Recollections of a happy life

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Introduction

TO THE FIRST PUBLISHED EDITION

AN unfinished autobiography ! An unknown author! How came this little book to be written? How came it to be published?

In the Preface to the edition printed for private circulation, which follows these few lines, will be found the story of how the book came to be written. As for publication — ■ nothing more remote could have entered the mind of the gifted hostess, as she told her charming tales of life, love, and adventure to the friends gathered about her tea table in Bar Harbor, or who sat with her in Washington over a blazing wood-fire on a winter's night. Not without much persuasion could Mrs. Hobson be finally induced to commit her "story-telling" to paper. The writing once begun, she became interested in it; but the iv INTRODUCTION

work was never completed. Much, alas ! had been left unsaid, when Death — that unwelcome guest — came to stay the pen in hand.

At first the manuscript was thought too personal to be printed, even for private use, but finally it was decided to print, with some omissions and for private circulation only, a small, limited edition of the book. Gradually, the much-worn copies found their way, as loans, into the hands of persons who had not known Mrs. Hobson, to be returned with the invariable request that the book might be published. And this from men and women whose literary judgment is undisputed, and who fully recognize the fragmentary character of the work ; but who also recognize the exceptional personality, as well as the literary ability of the unknown author.

It is now four years since Mrs. Hobson died, in her eighty-first year. Many of those of whom she has written have passed away; the consent of other friends and of her family to the publication of the memoirs has been obtained; the only condition made by the latter being that any profits derived shall be used for the benefit of some one of the philanthropic objects in which Mrs. Hobson was

INTRODUCTION v

interested.* Finally, one of the leading publishing houses, the senior member of which had enjoyed Mrs. Hobson's hospitality in Washington, and had knowledge of her active and valuable services in the fight for international copyright of many years ago, has placed its imprint upon the book.

And so it has come to pass that the Recollections of a Happy Life is now given to the public.

However tempting the theme may be, I shall refrain from giving any account of Mrs. Hobson, of her New England heritage, her married life in South America, her various social and philanthropic interests and achievements in New York and Washington, of the winters spent in Italy and on the Bosphorus. She tells it all so well herself, and any added word of mine would only spoil the charm. For it is charm — that indescribable, elusive quality — which permeates this simple, direct, and unpretending little narrative.

And here — well may one pause! For how can one write of a life so replete with happiness, while the deep undertone of war, the suffering, the desolation, the horror of this great Euro-

* The Bellevue Training School for Nurses has been selected.

vi INTRODUCTION

pean struggle, is forever sounding and resounding from the depths below. How can we for one moment not remember the tragedy of Belgium, that gallant little country, whose heroism made her name immortal, so cruelly trampled under foot, so certain to come into her own again. England and France ! — names not to be mentioned without a thrill of admiration and sympathy — those two great nations, fighting side by side in behalf of freedom, justice, and humanity, for the rights and liberties of the smaller, weaker states of Europe, for civilization itself. Opposed to them stand military imperialism, the lust of conquest, the passion which aims at worldwide domination, the violation of all principles of honor and humanity, a descent even to the warfare of those barbarous countries which, by government decree, authorize the murder and persecution of non-combatants. The lines are clearly drawn.

To those who had the privilege of knowing the writer of this autobiography, no assurance is needed as to where her sympathies would have lain had she been with us today, nor of her advocacy of the principles of righteousness and justice. And those qualities which have

INTRODUCTION vii

made her so beloved, her efforts in behalf of the oppressed, and her warm heart would most certainly have found her enrolled in that great army of her country-women whose time and thought, for the past two years, have been devoted to the relief of suffering caused by the war.

As it is — what does our frend give us today ? A bit of sunshine thrown across the background of a dark and ominous cloud, the sound of running waters, the sparkle of the sea, a murmur of gay, young voices — an hour's respite from the sadness of today, an hour of rest, of solace, of happiness, from which we return to take up our lives, refreshed and strengthened.

