. They even tried toescape from me at the noise of a dog-fight outside. I offered toprovide a large room for social meetings, to stock it with books ofthe day, and to send them a lot of magazines and other reading. Notone ever made the slightest response. Now they have all and more thanI suggested. 

When but seventeen, I was sent for to watch with Professor Shurtleff, really a dying man, and left all alone with him in the lower part ofthe house; he begged about 2 A. M. To be taken up and placed in arocking-chair near the little open fire. The light was dim and theeffect was very weird. His wig hung on one bedpost, he had lost oneeye, and the patch worn over the empty eye socket had been left on thebureau. My anxiety was great lest he should slip from the chair andtip into the fire. I note this to mark the great change since thattime. Neighbours are not now expected to care for the sick and dying, but trained nurses are always sought, and most of them are nobleheroines in their profession. 

Once also I watched with a poor woman who was dying with cancer. Itried it for two nights, but the remark of her sister, as I leftutterly worn out, "Some folks seem to get all their good things inthis life, " deterred me from attempting it again. 

Started a school a little later in the ell of our house for my friendsamong the Hanover children--forty-five scholars in all. Kept it goingsuccessfully for two years. 

I dislike to tell a story so incredible and so against myself as this. One evening father said, "I am going to my room early tonight, Katie;do not forget to lock the back door. " I sat reading until quite late, then retired. About 2. 30 A. M. , I was startled to hear someone gentlyopen that back door, then take off boots and begin to softly ascendthe stairs, which stopped only the width of a narrow hall from myroom. I have been told that I said in trembling tones, "You're tryingto keep pretty quiet down there. " Next moment I was at the head of thestairs; saw a man whom I did not recognize on the last step but one. Istruck a heavy blow on his chest, saying, "Go down, sir, " and down hetumbled all the way, his boots clanking along by themselves. Then thedoor opened, my burglar disappeared, and I went down and locked theback door as I had promised father I would. I felt less proud of myphysical prowess and real courage when my attention was called to afull account of my assault in the college papers of the day. The youngman was not rooming at our house, but coming into town quite late, planned to lodge with a friend there. He threw gravel at this youngman's window in the third story to waken him, and failing thought atlast he would try the door, and if not locked he would creep up, anddisturb no one. But "Miss Sanborn knocked a man all the waydownstairs" was duly announced. I then realized my awful mistake, anddidn't care to appear on the street for some time except in recitationhours. 

The second time I lectured in Burlington, I was delayed nearly half anhour at that dreadful Junction, about which place Professor Edward J. Phelps, afterwards Minister to England, wrote a fierce rhyme torelieve his rage at being compelled to waste so much precious timethere. I recall only two revengeful lines:

 "I hope in hell his soul may dwell, Who first invented Essex Junction. "

Oh, yes, I do remember his idea that the cemetery near the stationcontained the bodies of many weary ones who had died just before helpcame and were shovelled over. 

It happened that Mrs. Underwood, wife of the demented governor, whohad alluded so truthfully to my lecture, was in the audience, andbeing gifted with genuine clairvoyant powers, she rose and begged theaudience not to disperse, as she could distinctly see me pacingnervously up and down the platform at the Junction in a long sealskincoat and hat trimmed with band of fur. I arrived at last with thesealskin and the hat, proving her correct, and they cheered her aswell as myself. 

Our little village had its share of eccentric characters, as the oldman who was impelled by the edict of the Bible to cut off his righthand as it had "offended him. " But lacking surgical facilities, theeffort left one hand hanging limp and useless. His long white beard, how truly patriarchal!

Poor insane Sally Duget--a sad story! Her epitaph in our cemetery ispathetic. With all her woe she was quick at repartee. A man once askedher, "Shall you ever marry, Sally?" "Well, yes, if you and I can makea bargain. "

Elder Bawker with his difficulties in locomotion. 

Rogers, who carried the students' washing home to his wife on Sundayafternoons for a preliminary soak. The minister seeing him thusengaged, stopped him, and inquired:

"Where do you think you will go to if you so constantly desecrate theHoly Sabbath?"

"Guess I'll go right on doing laundry work for the boys. "

The aged janitor who, in a brief scare about smallpox, was asked if hehad ever had it: "No, but I've had chances. "

An old sinner who, being converted, used to serve as a lay evangelistat the district schoolhouse where in winter religious meetings wereheld. Roguish lads to test him sprinkled red pepper, a lot of it, onthe red hot stove. He almost suffocated, but burst out with: "By God, there's enemies to religion in this house! Hist the winders!"

The rubicund butcher of that period (we had no choice) was asked by along-time patron how he got such a red face. "Cider apple sass. " Thesame patron said, "You have served me pretty well, but cheated me agood deal. " "Yes, sir, but you have no idea how much I've cheatedyou. "

Our one milliner, positively brilliant in her remarks, when a ladysent back her bonnet twice on the ground that it was not becoming, said, "Remember you have your face to contend with. "

Our only and original gravedigger, manager in general of villageaffairs. 

After the death of a physician, his wife gave a stained-glass windowto the Episcopal Church of St. Luke, the beloved physician. She askedJason if he liked it. He said, "It don't strike me as a particularspeaking likeness of Dr. Tom. "

To one of the new professors who ventured to make a few suggestions, "Who be yaou anyway?"

He enjoyed buttonholing people he met in our "graveyard" and pointingout where they "must shortly lie. "

Our landlord--who that ever saw Horace Frary could forget him? If amother came to Hanover to see her boy on the 2. 30 P. M. Train, no mealcould be obtained. He would stand at the front door and explain, "Dinner is over long ago. " He cared personally for about thirty oillamps each day, trimmed the wicks with his fingers, and then wipedthem on his trousers. Also did the carving standing at the table andcleaning the dull knife on the same right side--so the effect wasstartling. One day when he had been ill for a short time his wifesaid: "Dr. Dixi Crosby is coming this way now, I'll call him in. ""Don't let him in now, " he begged, "why d---- it, I'm _sick_!"

I must not omit the strictly veracious witness who was sworn totestify how many students were engaged in a noisy night frolic atNorwich. "As fur as I know, there was betwixt six and seven. "

"Webb Hall, " who today would figure as a "down and out, " made manyamusing statements. "By the way I look in these ragged clothes, youmight take me for a Democrat, but I'm a red hot Republican. "

He was obsessed by the notion that he had some trouble with a judge inConcord, New Hampshire. He said fiercely, "I will buy two guns, go toConcord, kill Judge Stanton with one, and shoot myself with the other, or else wait quietly till spring and see what will come of it. " Apossible precursor of President Wilson's Mexican policy. 

He was accused by a woman of milking a cow in her pasture; pleadedguilty, but added, "I left a ten-cent piece on the fence. "

An East Hanover man is remembered for his cheek in slyly pickinglettuce or parsley in the gardens of the professors and then sellingthem at the back door to their wives. 

And a farmer from Vermont who used to sell tempting vegetables fromhis large farm. He was so friendly he cordially greeted the ladies whobought from him with a kiss. Grandmother evaded this attention bystating her age, and so was unmolested. The names of his family werearranged in alphabetical order. "Hannah A. , give Miss Kate another cupof coffee; Noah B. , pass the butter; Emma C. , guess you better handround the riz biscuit. "

Life then was a solemn business at Hanover. No dancing; no cards; notheatricals; a yearly concert at commencement, and typhoid fever inthe fall. On the Lord's Day some children were not allowed to read the_Youth's Companion_, or pluck a flower in the garden. But one oldworking woman rebelled. "I ain't going to have my daughter Francesbrought up in no superstitious tragedy. " She was far in advance of herage. 

I have always delighted in college songs from good voices, whethersung when sitting on the old common fence (now gone) at the "sing out"at the close of the year, or merrily trolling or tra-la-laing alongthe streets. What a surprise when one glorious moonlight night whichshowed up the magnificent elms then arching the street before ourhouse--the air was full of fragrance--I was suddenly aroused byseveral voices adjuring me, a lady of beauty, to awake. I wasbewildered--ecstatic. This singing was for me. I listened intently andheard the words of their song:

 Sweet is the sound of lute and voice When borne across the water. 

Then two other sweets I could not quite catch, and the last lines sungwith fervor:

 But sweeter still is the charming voice Of Professor Sanborn's daughter. 

Two more stanzas and each with the refrain:

 The prettiest girl on Hanover Plain is Professor Sanborn's daughter. 

Then the last verse:

 Hot is the sun whose golden rays Can reach from heaven to earth, And hot a tin pan newly scoured Placed on the blazing hearth, And hot a boy's ears boxed for doing That which he hadn't orter, But hotter still is the love I bear For Professor Sanborn's daughter. 

with chorus as before. 

I threw down lovely flowers and timidly thanked them. They applauded, sang a rollicking farewell, and were gone. If I could have removed myheart painlessly, I believe that would have gone out too. They hadgone, but the blissful memory! I leaned on the window sill, and themoon with its bounteous mellow radiance filled my room. But listen, hark! Only two doors beyond, the same voices, the same melodioustones, and alas, yes, the same words, every verse and the samechorus--same masculine fervour--but somebody else's daughter. 

A breakfast comment: "It's a terrible nuisance this caterwauling inthe middle of the night in front of the house!" For once I was silent. 

Many distinguished men were invited to Dartmouth as orators atcommencement or on special occasions, as Rufus Choate, Edward Everett, John G. Saxe, Wendell Phillips, Charles Dudley Warner, and Dr. Holmes, whom I knew in his Boston study, overlooking the water and the gulls. By the way, he looked so young when arriving at Hanover for a fewlectures to the Medical School that he was asked if he had come tojoin the Freshman class. 

There were also Edwin P. Whipple, the essayist, and Walt Whitman, whowas chosen one year for the commencement poet. He appeared on theplatform wearing a flannel shirt, square-cut neck, disclosing ahirsute covering that would have done credit to a grizzly bear; therest of his attire all right. Joaquin Miller was another genius andoriginal. 

Another visitor was James T. Fields of Boston, the popular publisher, poet, author, lecturer, friend, and inimitable raconteur, who wasalways one of my best friends. 

When Mr. And Mrs. Fields were invited to Hanover, he and his beautifulwife were always guests at our home. Their first visit to us was anepoch for me. I worked hard the morning before they were to arrive, sweeping, dusting, polishing silver, and especially brightening thelarge, brass andirons in father's library. I usually scoured withrotten stone and oil, but on this great occasion, adopting a receiptwhich I had happened to see in a newspaper, I tried vinegar andpowdered pumice-stone. The result at first was fine. 

I had barely time after all this to place flowers about the house anddress, and then to drive in our old carryall, with our older horse, tothe station at Norwich, just across the Connecticut River, to meet thedistinguished pair and escort them to our house. As I heard the trainapproaching, and the shrill whistle, I got nervous, and my handstrembled. How would they know me? And what had I better say? My agedand spavined horse was called by father "Rosinante" for Don Quixote'sbony steed, also "Blind Guide" and "Heathen Philosopher. " He lookedit--and my shabby carryall! But the train was snorting for a stop, and the two guests soon came easily to my vehicle, and Mr. Fieldsseemed to know me. Both shook hands most cordially and were soon inthe back seat, full of pleasant chat and the first exciting ordeal wasover. At tea table Mr. And Mrs. Fields sat on either side of father, and the stories told were different from any I had ever heard. I foundwhen the meal was over I had not taken a mouthful. Next we all went tothe College Church for the lecture, and on coming home we had anevening lunch. All ate heartily but me. I ventured to tell one story, when Mr. Fields clapped his hands and said, "Delightful. " That wasfood to me! I went to bed half starved, and only took enough breakfastto sustain life. Before they left I had written down and committed tomemory every anecdote he had given. They have never been printed untilnow, and you may be sure they are just as my hero told them. My onlygrief was the appearance of my andirons. I invited our guests to theopen fire with pride, and the brass was covered with black andgreen--not a gleam of shine. 

Often Mr. Fields's jokes were on himself--as the opinion of a man inthe car seat just beyond him, as they happened to be passing Mr. Fields's residence on the Massachusetts coast. The house was pointedout on "Thunderbolt Hill" and his companion said, "How is he as alecturer?"

"Well, " was the response, "he ain't Gough by a d----d sight. "

How comically he told of a country druggist's clerk to whom he put thequery, "What is the most popular pill just now?" And the quick answer, "Schenk's--they do say the Craowned Heads is all atakin' of 'em!"

Or the request for his funniest lecture for the benefit of a hearse ina rural hamlet!

His experience in a little village where he and Mrs. Fields wanted tofind a boarding-house: The lady of the house demurred; she had "gotpretty tired of boarders, " but at last capitulated with, "Well, I'lllet you come in if you'll do your own stretching. " This proved to meanno waitress at the table. 

The morning after their arrival, he went out for a long walk in themountain air, and returning was accosted by his host: "I see you arequite a predestinarian. " As he was resting on one of the woodenchairs, the man said: "I got those chairs for piazzary purposes, " andenlarged on the trouble of getting good help in haying time: "Why, myneighbour, Jake Stebbins, had a boy in his gang named Henry WardBeecher Gooley. He was so dreadful pious that on extra hot morningshe'd call 'em all together at eleven o'clock and ask 'em to join insinging, 'Lord, Dismiss us with Thy Blessing. '"

All these anecdotes were told to me by Mr. Fields and I intend to giveonly those memories which are _my own_. 

Mr. Fields was wonderfully kind to budding authors. Professor Brownsent him, without my knowledge, my two-column appreciation of dear TomHood, after his memorials were written by his son and daughter. Andbefore many weeks came a box of his newest books for me, with a littlenote on finest paper and wide margin, "hoping that your friendship mayalways be continued towards our house. "

I cannot speak of Mr. Fields and fail to pay my tribute of lovingadmiration to his wife, Annie Fields. When I first met that lady inher home at 148 Charles Street, she was so exquisitely dainty, refined, spirituelle, and beautiful, I felt, as I expressed it, "square-toed and common. " She was sincerely cordial to all who wereinvited to that sacred shrine; she was the perfect hostess andhousekeeper, the ever-busy philanthropist, a classic poet, a strongwriter of prose when eager to aid some needed reform. Never before hadI seen such a rare combination of the esthetic and practical, and sheshone wherever placed. Once when she was with us, I went up to herroom to see if I could help her as she was leaving. She was seated onthe floor, pulling straps tightly round some steamer rugs and a rainyday coat, and she explained she always attended to such "littlethings. " As one wrote of her, after her death, she made the most ofherself, but she made more of her husband. Together they went forward, side by side, to the last, comrades and true lovers. 

Two of all the wonderful literary treasures in their drawing-roomproduced a great impression on me, one a caricature of Thackeray'sface done by himself with no mercy shown to his flattened, brokennose. A lady said to him: "There is only one thing about you I couldnever get over, your nose. " "No wonder, madam, there is no bridge toit. " The other was an invitation to supper in Charles Lamb's ownwriting, and at the bottom of the page, "Puns at nine. "

Two famous story-tellers of the old-fashioned type were Doctor DixiCrosby of Hanover, and his son "Ben, " who made a great name forhimself in New York City as a surgeon, and also as a brilliantafter-dinner speaker. Doctor Crosby's preference was for thelong-drawn-out style, as this example, which I heard him tell severaltimes, shows:

A man gave a lecture in a New England town which failed to elicit muchapplause and this troubled him. As he left early next morning on thetop of the stage-coach, he interviewed the driver, who seemed notanxious to talk. "Did you hear much said about my lecture last night?Do you think it pleased the audience?"

"Oh, I guess they were well enough satisfied; some were anyway. "

"Were there any who expressed dissatisfaction?"

"I would not pry into it, stranger; there wasn't much said against itanyhow. "

"Now you have aroused my curiosity. I must beg you to let me know. Whocriticized it, and what did they say? It might help me to hear it. "

"Well, Squire Jones was the man; he does not say much one way orother. But I'll tell you he always gets the gist of it. "

"And what was his verdict?"

"If you must know, Squire Jones he said, said he, he thought'twas--awful shaller. "

Doctor Ben's Goffstown Muster was a quicker tempo and had a betterclimax. 'Twas the great occasion of the annual military reviews. Hegraphically described boys driving colts hardly broken; mothersnursing babies, very squally; girls and their beaux sitting in thebest wagon holding hands and staring about (as Warner said to me, "Young love in the country is a solemn thing"); the booths for sale ofgingerbread, peanuts, cider, candies, and popcorn; the marshal of theday dashing here and there on his prancing steed. All was excitement, great crowds, and the blare of the band. Suddenly an aged pair, seemingly skeletons, so bony and wan were they, were seen totteringtoward the fence, where they at last stopped. They had come from thedirection of the graveyard. The marshal rushed forward calling out, "Go back, go back; this is not the general resurrection, it is onlythe Goffstown Muster. "

Doctor Ben Crosby was one of the most admirable mimics ever known andwithout a suspicion of ill-nature. Sometimes he would call on usrepresenting another acquaintance, who had just left, so perfectlythat the gravest and stiffest were in danger of hysterics. This powerhis daughter inherited. 

John Lord, the historical lecturer, was always a "beacon light" (whichwas the name he gave his lectures when published) as he discussed thesubjects and persons he took for themes before immense audienceseverywhere. His conversation was also intensely interesting. He was asocial lion and a favourite guest. His lectures have still a largeannual sale--no one who once knew him or listened to his pyrotechnicclimaxes could ever forget him or them. It was true that he made nineindependent and distinct motions simultaneously in his most intensedelivery. I once met him going back to his rooms at his hotel carryinga leather bag. He stopped, opened it, showing a bottle of Scotchwhiskey, and explained "I am starting in on a lecture on Moses. " Therewas a certain simplicity about the man. Once when his right arm was ina sling, broken by a fall from a horse, he offered prayer in the oldchurch. And unable to use his arm as usual, he so balanced hisgyrations that he in some way drifted around until when he said "Amen"his face fronted the whitewashed wall back of his pulpit. He turned tothe minister standing by him, saying in a very audible whisper, "Doyou think anybody noticed it?"

He was so genuinely hospitable that when a friend suddenly acceptedhis "come up any time" invitation, he found no one at home but thedoctor, who proposed their killing a chicken. Soon one was let out, but she evaded her pursuers. "You shoo, and I'll catch, " cried thekind host, but shrank back as the fowl came near, exclaiming: "Say, West, has a hen got teeth?" At last they conquered, plucked, andcooked her for a somewhat tardy meal, with some potatoes clawed up inthe potato field. Once, when very absent-minded, at a hotel table in acountry tavern, the waitress was astonished to watch him as he tookthe oil cruet from the castor and proceeded to grease his boots. 

Doctor John Ordronaux, Professor of Medical Jurisprudence at Dartmouthand various other colleges and medical schools, was another eruditescholar, who made a permanent impression on all he met. While yet atcollege, his words were so unusual and his vocabulary so full that awag once advertised on the bulletin board on the door of DartmouthHall, "Five hundred new adjectives by John Ordronaux. "

He was haunted by synonyms, and told me they interfered with hiswriting, so many clamouring for attention. He was a confirmed bachelorwith very regular habits; wanted his bed to be left to air the entireday, he to make it himself at precisely 5. 30 P. M. , or as near aspossible. His walk was peculiar, with knees stiffly bent out andelbows crooked as if to repel all feminine aggression, "a progressiveporcupine" as someone described his gait. His hour for retiring wasalways the same; when calling leaving about 9. 30. Rallied about hismethodical habits, he was apt to mention many of his old friends whohad indulged themselves in earthly pleasures, all of whom he had thesad pleasure of burying. 

He was a great admirer of my mother for her loveliness and kindinterest in the students; after her death he was a noble aid to me inmany ways. I needed his precautions about spreading myself too thin, about being less flamboyantly loquacious, and subduing my excessiveenthusiasm and emotional prodigality. Once after giving me a drive, hekindly said, as he helped me out, "I have quite enjoyed your cheerfulprattle. " Fact was, he had monologued it in his most sesquipedalianphraseology. I had no chance to say one word. He had his own way ofgaining magnetism; believed in associating with butchers. Did you everknow one that was anæmic, especially at slaughtering time? From themand the animals there and in stables, and the smell of the flowingblood, he felt that surely a radiant magnetism was gained. Those hevisited "thought he was real democratic and a pleasant spoken man. " Hetold of an opportunity he once had for regular employment, riding onthe stage-coach by the side of a farmer's pretty daughter. Shesuggested that he might like a milk route, and "perhaps father canget you one. " So formal, dignified, and fastidious was he that thisseems improbable, but I quote his own account. 

Doctor Ordronaux visited at my uncle's, a physician, when I wasresting there from overwork. After his departure, uncle received aletter from him which he handed to me saying, "Guess this is meant foryou. " I quote proudly:

 I rejoice to have been permitted to enjoy so much of Miss Sanborn's society, and to discover what I never before fully appreciated, that beneath the scintillations of a brilliant intellect she hides a vigorous and analytic understanding, and when age shall have somewhat tempered her emotional susceptibilities she will shine with the steady light of a planet, reaching her perihelion and taking a permanent place in the firmament of letters. 

Sounds something like a Johnsonian epitaph, but wasn't it great?

I visited his adopted mother at Roslyn, Long Island, and they took meto a Sunday dinner with Bryant at "Cedarmere, " a fitting spot for apoet's home. The aged poet was in vigorous health, mind and body. Going to his library he took down an early edition of his_Thanatopsis_, pointing out the nineteen lines written some timebefore the rest. Mottoes hung on the wall such as "As thy days soshall thy strength be. " I ventured to ask how he preserved suchvitality, and he said, "I owe a great deal to daily air baths and theflesh brush, plenty of outdoor air and open fireplaces. " What animpressive personality; erect, with white hair and long beard; hiseyebrows looked as if snow had fallen on them. His conversation wasdelightfully informal. "What does your name mean?" he inquired, and Ihad to say, "I do not know, it has changed so often, " and asked, "Whatis the origin of yours?" "Briant--brilliant, of course. " He told thebutler to close the door behind me lest I catch cold from a draught, quoting this couplet:

 When the wind strikes you through a hole, Go make your will and mind your soul;

and informing me that this advice was found in every language, if notdialect, in the world. He loved every inch of his country home, wasinterested in farming, flowers, the water-view and fish-pond, fond oflong walks, and preferred the simple life. In his rooms were manysouvenirs of early travel. His walls were covered with the finestengravings and paintings from the best American artists. He was toowilling to be imposed upon by young authors and would-be poets. Hesaid: "People expect too much of me, altogether too much. " That Sundaywas his last before his address on Mazzini in Central Park. Hefinished with the hot sun over his head, and walking across the parkto the house of Grant Wilson, he fell down faint and hopelessly ill onthe doorstep. He never rallied, and after thirteen days the end came. An impressive warning to the old, who are selfishly urged to do hardtasks, that they must conserve their own vitality. Bryant waseighty-four when killed by over-exertion, with a mind as wonderful asever. 

I will now recount the conditions when Ezekiel Webster and his secondwife took their wedding trip in a "one hoss shay" to the WhiteMountains in 1826. 

Grandma lived to be ninety-six, with her mind as clear as ever, andtwo years before her death she gave me this story of their experiencesat that time. My mother told me she knew of more than thirty proposalsshe had received after grandfather's death, but she said "she wouldrather be the widow of Ezekiel Webster, than the wife of any otherman. " The following is her own description. 

 The only house near the Crawford Notch was the Willey House, in which the family were living. A week before a slide had come down by the side of the house and obstructed the road. Mr. Willey and two men came to our assistance, taking out the horse and lifting the carriage over the débris. 

 They described the terrors of the night of the slide. The rain was pouring in torrents, the soil began to slide from the tops of the rocks, taking with it trees, boulders, and all in its way; the crashing and thundering were terrible. Three weeks later the entire family, nine in number, in fleeing to a place of refuge, were overtaken by a second slide and all buried. 

 The notch was then as nature made it; no steam whistle or car clatter had intruded upon its solitude. The first moving object we saw after passing through was a man in the distance. He proved to be Ethan Crawford, who kept the only house of entertainment. He was walking leisurely, drawing a rattlesnake along by its tail. He had killed the creature and was taking it home as a trophy. He was a stalwart man, who had always lived among the mountains, and had become as familiar with the wild beasts as with the cat and dog of his own home. He said that only a few days before he had passed a bear drinking at a spring. He led the way to his house, a common farmhouse without paint, or carpet, or cushioned seat. The landlady was spinning wool in the kitchen. 

 Mr. Crawford supplied the table when he could by his gun or fishing-rod; otherwise the fare was meagre. When asked for mustard for the salt meat, they said they had none, at least in the house, but they had some growing. 

 A young turkey halted about in the dining-room gobbling in a noisy way, and the girl in attendance was requested by Mr. Webster, with imperturbable gravity, either to kindly take it out or to bring its companion in, for it seemed lonely. She stood in utter confusion for a minute, then seized the squawking fowl and disappeared. 

 When Mr. Crawford was asked if ladies ever went up Mount Washington, he said two had been up, and he hoped never to see another trying it, for the last one he brought down on his shoulders, or she would have never got down alive. 

 The first night I asked for a change of bed linen. No attention was paid to my request, and after waiting a long time I found the landlady and asked her if she would have the sheets changed. She straightened up and said she didn't think the bed would hurt anybody, for only two ministers from Boston had slept in it. We stayed some days and although it was the height of the season, we were the only guests. Nothing from the outside world reached us but one newspaper, and that brought the startling news of the death of Adams and Jefferson on the fourth of July, just fifty years after their signing the Declaration of Independence. 

The large leghorn bonnet which Mrs. Webster wore on that eventfuljourney hangs in my collection of old relics. She told me it used tohit the wheel when she looked out. And near it is her dark-brown"calash, " a big bonnet with rattans stitched in so it would easilymove back and forward. Her winter hood was of dark blue silk, warmlywadded and prettily quilted. 

Who would not wish to live to be a hundred if health and mentalvigour could be retained? This rare old lady wrote lively, interestingletters on all current topics, and was as eager to win at whist, backgammon, or logomachy as a child. Her religion was the mostbeautiful part of her life, the same every day, self-forgetting, practical Christianity. She is not forgotten; her life is still astimulus, an inspiration, a benediction. The love and veneration ofthose who gathered about her in family reunions were expressed by hernephew Dr. Fred B. Lund, one of the most distinguished surgeons ofBoston:

 To her who down the pathway of the years Serene and calm her blessed way she trod, Has given smiles for smiles, and tears for tears, Held fast the good in life, and shown how God

 Has given to us His servants here below, A shining mark to follow in our strife, Who proves that He is good, and makes us know Through ten decades of pure and holy life

 How life may be made sweeter at its end, How graces from the seasons that have fled May light her eyes and added glory lend To saintly aureole about her head. 

