Memories grave and gay

by Florence Howe Hall

The memorial exercises after her death were held in Symphony Hall. Tickets had been issued to persons having a special claim to be present, but as soon as the doors were opened the great public, who also loved her, would not be denied admittance. They surged in, tickets or no tickets, and took possession of the great auditorium. The varied nature of the program corresponded with her diversified talents. A haunting-chorus of her own composition was sung by the blind pupils of the Institution founded by her husband. Many were the beautiful tributes paid to her by men and women of national reputation. None, however, equaled in heartfelt eloquence the speech of Lewis, the distinguished negro lawyer, as he poured out the gratitude of his race to the woman who had written the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I suddenly realized what the words meant to the colored people. The appeal, “Let us die to make men free,” was for all men and for all time, yet in a special sense it was meant for the despised slave for whose freedom the soldiers of the Union laid down their lives in those dark days of the ’sixties.

Sister Laura and I were already rejoicing in several grandchildren while our mother was still with us. People sometimes feel sorry for the grandmothers whom they see in the streets in charge of little children. The first impulse is to exclaim, “That old woman has earned a right to rest. It is too bad she should still be burdened with the care of babies.”

The second and saner impulse is to rejoice that she still has strength for the day’s work. Our civilization should be so ordered that a well-spent life may bring a certain degree of freedom toward its close. But to have no responsibilities, to be an idle and frivolous elderly woman, would be a sad fate.

No one need sink into it if she has grandchildren, the loveliest of all flowers, who bloom in the evening of life. If she has grandchildren of assorted ages she is especially fortunate, for she can then enjoy the various stages of babyhood and childhood at the same time.

Life is full of pleasant surprises. Our sons and daughters grow to maturity so gradually that we fail to realize the change from their childhood’s days. They are still boys and girls to us when they are so absurd as to suppose themselves men and women! They marry, and on some fine day present us with a grandchild! Then we suddenly realize that we are again to have the delightful experience—almost forgotten—of growing up with a baby.

On our journey through life we have been disappointed in meeting many people who did not come up to our ideals. We are weary of the petty ambitions, the injustice of the world—of everybody’s faults, our own included. In the twinkling of an eye we are transported back into the lovely child-garden, where faith, love, and hope bloom! Little hands cling trustingly to us, a little cheek is laid against ours, eyes like stars smile up at us! There is a new heaven and a new earth!

The bond between age and childhood is known of all men. Are not the glory of the sunrise and that of the sunset one and the same? The child rejoices in the beautiful and wonderful things he sees all about him—in birds, beasts, and flowers, the blue sky and the trees of the forest. The woman declining into the vale of years has long known these things, but in the light of the sunset they become transfigured and glorified. With the little child she learns again lessons half forgotten; together they enjoy the true pleasures of life—the simple, every-day things that we forget to be thankful for during the years when we are busily hunting for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

So the child and its grandame walk together for a while, until their paths separate. The little one goes forward with eager feet into the great battle of life, the grandmother advances with tranquil step to meet the shadows. The coming into this world of the child has strengthened her faith, as its companionship has strengthened her love.

It came, she knows not whence, “trailing clouds of glory.” Will not the morning of a new and splendid day break for her, also, in a new world?

We enjoy our grandchildren all the more, in the twentieth century, because we have other cares and responsibilities besides those of the family and household. Hence we cannot be selfishly absorbed in our own small circle. Our duties have multiplied since the great war began to call the young men and women more and more into service.