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The Howe Children Invent a “Patagonian Language,” Edit a Newspaper, “The Listener,” Write Plays and Songs.—They Give “Parlor Concerts” and Take Part in Tableaux and Private Theatricals.—William Story and Thackeray.

I HAVE spoken of the Institution for the Blind as our intermittent or occasional home. The autumn of 1854 found us established there for a stay of more than a year.

The Crimean War was then going on, our parents being much interested in it. Their sympathies were with the Allies as against Russia, the little Howes duly reflecting the opinion of their parents. We followed the course of events in Punch and the Illustrated London News. Indeed, the London Charivari, with its excellent cartoons by Tenniel, John Leech and others, played quite a part in our early political education. We duly admired the sprightly Lord Palmerston, smiled at funny little Lord John Russell perpetually wheeling a reform bill in a perambulator, and entirely disapproved of “Dizzy” with his acrobatic tricks. Although Punch approved of Louis Napoleon, ally of England, our parents never did. Popular sympathy in America was, if I remember aright, on the side of Russia, witness the ballad of “Pop Goes the Weasel.”

Queen Victoria’s very sick;

Napoleon’s got the measles;

Sebastopol’s not taken yet.

Pop goes the weasel!

This song would seem to indicate the prevalence of measles at that time. Certain it is that some cases developed 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, as I never use it now.” It is still in my possession, a pleasant reminder of my first appearance upon any stage.

We saw the Storys quite often at this time. One evening, when mince pie was set upon the table, my father, who was obliged to be extremely careful about his diet, remarked:

“Well, we might as well all die together.”

To which Mr. Story at once replied, “Yes, and all dye the same color.”

Puns were not then frowned upon so severely as they are now. Thackeray was in Boston during this period and the Storys invited us to a children’s party at which the great man was present. I remember him only as a large person in black, with thick gray hair, who did his best, I do not doubt, to amuse the children.

Mr. William Story gave us an impersonation of a dwarf which was truly delightful. To our immeasurable surprise, we saw this gentleman, suddenly shrunk to less than half his natural height. Arrayed in a Turkish fez and white garments, with slippers and stockings to match, he danced very high, if not disposedly, on a table, with many rollings of the eyes and gestures of the arms. The explanation of the trick was that his hands formed the feet of the dwarf, while the arms and hands were furnished by another person kneeling behind him.

To invent a language is a common device of children, who usually content themselves with simply adding a termination or a prefix to each word. Our attempt was more ambitious as we boldly undertook to construct an entire language. It is needless to say that we did not get very far with our venture. I fancy that we chose Patagonian because the account in our geography of the inhabitants of that country—large men, imperfectly clothed and very slightly civilized—appealed to our infant imaginations. Also, the land being so remote, it was very unlikely that any returned travelers would suddenly speak to us in true Patagonian accents and so put us to the blush.

There were to be many irregular verbs, the wise Julia counseled, since that would render our task easier! Of the surviving fragments of our language, it suffices to give two.

“Bis von snout?” (“Are you well?”)

“Brunk tu touchy snout.” (“I am very well.”)

It will be observed that these are reminiscent of more than one modern tongue.

The scope of our language was hardly great enough to account for its fame (it has been duly chronicled in at least one published volume). Doubtless it was the boldness of the venture and the happy choice of a name which immortalized the Howe Patagonian tongue.

If Julia shone in the family on account of her literary productions, Flossy achieved a certain distinction as a musical composer. It must be confessed that she produced only one song, consisting of a single verse with repetitionary chorus. But did she not write out the score, words and music with accompaniment, treble and bass clef being duly marked? “Play on the shovel” lies before me now, preserved by fond parents during many years.

The early interest of Florence in financial affairs was shown by the arrangements for our concert. From the hothouse at “Green Peace” we procured—without charge—flowers which we arranged in tiny bouquets. These were sold to the audience for a cent apiece, our friends obligingly throwing them back at us, in token of admiration for our performance. By this simple yet remunerative scheme we secured both the flowers and the price thereof. Some of them were, I hope, given to Miss Ellen Burns, our prima donna, on the occasion of her benefit. I had often seen, on theatrical bill-boards, the phrase, “Benefit of So-and-so.” This seemed to me a much more alluring and attractive word than “Concert.” When I was informed that this name implied the giving of the profits to the beneficiary, I refused, with the horrid obstinacy of childhood, to accept any such paltry explanation.

“Play on the shovel,” which was much liked, was included in the program. Our audience consisted principally of the teachers and officers of the Institution. They nobly paid one or more pins for their seats, according to desirability.

From all this it will be judged that our musical education was already well begun, Mr. Otto Dresel being our master.

I will not say that we regarded him as belonging to the same class as the family dentist, because the latter we considered a species of ogre. But we duly feared and respected Mr. Dresel as a person who might at any time stamp his feet or say, with energy, “How stupid!” as we no doubt were.

It now seems to me that he was wonderfully patient with us and our little stumbling fingers. For, like most artists, he was a man of highly nervous organization. He was not only one of Boston’s leading pianists, but a composer of merit.

Our kind friends, the Bensons and Schlessingers, allowed us to take our music lessons at their house in Boston, in these early days, thus saving our master the long trip to South Boston.

A most pleasant eleven-o’clock lunch was provided for the little people, to our great joy.