“Skin a rich golden yellow, dappled with orange and crimson, smooth and delicate; flesh smooth, melting, and buttery; flavor rich, sprightly, vinous, and delicious!”
“Skin a rich golden yellow, dappled with orange and crimson, smooth and delicate; flesh smooth, melting, and buttery; flavor rich, sprightly, vinous, and delicious!”
Almost as good, I say, but not quite; and it is pleasant to recall that we seldom left the pear-room empty-handed.
Then there was his own room, where we could examine the wonderful drawers of his great bureau, and play with the “picknickles” and “bucknickles.” I believe our father invented these words. They were—well, all kinds of pleasant little things,—amber mouthpieces, and buckles and bits of enamel, and a wonderful Turkish pipe, and seals andwax, and some large pins two inches long which were great treasures. On his writing-table were many clean pens in boxes, which you could lay out in patterns; and a sand-box—very delightful! We were never tired of pouring the fine black sand into our hands, where it felt so cool and smooth, and then back again into the box with its holes arranged star-fashion. And to see him shake sand over his paper when he wrote a letter, and then pour it back in a smooth stream, while the written lines sparkled and seemed to stand up from the page! Ah, blotting-paper is no doubt very convenient, but I should like to have a sand-box, nevertheless!
I cannot remember that our father was ever out of patience when we pulled his things about. He had many delightful stories,—one of “Jacky Nory,” which had no end, and went on and on, through many a walk and garden prowl. Often, too, he would tell us of his own pranks when he was a little boy,—how they used to tease an old Portuguese sailor with a wooden leg, and how the old man would get very angry, andcry out, “Calabash me rompe you!” meaning, “I’ll break your head!” How when he was a student in college, and ought to have known better, he led the president’s old horse upstairs and left him in an upper room of one of the college buildings, where the poor beast astonished the passers-by by putting his head out of the windows and neighing. And then our father would shake his head and say he was a very naughty boy, and Harry must never do such things. (But Harry did!)
He loved to play and romp with us. Sometimes he would put on his great fur-coat, and come into the dining-room at dancing-time, on all-fours, growling horribly, and pursue us into corners, we shrieking with delighted terror. Or he would sing for us, sending us into fits of laughter, for he had absolutely no ear for music. There was one tune which he was quite sure he sang correctly, but no one could recognize it. At last he said, “Oh—Su-sanna!” and then we all knew what the tune was. “Hail to the Chief!” was his favorite song, and he sangit with great spirit and fervor, though the air was strictly original, and very peculiar. When he was tired of romping or carrying us on his shoulder, he would say, “No; no more! I have a bone in my leg!” which excuse was accepted by us little ones in perfect good faith, as we thought it some mysterious but painful malady.
If our father had no ear for music, he had a fine one for metre, and read poetry aloud very beautifully. His voice was melodious and ringing, and we were thrilled with his own enthusiasm as he read to us from Scott or Byron, his favorite poets. I never can read “The Assyrian came down,” without hearing the ring of his voice and seeing the flash of his blue eyes as he recited the splendid lines. He had a great liking for Pope, too (as I wish more people had nowadays), and for Butler’s “Hudibras,” which he was constantly quoting. He commonly, when riding, wore but one spur, giving Hudibras’s reason, that if one side of the horse went, the other must perforce go with it; and how often, on some early morning walk or ride, have I heard him say,—
“And, like a lobster boiled, the mornFrom black to red began to turn.”
“And, like a lobster boiled, the mornFrom black to red began to turn.”
“And, like a lobster boiled, the mornFrom black to red began to turn.”
Or if war or fighting were mentioned, he would often cry,—
“Ay me! what perils do environThe man that meddles with cold iron!”
“Ay me! what perils do environThe man that meddles with cold iron!”
“Ay me! what perils do environThe man that meddles with cold iron!”
I must not leave the subject of reading without speaking of his reading of the Bible, which was most impressive. No one who ever heard him read morning prayers at the Institution (which he always did until his health failed in later years) can have forgotten the grave, melodious voice, the reverent tone, the majestic head bent above the sacred book. Nor was it less impressive when on Sunday afternoons he read to us, his children. He would have us read, too, allowing us to choose our favorite psalms or other passages.
He was an early riser, and often shared our morning walks. Each child, as soon as it was old enough, was taught to ride; and the rides before breakfast with him are things never to be forgotten. He took one child at a time, so that all in turn might have the pleasure. It seems hardly longerago than yesterday,—the coming downstairs in the cool, dewy morning, nibbling a cracker for fear of hunger, springing into the saddle, the little black mare shaking her head, impatient to be off; the canter through the quiet streets, where only an early milkman or baker was to be seen, though on our return we should find them full of boys, who pointed the finger and shouted,—
“Lady on a hossback,Row, row, row!”
“Lady on a hossback,Row, row, row!”
“Lady on a hossback,Row, row, row!”
then out into the pleasant country, galloping over the smooth road, or pacing quietly under shady trees. Our father was a superb rider; indeed, he never seemed so absolutely at home as in the saddle. He was very particular about our holding whip and reins in the right way.
