I am new in this club, and, as most of you know, my friendship with Mrs. Croly is not yet three years old, but I have been singularly privileged and honored in loving her, and in the love which she gave me.

She came into my life (I must be just a little personal for a moment) as our first luncheon, in our little Society of American Women in London, was about to be given. The president of Sorosis had written to London saying: "Do you know that Mrs. Croly and Mrs. Glynes are to be in London, and I think they would help you?" Bless her, and Mrs.

Croly: she came as a benediction to the few of us who were then novices in what we were doing. I can never tell you what a benefit she was to us in the difficult work we had undertaken. You have given me exceptional privileges in coming among you, and I am grateful for the help you have been to me, but I would say to you--and you have given me this privilege--I have never met a woman who seemed to have recognized the birthright in women as the birthright in men, to create that link which binds our powers to our intellect. It seems to me that it was with Mrs. Croly as it was with our late Majesty, Queen Victoria, that she was an influence, perhaps, rather than a power. She conceived great ideas and pa.s.sed them on for the executive work of others to fulfil. I can a.s.sure you she was everything to us. Her English birth gave her an instinctive insight into English character.

English women seemed to know and understand her, as she knew and understood them, and there has been no finer link between the women of America and the women of the Old World than Mrs. Croly. It was my privilege to be with her personally a great deal while in London, not only when she stayed in my own house, but when I have gone back and forth with her as her guide to the many functions we attended together. We can all be proud of her. Wherever she went she was not only hailed as the pioneer woman, but also as one who did honor and credit to the name of American womanhood, for, although born in England, she still claimed that she was an American woman, as you know.

I shall never forget a little picture she gave of herself one day.

She told us of her life in her home in a little town in the north of England. Her father was a Unitarian, and often had cla.s.ses in his house for teaching the working people. His views, as you may imagine, were quite contrary to the views of the orthodox Church of England, and the people there rebelled, stoned the house, and wanted to turn them out of the town. The mother said to the father: "I wish you would take little Jennie by the hand, in her white frock, and lead her out to the people; perhaps when they see her they will not throw stones."

That was her earliest memory of that little English town. Later, I believe, they left in the night and came to America, in order that they might live out the courage of their faith.

At our luncheon Mrs. Croly said: "I want English and American women to love each other. I remember with pride and honor my English birth. I can see my little room now--a small room with a lattice window over which the roses grew, and as I stood at the window on tiptoe, I could look into the old-fashioned garden below. I stood on an old chest. In the winter my summer frocks were kept there, and in the summer my red woollen dress. I loved it; it was beautiful, and it made me love England. When I am in England and I hear anything not quite kind about America, I am sorry and my heart aches, and if, when I am in America, I hear something not quite kind about England, my heart aches again, because I love it all."

In talking with Mrs. Croly, she said to me, "I hope some day you will come to a General Federation." Quoting Matthew Arnold, she said: "If ever the world sees a time when women shall come together, purely and simply for the benefit and good of mankind, it will be a power such as the world has never known." And she said, "There you will find it." We had talked about it and looked forward to seeing it together, but that will never be. It was her hope and dream that there should be such a General Federation of clubs as to bring in the women of the Old World with the Federation of Clubs in the New, that we might stand hand in hand together. She said to me, "I think you are narrow in your society--its members are only Americans." We have often talked this over, and have decided that in order to strengthen our centre we must keep it, at present, to American woman; but it may be possible to have an a.s.sociate membership--the thin edge of the wedge looking toward the realization of her dreams.

Address by Cynthia Westover Alden, Vice-President of the Women's Press Club, and President of the International Sunshine Society

Mrs. Croly has left us. Yet I cannot think of her work as ended, of her mission as closed. You may go over every line she ever wrote, you may recall with, microscopic exactness every word she ever spoke, without finding one single grain of bitterness towards any human creature. Her active life was such as must find the ripe continuance of its activity in the better country whither she has preceded us. I feel that there is no hyperbole in applying to her memory the striking words of Lowell's Elegy on Dr. Channing:

"I do not come to weep above thy pall And mourn the dying-out of n.o.ble powers; The poet's clearer eye should see in all Earth's seeming woe, seed of immortal flowers.

"No power can die that ever wrought for truth; Thereby a law of Nature it became, And lives unwithered in its blithesome youth, When he who called it forth is but a name.

"Therefore I cannot think thee wholly gone; The better part of thee is with us still; Thy soul its hampering clay aside hath thrown, And only freer wrestles with the ill.

"Thou art not idle; in thy higher sphere Thy spirit bends itself to loving tasks, And strength to perfect what it dreamed of here Is all the crown and glory that it asks."