Louisa Lee Schuyler.

July is, 1916.

PKEFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION

To those friends of Mrs. Joseph Hobson who, several years ago, signed a petition asking her to write her memoirs.

MANY of us will remember how often we have asked Mrs. Hobson to write her memoirs, to put on paper some account of her various experiences, — those sparkling anecdotes,, those interesting narratives — which we, who have had the privilege of her delightful companionship, have so greatly enjoyed.

We received but little encouragement. Mrs. Hobson, in full health and vigor notwithstanding her seventy odd years, was actively engaged in various pursuits, both grave and gay. She "had not time" — "she had nothing of interest to say" — "there are so many memoirs not worth reading."

Finally, Mrs. Richard Aldrich conceived the happy idea of putting into verse a "Petition," a petition which, signed by twenty-four of Mrs. Hobson's friends, was sent to her, in the spring of 1907.*

* A copy of these verses, with the signatures, will be found in the Appendix.

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This determined her to make the attempt. She became interested, and often spoke during the last years of her life of the pleasure it had given her to write these "Recollections of a Happy Life," as she called them. "For I have had a happy life," she would say.

Occasionally she would read to her friends one or two of the chapters, as she wrote them. "What do you mean to do with them?" she was asked one day. "I mean to leave them to all of you who have asked me to write them," was the prompt reply. "You may do anything you like with them."

And now the time has come. The bright spirit, brave and cheerful in death as in life, has passed on to another world.*

Desirous of carrying out her wishes, Mrs. Hobson's family handed over to "those who had asked her to write them" the manuscript of the memoirs, to be disposed of as they might deem best.

Those who were present well remember the little gathering of friends, coming some of them from Washington, who met in New York on the 7th of March, 1913, to decide

* Mrs. Hobson died in Bar Harbor, Maine, June 11, 1912, in her eighty-first year.

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upon the disposition of the manuscript. It was more of a memorial than a business meeting. The first and last pages of the memoirs were read, with extracts from Mrs. Hobson's last letters, while many loved to recall the last time they had seen her and to speak tenderly and gratefully of the friend they had lost.

In regard to the memoirs. All present were desirous of having them preserved in permanent form, all conceded a high order of literary merit, and several advocated immediate publication. But the consensus of opinion was that they were too personal for publication — certainly not for many years to come, not until the chief actors had passed away — but that a small number of copies, printed by her friends for private circulation among themselves, would be more satisfactory and appropriate. This was also known to be in accordance with the wishes of Mrs. Hobson's family. The conclusions finally reached were : that an edition of the memoirs, limited to two hundred and fifty copies, should be printed for private circulation under the name of "Recollections of a Happy Life," this being the name already chosen for them by Mrs. Hobson; that the edition should be simple in form, not xii PREFACE

an edition-de-luxe; that the book should not be sold, all copies to be given gratuitously, and all expenses defrayed by those for whom the manuscript had been written. It was also decided, that the three so-called " philanthropic chapters," owing to their public interest, should be reprinted for wider gratuitous circulation, more especially among " First Aid " and other social service workers and to be given to the libraries of Training Schools for Nurses. *f

Miss Schuyler was requested to edit the memoirs ; after which the meeting adjourned.

The editor was at once confronted by a serious difficulty. One of Mrs. Hobson's

* These three chapters are: "The Founding of the Bellevue Training School for Nurses," "First Aid to the Injured" and "Southern Trip."

fThe original plan of printing a separate edition of these three chapters has been abandoned, owing to the publication of the entire book, which includes them.

The modern training school for nurses, founded by Florence Nightingale, dates from the opening of the Nightingale School in St. Thomas' Hospital, London, on the 24th of June, 1860. It was not until thirteen years later that the Nightingale system was introduced into this country by the opening, May 1, 1873, of the Bellevue Training School, known, for this reason, as " the first training school for nurses in this country." The Nightingale system is now adopted by all our large hospitals, in the organization of their training schools, and is the accepted standard. It is believed that Mrs. Hobson's account of the organization of the Bellevue School will be found of especial interest to the members of the nursing profession, who also owe to Miss Nightingale the elevation of the nursing service into a profession. Copies of this book will be found in the libraries of the principal training schools. — Editor, 1916.