Speaking of his riding reminds me of a story our mother used to tell us. When Julia was a baby, they were travelling in Italy, driving in an old-fashioned travelling-carriage. One day they stopped at the door of an inn, and our father went in to make some inquiries. While he was gone, therascally driver thought it a good opportunity for him to slip in at the side door to get a draught of wine; and, the driver gone, the horses saw that here wastheiropportunity; so they took it, and ran away with our mother, the baby, and nurse in the carriage.
Our father, hearing the sound of wheels, came out, caught sight of the driver’s guilty face peering round the corner in affright, and at once saw what had happened. He ran at full speed along the road in the direction in which the horses were headed. Rounding a corner of the mountain which the road skirted, he saw at a little distance a country wagon coming slowly toward him, drawn by a stout horse, the wagoner half asleep on the seat. Instantly our father’s resolve was taken. He ran up, stopped the horse, unhitched him in the twinkling of an eye, leaped upon his back, and was off like a flash, before the astonished driver, who was not used to two-legged whirlwinds, could utter a word.
Probably the horse was equally astonished; but he felt a master on his back, and, urgedby hand and voice, he sprang to his topmost speed, galloped bravely on, and soon overtook the lumbering carriage-horses, which were easily stopped. No one was hurt, though our mother and the nurse had of course been sadly frightened. The horses were turned, and soon they came in sight of the unhappy countryman, still sitting on his wagon, petrified with astonishment. He received a liberal reward, and probably regretted that there were no more mad Americans to “steal a ride,” and pay for it.
This presence of mind, this power of acting on the instant, was one of our father’s great qualities. It was this that made him, when the wounded Greek sank down before him—
“ ... fling him from his saddle,And place the stranger there.”
“ ... fling him from his saddle,And place the stranger there.”
“ ... fling him from his saddle,And place the stranger there.”
It was this, when arrested and imprisoned by the Prussian government on suspicion of befriending unhappy Poland, that taught him what to do with the important papers he carried. In the minute during which he was left alone, before the official came to search
The Doctor to the Rescue!
The Doctor to the Rescue!
The Doctor to the Rescue!
him, he thrust the documents up into the hollow head of a bust of the King of Prussia which stood on a shelf; then tore some unimportant papers into the smallest possible fragments, and threw them into a basin of water which stood close at hand.
Next day the fragments carefully pasted together were shown to him, hours having been spent in the painful and laborious task; but nobody thought of looking for more papers in the head of King Friedrich Wilhelm.
Our father, though nothing could be proved against him, might have languished long in that Prussian prison had it not been for the exertions of a fellow-countryman. This gentleman had met him in the street the day before, had asked his address, and promised to call on him. Inquiring for him next day at the hotel, he was told that no such person was or had been there. Instantly suspecting foul play, this good friend went to the American minister, and told his story. The minister took up the matter warmly, and called upon the Prussian officials to give up his countryman. This, after repeated denials ofany knowledge of the affair, they at length reluctantly consented to do. Our father was taken out of prison at night, placed in a carriage, and driven across the border into France, where he was dismissed with a warning never to set foot in Prussia again.
One day, I remember, we were sitting at the dinner-table, when a messenger came flying, “all wild with haste and fear,” to say that a fire had broken out at the Institution. Now, in those days there lay between Green Peace and the Institution a remnant of the famous Washington Heights, where Washington and his staff had once made their camp.
Much of the high ground had already been dug away, but there still remained a great hill sloping back and up from the garden wall, and terminating, on the side toward the Institution, in an abrupt precipice, some sixty feet high. The bearer of the bad news had been forced to come round by way of several streets, thus losing precious minutes; but the Doctor did not know what it was to lose a minute. Before any one could speak or askwhat he would do he was out of the house, ran through the garden, climbed the slope at the back, rushed like a flame across the green hill-top, and slid down the almost perpendicular face of the precipice! Bruised and panting, he reached the Institution and saw at a glance that the fire was in the upper story. Take time to go round to the door and up the stairs? Not he! He “swarmed” up the gutter-spout, and in less time than it takes to tell it was on the roof, and cutting away at the burning timbers with an axe, which he had got hold of no one knows how. That fire was put out, as were several others at which our father assisted.
Fire is swift, but it could not get ahead of the Doctor.
These are a few of the stories; but, as I said, it needs a volume to tell all about our father’s life. I cannot tell in this short space how he worked with the friends of liberty to free the slave; how he raised the poor and needy, and “helped them to help themselves;” how he was a light to the blind, and to all who walked in darkness, whetherof sorrow, sin, or suffering. Most men, absorbed in such high works as these would have found scant leisure for family life and communion; but no finger-ache of our father’s smallest child ever escaped his loving care, no childish thought or wish ever failed to win his sympathy. We who had this high privilege of being his children love to think of him as the brave soldier, the wise physician, the great philanthropist; but dearest of all is the thought of him as our loving and tender father.
