Bot-S: Autobiography of Amelia E. Barr

So I smiled and said to Mary, "We are leaving exactly at
the hour your father left." And she answered, "You know, Mamma, every
one who goes by this coach will go about the same hour." I nodded my
head to this remark, and taking Alice by the hand, we made our final
adieus and started.

Somehow, I seemed to have suddenly lost a foothold, my spirits were
dashed, and I was relieved when the house was out of sight, and we
were driving down the avenue. And yet I was soon sorry, that we had
taken that way of exit from the city, for my heart ached when I
remembered the beautiful highway, as I saw it, the day I first entered
Austin--bathed in spring sunshine, redolent with the perfume of the
China trees, gay with white-robed women and picturesque men, with busy
stores, and little rambling hints of music from negroes picking their
banjos, while waiting for their masters or watching their horses. It
was so charming, so happy, so full of calm content and evident
prosperity.

Now! Ah! Now it was a desolate place. Only two or three stores were
open, the rest were closed, and had an air of desertion. I did not see
a dozen white men on the sidewalks, and just two white women were
visible, and they were robed in deepest black, and their faces closely
covered by long black veils. There was no sound or sight of business
of any kind, the doors of the hotel were shut, and not even an empty
chair stood under its shady verandah. All the signs of life present
were black signs--squads of ragged negro men, and with every squad
negro women equally ragged; while squatting near them, there was
usually some black hairless Mexican dogs--all else, despondency and
loneliness.

I was glad when we were beyond any sight or sound of Austin, and now I
confess that I remember only the Austin I saw and loved in 1856. I had
to call peremptorily on memory to restore me my last view of it, in
1866. The latter was but a passing condition. I know now that splendid
natural avenue is bright and busy, and wonderfully built up and
adorned with all that marks commercial prosperity. I do not want to
see it in its modern splendor. I prefer to keep my memory of it in
A.D. 1856. It was then, I think, the brightest, happiest, most
romantic street in the whole world.

We left Austin on the twenty-fifth of September, A.D. 1866, at ten
minutes past eleven A.M., and we arrived at Bastrop at ten o'clock
P.M., having stopped at a place called Nash's for supper. Then all
night we were in the stage, not reaching a village called La Grange
till near noon next day. At La Grange we had a good meal, and then
took a stage for Allington, where we arrived between seven and eight
o'clock that night. Here we stayed at a small hotel, and never before
in all my life had beds been so welcome. The children were worn out,
and I had a bad nervous headache but a long night's sleep put us all
right.

When I awoke, I found that Mary and Lilly had dressed the younger
children, and were dressing themselves, and by hurrying a little, I
was able to go with them when the gong called us to breakfast. Calvin
and Alexander were missing, but were soon found in speechless worship
and wonder before the railway engine. Calvin was a natural mechanic,
and the engine attracted him as nothing in all his short life had ever
done. He held his little brother by the hand, and was explaining it to
him in his childlike manner. After breakfast we took the train for
Galveston, but did not arrive there until it was nearly dark.

We had all left Allington in high spirits, but as the day went on a
great depression fell upon every one of us. The boys appeared to feel
its influence most, and they became silent and even sad. I thought it
was only physical weariness, for I was conscious also of a great
melancholy. A little while before we reached Galveston, we had to
cross a very long bridge or viaduct, connecting the main land with the
island of Galveston. Over this viaduct the train moved very slowly. I
looked at Alexander who was sitting on my knees, for I expected him to
be full of interest and chatter, and I saw that his eyes had the most
remarkable appearance. He seemed to be looking through his eyeballs,
as through a window, seeing something at an infinite, incalculable
distance. He was evidently unconscious, and _I_ could neither speak
nor move. Calvin was in the same trance. Mary and Lilly were gazing at
the boy, but neither of them moved nor spoke. Suddenly Alexander
shuddered, and with a deep sigh was conscious, but he made no remark.
At the same moment Calvin awoke to life, in the same manner, and none
of us uttered a word. The boys were exceedingly sad, but neither of
them asked a question, or made any allusion to their experience. The
strangest, most sorrowful atmosphere pervaded the car, and I could
scarcely move under the somber, silent inertia; but I expected the
train to stop at any moment, and Robert would be waiting. This
nameless, causeless, speechless dejection would be too cruel. It would
never do, it must be conquered.

I made a great effort, and got the children to answer me in an
absent-minded way, but when the train stopped, and Robert stepped
forward happy and smiling, and stretching out his arms for Alice, we
could hardly speak to him. For weeks and months we had all been
joyfully anticipating this very hour, and when it came, none of us
appeared to be even decently pleased. Robert was astonished but very
good-natured, and pitied us because we were too weary for anything but
sleep. But when I told him, a little later, about the kind of trance
into which both boys had fallen at the same time, he was much
troubled.

"Was it a trance, Robert?" I asked.

"It was _vision_," he answered sadly. "The same experience came to
Ethel, the day before her death."

"And what is _vision_?"

"The cup of strength, given only to those who will need its comfort."

Then we were both silent, and for some time both unhappy, though we
did not again name the circumstance.

We stayed in a boarding-house while furnishing our new home, and this
occupied over two weeks, for Robert could not spare much time to
assist me, though he had seen to it, that the house itself was
spotlessly clean and in good order. The rest had to be mainly my work.
Now, how is it, that the very same circumstances are not always
equally pleasant? I could not but remember our happy furnishing in
Austin ten years previously. What a joyous time it was! And there was
nothing to prevent, in some measure, a renewal of this experience;
there were even one or two things favorable towards making it a still
more delightful one; for instance, we had more money to spend, and
more certain prospects.

But it was quite different. Robert went about the matter generously
and helpfully, and the result was a pretty, comfortable home, with
which we were both pleased; but its making had not been the same
delightful event that our Austin home represented. There had been no
disagreement, no disappointment, not one untoward circumstance of any
kind, _but it was not the same_! Why? We loved each other better than
ever before; what had caused the change? _Ten years?_ When I was
alone, I could not help a few regretful tears, but alas!

  "No tears can make the grass to grow
  On the trampled meadows of long ago."

Ah, if we had known that it was our last home making! The very last
time we should talk together about chairs and tables, curtaining and
china, how almost sacred these common household things would have
become. I have not an article left of this furnishing, but a pretty
Queen Anne cream pitcher. On leaving Galveston forever, I gave this
pitcher to Mrs. Lee of that city, as a memorial of her great kindness
to me in the most terrible hours of my life. Twenty years afterwards,
she sent it with a loving message back to me, knowing that it would be
a relic beyond price. Surely the veil God draws between us and the
future is a veil of mercy. If Robert and I had known it, how
heart-breaking that furnishing would have been!

We took possession of our new home on the sixteenth of October. It was
then in perfect order, and we made a gala meal of our first supper, at
which all the children were present. Then there followed half-a-year
of days sweet as the droppings from the honeycomb. Lilly and Calvin
were at good schools, Mary was studying music, and learning how to
dance, and I was busy enough with my house, with the sewing for the
whole family, and with giving Alexander his first lessons. Alice
though near seven years old was yet too weak to be troubled. She had
been born during the excitement and terror of the beginning of the
war, and she brought with her--not the fervid spirit of the time--but
its exhaustion and weakness.

During the worry and trouble following the Emancipation, Robert had
received a letter from my sister Mary, telling him of my father's
death, but advising that I should not be informed of it, while I had
so many every day troubles and anxieties. Robert thought well of this
request, and so he did not tell me until we were happily settled in
our Galveston home. I could weep no sorrowful tears for my father's
release. For a long time earth had lain at his feet like a cast-off
sandal. He had longed to depart, and to be with Christ and the loved
ones waiting for him; and Mary said he went away smiling, like one who
goes on a pleasant journey.

During his last days he frequently expressed a wish that he might go
on a Sabbath morning, while the bells were ringing for service. Very
wise people will doubtless think that was a childish wish, but the
kindly angel of his release granted it. On a Sabbath morning, while
the bells of Baildon church were ringing a joyful peal, and filling
the air with the gladdest music that can ever be between heaven and
earth, he went away with the air and the smile of one,

  "To whom glad news is sent,
  From the far country of his home,
  After long banishment."

No I could not weep for my father's release. I could sit and recall
his fine face, his gracious manner, his blameless life, his wonderful
sermons and our long pleasant walks together, but though my tears were
dropping upon my sewing, they were not sorrowful tears. I could wipe
them away with thanksgiving.

For half a year everything went on in the happiest manner. We had very
pleasant neighbors; the markets were cheap and plentiful. A few old
Austin friends had gathered round us, and we had many new ones. Life
seemed to me in those days like a busy, happy story. True, every day
was much alike; yet every day was different--a fresh visitor, a new
book, the children's school gossip, the household and city happenings
made changes that were sufficient. And in the evenings, if we had no
company, I played and sang and read to Robert and the three eldest
children, or we took a walk to the beach, which was scarce a quarter
of a mile away.

Thus one day slipped into another, and I find no complaints in my
diary against anything, or anyone, but _myself_. To its pages I am
constantly lamenting my too vivid enjoyment of earthly happiness, and
my forgetfulness of past sorrows and trials. Yet if this small book
tells the truth, as I am sure it does, I must have loved God through
these happy days very sincerely. I wish with all my soul that I loved
him now, as I did then, with a conscience sensitive as a nerve, and a
heart that acknowledged no truer love, or dearer loyalty. Yes, in my
eighty-first year, I am ashamed before the memory of that woman in the
prime of her life, who could write such passionate longings for God's
love, and such sorrowful regrets for her small lapses of duty or
temper. Surely _He_ cannot have forgotten.

It was not until late in April that the first whisper of calamity
came. We lived in a cottage belonging to Judge Wheeler, and standing
next to his own house, and one evening he came over to smoke his pipe
with Robert on our verandah.

"Barr," he said, "I hear a good deal of talk about yellow fever, and I
dare say people will be advising you to leave this house, because
there is a meat market not far away, which will be sure to attract the
fever. Don't you believe them. Sit still. You are as safe here as
anywhere. We do not intend to move, nor do the Dalzells, who have the
next house to us."

During the following month the terror grew daily, and as the hot
weather came on, we were sensibly aware of our too close proximity to
the meat market, Robert was sure we ought to remove, and he came home
one day delighted with an empty house which he had found. It was near
the sea, and it had unusually large rooms, all of which had just been
renovated, papered and painted. It is not great things, but trivial
ones, which generally produce the most important and tragic
consequences; and it was the fresh papering and painting that made me
willing to go through another removal. Yet I did not inspect the house
before moving into it; if I had, I am sure I should have hesitated
about doing so, but the weather was hot and humid, and the road
between it and the Wheeler cottage deep with sand. My feeling about
the change was really one of assent, rather than desire.

The place, however, appeared to be all that had been represented--roomy
and clean, freshly papered and painted, and so near to the Gulf that
we could hear the waves breaking on the shore. But as I walked through
the rooms, an indefinable repugnance took possession of me, and I
asked Robert if he knew who had been living in it?

"I do not," he said a little tartly. "I never thought of asking such a
question. Does it matter, Milly?"

"Yes," I answered, "it does matter a great deal. In spite of the fresh
paper and paint, the air of these rooms is not clean. Wicked people
must have lived in them."

Then he laughed, and said, "You are too fanciful. No one has lived in
the house," he continued, "for a great many years. It was almost a
ruin, when old Durr bought it. We are its first tenants since its
restoration to a respectable dwelling."

I said nothing further at the time, but I noticed that when the two
large lamps were lit in the parlor, they did not light the room. It
remained dull and gloomy, and full of shadows, and an eerie feeling of
fear and unconquerable depression dashed all desire to talk over our
arrangement of the furniture; deny it as he would, Robert and the
children were affected in the same way.

But the change was made, and the wisest plan was to accept it
hopefully. I put up the white curtains, and white mosquito draperies
as soon as possible, not only because they were necessary to our
comfort, but because I hoped the profusion of white would relieve the
gloom. I filled the rooms with flowers, I hung no pictures but such as
were of light coloring and cheerful subjects, and when I had finished
my work, I felt more satisfied with the place.

Then life settled to its usual routine, yet hardly so, for I was
counseled against allowing the children to study during the hot months
in which they were acclimating; and I felt little inclination myself
for any duty that was not an imperative necessity. I sat drowsily
within the open door hardly thinking. Life gradually became inertia. I
laid down my book and needle, and the children played without spirit,
or lay sleeping in any cool place they could find. In Austin the
thermometer had often stood ten or twelve degrees higher, and not
affected our work or spirits, but as soon as it passed ninety degrees
in Galveston it became intolerable. And at this time the average heat,
if I remember rightly, was one hundred degrees and upward.

Still I am glad now to recall we kept up as far as possible all our
household ways and traditions. No matter how hot the morning or night,
we never missed the usual family worship, and only in case of
sickness, did I permit either myself or the children, to neglect
dressing to meet their father for supper. I did not read so much aloud
to them, for we were all too listless and anxious to care about
imaginary sorrows, with so much real danger and suffering around.
Sometimes, however, I took a little stroll with Robert to the beach,
and sometimes even I went downtown with him as far as our grocer's. He
was a Glasgow man called Shaw, and Robert had formed a warm friendship
with him.

As the days and weeks went on, we could not escape the certain
knowledge that the fever was steadily gaining ground. During the
latter part of June the corporation were keeping large fires of tar
burning all through the city, and the gutters had a horrible odor of
disinfectants. Far and wide the lurid smoke of these fires darkened
the hot humid atmosphere, and at night their dark fantastic shadows,
and the singular forms they took, seemed to prefigure and presage the
fate of the doomed city. Here and there stores were closed, and
frequently dwellings full of human beings were marked with the dreaded
yellow cross.

At this time I had no great fear of the fateful sickness. However,
towards the middle of July affairs were coming to a frightful crisis.
The fever had at last reached the military camp of the United States
soldiers, which was but a block or two behind our house. There were a
thousand men in it, and every morning I saw long lines of carts filled
with rude boxes and tarred canvas pass the house. They were carrying
the dead to the long trenches made for them. In August the colonel of
this regiment died of the fever, and not thirty of the men were alive
to bury him.

There was nothing for the custom's house and post office to do, their
doors were shut; the Strand, which was the principal business street
of the city, was rank with waving grass. Its large warehouses, shops,
wharves and public buildings were closed. There were half a dozen
little places scattered about, that were still open, mainly for the
sale of bread and drugs, but they had an air of hopeless silence and
abandonment. A dreadful haze hung over the city, and the sea--a haze
that appeared to be filled with the very odors of despair and death. I
was glad when the corporation gave up all efforts at prevention. The
fever was now far beyond it, and Galveston was strictly isolated from
the living world. It had become a city of dreadful death.

Day after day and week after week the weather was of the same
distressing character--an hour or two of pouring, beating, tropical
rain, and then an hour or two of such awful heat and baleful sunshine,
as the language happily has no words to describe. These two conditions
alternated continually, and the consequence was streets full of
grass--this grass being literally alive with tiny frogs, frogs not
bigger than a bean, but in such enormous quantities that pedestrians
crushed hundreds under their feet with every step they took. I do not
exaggerate this sickening plethora of life; it is impossible to do
so.

One evening towards the end of August I told Robert we were out of
certain household necessities, and asked if he knew how they could be
procured. He answered, "Yes, Shaw told me if we wanted anything to
knock at his house door, and he would give me what was required. I
will go and see him after supper."

Then I pleaded, "Let me go with you, Robert. I want a walk so much."
He entreated me not to go, but I was resolved to see with my own eyes
whether things were as bad as reported, and after some demur he
consented. So I walked down into the city with him. A walk through
hell could hardly have been more dreadful. The beds of the dying were
drawn to the open windows, and there was hardly a dwelling wanting a
dying bed. The faces of the sufferers were white and awful, their
heads covered with crushed ice. They were raving, moaning, shrieking,
or choking with the appalling vomito. I covered my eyes, and clung to
Robert, and finally asked him to turn back.

"We are nearly at Shaw's," he answered, "and you had better rest there
half an hour. It will then be darker."

So he knocked at the door for admission, and one of Mr. Shaw's clerks
opened to us. Robert asked for Mr. Shaw, and the young man replied,
"He is in bed, very ill with the fever."

I knew it the moment the door was opened. A strong sickly odor, like
nothing ever felt before, told me so. I said to myself on the instant,
"It is the smell of yellow fever." And no one, I think, would have
failed to give it its own dreadful name--that is, if they were in a
situation where the fever was probable. There is no odor on earth to
which it is comparable. The soul loathes, and sickens, and trembles in
its presence; for there is no straighter or surer avenue to the soul
than the sense of smell.

I went home thoroughly frightened, and Robert I think was not sorry.
He had often told me I was too indifferent--not to the discomfort of
the situation--but to its danger. We found on reaching home that
Calvin and Alexander had not gone to bed, and then both boys cried in
our arms and said they dared not go to their rooms upstairs.

"There are evil spirits there, Papa," sobbed Calvin, "and they walk
about and stand and look at us. They emptied my drawers last night.
They pulled the clothes off our bed. Oh, they are so wicked, and so
dreadful! Save us from them, Papa! We cannot go upstairs tonight."

We were astounded, the more so as Mary and Lilly had a similar story
to tell. The dear children had been consulting in our absence, whether
we must be told, or whether they should try to bear it a little
longer--_until Mamma felt better_. Those four words smote me like a
whip.

Of course we comforted them, and gave the boys a room downstairs
beside us. Then I went to the kitchen to make some inquiries of the
servant, who also slept upstairs. She was a sensible middle-aged Dutch
woman, as little likely to be psychic, or even imaginative, as was the
bed upon which she slept. I found that she had gone home to sleep, but
would be back early in the morning. When she came in the morning, I
said to her, "Why did you go home last night, Gertrude?"

"Because it is impossible to sleep here, Madame," she answered. "There
are such strange noises, and I see dreadful men going up and down
stairs all night. I am afraid of them."

I told Robert what she said, and he answered in a sad, slow voice, "I
hear such things wherever I turn Milly. It is astonishing what some
men have told me. I could almost fear we were all in hell and did not
know it. During the great cholera year in Glasgow, 1847-8, people told
the same things, but the spiritual terror is far, far greater here,
and now, than it was there, and then."

"Do you think such a calamity as this is the work of evil spirits,
Robert?"

"It may be. But if so, they are only the agents of a wise and merciful
God who permits them so far, and no further. There is the case of Job,
and when Daniel prayed for help, the help, though sent by the
Archangel Michael, was delayed twenty-one days; for Michael had to
fight the Evil Ones, who opposed him." Then we were silent and
thoughtful, and I had suddenly a childish fear, that it was not well
to talk of the Evil Ones. They could perhaps hear what we said.

I will try to write as little as possible about the spiritual terror
of this time, but ignoring a subject does not annihilate it, and this
subject was one of general concern and absorbing interest. There were
few people--men and women both--who had not some strange or terrible
experience to relate. Nor were these experiences confined to the
vulgar, the ignorant, the superstitious or the irreligious; they
affected every class, without any distinction of social standing, age
or culture.

We must remember that every one for three months dwelt at the mouth of
the grave. The terror by night, the pestilence that walked in
darkness, the destruction that wasted at noonday was their companion
and their conversation. The invisible world drew strangely near to the
visible; every one talked with bated breath of things supernatural. It
was an atmosphere in which the solemn and thoughtful grew spiritual,
but which offended and angered natures of clayey mold.

Those who have visited old churches and cathedrals where men have
prayed and poured out spiritual emotions for centuries know how
powerfully they are moved by this unseen force of righteousness; how
softly they tread! How lowly they speak! How readily their souls
respond to the reverent thoughts that spring voluntarily to their
consideration! Such places are really sacred. God has visited them,
angels have rested in their solemn aisles, mortals seeking heavenly
mercy have found it there.

Now the power of evil association with places is quite as great--perhaps
greater; for evil clings passionately to whatever is of the earth.
There are many places today filled with the strong vibrations of
tragedies long since enacted there. Go and stand, even at bright
noonday, amid the ruins of some old Druidical temple, and you will be
chilled by the supernal horror that yet lingers there. Every city has
its own mental atmosphere, and it affects persons moving to it. In a
lesser degree every tabernacle built by man, and used by man, becomes
imbued with his personality, physical and spiritual. I knew
dwellings in England where the same family had lived for centuries,
that had actually the aura of the family, and in their arrangement and
atmosphere, almost its personality. Indeed, every habitation reveals
in some degree the nature of the people who dwell in it. So I wondered
constantly as to who had built and lived in the old house we had
unfortunately taken possession of. I was sure that their wraiths were
still in it, and that our presence annoyed them. But we told ourselves
that their malignity could have no power over us. Whatever came,
though it were the fever, we were determined to take it as from God's
will.

One night in August, Robert brought home with him a Mr. Hall, an old
Austin friend. They had some business to talk over, and when I saw
their conversation was finished, I had supper brought in, and as we
sat down to the table, Mr. Hall glanced round the parlor and remarked,
"The old pirate's nest has quite a Barr-y look already."

"Pirate's nest!" I ejaculated. "What do you mean, Mr. Hall?"

"Well," he answered, "if devils haunt the places they made hells upon
earth, Lafitte and his men must be here. It is said that Durr's house
was standing in the days when Galveston was called Campeachy, and was
a haunt and home of the vilest men, pirates and murderers from the
scum of all nations, ruled by the infamous Lafitte. By the way, Barr,"
he continued, "Lafitte was a great slave trader, and he had a very
convenient way of selling negroes; a dollar a pound for them, old or
young. If this should have been Lafitte's house, as I have heard some
suppose, it was originally painted blood-red, and----"

"Mr. Hall," interrupted Robert, "I think you ought not to mention such
things in Madame's presence."

"I beg Madame's pardon," he answered, "but I felt sure she had already
heard many incomprehensible things. To me they are hardly so, for I
know what fiends once made Galveston Island their home. Do you think
they have forgotten the place of their sins and cruelties? No, Furies
of ancient crimes are here, revengeful souls full of unsatisfied
hatreds. Perhaps they have been given a strange enlargement for some
reason, and that reason must be within the permission and mercy of
God."

Robert made a motion of dissent. "I do not believe," he said, "that
God would select for the execution of any of his purposes, foul
spirits who gloat in cruelties."

"We know nothing more surely of God, than that he is love and mercy. I
am one of those who believe even in the repentance and forgiveness of
that great Archangel who fell, and drew after him a third part of
heaven."

"Now, Hall----"

"Yes, I believe in the full and final triumph of good. Why else should
Christ have descended into hell to preach to the spirits in prison
there? He had surely some hope or promise to give, or He would not
have gone. I hope I may at least have the same divine charity which is
expressed in one of the most ancient Persian hymns."

"Do you know the hymn, Mr. Hall?" I asked.

"I know the lines I refer to."

"Will you repeat them?"

"In the translation I possess, they read thus:

  'Ormuzd grant me the grace, the joy of seeing
  Him who makes the Evil, be brought to comprehend
  The purity of the Heart. Grant that I may see the
  Great Chief of the Evil Ones, loving nothing but holiness;
  And forever speaking the Word, among the
  Converted demons.'"

"Thank you," I answered, and Mr. Hall continued, "Take your Bible.
Between cover and cover, there is not any doctrine more constantly
taught and exemplified, than the one teaching angelic and demoniacal
agency. What says Madame?"

"I believe in it," I answered, "just as I believe in the resurrection
of the dead and the communion of saints. They are articles of the same
creed. I cannot doubt one, without doubting the other; and I hope I
have a share of that divine charity which inspired the Persian
worshipper. David believed that even if he made his bed in hell, God
would care for him, and Ezekiel tells us that Pharaoh shall be
comforted in hell." (Ezekiel, 32:31.)

"Do you remember in what chapter?" asked Mr. Hall.

"No," I answered, "but we will look for it after supper." Then I
changed the conversation for Robert looked as much like a Sadducee as
any dweller in ancient Jewry could have done.

That night we were both very sad and quiet, and after Mr. Hall had
left, Robert sat down by his two sons and talked softly to them for a
long time. I sat at the open door, listening to the great voice of the
sea lamenting and creeping up through the darkness. At that hour my
faith was weak, and I could not help remembering how, when I first
crossed this unhappy threshold, my heart sighed heavily, and my very
steps were reluctant and prelusive of sorrow. But in a little while
Robert came to comfort me, and he spoke so bravely of God's omnipotent
power, and of his goodness to us in every emergency, that I soon found
no difficulty in carrying my fearful heart from this unhappy house,
safe to the hidden house of God's abiding.

That night I had a dream. It is as clear to my inward vision this hour
as when I awoke from it. I was by the side of a river, a river black
and motionless. Great trees overshadowed it, and all its banks were
hidden in a lush growth of rushes and long grasses. It was a horror of
marshy earth and dead water. And among the long rushes and dead water,
a human figure lay, a man unnaturally thin and tall, with a yellowish,
deathlike face, surrounded by long straight black hair. He lay prone
as if asleep, but slowly raised himself, and looked at me. Then with a
languid air, but a voice of fate, he said, "_One shall be taken, and
the other left_."

I awoke, and my heart was sick, for I had seen the likeness of yellow
fever. And from that hour I knew, that either I must leave my dear
ones, or they would have to leave me. For come how it may, dreams _do_
read the future. Then why should we despise their teaching? How can we
tell what subtle lines run between spirit and spirit? Fifty years ago
we would have thought it a thing incredible, if told that a man in New
York could talk with a man in Chicago. Can it not be as easy for the
dear ones who have left us, to send a warning dream, as it is for our
scientists by means of spectrum analysis, to examine a ray of light
from Sirius, Capella or any distant star, and tell us what are the
elements of their composition. And from the dream there soon followed
reality. I went softly. I hung around my husband and children with a
wistful tenderness. I asked God to prepare me for whatever He sent,
and all my prayer was, "Let us fall into Thy Hands."

I can make no apology for being now compelled to refer to a life not
this life. It would indeed be a miserable one-sided biography of any
human being, that was only a biography of their physical life. We are
soul as well as body. It is not that we _have_ a soul, we _are_ a
soul; and this higher part is in no one quiescent. The men who think
of nothing outside their physical senses, have often souls of a far
more pronounced type than their physical man; the type may be evil,
but even while they ignore its agency, they are ruled by it.

I had been _in touch with myself_ all my life long; by night and
day the other Amelia was familiar to my apprehension, and an
incommunicable sense of another world never far away. Hitherto, I
had been astonished that while others saw and heard so much from
this other world, I had been singularly free from spiritual
influences. The dream I have just related, was the first intimation I
received of a personal share in the general calamity. I did not speak
of it to Robert, but as I have said, I went prayerfully about my
house, and all my pleasant work fell from my listless hands.

Sometime after midnight on the twentieth of August I rose from my bed.
I could not sleep; I was too restless and unhappy, but all whom I
loved appeared to be sleeping well. So I sat down in a rocking-chair
facing an open window which looked towards the sea. This open window
was however screened by the ordinary green blinds, made of thin slats
of wood. All was quiet but the dull roar of the sea, troubling the sad
heart of the night with a sound of vague anger and menace; and the
stillness of earth and sky was ghostly and melancholy. I heard a faint
stir among the leaves of the Japonica hedge that surrounded the place,
and I stopped rocking and sat motionless listening.

Then there fell upon the closed blinds--on which my eyes were fixed--a
blow so tremendous, that I was sure they must be shattered; but ere I
could rise, another blow of less intensity followed, and then a third
not quite as crashing as the second. I never for a moment thought the
blows were given by any instrument. I was sure they were made by hand.
I went to Robert's side. He was fast asleep. The children also were
sleeping. Then I understood. I prayed for God's mercy, but God seemed
far from me. Until the dim gray dawn I sat in troubled thought, but
when I heard Robert stir I told him what had happened, and begged him
to come to the window with me. I had been afraid to go near it; I had
turned my back upon it, but I was sure the blinds were shattered.

There was not a slat broken. But the thin strips of wood were indented
and showed plainly the full shape of a hand twice as large as any
human hand. Why were the blinds not broken to pieces by three blows
from a hand like that? And how could the thin strips of wood be made
to bend and to take that impression? This evidence of physical force,
made by some spiritual entity remained for every one to see, as long
as I lived in the house. As to what came after, I know not. I never
again went within sight of the place.

That day I noticed that the leaves of the Japonica hedge had turned
black, and were covered with a loathsome sweat or moisture, and Robert
told me he had been with Scotch Brown to the camp to do something for
a Scotchman ill there, and that they were shown the body of a calf
killed one hour previously, and it was as black as a piece of coal. "I
would not let the children go outside, Milly," he said, "the very
atmosphere has the fever."

That night Alexander was taken ill, and before midnight he was
delirious. The next day Lilly was sick, and the following day Mary.
There was then no institution like the present trained nurses, but the
Scotchmen of Galveston had formed themselves into a society for
nursing each other, if attacked by fever; and Robert and Scotch Brown
had been busily engaged in this work for some weeks. Now Scotch Brown
came to our assistance. He went into the kitchen, and could cook a
suitable meal if necessary. He kept the negro hired help at their
duties, and no woman could have been more tender, more watchful, more
ready to help and to comfort. Lilly had not a very bad attack, but
Mary came perilously near to the fatal end. But carefully watched and
nursed, they passed the crisis, and began to recover. The recovery
from yellow fever is very rapid, but if a relapse should take place,
the case is hopeless.

On Sunday, the sixth of September, Alexander, Lilly and Mary were
apparently getting well as satisfactorily as we could expect. Mary
looked white and frail; Alexander lay mostly on the sofa; Lilly, in
spite of yellow fever, had her usual bright smile and cheerful voice;
but, Oh, how happy we were to be able to gather at the dinner table!
Very sparing was the food of the invalids, but they enjoyed it, and we
had a pleasant meal. It was a very happy day, I remember every hour of
it. It was the last day I was to spend with my husband and sons, but I
knew it not. Surely, I thought, God has heard my prayers, and we shall
all be spared to thank Him. We did so together, as soon as supper was
over, and the children with kisses and loving words went early to
rest. Robert and I sat until late; Robert was very quiet, but I leaned
my head against his shoulder, and we spoke tenderly and hopefully to
each other of things past, and of things likely to come. And as I
brushed out my hair, and coiled it for the night, I said cheerfully to
him,

  "God doth not leave His Own.
  The night of weeping for a time may last,
  Then tears all past,
  His going forth shall as the morning shine.
  The sunrise of His favor shall be thine and mine,
  God doth not leave His Own."




CHAPTER XVII

THE NEVER-COMING-BACK CALLED DEATH

  "Calamity is a delicate goddess, and her feet are tender. Her feet
  are soft. She treads not on the ground. She takes her path upon
  the hearts of men."


The next day was the worst we had yet seen. It poured incessantly, and
when the rain ceased at nightfall, it was followed by a fog so dense
that it seemed palpable. Every room in the house was full of it,
lights would hardly burn, and breathing was not easy. Robert and the
children went early to bed, but I wandered about the different rooms,
watching the sleepers. I did not feel very well, and was nervous and
full of fears. When the clock struck twelve I was worse, and I
concluded it would be well for me to try to sleep. But before putting
down the lamp, I opened the Bible, for my father had often told me, to
take a verse to bed with me to meditate upon, if I happened to be
wakeful. It was a common, almost a nightly custom, and I followed it
at that hour more as a habit than a conscious intent. So opening the
Bible, as my fingers touched the screw of the lamp, my eyes fell upon
these words, "_Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them
alive; and let your widows trust in me_." (Jeremiah, 49:11.)

My first emotion was anger. I closed the Book hastily but did not put
out the light. I told myself, that I would not go to bed with that
strange verse pealing in my ears. And I wondered at my opening on the
Book of Jeremiah; it was one book that we never read, either
personally or in the family. Its pages indeed were fresh and white,
while the Psalms and Gospels were well worn and discolored. All that
splendid faith, which is exactly to the inner woman what courage is to
the physical woman, had slipped away from me. Why was God so hard to
me? I wanted so much a little verse of comfort, and I had been given
an evil prediction. I cried very much as a sensitive child would cry,
who thought its dearly loved father had been unkind, or indifferent to
its distress.

I had said, I would not go to bed with that verse pealing in my ears,
but the pain in every limb of my body grew constantly worse. I put my
fingers upon my wrist, and found there that peculiar "bound" that says
at every throb, _yellow fever_! I knew at last, that I was smitten
with the fever. Then I called Robert, and was quickly in such physical
anguish that I forgot all else; also a feeling of sheer despair took
possession of me, and during the ensuing week I was only conscious of
the agony of a thirst, which could not be satisfied but at the risk of
the vomito. Robert put bits of crushed ice between my lips frequently,
but they did not assuage the cruel longing for water. I was in an
unconscious state wandering in "a desolate land, where the pains of
hell get hold on me--a land of deserts and pits, a land of drought and
of the shadow of death, that no man passed through, and where no man
dwelt;" and into which neither husband nor child could follow me;
tossing, muttering, slowly parching and burning up, I lived on from
day to day.

But He that "turneth man to destruction" says also, "Return ye
children of men;" and on Friday, the eleventh, I became conscious of
Robert at my side, and of the children passing through the room and
coming to me. I could feel their soft kisses on my hands and face, and
I finally found strength to ask Mary, "How are Calvin and Alice?"

"Calvin is sick, Mamma," she answered. "Papa put him in my room; he
wanted to be near you."

"Very sick?" I asked.

"Not as bad as I was."

"Alice?"

"She has the fever very slightly. She is nearly well. Alexander, also,
but you, dear Mamma?"

"All is right."

The next day I was much worse. I could not move, and was hardly able
to whisper a word or two, and towards midnight Alexander had a
relapse. Wringing his hands, and full of a strange reluctance, Robert
went out into the dreadful night to try to find a doctor. What
happened on that fateful walk, I may not write, but he brought back
the doctor, who looked at the child, and then turning to Robert said,

"You will be wanted soon, lie down and sleep. Oh, you must! You must!
I will stay here until you awake."

I know not how long Robert slept. He threw himself on a sofa within
sight of my bed, and appeared to fall into a deep sleep as soon as his
head touched the pillow. Alexander begged to come to me, and the
doctor laid him at my feet, and I felt with an indescribable thrill of
love and anguish, his little hand clasp my ankle.

The clock had just struck three, when I heard Robert start suddenly to
his feet and cry, "_Yes, sir!_" Then smiting his hands together as if
in distress, he cried out still loudly, "_Yes, sir! I am coming!_" The
doctor rose and went to him. "Barr," he asked, "what is the matter?"
for Robert was weeping as men seldom weep--long moaning sobs, that
were the very language of heart-breaking despair. "What is the
trouble, my friend?" the doctor asked again, and Robert answered,

"My father called me twice, and I--I answered him. He has been dead
thirty-two years."

"Well then, your father would only come for your relief and help."

"He came for _me_, Doctor; the summons was inexorable, and sure."

"Let us go to the child. He is very ill."

I heard these words, and I felt at the same moment a tighter clasp of
the small hand round my ankle, and Robert's kiss upon my cheek. Then
the hours went slowly and cruelly by, and in the afternoon the
beginning of the end commenced. But just before it, the child had
another attack similar to the one he and his brother had shared on the
train coming in to Galveston. He was quite unconscious, even of his
physical agony, his eyes firmly fixed their vision far, far beyond any
earthly horizon. His father sat like a stone gazing at him, and I
could not have moved a finger, or spoken a word, no, not to have saved
his life.

The trance lasted only a few minutes, but he came out of it sighing,
and then asked in a voice of awe and wonder, "_Who is that man waiting
for me, Papa?_" He was assured there was no one waiting, but he
replied, "_Yes, there is a man waiting for me. He is in the next
room_." Then his father noticed that his eyes had a new, deep look in
them, as if some veil had been rent, and he with open face had beheld
things wonderful and secret.

About seven o'clock they took him away from me into the next room. He
clung to my feet, and begged to stay with me, and I--Oh, I strove as
mortals strive with the impossible to speak, to plead, that he might
remain! But it could not be. His father lifted him in his arms, and
through the next five awful hours he held him there. No! no! It is not
writable, unless one could write with blood and tears. At midnight it
was over. But as his father laid down the little boy, Mrs. Lee went to
him, and said,

"Calvin is very ill. Go and speak to him, while you can."

He went at once and put his arm under the sweet child, and spoke to
him. And the first words the dying boy uttered were, "Papa, what is
the matter with my brother?"

"He is very ill, Calvin."

"Is he dying?"

"Yes."

"Tell him to wait for me. I am dying, too, Papa! I cannot see you! I
am blind! Kiss me, Papa."

These were his last words. He died two hours after his brother, and I
do not doubt they went together; and they had "a Man" with them, who
knew his way through the constellations. They would go straight to Him
whom their souls loved. I was not permitted to see either of them, and
on Tuesday afternoon they were buried. I heard them carry out the
coffins; I heard their father's bitter grief, and I was dumb and
tearless.

After they were buried, Robert came straight to me. "They are laid
side by side, Milly, darling," he said. "Now _I also_ must leave you.
Forgive Robert all that he has ever done to grieve you." I tried to
tell him I had nothing to forgive, that he was always good to me, but
he shook his head sadly, and continued, "O Milly, my love, my wife,
farewell! I must go, dearest! I must go! O my dear, dear wife,
farewell!" and I could only answer with low sharp cries. I had not a
word for this moment. At the open door our eyes met in a long parting
gaze, and then I remember nothing more, till it was dark and late, and
I heard the sounds of men busy in the next room.

I never saw my husband again. On Wednesday he died. Thank God, he died
as Calvin did, of general congestion. Death mounted from his dead feet
to his heart, and head, with a swift sure pace, but he was really
dying all the last three days that he was nursing his dying sons. He
fell on guard, and Death came as a friend to relieve him:

  "And so he passed to joy, through bitter woe,
  As some great galleon through dark may go,
  Where no star glimmers, and the storm wind wails
  Until the rose of Morning touch her sails."

Mrs. Lee stayed at his side until the last moment, and when all was
finished, she came to me. "He has gone!" she said.

"I know," I answered. "He passed me as he went. There was _One_ with
him. I thank God! What time did he go?"

"It was just ten minutes past eleven."

Then I remembered the pendulum of the clock falling at ten minutes
past eleven. And the memory gave me a sudden sense of comfort. Some
wiser Intelligence than ourselves, had known even then, what was
before us; had known when Robert left his home, that he was faring
into the shadows in which his grave was hid. His death was not a blind
hap-hazard calamity. It was a foreseen event, an end pre-determined by
Infinite Wisdom and Love. O mystery of life! From what unexpected
sources, spring thy lessons and thy comforts! Whatever life was left
in me was quickened by this blow. I felt it to the foundation of
being, and though I could not speak to those around me, I could to the
_Divine Other_ who was closer to me than breathing, and nearer than
hands or feet. Instantly I found myself urging that almighty help.

"I cannot die now," I pleaded. "Oh, I cannot die and leave those
three little girls alone--in a strange land, without money, without
relative or friend to care for them! Oh, help me to live! Help me to
live for their sakes! Not for thy sake, for thou can never see death!
not for my sake, I am but as a dead woman now; but for my children's
sake, help me to recover my strength! Help me, and I shall live."

In this manner I silently prayed, with all the fervor of which my soul
was capable. And in that central tract of emotion where life and death
meet, there are paths of spiritual experience remote and obscure,
until some great crisis finds them out--experiences not to be unfolded
save to that _one_ Soul, and for which words--however wise--are
impotent things. I feel this truth as I write, for I cannot find a way
to explain the sure and certain influx of life, that came to me, even
as I entreated for it. It came from no drug, no physician, no human
help of any kind, but direct from the _Thee in Me_ who works behind
the veil, the _More of Life_ in whom we live and move and have our
Being.

I do not say that my prayer changed God's will or purpose concerning
me. Oh, no! but God directed my prayer. He put my petition into my
heart. The prayer was granted ere I made it. For if we do right, it is
God which teaches us both to will and to do, so that every soul that
cries out to the Eternal, finds the Eternal; I care not when, or
where. God is not far from any one of us, and in every case he seeks
us, before we have the desire to seek Him.

I had a full and ready answer to my soul's petition. I recovered
rapidly, and in ten days was able to leave my room, and gather the
salvage of my wrecked home around me. No doubt most of my readers have
a keen and personal knowledge of that weight of grief, which hangs
like lead in the rooms, and on the stairs, where the footsteps of the
loved dead have sounded. They know what it is to come back from the
grave of their love, and see his hat lying where he threw it down
forever, and his slippers at the foot of the bed he died on. And, oh,
what a multitude of mothers that no man could number, know what it
means to put away the empty clothing that still keeps a heartbreaking
look of the little form that moulded it--or the small worn shoes and
stockings, the toys and books, that will never more be needed. Alas it
is too common an experience to require words! This grief has but to be
named, and at any hour thousands of heavy hearts can fill in all its
sad details.

After the month of September the fever, for the very want of victims,
began to decline, and about the middle of October there was a storm
which shook Galveston Island to its foundation. The waters of the Gulf
of Mexico and the Bay of Galveston met, and mingled, in the center of
the city. There was a hurtling, roaring tempest around it, and a
tremendous battle in the firmament above it. It was "a day of
desolation, a day of darkness, of clouds and of thick darkness;" and
throughout the hours the storm gathered strength. All night the
inhabitants sat still in terror, while the sea beat at their doors,
and their homes rocked in the terrific wind.

After midnight, when the roaring and crashing and fury of the elements
were at their height, it was easy to call to remembrance the
magnificent description of just such a storm in Habakkuk, 3:5-12, and
as the children drew closer and closer to me, I repeated what I could
of it:

"Before him went the pestilence, and burning coals went forth at his
feet ... and the everlasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual
hills did bow.... I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction.... Was thy
wrath against the sea, that thou didst ride upon thine horses and thy
chariots of salvation?... The overflowing of the water passed by: the
deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high. The sun and
the moon stood still in their habitation.... Thou wentest forth for
the salvation of thy people."

At the dawning, the tempest lulled off with mighty, sobbing winds;
sullenly but surely it went, and with it departed entirely the
dreadful pestilence. There was not another case known. The Lord had
indeed arisen for the salvation of the city, and His angels had driven
away the powers of darkness that had been permitted there for a
season. Oh, then if our eyes had been opened! If we could have seen
the battle in the firmament above us! If we could have seen "the Man
Gabriel," or Michael "the great prince which standeth for the children
of God's people against the evil ones," then, no doubt, we should
have said with Elisha, "Fear not: for they that be with us are more
than they that be with them."

After the hurricane the inhabitants arose as one man, to build up and
to repair, and to put out of sight and memory all traces of their
great calamity. At this time, and for long after, my diary is a record
of the most extraordinary kindness shown me, both by acquaintances and
friends. Scotch Brown seemed to consider us under his special care,
and this self-imposed trust he filled with such delicacy and
generosity, that I feel angry at myself today, when I find such meagre
acknowledgment of it. I must have been truly selfish, or gratitude
would have caused me to write less concerning my own suffering, and
more about Scotch Brown's thoughtfulness in supplying the little
comforts of life, that no one else considered. Thus he saw that I had
my newspaper and my mail, or if the servant left, he found us another.
His help was always practical help. It had few words, and I do not
seem to have realized its wonderful faithfulness and unselfishness.
Many a time afterwards I longed for a friendship like his, but I have
never found it, and in the face of my own words, I say, "It serves me
right." Mrs. Lee visited me once a day, sometimes twice; Mayor
Williams looked after any business that came up, and took the children
nearly every day for a drive on the beach. He was Alice's godfather,
and he acted the part of a godfather to each of the three girls. A
great many people are named in this part of my diary, whom I have
quite forgotten, but they were distinctly Robert's friends--men whom
he had nursed through the fever, or had had business relations with,
mostly Glasgow men, or at least Scotchmen, but it did me good to talk
with them about him.

On the fifth of December my son Andrew was born at four o'clock A.M. I
was so happy that the child was a boy, that I cried with thankfulness
and delight. He appeared to be a fine strong infant, but he soon
showed signs of yellow fever, contracted before his birth, and died
when he was five days old at ten minutes to eleven P.M. The next
morning he was laid beside his father and two elder brothers. The
cycle of the birthplace and the grave fulfilled his doom of earth.

So far I had endured the will of God, but I was not resigned. It was
so hard to make my heart believe in its great loss. Often as I sat
sewing I would say, "Oh, I must be dreaming! I must wake up! I must go
to the gate! He may be coming now!" and I would rise to go to the
gate, and look and listen, and sometimes I heard the quick strong
steps for which I waited and listened. For the ear has its own memory,
and listens for an accustomed sound, and the imagination does not
always suffer it to be disappointed.

This delusion lasted for many months, and I have no doubt the majority
of widows have experienced it. Some one of them, I wish I knew her
name, has expressed it for all, in the following lines:

  "Half-unbelieving doth my heart remain of its great woe,
  I waken, and a dull, dead sense of pain, is all I know;
  Then dimly in the darkness, my mind I feel about,
  To know what 'tis that troubles me, and find my sorrow out.
  And hardly with long pains, my heart I bring its loss to own,
  It seemeth yet impossible, that thou art gone.
  That whatsoever else of good, for me in store remain.
  This lieth out of hope, my Love, to see thy face again."

As the year drew to a close, I had fully recovered my strength, indeed
I had not been in such fine general health for many years, and with
this feeling of physical well-being, there came an urgent sense of the
necessity of work. My money, though used with great economy, was
decreasing fast, and I had no source for supplying this loss, except
by an application to Robert's mother, which I did not wish to make. So
I was troubled and anxious and very unhappy. One Sabbath morning about
a week before Christmas I was alone in the house, the children had
gone to church, the girl in the kitchen to High Mass. I sat thinking
of my position, and wondering what I must do. Naturally, I thought
also of the One, who had hitherto taken from my shoulders all the
burden and the care of life.

Then a great illumination came to me. I saw events as I had never seen
them before. I had always considered myself as one of the most loving
and careful of wives and mothers. If any one had told me that I was
not, I should have been indignant. But the dead open the eyes of the
living. I saw myself that hour, as a character that amazed me and
almost broke my heart. Every unreasonable mood, every ungracious and
unkind look, every cross word came back to my memory to torture me!
Oh, how I had wounded and disappointed those whom I loved best! What a
selfish woman I had been!

I was so shocked at the accusations my conscience made against me,
that I was silent even from prayer. I had been unkind to the souls of
those nearest and dearest to me, and I had no way of redressing the
wrong. Why then think about it? Because we cannot say to the heart,
"Thou shalt not remember." And if we could forget, it would be a great
moral forfeiture, a treason against our own souls. So I let conscience
accuse me until I had remembered, and speechlessly acknowledged all my
failures. Then I laid my sorrowful heart, with all its love and
contrition at His feet. All my slighted duties, cold retirements, and
small returns for love unselfish even unto death, I cast into the
abyss of His mercy. There were some moments of terrible lucidity, but
when my grief subsided, it was followed by a wonderful peace. The
feeling of the Infinite around me grew solemnly sweet and distinct,
and my soul turned to it. "My God! My God!" I whispered; and though
there were only four words given me, I had a joy past utterance.
Trouble was lighter than a grasshopper and, oh, what words can
describe that felicity of repose which the ebbing of the spiritual
tide left behind it!

I am writing of nothing supernatural. My experience is not uncommon,
and it might be universal. I wish to God it was! I can only speak for
myself, but of myself I have a right to speak.

  "What I know, I know;
  And where I find place for my foot,
  I plant it firmly there."

So I bring my religious experiences to the common stock of religious
facts, because I believe it would be a good thing for the world if
more people spoke to it of their knowledge of unseen realities. What I
have heard in the silence is not for me alone. I must tell my message
in the open place for all I reach, to hear and consider.

I know everything that science and creeds and set forms can say
against such experiences. Science, which affects to dote on the
material, is everywhere brought up short by impalpable but adamantine
gates of which God alone holds the key. It is as inscrutable and
mysterious as any spiritual occurrence or event. What scientist can
yet disclose, how the green bud becomes the rose?

As to outward rites and ceremonies at set times, they are useful to
many, but we

  "... may not hope from outward forms to win,
  The glory of the Life whose fountains are within."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "... Councils, doctors, priests,
  Are but the signs that point us to the spring
  Whence flow thy living waters. From thyself, direct,
  The secret comes to all worthy to find it."

Very light was my soul that happy morning, and I might well be happy.
Such moments as I had spent alone with God are both sacrificial and
sacramental. They are strong with absolution, and the soul comes out
of them justified, and full of hope.

The following day I called Mary and Lilly to me, and told them that
our stock of money was getting low, and that as I was now quite well I
must find something to do which would make us a living.

"Have you thought of this necessity, my dears?" I asked. Both answered
they had thought a great deal about it. Then I said,

"Mary, what in your opinion is the best thing to try?"

[Illustration: MISS LILLY BARR]

"A first class school for girls," was her ready reply. "You like to
teach big girls, Mamma, and I can take charge of the little ones."

I saw dissent on Lilly's face, and I asked, "Is that your opinion
also, Lilly?"

"No, indeed!" she answered promptly. "I have often asked Mary, what
good there would be in opening a school, when there were no scholars.
The school I went to before the fever has not re-opened, nor has the
school Calvin went to. There are no scholars for either of them,
because there is no money to pay the teachers. And there is no money
either to buy school dresses, and shoes and books and such things. I
was talking to Lulu Jordan a few days since, and she told me, she
could not go to school because she had only one decent suit, and she
had to save that for church."

"Well, then, Lilly, have you any idea as to what we can do?"

"Yes, Mamma. I would rent a proper room, very near the great shops,
and fit it up to sell books, papers, fine stationery for girls' love
letters, pretty ribbons, tarlatans of all colors for dancing dresses,
cheap laces--oh, everything that girls and women want, and especially
embroidery silks and threads and patterns. I would buy the best tea
you can get, and give ladies a cup of tea, and an Albert biscuit, and
charge them fifteen cents for it. Don't laugh, Mamma; yes, _do_ laugh,
Mamma. It is so good to hear you laugh again. You know I could attend
to the tea department. I'd like to do it."

I can see her bright eager face as I write these words, and also
Mary's calm dissenting smile, which was both critical and disapproving.

"What do you say, Mary, to this plan?" I asked.

"A plan that you should keep a shop, Mamma? It is absurd. Grandmother
would never speak to us again."

"I don't think she fatigues herself with speaking to us now," said
Lilly; "and when she does send us a letter, it generally spoils two or
three whole days."

"No shop of any kind would make our living," continued Mary. "Mamma
could not make any shop pay. Mamma does not have the qualities that
make a shopkeeper."

I listened with interest to this conversation. Evidently my daughters
had not a high opinion of my commercial ability, and I may as well
admit here, that their estimate was a just one. I had no business
tact. I could calculate neither profit nor loss. I had no power to
judge of probabilities. Certainly I had intuitions, often singularly
wise ones, but I had no more experience than the two girls who were
discussing me. I was, however, a little piqued at Mary's assertion
that, "Mamma could not make any shop pay," and I asked her why she
made such a statement.

"Because, dear Mamma," she answered, "you would be cheated both in
your buying and your selling. I have heard Papa say often, that you
paid too much for all you bought, and you know when we were in Cook's
house and had such quantities of eggs and chickens, that you sold
some, and every one paid you less than market price, or mostly paid
you nothing at all."

This question with its asides and amendments kept us talking all day;
for a norther had sprung up, and it was too cold for any of us to
venture outside. Just as the dim came on, and Lilly rose to light the
candles, and I to throw some cedar logs on the fire, there was a knock
at the door, and Mayor Williams came in. Mary helped him off with his
coat, and he sat down before the blazing fire, and took Alice upon his
knee.

"Mrs. Barr," he said, "I want to have a little talk with you and the
girls, so if you will ask me to a cup of tea, we can discuss what I
have come to say over it."

"In ten minutes," I said, "supper will be ready;" and I went to the
dining-room to hurry forward its service. I knew whatever business he
wished to discuss must in his opinion be important, or he would not
have come to the house in a norther. As soon therefore as we were
seated at the table, I said, "We have been talking all day, Mr.
Williams, of work and business, and of how we are to make money."

"And I," he answered, "have been talking to General Waul about your
position, and I think he has shown me a way that you can follow."

"General Waul!" I ejaculated. "I do not know him at all. Who is
General Waul?"

"He would feel much hurt at your asking such a question. He was the
Commander of Waul's Legion, and a man of mark during the war."

"Is he a soldier now?"

"No. He is now the most prominent lawyer in Galveston. His estate is
on the main land, but he wishes to get board and lodging for himself
and Mrs. Waul in a family where there are no lodgers. I told him about
your position, and it came to this: He says he will pay you one
hundred dollars a month for their board and lodging. He says also,
that he can bring with him four or five other lawyers, and I think I
can assure you of two of my friends, and there is Scotch Brown,
Barton, East, Sutherland, Miller, Thomas, and others whom Mr. Barr
nursed through the fever, and who will be glad to return in this way
the kindness he showed them."

"O Mr. Williams!" I answered. "I am most grateful to you. I may not at
first manage as well as I should like, but I will do my best."

"And we will help you, all we can, Mamma," said Mary and Lilly. So
without having once thought of such a thing, I felt myself committed
to running a boarding-house for the Lawyer's Mess, and such other
gentlemen as seemed advisable. My first question regarded the house.

"Shall I have to move?" I asked. "Or will this dwelling be suitable?"

"You will have to move at once," was the answer. "This place is too
far from the business part of the town; it never had a pleasant name;
and its fatal record during the fever would terrify guests. I have
just the house proper for your purpose in my mind. It was empty during
the fever, and there is no one in it now, but there will be tenants,
if you do not take it, tomorrow."

"Where is it?"

"In the pleasantest part of Tremont Street, next door to your friend
Dr. Estabrook. If you do not mind the cold, meet me at the doctor's
tomorrow at twelve o'clock, and I will go with you to the owner, and
see that no advantage is taken of you."

I could not help a smile. My business incompetency must indeed be
flagrantly palpable, to make my business friend think it necessary to
leave his official duties to protect me. Then I told him what my
daughters' opinion of it was, and so gave myself up to their
management and advice. And there was a happy, hopeful feeling in every
heart at our simple table. The way, and the work shown me, was not the
way and the work I would have chosen; but we talked ourselves into a
kind of enthusiasm concerning it. I made little of the cold or the
labor of the removal, and was only anxious for the morning, that I
might begin to get away from the house in which I had suffered such
loss and sorrow.

I turned my thoughts persistently to the new house, to the new work,
and the new life; and my heart thrilled, as in years gone by, to the
warm, bright hope that had been given it. It was so naturally easy for
me to hope when things came to me unexpectedly, with all the sanguine
air of godsends. To this day, I have the same disposition, and find it
hard to consider my good hope baseless. _A seed must have been on the
spot where a flower blooms._

In a week we were settled in the house on Tremont Street, and soon
after General and Mrs. Waul took possession of its best room. I had
had some fears about Mrs. Waul, who I was told had been a great beauty
and a social leader in Washington and New Orleans. I found her in many
respects a delightful woman, thoroughly good-natured, freely frank, in
manner witty, clever in conversation, and still beautiful. She was
also easily pleased, and whatever she asked was generally as
advantageous to myself as to her. Thus a few days after she came to
live with us, she said to me, as we were sitting together in the
parlor,

"This is a very pleasant room." I assented, and she continued, "and it
would be much more pleasant if differently arranged."

"How would you arrange it?" I asked.

She stood up and looked carefully around. "Why, my dear," she answered
in her pretty, patronizing manner, "in arranging a room, you must
follow the same rule as in dressing a woman. A woman makes all she can
of her strong points, brings them into notice, puts them forward, and
so on. Don't you think so?"

"Yes," I answered, "but there is no harm in that."

"Just so, and a room ought to have its strong points considered in the
same way; that is, the handsomest or prettiest piece of furniture
should be opposite the door, so that it may be the first thing that
catches the visitor's notice. Suppose we try it?"

I said, "I should like to do so;" and calling the table boy, I told
him to get some one to help him move furniture, and come to the
parlor. Then Mrs. Waul took the management of affairs, and in fifteen
minutes the room had changed its character. It had been a quiet,
orderly parlor, not often visited by any one; she gave it that air of
ease and languor, so conducive to social intimacy. I do not know how
she managed it, but the result she anticipated quickly followed. That
evening after dinner, the piano was standing open opposite the parlor
door, and Doctor Burnet sauntered into the room, and sat down before
it. Moved perhaps by love's tender phantasy, he struck a few chords
and began to sing "Lorene." Mrs. Waul and Major Hume and several
others came in to listen, and then lingered there. By and by, some one
started "There's Life in the Old Land Yet," a young gentleman from
Baltimore thrilled the house with the magical strains of "My
Maryland," and was followed by a captain of a late Texas regiment,
declaring in melodious numbers, his everlasting devotion to "The
Bonnie Blue Flag that bears the Single Star."

Every one seemed to enjoy that hour of song and conversation after
dinner, and it had actually been induced by nothing more personal than
the movement of a few chairs and tables, and the cheerful face of an
open piano.

For a couple of months all appeared to be going well. I had twelve
boarders, and my income from them was about a hundred dollars a week.
That sum appeared to me a large amount for household expenses, and I
was sure I must be making money. But one day something happened which
caused me to make an investigation, and to my dismay, I found I had
been exceeding my income every week. Without going into details,
which would interest no one, I utterly failed to check this tendency
to excess in the wrong direction and I was seriously unhappy and
anxious.

