As most biographers of Mrs. Julia Ward Howe dwell on her other gifts as philanthropist, poet, and worker for the equality of women with men, I call attention to her effervescent, brilliant wit.  Julia Ward Howe was undeniably witty.  Her concurrence with a dilapidated bachelor, who retained little but his conceit, was excellent.  He said:  “It is time now for me to settle down as a married man, but I want so much; I want youth, health, wealth, of course; beauty, grace—­” “Yes,” she interrupted sympathetically, “you poor man, you do want them all.”

Of a conceited young man airing his disbelief at length in a magazine article, she said:  “Charles evidently thinks he has invented atheism.”  After dining with a certain family noted for their chilling manners and lofty exclusiveness, she hurried to the house of a jolly friend, and, seating herself before the glowing fire, sought to regain a natural warmth, explaining:  “I have spent three hours with the Mer de Glace, the Tete-Noire, and the Jungfrau, and am nearly frozen.”

Pathos and humour as twins are exemplified by her tearful horror over the panorama of Gettysburg, and then by her saying, when urged by Mrs. Livermore to dine with her:  “O no! my dear, it’s quarter past two, and Mr. Howe will be wild if he does not get—­not his burg—­but his dinner.”

Mrs. Howe’s wit never failed her.  I once told her I was annoyed by seeing in big headlines in the morning’s paper, “Kate Sanborn moralizes,” giving my feeble sentiments on some subject which must have been reported by a man whom I met for the first time the evening before at a reception, though I was ignorant of the fact that I was being interviewed.  She comforted me by saying:  “But after all, how much better that was than if he had announced, ’Kate Sanborn demoralizes.’” Or when Charles Sumner refusing to meet some friends of hers at dinner explained languidly:  “Really, Julia, I have lost all my interest in individuals.”  She retorted, “Why, Charles, God hasn’t got as far as that yet!” Once walking in the streets of Boston with a friend she looked up and read on a public building, “Charitable Eye and Ear Infirmary.”  She said:  “I did not know there were any charitable eyes and ears in Boston.”  She showed indomitable courage to the last.  A lady in Boston, who lived opposite Mrs. Howe’s home on Beacon Street, was sitting at a front window one cold morning in winter, when ice made the steps dangerous.  A carriage was driven up to Mrs. Howe’s door to take her to the station to attend a federation at Louisville.  She came out alone, slipped on the second step, and rolled to the pavement.  She was past eighty, but picked herself up with the quickness of a girl, looked at her windows to see if anyone noticed it, then entered the carriage and drove away.

Was ever a child as unselfish as Mary Rice, afterwards Mary Livermore?  Sliding on ice was for her a climax of fun.  Returning to the house after revelling in this exercise, she exclaimed:  “Splendid, splendid sliding.”  Her father responded:  “Yes, Mary, it’s great fun, but wretched for shoes.”