PREFACE xiii

marked characteristics was her devotion and loyalty to her friends. She was never known to speak disparagingly of one to the other; she loved to be with them (as they with her) ; she made time for them. She exaggerated their good qualities and minimized their weaknesses in all sincerity and good faith. Naturally, after reading the manuscript, one after the other of those mentioned came to the editor to say that, much as they valued the generous, warm-hearted tribute of their friend, the over-estimation was such that, so far as they were concerned, that particular paragraph must be omitted from the printed copy. What was to be done? The memoirs were made up of personalities from beginning to end. If all were omitted, there would be nothing left. And so, with much reluctance, it was mutually agreed that, while each would make allowances for the over-estimation of themselves and others, it would be best to let the pages stand as she, out of her warm, generous heart, had written them, to be printed in the very limited, private edition only.

One other matter requires mention. An erroneous impression has been received that, owing to the fragmentary character of parts of the narrative, much has been omitted. This is xiv PREFACE

not so. It is true that Mrs. Hobson's family has very properly withheld certain portions, which were too personal for even private printing at this time. But this in no wise affects the literary merit of the memoirs as they stand. Mrs. Hobson was not an author. She never wrote for publication — beyond philanthropic reports. She wrote these memoirs at the urgent request of her friends and as time served during the last years of a very busy life. The surprise is that so much was written. She did not write consecutively, a chapter here and there as the fancy took her, writing as she expressed it "from the point of the pen, just as the incidents crowded into my mind," without books of reference or any attempts at perious work, but simply "recollections" as she called them. Some of the chapters are full and rounded, others were begun and not finished, others are fragments. The headings of the chapters are hers, but not the sequence, and but few dates were given.

The book is not a biography, it is an unfinished autobiography, but so replete with interest and charm that it must always be a regret that it was never completed. Mrs. Hobson had meant to have written more, to have filled in the gaps, to have interspersed

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new chapters, to have written of a journey to Japan with Mrs. Osborn, in 1897, and other experiences. All this had been planned for that very summer of 1912, in Bar Harbor, of which she saw but the first June days.

The editor has simply supplied dates, and verified statements so far as this has been possible through attainable information. With three exceptions, however.

Mrs. Hobson, before her death, had asked her friend and fellow-worker, Miss Schuyler, to revise for her the two chapters entitled "The Founding of the Belle vue Training School for Nurses" and "First Aid to the Injured," for which she had no books of reference at hand. The interest to the editor of this pleasant task was still further enhanced by the fact, already stated, that these were two of the three chapters selected for wider circulation, as reprints, owing to their importance and public interest. They have therefore been very thoroughly revised, with added notes, each statement verified from original sources, the narrative now being historically accurate. The same is true of the other chapter "Southern Trip," which has been revised by Mrs. Archibald Hopkins, who accompanied Mrs. Hobson on her journey to the South.

xvi PREFACE

The explanatory notes have been appended for the enlightenment of a public which should know, but which does not know, how deeply it is indebted to Mrs. Hobson.*

For the dates and other information required for the main body of the memoirs, the editor is indebted to the family of Mrs. Hobson. She desires also to acknowledge her indebtedness to Miss Mary Parsons for other valuable assistance.

Several of Mrs. Hobson's friends, who knew her intimately, have said that she has not done herself justice in these memoirs, that no one would know from them of the power of sympathy and the force of character which were hers, that she had not given the deeper side of her nature. But may not this have been intentional? Did not she mean to give the light touch, to pass over with a word the shadows one knows were there? Were not the "Recollections of a Happy Life" meant to depict the happy side of that life, not the sorrows and the trials which come to all? So it would seem. For, be her own words what

* The three chapters were not reprinted and issued as a separate edition, as was originally proposed, this plan having been abandoned when the publication of the book was decided upon. See page VI. — Editor, 1916.