Towards the end of May, Mrs. Waul and the General went to their own
home, the heat grew oppressive, there were whispers of fever, and the
rest of the boarders began to scatter. Some went north, some to Austin
or San Antonio; here and there they went, most of them leaving part or
whole of their bills "until their return." By the first of June we
were nearly alone, but I found it was an ordinary experience, and I
faced it as cheerfully as I could. In my heart I was glad. I was sick
for solitude. I had been living among people until I did not know
myself. I said to my soul, "Now we will have a few days of quiet and
peace, then I will look after money again." And I really did throw off
all care. I would not think of what I was owing, or of what people
owed me. I let the children do as they wished, and I reveled in long
hours of silence. And solitude is such a potential thing. We hear
voices in solitude, we never hear in the hurry and turmoil of life; we
receive counsels and comforts, we get under no other condition,

  "For to be alone with Silence,
  Is to be alone with God."

So I let the world and all its cares "go" for three days, and at the
end of them, I was ready to look my perplexities in the face.

"Children," I said, "we shall have no boarders until October; very
well, we will clear the house of all servants but little Polly. We
will live as quietly as possible, and spend no money that can be
helped." But I could not easily carry out this intention. I had three
boarders, and they did not wish to change, and promised to bring me
enough transient guests to carry the house through the summer. In a
way, they kept this promise, and I managed to get through the next
four months not uncomfortably. For I was sure, that when my old
boarders returned to Galveston, they would return to my house and
table.

I was reckoning without my host. Late in September I had a letter
from Mrs. Waul, saying that the General was going to New Orleans to
conduct an important law case, and as he would be detained all winter
she intended to go with him. This was a great disappointment in many
respects. They had given a certain very respectable tone to the house,
they had been kind to my daughters, and the simple presence of the
General was a protection we should miss. Nearly all of my old boarders
owed me money, and I thought this fact alone would bring them back,
but it did not. One had married and gone to housekeeping. Others found
my rates too high, they were obliged to economize after their summer's
trip, et cetera; they had all a sufficient excuse for leaving, but
that did not help the situation, as far as I was concerned.

On the first of November I closed the house. My money was gone. I
could not collect what was owing me, but I was not a dollar in debt;
and I was determined to keep clear of that terror. Many tried to
persuade me to hold on, but on the threshold of hope I had already
lost many days; and I knew in my soul, that this phase of my life was
over. What was to come next, I knew not, but this at least was over. I
had learned the lessons it had to teach me, and though my future was
unknown and uncertain, I had seen that in life, we have constantly to
take some leap in the dark.

I gave myself a few days rest with my children, and waited. I was glad
that this serving of tables, and mingling with people to whom I was
quite indifferent was over. Both duties had been disagreeable, and it
was only my left hand I had given to the work. I had taken no pride or
pleasure in it, even when it was apparently very successful, and I
felt no special regret when compelled to give it up. Yet in the sum of
character it had been of great gain to me. I learned two lessons under
its discipline that have made all my life since easier than it would
have been. To what school was I to go next?

There seemed to be so few outlets to our life that I was troubled by
the way any movement appeared to be hedged in. We could return to
Austin, which Mary thought the best thing to do. "People mostly live
on the government in Austin," she said, "and so they have ready
money." Lilly opposed the return to Austin very warmly. "I think it
will be foolish to go back to Austin," she answered. "Without dear
Papa, we shall find everything very different. Let us go to a new
place, where we are not tied and hampered by the past. Even San
Antonio would be better than Austin."

I remember this discussion so well. It was on a dark, cold November
morning. There was a blazing fire of cedar logs on the hearth, but the
wind roared down the wide chimney, and the rain smote the window panes
in passionate gusts. Mary was braiding a flannel sacque, Lilly was
sitting beside Alice, who was lying on the sofa sick with a cold, and
I was walking slowly about the room, inwardly trembling at the sound
of doors opening into the future. I was glad of the storm. Often I had
felt the crushing sense of bright sunshine when in trouble; the wind
and the rain and the gloom were in sympathy with my mood; sunshine
would have given me a sense of mockery, or at least of indifference.
Suddenly Lilly said, "Mamma! What about Memphis? Papa had good friends
there. Mr. Fackler----"

I heard no more. A voice clear and imperative said, "GO TO NEW YORK!"
The command was peremptory, and from some deeper region there came
with it, an indisputable convincingness. Of some things I might be
uncertain, _but not of this_. Without a moment's hesitation I obeyed
the command given me. I turned with a cheerful smile, and an alert
manner to my children, and said, "My dears, we will go to New York."

"O Mamma, how glad I am!" cried Lilly. "We shall be half-way to
England, when we are in New York."

Then I told them of the order I had just received, and as I spoke I
felt my heart burn, and my face flush, and my voice set itself to its
old strong, happy tone, and the girls caught its cheerful influence,
and we were soon discussing what was to be done, with the greatest
interest and pleasure. For I knew the voice that had spoken--it was
one, that had never yet deceived me.

I had nothing except my furniture, and old furniture sold for very
little, but I knew God would not send me a journey, without providing
the means; so I began there and then to prepare for it. I sold my
piano to a friend at private sale, and I got a lawyer, who was in my
debt, to collect what money was still due me from old boarders. He was
quite successful and I hoped the proceeds of the auction added to
these would raise my fund to five hundred dollars.

"God and five hundred dollars will be sufficient," I said to my
children; and they smiled and nodded, and were as confident and
hopeful as myself.

On the night of the sixth of November, while I was talking to the
auctioneer about the sale, a letter was given me. I saw the postmark
was Austin, and I laid it carelessly down on the chimney piece, and
went on with the conversation. After the auctioneer had gone, we had a
cup of tea and some oysters, and I forgot all about the letter, until
I was closing the house for the night. Then I lifted it carelessly,
and took it upstairs with me. Lilly noticed it in my hand, and asked
where it was from?

"Austin," I answered.

"Read it, Mamma."

As I opened it, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor. It was a check
from the auctioneer, with whom I had left the furniture of my Austin
home for sale. When I reached Galveston, I told Robert the agreement
made with them, left the affairs in his hands, and had ever since
forgotten all about it. Indeed if I had remembered it, I would have
been sure Robert had collected the proceeds long ago. But here was a
check made out to myself, for one hundred and eighty dollars, being
the last payment due on the goods they had sold. They sent it with
sympathetic words, and nothing that ever came to me had so much the
air of a "godsend."

We were so happy and excited, that we sat talking until nearly three
o'clock, and it was at this time, Lilly made a proposition, which at
first appeared foolish and distressing. "Mamma," she said, "now that
you have got some more money, let me go to Glasgow. I will try to make
a friend of grandmother, and perhaps for Papa's sake she will send me
to school for two years. By that time you would be settled in some
way."

At first I would not listen to such a thing, but gradually the girls
persuaded me, that I ought to give up Lilly for Lilly's own sake. And
I comforted myself with the thought of her natural bravery and
self-sufficiency. Every one liked her, and surely her own kindred
would be won by her kind heart, and sunny cheerful disposition. I
finally acceded to the plan, and then all conversation afterward made
the Glasgow arrangement more firm and certain. But that morning I fell
asleep with a fresh, keen pain in my heart; for Lilly, ever since her
father's death, had been my great reliance in many ways.

On the ninth we were preparing for the sale, which was to take place
in the house, and on the tenth we ate breakfast and had prayers
together and then went to the Palmetto House to stay until the
_Ariadne_ sailed for New York, which was expected to be on the
twelfth; but owing to contrary winds, she did not get over the bar
until the following day. During these three days at the hotel, we made
our last arrangements and received unlimited kindness both from
friends I knew well, and also from many others who had no reason for
their attentions, excepting their loving remembrance of my husband.

Among the many who called on us for the latter reason, was a large dry
goods merchant called Willis, and he gave me a letter of introduction
to a gentleman in New York, who he thought might be able to help me to
find suitable employment. I speak of this letter, because it
influenced my life for nearly two years. As we could not get away on
the twelfth, I took Alice and went once more to those four graves I
should never see again. We covered them with flowers and sweet shrubs,
and the child wept passionately. I had no tears left. I was almost
stupefied with grief and anxiety. Four tines in seventeen years, I had
broken up my home, and gone to a place I knew not of, to make another;
but this removal was the hardest of all. Yet I am ungrateful to say
so. From friends known and unknown I received help and comfort.
Difficulties vanished as soon as I met them. Whatever was necessary
came to me. My way was cleared before me in the most remarkable
manner. Even Mr. Lidstone, the auctioneer, refused to take any payment
for selling the furniture, and I was so pleased and grateful at this
mark of kindness from a stranger, that I have kept his name green in
my memory ever since. It is true that at this time the hearts of all
were open to those who had suffered in the great calamity, but more
than a year had passed since Robert died, and he was yet unforgotten,
for much of the sympathy and attention we received was for his sake.




CHAPTER XVIII

I GO TO NEW YORK

  "We have not wings, we cannot soar,
    But we have feet to scale and climb;
  By slow degrees, by more and more,
    The cloudy Summits of our time."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "The intellectual aroma of the building, its subtle Library
  essence, and redolence of Morocco leather, printer's ink and
  paper, all blended and mellowed with the learned dust of
  Time."--ASTOR LIBRARY.


On the thirteenth of November, 1868, we went on board the _Ariadne_.
The ship lay at the bar, but there were hopes that a change of wind
would give us water sufficient to get over it; but the wind did not
change for four days, and it was on the seventeenth, just at sunset
that we took our last look at Galveston. Just at the same hour, twelve
years before, Robert and I stood together taking a last look at
Galveston, before going up the Buffalo Bayou. I gazed on the white
houses in their lonely setting of bare shrubs and sea water, until
they were only a gray blur on the surrounding gray. I do not speak of
what was going on in the heart, it cannot be told, neither can it ever
be forgotten.

When I turned my back on Galveston, I faced the future; and there and
then, I mentally put a blank into God's hand by faith, and begged Him
to fill it in, as He saw best for His children. For they were His. He
had told me to leave my fatherless children to Him, and I took Him on
His own word. This promise was guaranteed to me by the veracity of
God. I sat down between Mary and Lilly, and took Alice on my knee, and
said,

"Now, dear ones, we shall be yet ten days at sea. It is a holiday for
us. We will forget every care, and every sorrow, until we see New
York. Be as happy as you can be, for there is nothing we can _do_ on
the ship. So let us rest, in the rest given us."

"And you, Mamma?" asked Mary. "Will you rest?"

"I promise you, I will." I did not mean, that I would drift like a
dismantled ship without hope or purpose. No believer in God ever does
that. I meant, that I would cast all my cares and sorrows on Him, who
I was sure cared for me. This may seem like presumption to some, and
like foolishness to others. It was not presumption. I had been
invited, even urged by God's own word to do so. It was by no means
"foolishness" to me. I knew in whom I trusted. God was then, as He is
now, a personality to me. He was not "vortices of atoms," or "streams
of tendency," or "Force" or "Nature." Many years afterwards, when I
had carefully considered these, and other similarly false ideas, I
knelt and prayed with a still deeper conviction--"_Our Father!_"

On the twenty-first we stopped at Key West nearly the whole day. We
rambled about the quiet, lovely place and a lady, who saw us looking
curiously at her cocoanut trees, came out and talked with us, and sent
a dozen to the ship for our refreshment. We bought here a few lovely
pieces of snow-white coral for Lilly to take with her to Scotland, and
at nightfall left the pretty place with very agreeable memories. I
believe it is now entirely altered, is crowded and noisy, and full of
business relating to the navy, and the manufacture of tobacco. So I
keep my own memory of the beautiful Key. We had a five days pleasant
sail after leaving Key West, and on the twenty-sixth of November we
were almost in sight of New York. It was Thanksgiving Day, and was
observed with the usual ceremonious dinner. During my long stay in the
South I had forgotten the institution, for it was never kept, or even
alluded to; but on this twenty-sixth of November we observed the day
heartily, and have never omitted it since. On November twenty-sixth,
1884, being also Thanksgiving Day, I received from Dodd, Mead and
Company their first letter to me accepting "Jan Vedder's Wife," just
sixteen years after our Thanksgiving upon the ship _Ariadne_.

Early in the morning of the twenty-seventh of November, 1868, we
landed in New York. This was already a memorable date to me, being the
day on which God wrought so great a salvation for Robert, in Chicago.
I had it in my memory as I stepped on shore, and went with several of
the passengers on the _Ariadne_ to a hotel in Fulton Street near
Broadway. It was called the Belmont, but I think it was discontinued
many years ago. I took it for a good omen, that we should have landed
on this date, for I have always been an observer of times and seasons,
and in my life there are many days of remembrance--all good ones. "The
Scotch always count from an ill date," says the proverb; but my ill
dates, except for some special purpose of recollection, are but as
dead days taken out of my life and buried.

The next week was mostly spent in securing a good berth for Lilly, and
in getting her the proper clothing for the change of climate she was
going to make. And in these days I found out how much harder it is to
part from the living, than from the dead. Hard enough it is, to lift
the little dead child for the last time, and lay it in its coffin; but
it is harder to unloose the clinging arms of the living child, to kiss
away its parting tears, and mingle loving farewells, while hearts seem
breaking. Never had Lilly been so dear and so affectionate. I kept her
at my side and held her hand these last days, while I gave her the
advice I thought might help her in the difficult position to which she
was going. At that time a voyage across the Atlantic was a far more
serious undertaking than it is now, and I knew the climate of
Scotland, and feared it for a child reared in the semi-tropical heat
and sunshine of Texas. I knew also the people among whom her lot would
be cast, and I feared that the outspoken girl, so sensitive to
injustice of every kind, would not be able at all times to possess her
soul in patience.

On the fifth of December I left her on the _Iowa_. The captain
promised me to be very kind to her, and he amply fulfilled that
promise. It was snowing heavily, but I did not see, or feel it.
Blinded with tears, and faint with grief, I found my way back to the
hotel, I don't know how. Through the crowded wharf, and the crowded
streets I went; I remember some one stepping between me and some
horses, pulling me roughly to the sidewalk, and then saying not
unkindly, "You must be more careful. Do you know where you are going?"
Somehow or other I got back to the hotel, and being wet through and
exhausted, I went to bed. There I fell into that deep sleep which is
God's gift to those who have sorrow greater than they can bear.

The next day being the Sabbath I remained in the hotel, but on Monday
morning I was ready for duty. To obey necessity is the part of wisdom,
but I trusted in God and myself, and I had faith in humanity. On
Monday and Tuesday I saw the principals of three ladies' schools, and
from two received promise of employment "after the holidays." I had
not thought of this contingency, yet it was a very reasonable one, as
far as the schools were concerned; but I did not see, how I was to
wait with idle hands for a month, on a mere promise. On Tuesday night
I had exhausted hope in this direction and as I sat talking with Mary,
she said to me, "Dear Mamma, why do you not send a note to Mr.
Beecher? I am sure he could help you. He has a great deal of power."

"O Mary," I answered, "I know all about the promises of clergymen.
Your grandfather was a good man, but he saw so many people, and made
so many promises, he never could have remembered either. It is nearly
twenty years since I met Mr. Beecher. I dare say he has forgotten even
my name."

But I will be truthful in this matter. It was really a foolish pride,
perhaps even a little vanity, which made me put off seeing Mr.
Beecher. I was saving this opening as a last resort, for I shrank from
meeting a man whom I had only seen in all the flush and glory of my
bridal happiness. At that time I had a beautiful home, a loving and
wealthy husband, and I was clothed in white satin and lace. I had a
heart full of good hopes, and my countenance was radiant with the
light of their promise. All was now so different, and my plain, sombre
dress typified the change. Would he remember? Would he care? I thought
not, but I said,

"There is yet the letter given me by Mr. Willis. I will take it in
the morning. Perhaps it may bring us good fortune. If it does not
succeed, I will remind Mr. Beecher of his promise."

About ten o'clock next morning, being the ninth of December, I
called upon Mr. Libbey. I suppose I ought to have sent a letter asking
an interview, and waited for his reply, but I think the very
neglect of this ceremony induced Mr. Libbey to see me. He was a man
of marvelous powers of observation, and of drawing the truth out
of what he saw, and later when I mentioned this neglect of social
form, he smiled and said that he had at once suspected I was
childlike and inexperienced--or else extremely clever in disguising
my real character. His curiosity was aroused, and he gave me an
audience in five minutes after my request for it.

During that five minutes I was wondering what Mr. Willis could mean
by sending me to such a place. It was the A. T. Stewart building at
the corner of Broadway and Chambers Street, and when I saw the
immense floor, the numerous tables piled high with webs of cloth of
every kind, and the crowd of young men selling them to an equal
crowd of buyers, I was quite sure there could be no place for me
there. I suppose I ought to have felt nervous; on the contrary, I had
a serenity and self-sufficiency, of which at the time I was
unconscious.

In this mood I entered Mr. Libbey's presence. He bowed slightly, and
directed an office boy to place a chair for me. It was placed as
editors and publishers generally have a visitor's chair placed--that
is, the visitor sits with the light falling full on her face, but the
receiver has his back to the light, and his face is in shadow. I did
not know this at the time, it took me some years to find it out. But
the position must have a business value, for it is now an exceedingly
common arrangement. It gave me no concern. I had nothing to conceal. I
was going to tell the truth, and I did not suspect Mr. Libbey of
suspecting me.

He was a tall, fair, aristocratic looking man, but the aristocratic
element was not that which comes through centuries of noble
descent; it was the aristocracy of deserved success. It clothed his
tall, erect figure with a nobility quite different, and a great
deal more interesting. He had a large head full of cool, shrewd
brains, and his eyes, though small, were wonderful. They gave
strangers one quick, searching glance and _knew them_. Yet in
hours of pleasant conversation, they had that delightful twinkle of
the iris, which inspires such a confiding sense of comradeship. It
did not take me many days to discover, that he had a fine literary
taste, and an ear for religious discourse, as distinct as an ear for
music. He was a true friend to me. I honor his memory. And I believe,
that as the news of my success finds him, wherever in God's
universe he may be doing God's will, he is made glad by it, and is
pleased to remember that I asked his help on that ninth of December,
1868, and that he willingly gave it. For the rest he was free from
arrogance and familiarity, and like all superior men, courteous to
every one.

I took the chair placed for me, and he began the interview by tapping
Mr. Willis's letter slightly, and saying, "Mrs. Barr, my friend Mr.
Willis thinks I may be able to help you to some suitable employment.
What can you do?"

"I love music, and I can teach it."

"What else?"

"I can teach drawing in pencil, crayon, or water colors, well enough
for beginners. I have had a fine English education, and a good deal of
experience in teaching."

"Anything else?"

"I am expert with my needle."

"Very good," he answered. "My three sons desire some knowledge of
music and drawing, and Mrs. Libbey will be glad of your help with the
needle. I think also, you could get a school large enough in Ridgewood
to support you for a year or two; that would give you time to find
your feet, and learn something of life as it is in New York. For you
see," he added, "if we live in New York, we must live as New Yorkers
live. Mr. Willis says you have three daughters; how old are they?"

I told him that Mary was seventeen, Alice seven, and that Lilly, who
was fifteen, had gone to her grandmother in Glasgow. This statement
brought out mention of the Reverend John Barr, and of my own father,
and I could see that the ecclesiastic relationships pleased him. I
thought at the time, and I think so yet, that he felt glad to succor
the grandchildren of two good and great preachers.

"I will speak to Mrs. Libbey tonight," he continued, "and send you
some word early tomorrow. And if all is satisfactory, and you desire
to come to Ridgewood, you will bring your two daughters with you.
Until you decide about opening a school, they are my guests."

I was so amazed at his words, and his cordial manner, that I could
hardly answer, but my reply came from my heart, and he knew it. And I
told myself that God had spoken some secret word to him, and that he
was a good man whose soul knew the Divine Voice, and was ready and
eager to obey it.

The next morning a young man called soon after nine o'clock. He
brought me a note saying that Mr. and Mrs. Libbey would be glad to see
me on Friday afternoon at their home in Ridgewood. He was further
instructed to tell me, that he would call at two o'clock Friday, if
convenient, look after my trunks, and go with me to Ridgewood.

I shall not detain my readers long with my New Jersey experiences. I
was in Ridgewood nineteen weary months, but to the last Mr. Libbey's
kindness failed me not. I found his three sons nice boys; the eldest,
Will, was very like his father, courteous and kind-hearted, very
bright and clever, as all the world knows at this day. He has never
lost sight of me, nor have I of him. I was a few weeks in Mr. Libbey's
home, and if I transcribe two days from my diary, they may stand for
the whole:

_Dec. 14th._ Gave the boys music lessons early in the morning;
afterwards I was arranging and indexing Mr. Libbey's library. Mr.
Libbey does not come home except on Saturday evenings. I gave music
lessons again, when the boys had finished their studies with Mr. Wall.
In the evening I sat sewing with Mrs. Libbey until late. We were
talking of the South and the war. Mrs. Libbey is a southern woman.

_Dec. 20th._ We have family worship on Sundays, and I afterwards went
with Mr. Libbey to church. In the afternoon we had an interesting talk
on the second coming of Christ, then I played some sacred music which
all appeared to enjoy; indeed the hymn "Communion" made such an
impression that Mr. Libbey will send to Edinburgh for a Psalmody like
mine, which contains it. Alice was croupy, and I went upstairs to her
as early as I could. Dear God have pity on me!

This hymn "Communion" is used generally in Scotch kirks just before
the breaking of bread at the communion service:

  "'Twas on that night when doomed to know
  The eager rage of every foe,
  The night on which He was betrayed,
  The Savior of the world took bread."

The words are pathetic and this sentiment is greatly intensified by
their union with the most heart-breaking minor music in the psalm
called "St. Mary's." I do not know how any one can hear it sung by a
congregation on their knees with the minister holding out the broken
bread, and not weep. The Scotch are far from a demonstrative race, but
their love, pity and devotion at the sacramental hour need neither
words nor song to translate it. _It can be felt._

During my stay in Mr. Libbey's house I did some work I had never
before done. I patched three quilts. The circumstance came about thus:
Mrs. Libbey showed me one day an amazing quantity of satin and silk
samples. They were about the length and breadth of a brick, and of
every imaginable color and pattern; having been sent to the house of
A. T. Stewart as samples from the great silk factories of London,
Lyons, Venice, et cetera, I exclaimed with delight, and Mrs. Libbey
asked, "What would you do with them?"

"I would make each of the boys a handsome bed quilt! I would make
Afghans, cushions, tidies, oh, lots of beautiful things!" I replied.

She answered, "I have often thought of some such ways of using them.
How would you like to realize your idea?" And I said, "It would give
me great pleasure." So I received a large basket full, and immediately
went to patching a quilt for Will Libbey, my favorite pupil. On my
last visit to Professor William Libbey at Princeton, this quilt
covered the bed given me. I did not sleep much that night. I had
forgotten the quilt patching until this one wrapped me around, and
awakened a thousand recollections. I touched and smoothed its soft
satins, and thought of the long, sad hours in which my needle went
swiftly to memories of past days, or to my hopes and plans for future
ones. And this quilt talked to me, as my hands touched the sensitized
satin, and I breathed again the perfume of the courage and faith that
hallowed the work. For I thank God I had been able by that time to
take all my sorrow

  "As a plain fact, whose right or wrong
  I questioned not; confiding still,
  It would not last one hour too long."

In a few weeks I rented a cottage from Mr. Libbey, and opened a
school. I had only six scholars to begin with, but the number was
variable. Sometimes it rose to ten or twelve, and then fell to six or
eight. I think seven or eight would be a fair average. The income from
this school would hardly have supported life, but it was helped very
considerably by the tuition fees Mr. Libbey paid me for his three
sons. Perhaps it was a wise indulgence of heaven, that at this time
gave me with a sparing hand, just enough.

I had frequently letters from Lilly, and as she seemed at least
contented, I was glad that she was in a position where she could see
and learn many things, not possible if she was at my side. And Mary
continued her music and English, and looked after the house and her
little sister Alice. Truly the days were long and hard, but when they
were over, and I came home to my children, and my cup of tea, I had a
few hours of cheerful happiness, and could sometimes tell myself, that
perhaps things were not going as badly with me as I thought they
were.

It was a slow, monotonous, dreary life to which there seemed no
outlet. The house was in a very ugly lane, and I had no neighbors but
a Dutch family, who only knew me when I was paying them money; and a
negro family, who were useful in the way of washing and ironing and
cleaning. On the Sabbath, I generally went to Mr. Libbey's for
dinner, and that was my only mental recreation.

One Sunday after I had been in this condition for nearly a year and a
half, Mr. Libbey sent me word that a countryman of mine, a Mr. Fox of
Manchester, was with them and would like to see me. He was sitting
with Mr. Libbey when I opened the parlor door, and we just looked at
each other and smiled. Mr. Fox was so patently, so unmistakably
Lancashire, and I told him so, and he answered,

"To be sure I am! So are you, Mrs. Barr! I know you by your Lancashire
eyes, and your Lancashire color, and the up-head way you carry
yourself."

"No, sir," I answered, "the up-head way I learned in Texas. It is a
up-heart way, also. The up-head helps the heart, when the heart is
dashed and down."

I have seldom spent a more delightful evening. Mr. Fox wanted to know
all about the South, and cotton growing, for he was a great cotton
manufacturer; then we fell upon the war, and I told him a great deal
concerning it, and especially the incidents of the break-up, as I
witnessed them. As I bid him good-bye our hands clasped warmly, and I
said,

"Mr. Fox, as soon as your feet touch Lancashire soil, bless the dear
land for me." And he answered, "I will not forget. And you?" he added,
"remember to keep your up-head and your up-heart like a Lancashire
lass ought to do." This pleasant evening brought forth its fruit a
little later.

About April Lilly wrote me that she was coming home. She said the
Reverend Joseph Brown, the famous minister of the Kent Road
Church--which was attended by all the Colville family, had advised her
to do so; and that her uncle had bought her a passage, and would
himself see her safely on board. "It is all right for me to come home,
Mamma," she continued. "I know now, that I never ought to have left
you. Mary would have been better here, than I could ever be. She is
more Scotch, and I am so English, that the very word 'England' tastes
sweet on my lips, if I only speak it. Mary would have considered her
words and ways, and her P's and Q's, and I have no doubt, would have
won both the old lady, and the half-dozen or more young ones. The
four boys understood me better than any one, but after all, my visit
to grandmother is a broad failure. Uncle David is all right, and I
don't mind people not loving me, if they are only _just_. But I am
coming home to you, Mamma, and I know you will say, 'Lilly, dear, you
did right.'"

Three days after we received this letter, Mary went to New York, to
the office of the _New York Democrat_ to see Mr. Sykes, the publisher,
and Brick Pomeroy, its clever editor; for I had written, mainly during
sleepless nights, a novel, and I thought perhaps, from what I had read
and heard of these gentlemen, they would take it. She had a long talk
with Mr. Sykes, and the final result was a lunch with Mr. and Mrs.
Sykes, and her engagement as governess to their two children. Mary was
delighted; she longed for a more vivid and useful life, and she loved
the city, and hated the country.

"You see, Mamma," she said, "Mrs. Sykes wants me very much, and I like
her. She is so pretty, and so beautifully dressed, and so fond of
amusements. I shall see everything with her, and Mr. Sykes will pay my
board, and give me twenty dollars a month. And you know Lilly may be
here any day, and you do not need both of us."

So in April Mary went to Mrs. Sykes, and Lilly came home a few days
after she had left me, and when she had told me her pitiful little
story, I considered her determination to return to America quite
justifiable. That Dr. Joseph Brown and his family had been her warm
friends was sufficient for me; also she took particular pains to make
me understand that her uncle's attitude to her, from first to last,
had been supremely just. That of course, justice, was the rock on
which David Colville stood; he would not have been unjust to his worst
enemy.

The school closed in June, and I could see on Lilly's face an
invincible determination that it should not re-open. Whether she would
have succeeded in inducing me to give it up, I know not, but one
Sunday Mr. Libbey and his sons called, and in the course of
conversation Mr. Libbey said to me,

"Mrs. Barr, the boys are going in September to Princeton to continue
their education there. I do not think your school here will then
support you. What do you think of doing?"

"I do not know," I answered. "I must consider."

"I have heard you say that you knew Mr. Beecher."

"Yes, in a way, not very well. I met him in Glasgow many years ago. I
dare say he has quite forgotten me."

"I do not think so. Write him a letter. He may be able to assist
you."

"I know not. I cannot think yet."

"Write to him; and also, I want you to write out the story of the
break-up in Texas. Write it just as you told it to Mr. Fox. Send it to
me. I will see that it goes to some one, whose criticism will be
severe enough and fair enough, to prove whether you have the ability
to write. If you can write, you can live."

"O Mr. Libbey!" I cried gratefully, "you are so kind. I thank you! I
thank you! I do believe I can write. I will write the paper you ask me
for tonight. You will see."

I did so, and put it into his hand as he was getting into his carriage
in the morning. He smiled at my promptness and said, "It will be
attended to." And I was perfectly content, for I knew if Mr. Libbey
said so, it would be done.

In two weeks Mr. Libbey brought me a check from Daniel Appleton and
Company for thirty dollars. I was astonished and delighted, but after
a few moments I laughed joyously and cried, "Why I can write three or
four of those things every week! O Mr. Libbey, how happy you have made
me! Is my work really going to be printed? Can I write? Do you think I
can write?"

"It will appear very soon," he answered, "and Mr. Bunce, the editor of
the magazine, spoke very highly of your work; further, he said he
would like you to write them a story. Will you try one?"

"Indeed, I will! I have lots of stories in my mind. I will put them on
paper, at once."

There is a song which says,

          "Joy's the shyest bird,
          Mortal ever heard;
  Listen rapt and silent when he sings.
          Do not seek to see,
          Lest the vision be,
  But a flutter of departing wings."

I had no fear of such a fleeting joy. I _knew_ that my vocation was
found. I had received the call, and having done so, I was sure my work
would be assigned me. Of some things we feel quite certain. Inside
there is a click, a kind of bell that strikes, when the hands of our
destiny meet at the meridian hour. I cannot make it plainer, those who
have experienced it, will know. I only hope that every new writer may
enter the gates of the literary life, as happily and hopefully as I
did.

It was near midnight when we went to bed. Our little affairs were so
full of interest to us. This thirty dollars would remove us into the
city, but though we were both very anxious to go at once, we decided
that it would be better to remain in the country until September
brought cooler weather. Alice was exceedingly frail, and she was the
first consideration. Also, I would have to go to New York to find the
proper place to live in and rent unfurnished rooms there; and this
looked to me a rather formidable undertaking. I had never heard of
real estate offices, and whether they existed at this date, or not, I
do not know. But we read the advertisements in the _Herald_, and I
made a note of several locations. As to the healthiness, or
respectability of these locations, the rents and half a dozen other
important questions, we knew absolutely nothing. I smile to myself
yet, at the childlike confidence, with which I essayed this plunge
into the unknown.

And as we talked, full of gratitude and hope, I was able to give up
cheerfully my last fort of pride or vanity, and I promised myself to
write immediately to Mr. Beecher. It was my proper share of the
obligation attending this new move in life. In the midst of
conversation on this topic, the clock struck twelve, and Lilly said,

"Mamma, you ate no supper. You are hungry, or you ought to be. I am
going to bring something to eat upstairs."

"I will go downstairs with you, Lilly."

"No, no, Mamma! You will get cold, and Alice will wake up. Then Alice
will come down, and she will get cold. I will bring up a tray in five
minutes."

Until she came back with the tray, I walked up and down the small
room. My heart was singing within me. At that hour it had forgotten
all its sorrow and its deprivations; it knew that the bare poverty of
the last few months was over--the poverty that is without books,
without all the comfortable things, that make sufficient food and
clothing still poverty. For some long weary months, it had been
beating itself against gates for which it could find no keys. Now,
they had been set wide open. It would have been an unpardonable waste
of God-given happiness to sleep, as long as the physical woman could
keep awake.

We remained six weeks longer in the country, but they were weeks
brightened with hope and cheerful expectations. I began at once a
story for Appleton's called "Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money," and
among the simple Norse fishers of the Shetland Islands, forgot for
hours together that I was yet in New Jersey. In October I went to the
city to look for rooms, and as soon as I spoke to Mr. Sykes, he sent a
youth with me to a real estate office. He also advised me as to the
proper section of the city, and told me not to go far away from that
quarter, because it contained the city's three finest libraries, and
he was sure I would find them indispensable in literary work.

I was as happy as if I was on a holiday, and before noon had settled
on some unfurnished rooms in a large brick house on Amity Street. I
was told that Poe had once occupied them, but I did not know anything
about Poe in those days; and I was not influenced in my choice by this
association. What decided me was first, the fact that they were large,
lofty, old-fashioned apartments, with open grates, and a pleasant
look-out for Alice. Second, that I had the Astor and Mercantile
Libraries within five minutes walk, and the Historical Library on
Second Avenue, not much further away. Mr. Sykes said I had made an
excellent selection of rooms, and I went back to Ridgewood satisfied
with the home they promised.

The next day I wrote Mr. Beecher a long letter. I told him all that
had happened me, and asked if he could help me to find literary work.
Almost by return mail, I received his answer. In it he told me that he
had just become largely interested in the _Christian Union_, and was
sure if I could write something for that paper, as vivid or pathetic
as my letter to him, my services would be welcome to the _Christian
Union_. "Come into the city," he said, "and we shall be able to keep
your pen busy."

Three days after the receipt of this encouraging letter, I stood in
the rooms on Amity Street, with my daughters and my few household
goods. I had five dollars and eighteen cents in my purse. I had no
knowledge of the ways of life in a large city, and was quite as
ignorant of the business of buying and selling. I had no relatives in
America, no one I felt at liberty to ask assistance from. I stood
absolutely alone in the battle of life, but I was confident, that God
and Amelia Barr were a multitude.

In the old-fashioned grate of the room, I intended for our sitting-and
dining-room, there was soon a good fire, and in less than an hour, the
kettle was boiling, the lamb chops broiled, and the tea infusing. And
never since my dear husband died, had I sat down to a meal I enjoyed
so much. We were as happy as three children.

Before the evening of the next day, the rooms had quite a homey look.
I had still some beautiful bed clothing, and table damask, and a few
books; and books and an open fire are the best furniture any room can
have. They look at every one that enters them with a smile and a
welcome. And on that open fire, it was wonderful what excellent meals
Lilly cooked us--nice little lamb stews, and broiled meats, and always
the good cup of tea or of Java coffee. And we laughed at our small
discomforts, and said we were "only tenting, until everything right
and proper should arrive."

As soon as the house affairs were arranged, I went down to the
_Christian Union_ office. I took with me a paper called "The Epiphany
in the West Riding." There was a Mr. Kennedy then in the working
editor's chair, and he read it at once and was delighted with it. He
said such generous words of encouragement and praise, that I have yet
the kindest memory of him. He was the first editor of the _Christian
Union_, I believe, but he left the paper very soon, and I have never
heard his name since.

Mr. George Merriam followed him, and he was the kindest and wisest
editor I ever wrote for. He kept me rigorously up to my best work, but
did so with such consideration and valuable advice, that I always felt
it a great pleasure, to see how much better I could make everything I
wrote for him. He did me many favors, and among them he gave me my
first introduction to the dear old Astor Library. In this library I
worked from morning to night. Mr. Saunders the head librarian was an
Englishman, a most wonderful general scholar, particularly intimate
with English literature. We soon became good friends, and he gave me
the use of one of the largest and sunniest alcoves in the Hall I
frequented. For fifteen years I used this alcove with its comfortably
large table, its silence and sunshine, and delightful atmosphere of
books and scholars.

A plan of the Astor alcoves that Mr. Saunders made for me, hangs at my
right hand in my study. My alcove was the Fine Arts alcove in the
South Hall, and Mr. Saunders--when I went no more to the Astor--feared
I might forget it. As if I could! Though it exists no longer, I see it
as plainly, _as I saw it before it existed at all_.

For when I was living in Penrith, a child of seven or eight years old,
I began to dream of this city of books. I wandered about its pleasant
alcoves, and climbed its long spiral stairs of wrought iron, and stood
speechless and wondering before the white marble busts of ancient
gods, and godlike men, in its entrance hall. And the building did not
then exist. It is doubtful if it had ever taken form in Mr. Astor's
mind. How then could I see it in my dreams? And why did I see it? I
have asked myself these questions for more than forty years, for
always I saw the building full of light, though my dream came in the
dark midnight, when there was neither sun, nor moon, nor candlelight
for physical eyes to use. Where does the light of dreams come from?
And why was it shown to me when as yet it was not?

The only solution I can find is, that my angel not only foresaw the
grand old library, but also that she understood the necessity and
advantage of my future intimate association with it. Therefore she
made me familiar with the place in my dream life, so that when in my
physical life, I came to this special hostelry of mind and body, I
might know that I was in the path appointed for me, and be satisfied.
For I do not believe in chance. The life God guides, is not ruled by
accidental events; the future is constantly shaped out of the past and
all its happenings are but links in a chain.

To me it was a most astonishing experience. I walked up the white
marble stairway, and into the sunny South Hall with the strangest most
exulting feeling of proprietorship; and for all the purposes of study
and use, this splendid library was for fifteen years really my own.
Before presenting Mr. Merriam's letter to the chief librarian, Mr.
Saunders, I sat down and looked around me. Yes! It was my dream
library! There was no doubt of it. I was lost in wonder and joy, and I
said to my soul,

"We came not to this place by accident. It is the very place God meant
for us." And this decision was so comforting, that I at once fully
accepted it.

The Astor Library was at that date a very heaven on earth to the
student. I have never seen in all my life, a student's library
comparable with it. It wanted none of the great treasures of
literature, and yet it was not too large to become familiar with. In
the halls I frequented, I soon knew where every book dwelt, and if my
eyes saw a vacant place on a shelf, I knew instantly what book was
from home. Of the great reviews and magazines, I gradually made an
index of all their papers, likely to be of use to me; so that if an
up-to-date article on any subject, commodity, or event was needed, I
had, at my finger ends, a list of all the papers that had been written
concerning it.

Nor did I let the evident trade, or literary side of the subject
satisfy me. I hunted up in such queer repositories of knowledge as
_Southey's Doctor_, _Hones' Year Book_, _Table Book_, and _Every Day
Book_, et cetera, all the bits of folklore, historical, poetical, and
social traditions, proverbs and prophecies allied to it; and in such
research I found a never-ending delight. Many writers of that day
said with a variety of emphasis, "What luck Mrs. Barr has!"

Once a despondent young man sitting in my alcove made this very remark
to me, and as it was spoken in no unkind spirit, I answered it by
showing him the indexes and notes which I had made for this very work.
I pointed out that the illustration for which I was then preparing the
text, had been received an hour ago, and must be turned into the paper
for which it was intended early on the following morning; and I asked
him--if he could find the material necessary, and have it at the
office by nine o'clock? He looked gloomily at the picture. It
represented an old farmer examining the almanac for the New Year.

"Now what can a fellow know about almanacs?" he asked. "What is there
to know about them anyhow? I suppose I could find something in
Poole----"

"Look here!" I answered. "This is my list of informing articles on the
subject of almanacs:

  _British Quarterly Review_, vol. 28.
  _Saturday Review_, vol. 14.
  "Medieval Almanacs," _Quarterly Review_, vol. 71.
  _Southey's Doctor_, vol. 3.
  _Foreign Quarterly_, vol. 32.
  _London Magazine_, vol. 2.
  _Eclectic Magazine_, vol. 1, 1844.
  _Eclectic Magazine_, vol. 9.
  _Retrospective Review_, vol. 2.
  _Bow Bell's Magazine_, vol. 1.
  _All the Year Round Magazine_, vol. 6."

"Do you mean to go through all those articles?" he asked incredulously.

"It is now ten o'clock," I replied. "Before four, I shall have gleaned
all I want from every one of them. I shall perhaps also find time to
go through some poetical indexes, and find a few good verses on
almanacs, either to finish off--or to begin with. And this," I
continued, "this is the kind of luck Mrs. Barr has. You, or any other
writer, can have the same."

Any one can understand, how work of this kind pursued with loving and
ungrudging industry for over fifteen years, educated the mind and
formed the taste. It kept me in touch with the finest European
essayists, and I learned something from every book I opened. Perhaps
it was not just what I was looking for, but it was worth making a note
of--a note that often came into use for song or story years
afterwards; and it was all conducive to that preparation I was
unconsciously making for the sixty or more books it has been my
privilege and pleasure to write.




CHAPTER XIX

THE BEGINNINGS OF A NEW LIFE

  "I heard the letters talking, saw thought forming, felt the
  syllables writing as my hands wandered over the sensitized paper,
  smelling the perfume of dead men's thoughts."


I was nearly thirty-nine years old when I became a student at the
Astor and began a life so different from the lives I had lived in
Glasgow, Chicago, Austin and Galveston, that I might have been born
again for it. Virtually, I was reborn. In that great and terrible
alembic of pestilence and death through which I was passed in
Galveston, all the small delights and frivolities of my life vanished;
and I came out of its fires, holding firmly to one adequate virtue in
their place--henceforward to be through all the days of my life, an
all competent motive, and an all sufficient reward--the homely virtue
of duty. And I have never regretted this exchange though at first I
found, as all the servants of duty must do,

  "That they who follow her commands,
  Must on with heart, and knees, and hands,
  Through the long gorge, the upper light to win.
  But still the path is upward, and once
  The toppling crags of Duty scaled, the soul
  Stands clear upon the shining table lands,
  To which our God himself is moon and star."

For moral and spiritual gifts are bought, and not given. We pay for
them in some manner, or we go empty away. It is _every day duty_ that
tells on life. Spiritual favors are not always to be looked for, and
not always to be relied on. After the glory of Mt. Tabor, the
disciples were not willing to go to Calvary with Christ. They forsook
him and fled.

In my little home of three rooms, things were not uncomfortable; we
made the best of what we had, and we found out how few are the real
necessities of life, and how much we could do without, and yet be
happy enough. For if the heart is young, nothing is too hard; and when
these meagre days were over, we often talked of the good time we had
had in them. For if love be of your company, I declare poverty to be
an exquisite experience. We found out then the heart of love, and of
many other things; she taught us economy and self-denial, for we would
all have wanted rather than have let Alice miss any of her small
desires. She did her best to give us some knowledge of life, but with
myself she did not succeed very well. I was so hopeful, that I would
not foresee evil, and as yet I fully trusted humanity. Moreover, I had
so often been wonderfully helped in great anxieties, that I could not
believe the time would ever come when the hard eye of misfortune

  "... would not know it vain,
  To empty what heaven brimmed again."

Soon after we were fairly settled, just as we were sitting down to
supper one night, Mary opened the door. With a cry of pleasure I made
a place for her chair between myself and Alice, and as I did so, I got
a glimpse of my daughter, that I have never forgotten, nor ever shall
forget. She was then in her nineteenth year, a tall graceful girl in a
long dark costume, and a soft gray beaver hat. Her hands were
out-stretched, her face shining with love, and I had a sudden great
pride and pleasure in her beauty and affection. She is now sixty years
old, and of course changed in every way, but nothing can deprive me of
this soul photograph of her, while the dew of youth, and the glory of
family affection transfigured her. I know this, because I have been
thrice since to the very shoal of Time, and turning back to life
again, have brought that picture back with me. If I had not turned
back, it would have gone with me.

In a moment she was sitting at my side, and Lilly had brought her a
cup and plate, and was serving her with smiles and exclamations of
pleasure. But at that moment Mary cared little for food. She had Alice
within her arm, and was kissing her small lifted face with the
tenderest affection. Then she turned to me. "Mamma!" she cried, "let
me come home! I want to come home! While you were fifty miles away, I
could bear it; but now that you are almost in the next street, I
cannot endure to be away from you."

"I would like you to be at home, Mary," I answered. "It would be a
great joy to all of us. But the Sykes' have been very kind to you, and
you cannot treat them badly."

"Dear Mamma! I would not do so for any reason. But they are going on a
trip out West, and railway traveling makes me ill. Mrs. Sykes knows
this, and she says she hopes Lilly will go to help her with the
children."

"I would like to go!" Lilly cried with enthusiasm. "I would like
nothing better."

The discussion of this subject made the evening very interesting; and
it was finally decided that Lilly should go with the Sykes family, and
Mary remain at home. And I may add here, that the glamour of the Great
West so infatuated the child, that she has been haunted by its
vastness and its promises to this very day. To go West, far far West,
has been the dream of her life--a dream that has never come true. But
if it had come true, what then? Who can tell? I have always found that
the things I planned, desired, and worked for, if they came at all,
brought with them disappointment and regret; while those that came to
me unsought and unexpected proved to be the very things I needed most
of all.

Before Christmas Lilly was home again, but by this time I had made up
my mind that I could not be parted from my children any more. We must
stay together. God could care for us in one family, as well as in two.
How faithless I had been to doubt this! So after Lilly had partially
exhausted her delightful enthusiasm about her journey, and I saw that
the clock was traveling up-hill to midnight, I told them so.

"Dear ones!" I said, "we will not separate any more. I will work a
little harder, and there is plenty in the home here, for you both to
do. Lilly will keep house, and look after our meals, and Mary----"

"O Mamma!" Mary interrupted, "there is all the winter sewing yet to
do. Rent a sewing-machine, and Mary will make warm dresses for us
all."

"Can you, dear?" I asked.

"I could make a dress pretty well, when I went to Mrs. Sykes. I
learned a great deal while I was there. She frequently had a
dressmaker in the house, and then I helped her, and so learned a great
deal. I can make our dresses as well as any ordinary modiste."

"That will be a great help to us," I said, "and one, or the other of
you, will find time every fine day to give Alice a walk, and when she
is able, to hear her read."

Both girls eagerly accepted their duty to their sick sister, and Mary
said, with an excitement not very common with her, "I vote, Mamma,
that we stay together, and fight the battle of life out on that
line."

"And you, Lilly, what do you say?"

"Let us stay together, even if we live on bread and water."

I was the proudest and happiest mother in the world at that moment,
and I answered joyfully, "You are right, dears, we will fight the
battle out on this line."

"What a game it will be!" cried Lilly. "All of us for Mamma, and Mamma
for all of us! We shall win! No doubt of it!"

And that night as I lay silently happy and thoughtful, with the
children sleeping at my side, the grand old rallying cry of a famous
English school wherever gathered for honorable strife, suddenly rung
in my ears,

  "_Play up! play up! and play the game!_"

For more than twenty years I had not heard it, but at that moment it
pealed and pealed, and pealed through my consciousness, as if all the
bells of Kendal Church were ringing it. Over and over I heard it. My
heart beat to its shrill music, my fingers tattooed it on the bed
cover, I could hardly lie still. Why had it come to me at this hour? I
had forgotten it for so long--so long. Doubtless its memory had been
evoked by Lilly's cheerful resolute exclamation, "What a game it will
be!" For it was easy for me to unconsciously think of this brave
child, playing up any good or honorable game of life, to the last
moment of that great game, when

  "Death holds the odds,
  Of his unequal fray."

And "if a woman is game as she is mild, and mild as she is game," a
late great writer says, "that should satisfy any of us."

Many and many a time since that happy hour, in straits of all kinds, I
have been encouraged and strengthened by this plucky rallying cry of
English schoolboys, and I have said to my failing spirit, "Now,
Amelia, the game is hard, and the odds are against you, but you cannot
sneak out because of that. '_Play up! play up! and play the game!_'"

About six weeks ago, I felt as if I really must give up. I had been
writing for five years without even a day's rest, and my present task
of recalling, and _feeling_ the past all over, had thoroughly
exhausted me. "I can do no more," I said, and with old, tired eyes,
full of unshed tears--for old eyes dare not weep--and a sad heart,
scarcely beating, I fell upon my bed, and was at once in a deep sleep.
I was awakened by a crowd of schoolboys from Professor Stone's school
which is just above my house. They were singing or chanting all
together some school slogan. I know not what, but it awoke in my soul,
the old battle cry of the classes on their English playground,

  "_Play up! play up! and play the game!_"

And the cheerful, resolute noise was like old wine to my heart. I rose
confidently, and went to my study and wrote for nearly three hours
without any feeling of weariness. In that time, I got over the hard
bit of road, that had so discouraged me, and the next morning I could
sit down cheerfully at my desk, and repeat my usual grace before
writing:

  "_I say to my Maker,
  Thanks! for the day's work,
  That my Lord gives me._"[6]

Not a week after this event, one of those strange coincidences of
which life is full, if we only noticed them, occurred. Lilly sent me a
stirring little song on this very subject, written by Henry Newbolt, a
well known lawyer of London, and I will transcribe its two last
verses, because they so well illustrate what I have said about the
influence of this ancient school cry,

  "The sand of the desert is sodden red,
    Red with the wreck of a square that broke--
  The Gattling's jammed, and the Colonel dead,
    And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
  The River of Death has brimmed his banks,
    And England's far, and Honour's a name,
  But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
    '_Play up! play up! and play the game!_'

  "This is the word that year by year,
    While in her place the school is set,
  Every one of her sons must hear,
    And none that hears it, dare forget.
  This, they all with a joyful mind,
    Bear through life like a torch aflame,
  And falling fling to the host behind--
    '_Play up! play up! and play the game!_'"

The agreement made between my daughters and myself to play the game
together, and not apart, was faithfully kept through many changeful
years. It would seem that literature in the shape I followed it then,
might be a rather monotonous life. We found it full of interest and
variety. There was always something to tell, or some plan to talk
over, when we gathered for our evening meal. For one event leads to
another, and that often in the most unforeseen manner. Thus, in the
present agreement, Mary had decided to take care of the family sewing,
but she quickly pointed out to me, that material for winter garments
must be bought immediately, and I promised to try and go with her in
the afternoon. I had thought of this necessity during the night, and
had come then to a conclusion, I had once thought nothing would ever
make me accept.

I had a valuable ring, a diamond guard to my wedding ring. I had not
worn it since we left Galveston, and its disappearance had not been
named. I could not bear to speak of it, and I dare say the children
thought I had sold it for some necessity. But I felt that I must now
part with it, and I experienced real, palpable pain, when I came to
this conclusion; my heart ached just as my head might have ached, and
I hope none of my readers will ever have to thole such suffering. It
does not seem worth while for any of them to be sorry for a woman, who
had a heartache about the loss of a diamond ring. Well, it was not the
diamonds; it was the memories hidden in their shining depths.

One Sunday afternoon while I was strolling with my lover in the laurel
woods round the Salutation Inn at Lake Windermere, Robert gave it to
me. It was then just three months before our marriage, and ever after,
it had been associated with some of the sweetest episodes of our happy
life together. Three or four times since my widowhood, I had been in
such extremity, that I had resolved to turn it into gold, but every
time something happened which saved my amulet.

For I was superstitious about it. To me it was an amulet. I believed
that while I wore it in my breast, Robert would remember me, and in
times of perplexity and trouble, help and counsel. Every one has some
superstition. I say "every one" with consideration, and from a rather
extensive knowledge of personal superstitions. The richest, shrewdest,
most truly religious man I ever knew, had two or three apparently very
silly ones; yet they ruled his life, and in some measure his enormous
business, and he told me he had never defied them, but to his sorrow
or loss. So I must not be too much blamed for having a very tender
superstition about my ring, and a strong reluctance to part with it.

I waited all night for the premonition that something would happen
this time also to save the ring, but no whisper of comfort, no sign of
salvation came, and when I awoke in the morning, it was with the
conviction that I must now part with this very last memento of a life
forever gone from me. With tears I took it out of the little pocket,
which I had made for it in the bosom of my dress, and dropped it into
my purse. Then I went to the breakfast table, and found the children
so happy over their new plans, that I could not bear to dash their
hopes and enthusiasms by any mention of the sad duty before me.

We talked for an hour about the kind of dresses wanted, and neither
Mary nor Lilly were extravagant in their desires. Lilly only
stipulated that she would like a dark blue cloth, because that color
suited her, and Mary said, with a comical little laugh, "I don't care
so much about color, Mamma, but do not dress us alike. I don't want to
hear people say, 'They are the two Miss Barrs, illustrated by Black
Watch tartan dresses;' for you know, Mamma, dear, you have an
unquenchable taste for Black Watch tartan." I could not help laughing
at the accusation, for I acknowledge that to this day, the sombre,
handsome tints of the Black Watch regiment attract me.

"You see, Mamma," she added, "we are not going to live in Scotland,
and in New York I have noticed dark sage green with pale blue
trimmings is in favor. I should like to be in the fashion. I don't
care about color. Any color suits me."

So with laughter and happy voices in my ears, and a little tremor in
my heart, I turned into Broadway. My fear was now, that I should not
be able to sell my ring, and so bring disappointment and waiting to
those whose happiness was my first concern. I had no clear idea where
to go, but I thought on Broadway I would be likely to find the best
jewelry stores, and I considered myself very clever, when I cunningly
resolved, not to take the first offer made me, but to ask at least in
three different places.

About Fourteenth Street I met a policeman, a fat, rosy,
good-natured-looking man, and I asked where the best jewelry store
could be found. He walked a few steps with me, and then pointed out
Tiffany's in Union Square.

"They are clean gentlemen there," he said, "and they'll neither charge
you too much--nor give you too little."

So I went to Tiffany's, and a very pleasant gentleman asked me what I
wished. I took my ring out of my purse, and showing it to him, said,
"I have to sell this ring. Will you buy it?"

He looked at the ring, and then at me, and said, "It is a beautiful
ring. I am sorry you have to part with it."

"Will you buy it?" I asked again, and I was aware that my voice
trembled.

"We cannot," he answered. "Our house does nothing in that way of
business, but I can send you to a gentleman who will buy it, and who
will be certain to treat you fairly, and to give you its value."

And I could not help believing him, for his face and voice were full
of sympathy, as I answered, "Thank you, sir. That is all I want."

Then he took a card from his pocket book, wrote a few lines on it, and
enclosing it in an envelope, addressed the message, whatever it was,
to Mr. John Henry Johnston, Bowery and Grand Street.

I knew nothing of these localities, but when I reached the friendly
policeman at Fourteenth Street again, he told me exactly how to find
the place. And the unaffected kindness of these two men in some
strange way drew all the sorrow out of my heart, and I walked down the
Bowery full of interest in all the strange shops and sights I saw
there; for it appeared to be full of people, in every kind of dress
the continent of Europe could supply. In fact it was full of emigrants
in their national costumes, waiting for the evening emigrant train,
and in the meantime, seeing what they could of the city of New York.

At length I came to Grand Street, and saw the store I wanted. It was
a large handsome store, and I walked into it, and asked for Mr.
Johnston. His appearance rather astonished me. He looked to be
about thirty-seven years old, but his hair was snow white. He had
a pleasant, intelligent, kind face, and his manner was most
prepossessing. He read the card sent him, and said politely, "Come
into my office, Madame."

I told him my name, then he looked at my ring, and said, "The stones
are good, and it is of English make, I think. I may say, I am sure."

"It was bought in Glasgow, from the firm of Alexander McDonald--but
for all that, may be of English make," I answered.

He spent a little time in examining the ring, then sent for another
gentleman, and asked him to appraise its value; while this was being
done, he asked me if I was the Amelia Barr who wrote for the
_Christian Union_. In a short time, the second gentleman having
finished his examination, Mr. Johnston told me what he would give me
for the ring, and I was amazed. I had not expected half as much, and I
joyfully accepted his offer. Then and there, we finished the
transaction, and my ring was gone from me forever. But when he put it
in the safe, and the iron door shut heavily upon it, I could have
shrieked. It hurt me so! It hurt me so! If it had not been for the
three dear girls waiting for the money, I should even then have said,
"Give it back to me. I cannot, cannot part with it!"

As it was, I did not speak, but as I rose to go away, Mr. Johnston
asked me to sit awhile, and being excited and trembling, I thought it
well to do so. Thus began a very sincere friendship between Mr.
Johnston's family and my own. Mrs. Johnston was called Amelia, and
this simple circumstance made our first meeting a very pleasant one.
For several years the Johnstons were true friends, but Mrs. Johnston
died early, and in later years I have lost sight of Mr. Johnston. He
did me many favors, but there is one above all others, which I can
never forget. It was in connection with my ring, and it gives me yet a
warmth at my heart to remember it.

About three weeks after it had passed from my possession, a small
parcel came to me, and when I opened it I saw the little box in which
I had always kept my treasure. With trembling fingers I opened it, and
there lay my ring, changed indeed, but still my ring. The stones had
been removed, and over the vacancy caused by their removal, had been
placed a scroll of gold, inscribed in black enamel with the word
"_Faith_." Fortunately, I was alone in my home, and I went to my room
and falling on my knees, I laid the changed ring in my open palm
before God. What I said, He knows, and there are many of my readers
who will understand without my explanation. I thought God would see,
and be sorry for me.

Was I not happy? Yes, at first very happy, but gradually my feelings
changed. The beloved amulet, denuded of its splendor and value, was
such an evident symbol of myself, and my fortune, that I could not
help a kind of sorrowful astonishment, followed by a gush of
passionate weeping. "O Robert! Robert!" I cried, and then both words
and tears failed, and I laid my head on the bed, and was dumb; because
my loss was so irreparable, that even God could not restore

  "The weeping hopes, the memories beyond tears,
  The many, many, blessed, unforgotten years."

