What pleasant things we had to dress up in! There was our father’s wedding-coat, bright blue, with brass buttons; and the waistcoat he had worn with it, white satin with raised velvet flowers,—such a fine waistcoat! There were two embroidered crape gowns which had been our grandmother’s, with waists a few inches long, and long, skimp skirts; and the striped blue and yellow moiré, which our mother had worn in some private theatricals,—that was beyond description! And the white gauze with gold flounces—oh! and the peach-blossom silk with flowers all over it—ah!
But this is a digression, and has nothing whatever to do with our guests, who never played “dressing up,” that I can remember.
One of our most frequent visitors at Green Peace was the great statesman and patriot, Charles Sumner. He was a very dear friend of our father, and they loved to be together whenever the strenuous business of their lives would permit.
We children used to call Mr. Sumner “the Harmless Giant;” and indeed he was very kind to us, and had always a pleasant word for us in that deep, melodious voice which no one, once hearing it, could ever forget. He towered above us to what seemed an enormous height; yet we were told that he stood six feet in his stockings,—no more. This impression being made on Laura’s mind, she was used to employ the great senator as an imaginary foot-rule (six-foot rule, I should say), and, until she was almost a woman grown, would measure a thing in her own mind by saying “two feet higher than Mr. Sumner,” or “twice as high as Mr. Summer,” as the case might be. I can remember him carrying the baby Maud on his shoulder, and bowing his lofty crest to pass through the doorway. Sometimes his mother, Madam Sumner, came with him, a gracious and charming old lady. I am told that on a day when she was spending an hour at Green Peace, and sitting in the parlor window with our mother, Laura felt it incumbent upon her to entertain the distinguished visitor; so, being arrayed in her best white frock, she took up her station on the gravel path below the window, and filling a little basket with gravel, proceeded to pour it over her head, exclaiming, “Mit Humner! hee my ektibiton!” This meant “exhibition.” Laura could not pronounce the letter S in childhood’s happy hour. “Mamma,” she would say, if she saw our mother look grave, “Id you had? Why id you had?” and then she would bring a doll’s dish, or it might be a saucepan, and give it to her mother and say, with infinite satisfaction, “Dere! ’mooge you’helf wid dat!”
Another ever welcome guest was John A. Andrew, the great War Governor, as we loved to call him. He was not governor in those days,—that is, when I first remember him; but he was then, as always, one of the most delightful of men. Who else could tell a story with such exquisite humor? The stories themselves were better than any others, but his way of telling them set every word in gold. The very sound of his voice made the air brighter and warmer, and his own delightful atmosphere of sunny geniality went always with him. That was a wonderful evening when at one of our parties some scenes from Thackeray’s “The Rose and the Ring” were given. Our mother was Countess Gruffanuff, our father Kutasoff Hedzoff; Governor Andrew took the part of Prince Bulbo, while Flossy made a sprightly Angelica, and Julia as Betsinda was a vision of rarest beauty. I cannot remember who was Prince Giglio, but the figure of Bulbo, with closely curling hair, his fine face aglow with merriment, and the magic rose in his buttonhole, comes distinctly before me.
Who were the guests at those dinner-parties so well remembered? Alas! I know not. Great people they often were, famous men and women, who talked, no doubt, brilliantly and delightfully. But is it their conversation which lingers like a charm in my memory? Again, alas! my recollection is of finger-bowls, crimson and purple, which sang beneath the wetted finger of some kindly elder; of almonds and raisins, and bonbons mystic, wonderful, all gauze and tinsel and silver paper, with flat pieces of red sugar within. The red sugar was something of an anticlimax after the splendors of its envelope, being insipidly sweet, with no special flavor. The scent of coffee comes back to me, rich, delicious, breathing of “the golden days of good Haroun Alraschid.” We were never allowed to drink coffee or tea; but standing by our mother’s chair, just before saying good-night, we received the most exquisite dainty the world afforded,—a “coffee-duck,” which to the ignorant is explained to be a lump of sugar dipped in coffee (black coffee, bien entendu) and held in the amber liquid till it begins to melt in delicious “honeycomb” (this was probably the true ambrosia of the gods); and then we said good-night, and—and—went and begged the cook for a “whip,” or some “floating-island,” or a piece of frosted cake! Was it strange that occasionally, after one of these feasts, Laura could not sleep, and was smitten with the “terror by night” (it was generally a locomotive which was coming in at the window to annihilate her; Julia was the one who used to weep at night for fear of foxes), and would come trotting down into the lighted drawing-room, among all the silks and satins, arrayed in the simple garment known as a “leg-nightgown,” demanding her mother? Ay, and I remember that she always got her mother, too.
But these guests? I remember the great Professor Agassiz, with his wise, kindly face and genial smile. I can see him putting sugar into his coffee, lump after lump, till it stood up above the liquid like one of his own glaciers. I remember all the “Abolition” leaders, for our own parents were stanch Abolitionists, and worked heart and soul for the cause of freedom. I remember when Swedish ships came into Boston Harbor, probably for the express purpose of filling our parlors with fair-haired officers, wonderful, magnificent, shining with epaulets and buttons. There may have been other reasons for the visit; there may have been deep political designs, and all manner of mysteries relating to the peace of nations I know not. But I know that there was a little midshipman in white trousers, who danced with Laura, and made her a bow afterward and said, “I tanks you for de polska.” He was a dear little midshipman! There was an admiral too, who corresponded more or less with Southey’s description,—
“And last of all an admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name,—
A name which, you all must know very well,
Nobody can speak, and nobody can spell.”
The admiral said to Harry, “I understand you shall not go to sea in future times?” and that is all I remember about him.
I remember Charlotte Cushman, the great actress and noble woman, who was a dear friend of our mother; with a deep, vibrating, melodious voice, and a strong, almost masculine face, which was full of wisdom and kindliness.