He was the noblest Roman of them all!
Glancing back over my life, certain years stand out clearly like signposts, while others loom nebulous and vague. The centennial year of 1876 is one of the vivid ones, for it brought my first meeting with the veiled figure, Grief, with whom all of us must walk part of the journey. Early in the year my father died. The date of his death, January 9th, is one of the few anniversaries I never forget; each year brings me a better understanding of his great heart, his chivalric nature. At first it seemed impossible that he was really gone, that I should never again see his face or hear his voice. After the first forlorn sense of loss came the strange process of readjustment. Life did go on without that dominant figure to shape its course, and certain new responsibilities came upon me. My mother had always left to my father the practical matters of our family life, and these to a large degree devolved upon me. Had I been of an introspective turn I might have shrunk from the part I was now to play. Instead, I seized the reins as he dropped them, eager as Phaeton to drive the steeds of Apollo.
If there were a horse to buy, I did not hesitate, but promptly bought the best horse I could find, only to learn that the dear animal—we called him Ha’pence—was afflicted with quarter-cracks cleverly patched up by the jockey who sold him to us. When there was a new house to buy, I went to a house agent I had met in society and was ignorant enough to ask him what his commission was. The agent took advantage of my simplicity and charged us two hundred dollars. Years after I learned that in Boston he who sells a house pays the agent’s commission; to collect from both buyer and seller was sharp practice, as the agent, Mr. M., knew perfectly well. It was at this time that my mother gave me the nickname “Boss.” I did not like it as well as my other nickname “Duchess”, but I had not the courage to rebel.
In the early summer of 1876 I made a long visit to my friends, Ida and Alice Cushman, who lived with their aunt, Miss Rebecca Wetherell, in the fine old Wetherell house on the corner of Broad and Chestnut streets, in Philadelphia. Mr. Cushman, their father, a miniature painter of distinction, took us often to the Art Gallery of the Centennial Exhibition, and with him I studied the fine collections that the European nations sent to this, our first World’s Fair. The Centennial did much to stimulate every phase of the growing art life of our country. With me, as with thousands of others, art became from this time forward one of the absorbing interests of life; for several years I hoped to be an artist.
The winter after my father’s death my mother decided to go to Europe. I know now that the trip was made entirely for my sake, and that she was loth to leave the many interests of her Boston life. President of the New England Woman’s Club and the Association for the Advancement of Women, she held important positions in half a dozen other organizations for public service. She made the great sacrifice for my sake, and I, like other young people, accepted the maternal devotion as a matter of course! Before sailing for Europe she determined that I must know something more of my own country. Massachusetts I knew pretty thoroughly, Rhode Island a little. I had a bowing acquaintance with New York, knew Washington by sight. That was all, and in her judgment not enough. She arranged a lecture trip to the Middle West to meet the expenses of our journey. This gave me my first realizing sense that lack of money is one of those minor obstacles in life that require only a little courage to overcome. Of this trip I remember only the wonder of Niagara, the bustle of Chicago, the pleasant yellow brick city of Milwaukee, where we stayed at the luxurious house of my mother’s friend, Mrs. Doggett; last and best, how I ran the express from Milwaukee to Chicago! We were to make the journey with one of the directors of the road, who, finding how much I longed for this experience, escorted me to the locomotive cab and gave me into the hands of the engineer, with the words:
“This young lady thinks she would like to be an engine driver. Let her have a chance to try it out!”
It was a thrilling experience. I was allowed to handle the levers, ring the bell, and blow the whistle. The engineer and firemen were two new types of men; that in itself would have made the journey more interesting than the stereotyped company of the Pullman. Oh! the joy of flying across the level prairie on a glorious autumn afternoon, with straight shining rails stretching before me, my hand on the bounding pulse of the iron horse,—this was a ride to remember all my life! We made schedule time. When we arrived at Chicago the director told me my only mistake had been to hold open the throttle of the whistle-valve so long that an old lady in the Pullman thought there was an accident. The engineer gallantly explained that the whistle had been to frighten a cow off the track.
These are all the details I remember of this journey with my mother; nevertheless I believe it did for me all she hoped. I date from this time the beginning of my better understanding of my own country and my evolution from a New Englander into an American.
One other experience my mother was careful to plan; that I should hear Mr. Emerson lecture before we sailed. If I have forgotten the subject of the address, it does not matter, for later on I was to become a devoted Emersonian. What I retain is a strong impression of his personality. I felt that I was in the presence of a very wonderful being. I remember the wisdom and sweetness of his face, the tones of his voice, by turns like a silver trumpet and the soughing of the breeze. His diction, like that of some polished actor of the Comédie Française, was such an art that it seemed like nature. After the lecture my mother spoke with Mr. Emerson and his daughter, Miss Ellen. His smile as he turned to speak to me, the touch of his hand on mine, were as a benediction whose influence remained with me through life.