At that hour my heart was empty of all but grief.

Very soon, however, I heard my children's voices on the stairs. They
were talking softly but happily, and I rose and bathed my face, and to
their eager call of "Mamma! Mamma!" I went to meet them. Then I showed
them the changed ring, and I am sure that wherever Mr. Johnston was at
that hour, his heart must have glowed with the warmth of the good
wishes sent to him. I also tried to be pleased and happy, for I told
myself, that if there had been any real reason for the grief I had
just indulged, God would have spoken a word of comfort to me, yet when
I showed Him the changed ring, He did not. My tears had been useless,
for there is no deliverance through tears, unless God wipes them
away.

So I placed the ring on my finger, and wore it that night, and when
the mystery of sleep wrapped me like a garment, I found out that God
had not been indifferent to my tears, and that He had royal compassion
for the sorrowful and broken-hearted who had not dared to expect
anything.

For a little while, I wore it constantly, thinking I could accustom
myself to its company, but it had been too long a part of myself and
my life. A sudden glimpse of it could sometimes destroy a day's work,
and if I purposely looked at it, the heart overruled the head, and I
was not able to write at all. It depressed me, and put down the soft
pedal on all thought and mental expression. So I finally laid it away
among the sacred things of my affections, my father's, mother's, and
husband's last letters, the lock of Robert's dark hair just tinged
with gray, the golden curls from my children's brows, the flowers that
had bloomed on their graves. Among such treasures it found its
place--the last memento of a love and a life, dead, and gone forever.

Some of my readers will very likely say that I was foolishly
superstitious regarding this ring, and evidently considered it as an
amulet or charm. I will answer them in the words of a very learned
man, who wrote on this subject, and then leave them to argue the
question as it seems to appeal most powerfully to their experience, or
their prejudices.

  "As to Charms, a coin, a pebble, any trifle long carried on the
  person, becomes imbued with the personality. Sometimes they have
  such strange ways of remaining with one, that we cannot help
  suspecting they have a will of their own. Who has not been amazed
  at the persistency with which a coin, a key, a button, a pebble
  picked up and put in the pocket, stays there? Or how some card
  will lurk in our pocketbook, till it is plain it is there of its
  own intention. In a little time, we can't help feeling as if these
  things know a great deal that we do not know; and we treat them
  with liking and respect, and even care."

Let those who say they never do "such silly things," deny; the wise,
who dare affirm or acknowledge the foible, will be a large majority.

By whatever power or influence my ring held me, its putting away
was an advantageous thing. Since Robert's death my life had been, to
my own apprehension, two-fold: a sharply defined life above
consciousness, and a vague, haunting, dreamlike life below
consciousness. The latter had troubled most of my hours of rest and
solitude; and living in it, either waking or sleeping, I was sad
with regrets and self-accusations. A night spent in its gloom
robbed the next day of vitality and active mentality. I was
depressed, and work of any kind is not done as well as it could be,
if gone to with cheerfulness, yes, even with gladness. But with the
removal of the ring from my person, the last link between the past
and the present life was broken. I know not how it came about, but
gradually I was able to dismiss "Memory's rapturous pain."

  "For when I drank of that divinest anguish,
  How could I taste the empty world again?"

Yes, I began to forget. At first I could not believe it, and I
struggled against the fact. I told my heart to remember, but it was
only telling love to do what love had once done of itself. I found it
useless, as all have done, and will do to struggle against the deepest
nature of things. For God has appointed time to console affliction,
and living loves and inexorable wants and duties, compel us to accept
the present as compensation for all that has been taken away, and so
for a while,

  "... we do not quite forget,
  Nor quite remember, till the past days seem,
  The waving memory of a lovely dream."

Every event has two or three causes, and probably quite as many
issues, and Mr. Johnston's friendship carried Lilly back to mission
work. She went with him and a Mr. Swartout to the Five Points Mission
one Sunday afternoon, and at this time the Five Points Mission was the
pet philanthropy of New York. There was always a great number of
visitors there on the Sabbath, but it was the number of poor children
that attracted Lilly. She had a singular aptitude for interesting and
managing them, and this faculty had been trained and exercised by her
famous pastor, Dr. Joseph Brown of the Kent Road Church, Glasgow,
especially in the poor children's dinners supplied by the city and
private charity. So this Sunday afternoon decided her life for the
next two years or more, and also had a helpful influence on our own
home.

For the attention of the Reverend George Mingens, Superintendent of
New York's city missions, was soon drawn to her fine voluntary work,
and he asked her to join his missionary helpers. But I was extremely
averse to her even visiting the Five Points district, though I
acknowledged to myself the native and natural quality of her
evangelism. My father delighted in his home missions, and my Uncle
John died at Sierra Leone after seven years missionary labor there. A
picture of his lonely grave in the African desert hung in my father's
study, and was one of the first things I heard a story about. It was
only a poor woodcut taken from a _Churchman Magazine_, but as I grew
older my imagination easily supplied the lions on the horizon, and the
negro kneeling beside it.

Also I had a most disquieting memory of a little girl about eight
years old, after a missionary meeting in Penrith Chapel, declaring
that as soon as she was grown up, she was going to the heathen at the
ends of the earth. She was going to tell them about their good brother
Jesus, who stretched out his arms to them, even from the Cross. And I
was ashamed before this ghost of a child from the past, and then
remembered how Lilly had even neglected her school and her lessons to
go to serve at the poor children's dinners in Glasgow, finding in this
service a consolation for a life lonely and not happy. So there was no
reason at all to wonder at her enthusiasm for mission work. It was an
inherited tendency, strengthened by the experience of three
generations.

The next time Mr. Mingens called he made a proposal I had neither
heart, nor argument to oppose. He said he had taken dinner the
previous evening with Mr. and Mrs. William E. Dodge, and that during a
conversation about city missions, Mrs. Dodge had expressed a desire
that Miss Barr would act as her private missionary. He told us that
Mrs. Dodge was very rich and charitable, and had letters every day
asking her help in a variety of troubles, and that she thought Miss
Barr would be the very person to investigate the real condition of the
writers, and if their cases were worthy of help, to see that they
obtained it.

The offer greatly pleased Lilly, and after she had an interview with
Mrs. Dodge, she was taken captive by that lady's spiritual and
personal charms and was very happy in the work assigned her. The
salary she received for it brightened all our lives, for it enabled us
to rent and make the comfortable home we all longed to possess. For
there was but one purse in the family. I carried it, but it belonged
alike to all; and I never once remember Lilly asking for a dollar of
her salary, for her private use or pleasure.

In the meantime my reputation grew imperceptibly as a tree grows. In a
little more than a year after I began writing for the _Christian
Union_ I had a great deal to do for Dr. Stephen Tyng, a notable young
clergyman of that day. My first literary work for him was to write
twenty little stories about Olivet Chapel and its mission. They were
to be about seven or eight hundred words long, and though all on the
same subject, to be varied as much as possible. I found no difficulty
in doing what he wished. It was only to make men of different creeds
and nationalities, age and temperament, wealth and poverty, discuss
the mission. To me it proved a pleasant mental exercise, and Dr. Tyng
was more than satisfied, and paid me one hundred dollars. I thought
the cars would never get me home. I was in such a hurry to tell the
children, I must have taken two steps at once.

That day remains in my memory as a perfectly happy day, for Dr. Tyng
paid me with such cordiality and unstinted praise, that my pleasure
was doubled. Subsequently when Dr. Tyng and Dr. Hepworth began to
publish a weekly newspaper, called the _Working Church_, they
associated me with them in its preparation. This paper published the
first novel I ever wrote, as simple a story as "Jan Vedder's Wife,"
but laid among the Cumberland Fells and in the city of Glasgow. At
that time I knew nothing about book rights, and English rights, and I
suppose Dr. Tyng never imagined a writer could be ignorant about such
personal points, for he did not speak to me on the subject. So when
Dr. Tyng had paid me for its publication in the _Working Church_ I
believed I had no further right in it. It was put away and forgotten,
until about half a year ago, when I found it in a box full of old
diaries, papers, et cetera. Its name was "Eunice Leslie" and if any
one has early copies of the _Working Church_ they will find it there,
and I should be glad to hear of it.

Among my duties on this paper was the preparation of the columns of
church news, and general news, and Dr. Lyman Abbott in writing to Dr.
Tyng about the newspaper said, "They were well done," and asked, "Who
prepared them?" And as Dr. Abbott knew I was responsible for their
accuracy and brightness, it was very kind of him to make the inquiry.
It was a small kindness; it was done forty years ago, and Dr. Abbott
has doubtless forgotten it, but I still remember how much it pleased
me. As for Dr. Abbott, he may count it, as Wordsworth says, in

  "That best portion of a good man's life--
  His little, nameless, unremembered acts
  Of kindness, and of love."

Dr. Tyng showed me Dr. Abbott's question, and his compliment to the
general character of the _Working Church_ as a popular religious
weekly, and with a gay little laugh commented thus, "I am glad the
doctor did not spell 'Weekly' with an 'a.'" Then his countenance
beamed with pleasure, and I can see him this moment, as I saw him
then, standing with the note in his hand, as fine a type of a
highly-cultured good-hearted gentleman as I ever met.




CHAPTER XX

THE FAMILY LIFE

  "The Family Life is romantic because it is uncertain. Every member
  of it likes different work and different play. These differences
  make the household bracing. Those who want to get out of family
  life will go into a much narrower world."


Our home at this time was in the pretty row of flats opposite the
Dominican Church on Lexington Avenue. They were light, sunny
apartments and had a satisfactory share of what we call, modern
conveniences. Every one knows how New York looks now, between
Lexington Avenue and the old entrance to Central Park at the Arsenal.
Then, it was a clear, open space. I remember just one cottage standing
at the southeast corner opposite to the park entrance; and I remember
this cottage, because its garden was full of old-fashioned English
flowers--columbines, sops-in-wine, calamuth, kingspear, crown
imperials, Michaelmas daisies, and the only auriculas I have seen in
America, the aristocrat of the primrose family, dressed in royal
purple, and powdered as daintily as any court lady.


AURICULAS

  "Grave grandees from pageant olden,
  Purple, crimson, primrose, golden,
  Yellow-hearted, tawny-tuckered,
  Velvet-robed, and flounced and puckered,
  Golden-eyed and garnet-breasted,
  Cherry-rimmed and velvet-vested,
  Silver-powdered, golden-dusted,
  Damson-dyed or orange-rusted,
  Pencilled, painted, grained and graded,
  Frilled and broidered and brocaded,
  Ye should move in gilded coaches,
  While some gorgeous Prince approaches;
  Let the Polyanthi then,
  Run as dapper liverymen!
  Till your dames on polished floors,
  Sail like splendid Pompadours."

Our dining-room faced this pleasant outlook, and it was a favorite
family gathering place; for Mary had her sewing machine at one of its
windows, and there she sat sewing and singing nearly every morning.
The parlor looked on to Lexington Avenue, and was exactly opposite the
Dominican Church entrance, and on Sunday mornings I found at its
windows never-ceasing food for thought and observation. Early as six
o'clock, there was a reverent praying congregation there, and soon
after nine the congregation had overflowed its capacity, and men and
women were kneeling on its steps, and broad sidewalk. They were
indifferent to passers-by, and with their rosaries in their hands,
made publicly their confession of sin, and their prayer for pardon. I
never wearied of this Sabbath spectacle, and I never dreamed of
smiling at it. I could not imagine myself praying on the sidewalk, or
even on the church steps, but sincere religion always commands
respect. It is never ridiculous or contemptible.

The parlor, like the rest of the house, was plainly furnished. There
were white curtains at the windows, and white matting on the floor,
and a very good cottage piano, which we rented when we were in the
Amity Street rooms, and had to deny ourselves in other matters, in
order to pay the eight dollars a month it called for. But Mary had
acquired a certain proficiency in music that must not be lost, and at
this time she was taking singing lessons from Errani, and they needed
steady, regular practice, which was given while I was at the Astor
Library.

Through my reviewing for the _Christian Union_ and other papers, we
had collected a number of good books, but we had no pictures excepting
two fine crayon portraits of my eldest daughters, which had been
presented to me by a young artist, who came frequently to our house.
And there was always plenty of flowers, for New Yorkers then, as now,
delighted in them; and our visitors brought them freely. I suppose,
excluding the piano and the two portraits, the whole house was
furnished at the cost of three or four hundred dollars; but for all
that, it made a cheerful pleasant impression on all who entered it;
its atmosphere was so homelike, so comfortable, and happy.

Undoubtedly we were very happy there, though I worked ten hours or
more, daily, including the unpleasant ride to the Astor Library, and
often as far as Park Row or its vicinity; for I had to be a worker, as
well as a dreamer, and my thoughts needed hands and feet, as well as
wings in order to turn them into money. Generally I was far too busy,
or too tired, to join the pleasant company usually brightening the
parlor in the evenings; but everyone came into the dining-room, where
I did my daily overflow of copying, for there was no blessed
typewriter then, and had a few kind words with me--and I heard Mary
singing or playing, or the murmur of joyous conversation, or the echo
of light laughter, and I was as happy as the rest:

  "For this it was that made me move
  As light as carrier birds in air;
  I loved the weight I had to bear,
  Because it needed help of Love."

And also, I was often conscious of a strength, not physical, lying
under the tired sinews and muscles.

These evening meetings were of the most informal character. There
never was any special invitation to them, and the visitors wore their
ordinary street costumes, and were mostly literary men and women;
though not altogether so. Mr. Isaac Bloom of Galveston, who had been
my husband's friend, often came to New York, and when he did so,
always came to visit us; bringing with him, some young Jewish
gentleman of his acquaintance. Socially, I never met finer gentlemen.
They were well educated, and their reverence for religion, for their
parents and family, and for all that is lovely and of good report,
made their friendship most pleasant and desirable. This may not be a
popular opinion, but it is the truth concerning all the Jews I have
known socially, and their number is neither small nor unimportant. My
Galveston friend is dead, and I have gradually lost sight of the
Franks, and the two Blumenthals, the cultured Noemagen, Julius Sterne
and others; but I have not forgotten their good nature, and exquisite
courtesy, and I am sure if I met them at this day, they would give _my
age_ an even deeper respect, than they gave me forty years ago. Then
also, Mary had made many friends while with Mrs. Sykes, and they
drifted now and then into our circle; while not infrequently S. S.
Conant, the editor of _Harper's Weekly_, passed an hour in it before
going to his club; or Mr. Mengins called to talk to Lilly about her
mission work, readily falling into conversation, and changing opinions
with all present; or telling them Scotch stories, with all the rich
emphatic idioms, of the Land o' Cakes.

Always I was well content to sit copying my day's work in the
dining-room, within sound of the happiness, that I could share at any
moment; but I grew restless at once, if I heard the voice of a young
man called Cochran. He was one of the librarians of the Astor Library
when I first met him, but very soon went to where he naturally
belonged--the daily press. A man so vivid, so clever, so brimful of
intellect, I had never before met. He was like a flash of flame.

The first thing he always did, was to walk through the dining-room,
and ask me if he was welcome. Being assured of our pleasure in his
company he would answer, "Then I shall make my tea"; and immediately
proceeded to make himself a cup of tea. Having drank it, he poured out
a second cup, and with this in his hand went back to the parlor,
taking if possible his seat on the piano stool. Then he saluted the
company, and as he sipped his tea, began a conversation that no one
could describe. It was gay and grotesque, thoughtful, and often
serious, constantly witty and idiomatic. Oh, it was a dish of all
kinds! but all good. Thus he would sit drinking one cup of tea after
another, and clinching every discussion with a few trenchant words,
driven home as a nail is driven into a sure place, with a few strong
blows. It is impossible for words to give any adequate example of this
man's conversation; because it was so vividly illuminated by his
personality, the inflections of his voice, his expressive gestures,
and the large gray eyes, that beamed or flashed in sympathy with all
he said.

On one occasion a minister and his wife from Glasgow and a close
friend of my mother-in-law and of all my Scotch connections was
present. They had sent me a note from the Metropolitan Hotel saying
they would like to call, if it was convenient; and had been invited to
take tea, and spend the following evening with us. I confess that I
was pleased to have such credible witnesses assure my mother-in-law
that I had not done badly for the grandchildren she had neglected; and
moreover I did arrange everything as American as possible, and I did
pretend to have forgotten all about Glasgow, whereas there was not a
street of the murky city, or a day of my life in it, which was not
clear and fresh in my memory. And I did dress myself in the finest
gown of white mull and lace, with which Southern extravagance in that
direction before the war had provided me, and I did go to unnecessary
expense in cut flowers and jellies and confectionery, not from the
best of motives, not out of respect to the minister and his wife, but
just because I suspected them of coming as spies, and I did not wish
them to take back an evil report. Before they left New York I was
ashamed of my suspicions, but that night I enjoyed myself in them.

And all went exactly as I desired. My visitors were astonished and
much pleased with their reception, my daughters had never looked
better. Mary sang very well, and Lilly interested the minister with
her stories of the Five Points Mission so much, that he wished to go
there, and she agreed to go with him on the following day. About eight
o'clock Mr. Cochran and Albert Webster came in, and we had an
intellectual feast of good things until midnight.

During this evening there was a conversation concerning women which
may indicate how much their character has changed during the last
thirty years. Mr. Webster related a social anecdote about Mrs. Astor,
and her unanswerable way of snubbing rivals aspiring to social
prominence; and I asked Mr. Cochran what he thought of Mrs. Astor's
behavior.

"I think the things women bear from each other are amazing," he
answered. "Men would not stand them. Men would not attempt them."

"Then why do women attempt them?"

"First, because they don't respect each other; second, because they
have no fear of consequences."

"Consequences!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. They cannot knock each other down, and it is not ladylike to
call names."

"Well then, if a woman is insulted by a woman, what can she do?"

"Repay in kind, and to give women justice, they generally do so."

"How?"

"A stare, a shrug, a toss of the head, conveys their infinite disdain;
and answers the end perfectly."

Conversation then drifted to Susan B. Anthony, and Mr. Cochran said,
"I respect her, but she will not succeed."

"Why not?" asked Albert Webster.

"Because, though women are gregarious in fashions and follies, they
cannot combine. They will not support their weak sisters, and they
shrink from their strong ones. Generally speaking, they have a radical
contempt for each other's intellects, and have no class solidarity.
Because of the latter want, men have always had the upper hand, and
will always keep it."[7]

The minister approved these opinions, and also kindly looked over, or
forgave, any lapses from the strict formalities of a Glasgow evening,
by a kindly allowance for our grievous want of a Scotch education.
Twelve years afterwards, I paid my mother-in-law a visit at her summer
residence in the Isle of Arran. She had forgotten nothing the minister
and his wife had told her concerning their visit, but they had told
only the things I wished her to hear. Even Mr. Cochran making his own
tea, and drinking eight cups or more, had not been reported. I am
sensible that I have been smiling as I wrote the last two pages, and I
shall not try to justify myself. Sometimes we act naturally, and
sometimes we have a grace beyond nature, and that night I dispensed
with "the grace beyond," but I enjoyed the dispensation, and I hope it
was not very wrong, because I am not yet sorry for it.

The Albert Webster named here was a fiction writer of a very high
order. His work was done principally for _Appleton's Magazine_. He was
a grave, thoughtful young man, with a charming presence, a high
opinion of women, and a passionate love for one of Nathaniel
Hawthorne's daughters; but he was perilously delicate and unfit for
the struggle of life. In about two years the work, and the struggle
was over. They whom the gods love, die young. The brilliant Cochran
followed Webster in a short time, and the rest of the clever, kindly
group whom we called friends are scattered far and wide. Max
Freelander went to the African diamond mines. S. S. Conant's sudden
disappearance is still a mystery. The Reverend Mr. Mengins is dead. My
Jewish friends are immersed in business. They doubtless remember me,
as I do them, but I am on Storm King Mountain, and they are in New
York's busiest thoroughfare, sixty-five miles away. Death and distance
make barren our lives.

About this time the brilliant scholar Moses Coit Tyler was editor of
the _Christian Union_. He was a great man in every respect. If he only
entered a room, it appeared to become lighter; and in no other man
have I ever noticed the radiation of the body so pronounced. He made
me believe in the aureoles of the saints. Reverent to sacred things,
he was still very much of an every day man. He fearlessly spoke his
mind, fearlessly opposed what he disapproved; and was not, I
suspected, an admirer of Mr. Beecher. I remember thinking that if the
two men came to an active dispute, I should like to be present.
Professor Tyler soon left the newspaper world, and went to his place
in Michigan University. Many years afterwards he wrote me some hearty
letters, praising the work I had done, and telling me, he knew I would
do still better.

Not long after he left the _Christian Union_ Mary and I took a passage
on an Anchor Line steamer for Glasgow. I had various reasons for this
journey, partly relating to the family, and partly to business. Also,
I was exceedingly weary both physically and mentally, and my physician
is ever the sea and the air of my native land, if by any means I can
secure their help. Having fainted three times within a month, it was
not considered prudent for me to go alone, and we hoped Mary might
please her relatives better than Lilly had been able to do. So Mary
went with me.

In one or two respects the voyage was a success. Ten days on the
Atlantic perfectly restored me to health, and I landed at Glasgow fit
for anything I ought to do. We went to a private hotel, and I sent my
mother-in-law word of our arrival. Towards evening Mrs. Colville and
her daughter Jessy came to visit us, bringing me a letter from Mother,
desiring us to leave the hotel, and stay with them. So we went to
their residence in Bath Street, and were entertained there with great
kindness. And I was glad of it. I could not forget that I was with
Robert's mother, sister, and kindred, and I tried for his sake to
offend in nothing.

The morning after I arrived I was sitting in a parlor by myself,
writing letters, when a gentleman entered. I looked up and as I did
not recognize him rose. Then he came eagerly forward crying softly,
"_Amelia! O Amelia!_" The sound of my baptismal name went poignantly
to my consciousness; no man since Robert's death had ever called me by
it. As the speaker came closer to me, I saw that it was Alick Sage, my
old lover. He had just returned from Australia, a widower with one
daughter. I did not know whether I was pleased to see him, or not. He
had grown as far away from me, as I from him, and there was not one
plank of tenderness in my heart to bridge the chasm. I wanted no
lovers; my affections were well satisfied with my daughters, and my
work.

He was persistent, and his persistency annoyed me, and I left Mary
with her aunt, and went down to Yorkshire to see my sisters, who were
then living in Leeds. After spending two days with them, I went on to
London, where I collected money enough to pay the expenses of our
trip, and also made arrangements for three American stories. Returning
to Glasgow I sailed two days afterwards for New York, but Mary
remained in Scotland until near Christmas.

In the gloaming of the day before leaving I made two memorable visits,
the first was to the house in which I had lived and loved with such
passionate earnestness, as I could never know again. It looked as if I
had never left it, and a constable walking the broad pavement in front
of it, told me that "a real bein, nice couple" lived there, that the
wife was "gey bonnie," and her man had "a fine job in the custom
house." I asked if they had any children. "Aye," he answered, "a braw
lad o' five, or thereabouts, and a genty wee lassie, just toddling
around." I looked up at the windows, silently blessed the home, and
all within it, and giving the man a shilling took leave of it forever.
Another inquiry might not have been so happily answered. When a thing
is well enough, let it alone.

The other visit was to my husband's warehouse in Virginia Street. It
had been closed for the day, and being entirely a business street was
absolutely empty. I stood upon the stone door steps, worn away in the
center to a mere flag, and I looked at the row of windows covered with
dust and cobwebs, just as Robert and his predecessors had kept them,
as emblematical of a large, steady business, not requiring blazoning
of any kind. And though my heart was full, I could not help a faint
smile at the superstition--which still prevailed--and I made a
promise to myself to go down to the big offices in lower New York to
see whether New York merchants cleaned their windows, or let them
accumulate the dust in which the lucky cobwebs dwell. This promise to
myself, I have not yet fulfilled.

When I went to the steamer the next morning I found Mr. Sage there. It
troubled me, and made my last talk with Mary conventional, instead of
confidential; and yet when he turned away saying, "Farewell, Milly!" I
felt unhappy. Indeed for some days I was angry at myself. I had denied
and passed by a loving soul without caring. Alas! the pain of reunion
is often greater than the pain of parting. Some secret disappointment
enters into all meetings after long separation. We feel that it is
easier to accept the loss, than to adapt ourselves to this person not
expected.

Soon after my return home, I was engaged by Fords, Howard and Hulbert
to write a history of the condition and treatment of women in all
civilized and semi-civilized countries. Grace Greenwood was to assist
me in this work, but I never saw her but once, and that only for about
an hour. I have the impression that she lived near Boston, but she
took little interest in the book, and when she saw the list of volumes
laid out at the Astor Library for reference and information, she shook
her head in a kind of laughing despair, and said,

"Your plan is excellent, go on and complete it. The firm do not expect
me to do any writing. I am to advise with you." Then she laughed
pleasantly again, and our interview was practically over.

She was a pretty woman, bright and agreeable, and doubtless was paid
only for the use of her name on the title page, and having satisfied
herself that it was safe in my care and ability, she passed out of my
life with a pleasant smile and a compliment. Yet I could not help
thinking of what Mr. Cochran said, "Women have a radical contempt for
each other's intellects, and they can not combine." But she was kind
to me in one important respect; she advised me in a peculiarly marked
manner to "insist on some weekly payment" for my work.

I followed her advice, and was glad I did so, for Mr. Beecher's
church officials after a lengthy examination, found no wrong in their
pastor; and then Mr. Tilton took his quarrel to the civil courts. It
was a ruinous step to Fords, Howard and Hulbert, the publishers of the
_Christian Union_; but I did not dream of it affecting their
publishing business. So I had a shock one Saturday afternoon, when I
entered Mr. Ford's office with my week's Mss for the book about women.
The usually busy place was still and empty. I glanced at Mr. Jack
Howard's desk, and he was not in his place. The elder Ford had always
been a conspicuous figure but he, too, was absent. I saw no one I knew
but the cashier. He called me kindly to his office, and gave me my
check.

"It is the last I shall pay here," he said. "I was waiting for you.
Mr. Howard told me to do so."

He spoke so sympathetically, that I felt my eyes fill with tears.
"Thank Mr. Howard for me," I said, "and you?" He shook his head at my
question. I knew he was feeling the closing up, as much as I did, for
he had a clever, handsome wife and several little children. We shook
hands and parted silently. He was full of anxiety, so was I, for in
any worker's life, the loss of steady employment is often a greater
tragedy than any Sophocles or Shakespeare ever wrote.

I did not hurry home. I walked slowly for some distance full of
thought. But it was not long ere invincible hope began to say words of
reason and consolation. Then I made haste and told my children what
had happened, and we talked cheerfully over what we must do in order
to make our reduced income meet our output, until good days came
again.

"Everybody has ups and downs, Mamma," said Mary, "and I think a
thorough change would do us all good. Lilly has not quite recovered
from her illness. Alice is quieter than usual, and you look fagged
out, Mamma. Let us go to the country. We could at once save half the
rent. Let us go to Rutherford Park. When I was there with Mrs. Sykes,
I saw such pretty cottages for twenty dollars a month."

"O Mamma!" cried Lilly, "think of a cottage all to ourselves! Perhaps
a garden--and there might be a chicken house. I could raise chickens
and turkeys. I raised hundreds and hundreds in Austin, and we might
hire a cow--if we could not at first buy one. I could milk her. Old
Mammy Green taught me to milk, and I can make butter, too. What a good
time we should have! Say yes, Mamma. Do say yes."

Of course an hour's conversation in this mood, decided the question.
The next day Mary went to Rutherford Park and took a cottage, and
Lilly in high spirits spent the day in packing. "You see, Mamma," she
said, as she triumphantly turned the key in an overflowing trunk, "you
see, we ought to have made a change before this. When things begin to
go wrong, that is the time to make a change. Sam Houston said that,
and I reckon he knew all about things going wrong and changes." Then
after another tug with the straps she looked up, her face aglow and
asked,

"Things don't _stay_ wrong, do they? It is good and bad with them,
always good and bad, and good again. You know that, don't you,
Mamma?"

I smiled and answered promptly as she wished, for indeed no one knew
better than I did, that

  "The Sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,
  She draws her favors to the lowest ebb,
  Her tides have equal times to come and go,
  Her loom doth weave the finest and the coarsest web.
  No joy so great, but runneth to an end,
  No hap so hard, but will in time amend."

The ready acceptance of a simpler life by Mary and Lilly greatly
relieved me for the fear that it would be a trial to them to leave New
York had been the pinch of the trouble. Alice was happy anywhere if we
were with her, for her life and conversation was not of this world.
Born in the stress and terror of the war time, when I lived and moved
only in the mercy and care of God, she came into this world more
psychically than physically developed. She has never yet comprehended
the meaning of care or want. God is her Father, therefore she can
"lack nothing." Her wants are few and simple, and she asks God for
them, and I would sell the wedding ring from my finger, rather than
she should fear God had failed her. If she notices that I am anxious,
and I say, "I am a little troubled," she asks if I have "told God
about the trouble?" and when I answer, "Yes, darling, I have told Him
all about it," she adds with a confident air, "Then it is all right.
God will make it so."

Her mentality in some points is superior to my own, thus she is
naturally far more shrewd. I am deceived so easily; she is never
deceived. She is exquisitely neat and orderly, and as careful and
economical as any of her Scotch ancestry. The servants all obey her
cheerfully, and I wish they obeyed me half as well, and as cheerfully.
She dislikes extravagance in every shape, and yet money is useless to
her, for the sense of numbers is wanting. She cannot learn to count,
and though she may know the denomination of coins, she has no idea of
their relative worth. Nor can she understand space or distance. She
knows she must go a long way to reach England, for she has been there
several times, but if the distance is told her in miles, it would give
her no idea of it. Of course these wants totally unfit her for a world
in which numbers and space and distance are constantly present
factors. She speaks little, but she sees and knows more than she can
tell. Outward things are an hindrance to her.

Yet she is perfectly happy. Her days pass in sweet and innocent
regularity. Of her own accord she has assumed certain small household
duties, which would otherwise be mine; she spends her first hours of
the day in "talking with God," which is her definition of prayer; then
she embroiders or reads, or improvises on her organ, which at times is
done with a wonderful touch and sense of purest harmony. Her voice in
accompaniment is very sweet but quite childlike. At four o'clock every
day, we have a short service of psalms or collects, the Lord's Prayer,
and a hymn, and she is the innocent God-loving priest, who offers our
thanksgiving.

Oh, she is the most blessed child that ever a mother nursed! She has
never given me one moment's sorrow, except for her condition, and for
this she is in no way responsible. Indeed I feel it to be a great
honor to call such a lovely soul "my child." Yet her perfectly
helpless condition shadows all my days and nights for I know that
until the end she will remain one of those sweet souls who,

  "... 'mid the trampling throng,
  With their first beauty bloom at evensong;
  Hearts for whom God has judged it best to know
  Only by hearsay, sin and want and woe,
  Bright to come hither, and to travel hence,
  Bright as they came, and wise in innocence."

And the one prayer I make for her constantly, especially at
midnight--for the midnight prayer God loves best of all--is, that she
may "travel hence" before I do, or that He mercifully grant "we may
travel hence together." For it is her hand, that will open to me the
gate of the celestial city.

In a week we were settled in the Rutherford Park cottage. I had been
only half-hearted about the movement, for it appeared to put the Astor
Library too far from me. But the children were delighted with the
change, and the human heart is a loving thing, and has reasons that
reason does not understand. And I had not then learned that a little
misgiving in the beginning of things, means much regret in the end of
them.

The first change necessary in our lives was that Mary or Lilly should
do the office work. One of them went to the city with me nearly every
morning. On reaching New York I took the street cars direct to the
library, arriving there about nine o'clock and working until four. If
there was writing to be done, or writing to be altered, it was brought
to the library, and we usually made our arrangements to so fit each
other, that we returned home together. Then there was the happy supper
table, and the exchange of city and village news.

This was the year 1876--the great celebration of the Independence of
the Colonies at Philadelphia--and we had many visitors from the South.
Among them was a very interesting gentleman from Tennessee called
Thomas Barr. He stayed some weeks in Rutherford Park, and was very
popular; for he had a handsome person, a fine manner, and was
possessed of considerable wealth. There was an engagement between him
and my daughter Mary, but it died a very easy, natural death; and as
they were unsuited to each other, I congratulated both of them, for
correcting a mistake, before it was made. The last four words are a
contradiction, but they state the case plainly enough.

Rutherford Park was then a charming suburb of New York. There were a
great many New Yorkers living there, and the society of the place was
delightful. But society in Rutherford Park, meant exactly what it
meant in New York. There were the same extravagances of dressing and
entertaining and we soon found out that economy is an inherent virtue,
and not dependent on environment--a charmed word, however, at that
time; ethical and social teachers being quite confident, that every
one physically or morally sick, could be made healthy and good, by
giving them the _proper environment_. I myself had been advised by the
Reverend Mr. Ruston, as true a friend as we ever had, to go to the
country and to learn among simple villagers the happiness of a simple
life. There were not many simple villagers in Rutherford Park, and
they appeared to absolutely separate themselves from what they called
"the Yorkers." So we did not learn anything from our environment. We
spent as much living in a cottage, whose rent was twenty dollars a
month, as we spent in a New York apartment at fifty dollars a month,
for the small cottage did not alter our ideas about the superfluities,
that have become the necessities.

But blue glass and environment, which were at that time the great
cures for personal and moral ailments, did not in the least affect us.
We saw every one bringing home a square of blue glass to sit under and
be cured of their bodily sickness, and we heard everywhere the great
word "environment" as the true specific for original sin. Even yet,
"good environments and good associations," are the shibboleth of
philanthropists. I want to remind them, that Nature prevails
enormously over nurture; for instance the cuckoo has been laying her
eggs in the respectable nests of the dove and the titlark ever since
the creation, but never a cuckoo yet imbibed, or even imitated the
virtues of their foster parents. I know that poets sing beautifully of
the cuckoo bird,

  "Breaking the silence of the seas,
  Among the furthest Hebrides."

But Moses forbade the Jews to incorporate their vices by eating them,
and Milton centuries later classed them with "owls, apes and dogs."
Three centuries have passed since Milton, and the cuckoo is just as
bad as he was at the beginning. He has had, say six thousand years of
the respectable environment and excellent moral associations of doves
and titlarks, and he has not been cured of a single fault. So much for
environment and good associations! I find I have written a little
lecture but if it teaches one philanthropist, that all moral
improvement must be from the inside outward, it will not be in vain.
If the heart of even a bad child is not changed, all outside
moralities will be useless; he will become a bad man.

Our real life in Rutherford Park was just what it had been in New
York. I wrote constantly, but not as comfortably as in the city. The
train wearied me, and also there were always people in it, who talked
to me all the time. If they were women and going up town to shop, they
talked until I left them at Astor Place. Coming to my work from
Seventy-seventh Street in the horse cars was different. There I was
among strangers. I could sit still and think, and possess myself in
reflection. Socially things were different enough. We had been very
kindly received, and soon had numerous acquaintances and callers, and
we had found it quite possible to go to church, which had been a
serious query in New York.

This may seem a peculiar statement. I will explain it. One Sunday I
went to hear a minister whom I had read a good deal about. I liked his
sermon, and I liked the music, and I felt that I would be happy to
join its congregation. I wrote a few lines to this minister, telling
him with what churches I had been connected, referring him to Mr.
Beecher and Dr. Tyng, and asking what preliminaries were necessary.

Some time passed and then one day an officer of this church called on
me. I happened to be at home very busy copying. Mary was sewing beside
me; Alice was coloring a picture; Lilly opened the door for him, and
as he wished "to see Mrs. Barr" she brought him into the dining-room,
where I was at work. She thought he was a very respectable editor. I
thought the same, and I rose to greet him. I have no doubt he was a
millionaire, but he was courteous and gentlemanly, and after a few
minutes quite kindly. He said, he had come in response to my letter,
sent to Dr. C.

I smiled and he continued, "Dr. C---- would like to know the name of
your banker."

"My banker!" I replied in amazement. "I have no banker."

"You see," he continued, "ours is a very extravagant church--I mean in
good works--and our members must be looked to for large subscriptions.
Dr. C---- is acquainted with your name--and thinks highly of you--but
he is afraid you would not be able to give as--as liberally--as
liberally as our church expenses--demanded."

He spoke with difficulty, and as I continued to look at him, and
remained silent, he was confused and said hastily, "I am afraid you do
not understand the situation."

I said I did not, and he tried to explain, but he was much embarrassed
and I shook my head and said, "You had better make no more explanations,
sir. I understand that only the rich can be members of Dr. C----'s
church. The Lord Christ, also, is therefore ineligible. I will remain
outside with Him. I had an old-fashioned idea, that every Church was a
House of God, I have no desire to intrude on premises belonging to Dr.
C----."

The official sat a while, talked of other things, and went away I
think not very happy. If he is still in life, and this relation should
meet his eyes, he will remember. He did his best to make the refusal
as inoffensive as possible but he had to present a case utterly
destitute of every gracious element.

But even when we were living in the rooms in Amity Street, we found
out that the church in New York had a social side, that could not be
intruded upon. We went then regularly to a Methodist church in our
neighborhood, a large well-appointed building, with a very excellent
preacher. His manner even in his service was so really "brotherly" and
"sisterly," that I was in no way astonished when he made us a pastoral
call. We found him socially a delightful man, responding gladly to
intellectual and spiritual conversation. He remained talking with me
over my life, and especially over my work on the religious press for
at least two hours. When he rose to go he said, he would like to bring
Mrs. D---- to see us, and would surely do so, as soon as we moved
"_into a more fashionable street_."

He meant nothing unkind by this proviso, and in future years I did a
great deal of work for him, and he visited me at Cherry Croft. But the
remark made us think, and then laugh a little--perhaps, not a happy
laugh. Hitherto I had not troubled myself as to whether the street was
fashionable or not. Mr. Sykes had approved the locality, and it suited
my library wants perfectly, but now I asked Mary, if she thought we
ought to see about a change? "Not for the honor of Mrs. D----'s call,"
she answered. Then I looked at Lilly and she laughed and said, "You
ought to have told Mr. D----, Mamma, that we were not lonely nor
likely to be so. We are not fashionable people; why should we go to a
fashionable street?"

In direct opposition to this exclusiveness Dr. Tyng offered me a pew
for myself and family in the new church he had just built on Madison
Avenue and Forty-second Street, without money and without price. But
at that time I had worked a great deal with, and for ministers of more
than one denomination, and I confess my ideas of the sacred office
were turned topsy-turvey. The clergy I knew in England and Scotland
were so exclusively "Ministers of The Word." Their church and pastoral
work completely absorbed them. They were really "reverend" and
entitled to that respect mingled with fear and affection which they
received. I have gone out of my way many and many a time, so that I
might meet a minister, and have him smile at me, and say "God bless
you, child!" Much of this sentiment remained with me when I came to
New York, but it was soon killed--for a minister in the market place,
bargaining for stories and editorials, is not as "reverend" as the man
who goes up to the Holy Place and opens with prayer and praise a
solemn service to the Eternal One.

In Rutherford we had an excellent minister--a Mr. Walcott, a good man
full of the Evangel he loved to proclaim. He and Mrs. Walcott welcomed
us gladly, and the church welcomed us, and we had in Rutherford all
the spiritual privileges hungry souls could wish. I was conscious,
however, of a great change. I had acquired, I knew not how, a
self-sufficiency in spiritual things that needed nothing from human
sympathy or numbers. There are experiences in life, after which we
cannot go on in the old way; can never be what we were before. I had
gone through several such experiences.

I had lost many of the convictions and illusions of my youth. I
had gained much knowledge of men and of things, that I had not yet
either accepted or refused. But I clung with passionate fervor to
my trust in God's love and care, and in spite of the frequent
dropping of cold words of doubt in my presence, I still had an
almost awful prepossession in favor of the Bible. I read it alone
with my daughters, and we talked of its promises, and as we four
knelt together in earnest prayer, or holy silence, there was some
times the blessed consciousness of _Another_ with us. Christ had
promised to be with such worshippers. Christ will keep His promise
even to the end of the world. So we passed out of the splendid church,
into the little upper chamber, but we did not pass out of God's
love and presence.




CHAPTER XXI

THUS RUNS THE WORLD AWAY

  "I must tell all. I cannot be unfaithful to my past. If I cut it
  away, I am but half myself. I wish also faith in the years to
  come, and those lofty delights which defy the tomb."


In the meantime my work went steadily on, and I wrote a good deal for
a Mr. Marks, who very soon removed to London. But in the interval he
supplied the place of the _Christian Union_ which in the years 1876 to
1877 was at such a low ebb, that no one but Dr. Lyman Abbott, who then
took it in charge, could have guided it over the sea of its
difficulties, into the safe harbor of its present influence and
success.

In looking over my diaries for these years, I am astonished at the
amount of money I made from short stories, poems, and articles. We
lived comfortably on it, and wanted no good things. And I think my
readers must be so familiar now with my regular life, that I will only
specify the incidents which varied and changed it somewhat, until I
reach the period when I gave up newspaper and magazine work for the
purpose of writing books.

The first event of moment was our leaving Rutherford, and going to
Denver, Colorado. To this day, I wonder at the circumstance. I was
certainly ill, no, not ill, but completely tired out body and mind, so
that even my ever upspringing soul was inert and indifferent. A change
was imperative, but the sea, and a week or two of my native air, would
have put me all right. Let no one smile at my prescription. In cases
of lost vitality and extreme weariness, one's native air is the finest
tonic and builder up that can be taken. Drugs have nothing to compare
with it. I am very weary now, but I know that if I could sit on
Ulverston fells, and breathe the potent mixture of her sea and land
ozone, I would be in a week ten years younger. I do not say this on
my own experience or authority. English specialists insist on its
virtue, and I know one of the greatest surgeons of New York, who takes
this tonic every summer, if possible, and comes home a new man.

Well, I went to Denver. It was the most foolish thing I ever did, and
I can not tell why I did it. There was a vague idea in my mind, that
if I could not write any more, I might open in this new, growing town,
such a school, as I had had in Chicago; and then my children had been
talked into an enthusiasm about the West, and youth is always sure
that change _must_ be for the better. I gave way with a supineness
that astonishes me to remember. A letter to Mr. Abbott, the passenger
agent of the Erie line, settled the matter. He offered me a
compartment for four at half-price if I would write an article for a
pamphlet they would publish, and speak otherwise favorably of the line
as I had opportunity. The girls were delighted, and I tried to feel
some of their enthusiasm. The great trouble to me, was the breaking up
of the home and the sale of the furniture I had worked so hard to
obtain. But there was no alternative. If there were storage houses
then, we knew nothing about them, and Lilly, who always looked at the
bright side, said,

"It would be well to be rid of it. We didn't know how, or where to buy
furniture, Mamma, when we bought this heavy stuff. I know now where
far prettier and cheaper can be had. Just let this go, Mamma. We can't
drag it to Denver, and if we do come back, we will buy things far more
suitable."

I made no further dissent. I only reflected how many of my homes I had
seen torn to pieces, and scattered wide, and I wondered why this
experience seemed obligatory. Then it struck me, that there might be a
psychic side to the circumstance--that to break up my dwelling place,
and send me on some far off journey was perhaps the best, the only
thing my angel could do, in order to save me and my children from "Him
that followeth after." For I know well, that the breaking up of
existing conditions, is often the only salvation; that we are sent
long, unexpected, and often unpleasant journeys because it is the best
way to defeat disaster; that we are often prevented from taking
journeys we have planned and prepared for, because they would be
fatal; yea, that we are often stripped as Job was stripped, in order
to make possible the two-fold blessing of Job.

I felt the long, dirty, monotonous journey to Denver very much. But
the children were happy. They made friends with an United States
General and his charming wife and daughter, and were half sorry not to
accept their invitation to go on with them to the frontier station
which was their home.

We arrived in Denver on the twenty-first of July, 1878, after five
days' travel; and the next day we rented a small furnished house
belonging to Miss Sargent, a writer of that day whose stories were
much liked both in England and America. We made the place pretty and
comfortable, and then took time to consider what we had done. I felt
painfully the extreme rarity of the atmosphere. It affected my ears,
and gave me a peculiar headache; but it is not fair to describe the
Denver of that date, for it was the point to which all consumptives
past hope were then sent. It was full of the sick and the dying, yet
withal a busy town; but I saw at once that we should never like it,
and my heart turned to New York with a home-sickness impossible to
describe.

However, the great total eclipse of the sun was to be noted there in
perfection on the twenty-ninth of the month, and we were glad to have
an opportunity to witness what we should never see again in this
incarnation. The day was clear, unnaturally still, and tenuous; and
there was a sense of something supernatural about to occur. As the sun
was gradually darkened, and the earth lay passive in that unearthly
gloom, a dead silence prevailed, but the moment of totality, or the
moment after it, was saluted with the shouts and huzzas of the crowd
watching the marvelous event. It was no doubt the most sincere way in
which the unlearned thousands could express their feelings, but it was
not the awful wonder and worship that seemed fitting.

My old pupil, Mr. William Libbey, called afterwards. He with many
other young men and students from the different universities had come
purposely to observe the eclipse, and Mrs. Jackson, the beloved H. H.
of the literary world, quickly found us out. But no kindness could
reconcile us to a life full of strange conditions. Mary went back to
New York with some returning friends in a month; I, as soon as I could
bear the journey, and Lilly and Alice as quickly as the bitter cold of
winter was over, and it was safe for Alice to cross the plains.

Thankfully I close this chapter with our happy reunion in some
pleasant rooms in the St. Stephens, a very quiet respectable hotel on
Eleventh Street and University Place. Many of my Rutherford friends
stayed there when in town for a few days, and it was also the resort
of at least three ministers whom I knew well. We lived there a long
time, for among its many advantages was its proximity to the Astor and
the Mercantile Libraries.

The day after my return to New York I went back to my sunny quiet
alcove in the Astor, and found the paper and pencils I had left on its
table untouched. I lifted them with affection, and tears sprang to my
eyes as I looked around the hall, and from far and near received a
smile and a nod of welcome. For I was the familiar of most of the
alcove students, and always ready to give them the help of my own
index in finding the material they wanted. All day long, I had little
visits and pleasant words, and at the lunch hour Dr. Strasneky, the
superintendent, came and chatted with me about my journey. He said he
was glad to see me in my place again. "Every one missed you," he
continued, "we all liked to look up and see you sitting here, as happy
and busy as if writing was the most blessed work in the world."

"So it is, Doctor," I answered. "If we write good words, and write
them well, it is the work God gives to His beloved."

"You talk mystically," he said, "but you write plain enough. Don't go
away again."

As he left me, a tall, pale young man brought his lunch in his hand,
and sat down to eat it beside me. It was Wolcott Balestier, the
brother of the young lady whom Rudyard Kipling married, and no mean
writer of fiction. He was employed in the Patent Department, and he
never told me he was writing. He liked to eat his lunch beside me, and
discuss the people around, and what they were doing. Sometimes he gave
me some of his marshmallows, and I gave him half of my apple. We
always had a happy moment over these exchanges, and he used to banter
me for being so extravagant as to buy apples, when they were five
cents each. Well, when I first came to New York, I had sometimes
hesitated between the apple and the ride home. If I got my apple, I
had to walk up to Eighteenth Street, if I could do without my apple I
could afford the cars home. Always the apple won, for I told myself,
"I ought to walk home after sitting so long. It is really a question
of health, and not of apples." I wonder how it would have affected me,
if I had been then made sure, that the day was coming when I would
have apple trees of many kinds, that were all my own, and apples
without stint to eat, and to sell, and to give away. Would it have
been good for me to know this? No. It would not. Every one's
experience will teach them that much.

Above all other visitors in my alcove, I liked Frank Norton. He also
was in the Patent Department, but I never saw a man so far out of his
place. It was hard enough for young Balestier to be working over some
old mechanical patent, when he was dreaming of love and ladies and
great adventures; but the darkly handsome Professor N---- dwelt
constantly among the stars, and believed himself to be spiritually
related to them. He came into my alcove one day, and began talking
about our earth having once been part of the sun, and he declared that
her day and night, her tides and seasons, and simplest phenomena,
would be unintelligible without taking into account her heavenly
companions. He then attempted to prove to me how these extra-telluric
influences, have also dominion over the phenomena of mind, because
man, being a product not only of the earth but of the universe, is
influenced by the stars as well as the earth. I confess that his
wisdom was mostly beyond me, but I was greatly delighted with the word
"telluric" and when he talked of "extra-telluric influences" I was
eager and anxious to know what the word might mean. As soon therefore
as he left me, I went to a dictionary and found out. I might have
asked him, and saved some stair-climbing and research, but I knew if I
compelled myself to look for the meaning, I would never forget it.
Ever since the word has had a charm for my ear, and I have wanted to
use it in the books I have written; but this is the first opportunity
I have found. Professor N---- was then a young, handsome man,
enthusiastically full of dreams, and of an extra-telluric nature; yet
apparently under very good telluric influences, for he was always
happy, always well dressed, and always had the air of a man well
supplied with money. I wonder where he is today, and I hope sincerely
that the stars and all other extra-telluric powers, have been very
kind and generous to him.

And on the evening of the day on which this conversation with
Professor N---- occurred, after thinking it over, I said to
myself, "This earth, with its days and nights, its change of seasons,
its tides and earthquakes, and magnetic storms, may be under
extra-telluric influences; but the phenomena of the soul, is beyond
all such control. By some mysterious exercise of its own powers,
it moves on from phase to phase, from gloom to sunshine, from doubt
to faith, from repose to activity, and natural laws are of no
importance to it. What telluric, or extra-telluric influence, _can
govern thought_?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Lilly had always been the manager of our home affairs, and now that
this employment was taken away, her mind reverted to mission work; and
she went on a journey for the American Missionary Society that
promised her a great deal of the kind of adventure she liked. She was
to go to the southern states where schools and home missions had been
established to report on the work they were doing, and the success or
failure that had attended it. I do not remember how long she was thus
occupied, but it was not long, for she was soon busy in her own way
"among southern cabins;" for in Charleston she met Mr. Tourgee, and he
advised her to go to John's Island, which lay some miles off the coast
of South Carolina and was famous for its long staple cotton. Here, he
told her, she would find negroes far different from the usual type,
and natural surroundings of great beauty and interest.

On this island there was a fine old manor house called "Headquarters,"
then owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Peck, and she went there to see it. Every
brick in this house had been brought from England by Lord Fenwick its
builder, and its noble entrance hall, leaded library windows, and
magnificent cypress paneling were still in beautiful preservation. It
received its name from having been headquarters during the war of the
Revolution, the war of A.D. 1812, and twice during the war of A.D.
1860. A very sincere friendship grew up between its owners and Lilly,
and she stayed at "Headquarters" more than a year, writing charming
papers about its woods and lagoons, its birds and reptiles, and its
picturesque and exceedingly interesting negro life and character.
These papers were all bought by the _Independent_ and _Harper's
Weekly_.

Immediately after her settlement at "Headquarters," she began to dream
of, or to see in a kind of vision, an old lady and gentleman who
appeared to be much interested in her. Their dress was that prevalent
among the nobles and gentry during the reign of Queen Anne, or the
early Georges, and they impressed her with a strong persuasion of
their constant care and guardianship. She was sure that it was not
only interest, but love that prompted them. Phantoms, of course! Yes,
but phantoms of remarkable clearness and evidence, and all the time
she was at "Headquarters" she saw, or she dreamed of them.

Now the singular point in this experience, was not known until this
summer, when I received officially from the county clerk a list of all
the references to my family, the Huddlestons of Millom, to be found in
the county histories of the shires of Cumberland and Westmoreland. It
will be remembered that I have just stated, that this fine old mansion
was built by Lord Fenwick, and in the historical list just referred
to, I find the following record:

  "John Huddleston, son of the above-named Richard, who succeeded
  his father in 1337, married a daughter of Henry Fenwick, Lord of
  Fenwick, county of Northumberland."

These few lines gave me food for some very pleasant thoughts, which I
followed further than I can do here, but it was evident that these
early Fenwicks who built "Headquarters," still remembered that their
family and the Huddlestons were kindred. After more than five hundred
years had elapsed, as we count them, they remembered it, and knew that
the alliance still influenced the Huddleston strain. Well, then the
dead do not forget in the next life what happened in this life. Also,
the affections of the dead remain in the same channel as when they
were on earth. Far off from the original strain as Lilly was, they
knew her, and they felt an interest in her welfare and safety. My
readers can of themselves follow out these trains of thoughts; they
may find comfort and explanations in so doing. And I think those of
our families who are in another world like us to remember them.

Truly Lilly needed some protection, for she was surrounded by many
dangers; the climate was dangerous, the reptile life was dangerous,
and the negro element was tremendously in the ascendant; there being
only forty white families on the whole island, while the negroes
probably numbered four thousand, more or less. And Lilly knew not the
word fear; she stood an hour in the hot swamp one day, and watched the
long battle between a very large rattlesnake and an equally large
black snake, watched them at close quarters until the black snake tore
the skin off his antagonist, and left him flayed from head to tail in
the burning sun. It never struck her that there was any danger to
herself. "The snakes," she said, "paid no attention to me. They were
too busy with themselves. I was in no danger whatever."

And at that time, in that lonely island, the white man and woman had
no fear of the black man; nor did Lilly see while she was there any
ill will of the black man to the whites. They still regarded with
liking and respect the white families to which they had belonged, as
the following incident will exemplify. One woman had worked four years
after her freedom for her master, and he had never paid her any wage.
Lilly asked "Why do you not sue him, Mary? The law would give you your
wage, for he is able to pay it."

"O Miss Lill," was the answer, with a positive shake of the head, "we
couldn't hab a suit in the fambly."

So much trust was there then in the old servants, that Lilly
accompanied by Mrs. Peck, often went to Charleston in the long boat,
rowed by four black men. Their leader was a gigantic negro called
Binyard, and to his impromptu songs and recitatives the oars kept time
all the sixteen miles. Thus when Binyard saw a steamer approaching,
his stentorian voice hailed it thus:

  "Git out ob de way, you steamboat!
    Binyard's on de ribber!
  Binyard's on de ribber, steamboat,
    Git out ob Binyard's way!"

Then when the steamer swept across their bow and left them rocking in
its wash he continued,

  "Go on dis time, little steamer,
    I let you pass dis time,
  Dere's white ladies on Binyard's boat,
    So he let you pass dis time--

  "But keep out ob de way, steamboat,
    When no white ladies wid him;
  He sink you sure, little steamboat;
    He sink you wid his oar!"

As soon as they cleared Ashley River, and got fairly around the bend
and into Stono River, they met many boats coming from John, James, and
Edisto Islands, and then invariably the singing began, the leading
boat flinging out the challenge,

  "Gwine to hang up de sword in Zion?"

and the rest answering,

  "Yes, Lord! 'Tis a great camp meeting
          In de Promised Land!"

And this spiritual was followed by others, until they went singing
into "Headquarters" landing. It is all changed now. The negro has been
to the university and got "eddicated" and the white man no longer
trusts him, and the white woman fears him.

In the evening hours while Mary was out at various houses, or
entertainments I wrote a novel, one of the very best I ever wrote. It
was called "The Last of the McAllisters." I sent it to Henry Holt,
being moved to do so by a feeling I could not resist, and cannot
explain. He returned it with a letter saying, "If you will write me an
American novel as clever and interesting, I will gladly publish it."
This letter, so kind and wise, set me thinking of the possibilities of
American history for fiction, and was in fact the seed thought of "The
Bow of Orange Ribbon," and consequently of the series of American
historical tales which followed it. The origin of novels is often very
interesting, and far to seek.

Early in November, 1880, I had an almost fatal attack of inflammation
of the brain, followed before I recovered consciousness, by double
pneumonia. At the crisis of the sickness, I was for five days neither
_here_ nor _there_. Where was I? I was in a land where all was of fine
shifting sand, a land of such awful silence, that I could _feel_ the
deadly stillness. And I wanted to pray, and could not pray. I was
conscious of no pain, and no desire, but this terrible, urgent longing
to pray, and yet not being able to cry to God for help. To want God,
and to have no power to call Him, or to go to Him, was an agony there
are no words to express. At last, as I stood helpless and hopeless
among mountains of sand, there was a whisper, and the pang of
unpermitted prayer was taken away. Then I cried out, "Spare me, Lord,
that I may recover strength, before I go hence and be no more
forever." Instantly I was conscious. I knew that I was on earth, in my
own room, and I spoke one word, "_Mary!_"

Mary was kneeling beside me, kissing my almost clay hands and face,
and moistening my lips with drops of water. And I knew that I was
saved. I knew that God had really given me a new life--a new physical
and mental power. Physicians had said, I would never be mentally well
again. I was dictating poems and other work to Mary, before I was
permitted to have any light in my room--when I lay in my bed, while
Mary stood at the open door, writing down my words. My convalescence
was rapid and sure. I was in the Astor Library on the twenty-first of
March, making notes for an article on "Nollekins, the Sculptor," for
_Harper's Monthly_. The next week I went again for notes on "Beating
the Bounds" for Mr. Munroe, the editor of _Harper's Young People_.