And now, to end this chapter, you shall hear what Mr. Whittier, the noble and honored poet, thought of this friend of his:—
“Oh for a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear;My light glove on his casque of steel,My love-knot on his spear!“Oh for the white plume floatingSad Zutphen’s field above,—The lion heart in battle,The woman’s heart in love!“Oh that man once more were manly,Woman’s pride and not her scorn;That once more the pale young motherDared to boast ‘a man is born’!“But now life’s slumberous currentNo sun-bowed cascade wakes;No tall, heroic manhoodThe level dullness breaks.“Oh for a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear!My light glove on his casque of steel,My love-knot on his spear!”Then I said, my own heart throbbingTo the time her proud pulse beat,“Life hath its regal natures yet,—True, tender, brave, and sweet!“Smile not, fair unbeliever!One man at least I knowWho might wear the crest of Bayard,Or Sidney’s plume of snow.“Once, when over purple mountainsDied away the Grecian sun,And the far Cyllenian rangesPaled and darkened one by one,—“Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder,Cleaving all the quiet sky;And against his sharp steel lightningsStood the Suliote but to die.“Woe for the weak and halting!The crescent blazed behindA curving line of sabresLike fire before the wind!“Last to fly and first to rally,Rode he of whom I speak,When, groaning in his bridle-path,Sank down a wounded Greek.—“With the rich Albanian costumeWet with many a ghastly stain,Gazing on earth and sky as oneWho might not gaze again!“He looked forward to the mountains,Back on foes that never spare;Then flung him from his saddle,And placed the stranger there.“‘Alla! hu!’ Through flashing sabres,Through a stormy hail of lead,The good Thessalian chargerUp the slopes of olives sped.“Hot spurred the turbaned riders,—He almost felt their breath,Where a mountain stream rolled darkly downBetween the hills and death.“One brave and manful struggle,—He gained the solid land,And the cover of the mountainsAnd the carbines of his band.”“It was very brave and noble,”Said the moist-eyed listener then;“But one brave deed makes no hero;Tell me what he since hath been?”“Still a brave and generous manhood,Still an honor without stain,In the prison of the Kaiser,By the barricades of Seine.“But dream not helm and harnessThe sign of valor true;Peace hath higher tests of manhoodThan battle ever knew.“Wouldst know him now? Behold him,The Cadmus of the blind,Giving the dumb lip language,The idiot clay a mind;“Walking his round of dutySerenely day by day,With the strong man’s hand of labor,And childhood’s heart of play;“True as the knights of story,Sir Lancelot and his peers,Brave in his calm enduranceAs they in tilt of spears.“As waves in stillest waters,As stars in noon-day skies,All that wakes to noble actionIn his noon of calmness lies.“Wherever outraged natureAsks word or action brave;Wherever struggles labor,Wherever groans a slave;“Wherever rise the peoples,Wherever sinks a throne,—The throbbing heart of Freedom findsAn answer in his own!“Knight of a better era,Without reproach or fear!Said I not well that BayardsAnd Sidneys still are here?”
“Oh for a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear;My light glove on his casque of steel,My love-knot on his spear!“Oh for the white plume floatingSad Zutphen’s field above,—The lion heart in battle,The woman’s heart in love!“Oh that man once more were manly,Woman’s pride and not her scorn;That once more the pale young motherDared to boast ‘a man is born’!“But now life’s slumberous currentNo sun-bowed cascade wakes;No tall, heroic manhoodThe level dullness breaks.“Oh for a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear!My light glove on his casque of steel,My love-knot on his spear!”Then I said, my own heart throbbingTo the time her proud pulse beat,“Life hath its regal natures yet,—True, tender, brave, and sweet!“Smile not, fair unbeliever!One man at least I knowWho might wear the crest of Bayard,Or Sidney’s plume of snow.“Once, when over purple mountainsDied away the Grecian sun,And the far Cyllenian rangesPaled and darkened one by one,—“Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder,Cleaving all the quiet sky;And against his sharp steel lightningsStood the Suliote but to die.“Woe for the weak and halting!The crescent blazed behindA curving line of sabresLike fire before the wind!“Last to fly and first to rally,Rode he of whom I speak,When, groaning in his bridle-path,Sank down a wounded Greek.—“With the rich Albanian costumeWet with many a ghastly stain,Gazing on earth and sky as oneWho might not gaze again!“He looked forward to the mountains,Back on foes that never spare;Then flung him from his saddle,And placed the stranger there.“‘Alla! hu!’ Through flashing sabres,Through a stormy hail of lead,The good Thessalian chargerUp the slopes of olives sped.“Hot spurred the turbaned riders,—He almost felt their breath,Where a mountain stream rolled darkly downBetween the hills and death.“One brave and manful struggle,—He gained the solid land,And the cover of the mountainsAnd the carbines of his band.”“It was very brave and noble,”Said the moist-eyed listener then;“But one brave deed makes no hero;Tell me what he since hath been?”“Still a brave and generous manhood,Still an honor without stain,In the prison of the Kaiser,By the barricades of Seine.“But dream not helm and harnessThe sign of valor true;Peace hath higher tests of manhoodThan battle ever knew.“Wouldst know him now? Behold him,The Cadmus of the blind,Giving the dumb lip language,The idiot clay a mind;“Walking his round of dutySerenely day by day,With the strong man’s hand of labor,And childhood’s heart of play;“True as the knights of story,Sir Lancelot and his peers,Brave in his calm enduranceAs they in tilt of spears.“As waves in stillest waters,As stars in noon-day skies,All that wakes to noble actionIn his noon of calmness lies.“Wherever outraged natureAsks word or action brave;Wherever struggles labor,Wherever groans a slave;“Wherever rise the peoples,Wherever sinks a throne,—The throbbing heart of Freedom findsAn answer in his own!“Knight of a better era,Without reproach or fear!Said I not well that BayardsAnd Sidneys still are here?”
