Memories of Jane Cunningham Croly, Jenny June by Various
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Various >> Memories of Jane Cunningham Croly, Jenny June
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Of Mrs. Croly's personality it is a pleasure to speak. Every woman who
enjoyed the privilege of her friendship felt the magnetism and charm
of a rare nature; while, with all her force and power, there was a
childishness about her that impressed one with the idea that the
naivete and innocence of childhood had never been wholly lost in the
woman. I think it was in some measure owing to the fact that she was
so near-sighted that there was a kind of appealing hesitancy about her
movements that impelled you to her aid.
Mrs. Croly's home was one of refinement and good taste in every
detail, and there she was at her best. Always a charming hostess, she
made every guest feel that he or she was the one most eagerly
expected; there were the hearty greeting, the few low words of
welcome, the sunny smile that transformed her face into positive
beauty. Her Sunday evenings at home came nearer in character to the
French salon than any others in New York. There were the most
delightful people to be met: the gifted minds of our own land and
Europe were among her guests. But Mrs. Croly's proudest boast was that
she was a woman's woman.
From T. C. Evans, in the New York _Times_
When I joined the _World_ staff of writers, in 1860, a few weeks after
the foundation of that journal, I found Jenny June already there. She
did not often appear in the office in person, the lady auxiliary in
journalism not being so familiar a figure as it now is, and she had
not yet adopted her pretty _nom-de-plume,_ but her husband, David G.
Croly, held an official post on the staff as city editor, and her
contributions, which were invariably well written and interesting,
appeared from the first in the _World_ columns, and as the years went
on while she and Mr. Croly remained associated with it, with
increasing frequency. They were written by a woman mainly for women,
and the maids and matrons of her country over all its area from ocean
to ocean and from "lands of sun to lands of snow" have never been
addressed by one of their sex whom they came to know better or to hold
in higher esteem. Her work assumed no pretentious or high importance,
but was sweet and wholesome, sensible, and a mirror of the nature out
of which it proceeded. The name Jenny June, which she adopted a few
years later, became a beloved household word throughout the land,
perhaps more widely known than that of any lady journalist who has
ever wrought in it.
Mrs. Croly's social dispositions and her aptitude for gathering
interesting people around her were gracious endowments of nature's
bestowal, as strongly marked in her youth as in her maturer years,
when she gradually came to have a wider stage on which to display
them. Her pretty little drawing-rooms, somewhere on the west side near
Grove Street, are well remembered by me, and first and last I met in
them a goodly number of people well worthy to be remembered, some with
their trophies of success yet to win, but their merit divined by their
clever hostess, perhaps before it had obtained any full recognition
elsewhere. Many also came who had won their spurs and epaulets and
shone bravely in the bright glitter of both. In her little
unpretending salon of that day might be met the brilliant young Edmund
Clarence Stedman, in the morning glow of his poetic fame; Bayard
Taylor, risen into the mid-forenoon of his fame, with his Orient
lyrics published and his translation of "Faust" well begun; perhaps
Phoebe and Alice Cary, though on this point I cannot be certain, and
many another of note and distinction in that time, her hospitality
taking in all arts, and all the presentable workers in them, so that
poets, painters, sculptors, singers, actors were equally welcome, as
were those who brought to her only their bright young countenances
and winning smiles. Her later drawing-rooms, when she had removed up
town, nearer to the Mayfair of society, became widely celebrated, and
she founded something perhaps as near to a salon modeled after the
traditional Parisian standards as any that America has known.
Mrs. Croly is recognized as the chief among the founders of Sorosis,
the most celebrated woman's club in the world, and parent of the
innumerable organizations of like sect which have sprung up since
their renowned progenitor became with fewer vicissitudes and trials
than might have been anticipated firmly planted on its feet and
attested its self-supporting and self-reliant character. No social
development of the modern period is more striking than the swift
multiplication of women's clubs, not in this country alone, but in
others, and they have shown a power of beneficent work most
advantageous to the community at large, which even the most sanguine
among their promoters could not have anticipated. They have also shown
that women can legislate and administrate and rise to the point of
order and lay things on the table in a manner as parliamentary and
self-restrained as men. For such testimony the world should be
thankful, as it never got anything of the kind before. Among the
founders of this now most impressive group of social organizations no
name stands out more brightly and conspicuously than that of Jane
Cunningham Croly.