I had been four months in my room. I felt now an urgent necessity to
be at work again. I have a list beside me of the work I did in this
month of March, and of the work done in the nine months following. It
may interest some of my friends to read the list for March, because I
was then scarcely out of the shadow of the grave. It includes twelve
poems, four for _Harper's Weekly_ and eight for the _Ledger_, as
follows:

  "An old Man's Valentine."
  "'Tis God's World After All."
  "Blue and Gray Together."
  "John's Wife."
  "The Fortune Teller."
  "The Best I Can."
  "The Lover that Comes in the Morning."
  "No Room for Me."
  "When To Drop the Bridle."
  "We've Always Been Provided For."
  "When Mother and I Were Married."

Beside these twelve poems, I went to the library and procured the
material for the Nollekins article, a lengthy one which depicted the
Georgian life and celebrities; wrote two articles for _Lippincott's_,
and the school paper called "Beating the Bounds," for the editor of
_Harper's Young People_. For the year following, I have a list which
shows one hundred and thirty-one poems, eight stories, two of which
were long enough to be called novelettes, and twenty-five articles
referring mostly to remarkable people, places or events.

[Illustration: MRS. BARR, November, 1880]

But when the home is broken up the family scatters. I felt this
painfully, for I missed Lilly constantly, and Mary was a great deal
with friends, or away, so that Alice and I were really much alone. I
had most of the office work to do, and was obliged to leave her when
about it, though I took her with me to the library, if the weather was
favorable.

Under these conditions it was as easy for me to go to England as to
remain in New York during the summer, and in May, 1882, having
just finished and sold to Appleton, my book on the "Children of
Shakespeare's Dramas," I took Alice and went first to Glasgow and
afterwards to Yorkshire; remaining away until Christmas was
approaching. During that summer vacation, so-called, I sent back to
New York eighty-one poems, stories, and descriptive articles, and
this number does not include poems and stories written for English
papers and magazines during the same period, but of which I have kept
no list. These eighty-one poems and stories were sent to Mary, who
managed their sale so well, that all were placed and mostly paid
for, when I returned home.

This voyage is memorable to me because of a great salvation. On May
the third, 1882, I dreamed that a Presence whose enmity I felt, stood
by my bedside and said, "You are going to be lost! You are going to be
lost! You are going to be ship-wrecked!" And I answered, even as I
slept, "I do not believe you. God is able and willing to keep me in
all my ways, and my soul trusteth in Him forever." Then I awoke, and I
said consciously over and over, the words I had said in my dream, and
so fell asleep again, fighting the fear in my heart with trust and
faith. And again I dreamed a Presence stood by my side, a holy loving
Presence, and it said confidently "Go, and the Lord be with thee" (1st
Samuel, 17:37). And I opened my eyes full of happiness, and there was
no shadow of fear in my heart, and three days afterwards Alice and I
sailed in the _Devonia_ for Glasgow. We were, as before said, in
Scotland and Yorkshire all summer; but took passage for New York again
on the eleventh of November. I held fast to the promise given me, and
in pleading it for our return voyage, I was suddenly affected in a
remarkable way, by the wording of the promise. For the first time I
noticed the word "_be_" in it. It seemed to stand out more plainly
than any other word. Then I understood. God had promised not only to
go with me, but to _be_ with me. That was sufficient. There were very
few saloon passengers. I remember only two ladies beside Alice and
myself, an actress, and a Mrs. Orr of Cornwall-on-Hudson. No one comes
into your life for nothing, and the next year being advised to go to
the mountains for a month or two, I remembered what this lady had said
about Cornwall, and I wrote and asked her if she knew of a house I
could rent. She advised me to come and see Cornwall. I did so, took a
house for six months, and have been here twenty-eight years.

Our first three days at sea were fine, and the wind favorable; the
next day the sea was rough, and I was thrown against the brass pipe of
the saloon stove, and my right hand painfully burned. On the
eighteenth of November, at eleven o'clock at night, we broke our
machinery, and in the morning, when I went on deck, I was appalled by
the sight of the deck covered with pieces of iron, and wreckage of
every kind; and my heart for a moment failed me. For nine days we
drifted helplessly about the Atlantic, but all the time, day and
night, men were working steadily to repair our engine. Captain Young,
a devout man and a fine sailor, was speechlessly anxious, but he clung
to Alice whenever he saw her, for she had told him the ship would
reach New York safely; and he believed her.

On the night of the twenty-seventh, after dinner, he asked Alice and
me to pray for the ship. "At eight bells," he said, "listen and pray!
We are then going to try the engine. If she works, we may, if God
wills, reach our harbor in safety----"

"And if not, Captain?"

"We shall still be in God's hands."

With these words he turned away, and Alice and I watched faithfully
with the anxious man. At eight bells we were on our knees, and as the
bells began to strike, _the thud of the engine began with them_.

"I told you all would be right," said Alice, and I kissed her, and
both our cheeks were wet.

A few days later in the afternoon, Alice sitting quite alone in the
saloon saw smoke coming from a place where smoke had no business. She
instantly found an officer, and he ran for the captain. For a few
hours there was an unusual commotion, but the subject was not named,
and I understood from the captain's reticence, that danger was over,
and that silence was wise, and even imperative. For our long detention
at sea, had made both water and provisions very scarce, and there was
actual mutiny among the emigrant passengers, whose number was
unusually large. It happened, however, that there was a big
consignment of nuts on board, and they were given to the angry crowd,
who were thus pacified. Two days afterwards we reached our pier in New
York harbor, so grateful and happy, that we hardly felt the blustering
wind, and snow and cold. We had been threatened with fire, and
shipwreck, and mutiny, but all had failed to really injure. Nothing of
us had suffered; for He had given His angels charge concerning us.

My readers, I hope, remember what I wrote about charms. They were not
my words, but I endorsed them from my experience. Well I confess that
this wonderful verse, 1st Samuel, 17:37, has assumed something of the
character of a sacred amulet. When I first read it, I wrote the words
of the covenant God had given me on a piece of paper, folded the paper
with a prayer, and put it into a little pocket of my purse. It
remained there for many, many years. Other documents placed beside it
became invalid, useless, or outworn, and were destroyed. But the
golden promise of God's constant care remained. On certain occasions,
I took it out and reminded God, that it read He would _be_ with me.
Finally the writing became so nearly illegible, and the paper so frail
I solemnly renewed both, putting this renewal in the same purse
pocket, where it remains unto this moment. It will go to the grave
with me, for I will never give up that promise. God made it. God will
keep it. Whether I deserve it, or not, He will keep it. Yea, if I did
not deserve one letter of it, all the more I would plead,

  "Because I seek Thee not, Oh, seek Thou me,
      Because my lips are dumb, oh, hear the cry
      I do not utter as Thou passest by!
  Because content I perish far from Thee,
      Oh, seize and snatch me from my fate; draw nigh,
  And let me blinded, Thy Salvation see.

  "If I were pouring at thy feet my tears,
  If I were clamoring to see Thy face,
      I should not need Thee, Lord, as _now_ I need,
  Because my dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears,
  Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place,
      Because I seek not, pray not, _give Thou heed_!"

For, alas! there have been times in the years gone by when I was even
in such case, when I went wandering after strange Gods, and New
Thought, and my dear, closed Bible reproached me. But of this
interlude I will write in its proper place. I name it here, only that
I may have the opportunity of thanking God as frequently as I possibly
can, for the blessed, eternal possibility of repentance. For well I
know, that God is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous
in mercy, and that

  "... our place is kept, and it will wait
  Ready for us to fill, soon or late;
  No star is ever lost we once have seen,
  We always may be, what we might have been."

In March and April of 1883 I wrote one of the most interesting of all
my Scotch novels. I began it on March twenty-fifth, and finished it on
the thirtieth of April. I worked on it nine hours every day excepting
four days when I only wrote eight hours. During this same time I wrote
the following for Robert Bonner and _Harper's_:

_Mar. 25th._ Finished my long paper on famous Irish women and began my
novel, "Cluny MacPherson."

_Mar. 26th._ At home all day writing on "Cluny MacPherson."

_Mar. 27th._ Ditto.

_Mar. 28th._ Writing on "Cluny" all morning. Went down to several
offices in afternoon. Did nothing in the evening. Had a bad headache.

_Mar. 29th._ Very sick headache, but wrote "Cato's Song."

_Mar. 30th._ At the last hour wrote "Two Workers" for Bonner, and he
praised it very much, a great thing for him to do.

_Mar. 31st._ Very sick. Went to the dentist's but could not have
anything done.

_April 1st._ Wrote an "April Wedding" and worked on "Cluny."

_April 2nd._ Still sick but on "Cluny," and wrote "The Reconciliation."

_April 3rd._ All day on "Cluny;" in the evening wrote "Lending a
Hand."

_April 4th._ All day on "Cluny."

_April 5th._ All day on "Cluny."

_April 6th._ All day on "Cluny," but am feeling tired.

_April 7th._ On "Cluny," very tired. A wet day and Peter Cooper's
funeral.

_April 8th._ On "Cluny," and wrote a poem called "O Mollie, How I Love
You!"

_April 9th._ On my novel nine hours.

_April 10th._ On my novel eight hours.

_April 11th._ On my novel eight hours.

_April 12th._ On my novel eight hours, and wrote "Two Ships."

_April 13th._ On my novel nine hours.

_April 14th._ On my novel eight hours.

_April 15th, 16th, 17th._ Nine hours each.

_April 18th._ Very sick.

_April 19th._ Wrote "My Pretty Canary" and "The Little Evangel."

_April 20th._ Wrote nine hours on "Cluny."

_April 21st to 28th._ I wrote all day long on "Cluny," but managed to
write for _Harper's_ a poem called, "A Tap at the Door."

_April 29th._ On "Cluny," and wrote for Bonner a poem called, "Take
Care."

_April 30th._ Wrote "A Birthday," finished "Cluny" and took it to Mr.
Rand, of the Tract House.

Eleven days afterwards I saw Mr. Rand, and he told me they were
reading proof, and much pleased with the book, and on February
seventeenth, A.D. 1884, I received a letter from _the_ Cluny
MacPherson, chief of the clan MacPherson, thanking me for such a good
picture of the clan life. The letter was dated from Castle Cluny, but
the chief himself filled some important office in the Queen's
Household.

Just about the time that I finished "Cluny MacPherson," Lilly returned
home at my urgent request, and we went to housekeeping in some
furnished rooms at 128 East Tenth Street. Then I made a short visit to
England, leaving Alice at home with her sisters, as she was very
averse to taking another ocean voyage.

My visit to Glasgow this year contained one scene, which made a great
impression on me, and the recent death of General Booth brings it back
so vividly, that I think my readers will be interested in the picture
of this early salvation service.

At that time I had thought little of the movement. What I had seen of
its noisy, moblike parades, with their deafening clang of cymbals and
drums, and their shouting, jumping excitement, was not calculated to
enlist the sympathy of intelligent persons. But then it was not such
persons Mr. Booth wished to reach. "I have been sent into the world,
to do the Lord's gutter work," was his own definition of his mission;
and certainly at that day, his methods could only appeal to those on
the lowest plane of humanity.

Well, one Saturday night in June, I had been dining with an old friend
living beyond Rutherglen Bridge on the east side of the city, and in
returning to my hotel, I had to pass through that portion of the old
town, where Hamilton Street, High Street, the Saltmarket, and the
Trongate pour their night crowd into the open place around the old
Cross. The rain was falling in a black, steady downpour. The ragged
crowd was swaying to and fro to the sounds of drums and cornets, and
above all, I heard the shrill continuous scream of a woman's voice.

I put down the window of the carriage, and saw the woman. She was
marching, with an open Bible in her hands, at the head of a noisy
crowd, and reading, or rather reciting, verses from the Gospels. Her
face showed deathly white from under her black hood, her voice cut the
yellow dismal fog in sharp screaming octaves, her whole appearance was
that of one inspired or insane, and the rain poured down on the
barefooted women, with ragged kilted petticoats, and wretched little
babies hanging over their shoulders, who followed her. I shut the
window, and shut my eyes in a kind of horror. I had a feeling, that
somewhere, centuries ago, I had seen such a nightmare of black houses,
and black rain, and such a heaving and tossing flood of miserable
humanity, and somehow it comforted me to hope, that through the
tumult, the fierce sorrowful laughter, and drunken jibes, some poor
breaking heart must have heard, and understood, that woman's shrill
intensity as she called out, "_Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest_."

I had another experience of the Salvation Army, so perfectly Scotch
and so characteristic, that I think my friends will be pleased to hear
it. I was coming down the old Shorehead of Arbroath, and I met a band
of men and women carrying flags and singing hymns. In Glasgow I had
become familiar with these parades, and had been astonished at the
toleration with which they were regarded. But the men and women of
Arbroath, were of a different spirit and the tumult, and abusive storm
of language became so great, that I stepped inside a little shop for
shelter. The proprietor, a very dry rusk of a Scotchman, in a green
duffle apron, and a red Kilmarnock night cap, was standing at the open
door.

"The Salvation Army?" I said inquiringly.

"Ye arena far wrang."

"What do you think of them?"

"I'm thinking it is better for men to meddle wi' the things o' God,
which they canna change, than wi' those o' the government wi' which
they can wark a' kinds o' mischief and mischance. Thae Irish kirns
now!" Then his face flushed, angrily, and fixing his eyes on a lad who
was in the procession he cried,

"If there isna my Jock wi' thae loons! Certie, the words arena to
seek, that I'll gie him, when he wins home again!"

"Then you don't approve of the movement?" I asked.

"What way would I do that?"

"Have you read or heard anything of Mr. Booth?"

"Ow, ay, he is just a parfect Goliath o' conceit, but he isna the man
to hold the deil, for a' his talk."

"Is there a deil to hold? You know some ministers have given up the
idea of personal devil," I said; and I quite anticipated _the look_ I
got in reply,

"Have they? Ay weel, getting rid o' the Wicked One, hasna got us rid
o' the wicked. Good day to _you_, ma'am. I'll be requiring to go
ben."

These scenes were in the early days of the Salvation Army. A short
time afterward, I saw Glasgow ministers of the strictest sect of the
Calvinistic Pharisees, with their congregations at their heels,
following the music of the Moody and Sankey evangelical movement, and
I met their leaders as guests in the most exclusive religious
families. After my return home Dr. Talmage, then editor of the
_Christian At Work_, asked me to tell him frankly, which side the
paper ought to take.

"The popular side," I answered.

"Is that for, or against them?"

"For them, decidedly. Sankey's voice draws the crowd, and then they
listen to Moody's speaking, and so the singing may lead to prayer."

"You think it will be a success?"

"It _is_ a success," I answered, "and is going to a very great one."

Then Dr. Talmage turning to Mr. B---- the active editor said, "_The
Christian At Work_, will stand with Moody and Sankey, Mr. B----. It is
the proper thing to do, I suppose?"

"Yes," I answered, and he then asked if I had "seen anything of
General Booth."

"I have seen him several times," I replied.

"What kind of a man is Booth?" Dr. Talmage asked.

"A big man, every way. He is the Cromwell of Dissent." I heard that he
was a passionate little Chartist when he was thirteen years old. I
will tell you something, a good name is a good fortune, and the name
of the Salvation Army was a kind of inspiration. One day a secretary
drawing up a paper wrote, "We are a Volunteer Army," and Mr. Booth
took the pen from his hand, crossed out the word "Volunteer" and wrote
in its place "_Salvation_." He saw in a moment the splendid
capabilities of the word, it fitted itself to the work, as promptly
as the stuttering out of the word "tee-to-tal" inaugurated the grand
successes of the temperance cause.

They are burying William Booth today, and no one can deny that he has
fought a good fight; for he, and only he and his army, reach down to
that strata of humanity which has fallen below the churches; and
which are emphatically "ready to perish." And if the Salvation Army
only succeeds in facing a man around, or in making him take one
step upward, instead of downward, there is hope for his next
reincarnation.




CHAPTER XXII

THE LATEST GOSPEL: KNOW THY WORK AND DO IT

  "What is our Life? A strange mixture of good and evil; of
  ill-assorted fates and pathetic acquiescences; and of the
  overpowering certainty of daily needs, against the world of
  thoughts, and Shadows."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "The object of Life is to gain wisdom through experience, even one
  life forces us to this conclusion."


In this year, 1883, I went to England alone, staying most of the time
with Mr. Sam Wilson, who had been my friend and playmate when I was
six years old. He was then a very tall fine-looking man of fifty-two
years of age, with a beautiful and clever wife, and a son studying
medicine in Edinburgh University. His handsome residence, with its
wealth of flowers, was in the suburbs of Bradford, Yorkshire, and I
remained there for many happy weeks; paying a short visit to London in
the interval, and loitering some time around Glasgow, from which port
I sailed to New York.

But I had a heartache all the time I was away about Mary, who I feared
was going to marry, and I did not wish her to do so. I could not find
one objection to the young man she intended to espouse. They had been
friends for three years, and were truly attached to each other. He was
a clever writer, especially for boys, and the first editor of
_Harper's Young People_. He was fine-looking, gentlemanly, and quite
sufficiently good-hearted for the world he was living in, fond of
outdoor sports of all kinds, both on land and water, and a traveler
who loved ways unknown and adventurous. I believe he was the first
white man who penetrated the recesses of the Everglades. Incidentally
it may be noticed, that he was a great friend of the Seminole Indians,
who lived in the Everglades, and that to this day, he is regarded by
them as their true comrade.

So what chance had I against a lover of such manifold attractions? I
knew I must lose, and I thought I could bear it better at a distance.
In the middle of the Atlantic one night, I dreamed that Robert came to
me and said, "This morning, Mary was married to Kirk Munroe." He said
other things, but they were entirely personal, and may not be
repeated; but when I awoke I was consoled and reconciled. And it has
always been my way to accept the inevitable as cheerfully as possible,
so I told myself "I will now forget." If Mary was happier with a
stranger, than with the mother who had cherished and loved her, and
worked for her for thirty-three years, well I must be content to shave
my own pleasure to increase hers. Had I not done it all the years of
her life? It was no new sacrifice. But I said all such things with a
swelling heart, and eyes full of unshed tears. Yet the marriage has
been a singularly happy and sympathetic one, and though her home is in
southern Florida, she comes every year to spend a month with me. And I
am now content in her happiness.

With the main events of my business life, Mary's marriage made no
difference. I wrote constantly, and spent my days mostly in the Astor
Library and Lilly or I attended to the office work, as was most
convenient. The year 1884 found me writing a story called "Sandiland's
Siller" which I finished on the sixteenth of January, noting in my
diary, that I was tired, having composed the last six pages, and
copied the last thirty-five pages that day. On the following day I
took "Sandiland's" to Dr. Stevenson of the _Illustrated Christian
Weekly_. I mailed a poem called "He That Is Washed" to Mr. Mabie of
the _Christian Union_, "Three Wishes" to _The Advance_, two little
verses to _Puck_, and wrote "The Household Thrush" for Mr. Bonner. The
first three poems had been written at intervals, while I was working
on "Sandiland's Siller;" "The Household Thrush," only, was written on
the seventeenth. About this latter poem the following incident
occurred. It contained five verses, the length Mr. Bonner preferred,
and the first three verses referred to the thrush. Mr. Bonner read it,
and then turning to Lilly said,

"Too much bird, before you come to the girl."

"Take some of the bird away, Mr. Bonner," answered Lilly; and he
smiled, cut out one verse, and handed her ten dollars. There were
things about Mr. Bonner writers did not like, but all appreciated his
clever criticisms, and his prompt payment. When Lilly came home and
laughingly told me this story I was much amused. We had a merry little
lunch together, and then I made three pencil drawings to illustrate an
article called "The Fishers of Fife" which I intended to begin the
following day.

The list of work done by me from this time to the twenty-sixth of May
is hardly credible. On that day I fell from the library steps while
sitting on them reading, and hurt my foot and my neck very much. The
next day I had a high fever, and was suffering severely from nervous
shock. For nine days I was unable to do anything, and by that time the
swollen condition of my throat was alarming, and I sent for Dr.
Fleuhrer, a very clever surgeon. For fourteen more days I was under
his care, then I began to improve, so that on

_June 24th._ I began an article on the Scotch Highlands for Mr.
Mabie.

_June 25th._ I was writing on the same. Still in bed but mending
slowly.

_June 26th._ Finished and copied the Highland article.

_June 27th._ I began "Jan Vedder's Wife," and on this day also
received fifty-five pounds from London for work done for _The Leisure
Hour_ and the _Sunday Magazine_. Lilly was down at Bonner's when the
checks came, but as soon as I showed them to her, she said,

"Mamma, we have now plenty of money to furnish comfortably. Don't you
want your own home, Mamma?"

"O Lilly!" I cried, "there is nothing on earth I want so much. Dear,
dear child, go and look for what will suit us. Go tomorrow! Go this
afternoon!"

So that afternoon Lilly went home hunting, and I wrote happily on "Jan
Vedder's Wife" and Alice sat sewing beside me, touching my hand every
now and then and smiling. On the twenty-eighth the flat suitable was
found, and on the thirtieth I managed to get into a cab and go _home_.
All was in confusion, but such happy confusion, that we did not think
of sleeping until midnight.

In a week the new home was in perfect order, and I was able to be on
the sofa, and to write "Jan Vedder's Wife" more swiftly and
comfortably. So sweet was home! So good was home, that I now felt all
things possible, and really I had not been as happy, since Robert and
I went into the wood cottage with its domestic ceilings, in Austin,
and turned it into the prettiest and happiest of dwellings. Lilly and
Alice furnished the rooms as they desired, and I was quite pleased and
full of content.

And it was a great joy when the eleventh of July came round to find
that my wedding anniversary was not now to be forgotten. In hotels it
had seemed out of place to keep it. I do not know why, but it had
always slipped past with a kiss and a word or two. But on this happy
day, Lilly set a fine dinner, and Mary sent a wedding cake; we had a
bottle of sparkling Moselle, and drank silently but lovingly to the
memory of those of our household dwelling in the City Celestial; and
our tears of love and hope made the wine sacramental--a pledge and
token of our remembrance and our thanksgiving.

There does not seem much to write about in the life of a woman lame
and sick, and confined to a flat in an upper Park Avenue. But our
existence is always a story, for the fruit of life is experience, not
happiness. And every experience that helps us in our ultimate aim of
becoming a Spiritual Being, though it be as trite as suffering, is
worthy of being considered. Chesterton calls Christ's counsel to "take
no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or,
Wherewithal shall we be clothed?" an amazing command. To the majority
it is an amazing command, but writers who love their work understand
it. I was busy on "Jan Vedder's Wife," and so interested in the story
that I forgot I was sick, and the processes of convalescence went
right on without my regarding them. When the story was finished I read
it to Lilly. It was then complete in four chapters, and she listened
to them with critical interest, and when I laid down the manuscript
said,

"It is too good for a short story, Mamma; make it into a novel. You
have sufficient material and characters, and if the latter are more
fully drawn out, the material will be better."

"But," I asked, "can we afford it? I shall get one hundred and fifty
for it from the _Christian Union_ just as it is, and we need the
money."

"No, we do not," she replied, "and if we did, I would still say, write
it over, Mamma. It is a shame not to write it fully, just because we
might want five dollars;" and she pushed my paper and pencils towards
me with an encouraging smile. Then I began it all over, and added
nearly two hundred pages. When all were corrected and copied I sent it
by Lilly to Mr. Bonner. For once this reticent man broke his usual
custom, and commented on the work in "the straight-flung words and
few," which reflected him.

"It is a good story, a fine story," he said. "Take it to Dodd, Mead
and Company. It will suit them. It is too good for the _Ledger_."

And when Lilly came home, and told me what Mr. Bonner had said, there
flashed across my mind a dream I had had a week previously, in which
Robert had given me the same advice. Christ said, that if one rose
from the dead to inform, or direct us, we would not believe their
message, and evidently I had not believed the dead, until they spoke
through a mortal whose business capacities I trusted. I have often
reproached myself on this score, but--Oh, there is no "but." I have no
excuse for my want of faith.

[Illustration: MISS MARY BARR (Mrs. Kirk Munroe)]

I had finished the novel of "Jan Vedder's Wife" on the sixteenth of
September, 1884, the seventeenth anniversary of Robert's death, and on
October, the twelfth, I gave up the regular use of crutches, though my
foot was extremely weak and painful, and I had nearly constant
headaches. But on this date, I began a story called "Janet McFarlane,"
which I finished on the twenty-first and sent to the _Advance_. On the
twenty-sixth I began a story called "Paul and Christina," which was
published in the _Christian Union_ and afterwards enlarged to book
size and published by Dodd, Mead and Company. On the twenty-eighth, I
note that "Mary and Kirk Munroe took tea with us," so I had by that
time conquered my dislike to her marriage; for I do not ask people to
eat with me, if I have any ill will toward them. Those who do not
understand me, will perhaps live to do so, for

  "... soon or late the fact grows plain,
    To all through sorrow's test,
  The only folks who give us pain,
    Are those we love the best."

On the first of November I was at the Astor Library again, but did not
dare to go upstairs to my alcove. On the second of November I was
finishing "Paul and Christina" began on the twenty-sixth of October.
On the second, third and fourth of November I was at the library, and
on the fifth so ill, I had to summon Dr. Fleuhrer's help again. I was
sick for a week then reviewed and corrected "Paul and Christina" and
took it in the afternoon to the _Christian Union_. On the same day the
Sisters from a Religious Order, living near us, began to teach Alice.
I say "Sisters" because they were not allowed to go anywhere alone, so
one came to teach, and the other came, for what purpose I know not. On
the nineteenth I wrote "Going to Church Together," a poem for Bonner,
and a New Year's article for the _Illustrated Christian Weekly_; Kirk
came to tea. Mary was in Boston with his father and mother. The
following day I was at the library and wrote "Lacordaire Dying." On
the twenty-third I wrote "Mary," a Christmas poem, and Kirk came to
tea; we had a pleasant evening, and I wrote in my diary, "He is a nice
fellow, after all." On the twenty-fifth I arranged with the _Christian
Union_ for the first study of "Paul and Christina." They gave me one
hundred and twenty dollars, and on the twenty-seventh of November,
A.D. 1884, I _received a letter from Dodd, Mead and Company accepting
"Jan Vedder's Wife."_ It happened to be Thanksgiving Day, and this
letter made it a memorable one, for it altered the whole course of my
life. I had this letter framed, and it hangs now before me in my study
as I write. Time has faded the four lines it contained, but they are
graven on memory's tablet, and the yellow paper and nearly colorless
ink cannot hide from me the words of Promise it contained. On the
twenty-eighth I saw Mr. Frank Dodd, and arranged with him for the
publication of "Jan Vedder's Wife." He gave me three hundred dollars
for the book, promising to add to this sum if it sold well, and I may
mention here, that he subsequently sent me five hundred dollars more.
He sent it of his own free will. I made neither claim nor request for
it.

Lilly was very proud of this sale, because, as I have related, the
book was written at her request. I had not been so far as fortunate
with my publishers, as with my editors. Mr. B---- of Appleton's, with
whom I transacted the business relating to my volume on the "Children
of Shakespeare's Dramas," was an unhappy, unpleasant man to deal with;
but he is dead, and I think the Scotch reluctance to speak ill of the
dead is at least a wise observance. The publisher of "Cluny
MacPherson," and a volume of "Scottish Tales" was hard and dry as a
brush. He had some selfish ideas about the society he represented, but
he had no feelings. He had ceased to live with his heart. Mr. Jack
Howard was just unfortunate. He was the publisher of the _Christian
Union_ and my book, "Romances and Realities," came out just before the
house failed, so that I never received a dollar for it. But that was
not Mr. Howard's fault. He was always courteous and generous about any
work I did for him.

Lilly was very proud and happy because, as I have related, the book
was written by her advice. "And what do you think of Mr. Dodd, Mamma?"
she asked, as we eat drinking tea together. "Is he pleasant? Will you
like to write for him?"

"Yes," I answered. "He is pliant, yet resistant. I dare say he keeps
his heart within his head, and so makes an even balance between
business keenness and moral emotions."

"I do not see that, Mamma."

"It is plain enough, Lilly. The human brain is a machine for coming to
conclusions. So is the heart. We may often trust the latter most
safely. I do. Mr. Dodd would consult both."

"Is he a religious man?"

"How can I tell? I think so, but I am quite sure he is a straight,
clean-living man."

"Is he nice looking?"

"Quite as nice as there is any necessity to be. The spirit of his face
is attractive--that is enough."

"Is he anything like A----?"

"Walking majestically, and radiating awe and temper. No, Lilly, not in
the least."

"Or like B----?"

"Self-conscious to the finger tips. No, not in the least."

"Then like F----?"

"A Philistine, proud of his class, and cheerfully living in Ascalon.
No, you are far wrong yet."

"Then like Dr. D----?"

"When his conscience is taking its usual six days' sleep. No, you have
not guessed at any resemblance. Publishers are as distinct a type of
manhood as schoolmasters. They are even different from press men and
editors. The latter are often compelled by their duties to waste their
moral strength in politics, and their intellect in party journalism.
Publishers can mind their own business, and are in no way injured by
doing so."

Thus we talked, as we eat and drank, but without any ill-nature. With
the kindly race of editors I had, and have, the strongest sympathies.
All that I have known have been kind and helpful to me, and if at
times they showed a trifle of the petty unreasonableness of men
dressed in a little brief authority, it did not hurt me. I said to
myself--how true and striking that phrase is--I said to myself, "It is
not you that offends, Amelia. It is something at his home, or down in
the office--an unpleasant breakfast, or a disagreeable letter." So I
bore no rancor, and at the next interview all was right. God was very
kind and thoughtful for me, when he set me my work among such a
kindly, clever, gentlemanly class of workers as editors.

And I confess that I like people with tidal fluctuations of mood and
temper. They are full of surprises; you always feel an interest in
them. You think about them, and talk of them, and feel that they are
as human as yourself. They are far more pleasant than men always cold,
businesslike, reticent, polite. These latter are the men you desire to
see in bronze, or marble, or even in encyclopedias, rather than in
editorial chairs. Even if they are religiously perfect, they are
unpleasant in a newspaper sanctum. For it is a trial to our faith in
creeds, to find that in business matters, the justified are as selfish
and unlovely as the reprobate. So though it is quite correct, that two
and two make four, I have a liking for the man with whom the sum of
two and two is variable. It is often five and six with me, and it may
be ten or twenty, but when it is so, I trust humanity and love God
best of all.

If I now copy the closing entry in my diary for the year 1884, it most
truly describes my condition at that time.

  _Dec. 31st._ A day of great suffering. I am still very far from
  well. I have been seven months ill. How my heart would have
  quailed at the _prospect_ but God has been sufficient. My throat
  is very bad, my foot, also, and I am generally weary and worn
  out--and very feeble. Only, thank God, my mind never fails, nor my
  heart--often. I know in Whom I have trusted for fifty-three years,
  and I can trust Him for all the rest. I have been copying the
  "Preacher's Daughter," but twenty-four pages wearied me. Mary is
  in Florida. All the rest as usual. God of my Fathers, accept my
  gratitude for all Thy great mercies to me.

  AMELIA E. BARR.
  1507 PARK AVENUE, N.Y.

I open 1885 with the following lines:

  Commit Thy ways unto the Lord.
  Thy Bread shall be given, and thy water sure.
  Let thy widows trust in me.

The first and the last of these directions, were given to me in answer
to prayer; the center one was my father's promise to me, when I bid
him farewell forever in this life. I notice, nevertheless, that I am
anxious about money matters, that I have six hundred dollars owing me,
and cannot collect a dollar, and that I fear the _Ledger_ is not in
good circumstances; nothing has been said, I write, and all appears
the same, but I _feel_ a change of some kind. I was copying the
"Preacher's Daughter," but was weak, and it was hard work.

On the fifth of January I note that Dodd, Mead and Company paid me
three hundred dollars for "Jan Vedder's Wife," and that I had a letter
from London promising me money for my work soon, and that I also
received a small check from _The Advance_. So once more I found out
how good it is to commit my way unto the Lord, and that He brings
things to pass, I cannot move. On the eleventh I see that Lilly was
out all day among the shanties with Father B----, a Catholic priest
"in the world," a man of great mercy and piety, with an intellect keen
and well cultivated. There were many shanties on the rocks in our
vicinity, and Lilly's missionary spirit had led her to make friends in
all of them. She found them Roman Catholics in theory, but altogether
negligent in practice. So she took Father B---- to stir up their
faith, which he did with an authority they feared and obeyed.

I was ill and nervous at the time, and it did not please me. I asked
her what her Grandmother Barr would say, and I assured her she would
never leave her a shilling.

"I don't care either for her shillings or her pounds," Lilly answered.
"I don't want them. If I have helped one soul back to its faith in
God, or even to its faith in good angels to help it to God, that is
better than all the gold in Scotland."

"Angels!" I said. "Do you call Father B---- an angel? and what kind of
a way will he lead them?"

"A good way. The way of prayer. And also he will see that they take
it. Now that he has found these few sheep in the wilderness, they will
have to go back to the fold. That will be good for them everyway."

"Well, Lilly, I hope you will not take his way."

"Mamma, dear, we are all going to God, and some like the Roman
Catholic way. My own forefathers for eight hundred years did so. They
could not all be wrong--abbotts and priors and priests and nuns, all
of them. They could not all be wrong."

"Nor right."

"Well none of us can deny that while the Huddlestons were of the old
profession, they were famous and prosperous. They turned Protestant
when that little German body that couldn't speak a word of English,
came to govern us. The idea!"

"Are you going to turn Catholic after all?"

"I am going to be just what my Bible makes me."

For I may as well state here that Lilly, though born in the very
citadel of Calvinism, was a natural Catholic. She loved its ritual,
and frequently went to confession. At one time it took all my pleading
and influence, and all Dr. Tyng's eloquence to keep her out of a
convent, and I had a year or two of constant fear and watchfulness.
This was the year we lived on Lexington Avenue opposite the Dominican
Church. There was at that time a priest there called Father McKenna, a
holy man entirely separate from the world, night and day either before
the altar, or among the most miserable of the living and the dying;
and I think he was her inspiration.

For long centuries Lilly's ancestors had been priests in the old
profession, and Furness Abbey is full of their memorial stones as
Abbotts of that rich and powerful brotherhood. Catholicism was in her
heart and her blood, and she was animated by all the passionate
missionary spirit of the old faith. I had much suffering and long
months of miserable anxiety on this subject, and doubtless Lilly was
just as unhappy, but this is one of those domestic tragedies not for
the public ear, and I do not know how I came to write so much about
it.

I will, however, let it stand, for I would not be astonished if she
yet went back to the Roman Church. Her soul has evidently belonged to
it in all its incarnations, and I know that whenever she is in trouble
or perplexity she goes to a Catholic priest for advice. One day I
asked her, "Why?"

"Because," she answered, "they never snub or ask me 'whose daughter
art thou.' They know immediately that I am a Protestant, but they
never turn me away. Kindly, and without prejudice they give me the
best advice. It never comes out wrong."

"But why not go to God for advice?"

"Mamma, there are things, like love letters, for instance. Would you
go to God with them?"

"Yes," I replied. "Love letters may be very important things. At any
rate, your mother might be better than a priest."

"Mamma, dear, you know that you have a fixed conviction that love
affairs should only occur in books. Now Frank is not a 'character,' he
is a real, living, very delightful man."

Then I said no more, for Frank Morgan was then a very sore subject of
conversation, and I really was not sure in my own mind what I had
against the young man. His parents were wealthy, and he was their only
son. He was the captain of his company, handsome, gentlemanly, and
particularly respectful and attentive to myself. It was hard to think
wrong of him, and yet I did; and it was no use my deciding not to do
so, for I invariably went back to my first impressions. This feeling
made me patient, and perhaps less watchful and inquisitive than I
should have been.

But during the first half of 1885 I was very weak, and seldom out of
pain, and on the eighteenth of January I went to see Dr. Fleuhrer, who
made me very anxious. He said work and company were killing me, and I
must go to the mountains and live more in solitude. When I went home I
found Mrs. Van Duzen there, and after dinner Nat Urner and his wife
came to spend the evening. The next morning I went to the Methodist
Book Concern and wrote a preface for "The Hallam Succession," a novel
written at Dr. Vincent's request on purely Methodist lines. I wanted
to do my very best on this book; for I liked Dr. Vincent, and I liked
to write of Methodism, but I did not please myself at all. I was
really too sick to write well, and I ought not to have attempted it.

On the twenty-sixth Lilly was at Harper's and found Miss Van Dyne
removed from her place as editress of _Young People_, and Mr. Conant's
office empty. She said there was general silence and distress; no one
would talk, and she came away full of a sense of great trouble. Two
days afterwards I went to the _Illustrated Christian Weekly_, and was
shocked to see on the bulletin boards of all the newspapers "_S. S.
Conant Still Missing_."

I did not stop to read what followed. I was sick at heart, trembling,
and glad to get safely into an empty Third Avenue horse-car, and lean
for support against its upper-end corner. All the way uptown I was
like a woman in a dream, for I was indeed living over a dream I had
had a few days previously. This dream had troubled me much at the
time, and when I related it to Lilly she listened silently, and made
no remark but the following:

"It was an evil dream, and I hope S. S. C. is not going to be ill."

We seldom called Mr. Conant by his full name. When speaking of him we
used his initials, as indeed he generally did himself. S. S. C. stood
in every writer's mind for S. S. Conant. Well, I had dreamed three
nights previously of standing in Park Row and looking up to an angry
cloud-tossed sky. On this sky I saw the initials _S. S. C._ blazoned
in immense black letters, and, as I watched, great masses of vengeful
storm clouds came swiftly toward them, and drove them with a wild
passion over the firmament, and out of sight. The dream made a
profound impression on me, and when Lilly told me S. S. C. was lost, I
answered, "He will not be found."

"O Mamma, do not say that," she cried. "When he left the office, he
said he was going to the Grand Central Railway Station. How can a man
be lost between Harper's building and the Grand Central--unless he
killed himself."

"He did not do that," I answered, and then we were silent. Indeed, to
me the great wonder of the mysterious disappearance was the dislike of
any one to speak of it. The man passed away like a dream that is
told.

But I was anxious and unhappy. For years Mr. Conant had bought a large
part of my work, and I looked upon him as a sure reliance. Who would
take his place? I knew not, but I felt there had been one door closed
forever. Then, I bid myself remember, "that as one door shuts, another
opens; and that all the keys of the country did not hang from the
Harper's belt." Still the little poem I wrote for Bonner that night
shows the loneliness and longing I had for the love and protection
once mine, which I had taken as I had taken hitherto my wonderful
health and strength, and the daily bread that had never failed me:


LOVED TOO LATE

  Year after year with glad content
  In and out of our home he went,
          In and out;
  Ever for us the skies were clear,
  His heart carried the care and fear,
          The care and doubt.

  Our hands held with a careless hold,
  All that he won of honor and gold,
          In toil and pain;
  O dear hands, that our burdens bore!
  Hands that shall toil for us no more,
          Never again!

  Oh, it was hard to learn our loss,
  Bearing daily the heavy cross,
          The cross he bore;
  To say with an aching heart and head,
  Would to God that the Love now dead
          Were here once more!

  For when the Love we held too light,
  Was gone away from our speech and sight,
          No bitter tears,
  No passionate words of fond regret,
  No yearning grief could pay the debt,
          Of thankless years.

  Oh, now while the sweet Love lingers near,
  Grudge not the tender words of cheer,
          Leave none unsaid;
  For the heart can have no sadder fate,
  Than some day to awake--too late--
          And find Love dead.

Mr. Conant's disappearance precipitated events. I felt it so much
that I could not but understand how far below my usual health I
had fallen. I was sitting thinking of various places to which I
might retire, and yet keep in touch with my business, when Mrs.
Orr of Cornwall-on-Hudson called. When we were together on the
_Devonia_ she had often spoken of Cornwall, and the mountains and
river which made it such a beautiful and healthful resort; and when
I told her of my desire to come to the country, she offered me a
house called Overlook, near their own. The next day Lilly went to see
the place, found it roomy and comfortable, and standing on the top of
a hill, and she rented it for the following six months. It seemed on
the road to nowhere, but it would give me solitude and fine
mountain air, and these things, with less work, were all that was
required to restore my usual splendid health and spirits. Dr.
Fleuhrer stipulated with me to stay six months in Cornwall, and I
intended to do so; but I did not intend to stay the twenty-seven
years which I have done.

The clear, pure air and the quiet began its restorative work at once,
and it was at this time I commenced a custom which I have observed
ever since--that is, I went to my room at nine o'clock, no matter
who, or how many were present, and I am sure I owe much of my good
health and "staying power" to this custom. I do not sleep from nine
to six, but I lie at rest in loose garments, and in the rebuilding
darkness. Most of my mental work is prepared in this seclusion, my
plots are laid, my characters conceived, and my background and motif
determined.

We removed to Cornwall on the second of March, 1885, and on the
twenty-sixth I received my first copy of "Jan Vedder's Wife." It had
been on the market more than a week, but in my seclusion I had not
heard of it. It was Dr. Lyman Abbott who gave me the first news that
the book had brought me instant favor and recognition. Lilly was on
the train going to the _Ledger_ office one Friday, which was the only
day Mr. Bonner received contributions, and Dr. Abbott came to her and
said, "Tell your mother 'Jan Vedder' has made her famous. Everyone is
reading it, and everyone is praising it." Then Lilly had to pass Dodd,
Mead and Company's store, then on Broadway and Ninth Street, and she
saw their windows full of large placards bearing the words "Jan
Vedder's Wife" in large letters; at the _Ledger's_ office she met Mr.
Munkitterick, who gave her one of his delightful exaggerations about
the beauty of the tale, and its great success. I often wonder where
Munkitterick has gone to. No one could write such poems as he could.
Mr. Bonner bought all he could get, and they were the gems of the
_Ledger_. So clever, so witty, so good-hearted, what has become of
such a rare man? I hope that he has all his desires, wherever he may
be.

The record of March is a very happy one in regard to my work, and on
the twenty-ninth, my fifty-fourth birthday, I wrote, "All is white and
deep with snow, but I feel so much better. I thank God for the mercies
of the past year. Over and over He has saved my life, and He has
abundantly supplied my wants. My dear God, go forward with me, for I
cannot direct my own steps, but with Thee, I am always safe and
happy."

During April I was steadily and rapidly improving, and very content
and peaceful, so much so, that eight lines chronicles this month, and
these lines refer mainly to the letters from Mrs. Harriet Beecher
Stowe, and John Habberton, who was then on the staff of the _New York
Herald_, both of them in praise of "Jan." I said once, happiness is
not written down. That is the truth. It is the unhappy, anxious months
whose records cover pages; this happy April needed only eight lines.

Much the same conditions with regard to my work continued, and in
health and strength I gained steadily. On the sixteenth of May I had a
letter from Mr. Libbey, which I prized very highly. He told me that he
had watched with great pleasure my steady progress, that he had never
lost sight of my brave struggle, and was glad that he had been given
the opportunity of helping me when I needed help. If Queen Victoria
had written me the words of praise he did, I should not have been half
so proud and pleased. I had to put aside my work that day; I was too
happy to sit still and write. Mr. Libbey was my first friend in New
York. He took me at my own word, and I thank God I had been able to
more than make it good. I was purely and sincerely delighted. All the
world seemed beautiful that day, and I went to my room and, kneeling
down, not only thanked God, but told Robert all about the joy in my
heart. I thought God would permit him to share it, and I believe He
did.

Some time ago I had sent the novel called "The Last of the
McAllisters," which Mr. Henry Holt had praised but refused, to a
London magazine, and in June they published it. I ought, of course,
to have secured its sale in the United States, but I was yet
ignorant of my right to sell both in England and America, and when
Harper Brothers pirated it, and sent me what they called an
_honorarium_ of fifty dollars I thought it was very kind of them. I
had no suspicion that I had been politely robbed, though I did notice
a singular expression cross Mr. Mead's face when I told him of the
circumstance. Subsequently Dodd, Mead and Company paid me one hundred
dollars to make over to them the American rights in the book.

During all this time I kept up my regular contributions to the papers
for which I had so long written, for my books did not bring me enough
to warrant my giving up my time to novel writing. At the same time I
was writing another, and a better, story for the Methodist Book
Concern, called "The Lost Silver of Briffault," which I finished on
the nineteenth of July. I was able by this time to take in the
manuscript myself, and after leaving it with Dr. Hunt, I went to the
Astor Library and worked there, until the twenty-eighth, making notes
and reading for the New York story I had been so long contemplating.

The first morning I went to the library I found my alcove, table and
chair, had been taken possession of by a man who looked intelligent,
but who was common and ill-mannered. He did not speak to me, or even
look at me, when I entered with a boy carrying his arms full of books.
If he had done either, I know I should have said, "Sit still, sir, you
will not incommode me, and I hope I shall not annoy you." But he just
glared, and dropped his eyes, and so, with a slight apology for
displacing some paper--my paper, which he was freely using--I sat down
at the other end of the table, which was large, even for two writers.

I could have forgotten he was there, if he would have sat still, but
he fidgeted and sighed, and showed such signs of annoyance, that I was
not a bit sorry when Professor Valentine came in with a joyful
"welcome back" to me; and then launched into his usual enthusiasm,
concerning Central America and its buried cities. Mr. Saunders
followed, and, with his courtly English civilities about my health
and my work, easily passed ten minutes. Then a scholarly clergyman
connected with the _Churchman_, had something to ask me, and he was
quickly joined by Professor Norton--not my starry friend--but an old
editor of one department in the _Christian Union_; and we three found
something to talk about for nearly half an hour. Every now and then
some press writer came to ask help from my index, and though I myself
was vexed at the interruptions, I was mean enough to be consoled,
because the man at the other end of my table was as much disturbed as
a man could be.

The next day I was sorry, and I intended to make him welcome, but he
had gone as far from me as he could get, and all I could do was to
make an apology, which he received in an injured, sulky temper, that
astonished me; for I have always found real scholars, the best and
easiest tempered men in the world. Afterwards, I asked Mr. Saunders
who the man was, and he told me he was a teacher, writing a
mathematical text-book. Then I fully excused him. The work was
accountable for the temper. For though mathematics may teach a man how
to build a bridge, it is what the Scotch Universities call _the
humanities_, that teach him to be civil and sweet-tempered.

In August I wrote to Holland for some directions about the Dutch forms
of speech, for one of the Astor librarians who spoke the Dutch
language, told me always to remember that the Dutch of the period I
wish to write of, thought in Dutch, even if they spoke in English.
Thus, he instanced, an Englishman would say, "Spring will soon be
here," but a Dutchman would say, "We come near to the Spring." So then
a knowledge of Dutch forms was necessary, and he told me what books to
write for. When I had sent off this letter, I considered that my
preparations for writing "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" were complete.

They had extended over nearly two years. An historical novel was a new
venture, and as I had leisure I had been making myself familiar with
the history of the time, and the ways of colonial dressing and
housekeeping. Indeed, I had perhaps an exaggerated idea of the
necessity of a truthful background, and I have never got over that
impression. I am sure that I may fairly claim, that my historical
tales of New York are faithful pictures of whatever epoch I am using.

But, though I had done all I could do until the writing of the book
should gradually reveal whatever was yet lacking, I did not begin it.
I was waiting for the books from Amsterdam; and I commenced meanwhile,
on the first of September, a tale of the fishers of Fife, for that
particular humanity and locality was perfectly familiar to me. But by
my visit to the library I had brought on a return of the trouble in my
foot, and I was writing in bed all September, often twelve hours a
day, so that I had finished "A Daughter of Fife" on the third of
October. Then I went over it, corrected all errors, and sent it to
Dodd, Mead on the ninth. I will insert here an amusing letter from one
of Fife's daughters--one of a great many; for the story was a
favorite, especially among the Scotch.

  MRS. AMELIA BARR:

  I have just read "A Daughter of Fife" and I want to say to you,
  that however well you have portrayed the characteristics of the
  women of Fife, you have done remarkably well in representing some
  of the traits of a daughter of Fife; and that is myself. When I
  was the age of Maggie, I would have sent Aunt Janet back to her
  home, or thrashed her, or made my own exit in a great deal quicker
  time than Maggie did, I assure you.

  The trust and confidence in the Lord is much the same. The
  independence is somewhat more pronounced in my case--quoting a
  phrase--people tell me, if I should fall in the river, I would
  float up stream. My mother read the book first, and noted the
  resemblance.

  I just write this to tell you, how amusingly near to life, and
  near to home, your story is.

  I am respectfully,

  LYDEY FIFE.
  BASCOM, OHIO,
  February 22, 1904.

I then employed myself in writing a short story for the _Illustrated
Christian Weekly_ called "Bread Upon the Waters," and I also wrote a
number of poems to keep the columns of the _Ledger_ and other papers
open to me. On the fifteenth of October I had a letter from Mr.
Clark of the _Christian World_, London, asking me for another novel,
and I immediately began "Between Two Loves," which I finished on
Thanksgiving Day, the twenty-sixth of November, and, after reviewing
and correcting it, sent it to London, on the second of December. Then
there was Christmas and New Year's work to be done, and I did not
really begin "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" until the twenty-eighth of
December.

On the last day of this year I was working on "The Bow." It had been a
wonderful year full of great mercies and strange sorrows. During it
"Jan Vedder's Wife," "The Hallam Succession," and "The Lost Silver of
Briffault" had been published; and "The Last of the McAllisters,"
pirated. I had regained my health, and my foot only asked to be used
with some mercy and discretion. Though I had lived very simply, I had
been comfortable, and had had no care about money matters. As to what
went on in my soul, I shall say nothing here. I ought to have been a
happy woman, but I was unhappy in my domestic life. I was sure that
Lilly was resolved to marry Captain Morgan. He came to see her
constantly, and wrote to her once, frequently twice, a day. His
influence pervaded the house, darkened my life, and made my success of
no consequence.

Hitherto my desire or advice had been sufficient for Lilly, but now
they were nothing against a sheet of paper. Only a sheet of paper,
written over in a bold, much frescoed style, and there was nothing I
could say that could stand against it. The sunlight had gone from my
days, and life felt haggard and thin without Lilly's sympathy. I did
not blame her much. My position appeared to her unreasonable. I knew
nothing wrong of Captain Morgan, and I had been shown a letter which
proved him a favorite with his company.

"Why will you think wrong of Frank, Mamma?" she asked one day. "Nobody
says wrong of him."

"But I have an undeniable intuition that something is wrong," I said.

"Intuition!" she cried. "That is not fair, Mamma. I am willing to
listen to reason, but intuition, no."

"Yet, Lilly," I answered, "reason is only human perplexity. If we
know, and are sure of a thing, we don't reason about it. Intuition is
far above reason. It is absolute knowledge. It comes from the
spiritual region of our nature, and makes the mind knowing, and the
object known, one. It never deceives."

"Then I say, it ought to be more precise. It tells you to beware of
Frank, it ought also to tell you _why_."

"If there is a finger-post on the sea sands with the word 'danger' on
it, is it necessary to say what kind of danger? If you value your
life, you just give it a wide berth."

Such conversations were frequent, but I knew well that they were
useless. I only succeeded in delaying, what was sure to come. And
Lilly never succeeded in changing in the least my opinion of her
lover. Now,

  "Who forged that other influence?
  That heat of inward evidence,
  By which I doubted against sense."

The first part of 1886 I was busy on "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," and
various poems and articles for the _Ledger_, _Advance_, and
_Independent_. On February, the second, I note that I added four
verses to "The Beggars of the Sea," a poem in the early part of the
book. On the ninth I notice a great labor riot in London with the
comment "the beginning--plenty more to follow." I did not say this
from intuition, but from a dream I had recently had. In this dream, I
saw the flags of all nations strung across the firmament, and they
were blown hither and thither in the midst of flame and thunders and
lightnings, and great multitudes fighting below. And I thought the
date was set, but not yet.

On the twenty-fifth of February, I had written two hundred pages of
"The Bow." On the first of March I had two hundred and thirty pages
composed and had been copying all day. On the third I only wrote seven
pages, having a blinding headache. On this day I got "The Last of the
McAllisters" in Harper's Handy Series, and I was rather pleased, not
yet knowing how unfair and unjust was their possession of it. On March
thirteenth I had finished two hundred and ninety-three pages of "The
Bow."

_March 14th._ I was writing all day; had a sore throat.

_15th._ Writing all day. Throat very bad.

_16th._ Ditto. Mrs. Orr to tea.

_17th._ Writing all day on "The Bow."

_18th._ Ditto. Finished 325 pages.

_19th._ Very sick but wrote seventeen pages.

_20th._ Finished 343 pages. Still sick.

_21st._ Wrote all day.

_22nd._ Finished 373 pages.

_23rd._ Working on "The Bow" all day.

_24th._ Finished "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," 404 pages.

_29th._ My fifty-fifth birthday. I was sick and tired and uncertain. I
sat still all day, not realizing until the book was done, and out of
my hands, how weary I was. But I was not unhappy. Lilly still ordered
my home, and I caught her brave, happy look every time I asked it with
my smile. And I thought over all the work I had done the past year,
and stretched out my right hand to God, for He knew I had done it
faithfully, and could say with McAndrews,

  "I ha' lived an' I ha' worked,
  All thanks to Thee Most High,
  An' I ha' done, what I ha' done--judge
  Thou, if ill or well--
  Always Thy Grace preventin' me."

On the fourteenth of April, I went to Dodd, Mead's about "The Bow."
They had many doubts and disparagements. Such a Dutchman as _Joris_
was not natural, and was I sure that _Lady Godon_ and her set spoke
English as I had represented them? Now I had spent many weeks in
studying the court English of the time, and had collected all my forms
from Horace Walpole's and Lord Chesterfield's letters, et cetera,
because it was in correspondence and familiar writing I expected to
find the social forms most prevalent. I do not now remember the other
criticisms, because I tried to forget them, feeling sure that the
book, when published and reviewed, would justify me. I kept a stiff
upper lip until I got home, then I broke down. I suppose if I had been
a man, I should have said some bad words, being a woman I cried
bitterly.

I had expected praise, and had received only doubts and hesitations,
but it must be remembered, that it was an entirely new kind of novel,
and that Irving's caricatures of Dutchmen, had formed the popular idea
of the early settlers of New Amsterdam. But among these settlers,
there were many wealthy men, sons of old Leyden University, and many
women who had grown to their rosy grace and refinement in exquisitely
ordered homes, wherein the fear of God, and family affection was the
law of their lives.

I did not go again about "The Bow" until the fourteenth of May, when
Dodd, Mead offered me six hundred dollars for it, promising to pay me
more if the book sold well. I have never received any more.

In the meantime I had begun, on the twenty-sixth of April, a novel
called "The Squire of Sandalside," and I finished it in July. Then I
went to England very unexpectedly, being led to do so by the following
incident:

A prominent editor and literary man of New York, sent me a letter
asking me to call on him. I thought he wanted a novel, and I went to
see him. His object was very different. He asked me to tell him how
much money I had received from Mr. Clark of the _Christian World_ for
the English rights of my novels. I told him, of course, that Mr. Clark
had paid me nothing. Then he explained the subject fully to me, and
advised me to go to see Mr. Clark at once. Finally, he asked me to
promise, that in speaking of the subject I would never, never name him
as my informer. He was so particular about this, that I made the
promise, and have faithfully kept it.

He said he had told me, because he pitied my ignorance, and I felt no
gratitude to the man; for I distrusted him, and had a reason for
doing so, that he was far from suspecting. I found myself worried, and
even cross, when I got home, and Lilly said, "You ought to have gone
to Mr. Dodd with this story, Mamma." "No," I answered, "it might annoy
him without reason. He probably knows nothing about it." Then we spoke
of Dodd, Mead paying me five hundred dollars more on "Jan Vedder's
Wife," because the book sold well; five hundred that I never claimed,
or asked for.

Three days afterwards I went to England, but it was no pleasure trip.
I had a heartache about the business, and I did not like to leave
Lilly and Alice in such a lonely place without friends, or even
acquaintances. But the sea air made me strong, and though the business
was hateful to me, I got through it better than I expected.

Mr. Clark listened silently to my story, though I was quite aware of
his sympathy. In reply he said, the money unfortunately was lost to
me. He had paid others in good faith, supposing they were acting for
me, but that in future he would deal directly with myself. He then and
there made an arrangement with me for my next novel, which was called
"Paul and Christina," the study for which story had already appeared
in the _Christian Union_.

He asked me to his house to stay over Sunday, and I went; for I had a
curiosity to see how English publishers lived. And I was greatly
impressed with his home, its surroundings and furnishings. It was a
perfect example of the breadth, solidity, and the last-for-ever kind
of chairs, tables, et cetera, which are found in the best English
residences. There was a kind of sumptuousness about it, that was never
vulgar, nothing in any room screamed, and the effect was very
reposeful. I have tried to recall some examples, more particularly,
but I can remember nothing but the dinner knives, which were of the
finest Indian steel, wonderfully polished, and having exquisite onyx
handles. That is a little thing to have remembered, but it typifies
the whole.