“Oh for a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear;My light glove on his casque of steel,My love-knot on his spear!
“Oh for the white plume floatingSad Zutphen’s field above,—The lion heart in battle,The woman’s heart in love!
“Oh that man once more were manly,Woman’s pride and not her scorn;That once more the pale young motherDared to boast ‘a man is born’!
“But now life’s slumberous currentNo sun-bowed cascade wakes;No tall, heroic manhoodThe level dullness breaks.
“Oh for a knight like Bayard,Without reproach or fear!My light glove on his casque of steel,My love-knot on his spear!”
Then I said, my own heart throbbingTo the time her proud pulse beat,“Life hath its regal natures yet,—True, tender, brave, and sweet!
“Smile not, fair unbeliever!One man at least I knowWho might wear the crest of Bayard,Or Sidney’s plume of snow.
“Once, when over purple mountainsDied away the Grecian sun,And the far Cyllenian rangesPaled and darkened one by one,—
“Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder,Cleaving all the quiet sky;And against his sharp steel lightningsStood the Suliote but to die.
“Woe for the weak and halting!The crescent blazed behindA curving line of sabresLike fire before the wind!
“Last to fly and first to rally,Rode he of whom I speak,When, groaning in his bridle-path,Sank down a wounded Greek.—
“With the rich Albanian costumeWet with many a ghastly stain,Gazing on earth and sky as oneWho might not gaze again!
“He looked forward to the mountains,Back on foes that never spare;Then flung him from his saddle,And placed the stranger there.
“‘Alla! hu!’ Through flashing sabres,Through a stormy hail of lead,The good Thessalian chargerUp the slopes of olives sped.
“Hot spurred the turbaned riders,—He almost felt their breath,Where a mountain stream rolled darkly downBetween the hills and death.
“One brave and manful struggle,—He gained the solid land,And the cover of the mountainsAnd the carbines of his band.”
“It was very brave and noble,”Said the moist-eyed listener then;“But one brave deed makes no hero;Tell me what he since hath been?”
“Still a brave and generous manhood,Still an honor without stain,In the prison of the Kaiser,By the barricades of Seine.
“But dream not helm and harnessThe sign of valor true;Peace hath higher tests of manhoodThan battle ever knew.
“Wouldst know him now? Behold him,The Cadmus of the blind,Giving the dumb lip language,The idiot clay a mind;
“Walking his round of dutySerenely day by day,With the strong man’s hand of labor,And childhood’s heart of play;
“True as the knights of story,Sir Lancelot and his peers,Brave in his calm enduranceAs they in tilt of spears.
“As waves in stillest waters,As stars in noon-day skies,All that wakes to noble actionIn his noon of calmness lies.
“Wherever outraged natureAsks word or action brave;Wherever struggles labor,Wherever groans a slave;
“Wherever rise the peoples,Wherever sinks a throne,—The throbbing heart of Freedom findsAn answer in his own!
“Knight of a better era,Without reproach or fear!Said I not well that BayardsAnd Sidneys still are here?”
Once upon a time, in a great house standing at the corner of Bond Street and Broadway, New York city, there lived a little girl. She was named Julia, after her lovely young mother; but as she grew she showed no resemblance to that mother, with her great dark eyes and wealth of black ringlets. This little girl had red hair, and that was a dreadful thing in those days. Very fine, soft hair it was, thick and wavy, but—it was red. Visitors, coming to see her mother, would shake their heads and say, “Poor little Julia! what a pity she has red hair!” and the tender mother would sigh, and regret that her child should have this misfortune, when there was no red hair in the family so far as one knew. And the beautiful hair was combed with a leadencomb, as one old lady said that would turn it dark; and it was soaked in honey-water, as another old lady said that was really the best thing you could do with it; and the little Julia felt that she might almost as well be a hunchback or a cripple as that unfortunate creature, a red-haired child.
When she was six years old, her beautiful mother died; and after that Julia and her brothers and sisters were brought up by their good aunt, who came to make her home with them and their father. A very good aunt she was, and devoted to the motherless children; but sometimes she did funny things. They went out to ride every day—the children, I mean—in a great yellow chariot lined with fine blue cloth. Now, it occurred to their kind aunt that it would have a charming effect if the children were dressed to match the chariot. So thought, so done! Dressmakers and milliners plied their art; and one day Broadway was electrified by the sight of the little Misses Ward, seated in uneasy state on the blue cushions, clad in wonderful raiment of yellow and blue. They
Julia Ward and her Brothers, as Children.(From a miniature by Miss Anne Hall.)
