Julia Ward Howe Part 71

"_June 6._... Have writ a note to little John Jeffries, _aet._ six years, who sent me a note in his own writing, with a dollar saved out of five cents per week, for the 'poor Armenians.' He writes: 'I don't like the Turks one bit. I think they are horrid.' Have sent note and dollar to A. S. B. for the Armenian orphans."

"_June 27, Oak Glen._ My first writing in this dear place. Carrie Hall yesterday moved me down into dear Chev's bedroom on the first floor, Wesselhoeft having forbidden me to go up and down stairs. I rebelled inwardly against this, but am compelled to acknowledge that it is best so. Carrie showed great energy in moving down all the small objects to which she supposed me to be attached. I have now had an exquisite sitting in my green parlor, reading a sermon of dear James Freeman Clarke's."

"_June 28._ Wrote my stint of 'Reminiscences' in the morning.... At bedtime had very sober thoughts of the limitation of life. It seemed to me that the end might be near. My lameness and the painful condition of my feet appear like warnings of a decline of physical power, which could only lead one way. My great anxiety is to see Maud before I depart."

"_July 10._ I dreamed last night, or rather this morning, that I was walking as of old, lightly and without pain. I cried in my joy: 'Oh, some one has been mind-curing me. My lameness has disappeared.' Have writ a pretty good screed about John Brown."

"_July 22._... Dearest Maud and Jack arrived in the evening. So welcome!

I had not seen Jack in two years. I had begun to fear that I was never to see Maud again."

"_July 26._ Had a little time of quiet thought this morning, in which I seemed to see how the intensity of individual desire would make chaos in the world of men and women if there were not a conquering and reconciling principle of harmony above them all. This to my mind can be no other than the infinite wisdom and infinite love which we call G.o.d."

"_August 18._ I prayed this morning for some direct and definite service which I might render. At noon a reporter from the 'New York Journal'

arrived, beseeching me to write something to help the young Cuban girl, who is in danger of being sent to the Spanish Penal Colony [Ceuta] in Africa. I wrote an appeal in her behalf and suggested a cable to the Pope. This I have already written. The Hearsts will send it. This was an answer to my prayer. Our dear H. M. H. arrived at 3 P.M...."

"_August 29._ Had a little service for my own people, Flossy and her four children. Spoke of the importance of religious culture. Read the parable of the wise and foolish virgins. Flossy thought the wise ones unkind not to be willing to share with the foolish. I suggested that the oil pictured something which could not be given in a minute. Cited Beecher's saying, which I have so long remembered, that we cannot get religion as we order a suit of clothes. If we live without it, when some overwhelming distress or temptation meets us, we shall not find either the consolation or the strength which true faith gives."

"_September 23._ Have just learned by cable from Rome that my dearest sister Louisa died yesterday morning. Let me rather hope that she awoke from painful weakness and infirmity into a new glory of spiritual life.

Her life here has been most blameless, as well as most beautiful.

Transplanted to Rome in her early youth and beauty, she became there a centre of disinterested hospitality, of love and of charity. She was as rare a person in her way as my sweet sister Annie. Alas! I, of less desert than either, am left, the last of my dear father's and mother's children. G.o.d grant that my remaining may be for good! And G.o.d help me to use faithfully my little remnant of life in setting my house in order, and in giving such completeness as I can to my life-work, or rather, to its poor efforts."

"_September 25._ Was sad as death at waking, pondering my many difficulties. The day is most lovely. I have read two of Dr. Hedge's sermons and feel much better. One is called 'The Comforter,' and was probably written in view of the loss of friends by death. It speaks of the spirit of a true life, which does not pa.s.s away when the life is ended, but becomes more and more dear and precious to loving survivors.

The text, from John xvi, 7: 'It is expedient for you that I go away.'

Have writ a good screed about the Rome of 1843-44."

_To Laura_

OAK GLEN, September 27, 1897.

... My dear sister and I have lived so long far apart, that it is difficult for me to have a _realizing sense_ of her departure. It is only at moments that I can feel that we shall meet on earth no more. I grieve most of all that my life has been so far removed from hers. She has been a joy, a comfort, a delight to so many people, and I have had so little of all this! The remembrance of what I have had is indeed most precious, but alas! for the long and wide separation. What an enviable memory she leaves! No shadows to dim its beauty.

I send you, dear, a statement regarding my relations with Lee and Shepard. I am much disheartened about my poems and almost feel like giving up. _But I won't._

Affect., MOTHER.

In November, 1897, she sailed for Italy with the Elliotts.

CHAPTER X

THE LAST ROMAN WINTER

1897-1898; _aet._ 78

THE CITY OF MY LOVE

She sits among th' eternal hills, Their crown, thrice glorious and dear; Her voice is as a thousand tongues Of silver fountains, gurgling clear.

Her breath is prayer, her life is love, And worship of all lovely things; Her children have a gracious port, Her beggars show the blood of kings.