 We bring our Christmas greeting heartily, Three generations gathered at her feet, Who like a little child has led, while we Have lived and loved beneath her influence sweet. 

 [Illustration: THE STREET FRONTING THE SANBORN HOME AT HANOVER, N. H. ]

Levi Parsons Morton, born at Shoreham, Vermont, May 16, 1824, wasnamed for his mother's brother, Levi Parsons, the first Americanmissionary to Palestine. He was the son of a minister, Reverend DanielMorton, who with his wife Lucretia Parsons, like so many otherclergymen, was obliged to exist on a starvation salary, only sixhundred dollars a year. Among his ancestors was George Morton ofBattery, Yorkshire, financial agent in London of the _Mayflower_. Mr. L. P. Morton may have inherited his financial cleverness from thisancestor. 

After studying at Shoreham Academy, he entered a country store atEnfield, Massachusetts, and was there for two years, then taught adistrict school, and later entered a general store at Concord, NewHampshire, when only seventeen. His father was unable to send him tocollege, and Mr. Estabrook, the manager of the store, decided toestablish him in a branch store at Hanover, New Hampshire, whereDartmouth College is located, giving him soon afterward an interest inthe business. Here he stayed until nearly twenty-four years old. Mr. Morton immediately engaged a stylish tailor from Boston, W. H. Gibbs, or as all called him, "Bill Gibbs, " whose skill at making even cheapsuits look smart brought him a large patronage from the collegestudents. Once a whole graduating class were supplied with dress suitsfrom this artist. Mr. Morton had a most interesting store, sunny andscrupulously clean, with everything anyone could ask for, and few everwent out of it without buying something, even if they had enteredsimply from curiosity. The clerks were trained to be courteous withoutbeing persistent. Saturday was bargain day, and printed lists of whatcould be obtained on that day at an absurdly cheap rate were widelydistributed through the neighbouring towns. People came in largenumbers to those bargains. Long rows of all sorts of odd vehicles werehitched up and down the street. A man would drop in for some smokingtobacco and buy himself a good straw hat or winter cap. A wife wouldcall because soda was offered so cheaply and would end by buying ablack silk dress, "worth one dollar a yard but selling for today onlyfor fifty cents. " Mr. Morton was perhaps the original pioneer inmethods which have built up the great department stores of the presentday. If he had received the education his father so craved for him hewould have probably had an inferior and very different career. 

Mr. Morton greatly enjoyed his life at Hanover; he was successful andlooking forward to greater openings in his business career. Myfather, taking a great fancy to this enterprising, cheery young man, invited him to dine each day at our house for nearly a year. They weregreat friends and had a happy influence upon each other. There weremany jolly laughs and much earnest talk. He met Miss Lucy Kimball ofFlatlands, Long Island, at our house at a Commencement reception, andthey were soon married. She lived only a few years. 

Mr. Morton was next in Boston in the dry-goods house of James BeebeMorgan & Company, and was soon made a partner. Mr. Morgan was thefather of Pierpont Morgan. It is everlastingly to Mr. Morton's honourthat after he failed in business in New York he was able before longto invite his creditors to dinner, and underneath the service plate ofeach creditor was a check for payment in full. 

Preferring to give money while living, his whole path has been markedby large benefactions. My memory is of his Hanover life and hisfriendship with my father, but it is interesting to note the severalsteps in his career: Honorary Commissioner, Paris Exposition, 1878;Member 46th Congress, 1879-81, Sixth New York District; United StatesMinister to France, 1881-85; Vice-President of the United States, 1889-93; Governor of New York, 1895-6. 

Mr. Morton recently celebrated at his Washington home the ninety-firstanniversary in a life full of honours, and what is more important--ofhonour. 

CHAPTER II

A Friend at Andover, Mass. --Hezekiah Butterworth--A Few of my OwnFolks--Professor Putnam of Dartmouth--One Year at Packer Institute, Brooklyn--Beecher's Face in Prayer--The Poet Saxe as I Sawhim--Offered the Use of a Rare Library--Miss Edna Dean Proctor--NewStories of Greeley--Experiences at St. Louis. 

Next a few months at Andover for music lessons--piano and organ. Avaluable friend was found in Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, who hadjust published her _Gates Ajar_. She invited me to her study andwanted to know what I meant to accomplish in life and urged me towrite. "I have so much work called for now that I cannot keep up mycontributions to _The Youth's Companion_. I want you to have my placethere. What would you like to write about?"

"Don't know. "

"Haven't you anything at home to describe. "

"No. "

"Any pets?"

"Why I have a homely, ordinary dog, but he knows a lot. "

And so I was roused to try "Our Rab and His Friends, " which waskindly mailed by Miss Phelps to Mr. Ford, the editor, with a wish thathe accept the little story, which he did, sending a welcome check andasking for more contributions. I kept a place there for several years. 

In Miss Phelps's case, one must believe in heredity and partly inHuxley's statement that "we are automata propelled by our ancestors. "Her grandfather, Moses Stuart, was Professor of Sacred Literature atAndover, a teacher of Greek and Latin, and a believer in that sternschool of theology and teleology. It was owing perhaps to acombination of severity in climatic and in intellectual environmentthat New England developed an austere type of scholars andtheologians. Their mental vision was focused on things remote in timeand supernatural in quality, so much so that they often overlooked thesimple and natural expression of their obligation to things nearby. Itsometimes happened that their tender and amiable characteristics werebetter known to learned colleagues with whom they were in intellectualsympathy, than to their own wives and children. Sometimes their finerand more lovable qualities were first brought to the attention oftheir families when some distinguished professor or divine feelinglypronounced a funeral eulogy. 

It's a long way from the stern Moses Stuart, who believed firmly inhell and universal damnation and who, with Calvin, depicted infants aspan long crawling on the floor of hell, to his gifted granddaughter, who, although a member of an evangelical church, wrote: "Death andheaven could not seem very different to a pagan from what they seem tome. " Her heart was nearly broken by the sudden death of her lover onthe battlefield. "Roy, snatched away in an instant by a dreadful God, and laid out there in the wet and snow--in the hideous wet andsnow--never to kiss him, never to see him any more. " Her _Gates Ajar_when it appeared was considered by some to be revolutionary andshocking, if not wicked. Now, we gently smile at her diluted, sentimental heaven, where all the happy beings have what they mostwant; she to meet Roy and find the same dear lover; another to have apiano; a child to get ginger snaps. I never quite fancied therestriction of musical instruments in visions of heaven to harpsalone. They at first blister the fingers until they are calloused. Theafflicted washerwoman, whose only daughter had just died, was not inthe least consoled by the assurance that Melinda was perfectly happy, playing a harp in heaven. "She never was no musicianer, and I'd rathersee her a-settin' by my tub as she used to set when I was a-wringin'out the clothes from the suds, than to be up there a-harpin'. " Verydifferent, as a matter of fact, were the instruments, more or lessmusical, around which New England families gathered on Sunday eveningsfor the singing of hymns and "sacred songs. " Yet there was often realfaith and sincere devotion pedalled out of the squeaking old melodeon. 

Professor Stuart's eldest daughter, Elizabeth Stuart, married AustinPhelps in 1842; who was then pastor of Pine Street Church in Boston. Their daughter was born in Boston in 1844, and named Mary Gray Phelps. They moved to Andover in 1848, where two sons were born. Mrs. Phelps, who died when Mary was seven years old, was bright, interesting, unusual. She wrote _Tales of New England_, chiefly stories of clericallife; also _Sunnyside Sketches_, remarkably popular at the time. Her_nom de plume_ was "Trusta. " Professor Phelps married her sister Mary, for his second wife. She lived only a year, and it was after her deaththat Mary changed her name to that of her mother, Elizabeth StuartPhelps. Professor Phelps had a most nervous temperament, so much sothat he could not sleep if a cricket chirped in his bedroom, and thestamping of a horse in a nearby stable destroyed all hope of slumber. 

Miss Phelps inherited her mother's talent for writing stories, alsoher humour and her sensitive, loving nature, as is seen by her workson _Temperance Reforms_, _Abuses of Factory Operators_, and herarraignment of the vivisectionist. Later, when I was living at the"Abandoned Farm, " she had a liking for the farm I now own, about halfa mile farther on from my first agricultural experiment. She called onme, and begged me as woman for woman in case she bought theneighbouring farm, to seclude all my animals and fowls from 5 P. M. Till 10 A. M. Each morning, as she must get her sleep, for, like herfather, she was a life-long sufferer from insomnia. I would have donethis if it were possible to repress the daybreak cries natural to asmall menagerie which included chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese, besides two peacocks and four guinea fowls. 

But to return to the _Youth's Companion_. When I found it impossibleto write regularly for Mr. Ford, he made a change for the better, securing Mr. Hezekiah Butterworth, a poet, historian, and author ofthe _Zigzag Series_, which had such large sales. Happening to be inBoston, I called at the office and said to Mr. Ford: "It grieves me abit to see my column taken by someone else, and what a strange penname--'Hezekiah Butterworth. '"

"But that is his own name, " said the editor. 

"Indeed; I am afraid I shall hate that Hezzy. "

"Well, just try it; come with me to his work-room. "

When we had gone up one flight, Mr. Ford opened a door, where agentle, sweet-faced young man of slender build was sitting at a table, the floor all around him literally strewn with at least three hundredmanuscripts, each one to be examined as a possible winner in a contestfor a five-hundred-dollar prize story. Both English and Americanauthors had competed. He was, as De Quincey put it, "snowed up. " Thenmy friend said with a laugh, "Miss Sanborn has come to see Hezzy whomshe fancies she shall hate. " A painfully awkward introduction, but Mr. Butterworth laughed heartily, and made me very welcome, and from thattime was ever one of my most faithful friends, honouring my largeThanksgiving parties by his presence for many years. 

I shall tell but two stories about my father in his classroom. He hadgiven Pope's _Rape of the Lock_ as subject for an essay to a young manwho had not the advantage of being born educated, but did his best atall times. As the young man read on in class, father, who in lateryears was a little deaf, stopped him saying, "Sir, did I understandyou to say Sniff?" "No, sir, I did not, I said Slyph. "

In my father's Latin classes there were many absurd mistakes, as whenhe asked a student, "What was ambrosia?" and the reply was, "The gods'hair oil, " an answer evidently suggested by the constant advertisementof "Sterling's Ambrosia" for the hair. 

I will now refer to my two uncles on my father's side. The older onewas Dyer H. Sanborn, a noted educator of his time, and a grammarian, publishing a text-book on that theme and honouring the parts of speechwith a rhyme which began--

 A noun's the name of anything, As hoop or garden, ball or swing; Three little words we often see The articles, a, an, and the. 

Mrs. Eddy, of Christian Science fame, spoke of him with pride as herpreceptor. He liked to constitute himself an examining committee ofone and visit the schools near him. Once he found only five very smallchildren, and remarked approvingly, "Good order here. " He, unfortunately, for his brothers, developed an intense interest ingenealogy, and after getting them to look up the family tree inseveral branches, would soon announce to dear brother Edwin, or dearbrother John, "the papers you sent have disappeared; please send aduplicate at once. "

My other uncle, John Sewall Sanborn, graduated at Dartmouth, and afterstudying law, he started for a career in Canada, landed in Sherbrooke, P. Q. , with the traditional fifty cents in his pocket, and began topractise law. Soon acquiring a fine practice, he married thestrikingly handsome daughter of Mr. Brooks, the most important man inthat region, and rose to a position on the Queen's Bench. He wastwelve years in Parliament, and later a "Mr. Justice, " correspondingwith a member of our Federal Supreme Court. In fact, he had receivedevery possible honour at his death except knighthood, which he wassoon to have received. 

My great-grandfather, on the paternal side, was always called"Grandsir Hook, " and Dr. Crosby assured me that I inherited my fat, fun, and asthma from that obese person, weighing nearly three hundredpounds. When he died a slice had to be cut off, not from his body, butfrom the side of the house, to let the coffin squeeze through. Ivisited his grave with father. It was an immense elevation even at soremote a date. David Sanborn married his daughter Hannah Hook, aftera formal courtship. The "love" letters to "Honoured Madam" are stillpreserved. Fortunately the "honoured madam" had inherited the sense ofhumour. 

A few words about Mr. Daniel Webster. I remember going to Marshfieldwith my mother, his niece, and sitting on his knee while he lookedover his large morning mail, throwing the greater part into the wastebasket. Also in the dining-room I can still recall the delicious mealsprepared by an old-time Southern mammy, who wore her red and yellowturban regally. The capital jokes by his son Fletcher and guestssometimes caused the dignified and impressive butler to rapidlydart behind the large screen to laugh, then soon back to duty, imperturbable as before. 

The large library occupied one ell of the house, with its high ceilingrunning in points to a finish. There hung the strong portraits of LordAshburton and Mr. Webster. At the top of his own picture at the righthung his large grey slouch hat, so well known. In the next room thesilhouette of his mother, and underneath it his words, "My excellentmother. " Also a portrait of Grace Fletcher, his first wife, and of hisson Edward in uniform. Edward was killed in the Mexican War. 

There is a general impression that Mr. Webster was a heavy drinkerand often under the influence of liquor when he rose to speak; asusual there are two sides to this question. George Ticknor of Bostontold my father that he had been with Webster on many public occasions, and never saw him overcome but once. That was at the Revere House inBoston, where he was expected to speak after dinner. "I sat next tohim, " said Ticknor; "suddenly he put his hand on my shoulder andwhispered, 'Come out and run around the common. '" This they did andthe speech was a success. There is a wooden statue of Daniel Websterthat has stood for forty years in Hingham, Massachusetts. It is largerthan life and called a good portrait. It was made more than sixtyyears ago as a figurehead for the ship _Daniel Webster_ but never puton. That would have been appropriate if he was occasionally half seasover. Daniel's devotion to his only brother "Zeke" is pleasant toremember. By the way, there are many men who pay every debt promptlyand never take a drop too much, who would be proud to have a recordfor something accomplished that is as worth while as his record. WhenDaniel Webster entered Dartmouth College as a freshman directly fromhis father's farm, he was a raw specimen, awkward, thin, and so darkthat some mistook him for a new Indian recruit. He was then called"Black Dan. " His father's second wife and the mother of Zeke and Danhad decidedly a generous infusion of Indian blood. A gentleman atHanover who remembered Webster there said his large, dark, resplendenteyes looked like coach lanterns on a dark night. 

Mrs. Ezekiel Webster told me that her husband asked her after theirmarriage to allow his mother to come home to them at Boscawen, NewHampshire. She said she was a strikingly fine-looking woman with thosesame marvellous eyes, long straight black hair, high cheekbones; atall person with strong individuality. Mrs. Webster was sure where theswarthy infusion came from. This mother, who had been a hard workerand faithful wife, now delighted in sitting by the open fire eveningsand smoking an old pipe she had brought with her. 

Webster saved his Alma Mater, and after the favourable decision on theCollege Case, Judge Hopkinson wrote to Professor Brown of Dartmouthsuggesting an inscription on the doors of the college building, "Founded by Eleazer Wheelock, refounded by Daniel Webster. " Thesewords are now placed in bronze at the portals of Webster MemorialHall. 

To go back, as I did, from Andover to Hanover, I pay my tribute toProfessor John Newton Putnam, Greek Professor at Dartmouth. Hischaracter was perfect; his face of rare beauty shone with kind andhelpful thought for everyone. I see him, as he talked at our mid-weekmeetings. One could almost perceive an aura or halo around his classichead; wavy black hair which seemed to have an almost purple lightthrough it; large dark eyes, full of love. What he said was neverperfunctory, never dull. He was called "John, the Beloved Disciple. "Still he was thoroughly human and brimming over with fun, puns, andexquisitely droll humour, and quick in seeing a funny condition. 

It is said that on one occasion when there happened to be a party thesame night as our "Thursday evening meeting, " he was accosted by afriend as he was going into the vestry with the inquiry, "Are you notto be tempted by the social delights of the evening?" To which hereplied, "No, I prefer to suffer affliction with the people of God, rather than enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season. " The collegeinspector reported to him that he was obliged to break into a room atcollege where a riot was progressing and described a negro's effortsto hide himself by scurrying under the bed. 

"But how unnecessary; all he had to do was to keep dark. "

Once he was found waiting a long time at the counter of a grocerystore. A friend passing said, "You've been there quite a while, Putnam. "

"Yes, I'm waiting all my appointed time until my change doth come. "

Expecting "Help" from Norwich, he was gazing in that direction andexplained, "I'm looking unto the hills whence cometh our help. "

We often diverted ourselves at his home with "Rounce, " the duplicateof euchre in dominoes. And we were startled by a Madonna dropping tothe floor, leaving its frame on the wall. Instantly Professor Putnamremarked: "Her willing soul would not stay 'in such a frame as this. '"And when called to preside at the organ when the college choir wasaway, he whispered to me, "Listen to my interludicrous performance. "

How sad the end! A delicate constitution conquered by tuberculosis. With his wife he sought a milder climate abroad and died there. But noone can compute the good accomplished even by his unconsciousinfluence, for everything was of the purest, highest, best. 

Soon after my return from St. Louis, I received a call from PackerInstitute in Brooklyn, to teach English Literature, which was mostagreeable. But when I arrived, the principal, Mr. Crittenden, told methat the woman who had done that work had decided to remain. I wasasked by Mr. Crittenden, "Can you read?" "Yes, I think so. " "Then comewith me. " He touched a bell and then escorted me to the large chapelcapable of holding nearly twelve hundred, where I found the entirefaculty assembled to listen to my efforts. I was requested to stand upin the pulpit and read from a large Bible the fourteenth chapter ofJohn, and the twenty-third psalm. That was easy enough. Next request, "Please recite something comic. " I gave them "Comic Miseries. " "Nowtry a little pathos. " I recited Alice Cary's "The Volunteer, " whichwas one of my favourite poems. Then I heard a professor say to Mr. Crittenden, "She recites with great taste and expression; what a pityshe has that lisp!" And hitherto I had been blissfully unaware of sucha failing. One other selection in every-day prose, and I was let off. The faculty were now exchanging their opinions and soon dispersedwithout one word to me. I said to Mr. Crittenden, as I came down thepulpit stairs, "I do not want to take the place. " But he insisted thatthey all wanted me to come and begin work at once. I had largeclasses, number of pupils eight hundred and fifty. It was a greatopportunity to help young girls to read in such a way that it would bea pleasure to their home friends, or to recite in company, as wascommon then, naturally and without gestures. I took one more class oflittle girls who had received no training before in that direction. They were easy to inspire, were wholly free from self-consciousness, and their parents were so much pleased that we gave an exhibition ofwhat they could do in reading and recitation in combination with theirgymnastics. The chapel was crowded to the doors. A plump little Germangirl was the star of the evening. She stood perfectly serene, herchubby arms stuck out stiffly from her sides, and in a loud, clearvoice she recited this nonsense:

 If the butterfly courted the bee, And the owl the porcupine; If churches were built on the sea, And three times one were nine; If the pony rode his master, And the buttercups ate the cows; And the cat had the dire disaster To be worried, sir, by a mouse; And mamma, sir, sold her baby, To a gypsy for half a crown, And a gentleman were a lady, This world would be upside down. But, if any or all these wonders Should ever come about, I should not think them blunders, For I should be inside out. 

An encore was insisted on. 

I offered to give any in my classes lessons in "how to tell a story"with ease, brevity, and point, promising to give an anecdote of my ownsuggested by theirs every time. This pleased them, and we had a jollytime. The first girl who tried to tell a story said:

 I don't know how; never attempted any such thing, but what I am going to tell is true and funny. 

 My grandfather is very deaf. You may have seen him sitting on a pulpit stair at Mr. Beecher's church, holding to his ear what looks like a skillet. Last spring we went to the country, house-hunting, leaving grandfather to guard our home. He was waked, in the middle of the night as he supposed, by a noise, and started out to find where it came from. It continued; so he courageously went downstairs and cautiously opened the kitchen door. He reached out his skillet-trumpet before him through the partly opened door and the milkman poured in a quart of milk. 

This story, I am told, is an ancient chestnut. But I used to see thedeaf grandfather with his uplifted skillet on the steps of Beecher'spulpit, and the young lady gave it as a real happening in her ownhome. Did anyone hear of it before 1868 when she gave it to ouranecdote class? I believe this was the foundation or starter forsimilar skillet-trumpet stories. 

The girl was applauded, and deserved it. Then they asked me for a milkstory. I told them of a milkman who, in answer to a young mother'scomplaint that the milk he brought for her baby was sour, replied:"Well, is there anything outside the sourness that doesn't suit you?"And Thoreau remarked that "circumstantial evidence is sometimesconclusive, as when a trout is found in the morning milk. "

This class was considered so practical and valuable that I was offeredpay for it, but it was a relief, after exhausting work. 

We had many visitors interested in the work of the various classes. One day Beecher strolled into the chapel and wished to hear some ofthe girls read. All were ready. One took the morning paper; anotherrecited a poem; one read a selection from her scrapbook. Beecherafterward inquired: "Whom have you got to teach elocution now? Youused to have a few prize pumpkins on show, but now every girl is doinggood original work. " Mr. Crittenden warned me at the outset, "Keep aneye out or they'll run over you. " But I never had anything butkindness from my pupils. I realized that cheerful, courteous requestswere wiser than commands, and sincere friendship more winning than"Teachery" primness. I knew of an unpopular instructor who, beingannoyed by his pupils throwing a few peanuts at his desk, said, "Youngmen, if you throw another peanut, I shall leave the room. " A shower ofpeanuts followed. 

So, when I went to my largest class in the big chapel, and saw one ofmy most interesting girls sitting on that immense Bible on the pulpitlooking at me in merry defiance, and kicking her heels against thewoodwork below, I did not appear to see her, and began the exercises, hoping fervently that one of the detectives who were always on watchmight providentially appear. Before long I saw one come to the door, look in with an amazed expression, only to bring two of the faculty torelease the young lady from her uneasy pre-eminence. 

I hardly knew my own name at the Packer Institute. The students calledme "Canary, " I suppose on account of my yellow hair and rather hightreble voice; Mr. Crittenden always spoke to me as Miss "Sunburn, " andwhen my laundry was returned, it was addressed to "Miss Lampoon. "

Beecher was to me the clerical miracle of his age--a man ofextraordinary personal magnetism, with power to rouse laughter andright away compel tears, I used to listen often to his marvelloussermons. I can see him now as he went up the middle aisle in winterwearing a clumsy overcoat, his face giving the impression of heavy, coarse features, thick lips, a commonplace nose, eyes that lackedexpression, nothing to give any idea of the man as he would look afterthe long prayer. When the audience reverently bowed their heads my owneyes were irresistibly drawn toward the preacher. For he prayed as ifhe felt that he was addressing an all-powerful, omnipresent, tender, loving Heavenly Father who was listening to his appeal. And as he wenton and on with increasing fervour and power a marvellous changetransfigured that heavy face, it shone with a white light andspiritual feeling, as if he fully realized his communion with GodHimself. I used to think of that phrase in Matthew:

 "And was transfigured before them, And his face did shine as the sun. "

I never heard anyone mention this marvellous transformation. But Iremember that Beecher once acknowledged to a reporter that he neverknew what he had said in his sermon until he looked at the résumé inMonday's paper. 

During the hard days of Beecher's trial a lady who was a guest at thehouse told me she was waked one morning by the merry laughter ofBeecher's little grandchildren and peeping into their room found Mr. Beecher having a jolly frolic with them. He was trying to get themdressed; his efforts were most comical, putting on their garmentswrong side out or buttoning in front when they were intended to fastenin the back, and "funny Grandpa" enjoying it all quite as sincerely asthese little ones. A pretty picture. 

Saxe (John Godfrey) called during one recess hour. The crowds of girlspassing back and forth interested him, as they seemed to care less foreating than for wreathing their arms round each other, with a gooddeal of kissing, and "deary, " "perfectly lovely, " etc. He describedhis impressions in two words: "Unconscious rehearsing. "

Once he handed me a poem he had just dashed off written with pencil, "To my Saxon Blonde. " I was surprised and somewhat flattered, regarding it as a complimentary impromptu. But, on looking up hispoetry in the library, I found the same verses printed years before:

 "If bards of old the truth have told, The sirens had raven hair; But ever since the earth had birth, They paint the angels fair. "

Probably that was a habit with him. 

When a friend joked him about his very-much-at-home manner at theUnited States Hotel at Saratoga, where he went every year, saying asthey sat together on the upper piazza, "Why, Saxe, I should fancy youowned this hotel, " he rose, and lounging against one of the pillarsanswered, "Well, I have a 'lien' on this piazza. "

His epigrams are excellent. He has made more and better than anyAmerican poet. In Dodd's large collection of the epigrams of theworld, I think there are six at least from Saxe. Let me quote two:

 AN EQUIVOCAL APOLOGY

 Quoth Madame Bas-Bleu, "I hear you have said Intellectual women are always your dread; Now tell me, dear sir, is it true?" "Why, yes, " answered Tom, "very likely I may Have made the remark in a jocular way; But then on my honour, I didn't mean you!"

 TOO CANDID BY HALF

 As John and his wife were discoursing one day Of their several faults, in a bantering way, Said she, "Though my _wit_ you disparage, I'm sure, my dear husband, our friends will attest This much, at the least, that my judgment is best. " Quoth John, "So they said at our marriage. "

When Saxe heard of a man in Chicago who threw his wife into a vat ofboiling hog's lard, he remarked: "Now, that's what I call going toofar with a woman. "

After a railroad accident, in which he received some bruises, I said:"You didn't find riding on the rails so pleasant?" "Not riding on, butriding off the rail was the trouble. "

He apostrophized the unusually pretty girl who at bedtime handed eachguest a lighted candle in a candlestick. She fancied some of thefashionable young women snubbed her but Saxe assured her in rhyme:

 "There is not a single one of them all Who could, if they would, hold a candle to you. "

He was an inveterate punster. Miss Caroline Ticknor tells us how heused to lie on a couch in a back room at the Old Corner Bookstore inBoston, at a very early hour, and amuse the boys who were sweeping anddusting the store until one of the partners arrived. I believe henever lost a chance to indulge in a verbal quibble. "In the meantime, and 'twill be a very mean time. "

I often regret that I did not preserve his comical letters, and thoseof Richard Grant White and other friends who were literary masters. Mr. Grant White helped me greatly when I was doubtful about someliterary question, saying he would do anything for a woman whose namewas Kate. And a Dartmouth graduate, whom I asked for a brief story ofFather Prout, the Irish poet and author, gave me so much material thatit was the most interesting lecture of my season. He is now a mostdistinguished judge in Massachusetts. 

Saxe, like other humourists, suffered from melancholia at the last. Too sad!