Julia Ward and her Brothers, as Children.(From a miniature by Miss Anne Hall.)
Julia Ward and her Brothers, as Children.
(From a miniature by Miss Anne Hall.)
had blue pelisses and yellow satin bonnets. And this was all very well for the two younger ones, with their dark eyes and hair, and their rosy cheeks; but Julia, young as she was, felt dimly that blue and yellow was not the combination to set off her tawny locks and exquisite sea-shell complexion. It is not probable, however, that she sorrowed deeply over the funny clothes; for her mind was never set on clothes, either in childhood or in later life. Did not her sister meet her one day coming home from school with one blue shoe and one green? Her mind was full of beautiful thoughts; her eyes were lifted to the green trees and the blue sky bending above them: what did she care about shoes? Yes; and later is it not recorded that her sisters had great difficulty in persuading her to choose the stuff for her wedding-gown? So indifferent was she to all matters of dress!
Auntie F. had her own ideas about shoes and stockings,—not the color, but the quality of them. She did not believe in “pompeying” the children; so in the coldest winterweather Julia and her sisters went to school in thin slippers and white cotton stockings. You shiver at the bare thought of this, my girl readers! You look at your comfortable leggings and overshoes (that is, if you live in upper New England, or anywhere in the same latitude), and wonder how the Ward children lived through such a course of “hardening”! But they did live, and Julia seems now far younger and stronger than any of her children.
School, which some children regard with mingled feelings (or so I have been told), was a delight to Julia. She grasped at knowledge with both hands,—plucked it as a little child plucks flowers, with unwearying enjoyment. Her teachers, like the “people” in the case of the
“Young lady whose eyesWere unique as to color and size,”
“Young lady whose eyesWere unique as to color and size,”
“Young lady whose eyesWere unique as to color and size,”
all turned aside, and started away in surprise, as this little red-haired girl went on learning and learning and learning. At nine years old she was studying Paley’s “Moral Philosophy,” with girls of sixteen and eighteen.She could not have been older when she heard a class reciting an Italian lesson, and fell in love with the melodious language. She listened, and listened again; then got a grammar and studied secretly, and one day handed to the astonished Italian teacher a letter correctly written in Italian, begging that she might join the class.
When I was speaking of the good aunt who was a second mother to the Ward children, I meant to say a word of the stern but devoted father who was the principal figure in Julia’s early life. She says of him: “He was a majestic person, of somewhat severe aspect and reserved manners, but with a vein of true geniality and a great benevolence of heart.” And she adds: “His great gravity, and the absence of a mother, naturally subdued the tone of the whole household; and though a greatly cherished set of children, we were not a very merry one.”
Still, with all his gravity, Grandfather Ward had his gleams of fun occasionally. It is told that Julia had a habit of dropping off her slippers while at table. One day herfather felt a wandering shell of kid, with no foot to keep it steady. He put his own foot on it and moved it under his chair, then said in his deep, grave voice, “My daughter, will you bring me my seals, which I have left on the table in my room?” And poor Julia, after a vain and frantic hunting with both feet, was forced to go, crimson-cheeked, white-stockinged and slipperless, on the required errand. She would never have dreamed of asking for the shoe. She was the eldest daughter, the companion and joy of this sternly loving father. She always sat next him at table, and sometimes he would take her right hand in his left, and hold it for many minutes together, continuing to eat his dinner with his right hand; while she would rather go dinnerless than ask him to release her own fingers.
Grandfather Ward! It is a relief to confess our faults; and it may be my duty to say that as soon as I could reach it on tiptoe, it was my joy to pull the nose of his marble bust, which stood in the great dining-room at Green Peace. It was a fine, smooth, longnose, most pleasant to pull; I fear I soiled it sometimes with my little grimy fingers. I trust children never do such naughty things nowadays.
Then there was Great-grandfather Ward, Julia’s grandfather, who had the cradle and the great round spectacles. Doubtless he had many other things besides, for he was a substantial New York merchant; but the cradle and the spectacles are the only possessions of his that I have seen. I have the cradle now, and I can testify that Great-grandfather Ward (for I believe he was rocked in it, as his descendants for four generations since have been) must have been an extremely long baby. It is a fine old affair, of solid mahogany, and was evidently built to last as long as the Wards should last. Not so very long ago, two dear people who had been rocked together in that cradle fifty—or is it sixty?—years ago, sat down and clasped hands over it, and wept for pure love and tenderness andléal souvenir. Not less pleasant is its present use as the good ship “Pinafore,” when six rosy, shoutingchildren tumble into it and rock violently, singing with might and main,—
“We sail the ocean blue,And our saucy ship’s a beauty!”
“We sail the ocean blue,And our saucy ship’s a beauty!”
“We sail the ocean blue,And our saucy ship’s a beauty!”
That is all about the cradle.
