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ALONGSIDE" 
 
 BEING NOTES SUGGESTED 
 
 A New England Boyhood 
 Doctor EDWARD EVERETT HALE 
 
 'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
 I summon np remembrance of things past, 
 I sigh tlie Inck of many a thir.g I sought.'" 
 
 . ■ ' ' • ' ' Shdkispectri, Sdnnet 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED. 
 
 Thomas Todd 
 14 Beacon Street, Boston 
 
75 i^'^'^ 
 
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 ^-^ 
 
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 \-i« 
 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 "/ have written frankly, garrulously, and at 
 case ; speaking of ivhat it gives me joy to remember, 
 at any length I like — sometimes very carefully — of 
 ii.<hat I think it may be useful for others to know; 
 and passing in total silence, things which I have no 
 pleasure in reviewing, and which the reader would 
 find no help in the account of" 
 
 To these words, with which Ruskin introduces 
 the first chapter of ''Prceterita'' it seems to me that 
 there is no need that I should add anytlmig. 
 
 If there are any living ivho remember with what 
 opening my life began, who have witnessed a sincere 
 effort to make it, in spite of fate, of some use to the 
 world, those persons will know why I have selected 
 this passage. 
 
 CAROLINE H. BALL. 
 
 Washingtott, 
 
 December, 1S98. 
 
Frontispiece 
 
 Mark Healey at the age of eighty-four 
 
 from a medallion by 
 
 Edward Spring 
 
 WHICH was accidentally destroyed BEFORE IT CAME 
 INTO THE POSSESSION OF HIS FAMILY 
 
 MARK HEALEY WAS BORN AT KENSINGTON, NEW HAMPSHIRE, JUNE 27, I79I, 
 SON OF EUNICE WELLS AND THE HONORABLE NEWELL HEALEY. HE WAS A 
 DISTINGUISHED BOSTON MERCHANT. ELECTED TO THE PRESIDENCY OF THE 
 MERCHANT'S BANK, OCTOBER 28, 1833, HE RETAINED THE POSITION NEARLY 
 FOUR YEARS, RESIGNING AT LAST ON ACCOUNT OF THE PRESSURE OF HIS 
 PRIVATE BUSINESS. IT WAS SAID, HALF A CENTURY AGO, THAT THE POLICY 
 HE INAUGURATED AND IMPRESSED UPON HIS SUCCESSOR GAVE TO THE BANK 
 THE STABILITY WHICH ENSURED ITS SUBSEQUENT REPUTATION. HE DIED AT 
 HIS COUNTRY SEAT IN LYNN, MASSACHUSETTS, NOVEMBER 17, 1876. 
 
"ALONGSIDE" 
 
 BEING "notes" suggested BY 
 
 'A NEW ENGLAND BOYHOOD," by E. E. HALE, D.D. 
 A Review and a Story. 
 
 "It is a melanclioly of mine own, compounded of many simples." 
 
 As y^. Like II. 
 
 IT is impossible for one of Mr. Hale's generation to 
 read the charming transcript of his early experi- 
 ences without being led afresh through bygone days. 
 Many of the topics which he touches lie parallel with 
 my own memories, and I feel as if some of the Boston 
 women of today would like to know what the girls of 
 that time were about. 
 
 Mr. Hale's story opens with the interesting question 
 of the development of human memory — How early 
 can a child remember .? The true answer to this ques- 
 tion would be, " From the very moment of its birth the 
 child begins to remember whatever is of use to it, in 
 that stage of its being." If it were not so, it could not 
 develop at all. How soon impressions can be made 
 which will last through life, and can be consciously 
 recalled at any moment, is quite a different affair. 
 
This will depend on the intellectual nature inherited 
 and the circumstances under which impressions are 
 received. Mr. Hale has often called mine an iron 
 memory, but whatever metal it is made of, it holds only 
 the impressions that pain, profound emotion or intense 
 interest have stamped upon it. 
 
 In referring to the execution of Andre, Hugh 
 Wynne says : 
 
 " I sometimes think it strange, how even in partic- 
 ulars the natural and other scenery of this dark drama 
 remains distinct in my memory, unaffected by the 
 obliterating influence of the years, which have effaced 
 so much else I had been more glad to remember." 
 
 Here Weir Mitchell distinctly recognizes the per- 
 manence of the impressions deepened by pain, and 
 doubtless these words had been spoken in his hearing 
 by some one who remembered what George Washing- 
 ton suffered on that day. 
 
 I could not have been more than fourteen months 
 old when I was very ill. My nurse left me, for a 
 moment, on the bed in what was the front spare room 
 of the house in which I was born, and at that instant 
 I was attacked by very terrible pain. I was also fright- 
 ened by my loneliness, and that experience printed 
 upon my mind the walls of the room, its doors and 
 mantle, and the pattern of the carpet. On the day on 
 which I was fifty years old, I was anxious to see if I 
 did actually remember these things, and I asked per- 
 
mission to examine the room. The wall paper and 
 the carpet had gone, of course, but in every other 
 respect the picture corresponded to that in my mind. 
 
 When my father was married, he went to live in a 
 house built by Mr. John Lodge for his own use, in 
 Boston, at No. 6 Green Street. When he left it, that 
 Mr. Lodge might return to it, I was only three and a 
 half years old, so that all I distinctly remember of it is 
 what I saw or heard before that time. My first dis- 
 tinct impression is of an earthquake. I was tied into 
 a high chair, by my grandfather's side. Suddenly, the 
 room seemed to float ; the Empire clock upon the 
 mantle rang against its glass shade ; two or three 
 flower-pots fell from a green stand by the window, and 
 through it all I saw my mother coming from the parlor 
 closet, with a glass of jelly in her hand. I do not 
 know how old I was, but the picture in my mind is so 
 distinct that I feel no hesitation in describing it. 
 
 The house was large ; it had a long yard running 
 back to a stable. It was one of a pair of brick houses, 
 still standing. Two washrooms were built out behind 
 the houses, the roofs of which were protected by a 
 composition of tar and gravel, and divided by a narrow 
 parapet about eight inches high. 
 
 I suppose I must have been about three years old 
 — my mother still keeping her chamber — when I 
 was sent to a dame school in Hancock Street, kept by 
 a Miss Wentworth, who afterward became Mrs. 
 Charles Hunt. 
 
Jane Otis — one of the lovely family living at 34 
 Chambers Street, whose story those who desire may 
 find in the Library of the Boston Athenaeum — was 
 then going to school on Mt. Vernon Street, and used 
 to call for me every morning and bring me home every 
 noon, when my nurse met me, dressed me afresh, and 
 stood me up on a chair to watch for my father's return 
 to dinner. At this school, the tiny pupils, if they be- 
 haved well, were allowed to carry home pink or blue 
 bows on their white sleeves, according to their sex; 
 while a black ribbon told the less happy story. 
 
 I remember nothing of this school except my dear 
 teacher's face, and the high stool and fool's cap which 
 often fell to my lot. The fool's cap was made of white 
 cardboard, and had a little bell upon its peaked sum- 
 mit, which betrayed the slightest motion of the baby 
 culprit. I can remember ringing this bell, and laugh- 
 ing merrily at its tinkle. One day I think I must have 
 done this a little too often, for I found myself going 
 home on Saturday noon with a black bow on my 
 shoulder. The West Church Sunday School, said to 
 be the first in the city of Boston, had not then opened, 
 but our dear minister, Dr. Charles Lowell, held a cate- 
 chising class, every Saturday afternoon, in the belfry 
 of the Lynde Street Church. The small square room 
 where we were seated must still be in existence, I should 
 think, but I recall nothing of it or its inmates, save my 
 minister's dear face. The one thing I felt sure of, as 
 
Jane led me home, was this — that I could never wear 
 a black bow into Dr. Lowell's presence ! As soon as 
 the door opened, I darted through the parlors, into the 
 parlor pantry, climbed three short inside steps which 
 led to the shed, jumped over the parapet, and climbed 
 into the window of the adjoining house. 
 
 I was familiar with the way. The next house was 
 occupied by an English family, named Wilby, whose 
 four accomplished sisters afterwards became distin- 
 guished in the annals of school-teaching. Often had 
 I been lifted over the parapet that I might watch one 
 beautiful daughter as she played upon the harp. So 
 far I remember; the rest I have been told. I could 
 not have found any one in the house, not even the big 
 St. Bernard with which I loved to play. I climbed to 
 the upper storey, and, in the extremity of my disap- 
 pointment and mortification, rolled under a servant's 
 bed and cried myself to sleep. 
 
 What distress I left behind me, loving hearts of 
 mothers will divine. Both houses and the whole 
 neighborhood were searched in vain. There was a 
 " Town Crier " in those days, and not even the heavy 
 toll of his big bell reached my shrouded ears. Toward 
 night the absent family came home to what was then 
 very unusual, a late dinner. With them came my St. 
 Bernard. On his way to his water-bowl in the pantry, 
 he detected my presence, and, bounding up stairs, 
 dragged me forth. The family were listening to the 
 
story below, when they heard my sharp cry. They 
 did not wait to go to my relief before the news was 
 carried to No. 6. I know nothing more, but I don't 
 think I was ever punished. On the next Saturday I 
 found my way to the Belfry with a blue bow on my 
 shoulder. Suddenly a tender hand lifted my chin, and 
 deep, piercing, but loving eyes looked into mine, and I 
 heard the words, " Caroline, why were you afraid to 
 come to me ? Do you not know that Our Father in 
 Heaven sees us both always ? " This I distinctly 
 remember, and this is the first time. I have repeated 
 those sacred words. 
 
 When I was dressed for dinner, and lifted to the 
 front parlor window to watch for my father, I looked 
 down into a big wheelbarrow of smoking lobsters, over 
 which a kindly sailor leaned upon a crutch. There 
 were "giants" in those days! I sometimes think no 
 one born since the Civil War has ever seen a lobster ! 
 As soon as I appeared, the sailor cut off the largest 
 pair of antennae he could find, and held them up. 
 Then my maid opened the window and put her arm 
 round me, while I joyfully seized them, to cut them 
 into bugles for my doll, as soon as I had had my 
 dinner. 
 
 Beyond Staniford Street and Major Melville's 
 house, they were, at that time, building a Universal- 
 ist church, afterward called Dr. Jenks's. It was while 
 I was grasping my scarlet treasures one day, that I 
 heard a heavy crash, and saw the rising cloud, where 
 
the staging about the church had fallen. Many men 
 were wounded, and two or three, I think, were killed. 
 I still see that cloud of dust, hear the terrible cries, 
 and watch something carried by, in a moment, covered 
 with a white sheet, spotted with crimson. 
 
 So I remember seeing Lydia Maria Child go by, 
 with long curls hanging over her shoulders, and a tin 
 pail in her hand. This happened often, for three 
 times a day she carried a dainty meal to her husband, 
 at that time imprisoned in Leverett Street jail for 
 debt. I saw, also, a prisoner with a black cap 
 drawn over his face driving by in a cart, on his way 
 to execution. 
 
 At the back of the house, the upper windows looked 
 over to Bunker Hill, where there was then no monu- 
 ment ; between my nursery and the river there was a 
 brewery, and I often stood to watch the heavy bags 
 of malt lifted from the carts to the lofts. It was not 
 till many years after that I knew what those bags held. 
 
 It has seemed worth while to relate these juvenile 
 experiences because the manner in which they were 
 impressed upon my mind is evident. Bodily pain, 
 bitter mortification, my pastor's ever-watchful love, 
 and the surprise of spectacles — terrible or unusual, 
 and never repeated — did the work. Nothing else do 
 I recall of those first four years. Up to this hour, I 
 remember little of ordinary occurrences. 
 
 I had a very small experience of schoolrooms, but 
 when I was about eight years old I was sent to a school 
 
8 
 
 kept on Hancock Street, by Ruth and Martha Twing, 
 to learn to make a linen shirt. These were two maiden 
 ladies, elderly, I think, even then. They both wore 
 caps. Miss Martha was the younger, and her lovely 
 face, full of deep content, rises clear before me now. 
 Miss Ruth's face is quite as distinct, but stamped with 
 integrity as I see it, it was never so tenderly beloved. 
 Not a scholar's name or face can I recall, nor anything 
 about the room, except that we sat on plain deal 
 benches, without footstools or any support for the back, 
 the benches themselves far too high for my comfort. 
 My mother was an e.xcellent needlewoman, but these 
 ladies were her equals, and I had reason to remember 
 their teaching gratefully when, in 1853, I was again 
 making linen shirts, in order to supply bricks and 
 mortar to the rising walls of Jarvis Street church in 
 Toronto. 
 
 How I learned to read I know no more than Mr. 
 Hale. My mother told me that, when I was eighteen 
 months old, I knew all my letters, my father having 
 taught me from the large type of the first page of the 
 " Christian Register," himself making the letters that 
 he could not supply from other papers. My children 
 learned in much the same way ; my daughter, by learn- 
 ing her " Mother Goose '" by heart, and then picking 
 out the familiar words beneath the pictures. I cannot 
 remember a spelling lesson, though I must have had 
 many. I suppose I studied the same arithmetics that 
 
Mr. Hale did, " Colburn's Mental Arithmetic " and 
 " Colburn's Sequel," and, if the good of the pupil still 
 influenced the School Committees, these admirable 
 books would yet suffice to the Public Schools of every 
 city, to the great relief of the students. 
 
 My father taught me many tables of weights and 
 measures. Modern languages I learned when I 
 escaped from my governess, and laid solid foundations 
 under the care of Joseph Hale Abbot, between the ages 
 of thirteen and fifteen. With him, I read Dante and 
 the French classics and Calderon, and took my Latin 
 from his Italian teacher, also employed at Harvard, 
 Pietro Alessandro. With a good knowledge of 
 Spanish and Italian, I found it easy to pick up what I 
 have since needed for scientific purposes of Sicilian 
 and Portuguese. With a grammar, dictionary, and 
 New Testament I have always found it easy to master 
 the construction of any language I wanted, even when 
 I could not pronounce a word of it. German and 
 Greek and Oriental tongues, which I attempted, I 
 never mastered, because my eyes were unable to stand 
 the t\-pe. By resigning these studies as soon as they 
 became painful, I have kept the full and steady use of 
 my eyes throughout my life, often for t^velve hours a 
 day. 
 
 I cannot help thinking that some persons are bom 
 linguists — that is, with ready power to comprehend 
 and master all varieties of human speech. 
 
I had always a great desire to master a fine English 
 style. After reading the first volume of the Life of 
 Tennyson, I destroyed five volumes of Journal, filled 
 with rambling verse which assisted me to do this. It 
 amazed me when I looked at them from the distance 
 of more than half a century, to see how I had perse- 
 vered in my poor work, but it was not fruitless. Of no 
 earthly importance to any one but myself, these vol- 
 umes were important factors in my own growth. 
 
 When Mr. Hale had nothing to do in school, he 
 mastered " Kettell's Specimens of American Poetry." 
 I amused myself by writing novels, which nobody read, 
 but which prove, in their still-existing pages, that I 
 wrote as good English at fifteen as I do now. 
 
 When my father moved from Green Street he went 
 to Poplar, where we remained for three years, and 
 where our life must have been uneventful, for I remem- 
 ber very little of it. I was sent to school to Caroline 
 Hastings and her sister Eliza, who lived directly op- 
 posite. Their faces I distinctly remember, yet nothing 
 of the house but this : The ladies gave an evening 
 party, to the parents of their pupils. Early hours we 
 kept then, and, either because I was a neighbor or a 
 favorite, I went to the party. A hassock was placed 
 upon the piano, and I was seated on it, and then I 
 had — for the only time in my life — the great pleasure 
 of seeing my father and my mother dance. My mother 
 had been one of the belles of Concert Hall, the favorite 
 
partner of Caleb Gushing — considered the most grace- 
 ful dancer of his day. 
 
 About that time one of the pupils, named Mary 
 Norwood, died. She had been fond of me, and I was 
 sent for at the last moment. I had never seen a dead 
 or dying person, and I can still see her face, as she 
 lay. The house stood endwise to the street, with a 
 garden up the side, and I have always fancied that it 
 was the house that Uncle Titus afterwards gave to 
 Mrs. Ripwinkley.* That part of the West End, so 
 near the river, was delightful then. An old servant 
 of my grandmother's was ill at the Massachusetts 
 Hospital, and I used often to play in its corridors, 
 and walk through its pleasant garden, and, delighted 
 with its shining floors, determined that, when I grew 
 up, I would have a house just like that ! 
 
 Not far from the Massachusetts General Hospital 
 was a pretty house on Allen Street, where I often 
 went. It was occupied by a business associate of my 
 father, who was slowly dying of consumption. His 
 wife was a pretty woman who had had many children 
 none of whom had survived the second month. She 
 was fond of me, and one morning, soon after her last 
 baby had been buried, I was sitting at her feet charmed 
 with some Paris bonbons, rare as jewels then, whose 
 colored crystals glistened in the sun. 
 