After giving a lecture in the chapel of Packer Institute at the time Iwas with Mrs. Botta in New York, I was surprised to receive a call thenext morning from Mr. Charles Storrs of 23 Monroe Place, Brooklyn, asking me to go to his house, and make use of his library, which hetold me Horace Greeley had pronounced the best working and referencelibrary he had ever known. A great opportunity for anyone! Mr. Storrswas too busy a man to really enjoy his own library. Mrs. Storrs andMiss Edna Dean Proctor, who made her home with them, comprised hisfamily, as his only daughter had married Miss Proctor's brother andlived in Peoria, Illinois. Mr. Storrs had made his own fortune, starting out by buying his "time" of his father and borrowing an oldhorse and pedlar's cart from a friend. He put into the cart a largeassortment of Yankee notions, or what people then called "shortgoods, " as stockings, suspenders, gloves, shoestrings, thread andneedles, tape, sewing silk, etc. He determined to make his own fortuneand succeeded royally for he became a "merchant prince. " His was ararely noble and generous nature with a heart as big as his brain. Several of his large rooms downstairs were crammed with wonderfullybeautiful and precious things which his soul delighted in picking up, in ivory, jade, bronze, and glass. He was so devotedly fond of musicthat at great expense he had a large organ built which could be playedby pedalling and pulling stops in and out, and sometimes on Sundaymorning he would rise by half-past six, and be downstairs in his shirtsleeves hard at work, eliciting oratorio or opera music for his owndelectation. A self-made man, "who did not worship his creator. " Hewas always singularly modest, although very decided in his opinions. Men are asking of late who can be called educated. Certainly not astudent of the ancient Assyrian or the mysteries of the Yogi, or theBaha, or the Buddhistic legends, when life is so brief and we must"act in the living present. " But a man who has studied life and humannature as well as the best form of books, gained breadth and cultureby wide travel, and is always ready for new truths, that man _is_educated in the best sense, although entirely self-educated. Greeleyused to say, "Charles Storrs is a great man. "

Greeley used to just rest and enjoy himself at Mr. Storrs's home, often two weeks at a time, and liked to shut himself into thatwonderful library to work or read. Once when he returned unexpectedly, the maid told Miss Proctor that Mr. Greeley had just come in from therain and was quite wet, and there was no fire in the library. He didnot at first care to change to Mr. Storrs's special den in thebasement. But Miss Proctor said "It is too cold here and your coat isquite wet. " "Oh, I am used to that, " he said plaintively. But hisspecial desk was carried down to a room bright with an open fire, andhe seemed glad to be cared for. 

Whitelaw Reid was photographed with Greeley when he first came on fromthe West to take a good share of the responsibility of editing the_Tribune_. He stood behind Greeley's chair, and I noticed his hair wasthen worn quite long. But he soon attained the New York cut as well asthe New York cult. Both Reid and John Hay were at that time frequentguests of Mr. Storrs, who never seemed weary of entertaining hisfriends. Beecher was one of his intimate acquaintances and they oftenwent to New York together hunting for rare treasures. 

I have several good stories about Mr. Greeley for which I am indebtedto Miss Proctor who told them to me. 

1. He used to write way up in a small attic in the _Tribune_ building, and seldom allowed anyone to interrupt him. Some man, who was greatlydisgusted over one of Greeley's editorials, climbed up to his sanctum, and as soon as his head showed above the railing, he began to rave andrage, using the most lurid style of profanity. It seemed as if henever would stop, but at last, utterly exhausted and out of breath andall used up, he waited for a reply. 

Greeley kept on writing, never having looked up once. This was toomuch to be endured, and the caller turned to go downstairs, whenGreeley called out: "Come back, my friend, come back, and free yourmind. "

2. Mr. Greeley once found that one of the names in what he consideredan important article on the Board of Trade had been incorrectlyprinted. He called Rooker, the head man in the printing department, and asked fiercely what man set the type for this printing, showinghim the mistake. Rooker told him, and went to get the culprit, whomGreeley said deserved to be kicked. But when he came, he brought Mr. Greeley's article in his own writing, and showed him that the mistakewas his own. Mr. Greeley acknowledged he was the guilty one, andbegging the man's pardon, added, "Tom Rooker, come here and kick _me_quick. "

3. Once when Greeley was making one of his frequent visits to Mr. AndMrs. Storrs, the widow of the minister who used to preach atMansfield, Connecticut, when Mr. Storrs was a boy, had been invited byhim to spend a week. She was a timid little woman, but she became soshocked at several things that Greeley had said or written in hispaper that she inquired of Miss Proctor if she thought Mr. Greeleywould allow her to ask him two or three questions. 

Miss Proctor found him in the dining-room, the floor strewn withexchange papers, and having secured his consent, ushered in the lady. She told me afterward that she heard the poor little questioner speakwith a rising inflection only two or three times. But Mr. Greeley wasalways ready to answer at length and with extreme earnestness. He saidafterwards: "Why that woman is way back in the Middle Ages. "

When she came away from the interview, she seemed excited and dazed, not noticing anyone, but dashed upstairs to her room, closed the door, and never afterward alluded to her attempt to modify Mr. Greeley'sviews. 

4. A little girl who was visiting Mr. Storrs said: "It would neverdo for Mr. Greeley to go to Congress, he would make such aslitter-slatter of the place. "

Miss Proctor published _A Russian Journey_ after travelling throughthat country; has published a volume of poems, and has made severalappeals in prose and verse for the adoption of the Indian corn as ournational emblem. She is also desirous to have the name of MountRainier changed to Tacoma, its original Indian name, and has a secondbook of poems ready for the press. 

When I first met her at the home of Mrs. Storrs, I thought her one ofthe most beautiful women I had ever seen--of the Andalusian type--darkhair and lustrous starry eyes, beautiful features, perfect teeth, aslender, willowy figure, and a voice so musical that it would lure abird from the bough. She had a way all her own of "telling" you apoem. She was perfectly natural about it, a recitative semi-tone yetfull of expression and dramatic breadth, at times almost a chant. Withthose dark and glowing eyes looking into mine, I have listened untilI forgot everything about me, and was simply spellbound. Mr. Fieldsdescribed Tennyson's reciting his own poems in much the same way. Whittier once said to a friend, "I consider Miss Proctor one of thebest woman poets of the day, " and then added, "But why do I say _one_of the best; why not _the_ best?"

Miss Proctor has always been glad to assist any plan of mine, andwrote a poem especially for my Christmas book, _Purple and Gold_. Mr. Osgood, the publisher, when I showed him the poem, said, "But how do Iknow that the public will care for your weeds?" (referring to theasters and goldenrod). He said later: "The instant popularity andlarge sale of that booklet attested the happiness of Miss Sanborn'sselection, and the kind contributions from her friends. " MissProctor's contribution was the first poem in the book and I venture topublish it as it has never been in print since the first sale. Myfriend's face is still beautiful, her mind is as active as when wefirst met, her voice has lost none of its charm, and she is the samedear friend as of yore. 

 GOLDENROD AND ASTERS

 The goldenrod, the goldenrod, That glows in sun or rain, Waving its plumes on every bank From the mountain slope to the main, -- Not dandelions, nor cowslips fine, Nor buttercups, gems of summer, Nor leagues of daisies yellow and white, Can rival this latest comer!

 On the plains and the upland pastures Such regal splendour falls When forth, from myriad branches green, Its gold the south wind calls, -- That the tale seems true the red man's god Lavished its bloom to say, "Though days grow brief and suns grow cold, My love is the same for aye. "

 And, darker than April violets Or pallid as wind-flowers grow, Under its shades from hill to meadow Great beds of asters blow. -- Oh plots of purple o'erhung with gold That need nor walls nor wardens, Not fairer shone, to the Median Queen, Her Babylonian gardens!

 On Scotia's moors the gorse is gay, And England's lanes and fallows Are decked with broom whose winsome grace The hovering linnet hallows; But the robin sings from his maple bow, "Ah, linnet, lightly won, Your bloom to my blaze of wayside gold Is the wan moon to the sun!"

 And were I to be a bride at morn, Ere the chimes rang out I'd say, "Not roses red, but goldenrod Strew in my path today! And let it brighten the dusky aisle, And flame on the altar-stair, Till the glory and light of the fields shall flood The solemn dimness there. "

 And should I sleep in my shroud at eve, Not lilies pale and cold, But the purple asters of the wood Within my hand I'd hold;-- For goldenrod is the flower of love That time and change defies; And asters gleam through the autumn air With the hues of Paradise! EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 

Shortly before the Civil War, I went with father to St. Louis, he totake a place in the Washington University, while I was offered aposition in the Mary Institute to teach classes of girls. ChancellorHoyt of the university had been lured from Exeter, New Hampshire. Hewas widely known in the educational world, and was one of the mostbrilliant men I ever knew, strong, wise, witty, critical, scholarly, with a scorn of anything superficial or insincere. 

I had thought of omitting my experience in this city, tome so really tragic. Just before we were to leave Hanover, aguest brought five of us a gift of measles. I had theconfluent-virulent-delirious-lose-all-your-hair variety. Whenconvalescent, I found that my hair, which had been splendidly thickand long, was coming out alarmingly, and it was advised that my headbe shaved, with a promise that the hair would surely be curly and justas good as before the illness. I felt pretty measly and "meachin" andsubmitted. The effect was indescribably awful. I saw my bald pateonce, and almost fainted. I was provided with a fearsome wig, ofcoarse, dark red hair, held in place by a black tape. Persons who hadpitied me for having "such a big head and so much hair" now foundreason for comment "on my small head with no hair. " The most expensivehead cover never deceived anyone, however simple, and I was obliged tomake my début in St. Louis in this piteous plight. 

We then had our first taste of western-southern cordiality anddemonstrativeness. It occurred to me that they showed more delight inwelcoming us than our own home folks showed regret at our departure. It was a liberal education to me. They all seemed to understand aboutthe hideous wig, but never showed that they noticed it. One of ourfirst callers was a popular, eloquent clergyman, who kissed me "asthe daughter of my mother. " He said, "I loved your mother and askedher to marry me, but I was refused. " Several young men at once wantedto get up a weekly dancing class for me, but I was timid, fearing mywig would fall off or get wildly askew. Whittier in one of his poemshas this couplet, which suggests the reverse of my experience:

 "She rose from her delicious sleep, And laid aside her soft-brown hair. "

At bedtime my wig must come off and a nightcap take the place. In themorning that wig must go on, with never one look in the glass. Soontwo persons called, both leaders in social life, one of them aphysician, who had suddenly lost every spear of hair. I was invited bythe unfortunate physician and his wife to dine with them. And, in hisown home, I noticed in their parlour a portrait of him before hisexperience. He had been blessed with magnificently thick black hair, ahandsome face, adorned with a full beard and moustache. It was anApril evening and the weather was quite warm, and after dinner thedoctor removed his wig, placing it on a plaster head. He was now usedto his affliction. He told me, as he sat smoking, looking like awaxwork figure, how several years ago he awoke in the dead of thenight to find something he could not understand on his pillow. Heroused his wife, lit the gas, dashed cold water on his face to helphim to realize what had happened and washed off all the rest of hishair, even to eyebrows and eyelashes. That was a depressing story tome. And I soon met a lady (the Mayor's wife) who had suffered exactlyin the same way. She also was resigned, as indeed she had to be. Ibegan to tremble lest my own hair should never return. 

But I should be telling you about St. Louis. We were most cordiallyreceived by clergymen from three churches and all the professors atthe university, and the trustees with their wives and daughters. WymanCrow, a trustee, was the generous patron of Harriet Hosmer, whose_Zenobia_ was at that time on exhibition there. The Mary Institute wasfounded in remembrance of Rev. Dr. Eliot's daughter Mary, who whileskating over one of the so-called "sink-holes, " then existing aboutthe city, broke the ice, fell in, and the body was never recovered. These sink holes were generally supposed to be unfathomable. 

Since I could not dance, I took to art, although I had no morecapacity in that direction than a cow. I attempted a bunch of dahlias, but when I offered the result to a woman cleaning our rooms shelooked at it queerly, held it at a distance, and then inquired: "Isthe frame worth anything?"

I acknowledge a lifelong indebtedness to Chancellor Hoyt. He wassuffering fearfully with old-fashioned consumption, but he used tosend for me to read to him to distract his thoughts. He would alsocriticize my conversation, never letting one word pass that wasungrammatical or incorrectly pronounced. If I said, "I am so glad, " hewould ask, "So glad that what? You don't give the correlative. " Hewarned against reliance on the aid of alliteration. The books read tohim were discussed and the authors praised or criticized. 

St. Louis was to me altogether delightful, and I still am interestedin that city, so enlarged and improved. I used to see boys ridingastride razor-back hogs in the street, where now stately limousinesglide over smooth pavements. 

I have always had more cordiality towards strangers, homesick studentsat Dartmouth, and the audiences at my lectures, since learning abetter habit. Frigidity and formality were driven away by the sunshinethat brightened my stay at St. Louis. 

I do not wish to intrude my private woes, but I returned from the Westwith a severe case of whooping-cough. I didn't get it at St. Louis, but in the sleeping-car between that city and Chicago. I advisechildren to see to it that both parents get through with all thevastly unpleasant epidemics of childhood at an early age. It is one ofthe duties of children to parents. 

CHAPTER III

Happy Days with Mrs. Botta--My Busy Life in New York--PresidentBarnard of Columbia College--A Surprise from Bierstadt--ProfessorDoremus, a Universal Genius--Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "FunnyMan"--Mrs. Esther Hermann, a Modest Giver. 

I was obliged to give up my work at Packer Institute, when diphtheriaattacked me, but a wonderful joy came to me after recovery. 

Mrs. Vincenzo Botta invited me to her home in West Thirty-seventhStreet for the winter and spring. Anne C. Lynch, many years before hermarriage to Mr. Botta, had taught at the Packer Institute herself, andat that time had a few rooms on West Ninth Street. She told me sheused to take a hurried breakfast standing by the kitchen table; thensaying good-bye to the mother to whom she was devoted, walked fromNinth Street to the Brooklyn ferry, then up Joralemon Street, as shewas required to be present at morning prayers. Her means were limitedat that time and carfare would take too much. But it was then that shestarted and maintained her "Saturday Evenings, " which became soattractive and famous that N. P. Willis wrote of them that no one ofany distinction thought a visit to New York complete without spendinga Saturday evening with Miss Lynch. People went in such numbers thatmany were obliged to sit on the stairs, but all were happy. Herrefreshments were of the simplest kind, lemonade and wafers orsandwiches. It has often been said that she established the only salonin this country, but why bring in that word so distinctively belongingto the French?

Miss Lynch was just "at home" and made all who came to her happy andat their best. Fredrika Bremer, the celebrated Norwegian writer, washer guest for several weeks at her home in Ninth Street. CatherineSedgwick attended several of her receptions, wondering at the charmwhich drew so many. There Edgar Poe gave the first reading of "TheRaven" before it was printed. Ole Bull, who knew her then, was alife-long friend to her. Fanny Kemble, Bryant, Halleck, Willis wereall devoted friends. 

After her marriage to Professor Vincenzo Botta, nephew of thehistorian Botta, and their taking a house in Thirty-seventh Street, she gathered around her table the most interesting and distinguishedmen and women of the day, and the "Saturday Evenings" were continuedwith increasing crowds. She had a most expressive face and beautifulblue eyes. Never one of the prodigious talkers, dressed most quietly, she was just herself, a sweet-faced, sincere woman, and was blessedwith an atmosphere and charm that were felt by all. 

At one of her breakfasts I recollect Emerson, who often visited there, Bryant, Bayard Taylor, and Grace Greenwood. At another, John Fiske, President Andrew D. White, and other men interested in their line ofthought. I must mention a lady who in the midst of their inspiringconversation broke forth in a loud tone to Mrs. Botta: "I found asplendid receipt for macaroni; mix it, when boiled, with stewedtomatoes and sprinkle freely with parmesan cheese before baking. "

One evening Whitelaw Reid brought John Hay. He beckoned to me to cometo him, and presenting Mr. Hay said: "I want to make a prediction inregard to this young man. If you live long enough you will hear of himas the greatest statesman and diplomat our country has ever had. " Afew evenings after, at a Dramatic Club of great talent, I saw Mr. Hayfiguring as Cupid in Mrs. Jarley's wax-work show. He looked and actedhis part, turning gracefully on his toes to show his wings and quiverof arrows. And Mr. Reid, mounted on a step-ladder behind a drapedclothes-horse, represented the distressed Lord Ullin whose daughterwas seen eloping in a boat with her Highland chief, the tossing wavesbeing sheets in full motion. 

For years it seemed as if this were the one truly cosmopolitandrawing-room in the city, because it drew the best from all sources. Italy and England, France and Germany, Spain, Russia, Norway andHungary, Siam, China, India, and Japan sent guests hither. Liberalsand Conservatives, peers and revolutionists, holders of the mostancient traditions, and advocates of the most modern theories--allfound their welcome, if they deserved it, and each took away a newrespect for the position of his opponent. 

Madame Ristori, Salvini, Fechter, Campanini, and Madame Gerster werehonoured with special receptions. Special receptions were also givenin honour of George P. Marsh, on the occasion of his appointment asMinister to Turin in 1861, and to the officers of the Royal Navy ofItaly when they came to this country to take possession of twofrigates built by an American ship-builder for the Italian Government. 

 [Illustration: MRS. ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA]

Emerson appreciated Mrs. Botta as a hostess. He enjoyed being in herhome, saying it "rested him. " "I wish that I could believe that inyour miles of palaces were many houses and house-keepers as excellentas I know at 25 West 37th Street, your house with the expandingdoors. " He speaks of her invitation as "one of the happiest rainbows. ""Your hospitality has an Arabian memory, to keep its kind purposethrough such a long time. You were born under Hatem Yayi's own star, and like him, are the genius of hospitality. " (Haten Yayi was acelebrated Oriental whose house had sixteen doors. )

And Mrs. Botta was greatly cheered by Emerson. She wrote:

 I always wish I had had my photograph taken when Mr. Emerson was staying in my house. Everyone felt his influence, even the servants who would hardly leave the dining-room. I looked like a different being, and was so happy I forgot to see that he had enough to eat. 

Early in her time some of her friends--such as Ripley, Curtis, andCranch--had joined a small agricultural and educational association, called the "Brook Farm, " near Roxbury, Massachusetts. She visited themonce or twice, and saw Mr. Curtis engaged in washing dishes which hadbeen used by "The Community. " She remarked to him that perhaps hecould be better employed for the progress of his fellow-men than inwasting his energy on something more easily done by others. 

At one time she invited Bronson Alcott, one of the leaders of asimilar movement, to preside over some _conversazioni_ in herparlours, where he could elucidate his favourite subject. On oneoccasion, a lady in the audience, impressed by some sentiments utteredby the lecturer, inquired of him if his opinion was that we were gods. "No, " answered Mr. Alcott, "we are not gods, but only godlings, " anexplanation which much amused Mrs. Botta, who was always quick inperceiving the funny side of a remark. (I timidly suggest that _s_ besubstituted for _d_. )

Mrs. Botta having promised to see Mr. Greeley, and urge him to give afavourable notice in the _Tribune_ of the concert where a young singerwas to make her début, went down to his office to plead for a lenientcriticism. But not one word appeared. So down she went to inquire thereason. She was ushered into the Editor's Sanctum, where he was busilywriting and hardly looked up. She asked why he was so silent; it wassuch a disappointment. No reply. She spoke once more. Then came theverdict in shrill tones: "She can't sing. She can't sing. She can'tsing. "

New Year's calls were then the custom, and more than three hundredmen paid their respects to Mr. And Mrs. Botta on the New Year's Day Ispent with them. And everyone looked, as Theodore Hook said, as if hewere somebody in particular. At one of these "Saturday Evenings, " astranger walked through her rooms, with hands crossed under his coatand humming execrably as he wandered along. The gentle hostess went tohim with her winning smile and inquired, "Do you play also?" Thatproves her capacity for sarcasm and criticism which she seldomemployed. She conversed remarkably well, but after all it was what shedid not say that proved her greatness and self-control. 

Mrs. Botta had talent in various directions. She made portrait bustsin plaster that really were like the subjects, with occasionally aninspired success, and that without any teaching. She showed genius inthis work. When a bust of her modelling was sent to Rome to be putinto marble, the foremost of Italian sculptors, not knowing the maker, declared that nothing would be beyond the reach of the artist if _he_would come to Rome and study technique for a year. Mrs. Botta asked meto let her try to get my face. That was delightful. To be with her inher own studio and watch her interest! Later some discouragement, andthen enthusiasm as at last the likeness came. She said she took thehumorous side of my face. The other side she found sad. My friends notonly recognized my face, but they saw my mother's face inwrought. 

Mrs. Botta had talent in various directions. She published a largebook, _The Hand Book of Universal Literature_, once used at Harvardand other colleges, and hoped to prepare one of similar style on_Universal History_. She also wrote a small volume of poems, but herdays were given to the needs of others. Only a few mornings were weable to work on her _Universal History_. There were too many calls foradvice, sympathy, or aid; the door-bell rang too often. I heard ayoung girl once say of her: "She is great enough to have been aninspired prophetess of olden times, and tender enough to have been themother of our Dear Saviour. " Such were the words of impassioned praisethat fell from the lips of a young, motherless, Roman Catholic girl, one of the many whom Mrs. Botta had taught and befriended. Once, whenreading to Mrs. Botta in connection with her "History, " a man calledto see her about getting material for her biography. To my surprise, she waved her hand to me saying, "This young lady is to be mybiographer. " As I felt entirely unable to attempt such a work I toldher it should be made up of letters from a host of friends who hadknown her so well and so long. This pleased her, and after her deathher husband wrote me urging me to edit such a composite picture, butknowing his superior fitness for the work, I thanked him for thecompliment, but declined. What a delightful result was accomplished byhis good judgment, literary skill, and the biographical notes gladlygiven by her intimate friends. I will give a few quotations from thetributes:

 To me--as to others--her conversation was singularly inspiring; it suggested to a man his best trains of thought; it developed in him the best he had; it made him think better of himself and of mankind; it sent him away stronger for all good work. 

 She seemed to me capable of worshipping in equal fervour with Roman Catholics or with Unitarians--in a cathedral or in a hovel; and this religious spirit of hers shone out in her life and in her countenance. Very pleasant was her optimism; she looked about her in this world without distrust, and beyond her into the next world without fear. 

 She had a delightful sense of humour--so sweet, so delicate, so vivid. She had a gift of appreciation which I have never seen surpassed. 

 If Mrs. Botta found more in society than most persons do, it was because she carried more there. 

Horace Greeley once said to me, "Anne Lynch is the best woman thatGod ever made. "

 Few women known to me have had greater grace or ease in the entertainment of strangers, while in her more private intercourse, her frank, intelligent, courteous ways won her the warmest and most desirable friendships. 

 The position of the Bottas in the literary and artistic world enabled them to draw together not only the best-known people of this country, but to a degree greater than any, as far as I know, the most distinguished visitors from abroad, beyond the ranks of mere title or fashion. No home, I think, in all the land compared with theirs in the number and character of its foreign visitors. 

 I should like to introduce you to her home as it was--the hall, with its interesting pictures and fragrant with fresh flowers; the dining-room, the drawing-rooms, with their magnetized atmosphere of the past (you can almost feel the presence of those who have loved to linger there); her own sanctum, where a chosen few were admitted; but the limits of space forbid. The queens of Parisian salons have been praised and idealized till we are led to believe them unapproachable in their social altitude. But I am not afraid to place beside them an American woman, uncrowned by extravagant adulation, but fully their equal--the artist, poet, conversationist, Anne C. L. Botta. 

She was absolutely free from egotism or conceit, always avoidingallusion to what she had accomplished, or her unfulfilled longings. But she once told me:

 Sandy (short for old, red sand stone), I would rather have had a child than to have made the most perfect statue or the finest painting ever produced. [She also said]: If I could only stop longing and aspiring for that which is not in my power to attain, but is only just near enough to keep me always running after it, like the donkey that followed an ear of corn which was tied fast to a stick. 

Mrs. Botta came of a Celtic father, gay, humorous, full of impulsivechivalry and intense Irish patriotism, and of a practical New Englandmother, herself of Revolutionary stock, clear of judgment, careful ofthe household economy, upright, exemplary, and "facultied. " In thedaughter these inherited qualities blended in a most harmoniouswhole. Grant Allen, the scientific writer, novelist, and student ofspiritualistic phenomena, thinks that racial differences often combineto produce a genius. 

I often think of that rarely endowed friend in full faith that she nowhas the joys denied her here, and that her many-sided nature isallowed progress, full and free and far, in many directions. I am alsosure that Heaven could not be Heaven to Mrs. Botta if she were notable to take soul flights and use wireless telegraphy to still helpthose she left behind, and hope that she can return to greet andguide us as we reach the unknown land. 

Through the kind suggestions of Mrs. Botta, I was asked to give talkson literary matters at the house of one of New York's most influentialcitizens. This I enjoyed immensely. Soon the large drawing-rooms weretoo small for the numbers who came. Next we went to the Young Women'sChristian Association, to the library there, and later I decided toengage the church parlours in Doctor Howard Crosby's Church, FourthAvenue and Twenty-second Street, New York. When I realized myaudacious venture, I was frightened. Ten lectures had been advertisedand some not written!

On the day for my first lecture the rain poured down, and I felt sureof a failure. My sister went with me to the church. As we drew near Inoticed a string of carriages up and down the avenue. "There must be awedding or a funeral, " I whispered, feeling more in the mood of thelatter, but never dreaming how much those carriages meant to me. As Iwent timidly into the room I found nearly every seat full, and wasgreeted with cordial applause. My sister took a seat beside me. Mysubject was "Spinster Authors of England. " My hands trembled sovisibly that I laid my manuscript on the table, but after getting inmagnetic touch with those before me, I did not mind. 

The reading occupied only one hour, and afterwards I was surrounded byNew Hampshire women and New Yorkers who congratulated me warmly. Therewere reporters sent from seven of the best daily papers, whom Ifound sharpening their pencils expectantly. They gave correct andcomplimentary notices, and my success was now assured. 

Mr. James T. Fields not only advised his New York friends to hear me, but came himself, bringing my father who was deeply gratified. Mr. Fields told father that I had a remarkably choice audience, among thebest in the city. My father had felt very deeply, even to tears, thesharp, narrow and adverse criticism of one of his associates whoconsidered that I unsexed myself by daring to speak in public, and whoadvised strongly against encouraging me in such unwomanly behaviour. 

I was a pioneer as a lecturer on literature quite unconsciously, for Ihad gone along so gradually that I did not realize it--taken up andset down in a new place with no planning on my part. 