Mr. Clark was a pleasant English gentleman, with just a trace of the
schoolmaster in his manner. And he was one of the finest scholars in
English literature I ever met. Indeed I think he was the finest.
Under my father's care I had become thoroughly acquainted with English
authors of an early date, especially those of Cromwell's and Anne's
time, and during the past fifteen years' study in the Astor Library, I
had read carefully those of later date; but I could not quote a line
from any writer, that he did not instantly place, and likely give also
the preceding and following lines. He was a good man, too, I am sure;
one that feared God, and dealt fairly with his fellows.

I did not remain long in England. Something always drew me northward
and, without staying in Edinburgh, I went to the pretty watering place
of Burntisland. They are "cannie Scots" that live in Burntisland, and
always have been. Even when besieged by Oliver Cromwell, they did not
lose sight of their own interests for Prince Charles' sake; for they
offered to open their gates to Cromwell, if he would pave their
streets, and improve their harbor. And Cromwell kept his part of the
obligation so well, that the harbor, with some modern additions, is
yet one of the best on the east of Scotland.

From there I went to Kirkcaldy, and once more walked up the High
Street to look at the house in which Adam Smith wrote his "Wealth of
Nations." I don't know why I did it. I never opened the "Wealth of
Nations," and I cared nothing about Adam Smith. In fact, I gave up
looking at his house with impatience, and went to the old Tower of
Balwearie, where Michael Scott, the famous wizard, lived. For I knew
if I sat still long enough in its eerie shadows, I should find the
wizard beside me.

But I suddenly wearied altogether of my solitary travel, and took the
first train back to Edinburgh. The idea of home and Lilly and Alice
haunted me. They ruled over me by attraction, as others often do by
their antipathy; for the moral atmosphere, like the physical, becomes
impregnated with certain feelings. And it so happened, that at my
hotel I got the very same parlor that Robert and I had occupied on our
wedding tour. What were all the royal palaces, and ancient castles,
and wizard towers to me? There was a little wood cottage in Cornwall
inexpressibly dearer. I resolved to turn homeward the next day.

From the windows of this parlor I had a fine view of the castle, and
the old town lying around it. I had sat in my bridal finery with
Robert on the same spot, at the same window thirty-six years ago, on
just such a lovely summer night; and though I did not wish it,
thoughts of the past came through memory, as the stars wore through
the dark. A light like dreamland was over everything, and the
fragrance of the summer roses in the gardens bordering Prince's
Street, filled the air. It was a melancholy fragrance, it made me sad,
for I thought of the lovely flowers pulsing their souls away, and
wondered where they went to. Was a fragrance so rich and rare wasted?
If not, for whom were these scented airs, in the glimmering of the
summer twilight? Men and women took little heed of them, surely then,
they were for the angels all around us, since

  "... Thousands at His bidding speed,
  And post o'er land and ocean without rest."

I sat dreaming until midnight, and then I knew that old doors in
palace and castle would be opened, and forth would come the ghosts of
ancient sorrows and splendors. So I slowly, very slowly, prepared
myself to lie down and sleep, remembering as I did so, Alexander
Smith's almost forgotten description of Edinburgh, left unfinished
because death took the pencil out of his fingers:

  "Towered, templed Metropolitan,
          Waited upon by hills,
  River, and wide-spread ocean; tinged
  By April's light, or draped and fringed
          As April's vapor wills,
  Thou hangest like a Cyclop's dream,
  High in the shifting weather gleam."

Next morning I took the Caledonian Line as far as Kendal. There was a
literary syndicate there, called the Northern Newspaper Syndicate;
they bought a good deal of writing from me, and were at the time owing
me a few pounds. I should not have called there on that account, but a
reminiscent spell was over me, and I was glad of an excuse to indulge
it. The money was as safe as if it was in my purse, for the syndicate
was directed by Quakers, who certainly made close bargains, but who
paid, without demur or delay, whatever they promised to pay. I went to
the ancient hostelry called The King's Arms. It has a long, strange
history, and I have been frequently told there are some apartments in
it, once occupied by King John, but closed up for centuries as unsafe.
I had no desire to look into them. I wanted to see my mother's house,
also the preacher's house and chapel, standing among its band of
whispering poplar trees. After a good supper of tea, fresh cockles,
and haver cake I felt in the proper Kendal humor. And if any of my
readers ever go to Kendal, and will sup on fresh cockles and haver
cake, they will remember me pleasantly as long as they live. The
cockles will be fresh from Morcambe Bay, or Sandside, and if one has
never eaten haver cake with the delicious butter that is plentiful
there, he has a gastronomical luxury to become acquainted with. Haver
cake is, however, so common in Kendal, that the hotels do not serve
it, unless asked for; but it is worth asking for, and even paying for.
It is made of oatmeal, as fine as the finest wheat flour, and the cake
itself is thin as a wafer, and delightfully crisp. And really one does
not know how good cheese is, until he has eaten it with Kendal haver
cake. As time goes by, I shall no doubt have many letters of thanks
for this information, and I shall be glad of them; for there are few
things in life, that awaken such kindly memories as something good to
eat.

The bedroom given me was the queerest, most old-fashioned place
imaginable. I am sure it had been furnished about A.D. 1650. And the
parlor I occupied had the same _past_ look. All was so strange, and
yet so familiar, and I could not help feeling, that in every old chair
there was either a ghost, or a dream.

The next day was Sunday, and I was awakened by the grandest caroling
of the church chimes. No other music between heaven and earth is so
touching and elevating, as the pealing chimes from church towers. At
intervals all day long, they reminded us that it was the Sabbath,
until

  "As evening shades descended,
  Low, and loud, they sweetly blended;
  Low at times, and loud at times,
  Rang the beautiful old chimes."

And as I sat listening to them, I could not help thinking how much,
and how constantly, bells intermeddled with all the feelings and
fortunes of humanity. In the dawn of time, they made a pleasant
tinkling among the sons of Asher and Baal. The war horses of Sesostris
jangled them on the first battlefields of the world; the priests of
Israel wore them upon the hems of their most sacred vestments. They
delivered oracles at Dodona, and shook a noisy challenge from the
shields of Greek heroes. They have tolled out warnings on lonely
coasts for the salvation of human life; they have given the signal for
such awful massacres as St. Bartholomew and the Sicilian Vespers. They
have rang in tyranny, and rang out tyrants; while on the wide ocean,
they are given a new dignity, and are made the interpreters of the
sun. No place has been so high and so holy, that there they have not
been heard; yet the fool has shaken them on his bauble, and the infant
on its rattle.

In America at the present day what a wonderful power has been the
bell. Inside our homes, from street-cars and railways, from banks and
offices, schools and factories, carts and counters, comes constantly
the well-known sound of bell metal; and there is nothing inanimate
that has so meddled with the joys and sorrows, and business of
mankind. Indeed, to write the history of small bells would be to write
the social history of nearly forty centuries. That was a labor to
think of, so I reminded myself of Tennyson's invocation to the bells
to ring out old shapes of all evil, and ring in the Christ that is to
be; and with this divine vision of the time when God "shall make his
tabernacle with men, and wipe all tears from their eyes," I fell
happily asleep, and dreamed a strange dream. I thought I was in a
beautiful garden, shady and sweet with many shelves of bee skeps,
under some large plane trees, and as I looked I saw a woman knocking
at the door of each skep, with the big key of the house door, and
telling the bees that the master had just died. That was a ceremony
always observed in the North of England, when the master died, but
what made me dream of it that night? And what strange link was there
between the room in which I slept, and the man who died? Had the
master died in that room? on that bed? and was I in the old garden,
when I heard the news of his death? I mean, was the dream a
reminiscence--a reminiscence possible because the room, and the
garden, and the master's death had been in some anterior life, a part
of my experience? I cannot tell. I only know I woke with a strange
feeling of pity or grief for the dead master; and the humming of the
bees in their hives, talking of the sad news was in my ears. Still if
I ever should go to Kendal again, I would ask for that ancient
bedroom, and bespeak another dream from the pillows that must be full
of them. I am stating only a wandering thought, believing that many
others must have had a like experience. For a few years ago, in a
large hotel in Atlantic City, I had for seven nights the same dream
upon the same pillow, but when I sent the pillow away, the dream went
with it.

Early in October I was at work again, this time on a Roman Catholic
story, called "The Beads of Tasmar." There is a most romantic corner
of Scotland on the shores of Ross, where the people have always been
Catholics. It is Catholic Kintail. Fifty years ago if you landed at
Bundalloch, where the great buttresses of Kintail come sheer down to
the beach, you were among a people who have lived unchanged by all the
revolts and revolutions of the world around them. Among these desolate
hills you found the ancient Christian life in all its beauty and
simplicity. To their thatched clachans they welcomed you with gentle,
mannerly ways, very unlike the glower and greed of the lowlander; and
handed you always a bowl of fresh milk, and an oaten cake. It appealed
to me strongly as the background for an unusual Scotch tale, and I
think "The Beads of Tasmar" is one of the prettiest romances I ever
wrote. Dodd, Mead paid me five hundred dollars for it, and I enjoyed
the work so much, that I felt well paid. Dodd, Mead were pleased with
it, and it was printed and ready to put on the market when one of the
members of the firm read it, and refused to give it to the public. He
was perfectly conscientious in this decision, and as I had been paid
for it, the loss was not mine. He really believed that its publication
would injure the reputation, both of the firm, and myself.

So "The Beads of Tasmar" was laid aside, and I began the well beloved
"Border Shepherdess," a tale as opposite to "The Beads of Tasmar" as
if it related to another planet. For the characters were all of them
of the strictest sect of Cameronian Calvinists, the sea was not
present, and the men and women were of the intense quality of Border
Scots. It was, however, a great favorite, and with few exceptions I
have had the most letters about it. The fall of the year after my
return home was very still and happy. Two personal events that
interested me broke the monotony--a lovely letter of congratulation
from Mr. Stedman, with an invitation to a literary reception at his
house, and a long letter from Martin F. Tupper. Just about the time I
was married, every one was reading and praising Martin F. Tupper. I
thought he was a wonderful writer. I learned whole pages of his
philosophy and I am a perfect Philistine with regard to my idols. Mr.
Tupper had been mutilated and slashed by later critics, till he was in
as bad a case as the god Dagon, but to me he was just as wonderful as
ever. I was so proud of his letter, full of praises and good wishes,
that I wrote no more that day. Yet I could not help noticing the sad
note of refrain, that comes with every joy, for I found myself saying
frequently, as I walked about the room with his letter in my hand,
"Oh, if my father had lived to see this letter, how happy he would
have been! How happy I should be!"

"Never quite satisfied, Mamma," said Lilly with a sigh; and I was
ashamed, and read aloud to her Mr. Stedman's letter, which had come
with the same mail as Mr. Tupper's, and then began to talk of the
dress I must wear. I feared "nothing I had was quite good enough."

"That is nonsense, Mamma," answered Lilly, I thought a little coldly.
"Literary people do not meet to show their dresses. It is supposed at
least, they meet to exchange great ideas. Your silk gown was bought
and made in London, and you have some lovely English lace, what can
you want more?" And then she salved the slight tone of reproof, by
adding, "I am sure you look beautiful in them."

Lilly's opinions always satisfied me, and I found she was right, at
least in one point. I was quite sufficiently dressed, but somehow I
did not find any exchange of great ideas. There was, however, a famous
Japanese noble, and his two servants, most picturesquely dressed, made
and handed around the tea. I never tasted tea before that night; I am
never never apt to taste it again. Once afterwards, Mr. Matthieson, a
neighbor, was in the Chinese tea fields, and he brought me home a
present of a small chest of tea bought on the field where it was
grown, and it came nearest to the tea I had at Mr. Stedman's, the
difference, I suppose, having been in the making of it. But no matter
how full of great ideas the conversation at Mr. Stedman's had been, I
should have let all other memories slip away, and recollected only the
ethereal delicacy, and far too fugitive aroma of that delicious tea.
Surely such tea plants will grow for all of us in Paradise.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE GODS SELL US ALL GOOD THINGS FOR LABOR

  "All that is bitter, all that is sweet comes from God. It is our
  daily bread."

  "The mysterious conditions of our everyday life give a gravity to
  all our work, and all our pleasure."


In this year 1887, I finished "The Border Shepherdess" and "The Master
of His Fate" with my usual accompaniment of poems and articles for the
papers. On April twenty-fourth I note that I copied "Cherry Ripe," a
poem for _Harper's Weekly_, "A Strawberry Idyl" for the _Illustrated
Weekly_, "The Romance of the Salad Bowl" for the _Christian Union_,
and "The Two Talifers" for _Leslie's_. These with Bonner's usual poem
were the papers on which I mainly relied and whose columns I felt must
be kept open, no matter how interesting the novel on hand might be.
But early in May my hands began to trouble me. I had the right thumb
in a splint, and no finger I possessed could lift a pin. The tips of
my fingers seemed to have lost feeling. I could not use pen and ink,
but if the pencil was placed in my hand, I could write as long as the
pencil would mark; but I could not pick it up, if I dropped it. I was
very unhappy about this condition, and then the relief came from a
source most unexpected.

I had met on my last voyage from England, a Professor McAfee and his
wife. Mr. McAfee was a professor in a college at a place called
Claverick I think. He was a most charming man, widely and well
cultivated, and I formed a pleasant friendship with him and Mrs.
McAfee. While my fingers were troubling me so much, they came to pay
me a short visit, and he induced me to get a typewriter. I do not know
how long they had been on the market, certainly not very long, for I
had never seen one in any of the newspaper offices I visited. Mine
came the day before he left, and he showed me all its peculiarities.
In less than a week I could use it very well; in a month I considered
myself an expert.

The typewriter was an instant and immense relief; for the copying of
all my work had doubled my labor, because it was not as interesting to
copy, as to compose; and as it was necessary to write the press copy
very clearly and particularly, the copying occupied more time than the
composing. The kindly, clever professor who came to me in the hour of
my need is dead. No. He could not die. What we call death was to him
only emigration, and I care not where he now tarries. He is doing
God's will, and more alive than ever he was on earth.

Mrs. McAfee, just before Christmas, sent me a lovely oil painting of
poppies and wheat, done for me by girls in the college. Then I wrote
the following poem in memory of it, which was published in _Harper's
Weekly_ and I hoped it pleased them.


POPPIES AND WHEAT

  Poppies have loved the golden wheat
    Many a thousand years,
  And still they lift a glowing face
    Up to the bending ears,
  Wherever the yellow wheat doth grow,
  Scarlet poppies will surely go.

  Bind the sheaves in the East or West,
    Take seed where man ne'er trod,
  And when the corn bends to the breeze,
    The poppy there will nod.
  No time, no distance, hath the power
  To change the love of grain and flower.

  See how the silky petals stir
    Like banners in still air;
  See how the rich ripe ears sway down
    To flowers so idly fair.
  O sweet wind of the harvest day!
  Tell me what do these lovers say.

  Do they remember Nilus yet?
    Ham's daughters dusky fair?
  Greek girls with mingled wreaths of wheat
    And poppies in their hair?
  Or fair Judean maids at morn
  Gleaning among the yellow corn?

  Does grain of wheat, or seed of flower,
    Hold still a memory
  Of happy English harvest homes
    On many a pleasant lea?
  And youths and maids amid the sheaves,
  Testing their love with poppy leaves.

  If so, then winds of harvest haste
    Carry a greeting sweet,
  No heed where corn and poppies grow,
    Kin are poppies and wheat,
  Grain and flower of every strand,
  Came from the fields of Edenland.

I had never permitted Alice to go to any school, but had always had a
governess for two or three hours daily, as she could bear it. During
the many years she was thus instructed, she had many teachers of all
kinds; but at this period a Mrs. Jones, the daughter of the Episcopal
minister, came to her. And she loved Mrs. Jones, who was a beautiful
and lovable woman, and I think of her often because I was always so
happy when anything happened that made Alice specially happy.

For the rest, the year went quietly on. I wrote a story for Mrs.
Dodge, editor of _St. Nicholas_, the only woman I ever liked to write
for. She put on no editorial airs, and if you brought her a good
story, she made you feel that you had conferred a favor on her, and
her magazine. Ah, Mrs. Dodge showed that her soul had been to fine
schools, before she came into this life! Her courtesy was native to
her--her fine manners the fruit of her good heart.

After I had finished Mrs. Dodge's story, called "Michael and
Theodora", I was obliged to give up using my hands until October,
then I began "Remember the Alamo" but had to stop early in November,
to help Mr. Freund who wished me to write with him a play from "The
Bow of Orange Ribbon." It was the first of at least twenty, I think I
may say fifty, attempts that have been made to dramatize this novel.
Mr. Charles Frohman got the famous August Thomas to try it with me,
but when I sent him the two first acts he said it was "a beautiful
piece of literary work, but not playable." After the elopement, the
original proposition is closed, and the play really ends there; but
ending there, it is only half long enough. Some day, however, the
difficulty will be conquered, and it will pay for all its previous
failures.

I was busy with Mr. J. C. Freund until the day before Christmas. Then
I began a Scotch story for Clarke called "The Household of McNeil,"
and at the end of the year had finished nearly two chapters; I make
the following entry which says all that is necessary:

_December 31st, 1887._ This last week has been full of work. Mary came
to see me before starting for Florida, and I am very unhappy about
Lilly and Captain Morgan. But I trust for the best. O God, my times
are in Thy Hands, and how glad I am to leave them there! Unto Thee I
look, for "Thy compassions fail not."

The first three months of 1888 were occupied with "The Household of
McNeil," and my regular fugitive newspaper work. Alice still had her
good teacher, and Lilly did not speak about her unfortunate love
affair. I knew she was very unhappy, but she tried to be cheerful, and
to share my pleasures and my anxieties, as she had always done; and I
thought her reticence wise, though I was ready at any moment she
wished to advise or to console her.

My right thumb was almost useless. I held the pencil mostly between
the first and second finger, and the outside of the little finger was
so sensitive, that I wrapped it in cotton wool to prevent it feeling
the movement on the paper. But on my birthday, March twenty-ninth, I
was finishing the fourteenth chapter of "Remember the Alamo" and
enjoying the writing of the book very much indeed. Sometimes General
Houston seemed actually visible to me, and we had some happy hours
together. General Sherman was positive that the men martyred at Goliad
and San Antonio fought with the eight hundred gentlemen, who led by
Houston captured the whole Spanish army, and gave the Empire State of
Texas to the United States. The dead can, and do help the living, and
I believe General Houston helped me to write the truth, and the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth concerning that glorious episode, far
too little valued and understood. If General Houston had been an
Englishman, and had given the English Crown such a magnificent
principality, he would have been ennobled and enriched. This great,
ungrateful nation let him die wanting the comforts, yes, the
necessaries of life. I have said more about this book than I intended,
but I love it and "The Lion's Whelp" better than I can express. Their
characters are living people to me. I have known them, either in this
life, or some other life.

This sense of companionship in many, indeed in most, of my books has
made them easy and delightful to write. Sometimes it has been so vital
that I have found it impossible to shut my study door. It seemed like
shutting them out of my life, and I really loved these invisible,
intangible friends, and often whispered their names, and bid them good
night before going to sleep. To say that I shall never see them, or
speak with them in another life, is an incredible thing. I expect
General Sam Houston, and the great protector of England, Oliver
Cromwell, to praise me, and thank me, for what I have done; and I
shall not be disappointed. As far as General Houston is concerned, I
have already the thanks of the son he loved so devotedly, in the
following letter:

  GALVESTON, TEXAS, Oct. 22, 1888.

  MY DEAR MADAM:

  Returning to this city a short time since, I found awaiting me
  your latest very interesting book, "Remember the Alamo." Please
  accept my thanks, and as well, my assurances of due appreciation
  of the honor conferred.

  The general reader I am sure cannot fail to find the style in
  which the work is written in the highest degree entertaining. To
  one bound by ties of birth and blood to Texan history and
  traditions, it naturally possesses a peculiar interest, an
  interest which throughout does not flag.

  Of the rather numerous productions based on the same theme, few,
  if any, read so much like actual history, and I think I can safely
  say, none show that intimate acquaintance with the peculiar social
  elements which composed the Texas of the days of the Republic,
  manifest in the valued work I now have the honor to acknowledge
  the receipt of.

  While I have derived much pleasure from a perusal of "Remember the
  Alamo," as a production of merit, I could not be insensible to the
  tribute paid my revered father's memory; that the wreath is from
  the hand of woman lends it a grateful perfume.

  I cannot but regret I am denied the honor of the personal
  acquaintance of one, who through her pen has made me so much her
  debtor for enjoyment of the most enduring kind.

  I am, dear madam, with abiding sentiments of esteem,

  Yours sincerely,

  WILLIAM R. HOUSTON.

Often I have believed that my heroine was a real personality, that she
had once lived in the very scenes I depicted. This was particularly
the case with the book "Bernicia." It is many years since I told the
story of that fascinating creature, but she is as real to me today, as
if she had spent the summer with me. Sometimes these phantom heroines
are very masterful. In "Friend Olivia," _Anastasia_ made me throw away
many pages, but I always discovered as the book progressed, that they
did not belong to it.

Until April of this year, I was more or less troubled with Mr. Freund
and the proposed play. I say "troubled" because I felt all the time
that the work I had to do, was useless, that the thing someway was not
right, and I know now, that neither Mr. Freund--clever actor and
manager as he was--nor I, could build a play, any more than we could
build a house.

On April tenth, 1888, we moved into a little cottage on Storm King
Mountain, for the house we were in was sold, and the buyer wished to
occupy it. I remember so well the afternoon I first drove up the
mountain. It was a lovely April day, Nature was making a new world,
and there was no sound of hammer, or axe, or smoke of furnace. Only an
inscrutable, irresistible force at work, a power so mighty, that the
hard trodden sod under our feet was moved aside by a slender
needle-like shaft of grass, or plant, which the faintest breeze could
blow and bend. A miracle! Yes, a miracle before which science is mute.
The birds were singing as if they never would grow old, and the winds
streamed out of the hills as cool as living waters. The grass was
climbing the mountains until it met the snow, and the mountains rose
like battlements, with piny slopes furrowed by one or two steep
paths.

The house I came to see was a mere cottage of five rooms, but it stood
in a pleasant croft, full of fruit trees, mingled with pines and a few
maples. My heart went into the place without opening gate or door, and
I said to myself, "I will buy this little house, and make it a home,
if God wills so; and as for it being small, there is only three of us,
and we can enlarge it, if it is necessary." The view from it was
enchanting--a long stretch of the Hudson River, with mountains and
valleys on every side of it. But I remembered the English dictum about
buying a house, namely, "to summer and winter it first;" so I
refrained the words on my lips, and instead of buying it, I offered to
rent it for a year, promising to buy it then, if I still liked the
place.

Lilly's brows knit ominously, when I told her what I had done. "You
will not like it, Mamma," she said.

"Why not? And you, Lilly, have always loved country solitudes."

"Yes, in books, Mamma. In real life, they are damp and rheumatic, and
most hated by those who live in them, and know them best."

"O Lilly!" I cried, "I do want to go up the mountain so much. I am
sure I can write well and easily there. I know I should be so happy,
and I believe my hands would get strong."

"Then, dearest, we will go at once. So let us talk over what is to be
done."

This was on April, the sixth, and on the tenth we moved into the
mountain cottage. We had barely got our household goods into its
shelter, when there commenced one of the heaviest rain storms I ever
remember, and we ate our first meal, a very good one of broiled
Virginia ham, poached eggs, coffee, and orange marmalade, to its
pattering and rattling on the roof and against the windows.

"Grandmother Barr said, it was the luckiest thing to move in a rain
storm," cried Lilly, with one of her old cheerful laughs; "she did not
know she was prophesying luck for us, but she was, Mamma. I hope she
knew how it was pouring as they carried in the last load."

"Is that a Scotch superstition?" I asked.

"Certainly, Scotch wisdom is the only kind of wisdom Grandmother
quotes, or believes in. She believed also in carrying the house cat
with you. Aunt Jessy once left her cat behind in moving, and left all
her luck to the people who came after her, and they happened to be
people Grandmother didn't like."

And I laughed, and talked about the Cumberland superstitions, sitting
by the kitchen fire in one of the best parlor chairs, while Lilly
deftly broiled the ham and poached the eggs, and Anne Hughes, our
small Irish servant, set the table in her own remarkable way, and
Alice wiped all the dishes after her with a clean napkin. I have eaten
few happier meals than that first one in Cherry Croft, and then we
made up the beds in the dining-room for that night; and I fancied my
bed had never been as soft and comfortable before. With happy wishes
for good dreams, we all slept soundly, and sweetly, until Annie Hughes
woke us with the information, that it was past seven, and a man was at
the door with milk, and a big handful of flowers.

It was Thomas Kirkpatrick, of course. Any one who knew Thomas would
suspect it. He worked for me on and off in some way for twenty years,
and there was always that fine streak in his nature, typified by his
love of flowers. In that twenty years, I had few birthdays that Thomas
Kirkpatrick did not honor with a bunch of wild flowers at the
dawning.

The house had been thoroughly cleaned, and was in good condition, for
it had been built for the well known artist Theyer, who with his wife
had occupied it one or two years; and he had been followed by a New
York family whose name was Appleton, who only lived in it for a short
time, so that it was nearly new, and quite free from all the wraiths
and influences of prior inhabitants.

I shall never feel again in this life as joyous as I felt for the
first few months in this house, though, thank God, I keep my child
heart yet, and I am pleased with little things. My right hand got well
rapidly; my headaches were much better. I slept like a baby; I woke up
singing, a thing I had not done since Robert died. I was so happy in
my little five-roomed cottage. I loved every foot of the pretty croft,
in which it stood, and one morning when its fourteen cherry trees were
all pink and white with blossom, I called it Cherry Croft. And now the
name of Cherry Croft is known all over the English speaking world, and
I not infrequently have letters directed to me "Cherry Croft, New
York, United States of America," and they come direct to me without
question or delay.

On the first of June, Dodd, Mead paid me a thousand dollars for
"Remember the Alamo," but Mr. Mead wished the name changed. It was
published in England under the name of "Woven of Love and Glory" but
Mr. Mead desired it to be called, "Remember the Alamo." I could not
have written it to that name, but the book being finished, it did not
make so much matter. I suppose it sold better under the latter name,
for I was told this year by a famous Texan, that few Texan families
are without a copy of it. "The Alamo" was a phrase full of tragedy to
every Texan, but not so distinctive to other people; it being a
Spanish word given to a number of places.

On this day I received a copy of "Jan Vedder's Wife" in French. I do
not know French, but was frequently told that it was an excellent
translation. It appeared first as a serial in the best of the French
reviews, but I never received a cent for its use, either as a serial
or in book form. Well, I had the pleasure of writing it. That could
not be taken from me.

On the third of June I began a Manx story called "Feet of Clay." The
Isle of Man I have described in an early chapter of my life, and it
was an easy background for me full of romantic possibilities, and
vivid and ready-made romance. This story had a foundation of truth,
and I remember that Mr. Gilder, while praising the literary
workmanship of the tale, objected to the reformation of the hero, who
had an inherited tendency towards forgery. With the tender pity
natural to his rare character, he said that forgery was in his opinion
and observation an unconquerable weakness; that a man who committed
the crime once, would do the same thing again, whenever the temptation
came to him. But I was still a Methodist, and I thought the love of
Christ in the heart sufficient to prevent, as well as to forgive sin.

Besides I have always found myself unable to make evil triumphant.
Truly in real life it is apparently so, but if fiction does not show
us a better life than reality, what is the good of it? _Aufidius_ was
successful in his villainy, but are we not all glad to know that
_Coriolanus_ had time to call him to his face "a measureless liar!" I
confess that I like to reward the virtuous, and punish the guilty, and
make those who would fain be loved, happy.

On the twenty-third of June I went to England on the _Circassia_. I
was a favorite with her captain, and I sat at his right hand; the
Reverend Mr. Meredith and Mrs. Meredith being opposite me. I have had
few pleasanter voyages than this one. Captain Campbell was a good
talker, so was the minister, and he gave us the following Sunday the
best sermon I ever heard on a steamer. This journey was a purely
business one, though after being in Kendal a day, I could not resist
the something that urged me to go on to Glasgow. I intended to remain
there a couple of days, and to do a little shopping, that could be
better and more economically done in Glasgow, than anywhere else. I
thought I was perfectly sure of my incognito, but the next morning my
arrival was in the newspapers, and I had several very early callers,
and many invitations to "go down the water" for the week end. One of
these invitations was in the shape of an exceedingly friendly letter
from Dr. Donald McLeod, at that time editing _Good Words Magazine_. I
had one from the McIntosh family by the same mail, and my heart went
out to the McIntoshes, though I had the highest respect for Dr.
McLeod, and knew that a Sabbath spent with him would be a wonderful
one in many respects. Yet there was in me a perverse spirit that
morning. I did not want to go anywhere. I did not want to dress, and
to take my food and sleep and pleasure, as other people gave it to me.
I wrote the proper apologies, and slipped back to Bradford that
afternoon. The following night I went to an intense Methodist service,
and heard a thousand Yorkshire men and women sing "There is a Land of
pure delight," and "Lo, He comes with clouds descending!" as I shall
never again hear them in this life. In fact I was singing myself as
heartily as any one, and if I did not quite agree with the sermon, I
felt sure it was the only kind of sermon likely to influence the
wonderfully vitalized flesh and blood by which I was surrounded. There
were no hesitations in it, no doubts, or even suppositions; it was an
emphatic positive declaration, that if they did right they would go to
heaven, and a still more emphatic one that if they did wrong they
would go to hell. And he had no doubts about the hell. He saw it
spiritually, and described it in black and lurid terms, that made
women sob, and the biggest men present have "a concern for their
souls."

I would not have missed that service for any company on earth. I know
Dr. McLeod would have talked like the Apostle John, and there would
have been a still peaceful Scotch Sabbath full of spiritual good
things; but I felt all alive, soul and body, from head to foot, in
that Methodist Chapel; so much so that I put a larger coin in the
collection box than I could well afford, and never once regretted
doing it. I would go to church every Sunday gladly, if I could hear a
minister talk in such dead earnest, and be moved by a spiritual
influence so vitally miraculous. The very building felt as if it was
on fire, and for an hour at least, everybody in it _knew they had a
soul_. They felt it longing and pleading for that enlargement, only
the Love and Actual Presence of God could give it. I do not believe I
should hear the same kind of a sermon in that chapel today. There is
doubtless an organ and a choir now, and the preacher will have been to
a Theological Institute, and perhaps be not only "Reverend" but have
some mystic letters after his name, and the congregation will be more
polished, and the precepts of gentility will now be a religious
obligation. And I am afraid it is not genteel now, to be anxious about
your soul--especially in public. But I thank God that I spent that
Sunday in Yorkshire instead of Scotland; for spiritually I have never
forgotten it, and physically, it was an actual influx of life from the
source of life. I was twenty years younger. And I believe that if it
were possible for men and women to live constantly so close to the
spirit in which they live, move, and have their being, they might live
forever.

The next day I went to Shipley Glen, to see Ben Preston, a poor man
yet, but a fine writer both in prose and verse, especially in his
native dialect. He had not much education, but there was a vigorous
native growth of intelligence. I spoke to him of the sermon I had
heard the previous night, and he answered, "Ay, you'll hear the truth
in a Methodist Chapel--here and there--even yet; but a Yorkshire man
nowadays reads his newspaper, instead of his Testament, so when a man
comes out with ideas gathered from the Gospel of Jesus Christ, he's
sure to be considered an original writer, whose crazy notions would
turn the world upside down." There was a man from a Bradford newspaper
sitting with him, and he spoke of Dilke and Chamberlain, and Preston
answered, "They may be able to do something for us, but the biggest
reforms of all will have to begin and be carried out by wersens."

The press man spoke of some local grandee whom he called "a self-made
man" and Preston answered slowly, as he whittled a bit of stick,

"I admire self-made men, if I'm sure they're owt like 'John Halifax,
Gentleman;' but lots o' them owe their elevation, not to their
talents, but to a dead conscience and a kest-iron heart. Of such men,
if they're rich enough, the world is ready to say 'they hev risen from
the ranks.' It 'ud be nearer t' truth to say, 'they hev fallen from
the ranks.' Yes, sir, fallen from t' ranks of honest, hard-working
men, and taen to warse ways."

Of a certain marriage that he was told of, he said it was "a staid,
sowber, weel-considered affair, a marriage wi' all t' advantages of a
good bargain." I was much struck with his ready wit, his good sense,
and his clever way of putting any remark he made. He was greatly and
deservedly loved and respected, but his best work had a local flavor,
which I dare say narrowed both his fame, and his income.

On the twenty-second of July I was still in Bradford, for I went to
lunch with Mrs. Byles. She was a woman, whom if you once saw, you
could never forget. Her husband was the clever editor of the _Bradford
Observer_ and I think she had been made purposely for him--brains to
her finger tips, full of vivid life, a brilliant talker, a perfect
hostess, not beautiful but remarkably fascinating--so fascinating that
you thought her beautiful. I never saw her but on that one occasion,
but she made on me such an impression that if I met her on Broadway
today, I should have no hesitation in saying, "I am glad to see you,
Mrs. Byles." At this luncheon, I met also the daughter-in-law of Sir
Titus Salt, the discoverer and first maker of alpaca.

On the twenty-fifth of July, I sailed from Liverpool, on the _City of
Rome_, and on the second of August landed at New York. I love England
with all my soul, but when I saw the Stars and Stripes flying off
Sandy Hook, my eyes filled with happy, grateful tears, for "East or
West, Home is Best;" and the land where your home is built, is another
native land.

Mary met me at the pier, went out to Cornwall with me, and remained
with us until the eleventh of September, when she left for Florida.
The rest of the month I was busy on "Feet of Clay" which I finished on
the tenth of October. Then I had my apples gathered, got in some large
stoves, put up heavy curtains, and prepared the house for winter. On
the twenty-seventh, I had a letter from General Sam Houston's son, in
praise of what I had done for his father's memory, and on the
twenty-eighth of October I began making notes for my story of
Quakerism called "Friend Olivia." I was at the Astor Library every day
until the twenty-fifth of November when I felt my way clear enough to
begin "Friend Olivia." It was a bright lovely Sabbath, and I had a
pious enthusiasm about the work, for my mother's family were among the
earliest of George Fox's converts, and had suffered many things for
the faith that was in them. I worked slowly at first, and did not
finish my first chapter until the twelfth of December, nor my second
until Christmas Day, when I copied it. After this I became aware of
the character I called _Anastasia_, and every thing relating to her
came easily enough, and I had a fancy she was not a bit sorry for her
dislike of _Olivia_ and her efforts to injure her. But the year closed
with me happily at work on "Olivia," and seeing my way clearly from
the beginning to the end.

The first three months of 1889 I was nearly broken-hearted about
Lilly's affairs. I was writing "Friend Olivia" and found my only
relief in losing myself in it. Yet I had some pleasant events in my
work. Oscar Fay Adams wrote a fine criticism of my books in the
_Andover Review_. Mr. Clark sent me seven hundred six dollars for
"Feet of Clay." I wrote special articles for the _Book News_ and the
_Youth's Companion_ and the latter offered me five hundred dollars for
a story of one hundred pages. Their pages were large, and I could not
afford to accept their terms, which were burdened also with several
limitations and forbidden topics. It was very unlikely that I should
ever have touched these topics, unless forbidden to do so. That
temptation might have made me wish to show the censors how innocently,
and indeed profitably, they might be touched.

On my fifty-eighth birthday, I had finished thirteen chapters of
"Friend Olivia," but I received on April, the first, a letter from the
_North American Review_, asking me for an article, and I left my novel
to write it. While I was thus engaged, I was requested by a minister
with whom I had crossed the Atlantic once, to write for him on a
certain subject, which I have not noted, and am not quite certain
about. It was the request that astonished, and also pleased me, for I
feared that my plain criticism on a certain occasion had deeply
offended him. It happened that we had walked and talked together at
intervals during the week, and that on the following Sabbath morning
he preached in the saloon, and I was present. Leaning over the
taffrail, that evening he came to me and asked how I liked his
sermon?

"The sermon was a good sermon," I said, "but spoiled in the
delivery."

"Why! How? What do you mean, Mrs. Barr?" he asked.

"Your sermon," I answered, "was a series of solemn declarations and
avowals of faith and belief, and after stating each with remarkable
clearness, you invariably concluded with this reflection, 'It seems to
me that no logically sane mind can refuse this truth.'"

"Well," he said, "that was right."

"No," I answered, "it was wrong. Those four words, '_it seems to me_,'
destroyed the whole effect of your argument. You left us at liberty to
dispute it, and debate it. What seemed to you true, might not seem so
to any one else, if they began to look for reasons."

"What would you have said, if in my place?"

"If I believed, as you do, I would have said, 'Friends, I have told
you the truth. There is no other truth on this subject. If you believe
it, and live up to it, you will be saved. If you do not believe it,
and live up to it, there is no salvation for you.'"

"A minister can but give his opinion."

"He ought to give God's opinion, that is what he stands up to do, and
there is no 'seems to me' in that. Excuse me," I said, "I am a
daughter of Levi, and have been used to talking as I feel to ministers
all my life. I meant no harm. I was only sorry you took all the salt
and strength out of a really good sermon."

"I thank you!" he said, but he was quiet afterwards, and I soon went
away, fearing I had everlastingly offended him. But here was the
kindest of letters, with a request that I would write him a short
article for a paper in which he was interested. I did so cheerfully,
but I put my price on it; for I had discovered by this time, that
newspapers value articles according to what they have to pay for
them.

I may mention that among the trials of this spring, my big English
mastiff was so ill, that we had to send him away for treatment. It was
almost like sending one of the family away. He was a noble, loving
creature with far more intelligence than is credible.

On the twenty-second of May, I finished all the creative work on
"Friend Olivia," and on the twenty-fourth, having gone carefully over
it, I took it to Dodd, Mead and Company, and they sent it to the
Century Company, thinking it might suit Mr. Gilder for a serial. Until
the third of June I rested, for my eyes and right hand were weary and
aching, then I wrote an article for the _Book News_ for which I
received thirty dollars. Until the second of July, I wrote articles
for the _Advance_, _North American Review_, et cetera, and copied some
short stories for the Kendal Syndicate, and the _Christian World_. On
the second of July, I began a story of the Cheviot Hills but on the
ninth received a letter from Dodd, Mead saying Mr. Gilder liked
"Friend Olivia" very much, and wished to see me. The following day I
went to see Mr. Gilder, and agreed to rewrite the story suitably for a
serial for three thousand dollars; and from this time forward until
the sixteenth of September, I was going over "Friend Olivia," and
while arranging it suitably for a serial, was also trying how much
richer and better I could make it.

I was abundantly repaid by the following letter from Mr. Gilder, under
date of September, 1889.

  EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT,
  THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.

  MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

  I have finished the story. It closes like music, beautifully.
  There might be some points that I could wish different, but I do
  not press them, the whole story is so charming.

In this revisal of "Friend Olivia," I followed in all matters Mr.
Gilder's advice and suggestions, and so learned much of the best
technicalities of fiction. I could not have had a finer teacher. I
could not have had a more kind, just and generous one. He rejoiced in
good work, and gave it unstinted praise, no matter who was its author.
To a soul who had been hardly used by the world in general, it was a
kind of salvation to meet such a man.

I owed a great deal of my success with the _Century_, to Mrs. Grover
Cleveland's praise of "Friend Olivia." She read the story in
manuscript, and spoke so highly of it to Mr. Gilder, that he was
induced by her report to read it himself. So one of the first printed
copies of the novel was sent to Mrs. Cleveland, who wrote me the
following note:

  December 2nd.

  DEAR MRS. BARR:

  Pray do not think that my long delay in replying to your note
  indicates any lack of appreciation of its kind words, or your
  thoughtfulness in sending me "Friend Olivia." I feel a peculiar
  attachment to the book, because I knew the story when it was so
  very young. I liked it, and surely need not tell you that your
  sending it to me yourself, gives me very great pleasure.

  I have been away from home ever since your letter came to me, or I
  should have told you this before.

  Pray do not over estimate the effect my interest in "Friend
  Olivia" has had. The story itself brought you, as you say, "the
  recognition and success you had patiently worked and waited for
  during twenty years," and as I say, which you richly deserved.

  May I assure you that I never forget my young friend who loves my
  picture, and that her mother is often in my thoughts.

  Very sincerely,

  FRANCES F. CLEVELAND.

I will only give the letter received from Moses Coit Tyler, regarding
"Friend Olivia." Others of interest will be found in the Appendix if
any desire to read them.

  CORNELL UNIVERSITY,
    ITHACA, NEW YORK.
      Feb. 21, 1891.

  MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

  I was much touched by your kind remembrance of me in causing your
  novel, "Friend Olivia," to be sent to me; and as my days here are
  heavily burdened with work, and my reading is almost exclusively
  on certain professional lines, it was only lately that I have had
  the opportunity of reading the book as I wanted to do it. We read
  it aloud in the family evenings, as the leisure came to me, my
  wife, my daughter, and myself. We were charmed and held from the
  beginning, but it was not till we had gone through perhaps the
  first seventy-five pages, that the story grasped us with
  enthralling power. After that, it was a nightly trial to us all,
  that I had to cut short the reading, when we were all so absorbed
  in the story, and the development of the characters; and I want to
  give you my thanks for the great pleasure, nay for the good cheer,
  the strong spiritual refreshment and stimulation which the book
  gave us. I could say much of the power with which the several
  characters are delineated, of the vivid truth, of the historic
  elements of the story, and of the masterly handling of the plot.
  Better than any satisfaction in mere literary success, must be the
  privilege of portraying, in a fascinating form like that, the
  beauty, the mighty helpfulness, the calming and sweet power of
  faith in God, and in the spiritual life. That book of yours will
  go on helping and cheering people, long after you have passed from
  this world. If all your literary labors had resulted only in that
  piece of work, your life would have been lived not in vain.

  The reading of this book has given me a new desire to meet you
  again, and to talk over persons and things with you, and perhaps
  some day when I have a few hours or days in New York, I may be
  able to find you with half-an-hour to spare for a chat.

  With deep gratitude for your book, and a thousand good wishes for
  the continuance of your literary successes, I remain

  Faithfully yours,

  MOSES COIT TYLER.

For nearly a month after finishing my second copy of "Friend
Olivia" I was too tired to do much. Mr. Mead had urged on me the
Arcadian background and I saw at once its possibilities, if I might
make it historically true. But this would be in direct opposition to
what Longfellow and others had done. However as I had the fiction
in my own control, I thought it would be possible to make the
background, and general atmosphere inoffensive. I made great
preparations for this work. I was in New York at the library most
of October, and was in communication with the Officer's Club at
Halifax who sent me a great deal of material, also with a Miss
Caldwell of Louisiana, whose home was on the great Bayou, where the
Arcadians settled after leaving Canada; and she sent me the true
history of Longfellow's "Evangeline," and much interesting material
as to the country, and the descendants of the Arcadians. But not
all the work I did, nor yet all the help I received, could create in
me the slightest enthusiasm about the story. The people disgusted
me. They were so double-tongued and false-hearted, I could have
turned their bigotry into intense faith, as I had often done with
Calvinism; but their cowardice and unreliability I could not handle,
unless I was to show it rightfully punished. And to tell the last
truth, I did not see anything romantic in a girl, traipsing the
length of the United States seeking her lover. If I could have shown
the lover in all sorts of adventures seeking _Evangeline_, that would
have been all right; but the fact was he had speedily married, and was
comfortably bringing up a family in the Teche country. I could not
bear to think of making a beautiful and innocent girl die for so
unworthy a lover, and I did not really pity the woman who could and
did deliberately die for him. Her grave at the Poste des Attakapas
could not impress me. She ought to have thrown off her false unworthy
lover, and if she could love no good man, she could at least have
lived to comfort and help the old woman, who had taken her when a
friendless babe, and cherished her as her own daughter.

As late as the sixteenth of November, I note being in New York at the
library getting the proper patois for Arcadia, and add with an
emphasis of under-crossing, "I hate the story." Until the eleventh of
January, 1890, I was writing an article on divorce for the _North
American Review_, in favor of it under proper conditions. Bishop
Potter wrote the one on the absolute inviolability of the marriage
tie. I think they were in the same number but have forgotten surely. I
wrote also many other articles suitable for Christmas and New Year's.
During December, Clark paid me two hundred pounds for "Friend Olivia,"
and seventy-five pounds for the book rights of "The Last of the
McAllisters." I also wrote a short story for the McClure Syndicate,
being busy on it from the twenty-second to the twenty-eighth of
December. I liked to write for McClure's Syndicate; he always both
paid, and praised me well. I can say the same of the Bacheller
Syndicate, and though I never see either Mr. McClure, or Irving
Bacheller now, I remember them both with the utmost kindness.

On the eleventh of January, 1890, I notice that I threw all the
Arcadia matter into a drawer in my study, where it would be out of
sight and memory, adding, "I can't _feel_ that story, so I can't, and
won't write it!" This neglected, despised Arcadian matter is still
occupying the drawer, and I have not looked at it since I put it away,
until this morning, when I took from the pile "the true story of
_Evangeline_," to be sure of the name of the country, to which the
Arcadians went after leaving Canada. It was on the Teche Bayou they
settled, and _Evangeline's_ real name was Emmeline Labiche, and her
body rests, as I have already said, at the Poste des Attakapas.
Probably the Poste is now a town or city, though the Arcadians were by
no means an energetic or progressive people.

As soon as I put the Arcadian matter in that drawer, I began a New
York story called "She Loved a Sailor." It contained a vivid picture
of New York city life in General Jackson's time, and is probably the
last of the New York series of tales. I have had fewer letters about
it, than I usually have about a New York novel, and I wondered at
that, because it is within the memories and traditions of many living
families. So I have taken it for granted that its localities and data
are correct, for if I had made an error some one would have told me of
it.

While I was writing this book, on the eleventh of February, Mr. and
Mrs. Van Siclen gave me a "Bow of Orange Ribbon" dinner at the
Lawyer's Club. It was a very fine affair, and I kept its artistic
menu and bow of ribbon for many years. The guests were mostly
Dutch, but I had the great honor and pleasure of having Henry Van
Dyke at my right hand. Two things I remember about this dinner. I
tasted crabs à la Newburgh for the first time; and then while I was
as happy as I could be talking to Dr. Van Dyke, Mr. Van Siclen
shocked me by asserting, "Mrs. Barr will now make us a little
speech, and tell us how she came to write 'The Bow of Orange
Ribbon.'" I do not believe I had ever heard of a woman speaking at a
dinner table before. I had an idea it was absolutely a man's
function. It would then have been as easy to imagine myself doing
my athletics in public, as making a speech at a dinner table. I
turned to Dr. Van Dyke in a kind of stupefaction, and said only
one word "_Please!_" and he understood, and rose immediately, and
made a speech for me that charmed and delighted every one present.
Indeed I am inclined to think it was the best speech he ever made.
It was so spontaneous that it was not Henry Van Dyke's speech, it was
Henry Van Dyke his very self.

After I had finished "She Loved a Sailor" I took Alice and went to
England, leaving in the _Bothenia_ July the second, and returning
about September in the _Aurania_. And after I had finished my
business, I gave myself entirely to Alice. She learns best through her
eyes, and I took her to everything I thought would interest her. We
were fortunate enough to hear Handel's fine oratorio of "Samson" at
the Crystal Palace, with a thousand male and female voices in the
chorus; and Sims Reeves in the solos. Ada Rehan was playing "As You
Like It" and she went three times to see her, before she was tired.
But I think the service at St. Paul's Cathedral pleased her most of
all. Dr. Vaughan preached from "There remaineth a rest," an eloquent
sermon, and the music was heavenly. She was curiously pleased also
with the little rush chairs, she thought it seemed "more like sitting
with God, than if you were shut up in a pew." We had a happy happy
time. It is the only holiday I have had since Robert died. I gave it
to Alice, and she gave it back to me a hundred-fold. It seems like a
dream of heaven to remember it.




CHAPTER XXIV

BUSY, HAPPY DAYS

  "Days of happy work amid the silence of the everlasting hills,
  days like drops that fall from the honeycomb."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "Slow, sweet busy hours that brought me all things good."


After my return we had to consider the winter. During the previous
winter we had suffered much from the severe cold, it being impossible
to warm the house, when the thermometer sank to twenty, or to even
thirty below zero. After some efforts to find suitable winter quarters
in the neighborhood we closed the house, and went for a week or two to
the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I had a business contract pending with Mr.
Edwin Bonner, and we knew that a suitable house somewhere near New
York would be the best for me. There was one great trouble connected
with this arrangement: we had to send our English mastiff to the
kennels, and Sultan was really a very much beloved member of the
family. He had been given to me by my friend Dr. Bermingham when we
first went up the mountain. "It is a lonely place," said the good
doctor, "and you ladies will need a protector." He was sent from the
kennels with a pedigree as long as an English duke's, and he was
positively described as a Saint Bernard. I knew he was an English
mastiff of pure breed, as soon as I saw him, and I loved him all the
better for it.

Everyone's dog does wonderfully, but Sultan excelled them all. He
could nearly speak, and in the last agonies of death, he did really
call "Lilly" as plainly as I could have done. He came to every meal
with us, and had his plate and napkin laid next to Lilly, for between
Lilly and himself there was the strongest affection. He permitted no
other dog on the place, but he talked to all the dogs from far and
near through the gate, and they brought him all the news of the
mountain. Sometimes he brought it to us, and we always listened and
answered, "Is that possible, Sultan?" and he would give a little bark
of assent, and lie down to consider it. He liked me to be prettily
dressed, and always showed his satisfaction in some unmistakable way.
He was most polite to company, met them at the gate, and conducted
them to the parlor, invariably lying down at the feet of the prettiest
and best dressed person in the company. If I was in England he watched
for the mail with Lilly, and listened attentively while she read my
letter to him. When she came to the words, "Mamma and Alice send their
love to Sultan," he always answered the message with a little bark of
pleasure. Oh, indeed, I could tell still more wonderful things of this
affectionate creature, but they would raise a doubt. No one could
believe them, unless they had lived with the splendid fellow, and
known him as we did. So it was hard to part with him, even for a week
or two, but he was large as a mastiff of pure blood can be, and the
proprietors of the Fifth Avenue Hotel would not hear of him as a
guest.

We went to the hotel on October, the seventeenth, and between that
date and the twenty-seventh I made a contract with Mr. Bonner for four
serials. I was to deliver two each year, and he was to pay me
twenty-five hundred dollars for each, in all, ten thousand dollars. In
the meantime Lilly had found a house in East Orange, which was
thoroughly warmed, and we moved into it on October the twenty-fifth,
and brought Sultan home with us.

We were soon comfortably settled, and on the first of January I had
finished the ninth chapter of my first serial for Mr. Edwin Bonner,
called "A Sister to Esau." On the eighth of February it was finished.
But the press of business, and the proposals of various publishers,
seems to have really made me very unhappy. In a note on the
twenty-third of February, when I had had a great deal of business to
attend to, I wrote at night, "I am sad and weary with the day, and
feel terribly unfit for the considerations I have to face. I have a
sense of being politely bullied, and of having suffered a loss of
some kind--spiritual, mental or financial--perhaps something in all
respects."

I was much interrupted by callers in East Orange, a great many of whom
brought manuscripts, which they were sure I would like to read, and
could easily place for them. I had a heartache for the peace and
solitude of the little cottage on the mountain. Now the dream of every
English man and woman is a home of their own, and I saw this to be a
possibility now; and I could think of no place but Cherry Croft. I
wanted it for my own. Then I could put in a proper furnace and make it
habitable all the year round.

I had finished Mr. Bonner's serial on the eighth of February; on the
fifteenth of February, I began for _Lippincott's_ "A Rose of A Hundred
Leaves." Its heroine, _Aspatria_, was one of my favorites. She dwelt
among the Fells in one of those large, comfortable farm or manor
houses, occupied for centuries by the Sheep Lords of the North
Country. I always knew what she was going to do. Sometimes I have
wondered, if Amelia had once been _Aspatria_. Her brothers seemed so
near and real to me, and she lived in just such a home, as I have had
glimpses of, whenever the Past comes back to me. I finished the book
on the fifteenth of March, and Mr. Mead praised the story, which
pleased me, because it was the first time he had ever expressed
satisfaction with my work.

On the twentieth I went to Cornwall, and bought Cherry Croft, paying
for it six thousand dollars in cash. Some told me I had paid too much,
others too little, but I was satisfied. The house was not worth much,
but there was nearly four acres of land full of fruit and forest
trees. And there were the mountains, and the river, and the wide
valley view, and that general peace and quiet, that has in it a kind
of sacramental efficacy.

[Illustration: "CHERRY CROFT," CORNWALL-ON-HUDSON]

I had at this time a great deal of trouble with English houses
printing my work, without either payment or permission, and a
laughable but provoking incident occurred with the proof-reading of "A
Sister to Esau." In this story, my chief character is a Scotch
gentleman, of the most perfervid Calvinism, and the period of the
story was the glorious ecclesiastical "departure" of the Free Kirk.
Now Mr. Bonner's proofreader happened to be a strict, strait
Methodist, and he altered all the Calvinism to Methodism, which was
sheer nonsense in the mouth of a Scotch Chief, and a seceding Free
Kirker. However as soon as I explained the circumstances to Mr. Bonner
he had the text restored as written, with many apologies for his
Methodist proofreader's conscience.

The whole summer was spent in writing Mr. Bonner's second serial,
"Love for an Hour Is Love Forever;" and in attending to the
alterations going on in my home. Every room that was papered and
painted afresh, was a new pleasure; and I had a fine garden, and
began to plant vines, and to make an asparagus bed. Also, I made
preparations for the winter's comfort by putting in a hot water
furnace, and then I began a novelette called "Femmetia's Experience"
for Mr. Bonner. It was a reincarnation story, and had a large sale,
though at the time, the doctrine was but looming up on my spiritual
horizon. The main facts of this story had been told me by an old
lady when I lived in Boroughbridge, and was only twelve years old. Dr.
Deems came to see us just as I had finished the story, and I spoke
of its tendency and he said he had a strong leaning to the old
heresy, that it had never died out of the heart and imaginations of
men, and was steadily gaining a new growth.

I ought to have had a very happy summer, for I had my own home, good
health, and all the work that I could do; but how often below this
calm idyllic surface of life, there is some fateful, domestic
sorrow! It is likely met with the heroism and devoted affection of the
old Greek tragedy, but there it is! and it has to be borne as best
it may. I found in love and work the strength and consolation, the
heavy-hearted of the Greek world never knew. It brings tears to my
eyes yet, to read the short, pitiful entries of that cruel November.
Yet I finished "Femmetia's Experience" and wrote also a novelette for
Bonner called "The Mate of the Easter Bell," and other short
articles. For in mental grief, mental work is a great salvation. I
worked hard, though I was often compelled to lay down my pencil to
seek the strength and comfort found only by "fleeing to the Rock that
is higher than I." At the last, all was well. The gay handsome Captain
M---- passed out of our lives, and Lilly bore the breaking of the
tie better than I expected.

I must not forget that in the midst of this trouble one of the dearest
friends I still possess came into my life. It was Rutger Bleecker
Jewett, the son of the learned Professor Jewett, of the General
Theological Seminary. Through the December cold and deep snow, he
climbed Storm King, one afternoon, and stepped into the light and
warmth of Cherry Croft, like an incarnation of splendid youth and
hope. He brought his welcome with him. With open hearts, and both
hands we all met him, and he was free of my home from that hour. His
father and mother were my friends, but I had never met Rutger before.
Yet in a recent letter he writes, "I have always felt that we were old
friends from the first--never strangers. It was as though we had met
again, after an absence, not as though we were meeting for the first
time. I also cherish vivid memories of you later in our old graystone
house in Chelsea Square. The old house with its deep windows, big
old-fashioned rooms, and vine-covered walls, has been replaced by a
modern building, no more comfortable, and nowhere so picturesque as
the house we knew. It is more than twenty years since I first came to
Cherry Croft--twenty years of unbroken trust and friendship--a very
rich possession to me."

And to me also. As opportunity offered, I have often sought his advice
or help, and he has never failed me.

On January tenth I began "A Singer from the Sea," Mr. Bonner's third
serial. On the twenty-second I was at the Astor Library all day, and
at Rossiter Johnson's at a reception in the evening; Mr. Jewett went
with me. On the twenty-third Mr. McClure and Mr. Ballistier took lunch
with me at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and Mr. McClure would have been
very generous to me for some stories, but my engagement with Mr.
Bonner prevented any business. I was at Mrs. Dodge's in the afternoon,
and among the numerous visitors picked out Edith Thomas at once. I
took dinner at Dr. Jewett's and watched with delight Mrs. Jewett
dancing with her sons and daughters.

On March fifteenth I finished "A Singer from the Sea" and then began
"Michael and Theodora" for Mrs. Dodge, which I did not finish until
June; and in July I began "Girls of a Feather," Mr. Bonner's last
serial, which I finished in October. I was busy all summer in having a
fence put round Cherry Croft, and a hedge planted within the fence.
During October I wrote an article for the _North American Review_
called "Flirting Wives;" I had my little green house filled with bulbs
and flowers, and planted with my own hands, and many tender memories,
some laburnum trees. They were my mother's favorite, and I can see
them dropping golden flowers all around our pretty garden in the Isle
of Man.

