"_April 8...._ My prayer for this Easter is that I may not waste the inspiration of spring...."
In these days came another real sorrow to her.
"_April 10._ To-day brings the sad news of Marion Crawford"s death at Sorrento. His departure seems to have been a peaceful one. He comforted his family and had his daughter Eleanor read Plato"s "Dialogues" to him.
Was unconscious at the last. Poor dear Marion! The end, in his case, comes early. His father was, I think, in the early forties when he died of a cancer behind the eye which caused blindness. He, Thomas Crawford, had a long and very distressing illness."
Crawford had been very dear to her, ever since the days when, a radiant schoolboy, he came and went in his vacations. There was a complete sympathy and understanding between them, and there were few people whom she enjoyed more.
"I wrote a letter to be read, if approved, to-morrow evening at the Faneuil Hall meeting held to advocate the revision of our extradition treaty with the Russian Government, which at present seems to allow that government too much lat.i.tude of incrimination, whereby political and civil offences can too easily be confused and a revolutionist surrendered as a criminal, which he may or may not be."
Later in the month she writes:--
"In the early morning I began to feel that I must attempt some sort of tribute to my dear friend of many years, Dr. Holmes, the centenary of whose birth is to be celebrated on Tuesday next. I stayed at home from church to follow some random rhymes which came to me in connection with my remembrance of my ever affectionate friend. I love to think of his beautiful service to his age and to future ages. I fear that my rhymes will fail to crystallize, but sometimes a bad beginning leads to something better...."
The poem was finished, more or less to her satisfaction, but she was weary with working over it, and with "reading heavy books, Max Muller on metaphysics, Blanqui on political economy."
"_May 10._ I began this day the screed of "Values" which I mentioned the other day. I have great hopes of accomplishing something useful, remembering, as I do, with sore indignation, my own mistakes, and desiring to help young people to avoid similar ones."
The ninetieth birthday was a festival, indeed. Letters and telegrams poured in, rose in toppling piles which almost--not quite--daunted her; she would hear every one, would answer as many as flesh and blood could compa.s.s. Here is one of them:--
Most hearty congratulations on your ninetieth birthday from the boy you picked up somewhere in New York and placed in the New York Orphan Asylum on April 6th, 1841. Sorry I have never been able to meet you in all that time. You [were] one of the Board of Trustees at that time.
Respectfully and Thankfully, WM. DAVIDSON.
I was then about five years old, now seventy-three.
Writing to her friend of many years, Mrs. Ellen Mitch.e.l.l, she says:--
"Your birthday letter was and is much valued by me. Its tone of earnest affection is an element in the new inspiration recently given me by such a wonderful testimony of public and private esteem and goodwill as has been granted me in connection with my attainment of ninety years. It all points to the future. I must work to deserve what I have received. My dearest wish would be to take up some thread of our A.A.W. work, and continue it. I rather hope that I may find the way to do this in the study of Economics which I am just starting with a small group...."
_To Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford_
DEAR MRS. SPOFFORD,--
You wrote me a lovely letter on my ninetieth birthday. I cannot help feeling as if the impression expressed by you and so many other kind friends of my personal merits must refer to some good work which I have yet to do. What I have done looks small to me, but I have tried a good deal for the best I have known. This is all I can say. I am much touched by your letter, and encouraged to go on trying. Don"t you think that the best things are already in view? The opportunities for women, the growing toleration and sympathy in religion, the sacred cause of peace?
I have lived, like Moses, to see the entrance into the Promised Land.
How much is this to be thankful for! My crabbed hand shows how Time abridges my working powers, but I march to the brave music still, as you and many of the juniors do.
Wishing that I might sometimes see you, believe me
Yours with affectionate regard, JULIA WARD HOWE.
Close upon the Birthday came another occasion of the kind which we--in these later years--at once welcomed and deplored. She enjoyed nothing so much as a "function," and nothing tired her so much.
On June 16, Brown University, her husband"s _alma mater_ and her grandfather"s, conferred upon her the degree of Doctor of Laws. She went to Providence to receive it in person, and thus describes the commencement exercises to Mrs. Mitch.e.l.l:--
"The ordeal of the Doctorate was rather trying, but was made as easy as possible for me. The venerable old church was well filled, and was quite beautiful. I sat in one of the front pews--two learned people led me to the foot of the platform from which President Faunce, with some laudatory remarks, handed me my diploma, while some third party placed a picturesque hood upon my shoulders. The band played the air of my "Battle Hymn," and applause followed me as I went back to my seat. So there!"
Her companion on that occasion writes:--
"She sat listening quietly to the addresses, watched each girl and boy just starting on the voyage of life as they marched to the platform and received from the President"s hand the sc.r.a.p of paper, the parchment diploma, reward of all their studies. Her name was called last. With the deliberate step of age, she walked forward, wearing her son"s college gown over her white dress, his mortar-board cap over her lace veil. She seemed less moved than any person present; she could not see what we saw, the tiny gallant figure bent with fourscore and ten years of study and hard labor. As she moved between the girl students who stood up to let her pa.s.s, she whispered, "How tall they are! It seems to me the girls are much taller than they used to be." Did she realize how much shorter she was than she once had been? I think not.