Invited by many of the citizens of Hanover, New Hampshire, my oldhome, to go there and give my lecture on "Lady Morgan, " the Irishnovelist, for the purpose of purchasing a new carpet for theCongregational Church, I was surprised to feel again the same sternopposition; I was not permitted to speak in the church, butimmediately was urged to accept the large recitation hall of theScientific School. It was crowded to the doors and the college boysclimbed up and swarmed about the windows. The carpet, a dark redingrain, was bought, put down, and wore well for years. 

Now came a busy life. I was asked to lecture in many places near NewYork, always in delightful homes. Had a class of married ladies at thehome of Dr. J. G. Holland, where I gave an idea of the newest books. Doctor Holland gave me a department, "Bric-à-brac, " in hismagazine--_Scribner's Magazine_; and I was honoured by a request fromthe editors of the _Galaxy_ to take the "Club Room" from which MarkTwain had just resigned. Meeting him soon after at a dinner, he saidwith his characteristic drawl: "Awful solemn, ain't it, having to befunny every month; worse than a funeral. " I started a class in my ownapartment to save time for ladies who wanted to know about the mostinteresting books as they were published, but whose constantengagements made it impossible to read them entirely for themselves. Isuggested to the best publishers to send me copies of theirattractive publications which I would read, condense, and then talkthem over with these friends. All were glad to aid me. Their bookswere piled on my piano and tables, and many were sold. I want to saythat such courtesy was a rare compliment. I used to go to various bookstores, asking permission to look over books at a special readingtable, and never met a refusal. I fear in these days of aiding the warsufferers, and keeping our bodies limber and free from rheumatism bydaily dancing, this plan would not find patrons. 

I was often "browsing, " as they call it, at the Mercantile Library. Atfirst I would sit down and give the names of volumes desired. Thattook too long. At last I was allowed to go where I liked and take whatI wanted. I sent a pair of handsome slippers at Christmas to the manwho had been my special servitor. He wrote me how he admired them andwished he could wear them, but alas! his feet had both been worn to astub long ago from such continuous running and climbing to satisfy myseldom-satisfied needs. He added that several of the errand boys hadbecome permanently crippled from over-exertion. I then understood whyhe had married a famous woman doctor. It is hard to get the booksasked for in very large libraries. Once I was replying to an attack onMiss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps's style by Miss Dodge, well known underthe pen name Gail Hamilton, and I gave this order: "Complete works ofMiss Abigail Dodge--and please hurry. " After intolerable waiting, twoboys appeared looking very weary, bearing the many sermons and heavymemoirs of the Reverend Narcissus Dodge. 

In my special class at home I begged my friends to ask questions in anoff-hand way, and to comment upon my opinions. That was stimulating toall. One morning my theme was "Genius and Talent. " I said Genius wassomething beyond--outside of--ourselves, which achieved great resultswith small exertion. Not by any means was it a bit of shoemakers'wax in the seat of one's chair (as Anthony Trollope put it). Talentmust work hard and constantly for development. I said: "Geniusis inspiration; Talent is perspiration. " I had never heard thatdefinition and thought it was mine. Of late it has been widely quoted, but with no acknowledgment, so I still think it is mine. Are there anyother claimants--and prior to 1880?

There were many questions and decided differences of opinion. At lastone lady said: "Please give us examples of men who possess geniusrather than talent. " As she spoke, the door opened, and in walkedMrs. Edmund Clarence Stedman, wife of the poet, and with her a mostdistinguished-looking woman, Mrs. William Whitney. I was a littleembarrassed, but replied sweetly, "Sheets and Kelley, " meaning "Keatsand Shelley. " Then followed a wild laugh in which I joined. 

Dr. John Lord once told me he had a similar shock. He spoke of"Westford and Oxminster, " instead of "Oxford and Westminster, " andnever again could he get it correctly, try as he would. Neither histwist nor mine was quite as bad as that of the speaker who said: "Ifeel within me a half-warmed fish; I mean a half-formed wish. "

 All genius [continued Lady Henrietta], whether it is artistic, or literary, or spiritual, is something given from outside. I once heard genius described as knowing by intuition what other people know by experience. 

 Something, or, I should say, somebody, for it involves intelligence and knowledge, tells you these things, and you just can't help expressing them in your own particular way, with brush, or pen, or voice, whatever your individual instrument may be. 

 From _Patricia_ by Hon. Mrs. ROBERT HAMILTON. 

It was a pleasure to see that my theory of Genius was the same as LadyHenrietta's in that charming book _Patricia_. I have enough collectedon that subject to give me shivers of amazement as I read the mass oftestimony. The mystery of Inspiration has always enthralled me. 

I was invited to so many evenings "at home, " dinners and luncheons, that I decided to reciprocate and be surely at home on Tuesdayevenings. These affairs were very informal and exceedingly enjoyable. There were many who gladly entertained us by their accomplishments. Champney the artist, sent after blackboard and chalk, and didwonderfully clever things. Some one described a stiff and stupidreception where everyone seemed to have left themselves at home. Thosewho came to me brought their best. Mrs. Barnard, wife of PresidentBarnard of Columbia College, urged me to give three lectures in herparlour. I could not find the time, but her house was always open tome. To know Mr. Barnard was a great privilege. When called toColumbia, it was apparently dying from starvation for new ideas, andstagnant from being too conservative and deep in set grooves. Hisplans waked up the sleepers and brought constant improvements. Thoughalmost entirely deaf, he was never morose or depressed, but alwayscheerful and courageous. I used to dine with them often. Tubes fromeach guest extended into one through which he could hear quite well. He delighted in discussion of current events, historical matters, politics of the day, and was apparently well informed on everyquestion. Unlike Harriet Martineau, who always put down her trumpetwhen anyone dared to disagree with her opinions, he delighted in afriendly controversy with anyone worthy of his steel. He fought withpatience and persistence for the rights of women to have equaleducation with men, and at last gained his point, but died beforeBarnard College was in existence. Every student of Barnard ought torealize her individual indebtedness to this great educator, regardinghim as the champion of women and their patron saint. 

 [Illustration: PRESIDENT BARNARD OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE]

He was blessed in his home life. Mrs. Barnard was his shield, sunshine, and strength. 

 * * * * *

 Studio, 1271 Broadway, corner 32d Street. April 8, 1887. 

 DEAR MISS SANBORN:

 I send you "Ovis Montana" or Mountain Sheep, who never enjoyed the daily papers or devoured a scrap of poetry. The only civilized thing he ever did was to give his life for a piece of cold lead and got swindled at that. 

 To be grafted in your Album is immortality. 

 Sincerely yours, ALBERT BIERSTADT. 

This gift was a big surprise to me. I was then corresponding with twoBoston papers and one in the West. I thought it discourteous in theartists of the new Impressionist school, to sneer a little atBierstadt's great paintings, as if he could ever be set back as abye-gone or a has-been. And it gave me great pleasure to say so. Isent several letters to him, and one day I received a card asking meto call at his studio to look over some sketches. He said he wanted meto help him to select a sketch out of quite a pile on the table, as hewished to make a painting of one for a friend. I assured him I did notknow enough to do that, but he insisted he was so busy that I musttell him which I thought would be most effective. I looked at everyone, feeling quite important, and at last selected the Mountain Sheeppoised on a high peak in a striking pose. A rare sight then. 

At Christmas that splendid picture painted by Bierstadt was sent toour apartment for me. Never before had I received such appreciationfor my amateur scribbling. 

Ah, me! I was both complimented and proud. But my humiliation sooncame. When I called to thank the kind donor and speak of the fineframe the mountain big-horn was now in, I was surprised to have Mr. Bierstadt present to me a tall, distinguished-looking foreigner asMunkacsy, the well-known Hungarian artist. He was most cordial, sayingin French that he was glad to meet an American woman who coulddoubtless answer many questions he was anxious to ask. I could onlypartially get his meaning, so Bierstadt translated it to me. And I, who could read and translate French easily, had never found time tolearn to chat freely in any language but my own. I could have criedright there; it was so mortifying, and I was losing such a pleasure. Ihad the same pathetic experience with a Russian artist, Verestchagin, whose immense picture, revealing the horrors of war, was then onexhibition in New York. 

Again and again I have felt like a dummy, if not an idiot, in such aposition. I therefore beg all young persons to determine to speak andwrite at least one language beside their own. 

Tom Hood wrote:

 "Never go to France Unless you know the lingo If you do, like me, You'll repent by jingo. "

But it's even worse to be unable in your own country to greet and talkwith guests from other countries. 

I should like to see the dead languages, as well as Saxon andSanscrit, made elective studies every where; also the highermathematics, mystic metaphysics, and studies of the conscious andsubconscious, the ego and non-ego, matters of such uncertain study. When one stops to realize the tragic brevity of life on this earth, and to learn from statistics what proportion of each generation diesin infancy, in childhood, in early maturity, and how few reachthe Biblical limit of life, it seems unnecessary to regard abrain-wearying "curriculum" as essential or even sensible. Taine givesus in his work on English Literature a Saxon description of life: "Abird flying from the dark, a moment in the light, then swiftly passingout into the darkness beyond. "

And really why do we study as if we were to rival the ante-diluviansin age. Then wake up to the facts. I have been assured, by those whoknow, that but a small proportion of college graduates are successfulor even heard of. They appear at commencement, sure that they are todo great things, make big money, at least marry an heiress; they areturned out like buttons, only to find out how hard it is to getanything to do for good pay. One multi-millionaire of Boston, whosefirst wages he told me were but four dollars a month, said there wasno one he so dreaded to see coming into his office as a college manwho must have help, --seldom able to write a legible hand, or to addcorrectly a column of figures. There is solid food for thought. 

 * * * * *

Lowell said that "great men come in clusters. " That is true, but it isequally true that once in a great while, we are vouchsafed a royalguest, a man who mingles freely with the ordinary throng, yet standsfar above them; a man who can wrest the primal secrets from nature'sclosed hand, who makes astounding discoveries, only to gladly disclosethem to others. 

Such an unusual genius was Professor Robert Ogden Doremus, whoseenthusiasm was only matched by his modesty. In studying what heaccomplished, I wonder whether he was not sent from the central yetuniversal "powers that be" to give us answers to some of the riddlesof life; or had he visited so many planets further advanced than ourown--for as Jean Paul Richter wrote "There is no end"--that he hadlearned that the supposedly impossible could be done. He assisted JohnW. Draper in taking the first photograph of the human face ever made. Science with him was never opposed to religion. His moving picturesand spectral analysis were almost miracles at that time. He delightedto show how the earth in forming was flattened at the poles, and hewould illustrate the growth of the rings of Saturn. As a lecturer hewas a star, the only chemist and scientist to offer experiments. Hislectures were always attended by crowds of admirers. As a toxicologisthe was marvellous in his accuracy; no poisoner could escape his exactanalysis. His compressed cartridges, made waterproof and coated withcollodion, were used in the blasting operations at the Mont Cenistunnel through eight miles of otherwise impenetrable stone, solidAlpine rock, between France and Italy. 

When the obelisk in Central Park showed signs of serious decay, hesaved the hieroglyphics by ironing it with melted parafine. He makesus think of the juggler who can keep a dozen balls in the air as if itwere an easy trick, never dropping one. 

 [Illustration: PROFESSOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS]

But I forget to give my own memories of Dr. And Mrs. Doremus in theirdelightful home on Fourth Avenue between 18th and 19th Streets, --ahome full of harmony, melody, peace, and love. Vincenzo Botta calledDr. Doremus the "Mæcenas of New York, " and his beautiful wife, theideal wife and mother, was named by her adoring husband the "queenof women. " Mrs. Doremus was prominent in New York's various societiesand charities, but the interests of her own family came first. One ofher sons said: "She never neglected her children; we were always lovedand well cared for. " Both Dr. Doremus and his wife were devoted tomusic, always of the best. He was the first president of thePhilharmonic Society who was not a musician by profession. All thepreceding presidents had been selected from the active musicians inthe society. One evening he was serenaded by the Philharmonic Societyunder the leadership of Carl Bergman, the recently elected presidentof the society. After the classic music had ceased, Dr. Doremusappeared and thanked the society for the compliment. All were invitedinto the house, where a bountiful collation was served and speechesmade. If you could see the photograph of the Philharmonic Societyserenading Dr. And Mrs. Doremus at their home, you would get a rareinsight into the old New York life, as compared with the present, inwhich such a thing would be impossible. He said that his mother usedto take a cup of tea at the Battery afternoons with her sons. 

He was a lifelong friend of Christine Nilsson whom he considered thegreatest vocal and dramatic genius of the age. He wrote: "Never didmortal woman sing as she sang that simple song that begins:

 'Angels, Angels, bright and fair, Take, O take me to thy care!'"

I saw Nilsson and Parepa introduced there, who were to sail on thesame steamer in a few days. Nilsson made the banjo fashionable in NewYork society, accompanying herself charmingly. All the famous operasingers regarded the house of Dr. Doremus a place where they werethoroughly at home, and always welcome. Ole Bull was for many yearshis most devoted friend. Dr. Doremus writes:

 I recall that once when I was dining with Ole Bull, at the house of a friend, our host said: 'Doctor, I don't think much of Ole Bull's fiddling; you know what I mean--I don't think much of his fiddling as compared with his great heart. '

Mr. Edwin Booth, once walking with me, dropped my arm and exclaimedwith a dramatic gesture: "Ole Bull wasn't a man--he was a god!"

The last time I had the privilege of listening to Ole Bull's witcherywith his violin, he gave an hour to Norwegian folk-songs, his wife atthe piano. She played with finish, feeling, and restraint. She firstwent through the air, then he joined in with his violin withindescribable charm. Critics said he lacked technique. I am glad hedid: his music went straight to the heart. At the last he told us hewould give the tune always played after a wedding when the guests hadstayed long enough--usually three days--and their departure wasdesired. We were to listen for one shrill note which was imperative. No one would care or dare to remain after that. 

Dr. Doremus showed me one evening a watch he was wearing, saying:

 In Ole Bull's last illness when he no longer had strength to wind his watch, he asked his wife to wind it for him, and then send it to his best friend, saying: 'I want it to go ticking from my heart to his. '

That watch magnetized by human love passing through it is now in thepossession of Arthur Lispenard Doremus, to whom it was left by hisfather. It had to be wound by a key in the old fashion, and it ran inperfect time for twenty-nine years. Then it became worn and was sentto a watchmaker for repairs. It is still a reliable timekeeper, quitea surprising story, as the greatest length of time before this wastwenty-four years for a watch to run. 

I think of these rare souls, Ole Bull and Dr. Doremus, as reunited, and with their loved ones advancing to greater heights, constantlyreceiving new revelations of omnipotent power, which "it is not in theheart of man to conceive. "

 LINES

 Read at the Celebration of the Seventieth Birthday of DOCTOR R. OGDEN DOREMUS, January 11th, 1894, at 241 Madison Avenue, by LUTHER R. MARSH. 

 What shall be said for good Doctor Doremus? To speak of him well, it well doth beseem us. Not one single fault, through his seventy years, Has ever been noticed by one of his peers. 

 How flawless a life, and how useful withal! Fulfilling his duties at every call! Come North or come South, come East or come West, He ever is ready to work for the best. 

 In Chemics, the Doctor stands first on the list; The nature, he knows, of all things that exist. He lets loose the spirits of earth, rock or water, And drives them through solids, cemented with mortar. 

 How deftly he handles the retort and decanter! Makes lightning and thunder would scare Tam O'Shanter; Makes feathers as heavy as lead, in a jar, And eliminates spirits from coal and from tar. 

 By a touch of his finger he'll turn lead or tin To invisible gas, and then back again; He will set them aflame, as in the last day, When all things are lit by the Sun's hottest ray. 

 With oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, --all-- No gas can resist his imperative call-- He'll solidify, liquefy, or turn into ice; Or all of them re-convert, back in a trice. 

 Amid oxides and alkalies, bromides and salts, He makes them all dance in a chemical waltz; And however much he with acids may play, There's never a drop stains his pure mortal clay. 

 He well knows what things will affect one another; What acts as an enemy, and what as a brother; He feels quite at home with all chemic affinities, And treats them respectfully, as mystic Divinities. 

 His wisdom is spread from far Texas to Maine; For thousands on thousands have heard him explain The secrets of Nature, and all her arcana, From the youth of the Gulf, to the youth of Montana. 

 In Paris, Doremus may compress'd powder compound, Or, at home, wrap the Obelisk with paraffine round; Or may treat Toxicology ever anew, To enrich the bright students of famous Bellevue. 

 He believes in the spirits of all physical things, And can make them fly round as if they had wings; But ask him to show you the Spirit of Man-- He hesitates slightly, saying, "See!--if you can. "

 Wherever he comes there always is cheer; If absent, you miss him; you're glad when he's near; His voice is a trumpet that stirreth the blood; You feel that he's cheery, and you know that he's good. 

 No doors in the city have swung open so wide, To artists at home, and to those o'er the tide; As, to Mario, Sontag, Badiali, Marini, To Nilsson and Phillips, Rachel and Salvini. 

 Much, much does he owe, for the grace of his life, To the influence ever of his beautiful wife; She, so grand and so stately, so true and so kind, So lovely in person and so charming in mind!

I had the pleasure of being well acquainted with Mr. Charles H. Webb, a truly funny "funny man, " who had homes in New York and Nantucket. His slight stutter only added to the effect of his humorous talk. Hisletters to the New York _Tribune_ from Long Branch, Saratoga, etc. , were widely read. He knew that he wrote absolute nonsense at times, but nonsense is greatly needed in this world, and exquisitely drollnonsensical nonsense is as uncommon as common sense. The titles of hisvarious books are inviting and informing, as _Seaweed and What WeSeed_. He wrote several parodies on sensational novels of his time. _Griffith Gaunt_, he made fun of as "Liffith Lank"; _St. Elmo_, as"St. Twelmo. " _A Wicked Woman_ was another absurd tale. But I likebest a large volume, "_John Paul's Book_, moral and instructive, travels, tales, poetry, and like fabrications, with several portraitsof the author and other spirited engravings. " This book was dedicated, "To the Bald-Headed, that noble and shining army of martyrs. " When youturn to look at his portrait, and the illuminated title page, you findthem not. The Frontispiece picture is upside down. The veryridiculosity of his easy daring to do or say anything is taking. Heonce wrote, in one of those trying books, with which we used to bebored stiff, with questions such as "What is your favourite hour ofthe day? He wrote dinner hour; what book not sacred would you partwith last? My pocket-book. Your favourite motto? When you must, --youbetter. " I especially liked the poem, "The Outside Dog in the Fight. "Here are two specimens of his prose:

 The fish-hawk is not an eagle. Mountain heights and clouds he never scales; fish are more in his way, he scales them--possibly regarding them as scaly-wags. For my bird is pious; a stern conservator is he of the public morals. Last Sunday a frivolous fish was playing not far from the beach, and Dr. Hawk went out and stopped him. 'Tis fun to watch him at that sort of work--stopping play--though somehow it does not seem to amuse the fish much. Up in the air he poises pensively, hanging on hushed wings as though listening for sounds--maybe a fish's. By and by he hears a herring--is he hard of herring, think you? Then down he drops and soon has a Herring Safe. (Send me something, manufacturers, immediately. ) Does he tear his prey from limb to limb? No, he merely sails away through the blue ether--how happy can he be with either!--till the limb whereon his own nest is built is reached. Does the herring enjoy that sort of riding, think you? Quite as much, I should say, as one does hack-driving. From my point of view, the hawk is but the hackman of the air. Sympathize with the fish? Not much. Nor would you if you heard the pitiful cry the hawk sets up the moment he finds that his claws are tangled in a fish's back. Home he flies to seek domestic consolation, uttering the while the weeping cry of a grieved child; there are tears in his voice, so you know the fish must be hurting him. The idea that a hawk can't fly over the water of an afternoon without some malicious fish jumping up and trying to bite him!

 If a fish wants to cross the water safely, let him take a Fulton ferryboat for it. There he will find a sign reading:

 "No Peddling or Hawking allowed in this cabin. " Strange that hawking should be so sternly prohibited on boats which are mainly patronized by Brooklynites chronically afflicted with catarrh!

 Never shall it be said that I put my hand to the plow and turned back. For that matter never shall it be said of me that I put hand to a plow at all, unless a plow should chase me upstairs and into the privacy of my bed-room, and then I should only put hand to it for the purpose of throwing it out of the window. The beauty of the farmer's life was never very clear to me. As for its boasted "independence, " in the part of the country I came from, there was never a farm that was not mortgaged for about all it was worth; never a farmer who was not in debt up to his chin at "the store. " Contented! When it rains the farmer grumbles because he can't hoe or do something else to his crops, and when it does not rain, he grumbles because his crops do not grow. Hens are the only ones on a farm that are not in a perpetual worry and ferment about "crops:" they fill theirs with whatever comes along, whether it be an angleworm, a kernel of corn, or a small cobblestone, and give thanks just the same. 

 THE OUTSIDE DOG IN THE FIGHT

 You may sing of your dog, your bottom dog, Or of any dog that you please, I go for the dog, the wise old dog, That knowingly takes his ease, And, wagging his tail outside the ring, Keeping always his bone in sight, Cares not a pin in his wise old head For either dog in the fight. 

 Not his is the bone they are fighting for, And why should my dog sail in, With nothing to gain but a certain chance To lose his own precious skin! There may be a few, perhaps, who fail To see it in quite this light, But when the fur flies I had rather be The outside dog in the fight. 

 I know there are dogs--most generous dogs Who think it is quite the thing To take the part of the bottom dog, And go yelping into the ring. I care not a pin what the world may say In regard to the wrong or right; My money goes as well as my song, For the dog that keeps out of the fight!

Mr. Webb, like Charles Lamb and the late Mr. Travers, stammered justenough to give piquancy to his conversation. To facilitate enunciationhe placed a "g" before the letters which it was hard for him topronounce. We were talking of the many sad and sudden deaths frompneumonia, bronchitis, etc. , during the recent spring season, and thenof the insincerity of poets who sighed for death and longed for asummons to depart. He said in his deliciously slow and stumblingmanner: "I don't want the ger-pneu-m-mon-ia. I'm in no ger-hurry toger-go. " Mrs. Webb's drawing-rooms were filled with valuable picturesand bronzes, and her Thursday Evenings at home were a delight to many. 

How little we sometimes know of the real spirit and the inner life ofsome noble man or woman. Mrs. Hermann was a remarkable instance ofthis. I thought I was well acquainted with Mrs. Esther Hermann, who, in her home, 59 West fifty-sixth Street New York, was alwaysentertaining her many friends. Often three evenings a week were givento doing something worth while for someone, or giving opportunity forus to hear some famous man or woman speak, who was interested in somegreat project. And her refreshments, after the hour of listening wasover, were of the most generous and delicious kind. Hers was a lavishhospitality. It was all so easily and quietly done, that no onerealized that those delightful evenings were anything but play to her. She became interested in me when I was almost a novice in the lecturefield, gave me two benefits, invited those whom she thought wouldenjoy my talks, and might also be of service to me. There was neverthe slightest stiffness; if one woman was there for the first time, and a stranger, Mrs. Hermann and her daughters saw that there wereplenty of introductions and an escort engaged to take the lady to thesupper room. Mrs. Hermann in those early days, often took me to drivein the park--a great treat. We chatted merrily together, and I stillfancied I knew her. But her own family did not know of her greatbenefactions; her son only knew by looking over her check books, afterher death, how much she had given away. Far from blazoning it abroad, she insisted on secrecy. She invited Mr. Henry Fairfield Osborn tocall, who was keenly interested in securing money to start a NaturalHistory Museum, he bringing a friend with him. After they had ownedthat they found it impossible even to gain the first donation, shehanded Mr. Osborn, after expressing her interest, a check for tenthousand dollars. At first he thought he would not open it in herpresence, but later did so. He was amazed and said very gratefully:"Madam, I will have this recognized at once by the Society. " She said:"I want no recognition. If you insist, I shall take back theenvelope. " Her daughter describes her enthusiasm one very stormy, coldSunday. Stephen S. Wise, the famous rabbi, was advertised to preach inthe morning at such a place. "Mother was there in a front seat early, eager to get every word of wisdom that fell from his lips. " Mr. Wisespoke at the Free Synagogue Convention at three o'clock P. M. "Motherwas there promptly again, in front, her dark eyes glowing with intenseinterest. " At eight P. M. He spoke at another hall on the other side ofthe city, "Mother was there. " At the close, Mr. Wise stepped down fromthe platform to shake hands with Mrs. Hermann, and said, "I amsurprised at seeing you at these three meetings, and in such badweather. " She replied, "Why should you be surprised; you were at all three, weren't you?"

She had a long life of perfect health and never paid the leastattention to the worst of weather if she had a duty to perform. 

There was something of the fairy godmother in this large-heartedwoman, whose modesty equalled her generosity. She dropped gifts by theway, always eager to help, and anxious to keep out of sight. Mrs. Hermann was one of those women who sow the seeds of kindness with acareless hand, and help to make waste places beautiful. She becamedeeply interested in education early in life, and her faith wasevidenced by her work. She was one of the founders of Barnard College. Her checks became very familiar to the treasurers of many educationalenterprises. She was one of the patrons of the American Associationfor the Advancement of Sciences, and many years ago gave one thousanddollars to aid the Association. Since then she has added ten thousanddollars as a nucleus toward the erection of a building to be calledthe Academy of Science. With the same generous spirit she contributedten thousand dollars to the Young Men's Hebrew Association foreducational purposes. It was for the purpose of giving teachers theopportunity of studying botany from nature, that she gave tenthousand dollars to the Botanical Garden in the Bronx. 

Her knowledge of the great need for a technical school for Jewish boyspreyed on her mind at night so that she could not sleep, and she feltit was wrong to be riding about the city when these boys could behelped. She sold her carriages and horses, walked for three yearsinstead of riding, and sent a large check to start the school. It ispleasant to recall that the boys educated there have turned outwonderfully well, some of them very clever electricians. 

I could continue indefinitely naming the acts of generosity of thisnoble woman, but we have said enough to show why her many friendsdesired to express their appreciation of her sterling virtues, andtheir love for the gentle lady, whose kindness has given happiness tocountless numbers. To this end, some of her friends planned to giveher a a testimonial, and called together representatives from thehundred and twenty-five different clubs and organizations of which shewas a member, to consider the project. This suggestion was receivedwith such enthusiasm that a committee was appointed who arranged afitting tribute worthy of the occasion. 

The poem with which I close my tribute to my dear friend, Mrs. Hermann, is especially fitting to her beautiful life. Her family, evenafter they were all married and in happy homes of their own, wereexpected by the mother every Sunday evening. These occasions wereinexpressibly dear to her warm heart, devoted to her children andgrandchildren. But owing to her reticence she was even to them reallyunknown. 

I had given at first many more instances of her almost dailyministrations but later this seemed to be in direct opposition to heroft-expressed wish for no recognition of her gifts. "We are spiritsclad in veils, " but of Mrs. Hermann this was especially true and Ilove her memory too well not to regard her wishes as sacred. 