 Dr. Gharles Lowell came in, and as he moved 
 toward a chair, stooped and took me on his knee. 
 
 » See "Real Folks," by A. D. T. Whitney. 
 
The mother seized his hand, and cried out, " Oh Doc- 
 tor ! how can God be good ? Why could he not leave 
 me one? Nine lovely babies — beautiful to see, and 
 not one with strength to live ! " 
 
 " Dear child ! " said my dear friend, fixing his glow- 
 ing eyes upon her, "you have not lost them, they will 
 be waiting for you." 
 
 " If they had not been born alive ! "' she moaned, 
 " then I need not have loved them ! But to give them 
 to me, only to snatch them away ! " 
 
 Tender as a loving mother's was the Doctor's voice 
 and look, as he replied : " Then indeed you would 
 have lost them ! Not until they were born alive 
 could He have given them a soul ! Souls are of 
 God, immortal as He is ! He has given these to 
 you, you shall surely have them again." 
 
 Neither of them thought of me, neither spoke to 
 me during the interview that followed, but the child 
 now grown a woman sees and hears them still, and 
 often wishes the mother could know how many sor- 
 rowing hearts have been comforted by these words. 
 
 It was while we lived in Poplar Street that I went 
 with my mother's maid to two houses which left also 
 an indelible impression on my mind. Of the lofty 
 house built by the son of the famous Dr. Lloyd, we 
 hear little now, but it still exists. You enter it by a 
 lofty archway, over which hangs the name of " The 
 Somerset House." In spite of new partitions the 
 
13 
 
 original lines of the house can still be traced. James 
 Lloyd, who built it, was in the United States Senate 
 from 1808 to 1 81 3, and entertained Lafayette here in 
 1825. When the house was built, it opened at the 
 back upon the gardens of Dr. Lloyd, which ran in 
 terraces up the hill, till they met those of Gardiner 
 Greene. 
 
 All these houses were built upon the farm of the 
 Rev. John Cotton, whose house was afterwards occu- 
 pied by Sir Harry Vane and stood opposite the 
 North End of the King's Chapel Cemetery. Mr. 
 Drake thinks this house was taken down before I 
 was born, but I seem to myself to have a very distinct 
 recollection of it. When the mother of James Free- 
 man Clarke was married by old Dr. Freeman in the 
 King's Chapel, somewhere about 1805, it was in the 
 parlor of Sir Harry Vane's house that she changed 
 her bridal robes for the riding habit in which she 
 was to travel on horseback from Boston to Portland. 
 Of my own early visit to the Lloyd house, where I 
 went with the maid to carry some dainty to an in- 
 valid, I remember but two things — the immense 
 height of the hall and parlor and the sweet face of a 
 lady lying in a night rail trimmed with rose-colored 
 ribbons upon a pile of snowy pillows. The room was 
 on the first floor, and I think we entered it on the 
 right as we came in from the great archway. 
 
 Still more impressive was an early visit to a house 
 which I suppose to have been that occupied in 1782 
 
H 
 
 by Daniel Dennison Rogers. I have never seen a 
 picture of this house. Mr. Rogers must have been a 
 double kinsman of my mother, but I do not know 
 what son or grandson of his was living in this house 
 when I was taken to it. Until we went to Chestnut 
 Street to live, I was not familiar with this part of Bos- 
 ton, and I still feel the first impression made by the 
 terraced gardens and beautiful houses standing oppo- 
 site to the present site of the Boston Athenaeum. 
 
 The house that I am now thinking of was just 
 round the corner of Mount Vernon, upon Beacon 
 Street. It was not only different from any that my 
 young eyes had seen, but it was entirely different 
 from anything I have seen since. Had Bowdoin 
 Street been laid out then? I cannot tell, but the 
 house stood so high and the carriage drive occupied 
 so large a space that I can hardly think that street 
 was cut through to Beacon. The house was probably 
 built of brick, faced with a dark stone. It loomed 
 above me — square, imposing — but not so interest- 
 ing to me as the one-storeyed offices or vaults with 
 arched doorwa3's that flanked the north side of the 
 driveway. Whether these were part of the original 
 scheme, I have never been able to learn, nor was the 
 most vigilant of antiquarians, my old friend Charles 
 Deane, able to tell me for what use they were in- 
 tended. Of the interior of the house, I remember 
 only a lofty ceiling, walls covered with portraits and 
 an invalid to whom we carried flowers. 
 
15 
 
 This house had been built by WilHam Molineux, 
 a member of the Committee which demanded of 
 Governor Hutchinson the immediate removal of the 
 British troops, just after the " Boston Massacre." 
 John Adams relates, that when this was secured Mol- 
 ineux had to walk to the wharf by the side of the 
 troops to protect them from the rage of the people. 
 
 Allen Street and McLean Street and the whole 
 length of Chambers were full of charming homes, 
 many of them with large gardens, and, at the head of 
 Allen Street, was the great house of Thomas Dennie, 
 with a large terraced garden, that stretched over to 
 Poplar Street, where I was often allowed to play. 
 In this Poplar Street house, I remember my mother 
 reading me to sleep with the fascinating story of the 
 " Pilgrim's Progress," setting her candle behind the 
 movable leaf of one of the small light-stands that 
 everybody used, until gas came in. It stands beside 
 me now. In those days, too, the farmers' carts drove 
 over Cragie's bridge, and brought wild strawberries 
 on long stems, and fresh vegetables. Sitting on the 
 front window-seat of our basement breakfast-room, 
 and watching the farmer fill his measures, I remem- 
 ber that he tossed me, from time to time, a fragrant 
 scarlet-berried spray. No one, in those days, had 
 seen the enormous strawberries of later times, and I 
 often ask myself whether those provided by mother 
 Nature would ever have produced the gout! 
 
i6 
 
 It was in 1824 that Professor Johnson, of the 
 Pennsylvania University, first made it possible for 
 anthracite to be burned in private houses, but in 1837 
 I had never seen any private houses lighted with gas. 
 I do not remember when it came, but I remember 
 well the immense relief it brought, for, when the 
 smallpox invaded our kitchen, it became my duty to 
 look after some half-dozen solar lamps, filled with 
 that whale oil, the odor of which I still recall with a 
 shudder. Our cooking was always done by the open 
 fire, in bakers and tin kitchens and Dutch ovens, but 
 nowhere was it done perfectly after an anthracite 
 grate became the substitute for the wood fire. Who 
 now knows what a scrod is, or a broiled steak, or a 
 mackerel set up on a board before the live coals ? 
 
 Mr. Hale mentions, in his pages, a certain Edward 
 Renouf, later an Episcopalian clergyman, who intro- 
 duced his school-fellows to the delights of Boston 
 wharves. Mr. Renouf's two sisters were schoolmates 
 of mine when I read Dante with Joseph Hale Abbot, 
 and it is not a month since Edward himself, now 
 more than eighty years old, walked into my study. 
 He was attending the General Convention of the 
 Episcopal Church here in Washington. He came 
 because he " knew I was loyal to my old loves," and 
 it was like a breath of fresh air to me, to hear him 
 recall our youthful days. Both of his sisters died 
 young, of inherited consumption. The oldest, Anna, 
 
was a very beautiful girl, an imp of mischief and full 
 of wit. She was the only person, I think, who ever 
 read my first novel, written — a good deal of it — 
 while she was looking over my shoulder ! 
 
 Our schoolroom was carpeted with grey bocking, 
 and, as those were the days in which every pupil 
 mended her quill pen, each one was provided with a 
 box into which she was expected to trim her quill. 
 If any girl scattered her splinters, she was obliged to 
 stay after school, and painfully pick up her belong- 
 ings. One morning Anna had mischievously sent her 
 bits of quill flying. She was a favorite, and she ex- 
 pected to escape the ordinary doom, but, with her 
 books under her arm on the way to the dressing- 
 room, she was intercepted by the words, " Miss Anna, 
 you will return and attend to your duty." It is a pity 
 any one should have missed that sight. With bent 
 back, a stunted whisk, and a painful puffing. Miss 
 Anna spent five minutes or so over the grey bocking. 
 Then, venturing perilously near to the Master's desk, 
 where he sat busied with French exercises, she drew 
 a long breath, and said, " Oh, how I wish I were Ich- 
 abod Crane ! " " How so, Miss Anna } " said Mr. 
 Abbot, rousing from his task. " Oh, then if my feet 
 were shovels," she replied, " I need not get down on 
 my knees." A cheery laugh and, " You may go, 
 Miss Anna," answered this venture. Are there any 
 schoolgirls now who are acquainted with Ichabod 
 Crane ? 
 
i8 
 
 It was while I lived in Poplar Street, and I was 
 about six years old, that I made my first conscious 
 acquaintance with Major Melville. He lived, with 
 several daughters, in an old wooden house on the 
 corner of Staniford Street, near to the house on Green 
 Street where I was born. The Major was one of the 
 disreputable party of Indians who threw the tea over- 
 board. I had often seen him walking the street in a 
 cocked hat, small clothes, black silk stockings and 
 buckled shoes, rapping the sidewalk with a gold- 
 headed cane. I had expected him to live in some 
 state, and I was a good deal disappointed at the long, 
 insignificant front of the low wooden house, built 
 close to the sidewalk. I think there was not even a 
 step, though perhaps a doorstone, before the narrow 
 entrance. Once within, however, the impression 
 changed. The windows of the broad, low parlors 
 looked out on a fair garden, climbing what had once 
 been the rear slope of Beacon Hill, by terrace after 
 terrace of box-bordered beds, between which fruit 
 trees blossomed. I think there must have been a 
 gate on Staniford Street, for a broad carriage drive 
 swept behind the house, paved with big beach pebbles, 
 set in diamonds of slate-color and white. Between 
 the windows of the room in which I sat was a low table 
 and on it a great punch-bowl of India china. In this 
 bowl was a small bottle, carefully sealed. It held the 
 tea which Mrs. Melville shook out of her husband's 
 
19 
 
 shoes, when he returned from his frolic at Griffin's 
 Wharf, for, whatever the patriots may have thought 
 or planned, there is little doubt that many of the 
 " Mohawks " were " out on a lark." I did not know 
 that so well in those old days, and I looked at the 
 Major with reverence, and timidly held the little bottle, 
 which Miss Priscilla put into my hand, while she told 
 me, not for the first time, the story of that wonderful 
 night. That little bottle is now, I think, in the pos- 
 session of the descendants of Chief Justice Shaw of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 I was seven years old when, one pleasant autumn 
 afternoon, I took my father's hand, and went up over 
 the hill where I had never before been, through what 
 we then called Belknap Street to Mt. Vernon, and 
 through Walnut to our new house at 24 Chestnut. 
 All this was new to me. We passed the old Joy 
 house, with its terraced garden meeting another large 
 garden stretching up from Beacon Street. Next came 
 the stately house of Jonathan Mason, opposite to 
 Walnut Street and the Charles Lyman house and 
 garden upon the corner. The protruding tower of 
 Dr. Sharp's church did not hide the river. There 
 was no Brimmer Street then, nor a single house be- 
 tween Mr. Mason's and what we afterwards called the 
 " Gibbs house," occupied later by the sisters of the 
 wife of Dr. William Ellery Channing. The whole 
 space from Mt. Vernon to Pinckney Street was an 
 
open, rocky pasture, and two cows were feeding upon 
 it. When later the present block of houses was built, 
 set back in comely lawns, and the Mason house was 
 taken down, an effort was made to set back all the 
 houses on the North side between Walnut and Joy 
 Streets, but Mr. Samuel D. Parker insisted on retain- 
 ing the privilege of looking down upon his neighbor, 
 and the jog he gave the street still liears witness to 
 him. 
 
 We turned into Chestnut Street. On the left, at 
 the top of the street, but on Beacon Street, were still 
 glimpses of gardens and wide spaces left beside the old 
 Winthrop and Homer houses. On the right, lower 
 down, there were the three houses built by old Mr, 
 Swan for his three daughters, Sargent, Sullivan and 
 Howard, and then an open pasture till we came to the 
 " Dick Derby " house, with its ample courtyard, where 
 later I often gazed wondering at a lunch or dinner 
 table, balanced on an " oubliette," and dancing up 
 and down as different courses were served from the 
 basement. 
 
 Whenever I think of the streets I have mentioned, 
 I see them as I saw them that day. Number 24 was 
 a pleasant home to me. It was a large house, owned 
 by an old friend of my grandfather, a Mr. Blanchard, 
 who refused to remedy our smoky chimneys, because 
 he said it was my mother's beautiful face that drew the 
 smoke down I Here I had a chamber of my own, a 
 
chamber which was also the family library, for three 
 sides of it were shelved for my father's books, and glad 
 I am that it was so, for by the free use of those shelves 
 I had mastered all the English classics and transla- 
 tions of many others before I was twelve years old, 
 beside making the acquaintance of " Dorcasina Shel- 
 don," " Charlotte Temple," and " Eliza Wharton." 
 Very glad I am that I did not have to read " Dryden's 
 Plays " or the " Arabian Nights " later. We were too 
 large a family to allow a room to literary uses alone. 
 The nursery occupied by the younger children looked 
 through the courtyard of the Harrison Gray Otis 
 house, across Beacon Street to Boston Common, not 
 yet degraded into a wood-lot by over-planting. A 
 little east of this were the beautiful gardens of Mr. 
 Otis and David Sears, and the very first spring Mr. 
 Otis walked through our open gate, and led me into 
 the lovely shadow of his own trees, because, he said, I 
 was his little cousin, since he and my grandfather 
 were cousins. Cousins or not, my grandfather, Samuel 
 Foster, and Mr. Otis were with Thomas Handasyd 
 Perkins the three handsomest and most stately of the 
 Boston men of that day, the first two strongly resem- 
 bling each other in face and port. 
 
 At the bottom of our own garden was a decaying 
 peach tree, perhaps twenty years old, where a large 
 colony of black ants pastured their Aphidian cows, 
 and where I used to watch their annual migration, 
 
astonished to see ants with wings. Under the long 
 shed, at the " shoe " of the pump, plump, happy rats 
 fed their little ones, and I watched them unmolested 
 from a flight of a dozen steps, while they led out a 
 blind old grandfather to eat and drink, and boxed the 
 ears of their young ones with quite a human air, if 
 they came too near the choice bits reserved for the 
 veteran. Many of the incredible stories concerning 
 rats were here enacted before my eyes. 
 
 There were no mosquitoes in Boston then. On 
 Saturday summer evenings, I used to sit on the front 
 doorsteps watching for my "Juvenile Miscellany," 
 and amusing myself meanwhile with the busy uphol- 
 sterer bees, lining the caverns between the bricks with 
 soft green tapestry. It was from this house that I 
 went to play in the " Mall," making a baby house of 
 manorial extent in the spreading roots of the elms, 
 and furnishing the apartments with toys and acorns, 
 not far from Mr. Hale's " mail train," which was never 
 fast enough to disturb my babies. The Common had 
 only a rotten wooden fence about it then, which fur- 
 nished many an interesting insect study. The Beacon 
 Street Mall had two terraces with a narrow footpath 
 between. It was on the lower terrace, beside the foot- 
 path, that the great green elms were set, and lifted 
 their arched roots, well thatched with bark, to shelter 
 my little family. It was a sad day for the trees when 
 that footpath was obliterated, and the summer rains 
 which had nurtured their growth swept in one long 
 
23 
 
 slope from the fence to the broad gravel below, and 
 filled its gutters instead of the thirsty fibers. 
 
 Mr. Hale never saw more than five cows on the 
 Common in his day ! I am sure it was his printer 
 that made him say fifty ! I can remember no more than 
 two, and none were allowed after the iron fence was 
 put up, and all that mischievous filling in and sodding 
 was done. Along Boylston Street was a superb row 
 of old buttonwoods that perished long ago. Neither 
 does Mr. Hale remember a large willow tree by the 
 frog pond. His fancy has cheated him. At one end 
 of the pond was our dear old elm, full of sacred 
 memories ; at the other, the soil sloped gradually down 
 to two magnificent old willows, shading the " Willow 
 Pond," or, as it was sometimes called, the " Girl's 
 Pond." Where the " Soldier's Monument " now 
 stands, there was then, at a much lower level, the old 
 Fort with a ditch around it, and a single solid footway 
 over the ditch. The girls used to start from the outer 
 breastwork and run races down to the " Willows," 
 where the soil was slippery and the mud often deep, 
 and where consequently many disasters befell. For 
 that reason, I suppose, the pond was filled up and the 
 willows cut down long before the old Fort was dis- 
 turbed. It grieved me when I saw the shovels busily 
 filling in the ditch. 
 
 Could the old Fort have spoken, it could have told 
 of many a sorrow hidden, and many a life laid down in 
 its hollow. 
 