Her recent death, though a surprise and shock to her innumerable
friends, came when she had passed her seventy-second birthday, and it
cannot therefore be said that she passed away with her work
uncompleted. It was fully and most worthily performed, and was the
fruit of a systematic diligence never remitted, and in which few of
her sex in any period could have exceeded her. Her memory is fragrant
as the month from which she took her _nom-de-plume_, and will at least
be cherished by those whom her gentle discourse, continued for more
than a generation, has entertained and instructed.
From St. Clair McKelway, in the Brooklyn _Eagle_
The death of Jane Cunningham Croly, noticed in Tuesday's _Eagle_,
involves the loss of a woman of leadership who put a good deal of help
into others' lives. Born in 1829, she began at seventeen to write for
newspapers. Her topics were, for a wonder, practical, the young too
generally beginning with abstract, academical or recondite subjects.
Hers were "fashions" in dress, fads in food, fancies and foibles in
decoration etc. From them she advanced to more philosophical or
general fields, but on all she wrote was the stamp of applicability to
contemporaneous life.
In the middle, later, and more genial period of her life she did more
talking than writing. And her talking was always earnest, direct,
sincere, with a gleam of hope and a note of wisdom in it--the union of
experience and reflection. Had it been reported it would have made for
her a literary name: but she was content, or constrained, to limit her
work to the platform, or to the circle of existence affected by it.
As a clubwoman Mrs. Croly achieved the eminence almost of a pioneer.
It can be shown that a club or two of women had a titular beginning
before "Sorosis," but that was the original society started by her on
the theory that there were opportunities and conditions in club life,
on an educational or literary basis, of which women could well avail
themselves. Mrs. Croly sympathized with the more earnest purposes
entering into her idea, and was in little related to any sensational,
spectacular, or faddish features that may here or there become
attached to it. She was a believer in seriousness, an exemplar of
industry, a devotee to system, and a very remarkably punctual,
effective and straightforward writer. Her flight was never very high,
but it was always progressive, and her regulation of her pen by the
precise rules that govern presswork was entitled to distinct praise.
She could always be trusted to keep within her topic and herself
behind it, and she understood the art of putting things to her public
in a way to discover to them their own thoughts as well as to denote
her own.
To David G. Croly, her husband, long a newspaper man of admitted power
and executive force, Mrs. Croly was a constant help, as he too was to
her. From him she learned not a little of her topical discernment and
technical knack. He was never afraid of ability in whomever found, and
he rejoiced that the sex of his wife, and the novel fact that she was
the first woman in America to write daily for publication, gave to her
and her subjects a vogue he and his could not command in a world of
more and mainly personal work. She survived him twelve years. Their
union was not made any less congenial by marked dissimilarity of
convictions on cardinal subjects.
Mrs. Croly was the recipient of many evidences of the honor and
affection in which her own sex held her, and beyond doubt the
organizations of which she was the inspiring force will pay to her
memory the tributes her disinterestedness and abilities deserved,
exercised as she always was for so long with projects nearly related
to the better equipment of effective womanhood for the conditions and
conduct of life. Her death at seventy-two, after not a little
suffering and not a few sorrows, was not unexpected, though it will be
sincerely and widely regretted. In her last years she was happily made
aware of the love and tenderness towards her which she had richly
earned by service, counsel, and example to the lives of others.
From Laura Sedgwick Collins
Dear Friend, dear Helper, passed from earth
To heaven, in earthly grace, I here
Would give to thee homage sincere
And memory sweet. Thy ever kindly word
Has oft the sad heart warmed,
The drooped head raised, and thy sustaining hand
A fainting purpose thrilled
To better courage, firmer aim.
In that far realm where spirits meet
And greet with message mystic, there
Thou must, in sweet commune
Receive reward for earthly deeds.
Thy heart ne'er knew the unkind throb,
Was ever gentle, firm and true;
Whate'er the cause, if once espoused
Thou to thy watchword held thyself.
