It has been said that visitors were always interested in Byron’s helmet. They sometimes tried to put it on, but seldom succeeded. The poet, it will be remembered, had a very small though beautiful head. Sister Laura was the only one of the Howe family who could wear it. She and sister Julia were the most poetical of the children. A tintype is still in existence showing the former, at the age of fourteen, crowned with the Byron helmet, her long hair flowing over her shoulders. The Greek War of Independence (1822–29) was a comparatively recent event in the ’Fifties, and people often spoke of it and of the Philhellenes. My father looked much younger than he really was, and occasionally, when asked about his share in the struggle, he would jestingly say, “Oh, it was my _father_ who fought in Greece.” His children knew something of this early career, but he never told us of his deeds of heroism. That would have seemed too much like boasting for a reserved New-Englander. If we complained of the food, he would sometimes remind us that we should be grateful for it and tell us of the strange articles which had constituted the diet of his companions and himself. Roasted wasps did not sound very attractive, even after the removal of the stings. As for sorrel, we used to sample the plants which grew wild—always pitying poor Papa for having been obliged to eat such sour stuff. We could well imagine how tough donkey’s flesh might be, from our encounter with our own José, whose back and sides appeared to be made of iron. Of the primitive ways and ideas of the Greeks at that time he would occasionally tell us. Great was their astonishment because he could remove one of his teeth and replace it. Wheeled vehicles were unknown, and one constructed by his faithful follower (a man whose life my father had saved) caused much surprise. As for tea, if you invited a Greek to partake of a cup he would reply, “No, thank you, I am not _sick_.” A great many people of all sorts and kinds came to “Green Peace.” All European travelers of note wished to see Laura Bridgman, the Helen Keller of the nineteenth century, and the man who had brought her into the human fold. While my father did not cross the seas to take part in European revolutions after 1832 until the Cretan uprising of 1867, he was, of course, deeply interested in them and in their promoters. Thus when the Hungarian patriot, Louis Kossuth, came to America to try to enlist the sympathies of our countrymen in his projects, my father saw a great deal of him and helped in his plans as much as possible. By Kossuth’s desire, the committee in charge appointed my father as the person to whom “he could reveal in confidence so much of his plans and prospects as would show there was reason for hope and for immediate action.” He greatly impressed Doctor Howe who wrote to Charles Sumner, “Surely he is an inspired man.”