24 
 
 Long years ago, before railroads were, our country 
 villages knew little of city men. In those days I 
 knew a brave and most beautiful woman, married to 
 a city merchant, within the shelter of a modest par- 
 sonage. She came with her husband to a stylish 
 home in the West End. Filled with doubt, at affluent 
 surroundings for which she was not prepared, her love 
 struggled with anxieties of many kinds, until her first 
 baby was born. Then, satisfied that her own honor 
 was not safe, in the gambling hell which she had dis- 
 covered her own house to be, she walked out of it one 
 morning, dragging her baby in its willow carriage. 
 She took scarce a change of linen for herself, but under 
 the pillows of the carriage lay a flat carpet-bag, some 
 toilet articles, and the necessaries for her child. The 
 preparations for the new iron fence enabled her to trun- 
 dle her carriage into the Mall, and, keeping a steady 
 course under the old elm, she sought the safe shelter 
 of the ditch. There she packed her carpet-bag and 
 left her carriage, making her way quickly to the Prov- 
 idence station with her baby in her arms. She left 
 home with hardly money enough to carry her to New 
 York, but so attractive was her bearing that, when leav- 
 ing the child with a friend, she sought a house and fur- 
 niture, both were granted her without security, and 
 boarders flocked to her well-kept table. Her son, saved 
 by her heroism, lived to be a distinguished man, whose 
 name you would all know did I dare to write it. I 
 
25 
 
 remember, too, some tiny Irish children, who hid them- 
 selves in this revolutionary hollow to escape from a 
 drunken father, and stayed there through a cold night. 
 
 It was while we lived in this Chestnut Street house 
 that I used, with other West End children, to go on 
 May Day excursions to the old gardens of the town. 
 In a notice recently published of Miss Rebecca Lash, 
 some allusion is made to the picturesque aspect of old 
 North Square, and of Charter, Prince and Salutation 
 Streets. Her father, Robert Lash, was for sixty-two 
 years the teller of the Boston Bank. He lived in 
 Salutation Street, which was an alley leading off North 
 Street, and named for a tavern upon the corner of the 
 two. The tavern took its name from the sign, which 
 represented two ancient fops in small clothes and 
 cocked hats saluting each other. 
 
 Rebecca describes the neighborhood as one of 
 isolated houses, many of them having orchards as well 
 as gardens. Her father's house, close to Ann Street, 
 which we now call North, was a good frame house 
 standing endwise to the street, with a handsome gate 
 from which a garden walk led up to the front door. 
 This gate was enclosed by an arch, on the summit 
 of which was a bust of Julius Caesar, crowned with 
 laurel. The garden was surrounded by Lombardy 
 poplars, and contained beside the favorite flowers and 
 plants of those days "London Pride," " Morning 
 Glories," " Job's Tears," and the well-known " Cox- 
 
26 
 
 combs " and " Southernwoods." A large lot was 
 devoted to vegetables and herbs. 
 
 It was to such houses as these that we children 
 went modestly for our May Day flowers. Many beau- 
 tiful houses, surrounded by gardens, were hidden in 
 narrow alleys in my childish days. I remember very 
 well one such house, a " Myers' " house, perhaps, on the 
 north side of an alley which led from School Street to 
 Bromfield Lane, by the end of Province House Court. 
 
 My dearest companions at that time were Eliza- 
 beth, the daughter of Robert G. Shaw, and a relative 
 on my mother's side, and Catharine Wild, a beautiful 
 child and still more beautiful woman, who was the 
 daughter of James C. Wild, the cashier of the Boston 
 Bank. He was, I believe, a cousin of Rebecca Lash. 
 Catharine's brother Hamilton, whom I have often con- 
 signed to his pillow in my girlhood, became afterward 
 a celebrated artist. 
 
 May Day visitors were so common in those days 
 that flowers were never refused. We found syringa, 
 lilac, and violets in the more sheltered spots. If we 
 exhausted the resources of North Street, we crossed 
 the Common to a lane which we call Boylston Place, 
 and which is now the dreariest nook in Boston, so that 
 it is hard to believe that flowers ever blossomed there. 
 This lane or court was then surrounded by wooden 
 houses with gardens, and in the shelter of the extreme 
 end we always found our lilacs. I think there was 
 
27 
 
 only one brick house there in those early days, and 
 that belonged to George Washington Otis, who, 
 because he had translated the Italian history of the 
 United States, was known to every child as " Botta 
 Otis." 
 
 I find by my Journal that on May i, 1839, the rain 
 fell heavily on a Maypole erected on Boston Common. 
 The evergreen wreaths and fresh flowers were drip- 
 ping, to our great dismay. I suppose this must have 
 been erected by Warren Street Chapel, then under 
 the care of Charles F. Barnard. 
 
 When Elizabeth Shaw was my companion, we 
 strolled out over Boston Neck, anxious to get some of 
 the first snow drops from the terraced banks of the 
 old Patten and Hunnewell houses, which stood oppo- 
 site the ancient burying ground at the corner of 
 Dudley Street. Farther out, near Dr. Putnam's 
 church, but in old Dr. Porter's day, we found the 
 grand mansion of Dr. Peter C. Robbins, the father, 
 by two different wives, of the Reverend Chandler 
 Robbins and the Reverend Samuel, both well be- 
 loved in their separate walks, but as far from each 
 other in their theological and spiritual attitude as the 
 tropic from the pole. Dr. Robbins's second wife was 
 a Hooper from Marblehead, and Elizabeth and I 
 remembered long one visit to her beautiful house. 
 We had wandered away — naughty truants that we 
 were — after our early dinner, and took it into our 
 heads that it was time for a bright red apple that 
 
28 
 
 grew in the garden to be ripe. We were sure we 
 knew the way, so we strolled along till we came to the 
 well-known spot. In the long parlor which looked 
 over the garden behind the beautiful curving stairway, 
 all the ladies of Dr. Porter's church were assembled. 
 
 It was the monthly meeting of the sewing circle, 
 and when we entered, all were enjoying the contents of 
 a mighty cut glass bowl filled with ice cream. We had 
 our share, which we ate with wondering delight, for 
 although frozen custards had been made in Washing- 
 ton as early as 1800, what was properly known as ice 
 cream was confined to a few private houses, and I do 
 not remember hearing of it until I was ten years old. 
 I well remember the sweet face of Miss Caroline 
 Porter, and the mighty turban of blue and silver that 
 crowned Madame Robbins's toilet. The freezing 
 machine of those days was a common tin pail im- 
 mersed in ice, and turned by hand ; no wonder that 
 the cream was a costly luxury ! 
 
 It was during this time, too, that I used to go down 
 to Central Wharf with my father, who was an India 
 merchant, and, sitting on the wide window-seat of the 
 counting-room, watch the busy scenes on the wharf, 
 without a suspicion of the Doctors of Divinity and 
 Episcopal dignitaries that would one day emerge from 
 that boyish crowd. 
 
 It was from this house that I went on the first 
 excursion train to Newton to celebrate the opening of 
 
29 
 
 the Boston and Worcester road, the road so dear to 
 the heart of Nathan Hale. So far as I can remember, 
 the things that interested me most were General Hull's 
 house, near our Newton station, and a glass of lemon- 
 ade which was a bitter disappointment. It was a very 
 hot afternoon, and when I heard my father order it I 
 looked forward to a pleasure. When it came it was 
 so bitter with nutmeg, a spice which I detested, that I 
 found it impossible to drink it. This, which was then 
 considered a safe drink for children, reminds one of 
 the " night cap " given to old gentlemen of that era. 
 A glass of hot milk, well sweetened, with half a nut- 
 meg grated into it, was a perfect remedy for the 
 innocent insomnia of those days! 
 
 Before this, I had been carried out to Quincy, and 
 instructed carefully as to all the wonders of the little 
 railway and the quarry, but what I chiefly remember 
 of it is my first introduction to a scarabeus. Long did 
 I watch Mr. and Mrs. Scarab as they carefully rolled 
 and guarded the tiny sphere which contained their 
 earthly treasure. It was curious to see papa Scarab 
 turn the end of his body into a lever, and to watch 
 mamma while she helped to excavate and clear the 
 grave that was to receive the ball, in the sure hope of 
 a resurrection. I was inconsolable because my father 
 would not let me stay to see the process completed. 
 
 It was in the Chestnut Street house, too, that the 
 whole family of us had the measles, and a dear Aunt 
 
30 
 
 Orne, a collateral relative of Seth Low's father, used 
 to come from Salem to amuse us with Pepper's Gibral- 
 tars and wonderful little darkies and devils, cut by her 
 skillful hand from the uppers of the old gum shoe. 
 This shoe was made over a clay model in the wilderness 
 of Brazil, before Vulcan had claimed sovereignty over 
 the tropic treasure. As the measles had affected all 
 our eyes, we were allowed no light save that which 
 came from a dull wood fire. Aunt Orne strung her 
 artistic little figures on a cord, which she tied across 
 the andirons, and the heat of the coals soon took com- 
 plete possession of them and they danced as if they 
 were alive. Here originated, as I think, the elastic 
 gutta-percha toys of a later day. A little mouse crept 
 up from a corner of the hearth, to be fed with frag- 
 ments of our supper, and soon became tame enough 
 to be handled. 
 
 The readers of " Patty Gray " will remember how 
 early and how kindly I was taught never to look for 
 human approbation, never to square my conduct by 
 anything but my own sense of right. It was at the 
 little parties at Catharine Wild's home on West Cedar 
 Street that I learned, about this time, what was to a 
 loving child a bitter lesson. Kindly I was taught, I 
 said, and I repeat it, for had it not been for this never 
 forgotten experience, what would have become of me 
 when the anti-slavery struggle began, and I had to 
 brace myself to meet the censure of those I loved best 
 in the world? 
 
In those days, the broad, old-fashioned chaise came 
 every afternoon to take my father and mother to drive. 
 Boston then had suburbs worthy of the name. Long 
 winding lanes, hedged with sweet briar, alder and 
 privet, with the very breath of the White Mountains 
 hidden in their forest glens, stretched from Brookline 
 and Roxbury to Savin Hill, where my father, whose 
 ancestors had lived on the Devonshire coast from the 
 time of the Norman conquest, loved to catch glimpses 
 and odors of the sea. We did not carry a trunk for 
 wild flowers, as the Hales did, but my father often 
 stopped to gather baskets full of the big red clover, 
 which reminded him of the Kensington hills where he 
 was born, and which he emptied into the bottom of 
 the chaise. One delightful drive over Milton Hill 
 I shall always remember. 
 
 We did not shut up our houses in summer then. 
 From the age of thirteen I was my father's house- 
 keeper, for my mother's health had failed, and my 
 father, dearly as he loved me, was not one to under- 
 stand what an unsuitable burden he laid upon me. 
 All children went to church in those days, and at the 
 West Church my father had two pews, which were 
 well filled by his children and their governesses. In 
 those days, the children of one family usually dressed 
 alike, with only such slight variations as different ages 
 required. We shall never again see such pretty sights 
 as we saw when we watched those large families on 
 
32 
 
 their way to church. It was no trial to us six in those 
 days, for we dearly loved the sight of Dr. Lowell, who 
 always watched over my studies, and offered a prize 
 for any special achievement he wished me to attempt. 
 His "short sermons" held the attention of the youngest. 
 We were not given gingerbread for our lunches, 
 as Mr. Hale was, but I remember one occasion on 
 which a barrel of fine apples from the New Hampshire 
 farms lasted us just three days ! And boxes of dried 
 ginger, pressed oranges, and cumquots, which came 
 from China in my father's ships, were always open. 
 There was cholera in Boston about this time, and a 
 rope was stretched across Chestnut Street above 
 Spruce to indicate a quarantine. We were sitting 
 comfortably on our front steps, a full dozen of us, 
 munching our apples, when some passer-by paused in 
 horror, and begged us to tell him if our father and 
 mother knew what we were doing! Barrels of rock 
 candy used to come from India, with half a dozen 
 sugar canes thrust down in their midst, and once came 
 Olaf, a young Dane, who had stolen a passage from 
 Cronstadt on the " Steiglitz," one of my father's vessels 
 in the Russia trade, and who not only revealed to us 
 the mysteries of reindeer tongues, but delighted my 
 artistic soul with such colored pictures as could then 
 be bought, and which are still carefully preserved. He 
 had run away from a cruel stepfather, and afterward 
 became distinguished in Jonas Chickering's factory for 
 
33 
 
 his skill in toning pianos. He has long been dead, 
 but he is not forgotten. About this time, too, Mrs. 
 Sage, the beautiful sister of Elizabeth Howard Bartol, 
 came home from the West Indies, and astonished us 
 by leading a gazelle by a blue ribbon up and down 
 our quiet street, and Charles Sumner used to come to 
 an adjoining house to listen to the beautiful song of 
 Mrs. Stuart Newton, which I heard at the same time, 
 hidden behind the drawing-room curtains of her 
 mother, Mrs. Sullivan. 
 
 We girls were not provided with swimming schools, 
 but there was at the bottom of Chestnut Street, below 
 Brimmer, something called " Braman's Baths." Beside 
 the small single baths, there was connected with them 
 a loaded platform, with steps and swinging ropes 
 above. The water was deep enough here to cover the 
 chest of an adult, and it was clean sea water. These 
 baths were frequented by all the West End people, 
 twenty-five cents paying for both bath and towels. 
 They disappeared after the incoming of Cochituate 
 water and private baths, but they are still needed. 
 The only salt water baths in Boston now are intended 
 for the poorer classes, and if cold salt water baths 
 could still be had, suited to West End habits, I think 
 the doctors would know less of nervous prostration. 
 
 In the days of which I am writing, all Beacon 
 Street breakfasted from seven to half past, and dined 
 at two, taking tea at six or half past. There was not 
 
34 
 
 at that time the constant succession of late parties, 
 which now ruins the constitution of women, old or 
 young. The little dancing parties which went from 
 house to house began at three in the afternoon, and 
 we were all safely at home by nine. There never was, 
 I think, any entertainment so delightful as the tea 
 parties of those days. We all sat down to a table 
 spread with dainties. The hostess had no anxiety 
 about these parties, for there were no courses and no 
 changes of plates. We waited upon ourselves and 
 upon each other; there were pleasant talks and 
 friendly jests, but this simple festivity died a natural 
 death when late dinners came in, and nothing half as 
 good survived. 
 
 My evening parties differed from Mr. Hale's ; I 
 never heard any boy or girl " speak a piece." Our 
 refreshments were grapes from Lisbon, figs, dates, 
 raisins and nuts, and occasionally jelly. Shagbarks 
 were common, and now and then a gentleman would 
 heat a pair of tongs in the live coals, and taking up 
 a fat meat would get the children to count the drops 
 of oil he could squeeze out of it. At nine o'clock we 
 were sure to hear the cry of " Oys ! Oys ! " as men 
 with large tin pails, full of such oysters as had been 
 opened and not sold in markets or shops, patrolled 
 the West End. They did not cry in vain. Company 
 or no company, every front door opened, and a maid 
 appeared, and the big pails were emptied all too soon. 
 
35 
 
 When the oysters were cleansed and prepared, a tin 
 pail was set on the hot coals of the parlor fire, the 
 casters were brought out, and never since have any 
 oysters seemed so good as those I was then allowed 
 to " sit up " to eat. If we had " cockles " with absurd 
 mottoes at any of our parties, it was unusually hard to 
 separate when the curfew rang ! 
 
 At such formal dinners as I frequented, I never 
 saw the transparent, amber-colored dun fish served, 
 but it was everybody's Saturday dinner, brought to 
 table folded in a damask napkin, with egg sauce, pork 
 scraps and all manner of vegetables, and if the family 
 had started from Essex County, and had any inkling 
 of the habits of the Channel Islands, such as were 
 current in Marblehead, was plentifully flanked by 
 Spanish olives. 
 
 The habits of Boston merchants were very simple 
 then. As they left their counting houses, insurance 
 offices or banks in those days, they found at the head 
 of State Street a smoking barrow of lobsters. It was 
 a common thing to see one after another of our " first 
 men " walking down Beacon Street, with a lobster 
 wrapped in fresh paper under his arm, the long, 
 scarlet antennae sticking out behind! No servants or 
 caterers opened lobsters then, the mother or daughter 
 did that in person, and in those days it was a rare 
 thing to see the most dainty hostess clad in the early 
 morning in anything but a French print, or a fine 
 
36 
 
 wliito \vr.»|)|HM- piotritrd hy .i l)I;irk silk iipron. " :\ 
 silk inornini; i;o\vi) ! "" r\rl.iiim-il luv grandmotluM-, 
 wlun lli'iisy COllin, a ijiiaint little dressmaker from 
 NrwhmyiMiit, (irst sugi^vstiHl such a thiny;, "what 
 would I d(< with ,1 silk ^own in the kitelu'ii!" She 
 ilid not re.di/i.' th.it the time wmild sonn eoiiie when 
 then' would he .1 l.n;;e elass of housekeepers, not onlv 
 inuvillini;, hut ahsolutelv unahle, to direet the eook or 
 launihv nuiid. 
 