Throughout our land, in city, town,
Thy name beloved remains alive;
Alive in hearts, alive in minds,--
For thou hadst heart and brain as well
To touch the soul and win the thought.
Thy work for woman stands unspoiled;
Untouched by vanity or marred by pride,
Unsullied by a thought of self,
A generous impulse toward thy sex--
A woman's word for woman's need.
And so thy name in fragrance fine
Bespeaks again returning June,--
The spring of promise, budding hope!
The cypress changes to the rose,--
The rose of dawn, the rose of heaven;
And both are thine and thine the crown
All jewelled o'er with thy good deeds--
Deeds of mercy, deeds of love,
Are with us still though thou art gone!
From Mary Coffin Johnson
Many years before I personally knew Mrs. Croly she was at the height
of her useful public life; the imprint of her hand and mind in
contemporary literature was an evident fact, and she had become a
conspicuous figure in the ranks of well-known women. It is therefore
my privilege to speak of her last few years, when the golden light of
achievement gilded the eventide of her eventful life.
Having had the peculiar advantage of sitting beside her for six years
as an officer of the Woman's Press Club I am thoroughly aware of her
sincerity, and of the singleness of heart which, actuated her motives
in behalf of women. She believed that every united effort that raises
the personal standard of thought and purpose is of the utmost
importance. It was her earnest desire that women should live lofty and
useful lives. She frequently laid stress upon this manner of life, and
at such times her temperament seemed charged with sympathetic interest
in young women journalists. "Unity in Diversity," the motto adopted by
the General Federation of Women's Clubs, is a fitting expression of
the broad conceptions she brought into club life; indeed, her success
in bringing women of unequal social position and essentially different
callings, into harmonious relationship and unity of purpose was
markedly characteristic.
During her last years women's clubs became more than ever of absorbing
interest to her, claiming the complete devotion of her broad mind. The
untiring devotion she had already given to this part of her life's
activities had established her fame, and this fame will ever be
exceptionable, for her work can never be duplicated.
The growing spirit of helpfulness and friendliness which inspires
women's organizations, the manifold opportunities of various kinds
which they afford, and the excellent results which follow could, she
thought, scarcely be estimated. "Club life for women," she would say,
"requires no justification. When we enter our club rooms we leave
behind us much of the rubbish of the world. The richest, fullest
development of life flows through the better social relations, and
from times of old has been uplifting." "It is not merely that we need
one another," she would declare, "but that the sense of kinship is
healthful; it inspires the larger love, and creates a stronger
relationship. It seems to be God's method of helping humankind to the
higher and more perfect life."
On various occasions, when only members of the dub were present, she
would lay aside the formality of the presiding member, and, assuming
the familiar manner of addressing us, pour forth her lofty ideals for
women, unconsciously testifying that the secret spring of her actions
was her love for her own sex. Though the words were always spoken with
gentle calmness, and in a tone of womanly softness, something in her
passionate sincerity would, like the effect of a magnet, attract every
listener, and a spell of silence would fall upon us. In all that she
said we discerned the Divine Principle.
There were those who, from their own viewpoints, carped at what they
heard and saw, but a person even of Mrs. Croly's temperament and
courage, placed amid the recurring action and reaction of a life of
much publicity, cannot, of course, please every one. It would be
surprising if in her long career she had not manifested human
imperfections, and had not sometimes made mistakes; she would have
been more than human had she not.
It was no easy task for her to stem the tide of difficulties and
oppositions from without, for from first to last of her diligent life
she had many trials to endure. Both sunbeam and shadow crossed her
pathway; but her errors were not uncommon to humankind; moreover, she
was very patient under misconception. "It is always fair," said Henry
Ward Beecher, "to credit a man at his best,--let his enemies tell of
his worst." Another writer remarks: "To get a true idea of any
character we most seize upon its higher forming element, that to which
it naturally tends."
Hers was far from an impulsive nature, yet there were times when Mrs.
Croly suddenly revealed in a marked way her true, deep instincts.