By old Tradition guarded close, None doubt the grandeur she has seen; Upon her venerable front Is written: "I was born a Queen!"

She rules the age by Beauty's power, As once she ruled by armed might; The Southern sun doth treasure her Deep in his golden heart of light.

Awe strikes the traveller when he sees The vision of her distant dome, And a strange spasm wrings his heart As the guide whispers: "There is Rome!"

And, though it seem a childish prayer, I've breathed it oft, that when I die, As thy remembrance dear in it, That heart in thee might buried lie.

J. W. H.

The closing verse of her early poem, "The City of My Love," expresses the longing that, like Sh.e.l.ley's, her heart "might buried lie" in Rome.

Some memory of this wish, some foreboding that the wish might be granted, possibly darkened the first days of her last Roman winter. In late November of the year 1897 she arrived in Rome with the Elliotts to pa.s.s the winter at their apartment in the ancient Palazzo Rusticucci of the old Leonine City across the Tiber; in the shadow of St. Peter's, next door to the Vatican. The visit had been planned partly in the hope that she might once more see her sister Louisa. In this we know she was disappointed. They reached Rome at the beginning of the rainy season, which fell late that year. All these causes taken together account for an unfamiliar depression that creeps into the Journal. She missed, too, the thousand interests of her Boston life; her church, her club, her meetings, all the happy business of keeping a grandmother's house where three generations and their friends were made welcome. At home every hour of time was planned for, every ounce of power well invested in some "labor worthy of her metal." In Rome her only work at first was the writing of her "Reminiscences" for the "Atlantic Monthly." Happily, the depression was short-lived. Gradually the ancient spell of the Great Enchantress once more enthralled her, but it was not until she had founded a club, helped to found a Woman's Council, begun to receive invitations to lecture and to preach, that the accustomed _joie de vivre_ pulses through the record. The sower is at work again, the ground is fertile, the seed quickening.

"_December 1._ The first day of this winter, which G.o.d help me to live through! Dearest Maud is all kindness and devotion to me, and so is Jack, but I have Rome _en grippe_; nothing in it pleases me."

"_December 6._ Something, perhaps it is the bright weather, moves me to activity so strongly that I hasten to take up my pen, hoping not to lapse into the mood of pa.s.sive depression which has possessed me ever since my arrival in Rome."

"_December 7._ We visited the [William J.] Stillmans--S. and I had not met in thirty years, not since '67 in Athens. Went to afternoon tea at Miss Leigh Smith's. She is a cousin of Florence Nightingale, whom she resembles in appearance. Mme. Helbig was there, overflowing as ever with geniality and kindness."

Mr. Stillman was then the Roman correspondent of the London "Times," a position only second in importance to that of the British Amba.s.sador.

His tall, lean figure, stooping shoulders,--where a pet squirrel often perched,--his long grey beard and keen eyes were familiar to the Romans of that day. His house was a meeting-place for artists and _litterati_.

Mrs. Stillman our mother had formerly known as the beautiful Marie Spartali, the friend of Rossetti and Du Maurier, the idol of literary and artistic London. A warm friendship grew up between them. Together they frequented the antiquaries, gleaning small treasures of ancient lace and peasant jewels.

"I bought this by the Muse Stillman's advice": this explanation guaranteed the wisdom of purchasing the small rose diamond ring set in black enamel.

"_December 9._ Dined with Daisy Chanler. We met there one Brewster and Hendrik Anderson. After dinner came Palmer [son of Courtland] and his sister. He is a pianist of real power and charm--made me think of Paderewski, when I first heard him...."

"_December 10._ Drove past the Trevi Fountain and to the Coliseum, where we walked awhile. Ladies came to hear me talk about Women's Clubs. This talk, which I had rather dreaded to give, pa.s.sed off pleasantly.... Most of the ladies present expressed the desire to have a small and select club of women in Rome. Maud volunteered to make the first effort, with Mme. DesGrange and Jessie Cochrane to help her."

"_December 12._ Bessie Crawford brought her children to see me. Very fine little creatures, the eldest boy[122] handsome, dark like his mother, the others blond and a good deal like Marion in his early life."

[122] Harold Crawford, who was killed in the present war (1915), fighting for the Allies.

"_December 14._ In the afternoon drove with Jack to visit Villegas.

Found a splendid house with absolutely no fire--the cold of the studio was tomb-like. A fire was lighted in a stove and cakes were served, with some excellent Amontillado wine, which I think saved my life."

"_December 18._ When I lay down to take my nap before dinner, I had a sudden thought-vision of the glory of G.o.d in the face of Jesus Christ. I seemed to see how the human could in a way reflect the glory of the divine, giving not a mechanical, but an affectional and spiritual re-showing of the great unfathomable glory. I need not say that I had no sleep--I wish the glimpse then given me might remain in my mind."