On November sixth I began the "Flower of Gala Water" which Bonner
published after its serialization in the new _Godey's Magazine_, and
on the eleventh we were honored and delighted with a visit from Dr.
William Hayes Ward, who spent the week end with us. A little event of
this visit remains like a picture on my memory. There was some
question about a text in the Epistles, and Dr. Ward took from his vest
pocket a small Testament. He said he had carried it there for many
years. "Then it is not a revised Testament?" I asked. And he looked at
the little book affectionately, and answered, "No." Yet the doctor had
been on the committee of revision. But I understood. For me there is
no version but the King James Version, and nothing could make me give
it up. I have only one copy of the revised edition, and that Dr.
Talmage inscribed to me with such extravagant encomiums, that I leave
it lying on my parlor table, as a kind of certificate of moral
health.

During 1892 I had written "The Singer from the Sea" and "Girls of a
Feather," "The Flower of Gala Water" and "The Preacher's Daughter,"
"Michael and Theodora" and several articles. My eyes were very tired,
and I did not do so much during January, 1893. On the twenty-third, I
began an article for Mr. Bok called "Why Literary Women Do Not Marry"
and on the twenty-ninth, I began my novel called "Prisoners of
Conscience." It was then a short story, and was published in the
_Century Magazine_, but was later enlarged to book size, and published
by the Century Company. During the month I also wrote another article
for Mr. Bok called "Women's Weapons."

In March, I wrote "The Lone House." A study of this story had appeared
in the _Christian Union_. It was a good book, but Rutger told me the
young people said it was "too religious," and they wished I would go
back to my love stories. So I began "Bernicia," a love story among
people of the first condition. But on my sixty-fourth birthday I
became very ill with ulcerated sore throat, and on the fourth of April
was in such a dangerous condition, that I sent for a New York
specialist. I came near to death, but recovered slowly, and on June
sixth I took Alice and went to England.

It was not until the beginning of 1895, that I was able to take up
"Bernicia," but during the same interval, I had written a story and
several articles for the Bacheller Syndicate. From the eighteenth to
the twenty-first of January I was in New York paying a visit to Mrs.
Goldschmidt. The first afternoon we went together to a large studio
reception. There were all sorts of professional people there, but I
remember no one but Mrs. Frank Leslie. She was then Mrs. Wilde, I
believe. The next day Mrs. Goldschmidt gave a dinner, and I sat next
to General Collis, but liked Mr. John Wise and his beautiful wife best
of all. I believe they were Virginians. The day following there was a
crowded reception, and a supper party, and I sat next to Moncure
Conway and Mrs. Frank Leslie. For the next night there was a theatre
party, and a supper at the Waldorf. More weary than if I had written a
book, I went home in the morning. I was grateful for the kindness
shown me but very sorry indeed for the people who called it "life" and
lived it.

On my sixty-fifth birthday I was still on "Bernicia," but I had been
very sick, and had a great deal of trouble of a heartaching quality,
but though I complain a little to my diary, I add, "Truly I am old and
weary, but with Thy help, O God, I am young, and strong, and ready to
mount up as on eagles' wings. Thy loving kindness faileth not!"

I finished "Bernicia" on the twentieth of April, and found a couplet
from the Sufi poets, which pleased me so much, I will copy it here:

  "The Writer of our Destiny is a fair writer;
  Never wrote He that which would wrong us."

I was very ill with nervous dyspepsia during June, but on July second
accepted the proposal of the _New York Herald_, to run for one of the
three judges of the ten thousand dollars prize offered by that paper
for the best novel submitted to it. My vote was so large, that it was
at this time the _Herald_ said I must be "the best beloved woman in
the country." Mr. George Parsons Lathrop and Mr. Hazeltine were my
colleagues.

After this I wrote "The Knight of the Nets" for the _Herald_.
"Discontented Women" for the _North American Review_--for which
article Mr. Rideing the editor wrote me a letter of thanks, a story
for the _Home Queen_, and other small items.

On the twenty-sixth of September Lilly married Mr. Edward A. Munro, a
Canadian whose business was in Brooklyn. It was an overwhelming trial
to me, for Lilly had been my right hand in all affairs since her
father's death. It is true that ten words by telegraph never yet
failed to bring her to my side by the next possible train, but the
house was empty and forlorn without her; and both Alice and I were
desolate. However life is a constant learning "to do without" until
that wonderful, "never-coming-back," we call death, restores to us all
that we have lost.

On December twenty-second, our dear Sultan died. We buried him in
Cherry Croft, and were all heart-broken. Alas!

  "There's sorrow enough in the natural way,
  From men and women to fill our day:
  But when we are certain of sorrow in store,
  Why do we always arrange for more?
  Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware,
  Of giving your heart to a dog to tear."--KIPLING.

January twelfth, 1896, Mrs. Goldschmidt had opened her house in
Cornwall and Mr. Wilcox, and Ella Wheeler Wilcox, the artist Arter and
Mrs. Arter and others were staying there. I took dinner with them,
and that evening made up my mind that large parties were a mistake. A
man's family is never too many, because perfect freedom and unanimity
of interest make them one. But with strangers there should be no more
guests than the host can personally entertain. The Ettrick Shepherd's
"Rule of Three" is a good one, both as regards the guests and the
courses. Every one has been to crowded and extravagant dinners, where
they played the hypocrite for three or four hours, and said a fervent
"Thank God!" when it was over.

Two days after this dinner I was in New York to attend Edward Bok's
reception--I think at the Waldorf Astoria. I should call it a mob, and
not a reception. I had with me Dr. Lysander Dickerman, but even his
splendid physical bulk, could not make a way for me through the crowd.
The next day he came to Cornwall with me, and with Dr. and Mrs. Stone,
who called to see him, we had a delightful evening. I wish I had space
to say more of Dr. Dickerman, but there must be many living yet who
remember his piety, his vast stores of learning, his attractive
personality and fine conversational powers. The next morning Mr. Paul,
a London editor, came in and brought me his last book.

On the twenty-seventh of this January, 1896, I made an arrangement
with Mr. Dodd to enlarge "The Knight of the Nets" for a book, for
which they agreed to pay eight hundred dollars on January, 1897. Then
I went out to spend the weekend with Irving Bacheller at his home in
Port Chester. He had a beautiful place there, and a lovely wife, and I
enjoyed my holiday very much. Mr. Bacheller was a good performer on
the organ, which astonished me, and yet it need not have done so, for
men seem to play with little or no effort. He was a fine driver also,
and I saw the villages of Greenwich and Belle Haven. Professor Gaines
dined one evening with us, and my visit to Mr. and Mrs. Bacheller is
full of pleasant memories.

I returned to New York on Monday morning, Mr. Bacheller coming with
me. I intended spending the day in the Astor Library, but when we
reached Astor Place, Mr. Bacheller said suddenly, "I am going to see
Louis Klopsch, and I want you to go with me."

"Who is Louis Klopsch?" I asked.

"The proprietor of the _Christian Herald_."

"Oh!" I replied. "Do you think he will care to see me?"

"He will be glad to see you, and I dare promise, that you will be the
better for seeing him."

So I went to see Louis Klopsch, and it was one of the happiest and the
most profitable things I ever did. We found him in his private office,
and the room was in itself remarkable. It had an ornate, Eastern look;
the windows were shaded with tinted glass, and there was an oil
painting of "The Descent from the Cross" covering a large space of the
western wall, while other Biblical pictures and models were everywhere
to be seen; giving it the Oriental look of which I have spoken. And I
had never seen such handsome furniture and appointments in any
editor's or even publisher's office. I thought of the rather large
closets, with their plain wooden chairs and simple desks, in which
Harper's editors sat; of the slips in which George Merriam, and Moses
Coit Tyler wrote and read; the poverty of all the editorial offices I
had ever seen flashed across my memory, as I sat amid the color,
beauty and luxury of the office of the _Christian Herald_.

Dr. Klopsch rose as we entered, and with smiles came to meet us. Mr.
Bacheller hastened away, I stayed nearly two hours, and they went like
ten minutes. At the end of our interview, I was astonished at my first
estimate of his countenance. I had then thought it remarkable, but not
handsome; but I soon understood that it was the only face, that could
have expressed his complex inner man, as well as properly manifest his
slight, graceful personality. He had charming manners, and walked with
a kind of alert grace. I have been particular about Dr. Klopsch's
appearance, for I came to know him well, both in a business and a
social way, and I suspect he could appear very different, to people
with whom he was not in sympathy.

I went home on the first of February, and found so many letters I
could do nothing on the second but answer them. Among the writers
were Mrs. Libbey, and Mr. Rideing; the latter sent me a check for
seventy-five dollars in payment for "Discontented Women." On the
eleventh, I went to Princeton, and remained with the Libbeys until the
fourteenth, when I returned to New York, and dined with the Rideings.
I liked to go to the Rideings; there was always such a sweet, old
English air and influence about their home and dinners. I think they
spent their summers in England, and never quite lost its atmosphere.

On the sixteenth I began to rewrite "The Knight of the Nets" for Mr.
Dodd; and on the twenty-first I signed a contract with Dr. Klopsch to
write him a serial for the _Christian Herald_ for twenty-five hundred
dollars. I also saw Mr. Booth King about a short story of four
chapters for his paper called _Fashion_ and promised to write it for
five hundred dollars. Then I worked on "The Knight of the Nets" all
the rest of February.

On the fourth of March I was again in New York attending a play and
supper at Colonel Robert Ingersoll's. Mr. Jewett went with me. I
remember nothing about the play, but I shall never forget Robert
Ingersoll. I know all that has been said against him. It does not
alter my fixed opinion that in practice he was one of the best
Christians I ever knew. He has gone to the Mercy of the Merciful One,
and I can only remember his wonderful intelligence, and personal
charm.

On March nineteenth the Sorosis Club gave me a breakfast at the
Waldorf, at which I met Mrs. Helmuth, Jennie June (Mrs. Croly) and
many other notable women. I returned home after the affair, and the
next day went to work on Mr. King's story called, "I Will Marry My Own
First Love." I did not finish it until the thirty-first, for though I
had contracted for twelve thousand words, I wrote twenty-one thousand,
because I could not properly develop the story with less work.

March, the twenty-ninth, was my sixty-fifth birthday. I was writing
all day on the story for Mr. King. "In the evening I sat with Lilly
and Alice in the firelight, and talked of God's wonderful care over
us. Alice said many comforting things. So sweet and good is the dear
One! We used the new blue dinner service for the first time." (Diary,
1896.)

I was on "The Knight of the Nets" again until the twentieth of April,
when I got a letter from Mr. Charles Frohman, about "The Bow of Orange
Ribbon." On the twenty-first I made a contract with him to dramatize
it, _if I could_, about which fact I was doubtful. I had already
realized that a play was not to write, but to build. Mr. Frohman gave
me a box for that night's performance of "The Prisoner of Zenda" and
Mr. Edward Dodd and Mr. Bacheller occupied it with me. Before trying
the play, I finished "The Knight of the Nets" so often delayed and put
aside. This was not until the eleventh of May.

I gave nearly two weeks to the play, but felt it was not technically
right, and Mr. Frohman in a kindly and gentlemanly manner told me so.
And I was sorry at my failure to do what he wished. It made me nervous
and sick, and I went to stay a few days at Elwyn, with Dr. Martin
Barr.

This clever, delightful physician is not, I regret to say, any
relative of mine, but we are the best of friends, and I always resort
to him for advice when sick, and other physicians fail me. Only three
months ago I did so with the usual success. He is the head of the
Elwyn State Institution for Insanity in many forms, and an exceedingly
clever physician and social scientist.

As the Elwyn Institution is very near to Swartmoor College I visited
Professor De Gama, its principal at that time, and was delighted with
him, and his large body of male and female students. He took me
through the building, until we came to a door leading into a separate
wing of the house. He told me he could not pass this door, as it led
to the quarter sacred to the women students. "But," he added, "go down
the corridor, and you will find plenty of friends."

I did so, and seeing a door open, and a room full of girls, I stood
and looked at them. There was an instant pause, and then a little
joyful cry of "_Amelia Barr! Amelia Barr!_" Afterwards I had as happy
an hour as any woman could have, and standing among that joyous,
handsome crowd of young, lovely girls, and hearing their sweet voices
call me, "Friend Amelia," I felt young again. And my thoughts flew
instantly to the fair streets of Kendal, on First Day morning, full
of beautiful, richly-gowned Quaker girls, going to meeting, while the
magical chimes of Kendal Church filled the still air above them with
heavenly melody. And every morning, as long as I remained at Elwyn, I
found on my breakfast table a bouquet from the girls of Elwyn College.
May God bless every one of them, wherever they now dwell!

On the first of June, I began a story for Dr. Klopsch called "The
King's Highway." It is a good story, but would have been better, if I
had not received so many instructions from the editors of the
_Christian Herald_. It had an unique acknowledgment from Mr. Thomas E.
Clarke of Minneapolis, who sent me a copy of a story called "The
King's Highway" in the Dakota language.

On the twenty-second of June, I was at a dinner party given to Julian
Hawthorne on his fiftieth birthday, and had the pleasure of sitting
between Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Hazeltine. I know there was a very fine
dinner, but as to the feast of reason and the flow of soul, if it was
remarkable I have quite forgotten all about it. Yet with Hawthorne and
Hazeltine present, many clever things must have been said. The two
items that impressed me, was the beautiful gown of Mrs. Richard
Stoddard, and the wreath of laurel that crowned the chair in which
Julian Hawthorne sat.

On the ninth of July I was so tired, that I took my work to Nantasket
and stayed there two weeks. It was then a quiet seaside resort, I
believe it is now a kind of Coney Island. But I met pleasant people,
and saw the New Englander on his native soil, and liked him so much,
that I wrote the following poem to express my admiration of his
character:

  They intended to go to Virginia,
    But God at the wheel said, "No!
  The hundred that I have chosen,
    To the cold, white North shall go.
  I will temper them there as by fire,
    I will try them a hundred fold,
  I will shake them with all its tempests,
    I will steady them with its cold."

  So these men from the English meadows
    By the pitiless Plymouth Bay,
  Learned well the worth of their Freedom,
    By the price they had to pay.
  But out of the fires of affliction,
    The tumult and struggle of wars,
  They brought forth her glorious banner,
    Its azure all shining with stars.

  The Hundred has grown to a nation,
    The wilderness blooms like the rose,
  And all through the South and the West
    Go the men of the ice and the snows.
  But wherever they go, they carry
    The strength of their forefather's fight--
  The courage and moral uprightness,
    Of men who prefer to do right.

On July thirty-first, I had a letter from my sister Alethia who was
staying a few weeks at Castletown in the Isle of Man. In this letter
she told me she had been with a marble cutter to Kirk Malew churchyard
and had had Captain Thomas Huddleston's grave stone cleaned and all
the moss and lichen removed from the lettering. My readers may
remember that he was captain of the _Great Harry_ and was bringing
home troops from America, when his ship was wrecked on Scarlet Rocks,
every one on board perishing. And she told me, that when the stone was
cleaned, she noticed that this tragedy occurred on the twenty-ninth of
March, so that Captain Thomas Henry Huddleston and his son Henry died
on the day that I was born.

Early in August I finished "The King's Highway" and began to try to
dramatize "The Bow of Orange Ribbon." I did not stop for anything
except to visit Mr. Hearst's Children's Republic near Haverstraw, and
to write an article about it. I finished the play in September, and
Mr. Frohman was so far pleased with it that he promised to find a
playwright who understood stage business to work with me. On the
twenty-fourth, he introduced me to Mr. August Thomas, who agreed to
direct the work as soon as I came to the city for the winter.

October was a very busy month. I wrote half a dozen articles for Dr.
Klopsch, and on the twentieth I went to Princeton to attend a great
anniversary. I stayed with my old pupil, Professor William Libbey, and
Professor Wheeler of the California University, the author of a
fascinating "Life of Alexander the Great," was there with me.
Professor Jacobus and Mrs. Jacobus were also there, and at night I
went to a college concert with Mrs. Libbey. On the twenty-first I went
to Alexander Hall with Mrs. Libbey and heard Henry Van Dyke deliver a
splendid poem written by himself called "The Builders." After it, I
was unable to decide whether he was greater as an orator, or a poet.
On the twenty-second I saw the degrees given, heard Mr. Cleveland
speak, and then went to a reception at President Patton's. On the
third of the following March, I had a letter from Moses Coit Tyler in
which he says:

  MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

  I had from my colleague Wheeler a faithful account of his talk
  with you at Princeton last fall, and of your kind message to me.
  I'm sorry that I can't send you a portrait of the literary editor
  of the _Christian Union_ as he looked twenty-four years ago, when
  he was that great man. So I must ask you to accept this his latest
  portrait, which may tell you that these years which have crowned
  you with laurels, have crowned him with gray hairs. All the same
  he is

  Yours faithfully,

  MOSES COIT TYLER.
  March 30, 1897.

On the twenty-fourth I was at home and wrote an article for Dr.
Klopsch on the Armenian question, and on the twenty-sixth I went to a
great meeting in Carnegie Hall, called to sympathize with the
persecuted Armenian Christians. This meeting was chiefly memorable to
me, because I met there Dr. Burrell. He made the great speech of the
occasion, and as I sat beside him on the platform I heard and enjoyed
every word of it. As an orator, I do not think he has many equals, and
his voice is very fine and resonant, and his gestures expressive and
pleasing.

During all the month I had been working as I found opportunity on the
"Prisoners of Conscience" enlarging it for the Century Company, but I
also wrote an article for the _Advance_ on the "Four Champions of
Justification by Faith"--Paul, St. Augustine, Luther and John Wesley.
At the close of October I saw Mr. Frohman again, and he told me Mr.
Thomas wanted one thousand dollars to go over the play, and he would
not give it. He was most kind and gentlemanly, but I think this
disappointment wearied him. I knew how he felt, because I also was
weary of work that wouldn't be manageable, and I laid it aside without
any regret, and returned gladly to "Prisoners of Conscience."

On the twelfth of November I was in New York, and going into Mr.
Dodd's store then on Fifth Avenue about Twenty-second Street, I met
there Barrie and Mrs. Barrie, and Robertson Nicoll, a distinguished
editor and publisher of London. I thought Mrs. Barrie a lovely and
most attractive woman, and I was proud to take the hand of the famous
Scotch novelist.

On the twenty-third of November I went to New York for the winter. I
had not finished "Prisoners of Conscience," but Alice was so
exceedingly psychic, I thought it best to take her away from the
solitude of Cherry Croft to the material stir of the city. We went to
the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the proprietors of which house always made
such favorable terms for me, that it was a point of economy in the
winter to go there.

On the twenty-seventh, Mr. Frank Dodd asked me to a reception given to
Ian McLaren, and on the same day Mr. Sankey gave me a pass to the
Moody and Sankey meetings. I did not like Ian McLaren much, but I did
like the stir of human feeling in the other invitation, and Mr.
Sankey's singing pleased me, for my taste had not been either trained,
or spoiled, by too much classical music; and Sankey's singing had in
it, not only a fine lyrical cry, but also that "touch of Nature, which
makes all men kin."

On the twelfth of this December, Mrs. Klopsch called on me, and then
and there began the sweetest friendship that has come into my life. I
love beauty, and she was, and still is, very beautiful; and her kind,
cheerful disposition made her ten times more so. From that hour I
have loved her dearly, nay, but I think I must have loved her
somewhere long before that hour, for our attachment was always full
grown. And I count her love among the best blessings that God has
given me.

On the seventeenth, Mrs. Libbey called and brought me the Professor's
photo in cap and gown. He looked very grave and handsome, and I could
not help thinking of the days, in which I had given him music lessons,
and cut many a slice of bread and jelly for him, when he came into my
cottage, after a morning on the ice. Mr. Jewett took dinner with me
and I finished "Prisoners of Conscience." On Christmas morning Mr.
Jewett entered my parlor with armsful of laurel and mistletoe, and
dressed it beautifully; and Lilly and her husband came over from
Brooklyn to dine with me. I believe in good dinners. In some way or
other domestic happiness has a fundamental dependence on them, they
are conducive to amiable understandings. They are a festal sacrifice
to household love, and sacred friendship, and intellectual recreation;
and they are necessary to every kind of success. Only the Scotsman
"who is fit for anything when he is half-starved" may neglect his
dinner, and not injure his fortune.

The year 1897 has a record similar to the one just described. I spent
the first three months at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and then returned
joyfully to Cherry Croft, and remained there until near the close of
the year. It will be sufficient, if I now note the days containing
distinctive events; for instance, on the seventh of January I
addressed the men at the Bowery Mission, and on the fifteenth began a
story for the Bacheller Syndicate, called "The Price She Paid." Lilly
was sick with grippe, and I missed her daily visit very much. On the
twenty-ninth Mr. Thomas called again about the play, and I returned to
it, but with little heart, though working under his direction. On the
seventeenth of February I wrote "still working hard, but hopelessly on
my play. I have finished the second act, and Mr. Thomas professes to
be satisfied, even pleased; but then he is a very courteous
gentleman." On the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh I was at the Astor
Library, and had a long comforting talk with Mr. Beauregard on
reincarnation and other spiritual subjects.

On the fourth of March, Mr. Thomas came and appeared well satisfied
with what I had done, and on the ninth Mr. Frank Dodd called and
contracted for my next two stories. On the eleventh Mr. Beauregard
dined with me, and afterwards lectured in my parlor on occultism. The
rooms were crowded, and every one much interested. On the thirteenth I
made tea at the Author's Club, having General Sickles at my left hand.
I took a dislike to him, perhaps unjustly, but the Southern gallantry
I had admired forty years ago, seemed out of place in a man so old,
and a company calm and intellectual. The following day I was at Mr.
Robert Underwood Johnson's to dinner. His now famous son was present,
a dark handsome youth, with the quiet thoughtful eyes of dreaming
genius.

I spent the evening of the twenty-first at Mr. Dana's, and saw all his
wonderful collection of pottery. Very carefully he unlocked for me the
box that held the famous Peach Blow jar, and I will tell the truth,
and acknowledge that I was insensible to its beauty. I thought I had
seen far lovelier vases. Rutger Jewett was with me, and on the
twenty-fifth I was at Dr. Jewett's to tea. On the twenty-sixth Dr.
Klopsch asked me to go to India with the ship load of corn and wheat
which American women had given to the famine sufferers. He wished me
to go as the representative of these American women. My children would
not allow me to accept the offer, which I regretted. The twenty-ninth
was my sixty-sixth birthday, and all my rooms were full of flowers,
but Lilly had gone to Cornwall, and could not come, so there was a
little shadow on it. I spent the afternoon of the thirty-first at
Colonel Ingersoll's and met there Andrew White, our Minister to
Berlin, a most interesting man. He was just publishing a book and
promised to send me a copy.

On the first of April I came back to Cherry Croft. Lilly had gone
there three days previously, and the house was warm, everything in
order, and a loving smiling welcome waiting me. I was very happy
to be home again. On the third, Mr. Frohman wrote me that he was
disappointed in the play. So was I. I had wasted a deal of time and
strength on it, and I felt I was doing so, all the time I was
working on it.

All the first week in May was spent in trying to see my way clear to
go with Dr. Klopsch to India, about which he was urgent. But Alice was
mentally very sick, and Mary and Lilly would not hear of the journey,
the cholera being at that time very bad there. On June the thirteenth,
the Reverend Mr. Boyd of Chicago preached a sermon against the
"Prisoners of Conscience" which the Century Company had just issued in
book form. On the twenty-second, the _Chicago Times Herald_ published
my defence; and Dr. Boyd's sermon was only a splendid advertisement
for the story. In July, I was busy finishing my new novel "I, Thou and
the Other" but in August, I left it a week to write a story for the
Bacheller Syndicate, called "Judith of Keyes Grif."

On the twenty-sixth of September I was writing a story for _Leslie's_
called "The Lost I. O. U." and on the twenty-eighth I had a letter
from Dodd, Mead and Company saying they liked "I, Thou and the Other"
very much. There was nothing out of the usual course of events in
October, but a dinner which I gave, and which, quite unintentionally
on my part, consisted only of three clergymen. One day the Reverend
Mr. Snedeker, the Methodist preacher at Newburgh, told me many
interesting things about Father McGlyn, his offence against the
Church, and his summons to appear before some spiritual court at Rome.
I said, "I should like to see any man, who had been brave enough to
offend the powerful prelates of Rome;" and Mr. Snedeker answered, "He
wishes to meet you." "Then come to-morrow," I replied, "come to
dinner, and there is a fine moon to light you home." He gladly
accepted the invitation, and the next morning I sent and asked Mr.
Page, our Episcopal minister, to dine with them.

It was a remarkable meeting. Father McGlyn told us all about his visit
to Rome, and his interview with the Pope; then he went to Alice's
room, and blessed her, and blessed her altar, and prayed with her. For
he had quickly discerned the spirit within her, and with a beautiful
humility said it was greater and purer than his own. I shall never
forget Father McGlyn. As a social man he was a failure, as a priest
of God he was worthy of all honor.

On October the fifteenth, Professor and Mrs. Libbey sent for me to
hear the Earl of Aberdeen and President Cleveland speak, but I did not
go. A month afterwards I went to the Fifth Avenue Hotel for the winter
at the same favorable terms. I noticed that there was a great crowd at
dinner but I had a long, pleasant talk in the green parlor after it
with Mr. and Mrs. Tom Platt. I liked both thoroughly. Mrs. Platt
worked me a most exquisite center piece, and Mr. Platt wrote his name
in the corner. This autograph I embroidered, and the beautiful square
lies to this day over the green velvet cover of my dining-room table.

The next day I took lunch with the Mount Holyoke Alumnæ, and made an
address on "The Neighbor at Our Gate," a most important person, for we
may choose our friends, but we cannot choose our neighbor. We have to
take him as he is, and make the best of him.

On December the second, Miss Jewett, Mrs. Platt, and Mrs. Lockhart of
Pittsburgh, and Mr. and Mrs. Saltus spent the evening with me, and I
received an invitation to address the Congregational Club on January
twenty-eighth, 1898; which I promised to do conditionally. On the
seventh, Edward Bok called and I promised to write some short things
for him. But I was really too tired to do anything, and was compelled
to stay away from Mr. Rideing's reception on that day, and even
Rutger's happy presence was almost more than I could respond to.




CHAPTER XXV

DREAMING AND WORKING

  "Came the whisper, came the vision,
  Came the Power with the need."

       *       *       *       *       *

  "This is the scene of combat, not of rest,
  Man's is laborious happiness at best;
  On this side death his labors never cease,
  His joys are joys of conquest, not of peace."


Following my physician's advice, I slipped away to Old Point Comfort
on December the twenty-third. I fell into a sound sleep as soon as I
was on the boat, and practically slept all the way there. I had a
letter of introduction to the proprietor of the hotel from Mr.
Hitchcock, the proprietor of the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and was given
rooms almost over the sea, and treated with unbounded kindness and
respect. Lilly went down with us, and made my rooms comfortable, and
ate Christmas dinner with us. We had a delightful surprise at this
meal, for we were at the same table with Dr. Peck, one of my neighbors
on Storm King Mountain, Cornwall, a most intelligent and delightful
companion.

I was not really sick; I was only tired, so tired, however, that I
could hardly lift my heavy, aching eyes, and my brain absolutely
refused to follow a thought out, and I suffered much from a relaxed,
nervous throat. I slept nearly night and day for a week, and the sea
winds breathed fresh life into me. Then Lilly felt that she might
leave me to their healing influence and the renewing power of sleep
and rest.

On January the twentieth, I note, "I am much better. I feel nearly
well." Dr. Frissel of the Hampton School called to see me. Reverend
Father Hall, Judge Parker's son-in-law, sent me violets, and I had a
strange but interesting letter from Lilly, who said she had been at a
crystal party in M----'s studio rooms, and had heard a lecture by a
Hindoo occultist. The guests were invited to ask him any question they
wished him to answer, and Lilly asked how her mother was. He said,
"She is at sea, or very near the sea. She will be quite well in
February, and some good thing will happen at the end of the month. Her
good fortune is at a standstill until then." And I add with emphatic
undercrossing, "How does he know anything about me? My times are in
God's hands." I will also add, that nothing he said was true.

In February I was able to see a few visitors, and I had a great deal
of attention from the officers of the regiment stationed there.
Colonel Morris and Mrs. Morris called several times, and Lieutenant
Allan and Mrs. Allan did all they could to make me happy. On the
eleventh, they gave me at their house a delightful reception, and on
the nineteenth I was entertained at the Officer's Club, and had all
the privileges of the club presented to me. This honor was the more
remarkable, as I was the only woman who had ever received it.

After this callers were so numerous, I thought it best to go home, for
I was still very weak and nervous, and I feared to lose what I had
gained. My eyes also were far from rested, and it was difficult for me
to write. I was sorry to go, because Alice had been so happy, but it
was "for Mamma's sake," and she went gladly.

No, I cannot write of the next few months. They were filled with
sorrow of the most heart-breaking kind, and for the first time in my
life, I could not go unto Him who promised to give rest to the
sorrowful and heavy laden. Grief, with me, runs into motion, and I
walked my room day and night, until exhaustion forced me to sit down.
I got the first help from a book Mr. Van Wagenen gave me. I had to go
to Dodd, Mead and Company and all of the firm happened to be out but
Mr. Van Wagenen, and he gave me a book, telling me to read it, and it
would do me good. I do not know _why_ he did so. I tried to smile and
look happy, but he may have seen the sorrow in my eyes, for its shadow
is still there. This was on April twenty-first and on April
twenty-fifth, I write, "I have taken courage, and am going on in
God's strength. I can do nothing without God. I can do everything with
God to help me. I will not fret, and I will not worry. I will cease
from being hurt and angry. I will go back to my work, and trust in God
to give me the sight and strength to do it."

It was during these months of such anguish as only mothers can know
that the great comforting truth of reincarnation was fully revealed to
me. And I count the sorrow, even if it had killed me, but a small
payment for it. Slowly, but surely it dawned upon my soul, that the
suffering which I had not deserved, by either thought, word or deed in
this life, must have been earned in some previous existence, and this
conviction enabled me not only to accept, but to forgive. Then I read
upon my knees the Fifth-first Psalm and prayed, "Forgive me, for it is
against Thee, and Thee only, I have sinned." I had paid my debt, and I
was comforted; for we must all go up our own Calvary. The just cannot
die for the unjust, the purehearted for the sinner, the merciful for
the cruel.

  "It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishment the scroll,
  I am the master of my fate
  I am the captain of my soul."

We all pay our just debts, we all reap then our just rewards. And my
soul rose up to God's expectation, yielded

  "... itself to the Power constraining,
    With a ready and full surrender;
  Trusting God in the roughest whirlwind,
    In a cloud of the thickest night,
  While I watched and hoped in silence,
    For the dawn of a richer splendor;
  Musing what new gifts await me--
    What of Knowledge, or Love, or Light!"

In July Professor Libbey and Mrs. Libbey spent two days at Cherry
Croft, and at the end of the month I had a visit from the Countess de
Brémont. She brought a letter from Mr. Paul of London, and I found
her an interesting woman. She had just come from Africa, where she had
lived for several months in Paul Kruger's home. Her descriptions of
it, and of the Boer President and his family, were of the most
unsavory even disgusting character; but I listened to them with a kind
of satisfaction. I had no respect for the Boers, and I was heart-sick
at their early successes; so much so, that my doctor had forbidden me
to read anything respecting the war until my daughter gave me
permission.

In August I managed to locate the story of "The Maid of Maiden Lane."
I had begun it half-a-dozen times, but always found myself running
across "The Bow of Orange Ribbon;" and I was about to give it up, when
I awoke one morning about four o'clock, with the whole story clear in
my mind. I made a note of the plot as given me, and then with a good
heart finished off "Trinity Bells" for Mrs. Dodge.

On the third of September I was at work again on "The Maid of Maiden
Lane," and on the eighth I took tea at Dr. Henry Van Dyke's, who was
then occupying the beautiful Club House on Storm King as a summer
home. The fourteenth, fifteenth and sixteenth of September, I kept as
I have always done in memory of my dear husband's and sons' deaths,
and I wrote, "It is thirty-two years ago, but I have forgotten nothing
of God's mercy, and of their love.

  'Faithful, indeed, the spirit that remembers,
  After such years of change and suffering.'

I am more alone than ever, but God is sufficient."

_Sept. 30th._ I made bread, tidied drawers and closets, filled all the
vases with fresh flowers, and walked for two hours and half.

_Oct. 1st._ Writing in the morning on "The Maid of Maiden Lane," and
in the afternoon watching the gathering of the apples, and the digging
of the potatoes.

In November I finished "The Maid of Maiden Lane" and made an
arrangement with Mr. Dodd to write "The Lion's Whelp." For these two
books, I was to receive three thousand dollars each.

In December I suffered a great loss. I had as cook a Mrs. Kirkpatrick,
the wife of that Thomas Kirkpatrick, whom I have named as my first
caller at Cherry Croft, and who was at this very time my gardener. She
had both my trust and my affection, for she was faithful and kind to
me, and had fine spiritual instincts, which I delighted to inform and
to direct. On Sunday, the eleventh of December, she appeared to be in
as perfect health as a woman in the prime of life could be, yet when I
awoke out of deep sleep, soon after midnight, I knew that something
was going to happen; for I could not move a finger, nor could I open
my eyes. I lay motionless waiting and listening. Then I heard steps
mounting the stairs--steps, no human foot could make--the strong swift
steps of a Messenger whom nothing could delay. At the head of the
stairs was a corridor on which my room, my study, a guest room and
Alice's two rooms opened. At the end of the corridor there was a door,
_always locked at night_, then two steps leading down to a small hall,
on which Mrs. Kirkpatrick's room, and another room opened.

Into which of these rooms was He going? I listened awestruck and
breathless. Past my door, my study, and the guest room He went; past
the open door leading into Alice's rooms, and then I heard the same
fateful tread going down the two steps into the outer hall, after
which there was dead silence. In a few minutes I was able to move, and
I sat up and considered. I was certain that I had locked the door
between the corridor and the small hall. Yet there had been no delay
at the door, nor any sound of a lock turning. I struck a light and
went to the door. _It was locked._ It had been no impediment unto Him
who passed through it, shut and locked. Alice was in a deep sleep;
Mrs. Kirkpatrick, also. I went back to my room and sat down. And that
night I slept no more.

In the morning Mrs. Kirkpatrick told me she was sick. "I will go
home," she said, "and send my daughter to do my work. I shall be well
in a day or two." I held her hand as she spoke, and looked into her
kind face, where I saw written what no mortal could either write, or
blot out. As she passed through the gate, I called Alice, to "come and
take a last look at Mrs. Kirkpatrick;" and we both watched her
hurrying up the hill, until she was out of sight. Seven days after she
died of pneumonia.

That night as I sat quite alone by the parlor fire, praying for the
passing soul, Lilly came to me. And I cried with joy, while together
we sought "Him that ... turneth the shadow of death into the morning"
(Amos, 5:8). She spent two days in packing and preparing the house for
the winter, and on the third day, I went with Alice to the Fifth
Avenue Hotel in New York, leaving Thomas Kirkpatrick, the sorrowful
husband, in charge of the house.

I do not like to write much about 1899. The first three months my
doctor forbid me to write, and I amused myself by reading everything I
could find on the new cults and "isms" then clamoring for recognition.
Theosophy for a few weeks fascinated me, but Christian Science, never
for one hour made any impression. I thought it, only a huge
misunderstanding of the Bible. Spiritualism I had examined many years
previously, and discarded its pretensions at once. Truly God speaks to
men, but when he so favors any soul, He asks no dollar fee, and needs
no darkened room, veiled cabinet, nor yet any hired medium to
interpret His message. He can make Himself heard in the stir and
traffic of Broadway, and in the sunshine of midday, as well as in the
darkness of midnight. And when I had satisfied my foolish curiosity, I
was sorry and ashamed, and with deep contrition asked only to be
permitted to say once more "_Our Father!_" Going back to my Bible, was
like going back home, after being lost in a land of darkness and
despair.

This three months' reading, often by electric light, made havoc with
my sight, and I was obliged to spend six weeks in a darkened room
after it. Lilly spent them with me, and I was greatly consoled by this
proof of her affection for me. I was very anxious about money matters,
for though I could not write, the expenses of the house went on. But
God did not forget His Promise to me. Towards the end of March Mr.
Stone of Chicago wrote to me for a novel, and I sold him "Was It Right
to Forgive?" for twelve hundred dollars; soon after Mr. Jewett came
up to Cherry Croft, told me he had gone into the publishing business
with his friend Taylor, and bought the book rights of "Trinity Bells,"
for two thousand dollars. These two events, both most unexpected, made
my mind easy; and I improved so rapidly, that in May I began to write
a little. Then Dr. Klopsch ordered twenty short articles, and these
gave me just the work I could do, because I could leave it, and take
it up, whenever it was prudent to do so.

I spent the winter of 1900 at Atlantic City, and on the sixth of
February, the novelist, Robert Barr of London, came to visit me. He
was delighted with Atlantic City, and stayed more than a week. At this
time I had a remarkable dream. I thought I stood on the piazza at
Cherry Croft, and was looking upward at an immense black African bull,
that rose and fell between the sky and the earth. Sometimes he was
very high, sometimes he came near to the ground, but as I watched he
fell to the earth, and his head came off, and rolled out of sight. And
the grass was high, and I called Kirkpatrick and said, "The grass is
ready, you will cut it to-morrow."

After that dream I read all the newspapers I wanted to read. I knew
the Boers would fail, and fall, and the English flag float over their
conquered states. On the twenty-eighth of February I read of Cronjes'
defeat, and on the fifteenth of March, a few days after my return
home, Mr. Henry Hunter of Cornwall, sent his son through a great
storm, late at night, up to Cherry Croft to tell me that the English
had possession of the capital of the Orange Free State. The next
morning I walked to the end of the piazza, and noticing the grass
high, I called to Kirkpatrick and said, "Kirk, the grass is too high,
cut it down tomorrow." Then my dream flashed across my mind, and I
thanked God and was happy.

The eleventh of July was the fiftieth anniversary of my wedding day.
Alice was with Lilly in Brooklyn, and I was quite alone, neither had I
any letters referring to it. All my world had forgotten it, so I made
it memorable to myself, by commencing my Cromwell novel, which I that
day named "The Lion's Whelp." In the afternoon I sat in the sunshine,
and thought over the incidents of my fifty wedding days. It was a
little story for my own pleasure and I shall never write it down. On
that day also, I resolved to give up all social visiting, and devote
myself entirely to my work.

I worked steadily afterwards on "The Lion's Whelp" but did not finish
it until April second, 1901. Then I note in my diary, "I finished my
dear Cromwell novel today, five hundred fifty pages. I leave it now
with God and Mr. Dodd." It was hard to leave it. For some days I could
not bring myself to finish the last few sentences, and my eyes were
full of tears when I wrote "_Vale Cromwell!_" I had the same
reluctance to close "Remember the Alamo." In both cases, I was bidding
farewell to characters with whom I had spent some of the happiest
hours of my life.

After finishing "The Lion's Whelp," I collected a volume of my
short stories for Dr. Klopsch, and on July fourth I began a novel
for Mr. Jewett called "Thyra Varrick." The scene was laid in the
Orkney Isles, and the wind of the great North Sea blew all through
it, while it had the brilliant blundering of Prince Charles Stuart
for a background. It was a great favorite, for it was the initial
story of the _Delineator_, and I received the following letter from
Charles Dwyer, the editor, after it was published:

  DEAR MRS. BARR:

  I take leave of "Thyra Varrick" in the May number, with the
  greatest regret. It seems like parting with an old friend, and one
  who has conferred many favors on you. It is the first serial that
  has appeared in the magazine, and I consider myself very fortunate
  in being able to present such a story. A copy of the book has come
  in from the publishers, and is now in the hands of the reviewer.
  When it comes back to me, I shall take the liberty of sending it
  to you for an autograph.

  With every good wish for a pleasant summer, and that we may be
  again in association, I am

  Very faithfully yours,

  CHARLES DWYER.

On May the third, my sister Alethia died of apoplexy, and I am now the
last of a family that had been more than a century _at home_ when
Edward the Confessor reigned. A very ancient prophecy regarding the
family said, "It will go out with a lass." So it will. I stand at the
end of a long, long roll of priests and heroes, but though I am only a
woman, I have fought a good fight, my hands are clean, my honor
unstained, and I have never written a line that I would wish to blot,
if I was dying. I am not afraid to meet any of my ancestors, and I
shall be glad to look my dear father in the face. He was a great
scholar, but he was too busy preaching to write a book. And when I
tell him I have written over sixty books, I shall add, "But that is
because I am your daughter."

On June the sixteenth, I had the following letter, and among the
hundreds I have received, not one has given me more soul pleasure:

  WAR DEPARTMENT.
  UNITED STATES ENGINEER'S OFFICE.
  MOBILE, ALA.

  MRS. AMELIA E. BARR.

  DEAR MADAM:

  Allow me to thank you for Chapter Seven, "Souls Of Passage." I am
  on a higher plane since reading it, and thoughts, heretofore
  merely in solution in my mind, have flashed into beautiful and
  permanent crystallization. I do not apologize for addressing you,
  for I feel that it must please you to know, that your soul in its
  passage, has helped another.

  Very respectfully,

  WILLIAM STODDARD MCNEILL.

From the middle of August unto the end of the year, Alice was very
ill, and I could not leave her night or day, unless Lilly was with
her. So I went early to the city this year. I finished "Thyra Varrick"
on December nineteenth, and then rested until the New Year.

On the second of January, 1902, I was in the Historical Library, then
on Second Avenue, where I worked all day, and then bought from the
library a large and very valuable book on the Loyalists of New York
City during its captivity to the English. It is written by one of the
De Lancey family, and is a monumental book that ought to be better
known. Alice was in a most unhappy condition all month, and I write
sorrowfully on February first: "I am heartbroken about Alice. I can
get no hopeful response spiritually from her. She is always conscious
of some inimical Presence, whom she cannot pray against, and she is
miserably depressed, and will not go out."

On the fifteenth I had a letter from a small town in Turkey-in-Asia,
asking permission to translate my articles in _Success_ into Greek,
and thus I discovered that _Success_ had been using my work without my
knowledge, or permission, for I never wrote for the paper except one
article for the opening number. The success founded on such methods
had in it no lasting elements, and the paper has disappeared.

On the twenty-eighth Alice begged me to take her home, and on the
third of March I did so. Kirkpatrick had the house beautifully warm,
and Lilly went up to Cherry Croft with us, and put all in order.

On March twenty-ninth, my seventy-second birthday, I had had a night
of prayer and watching, but I fell asleep at dawn, and woke up
wonderfully refreshed; and to my happy amazement, Alice gave me a kiss
and a blessing, when I went to her room. "Dear God!" I prayed, "add
Thy Blessing to it." The mail brought me a present of violet pins from
Lilly, and all my soiled lace done up with her own hands, and looking
like new. Her husband sent me a very handsome scrap-book for my
newspaper clippings. I had one hundred seventy-five dollars from
Rutger, royalty money, and Mary had made and sent me a pretty kimono.
I was very happy indeed; for, thank God, I still keep my child heart,
and "little things" make me happy.

On April second I began "The Song of a Single Note." It carried on the
story of "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," and a month later I wrote, "Alice
is well and happy; our days go on calm and sweetly, and I am enjoying
my work."

On May the twenty-first, Mrs. Harry Lee called to see me for the first
time. I liked her at once. She is now one of the two women I really
love. There is no set time for _her_ calls, she can come morning, noon
or night, and be welcome. She is loving and intellectual, and never
gets bored or has a train to meet, if our conversation slips into
grave, or even religious subjects. From a good tree, we expect good
fruit, and she is the eldest daughter of the late well-beloved E. P.
Roe. Her love for me also runs into physical and material grooves,
which are very enjoyable; many a time she has walked over the fields
to my house, with a basket of fine fruit, or a dish of whipped cream,
or some other delicacy. And as she is a fashionable woman in the
social world, I think such little attentions show a sweet and homely
affection, that I value highly.

On May thirty-first I made a note that causes me to smile as I read
it--"a kind of dictatorial letter, from a firm who want me to write a
novel for them--_they are both young!_" I also, rejoice, because I
have got the grip of the story I am writing, and now it will be easy
work.

On June the twelfth, I had a remarkable experience, one I shall never
forget. I heard the clock strike three, and thought I had a letter in
my hand from my mother. It was written on the old-fashioned large,
square letter paper, and contained two sheets, the last one not quite
full; folded as we folded letters before envelopes had been thought
of, and closed with a seal which I carefully broke. In this letter she
told me of all that she had suffered, and how she had prayed to God,
and I buried my face in the letter and wept bitterly. Yes, I felt the
tears, and I said, "O dear, dear Mother, you had to die, and I had to
grow old, to know how much I love you!" A strange thing was, I saw
plainly her address, and she had signed herself "Mary Singleton," _her
maiden name_, "Kingdom of Heaven." There were two other lines in the
address, which I have forgotten, but I knew they were the names of
city and street. I was wonderfully comforted by this letter, and its
enthralling, heavenly perfume lingered about me for many days.[8]

[Illustration: MISS ALICE BARR]

On June thirtieth Charles Francis Adams sent me a copy of his
oration about Cromwell's having a statue in the New England Colonies.
He deserved it. If England had not so urgently needed him, he would
have accompanied his friend, Long John Wentworth, to Massachusetts. If
Mr. Adams had only told the New Englanders, that Cromwell was the best
ball player in England, and that Wentworth was the only man who could
match him, they would doubtless have taken the statue into serious
consideration.

At the end of August I finished "A Song of a Single Note" and Mary and
Kirk fortunately came from Florida, to pay me a visit. My days of
remembrance, the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth of September, I
spent reading Professor James's "Varieties of Religious Experience," a
wonderful, wonderful book, which none who read thoughtfully can ever
forget. I have read it through many times; it always makes a good time
for me, spiritually.

On October, the twenty-sixth, Mr. Hearst gave me fifty dollars for
permission to copy my article on "Divorce" from the _North American
Review_ into his paper; and on the sixth of December I went to the
Marlborough House in Atlantic City. Alice and I spent Christmas alone;
she was very sweet and reflective, and talked to me long of the
Christmases gone forever. "So fair! So sad!" I said; and she answered
with a smile, "They are with God."

On February fifteenth, I was again settled at Cherry Croft, and began
"The Black Shilling," but on the twenty-sixth I tore up all I had
written, and began it over again. On the twenty-ninth of March, my
seventy-third year of travail through this life, I write gratefully,
"I have good health, a good home, good daughters, good servants, many
friends, and one hundred three pages of 'The Black Shilling' written
to my satisfaction. Lilly was here, and Alice is quite well, and
Rutger remembered my birthday and sent me one hundred thirty dollars
royalty." I finished "The Black Shilling" on the twenty-ninth of July;
and my eyes were so tired, I went into a darkened room for three
weeks, and on the thirtieth of October I went to New York in order to
be under the care of Dr. Hunter, a fine oculist, and no alarmist. He
told me there was not the slightest evidence of any disease, they
only wanted rest; and the relief his verdict gave me was unspeakable,
and in itself curative.

From the fourteenth to the nineteenth of December I went to Princeton
to stay with the Libbeys. I had sent out no cards this winter, and I
saw no one but Dr. and Mrs. Klopsch, and Rutger Jewett. On the whole
1903 was a hard year, and my eyes were so troublesome that I only
wrote "The Black Shilling," and a few little articles for the daily
press.

"_Jan. 1st, 1904._ When I opened my Bible this morning my eyes fell
upon this cheering verse, 'Having obtained help of God, I continue
unto this day.' (Acts, 26:22.)" Three days afterwards I went back to
Cornwall, and on the sixteenth I had a visit from Mr. Platt of the
_Smart Set_, about writing for him. He was an English gentleman of a
fine type, but I am sure he understood at once, that I could not write
for a set I knew nothing about. Nevertheless I enjoyed his visit. I
read all January for "The Belle of Bowling Green," which I began on
February, the eighth, and finished on June, the twenty-seventh. All
August, I was writing for Mr. Rideing and Dr. Klopsch; but on
September, the eighteenth, I began "Cecilia's Lovers," which I
finished on February eighth, 1905.

All April, May and June I was writing articles for the _Globe_ on
social subjects, such as slang, bored husbands, colossal fortunes, et
cetera. On November fifteenth, I had an invitation to a dinner given
to Mark Twain on his seventieth birthday. I did not go to the dinner,
but I sent Mr. Clemens the wish that Dr. Stone wrote to me on my
seventieth birthday. "The days of our life are three score years and
ten, and if by reason of strength it be four score years, yet is it
labor and sorrow. _May you have the labor without the sorrow._"

On November, the twenty-fourth, I made a contract with Mr. Lovell to
write him a novel for five thousand dollars. I wrote him one called
"The Man Between," and it was finished and paid for on March
thirty-first, 1906. In April of 1906, I began "The Heart of Jessy
Laurie," which was sold to Mr. Dodd on September the seventeenth. In
November I began a book that is a great favorite, and whose writing
gave me constant pleasure, "The Strawberry Handkerchief."

I began 1907 in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and on the fifteenth had
finished the first chapter of "The Strawberry Handkerchief," but on
the thirtieth I took pneumonia, and was very near to death. With God's
blessing on the skill of Dr. Charles Nammack, and Lilly's faithful
care, my life was saved. Her husband gave me an equally loving
service. Every afternoon he came to the hotel, read and answered my
letters, and sat with Alice, while Lilly had a long, sound sleep. Then
he went for medicines, and if likely to be needed, remained all night.
My own son could have done no more for me, nor done it any more
lovingly.

On the twenty-third of February, I had one of the most wonderful
spiritual experiences of my life. Lilly had gone home, and taken Alice
with her, and I was quite alone. The room which they occupied, while
in the hotel, opened into my room; but it was now empty, and the
proprietors had promised to put no one into it, unless obliged by
stress of business; for it had been very convenient, for changing the
air in my room. I awoke from sleep about three A.M. and found my room
distressingly hot. I rose, put on wool slippers, stopped at the table,
ate a few grapes, and drank a glass of milk, and then thought I would
open the door between the two rooms. I was very weak, but I reached
the door, and had my hand on the key. Then Some One in the adjoining
room thrust quickly a heavy bolt across the other side of the door. I
concluded the room had become occupied while I was asleep, was a
little annoyed at not being informed, but thought no more of the
circumstance, until the chambermaid came to me in the morning.

"Do you know," she said, "I left both the windows in the next room
open, and it has been the coldest night of the winter. The room was
like an ice box this morning; for the heat was turned off and the wind
blowing, and freezing as it blew."

"But the room was occupied," I answered.

"No, indeed!" she continued. "I went in an hour ago, and shut the
windows and put on the heat, and I will take you there while I make
this room comfortable." She did so, and I was lying wrapped in a
blanket upon a sofa, when I remembered the almost angry drawing of the
bolt, and turned my head to look at the door. _There was no bolt
there._ There was nothing but a little brass screw in the lintel,
that a child's finger could turn noiselessly. Yet the bolt I heard was
one of the large iron bolts, used in the farm and manor houses of
Westmoreland, and the North Country. They crossed the whole door, and
fell into the socket provided, with a great noise--the noise I had
heard early that morning. _Who_ had been watching me through the long
night hours? One step into that freezing room would have chilled the
spark of life in me. _Who_ had prevented it, and that in such a manner
as should convince me that it was no mortal hand, and no mortal bolt
that saved me? That day, I could do nothing but pray and wonder, and
then pray again. I thought I was alone, and I was not alone. Some
angel had charge over me, and I remembered that there was just a touch
of impatience in the driving of the bolt, as if the watcher had the
feeling of a mother, vexed at her child's imprudence. I have had many
spiritual experiences but few that affected me more than this one.

About the eighteenth of March I resolved to go home, and Lilly's
husband went to Cornwall, had the water put on, and the fires lighted;
and on the twentieth Lilly and Alice followed, taking a servant with
them. I waited as patiently as I could for Lilly to send me word the
house was warm and comfortable; then Mr. Munro came and packed my
trunks, and on the twenty-sixth my captivity ended. God let me go
home, and I found Love and every comfort waiting for me.

On March, the twenty-ninth, I wrote: "I am getting well. This is a new
birthday. A happy day." I had written two chapters of "The Strawberry
Handkerchief" when I was taken ill, but I was not able to return to it
until May, the nineteenth, and I did not finish it until January, the
seventh, A.D. 1908, when we were staying at Bretton Hall Hotel, for
the three cold months.

On January, the thirty-first, Mr. and Mrs. Dodd gave me a "Bow of
Orange Ribbon" dinner. All decorations were in the dominant color, and
it was a very pretty affair. Mrs. Dodd is a charming hostess, and Mr.
Dodd knows the exact tone at which a company of happy, sensible people
should be kept. He sets it, and he keeps it, and every one follows his
lead, as naturally in pleasure, as they do in business.

On February, the twenty-ninth, I was guest of honor at the Press Club
Reception, held at the Waldorf Astoria. I enjoyed this occasion
thoroughly, for I like the men and women of the press. I sat beside
Mr. Pollock, a man of extraordinary genius. I had a very sore throat
that day, but his speech made me forget I had anything but a heart and
a brain. Bishop Potter sat near me. I had a pen and ink acquaintance
with him, but had never before met him personally. As a man, he was
delightful; as a bishop, he fell below my ideal. But then my ideal had
been formed on the English Spiritual Lords, and I thought of
Carpenter, and others, and wondered if they ever forgot their office
so far as to tell a great public assemblage funny stories. The stories
were excellent, and quite in keeping with what one of them called "his
job," but somehow they fell below the office he filled in the church.
Yet everyone enjoyed them, and my quibble may be laid to my English
superstitions about sacred things.

I had a little reception after the meeting, and never in all my life
had I been so petted and praised. The young women crowded round me and
kissed my hands, and my cheeks, and I wished they were all my
daughters. Mrs. Klopsch had sent me an immense bouquet of violets, and
I gave every flower away to them. If ever fame tasted sweet to me, it
was during that half hour among the lovely women of the New York
press.

On March, the first, I went back to Cornwall, and on the fifteenth I
began a novel called "The Hands of Compulsion," which I finished on
June, the twenty-seventh. It is one of the best of my Scotch stories.
All July I was reading for "The House on Cherry Street," which I began
on August, the second. I was busy on it all summer, for it was a very
difficult period to make interesting, the fight for freedom of the
press. The winter came on early, and I went to the city on the first
of November, as I needed the Historical Library for my work. On
November, the eighteenth, I took dinner at Mr. Dodd's and among the
guests were Mr. George McCutcheon, and Mr. Maurice of the _Bookman_, a
handsome, interesting young man, whom I should like to know better.

On November twenty-seventh, I went to Dr. Klopsch's to dine with the
Honorable Lyman Gage, one of the most widely cultivated men I ever
met. I supposed he would not talk of anything but finance or politics.
These subjects were never named. During dinner we were talking of
evolution and Orlando Smith's great book on eternalism; after dinner
Mr. Gage read aloud some passages from Plato with wonderful beauty and
expression; notably the death of Socrates. This began a conversation
lasting until midnight concerning death and reincarnation. I shall
never forget this evening, which was duplicated on December fourth,
with the addition to our company of the Reverend Dr. Chamberlin.

On December, the sixth, I dined with my friend and physician, Dr.
Charles Nammack, and his family. Mrs. Nammack and I had long been
friends, for they occupied the cottage next to my place on Storm King
for two summers. On December, the fifteenth, I went with Dr. and Mrs.
Klopsch to the theatre to see "The Servant in the House." After these
compliances for the sake of friendship, I went out no more, for I was
busy writing "The House on Cherry Street" until my return home on the
eleventh of February.

On the twentieth of February, A.D. 1909, the house was in most
comfortable order, and Lilly had gone home the previous day. I was
writing well all morning, and was called to dinner as the clock struck
twelve. I went into Alice's rooms to summon her, and we left them
hand-in-hand, happily telling each other, how glad we were to be home
again. We took one step of the long stairway together, and then in
some inscrutable way, I lost my footing, and fell headlong to the
bottom. I remember one thought as I fell, "So this is the end of all!"
I was insensible, when I reached the lower floor, and knew nothing
until I found myself in bed. Alice had run to our nearest neighbor and
brought help, and they had telephoned to Lilly to come at once.

Dr. Winter, my own physician, did not arrive for three hours, but I
was quite conscious by that time. I had not broken a bone, nor
received any internal injury, and he looked at me incredulously. It
appeared miraculous, but it was the truth. My right side, however, was
severely bruised, and my right shoulder, arm and hand, so much so, as
to be practically useless for many months. For neuritis took
possession of the bruised member, and I suffered with it, and the
nervous consequences of the shock, more than I can express.

And there was my work! How was I to finish it? And it must be
finished. I needed the money it would bring. As soon as the pain
subsided a little, I began to practice writing with my left
hand--tracing letters on the bedspread, and by the time I was able to
sit up a little, I was ready to take a pencil and pad. The result was,
that I finally wrote very plainly with the left hand, and through
sleepless, painful nights and days, I finished the manuscript of "The
House on Cherry Street," on July the twenty-fifth. And by that time, I
was able to superintend the typewriter, and to see that it was copied
faithfully.