The women of America owe much to Jenny June. By example she showed them that the career of letters was open to them. Her style, cheerful and vivid, sometimes epigrammatic, always entertaining, was her own.

It could not be copied, it could not be imitated, it stood by itself; her career, filled with a large measure of the courage of her success, belonged in the broadest sense to women as women. How many worthy ambitions that career has stimulated to fruition we know not, and never shall know. One thing, however, is certain--that if you deduct from the literature of America the names of women who have followed Mrs. Croly's example and have been cheered by the fact that she did not fall by the wayside, you leave a void that never could be filled.

How consciously they have been affected by Mrs. Croly's blazing path I cannot tell; but the influence has been none the less real and none the less powerful.

Woman's battle for literary recognition will not have to be fought over again: it belongs to the past. The old contempt of editors and publishers, aye, and of readers as well, has gone to join slavery and polygamy and human sacrifices in the chamber of horrors. But we can never forget the woman who braved that contempt, and faced it down by achievement that could not be ignored. Mrs. Croly belonged to the period of that early struggle. In her sweetness of temper she lent to its very asperities the charm of a tournament, overcoming evil with good, and triumphing at last over prejudice which thousands of women had feared to face. We loved her for herself. We are sad in spite of ourselves that she has gone. But we shall only remember her as one of the greatest benefactors of woman in literature; one of the most delightful of all the delightful characters that we have ever known.

"This laurel leaf I cast upon thy bier; Let worthier hands than these thy wreath entwine; Upon thy hea.r.s.e I shed no useless tear-- For us weep rather thou, in calm divine."

In the Silence

_By May Riley Smith_

They are out of the chaos of living, The wreck and debris of the years; They have pa.s.sed from the struggle and striving, They have drained their goblet of tears.

They have ceased one by one from their labors, So we clothed them in garments of rest, And they entered the chamber of silence;-- G.o.d do for them now what is best!

We saw not the lift of the curtain, Nor heard the invisible door, As they pa.s.sed where life's problems uncertain Will follow and burthen no more.

We lingered and wept on the threshold-- The threshold each mortal must cross,-- Then we laid a new wreath down upon it, To mark a new sorrow and loss.

Then back to our separate places A little more lonely we creep, A little more care in our faces, The wrinkles a little more deep.

And we stagger, ah, G.o.d, how we stagger As we lift the old load to our back!

A little more lonely to carry Because of the comrade we lack.

But into our lives whether chidden Or welcome, G.o.d's comforters come; His sunshine waits not to be bidden, His stars,--they are always at home.

His mornings are faithful,--His evenings Allay the day's fever and fret; And night--kind physician--entreats us To slumber and dream and forget.

O Spirit of infinite kindness And gentleness pa.s.sing all speech!

Forgive when we miss in our blindness The comforting hand them dost reach.

Thou sendest the Spring on Thine errand To soften the grief of the world; For us is the calm of the mountain, For us is the rose-leaf uncurled.

Thou art tenderer, too, than a mother, In the wonderful Book it is said; O Pillow of Comfort! What other So softly could cradle my head?

And though Thou hast darkened the portal That leads where our vanished ones be; We lean on our faith in Thy goodness, And leave them to silence and Thee.

Jenny June

_By f.a.n.n.y Hallock Carpenter_

A beautiful soul has journeyed Out from the Now into Then.

Her voice echoes back to us, waiting, The sound of the great Amen.

Her life was a song so winsome It sung itself night and day Into the hearts of the people Who met her along the way.

Her life was a flower so fragrant That every one pa.s.sing her, knew By the perfume from it exhaling, The love out of which it grew.

Her life was a book so vivid That all, though running, could read The story of earnest endeavor Written for woman's need.

Her life was a light whose radiance Brightened all woman-kind, As sunshine wakens the flowers, Or genius illumines the mind.

Her life was a poem so tender It thrilled with its cadence sweet Many a life prosaic, Which caught up the rhythmic beat.

Her life was a bell whose ringing Gave no uncertain sound, Its chiming rang out to the nations And girdled the world around.

Her life was a deed so holy, So n.o.ble, so brave, so true, That it set all womanhood noting The good one woman could do.

Her life was a brook, that swelling Grew to a river wide, That freshened the souls of the many Touched by its flowing tide.

The song has trilled into silence, The flower is faded and gone, The book's strong story is ended, The light is lost in the dawn.

The poem's sweet rhythm is ended, The chiming has ceased to be, The deed is fully accomplished, The river has joined the sea.

She dropped the pebble whose ripples To the sh.o.r.es of all time shall extend, She has spoken the word into ether Whose sound-waves never shall end.

She has started a light on its journey Out into limitless s.p.a.ce, She has written a thought for women Eternity cannot erase.