Memories grave and gay

by Florence Howe Hall

We invited our neighbors to informal entertainments, without any mention of admiration to be either received or given. The refreshments were simple and appropriate to a small country place where ice-cream was not indigenous. Our friends came, and I learned later that people were glad to have us set an example of simplicity in entertainment.

During our first years in New Jersey I was principally occupied with household and nursery cares. My husband soon began to interest himself in the life of the little town. A few years before we came there the managers of the local railroad (the New Jersey Central) wished to move it nearer to Scotch Plains. But certain property-owners, thinking they had the railroad at their mercy, named an unreasonable price for their land. The managers, finding they could make a better bargain elsewhere, moved the railroad farther away, leaving Scotch Plains more than a mile from the new station.

It was governed by a triumvirate who gathered around the stove in the principal grocery-store. They were all hide-bound conservatives, not to say moss-backs. Their party—the Democratic—ruled the town. A witty friend of ours remarked that you could not do anything with a New Jersey town until the outlanders outnumbered the native inhabitants.

My husband was a Republican of the most ardent type. He was also very public-spirited and soon became the leader of those who wanted to see things done in the village. Before long the Democratic majority was definitely lost and a Republican one took its place.

There was no fire-engine in the town. One of the triumvirate could not see the necessity of having any. “Insure your house, and if it catches fire let it burn down.” It did not occur to him that if every one followed this sweet and simple creed the insurance companies would become bankrupt.

My husband was made president of the volunteer fire company, and a campaign for improvement began. The neighboring town of Plainfield was younger but much larger and more prosperous than our village. Here there dwelt a hand fire-engine, old and retired, but still capable of usefulness. Plainfield was persuaded to lend this to us. It was burnished and polished with enthusiasm, coming out almost like new. Next a better building was needed to house it and the fire-truck. Men who could not give money were persuaded to give labor, and before long we had a good building, with a large hall capable of holding half the village on ceremonial occasions. True, it housed the engine and truck—but these could be wheeled out of doors in a trice and brought back at the close of a performance. Many were the amateur theatricals and the church fairs held in that truck-house, for the town had sadly needed such a hall.

It also needed a public library. My husband determined to found one that should last. Mr. Andrew Carnegie had not yet become the sponsor of such institutions; outside of New England, they were apt to fade away and die.

Mr. Hall’s first step was to get a law passed by the Legislature making one thousand dollars sufficient endowment for a free library. A large part of this sum was raised by Miss Mary N. Mead, a lovely and unselfish young woman living near the village with her sister, Mrs. Augustus D. Shepard. Another sister was the wife of William Dean Howells. Miss Mead’s enthusiasm and personal charm enabled her to raise money where other people failed. She knew the funds were there, though to get them out resembled the task of Moses when he drew water from the rock.

In the new building of the fire company were several upper rooms used for their occasional meetings. Mr. Hall had the brilliant idea of installing the library here, at a nominal rent of one dollar a year, the trustees to carpet and furnish the rooms as a quid pro quo. The fire company generously entered into the plan, and the library was formally opened with amateur theatricals by the school children of the village. We had discovered, early in our residence in Scotch Plains, that the way to reach the parents was through their boys and girls. I wrote the little play which went off very successfully. The library was proudly thrown open for the inspection of the public. Magazines were provided for the reading-room, with games in the small rooms set apart for the children.

Among the obstacles we had to encounter was the opposition of a worthy lady who disapproved of public libraries because she feared some of the books might be objectionable. She had a long talk with my mother and me in which she freed her mind as to the iniquity of the theater, and expressed her grave doubts about the proposed library. “The works of Swedenborg might be placed there,” she declared! I doubt whether she had ever read any of the works of the famous mystic, but she fancied something must be wrong with him. She doubtless knew that his writings are sent free to any library desiring them.