 GNOSIS

 Thought is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught. 

 We are spirits clad in veils; Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen. 

 Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete. 

 Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here. 

 What is social company, But the babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream?

 Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought, Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught, Only when our souls are fed By the fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led Which they never drew from earth. 

 We, like parted drops of rain, Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one. 

 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH (1813-1892). 

Cranch's own title for this poem was "Enosis, " not "Gnosis" as nowgiven; "Enosis" being a Greek word meaning "all in one, " which isillustrated by the last verse. 

It was first published in the _Dial_ in 1844. "Stanzas" appeared atthe head, and at the end was his initial, "C. "

CHAPTER IV

Three Years at Smith College--Appreciation of Its Founder--ASuccessful Lecture Tour--My Trip to Alaska. 

"There is nothing so certain as the unexpected, " and "if you fityourself for the wall, you will be put in. "

I was in danger of being spoiled by kindness in New York and thesurrounding towns, if not in danger of a breakdown from constantactivity, literary and social, with club interests and weekend visitsat homes of delightful friends on the Hudson, when I was surprised andhonoured by a call from President L. Clark Seelye of Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts, who invited me to take the position ofteacher of English Literature at that college. 

I accepted, and remained at Northampton for three years, from1880-1883. It was a busy life. I went on Saturday afternoons to aclass of married ladies at Mrs. Terhune's (Marion Harland) inSpringfield, Massachusetts, where her husband was a clergyman in oneof the largest churches in that city. I also published several books, and at least two Calendars, while trying to make the students at SmithCollege enthusiastic workers in my department. 

Mrs. Terhune was a versatile and entertaining woman, a most practicalhousekeeper; and she could tell the very best ghost story I everheard, for it is of a ghost who for many years was the especialproperty of her father's family. 

When I gave evening lectures at Mrs. Terhune's while at Smith College, I was accustomed to spend the night there. She always insisted uponrising early to see that the table was set properly for me, and sheoften would bring in something specially tempting of her own cooking. A picture I can never forget is that of Doctor Terhune who, beforeoffering grace at meals, used to stretch out a hand to each of hisdaughters, and so more closely include them in his petition. 

I used no special text-book while at Smith College, and requested myclass to question me ten minutes at the close of every recitation. Each girl brought a commonplace book to the recitation room to takenotes as I talked. Some of them showed great power of expression whilewriting on the themes provided. There was a monthly examination, often largely attended by friends out of town. I still keep up myinterest in my pupils of that day. One of them told me that theythought at first I was currying popularity, I was so cordial and evenaffectionate, but they confessed they were mistaken. 

Under President Seelye's wise management, Smith College has taken ahigh position, and is constantly growing better. The tributes to histhirty-seven years in service when he resigned prove how thoroughly hewas appreciated. I give a few extracts:

 We wish to record the fact that this has been, in a unique degree, your personal work. If you had given the original sum which called the College into being, and had left its administration to others, you would have been less truly the creator of the institution than you have been through your executive efficiency. Your plans have seldom been revised by the Board of Trustees, and your selection of teachers has brought together a faculty which is at least equal to the best of those engaged in the education of women. You have secured for the teachers a freedom of instruction which has inspired them to high attainment and fruitful work. You, with them, have given to the College a commanding position in the country, and have secured for it and for its graduates universal respect. The deep foundations for its success have been intellectual and spiritual, and its abiding work has been the building up of character by contact with character. 

 Fortunate in her location, fortunate in her large minded trustees, fortunate in the loyal devotedness of her faculty and supremely fortunate has our College been in the consecrated creative genius of her illustrious president. Bringing to his task a noble ideal, with rare sagacity as an administrator; with financial and economic skill rarely found in a scholar and idealist, but necessary to foster into fullest fruitfulness the slender pecuniary resources then at hand; with tact and suavity which made President Seelye's "no, " if no were needed, more gracious than "yes" from others; with the force which grasps difficulties fearlessly; with dignified scholarship and a courtly manner, the master builder of our College, under whose hand the little one has become a thousand and the small one a strong republic, has achieved the realization of his high ideal and is crowned with honour and affection. 

 He has made one ashamed of any but the highest motives, and has taught us that sympathy and love for mankind are the traits for which to strive. The ideals of womanly life which he instilled will ever be held high before us. 

 There are many distinguished qualities which a college president must possess. He must be idealist, creator, executor, financier, and scholar. President Seelye--is all these--but he had another and a rarer gift which binds and links these qualities together, as the chain on which jewels are strung--President Seelye had immense capacity for work and patient attention for details. It is this unusual combination which has given us a great College, and has given to our president a unique position among educators. 

I realize that I must at times have been rather a trying propositionto President Seelye for I was placed in an entirely new world, andhaving been almost wholly educated by my father, by Dartmouthprofessors, and by students of the highest scholarship, I never knewthe mental friction and the averaging up and down of those accustomedto large classes. I gained far more there than I gave, for I learnedmy limitations, or some of them, and to try to stick closely to my ownwork, to be less impulsive, and not offer opinions and suggestions, unasked, undesired, and in that early stage of the college, objectionable. Still, President Seelye writes to me: "I remember youas a very stimulating teacher of English Literature, and I have oftenheard your pupils, here and afterwards, express great interest in yourinstruction. "

The only "illuminating" incident in my three years at Smith Collegewas owing to my wish to honour the graduating reception of the Seniorclass. I pinned my new curtains carefully away, put some candles inthe windows, leaving two young ladies of the second year to see thatall was safe. The house was the oldest but one in the town; itharboured two aged paralytics whom it would be difficult, if notdangerous, to remove. Six students had their home there. As myfire-guards heard me returning with my sister and some gentlemen ofthe town, they left the room, the door slammed, a breeze blew thelight from the candles to the curtains, and in an instant the curtainswere ablaze. 

And now the unbelievable sequel. The room seemed all on fire in fiveminutes. Next, the overhead beam was blazing. I can tell you that thefire was extinguished by those gentlemen, and no one ever knew we hadbeen so near a conflagration until three years later when the kindlady of the house wrote to me: "Dear Friend, did you ever have a firein your room? In making it over I found some wood badly scorched. " Ihave the most reliable witnesses, or you would never have believed it. In the morning my hostess said to the girls assembled at breakfast:"Miss Sanborn is always rather noisy when she has guests, but I neverdid hear such a hullabaloo as she made last evening. "

It is certain that President Seelye deserves all the appreciation andaffectionate regard he received. He has won his laurels and he needsthe rest which only resignation could bring. The college is equallyfortunate in securing as his successor, Marion LeRoy Burton, who inthe coming years may lead the way through broader paths, to greaterheights, always keeping President Seelye's ideal of the truly womanlytype, in a distinctively woman's college. 

As the Rev. Dr. John M. Greene writes me (the clergyman who suggestedto Sophia Smith that she give her money to found a college for women, and who at eighty-five years has a perfectly unclouded mind): "I wantto say that my ambition for Smith College is that it shall be a realwomen's college. Too many of our women's colleges are only men'scolleges for women. "

I desire now to add my tribute to that noble woman, Sophia Smith ofHatfield, Massachusetts. 

On April 18, 1796, the town of Hatfield, in town meeting assembled, "voiced to set up two schools, for the schooling of girls four monthsin the year. " The people of that beautiful town seemed to have heardthe voice of their coming prophetess, commissioned to speak a word forwoman's education, which the world has shown itself ready to hear. 

In matters of heredity, Sophia Smith was fortunate. Her paternalgrandmother, Mary Morton, was an extraordinary woman. After the deathof her husband, she became the legal guardian of her six sons, allyoung, cared for a large farm, and trained her boys to be useful andrespected in the community. 

Sophia Smith was born in Hatfield, August 27, 1796; just six monthsbefore Mary Lyon was born in Ashfield, Massachusetts, about seventeenmiles distant. Sophia remembered her grandmother and said: "I lookedup to my grandmother with great love and reverence. She, more thanonce, put her hands on my head and said, 'I want you should grow up, and be a good woman, and try to make the world better. '" And hermother was equally religious, efficient, kind to the poor, sympatheticbut not impulsive. Sophia lived in a country farmhouse near theConnecticut River for sixty-eight years. She was sadly hamperedphysically. One of the historians of Hatfield writes me:

 Her infirmity of deafness was troublesome to some extent when she was young, making her shy and retiring. At forty she was absolutely incapable of hearing conversation. She also was lame in one foot and had a withered hand. In spite of this, I think she was an active and spirited girl, about like other girls. She was very fond of social intercourse, especially later in life when my father knew her, but this intercourse was confined to a small circle. Doctor Greene speaks of her timidity also. I know of no traditions about her girlhood. As an example of the thrift of the Smiths, or perhaps I should say, their exactness in all business dealings, my father says that Austin Smith never asked his sisters to sew a button or do repairs on his clothing without paying them a small sum for it, and he always received six cents for doing chores or running errands. No doubt this was a practice maintained from early youth, for when Sophia Smith was born, in 1796, the family was in very moderate circumstances. The whole community was poor for some time after the Revolution, and everyone saved pennies. 

As to her education, she used to sit on the doorsteps of theschoolhouse and hear the privileged boys recite their lessons. Shealso had four or five months of instruction in the schoolhouse, andwas a student in Hopkins Academy for a short time and, when fourteenyears old, attended school at Hartford, Connecticut, for a term oftwelve weeks. 

 [Illustration: SOPHIA SMITH]

Then a long, uneventful, almost shut-in life, and in 1861 her brotherAustin left her an estate of about four hundred and fifty thousanddollars. 

Hon. George W. Hubbard of Hatfield was her financial adviser. Headvised her to found an academy for Hatfield, which she did; and afterDoctor Greene had caused her to decide on a college for women, Mr. Hubbard insisted on having it placed at Northampton, Massachusetts, instead of Hatfield, Massachusetts. With her usual modesty, sheobjected to giving her full name to the college, as it would look asif she were seeking fame for herself. She gave thirty thousand dollarsto endow a professorship in the Andover Theological Seminary atAndover, Massachusetts. 

She grew old gracefully, never soured by her infirmities, alwaysdenying herself to help others and make the world better for herliving in it. 

Her name must stand side by side with the men who founded Vassar, Wellesley, and Barnard, and that of Mary Lyon to whom women owe thecollege of Mt. Holyoke. 

As Walt Whitman wrote:

 I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. 

She was a martyr physically, and mentally a heroine. Let us never failto honour the woman who founded Smith College. 

Extracts from a letter replying to my question: "Is there afull-length portrait of Sophia Smith, now to be seen anywhere in theprincipal building at Smith College, Northampton?"

 How I wish that some generous patron of Smith College might bestow upon it two thousand dollars for a full-length portrait of Sophia Smith to be placed in the large reading room, at the end of which is a full-length portrait of President Seelye. The presence of such a commanding figure seen by hundreds of girls every day would be a subtle and lasting influence. 

I like to nibble at a stuffed date, but do not enjoy having my memorystuffed with dates, though I am proud rather than sensitive in regardto my age. 

Lady Morgan was unwilling her age should be known, and pleads:

 What has a woman to do with dates--cold, false, erroneous, chronological dates--new style, old style, precession of the equinoxes, ill-timed calculation of comets long since due at their station and never come? Her poetical idiosyncrasy, calculated by epochs, would make the most natural points of reference in woman's autobiography. Plutarch sets the example of dropping dates in favour of incidents; and an authority more appropriate, Madame de Genlis, who began her own memoires at eighty, swept through nearly an age of incident and revolution without any reference to vulgar eras signifying nothing (the times themselves out of joint), testifying to the pleasant incidents she recounts and the changes she witnessed. I mean to have none of them!

I hesitate to allude to my next experience after leaving SmithCollege, for it was so delightful that I am afraid I shall scarcely bebelieved, and am also afraid that my readers will consider me a "swellhead" and my story only fit for a "Vanity Box. " Yet I would not leaveout one bit of the Western lecture trip. If it were possible to tellof the great kindness shown me at every step of the way without anymention of myself, I would gladly prefer to do that. 

After leaving Smith College, I was enjoying commencement festivitiesin my own home--when another surprising event! Mr. George W. Bartholomew, a graduate of Dartmouth, who was born and brought up in aneighbouring Vermont town, told me when he called that he hadestablished a large and successful school for young ladies inCincinnati, Ohio, taking a few young ladies to live in his pleasanthome. He urged me to go to his school for three months to teachliterature, also giving lectures to ladies of the city in his largerecitation hall. And he felt sure he could secure me many invitationsto lecture in other cities. 

Remembering my former Western experience with measles andwhooping-cough, I realized that mumps and chicken-pox were stilllikely to attack me, but the invitation was too tempting, and it wasgladly accepted, and I went to Cincinnati in the fall of 1884. 

Mrs. Bartholomew I found a charming woman and a most cordial friend. Every day of three months spent in Cincinnati was full of happiness. Mrs. Broadwell, a decided leader in the best social matters, as wellas in all public spirited enterprises, I had known years before inHanover, N. H. Her brother, General William Haines Lytle, had beenslain at Chickamauga during the Civil War, just in the full strengthand glory of manhood. He wrote that striking poem, beginning: "I amdying, Egypt, dying. " Here are two verses of his one poem:

 As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! Glorious sorceress of the Nile, Light the path to Stygian horrors With the splendors of thy smile. Give the Cæsar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine; I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine. 

 I am dying, Egypt, dying; Hark! the insulting foeman's cry, They are coming! quick, my falchion! Let me front them ere I die. Ah! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell-- Isis and Osiris guard thee! Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!

He was engaged to Miss Sarah Doremus, a sister of Professor Doremus ofNew York. After the terrible shock of his sudden death she nevermarried, but devoted her life to carrying out her sainted mother'smissionary projects, once taking a trip alone around the world tovisit the missionary stations started by her mother. 

As soon as I had arrived at Mr. Bartholomew's, Mrs. Broadwell gave mea dinner. Six unmarried ladies and seven well-known bachelors were theguests, as she wished to give me just what I needed, an endorsementamong her own friends. The result was instant and potent. 

Everyone at that dinner did something afterwards to entertain me. Iwas often invited to the opera, always had a box (long-stemmed rosesfor all the ladies), also to dinner and lunches. If anyone in the cityhad anything in the way of a rare collection, from old engravings torare old books, an evening was devoted to showing the collection to mewith other friends. One lady, Miss Mary Louise McLaughlin, invited meto lunch with her alone. Her brother, a bachelor lawyer, had at thattime the finest private library in the city. She was certainly themost versatile in her accomplishments of anyone I have ever known. Shehad painted the best full-length portrait of Judge Longworth, fatherof the husband of Alice Roosevelt. She was a china painter to beat theChinese, and author of four books on the subject. She was an artistin photography; had a portfolio of off-hand sketches of street gamins, newsboys, etc. , full of life and expression. She brought the art ofunder glaze in china-firing to this country and had discovered amethod of etching metal into fine woods for bedroom furniture. She wasan expert at wood-carving, taking lessons from Ben Pitman. Was fond ofhousekeeping and made a success of it in every way. Anything else?Yes, she showed me pieces of her exquisite embroidery and had made anartistic and wholly sane "crazy-quilt" so much in vogue at that time. Her own beautiful china was all painted and finished by herself. As Ileft her, I felt about two feet high, with a pin head. And yet she wasfree from the slightest touch of conceit. 

Miss Laura MacDonald (daughter of Alexander MacDonald, the businessman who took great risks with Mr. John D. Rockefeller in borrowingmoney to invest largely in oil fields) was my pupil in the school, andthrough her I became acquainted with her lovely mother, who invited meto her home at Clifton, just out of Cincinnati, to lecture to a selectaudience of her special friends. 

My lectures at Mr. Bartholomew's school were very well attended. Listsof my subjects were sent about widely, and when the day came for myenthusiastic praise of Christopher North (John Wilson), a sweet-facedold lady came up to the desk and placed before me a large bunch ofveritable Scotch heather for which she had sent to Scotland. 

In Cleveland, where I gave a series of talks, President Cutler, ofAdelbert University, rose at the close of the last lecture and, looking genially towards me, made this acknowledgment: "I am free toconfess that I have often been charmed by a woman, and occasionallyinstructed, but never before have I been charmed and instructed by thesame woman. "

Cleveland showed even then the spirit of the Cleveland of today, whichis putting that city in the very first rank of the cities not only ofthe United States but of the world in civic improvement and municipalprogress, morally and physically. Each night of my lectures I wasentertained at a different house while there, and as a trifle to showtheir being in advance of other cities, I noticed that the ladies worewigs to suit their costumes. That only became the fashion here lastwinter, but I saw no ultra colours such as we saw last year, green andpink and blue, but only those that suited their style and theircostume. 

At Chicago I was the guest of Mrs. H. O. Stone, who gave me a dinnerand an afternoon reception, where I met many members of variousclubs, and the youngest grandmothers I had ever seen. At a lunch givenfor me by Mrs. Locke, wife of Rev. Clinton B. Locke, I met Mrs. PotterPalmer, Mrs. Wayne MacVeagh, and Mrs. Williams, wife of GeneralWilliams, and formerly the wife of Stephen Douglas. Mrs. Locke was thebest _raconteur_ of any woman I have ever heard. Dartmouth men droveme to all the show places of that wonderful city. Lectured in Rev. Dr. Little's church parlors. He was not only a New Hampshire man, but bornin Boscawen, New Hampshire, where my grandfather lived, and where mymother lived until her marriage. 

It is pleasant to record that I was carried along on my lecture tour, sometimes by invitation of a Dartmouth man, again by college girls whohad graduated at Smith College; then at Peoria, Illinois; welcomedthere by a dear friend from Brooklyn, New York, wife of a business manof that city. I knew of Peoria only as a great place for themanufacture of whisky, and for its cast-iron stoves, but found it acity, magnificently situated on a series of bold bluffs. And when Ireached my friend's house, a class of ladies, who had been easilychatting in German, wanted to stay and ask me a few questions. Theseshowed deep thought, wide reading, and finely disciplined minds. Onlyone reading there in the Congregational Church, where there was such afearful lack of ventilation that I turned from my manuscript andquoted a bit from the "Apele for Are to the Sextant of the Old BrickMeetinouse by A. Gasper, " which proved effectual. 

I give this impressive exhortation entire as it should be moregenerally known. 

 A APELE FOR ARE TO THE SEXTANT

 BY ARABELLA WILSON

 O Sextant of the meetinouse which sweeps And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fiers, And lites the gas, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose, In which case it smells orful--wus than lampile; And wrings the Bel and toles it, and sweeps paths; And for these servaces gits $100 per annum; Wich them that thinks deer let 'em try it; Gittin up before starlite in all wethers, and Kindlin fiers when the wether is as cold As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlins, (I wouldn't be hierd to do it for no sum;) But o Sextant there are one kermodity Wuth more than gold which don't cost nuthin; Wuth more than anything except the Sole of man! I mean pewer Are, Sextant, I mean pewer Are! O it is plenty out o dores, so plenty it doant no What on airth to do with itself, but flize about Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hats; In short its jest as free as Are out dores; But O Sextant! in our church its scarce as piety, Scarce as bankbills when ajunts beg for mishuns, Which sum say is purty often, taint nuthin to me, What I give aint nuthing to nobody; but O Sextant! You shet 500 men women and children Speshily the latter, up in a tite place, Sum has bad breths, none of em aint too sweet, Sum is fevery, sum is scroflus, sum has bad teeth And sum haint none, and sum aint over clean; But evry one of em brethes in and out and in Say 50 times a minnet, or 1 million and a half breths an hour; Now how long will a church full of are last at that rate? I ask you; say fifteen minnets, and then what's to be did? Why then they must brethe it all over agin, And then agin and so on, till each has took it down At least ten times and let it up agin, and what's more, The same individible doant have the privilege Of brethin his own are and no one else, Each one must take wotever comes to him. O Sextant! doant you know our lungs is belluses To bio the fier of life and keep it from Going out: and how can bellusses blo without wind? And aint wind are? I put it to your konshens, Are is the same to us as milk to babies, Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox, Or roots and airbs unto an Injun doctor, Or little pills unto an omepath. Or Boze to girls. Are is for us to brethe. What signifize who preaches ef I can't brethe? What's Pol? What's Pollus to sinners who are ded? Ded for want of breth! Why Sextant when we dye Its only coz we cant brethe no more--that's all. And now O Sextant! let me beg of you To let a little are into our cherch (Pewer are is sertin proper for the pews); And dew it week days and on Sundys tew-- It aint much trobble--only make a hoal, And then the are will come in of itself (It loves to come in where it can git warm). And O how it will rouze the people up And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps And yorns and fijits as effectool As wind on the dry boans the Profit tels Of. 

I went as far as Omaha, and then was asked if I were not going West. The reason for this charming reception was that it was a novelty thento hear a young woman talk in a lively way on striking themes whichhad been most carefully prepared, and a light touch added, withfrequent glints of humour. Byron declared that easy writing was veryhard reading. I reversed that method, always working hard over eachlecture. For instance, I spent two months in preparing "BachelorAuthors, " cramming and condensing, and passing quickly over dangerousground. With my vocal training I could easily be heard by an audienceof five hundred. 

A friend was eager to go to Alaska by Seattle; then, after our return, visit Yellowstone Park and San Francisco. She urged me so eloquentlyto accompany her, that I left my home in Metcalf, Massachusetts, taking great risks in many ways, but wonderful to relate, nothingdisastrous occurred. 

We scurried by fastest trains across the country to Seattle, just intime to take the Steamer _Topeka_ from Seattle on August 8, 1899, thelast boat of the season, and the last chance tourists ever had to seethe Muir Glacier in its marvellous glory, as it was broken badlybefore the next summer. 

My friend advised me kindly to ask no questions of the captain, as sheknew well what a bore that was. I promised to be exceedingly careful. So, next morning, when that tall and handsome Captain Thompson camearound the deck, with a smiling "Good morning, " and bowing right andleft, I was deeply absorbed in a book; the next time I was looking ata view; another time I played I was fast asleep. He never spoke to me, only stopped an instant before me and walked on. At last, a bow-leggedpilot came directly from the captain's office to my open window, bringing to Miss Sanborn a bowl of extra large and lusciousstrawberries from Douglas Island, quite famous on account of the sizeand sweetness of this berry. With this gift came a note running thus:

 DEAR MISS SANBORN:

 I am a little puzzled by your frigid manner. Have you any personal prejudice against me? Walter Raymond wrote me before he sailed, to look you up, and do what I could for you, as you were quite a favourite on the Eastern coast, and any kindness shown to you would be considered a personal favour to him, and that he only wished he could take the trip with us. 

I was amazed and mortified. I had obeyed my directions too literally, and must and did explain and apologize. After that, such pleasantattentions from him! Invited to call at his office with my friends, tomeet desirable passengers, something nice provided for refreshment, and these gentlemen were always ready for cards or conversation. Butthe great occasion was when I had no idea of such an honour, that thecaptain said:

"We are soon to pass through the Wrangel Narrows, a dangerous place, and the steering through zigzag lines must be most careful. I am goingto smuggle you on to the bridge to see me steer and hear me give myorders that will be repeated below. But as it is against the rule totake a woman up there at such a time, promise me to keep perfectlysilent. If you make one remark you lose your life. "

I agreed and kept my mouth shut without a muzzle. That "memory" is asclear today as if it had happened yesterday. 

One day while reading in my fine stateroom, a lady came to the opendoor and asked me if I would go out with her on the deck that pleasantafternoon and meet some friends of hers. I thanked her, but refused asI was reading one of Hon. Justin McCarthy's books, and as I had thehonour of meeting him and his most interesting wife in New York Cityat the home of Mrs. Henry M. Field, I was much engrossed in what hewrote. Again, another person came and entreated me to go to the deck;not suspecting any plot to test me, I went with her, and found a crowdgathered there, and a good-looking young man seemed to be haranguingthem. He stopped as we came along and after being introduced went onwith: "As I was saying, Miss Sanborn, I regard women as greatly ourinferiors; in fact, essentially unemotional, --really bovine. Do youreally not agree to that?" I almost choked with surprise and wrath, but managed to retort: "I am sorry to suppose your mother was a cow, but she must have been to raise a calf like you. " And I walked away tothe tune of great applause. It seems someone had said that I was neverat a loss when a repartee was needed, and it was proposed to give mean opportunity. Next surprise: a call as we were nearing Seattle froma large and noticeable lady who introduced herself saying:

"I am the president of a club which I started myself, and feel boundto help on. I have followed you about a good deal, and shall be muchobliged if you will jot down for me to read to this club everythingyou have said since you came on board. I know they will enjoy it. " Iwas sorry my memory failed me entirely on that occasion. Still it wasa great compliment!

But the Muir Glacier! We had to keep three and a half miles away, lestthe steamer be injured by the small icebergs which broke off theimmense mass into the water with a thunderous roar. A live glacieradvances a certain distance each day and retreats a little. Those whovisited the glacier brought back delicate little blue harebells theyfound growing in the clefts of ice. No description of my impressions?Certainly not! Too much of that has been done already. 

We saw curious sights along the way, such as the salmon leaping into afenced-in pool to deposit their spawn; there they could be easilyspeared, dried, and pitched into wagons as we pitch hay in NewEngland. I saw the Indians stretching the salmon on boards put up inthe sun, their color in the sun a brilliant pinkish red. 

I saw bears fishing at the edge of water, really catching fish intheir clumsy paws. Other bears were picking strawberries for theircubs. As I watched them strolling away, I thought they might belooking for a stray cow to milk to add flavour to the berries. 

We stopped at Wrangel to look at the totem poles, many of which havesince been stolen as the Indians did not wish to sell them; our usualmethod of business with that abused race. Totem poles are genealogicalrecords, and give the history of the family before whose door theystand. No one would quietly take the registered certificates ofRevolutionary ancestors searched for with great care from the ColonialDames or members of the New England Society, and coolly destroy them. I agree with Charles Lamb who said he didn't want to be like a potato, all that was best of him under ground. 

At Sitka the brilliant gardens and the large school for Indian girlswere the objects of interest. It is a sad fact that the school whichteaches these girls cleanly habits, the practical arts of sewing, andcooking simple but appetizing dishes, has made the girls unwilling toreturn to their dirty homes and the filthy habits of their parents. That would be impossible to them. So they are lured to visit the dancehalls in Juneau, where they find admirers of a transient sort, butseldom secure an honest husband. 

We called at Skagway, and the lady who was known by us told us therewas much stress there placed upon the most formal attention to rigidconventionalities, calls made and returned, cards left and received atjust the right time, more than is expected in Boston. And yet thattown was hardly started, and dirt and disorder and chaos reignedsupreme. 