 Mr. ll.de thinks he went to Papanti's danein.; 
 sehool in ludlineh IMaee. but I am sure he is mis- 
 l.\ken. Mr. Papaiiti took i>ne of two twin houses on 
 the romer of Somerset Place, now called Allston 
 .Stnrl, .uul Ihdfini'h Street, which was much farther 
 up the hill. It i>fTereil on tlie sectind floor a very 
 large saKmn, It Ii.\d for us all ,1 \erv s.ul association, 
 foY just before Mr. P.ip.mti timk it .1 beloyed husband 
 aiul f.ither went ipiietlv forth from it one eyeninjj; for 
 his usu.d walk, ami w.(s neyer seen again. We used 
 to he.ir how his pi>or wife, who survived him many 
 \ears, eonst.\ntly listened for his step uptm the stair, 
 or the click of his kev in the l.itch. I w.is not so 
 fortun.ite .is Mr. Il.ile; 1 dii not think 1 w.is ever a 
 favorite with my ilancing master; but I w.is sincerely 
 attached to Mr. Papanti and the elegant I-'rench 
 woman who was then his wife. In those days he had 
 an assembly once a month, when all the old scholars, 
 who had eiine out into the <:reat world, were invited 
 
37 
 
 to conu' batk and sliow us younger pupils what a 
 beautiful thing dancing could be. Many of the groups 
 thus gathered are vividly impressed upon my mind. 
 Especially do I recall the eager greeting which Anna 
 Shaw received on those evenings. 
 Especially was she a 
 
 — "form of life :uid HkIu, 
 Thai seen, l)ec:iiiie ;i part of sight." 
 
 Does she ever think of those days, I wonder, in her 
 Paris salon, where, although more than eighty years 
 old, she still holds her court ? 
 
 It was in 1834, I think, that ice creams were first 
 sold by the glass in Boston, and then it became a 
 fashion to go to the tiny shop of Mrs. Laurence 
 Nichols. This shop was on the north side of Court 
 Street, not far from Sudbury, and there was a very 
 small parlor behind it. Here the most delicious 
 creams and cream cakes could be had. I do not mean 
 frozen custards, nor did we ever hear in those days of 
 the artificial flavors which are now so baneful. These 
 creams were served in glasses of two sizes, of the kind 
 then called jelly glas.ses, the larger at nine pence 
 ha'penny, or twelve and one-half cents, the smaller at 
 four pence ha'penny, or six and one-quarter cents, for 
 children and light purses. This style of serving and 
 these prices continued until the opening of the Civil 
 War. After that the larger were alone sold, and the 
 price went up with the price of sugar to twenty cents 
 
38 
 
 a glass or saucer, where, without reasonable excuse, it 
 has ever since remained. 
 
 I was about twelve years old, and already in the 
 habit of annually offering some verses to my father 
 on his birthday, when he was once heard to say, 
 " Possibly the verses might be good if one could only 
 read them ! " and this led to a search for a capable 
 writing master. At that time an Englishman named 
 Bristow was teaching in Boston. His services were 
 secured, and from the day that I left his classes until 
 today my handwriting has never changed. Many 
 things that he said to me were useful to me when I 
 myself became a teacher. " The small i is a cannon," 
 he would say, " do not let it explode ; the ball must be 
 right opposite the mouth ! " " The small d and t are 
 not grown-up letters, and be sure you put a hat on 
 your t, or he will never be noticed ! " " The small b, 
 f, g, h, j, k, 1, p, q, and y have long legs and arms. 
 Keep them out of the way ; don't let the other letters 
 stumble over them ! " 
 
 I do not know what became of this inspired teacher, 
 but every day of my life I am grateful to him. 
 
 A curious thing happened before we left Chestnut 
 Street, when I think I must have been about twelve 
 years old. It would not be worth telling if it did not 
 so readily illustrate the habits of the time. When 
 my father was married every gentleman had upon his 
 sideboard a " Liqueur Case " of more or less elegance. 
 
39 
 
 This held four cut or gilded glass bottles, a biscuit 
 tray of cut glass, and sometimes a mirror and two 
 wineglasses. Whether he used wine or not at his 
 table, these bottles were filled with Medford rum, 
 Holland gin, brandy and old Madeira. I never heard 
 of any whiskey, but whoever called was asked to par- 
 take of these, with a biscuit or a slice of cake. One 
 day, before the care of the household had passed to 
 me, there came to call a very old lady, bearing one of 
 Boston's most honored names. She seemed very faint 
 and weary, and I loosened her bonnet strings and gave 
 her a glass of Madeira and a slice of cake, while I 
 went to speak to my mother. 
 
 Whether she filled a second glass while I was gone, 
 or received a second at some other house, I never 
 knew, but when my father came home, he made strict 
 inquiries as to what she had been offered. I told my 
 story, the " Liqueur Case " was locked and hidden in 
 an upper storeroom, and I never saw it again. 
 
 Something had happened which was noised abroad, 
 but I never blamed the poor old lady, for I think she 
 was very ill. She had afterward a tender feeling for 
 me, but I never had a chance to offer her another 
 glass, and only an occasional glimpse of a gold starred 
 bottle, which came in time to hold innocent drugs like 
 camphor or arnica, ever again reminded me of the 
 accident. 
 
 It was in 1836 that my father bought a house in 
 Hancock Avenue. Here to my great delight I had a 
 
40 
 
 large room at the top of the house, and from the 
 window where I studied and wrote, I could look down 
 over the bay and see eveiy vessel that entered the 
 harbor. Before that time I used to climb the terraces 
 of Gardener Greene's house on Scollay's Square, and 
 sitting on the steps about his garden pump, watch the 
 distant sea. At that time most of the houses on the 
 north side of Beacon and School Streets as far as 
 Tremont Street still stood in gardens; high up in the 
 air as it seemed, so many terraces were needed to the 
 approach, and these gardens originally fell at the back 
 to the level of Somerset Court, now called Ashburton 
 Place. In my day these gardens had already begun 
 to be dilapidated. On the Somerset side they had 
 gone wild, and the fences had broken away. A few 
 of these large houses had become boarding houses, 
 and a party of schoolgirls organized a fairy band with 
 scepters and crowns of gay tinsel, who made them- 
 selves merry with many a prank on holidays in the 
 unused grounds. It was in 1836 that the excavation 
 began which formed Pemberton Square and Tremont 
 Row. 
 
 I continued to attend Joseph Hale Abbot's school 
 for a year or more after we moved to the avenue. 
 Here I met a superior class of young women whom I 
 have loved from that time to this. Beside the two 
 Renoufs, there was Caroline Dorcas Smith, a well- 
 known artist, who afterwards became the wife of 
 
4» 
 
 Colonel Joseph Murdoch, and her younger sister, a dis- 
 tinguished scholar in Latin and mathematics, whose 
 services, when my change of fortune came, I can 
 never forget Then there was Anna Maria Allen, the 
 devoted wife of the Dantesque poet, Parsons, and her 
 sister, the gracious and winning partner of James M. 
 Barnard. There was that faithful Unitarian, Elizabeth 
 Livermore of Milford, and, dearest of all to me, Mary, 
 the daughter of Theodore Lyman. I had mastered 
 the Italian language before I ever saw Mary, but I 
 never knew how a woman ought to read it until, re- 
 turning from Italy where it had been her daily study 
 for years, Mary Lyman set the pattern for us all. 
 There was also in the school, supreme in beauty and 
 grace, Anna, the daughter of Joseph Coolidge, who 
 afterward became the wife of Colonel Prince of New- 
 port and died not long ago. She fascinated me by 
 her personal charms. I do not now know, and I 
 never cared to know, whether she was a student or not. 
 I felt that she should have been born in the purple, 
 and followed her with my eyes wherever she moved. 
 Fortunately for me, so much her junior, she had a 
 kindly heart, and often took me home with her to the 
 great garden which reached from Bowdoin to Temple 
 Street, and half way up Beacon Hill from Cambridge. 
 I still have a vivid recollection of the dresses that she 
 wore, and could paint a perfect portrait of her, if my 
 skill were equal to my memory. 
 
42 
 
 About this time I began to go out to Cambridge 
 to exhibitions and Commencements, and had such 
 intimate relations with many students that I felt as if 
 I too were a pupil of Harvard. The aggrieved lads, 
 whose finest sentences Professor Channing cut out 
 without scruple, only replying to their remonstrances 
 by saying, " Nobody will miss the good things you 
 leave out," used to bring their themes to me for the 
 comfort of my sympathy. The modern languages 
 were very imperfectly taught at Harvard in those days, 
 but the students of today would be better off if English 
 spelling and composition received such attention as 
 Professor Channing gave them. I learned many 
 things over the shoulders of my student friends, and I 
 shall always think the training received through the 
 frequent exhibitions of those days very essential to 
 Americans, who are sure to become speakers to some 
 extent if they are faithful to their political duties. 
 There were no Commencement " spreads " then, so far 
 as I knew, but Commencement dinners were served 
 after the exercises on Commencement Day. 
 
 In those days the Common at Cambridge used to 
 remind me of a rural fair ground in old England. 
 There was an ancient wooden fence all round it, and 
 close beside this were set the booths and tables of the 
 hucksters who supplied the village loungers with root- 
 beer, ham sandwiches, lemonade and oysters. A 
 frequent decoration of these tables was a tiny pig, 
 
43 
 
 never more than fourteen inches long, decorously 
 draped with parsley, and with a lemon in his mouth. 
 The boys and girls from the " Port " used to come up 
 to see the show and the gay lancers with crimson 
 pennons, as these last escorted the Governor to the 
 First Church. There was once a time when there 
 were so many more ladies than skilful barbers, that 
 belles who expected to be in the front row had their 
 heads dressed over night, and prepared themselves for 
 the next day by fitful naps in their old " easy chairs." 
 These days were over before my time. When I was 
 young, ladies of all degrees dressed their own hair, 
 and went with or without their bonnets as they chose 
 to the First Church. The exercises were announced 
 to begin at eleven, but we young people who crowded 
 the galleries were sure to get there at half past nine, 
 when we adjusted our toilets, put our heavy baskets 
 under the seats till the time came for luncheon, and 
 then watched with interest every incoming official. 
 The ladies most nearly interested in the graduates 
 usually found the front, central seats reserved for 
 them on the floor, but their gay dresses had no such 
 charm for me as the noble faces and forms upon the 
 platform belonging to the older men I knew. I was 
 never tired of the Commencement Orations and 
 Essays, and bitterly grieved over the changes created 
 by the necessities of later years. 
 
 I do not find, as I look back, that there was any 
 enduring impression left upon my mind by any single 
 
44 
 
 graduate, unless he was a personal friend. It was the 
 whole atmosphere of the thing that impressed me. In 
 one year, however, two personalities challenged some 
 attention. I had never seen Charles Dall or Samuel 
 Eliot until that day, and never expected to see either 
 again. I had small idea then that I should marry 
 Charles Dall, or that when Samuel Eliot was the father 
 of a family, he would, with ex-Governor Washburn 
 and myself, become one of the legs of the " Social 
 Science Tripod ! " 
 
 Charles Dall was a graduate of the Divinity School, 
 and I do not remember his Essay in the least. I do 
 not recall its subject nor even his manner, but I saw a 
 frank, spiritual face, innocent as a child's, and a man 
 who held in his hand a manuscript tied with a broad 
 black ribbon. Samuel Eliot's maternal grandfather, 
 " Alden Bradford," the historian, had been an early 
 friend of mine, and he had talked to me of his daugh- 
 ter's son, but never, I think, had he spoken of his great 
 personal beauty. When, therefore, a young man with 
 the face and figure of a Greek, with a bearing that 
 might have challenged a Phidias, came forward on the 
 platform, this was the first thing I thought of. But 
 it was only the first. When he began to read I wholly 
 forgot this exterior in the winning voice, the polished 
 style, the wholly satisfactory character of his Essay. 
 Never did I know a graduate "s first effort greeted with 
 the thundering applause that followed this. It was 
 
45 
 
 not because he was a class favorite, for he was, I think, 
 of too resei-ved a nature for that, and a certain Puritan 
 austerity clung to him all through his life. A beauti- 
 ful life, full of usefulness to his fellowmen, but not 
 the brilliant worldlj' success that was probably 
 anticipated by all who listened to him then. I have 
 never forgotten the picture he presented as he stood 
 before that audience. It has never been repeated, 
 and I do not think I was ever again impressed by the 
 personal beauty of a man. 
 
 The exercises frequently held us until nearly four 
 in the afternoon, and at the close something occurred 
 which always moved me profoundly. The classes 
 were called to form the procession which was to move 
 across the road to the campus and the dining hall. 
 The graduates of the year came first and, called 
 audibly from the platform in the order of their senior- 
 ity, all the others followed. There was a pathetic 
 contrast between the joyful alacrity of the young men, 
 who carried diplomas tied with blue ribbons, the staid 
 demeanor of middle-aged men, and the tottering steps 
 that closed the procession ! Sometimes two very old 
 men went out together feebly sustaining each other. 
 Another supported his gouty steps upon a cane, and 
 last of all, there might come the sole survivor of the 
 oldest class, leaning upon the arm of a servant. I was 
 never willing to leave the church till this last survivor 
 had passed out, and my tears always started when I 
 saw him. 
 
46 
 
 This pathetic and impressive sight has never been 
 seen since Saunders' Theatre took the place of the 
 First Church. The procession is now formed upon 
 the green, and in a manner which, from the shortness 
 of the space to be traversed, no longer appeals to the 
 spectator. 
 
 " Class Day," as I knew it, was a simple rustic 
 festival. If the drunkenness of which Mr. Hale 
 speaks occurred often, it must have been at late sup- 
 pers after the ladies had left the ground. I never 
 remember to have seen a student excited by drink. 
 There was more intercourse in those days between 
 students and townspeople than is now possible. The 
 village girls, who were quite capable of enjoying a 
 modest glass of root-beer, danced upon the green with 
 the rest and were always welcome guests. " Class 
 Day dresses " were not heard of in my day, and the 
 classes themselves were too small to make seats about 
 the tree, tickets and ropes necessary. The athletic 
 craze had not set in ; young men went to college to fit 
 themselves for the serious business of life, not to run 
 up bills at the surgeons for patient fathers to pay, and 
 when they engaged in football, it was for the pleasure 
 of the sport and not to outwit each other. I am glad 
 to say that none of the rowdyism of the English 
 universities has ever been apparent on Commence- 
 ment or Class Day at Harvard. Are dignity and 
 courtesy an inheritance from its Puritan founders.? 
 If so, we have much to thank them for. 
 
47 
 
 It gave me pleasure to read what Mr. Hale says of 
 Professor Pierce, who became in later years a dear 
 friend of my own, but his " long step " over " five or 
 six short ones " of a pupil's reminded me of an amusing 
 incident in my own career. I was little more than a 
 child in experience, when my father's unexpected 
 reverses — the only ones of his long life — sent me 
 down to the District of Columbia to teach " Mathe- 
 matics." I should never have had the courage to do 
 it, but for the loving kindness of my schoolmate, 
 * Mannie Smith, who patiently went over the work 
 that I did in pen and ink to fit myself for emergencies. 
 I was afraid of my own "long steps"! When I had 
 been teaching two or three months, I was invited to 
 make a visit of a few days at Fort Washington, by 
 some ladies connected with the Engineer Corps of the 
 United States Army. Never shall I forget the charm 
 of my row down the Potomac, which, for that day at 
 least, was as blue and sparkling as the old song would 
 have it. Our boat was rowed by sixteen men in the 
 uniform of the United States Navy, and they sang 
 German boat songs all the way. Delightful was the 
 rest of those few days, but I hurried back on a certain 
 Monday morning in time for my classes. I had 
 chosen as my substitute during this absence a certain 
 Miss Latimer, who was a distinguished student, who 
 had been governess in the family of Mr. Wheaton, 
 
 * Mannie — abbreviation for Mary Anne. 
 
48 
 
 well known, I think, as an authority on International 
 Law. I expected my pupils to enjoy her kindly serv- 
 ice, and feared they might be sorry to see me back. 
 They were already assembled when I entered my 
 classroom, and rushed toward me in great disorder, 
 half in tears and full of discontent, each trj'ing to 
 speak louder than her neighbor. 
 
 " Oh Miss Healey, Miss Healey, we must not have 
 bad marks ; what could we do with such a black-board 
 as that ? " were the few words that I at last made out. 
 I went up to the black-board, and for a moment or 
 two I was as much puzzled as my pupils, who stood 
 anxiously watching my chalk. I began work with the 
 first equation and plodded steadily on, but I wonder 
 if anybody will believe me if I say that before I reached 
 the second, I had put in seventeen not before on the 
 board, so " long " was dear Miss Latimer's " step " .■' 
 
 I find my friend alluding to the absence of all 
 sanitary instruction in college, but if Mr. Muzzey 
 suffered from the want of physical exercise, David 
 Wasson, many years after, suffered even more severely 
 from an excess of it. No one told him when he was 
 first taxing his brain severely, that the exercise which 
 would weary the spinal cord must be light and not 
 prolonged. The result of his ignorance was a physical 
 torture much harder to bear than the mild distress of 
 dyspepsia. 
 