My mother writes thus of Great-grandfather Ward, her own grandfather:—
“He had been a lieutenant-colonel in the war of American Independence. A letter from the Commander-in-Chief to Governor Samuel Ward (of Rhode Island) mentions a visit from “your son, a tall young man of soldierly aspect.” I cannot quote the exact words. My grandfather had seen service in Arnold’s march through ‘the wilderness’ to Quebec. He was present at the battle of Red Bank. After the close of the war he engaged in commercial pursuits, and made a voyage to India as supercargo of a merchant vessel belonging to Moses Brown, of Providence. He was in Paris at the time of the king’s death (Louis XVI.), and for some time before that tragic event. He speaks in his journal of having met several of the leading revolutionists of that time at a friend’s house, and characterizes them as ‘exceeding plain men, but very zealous.’ He passed the day of the king’s execution, which he calls ‘one of horror,’ in Versailles, and was grieved at the conduct of several
“He had been a lieutenant-colonel in the war of American Independence. A letter from the Commander-in-Chief to Governor Samuel Ward (of Rhode Island) mentions a visit from “your son, a tall young man of soldierly aspect.” I cannot quote the exact words. My grandfather had seen service in Arnold’s march through ‘the wilderness’ to Quebec. He was present at the battle of Red Bank. After the close of the war he engaged in commercial pursuits, and made a voyage to India as supercargo of a merchant vessel belonging to Moses Brown, of Providence. He was in Paris at the time of the king’s death (Louis XVI.), and for some time before that tragic event. He speaks in his journal of having met several of the leading revolutionists of that time at a friend’s house, and characterizes them as ‘exceeding plain men, but very zealous.’ He passed the day of the king’s execution, which he calls ‘one of horror,’ in Versailles, and was grieved at the conduct of several
Lieut.-Col. Samuel Ward.Born Nov 17, 1756 Died Aug. 16, 1832.
Lieut.-Col. Samuel Ward.Born Nov 17, 1756 Died Aug. 16, 1832.
Lieut.-Col. Samuel Ward.
Born Nov 17, 1756 Died Aug. 16, 1832.
Americans, who not only remained in town, but also attended the execution. When he finally left Paris, a proscribed nobleman, disguised as a footman, accompanied the carriage, and so cheated the guillotine of one expected victim.“Colonel Ward, as my grandfather was always called, was a graduate of Brown University, and a man of scholarly tastes. He possessed a diamond edition of Latin classics, which always went with him in his campaigns, and which is still preserved in the family. In matters of art he was not so well posted. Of the pictures in the gallery of the Luxembourg he remarks in his diary: ‘The old pictures are considered the best. I cannot think why.’“I remember him as very tall, stooping a little, with white hair and mild blue eyes, which matched well his composed speech and manners.”
Americans, who not only remained in town, but also attended the execution. When he finally left Paris, a proscribed nobleman, disguised as a footman, accompanied the carriage, and so cheated the guillotine of one expected victim.
“Colonel Ward, as my grandfather was always called, was a graduate of Brown University, and a man of scholarly tastes. He possessed a diamond edition of Latin classics, which always went with him in his campaigns, and which is still preserved in the family. In matters of art he was not so well posted. Of the pictures in the gallery of the Luxembourg he remarks in his diary: ‘The old pictures are considered the best. I cannot think why.’
“I remember him as very tall, stooping a little, with white hair and mild blue eyes, which matched well his composed speech and manners.”
I have called Great-grandfather Ward a merchant, but he was far more than that. The son of Governor Ward of Rhode Island, he was only eighteen when, as a gallant young captain, he marched his company to the siege of Boston; and then (as his grandson writes me to-day) he “marched through the wilderness of Maine, through snow and ice, barefoot, to Quebec.” Some of my readersmay possess an engraving of Trumbull’s famous painting of the “Attack on Quebec.” Look in the left-hand corner, and you will see a group of three,—one of them a young, active figure with flashing eyes; that is Great-grandfather Ward. He rose to be major, then lieutenant-colonel; was at Peekskill, Valley Forge, and Red Bank, and wrote the official account of the last-named battle, which may be found in Washington’s correspondence. Besides being a good man and a brave soldier, he was a very good grandfather; and this made it all the more naughty for his granddaughter Julia to behave as she did one day. Being then a little child, she sat down at the piano, placed a music-book on the rack, and began to pound and thump on the keys, making the hideous discord which seems always to afford pleasure to the young. Her grandfather was sitting by, book in hand; and after enduring the noise for some time patiently, he said in his kind, courtly way, “Is it so set down in the book, my dear?”
“Yes, Grandpapa!” said naughty Julia,and went on banging; while grandpapa, who made no pretense of being a musician, offered no further comment or remonstrance.
Julia grew up a student and a dreamer. She confesses to having been an extremely absent person, and much of the time unconscious of what passed around her. “In the large rooms of my father’s house,” she says, “I walked up and down, perpetually alone, dreaming of extraordinary things that I should see and do. I now began to read Shakspere and Byron, and to try my hand at poems and plays.” She rejoices that none of the productions of this period were published, and adds: “I regard it as a piece of great good fortune; for a little praise or a little censure would have been a much more disturbing element in those days than in these.” I wish these sentiments were more general with young writers.