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they may, those who knew Mrs. Hobson well could never for a moment doubt her deep sympathy with those in trouble, the earnestness of her convictions, the abiding sense of the fundamental principles which governed her life.

To the friend who has had the privilege of editing these memoirs, the work has been one of very great pleasure. As one turns the pages again and again, the narrative never loses its freshness, nor the clear, flowing style its charm. The social traits, so characteristic of Mrs. Hobson, are all there — the vivacity, humor, quick perception, the wide interests, freedom from prejudice and independence of thought, the adaptability to new countries and strange peoples of the true cosmopolitan — all are to be found in these pages. Nor is there lacking the more earnest side, the sympathy with suffering and with the oppressed which, united with enthusiasm, ability and industry, have made her a power for good, far-reaching and enduring. It is a great gift, this which our friend has given to us, for into these pages she has put herself.

Louisa Lee Schuyler.

New York, May, 1914.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

Introduction iii

Preface ix

II

HOW can I give any idea of life on a sailing ship sixty years ago. The Virginia was a fine clipper ship, and her arrangements were considered excellent. She was provided with every comfort then considered essential, but I fancy, in fact I know, that the second-cabin passengers on an ocean steamer now are far more comfortable and have better food on their short voyages from Liverpool than we had on that four months' voyage. Of course I was sea-sick and home-sick, but, as the days passed and we got into good weather, with the buoyancy of youth my spirits revived, and I began to realize the beauty and charm of life at sea. The captain and his wife were kindness itself. Mrs. Johnson was a bride and as new to the sea as I was. We soon adapted ourselves to the routine, and, by the time we reached Rio, I knew every rope in the ship and could almost " take the sun." The man at the wheel was my friend; the sails, the pumps, the spars, the coiled ropes around the belaying pins, spoke to me a familiar language.

Oh, that bay of Rio! I have seen all the famous harbors of the world since then, but none ever filled me with such emotion, with such a sense of beauty.

I pass over the rough and stormy passage around Cape Horn. Also the three days passed at Valparaiso, because I shall return there later.

After a voyage of one hundred and twenty-five days, we passed through the Golden Gate and anchored at San Francisco. It was a terrible-looking place : streets of shanties deep in mud, here a high building and there a few scattered houses, wooden sidewalks under which the great wharf rats burrowed and ran over your feet at night. People from every clime; and oh, such terrible-looking women! Sacramento Street was given up to gambling houses; at night they were brilliantly lighted, the tables covered with gold doubloons around which the men and women gathered in crowds. As I looked at them through the windows, I felt as if I were gazing into hell, and to this day gambling for a stake, however small, is odious to me.

We were invited to stop with Mrs. Hooper, whose husband was a partner of the firm of Cross, Hobson & Co. To Mrs. Hooper attaches a curious story, which I heard many years later. She had gone as a bride to the Sandwich Islands, where her husband left her for a cruise among the other Pacific Islands. Time passed and he did not return, until finally he was given up for lost. After some years had passed, she married Mr. Hooper and came to San Francisco. Her first husband, however, was not lost. He was cast ashore in some inaccessible spot, and drifted from place to place, penniless and forlorn, until he finally reached San Francisco, to find his wife married to a wealthy man and in an excellent position. Like Enoch Arden he turned away in silence, settled far away in the prairies, and the story was known to so few that Mrs. Hooper never heard it, nor the world in general, until long after both he and she were dead.

