Memories grave and gay

by Florence Howe Hall

Just beyond lay the truly enchanted part of the garden, where a captive princess might have passed her time happily enough. We were accustomed to read in our fairy-stories of the Garden of the Hesperides and other remarkable places where grew apples of pure gold and glittering precious stones in the form of peaches and plums. But what were these cold, stony and thoroughly indigestible objects compared with the warm, glowing, and luscious fruit of “Green Peace”? Moreover, the magic supply of this was inexhaustible. For, after frosts had settled the business of the last grapes on the trellis and the last lingering apples on the trees, the fruit of the garden was by no means exhausted. You had but to peep into the shallow drawers in the pear-room to see supplies of delicious winter pears—Easter Beurré’s and winter Nellis, to say nothing of barrels of glorious golden-russet apples. In the center of the garden was a sort of shrine to Pomona, consisting of a hothouse and bowling-alley, with school-house (later used as a pear-room) adjoining.

There were at least four strawberry-beds filled with different varieties of the fruit, also raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries of many colors, plums, nectarines, peaches, apples, quinces, and, last but not least, pears.

Of the last-named fruit my father was especially fond. He cultivated with the greatest care many varieties of these. In recent years I have learned that the delicious French pears for which the neighborhood of Boston is famous were brought there by the French Huguenots.

Our parents often had bowling parties in our childhood, and it amused us to observe the different ways in which the players handled the balls. Inexperienced persons would choose a small ball and toss it up in the air in a delightfully ridiculous way, instead of rolling it swiftly along the floor of the alley. I seem to remember Mr. Seguin, the famous authority on idiots, thus maneuvering with a small ball. My father had brought him to South Boston to assist in the work of starting the Massachusetts School for Idiots, the first to be established in America.

“The dogs,” as they were called generically, guarded this paradise from urchins over-appreciative of the flavor of the celestial fruit. The backbone of this canine police force was a very large and not thoroughly amiable Newfoundland dog, named Arthur. An enemy dog called Lion lived in Boston, and would occasionally cross the bridge and take a two-mile trot over to “Green Peace” to try conclusions with Arthur. A battle royal would thereupon ensue, the gardener and my father or another employee each holding one of the combatants by the tail and belaboring him until he consented to let go of his enemy. We watched the encounter from a respectful distance.

It has been said that visitors were always interested in Byron’s helmet. They sometimes tried to put it on, but seldom succeeded. The poet, it will be remembered, had a very small though beautiful head. Sister Laura was the only one of the Howe family who could wear it. She and sister Julia were the most poetical of the children. A tintype is still in existence showing the former, at the age of fourteen, crowned with the Byron helmet, her long hair flowing over her shoulders.

The Greek War of Independence (1822–29) was a comparatively recent event in the ’Fifties, and people often spoke of it and of the Philhellenes. My father looked much younger than he really was, and occasionally, when asked about his share in the struggle, he would jestingly say, “Oh, it was my father who fought in Greece.” His children knew something of this early career, but he never told us of his deeds of heroism. That would have seemed too much like boasting for a reserved New-Englander.

If we complained of the food, he would sometimes remind us that we should be grateful for it and tell us of the strange articles which had constituted the diet of his companions and himself.

Roasted wasps did not sound very attractive, even after the removal of the stings. As for sorrel, we used to sample the plants which grew wild—always pitying poor Papa for having been obliged to eat such sour stuff. We could well imagine how tough donkey’s flesh might be, from our encounter with our own José, whose back and sides appeared to be made of iron.

Of the primitive ways and ideas of the Greeks at that time he would occasionally tell us. Great was their astonishment because he could remove one of his teeth and replace it. Wheeled vehicles were unknown, and one constructed by his faithful follower (a man whose life my father had saved) caused much surprise. As for tea, if you invited a Greek to partake of a cup he would reply, “No, thank you, I am not sick.”