 When my father moved into his Hancock Avenue 
 house, I was still a very young girl, but was not 
 
49 
 
 counted a child, because in addition to my school 
 studies with masters and Mr. Abbot, I had had, for 
 two years, the care of my father's house, the oversight 
 of seven servants and of my sisters' studies. My 
 brothers were still babies. Only my sister Emily was 
 born there. At that time President Eliot was a frolic- 
 some boy of three or four, playing within sight of our 
 nursery windows. 
 
 The first course of lectures that I ever heard of 
 opened soon after we went there. They were held in 
 the Masonic Temple on the corner of Tremont Street 
 and Temple Place, where Stearns's store now is. 
 The tickets were very costly, and my uncles thought 
 my father very foolish to provide me with one. " I 
 shall expect her to write abstracts of them," said my 
 father, and my uncles laughed. 
 
 On the first evening I came down with a note-book 
 and pencil. " What are those for ? " said my father, 
 and I told him. " How much do you suppose you 
 will understand, if you busy yourself with writing ? " 
 was his response. " Put those things away, listen 
 carefully, try to keep the thread of the discourse, and 
 tomorrow morning write what you can remember." 
 I still have the notes of that course of lectures. The 
 abstract of the first filled a page, perhaps seven inches 
 by four, but some years after, when Dr. James Walker 
 gave a course of Lowell lectures on the "^4 priori 
 arguments for the existence of a Deity " and related 
 
50 
 
 subjects, he said he could hardly distinguish my notes 
 from his own manuscript, and " would quite as lief 
 print from one as the other!" So well had my 
 father's method served me ! 
 
 I can never forget my obligations to the Lowell 
 Institute. I was very small for my age. When the 
 first course opened in the old Theatre in Franklin 
 Street, which we then called the " Odeon," no tickets 
 were given out. A crowd stood for more than an 
 hour on the sidewalk, and as I was one of the earliest 
 to arrive, I was next the broad iron gate. Colonel 
 Joe May, the father of Mrs. Alcott and the Reverend 
 Samuel J. May, stood right behind me, and with his 
 gold-headed cane and his stout arms formed an arc of 
 safety about me. We always sat together, for we both 
 knew what we wanted and went straight to our end. 
 I think it was Professor Silliman who gave the first 
 course. The Colonel was deaf and I was very near- 
 sighted. We always sat on the first central seat 
 directly in front of the speaker, to the great amaze- 
 ment of our friends, who could not understand how 
 we could occupy one seat twelve nights in succession ! 
 These lectures opened wide fields of knowledge to the 
 young people who listened to them. Of late years 
 they have been more profound, touching social prob- 
 lems or scientific speculations, rather than opening 
 literary and historical themes, but then they introduced, 
 as they continue to do, the most distinguished leaders 
 of the generation to an appreciative audience. 
 
51 
 
 Four things stand out in my recollection con- 
 nected with our Hancock Avenue home. First, my 
 coming-out party ; second, my introduction to Maria 
 Weston Chapman; third, the ball upon the "Uni- 
 corn " ; and fourth, the death of a dear child at five 
 years of age. In those days, young ladies were 
 introduced into society at the age of sixteen. College 
 education has fortunately put an end to that. Our 
 house had only two good sized parlors, and it was 
 necessary to take the furniture out of the nursery 
 on the next floor, which overlooked the Hancock 
 grounds, and prepare it for a supper-room. My father 
 allowed me to dictate all the details of decoration. 
 Flowers were scarce in Boston then. I do not 
 remember ever to have seen a room decorated with 
 flowers in the modern sense, although I went that 
 winter to many elegant parties. I chose white and 
 green for the table. Silver and glass and white 
 camellias gave it a pure, attractive grace. It was 
 lighted entirely by silver candelabras set with candles. 
 I cannot remember any gas in private houses at that 
 time. I had for the table, in garlands and other adorn- 
 ments, five hundred camellias mixed with myrtle, and 
 the perfect, scentless blossoms cost a dollar apiece. 
 One of these was given to each of my guests as he or 
 she departed. 
 
 A few years ago I went to a party here in Wash- 
 ington, where the florist came from Philadelphia, and 
 
52 
 
 the flowers for one evening cost four thousand dollars! 
 I did not think it as pretty or effective as my own 
 supper table. 
 
 My dress for the evening was a simple white 
 muslin, my neck and arms draped with costly lace. 
 It was not becoming, and I think I never looked 
 worse ! I came to some honour for refusing to open 
 my own ball, honour conferred on ver^- mistaken 
 grounds. The newspapers praised my self-denial, 
 supposing I refrained to leave more space upon the 
 floors. I refused, because I must have opened the 
 ball with a young man whom I did not respect, and 
 with whom I would not take the first step toward 
 intimacy. Having refused him, of course I could 
 take no other partner. Such a step was so unusual, 
 that my true reason was never suspected. The young 
 man, however, understood, and the experience had 
 much to do with shaping his subsequent creditable 
 life. If he were living, I should not myself allude to it. 
 
 Very few, if any, of those who danced that night 
 are now living; I can recall only Carlton Sprague, the 
 celebrated lawyer. President Felton, Professor Lever- 
 ing, Dr. Thomas Hill of Harvard, Henn,' Tuke Parker, 
 and some dear schoolmates among those who have 
 passed away. I had at that time one dear companion 
 who was never the friend I believed her, for when it 
 became necessary for me to take my stand against 
 American slavery, the garlands her love seemed to 
 have woven dropped away like frost-bitten leaves. 
 
53 
 
 Although I went to many parties that winter, and 
 was the daughter of a very wealthy man, I had but 
 two dresses, the white one I have mentioned, and a 
 rose colored silk, embroidered in the same color with 
 half opened buds. This last was my father's choice, 
 and suited my pale face. I suspect I should have had 
 but one, if the white one, granted to my own entreaty, 
 had not been so very unbecoming. No one in those 
 days ever thought of a new dress for every ball. 
 
 It was soon after we went to Hancock Avenue 
 that some Massachusetts Educational Association, 
 the exact title of which I do not remember, held a 
 meeting in the " House of Assembly." I was already 
 teaching in two Sunday schools and deeply interested 
 in educational matters, but looked, I suppose, even 
 younger than I was, from the surprise my interest 
 often excited. I went to the meeting in question, was 
 greatly interested in the discussions, and asked some 
 questions which no one seemed disposed to answer. 
 
 Suddenly a lady rose, who seemed to me the most 
 beautiful being I had ever seen. Her features were 
 as clean cut as a Greek cameo, her hair of a golden 
 lustre was gathered in long ringlets at the back, and 
 her whole bearing was one of aerial grace. She took 
 up my questions, made them plain to the audience, 
 and showed very clearly their connection with the 
 discussion. " What a teacher she would make ! " I 
 thought as I listened with delight, not knowing that 
 
54 
 
 she had already taught, and that it was her own ex- 
 perience that had translated my meaning. After all 
 was over she came to me, offered me her card, and, 
 expressing her sympathy in the interest I evidently 
 felt, asked me to come and see her. 
 
 The name upon the card was that of Maria Weston 
 Chapman. I did not know it, nor that of William 
 Lloyd Garrison in their true relations, until long 
 after. As I looked at her, she seemed to represent 
 Minerva, so Greek, so purely intellectual was the 
 whole expression of her figure. From that moment 
 till she died, my allegiance never wavered. I see her 
 now, as she stood before me then, as distinctly as I 
 did that day. The "steel blue eye" which Lowell 
 celebrated in his early poem was brilliant but not 
 penetrating. Many years have passed since she died, 
 and no intelligible word has yet been spoken concern- 
 ing her. Though I loved her, I never became an 
 agnostic for her sake. She realized my highest ideal, 
 so far as intellect was concerned, but my imagination 
 always ventured on higher flights than hers, my heart 
 always beat more warmly. Her indignations were 
 rooted in her sense of justice, mine in warm human 
 sympathies. 
 
 I carried my card home. "Shall she go?" said 
 my mother. " It will not harm her," said my father. 
 Never shall I forget that delightful afternoon. One 
 of the finest intellects was devoted to my entertain- 
 
55 
 
 ment. Portfolios and cabinets, filled with things that 
 I had never seen, were opened to me. Once we came 
 upon a picture of a slave chained and beaten. I 
 turned it quickly. " It hurts me," I said. " It ought 
 to," she added, and I saw a sorrowful expression pass 
 over her beautiful face. 
 
 When I wrote the Constitution of the " Associa- 
 tion for the Advancement of Social Science," she was 
 the only person who recognized my hand. I did not 
 see her for many years after that pleasant afternoon in 
 West Street, but when, after some personal experience 
 of slavery, I sent my first contribution to the " Liberty 
 Bell," Mrs. Chapman, who was the Editor, sent it 
 back to me with a note. " I want to print it," she 
 wrote, " but I cannot do it until I am sure you have 
 counted the cost. Are you strong enough to bear 
 the isolation that will come ? " " I ought to be," I 
 answered, "have I not seen Dr. Channing walking the 
 streets of Boston alone .'' " The question showed the 
 strictly just character of the woman. 
 
 On the third of June, 1840, the first ocean steam- 
 ship reached Boston. It was called the " Unicorn." 
 Of her twenty-seven passengers, the son of Mr. Samuel 
 Cunard was one. Banners streamed, salutes were 
 fired, and the city of Boston entertained the officers 
 by a reception and banquet in Faneuil Hall. In 
 return, the officers of the " Unicorn " invited the fam- 
 ilies of the leading Boston merchants to an excursion 
 
56 
 
 from Boston to Salem and back, which was followed 
 by a banquet in the saloon of the steamer and a ball 
 upon the deck. 
 
 The " Unicorn " was a small steamer, and she was 
 afterwards transferred to the St. Lawrence, running 
 for 3'ears between Quebec and Pictou. She was very 
 elegantly decorated. I still see distinctly the gold 
 and white panels of the saloon, the gay dresses of the 
 ladies, and hear the eloquent but decidedly Irish 
 accents of Mr. Grattan, who was then British Consul 
 at the port. 
 
 I find in my girlish Journal a very full account of 
 this excursion. I call the entertainment splendid, 
 but am chiefly astonished by the floral decorations 
 which were to be found in all parts of the boat. I am 
 delighted with the finish of the machinery, and the 
 delicacy of the landscape painting on the panels, and 
 the berths in the staterooms. The upholstering, 
 which astonished me then, seems now like the present 
 fashionable folly of first-class steamers. I have never 
 been able to see why we should be forced to travel on 
 satin and velvet, and have the daylight shut out by 
 brocades and costly lace, when these are luxuries we 
 cannot afford at home, yet which are sure to increase 
 the cost and the risk of necessar\' travel. 
 
 The ceilings and cornices I describe as heavily 
 gilded, the lights are of colored glass, the sideboard is 
 loaded wth heavy plate, and the black walnut panels 
 
57 
 
 of the saloon are filled with designs in high-colored 
 Japanese lacquer. The fireplaces are of finely carved 
 white marble and, oddly enough, I think, the hanging 
 lamps are decorated with highly colored " Unicorns ! " 
 
 I describe one thing in the cabin which seems to 
 indicate that, surrounded by staterooms, this served 
 as a common dressing-room. Opposite the entrance 
 I saw an oval dining table of black walnut covered 
 with a handsome cloth. The top is hinged in the 
 middle, and one-half, as it is lifted up, displays a wash- 
 bowl with two faucets, one of which provides fresh 
 and the other salt water, as well as elegant tumblers, 
 brushes and the usual toilet furniture. The other 
 side holds napkins and 7iight clothes! Who wore 
 these last, I wonder ! 
 
 It would be easy, I suppose, to discover who was 
 Mayor in 1840, but I have not thought it necessary 
 to preserve so immortal a name! I thought his 
 speech graceful. He said that England had sent over 
 something she supposed stranger than anything a 
 Yankee ever saw, but we had our own " Sea-Serpent I " 
 He drank to the nuptials of the " Serpent " and the 
 " Unicorn," trusting that neither the " Eagle " nor the 
 " Lion " would forbid the bans ! 
 
 I did not like the sentimental coarseness of Mr. 
 Grattan's speech. He said in closing that enough 
 had been said of the beauty of the " Unicorn," he 
 would now drink to the beauties of the " Unicorn," and 
 
58 
 
 defied any vessel sailing in any harbor, and bound to 
 any port, to show of these a finer cargo. 
 
 On the 2ist of July following, I went to the Mav- 
 erick House as a spectator, from the balcony, of the 
 " Cunard " dinner. 
 
 East Boston was prepared as on a gala day, for the 
 reception of her guests. Booths erected at every 
 corner were dressed with the flags of England and 
 America, while tottering old men and tiny children 
 offered baskets of fruits, flowers and pastries to the 
 crowds upon the streets. The roofs of the Sugar 
 Refinery, the Maverick House and several of the 
 villas upon the island were decorated with tri-colored 
 flags. The cutter " Hamilton," the ship of war 
 " Colombia " and the newly arrived ocean steamer 
 " Britannia " were dressed with flowers. The yards 
 were hung with crimson, blue and white and the figure 
 at the stern of the " Britannia " grasped a lovely 
 bouquet. We crossed her deck, but found it impossi- 
 ble to gain admittance to the cabin and saloon. We 
 pressed through the crowded halls of the Maverick to 
 the gallery on the second storey, where we were sup- 
 plied with ices and refreshments from the tables 
 below. We secured a good seat and listened with 
 amusement to Austin, Story, Quincy, Bancroft and 
 Webster. Webster, on whose knee I had often sat 
 and whose majestic presence never failed to impress 
 me as a child, could not fail to be eloquent, but, 
 
59 
 
 whether from wine or fatigue, blundered more than 
 once into bad grammar. The hero-worship paid to 
 him was so obvious that, in spite of my affection for 
 him, it disgusted me with the whole entertainment. 
 It seemed a singular proof of the power of sympathy. 
 I saw men who would have been ashamed to stand 
 alone before the '■ great Daniel " with their hats off 
 and their hearts in their hands, but as men of the 
 million none refused to bow. He had little to say, 
 and evidently felt that his subject had been exhausted. 
 Judge Story related many interesting anecdotes of 
 Fulton, whom he had known personally. The point 
 of these I was most sorry to lose, but his voice did 
 not reach the gallery. President Quincy was in the 
 vein and spoke with exquisite humor, alluding to his 
 speech-making son with both facility and tenderness. 
 Bancroft made by far the most brilliant address and I 
 liked his independence. " I am glad," said he, with 
 noble energy, " I am glad, freely as I welcome this 
 steamer and our guest, that when the ' Britannia ' 
 entered our port, she was obliged to pass the heights 
 of Dorchester, and that now, cradled in her berth, she 
 lies in the shadow of Bunker Hill." 
 
 Although my girlish journal does not record the 
 fact, it is plain that the " Cunard dinner " was tendered 
 by the city of Boston to Mr. Samuel Cunard, in cele- 
 bration of the arrival of the " Britannia," the first of 
 the new line of ocean steamships to reach Boston, 
 
6o 
 
 although the little "Unicorn" had actually accom- 
 plished the voyage before her. 
 
 On the 30th of July, I went on board the " Bri- 
 tannia," and was shocked by dirty decks, dirty cabins, 
 dirty officers and dirty men, who seemed to be the 
 entire contents of her immense hold. I had never 
 seen so filthy a crew, and I could not imagine an 
 American officer of a merchant ship consenting to 
 receive a single visitor with his vessel in such a 
 condition. 
 
 There were several ladies' cabins, each containing 
 half a dozen staterooms. These were painted in 
 white and gold. The saloon on deck was wainscotted 
 in oak, carved and stamped very neatly. The machin- 
 ery was said to be of a very superior order, but the 
 boat was so crowded when I visited it that I could 
 hardly reach the saloon and had no opportunity to 
 examine the works. 
 
 I remember seeing on this day many heavy 
 waggons loaded with charcoal, clean and solid, made 
 as all the best charcoal for family use then was, of 
 walnut. In my young days these waggons, drawn 
 each by four fine Flemish horses, were common in 
 Boston streets. Two bushel baskets were hitched to 
 the frame. The driver drove slowly, shouting, " Chark! 
 Chark ! " and here and there a door opened and the 
 baskets were filled and carried in. In those days ail 
 preserves were made over small furnaces fed with 
 
6i 
 
 charcoal, but the waggons and the charcoal have long 
 since disappeared. Often have I longed for them in 
 hot summer days, but I have seen them only once, in 
 the year 1880, among the mines of Colorado, where I 
 found also the charcoal burners' huts. 
 