Another anecdote is illustrative of the period. In those days in San Francisco, although somewhat difficult to satisfy the eastern standard of hospitality, the merchants were anxious to entertain the officers of the men-of-war, there being quite a fleet in the port. They chose a large warehouse for their banquet. When the invitations were accepted, and the preparations were being made, they found, to their dismay, that whale-oil lamps were entirely inadequate to light the vast space. No gas, no Standard Oil, no electricity in those days; but the versatile Samuel Ward, known in later years as "Uncle Sam," came to the rescue, assuring the committee that, if they would leave it to him, he would provide them light enough. When the night arrived, the guests found the sides of the room lined with marble statues, holding blazing flambeaux of pitch pine, the statues being stevedores, stripped and whitewashed. The committee and guests made no unfavorable comments.

From this digression I must now turn to my own life, and its most important event, my engagement to Joseph Hobson. Sixty-one years ago, and I see him now as clearly as when I first met him, and when he stood before me, the perfect gentleman that he was, in such contrast to those around him. Handsome, courteous, high bred, rather reserved, he was like my own people, and my heart went out to him at once; and when, after daily intercourse of ten days, he asked me to marry him, I consented without hesitation. No one could know him and not feel sure of him. I made but one condition, that he should follow me home, and that we should be married there. It was a month's journey across the Isthmus of Panama, but I felt I could not be married anywhere but in my dear home with my parents and sisters around me. So I bade good-bye to my kind friends, the Johnsons, and, under the care of Captain and Mrs. Waterman, who were returning home, I departed, leaving my fiance' to follow a week later. Such was my regard for "les convenances," but, as it turned out, he reached home a fortnight before I did, saw my parents, and I found all the arrangements made for our marriage when I arrived.

My journey home was adventurous. On reaching the port of Realejo in Nicaragua, we heard that cholera was raging on the Isthmus of Panama, so Captain Waterman decided to land at Realejo and cross Nicaragua. Captain Waterman was a remarkable character, a type of the old sea captains who have passed away with the clipper ships they commanded, and the American maritime commerce which is dead. Tall and gaunt in stature, profane, even cruel on the quarter-deck, he was low-voiced, gentle, and kindness itself to a woman; and he was like a father to me during the six weeks I was under his care. His wife warned me: "Don't mind what people say about Bob, he never said an unkind word to me in his life." Kipling would have understood him, the sailor, ruthless in his control of the men who drove those great sailing ships around Cape Horn as fast as steam could have carried them, and then all affection for women and children.

A great deal has been said of recent years about Nicaragua transit, but I was one of the pioneers of that route which has been so fought over. Mrs. Waterman and I, on the captain's advice, turned our plaid shawls into trousers and long jackets, so we were pioneers in that costume as well. Our mode of conveyance was an oxcart, with a mattress spread on the bottom. Another cart followed with our luggage, and, with four oxen to each, we jogged over the not very bad roads, from town to town and village to village, for three weeks. The telephone of those days, that mysterious intelligence department of simple races, announced our coming, and all the villagers turned out to look at and welcome us. We found it was expected that we should descend from our equipage to receive them and their gifts — cake, fruit, etc. At first the naked boys and girls rather abashed me, but I soon got accustomed to their bronze figures, as they were as unconscious of their nudity as those in the Vatican. At the large towns we were received by the chief dignitary of the place. At Grenada, a fine town at the head of Lake Nicaragua, a most beautiful house was placed at our disposal, and fruits, fowls and flowers were sent to us every day by our hospitable host. Everywhere the people, high and low, impressed us as dignified and self-respecting. The race was Spanish ; in the lower classes Indian and Spanish. We saw no poverty nor squalor, a happy, simple, agricultural people. Since then the country has been racked by revolutions, and the beautiful town of Grenada destroyed.

While at Grenada, we made our preparations to descend the lake. A large boat, with ten men to row and pole, was fitted up for the voyage of a fortnight, and we started on our trip to the sea, the whole town turning out to wish us "buen viagio."

I am under the impression that we were the first North American women who ever crossed from sea to sea; at any rate the inhabitants showed as much interest and curiosity about us as if we were, and I remember that at Leon, where we attended a most sumptuous wedding party, I excited more interest than the bride.