"Then, her eyes sparkling with fun while all other eyes were wet, she shook her hard-earned diploma with a gay gesture in the faces of those girls, cast on them a keen glance that somehow was a challenge, "Catch up with me if you can!"
"She had labored long for the higher education of women, suffered estrangement, borne ridicule for it--the sight of those girl graduates, starting on their life voyage equipped with a good education, was like a sudden realization of a life-long dream; uplifted her, gave her strength for the fatigues of the day. At the dinner given for her and the college dignitaries by Mrs. William G.o.ddard, she was at her best."
She was asked for a Fourth of July message to the Sunday-School children of the Congregational Church, and wrote:--
"I want them to build up character in themselves and in the community, to give to the country just so many men and women who will be incapable of meanness or dishonesty, who will look upon life as a sacred trust, given to them for honorable service to their fellow men and women. I would have them feel that, whether rich or poor, they are bound to be of use in their day and generation, and to be mindful of the Scripture saying that "no man liveth unto himself." We all have our part to do in keeping up the character and credit of our country. For her sake we should study to become good and useful citizens."
In the summer of 1909 the Cretan question came up again. Once more Turkey attempted to regain active possession of Crete; once more the voice of Christendom was raised in protest. She had no thought this time of being "too old." Being called upon for help, she wrote at once to President Taft, "praying him to find some way to help the Cretans in the terrible prospect of their being delivered over, bound hand and foot, to Turkish misrule." She was soon gladdened by a reply from the President, saying that he had not considered the Cretans as he should, but promising to send her letter to the Secretary of State. "I thank G.o.d most earnestly," she writes, "for even thus much. To-day, I feel that I must write all pressing letters, as my time may be short."
Accordingly she composed an open letter on the Cretan question. "It is rather crude, but it is from my heart of hearts. I had to write it."
Suffrage, too, had its share of her attention this summer. There were meetings at "Marble House" [Newport] in which she was deeply interested.
She attended one in person; to the next she sent the second and third generations, staying at home herself to amuse and care for the fourth.
On the last day of August she records once more her sorrow at the departure of the summer. She adds, "G.o.d grant me to be prepared to live or die, as He shall decree. It is best, I think, to antic.i.p.ate life, and to cultivate forethought.... I think it may have been to-day that I read the last pages of Martineau"s "Seat of Authority in Religion," an extremely valuable book, yet a painful one to read, so entirely does it do away with the old-time divinity of the dear Christ. But it leaves Him the divinity of character--no theory or discovery can take that away."
Late September brought an occasion to which she had looked forward with mingled pleasure and dread; the celebration of the Hudson-Fulton Centennial in New York. She had been asked for a poem, and had taken great pains with it, writing and re-writing it, hammering and polishing.
She thought it finished in July, yet two days before the celebration she was still re-touching it.
"I have been much dissatisfied with my Fulton poem. Lying down to rest this afternoon, instead of sleep, of which I felt no need, I began to try for some new lines which should waken it up a little, and think that I succeeded. I had brought no ma.n.u.script paper, so had to scrawl my amendments on Sanborn"s old long envelope."
Later in the day two more lines came to her, and again two the day after. Finally, on the morning of the day itself, on awakening, she cried out,--
"I have got my last verse!"
The occasion was a notable one. The stage of the Metropolitan Opera House was filled with dignitaries, delegates from other States, foreign diplomats in brilliant uniforms. The only woman among them was the little figure in white, to greet whom, as she came forward on her son"s arm, the whole great a.s.sembly rose and stood. They remained standing while she read her poem in clear unfaltering tones; the applause that rang out showed that she had once more touched the heart of the public.
This poem was printed in "Collier"s Weekly," unfortunately from a copy made before the "last verse" was finished to her mind. This distressed her. "Let this be a lesson!" she said. "Never print a poem or speech till it has been delivered; always give the eleventh hour its chance!"
This eleventh hour brought a very special chance; a few days before, the world had been electrified by the news of Peary"s discovery of the North Pole: it was the general voice that cried through her lips,--
The Flag of Freedom crowns the Pole!
The following letter was written while she was at work on the poem:--
_To Laura_
OAK GLEN, July 9, 1909.
Why, yes, I"m doing the best I know how. Have written a poem for the Hudson and Fulton celebration, September 28. Worked hard at it. Guess it"s only pretty good, if even that. Maud takes me out every day under the pine tree, makes me sit while she reads aloud Freeman"s shorter work on Sicily. I enjoy this.... I have just read Froude"s "Caesar," which Sanborn says he hates, but which I found as readable as a novel. Am also reading a work of Kuno Fischer on "Philosophy," especially relating to Descartes. Now you know, Miss, or should know, that _same_ had great _fame_, and sometimes _blame_, as a philosopher. But he don"t make no impression on my mind. I never doubted that I was, so don"t need no "_cogito, ergo sum,_" which is what Carty, old Boy, amounts to. Your letter, dear, was a very proper attention under the circ.u.mstances.
Shouldn"t object to another. Lemme see! objects cannot be subjects, nor _vice versa_. How do you know that you washed your face this morning?
You don"t know it, and I don"t believe that you did. You might consult H. Richards about some of these particulars. He is a man of some sense.