"May 11. Opposed the dispensing with the reading of State Reports. The maker of the motion said that we could read these at home. I said, 'Yes, and we can read the Bible at home, but we like to go to church and hear it read.' Finished my screed for this evening and licked my Columbus poem into shape, the dear Lord helping me."
To Maud
Plainfield, N.J., May 16, 1894.
My dearest Maud,—
... First place, I had a visit from Laura. We threw the ball daily, and had lunches and punches. We went to hear de Koven's "Robin Hood," the music of which is strongly reminiscent, and also saw Mounet-Sully's "Hamlet," a very wonderful piece of acting. Flossy and I had three days of conventioning in Philadelphia, last week. Flossy's little speech was one of the best at the convention, and was much applauded. I was received on all hands with affectionate goodwill.... There seemed to be, among the Eastern women, a desire to make me president [of the General Federation of Women's Clubs]. This I immediately put out of the question and Mrs. Cheney stood by me, saying that Massachusetts would not see me killed with work. It would indeed have been out of the question, as the position is probably one of great labor and responsibility....
Your motherest Mother.
The Seventy-fifth Birthday brought the customary festivities. The newspapers sent reporters; she had a word for each. To the representative of the "Advertiser," she said, "I think that I enjoy the coming of old age with its peacefulness, like the going down of the sun. It is very lovely! I am so glad to be remembered by so many. The twilight of life is indeed a pleasant season!"
To Maud
241 Beacon Street, May 31, 1894.
My dearest Child,—
I send you a budget of tributes to my birthday. The "Springfield Republican" has a bit about it, with a good and gratifying poem from Sanborn. Really, dear, between you and me what a old humbug it is! But no matter—if people will take me for much better than I am, I can't help it, and must only try to live up to my reputation.... I received a good letter from you, "a little scolding at first," but "soft rebukes with blessings ended," as Longfellow describes the admonitions of his first wife.... At the Suffrage Festival, Governor Long presided, and in introducing me waved a branch of lilies, saying, "In the beauty of the lilies she is still, at seventy-five." Now that I call handsome, don't you?...
Flossy had a very successful afternoon tea while I was with her. She had three ladies of the Civitas Club and invited about one hundred of her neighbors to hear them read papers. It wasn't suffrage, but it was good government, which is about the same thing. The parlors looked very pretty. I should think seventy or eighty came and all were delighted. Did I write you that at Philadelphia she made the most admired speech of the occasion? She wore the brocade, finely made over, with big black velvet top sleeves and rhinestone comb, and they 'plauded and 'plauded, and I sat, grinning like a chessy cat, oh! so welly pleased.
"July 1. [Oak Glen.] Despite my severe fatigue went in town to church; desired in my mind to have some good abiding thought given me to work for and live by. The best thought that came to me was something like this: we are careful of our fortune and of our reputation. We are not careful enough of our lives. Society is built of these lives in which each should fit his or her place, like a stone fitly joined by the builder. We die, but the life we have lived remains, and helps to build society well or ill. Later on I thought that it sometimes seems as if a rope or chain of mercy would be let down to pull some of us out of sin and degradation, out of the Hell of passion. If we have taken hold of it and have been rescued, shall we not work to have others drawn up with us? At such moments, I remember my old wish to speak to the prisoners, never fully realized."
"August 13. Finished my poem for the Bryant Centenary, of which I have despaired; my mind has seemed dull of late, and I have had a hard time with this poem, writing what appeared to me bald-doggerel, with no uniting thought. In these last three days, I have hammered upon it, and bettered it, coming in sight of a better vein and to-day, not without prayerful effort, I got it about ready, D.G."
To Maud
Oak Glen, August 27, 1894.
... An interesting French gentleman has been giving readings at Mrs. Coleman's. He read us Corneille's "Cid" last evening with much dash and spirit. It is a famous play, but the sentiment is very stilted, like going up a ladder to shave one's self. I was at Providence on Friday to meet a literary club of ladies. I read to them the greater part of my play, "Hippolytus," written the summer before Sammy was born, for Edwin Booth. It seemed very ghostly to go back to the ambitions of that time, but the audience, a parlor one, expressed great satisfaction.... I 'fesses that I did attend the Bryant Centenary Festival at Cummington, Mass. I read a poem written for the occasion. Charles Dudley Warner and Charles Eliot Norton were there, and Parke Godwin presided.
"August 31. To Newport with Flossy, taking my screed with me, to the meeting of Colonial Dames, at the rooms of the Historical Society, one of which is the old Seventh-Day Baptist Church, which my great-grandfather, Governor Samuel Ward, used to attend.... Bishop Clarke made the closing address, full of good sense, sentiment and wit—a wonderful man for eighty-two years of age."
To Laura
Oak Glen, September 6, 1894.
Q. What has been your mother's treatment of you latterly?
Ans. Quite devilish, thank you.
Q. Has her conduct this past season been worse than usual?
Ans. Much as usual. I regret to say, couldn't be worse.
(Family Catechism for 1894.)
Oh! I've got a day to myself, and I've got some chillen, and I'm going to write to 'em, you bet.
You see, Laura E., of the plural name of Dick, there warn't no summer, only one of those patent, boiled-down contrivances, all shrivelled up, which if you puts them in water, they swells out, but there warn't no water (Encycl. Brit., Article "Drought"); and so the dried-up thing didn't swell, and there warn't no summer, and that is why you haven't heard from me.... I'm sorry, anyhow, that I can't allow you the luxury of one moment's grievance against me, but I can't; I may, now and then, forget to write ("!!!!" says L. E. R.), but I 'dores you all the same. I carry the sweet cheer of your household through all my life. Am drefful glad that you have been to camp this season; wish I could go myself. Only think of Celia Thaxter's death! I can hardly believe it, she always seemed so full of life....