Still, life was not all study and dreaming. There were sometimes merrymakings: witness the gay ball after which Julia wrote to her brother, “I have been through the burning fiery furnace; and I am Sad-rake,Me-sick, and Abed-no-go.” There was mischief, too, and sometimes downright naughtiness, Who was the poor gentleman, an intimate friend of the family, from whom Julia and her sisters extracted a promise that he would eat nothing for three days but what they should send him,—they in return promising three meals a day? He consented, innocently thinking that these dear young creatures wanted to display their skill in cookery, and expecting all kinds of delicacies and airy dainties of pastry and confectionery. Yes! and being a man of his word, he lived for three days on gruel, of which those “dear young creatures” sent him a bowl at morning, noon, and night; and on nothing else!
In a certain little cabinet where many precious things are kept, I have a manuscript poem, written by Julia Ward for the amusement of her brothers and sisters when she was still a very young girl. It is called “The Ill-cut Mantell; A Romaunt of the time of Kynge Arthur.” The story is an old one, but the telling of it is all Julia’s own, and I must quote a few lines:—
“I cannot well describe in rhymeThe female toilet of that time.I do not know how trains were carried,How single ladies dressed or married;If caps were proper at a ball,Or even if caps were worn at all;If robes were made of crape or tulle,If skirts were narrow, gored, or full.Perhaps, without consulting grace,The hair was scraped back from the face,While on the head a mountain rose,Crowned, like Mont Blanc, with endless snows.It may be that the locks were shorn;It may be that the lofty puff,The stomacher, the rising ruff,The bodice, or the veil were worn,Perhaps mantillas were the passion,Perhaps ferronières were in fashion,—I cannot, and I will not tell.But this one thing I wot full well,That every lady there was dressedIn what she thought became her best.All further notices, I grieve,I must to your imagination leave.”
“I cannot well describe in rhymeThe female toilet of that time.I do not know how trains were carried,How single ladies dressed or married;If caps were proper at a ball,Or even if caps were worn at all;If robes were made of crape or tulle,If skirts were narrow, gored, or full.Perhaps, without consulting grace,The hair was scraped back from the face,While on the head a mountain rose,Crowned, like Mont Blanc, with endless snows.It may be that the locks were shorn;It may be that the lofty puff,The stomacher, the rising ruff,The bodice, or the veil were worn,Perhaps mantillas were the passion,Perhaps ferronières were in fashion,—I cannot, and I will not tell.But this one thing I wot full well,That every lady there was dressedIn what she thought became her best.All further notices, I grieve,I must to your imagination leave.”
“I cannot well describe in rhymeThe female toilet of that time.I do not know how trains were carried,How single ladies dressed or married;If caps were proper at a ball,Or even if caps were worn at all;If robes were made of crape or tulle,If skirts were narrow, gored, or full.Perhaps, without consulting grace,The hair was scraped back from the face,While on the head a mountain rose,Crowned, like Mont Blanc, with endless snows.It may be that the locks were shorn;It may be that the lofty puff,The stomacher, the rising ruff,The bodice, or the veil were worn,Perhaps mantillas were the passion,Perhaps ferronières were in fashion,—I cannot, and I will not tell.But this one thing I wot full well,That every lady there was dressedIn what she thought became her best.All further notices, I grieve,I must to your imagination leave.”
Julia sometimes tried to awaken in her sisters’ minds the poetic aspirations which filled her own. One day she found the two little girls playing some childish game, which seemed to her unnecessarily frivolous. (You all know, I am sure, the eldest sister’s motto,—
“Good advice and counsel sage,And ‘I never did so when I was your age;’”
“Good advice and counsel sage,And ‘I never did so when I was your age;’”
“Good advice and counsel sage,And ‘I never did so when I was your age;’”
and the companion sentiment of the younger sister,—
“‘Sister, don’t!’ and ‘Sister, do!’And ‘Why may not I as well as you?’”)
“‘Sister, don’t!’ and ‘Sister, do!’And ‘Why may not I as well as you?’”)
“‘Sister, don’t!’ and ‘Sister, do!’And ‘Why may not I as well as you?’”)
Miss Ward,—she was always called Miss Ward, poor little dear! and her dolls were taken away from her when she was only nine years old, that she might better feel the dignity of her position!—Miss Ward rebuked the little sisters, and bade them lay aside their foolish toys and improve their minds by composing poetry. Louisa shook her black curls, and would not,—moreover, did not, being herself a child of some firmness. But little sweet Annie would try, to please Sister Julia; and after much thought and labor she produced the following pious effusion:—
“He feeds the ravens when they call,And stands them in a pleasant hall.”
“He feeds the ravens when they call,And stands them in a pleasant hall.”
“He feeds the ravens when they call,And stands them in a pleasant hall.”
I never can recall these lines without having an instant vision of a pillared hall, fair and
Julia Ward.
Julia Ward.
Julia Ward.
stately, with ravens standing in niches along the sides, between the marble columns!
So this maiden, Julia, grew up to womanhood, dreamy and absent, absorbed in severe study and composition, yet always ready with the brilliant flashes of her wit, which broke like sunbeams through the mist of dreams. She was very fair to look upon. No one now pitied her for the glorious crown of red-gold hair, which set off the rose and ivory of her matchless complexion; every one recognized and acknowledged in her “stately Julia, queen of all.”