While on a visit to this country on one occasion, Madame Antoinette
Sterling, a concert singer in England, was a guest of the Woman's
Press Club. She was asked to sing for us, and responded with "The Lost
Chord." In answer to an encore she sang a ballad of her own
composition, called "The Sheepfold." Mrs. Croly was visibly affected
by the words; seldom had she ever manifested more feeling. When the
song was ended she quickly rose, and in a tremulous voice exclaimed:
"Does not this say to us that if even _one_ were outside, the whole
strength of the universe would be brought to bear upon it, to bring it
into the fold!"
In 1897 Mrs. Croly was honored by the General Federation of Women's
Clubs by the appointment to write the "History of the Woman's Club
Movement in America," an undertaking that required exceptionable
ability. The vast amount of mental energy and wearing labor she put
into this work, added to the past years of constant application to
literary and other interests, told seriously upon her health. Her
nervous system had become exceedingly susceptible, and it was evident
that her good constitution was beginning to break down.
However, the indomitable energy she possessed, and her trained
capacity for work enabled her to continue until the large volume was
finished and given to the public.
Early in June, 1898, Mrs. Croly had a serious fall in which she
fractured her hip, and she was confined to her room for many weeks.
Though she possessed unusual power of endurance, her lessening
strength could no longer bear the strain upon the delicate frame, and
her rallying power was perceptibly diminished. As the fracture slowly
healed she but feebly met the physical exertion necessary to go about
on crutches. Even then it was impossible for her to take life
serenely; she was restlessly eager to be up and doing. When she could
be removed with safety, which was not until the third of September,
she went abroad with her daughter, Mrs. Vida Croly Sidney, who had
come over from England for her, and she spent a year in London and the
vicinity. In August, 1899, they were in Switzerland, and Mrs. Croly
took the baths at Schinznach-les-Bains. She returned to America the
following September, and remained in New York through the winter of
1899-1900. The change agreed with, her, but her health cannot be said
to have improved, and she was still very infirm. Her natural affection
and interest in the Woman's Press Club led her to attend its meetings,
whenever she was able, going there in the carriage sent for her. On
the 12th of May she was present at a club meeting, and gave us an
informal talk, which proved to be her parting address, though at the
time we knew it not. That day her words were full of significance. She
expressed herself with fervor, chiefly on the importance of clubwomen
bearing a large measure of love and good-will towards one another, and
of the cultivation of the tie of divine charity. With earnestness she
urged again that we should stand "hand to hand to exercise patience in
judgment, and to be slow in criticism." "It is God-like," she said,
"to forgive. Remember," she continued, "that all that is good in this
life emanates from love; that it is the very best thing that this life
affords, and that there is nothing on earth that can take the place of
its ministry. Love has no limitations, and if you give the best talent
you possess to your club it will give it back to you. Club life is
often misunderstood, it is true,--but," she slowly added, "there is
nothing in this world _entirely_ perfect." She spoke touchingly of the
personal sense of loneliness she felt; that although she was a woman
among many women she lived many a lonely hour; and she wished it well
understood that the love and friendship of clubwomen was to her the
most precious thing in her life. In closing she emphasized the counsel
she had given, to be "United and conciliatory in our relations with
each other; to be just; to suspend judgment; and to wait long and
trust God who knows all. He," she declared, "will not misunderstand
you."
At the end of May she returned to England. Though nature had not
become victorious over her feebleness, and she was still almost
helpless from the effect of the accident of 1898, she heroically
overcame these physical conditions as far as she was able. Something
continually impelled her onward. She attended the International
Congress of Women held during the Paris Exposition of that year, and
then went on to Ober-Ammergau to the Passion Play, accompanied by Mrs.
Sidney; and then returned to England, where she stayed until the 27th
of July, 1901, when she again sailed for New York, business matters
requiring her presence in this country.
On her arrival in August from the second visit abroad, the grave facts
that her health was not established, and that her time here was not to
be long, were soon evident to her friends. The struggle of nature not
only had begun, the shadow was even now sweeping near. She appeared at
the November business meeting of the Woman's Press Club, accompanied
by an attendant, and took the chair, but she was so much exhausted by
the effort that her nurse easily persuaded her to come away. During
the following four weeks her prostration and decline were steady.