A company of unlucky miners came home in our steamer; no place forthem to sleep but on deck near the doors of our stateroom, and theyate at one of the tables after three other hungry sets had beensatisfied. A few slept on the tables. All the poultry had been killedand eaten. We found the Chinese cooks tried to make tough meatattractive by pink and yellow sauces. We were glad to leave thesteamer to try the ups and downs of Seattle. 

CHAPTER V

Frances E. Willard--Walt Whitman--Lady Henry Somerset--Mrs. HannahWhitehall Smith--A Teetotaler for Ten Minutes--Olive ThorneMiller--Hearty Praise for Mrs. Lippincott (Grace Greenwood). 

I was looking over some letters from Frances E. Willard last week. What a powerful, blessed influence was hers!

Such a rare combination of intense earnestness, persistence, anddevotion to a "cause" with a gentle, forgiving, compassionate spirit, and all tempered by perfect self-control. 

Visiting in Germantown, Pennsylvania, at the hospitable home of Mrs. Hannah Whitehall Smith, the Quaker Bible reader and lay evangelist, and writer of cheerful counsel, I found several celebrities among herother guests. Miss Willard and Walt Whitman happened to be present. Whitman was rude and aggressively combative in his attack on theadvocate of temperance, and that without the slightest provocation. Hedeclared that all this total abstinence was absolute rot and of noearthly use, and that he hated the sight of these women who went outof their way to be crusading temperance fanatics. 

After this outburst he left the room. Miss Willard never alluded tohis fiery criticism, didn't seem to know she had been hit, but chattedon as if nothing unpleasant had occurred. 

In half an hour he returned; and with a smiling face made a manlyapology, and asked to be forgiven for his too severe remarks. MissWillard met him more than half-way, with generous cordiality, and theybecame good friends. And when with the women of the circle again shesaid: "Now wasn't that just grand in that dear old man? I like him themore for his outspoken honesty and his unwillingness to pain me. "

How they laboured with "Walt" to induce him to leave out certain ofhis poems from the next edition! The wife went to her room to praythat he might yield, and the husband argued. But no use, it was all"art" every word, and not one line would he ever give up. The old poetwas supposed to be poor and needy, and an enthusiastic daughter ofMrs. Smith had secured quite a sum at college to provide bed linen andblankets for him in the simple cottage at Camden. Whitman was a great, breezy, florid-faced out-of-doors genius, but we all wished he hadbeen a little less _au naturel_. 

To speak once more of Miss Willard, no one enjoyed a really laughablething more than she did, but I never felt like being a foolish triflerin her presence. Her outlook was so far above mine that I always feltnot rebuked, but ashamed of my superficial lightness of manner. 

Just one illustration of the unconscious influence of her noble souland her convincing words:

Many years ago, at an anniversary of Sorosis in New York, I had halfpromised the persuasive president (Jennie June) that I would saysomething. The possibility of being called up for an after-dinnerspeech! Something brief, terse, sparkling, complimentary, satisfactory, and something to raise a laugh! O, you know this agony!I had nothing in particular to say; I wanted to be quiet and enjoy thetreat. But between each course I tried hard, while apparentlylistening to my neighbour, to think up something "neat andappropriate. "

This coming martyrdom, which increases in horror as you advance withdeceptive gayety, from roast to game, and game to ices, is really oneof the severest trials of club life. 

Miss Willard was one of the honoured guests of the day, and wascalled on first. When she arose and began to speak, I felt instantlythat she had something to say; something that she felt was importantwe should hear, and how beautifully, how simply it was said! Not athought of self, not one instant's hesitation for a thought or a word, yet it was evidently unwritten and not committed to memory. Every eyewas drawn to her earnest face; every heart was touched. As she satdown, I rose and left the room rather rapidly; and when my name wascalled and my fizzling fireworks expected, I was walking up FifthAvenue, thinking about her and her life-work. The whole experience wasa revelation. I had never met such a woman. No affectation, norpedantry, nor mannishness to mar the effect. It was in part thehumiliating contrast between her soul-stirring words and my sillylittle society effort that drove me from the place, but all pettyegotism vanished before the wish to be of real use to others withwhich her earnestness had inspired me. 

One lady told me that after hearing her she felt she could go out andbe a praying band all by herself. Indeed she was

 A noble woman, true and pure, Who in the little while she stayed, Wrought works that shall endure. 

She was asked who she would prefer to write a sketch of her and herwork and she honoured me by giving me that great pleasure. The bookappeared in 1883, entitled _Our Famous Women_. 

Once when Miss Willard was in Boston with Lady Henry Somerset and AnnaGordon, I was delighted by a letter from Frances saying that LadyHenry wanted to know me and could I lunch with them soon at theAbbottsford. I accepted joyously, but next morning's mail brought thisdepressing decision: "Dear Kate, we have decided that there will bemore meat in going to you. When can we come?" I was hardly settled inmy house of the Abandoned Farm. There was no furnace in the house, only two servants with me. And it would be impossible to entertainthose friends properly in the dead of the winter, and I nearly readyto leave for a milder clime. So I told them the stern facts and lost arare treat. 

This is the end of Miss Willard's good-bye letter to me when returningto England with Lady Henry:

 Hoping to see you on my return, and hereby soliciting an exchange of photographs between you and Lady Henry and me, I am ever and as ever Yours, FRANCES WILLARD. 

While at Mrs. Smith's home in Germantown, both she and Miss Willardurged me to sign a Temperance Pledge that lay on the table in thelibrary. I would have accepted almost anything either of those goodfriends presented for my attention. So after thinking seriously Isigned. But after going to my room I felt sure that I could never keepthat pledge. So I ran downstairs and told them to erase my name, whichwas done without one word of astonishment or reproof from either. 

I wish I knew how to describe Hannah Whitehall Smith as she was in hereveryday life. Such simple nobility, such tenderness for the tempted, such a love for sinners, such a longing to show them the better way. She said to me: "If my friends must go to what is called Hell I wantto go with them. " When a minister, who was her guest, was greatlyroused at her lack of belief in eternal punishment and her infinitepatience with those who lacked moral strength, he said: "There aresurely some sins your daughters could commit which would make youdrive them from your home. " "There are no sins my daughters couldcommit which would not make me hug them more closely in my arms andstrive to bring them back. " Wherewith he exclaimed bitterly: "Madam, you are a mere mucilaginous mess. " She made no reply, but her husbandsoon sent him word that a carriage would be at the door in one hour toconvey him to the train for New York. 

 * * * * *

"If you do not love the birds, you cannot understand them. "

I remember enjoying an article on the catbird several years ago in the_Atlantic Monthly_, and wanting to know more of the woman who hadobserved a pair of birds so closely, and could make so charming astory of their love-affairs and housekeeping experiences, and thinkingthat most persons knew next to nothing about birds, their habits, andhomes. 

Mrs. Olive Thorne Miller, who wrote that bird talk, is now a dearfriend of mine, and while spending a day with me lately was kindenough to answer all my questions as to how and where and when shebegan to study birds. She is not a young woman, is the proudgrandmother of seven children; but her bright face crowned withhandsome white hair, has that young, alert, happy look that comes withhaving a satisfying hobby that goes at a lively pace. She said: "Inever thought of being anything but a housekeeping mother until I wasabout thirty-one and my husband lost all his property, and want, or athousand wants, stared us in the face. Making the children's clothesand my own, and cooking as well, broke down my health, so I bethoughtme of writing, which I always had a longing to do. "

"What did you begin with?"

"Well, pretty poor stuff that no one was anxious to pay for; mostly inessay form expressing my own opinions on various important subjects. But it didn't go. I was complaining of my bad luck to a plain-spokenwoman in charge of a circulating library, and she gave me grandadvice. 'No one cares a snap for your opinions. You must tellsomething that folks want to know. '"

"Did you then take up birds?"

"O no; I went into the library, read some of Harriet Martineau's talkson pottery, and told children how a teacup was made and got one dollarfor that. But those pot-boilers were not inspiring, and about tenyears later a second woman adviser turned my course into anotherchannel. "

"How did that come about?"

"I had a bird-loving friend from the West visiting me, and took her toProspect Park, Brooklyn, to see our birds. She pointed out several, and so interested me in their lives that from that day I began tostudy them, especially the wood-thrush and catbird. After I hadstudied them for two years, I wrote what I had seen. From that timemy course has seemed marked out for me, and my whole time has beengiven to this one theme. I think every woman over forty-five ought totake up a fad; they would be much happier and better off. "

"You told me once that three women had each in turn changed yourcareer. Do give me the third. "

"Well, after my articles and books had met with favour (I have broughtout fifteen books), invitations to lecture or talk about birds keptpouring in. I was talking this over with Marion Harland (Mrs. Terhune), declaring I could never appear in public, that I should befrightened out of my wits, and that I must decline. My voice would allgo, and my heart jump into my mouth. She exclaimed, 'For a sensiblewoman, you are the biggest fool I ever met!' This set me thinking, andwith many misgivings I accepted an invitation. "

"And did you nearly expire with stage fright?"

"Never was scared one bit, my dear. All bird-lovers are the nicestkind of folks, either as an audience or in their own homes. I havemade most delightful acquaintances lecturing in fifteen differentStates; am now booked for a tour in the West, lecturing every day andtaking classes into the fields and woods for actual observation. Nesting-time is the best time to study the birds, to know themthoroughly. "

"Do you speak about dead birds on hats?"

"Yes, when I am asked to do so. Did you ever hear that Celia Thaxter, finding herself in a car with women whose head-gear emulated abird-museum, was moved to rise and appeal to them in so kindly a waythat some pulled off the feathers then and there, and all promised toreform? She loved birds so truly that she would not be angry whenspring after spring they picked her seeds out of her 'Island Garden. '"

"Have you any special magnetic power over birds, so that they willcome at your call or rest on your outstretched finger?"

"Not in the least. I just like them, and love to get acquainted withthem. Each bird whose acquaintance I make is as truly a discovery tome as if he were totally unknown to the world. "

We were sitting by a southern window that looks out on awide-spreading and ancient elm, my glory and pride. Not one bird had Iseen on it that cold, repellent middle of March. But Mrs. Millerlooked up, and said: "Your robins have come!" Sure enough I could nowsee a pair. 

"And there are the woodpeckers, but they have stayed all winter. Nodoubt you have the hooting owls. There's an oriole's nest, badlywinter-worn; but they will come back and build again. I see you feedyour chickadees and sparrows, because they are so tame and fearless. I'd like to come later and make a list of the birds on your place. "

I wonder how many she would find. Visiting at Deerfield, Massachusetts, I said one day to my host, the artist J. W. Champney:"You don't seem to have many birds round you. "

"No?" he replied with a mocking rising inflection. "Mrs. Miller, whowas with us last week, found thirty-nine varieties in our front yardbefore breakfast!" Untrained eyes are really blind. 

Mrs. Miller is an excellent housekeeper, although a daughter nowrelieves her of that care. But, speaking at table of this and thatdish and vegetable, she promised to send me some splendid receipts fororange marmalade, baked canned corn, scalloped salmon, onion _à lacrème_ (delicious), and did carefully copy and send them. 

She told me that in Denmark a woman over forty-five is consideredgone. If she is poor, a retreat is ready for her without pay; if rich, she would better seek one of the homes provided for aged females whocan pay well for a home. 

Another thing of interest was the fact that when Mrs. Miller eats nobreakfast, her brain is in far better condition to write. She is aSwedenborgian, and I think that persons of that faith have usually acheerful outlook on life. She was obliged to support herself afterforty years of age. 

I would add to her advice about a hobby: don't wait till middle age;have one right away, now. Boys always do. I know of one young lady whomakes a goodly sum out of home-made marmalade; another who makesdresses for her family and special friends; another who sells threehundred dozen "brown" eggs to one of the best groceries in Boston, andsupports herself. By the way, what can you do?

Mrs. Lippincott had such a splendid, magnetic presence, such ahandsome face with dark poetic eyes, and accomplished so many unusualthings, that, knowing her as I did, I think I should be untrue to herif I did not try to show her as she was in her brilliant prime, andnot merely as a punster or a _raconteur_, or as she appeared in herdramatic recitals, for these were but a small part of the many-sidedgenius. 

When my friend, Mrs. Botta, said one evening to her husband: "Gracewrites me that she will be here tomorrow, to spend the Sabbath, " andthen said to me, "Grace Greenwood, I mean; have you ever met her?" myheart beat very quickly in pleasant anticipation of her coming. GraceGreenwood! Why, I had known her and loved her, at least her writings, ever since I was ten years old. 

Those dear books, bound in red, with such pretty pictures--_History ofMy Pets_ and _Recollections of My Childhood_, were the most preciousvolumes in my little library. Anyone who has had pets and lost them(and the one follows the other, for pets always come to some tragicend) will delight in these stories. 

And then the _Little Pilgrim_, which I used to like next best to the_Youth's Companion_; and in later years her spirited, graceful poetry;her racy magazine stories; her _Haps and Mishaps of a Tour in Europe_;her sparkling letters to the _Tribune_, full of reliable news fromWashington, graphic descriptions of prominent men and women, capitalanecdotes and atrocious puns;--O how glad I should be to look in herface and to shake hands with the author who had given me so muchpleasure!

Well, she came, I heard the bell ring, just when she was expected, with a vigorous pull, and, as the door opened, heard her say, in ajolly, soothing way: "Don't get into a passion, " to the man who wasswearing at her big trunk. And then I ran away, not wishing tointrude, and waited impatiently for dinner and an introduction to mywell-beloved heroine. 

Grace--Mrs. Lippincott--I found to be a tall, fine-looking lady, witha commanding figure and a face that did not disappoint me, as faces sooften do which you have dreamed about. She had dark hair, brown ratherthan black, which was arranged in becoming puffs round her face; andsuch eyes! large, dark, magnetic, full of sympathy, of kind, cordialfeelings and of quick appreciation of fun. She talked much and well. If I should repeat all the good stories she told us, that happySaturday night, as we lingered round the table, you would be convulsedwith laughter, that is, if I could give them with her gestures, expressions, and vivid word-pictures. 

She told one story which well illustrated the almost cruel persistentinquiries of neighbours about someone who is long in dying. Anunfortunate husband was bothered each morning by repeated calls fromchildren, who were sent by busy mothers to find out "Just how MissBlake was feeling this morning. " At last this became offensive, and hesaid: "Well, she's just the same--she ain't no better and she ain't noworse--she keeps just about so--she's just about dead, you can sayshe's dead. "

One Sunday evening she described her talks with the men in theprisons and penitentiaries, to whom she had been lately lecturing, proving that these hardened sinners had much that was good in them, and many longings for a nobler life, in spite of all their sins. 

No, I was not disappointed in "G. G. " She was just as natural, hearty, and off-hand as when some thirty years ago, she was a romping, harum-scarum, bright-eyed schoolgirl, Sara Clarke, of western NewYork, who was almost a gypsy in her love for the fields and forests. She was always ready for any out-door exercise or sport. This gave herglorious health, which up to that time she had not lost. 

Her _nom de plume_, which she says she has never been able to drop, was only one of the many alliterative names adopted at that time. Lookover the magazines and Annuals of those years, and you will find manysuch, as "Mary Maywood, " "Dora Dashwood, " "Ella Ellwood" "FannyForrester, " "Fanny Fern, " "Jennie June, " "Minnie Myrtle, " and so onthrough the alphabet, one almost expecting to find a "Ninny Noodle. "Examining one of Mrs. Lippincott's first scrapbooks of "Extracts fromNewspapers, " etc. , which she had labelled, "Vanity, all is Vanity, " Ifind many poems in her honour, much enthusiasm over her writings, andmuch speculation as to who "Grace Greenwood" might really be. Thepublic curiosity was piqued to find out this new author who added toforceful originality "the fascination of splendid gayety and brillianttrifling. " John Brougham, the actor and dramatist, thus expressed hisinterest in a published letter to Willis:

 The only person that I am disposed to think, write or talk about at present is your dazzling, bewitching correspondent, "Grace Greenwood. " Who is she? that I may swear by her! Where is she? that I may fling myself at her feet! There is a splendour and dash about her pen that carry my fastidious soul captive by a single charge. I shall advertise for her throughout the whole Western country in the terms in which they inquire for Almeyda in Dryden's _Don Sebastian_: "Have you seen aught of a woman who lacks two of the four elements, who has nothing in her nature but air and fire?"

And here is one of the poetical tributes:

 If to the old Hellenes Thee of yore the gods had given Another Muse, another Grace Had crowned the Olympian heaven. 

Whittier at that time spoke most cordially of her "earnestindividuality, her warm, honest, happy, hopeful, human heart; herstrong loves and deep hates. "

E. P. Whipple, the Boston critic and essayist, when reviewing herpoems, spoke of their "exceeding readableness"; and George Ripley, then of the New York _Tribune_, said:

 One charm of her writings is the frankness with which she takes the reader into her personal confidence. She is never formal, never a martyr to artificial restraint, never wrapped in a mantle of reserve; but, with an almost childlike simplicity, presents a transparent revelation of her inmost thoughts and feelings, with perfect freedom from affectation. 

She might have distinguished herself on the stage in either tragedy orcomedy, but was dissuaded from that career by family friends. Iremember seeing her at several receptions, reciting the rough PikeCounty dialect verse of Bret Harte and John Hay in costume. Standingbehind a draped table, with a big slouch hat on, and a red flannelshirt, loose at the neck, her disguise was most effective, while herdeep tones held us all. Her memory was phenomenal, and she couldrepeat today stories of good things learned years ago. 

Her recitation was wonderful; so natural, so full of soul and power. Ihave heard many women read, some most execrably, who fancied they werefamous elocutionists; some were so tolerable that I could sit andendure it; others remarkably good, but I was never before so moved asto forget where I was and merge the reader in the character sheassumed. 

Grace Greenwood probably made more puns in print than any other woman, and her conversation was full of them. It was Grace Greenwood who, ata tea-drinking at the New England Woman's Club in Boston, was beggedto tell one more story, but excused herself in this way: "No, I cannotget more than one story high on a cup of tea. "

Her conversation was delightful, and what a series of reminiscencesshe could have given; for she knew, and in many cases intimately, mostof the leading authors, artists, politicians, philanthropists, agitators, and actors of her time in both her own land and abroad. Inone of her letters she describes the various authors she saw whilelounging in Ticknor's old bookstore in Boston. 

 Here, many a time, we saw Longfellow, looking wonderfully like a ruddy, hearty, happy English gentleman, with his full lips and beaming blue eyes. Whittier, alert, slender and long; half eager, half shy in manner; both cordial and evasive; his deep-set eyes glowing with the tender flame of the most humane genius of our time. 

Emerson's manner was to her "a curious mingling of Athenianphilosophy and Yankee cuteness. "

Saxe was "the handsome, herculean punster, " and so on with manyothers. 

She resided with Miss Cushman in Rome, and in London she saw manylions--Mazzini, Kossuth, Dickens and Talfourd, Kingsley, Lover, theHowellses, Miss Mitford, Mrs. Muloch Craik, George Eliot, etc. 

She was the first Washington correspondent of her sex, commencing in1850 in a series of letters to a Philadelphia weekly; was for someyears connected with the _National Era_, making her first tour inEurope as its correspondent, and has written much for _The Hearth andHome_, _The Independent_, _Christian Inquirer_, _Congregationalist_, _Youth's Companion_; also contributing a good deal to Englishpublications, as _Household Words_ and _All the Year Round_. 

She was the special correspondent from Washington of the New York_Tribune_, and later of the _Times_. Her letters were racy, full ofwit, sentiment, and discriminating criticism, plenty of fun and alittle sarcasm, but not so audaciously personal and aggressive as someletter-writers from the capital. They attracted attention and werewidely copied, large extracts being made for the _London Times_. 

She lectured continually to large audiences during the Civil War onwar themes, and subjects in a lighter strain; was the first womanwidely received as a lecturer by the colleges and lyceums. With acommanding presence, handsome face, an agreeable, permeating voice, anatural offhand manner, and something to say, she was at once adecided favourite, and travelled great distances to meet herengagements. She often quoted that ungallant speech from the Duke ofArgyle: "Woman has no right on a platform--except to be hung; thenit's unavoidable"; and by her eloquence and wit proved its falsity andnarrowness. Without the least imitation of masculine oratory, herbest remembered lectures are, "The Heroic in Common Life, " and"Characteristics of Yankee Humour. " She always had the rare gift oftelling a story capitally, with ease, brevity, and dramatic effect, certain of the point or climax. I cannot think of any other woman ofthis country who has caused so much hearty laughter by this enviablegift. She can compress a word-picture or character-sketch into a fewlines, as when she said of the early Yankee: "No matter how large aman he was, he had a look of shrinking and collapse about him. Itlooked as if the Lord had made him and then pinched him. " And a womanwho has done such good work in poetry, juvenile literature, journalism, on the platform, and in books of travel and biography, will not soon be forgotten. There is a list of eighteen volumes fromher pen. 

She never established a _salon_, but the widespread, influential dailypaper and the lecture hall are the movable _salon_ to the women ofgenius in this Republic. 

This is just a memory. After all, we are but "Movie Pictures, " seenfor a moment, and others take our place. 

CHAPTER VI

In and Near Boston--Edward Everett Hale--Thomas WentworthHigginson--Julia Ward Howe--Mary A. Livermore--A Day at the ConcordSchool--Harriet G. Hosmer--"Dora D'Istria, " our Illustrious Visitor. 

Edward Everett Hale was kind to me, as he was to all who came withinhis radius. He once called to warn me to avoid, like poison, arascally imposter who was calling on many of the authors in and nearBoston to get one thousand dollars from each to create a publishingcompany, so that authors could have their books published at a muchcheaper rate than in the regular way. This person never called on me, as I then had no bank account. He did utterly impoverish many othercredulous persons, both writers, and in private families. All wasgrist that came to his mill, and he ground them "exceeding small. "

I met Mr. Hale one early spring at Pinehurst, North Carolina, with hiswife and daughter. He always had a sad face, as one who knew andgrieved over the faults and frailties of humanity, but at this timehe was recovering from a severe fall, and walked with a slow andfeeble step. When he noticed me sitting on the broad piazza, he came, and taking a chair beside me, began to joke in his old way, tellingcomical happenings, and inquired if I knew where Noah kept his bees. His answer: "In the Ark-hives, of course. " Once when I asked hisopinion of a pompous, loud-voiced minister, he only said, "Self, self, self!"

I wonder how many in his audiences or his congregation couldunderstand more than half of what he was saying. I once went to anAuthors' Reading in Boston where he recited a poem, doubtless veryimpressive, but although in a box just over the stage, I could not getone word. He placed his voice at the roof of his mouth, a finesounding board, but the words went no farther than the inside of hislips. I believe his grand books influence more persons for betterlives than even his personal presence and Christ-like magnetism. 

Mr. Thomas Wentworth Higginson never failed me. Once only I venturedalone into the Authors' Club Saturday meeting, and none of my ownfriends happened to be there. Evidently I was not known. Mr. Higginsonsaw the situation at once, and coming quickly to me escorted me to acomfortable seat. He ordered two cups of tea with wafers, andbeckoned to some delightful men and women to whom he introduced me ashis friend Miss Sanborn, thus putting me at my ease. He was also everpatient about my monomania of trying to prove that women possess bothwit and humour. He spoke of his first wife as the wittiest woman hehad ever known, giving convincing proof. A few men were on my side, but they could be counted on one hand omitting the thumb. But I workedon this theme until I had more than sufficient material for agood-sized volume. If a masculine book reviewer ever alluded to thebook, it was with a sneer. He generally left it without a word, as menstill ignore the fact when a woman wins in an essay-writingcompetition against men in her class or gets the verdict for herpowers in a mixed debate. At last Mr. Higginson wrote me most kindlyto stop battering on that theme. "If any man is such a fool as toinsist that women are destitute of wit or humour, then he is so big afool that it is not worth while to waste your good brains on him. T. W. Higginson. " That reproof chilled my ardour. Now you can hardly findany one who denies that women possess both qualities, and it isgenerally acknowledged that not a few have the added gift of comedy. 

As most biographers of Mrs. Julia Ward Howe dwell on her other giftsas philanthropist, poet, and worker for the equality of women withmen, I call attention to her effervescent, brilliant wit. Julia WardHowe was undeniably witty. Her concurrence with a dilapidatedbachelor, who retained little but his conceit, was excellent. He said:"It is time now for me to settle down as a married man, but I want somuch; I want youth, health, wealth, of course; beauty, grace--" "Yes, "she interrupted sympathetically, "you poor man, you do want them all. "

Of a conceited young man airing his disbelief at length in a magazinearticle, she said: "Charles evidently thinks he has invented atheism. "After dining with a certain family noted for their chilling mannersand lofty exclusiveness, she hurried to the house of a jolly friend, and, seating herself before the glowing fire, sought to regain anatural warmth, explaining: "I have spent three hours with the Mer deGlace, the Tête-Noire, and the Jungfrau, and am nearly frozen. "

Pathos and humour as twins are exemplified by her tearful horror overthe panorama of Gettysburg, and then by her saying, when urged by Mrs. Livermore to dine with her: "O no! my dear, it's quarter past two, andMr. Howe will be wild if he does not get--not his burg--but hisdinner. "

Mrs. Howe's wit never failed her. I once told her I was annoyed byseeing in big headlines in the morning's paper, "Kate Sanbornmoralizes, " giving my feeble sentiments on some subject which musthave been reported by a man whom I met for the first time the eveningbefore at a reception, though I was ignorant of the fact that I wasbeing interviewed. She comforted me by saying: "But after all, howmuch better that was than if he had announced, 'Kate Sanborndemoralizes. '" Or when Charles Sumner refusing to meet some friends ofhers at dinner explained languidly: "Really, Julia, I have lost all myinterest in individuals. " She retorted, "Why, Charles, God hasn't gotas far as that yet!" Once walking in the streets of Boston with afriend she looked up and read on a public building, "Charitable Eyeand Ear Infirmary. " She said: "I did not know there were anycharitable eyes and ears in Boston. " She showed indomitable courage tothe last. A lady in Boston, who lived opposite Mrs. Howe's home onBeacon Street, was sitting at a front window one cold morning inwinter, when ice made the steps dangerous. A carriage was driven up toMrs. Howe's door to take her to the station to attend a federation atLouisville. She came out alone, slipped on the second step, and rolledto the pavement. She was past eighty, but picked herself up with thequickness of a girl, looked at her windows to see if anyone noticedit, then entered the carriage and drove away. 

Was ever a child as unselfish as Mary Rice, afterwards Mary Livermore?Sliding on ice was for her a climax of fun. Returning to the houseafter revelling in this exercise, she exclaimed: "Splendid, splendidsliding. " Her father responded: "Yes, Mary, it's great fun, butwretched for shoes. "

Those words kept ringing in her ears, and soon she thought how herfather and mother had to practise close economy, and she decided: "Iought not to wear out my shoes by sliding, when shoes cost so much, "and she did not slide any more. There was no more fun in it for her. 