 It must have been about this time that I went to a 
 very beautiful ball in Faneuil Hall offered by the city 
 to the young Due de Joinville. Such entertainments 
 are apt to be crowded and vulgar now. They were 
 comparatively exclusive then. This was elegant in 
 every detail, and I saw among the crowd no one more 
 attractive than my own mother in her elegant dress of 
 blue and silver, with soft marabous of the same color 
 clasped with a sparkling arrow, encircling her beautiful 
 hair. 
 
 A singular incident fixed this ball in my memory. 
 The Contessa America Vespuccia had been the mis- 
 tress of the Duke's older brother, the Duke of Orleans. 
 She had made herself so obnoxious by her political 
 intrigues that she had been banished from France, 
 and sent in a French frigate to Brazil. From thence 
 she had traveled to Washington, claiming public 
 lands from the Government of the United States, on 
 the ground that her ancestor had been the actual 
 discoverer of this continent. The means of commu- 
 nication with Europe were then so infrequent, and the 
 acquaintance with foreign newspapers so slight, that 
 the scandal had not penetrated to the ears of our City 
 
62 
 
 Government, and having reached Boston she was 
 invited to meet the Due de Joinville ! ! I stood very 
 near her. She had no personal beauty. She was 
 very tall, a brunette, with a comely face and graceful 
 bearing. Her dress was at once the most attractive 
 as well as artistic that I had ever seen. Over a quilted 
 white satin petticoat, richly embroidered with gold, 
 she wore a close-fitting, crimson velvet pelisse, em- 
 broidered with a vine and grapes in gold all along the 
 skirt, the sleeves and square-cut neck. The sleeves, 
 broad, open and flowing, fell to her knees, and not 
 being closed, did not interfere with the action of her 
 bare arms. This pelisse was girded with a heavy cord 
 and tassels of gold. There was no train, but it was 
 long enough for the beautiful border to lie flat on the 
 floor. More wonderful than her dress was her hair. 
 Covered by a net of gold and pearls, divided at the 
 back and parted through the middle, it fell in two 
 long, heavy braids to the floor, and these were held 
 together at two points with diamond arrows. I do 
 not think she wore any other jewels, nor was there 
 any lace about her person. The crimson set off her 
 dark skin in a fashion wholly new at that time. A 
 very few months ago, a newspaper correspondent 
 found this woman in Italy, at an advanced age, sur- 
 rounded by the portraits of a family of which she was 
 the last representative, and posing as an innocent and 
 injured woman. 
 
63 
 
 The Boston that I remember, the only Boston 
 dear to my heart, has passed away forever. I have 
 spoken of the beautiful and hidden colonial houses. 
 At that time the Common was a vast undulating field, 
 surrounded by terraced malls on three sides, shaded 
 by elms as fine and healthy as those of the Connecticut 
 valley. Outside the Common graveyard on Boylston 
 Street, from Tremont Street to Carver, there was a 
 fine row of very old trees, buttonwoods, I think, and 
 the Tremont Street mall, from Park Street to Boyl- 
 ston, showed three magnificent rows of American 
 elms shading its double walk with cathedral arches 
 of verdure. Of these not a vestige remains. They 
 have been the victims of neglect, asphalt and public 
 indifference. 
 
 The Paddock elms, which were planted outside 
 the old Granary, were cut down a few years before 
 the fate of the Tremont Street mall could be fore- 
 shadowed. Monckton Milnes and Charles Sumner 
 used to sit on the old Fort on the Common to look at 
 sunsets, which Milnes declared were finer than any 
 Italy could show. If these exist, they are now hidden 
 from the view by the small central forest of the 
 Common and the Public Garden, as well as the build- 
 ings on the Back Bay. 
 
 In those days Atkinson Street still had its old 
 houses and gardens, and the beautiful houses of the 
 Waterstons, the Ruthvens and Harris's Folly still 
 decorated the slopes of Fort Hill. The traces of 
 
64 
 
 Charles Bulfinch's dainty genius still lingered along 
 Colonnade Row, and Charles Street, and hovered 
 over the green crescent and pretty urn which made 
 the centre of Franklin Street. The Odeon and the 
 Catholic Church on Franklin Street also bore witness 
 to his skill. From the windows of the broad houses 
 which overlooked the Crescent the beautiful face of 
 Emily Marshall looked out to thank the Cambridge 
 serenaders, and dear old Madam May sat serenely 
 before one in the lower storey of an adjoining house, 
 busied over the dainty knitting she was preparing for 
 our Anti-slavery Bazaar. There were no pleasanter 
 houses anywhere than those that the stone fortresses 
 of Commerce have displaced. 
 
 On the east side of Franklin Street was an arch- 
 way covering a cart and carriage road, leading from 
 Franklin to Arch Street. The whole of the Crescent 
 or Tontine, as it was called, was rescued from a mere 
 quagmire by the genius of Charles Buliinch, assisted 
 by Mr. Scollay and Mr. Vaughan. Over this archway, 
 in my day, the " Boston Library " was opened. My 
 father was one of the proprietors, and three or four 
 times a week I found my way to its quaint hall, to 
 look up a fact or change a book. Two very elderly 
 ladies I used to see there; one of them I regarded 
 with reverence, because I heard that she had written 
 a book. I associate the name of Lee with these 
 ladies, but I cannot tell why. In Leverett Street in a 
 
65 
 
 comfortable room was the Parish Library of the West 
 Church, and Miss Hannah Adams, who had written 
 the " History of the Jews," was the quaint little 
 Librarian, but as she never spoke one unnecessary 
 word, not even when she saluted the driver of 
 the coach with the traditional words, " Great box, 
 little box, band-box and bundle," I recollect only 
 her appearance. 
 
 My father's library was a large one for that time. 
 As a mere lad he had bought all the early translations 
 of various classics from the book-stalls in Newbury- 
 port. They were printed on a queer gray paper in 
 Philadelphia, and I have some of them now. As he 
 read more, he bought the originals in many languages, 
 and many old books that attracted him by quaint 
 illustrations. Beside these, I used to go to the Ath- 
 enaeum in Pearl Street, where I enjoyed the fine casts 
 and pictures which divided my interest with the 
 books, and which are now in the care of the Boston 
 Art Museum. Many of my early journals are filled 
 with careful descriptions of these things. What 
 Boston owes to the generosity of James and Thomas 
 Handasyd Perkins, it has never yet sufficiently ac- 
 knowledged. The fine mansion of Thomas Handasyd 
 was given to the Institute for the Blind at the sugges- 
 tion of John M. Forbes, but his interest was warmly 
 excited by the partial loss of his own sight. 
 
 The Fort Hill district had always a romantic 
 interest for me, and to this day when I walk down 
 
66 
 
 Franklin Street, I see but three things, the old 
 " Odeon " where I went to my first lectures, with 
 Helen Davis's shawl pins, and old Colonel Joe May's 
 stout arms protecting me from the crowd ; the old 
 Roman Catholic Cathedral, associated always with 
 that Bishop Cheverus, who stood by the deserted 
 bedsides of Catholics and Protestants alike, during 
 the horrors of the yellow fever about 1819; and the 
 old Berry Street Church, where once in my life I sat 
 in my grandfather's pew and listened to Dr. Chan- 
 ning ! I can still recall his pure and pensive face, and 
 feel again a sort of irritation that those who loved him 
 could not see that he was wrapped in a black shawl, 
 instead of the gay Scotch plaid which seemed to be so 
 little in keeping with his person and the occasion. 
 He spoke sitting, for this was in the last years of his 
 preaching, and his sweet, tender voice suggested a 
 thread just ready to break. Right opposite the 
 church was the old arched Vestry, where Harriet 
 Ryan started her " Hospital for Consumptives " at 
 a later day. 
 
 To one private library in Boston, I was in my 
 childhood greatly indebted. This was before Ticknor 
 and Prescott and Felton opened their shelves to me. 
 This was the library of Daniel P. Parker. Mr. Parker 
 and his wife were middle-aged people when I first 
 remember them. They both, I think, came to Boston 
 from Worcester County, Mrs. Parker never until the 
 hour of her marriage. They were people of a singular 
 
67 
 
 dignity and intelligence, devoted to literature and 
 philanthropy, and keeping themselves for the most 
 part quietly at home. 
 
 Daniel P. Parker was a successful and well-known 
 man before his wife joined him in Boston. I never 
 knew her maiden name, and intimate as I was with 
 the family, I never heard any mention of grandparents, 
 nor did I meet any relative of either at their table. 
 Perhaps it was from that circumstance that I have 
 always thought of Mrs. Parker as an orphan. She 
 was, however, a Mary Weeks of Marlboro, a town 
 which adjoined Southboro, where her husband was 
 born. Both were people of extraordinary good sense, 
 well balanced in every way, and beneficent as well as 
 prudent. Neither was likely to yield an established 
 opinion, and Mrs. Parker preserved to her latest hour 
 the economical methods of her early youth. An 
 anecdote current in my childhood will give some idea 
 of her strong character: 
 
 One evening soon after her arrival in Boston, in a 
 large assembly, she dropped her handkerchief. A 
 young fellow from her own neighborhood darted 
 forward to pick it up, and presented it with a low 
 bow. Mrs. Parker thanked him courteously, then 
 looking him calmly in the eye, she said : 
 
 " Young man, I can remember the time when you 
 thought it too much trouble to put on your boots, to 
 see me home after a day's sewing." 
 
 The application was left to the bystanders. 
 
68 
 
 The oldest daughter I knew but slightly. She 
 became the wife, however, of Edmund Quincy, to 
 whom the Anti-slavery movement brought me, as a 
 married woman, very near. The younger, Emily, 
 married late, Benjamin Pickman of Salem, and died 
 three months after. The only son, Henry Tuke, was 
 an inveterate reader and most precocious student. 
 
 Henry's appetite for books and his power of rapid 
 absorption of their contents exceeded anything that 
 Boston knew. After the carriage way to David 
 Sears's house was obliterated by the family, a long 
 narrow strip of land remained between the building 
 which is now the Somerset Club, and the red brick 
 walls of Mr. Parker s house. As soon as the Sears's 
 addition was completed, Mr. Parker enclosed this 
 space, shelved the walls, and filled the shelves with 
 books as fast as his omnivorous son demanded them. 
 No sincerer, more modest or more reasonable people 
 ever existed than Mr. and Mrs. Parker, but it seems 
 to me that they must in their hearts have anticipated 
 for the son a career that he never entered. He was 
 about my own age, my partner at Papanti's and my 
 frequent guest. I went almost every week to dine at 
 his father's house. I had free access to his book- 
 shelves, but the moment we rose from the table, 
 Henry was absorbed in his latest acquisition, and his 
 father and mother were my pleasant companions. He 
 graduated at Harvard in 1842, and afterward from the 
 
69 
 
 Harvard Law School in 1845, receiving the degree 
 of LL. B. Trinity College at Hartford afterward gave 
 him the Master of Arts. He married Lucy, the 
 daughter of Phineas Upham, and died in London in 
 August, 1890. Henry did not go to Europe to 
 remain, if I remember rightly, until after his marriage, 
 and when he died, I could not find that he had done 
 any original work. That he was constantly exploring 
 fresh fields in literature, art and science, I feel sure, 
 but he seems to have had no other occupation than 
 the most congenial duty of filling the orders from 
 various public libraries, chiefly, I think, those of the 
 Astor and Lenox libraries in New York. 
 
 In those early days, Theodore Lyman put his 
 library in Bowdoin Street at my disposal, and there, 
 in grand old editions, I made myself familiar with 
 the French classics, especially with the delightful 
 Memoirs of Sully. 
 
 I was not therefore without resources. I had the 
 Boston library, the Parish library, and the private 
 libraries of Mr. Parker and my father, as well as the 
 smaller collections of other friends, but until Elizabeth 
 Peabody started her foreign library, and I made the 
 intimate acquaintance of President Felton, I never 
 had books enough nor any opportunity to study 
 properly. If in my reading I wished to clear up a 
 point, to compare statements or dates, to get at the 
 contemporaneous works of other authors treating the 
 
70 
 
 same subject, the means were not at hand. One very 
 unfortunate result followed : I began to write for the 
 press while I was still a child. 
 
 I suppose I am at this moment that writer of the 
 English language who has written steadily for the 
 greatest number of years. This would not have hap- 
 pened had I possessed the advantages of the college 
 students of today, and I mention it for their encour- 
 agement. They ought to do better work than I have 
 done. I mention it also for the encouragement of 
 those who cannot secure a college education. Poverty, 
 absence of books or of social friction, the most helpful 
 of all stimulants, should not discourage any one bent 
 on a useful life. At different periods I have had to 
 encounter all these obstacles. 
 
 Mr. Hale has not exaggerated the difficulty of 
 obtaining foreign books, so far as the common student 
 was concerned. 
 
 It was not till Elizabeth Peabody started her 
 foreign bookstore in 1836, at number 13 West Street, 
 that he or I could readily order or buy a foreign book. 
 To this privilege she soon added another, that of a 
 foreign circulating library. The subscribers to this 
 soon became so many that if Elizabeth had known 
 how to keep her accounts, it would have been very 
 profitable, but she could not help saying, " Do not pay 
 for that, you have not kept it long enough," so I 
 suspect her enterprise was a sorry failure. As to 
 
71 
 
 German books, however, Dr. Francis began to collect 
 them as soon as he left college. Theodore Parker 
 was well provided in 1840, and when Dr. Hedge re- 
 turned from Germany, in the very year in which Mr. 
 Hale was born, he brought with him a fine collection 
 of German and Italian books, relating to poetry and 
 philosophy. 
 
 Scholars were very generous to each other then, 
 and they had need to be, for they could not tell how 
 soon they might have to ask for the favors they 
 granted. The real trouble lay in the poorly-filled 
 purses of the students. There was no type-writing in 
 that day, and my eyes have often filled with tears as I 
 have looked at whole volumes copied by the pen of 
 Dr. Gould or some friend bent on helping a poorer 
 student, a friend, too, who was generally a woman. 
 
 At the time of which I am speaking, postage upon 
 letters was very high. It cost eighteen and three- 
 quarters cents to send a letter from Boston to 
 Washington. I forget the amount paid between 
 Boston and Worcester, but it was sufficient to induce 
 all persons to avail themselves of private hands when- 
 ever they were presented. I had been often told that 
 private hands sometimes proved untrustworthy, but I 
 neither believed it nor dreaded it. One day I was 
 surprised by receiving from my cousin, the Hon. 
 Samuel F. Haven, a small package of lip glue, an 
 article which has, I hope, gone out of fashion ! This 
 
was followed by a letter in which he said, " Your last 
 letter, sent by your friend, has been opened; as it 
 contained only a short note and the full abstract of 
 Dr. James Walker's last lecture, it was of little conse- 
 quence. Sometime, it might be unlucky; I therefore 
 advise you to use the lip glue I have sent before you 
 put on the seal." There were no envelopes in those 
 days, indeed I find none in use before 1840, and we 
 paid postage by the sheet and not by the ounce. 
 That led to the use of folio paper, which was sealed 
 by wax or wafers as circumstances decided. Wax is 
 still used in elegant correspondence, but wafers, I 
 suspect, have ceased to e.xist. The gum upon the 
 envelope renders them unnecessary. In the Provin- 
 cial Parliaments, elegant cut glass bottles wth 
 stoppers of fine sponge, to be filled with water, are 
 furnished to each member. I do not know whether 
 any such luxuries are sent to the Halls of Congress. 
 It may be said, that its members have found the use 
 of their tongues ! 
 
 In the days of my girlhood there was no late 
 dining in Boston. The hours for meals were the 
 hours kept in the century in which the town was 
 settled. According to the rank in life, as I have said 
 before, breakfast was from seven to half-past, dinner 
 from twelve to half-past two, and tea or supper always 
 at six, except where servants ate earlier than their 
 masters. There were no servants' dining-rooms then. 
 
73 
 
 nor was one quality of food purchased for the parlor 
 and another for the kitchen. The fashions were 
 simple; dinner consisted of but two courses, fish and 
 meat, soup and meat, or meat and dessert. Except 
 when fruit was in season, or when gentlemen lingered 
 over wine and nuts, no third course was thought of. 
 During the Revolutionary War, and I think also 
 during the War of 1812, meat was very dear. The 
 best innkeepers contrived various economies, among 
 them that of serving the pudding before the meat. 
 This fashion never prevailed among the wealthier 
 classes, but was kept up by the better portion of those 
 living upon salaries, and traces of it are still to be 
 found in the seaports of New England. 
 
 Life in Beacon Street was wholesome and friendly 
 rather than ceremonious. When there were three or 
 four ladies in a family, it was not thought mannerly 
 for them all to leave the house together. There were 
 no " receiving days." Ceremonious calls were usually 
 made between twelve and two. If the daughters 
 were out the mother stayed at home. If the mother, 
 then at least one daughter was there to receive chance 
 visitors. If any change occurred from any special 
 cause, a careful apology was left with the servant. 
 Our servants were almost always farmers' daughters, 
 and our kitchens in consequence as pleasant as any 
 room in the house. 
 
