Memories grave and gay

by Florence Howe Hall

When General Cullom kindly offered to give before the club a talk on the French châteaux, illustrated by lantern slides, we all felt anxiety. Wonderful to say, neither “pup-pups” nor “pam-pams” marred the smoothness of the address!

Prof. Alexander Agassiz, whose summers were spent at Newport, when he was not traveling about the world on his yacht, gave an illustrated lecture on the Panama Canal which was of especial interest. The French had then abandoned their attempt and the United States had not yet undertaken to build it. A series of mournful lantern slides showed the wrecks of the French machinery, and the excavations, which seemed small enough compared with the gigantic nature of the undertaking. Professor Agassiz was clearly of the opinion that, owing to the overflowing of the Chágres River, it was not possible to build a canal at that point.

Charles Dudley Warner, who read extremely well, gave us, with realistic effect, his delightful sketch, “The Bear Is Coming on.” We almost saw the raspberry-bushes and felt the animal bearing down upon us. Another sketch, relating to heaven and hell, was witty, but too frivolous in tone to suit the orthodox members of the club. They were rather scandalized at it.

In the summer of 1881 we had the happiness of counting our aunt Louisa and her family as our quasi-neighbors. She had been the family beauty, but was less clever than her sisters Julia and Annie. She was a woman of much charm and, like Uncle Sam, showed signs of her French descent. With her husband and their daughter Margaret she spent the season at one of the cliff cottages at Newport. “Daisy” was a débutante; and interested in the gaieties of the season. Hence her half-brother, Marion Crawford, who loved the quiet of the country, spent much of his time with us at “Oak Glen.” He was devoted to my mother and she was very fond of him. Her house in Boston and her Newport home were harbors of refuge to him in the years of his bachelorhood, many of which he spent in this country. We found him the most delightful of housemates. Genial, cheery and charming, he never availed himself of the masculine privilege of grumbling, but took things as he found them. Mother said of him, “He is as easy as an old shoe.” My youngest child, John Howe Hall, was born that summer. The stairs at “Oak Glen” were rather fatiguing for me to climb, when I first came down-stairs after his birth. So Cousin Marion, who was both tall and strong, would pick me up like a baby and carry me up-stairs. He was a very handsome man, with blue eyes like his father’s, regular features, and curly brown hair. This, alas! was already beginning to show a small bare place on the crown, in spite of his mother’s faithful efforts with hair tonic.

Sister Maud spent the summer of 1881 with my aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who then lived on a great ranch in California. Some of her experiences there are described in her novel, The San Rosario Ranch. My mother was invited to take part in amateur theatricals at Newport during this eventful season. In spite of her sixty-seven years, she was the first of the company to master her lines.

She acted her part with spirit and gaiety, but could not resist the temptation to “gag” the lines. Thus in speaking of doctors who arranged, in Bob Sawyer style, to have themselves called out, she mentioned the names of Doctor Cleveland and other physicians spending the summer in Newport.

As bad luck would have it, this gentleman, who had a large practice, was actually summoned from the hall and arose to go, blushing furiously!

Crawford had come to America, intending to live here. He thought seriously of taking up the profession of philology, having a talent for languages. As he possessed a good voice, he also thought of going on the operatic stage. His ear for music was somewhat faulty, but this defect, he was assured, need not, after the proper training of his voice, prevent his singing correctly.

While he was in an undecided frame of mind he wrote, as an experiment, his first novel, Mr. Isaacs. Its immediate success banished all doubt as to his career.

It was in the “little green parlor” at “Oak Glen” that he composed a large part of this story. Here, also, sister Maud and I often sat with our writing. The little green parlor is a grassy crescent surrounded on all sides by a hedge of tall cedar-trees. These have now grown so tall as almost to conceal the house from the view of passers-by.