In May of this year she notes the closing of a life long a.s.sociated with hers.

"_May 24._ Laura Bridgman died to-day at about 12 M. This event brings with it solemn suggestions, which my overcrowded brain cannot adequately follow. Her training was a beautiful out-blossoming from the romance of my husband's philanthropy. She has taught a great lesson in her time, and unfortunates of her sort are now trained, without question of the result. This was to S. G. H. an undiscovered country in the first instance. I cannot help imagining him as standing before the face of the Highest and pointing to his work: happy, thrice happy man, with all his sorrow!"

The close of her seventieth year was a notable milestone on the long road. May found her still carrying full sail; a little more tired after each exertion, a little puzzled at the occasional rebellion of "Sister Body," her hard-worked "A.B.,"; but not yet dreaming of taking in a reef.

The seventieth birthday was a great festival. Maud, inviting Oliver Wendell Holmes to the party, had written, "Mamma will be _seventy years young_ on the 27th. Come and play with her!"

The Doctor in his reply said, "It is better to be seventy years young than forty years old!"

Dr. Holmes himself was now eighty years old. It was in these days that she went with Laura to call on him, and found him in his library, a big, bright room, looking out on the Charles River, books lining the walls, a prevailing impression of atlases and dictionaries open on stands. The greeting between the two was pleasant to see, their talk something to remember. "Ah, Mrs. Howe," said the Autocrat, "you at seventy have much to learn about life. At eighty you will find new vistas opening in every direction!"

Ten years later she was reminded of this. "It is true!" she said.

At parting he kissed her, which touched her deeply.

He was in another mood when they met at a reception shortly after this.

"Ah! Mrs. Howe," he said, "you see I still hang on as one of the old wrecks!"

"Yes, you are indeed _Rex_!" was the reply.

"Then, Madam," he cried with a flash, "you are _Regina_!"

To return to the birthday! Here are a few of the letters received:--

_From George William Curtis_

WEST NEW BRIGHTON, STATEN ISLAND, N.Y.,

May 9, 1889.

MY DEAR MRS. ELLIOTT,--

I shall still be too lame to venture so far away from home as your kind invitation tempts me to stray, but no words of my regard and admiration for Mrs. Howe will ever limp and linger. I doubt if among the hosts who will offer their homage upon her accession to the years of a ripe youth there will be many earlier friends than I, and certainly there will be none who have watched her career with more sympathy in her varied and humane activities. Poet, scholar, philanthropist, and advocate of true Democracy, her crown is more than triple, and it is her praise as it may well be her pride to have added fresh l.u.s.tre to the married name she bears.

I am sincerely sorry that only in this inadequate way can I join my voice to the chorus of friendly rejoicing and congratulation on the happy day, which reminds us only of the perpetual youth of the warm heart and the sound mind.

Very truly yours, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS.

_From W. W. Story_

MY DEAR JULIA,--

(I suppose I may still call you so--we are both so young and inexperienced) I cannot let this anniversary of your birth go by, without stretching out my hands to you across the ocean, and throwing to you all they can hold of good wishes, and affectionate thought, and delightful memories. Though years have gone by since I have seen you, you are still fresh, joyous, and amusing, and charming as ever. Of this I am fully persuaded, and often I look into that anxious mirror of my mind, and see you and wander with you, and jest with you and sing with you, as I used in the olden days; and never will I be so faithless as to believe that you are any older than you were--and I hope earnestly you are no wiser and that a great deal of folly is still left in you--as it is, I am happy to say, in me.

For, after all, what is life worth when its folly is all departed? When we have grown wise and sad as well as old--it is time to say Good-bye.

But that time has not come for us yet. So let us still shout _Evviva_!

I do not mention the fact of your age,--I don't know it,--but if I should guess, from what I know I should say twenty-five. I was twenty-eight when I left America--and that is such a few months ago--and I know you were born somewhat about the same time.

You will receive a great many congratulations and expressions of friendship, but none more sincere than those of

Your old friend--I mean Your young friend, W. W. STORY.

ROME, PALAZZO BARBERINI, MAY 10, 1889.

_From James Russell Lowell_

68 BEACON STREET, 13th MAY, 1889.

DEAR MRS. HOWE,--

I shouldn't have suspected it, but if you say so, I am bound to believe this improbability, as absurd as Leporello's Catalogue for its numerals.

If it be so--I beg pardon--since it is so, I am glad that you are going to take it cheerfully as who should say to Time, "Another turn of the gla.s.s, please, my young friend, I'm writing." But alas, I can't be there to take a gla.s.s with you. You say, "if there be no obstacle." No less than a couple of thousand miles of water, harder to get over than the years themselves, which indeed get behind more swiftly than they ought.

I can at least wish you many happy returns of the day and will drink to your health on the 27th. I sail on the 18th.

Pray accept my thanks and regrets and make them acceptable to your children.

Faithfully yours, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The Journal thus notes the occasion.

"My seventieth birthday. A very busy day for all of us.... My head was dressed at eleven. All my children were here, with daughter- and sons-in-law. I had many lovely gifts. The house was like a garden of costly flowers. Breakfast was at 12.30; was in very good style. Guests: General Walker, John S. Dwight, E. E. Hale, Mrs. Jack Gardner, Mmes.

Bell, Pratt, and Aga.s.siz. Walker made the first speech at the table, H.

M. H.[109] being toastmaster. Walker seemed to speak very feelingly, calling me the first citizeness of the country; stood silent a little and sat down. Dwight read a delightful poem; Hale left too soon to do anything. H. introduced J. S. D. thus: 'Sweetness and light, your name is Dwight.' While we sat at table, baskets and bouquets of wonderful flowers kept constantly arriving; the sweet granddaughters brought them in, in a sort of procession lovely to see. It rained in the afternoon, but the house was thronged with visitors, all the same."

[109] Henry Marion Howe.

A sober entry, written the next day, when she was "very tired, with a delightful fatigue": but on the day itself she was gay, enjoying her "party" to the full, treasuring every flower, wondering why people were so good to her.

The festivities lasted several days, for every one wanted to "play Birthday" with her. The New England Woman's Club gave her a luncheon, which she valued next to the home celebration; the blind children of the Perkins Inst.i.tution must hear her speak, and in return sing some of her songs, and give her flowers, cl.u.s.tering round her with tender, groping fingers that sought to clasp hers. Moreover, the last week of May is Anniversary Week in Boston. Suffragists, women ministers, Unitarians, "uplifters" of every description, held their meetings (traditionally in a pouring rain) and one and all wanted Mrs. Howe.

"I have said to G.o.d on every morning of these busy days: 'Give me this day,' and He has given them all: _i.e._, He has given me power to fulfil the task appointed for each."

When she finally got to Newport, she was "dazed with the quiet after the strain of heart and fatigue."

The ministry was much in her mind this summer.

"I take for my guidance a new motto: 'I will ascend'; not in my ambition, but in my thoughts and aims."

"A dry Sunday, _i.e._, no church, it being the women's turn to go. I sh.e.l.led peas for dinner. Began Rambaud's 'History of Russia.'... I think of two sermons to write, one, 'A spirit of Power'; one, 'Behold, I show you a more excellent way.'"

Suffrage had its meed too in these summer days.