 With later European habits came changes, which 
 were far more important than mere change of hours. 
 
74 
 
 As a young girl, I could take my sewing half an hour 
 after dinner, and go confidently to any house between 
 Park and Charles Streets upon Beacon. I should be 
 welcomed by the friendly mother or the cordial 
 daughter, and as night drew near probably kept to 
 " tea," a meal which never gave any housekeeper a 
 second thought. Pleasant gossip, talk about our 
 books or play, varied our entertainment. When the 
 table was cleared, a scarlet cloth was spread upon the 
 dining table if the family was large ; the solar lamp 
 was placed in the centre, and the father of the family, 
 who seldom in those days thought of a cigar, took up 
 the four pages of the Transcript and read to us such 
 news as it was possible to collect, when we had no 
 telephone, no telegraph, no steamship, and at the best 
 scarce fifty miles of railroad. Cornelia Walter's spicy 
 editorials gave us food for conversation and started 
 many a jest. 
 
 I have often thought of a remark that my father 
 made long, long after, when the success of the At- 
 lantic Cable became a recognized fact. " There will 
 be no merchant princes now." he said, " but there will 
 be plenty of traders." 
 
 When the nine o'clock curfew rang, I folded up 
 my work and went home, and I wish to say that I 
 usually went alone, whether it was from a friend's 
 fireside, the "teachers' meetings" at Dr. Bartol's or 
 an evening lecture. We kept a man-ser\'ant, but he 
 
75 
 
 was never sent for me. Less fortunate than my 
 friend, Sarah Hale, I had no brothers, and I would 
 not allow the tired father of a family to put on his 
 boots for me. As I lived in the West End the dis- 
 tances were never great, and I passed through no 
 doubtful thoroughfares. Mr. Hale says his sisters 
 never went out without an escort. They had brothers, 
 and this was probably to create a habit of courtesy in 
 the boys. It certainly was not necessary, for I never 
 encountered the smallest inconvenience or discourtesy 
 in Boston streets, where I walked alone at all hours 
 until I was married, and so did many young women 
 whom I knew. It sometimes happens nowadays 
 that women are not safe in broad day, on Boston 
 Common or in the Public Garden, especially if they 
 carry purses in their hands ! 
 
 When I had written so far, I was obliged to turn 
 to my girlish Journal for an item. There I found 
 under a date in 1839, a sentence like the following. 
 " I was invited to take tea with Anna Renouf tonight 
 to meet my dear friends the Smiths, but as William 
 was absent I declined. I would not give my father 
 the trouble to come for me." 
 
 Now Anna Renouf lived in Avon Place on the 
 south side of the Common, and the moment I read 
 this I saw that there were localities to which I could 
 not go alone and understood why my experience in 
 the matter of escorts had been so different from Mr. 
 
76 
 
 Hale's. In those days, Winter and West, Summer, 
 Franklin and High Streets were set with beautiful 
 houses, many of them standing alone in lovely gar- 
 dens. When I crossed Washington Street in going 
 from Avon Place through Temple, I passed the 
 houses of James Savage and Handasyd Perkins. Mr. 
 Hale lived always, I think, on the south side of the 
 Common, and his sisters had many friends in streets 
 now wiped out of existence, such as Chauncey and 
 Otis Place. No father would have allowed his 
 daughter to go alone in that section after dark. But 
 Mr. Hale is wrong in thinking that Boston streets 
 are safer now than in that far-off day. His young 
 girls travel alone now because an electric car goes to 
 almost every door. 
 
 Mr. Hale tells us also of the pleasant journeys 
 taken in the big barouche, when the family went to 
 the seaside or the country. In that way I traveled 
 pleasantly several times. 
 
 It must have been early in June that I went up 
 the Connecticut with Thornton Davis soon after his 
 marriage. I remember that we traveled close to the 
 river for many miles, and came in delicious moonlight, 
 somewhere near eleven at night, to a well-known 
 tavern kept by Uncle Jerry Warrener, at Springfield, 
 where his wife, " Aunt Phoebe," as the townspeople 
 called her, was celebrated for her unequalled waffles. 
 Happy was the Boston lady living on the slopes of 
 
Beacon Hill, who succeeded in coaxing Aunt Phoebe 
 to give her the carefully guarded recipe. Here Uncle 
 Jerry broiled a shad for us, that had been taking its 
 bath in the river after our moon began to shine, and 
 Aunt Phoebe sei-ved us a midnight dessert of waffles. 
 
 I have never forgotten the shad. That is a fish 
 which, like the Atlantic mackerel, should always be 
 eaten as soon as it is caught. Uncle Jerry and his 
 wife made a modest fortune, built a handsome house, 
 and entertained Jenny Lind when she went to Spring- 
 field. They must have reminded her of some of her 
 own country people on the Swedish fiords. 
 
 And again I went with Elizabeth Livermore in 
 a chaise all the way from Milford to Bible Hill in 
 Hillsborough, where my mother's ancestors had led 
 a godly life, reading from a great folio to their neigh- 
 bors every Sunday, before there was either a church 
 or a minister in the settlement. Nearly all my 
 journeys, however, v/ere made in the stage coaches. 
 
 I was glad to make acquaintance in that way 
 with varieties of the human species that I never met 
 elsewhere, and to enjoy the excitement of dashing up 
 to the stage houses, where we stopped for dinner. If 
 we were in or near a seaport, there was sure to be 
 a parrot on hand, which, taking its cue from the 
 villagers, would cry out, " Who's come ? " 
 
 Traveling in private carriages continued in the 
 Southern states until the Civil War began, and it is 
 
78 
 
 not yet ten years since two elderly ladies living in 
 Maryland, near Baltimore, passed away at an advanced 
 age, having never traveled in steamboat or palace can 
 or even in a horse car, but who had been from Balti- 
 more to Niagara and Saratoga summer after summer 
 in their own carriage. Country inns too were very 
 attractive in my time. Many of them were rambling 
 one storeyed buildings, covered with vines and boast- 
 ing a tin kitchen and a fire of hickory. I recall such 
 an inn at York in Maine, where a descendant of 
 Governor Bradstreet presided over the hearth after 
 she was ninety years of age, a grateful sight to the 
 lawyers on the circuit. Nor shall I ever forget the 
 delightful inn at Ashfield, embowered in green, with 
 long rows of pies, pumpkin, apple and mince, cooling 
 in the summer breezes on its porches ! Very sorry 
 indeed was I when I first saw the city-like hotel 
 which has now taken its place. 
 
 One short excursion I must have made when 
 about eleven years old, although I have no means of 
 fixing the exact date. I had been staying, as I often 
 did, at the house of Dr. Robbins in Roxbury. A 
 niece of Mrs. Robbins had been a bridesmaid of my 
 mother, and made and dressed the first doll I ever 
 possessed. Her parents were still living in the near 
 neighborhood, but as Mrs. Robbins had no daughters, 
 and there were several pretty daughters at Snowdrop 
 Bank, my dear cousin Sallie lived with her aunt 
 
79 
 
 Robbins and filled a daughter's place. One day the 
 square-topped chaise was drawn out, and I heard 
 that cousin Sallie was going to drive me to Stedman 
 Williams's farm. I had an idea that something very 
 dreadful was to occur that day, but I never thought 
 for a moment that cousin Sallie's help was needed, 
 and that she took me because she did not wish to 
 burden Aunt Robbins with the care of a child, yet 
 that was probably the case. The story is only worth 
 telling because it shows what a very different con- 
 dition obtained at that time within the limits of 
 Roxbury, from that which now exists. We went, I 
 suppose, to that woodland region called Canterbury 
 by Mr. Cabot in his life of Emerson. At all events, 
 a large part of the Williams farm is now included in 
 Franklin Park, and I can still recognize some of the 
 objects I saw that day. We drove through a grassy 
 lane following the lines of Walnut Street as it is 
 today, pines, birches and young elms, I think, meeting 
 over our heads. Three times I got out of the chaise 
 and let down bars, waiting to put them up again. At 
 last we drove into an open farm where several acres 
 of land, dotted with trees, were crossed by a good 
 carriage road leading up to the house door. Large 
 masses of rock, such as have given the dear old town 
 its name, broke the undulations of the land. Some 
 pleasant women came to the door to meet us. Very 
 soon we went to dinner, gracefully served in the old 
 
8o 
 
 New England fashion, and when the father of the 
 family stood up to carve a turkey, I saw hanging low 
 down over his breast the mighty but harmless tumor 
 that a surgeon was about to take away. We had 
 hardly left the table when the Doctor's sulky drove 
 up, and I was told that I might amuse myself out of 
 doors. Far away I found a boulder that had charmed 
 me as we drove in. Waxwork climbed over it, and I 
 found to my amazement that, large and heavy as it 
 seemed, it yielded to my hand! It rested on a pebble. 
 It rests upon it still, and as I moved it that day, a 
 large black snake, the first I had ever seen, slipped 
 away. I have never met any of the Williams family 
 since, but if any of Stedman Williams's children are 
 living, I feel quite sure that neither has imprinted on 
 her heart a more distinct impression of that fine old 
 man, of the house he lived in, and the lovely land in 
 which it is set. 
 
 I went to Sunday School, as I have somewhere 
 said, from the time that I was small enough to be 
 carried up the stairs in my father's arms. Dr. Lowell 
 was not at first inclined to the existence of a West 
 Parish Sunday School. Among other things he 
 thought — as ultimately happened — that it would 
 divide families, and that children who went to school 
 would no longer go to church with their parents, and 
 we should lose that pleasantest of all sights, whole 
 families on their way to the House of Prayer, 
 
8i 
 
 together! Where do we see it now? Not even in 
 Philadelphia or Elmira where the two largest Sunday 
 Schools in the country are assembled. 
 
 When the Sunday School opened, the " Catechis- 
 ing Class " in the Belfry was given up. I was most 
 fortunate in my teachers. Ann Kuhn, Adelaide 
 Russell, and her sainted sister Sarah, afterward the 
 wife of Samuel May of Leicester, Helen Loring and 
 Elizabeth Howard were all I ever knew, except as I 
 shared with the whole school the precious lessons of 
 Charles G. Loring. That I became a teacher at a 
 very early age was due to Mr. Loring's habit of draw- 
 ing substitutes for absent teachers from Elizabeth 
 Howard's class. Miss Howard, afterwards Mrs. 
 Bartol, wrote out her lesson every Sunday, giving 
 much time and thought to it. Every Saturday after- 
 noon for many years we gathered at her house, and 
 frequently we were invited to tea. It happened at 
 last that I was, as a substitute, provided with a class 
 that had lost its teacher, and at its eager entreaty Mr. 
 Loring made the position permanent. I could not 
 have accepted it had I not been able to go to Chest- 
 nut Street on Saturdays, and to borrow then the 
 previous Sunday's lesson from Miss Howard. This 
 class I kept until my marriage, with few changes, and 
 very soon I added to it another at the Pitts Street 
 chapel for the poor, then under the charge of Robert 
 C. Waterston, and still later a Bible class at the West 
 
82 
 
 Church, of which Augustus Pope, Sylvester Judd, 
 Loammi Ware, and that faithful friend of the Unita- 
 rian Church, Thomas Gaffield, were members. We 
 were all students together. 
 
 The two potent factors of religious life in my 
 early years were Dr. Charles Lowell and Dr. Joseph 
 Tuckerman. Dr. Tuckerman may be said to have 
 originated and organized the " Ministry to the Poor." 
 His work has been remembered and applauded and 
 has borne much fruit. The man himself seems to me 
 to have been forgotten. After he left Chelsea he 
 came to live in a small house in Mount Vernon Place, 
 vei7 near our own. His face seemed to embody the 
 purity and zeal of an apostle. His was a soul not 
 veiled by, but actually made visible by, the flesh. 
 Either a portion of his salary or his poor's purse was 
 supplied by an association of ladies, called the 
 " Tuckerman Circle." Of this my mother was a 
 member, and after her health became delicate, I used 
 to go with her to its monthly meetings, to attend to 
 anything that might be beyond her strength. 
 
 Dr. Tuckerman came to these meetings to greet 
 friends whom he had not time to visit, and to conse- 
 crate our needlework with a prayer. He never 
 stayed long, but it was what, as a child, I heard him 
 say and saw him do that turned my steps later to the 
 Pitts Street chapel. But of all influences, that of my 
 beloved Dr. Lowell was the greatest. I grieve for 
 
83 
 
 the children of today who have never known such 
 a pastor. He came often to our table, for, on account 
 of Mrs. Lowell's delicate health, he had removed from 
 Boston to Cambridge before I can remember. He 
 watched over me as closely as my own father could 
 have done. I never seemed to do anything that he 
 did not know, and after several years' absence in 
 Europe, after Dr. Bartol's installation, he seemed to 
 know me and understand me as well as if he had 
 never left his people. He gave me pi'izes for good 
 conduct as well as for good scholarship, a beautiful 
 copy of Bewick's " Birds," commemorating some desir- 
 able self-conquest. Such things cannot be told, but 
 as long as life lasts they must be felt. 
 
 He had great tact as well as exquisite delicacy, 
 one instance of which touched me so deeply that I 
 can never forget it. I have mentioned the death of a 
 dear little brother as occurring in Hancock Avenue. 
 I have not dwelt upon it, for it touches me too nearly. 
 The child was given into my young arms when he 
 was born, and owing to my mother's serious illness, 
 I had all the care of him till he died, at a little more 
 than five years of age. He was a child of striking 
 beauty, and at that early age had shown a ready wit 
 and a sensitive conscience that made him most attract- 
 ive. My father's ambition and love were bound up 
 in him. Often when our dear minister came to see 
 us, the conversation would turn to the treasure we 
 
84 
 
 had lost. Rising from the table one day, my father 
 finished what he had to say with the words, " We 
 never had a child that was so beautiful or so promis- 
 ing." I was standing near Dr. Lowell. He turned to 
 me at once, laid his hand upon my head, and added, 
 " Caroline, / never said that." He was so quick 
 to feel what might give pain, but he was not more 
 insensible to a low jealousy himself than the young 
 girl to whom he spoke. 
 
 When after my marriage it became necessary for 
 me to speak in public, his heart was wrung with 
 anxiety, and from the chamber to which he was con- 
 fined by the first approaches of his last illness, he sent 
 me a peremptory summons to Elmwood. I shall 
 never forget his greeting; as I opened the chamber 
 door he rose from the old easy chair and standing 
 erect, cried out, " Child ! my child ! what is this I 
 hear? Why are you talking to the whole world?" 
 He was clothed in a long white flannel dressing 
 gown, with a short shoulder cape hardly reaching to 
 his belt. His was no longer the piercing expression, 
 aggressive to a degree, that Harding had portrayed. 
 The curling locks that gave individuality to his fore- 
 head had been cut away; the gentle influence of a 
 submissive spirit had impressed itself upon his 
 features. In a moment I was seated at his feet, and 
 then came a long and intimate talk of why, and when, 
 and wherefore, which ended in a short prayer with 
 
85 
 
 his hand upon my head, and the words, " Now promise 
 me that you will never enter the desk without first 
 seeking God's blessing!" I answered only by a look. 
 How else could the hard work of those years have 
 been done ? He needed nothing more. 
 
 At the time of Dr. Kirk's revival in Boston, I 
 went often to Park Street Church to listen to his 
 sermons. It would not be true to say that these 
 were in any sense a religious influence. I had been 
 too thoroughly trained in all liberal ways, and was 
 too devoted to Dr. Lowell and his horror of even- 
 ing meetings and hysterical methods, to accept the 
 preaching of this wonderful orator in any such fashion. 
 I have never listened, however, to any speaker of 
 greater power, or of so vivid an imagination. I con- 
 sidered these services a great intellectual spur, as I 
 afterward considered the acting of Rachel ; the only 
 really great acting I ever saw, although I have 
 enjoyed Irving and Ellen Terry, Mrs. Mowatt and 
 Fanny Kemble. I should think it must have been 
 impossible for a man or woman of loose or undis- 
 ciplined life to resist the force of his appeals. 
 
 My attendance on these services brought me into 
 contact with members of the evangelical churches, 
 among others with Charlotte, the younger sister of 
 the beautiful Emily Marshall. Charlotte afterward 
 married the well-known Horatio Bridge, the friend of 
 Hawthorne, and is still living at an advanced age. 
 
86 
 
 She was a very beautiful and attractive girl, with the 
 charming manner that has always distinguished her 
 family, and which had won the love of every man or 
 woman who approached Emily. 
 