On my seventy-ninth birthday I wrote, "I do not sleep two hours any
night. I am racked with pain in my right shoulder, arm and hand. Weak
and trembling and unfit to work, but trying to do as well as I can. My
left hand stands faithfully by me."

It was a hard summer in every way. Mr. Munro was in the hospital
for a dangerous operation, and Lilly broke down with care and
nursing. But through it all, Dr. Winter stood by me, full of hope
and encouragement, and promises of final recovery. Mrs. Klopsch
sent me constantly pretty hampers of fresh fruits, my friends in
Cornwall did all they could to evince their sympathy, and I had
almost a wicked joy in my success in training my left hand. Some
malign influence had found a moment in which to injure me, but I was
hourly getting the better of it. Every page I wrote was a triumph, and
Dr. Winter reminded me, also, that the enforced idleness was resting
my eyesight, which it sorely needed, and that as I would mind
neither physician nor oculist, there was nothing for it, but a fall
down stairs, to make me give my eyes a chance. He thought upon the
whole it had been a very merciful and necessary fall. So I made the
best of it.

On August, the twenty-third, I began "The Reconstructed Marriage,"
which I finished on the sixteenth of December. It was a very cold
winter, and Alice and I went to the Garden City Hotel, and I felt its
healthy influence at once, but I could not escape company, which in my
weakened condition was very fatiguing. So I bought a larger furnace,
and then my home was warm enough to return to. I only received one
thousand dollars for "The Reconstructed Marriage," but Mr. Dodd had
many reasons for cutting my price--the advance in wages, and the price
of paper, et cetera, all just reasons, no doubt, but they pressed hard
on me, for my long sickness asked for more, instead of less.

On March first, 1910, I heard of Dr. Klopsch's death. I put away all
work that day. He was my best friend! My truest friend! The friend on
whom I relied for advice or help in every emergency. I think there
were few that knew Dr. Klopsch. He was a man of the widest charity, if
you take that word in its noblest sense. And my heart ached for Mrs.
Klopsch, whom I love with a strong and true affection, for I knew the
lonely suffering she was passing through.

On March, the twelfth, I began "Sheila Vedder." It was really a
continuation of "Jan Vedder's Wife." I wrote it at the request of Mrs.
Frank Dodd, who said she wanted "to know something more about the
Vedders." The writing of this book was a great pleasure to me,
therefore I know that it has given pleasure to others; for if the
writer is not interested, the public will not be interested, that is
sure.

On April, the sixteenth, I make the short pitiful note, and it brings
tears to my eyes yet, "My sweet Alice's birthday. I could not afford
to give her any gift. I asked God to give it for me."

I finished "Sheila Vedder" on August twenty-fourth, and began making
notes for my Stuyvesant novel on August, the twenty-eighth. I was
three months in getting the material I wanted, and in fixing it
clearly in my mind, but I began this book on the fifteenth of
December.

This year, A.D. 1910, I was too poor to keep Christmas. I was not
without money, but taxes, insurance, servants' wages, and a ton of
coal every six days, with food, clothing, doctors and medicines, took
all the money I could make. And Christmas was not a necessity, though
I had always thought it one, and had never missed keeping it for
seventy-nine years.

While writing this Stuyvesant novel--which Dodd Mead called "A Maid of
Old New York"--a name I do not like, my own choice being "Peter
Stuyvesant's Ward," I became persistently aware of a familiarity, that
would not be dismissed; in fact I recognized in Theodore Roosevelt, a
reincarnation of Peter Stuyvesant, Roosevelt having all the fiery
radiations of Peter's character, modified in some cases by the spirit
of a more refined age, and intensified in others, by its wider
knowledge.

I sent this book to Colonel Roosevelt myself and received the
following reply to my letter:

  November 8, 1911.

  MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

  Any book of yours I am sure to read. I look forward to reading
  the volume just sent me, which of course has a peculiar
  interest to me, as a descendant of some of old Peter Stuyvesant's
  contemporaries. It would be a pleasure if I could see you some
  time.

  With warm regards, and all good wishes and thanks, I am

  Sincerely yours,

  THEODORE ROOSEVELT.

The thing that delights me in this pleasant note, is that all the kind
words, good wishes and thanks, are written by his own hand,
interpolated as it were. I prize it very highly. I would not part with
it for anything.

This March twenty-ninth was my eightieth birthday, and I had one
hundred and thirty letters and cards full of good wishes, from men and
women whom I have never seen, and who were scattered in many states
and far distant places.

I finished the Stuyvesant novel on August, the first, 1911, and on
September, the eighth, 1911, I began to write this story of my
life, which is now drawing rapidly to its conclusion on October
twenty-eighth, A.D. 1912.

It has been a grand lesson to me. I have recalled all God's goodness,
remembered all His mercies, lived over again the years in which I have
seen so much sorrow and labor, and I say gratefully, yes, joyfully,
they were all good days, for always God has been what He promised
me--"_Sufficient!_"




CHAPTER XXVI

THE VERDICT OF LIFE

  "Lord, mend, or make us--one creation
    Will not suffice our turn;
  Except Thou make us daily, we shall spurn
    Our own salvation."


Old age is the verdict of life. I am now an old woman. Many people
tell me so, and there is the indisputable evidence of my eighty-second
birthday, the twenty-ninth of next March. But truly I am unconscious
of being old. My life here is so simple, that I have never as yet met
either business or social demands I was not able to fulfil without any
sense of effort. My day's work is as long as it was twenty years ago,
and I have quite as much pleasure in it now, as I had then. I have
rarely a headache now. I was rarely without one then. I enjoy my food,
especially my breakfast, and the eminent physician Brudenel of London
told me that an enjoyment of breakfast was an excellent sign of
general well being. I sleep seven hours every night, neither more nor
less, except under some unusual circumstances; but I never fail to be
ten hours in the restful and recuperative freedom of the night's
silence and darkness. I have made my living for forty-two years in a
stooping posture, but I am yet perfectly erect, and I ascend the
stairs as rapidly as I ever did. I am more free from pain than I have
been for many years. A touch now and then of rheumatism reminds me
that I am a subject to mortality, and a gray hair here and there
foretells the hand that shall finally prevail. But life is still sweet
and busy, and my children talk of what I am going to do in the future,
as if I was immortal. Also my long true friends on the daily press do
the same thing. They tell of what I am writing or planning to write,
far more than of what I have done in the past. And I hope and pray,
when the Master comes, He will find me at my desk, writing such words
as it will please Him to see. For to literature, humanly speaking, I
am indebted not only for my living, but also for every blessing I
enjoy--health of body, activity of mind, cheerfulness, contentment,
and continual employment, therefore continual happiness.

Happiness? Yes, I will certainly let the word stand. My old age is
very like this fine October day; calm, restful and fair in its own
beauty. Indeed both in body and mind,

  "I have put on an Autumn glow,
    A richer red after the rainy weather,
  I mourn not for the Spring, for the lost long ago,
    But clothe my cliffs with purple-honeyed heather."

I feel strongly that these last years of life must not be a time of
repose, but rather a time of beginning again; of learning afresh how
best to make ready for the new world before me. I wish to master the
fine art of dying well, as great a lesson as the fine art of living,
about which every one is so busy; for I want to take into the Great
Unknown before me, a supple, joyous spirit ready for it.

Eighty-two years ago I was not. Then I was. I have had my day. I have
warmed both hands at the fire of life. I have drank every cup, joyful
or sorrowful, life could give me; but neither my soul nor my heart is
old. Time has laid his hand gently on me, just as a harper lays his
open palm upon his harp, to deaden its vibrations--that is all. The
sunrise has never yet melted for me into the light of common day. The
air, far from being emptied of wonder, is thrilled with its new
travelers for peace and war. Still I can listen to Greene and Putnam,
and Sam Houston, shouting in the trenches of freedom, and hear the
palaces of tyrants crumbling, and see the dungeons of cruelty flame to
heaven. Nobody has watched the daily papers of the last few months
with more eager and passionate interest than I have done. I have
followed the great colonel with all my youthful enthusiasms, and
listened at the street corners to the noble band of women pleading for
their just rights. Such a pitiful sight! How can the noble American
male bear to see it? Why does he not stand up in her place, and speak
for her. Any decent Christian will speak for a dumb man, and women
have been dumb for unknown centuries. They are only learning now to
talk, only learning to ask for what they want.

"Then I am for Women's Suffrage?" I am for the enfranchisement of
every slave. I am for justice, even to women. Any one who lived in
England during the early half of the nineteenth century would be a
suffragist; for then the most highly cultured wife was constantly
treated by her husband, as Tennyson says, "Something better than his
dog, a little dearer than his horse."

Men ought to remember that they have had a mother, as well as a
father, and that in most cases she has been, in every way, the better
parent of the two. All my life long I have been sensible of the
injustice constantly done to women. Since I have had to fight the
world single-handed, there has not been one day I have not smarted
under the wrongs I have had to bear, because I was not only a woman,
but a woman doing a man's work, without any man, husband, son, brother
or friend, to stand at my side, and to see some semblance of justice
done me. I cannot forget, for injustice is a sixth sense, and rouses
all the others. If it was not for the constant inflowing of God into
human affairs, the condition of women would today have been almost as
insufferable, as was the condition of the negro in 1860. However, the
movement for the enfranchisement of women will go forward, and not
backward, and I have not one fear as to the consequences it will bring
about.

I have lived, I have loved, I have worked, and at eighty-two I only
ask that the love and the work continue while I live. What I must do,
I will love to do. It is a noble chemistry, that turns necessity into
pleasure. About my daily life I have been as frank and truthful as it
was possible to be; but I have not found the opportunity of saying
anything about my dream life. Yet how poor my daily life would have
been without it. All day long we are in the world, and occupied with
its material things, but the night celebrates the resurrection of the
soul. Then, while the body lies dormant and incapable of motion, the
soul is free to wander far off, and to meddle with events that the
body is unconscious of. What is the lesson we learn night after night
from this condition? It proves to us the separate existence of the
soul. We are asleep one-third of our life. Is the soul as inert and
dead as the body appears to be?

No! No! Who has not suffered and rejoiced in dreams, with an intensity
impossible to their waking hours? Who has not then striven with things
impossible and accomplished them without any feeling of surprise? Ah,
dreams reveal to us powers of the soul, which we shall never realize
until this mortal puts on immortality!

The shadowy land of dreams rests upon the terra-firma of revelation,
for the dream literature of the Bible comprises some of its most
delightful and important passages. God did not the less fulfil all his
promises to Jacob, because they were made in a dream; nay but in a
second dream, he encourages Jacob, by reminding him of this first
dream. All through the historical part of the Bible its dream world
presses continually on its humanity; and the sublime beauty of the
prophecies is nowhere more remarkable than in the dreams of these
spiritual sentinels of the people. In all the realm of poetry, where
can there be found anything to equal that dream of the millennium
peace, which Zachariah saw--the angel standing among the myrtle trees,
and the angelic horsemen walking to-and-fro in the happy earth
reporting, "Behold all the earth sitteth still, and is at rest." There
is little need to speak of the dream life in the New Testament. Every
one is familiar with it.

"God speaketh once, yea twice, yet man perceiveth it not; in a dream,
in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon man in
slumberings upon the bed." This was Job's testimony. Dare any one
declare that God has ceased to speak to man? Every man and woman has
exigencies and sorrows of which only God knows, and only God can
counsel and comfort. I solemnly declare, that I have known this truth
all my life long:

  "Whoso has felt the Spirit of the Highest,
    Cannot confound, nor doubt Him, nor deny;
  Yea, with one voice, O World, though thou deniest,
    Stand thou on that side, for on this, am I."

There has always been a distinction between dreams and visions.
Visions imply the agency of an angel. Christ did not dream of an angel
comforting him in Gethsemane; "there appeared an angel unto Him from
heaven strengthening him." Visions are much rarer than dreams. I have
had divine and prophesying dreams of many kinds, but never have had a
vision. My spiritual ear was pre-attuned to heavenly voices, when I
came into this reincarnation, but my sight has not yet been opened.
Yet I am intensely sensitive to Spiritual Presence, and though I
cannot discern it, it is as real to me as my own person. Never in all
eternity can I forget the Angel Presence who came to me when I was a
child twelve years old. I was praying with all my child heart, that
God would love me, and teach me how to please Him, and suddenly, even
as I prayed, there was _some one there_, and I heard a voice, clear
and sweet, say to me, "Arise and shine, for thy light has come." And I
was so happy, I thought I was in heaven. If all the events I have
written in this book should vanish from memory, this one would remain
bright and imperishable, though the waves of centuries washed over it.
Yet I did not see. I am not yet ready for vision. But it will come,
for we have a natural body, and we have a spiritual body--not we are
going to have--we already possess it, and as we develop our spiritual
faculties, they will be ours.

No doctrine is taught more authoritatively and constantly in the Bible
than that of Angel Ministry. Whenever we read of angels it is as
helpers and comforters. They rejoice over our repentance, they
minister continually to our sorrows. The broken in heart, the eyes
washed and cleared by consecrating tears, the feet that have been to
the border land, _they know_. However there never was in Christendom
an age when there were so many creeds and so little faith. People are
proud of being practical and material. They forget that our spiritual
life is beyond all scientific laws, and rests entirely on one
spiritual and miraculous book, and one spiritual and miraculous life.

On the twenty-third of September, that is about a month ago, a most
interesting thing happened. I received by mail a newspaper in English,
printed and published in the City of Jerusalem, Palestine; a large
sheet of four pages, and the lower half of every page was occupied by
the article I had written for the _American_ of New York, on the
subject of spiritual revelations, and the sublime destiny of man
through the means of reincarnations. It delighted me that this article
should appear in a paper named _The Truth_ and this especially,
because the subject of reincarnation was well known in ancient
Jerusalem; was indeed a recognized faith in all Judea in the time of
Christ. With the exception of the class called Sadducees, the Jew
believed in his own immortality. He knew that whatever had its
beginning in time, must end in time; but he looked backward, as well
as forward, to an eternity of God's love. Solomon says for all his
race, the indisputable words of faith found in Proverbs, 8:22-31.

What does reincarnation demand of us? Only that we should by a series
of human lives, attain to the condition of celestial beings, worthy to
be called the sons and daughters of The Most High. Some through love,
obedience and self denial--which last is the highest form of soul
culture--will reach this end sooner than others, but I believe _all_
will eventually do so; for it is not the will of God that _any_ should
perish, but that _all_ should come to repentance, and consequently to
an era of effort, which will finally prevail.

Every new existence is paid for by the old age and death of a body
worn out, which though it has perished, contained the indestructible
seed out of which the new life has arisen. And why should we not come
back as often as we are capable of acquiring fresh knowledge and
experience? Do we carry away so much from one life, that there is
nothing left to repay us for coming back?

A constant objection against reincarnation is the nearly universal
absence of any recollection of a previous life. _It is a great mercy
that we do not remember._ In some cases, memories might be so full of
sin, error, and even crime, that the details carried forward, would
fill the soul with despair at the outset.

Few indeed remember anything of the first two years of their present
life, at seventy most people have forgotten nine out of ten incidents
of their past days. They know that they are the result of all that
they have come through, that their identity is the same with that of
the infant, the schoolboy and girl, the over-confident young man or
woman, the wiser ones of middle life, and the tranquil saddened ones
of old age, but their memory has only linked results, not incidents.
They are the creation of their past, and the nature they have evolved,
is its memory.

And if we could remember our former lives it would seriously hinder
the present one. The soul knowing the significance of the trials
reserved for it, would become hardened and careless, and perhaps
paralyzed by the hopelessness of mastering them. The struggle must be
free, voluntary, and safe from past influences. The field of combat
must seem new. It would be bad for a soul to know it had failed
before, much harder for it to pluck up its courage, and to try again;
beside the backward-looking soul, would dwell in the past, instead of
the present, and so miss the best uses of life.

Others object to reincarnation because they assert it is unjust for
us to suffer in this life, for acts done in past ones and forgotten.
But does the forgetting of any sinful act, absolve us from its
consequences? Under this strange ethical law, a murderer might be
hypnotized into forgetfulness, become unconscious of his crime, and
absolved from all its moral and legal consequences. And there is
this great alleviation, that even while suffering the effects of
the sins of our past lives, the effect changes into a new cause,
according to our attitude towards it. For by a courageous, patient
fortitude in the bearing of our just punishment, we can "rise on the
stepping-stones of our dead selves to higher things."

It is objected also, that reincarnation will separate us forever from
those we loved in life. Nothing is further from the truth. Like every
phenomenon in Nature, reincarnation proceeds under the law of cause
and effect. We ourselves set up the causes which will affect our
re-birth. These causes originate in the acts and feelings, which
relate us to those with whom we have daily associations, and who are
the objects of our thoughts and acts, whether of love or of hatred. We
cannot set up causes which will bind our lives with people, whom we
have never met; we are bound to those only, with whom we have been
closely connected by bonds of love or of hatred.

Yes, hatred; for attraction and repulsion are but opposite poles of
the same force, and are of equal strength. This fact explains the
hatred that sometimes exists between parents and children, and other
ties of close relationship. It also explains "the black sheep" in the
family. It has been drawn thither by antecedent hatred, and has none
of the family's traditions, tastes or moralities. So powerful is this
attraction, that it can draw souls to, or from existence. How often do
husband and wife follow each other quickly to the grave! How often
does the newborn babe pine away after its mother's death, and the
nurses declare she is "drawing it to her." The association of a family
is likely to continue as long as there is any attraction or repulsion
between the souls that composed it, and is a far wiser provision for
human happiness, than the mere ties of fleshly relationship; for soul
attraction brings to each soul its own, and we daily see its superior
power evinced in this life. The youth leaves father and mother for the
wife of his choice; the girl leaves her family, and her home, and goes
happily far away, with some stranger whom her soul loves.

We may also claim for reincarnation, the great law which causes all
things in Nature, to take the path of least resistance. Every soul
will be actuated in a greater or less degree by this law, and the path
of least resistance would naturally be towards its own kindred. I have
my pedigree to five generations before the Conquest, and I feel as if
I had always incarnated among my kindred, scattered through the
beautiful Valley of the Duddon, and the mountains of the western part
of the Lake Country. This is the corner of England I love the best. I
feel it is my home country. I am a daughter of its soil, and may have
been so for a thousand years.

The doctrine of inherited sin and its consequences unto the third and
fourth generation, is a hard lesson to learn; but no one can complain
if the disposition and endowments which he has inherited from his
_former self_, are the source of his troubles and punishments. We reap
what we sow. The seeds of sin and sorrow spring from some old sowing
of our own. There is no use to blame Adam and Eve. We alone are
responsible, and the character with which we leave this life, is
inevitably the one with which we shall begin a new life. We can only
begin with what we have.

  "The tissue of the life to be,
    We weave with colors all our own;
  And in the field of Destiny,
    We reap as we have sown."

I have now named the principal objections to reincarnation, let me
speak of its great hope and blessing. It is this--_we can always
remedy the errors of the past_. We can say, this evil is of my making,
I can therefore unmake it. This hatred sprang from my injustice. It
shall not trouble my next life. I will put the wrong right while it is
called _to-day_. In this way, we can truly bury the evil past.

I have heard from believers in reincarnation some remarkable
reminiscences, but in all of the flashes of past existence that have
come to me, my chief interest appears to be in household matters,
except in one sharp vision, when I was a man, and the captain of a
great ship. This ship was quite familiar to me, and here I mark an
interesting thing. I have written in a number of romances, scenes
which were on ships, and on the sea. I never studied anything about
ships, or nautical terms. When I was writing the proper words came
without effort. Yet Captain Young of the _Devonia_ and the _City of
Rome_ told me, that there was not a nautical error in them. This can
only be accounted for, as a sub-conscious remembrance of what I
learned in this incarnation, when I sailed the sea. Socrates declared
that "all that we called learning, was recollection."

My last recollection of this life is a vivid and terrible one. It
comes always in a swift flash of consciousness, with every detail
clear as noonday. I find myself on the ship standing by the main mast.
We are in the midst of a mighty typhoon. The skies are riven with
lightning. Black clouds are tossed upon an horizon, where there is a
pale livid glow. The waves thunder, and there is a roaring howl of
wind in my ears. The sailors are lying face downward on the deck. I
alone stand upright. There is nothing more. I do not see the death of
the ship, but I know that she went to the bottom with every soul on
her.

With this exception any fleeting vision I have had from the past
refers to household matters, and ordinary events. The image of one man
is the most persistent. He always flings the door open violently,
looks steadily at me, and appears to be approaching my chair. Then I
tremble and turn sick, and the whole vanishes; but I know the man was
once my husband. I know it because I fear him so much. That was a
common attitude of English wives in the past centuries, and was far
from being extinct at the beginning of this century.

I will not here speak of the teachers of reincarnation. They comprise
the greatest men of every epoch. It will be enough to name some of our
own day whom all remember. Among the clergy Henry Ward Beecher and
Phillips Brooks dared to preach it. James Freeman Clarke warmly
espoused its justice and its hope. Professor William Knight, the
Scotch metaphysician of St. Andrew, and Professor Francis Brown of
Harvard University, clearly show their belief in our pre-existence.
Orlando Smith in his wonderful book called "Eternalism" advances
arguments impossible to answer, in favor of the soul's existence from
all eternity; and Dr. Edward Beecher in his works called "The Conflict
of Ages" and "The Concord of Ages" casts the seed of our pre-existence
through a large portion of the clergy, and of the thoughtful readers
of this country. I have two beautiful letters on this subject from the
Reverend Charles Beecher, one of which I transcribe.

  WYSOX, PA.
  February 6, 1891.

  MRS. AMELIA BARR:

  DEAR MADAM:

  I have been a diligent reader of your works, reading them aloud to
  my family, which is our custom.

  I have noticed in several of them intimations of a belief in a
  former life before this pilgrimage of earth life. Such ideas have
  ever possessed a peculiar charm for me, and I have wondered that
  they have not often been used in fiction.

  In some of the Erkmann-Chatrian novels there are indications of
  it; also in the writings of Lucy Larcom, and some others. In the
  hymns of the common people, such allusions are very frequent, and
  often very beautiful.

  It is not merely a poetical fancy, the idea that we have seen
  better days, and that heaven is fatherland and home--though it is
  poetical, the very heart and soul of all poetry--but it is more
  than a fancy or dream; it is a grand and glorious truth, and
  lights up the Valley of the Shadow, through which we are all
  passing.

  I thank God for the work he is enabling you to do. May it long
  continue.

  Sincerely your friend,

  CHARLES BEECHER.

Reincarnation is like the message of the stars, there is no speech or
language where its voice is not heard. There is indeed at the present
time an universal, though unsuspected, prevalence of this ancient
knowledge; shed by flower-like souls of all past ages, and blossoming
again firmly and finely in all our poetry, fiction, religious and
philosophical writings. It has taken possession of men's most secret
thoughts, for it has its own way of convincing them. It is a good
sign. For heaven no longer allures and hell no longer terrifies; but
if a man can be persuaded that he has a soul, and that he must save
his soul alive, because it is possible to lose it, he is brought face
to face with a reality he cannot ignore. I have talked with a very
large number of young men on this subject, and in every case, their
souls rose up courageously to meet its obligations.

"It will be a fight to your last day," I tell them, "but be men, and
fight for your soul's life. For Christ says it can be lost, even while
you go to church every Sunday morning, and are diligent in business
all the week. It can be lost. If you should lose your money, what a
lamentation there would be; but a _soul can be lost without noise,
without observation_." What reincarnation has to say on this subject,
I do not fully accept. My early Methodism clings to me, and I believe
firmly that God is not willing, that _any_ soul should be lost, but
that all should find the safety of his Great Father Love.

The future is not a torture chamber nor a condemned cell nor a
reformatory. Even if we do make our bed in hell, God is there, and
light, and truth, and love are there; and effort shall follow effort,
and goal succeed goal, until we reach the colossal wisdom and goodness
of spiritual beings. "Yet," and reincarnation has a yet, though many
like myself are loth to entertain it; but this "yet" is better
expressed in the following verses than I can frame it. No one can be
the worse for considering the possibility they infer:

  "If thou art base and earthly, then despair;
    Thou art but mortal, as the brute that falls.
  Birds weave their nests, the lion finds a lair,
                Man builds his halls,

  "These are but coverts from earth's war and storm;
    Homes where our lesser lives take shape and breath.
  _But if no heavenly man has grown, what form
                Clothes thee at death?_

  "And when thy meed of penalty is o'er
    And fire has burned the dross where gold is none,
  Shall separate life but wasted heretofore,
                Still linger on?

  "God fills all space--whatever doth offend
    From His unbounded Presence shall be spurned;
  Or deem'st thou, He should garner tares, whose end
                Is to be burned.

  "If thou wouldst see the Power that round thee sways,
    In whom all motion, thought, and life are cast,
  Know that the pure who travel heavenward ways,
                See God at last."

Further I press upon the young, not to be ashamed of their disposition
to be sentimental or religious. It is the sentimental young men who
conquer; it is the men steeped in religious thought and aspiration,
who _do_ things. Whatever the scientists may say, if we take the
supernatural out of life, we leave only the unnatural. But science is
the magical word of the day, and scientists too often profess to
doubt, whether we have a soul for one life, not to speak of a
multitude of lives. "There is no proof!" they cry. "No proof! No proof
of the soul's existence." Neither is there any proof of the existence
of the mind. But the mind bores tunnels, and builds bridges and
conceived aviation. And the soul can re-create a creature of clay, and
of the most animal instincts, until he reaches the colossal manhood of
a Son of God. Religion is life, not science.

It is now the twenty-seventh of October, 1912, and a calm, lovely
Sabbath. I have been quite alone for three weeks, and have finished
this record in unbroken solitude and peace. Mary is in Florida, and
Alice is in New York with her sister Lilly. Sitting still in the long
autumn evenings, I have drawn the past from the eternity into which it
had fallen, to look at it again, and to talk to myself very intimately
about it; and I confess, that though it is the nature of the soul to
adore what it has lost, that I prefer what I possess. Though youth and
beauty have departed, the well springs of love and imagination are, in
my nature, too deep to be touched by the frost of age. Nourished by
the dews of the heart and the intellect they will grow sweeter and
deeper and more refreshing to the end of my life; for the things of
the soul and the heart are eternal.

I have lived among "things unseen" as well as seen, always nursing in
my heart that sweet promise of the times of restitution. Neither is
the fire of youth dead, it glows within, rather than flames
without--that is all. And there is a freshness, all its own, reserved
for the aged who have _come uphill all the way_, and at last found the
clearer air, and serener solitudes of those heights, beyond the fret
and stir of the restless earth.

I have told my story just as I lived it; told it with the utmost
candor and truthfulness. I have exaggerated nothing, far from it. This
is especially true as regards all spiritual experiences. I hold them
far too sacred to be added to, or taken from. My life has been a drama
of sorrow and loss, of change and labor, but God wrote it, and I would
not change anything He ordained.

  "I would not miss one sigh or tear,
    Heart pang, or throbbing brow.
  Sweet was the chastisement severe,
    And sweet its memory now."

For as my day, so has my strength been; not once, but always. There
was an hour, forty-five years ago, when all the waves and billows of
the sea of sorrow went over my head. Then He said to me, "Am I not
sufficient?" And I answered, "Yes, Lord." Has He failed me ever since?
Not once. Always, the power, has come with the need.

Farewell, my friends! You that will follow me through the travail and
labor of eighty years, farewell! I shall see very few of you face to
face in this life, but somewhere--perhaps--somewhere, we may meet and
_know each other on sight_. And if you find in these red leaves of a
human heart, a word of strength, or hope, or comfort, that is my great
reward. Again farewell! Be of good cheer. Fear not. (2 Esdras, 6:33.)
There is hope and promise in the years to come.

I will now let the curtain fall over my past, with a grateful
acknowledgment that every sorrow has found its place in my life, and I
should have been a loser without it. Even chance acquaintances have
had their meaning, and done their work, and the web of life could not
have been better woven of love alone.

God has not spoken His last word to me, though I am nearly eighty-one
years old. When I have rested my eyes, I am ready for the work, ready
for me. And I do not feel it too late, to offer daily the great prayer
of Moses for consolation, "Comfort us again, for the years wherein we
have seen evil." As for the cares and exigencies of daily life, I
commit them to Him, who has never yet failed me, and

  "If I should let all other comfort go,
      And every other promise be forgot,
  My soul would sit and sing, because I know
                He faileth not!

  "He faileth not! What winds of God may blow,
      What safe or perilous ways may be my lot,
  Gives but little care; for this I know,
                He faileth not!"

Sustained by this confidence, I can face without fear the limitations
of age, and the transition we call death. I have love and friendship
around me; I give help and sympathy whenever I can, and I do my day's
work gladly. The rest is with God.




APPENDICES

APPENDIX I

HUDDLESTON LORDS OF MILLOM


If I followed my own desire, instead of the general custom, I should
place the genealogical history of the Huddlestons of Millom before my
own story and not after it. For to the noble men and women who passed
on the name to me, I owe everything that has made my life useful to
others, and happy to myself. They conserved for me, upon the wide seas
of the world and the mountains and fells of Cumberland, that splendid
vitality, which still at eighty-two years of age enables me to do
continuously eight and nine hours of steady mental work without sense
of fatigue, which keeps me young in heart and brain and body. They
transmitted to me their noble traditions of faith in God, and of
passionate love for their country. From them I received that eternal
hope which treads disaster under its feet, that courage which never
fails, because God never can fail, and that natural religious trust
which is the abiding foundation of a life that has continually turned
sorrow into joy and apparent failure into certain success.

I honor all my predecessors as I honor my father and my mother, and I
have had the promise added to that commandment. "My days have been
long in the land which the Lord, my God, has given me." These few
natal notes are all I now know of them, but I have a sure faith that
in some future the bare facts will grow into the living romances they
only now hint of. I shall know them all and all of them will know me;
and we shall talk together of the different experiences we met on our
widely different roads to the same continuing home--a home not made
with hands, eternal in the heavens.

A. E. B.


HUDDLESTON LORDS OF MILLOM

The pedigree of this very ancient family is traced back to five
generations before the Conquest. The first, however, of the name who
was lord of Millom was,

SIR JOHN HUDDLESTON, KNIGHT, who was the son of Adam, son of John, son
of Richard, son of Reginald, son of Nigel, son of Richard, son of
another Richard, son of John, son of Adam, son of Adam de Hodleston in
co. York. The five last named according to the York _MS_ were before
the Conquest.

SIR JOHN DE HODLESTON, KNIGHT, in the year 1270 was witness to a deed
in the Abbey of St. Mary in Furness. By his marriage with the Lady
Joan, Sir John became lord of Anneys in Millom. In the 20th Edward I,
1292, he proved before Hugh Cressingham, justice itinerant, that he
possessed JURA REGALIA within the lordship of Millom. In the 25th,
1297, he was appointed by the king warder or governor of Galloway in
Scotland. In the 27th, 1299, he was summoned as baron of the realm, to
do military service; in the next year, 1300, he was present at the
siege of Carlaverock. In the 29th, 1301, though we have no proof that
he was summoned, he attended the Parliament in Lincoln, and subscribed
as a baron the celebrated letter to the Pope, by the title of lord of
Anneys. He was still alive in the 4th of Edward IV, 1311. Sir John had
three sons--John who died early, and Richard and Adam.

The Hudlestons of Hutton--John--were descended from a younger branch
of the family at Millom, as were the Hudlestons of Swaston co.,
Cambridge, who settled there temp. Henry VIII, in consequence of a
marriage with one of the co-heiresses of the Marquis Montague.

RICHARD HUDLESTON, son and heir, succeeded his father. Both he and his
brother Adam are noticed in the later writs of Edward I. They were
both of the faction of the Earl of Lancaster, and obtained in the 7th
Edward II, 1313, a pardon for their participation with him in the
death of the king's favorite, Gaveston. Adam was taken prisoner with
the earl in the Battle of Boroughbridge in 1322, where he bore for
arms gules fretted with silver, with a label of azure. Richard was not
at that battle and in the 19th of the king, 1326, when Edward II
summoned the Knights of every county to the Parliament at Westminster,
was returned the first among the Knights of Cumberland. He married
Alice, daughter of Richard Troughton in the 13th, Edward II,
1319-1320, and had issue.

JOHN HUDLESTON, son of the above named Richard, who succeeded his
father in 1337, and married a daughter of Henry Fenwick, lord of
Fenwick, co. of Northumberland.

RICHARD HUDLESTON, son of John.

SIR RICHARD HUDLESTON, KNIGHT, served as a banneret at the Battle of
Agincourt, 1415. He married Anne, sister of Sir William Harrington K.
G., and served in the wars in France, in the retinue of that knight.

SIR JOHN HUDLESTON, KNIGHT, son of Richard, was appointed to treat
with the Scottish commissioners on border matters in the 4th Edward
IV, 1464; was knight of the shire in the 7th, 1467; appointed one of
the conservators of the peace on the borders in the 20th, 1480; and
again in the 2nd of Richard, 1484; and died on the 6th of November in
the 9th of Henry VII, 1494. He married Joan, one of the co-heirs of
Sir Miles Stapleton of Ingham in Yorkshire. He was made bailiff and
keeper of the king's woods and chases in Barnoldwick, in the county of
York; sheriff of the county of Cumberland, by the Duke of Gloucester
for his life steward of Penrith, and warden of the west marches. He
had three sons----

  1. Sir Richard K. B., who died in the lifetime of his father, 1st
  Richard III. He married Margaret, natural daughter of Richard
  Nevill, earl of Warwick, and had one son and two daughters, viz:

    Richard married Elizabeth, daughter of Lady Mabel Dacre, and
    died without issue, when the estates being entailed passed to
    the heir male, the descendant of his Uncle John.

    Johan married to Hugh Fleming, Esq., of Rydal.

    Margaret married to Launcelot Salkeld, Esq., of Whitehall.

  2. Sir John.

  3. Sir William.

SIR JOHN HUDLESTON, second son of Sir John and Joan his wife, married
Joan, daughter of Lord Fitz Hugh, and dying the 5th Henry VIII,
1513-1514, was succeeded by his son.

SIR JOHN HUDLESTON K. B., espoused firstly the Lady Jane Clifford,
youngest daughter of Henry, earl of Cumberland, by whom he had no
issue. He married secondly Joan, sister of Sir John Seymour, Kn't, and
aunt of Jane Seymour, queen consort of Henry VIII, and by her he had
issue----

  ANTHONY his heir.

  ANDREW, who married Mary, sister and co-heiress of Thomas Hutton,
  Esq., of Hutton--John, from whom descended the branch at that
  mansion.

  A daughter who married Sir Hugh Askew, Kn't, yeoman of the cellar
  to Henry VIII, and Ann, married to Ralph Latus, Esq., of the
  Beck.

  Sir John, died 38th, Henry VIII, 1546-7.

ANTHONY HUDLESTON, ESQ., son and heir, married Mary, daughter of Sir
William Barrington, Knight, and was succeeded by his son

WILLIAM HUDLESTON, ESQ., knight of the shire in the 43rd Elizabeth,
who married Mary, daughter of Bridges, Esq., of Gloucestershire.

FERDINANDO HUDLESTON, son and heir, was also knight of the shire in
the 21st James I. He married Jane, daughter of Sir Ralph Grey, knight
of Chillingham, and had issue nine sons--WILLIAM, JOHN, FERDINANDO,
RICHARD, RALPH, INGLEBY, EDWARD, ROBERT, and JOSEPH; all of whom were
officers in the service of Charles I. He was succeeded by his eldest
son.

SIR WILLIAM HUDLESTON, a zealous and devoted royalist, who raised a
regiment of horse for his sovereign, and also a regiment of foot; the
latter he maintained at his own expense during the whole of the war.
For his good services and his personal bravery at the battle of
Edgehill, where he retook the royal standard, he was made a knight
banneret by Charles I on the field. He married Bridget, daughter of
Joseph Pennington, Esq., of Muncaster. He had issue, besides his
successor, a daughter, Isabel, who married Richard Kirkby, Esq., of
Furness, and was succeeded by his son.

FERDINAND HUDLESTON, ESQ., who married Dorothy, daughter of Peter
Hunley, merchant of London, and left a sole daughter and heiress Mary,
who married Charles West, Lord Delawar, and died without issue. At his
decease the representation of his family reverted to

RICHARD HUDLESTON, ESQ., son of Colonel John Hudleston, Esq., second
son of Ferdinando Hudleston, and Jane Grey his wife. This gentleman
married Isabel, daughter of Thomas Hudleston, Esq., of Bainton, co.
York, and was succeeded by his son,

FERDINANDO HUDLESTON, ESQ., who married Elizabeth, daughter of Lyon
Falconer, Esq., co. Rutland, by whom he had issue,

WILLIAM HUDLESTON, ESQ. This gentleman married Gertrude, daughter of
Sir William Meredith, Bart., by whom he had issue, two daughters,
Elizabeth and Isabella. Elizabeth, the elder, married Sir Hedworth
Williamson, Bart., who in 1774 sold the estate for little more than
20,000 pounds to Sir James Lowther, Bart.--by whom it was devised to
his successor, the Earl of Lonsdale.

Millom Castle, considerable remains of which are still in existence,
is pleasantly situated in the township of Millom Below, near the mouth
of the Duddon. It was fortified and embattled in 1335 by Sir John
Hudleston, who obtained a license from the King for that purpose. In
ancient times it was surrounded by a fine park. Here for many
centuries the lords of Millom held their feudal pomp and state
undisturbed by war's tempestuous breath, from which the more northerly
parts of the country suffered so severely, and so often; and we do not
hear that the Castle was ever attacked previous to the wars of the
Parliament, when it appears to have been invested, though no
particulars respecting the occurrence have been recorded. It is at
this period that the old vicarage house, which was in the neighborhood
of the Castle, was pulled down, lest the rebels should take refuge
therein. Mr. Thomas Denton tells us, that in 1688 the castle was much
in want of repair. He also informs us that the gallows where the lords
of Millom exercised their power of punishing criminals with death
stood on a hill near the castle, and that felons had suffered there
shortly before the time at which he was writing. He describes the park
as having within twenty years abounded with oak, which to the value of
4,000 pounds had been cut down to serve as fuel at the iron forges.
When John Denton wrote the castle appears to have been in a partly
ruinous state, although the lords still continued to reside there
occasionally. In 1739 the old fortress appears to have been in much
the same condition as it is in our own times. In 1774 when Nicholson
and Burn published their history, the park was well stocked with deer,
and this state of things continued till the year 1802, when it was
disparked by the earl of Lonsdale. The old feudal stronghold of the
Boyvilles and Hudlestons now serves as a farmhouse, the principal part
remaining is a large square tower, formerly embattled, but at present
terminated by a plain parapet. The chief entrance appears to have been
in the east front by a lofty flight of steps. In a wall of the garden
are the arms of Hudleston, as also in the wall of an outhouse. On the
south and west sides traces of the moat are still visible. The
lordship of Millom still retains its own coroner.

After the sale of Millom to the Earl of Lonsdale, which occurred only
twenty-five years before the birth of my father, many of the
Huddleston family emigrated to Newfoundland and to the American
colonies. There were Huddlestons settled in Texas who had fought with
General Sam Houston. They were large land owners and had patriarchal
wealth in cattle and horses. I know this, for I wrote their
assessments during the last two years of the Civil War. A California
editor told me three years ago that there were Huddlestons among the
rich miners of that state; and there is a notable branch of the family
descended from Valentine Huddleston who came to the Plymouth colony in
A.D. 1622. This gentleman is among the list of the proprietors of
Dartmouth. He had two sons the eldest of whom bore the family name of
_Henry_. Nothing can be more clear and straight than the pedigree of
this branch; and its direct descendant is at the present day one of
New York's most esteemed and influential citizens.


THE LORDS OF MILLOM

  From Bulmer & Co.'s "History and Directory of Westmoreland,"
  Millom Parish, page 154.

The Boyvilles held the seigniory in heir male issue from the reign of
Henry I to the reign of Henry III, a space of one hundred years, when
the name and family ended in a daughter, Joan de Millom, by her
marriage with Sir John Huddleston (No. 5, FOOT-PRINTS), conveyed the
inheritance to that family, with whom it remained for about five
hundred years. The Huddlestons were an ancient and honorable family
who could trace their pedigree back five generations before the
Conquest. The lords of Millom frequently played important parts in the
civil and military history of the country. Richard and Adam (Nos. 6
and 7, FOOT-PRINTS), reign of Edward II, were implicated in the murder
of Gaveston, the king's favorite, and the latter was taken prisoner at
the battle of Borough Bridge in 1322. Sir Richard Huddleston (No. 12,
FOOT-PRINTS) served as a banneret at the battle of Agincourt in 1415.
Sir John Huddleston was appointed one of the conservators of the peace
on the borders in 1480, high sheriff of Yorkshire, steward of Neurith,
and warden of the West Marches.

Sir William Huddleston (No. 17, FOOT-PRINTS), a zealous and devoted
royalist, raised a regiment of horsemen for the service of the
sovereign, as also a regiment of footmen, and the latter he maintained
at his own expense. At the battle of Edge Hill he retook the standard
from the Cromwellians, and for this act of personal valor he was made
a knight banneret by the king on the field.

William Huddleston (not No. 17, FOOT-PRINTS), the twenty-first of his
family who held Millom, left two daughters, Elizabeth and Isabella.
The former of whom married Sir Hedworth Williamson, Bart., who in 1774
sold the estate for a little more than £20,000 to Sir James Lowther,
Bart., from whom it has descended to the present Earl of Lonsdale.

Millom Castle, of which considerable remains are still in existence,
is pleasantly situated near the church. It was for many centuries the
feudal residence of the lords of Millom, and though its venerable
ruins have been neglected, still they point out its former strength
and importance. It was fortified and embattled in 1335 by Sir John
Huddleston in pursuance of a license received from the king. It was
anciently surrounded by a park well stocked with deer, and adorned
with noble oaks, which were cut down in 1690 by Ferdinando Huddleston
to supply timber for the building of a ship and fuel for his smelting
furnace.

The principal part of the castle now remaining is a large square tower
formerly embattled but now terminated by a plain parapet.

Mr. John Denton tells us the Castle in his time (the middle of the
15th century) was partly in a ruined state though the lords continued
to reside there occasionally. Before the year 1774 the park was well
stocked with deer and continued so until 1802 when Lord Lonsdale
disparked it and 207 deer were killed and the venison sold from 2d. to
4d. per lb.

The feudal hall of the Boyvilles and the Huddlestons where the lords
of Millom lived in almost royal state is now the domicil of a farmer.
_Sic transit gloria mundi._

The moat is still visible in one or two places and in a wall and also
in the garden may be seen the arms of the Huddlestons.

The castle is now undergoing reparation; some new windows are being
inserted and additional buildings are being erected.

(We are indebted to Miss Alethia M. Huddleston, of Lancashire,
England, for the copy of the foregoing valuable account of Millom.)




APPENDIX II

BOOKS PUBLISHED BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY


  Jan Vedder's Wife,               1885
  A Daughter of Fife,              1886
  The Bow of Orange Ribbon,        1886
  The Squire of Sandal Side,       1886
  The Household of McNeil,         1886
  The Border Shepherdess,          1887
  Paul and Christina,              1887
  Christopher,                     1887
  Master of His Fate,              1888
  Remember the Alamo,              1888
  Between Two Loves,               1889
  Feet of Clay,                    1889
  The Last of McAllisters,         1889
  Friend Olivia,                   1889
  She Loved a Sailor,              1890
  Sister to Esau,                  1891
  The Beads of Tasmer,             1891
  Love for an Hour,                1891
  Rose of a Hundred Leaves,        1891
  The Singer from the Sea,         1893
  Bernicia,                        1895
  A Knight of the Nets,            1896
  The King's Highway,              1897
  Lone House,                      1897
  Maids, Wives and Bachelors,      1898
  I, Thou and the Other One,       1899
  The Maid of Maiden Lane,         1900
  Souls of Passage,                1901
  The Lion's Whelp,                1901
  Master of His Fate,              1901
  The Song of a Single Note,       1902
  The Black Shilling,              1903
  The Belle of Bowling Green,      1904
  Trinity Bells,                   1905
  Cecilia's Lovers,                1905
  The Heart of Jessy Laurie,       1907
  The Strawberry Handkerchief,     1908
  Hands of Compulsion,             1909
  The House on Cherry Street,      1909
  The Reconstructed Marriage,      1910
  Sheila Vedder,                   1911
  A Maid of Old New York,          1911




APPENDIX III

BOOKS PUBLISHED BY OTHER PUBLISHERS


  Romances and Realities,                FORD HOWARD & CO.
  Young People of Shakespeare's Dramas,  D. APPLETON & CO.
  Cluny McPherson,                       TRACT HOUSE
  Scottish Tales,                        TRACT HOUSE
  Prisoners of Conscience,               CENTURY COMPANY
  The Hallam Succession,                 METHODIST BOOK CONCERN
  Lost Silver of Briffault,              METHODIST BOOK CONCERN
  Flower of Gala Water,                  ROBERT BONNER'S SONS
  Femmetia,                              ROBERT BONNER'S SONS
  Three Volumes of Short Stories,        ROBERT BONNER'S SONS
  The Mate of the Easter Bell,           ROBERT BONNER'S SONS
  Reaping the Whirlwind,                 JAMES CLARK, LONDON
  The Preacher's Daughter,               JAMES CLARK, LONDON
  Thyra Varrick,                         TAYLOR & COMPANY
  Was it Right to Forgive?,              STONE, CHICAGO
  The Man Between,                       LOVELL
  Winter Evening Tales. Two Volumes,     _Christian Herald_
  Micheal and Theodora,                  BRADLEY AND WOODWARD
  Eunice Leslie,                         STEPHEN TYNG

This list includes none of the short stories written every week for
Robert Bonner's _Ledger_; none written very constantly in the early
years of my work for the _Christian Union_, the _Illustrated Christian
Weekly_, _Harper's Weekly_, _Harper's Bazaar_, _Frank Leslie's
Magazine_, the _Advance_ and various other papers. Nor yet does it
include any of the English papers or syndicates for which I wrote; nor
yet the poem written every week for fifteen years for the _Ledger_;
nor the poems written very frequently for the _Christian Union_, the
_Independent_, the _Advance_, daily papers, and so forth. Nor can I
even pretend to remember the very numerous essays, and social and
domestic papers which were almost constantly contributed; I have
forgotten the very names of this vast collection of work and I never
kept any record of it. Indeed, only some chance copy has escaped the
oblivion to which I gave up the rest. They kept money in my purse;
that was all I asked of them. I do not even possess a full set of the
sixty novels I have written. I may have twenty or thirty, not more
certainly.

From among the hundreds of poems I have written during forty years I
have saved enough to make a small volume which some day I may publish.
But I never considered myself a poetess in any true sense of the word.
"The vision and faculty divine" was not mine; but I had the most
extraordinary command of the English language and I could easily
versify a good thought, and tune it to the Common Chord--the C Major
of this life. Women sang my songs about their houses, and men at their
daily work and some of them went all around the world in the
newspapers. "The Tree God Plants, No Wind Can Hurt," I got in a Bombay
paper; and "Get the Spindle and Distaff Ready, and God Will Send the
Flax," came back to me in a little Australian weekly. And for fifteen
years I made an income of a thousand dollars, or more, every year from
them. So, if they were not poetry they evidently "_got there!_" From
among the few saved I will print half a dozen. They will show what
"the people" liked, and called poetry.

I must here notice, that I used two pen names as well as my own. I
never could have sold all the work I did under one name. But to my
editors, the secret was an open one; and until the necessity for it
was long past, not one of them ever named the subterfuge to me. That
was a very delicate kindness and it pleases me to acknowledge it. Some
of my very best work was done under fictitious names. Truly I got no
credit for it, but I got the money, and the money meant all kinds of
happiness.




APPENDIX IV

POEMS


THE OLD PIANO

  How still and dusky is the long closed room!
  What lingering shadows and what sweet perfume
  Of Eastern treasures; sandal-wood and scent,
  With nard and cassia, and with roses blent:
        Let in the sunshine.
  Quaint cabinets are here, boxes and fans,
  And hoarded letters full of hopes and plans:
  I pass them by--I come once more to see
  The old piano, dear to memory;
        In past days mine.

  Of all sad voices from forgotten years,
  It is the saddest. See what tender tears
  Drop on the yellow keys! as soft and slow
  I play some melody of long ago.
        How strange it seems!
  The thin, weak notes that once were rich and strong
  Give only now, the shadow of a song;
  The dying echo of the fuller strain,
  That I shall never, never hear again:
        Unless in dreams.

  What hands have touched it! fingers small and white,
  Since cold and weary with life's toil and strife
  Dear clinging hands, that long have been at rest
  Folded serenely on a quiet breast.
        Only to think
  O white sad notes, of all the pleasant days,
  The happy songs, the hymns of holy praise,
  The dreams of love and youth, that round you cling!
  Do they not make each sighing, trembling string
        A mighty link?

  All its musicians gone beyond recall!
  The beautiful, the loved, where are they all?
  Each told their secret, touched the keys and wires
  To thoughts of many colors and desires,
        With whispering fingers:
  All now are silent, their last farewells said,
  Their last songs sung, their last tears sadly shed;
  Yet Love has given it many dreams to keep
  In this lone room, where only shadows creep,
        And silence lingers.

  The old piano answers to my call,
  And from my fingers lets the last notes fall.
  O Soul that I have loved! With heavenly birth
  Wilt thou not keep the memory of earth,
        Its smiles and sighs,
  Shall wood, and metal, and white ivory,
  Answer the touch of love and melody,
  And Thou forget? Dear One, not so!
  I move thee yet, though how I may not know,
        Beyond the skies.


AT THE LAST

  Now, poor tired hands, be still,
    Toil-stained through Death's white hue;
  No need now for your skill,
    No further task to do.
  Folded across the breast,
    Take calmest rest:
  Dead hands no work shall soil--
  'Tis living hands that toil.

  Now, weary eyes, go sleep;
    You shall see no more wrong,
  Nor anxious watches keep
    For Love that tarries long;
  Shall shed no more sad tears
    Through all the years.
  Fold down your lids and sleep--
  'Tis living eyes that weep.

  Poor beating heart, now rest;
    Sorrow or pain no more
  Shall make thee sore distrest;
    Thy restless care is o'er.
  Go still sweet session keep
    Of blissful sleep,
  And no more throb and ache--
  'Tis living hearts that break.


HELP

  My hands have often been weary hands,
    Too tired to do their daily task;
  And just to fold them forevermore
    Has seemed the boon that was best to ask.

  My feet have often been weary feet,
    Too tired to walk another day;
  And I've thought, "To sit and calmly wait
    Is better far than the onward way."

  My eyes with tears have been so dim
    That I have said, "I can not mark
  The work I do or the way I take,
    For every where it is dark--so dark!"

  But, oh, thank God! There never has come
    That hour that makes the bravest quail:
  No matter how weary my feet and hands,
    God never has suffered my _heart_ to fail.

  So the folded hands take up their work,
    And the weary feet pursue their way;
  And all is clear when the good heart cries,
    "Be brave!--to-morrow's another day."


YELLOW JASMINE

  Do angels come as flowers, O golden stars!
    That I can hold within my small white palm?
  Or were you dropped from o'er the crystal bars,
    Filled with the perfume of celestial psalms?

  Why did you come? For fear I should forget?
    Nay, but sweet flowers, you would not judge me so.
  Are there not memories between us set,
    No later love, no future days can know?

  Cool bosky woodlands that were jasmine bowers,
    With misty haze of bluebells up the glade
  Then, had I met an angel pulling flowers,
    I had not been astonished or afraid.

  Beautiful children, innocent and bright,
    O Golden Jasmine! for Love kissing you
  I see them yet, with hair like braided light,
    And eyes like purple pansies, wet with dew.

  Could I have known, could I have but foreseen
    How near the pearly gates their feet had won,
  How had I clasped those hands my hands between--
    Those tiny hands, whose little work is done.

  Calm graves, lapped in sweet grasses, cool and deep,
    Where soft winds sing and whisper through all hours:
  O starry flowers, for me Love's vigil keep,
    With scent and shadow and sweet-dropping flowers.


MY LITTLE BROWN PIPE

  I have a little comforter
    I carry in my pocket;
  It is not any woman's face
    Set in a golden locket;
  It is not any kind of purse,
    It is not book or letter,
  But yet at times, I really think,
    That it is something better.

  Oh! my pipe! My little brown pipe!
    How oft at morning early,
  When vexed with thoughts of coming toil
    And just a little surly,
  I sit with thee till things get clear,
    And all my plans grow steady,
  And I can face the strife of life
    With all my senses ready.

  No matter if my temper stands
    At stormy, fair, or clearing,
  My pipe has not for any mood
    A word of angry sneering.
  I always find it just the same
    In care, or joy, or sorrow,
  And what it is to-day, I know
    It's sure to be to-morrow.

  It helps me through the stress of life,
    It balances my losses;
  It adds a charm to household joys,
    And lightens household crosses.
  For through its wreathing, misty veil
    Joy has a softer splendor,
  And life grows sweetly possible,
    And love more truly tender.

  Oh! I have many richer joys!
    I do not underrate them,
  And every man knows what I mean,
    I do not need to state them.
  But this I say: I'd rather miss
    A deal of what's called pleasure,
  Than lose my little comforter,
    My little smoky treasure!


THE FARMER

  The king may rule o'er land and sea,
  The lord may live right royally,
  The soldier ride in pomp and pride,
  The sailor roam o'er ocean wide;
      But this or that, whate'er befall,
      The farmer he must feed them all.

  The writer thinks, the poet sings,
  The craftsmen fashion wondrous things,
  The doctor heals, the lawyer pleads,
  The miner follows the precious leads;
      But this or that, whate'er befall,
      The farmer he must feed them all.

  The merchant he may buy and sell,
  The teacher do his duty well;
  But men may toil through busy days,
  Or men may stroll through pleasant ways;
      From king to beggar, whate'er befall,
      The farmer he must feed them all.

  The farmer's trade is one of worth;
  He's partner with the sky and earth,
  He's partner with the sun and rain,
  And no man loses for his gain;
      And men may rise, or men may fall,
      But the farmer he must feed them all.

  God bless the man who sows the wheat,
  Who finds us milk and fruit and meat;
  May his purse be heavy, his heart be light,
  His cattle and corn and all go right;
      God bless the seeds his hands let fall,
      For the farmer he must feed us all.


COMRADES

  There's a blacksmith works not far away,
    He is brawny and strong and tall;
  He's at his forge when the shadows lift,
    And he's there till the shadows fall.
  Just when I leave the land of dreams,
    I can hear his hammer bang,
  As he beats the red hot iron bar,
    With a cling, clang, clang; cling, clang.

  His smithy is dirty and dark enough,
    And he is dirty and glum;
  When a man is beating iron bars,
    What can he be but dumb?
  And there you may find him hard at work
    If the weather be hot or cold;
  He says, "There's some satisfaction, Ma'am,
    In beating iron to gold."

  Now, I am a mite of womankind,
    I am neither tall nor strong;
  I can only read, and dream, and think,
    And put my thought into song.
  But I smile at the mighty giant
    Beating his iron so bold;
  And think of a slender little pen
    Turning my thought into gold.

  I sit in my room so bright and warm,
    And my tiny tool I lift,
  "The battle is not unto the strong,
    Nor the race unto the swift."
  But the hammer shall never cease to beat,
    And the song shall never fail,
  Be busy, O pen! And blacksmith brave,
    Beat rivet, and shoe, and nail.

  The world has need of us both I trow:
    The giant so strong and tall
  And the woman who only has a thought
    They are comrades after all.
  So, brother, be busy, I would hear
    Thy hammering all day long;
  The world is glad for the anvil's ring,
    And glad for the Singer's song.




APPENDIX V

LETTERS


The following letters are a few taken from a great number as evidence
of the faithfulness with which my work has been done, but more
especially interesting as showing the marked individuality of the
different writers. It is in the latter respect I offer them to a
public already well acquainted with most of their names and work.

NEW HAVEN, December 24, 1889.

MRS. AMELIA E. BARR,

Dear Madam:

Many thanks for your kind note. My criticisms of "Friend Olivia"
addressed themselves only to minute points of historical accuracy, and
I fear that some of them may have seemed to you, what the Germans call
_spitz-findig_. This you will pardon, however, when you consider that
my duty was to pick all the small holes that I could. As regards
historical accuracy in a larger and far more important sense, I think
that you have succeeded admirably in catching the atmosphere of
feeling of the period, and especially the spirit of the Friends. It
must be hard to think back into a past century in this way.

In any case, I am sure that you have made a very charming story, and
one which I shall re-read with much greater pleasure, when I no longer
have to read it pencil in hand, in search of microscopic slips in the
chronology, etc.