She would get out of bed, when not more than ten years old, andbeseech her parents to rise and pray for the children. "It's no matterabout me, " she once said to them, "if they can be saved, I can bearanything. "

She was not more than twelve years old, when she determined to aid herparents by doing work of some kind; so it was settled that she shouldbecome a dressmaker. She went at once into a shop to learn the trade, remained for three months, and after that was hired at thirty-sevencents a day to work there three months more. She also applied forwork at a clothing store, and received a dozen red flannel shirts tomake up at six and a quarter cents a piece. When her mother found thisout, she burst into tears, and the womanly child was not allowed totake any more work home. We all know Mrs. Livermore's war record andher power and eloquence as an orator. 

I would not say she was a spiritualist, but she felt sure that sheoften had advice or warning on questions from some source, and alwayslistened, and was saved from accidents and danger. And she said thatwhat was revealed to her as she rested on her couch, between twilightand dusk, would not be believed, it was so wonderful. 

Mrs. Livermore had a terrible grief to bear, --the lifelong illness ofher daughter from a chronic and incurable disease. She told me, when Iwas at her house, that she kept on lecturing, and acceptinginvitations, to divert her mind somewhat. She felt at times that shecould not leave her unfortunate child behind, when she should becalled from earth, but she was enabled to drive that thought away. From a child, always helping others, self-sacrificing, heroic, endowedwith marvellous energy and sympathy, hers was a most exceptional life;now "Victor Palms" are her right. 

I spent one day at the famous Concord School of Philosophy during itsfirst season. Of course I understood nothing that was going on. 

Emerson, then a mere wreck of his former self, was present, cared forby his wife or his daughter Ellen. Alcott made some most remarkablestatements, as: "We each can decide when we will ascend. " Then hewould look around as if to question all, and add: "Is it not so? Is itnot so?" I remember another of his mystic utterances: "When the mindis izzing, it is thinking things. Is it not so? Is it not so?" Also, "When we get angry or lose our temper, then fierce four-footed beastscome out of our mouths, do they not, do they not?"

After Mr. Harris, the great educational light, had closed his remarks, and had asked for questions, one lady timidly arose and inquired: "Canan atom be said to be outside or inside of potentiality?"

He calmly replied that "it could be said to be either inside oroutside potentiality, as we might say of potatoes in a hat; they areeither inside or outside the hat. " That seemed to satisfy herperfectly. 

Mr. Frank B. Sanborn read his lecture on American Literature, and Iventured to ask: "How would you define literature?"

He said: "Anything written that gives permanent pleasure. " And thenas he was a relative, I inquired, but probably was rather pert: "Woulda bank check, if it were large enough, be literature?" which wasgenerally considered as painfully trifling. 

Jones of Jacksonville was on the program, and talked and talked, butas I could not catch one idea, I cannot report. 

It was awfully hot on that hill with the sun shining down through thepine roof, so I thought one day enough. 

As I walked down the hill, I heard a man who seemed to have a lot ofhasty pudding in his mouth, say in answer to a question from the ladywith him: "Why, if you can't understand that, you can have no idea ofthe first principles (this with an emphatic gesture) of the Hegelianphilosophy. "

Alcott struck me as a happy dreamer. He said to me joyously: "I'mgoing West in Lou's chariot, " and of course with funds provided by hisdaughter. 

An article written by her, entitled "Transcendental Wild Oats, " made agreat impression on my mind. 

It appeared in a long-ago _Independent_ and I tried in vain to find itlast winter. Houghton and Mifflin have recently published BronsonAlcott's "_Fruitlands_, " compiled by Clara Endicott Sears, with"Transcendental Wild Oats" by Louisa M. Alcott, so it is brought tothe notice of those who will appreciate it. 

I called once on Miss Hosmer, who then was living with relatives inWatertown, Massachusetts, her old home; the house where she was bornand where she did her first modelling. Recently reading in MissWhiting's record of Kate Field's life, of Miss Hosmer as a universalfavourite in Rome, a dearly loved friend of the Brownings, andassociated with the literary and artistic coterie there, a living partof that memorable group, most of whom are gone, I longed to look inher eyes, to shake her hand, to listen to her conversation. Everyoneknows of her achievements as a sculptor. 

After waiting a few minutes, into the room tripped a merry-faced, bright-eyed little lady, all animation and cordiality as she said: "Itis your fault that I am a little slow in coming down, for I wasengrossed in one of your own books, too much interested to remember todress. "

The question asked soon brought a flow of delightful recollection ofCharlotte Cushman, Frances Power Cobbe, Grace Greenwood, Kate Field, and the Brownings. "Yes, " she said, "I dined with them all one winter;they were lovely friends. " She asked if we would like to seesome autograph letters of theirs. One which seemed speciallycharacteristic of Robert Browning was written on the thinnest of paperin the finest hand, difficult to decipher. And on the flap of theenvelope was a long message from his wife. Each letter was addressedto "My dearest Hattie, " and ended, "Yours most affectionately. " Therewas one most comical impromptu sent to her by Browning, from somecountry house where there was a house party. They were greatly grievedat her failure to appear, and each name was twisted into a rhyme atthe end of a line. Sir Roderick Murchison, for instance, was run inthus:

 As welcome as to cow is fodder-rick Would be your presence to Sir Roderick. 

A poor pun started another vein. "You must hear some of Miss Cobbe'spuns, " said Miss Hosmer, and they were so daringly, glaring bad, as tobe very good. When lame from a sprain, she was announced by a pompousbutler at a reception as "Miss Cobble. " "No, Miss Hobble, " was herinstant correction. She weighed nearly three hundred pounds and, oneday, complaining of a pain in the small of her back her brotherexclaimed: "O Frances, where _is_ the small of your back?"

Miss Hosmer regarded Grace Greenwood (Mrs. Lippincott) as one of thebest _raconteurs_ and wittiest women she had known. She was with herat some museum where an immense antique drinking cup was exhibited, large enough for a sitz bath. "A goblet for a Titan, " said Harriet. "And the one who drained it would be a tight un, " said Grace. 

She thought the best thing ever said about seasickness was from KateField, who, after a tempestuous trip, said: "Lemonade is the onlysatisfactory drink on a sea voyage; it tastes as well coming up asgoing down. "

 * * * * *

The last years of this brilliant and beloved woman were devoted tofutile attempts to solve the problem of Perpetual Motion. I wish shehad given us her memories instead. 

 Helen Ghika was born at Bucharest, Wallachia, the 22nd of January, 1829. The Ghika family is of an ancient and noble race. It originated in Albania, and two centuries ago the head of it went to Wallachia, where it had been a powerful and ruling family. In 1849, at the age of twenty, the Princess was married to a Russian, Prince Koltzoff Massalsky, a descendant of the old Vikings of Moldavia; her marriage has not been a congenial one. 

 A sketch of the distinguished woman, Helen Ghika, the Princess Massalsky, who, under the _nom de plume_ of Dora D'Istria, has made for herself a reputation and position in the world of letters among the great women of our century, will at least have something of the charm of novelty for most American readers. In Europe this lady was everywhere known, beloved by many personal friends, and admired by all who had read her works. Her thought was profound and liberal, her views were broad and humane. As an author, philanthropist, traveller, artist, and one of the strongest advocates of freedom and liberty for the oppressed of both sexes, and of her suffering sisters especially, she was an honour to the time and to womanhood. The women of the old world found in her a powerful, sympathizing, yet rational champion; just in her arguments in their behalf, able in her statements of their needs, and thoroughly interested in their elevation and improvement. 

 Her works embrace a vast range of thought, and show profound study and industry. The subjects are many. They number about twenty volumes on nationality, on social questions more than eight, on politics eighteen or twenty. Her travels fill fifteen books, and, beside all this, she wrote three romances, numerous letters and articles for the daily papers, and addresses to be read before various learned societies, of which she was an honoured member. M. Deschanel, the critic of the _Journal des Débats_, has said of her that "each one of her works would suffice for the reputation of a man. " As an artist, her paintings have been much admired. One of her books of travel, _A Summer on the Banks of the Danube_, has a drawing by its author, a view of Borcia in Roumania. From a notable exhibition at St. Petersburg she received a silver medal for two pictures called "The Pine" and "The Palm, " suggested to her by Heine's beautiful little poem:

 "A pine-tree sleeps alone On northern mountain-side; Eternal stainless snows Stretch round it far and wide. 

 "The pine dreams of a palm As lonely, sad, and still, In glowing eastern clime On burning, rocky hill. "

 This princess was the idol of her native people, who called her, with the warm enthusiasm of their race, "The Star of Albania. " The learned and cultivated also did her homage. Named by Frederika Bremer and the Athenians, "The New Corinne, " she was invested by the Greeks with the citizenship of Greece for her efforts to assist the people of Candia to throw off the oppressor's yoke, this being the first time this honour had ever been granted to a woman. 

 The catalogue of her writings fills several pages, the list of titles given her by learned societies nearly as many more and, while born a princess of an ancient race and by marriage one also, she counted these titles of rank as nothing compared with her working name, and was more widely known as Dora D'Istria than as the Princess Koltzoff Massalsky. 

 There is a romantic fascination about this woman's life as brilliant as fiction, but more strange and remarkable in that it is all sober truth--nay, to her much of it was even sad reality. Her career was a glorious one, but lonely as the position of her pictured palm-tree, and oftentimes only upheld by her own consciousness of the right; she has felt the trials of minds isolated by greatness. Singularly gifted by nature with both mental and physical, as well as social superiority, the Princess united in an unusual degree masculine strength of character, grasp of thought, philosophical calmness, love of study and research, joined to an ardent and impassioned love of the grand, the true, and the beautiful. She had the grace and tenderness of the most sensitive of women, added to mental endowments rare in a man. Her beauty, which had been remarkable, was the result of perfect health, careful training, and an active nature. Her physical training made her a fearless swimmer, a bold rider, and an excellent walker--all of which greatly added to her active habits and powers of observation in travelling, for she travelled much. Only a person of uncommon bodily vigour can so enjoy nature in her wildest moods and grandest aspects. 

This quotation is from a long article which Mrs. Grace L. Oliver, ofBoston, published in an early number of _Scribner's Magazine_. I neverhad known of the existence of this learned, accomplished woman, butafter reading this article I ventured to ask her to send me thematerial for a lecture and she responded most generously, sendingbooks, many sketches of her career, full lists of the subjects whichhad most interested her, poems addressed to her as if she were agoddess, and the pictures she added proved her to have been certainlyvery beautiful. "She looked like Venus and spoke like Minerva. "

My audience was greatly interested. She was as new to them as to meand all she had donated was handed round to an eager crowd. In aboutsix months I saw in the papers that Dora D'Istria was taking a longtrip to America to meet Mrs. Oliver, Edison, Longfellow, and myself!

I called on her later at a seashore hotel near Boston. She had justfinished her lunch, and said she had been enjoying for the first timeboiled corn on the cob. She was sitting on the piazza, rather shabbilydressed, her skirt decidedly travel-stained. Traces of the butter usedon the corn were visible about her mouth and she was smoking a largeand very strong cigar, a sight not so common at that time in thiscountry. A rocking chair was to her a delightful novelty and she hadalready bought six large rocking chairs of wickerwork. She was sittingin one and busily swaying back and forward and said: "Here I do reposemyself and I take these chairs home with me and when de gentlemen andde ladies do come to see me in Florence, I do show them how to reposethemselves. "

Suddenly she looked at me and began to laugh immoderately. "Oh, " sheexplained, seeing my puzzled expression, "I deed think of you as so_deeferent_, I deed think you were very tall and theen, with leetle, wiggly curls on each side of your face. "

She evidently had in mind the typical old maid with gimlet ringlets!So we sat and rocked and laughed, for I was equally surprised to meeta person so "different" from my romantic ideal. Like the two Irishmen, who chancing to meet were each mistaken in the identity of the other. As one of them put it, "We looked at each other and, faith, it turnedout to be nayther of us. "

The Princess Massalsky sent to Mrs. Oliver and myself valuable tokensof her regard as souvenirs. 

CHAPTER VII

Elected to be the First President of New Hampshire Daughters inMassachusetts and New Hampshire--Now Honorary President--Kind Wordswhich I Highly Value--Three, but not "of a Kind"--A Strictly FamilyAffair--Two Favourite Poems--Breezy Meadows. 

On May 15, 1894, I was elected to be the first president of the NewHampshire Daughters in Massachusetts and New Hampshire, and held theposition for three years. Was then made Honorary President. 

 * * * * *

Some unsolicited approval:

 Hers was a notable administration, and brought to the organization a prestige which remains. Rules might fail, but the brilliant president never. She governed a merry company, many of them famous, but she was chief. They loved her, and that affection and pride still exist. 

 A daughter of the "Granite State, " who can certainly take front rank among business women, is Kate Sanborn, the beloved president of New Hampshire's Daughters. 

 Another thing that has occupied Miss Sanborn's time this summer aside from farming and writing is the program for the coming winter's work for the Daughters of New Hampshire. It is all planned, and if all the women's clubs carry such a program as the one which Miss Sanborn has planned, and that means that it will be carried out, the winter's history of women's clubs will be one of unprecedented prosperity. 

 If New Hampshire's daughters now living out of their own State do not keep track of each other, and become acquainted into the bargain, it will not be the fault of their president, who has carried on correspondence with almost every one of them, and who has planned a winter's work that will enable them to learn something about their own State, as well as to meet for the promoting of acquaintance. 

 OUR FIRST MEETING

 This meeting was presided over by our much loved First-President, Kate Sanborn, and it was the most informal, spontaneous, and altogether enjoyable organization meeting that could be imagined, and the happy spirit came that has guided our way and helped us over the rough places leading us always to the light. 

 Our first resolve was to enjoy to the utmost the pleasure of being together, and with it to do everything possible to help our native State. To these two objects we have been steadfastly true in all the years; and how we have planned, and what we have done has been recorded to our credit, so that we may now say in looking back, "We have kept the faith and been true. "

 At this time there are so many memories, all equally precious and worthy of mention here, but we must be brief and only a few can be recalled. 

 In our early years _our_ Kate Sanborn led us through so many pleasant paths, and with her "twin President, " Julia K. Dyer, brought the real New Hampshire atmosphere into it all. 

 That was a grand Dartmouth Day, when the good man, Eleazar Wheelock, came down from his accustomed wall space to grace our program and the Dartmouth Sons brought their flag and delighted us with their college songs. 

 Since then have come to us governors, senators, judges, mayors, and many celebrities, all glad to bring some story with the breath of the hills to New Hampshire's Daughters. Kate Sanborn first called for our county tributes, to renew old acquaintances and promote rivalry among the members. We adorned ourselves with the gold buttercup badges, and adopted the grey and garnet as our colors. 

 NEW HAMPSHIRE'S DAUGHTERS

 _Members of the Society Hold an Experience Meeting. _

 The first meeting of the season of New Hampshire's Daughters was held at the Hotel Vendome, Boston, Saturday afternoon, and was a most successful gathering, both in point of attendance and of general interest. The business of the association was transacted under the direction of the president, Miss Kate Sanborn, whose free construction of parliamentary law and independent adherence to common sense as against narrow conventionality, results in satisfactory progress and rapid action. The 150 or more ladies present were more convinced than ever that Miss Sanborn is the right woman in the right place, although she herself indignantly repudiates the notion that she is fitted to the position. 

 The Daughters declare that the rapid growth of the organization is due to Miss Sanborn more than to any other influence. Her ability, brightness, wit, happy way of managing, and her strong personality generally are undoubtedly at present the mainstays of the Daughters' organization. She is ably assisted by an enthusiastic corps of officers. 

 MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

 Your calendar about old age is simply _au fait_. After reading it, I want to hurry up and grow old as fast as I can. It is the best collection of sane thoughts upon old age that I know in any language. Life coming from the Source of Life must be glorious throughout. The last of life should be its best. October is the king of all the year. A man should be more wonderful at eighty than at twenty; a woman should make her seventieth birthday more fascinating than her seventeenth. Merit never deserts the soul. God is with His children always. 

 Yours for a long life and happiness, PETER MacQUEEN. 

 [Illustration: PETER MacQUEEN]

 DEAR KATE SANBORN:

 The "Indian Summer Calendar" is the best thing you have done yet. I have read it straight through twice, and now it lies on my desk, and I read daily selections from it, as some of the good people read from their "Golden Treasury of Texts. "

 MARY A. LIVERMORE. 

 DEAR MISS SANBORN:

 It gives me pleasure to offer my testimonial to your unique, original, and very picturesque lectures. The one to which I recently listened, in the New England Conservatory of Music, was certainly the most entertaining of any humorous lecture to which I have ever listened, and it left the audience _talking_, with such bright, happy faces, I can see it now in my mind. And they _continued_ to repeat the happy things you said; at least my own friends did. It was not a "plea for cheerfulness, " it _was_ cheerfulness. I hope you may give it, and make the world laugh, a thousand times. "He who makes what is useful agreeable, " said old Horace of literature, "wins every vote. " You have the wit of making the useful agreeable, and the spirit and genius of it. 

 Sincerely, HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. 

I published a little volume, _A Truthful Woman in SouthernCalifornia_, which had a large sale for many years. Women touristsbought it to "enlarge" with their photographs. Stedman wrote me, afterI had sent him my book:

 MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:

 I think it especially charming that you should so remember me and send me a gift-copy of Truthful Kate's breezy and fascinating report of Southern California. For I had been so taken with your adoption of that Abandoned Farm that I had made a note of your second book. Your chapters give me as vivid an idea of Southern California as I obtained from Miss Hazard's watercolors, and that is saying a good deal. We all like you, and indeed who does not? And your books, so fresh and sparkling, make us like you even more. Believe that I am gratified by your unexpected gift, and by the note that convoyed it. EDMUND C. STEDMAN. 

 New York Public Library, Office of Circulation Department, 209 West 23rd Street, February 19, 1907. 

 MISS KATE SANBORN, Metcalf, Mass. 

 DEAR MISS SANBORN:

 You may be interested to know that your book on old wall-papers is included in a list of books specially recommended for libraries in Great Britain, compiled by the Library Association of the United Kingdom, recently published in London. As there seems to be a rather small proportion of American works included in the list, I think that this may be worthy of note. 

 With kindest regards, I remain, Very truly yours, ARTHUR E. BOSTWICK. _Chief of the Circulation Department_. 

 MY DEAR MISS KATE SANBORN:

 How kind and generous you are to my books, and therefore, to me! How thoroughly you understand them and know why I wrote them!

 When a book of mine is sent out into the cold world of indifferent reviewers, I read their platitudinous words, trying to be grateful; but waiting, waiting, knowing that ere long I shall get a little clipping from the _Somerville Journal_, written by Kate Sanborn; and then I shall know what the book is. If it's good, she'll say so, and if it isn't, I think she would say so; but that alternative never has come to me. But I would far rather have her true words of dispraise than all machine-made twaddle of nearly all the book columns of our great American press. 

 It is such generous minds as yours that have kept me writing. I should have stopped long ago if I had not had them. 

 ALICE MORSE EARLE. 

 It is impossible to give you a perfect pen picture of Breezy Meadows or of its mistress, Kate Sanborn, just as it is impossible to paint the tints of a glorious sunset stretching across the winter sky. Breezy Meadows is an ideal country home, and the mistress of it all is a grand woman--an honor to her sex, and a loyal friend. Her whole life seems to be devoted to making others happy, and a motto on one of the walls of the house expresses better than I can, her daily endeavour:

 "Let me, also, cheer a spot, Hidden field or garden grot, Place where passing souls may rest, On the way, and be their best. " BARBARA GALPIN. 

 As a lecturer, Miss Kate Sanborn is thoroughly unique. Whatever her topic, one is always sure there will be wit and the subtlest humour in her discourse, bits of philosophy of life, and the most practical common sense, flashes of laughable personal history, and gems of scholarship. It is always certain that the lecture will be rendered in inimitably bright and cheery style that will enliven her audience, which, while laughing and applauding, will listen intently throughout. No wonder she is a favourite with lecture goers, for few can give them so delightful an evening as she. --MARY A. LIVERMORE. 

 There is only one Kate Sanborn. Her position as a lecturer is unique. In the selection and treatment of her themes she has no rival. She touches nothing that she does not enliven and adorn. Pathos and humour, wit and wisdom, anecdote and incident, the foibles, fancies, freaks, and fashions of the past and present, pen pictures of great men and famous women, illustrious poets and distinguished authors, enrich her writings, as if the ages had laid their wealth of love and learning at her feet, and bidden her help herself. With a discriminating and exacting taste, she has brought together, in book and lecture, the things that others have overlooked, or never found. She has been a kind of discoverer of thoughts and things in the by-paths of literature. She also understands "the art of putting things. " But vastly more than the thought, style, and utterance is the striking personality of the writer herself. It is not enough to read the writings of Miss Sanborn, though you cannot help doing this. She must be heard, if one would know the secret of her power--subtle, magnetic, impossible of transfer to books. The "personal equation" is everything--the strong, gifted woman putting her whole soul into the interpretation and transmission of her thought so that it may inspire the hearts of those who listen; the power of self-radiation. It is not surprising that Miss Sanborn is everywhere greeted with enthusiasm when she speaks. --ARTHUR LITTLE. 

 Miss Kate Sanborn is one of the best qualified women in this country to lecture on literary themes. The daughter of a Dartmouth professor, she was cradled in literature, and has made it in a certain way the work of her life. There is nothing, however, of the pedantic about her. She is the embodiment of a woman's wit and humour; but her forte is a certain crisp and lively condensation of persons and qualities which carry a large amount of information under a captivating cloak of vivacious and confidential talk with her audience, rather than didactic statement. 

 J. C. CROLY, "Jenny June. "

One of the friends I miss most at the farm is Sam Walter Foss. He wasthe poet, philosopher, lecturer and "friend of man. " His folk songstouched every heart and even the sombre vein lightened with picturesof hope and cheer. He was humorous and even funny, but in every linethere is a dignity not often reached by writers of witty verse orprose. Mr. Foss was born in Candia, N. H. , in June, 1858. Through hisancestor, Stephen Batcheller, he had kinship with Daniel Webster, JohnGreenleaf Whittier, and William Pitt Fessenden. 

Mr. Foss secured an interest in the Lynn _Union_, and it was whileengaged in publishing that newspaper that he made the discovery thathe could be a "funny man. " The man having charge of the funny columnleft suddenly, and Mr. Foss decided to see what he could do in the wayof writing something humorous to fill the column. He had never doneanything of this kind before, and was surprised and pleased to havesome of his readers congratulate him on his new "funny man. " Hecontinued to write for this column and for a long time his identitywas unknown, he being referred to simply as the "Lynn _Union_ funnyman. " His ability finally attracted the attention of WolcottBalestier, the editor of _Tit-Bits_, who secured Mr. Foss's servicesfor that paper. Before long he became connected with _Puck_, _Judge_, and several other New York periodicals, including the New York _Sun_. 

Mr. Foss's first book was published in 1894, and was entitled _BackCountry Poems_ and has passed through several editions. _Whiffs fromWild Meadows_ issued in 1896 has been fully as successful. Later booksare _Dreams in Homespun_, _Songs of War and Peace_, _Songs of theAverage Man_. 

 [Illustration: SAM WALTER FOSS]

He had charge of the Public Library at Somerville, Massachusetts, and his influence in library matters extended all over New England. 

His poems are marked by simplicity. Most of his songs are written inNew England dialect which he has used with unsurpassed effect. Butthis poetry was always of the simplest kind, of the appealing naturewhich reaches the heart. Of his work and his aim, he said in his firstvolume:

 "It is not the greatest singer Who tries the loftiest themes, He is the true joy bringer Who tells his simplest dreams, He is the greatest poet Who will renounce all art And take his heart and show it To any other heart; Who writes no learnèd riddle, But sings his simplest rune, Takes his heart-strings for a fiddle, And plays his easiest tune. "

Mr. Foss _always_ had to recite the following poem when he calledat Breezy Meadows

 THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNKHEAD

 I'm a lunkhead, an' I know it; 'taint no use to squirm an' talk, I'm a gump an' I'm a lunkhead, I'm a lummux, I'm a gawk, An' I make this interduction so that all you folks can see An' understan' the natur' of the critter thet I be. 

 I allus wobble w'en I walk, my j'ints are out er gear, My arms go flappin' through the air, jest like an el'phunt's ear; An' when the womern speaks to me I stutter an' grow weak, A big frog rises in my throat, an' he won't let me speak. 

 Wall, that's the kind er thing I be; but in our neighborhood Lived young Joe Craig an' young Jim Stump an' Hiram Underwood. We growed like corn in the same hill, jest like four sep'rit stalks; For they wuz lunkheads, jest like me, an' lummuxes and gawks. 

 Now, I knew I wuz a lunkhead; but them fellers didn't know, Thought they wuz the biggest punkins an' the purtiest in the row. An' I, I uster laff an' say, "Them lunkhead chaps will see W'en they go out into the worl' w'at gawky things they be. "

 Joe Craig was a lunkhead, but it didn't get through his pate; I guess you all heerd tell of him--he's governor of the state; Jim Stump, he blundered off to war--a most uncommon gump-- Didn't know enough to know it--'an he came home General Stump. 

 Then Hiram Underwood went off, the bigges' gawk of all, We hardly thought him bright enough to share in Adam's fall; But he tried the railroad biz'ness, an' he allus grabbed his share, -- Now this gawk, who didn't know it, is a fifty millionaire. 

 An' often out here hoein' I set down atween the stalks, Thinkin' how we four together all were lummuxes an' gawks, All were gumps and lunkheads, only they didn't know, yer see; An' I ask, "If I hadn' known it, like them other fellers there, Today I might be settin' in the presidential chair. "

 We all are lunkheads--don't get mad--an' lummuxes and gawks, But us poor chaps who know we be--we walk in humble walks. So, I say to all good lunkheads, "Keep yer own selves in the dark; Don't own to reckernize the fact, an' you will make your mark. "

Next is the poem which is most quoted and best known:

 THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

 "He was a friend to man, and lived in a house by the side of the road. "--HOMER. 

 There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran;-- But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man. 

 Let me live in a house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by-- The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban;-- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. 

 I see from my house by the side of the road, By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardour of hope, The men who are faint with the strife. But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears-- Both parts of an infinite plan;-- Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. 

 I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone. 

 Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by-- They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish--so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat Or hurl the cynic's ban?-- Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. 

