Memories grave and gay. Florence Howe Hall
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in the other part of the Institution and the five Howe children promptly caught the disease, sister Julia becoming very ill. Our mother had a very anxious and fatiguing experience. She wrote to her sister Annie as follows:
See that your children get measles young. Baby suffered very little. Each older one was worse in proportion to the comparative age. Donald[3] has passed the whole week here, day and night.
3. Mrs. McDonald, matron of the School for Idiots, who had been nurse and housekeeper for my mother in Rome.
The delights of convalescence obliterate the memories of the sickness itself. “Dip” toast, prunes and the reading aloud of the “Leila” books we found very comforting.
Our literary activities seem to have been greatly stimulated at this period, although it must be confessed that they were principally carried on by sister Julia. It was she who wrote the plays that overcame our elders with laughter. It was she who, with my mother’s help, edited The Listener, a weekly periodical which chronicled all the doings of family, friends and the Stevenson School, touching also upon public affairs. Each issue covers four pages of large letter-paper. Some stories were contributed by our friend and schoolmate, Clara Gardner. The occasional editorials by my mother are in her own beautiful hand. But the main body of the paper was faithfully written by the little editor, in her quaint, crabbed, yet legible hand. The birth of our sister Maud was thus chronicled by Julia—then ten and a half years old:
Editor’s Table
A very curious little animal lies on the editor’s table this week. It does not understand the use of cup, plate or spoon, yet it feeds itself. It does not know any language, yet it makes itself understood. It never bought itself a dress, yet it has a whole wardrobe full of clothes. It does not know anybody, yet it has plenty of friends. Can you guess what it is? It is our little baby sister.
There were some questionings as to the name to be bestowed on the newcomer. My father suggested the Greek name of Thyrza, but the good, Anglo-Saxon name of Maud was finally and appropriately chosen. She was a beautiful baby—indeed, she has been beautiful all her life. Sister Julia began another editorial in The Listener, some five weeks later, apropos of the ceremony of weighing the infant:
Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king? George the Fourth is said to have expressed himself in this manner when, in his last illness, some water gruel was served to him in a silver bowl. I wonder whether gruel would taste better out of a silver dish, a silver spoon does not seem to add much to it.
Here my mother takes up the thread of the story.
The King had been used to the best of living—probably had always had as much plum-cake as he wanted [did you, ever?] and so it seemed rather an insult to set water gruel before him, even in so rich a bowl. We happened to make the same remark as his Majesty, to-day, when we saw our Baby Sister weighed in a porcelain dish—she looked so fat and funny.
In the opinion of Julia and Flossy, at this tender age, the only form of marriage offering any romance was a fleeing one, so to speak, consummated after an elopement. Thus in Julia’s tale of Leonora Mayre, the hero and heroine run away from England to America, where they are married. The sequel is decidedly original. Leonora, now Mrs. Clough, repents deeply the desertion of her parents. She returns, with her maid but without her husband, to England and to her father’s house.
“The next day Mr. Mayre had a serious conversation with her.
“ ‘Leonora,’ he said, ‘did you not know that it was very wrong to disobey me and run away?’
“ ‘I did not think so at the time, father. At least I did at first. But then I loved Frank so much that I could not help it.’
“ ‘I knew, Leonora, that you would not have done it had it not been for Mr. Clough.’
“ ‘Why?’
“ ‘Because I knew that you were too good a girl to do such a thing.’
“ ‘I am not good, father,’ said Leonora, ‘or I should not have been married without your permission.’
“ ‘Marry? You did not marry Mr. Clough, did you?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘Oh, Leonora! my child! Is it possible?’ said Mr. Mayre.
“He said no more, but looks were enough. He seemed perfectly distracted. Leonora left the room and went up to her own; then, throwing herself on the bed, burst into tears.”
We are glad to be able to reassure our readers about the sequel. Mr. Mayre felt better in half an hour and ultimately forgave the erring Frank, who returned from America. He argues the case with his angry father-in-law.
“Frank was perfectly composed. ‘Mr. Mayre,’ said he, in answer to the other’s angry words, ‘you think your daughter is good and beautiful and attractive, do you not?’
“ ‘Certainly, sir.’
“ ‘And you love her very much?’
“ ‘Of course.’
“ ‘Well, then, if she has the same charms for others that she has for you, can you blame me for loving her?’
“ ‘You had a right to love her, but you had no right to marry her against my will.’
“ ‘I don’t suppose I had, but you ought to pardon me if I am sorry.’
“ ‘I have not heard that you were sorry.’
“ ‘You now hear it, then. Have I your forgiveness or your anger; your daughter or your scorn?’
“ ‘My daughter,’ said Mr. Mayre, with emphasis, ‘for she could never have had a better husband.’ ”
If “Miss Flossy Howe” did not write for The Listener, the editors were, nevertheless, generous enough to “figure her” in its pages. Her appearance at sister Julia’s birthday party in the drama of “The Three Bears” is thus chronicled by Mamma’s faithful pen. The Three Bears were acted by my father and sisters Julia and Laura:
The Listener
March 11th.
Editor’s Table
A great deal more might have been said about our Birthday party. Was not Miss Florence Howe bewitching in the character of “Silverhair”? Where did Miss F. get so much powdered wig? Does she keep a maid, on purpose to put up her hair and powder it, when she plays Silverhair? We know all about it, but we won’t tell. We know, too, about those three Bears, and especially that biggest one with a ferocious and hairy expression of countenance. Think of the three real chairs, real beds, real bowls of porridge! Think, too, of a real window for Silverhair to jump out of—what’s all your empty scene-painting to that? If we had wanted a real waterfall for our piece, our Papa would have had one for us—that’s his way of doing things. Every one knows those Bears were real—they could have growled a great deal louder, only they did not want to frighten the company; and when the performance was over, they put on their coats so politely, and went back to their menagerie.
We were so fortunate as to secure Mr. William Story, the artist, and his wife, for the title rôles of King Valoroso and his queen in “The Rose and the Ring.” According to tradition their daughter Edith was one of the children for whom Thackeray wrote the story. Certain it is that the portraits of the royal pair, drawn by the author himself, look a good deal like Mr. and Mrs. Story, due allowance being made for caricature. Hence they were able to reproduce Thackeray’s royal couple with exactitude. Mrs. Story wore a very beautiful amethyst necklace belonging to my mother. Mabel Lowell, daughter of the poet, and I took the parts of the royal children, Angelica and Rosalba.
As for the warming-pan, dear Mrs. George Russell, wife of my father’s chum, lent hers for the affair. It had been a part of her housekeeping outfit, but she said to my mother, “You may keep it,