Young writers, especially poets, often came to talk with my mother about their work and the great things they meant to accomplish. I took these visits as a matter of course and did not half appreciate the privilege of being present when some ardent young neophyte came, breathless, to kindle his torch at the flame that she, like some priestess of the Delphic oracle, kept alight from her earliest childhood until the very end of her life. I do distinctly remember, however, two of these visitors, who came within a few days of each other, John Hay and Francis Bret Harte. The younger poets acclaimed her as their muse and looked up to her with loving understanding.
I recall perfectly John Hay’s first visit to our house. She had met him in Washington, and not long after, when he was in Boston, he called upon her. He had already made a name for himself as a writer, and when he was announced, I was surprised to see so young a man. He was small, slender, smartly—even foppishly—dressed, with a splendidly shaped head and expressive, nearsighted eyes. They talked much of Lincoln; this was before the great emancipator had become the popular idol of a later day. What remains clearest with me is the almost reverent attitude and expression of John Hay, as he took my mother’s hand in parting and stood for a moment, looking silently into her eyes. A small, orange-brown volume of verse, “Pike County Ballads” by John Hay, always stood in the bookcase near her desk. I still treasure this book along with his “Castilian Days.” Colonel Hay is best remembered as a diplomat and a statesman; but for me he is, first of all, the author of “Little Breeches” and “The Prairie Belle.”
I never pass Number 32 Mt. Vernon Street without emotion. In this mellow old brick dwelling we lived for some years during the seventies. My father bought the house from the heirs of Miss Nabby Joy, a well-known character in the Boston of that time, and the owner of some interesting furniture and porcelain, also acquired by my father, and still in use in his grandchildren’s homes. Strange how permanent things are, compared to people! From this friendly Mt. Vernon Street house my three dear sisters were married,—what lovely brides, and all so different! Here many wonderful parties were given, among them the reception for General Grant and the breakfast for Bret Harte. The breakfast was set for nine, the company were all on time, the guest of honor arriving as the clock began to strike the hour. I remember my mother gave us broiled spring chickens and English bacon (that was before the day of our great packers), and to top off with, buckwheat cakes with maple syrup. That must be nearly fifty years ago, and breakfast parties are again in fashion, “morning after” breakfasts, served at the fag end of an all-night ball.
For some reason or other I had not been told of the party, and I remember my astonishment at coming into the dining room a little late, to find the long table surrounded by strangers.
“This is my youngest daughter, Mr. Harte,” was my mother’s introduction.
“I did not know there was to be company,” I stammered, to excuse my tardiness.
“You mean you did not know there were to be buckwheat cakes,” said Bret Harte, with mock severity.
He was then in the first flush of fame. “The Luck of Roaring Camp”, a volume of short stories, had won him instant recognition; and “The Heathen Chinee” was already a classic. He was a man of fine presence, medium-sized, with thick silver hair that would curl, a face deeply pitted with smallpox, and keen blue eyes.
The talk was so brilliant that I believed I should never forget the witty things that were said. Alas, only a few fragments remain of the conversation at that delectable breakfast table.
“Mr. Harte, you have taught the English-speaking world a lesson in brevity it will never forget,” somebody said, but whether it was my mother or Mr. Emerson I have clean forgotten. I do remember how pleased Harte was and how his face kindled at the compliment.