Mr. Foss's attribution to Homer used as a motto preceding his poem, "The House by the Side of the Road, " is, no doubt, his translation ofa passage from the _Iliad_, book vi. , which, as done into Englishprose in the translation of Lang, Leaf and Myers, is as follows:

 Then Diomedes of the loud war-cry slew Axylos, Teuthranos' son that dwelt in stablished Arisbe, a man of substance dear to his fellows; _for his dwelling was by the road-side and he entertained all men_. 

 * * * * *

 SAM WALTER FOSS

 Sam Walter Foss was a poet of gentle heart. His keen wit never had any sting. He has described our Yankee folk with as clever humour as Bret Harte delineated Rocky Mountain life. Like Harte, Mr. Foss had no unkindness in his make-up. He told me that he never had received an anonymous letter in his life. 

 Our American nation is wonderful in science and mechanical invention. It was the aim of Sam Walter Foss to immortalize the age of steel. "Harness all your rivers above the cataracts' brink, and then unharness man. " He told me he thought the subject of mechanics was as poetical as the song of the lark. "The Cosmos wrought for a billion years to make glad for a day, " reminds us of the most resonant periods of Tennyson. 

 "The House by the Side of the Road, " is from a text of Homer. "The Lunkhead" shows Foss in his happiest mood: gently satirizing the foibles and harmless, foolish fancies of his fellow-men. There is a haunting misty tenderness in such a poem as "The Tree Lover. "

 "Who loves a tree he loves the life That springs in flower and clover; He loves the love that gilds the cloud, And greens the April sod; He loves the wide beneficence, His soul takes hold of God. "

 We have too little love for the tender out-of-door nature. "The world is too much with us. "

 It was a loss to American life and letters when Sam Walter Foss passed away from us at the height of his strong true manhood. Later he will be regarded as an eminent American. 

 He was true to our age to the core. Whether he wrote of the gentle McKinley, the fighting Dewey, the ludicrous schoolboy, the "grand eternal fellows" that are coming to this world after we have left it--he was ever a weaver at the loom of highest thought. The world is not to be civilized and redeemed by the apostles of steel and brute force. Not the Hannibals and Cæsars and Kaisers but the Shelleys, the Scotts, and the Fosses are our saviours. They will have a large part in the future of the world to heighten and brighten life and justify the ways of God to men. 

 These and such as these are our consolation in life's thorny pathway. They keep alive in us the memory of our youth and many a jaded traveller as he listens to their music, sees again the apple blossoms falling around him in the twilight of some unforgotten spring. 

 PETER MacQUEEN. 

Peter MacQueen was brought to my house years ago by a friend when hehappened to be stationary for an hour, and he is certainly a uniqueand interesting character, a marvellous talker, reciter of Scotchballads, a maker of epigrams, and a most unpractical, now-you-see-himand now-he's-a-far-away-fellow. I remember his remark, "Breakfast is afatal habit. " It was not the breakfast to which he referred but to thegathering round a table at a stated hour, far too early, when not in amood for society or for conversation. And again: "I have decided neverto marry. A poor girl is a burden; a rich girl a boss. " But you nevercan tell. He is now a Benedict. 

I wrote to Mr. MacQueen lately for some of his press notices, and afew of the names which he called himself when I received his letters. 

 MY DEAR KATE SANBORN:--Yours here and I hasten to reply. Count Tolstoi remarked to me: "Your travels have been so vast and you have been with so many peoples and races, that an account of them would constitute a philosophy in itself. "

Theodore Roosevelt said, "No other American has travelled over our newpossessions more universally, nor observed the conditions in them soquickly and sanely. "

Kennan was _persona non grata_ to the Russians, especially after hisvisit to Siberia, but Mr. MacQueen was most cordially welcomed. 

What an odd scene at Tolstoi's table! The countess and her daughter infull evening dress with the display of jewels, and at the other endTolstoi in the roughest sort of peasant dress and with bare feet. Atdinner Count Tolstoi said to Mr. MacQueen: "If I had travelled as muchas you have, I should today have had a broader philosophy. "

Mr. MacQueen says of Russia:

 During the past one hundred years the empire of the Czar has made slow progress; but great bodies move slowly, and Russia is colossal. Two such republics as the United States with our great storm door called Alaska, could go into the Russian empire and yet leave room enough for Great Britain, Germany, and Austria. 

Journeys taken by Mr. MacQueen:

 1896--to Athens and Greece. 

 1897--to Constantinople and Asia Minor. 

 1898--in the Santiago Campaign with the Rough Riders, and in Porto Rico with General Miles. 

 1899--with General Henry W. Lawton to the Philippines, returning through Japan. 

 1900--with DeWet, Delarey, and Botha in the Boer Army; met Oom Paul, etc. 

 1901--to Russia and Siberia on pass from the Czar, visiting Tolstoi, etc. 

 1902--to Venezuela, Panama, Cuba, and Porto Rico. 

 1903--to Turkey, Macedonia, Servia, Hungary, Austria, etc. 

In the meantime Mr. MacQueen has visited every country in Europe, completing 240, 000 miles in ten years, a distance equal to that whichseparates this earth from the moon. 

Last winter he was four months in the war zone, narrowly escapingarrest several times, and other serious dangers, as they thought hima spy with his camera and pictures. I gave a stag dinner for him justafter his return from his war experiences, and the daily bulletins ofwar's horrors seemed dull reading after his stories. 

Here is an extract from a paper sent by Peter MacQueen from Iowa, where he long ago was in great demand as a lecturer, which containedseveral of the best anecdotes told by this irresistible _raconteur_, which may be new to you, if not, read them again and then tell themyourself. 

 Mr. MacQueen, who is to lecture at the Chautauqua here, has many strange stories and quaint yarns that he picked up while travelling around the globe. While in the highlands of Scotland he met a canny old "Scot" who asked him, "Have you ever heard of Andrew Carnegie in America?" "Yes, indeed, " replied the traveller. "Weel, " said the Scot, pointing to a little stream near-by, "in that wee burn Andrew and I caught our first trout together. Andrew was a barefooted, bareheaded, ragged wee callen, no muckle guid at onything. But he gaed off to America, and they say he's doin' real weel. "

While in the Philippines Mr. MacQueen was marching with some of thecolored troops who have recently been dismissed by the President. Abig coloured soldier walking beside Mr. MacQueen had his whiteofficer's rations and ammunition and can-kit, carrying them in thehot tropical sun. The big fellow turned to the traveller and said:"Say, there, comrade, this yere White Man's Burden ain't all it'scracked up to be. "

 In the Boer war Mr. MacQueen, war correspondent and lecturer, tells of an Irish Brigade man from Chicago on Sani river. The correspondent was along with the Irish-Americans and saw them take a hill from a force of Yorkshire men very superior in numbers. Mr. MacQueen also saw a green flag of Ireland in the British lines. Turning to his Irish friend, he remarked: "Isn't it a shame to see Irishmen fighting for the Queen, and Irishmen fighting for the Boers at the same time?" "Sorra the bit, " replied his companion, "it wouldn't be a proper fight if there wasn't Irishmen on both sides. "

Here's hoping that during Mr. MacQueen's long vacation from sermons, lectures, and tedious conventionalities in the outdoors of the darkestand deepest Africa, the wild beasts, including the man-eating tiger, may prove the correctness of Mrs. Seton Thompson's good words for themand only approach him to have their photos taken or amiably allowthemselves to be shot. The cannibals will decide he is too thin andwiry for a really tempting meal. 

 * * * * *

Doctor Edwin C. Bolles has been for fifteen years on the Faculty ofTufts College, Massachusetts, and still continues active service atthe age of seventy-eight. 

His history courses are among the popular ones in the curriculum, andhis five minutes' daily talks in Chapel have won the admiration of theentire College. 

He was for forty-five years in active pastoral service in theUniversalist ministry; was Professor of Microscopy for three years atSt. Lawrence University. Doctor Bolles was one of the pioneers in thelecture field and both prominent and popular in this line, and thefirst in the use of illustrations by the stereopticon in travellectures. 

The perfection of the use of microscopic projection which has done somuch for the popularization of science was one of his exploits. 

For several years his eyesight has been failing, an affliction whichhe has borne with Christian courage and cheerfulness and keeps righton at his beloved work. 

He has been devoted to photography in which avocation he has been mostsuccessful. His wife told me they were glad to accept his call to NewYork as he had almost filled every room in their house with hisvarious collections. One can appreciate this when he sees a carddisplayed on the door of Doctor Bolles's sanctum bearing this motto:

"A man is known by the Trumpery he keeps. "

He has received many honorary degrees, but his present triumph overwhat would crush the ambition of most men is greater than all else. 

 * * * * *

Exquisite nonsense is a rare thing, but when found how delicious itis! I found a letter from a reverend friend who might be an AmericanSidney Smith if he chose, and I am going to let you enjoy it; it waswritten years ago. 

Speaking of the "Purple and Gold, " he says:

 I should make also better acknowledgments than my thanks. But what can I do? My volume on _The Millimetric Study of the Tail of the Greek Delta, in the MSS. Of the Sixth Century_, is entirely out of print; and until its re-issue by the Seaside Library I cannot forward a copy. Then my essay, "Infantile Diseases of the Earthworm" is in Berlin for translation, as it is to be issued at the same time in Germany and the United States. "The Moral Regeneration of the Rat, " and "Intellectual Idiosyncracies of Twin Clams, " are resting till I can get up my Sanscrit and Arabic, for I wish these researches to be exhaustive. 

He added two poems which I am not selfish enough to keep to myself. 

 GOLDEN ROD

 O! Golden Rod! Thou garish, gorgeous gush Of passion that consumes hot summer's heart! O! yellowest yolk of love! in yearly hush I stand, awe sobered, at thy burning bush Of Glory, glossed with lustrous and illustrious art, And moan, why poor, so poor in purse and brain I am, While thou into thy trusting treasury dost seem to cram Australia, California, Sinai and Siam. 

And the other such a capital burlesque of the modern English Schoolwith its unintelligible parentheses:

 ASTER

 I kissed her all day on her red, red mouth (Cats, cradles and trilobites! Love is the master!) Too utterly torrid, a sweet, spicy South (Of compositæ, fairest the Aster. ) Stars shone on our kisses--the moon blushed warm (Ursa major or minor, Pollux and Castor!)

 How long the homeward! And where was my arm? (Crushed, crushed at her waist was the Aster!)

 No one kisses me now--my winter has come: (To ice turns fortune when once you have passed her. ) I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum) (For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!)

 [Illustration: PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES]

Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems. A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almostevery woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of theodour of a good cigar. "

 DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM

 When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered and gone, And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on, In the times when he's idle or thoughtful, When he's lonesome, jolly or blue, And he fingers his useless matches, What is a poor fellow to do?

 For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is gathered in; From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin; A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two; In this female republic of virtue, What is a poor fellow to do?

 He may train up his reason on bridge and riot on afternoon tea, And at dinner, all wineless and proper, a dress-suited guest he may be; But when the mild cheese has been passed, and the chocolate mint drops are few, And the coffee comes in and he hankers, What is a poor fellow to do?

 It's all for his good, they say; for in heaven no nicotine grows, And the angels need no cedar for moth-proofs to keep their clothes; No ashes are dropped, no carpets are singed, by all the saintly crew; If _this_ is heaven, and he gets there, What is a poor fellow to do?

 He'll sit on the golden benches and long for a chance to break jail, With a shooting-star for a motor, or a flight on a comet's tail; He'll see the smoke rise in the distance, and goaded by memory's spell, He'll go back on the women who saved him, And ask for a ticket to _Hell_!

An exact description of the usual happenings at "Breezy" in thebeginning, by my only sister, Mrs. Babcock, who was devoted to me anddid more than anyone to help to develop the Farm. I feel that thischapter must be the richer for two of her poems. 

 LIGHT AND SHADE AT "BREEZY MEADOWS" FARM

 This charming May morning we'll walk to the grove! And give the dear dogs all a run; Over the meadows 'tis pleasant to rove And bask in the light of the sun. 

 Last night a sly fox took off our best duck! Run for a gun! there a hen hawk flies! We always have the very worst of luck, The anxious mistress of the chickens cries. 

 We stop to smell the lilacs at the gate, And watch the bluebirds in the elm-tree's crest-- The finest farm it is in all the state, Which corner of it do you like the best?

 Just think! a rat has eaten ducklings two, Now isn't that a shame! pray set a trap! The downiest, dearest ones that ever grew, I think this trouble will climax cap!

 At "Sun Flower Rock, " in joy we stand to gaze; The distant orchard, flowering, show so fair: Surely my dear, abandoned farming pays, How heavenly the early morning air!

 Now only see! those horrid hens are scratching! They tear the Mountain Fringe so lately set! Some kind of mischief they are always hatching, Why did I ever try a hen to pet?

 Here's "Mary's Circle, " and the birches slender, And Columbine which grows the rocks between, Red blossoms showing in a regal splendour! We must be happy in this peaceful scene. 

 The puppies chew the woodbine and destroy The dainty branches sprouting on the wall! How can the little wretches so annoy? There's Solomon Alphonzo--worst of all!

 Now we will go to breakfast--milk and cream, Eggs from the farm, surely it is a treat! How horrid city markets really seem When one can have fresh things like these to eat!

 What? Nickodee has taken all the hash? And smashed the dish which lies upon the floor! I thought just now I heard a sudden crash! And it was he who slammed the kitchen door!

 By "Scare Crow Road" we take our winding way, Tiger and Jerry in the pasture feed. See, Mary, --what a splendid crop of hay! Now, don't you feel that this is joy indeed?

 The incubator chickens all are dead! Max fights with Shep, he scorns to follow me! Some fresh disaster momently I dread; Is that a skunk approaching?--try to see!

 Come Snip and Snap and give us song and dance! We'll have a fire and read the choicest books, While the black horses waiting, paw and prance! And see how calm and sweet all nature looks. 

 So goes the day; the peaceful landscape smiles; At times the live stock seems to take a rest. But fills our hearts with worry other whiles! We think each separate creature is possessed!

 MARY W. BABCOCK. 

 [Illustration: PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK]

 THE OLD WOMAN

 The little old woman, who wove and who spun, Who sewed and who baked, did she have any fun?

 In housewifely arts with her neighbour she'd vie, Her triumph a turkey, her pleasure a pie!

 She milked and she churned, and the chickens she fed, She made tallow dips, and she moulded the bread. 

 No club day annoyed her, no program perplext, No themes for discussion her calm slumber vexed. 

 By birth D. A. R. Or Colonial Dame, She sought for no record to blazon her fame--

 No Swamies she knew, she cherished no fad, Of healing by science, no knowledge she had. 

 She anointed with goose grease, she gave castor oil, Strong sons and fair daughters rewarded her toil. 

 She studied child nature direct from the child, And she spared not the rod, though her manner was mild. 

 All honour be paid her, this heroine true, She laid the foundation for things we call new!

 Her hand was so strong, and her brain was so steady, That for the New Woman she made the world ready. 

 MARY W. BABCOCK. 

 [Illustration: THE ISLAND WHICH WE MADE]

Here is one of the several parodies written by my brother whileinterned in a log camp in the woods of New Brunswick, during a severeday's deluge of rain. It was at the time when Peary had recentlyreached the North Pole, and Dr. Cook had reported his remarkableobservations of purple snows:

 DON'T YOU HEAR THE NORTH A-CALLIN'?

 Ship me somewhere north o' nowhere, where the worst is like the best; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, an' a man can get a rest; Where a breeze is like a blizzard, an' the weather at its best; Dogs and Huskies does the workin' and the Devil does the rest. 

 On the way to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play, And the day is slow a-comin', slower Still to go away. 

 There I seen a walrus baskin'--bloomin' blubber to the good; Could I 'it 'im for the askin'? Well--I missed 'im where he stood. Ship me up there, north o' nowhere, where the best is like the worst; Where there aren't no p'ints o' compass, and the last one gets there first. 

 Take me back to Baffin's Bay, Where the seal and walrus play; And the night is long a-comin', when it Comes, it comes to stay. 

 [Illustration: TAKA'S TEA HOUSE AT LILY POND]

 THE WOMAN WITH THE BROOM

 _A Mate for "The Man With The Hoe. "_

 (Written after seeing a farmer's wife cleaning house. )

 Bowed by the cares of cleaning house she leans Upon her broom and gazes through the dust. A wilderness of wrinkles on her face, And on her head a knob of wispy hair. Who made her slave to sweeping and to soap, A thing that smiles not and that never rests, Stanchioned in stall, a sister to the cow? Who loosened and made shrill this angled jaw? Who dowered this narrowed chest for blowing up Of sluggish men-folks and their morning fire?

 Is this the thing you made a bride and brought To have dominion over hearth and home, To scour the stairs and search the bin for flour, To bear the burden of maternity? Is this the wife they wove who framed our law And pillared a bright land on smiling homes? Down all the stretch of street to the last house There is no shape more angular than hers, More tongued with gabble of her neighbours' deeds, More filled with nerve-ache and rheumatic twinge, More fraught with menace of the frying-pan. 

 O Lords and Masters in our happy land, How with this woman will you make account, How answer her shrill question in that hour When whirlwinds of such women shake the polls, Heedless of every precedent and creed, Straight in hysteric haste to right all wrongs? How will it be with cant of politics, With king of trade and legislative boss, With cobwebs of hypocrisy and greed, When she shall take the ballot for her broom And sweep away the dust of centuries?

 EDWARD W. SANBORN. 

 NEW HAMPSHIRE DAUGHTERS

 New Hampshire Daughters meet tonight With joy each cup is brimmin'; We've heard for years about her men, But why leave out her wimmin?

 In early days they did their share To git the state to goin', And when their husbands went to war, Could fight or take to hoein'. 

 They bore privations with a smile, Raised families surprisin', Six boys, nine gals, with twins thrown in, O, they were enterprisin'. 

 Yet naught is found their deeds to praise In any book of hist'ry, The brothers wrote about themselves, And--well, that solves the myst'ry. 

 But now our women take their place In pulpit, court, and college, As doctors, teachers, orators, They equal men in knowledge. 

 And when another history's writ Of what New Hampshire's done, The women all will get their due, But not a single son. 

 But no, on sober second thought, We lead, not pose as martyrs, We'll give fair credit to her sons, But not forget her Darters. 

 KATE SANBORN. 

 [Illustration: THE LOOKOUT]

A little of my (not doggerel) but pupperell to complete the familytrio. 

Answer to an artist friend who begged for a "Turkey dinner. "

 Delighted to welcome you dear; But you can't have a Turkey dinner! Those fowls are my friends--live here: To eat, not be eat, you sinner!

 I like their limping, primping mien, I like their raucous gobble; I like the lordly tail outspread, I like their awkward hobble. 

 Yes, Turkey is my favourite meat, Hot, cold, or réchauffée; *But my own must stay, and eat and eat; You may paint 'em, and so take away. 

 KATE SANBORN. 

 [*Metre adapted to the peculiar feet of this bird. ]

 SPRING IN WINTER

 _A Memory of "Breezy Meadows"_

 'Twas winter--and bleakly and bitterly came The winds o'er the meads you so breezily name; And what tho' the sun in the heavens was bright, 'Twas lacking in heat altho' lavish in light. And cold were the guests who drew up to your door, But lo, when they entered 'twas winter no more!

 Without, it might freeze, and without, it might storm, Within, there was welcome all glowing and warm. And oh, but the warmth in the hostess's eyes Made up for the lack of that same in the skies! And fain is the poet such magic to sing: Without, it was winter--within, it was spring!

 Yea, spring--for the charm of the house and its cheer Awoke in us dreams of the youth of the year; And safe in your graciousness folded and furled, How far seemed the cold and the care of the world! So strong was the spell that your magic could fling, We _knew_ it was winter--we _felt_ it was spring!

 Yea, spring--in the glow of your hearth and your board The springtime for us was revived and restored, And everyone blossomed, from hostess to guest, In story and sentiment, wisdom and jest; And even the bard like a robin must sing-- And, sure, after that, who could doubt it was spring!

 DENIS A. McCARTHY. 

 _New Year's Day_, 1909. 

Mr. McCarthy is associate editor of _The Sacred Heart_, Boston, and amost popular poet and lecturer. 

His dear little book, _Voices from Erin_, adorned with the Irish harpand the American shield fastened together by a series of true-loveknots, is dedicated "To all who in their love for the new land havenot forgotten the old. " There is one of these poems which is alwayscalled for whenever the author attends any public function whererecitations are in order, and I do not wonder at its popularity, forit has the genuine Irish lilt and fascination:

 "Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring time of the year, When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble With their singing and their winging to and fro; When queenly Slieve-na-mon puts her verdant vesture on, And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring; When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance; Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!"

I have always wanted to write a poem about my own "Breezy" and thebunch of lilacs at the gate; but not being a poet I have had to keepwanting; but just repeating this gaily tripping tribute over and over, I suddenly seized my pencil and pad, and actually under theinspiration, imitated (at a distance) half of this first verse. 

 How sweet to be at Breezy in the springtime of the year, With the lilacs all abloom at the gate, And everything so new, so jubilant, so dear, And every little bird is a-looking for his mate. 

There, don't you dare laugh! Perhaps another time I may swing intothe exact rhythm. 

The Rev. William Rankin Duryea, late Professor at Rutgers College, NewBrunswick, was before that appointment a clergyman in Jersey City. Hiswife told me that he once wrote some verses hoping to win a prize ofseveral hundred dollars offered for the best poem on "Home. " He dashedoff one at a sitting, read it over, tore it up, and flung it in thewaste basket. Then he proceeded to write something far more seriousand impressive. This he sent to the committee of judges who were tochoose the winner. It was never heard of. But his wife, who liked therhythm of the despised jingle, took it from the waste basket, piecedit together, copied it, and sent it to the committee. It took theprize. And he showed me in his library, books he had long wanted toown, which he had purchased with this "prize money, " writing in each"Bought for a Song. "

 1

 Dark is the night, and fitful and drearily Rushes the wind like the waves of the sea, Little care I as here I sing cheerily, Wife at my side and my baby on knee; King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King. 

 2

 Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces Dearer and dearer as onward we go, Forces the shadow behind us and places Brightness around us with warmth in the glow King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King. 

 3

 Flashes the love-light increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul, Telling of trust and content the sweet story, Lifting the shadows that over us roll; King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King. 

 4

 Richer than miser with perishing treasure, Served with a service no conquest could bring, Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing, King, King, crown me the King! Home is the Kingdom, and Love is the King. 

 WM. RANKIN DURYEA, D. D. 

 [Illustration: THE SWITCH]

Breezy Meadows, my heart's delight. I was so fortunate as to purchaseit in a ten-minute interview with the homesick owner, who longed toreturn to Nebraska, and complained that there was not grass enough onthe place to feed a donkey. I am sure this was not a personalallusion, as I saw the donkey and he did look forlorn. 

I was captivated by the big elms, all worthy of Dr. Holmes'swedding-ring, and looked no further, never dreaming of the greatsurprises in store for me. As, a natural pond of water lilies, sometinted with pink. These lilies bloom earlier and later than any othersabout here. 

An unusual variety of trees, hundreds of white birches greatly addingto the beauty of the place, growing in picturesque clumps of familygroups and their white bark, especially white. 

 [Illustration: HOW VINES GROW AT BREEZY MEADOWS]

Two granite quarries, the black and white, and an exquisite pink, andwe drive daily over long stretches of solid rock, going down two orthree hundred feet--But I shall never explore these for illusivewealth. 

A large chestnut grove through which my foreman has made fourexcellent roads. Two fascinating brooks, with forget-me-nots, blue-eyed and smiling in the water, and the brilliant cardinal-floweron the banks in the late autumn. 

From a profusion of wild flowers I especially remark themoccasin-flower or stemless lady's-slipper. 

My _Nature's Garden_ says--"Because most people cannot forbear pickingthis exquisite flower that seems too beautiful to be found outside amillionaire's hothouse, it is becoming rarer every year, until thepicking of one in the deep forest where it must now hide, has becomethe event of a day's walk. " Nearly 300 of this orchid were found inour wooded garden this season. 

In the early spring, several deer are seen crossing the field just alittle distance from the house. They like to drink at the brooks andnip off the buds of the lilac trees. Foxes, alas, abound. 

Pheasants, quail, partridges are quite tame, perhaps because we feedthem in winter. 

I found untold bushes of the blueberry and huckleberry, also enoughcranberries in the swamp to supply our own table and sell some. Wildgrape-vines festoon trees by the brooks. 

Barberries, a dozen bushes of these which are very decorative, andtheir fruit if skilfully mixed with raisins make a foreign-tasting anddelicious conserve. 

We have the otter and mink, and wild ducks winter in our brooks. Largebirds like the heron and rail appear but rarely; ugly looking andfierce. 

The hateful English sparrow has been so reduced in numbers by sparrowtraps that now they keep away and the bluebirds take their own boxesagain. The place is a safe and happy haven for hosts of birds. 

I have a circle of houses for the martins and swallows and wiresconnecting them, where a deal of gossip goes on. 

The pigeons coo-oo-o on the barn roof and are occasionally utilized ina pie, good too!

 [Illustration: GRAND ELM (OVER TWO HUNDRED YEARS OLD)]

 "I wonder how my great trees are coming on this summer. "

 "Where are your trees, Sir?" said the divinity student. 

 "Oh, all around about New England. I call all trees mine that I have put my wedding ring on, and I have as many tree-wives as Brigham Young has human ones. " "One set's as green as the other, " exclaimed a boarder, who has never been identified. "They're all Bloomers, "--said the young fellow called John. (I should have rebuked this trifling with language, if our landlady's daughter had not asked me just then what I meant by putting my wedding-ring on a tree. ) "Why, measuring it with my thirty-foot tape, my dear, said I. --I have worn a tape almost out on the rough barks of our old New England elms and other big trees. Don't you want to hear me talk trees a little now? That is one of my specialties. "

 "What makes a first-class elm?"

 "Why, size, in the first place, and chiefly anything over twenty feet clear girth five feet above the ground and with a spread of branches a hundred feet across may claim that title, according to my scale. All of them, with the questionable exception of the Springfield tree above referred to, stop, so far as my experience goes, at about twenty-two or twenty-three feet of girth and a hundred and twenty of spread. "

Three of my big elms easily stand the test Dr. Holmes prescribed, andseem to spread themselves since being assured that they are worthy ofone of his wedding-rings if he were alive, and soon there will beother applicants in younger elms. 

 * * * * *

I am pleased that my memory has brought before me so unerringly thepleasant pictures of the past. But my agreeable task is completed. 

The humming-birds have come on this fifteenth of July to sip at earlymorn the nectar from the blossoms of the trumpet-vine, now beginningits brilliant display. That is always a signal for me to drop allindoor engagements and from this time, the high noon of midsummerfascinations, to keep out of doors enjoying to the full theever-changing glories of Nature, until the annual Miracle Play ofthe Transfiguration of the Trees. 

THE END