Once, while on a visit to Boston, Julia heard the wonderful story of Laura Bridgman, who had just been led out of darkness into the light of life and joy by a certain Dr. Howe, a man of whom people spoke as a modern paladin of romance, a Roland or Bayard. She saw him, and felt at once that he was the most remarkable man she had ever known. He, on his part, saw a youthful prophetess, radiant and inspired, crowned with golden hair. Acquaintance ripened into friendship, friendship into love; andso it happened that, in the year 1843, Samuel G. Howe and Julia Ward were married. The next chapter shall tell you of Julia Ward Howe, as we, her children, have known her.
Our mother’s story should be sung rather than said, so much has music to do with it. My earliest recollection of my mother is of her standing by the piano in the great dining-room, dressed in black velvet, with her beautiful neck and arms bare, and singing to us. Her voice was a very rare and perfect one, we have since learned; we knew then only that we did not care to hear any one else sing when we might hear her. The time for singing was at twilight, when the dancing was over, and we gathered breathless and exhausted about the piano for the last and greatest treat. Then the beautiful voice would break out, and flood the room with melody, and fill our childish hearts with almost painful rapture. Our mother knew all the songs in the world,—that was our firmbelief. Certainly we never found an end to her repertory.
There were German student songs, which she had learned from her brother when he came back from Heidelberg,—merry, jovial ditties, with choruses of “Juvevallera!” and “Za hi! Za he! Za ho-o-o-o-o-oh!” in which we joined with boundless enthusiasm. There were gay little French songs, all ripple and sparkle and trill; and soft, melting Italian serenades and barcaroles, which we thought must be like the notes of the nightingale. And when we called to have our favorites repeated again and again, she would sing them over and over with never failing patience; and not one of us ever guessed, as we listened with all our souls, that the cunning mother was giving us a French lesson, or a German or Italian lesson, as the case might be, and that what was learned in that way would never be forgotten all our lives long.
Besides the foreign songs, there were many songs of our mother’s own making, which we were never weary of hearing. Sometimes
Julia Ward Howe.
Julia Ward Howe.
Julia Ward Howe.
she composed a melody for some old ballad, but more often the words and music both were hers. Where were such nonsense-songs as hers?
“Little old dog sits under the chair,Twenty-five grasshoppers snarled in his hair.Little old dog’s beginning to snore,Mother forbids him to do so no more.”
“Little old dog sits under the chair,Twenty-five grasshoppers snarled in his hair.Little old dog’s beginning to snore,Mother forbids him to do so no more.”
“Little old dog sits under the chair,Twenty-five grasshoppers snarled in his hair.Little old dog’s beginning to snore,Mother forbids him to do so no more.”
Or again,—
“Hush, my darling, don’t you cry!Your sweetheart will come by and by.When he comes, he’ll come in green,—That’s a sign that you’re his queen.“Hush, my darling, don’t you cry!Your sweetheart will come by and by.When he comes, he’ll come in blue,—That’s a sign that he’ll be true.”
“Hush, my darling, don’t you cry!Your sweetheart will come by and by.When he comes, he’ll come in green,—That’s a sign that you’re his queen.“Hush, my darling, don’t you cry!Your sweetheart will come by and by.When he comes, he’ll come in blue,—That’s a sign that he’ll be true.”
“Hush, my darling, don’t you cry!Your sweetheart will come by and by.When he comes, he’ll come in green,—That’s a sign that you’re his queen.
“Hush, my darling, don’t you cry!Your sweetheart will come by and by.When he comes, he’ll come in blue,—That’s a sign that he’ll be true.”
And so on through all the colors of the rainbow, till finally expectation was wrought up to the highest pitch by the concluding lines:
“When he comes, he’ll come in gray,—That’s a sign he’ll come to-day!”
“When he comes, he’ll come in gray,—That’s a sign he’ll come to-day!”
“When he comes, he’ll come in gray,—That’s a sign he’ll come to-day!”
Then it was a pleasant thing that each child could have his or her own particular song merely for the asking. Laura well remembersher good-night song, which was sung to the very prettiest tune in the world:
“Sleep, my little child,So gentle, sweet, and mild!The little lamb has gone to rest,The little bird is in its nest,”—
“Sleep, my little child,So gentle, sweet, and mild!The little lamb has gone to rest,The little bird is in its nest,”—
“Sleep, my little child,So gentle, sweet, and mild!The little lamb has gone to rest,The little bird is in its nest,”—
“Put in the donkey!” cried Laura, at this point of the first singing. “Please put in the donkey!” So the mother went on,—
“The little donkey in the stableSleeps as sound as he is able;All things now their rest pursue,You are sleepy too.”
“The little donkey in the stableSleeps as sound as he is able;All things now their rest pursue,You are sleepy too.”
“The little donkey in the stableSleeps as sound as he is able;All things now their rest pursue,You are sleepy too.”
It was with this song sounding softly in her ears, and with the beautiful hand, like soft warm ivory, stroking her hair, that Laura used to fall asleep. Do you not envy the child?
Maud’s songs were perhaps the loveliest of all, though they could not be dearer than my donkey-song. Here is one of them:—