Our voyage down the lake was uneventful. The virgin forest lined the shores, with now and then an Indian hamlet, near which we would tie up at night and hang our hammocks in the trees, thus sleeping more comfortably than in our cramped quarters on the boat. I wonder now that I did not think of the possible danger from snakes and venomous insects, but I was naturally fearless, and under the protection of " Bob " it did not occur to me that harm could come to us. We shot the rapids successfully, passing a little steamer wrecked upon them, and reached Greytown, a wretched little town on the coast, low, swampy and malarious, infested with mosquitoes, in blissful ignorance of their infectious qualities. We had to remain there a week before the Royal Mail steamer was due which would convey us to Kingston, Jamaica. I can vividly remember the horrors of that week, in a little low hut with no furniture but a table, chair, and a bedstead, on which a hide was stretched in lieu of a mattress, and with only an Indian boy to assist in the cooking which we did ourselves. Most of the time was passed in fighting mosquitoes and tarantulas. There was nothing to see; the few half -starved inhabitants were too miserable to even show any curiosity about the strangers, and the English Consul, who I think was the only foreigner in the place, was too dispirited by malaria to pay any attention to us.

We had worn our semi-masculine costume so long that it had ceased to seem strange to us, so we walked on board the English steamer as nondescript a pair of women as ever stepped on a ship's deck. The expression of the smart officer in his immaculate white uniform, as he helped us over the gangway, was an instant revelation to me, and I whispered to Mrs. Waterman: "Let us get into some decent clothes at once." The woman in me was roused. I selected a soft white frock, a pink sash, and a Leghorn hat with feathers. My long hair was braided around my head in the fashion of the day, but, alas, all the water and soap (cosmetics I had none) could not remove the tan and freckles of six weeks' constant exposure to a tropical sun. Nevertheless, I felt sure that officer would have a different expression when he next saw me, and he had; and I had reason to think that the impression was permanent before we parted at Jamaica.

I pass over the voyage home, the reunion with my dear family, and the preparations for my wedding, which took place December 4, 1850.

Ill

SAN FRANCISCO AND CHILE 1850-1854

MY wedding trip was across the Isthmus of Panama — the Isthmus before the railway, before de Lesseps made his abortive attempt to dig the canal. It was in the days of the great California emigration, when the miners returned with their belts filled with gold. On that overloaded steamer the passengers gambled all day on deck, and slept there at night. My husband had secured a good stateroom, and we took our meals with the captain in his cabin. One evening while we were going through the Caribbean Sea (and oh! how hot it was), word was brought to me that a woman was in my berth and could not be induced to move. I went to see, and surely there she was, undressed, and, to my remonstrances, she replied: "I have slept on that deck ever since we sailed; my money is as good as yours; here is my ticket, and turn about is fair play." I sent for the purser, who, after remonstrating in vain, told her he would get her a berth if she would get up. "You go and see it, and tell me if you would sleep in it," she said to me. I meekly went, and returned to tell her that it was all right, as good as mine, whereupon she whispered to me most good-humoredly: "I looked about and made up my mind they would not let you sleep on the deck, so I took your berth. You don't mind, do you?" We became very friendly after that. She told me incidents of her life in a mining camp, so that, when years after I read Bret Harte's stories, I felt I understood them. We arrived at the Isthmus. The present town of Aspinwall did not exist. We anchored off Ancon, where the officers of a man-of-war gave me a picnic and cut down a lofty cocoanut tree, that I might have the pleasure of picking the cocoanut myself and drinking the milk. I had never heard of "conservation" then, and had no scruples about sacrificing a beautiful tree for my pleasure. For two days and nights we were poled up the Chagres River by four huge negroes until we reached Gorgona, where I passed the night in a corner of a great rough building, where my bed was shielded from the crowd by canvas walls, and my husband lay on a cot in front of the curtain door, while I slept the sleep of the weary traveller. The next morning we