 Soon after the close of the Park Street services, 
 Charlotte came to me and asked me to join her in 
 creating a Creche at the North End. We hired a 
 room in Salem Street and established a motherly 
 Irish woman as matron. Here we received young 
 children of working women, and took care of them 
 while the mothers earned their daily bread. It was a 
 very simple affair; a bath tub, a barber's bib, a pair 
 of scissors, a quart or two of rum saturated with lark- 
 spur, and some tidy, unbleached night-dresses, were 
 all we asked for, beside the little beds in which most 
 of the children slept away the hours. We did a great 
 deal of hard work in that little room. I was con- 
 nected with it until I left home in 1842, but I cannot 
 tell exactly when the experiment began. It must 
 have been between 1837 and 1840. 
 
 Our subscribers gave us twenty-five cents a month. 
 Charlotte would do anything for the children, but she 
 made me collect the money. She did not know how ! 
 
 Nothing, I think, could illustrate the difference 
 in the position of women then and now more clearly 
 than my experience in collecting this money. Our 
 subscribers were mainly personal friends on Beacon, 
 Tremont, Chestnut and Mount Vernon Streets. The 
 
87 
 
 subscription was due on the first of the month, but I 
 went to at least one-third of the places twice. " I 
 have not a quarter in the house. I will ask my 
 husband when he comes home ; can't you call tomor- 
 row ? " was what I always expected to hear from many 
 wives of wealthy men. Nor was it always the fault 
 or habit of the men. Women handled very little 
 money. I knew more than one instance where men 
 complained that their wives would not keep them- 
 selves provided. As an illustration of our changing 
 life, and to point out that this little experiment, 
 founded upon Maria Edgeworth's story of " Madame 
 de Fleury," was, so far as I know, the first attempt of 
 the kind in this country, is my only excuse for men- 
 tioning this Creche. What became of it after the 
 change in my own circumstances, I never had an 
 opportunity to learn. So far as I ever knew, the 
 experiment was wholly our own. If there were any 
 older persons interested, I never heard of them. 
 
 The first time Dr. Hale ever heard me lecture, he 
 said, " You must beat your gold thinner. There was 
 enough in that lecture for four." If he ever reads 
 these pages, I think he will hardly renew that counsel. 
 The rambling story draws near the end. 
 
88 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 Mr. Hale has told us a good deal of his father, 
 whose services to the country have never been ade- 
 quately appreciated. I wish before I close to say 
 something of mine. He said sadly to me a short 
 time before he died, " I have outlived all my cotem- 
 poraries ; there will be no one left to tell the story of 
 my life." That story, if truly told, would show, like 
 Nathan Hale's, an intense devotion to railroad 
 interests. He was for many years the largest stock- 
 holder in the Illinois Central road. Whoever will 
 examine the inventories of his property at the Probate 
 Court of Essex County will see that ten years before 
 his death he was worth, in the year 1866, ten millions 
 of dollars in the best securities. When he died and 
 another inventory was made, it seemed hardly possible 
 to save the estate from insolvency! "Such a record," 
 said the clerk of the Court to me, " was never seen 
 here ! " 
 
 What became of those millions ? They were sunk 
 in the building of the Hartford and Erie road, over 
 which none of us ever had so much as a free pass. 
 Younger men, who knew that the great aim of his 
 life had been to connect Boston with the wide West, 
 played upon his sympathies and absorbed his hard- 
 won wealth. 
 
89 
 
 When Frederika Bremer returned to Sweden 
 from this country, she succeeded in passing through 
 the Legislative body a law which controlled to a 
 certain degree the freedom of men of over three score 
 years and ten. Her personal influence secured the 
 signature of the King. In Sweden, if a man over 
 seventy enters into business or speculation, he must 
 first provide for his children according to his wealth 
 and their station in life. The ground upon which the 
 government was induced to approve this law was that 
 otherwise his family might become a charge to the 
 State, and of this many illustrations were at hand. 
 
 We are accustomed to say of many aged men, 
 that they have retained all their faculties to the last, 
 but this is rarely true. A man may be able to con- 
 verse on difficult subjects, to read profound books, to 
 remember the events of yesterday as well as those of 
 the far past, but the instances are very rare in which, 
 after seventy, the best-preserved brain does not lose 
 its grasp. It is one thing to see clearly what is 
 plainly set before it, another to associate that with a 
 remote origin or a future possibility, and judge wisely 
 of the best financial or social results. I should be 
 glad to see the Swedish law enacted in the State of 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 There were beautiful possibilities of love in my 
 father's nature. No one will ever forget the sight, 
 who saw his whole face kindle, when the beautiful 
 
90 
 
 boy, so early lost, came running to meet him. Those 
 possibilities led him to free himself early from the 
 theology prevalent about his early home. His father, 
 his brother and himself sustained a Unitarian church 
 as long as either of them lived, in Whittier's favorite 
 town of Hampton Falls. To the lovely little church 
 built by their efforts, I go back every summer, to be 
 met with love and courtesy and kind remembrance of 
 a neighborhood, as Mr. Hale was met when he went 
 to preach at Westhampton. In more than one re- 
 spect our experiences ran parallel. My father was 
 a very young man when he was one of three who 
 called Dr. Holley to the pulpit of Hollis Street 
 Church. Dr. Holley was the heretic of his time, and 
 as a very handsome man, and essentially a man of 
 the world, he was more open to attack than he need 
 have been. 
 
 When the tumult of narrow egotism followed 
 Theodore Parker's sermon at South Boston, my 
 father became one of the five men who invited him 
 from West Roxbury to the Music Hall, and became 
 responsible for his salary. 
 
 He was a wise and loving father, as I have shown 
 in the matter of written abstracts. I remember that 
 when I first began to study the higher mathematics, 
 I took a lamp and my books in my hand and moved 
 toward the door one evening after tea. " Where are 
 you going ? " said my father. " To my own room to 
 
91 
 
 study," I answered, and showed the title-page of the 
 book. " Sit down where you are, where the children 
 are talking and where visitors may come," was his 
 reply. " Of what use will your knowledge be to you 
 if you cannot command it under the most unpromis- 
 ing circumstances? You must learn to concentrate 
 your thoughts." Of course I did learn to concen- 
 trate my thoughts, which had its advantages, but at 
 the same time has made me at times an apparently 
 unsympathizing friend, or an undesirable guest. You 
 will say it should have worked in two ways. 
 
 I was only fourteen months old when the Eng- 
 lish shoemaker, Robert Knott, came and took my 
 measure for a pair of shoes, and he made all my 
 shoes until my marriage. The very first pair had a 
 broad, stiff sole, and I never wore any custom-made 
 shoes, if I except the French dancing slippers Mr. 
 Papanti demanded. I remember that once when I 
 was about thirteen, I had a dark green Canton-crape 
 dress, which I could not match with any belt. At 
 last I found twenty inches of a watered ribbon that 
 I thought would answer, for my belt measure was 
 only nineteen. After dinner my father saw me lying 
 on the sofa and asked what was the matter. I told 
 him I had a side ache. " Come here to me," he said, 
 and I obeyed. He put his hand to my side, tried to 
 put his finger inside my belt, and failing, took his 
 knife from his pocket and cut it across. It is need- 
 
92 
 
 less to add that I had to wear my dress without a belt 
 and never again had a side ache ! 
 
 He required great neatness in our dress, and ex- 
 quisite care of books or articles of any kind in daily 
 use. I used to write a great folio sheet to my grand- 
 mother in the country every Sunday. No envelopes 
 had been invented, and to fold such a sheet and seal 
 it neatly was a work of art. No slipshod result was 
 ever allowed to pass. Often have I been obliged to 
 write the whole sheet over, before I could satisfy his 
 fastidious demand. He had a fine sense of color and 
 form, which showed itself whenever he controlled a 
 lady's dress. When I was old enough to go into 
 society, he frequently left things to my own decision. 
 I remember once sending home an embroidered 
 French cape from Gardner Colby's store, which I 
 very much wanted. It was very costly and exqui- 
 sitely wrought, but the pattern was monotonous. 
 Might I have it ? " Put it into your drawer," he said, 
 "for one week. Look at it twice a day for that time, 
 then if you want it you shall have it." " Will not 
 that be inconvenient to Mr. Colby .'' " I said. " I will 
 settle it with Colby," he replied. At the end of the 
 week, as he had anticipated, it wearied me to look at 
 the beautiful cape. No matter how costly the fabric, 
 he was ready to give us any dress we wanted, but 
 never was one allowed to sweep the floor, and the 
 make must be simple. Frills and furbelows he de- 
 
93 
 
 spised. My mother was always beautifully dressed, 
 and I do not think any one ever remembered that her 
 dresses were short ! 
 
 He was not a popular man, but his financial abil- 
 ities and strict integrity were everywhere recognized, 
 and to an extent which was very unusual, owing to 
 the wide commerce in which he was engaged. 
 
 Still there were many who knew how he abhorred 
 deceit, and who trusted to his tenderness and his 
 sense of honor. When my mother proposed to em- 
 ploy Ellen Crafts as a sempstress, one of her friends 
 went anxiously to Wendell Phillips and asked if Ellen 
 would be safe in Mark Healey's house, for he was 
 known as a democrat and a pro-slavery man. " As 
 safe as if she were in Heaven," answered Mr. Phillips. 
 " The suffering and sorrow that Mark Healey can see 
 has never appealed to him in vain." 
 
 When I first became known in a social way, sev- 
 eral gentlemen asked permission to correspond with 
 me on literary and other matters. I asked my father 
 if he were willing that they should do so. He thought 
 a moment and said : 
 
 " Yes, I am willing on one condition : you must 
 get a letter book and copy your letters. You might 
 be indiscreet under the first impulse, but you would 
 correct that in copying. I could trust you. The 
 condition is that the first writing shall be in the book. 
 Then you will be sure to send away only the cor- 
 rected copy." 
 
94 
 
 I have several volumes of those letters, and I read 
 and destroyed many of those sent to me, last summer. 
 We must not allow our own affairs to fill too many 
 shelves in this crowded world. I kept only those of 
 some historical value. I burned up sixty from my 
 cousin, Samuel F. Haven, the most valuable corre- 
 spondent of those early years. I have said that my 
 father was not popular, but he was very popular 
 with the young people who visited us, for a very odd 
 reason, simply because he insisted on paying their 
 postage, although he always expected me to pay mine 
 when I went away from home. When we paid 
 eighteen and three-fourths cents or twenty-five cents 
 on a letter, prepayment was optional. Girls away on 
 a visit generally received their letters unpaid, and 
 always, if well-bred, had their purses ready. My 
 father would thank them and joke a little, but he 
 never would take their money. 
 
 There were no branch offices or stamps then. 
 The head of the family went to the office when he 
 went to his business, and of course brought home all 
 the letters addressed to his care. A good many social 
 problems were solved when stamps and envelopes 
 came into use. Quite recently I have heard this 
 peculiarity of my father referred to with admiring 
 gratitude. 
 
 I often read to my father six hours at a time, and 
 he encouraged the fullest discussion of what we read, 
 
95 
 
 and desired above all that I should form my opinions 
 independently of his. This was contrary to the habit 
 of the time, and astonished the young people who 
 visited us, whom he was glad to draw into our talk. 
 Frequently these talks were refreshing and delightful; 
 at other times they were perplexing. I have thanked 
 him every day of my life for the education thus re- 
 ceived, and if when the times came which tried men's 
 souls, he found it impossible to bear the results of his 
 own loving and strenuous effort, who shall blame 
 him ? He was only one of thousands, and in the 
 world which is to come, there will be no shadow 
 between our souls. 
 
 Caroline H. Dall. 
 
 Washington, 
 
 December, i8g8. 
 
96 
 
 POSTSCRIPT 
 
 After the death of my father in November, 1876, 
 a good many perfunctory resolutions were sent to the 
 family, and an obituary, filling a space four inches by 
 five, concluded with the words : 
 
 " He was one of the most remarkable men of his 
 day, and exercised great influence in the business 
 councils of Boston." 
 
 This induced me to write to the Boston weekly 
 called " The Commonwealth '" the following letter: 
 
 The Late Mark Healey 
 
 During the last week I have read several obituary 
 notices of my father. I have seen with pain that 
 these notices touched nothing but his mercantile life, 
 as if the principal object of his existence were to 
 " buy and sell and get gain." 
 
 During the last two years of his life, he often said 
 sadly, " When I am gone there will be no one left who 
 remembers me as an active man. If I except Josiah 
 Quincy, there is no one now." I did not realize how 
 true this was, until I saw the obituaries. 
 
 The railways of America are largely indebted to 
 his purse ; and the poorer their reputation the more 
 certain were they to owe a great deal to his compre- 
 hension of his country's needs. He was for many 
 
97 
 
 years the largest American stockholder in the Illinois 
 Central road, and it was characteristic of him, that 
 when that road was paying its best dividends, he sold 
 all his stock in it to sustain the falling fortunes of the 
 Hartford and Erie road. 
 
 Mr. Healey was an eminently intellectual man. 
 He came of a long race of statesmen and clergymen, 
 all of whom in this country and in England were in- 
 fatuated with the desire to become great landowners. 
 To his patience, prudence and daily teaching, I owe 
 most of what I am, especially the self-control which 
 has prevented me from becoming the victim of my 
 own ill health. 
 
 If I were asked what subjects interested my father 
 most from the cradle to the grave, I should say : the 
 history of Religion and Religions; the Vestiges of 
 Creation or what man might learn of the work of 
 God and the immortality of the human soul. On 
 these subjects he had read everything that he could 
 find and more than any man I ever knew, and he 
 continued to read until he died. When he found 
 himself easily overcome by sleep, he rose at three in 
 the morning, and used the wakeful morning hours for 
 his studies. It was at day-break in the long summer 
 mornings that I read to him the MS. of my " Presen- 
 tation " of Bunsen's Egypt. In the winter of 1871 
 and 2, he read the Bible through for the last time. 
 
 Mr. Healey was wholly wanting in imagination, 
 and as he could not sympathize with what he did not 
 
98 
 
 understand, this made him often seem cold hearted. 
 When he contributed a large sum to the Irish Fund 
 at the time of the great famine, I asked him why he 
 did it, for it was contrary to his usual habit. 
 
 " When your mother's father was burnt out at 
 Newburyport," he answered, " I went without food for 
 three days and gave all I could get to your grand- 
 mother and her baby. I have not forgotten what I 
 suffered." To any trouble before his eyes, or that he 
 himself had experienced, he was tenderly sympathetic. 
 
 He had a great love of nature, of budding flowers 
 and leaves, of young animals and children. He 
 never missed a sunrise or a sunset, and I never saw 
 a crying baby that he could not quiet with the touch 
 of his broad hand. Only twenty minutes before his 
 death, a beautiful pansy of the largest size was 
 brought him from his own garden, and suffering as 
 he was his face relaxed with pleasure and his eyes 
 followed it with a loving look. 
 
 My father's biography will never be written. If it 
 were to be, I should not think it proper for a daugh- 
 ter's hand to do it, but knowing as I do the singular 
 mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, of strength and 
 weakness in him, I am not willing that this genera- 
 tion should know him only as one of the " oldest 
 business nun in Boston^ He was something far 
 different from that. 
 
 He was the parishioner of Dr. William Ellery 
 Channing, of Dr. HoUey, and after his marriage of 
 
99 
 
 the Rev. Charles Lowell and Dr. Bartol. He finally 
 left the West Church for the King's Chapel when his 
 hearing became impaired, in order to buy, at what- 
 ever cost, a seat under a minister whom he could 
 hear. These men knew him as ministers knew their 
 people in the old days. They have all gone before 
 him. Brought up in the Calvinism of a country 
 church, he assisted his brother to form a liberal 
 church in the town of Hampton Falls, and continued 
 to contribute to its minister's salary as long as he 
 lived. Always in the advance, at the age of eighteen 
 he was one of a committee of three to call Dr. Horace 
 Holley to the pulpit of Hollis Street in 1809, a step 
 as radical as the calling of Theodore Parker to the 
 Music Hall. In the interests of free thought and 
 free religion, it should be remembered that Mark 
 Healey was one of the five men who called Theodore 
 Parker into Boston in 1845, and who made themselves 
 responsible for the whole of his salary and the rent of 
 the Melodeon, a building soon exchanged for the 
 largest auditorium the city could furnish. 
 
 What a service this was, few people are now in 
 a condition to realize. In spite of Mr. Parker's 
 anti-slavery position, my father's affection for him 
 continued warm to the end. He did not expect to 
 exercise authority in such matters outside of his own 
 household. Within it he held himself a patriarch. 
 
 He was always, like George Bancroft, a Democrat, 
 
and before the war what was called "a Pro-Slavery 
 man;" yet Ellen Crafts found an undisturbed shelter 
 in his house, which I thought as an anti-slavery 
 woman her safest refuge, and where Wendell Phillips 
 and Theodore Parker advised her to go. 
 
 Caroline Healey Dall. 
 
 14.1 Warren Avenue, Boston, 
 Noiembcr as, 1876. 
 
 C 32 89 
 

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