As the final day of her human infirmity approached, she expressed to
the close friend who sat beside her a timid shrinking, common to all
human nature, from the passage out of this life. It may be counted a
special mercy that, as it afterwards proved, she need not have had any
disquietude concerning the inevitable moment, for a few hours before
the closing scene she fell into a state of coma, and passed beyond so
quietly and tranquilly that she did not herself know when the moment
came. She entered the world of infinite repose in the forenoon of
December 23, 1901.
The funeral service was held in the Church of the Transfiguration,
Mrs. Croly's friends gathering from far and near to pay their last
tributes of love and regard. The women's clubs and societies of
Manhattan, Brooklyn, and the suburbs, were represented in large
numbers, and every seat in the church was filled.
Mrs. Croly lies at rest beside her husband, David G. Croly, in the
beautiful cemetery near Lakewood, New Jersey.
"Yon's her step ... an' she's carryin' a licht in her hand; a see it
through the door."
From Caroline M. Morse
As Chairman of the Memorial Committee it is my privilege to add my
memories of Mrs. Croly to those which have preceded. Mine are not of
her club interests, nor of her identification with the woman's club
movement. So much has been written, and so well, regarding these
public phases of her life that it would seem almost officious for me
to add a stone to the already piled up cairn; I write rather of my
friend as my family knew her in her home, surrounded by husband and
children.
It was in 1880 that we first knew Mr. and Mrs. Croly, and the
acquaintance soon became an intimacy that lasted for twenty-three
years. They were living in their own house in Seventy-first street, an
artistically furnished house, an ideal home full of a sweet
domesticity.
Intimate as we were it was frequently our privilege to gather with the
family at their Sunday evening supper, when Mrs. Croly was as
completely the "house-mother" fulfilling the homely duties of the
table, as, an hour later, she was the gracious, though more formal
hostess receiving in her drawing-room the usual Sunday night throng of
old friends and the strangers of distinction who, chancing to be in
town, were fortunate enough to have letters of introduction to her. I
see her slight figure moving from group to group, and the low English
voice and sweet smile with which she encouraged her visitors to speak
of themselves, and, if they were foreigners, of their missions to this
country. A characteristic act of hers was to carry around a little
silver tray on which there might be several glasses of a dainty punch,
the base of which was a light, non-alcoholic wine. This she offered to
friends whom she desired particularly to honor, and the act had all
the significance of the Russian custom of breaking bread and eating
salt with the host. These Sunday evenings at home, which were a
feature of the society in which she moved, were continued until a
short time before her death, or until she was incapacitated by
illness.
My friend had none of the usual failings of the traditionary
"emancipated woman"; she would sit down to her basket on an afternoon
and take up a bit of household sewing with the same spirit and
aptitude that had guided her in the forenoon in the writing of an
editorial article or the preparation of a paper to be read before a
club.
I recall with especial joy the long walks we used to take together.
After a day of wearisome work, it was one of her great delights to
leave the piled-up desk and find herself in the street, her arm linked
in mine. At such times much of her talk was ravishing speculation upon
things seen and unseen. It was as if, released for the moment from
the pressure of work, her mind sprang into a world removed from the
practical and immediate, to revel in contemplation of the divine. Yet
she was no visionary, and the world of sight held her cheerful
allegiance. Hers was never "the dyer's hand subdued to what it works
in," and this is the more remarkable since she never relinquished
work, even for our beloved walks, without a mild protest at laying
aside her pen. One afternoon I called, intending to take her out for
one of our "play-hours," but I failed to find her in her apartment.
Next morning the post brought me this note:
"MY DEAR FRIEND:
"I was so glad to get your card, and so sorry to miss you.
It was just that hour out-of-doors with you that I was
longing for. I have been so long away, and since my return
have been so busy with much detail of correspondence that in
quantity is always more or less depressing, that I needed a
sight of you to tone me up and restore my standard. I have
also taken advantage of enforced quiet to brace up for an
heroic two weeks of dentistry, and have therefore been in
absolute retirement and upon baby diet of the most innocuous
description...
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