Very respectfully,

HENRY S. BEERS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  KELP ROCK,
  NEW CASTLE, N.H.,
  Oct. 14th, 1887.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

Mrs. Stedman has written our appreciation of your charming remembrance
of us, but I must have a word of my own. My wife said to me, that
"she loved you at first sight," but she was too Saxon to write this to
you, and being Saxon, it was a most unusual thing for her to feel, or
say. As for me, I have not forgotten the evening you made so pleasant
for us, in which your instant suggestions for my Christmas poem,
explained to me the rapid and ceaseless inventiveness, displayed in
your succession of books. Another one is out, as I see by the papers,
so I have another pleasure in store. You might not soon see a review
of your "Border Shepherdess" which came out in Wednesday's _Boston
Advertiser_; so I enclose it to you. Competitive criticism usually
stings somebody; in this case, your neighbor Mr. Roe suffers; and he
really seems one of the most unselfish and agreeable members of our
Authors' Club in N.Y. I presume you have seen the other notice from
the _Tribune_, whose literary editors are justly proud of your tales.
Of course, I shall see you in town this winter.

Very sincerely yours,

E. C. STEDMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

  MONTCLAIR, N.J.,
  Oct. 2, 1896.

A beautiful story, dear Mrs. Barr, is "Prisoners of Conscience." I
have just finished it, and am moved to say "thank you." Noble
characters, rich in human and divine love, yet frozen into poverty of
life, by that awful logic with which saintly fools shut out the
sunlight of God's heart, and shut in men's souls to despair.

It is a sad tale but made well worth your strong, fine telling of it,
by the illumination of David's life, when God's truth has set him
free. Such a tale is worth unnumbered barrels of sermons, and whole
libraries of theologic disputation.

What a wide range you are getting! It is a far cry from the dainty
romance of "The Bow of Orange Ribbon" to "Prisoners of Conscience,"
but all fresh, unhackneyed, in fields of your own finding out. I have
not read all your books, but I never read one, without vowing to get
at the others. They are instinct with life, one feels them true,
however distant and unfamiliar the scene, however strange the types of
characters. And they are so full of joyous sympathy with youth and
love and brightness, so tender and understanding of trouble and grief,
and stress of soul, so large and noble in the interpretation of
spiritual aspiration, that they must be twice blessed--to us your
readers, and to you the bountiful giver.

Well pardon this little outburst! Since the early _Christian Union_
days I have always felt a peculiar interest and pleasure in your
growing success, and have regretted that circumstances should have
carried me into lines of work, that did not give me the pleasure of an
association with it, which I should have so greatly enjoyed. But your
well built ships have been skillfully piloted, and I wish you ever
fair seas, and many a happy voyage.

Sincerely your friend,

J. R. HOWARD.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CHRISTIAN HERALD
  91 to 102 Bible House
  May 6, 1897.

  MRS. AMELIA E. BARR,
  CORNWALL-ON-HUDSON, N.Y.

DEAR MRS. BARR:

From present prospects we will have five or six vessels sailing for
India laden with corn, and I still think it would be a grand thing if
you could see your way clear to join us on our India expedition; and
be among those, who at Calcutta, will represent Christian America, and
transfer this enormous contribution into the hands of those who will
gladly and honestly administer it; so that it may do the greatest good
to the greatest number, but I presume the heat deters you from going.
A three days' journey through the Suez Canal and Red Sea, is not one
of the most delightful excursions, but what there is beyond, will more
than compensate for the discomforts endured. Should you change your
mind do please let me know at once, that I may arrange for your trip.

With kindest regards, and best wishes, I am

Very cordially yours,

L. KLOPSCH.

       *       *       *       *       *

  PRINCETON, N.J.
  Nov. 11, '09.

MY DEAR MRS BARR:

I can not tell you how touched I was in receiving just now your new
book with its tender dedication.[9] I shall have to confess it brought
the moisture to my eyes, and I really appreciate it all so deeply.

Now come to us, and let us both show you how much we think of you. I
know that Alice can be happy here for a little while at least, and you
would make us very happy; you describe those forty years beautifully,
let us celebrate the anniversary.

It is needless to say that I shall read the volume with pleasure. I
always do enjoy your stories, and they are about the only stories I
ever read.

Give our love to Alice, and believe us both to be your loving and
admiring friends.

Yours very truly,

WILLIAM LIBBEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  INGLESIDE,
  NEWBURYPORT, MASS.
  March 14, 1890.

MY DEAR FRIEND, AMELIA E. BARR:

I cannot approach thee with the formality of a stranger, for my
enjoyment of thy "Friend Olivia" has been such, that I have many times
almost had pen in hand to express my thanks, and now that my cousin,
John G. Whittier, has kindly allowed me to read thy letter of 9th
inst., and I find that our past generations were akin in the Quaker
faith, I hesitate no longer to give thee a cordial heart greeting.
While following thy charming story from month to month in the pages of
the _Century Magazine_, we have admired what seemed to us a true
portrayal of the Christian spirit in which Friends met their various
trials, amid the stormy times of the 17th century. Thy early
associations at Ulverstone, Swarthmore and Kendal, so rich as that
region must be in Quaker tradition, were doubtless as thou remarkest
of great service in preparing thee for this work, and I rejoice that
George Fox and his coadjutors have thus been so nobly and beautifully
defended.

Hoping thou may sometime visit New England, and give thy many friends
here opportunity to thank thee in person, for the pleasure thou hast
given them, I am

Gratefully thine,

GERTRUDE W. CORTLAND.

       *       *       *       *       *

  POINT LOMA,
  Nov. 29, 1911.

MY DEAR MRS BARR:

I am most honored and pleased to receive your kind letter in which you
give me an inside view as to certain resemblances between the
historic character Peter Stuyvesant, and his modern replica--Theodore.
I am reading the book with unusual interest, because of your thought
in this particular. The story ought, and no doubt will have a wide
reading, especially from New Yorkers, who hark back to the olden days
when the metropolis had its beginning. More welcome to me, however,
than is the story, is the token your letter furnishes, that I still
remain in your kindly remembrance.

It is a pleasure to think of you so strong, and vital in mind, in the
full ripeness of your years.

When you come into my thought, our friends Mr. and Mrs. Klopsch come
in your company, and the pleasant evening hours spent with you in
their home, delightfully repeat themselves. Should we come to New York
again, I shall spare no effort to see you. Mrs. Gage desires much to
meet you, and it would be a joy to entertain you, if we could, in our
California home.

With best wishes for you and yours, in which my wife begs to join, I
am

Your friend,

LYMAN GAGE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CHASE NATIONAL BANK
  _A. Barton Hepburn, President._

  June 23, 1910.

  MRS. AMELIA E. BARR,
  CORNWALL-ON-HUDSON,
  N.Y.

MY DEAR MADAME:

They say all "Scotch" is better for being diluted. That indicates one
claim to goodness which I possess, but the answer to the question you
submit can better be supplied, I am sure, by an "undiluted"
Scotchman.

I am therefore sending your letter to the Secretary of our Society,
Mr. William M. MacLean, with the request that he furnish data to
enable me to reply, or reply direct. You will hear further presently.

Trusting he may be able to discover the information you desire, I am

Very truly yours,

A. B. HEPBURN, _President, St. Andrew's Society_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A. BARTON HEPBURN
  Eighty-three Cedar Street,
  New York

  November 23, 1912.

  MRS. AMELIA E. BARR,
  CORNWALL-ON-HUDSON,
  N.Y.

MY DEAR MRS BARR:

I received from your publishers yesterday, "A Maid of Old New York,"
and shall employ my first leisure in reading the same.

I thank you very much for your courtesy and also for your letter. I
shall note the reincarnation of Peter Stuyvesant with interest. I
always enjoyed the three Dutch Governors--Wouter Van Twiller was
rather a favorite of mine. I remember Washington Irving's description
of him as a man who conceived his ideas upon such a magnificent scale,
that he did not have room in his mind to turn them over, and
therefore, saw but one side of a question.

Again thanking you,

Very truly yours,

A. B. HEPBURN.

       *       *       *       *       *

DEAR MRS. BARR:

It hardly seems to me possible that I have let a month go by without
writing to thank you for your kind thought in sending me yourself a
copy of "The Lion's Whelp." Mr. Cleveland has been ill most of that
time, and that accounts for many of my shortcomings. I want to thank
you now, and to tell you, how much pleasure the reading of the book
gave Mr. Cleveland while he was still in bed. I have not had time to
read it yet myself, but I have the pleasure of possession, direct from
your hand--and the other pleasure of reading still in store.

With many thanks and all good wishes for the New Year and Christmas
time,

Very sincerely,

FRANCES F. CLEVELAND.

       *       *       *       *       *

  13, Dec., 1901.
  WESTLAND, PRINCETON.

MY DEAR MRS BARR:

Even in this time of great sorrow, I can not forbear to thank you for
your book--"Prisoners of Conscience." I have wandered in the Shetland
and Orkneys, and crossed the Pentland Firth, and know the bleakness of
the islands, and the wildness of the seas that moan around them. I
have journeyed too through the desolate creed of Calvinism, and fought
with its despairs in my soul, standing by many a death bed, and beside
many an open grave, until God gave me victory over the cruel logics of
men, that belied His loving heart. Years ago, as you know, freedom
came to my soul through the truth as it is in Jesus, and I have been
trying to preach it ever since. I am grateful to you, for the power,
the depth of feeling, the intense earnestness, with which you have
told this truth in your noble story--God and Little Children--you know
my creed. And I will preach it in the Presbyterian church as long as I
am permitted, because that church needs it most. And now it comes to
me with a new meaning, for my own dear little Bernard is with God in
His Heaven, which is full of happy children.

Faithfully yours,

HENRY VAN DYKE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  220 MADISON AVENUE,
  July 28, '97.

MY DEAR MRS BARR:

Jewett brought the book--the novel and I read every word with
pleasure, in spite of the grief and sorrow, the pain and anguish that
came to the hearts of the brave and good. Every thing in the book is
consistent, harmonious. The religion of the people, the cruel creed,
the poor and stingy soil--the bleak skies, the sad and stormy sea, the
wailing winds, the narrow lives and the poverty, the fierce hatred and
the unchanging loves of the fanatic fisher folk, are all the natural
parents, and the natural children. They belong together. You have
painted these sad pictures with great skill. You have given the
extremes, from the old woman who like the God of Calvin lived only for
revenge, to the dear widow who refused to marry again, fearing that
her babes might be fuel for hell. The story is terribly sad and
frightfully true. But it is true to Nature--Nature that produces and
destroys without intention, and without regret--Nature, the mother and
murderer of us all.

You have written a great book, and you are a great woman, and with all
my heart I wish you long life, and all the happiness your heart can
hold.

Yours always,

R. G. INGERSOLL.

       *       *       *       *       *

The recent death of Robert Barr will give interest to the following
letter:

  HILLHEAD,
  WOLDINGHAM,
  SURREY,

  Aug. 10, 1901.

DEAR MRS. BARR:

I was very glad indeed to receive a letter from you. I hope you are
all well on your hilltop. I have not been in America since I saw you
at Atlantic City. I intended to go this summer, but I am off tomorrow
to Switzerland instead. I spent all last winter on the Island of Capri
in the Bay of Naples.

Your remark about loving your neighbors, but keeping up the fence
between, is awfully good, quite the best thing I've heard in a year.
Our neighbors on the side next you are Scotch people, who own a tea
plantation in India, and we like them very much, but there is a fine
thick English hawthorn hedge between. My ten acres of Surrey is hedged
all round, except the front which faces the ancient Pilgrim's Way, and
there I have built a park fence of oak, which is said to last as long
as a brick wall. It is six feet high, and can neither be seen through,
nor jumped over.

Mary L. Bisland has been staying in Norfolk. She was in London last
week, and I invited her out here, but her married sister, and her
sister's husband were with her, and she couldn't come. She is coming
in October. I met her on the street quite unexpectedly last Wednesday.
London is so large, that it always seems strange to me that anybody
ever meets anybody one knows. Mary was certainly looking extremely
well, but she says her nerves are wrong. She suffers from too much New
York apparently.

Your books are the most popular in the land. I see them everywhere.
There was a struggle in this neighborhood for your autograph, when it
got abroad that I had a letter from you. I refused to give up this
letter, but the envelope was reft from me by a charming young lady,
daughter of a Scotch doctor of London, whose country residence is out
here.

I hope you are well, and that all your daughters are well, more
especially the young lady I met at Atlantic City. I trust she has not
forgotten me.

Yours most sincerely,

ROBERT BARR.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CONGREGATIONAL HOME MISSIONARY SOCIETY
  Bible House, Astor Place, New York.

  May 13th, 1897.

DEAR MRS. BARR:

What shall I say of your book? That I read it through in one night,
which proves my interest--that I have read parts of it--the last three
chapters--more than once, and that I envy the hand that can strike
such a blow at the cruelest caricature of God, the Father, ever
invented by man, the child.

Thank you for many happy hours. Please go right on, smashing idols,
letting light into superstitions, and emancipating consciences until
the Millennium; which will dawn about the time when you have finished
the job.

Sincerely yours,

JOSEPH B. CLARK.

Oh, let me say the style was a feast of Saxon to one who loves the
language of the people, as I do.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE CENTURY
  7 West Forty-Third Street.

MY DEAR MRS BARR:

I should have written long since to thank you for your "Bernicia," but
the month of April was a very busy one, and the composition and
delivering of a very long course of lectures at Yale University, left
no time for correspondence, however attractive. But the journeys to
and from New Haven, made a pleasant opportunity to follow in
imagination the pictures of your charming heroine, and I found much
delight in your fresh and simple story, told with the same skill,
which appears in all your work. I am greatly obliged to you for giving
me this pleasure.

Believe me, dear Mrs. Barr,

Very cordially yours,

  HENRY VAN DYKE.
  May 19, 1896.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CORNELL UNIVERSITY
  DEPARTMENT OF AMERICAN HISTORY
  ITHACA, N.Y.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

I am delighted to have from your own hand your new novel "Bernicia,"
and am sure that I shall greatly enjoy it myself, and take pleasure in
suggesting to others the same source of enjoyment.

How well do I remember you, as I used to meet you at the Astor Library
more than twenty years ago; and your steady and triumphant march
toward literary success since then, it has been a real delight to
witness. With sincere congratulations,

Yours faithfully,

  MOSES COIT TYLER.
  26, Oct., 1895.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE INDEPENDENT
  114 Nassau Street,
  _New York_.

  Aug. 12, 1892.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

I return to you by mail "The Beads of Tasmer" which I have read
through with great interest; in fact nearly all before I reached New
York, after my delightful visit at your home. It is a capital story.
After my return I called on my Newark neighbor, Reverend Dr. Waters, a
Scotchman, and I found that he knew the book well, and said it was a
good Scotch, and he has read nearly all your stories with great
pleasure.

I had a delightful time in your pleasant home. Give my love to the two
daughters, and perhaps I ought to say especially, to the one who
enjoyed my story of the man who died, and went to Hell, but got out of
it again. But you are all in Heaven.

Ever sincerely yours,

WILLIAM HAYES WARD.

       *       *       *       *       *

  CRESCENT HILL,
  SPRINGFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS,
  Nov. 13, 1909.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

I saw your friendly expressions of me in your letter to the G. & C.
Merriam Co. And I was pleased to receive the _Bookman_ with the
excellent portrait of you. Be sure that I cordially reciprocate your
sentiments of regard. Your always welcome visits to the _Christian
Union_ office are fresh in my memory so that I well remember the
thorough, patient, workmanlike beginnings of your literary career.

Then before long you found your wings, and began that course of
admirable imaginative fiction, in which you have had so long and
enviable success. It is a great thing to have carried entertainment,
stimulus, hope to thousands upon thousands, as you have done.

I am sure that in the essential things, life has dealt kindly by you,
or I should perhaps say rather, that you and life have met in the
right way; but I hope in the externals and incidentals your path has
been pleasant to the feet.

With kind remembrances and best wishes,

Yours sincerely,

GEORGE MERRIAM.

       *       *       *       *       *

  THE MARBLE COLLEGIATE CHURCH
  5th Avenue and 29th Street

  November 26, 1901.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

I have been prevented by sickness in my family from getting at "The
Lion's Whelp" until now, and I am in the middle of things. I love a
good book, and I love Cromwell, so I am twice blessed in your gift.
Everything you do with your pen is well done. I wish all writers were
like you.

With thanks and sincere regards,

I am yours,

DAVID J. T. BURRELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

AVALON, PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

Thank you for your very kind and cordial letter, and for the gift of
"The Lion's Whelp"; which I shall read with great pleasure. We have
already put something about Cromwell's Time into the Historic Scenes.
I was anxious to get a bit about Dutch New York, and for this reason
am particularly glad at the prospect of having a scene from "The Bow
of Orange Ribbon." I read "Jan Vedder's Wife" over again last summer,
and enjoyed it more than ever. It is straight, strong work.

Faithfully yours,

  HENRY VAN DYKE.
  Oct. 30, 1901.

       *       *       *       *       *

CORNELL UNIVERSITY, ITHACA, NEW YORK.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

I greatly enjoyed your lovely letter of about a month ago, and
likewise even the winsome book of your story of Shetland; for as to
the latter, the pleasure of reading, will have to remain among the
joys of the next summer vacation. You see it is term time, and I am
usually driven by its tasks as well as by some outside affairs just
now.

You are right about our Professor Wheeler; he has a very attractive
personality, and the charm of brilliant gifts and attainments. Nor do
I wonder at the impression you formed of President White, although it
might be modified by better acquaintance. His bodily strength is not
exuberant, he holds himself in reserve; he is also a little deaf, and
he does not come out so easily as does Wheeler. After so many years,
there is a risk in asking about dear ones, but I well remember your
two daughters, and should be glad to hear their history.

Sincerely,

  M. COIT TYLER.
  1, May, 1897.

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. AMELIA E. BARR.

DEAR MADAM:

Pardon this intrusion from one who has just finished reading with
intense enjoyment "A Maid of Old New York" and who has been
fascinated with its deeper meanings--its words of wisdom, written
between the printed lines. On reading to my wife your post word, we
both felt that you surely intended us to recognize, as you have,
Colonel Theodore Roosevelt as the present name of the courageous and
dominating soul, known to the day of which you write, as Peter
Stuyvesant. I cannot think we are mistaken in this. We were also
keenly interested in a sketch which appeared recently in the
Hearst papers, of an autobiography shortly to appear from your
pen, giving your beliefs and knowledge as to reincarnation and
spiritualistic phenomena. We are very desirous of reading this
crowning synopsis of your life's rich experience and unfoldment,
and will be very grateful if we may know when it is off the press and
from what publisher to obtain it.

Let me close by thanking you personally and heartily for the pleasure
and the profit this book has brought to my wife and myself.

Very sincerely yours,

CHARLES STACEY DUNNING.

  _The Los Angeles Evening Express_,
  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA.
  July 14th, 1912.

       *       *       *       *       *

  540 WASHINGTON AVENUE,
  BROOKLYN, N.Y.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

Perhaps you do not recall me, as I was but a mite in your busy life,
and among so many friends and strangers--Mrs. Terry. I used to call
upon you at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and you perhaps remember my
daughter and son-in-law, Colonel Allen, whom you met at Fort Monroe.
You surely remember you were made an honorary member of the Officer's
Club at the Fort; the _only woman ever so honored_. I have just
finished reading your latest--"Sheila Vedder," having long ago read
"Jan Vedder's Wife."

With much love for you, and your stories,

Your admirer,

  FRANCES A. M. TERRY.
  June eleventh, 1911.

       *       *       *       *       *

  DEVORE, CALIFORNIA,
  June 26th, 1912.

MY DEAR LADY:

Because I must, I am taking this liberty of writing you; and because I
am a woman of sixty, I am not stopping to choose words, nor to
apologize.

I have been reading of some strange supernatural experiences of yours.
I, too, have been favored in that way, also with the gift of
prophecy--involuntarily exercised.

The story of the terrific impact of the great hand on the wooden
shutter in your home in Galveston, was almost exactly paralleled in my
experience.

If your acquaintance with other people has brought you in contact with
many who have similar stories to tell, of course you will not be
especially interested in mine, but judging from my own life-long
investigations, these manifestations are comparatively rare.

Last year before an aviation meet fifty miles away in which a
considerable number of entries were made, I announced the name of one
who was to fall to his death. I had never seen him, heard no more of
him than of any one of the others, but knew he was to die. I even
wrote his mother of whom I knew nothing whatever, begging her not to
consent to his flight. And at the moment of his fall to death, I fell
with him, and told all the particulars to my family, long before the
news came over the wire--but I am not trying to convince any
one--against his will.

Yours,

EMMA J. C. DAVIS.




FOOTNOTES

  [1] Kendal wig, a very fine tea cake raised with yeast. It is baked
      and allowed to cool, then cut apart, toasted and buttered.

  [2] Judging Chartists by their own words we should not now think they
      merited exile, hard labor, and life imprisonment. I do not
      suppose I ever understood their claims, but I have looked up
      their record and I find they were fighting for five not very
      wicked points: first, universal suffrage, excluding women, which
      was the great mistake of Chartism; second, the division of
      England into equal electoral districts; third, votes by ballot;
      fourth, annual Parliaments and no property qualifications for
      members; fifth, payments to every member for his legislative
      services. For advocating these demands, I saw in 1843, at
      Liverpool Railway Station, a long row of these Chartists chained
      together on their way to a convict ship which was to carry them
      to Botany Bay, or Norfolk Island.

  [3] A Serape Saltillero, is an exceedingly fine blanket in which is
      interwoven gold or silver threads. It is so soft and fine that
      it can be carried in the coat pocket. It has an aperture in the
      centre which goes over the head. Made only in Saltillero,
      Mexico.

  [4] An English gentleman who lost his reason on spiritual matters. He
      lived alone, no one knew just how; but he always came to us for
      Christmas breakfast.

  [5] Blue Williams, Confederate paper money.

  [6] Beowulf, A.D. 600.

  [7] Mr. Cochran's opinion has been overwhelmingly refuted by the vast
      number of Women's Clubs scattered all over the civilized and
      semi-civilized world; and more especially so by the suffragist
      movement of the present day. In this effort for their
      enfranchisement, the cultured woman and the ignorant woman, the
      nobly born, and the lowly born, the wealthy woman, clothed in
      purple, and the poor girl in her clean cotton waist, stand
      shoulder to shoulder, and plan and work together. Neither are
      they indifferent to their weak sisters, or afraid of their
      strong ones. The very clubs for helping the weak, the sick, the
      poor, and the ignorant, are numberless. Tired mothers are
      succored by them, deficient and neglected children are their
      care. The strong ones are demanding clean cities, and healthy
      food, and are looking after defiled waterways, and the savagely
      abused forests of the country. Indeed if Mr. Cochran could
      revisit earth at this day the thing that would amaze him more
      than all other changes would be the condition of women--their
      work, their aims, their already vast success, embodying as it
      does the sure fulfilment of the promise that she should "bruise
      the serpent's head" which will be done when woman has put down
      drunkenness, and cleansed the Augean stables of civil government
      of its vile methods of bribery, graft, and injustice.

  [8] It is worth noting that the Manx, a very primitive religious
      people, restore to a wife as soon as she dies her maiden name.
      Death instantly absolves her from her thraldom to her husband.
      She regains her individuality, and with it her birth name, which
      is put both upon her coffin and her tombstone. It is likely that
      this custom has its source in the words of Christ--Luke, 20:27,
      Mark, 12:13, and Matthew, 22:23.

  [9] To William Libbey, Senior, My First Friend in New York. Mr.
      Libbey, Senior, was then dead, but _he knew_.




INDEX


  Abbott, Dr. Lyman, 334, 354, 388
  Aberdeen, 247
  Aberdeen, Earl of, 445
  Adams, Charles Francis, 456
  Adams, Oscar Fay, 418
  _Advance_, the, 375, 378, 383, 394, 420, 441, 490
  Alabama, secession of, 225
  Albert, Prince, of England, 99, 100
  Alexander, Dr., 210, 236, 237
  Alexander, Jenny, 236, 237, 253
  Allan, Lieutenant, of Fort Monroe, 447, 511
  Allington, 261, 262
  Ambleside, 43
  American Missionary Society, 359
  Amsterdam, 392
  _Andover Review_, the, 418
  Anne, Queen of England, 43, 360, 398
  Anthony, Susan B., 340
  Appleton, D., and Company, 311, 313, 365, 380, 490
  _Appleton's Magazine_, 341
  "April Wedding, An," 369
  Arcadians, the, 422-424
  _Ariadne_, the, 298, 300, 302
  Armenian Christian question, the, article on, 440
  Arminianism, 101-102
  Arran, the Isle of, 341
  Arter, Mr., 433
  Astor, Mrs., 339
  Astor Library, the, 313, 315-318, 336-338, 344, 348, 364,
        375, 379, 390, 391, 398, 417, 430, 432, 434,
        442, 508
  "At the Last," 493
  _Atlantic_, the, 126, 128, 142, 146, 148
  Atlantic City, 402, 452, 457
  _Aurania_, the, 425
  Austin, 267, 294-297, 319, 346, 377
    life 179-259
    occupation of, by the Union forces, 251-253
    desolation in, 260-263
  _Austin Gazette_, the, 248
  Australia, 121, 123
  Authors' Club, the, 443, 500

  Bacheller, Irving, 424, 434, 435, 437
  Bacheller Syndicate, the, 423, 432, 442, 444
  Bacon, Dr., of the U.S. Sixth Cavalry, 244
  Baildon Church, 264
  Baildon Green, 13-18
  Baildon Green Feast, 16-18
  Ballistier, Mr., 430
  Balwearie, the Tower of, 398
  Barr, Alexander Gregg,
    birth of, 242
    death of, 280
  Barr, Alice, birth of, 219
  Barr, Amelia,
    birth of, 1-5
    early impressions of, 5-10, 18-19
    in Shipley, 13-24
    in Penrith, 22-46
    at Miss Pearson's school, 26-28, 38, 44
    in Ripon, 47-54
    at the Misses Johnston's school, 49
    on the Isle of Man, 55-59
    in Whitehaven, 59-64
    at Miss Flinder's school, 63
    in Norfolk, 69-80
    in Glasgow, 91-137
    marriage of, 104
    first trip of, to America, 143-148
    in Chicago, 151-165
    in Memphis, 169-171
    in New Orleans, 175-177
    in Austin, 179-259
    illness of, with yellow fever, 279-283
    in Galveston, 263-299
    beginning of life of, in New York, 302
    in Ridgewood, as teacher, 305-314
    first literary work of, 311
    in Rutherford Park, 345-354
    in Denver, 354
    removal of, to Cornwall, 388
    in East Orange, N.J., 427-428
    purchases Cherry Croft, 428
    the works of, 488-498
  Barr, Andrew, birth and death of, 285
  Barr, Archibald,
    birth of, 253
    death of, 257
  Barr, Calvin,
    birth of, 215
    death of, 281
  Barr, Edith,
    birth of, 155
    death of, 156
  Barr, Eliza (Lilly),
    birth of, 122
    marriage of, to Edward A. Munro, 433
  Barr, Ethel,
    birth of, 229
    death of, 233
  Barr, Mrs. John, 116-119, 383, 412
  Barr, Reverend John, 305
  Barr, Dr. Martin, 437
  Barr, Mary,
    birth of, 119
    marriage of, 375
  Barr, Robert, novelist, 452, 506
  Barr, Robert,
    meeting of, with Amelia Huddleston, 100
    bankruptcy of, 120
    death of, 282
  Barr, Thomas, of Tennessee, 348
  Barrie, James M., 441
  Bascom, Ohio, 392
  Bastrop, 184, 195, 202, 261
  Beadles, Mollie, of Austin, 240
  "Beads of Tasmar, The," 402, 403, 488, 508
  "Beating the Bounds," 364
  Beauregard, General, 237
  Beauregard, Mr., lecture of, on occultism, 443
  Beecher, Reverend Charles, 475
  Beecher, Dr. Edward, 475
  Beecher, Henry Ward, 111, 303, 304, 311, 313, 342, 345,
        350, 475
  Beers, Henry S., 499
  "Beggars of the Sea, The," 394
  "Belle of Bowling Green, The," 458, 488
  Belle Haven, 434
  Benares, 124
  Bentley, William, 195, 196, 197, 199, 200, 201, 202
  Bermingham, Dr., 426
  Berners, Miss, 67, 74-78, 81-87, 92
  "Bernicia," 410, 432, 488, 507, 508
  "Best I Can, The," 364
  "Between Two Loves," 393, 488
  Beverly in Yorkshire, 45
  Birmingham, 35
  Birth of Mrs. Barr, 1, 5
  "Birthday, A," 369
  "Black Shilling, The," 457, 458, 488
  Blackies, the, 116
    John, 108, 122
    Marion, 108
    Walter, 108
  Blackpool, Philip, 66, 78
  Blackwell, Mr., of Austin, 258
  _Blackwood's Magazine_, 234
  Blair, Abner, 247
  Blair, Andrew, 124
  Bloom, Isaac, of Galveston, 337
  "Blue and Gray Together," 364
  "Blue Williams," 244
  Boers, the, 449, 452
  Bok, Edward, 431, 432, 434, 445
  Bonner's Sons, Robert, 368, 375, 376, 378, 379, 386, 388,
        389, 405, 426, 431, 490
  _Book News_, the, 418, 420
  _Bookman_, the, 461, 508
  Books, author's, list of, 488-498
  Booth, General William, 4, 370-373
  "Border Shepherdess, The," 403, 405, 488, 500
  Boroughbridge, 429
  Boston, 146-148, 175, 176, 344
  _Boston Advertiser_, the, 500
  _Bothenia_, the, 425
  Boughton, 35
  "Bow of Orange Ribbon, The," 363, 391, 393-396, 408, 437,
        439, 449, 455
    dinner at the Lawyers' Club, 424
    dinner given by Mrs. Dodd, 460, 488, 500, 509
  Bowery Mission, The, 442
  Boyd, the Reverend Mr., of Chicago, 444
  Bradford, in Yorkshire, 11, 20, 103, 374, 415, 416, 417
  _Bradford Observer_, the, 417
  Bradley and Woodward, 490
  "Bread upon the Waters," 392
  Brémont, Countess de, 448
  Bristol, 35
  Brodie, Isabel, 108, 116
  Brooks, Phillips, 475
  Brougham, Lord, 46
  Brown, Professor Francis, 475
  Brown, Dr. Joseph, 309, 310, 331
  Brown, Scotch, of Galveston, 276, 285, 291
  Brudenel, Dr., of London, 466
  Buckley, Hon. C. W., 213
  Buffalo, 147, 149
  Buffalo Bayou, the, 180-181, 300, 422
  Bunce, Mr., 311
  Bundalloch, 402
  Burnet, Dr., of Galveston, 293
  Burntisland, 398
  Burrell, David J. T., of the Marble Collegiate Church, 440, 509
  Butterfield, General, 151
  Byles, Mrs., of Bradford, 417

  Cairo, 159, 164, 166
  Calcutta, 124, 216
  Caldwell, Miss, of Louisiana, 422
  Calvinism, 51, 101, 102, 384, 403, 423, 428, 429, 505
  Campbell, Captain, of the _Circassia_, 414
  Campbeltown, 107, 127
  Canada, 125, 147, 148, 150, 422, 424
  Carlisle, 90
  Carlton, Mrs., 253
  Castletown on the Isle of Man, 2, 56, 439
  Catholic Kintail, 402
  "Cato's Song," 368
  "Cecilia's Lovers," 458, 489
  Central America, 390
  Century Company, the, 420, 440, 444, 490
  _Century Magazine_, the, 420, 431, 502, 507
  Chamberlain, Dr., 416, 462
  Charles II, King of England, 4
  Charleston, 359, 361
  Charms, discussion of, 330
  Charter House, 71
  Chartism, 40-42, 372
  Cherry Croft, 352, 412, 413, 428, 430, 431, 433, 441,
        442, 443, 448, 450, 452, 455, 457
  "Cherry Ripe," 405
  Chesterfield, Lord, 395
  Chesterton, 377
  Cheviot Hills, 420
  Chicago, 147, 148, 170, 176, 198, 204, 302, 319, 355
    home of author in, 151-165
  _Chicago Times Herald_, the, 444
  "Children of Shakespeare's Dramas," 365, 380
  Christ Church tarts, 13
  _Christian at Work_, the, 372
  _Christian Herald_, the, 435, 436, 438, 490, 501
  Christian Science, 451
  _Christian Union_, the, 314, 328, 333, 336, 342, 345, 354,
        375, 377-380, 391, 397, 405, 432, 440, 490, 500,
        508
  _Christian World_, the, 393, 396, 420
  "Christopher," 488
  _Churchman Magazine_, the, 332, 391
  _Circassia_, the, 414
  _City of Rome_, the, 417, 474
  Clark, Mr., of the London _Christian World_, 393, 396, 397, 398,
        408, 418, 423
  Clark, James, of London, 490
  Clark, Joseph B., of the Congregational Home Missionary Society, 507
  Clarke, Edward, of Texas, 226, 227, 229
  Clarke, James Freeman, 475
  Clarke, Thomas E., of Minneapolis, 438
  Claverick, 405
  Clemens, Samuel (Mark Twain), 458
  Cleveland, Frances F. (Mrs. Grover), 420, 421, 504
  Cleveland, Grover, 440, 445, 504
  "Cluny MacPherson," 368, 369, 370, 380, 490
  Cochran, Mr., 338-341, 344
  Coleridge, 46
  Collis, General, 432
  Columbus, evacuation of, 237
  Colville, David, 104, 126, 127, 309-310
  Colville, Jessy, 126, 127, 342, 412
  "Comrades," 497
  Conant, S. S., 338, 341, 385-387
  Confederacy, the, 218, 222, 225, 226
    last days of, 249-251
  Congregational Club, the, 445
  Conway, Moncure, 432
  Cooper, Peter, funeral of, 369
  Corinth, 228
  Cornwall-on-Hudson, 25, 366, 388, 398, 417, 428, 433,
        434, 443, 446, 452, 458, 460, 461, 463
  Cortland, Gertrude W., 502
  Crabtree, Martha, 13
  Cromwell, Oliver, 26, 222, 398, 409, 452, 453, 457, 509
  Cronjes, 452
  Cross Keys, the, 72
  Crystal Palace, the, 149, 425
  Cumberland, 333, 360, 412
  Curtis, Mr. and Mrs., of Boston, 146-147, 176

  Dakota, 438
  Dana, Charles A., 443
  "Daughter of Fife, A," 97, 392, 488
  Davis, Emma J. C., 512
  Davis, Jefferson, 225, 249
  De Gama, Professor, 437
  Delhi, 124
  _Delineator_, the, 453
  Denver, 356
  _Devonia_, the, 365, 366, 388, 474
  Dickerman, Dr. Lysander, 434
  Dilke, 416
  "Discontented Women," 433, 436
  Divorce, article on, 423, 457
  Dodd, Edward, 437
  Dodd, Frank, 380, 381, 397, 434, 436, 441, 443, 449,
        453, 458, 460, 461, 464
  Dodd, Mead and Company, 301, 378, 379, 383, 388, 390, 392,
        395-397, 402, 413, 420, 444, 447, 449, 464
    books of the author published by, 488-489
  Dodge, Mrs., 333, 407, 430, 431, 449
  Dodge, William E., 332
  Dominican Church, the, 335, 336, 384
  Douglas, 55
  Downham Market in Norfolk, 68, 72-74, 77, 78
  Dreams, 98-99, 124, 128, 130, 220, 274, 360, 365, 375,
        378, 386, 401-402, 452, 456
  Druids, the, 18, 45, 46, 271
  Duddon, the Valley of, 6, 473
  Dunkirk, 35
  Dunning, Charles Stacey, 511
  Durham, George, 208, 213, 219, 229, 239-241, 244, 246,
        248, 249
  Durham, Mrs. George, 206, 237, 241
  Dwyer, Charles, 453

  East Orange, N.J., 3, 427, 428
  Ecclefechan, 90
  Eden Hall, 44
  Edinburgh, 97, 109, 193, 307, 374, 398, 399
  Edward, the Confessor, 3, 454
  Edward III, King of England, 26
  Elgin, Betty, of Austin, 240, 248
  Elwyn College, 437, 438
  Emancipation of 1833 in England, 42
  Emancipation Proclamation, 251, 264
  "Epiphany in the West Riding, The," 314
  Erkmann-Chatrian, 475
  Errani, 336
  Estabrook, Dr., 291
  "Eunice Leslie," 334, 490
  "Evangeline," 423, 424
  Everglades, the, 374

  Fackler, Calvin, 165, 169, 171, 172, 215
  "Farmer, The," 496
  Farrar, Dr., 82-85, 95, 97, 107
  _Fashion_, 436
  "Feet of Clay," 413, 417, 418, 488
  "Femmentia's Experience," 429, 490
  Fenwick, Lord, 360
  Fife, 392
  Fife, Lydey, letter from, 392
  Fifth Avenue Hotel, 441, 442, 445, 446, 451, 459, 511
  "Fishers of Fife, The," 376
  Five Points Mission, 331, 332, 339
  Fleuhrer, Dr., 376, 379, 385, 388
  Flinders, Penelope, school of, 63
  "Flirting Wives," 431
  Florida, 225, 375, 382, 408, 417, 457
  "Flower of Gala Water, The," 431, 490
  Ford, Howard and Hulbert, 344, 345, 490
  Fort Donelson, 236
  "Fortune Teller, The," 364
  "Four Champions of Justification by Faith," 441
  Fox, Mr., of Manchester, 309, 311
  Fox, George, 417
  Free Kirk, founding of the, 107
  Freelander, Max, 341
  French Revolution, 40
  Freund, J. C., 408, 410
  "Friend Olivia," 410, 417, 418, 420-422, 423, 488, 499,
        502
  Frissel, Dr., 446
  Frohman, Charles, 408, 441, 443, 437, 439
  "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," 17
  Froude, 51
  Furness Abbey, 384

  Gage, Lyman, 461, 462, 503
  Gaines, Professor, 434
  Galveston, 175-178, 200, 257, 261, 262, 319, 325, 409
    life of the Barrs in, 263-300
  Garden City, 463
  General Theological Seminary, 430
  Georgia, 225
  Gettysburg, battle of, 228
  Gilder, Richard Watson, 414, 420, 421
  Gillette, Mrs., 237
  "Girls of a Feather," 431
  Glasgow, 36, 88, 89, 91, 103, 104, 106, 198, 200,
        247, 270, 285, 297, 298, 305, 319, 328, 332,
        333, 339, 341-343, 370, 371, 374, 414
  Glasgow Normal School, author's attendance at, 88-102
  _Globe_, the, 458
  Gloucester, the Duke of, 25
  Glover's Theatre in Glasgow, 109
  _Godey's Magazine_, 431
  "Going to Church Together," 379
  Goldschmidt, Mrs., 432, 433
  Goliad, 409
  _Good Words Magazine_, 414
  Goodrich, Lucy, 236
  Goose Dubs, 93
  Grammaticus, Galfridus, story of, 73
  Grand Central Station, 386
  _Great Harry_, the, 2, 439
  Great North Sea, 453
  Green, Mrs., 253
  Green, Mrs. Tom, of Austin, 206
  Greenock, 127
  Greenwich, 434
  Greenwood, Grace, 344
  Greenwood, Jonathan, 13-17 20, 22
  Gregg, Bishop, 237, 244
  Gregg, Mary, 240
  Grey, Peter, 155, 160-162, 165
  Grey and Ripon, Earl of, 47, 48
  Greyfriar's Kirk, 109

  Habberton, John, 389
  Halifax, 422
  Hall, Mr., of Austin, 272-274
  Hall, Reverend Father, 446
  "Hallam Succession, The," 385, 393, 490
  Hampton School, 446
  "Hands of Compulsion, The," 461, 488
  Harper Brothers, 216, 390, 394
  _Harper's Bazaar_, 490
  _Harper's Monthly_, 364, 368, 369, 385, 386, 435
  _Harper's Weekly_, 216, 233, 338, 360, 405, 406, 490
  _Harper's Young People_, 364, 374, 385
  Harrisburg, 179, 180, 181, 198, 200
  Harrison in "The Bohemian Girl," 114
  Harrogate, 50
  Harvard University, 475
  Haverstraw, 439
  Hawthorne, Julian, 438
  Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 341
  Hazeltine, Mr., 433, 438
  "He That Is Washed," 375
  "Headquarters," 359, 360, 362
  Hearst, William R., 439, 457, 510
  Hearst's Children's Republic, 439
  "Heart of Jessie Laurie, The," 97, 458, 489
  Heber, Bishop, 17
  Helmuth, Mr. and Mrs., 436
  "Help," 494
  Henricks, Mrs., of Austin, 236, 258
  Henry VIII, King of England, 25
  Hepburn, A. Barton, 503, 504
  Hepworth, Dr., 333
  _Herald_, the, 312
  Hill, Wash, of Austin, 208
  Historical Library, the, 313, 454, 461
  Hitchcock, Mr., 446
  Holland, 391
  Holt, Henry, 363, 390
  _Home Queen_, the, 433
  "House on Cherry Street, The," 461-463, 488
  "Household of McNeil, The," 408, 488
  "Household Thrush, The," 375
  Houston, General Sam, 180, 219, 221-227, 229, 346, 408,
        409, 417, 467
  Houston, William R., 409-410
  Howard, Mr. Jack, 345, 380, 501
  Howards, the, of Castle Greystoke, 46
  Huddersfield, mills at, 110, 113
  Huddleston, Alethia Mona,
    birth of, 57
    death of, 453
  Huddleston, Amelia, grandmother of the author, 2
  Huddleston, Dr. Andrew, 60, 61
  Huddleston, Henry,
    birth of, 62
    death of, 65
  Huddleston, Jane, 12
  Huddleston, John Henry, 2-4, 332
  Huddleston, John Henry, Jr.,
    birth of, 20
    death of, 64
  Huddleston, Captain John Henry, 2
  Huddleston, Dr. John Henry, 3
  Huddleston, Sir John Walter, 2
  Huddleston, Thomas, Jr., 62, 64, 177
  Huddleston, Captain Thomas, of Whitehaven, 61, 62
  Huddleston, Thomas Henry of Dublin, 2
  Huddleston, Captain Thomas Henry, 2, 439
  Huddleston, William Henry, 2, 4
    financial failure of, 66
    illness of, 59, 64
    death of, 264
  Huddleston, Mrs. William Henry, death of, 217
  Huddleston, William Henry, Jr.,
    birth of, 37
    death of, 43
  Huddlestons, the, of Millom, 3, 4, 61, 360, 361, 384
    genealogical history of, 481-487
  Hull, 69, 70
  Humber dock, 69, 70
  Humphreys, John, 88, 89, 91-94, 97
  Humphreys, Mrs. John, 88, 92, 93, 97, 98, 103
  Humphries, Captain, 70
  Hunt, Dr., 390
  Hunter, Dr., 457
  Hunter, Henry, 452
  Hutchinson, Miss, of Penrith, 46
  Hyslop, Professor, 96, 98, 102

  "I, Thou and the Other One," 444, 488
  "I Will Marry My Own First Love," 436
  Illingworth, Mr., of Austin, 221, 242
  Illingworth, Mrs., 240, 243
  _Illustrated Christian Weekly_, the, 375, 379, 385, 392, 405,
        490
  _Independent_, the, 360, 394, 490, 508
  India, 4, 124, 125, 141, 443, 444, 501
  Indians, 254
    Apache, 184, 222, 223
    Comanche, 184, 209, 210, 222, 223
    Lipan, 222, 254
    Seminole, 374
    Tonkaway, 222, 254
  Ingersoll, Colonel Robert, 436, 443, 505
  _Iowa_, the, 302
  Irving, Washington, 396, 504
  Isle of Man, 2, 55-59, 413, 431, 439

  Jackson, General, 424
  Jackson, Helen Hunt, 357
  Jacobus, Professor, 440
  James, Professor, 457
  "Jan Vedder's Wife," 97, 301, 333, 376-380, 383, 388, 393,
        397, 464, 488, 509, 511
    French translation of, 413
  "Janet McFarlane," 378
  Jerusalem, Palestine, 470, 471
  Jewett, Dr., 430, 443
  Jewett, Miss, 445
  Jewett, Rutger Bleecker, 430, 432, 436, 442, 443, 445,
        452, 453, 455, 457, 458, 505
  John, King of England, 400
  John's Island, 359
  "John's Wife," 364
  Johnson, General, surrender of, 249
  Johnson, Robert Underwood, 443
  Johnson, Rossiter, 430
  Johnston, John Henry, 327-329, 331
  "Judith of Keyes Grif," 444
  June, Jennie (Mrs. Croly), 436

  Kansas City, 159, 162
  Keble, 51
  Kendal, 23, 25, 31, 67, 68, 78, 85, 88, 89, 97,
        101, 107, 108, 109, 127, 129, 131, 134, 136,
        137, 139, 193, 322, 399-402, 414, 437, 438, 502
  Kendal haver cake, 400
  Kendal Syndicate, the, 420
  Kendal wigs, 22
  Kennedy, Mr., of the _Christian Union_, 314
  Kentucky, 172
  Key West, 301
  King, Dr. Booth, 436
  King William's College in the Isle of Man, 57
  "King's Highway, The," 438, 439, 488
  Kipling, 433
  Kirk Malew, the churchyard at, 2, 439
  Kirkcaldy, 398
  Kirkpatrick, Thomas, 412, 451, 452, 455
  Kirkpatrick, Mrs. Thomas, death of, 450, 451
  Klopsch, Dr. Louis, 435, 436, 438, 440, 443, 444, 452,
        453, 458, 461, 462, 501, 503
    death of, 464
  Klopsch, Mrs. Louis, 441, 458, 461-464, 503
  Knight, Professor William, 475
  "Knight of the Nets, The," 433, 434, 436, 437, 488
  Know Nothings, the, 153
  Kramer, Lieutenant, of Austin, 258
  Kruger, Paul, 449

  La Grange, 261
  "Lacordaire Dying," 378
  Lancashire, 309
  Larcom, Lucy, 475
  "Last of the McAllisters, The," 363, 390, 393, 394, 423,
        488
  Lathrop, Mr. George Parsons, 433
  Lawyer's Club, 424
  _Ledger_, the, 364, 378, 382, 388, 389, 393, 394, 490
  Lee, Mrs., of Galveston, 263, 281, 282, 285
  Lee, Mrs. Harry, 455
  Lee, General Robert E., 249
  Leeds, 11, 14, 343
  _Leisure Hour_, the, 376
  Leith, 97
  "Lending a Hand," 369
  Leslie, Mrs. Frank, 432
  _Leslie's Magazine_, 405, 444, 490
  Letters, 499-511
  Leyden University, 396
  Libbey, William, 304-311, 389, 501
  Libbey, Professor William, 306, 307, 308, 356, 440, 445,
        448, 458, 502
  Libbey, Mrs. William, 436, 442, 445, 448, 458
  Lidstone, Mr., of Galveston, 298
  Lincoln, Abraham, 223
    election of, to the Presidency, 225
  "Lion's Whelp, The," 409, 449, 452, 453, 488, 504, 509
  _Lippincott's Magazine_, 364, 428
  Litten, Dr., 210
  "Little Evangel, The," 369
  Liverpool, 35, 55, 69, 126-128, 138, 139, 417
  Lockhart, Mrs., 445
  London, 3, 35, 69, 149, 307, 343, 374, 376, 390,
        393, 394, 403, 434
  "Lone House, The," 432, 488
  _Lone Star_, the, 176, 177, 179
  Longfellow, Henry W., 422
  Lonsdale, Earls of, 3, 25, 46, 47, 60
  _Los Angeles Evening Express_, the, 511
  "Lost I. O. U., The," 444
  "Lost Silver of Briffault, The," 390, 393, 490
  Louisiana, 87, 225
  "Love for an Hour Is Love Forever," 429, 488
  "Loved Too Late," 387
  Lovell, Mr., 458, 490
  "Lover That Comes in the Morning, The," 364
  Lowther Castle, 45, 46
  Lubbock, General, 250
  Lynn Regis, 69, 72
  Lyons, 307

  Mabie, Mr., 375, 376
  Mackay in "Rob Roy," 109
  Madden, Mrs., 255
  "Maid of Maiden Lane, The," 449, 488
  "Maid of Old New York, A," 464, 489, 504, 510
  "Maids, Wives and Bachelors," 488
  "Man Between, The," 458, 490
  Manchester, 35, 37, 70, 127, 140
  Manx, the, 456
  "Margaret Sinclair's Silent Money," 313
  Marks, Mr., 354
  "Master of His Fate, The," 405, 488
  "Mate of the Master Bell, The," 429, 490
  Matthieson, Mr., 404
  Maurice, Mr., 461
  McAfee, Professor, 405, 406
  McClellan, General, defeat of, 240
  McClure, S. S., 424, 430
  McClure Syndicate, the, 423
  McCulloch, Ben, 237
    funeral of, 238
  McCutcheon, George, 461
  McGlyn, Father, 444
  McIntosh, Peter, 93, 414, 415
  McIntosh, Mrs. Peter, 95, 98, 106, 135
  McKenna, Father, 484
  McLaren, Ian, 441
  McLeod, Dr. Donald, 121, 414
  McNeill, William Stoddard, 454
  Mead, Mr., 390, 413, 422, 428
  Memphis, 159, 164-171, 197, 198, 201, 214, 215, 240,
        296
  Mengins, the Reverend Mr., 332, 338, 341
  Mercantile Library, the, 313
  Meredith, Reverend Mr., 414
  Merriam, George, 315, 316, 435, 509
  Methodism, 4, 5, 15-17, 35, 68, 351, 385, 414-416,
        429, 444, 476
  Methodist Book Concern, the, 37, 385, 390, 490
  "Michael and Theodora," 407, 431, 490
  Michigan University, 342
  Millican, Mrs., of Austin, 241
  Millom Castle, 3
  Mississippi, state of, 225
  Mississippi River, the, author's first trip on, 167-168
  Moir, Mr., of _Blackwood's_, 234
  Moody and Sankey, the evangelical movement of, 372, 441
  Morcambe Bay, 400
  Morgan, Captain Frank, 385, 393-394, 408, 430
  Morgan, Miss Sarah, 152
  Morley, Sir William, 59
  Morris, Colonel, 255, 257, 447
  "Mother England," poem on, 193
  Mount Holyoke Alumnæ, 445
  Munkitterick, Mr., 388, 389
  Munro, Edward A., 433, 459, 460, 463
  Munroe, Kirk, 364, 374, 378, 379, 457
    marriage of, to Mary Barr, 375
  Musgrave of Eden Hall, 44, 46
  "My Little Brown Pipe," 495
  "My Pretty Canary," 369

  Nammack, Dr. Charles, 459, 462
  Nammack, Mrs. Charles, 462
  Nantasket, 438
  Nashville, 236, 237
  _Natchez_, the, 171
  "Neighbor at Our Gate, The," 445
  New Amsterdam, 396
  New Braunfels, 178, 179, 197
  New Orleans, 172, 174-177, 179-180, 187-188, 200, 238
  _New Orleans Picayune_, the, 248
  New York,
    arrival of Barrs in, 148
    beginning of Mrs. Barr's life in, 302
  _New York American_, the, 470
  _New York Democrat_, the, 310
  _New York Herald_, the, 389, 433
  Newbolt, Henry, 324
  Newburgh, 444
  Newman, Cardinal John Henry, 51
  Niagara, 147, 150
  Nicoll, Robertson, 441
  "No Room for Me," 364
  Noemagen, Mr., 338
  "Nollekins, the Sculptor," 364
  Norfolk, 69-80
  _North American Review_, the, 418, 420, 423, 431, 433, 457
  Northern Newspaper Syndicate, the, 399
  Norton, Professor, 391

  "O Mollie, How I Love You," 369
  Occultism, 443, 447
  Oddy, Ann, 12-58
  Officers' Club, the,
    in Halifax, 422
    at Old Point Comfort, 447, 511
  O'Gorman, Pat, of Austin, 245
  "Old Man's Valentine, An," 364
  "Old Piano, The," 492
  Old Point Comfort, 446
  Olivet Chapel, 333
  Orange Free State, the, 452
  Orkney Isles, the, 97, 453, 505
  Orr, Mrs., of Cornwall-on-Hudson, 366, 388, 395

  Page, the Reverend Mr., 444
  Parker, Judge, 446
  Parr, Catherine, 25
  Patton, President, of Princeton, 440
  Paul, Mr., of London, 434, 449
  "Paul and Christina," 97, 378, 379, 397, 488
  Pearson, Miss, school of, 26-28, 38, 42
  Peck, Dr., 446
  Peck, Mrs., of "Headquarters," 359, 361
  Peck, Mollie, 240
  Peel, Sir Robert, 41, 42
  _Penny Magazine_, the, 14
  Penrith in Cumberland, life at, 22-46, 89, 193, 315, 332
  Pensacola, Florida, 180
  Perth, city of, 209
  Pittsburgh, 445
  Platt, Mr., of the _Smart Set_, 458
  Platt, Mr. and Mrs. Tom, 445
  Poe, Edgar Allan, 313
  Poems, 492-498
  Pollock, Mr., 461
  Pomeroy, Brick, 310
  "Poppies and Wheat," 406
  Port Chester, 434
  Poste des Attakapas, 423, 424
  Potter, Bishop, 423, 461
  "Preacher's Daughter, The," 382, 431, 490
  Press Club Reception, February, 1908, 461
  Preston, Ben, 416
  Price, victory of, in Missouri, 237
  "Price She Paid, The," 442
  Princeton, 436, 440, 458
  "Prisoner of Zenda, The," 437
  "Prisoners of Conscience," 97, 431, 441-443, 490, 500, 504
  Protestantism, 384
  Pryor, Roger A., 225
  _Puck_, 375
  Punshon, William Morley, 59, 62, 83

  Quakerism, 400, 417, 502
  _Queen of the Wash_, the, 71
  Queen's dock, 69, 70

  Raikes, 35
  Rand, Mr., of the Tract House, 369
  Raymond, Mr., of Austin, 200, 201, 255
  "Reaping the Whirlwind," 490
  "Reconciliation, The," 369
  "Reconstructed Marriage, The," 463, 464, 489
  Reeves, Sims, 425
  Reform Bill, 7
  Rehan, Ada, in "As You Like It," 425
  Reincarnation, 1, 429, 443, 448, 465, 471-477
  "Remember the Alamo," 180, 222, 408, 409, 413, 453, 488
  Richard III, King of England, 25
  Richardson, Miss Sophia, 248
  Richmond, Thomas, 52-54
  Rideing, Mr., 433, 436, 445, 458
  Ridgewood, N.J., life in, 305-314
  Ripon in Yorkshire, 45
    life at, 47-54
  Roe, E. P., 456, 500
  Rogers, the Reverend Mr., of Austin, 258
  Romaine, 51
  Roman Catholicism, 383, 384, 402
  "Romance of the Salad Bowl, The," 405
  "Romances and Realities," 380, 490
  Roosevelt, Theodore, 465, 467, 503, 510
  "Rose of a Hundred Leaves, A," 428, 488
  Ross, Sir John, 70
  _Royal George_, the, 62
  Runnels, Governor, of Texas, 222, 223
  Rushen Castle, 57
  Ruston, the Reverend Mr., 349
  Rutherford Park, 345, 346, 348-354

  Sage, Alick, 93, 106, 343, 344
  Salt, Sir Titus, 417
  Saltillero, Mexico, 221
  Saltus, Mr. and Mrs., 445
  Salvation Army, 371-373
  San Antonio, 256, 294, 296, 409
  San Jacinto, 180
  "Sandiland's Siller," 375
  Sandside, 400
  Santa Anna, 180
  Sargent, Miss, 356
  _Saturday Review_, the, 48
  Saunders, Mr., of the Astor Library, 315, 316, 390, 391
  Scarlet Rocks, 2, 439
  Scot, Lawyer, of Austin, 199, 200, 201-202
  Scotch Highlands, the, 376
  Scotch Universities, 391
  _Scotchman_, the, 200
  Scott, Captain, 97
  Scott, Michael, 398
  Scottish Disruption, the Great, 107
  "Scottish Tales," 380, 390
  Secession, 223-226
  Semple, Mrs., 92, 94, 97, 98, 107, 121
  Semple, Willie, 94
  "Seneca," 58
  Sepoy Rebellion, 125, 216
  "Servant in the House, The," 462
  Shap Fells, 31
  Shaw, Mr., of Galveston, 267, 269
  "She Loved a Sailor," 424, 425, 488
  Sheffield, 70
  "Sheila Vedder," 97, 464, 489
  Sherman, General, 409
  Shetland Islands, 18, 97, 313, 505, 510
  Shipley, Yorkshire, 11, 12, 13-24, 215
  Shipley Glen, 416
  Sickles, General, 443
  Sierra Leone, 4, 332
  Simcox, Mr., of Austin, 208, 245
  Sinclair, James, 104
  "Singer from the Sea, A," 430, 431, 488
  Singleton, Mary, 456
    marriage of, to William Henry Huddleston, 5
    death of, 217
  Singleton, Dr. Will, 23, 29-31
  "Sister to Esau, A," 427, 428, 488
  Slave market, in Memphis, 169
  _Smart Set_, the, 458
  Smith, Adam, 398
  Smith, Alexander, 399
  Smith, Orlando, 462, 475
  Snedeker, the Reverend Mr., 444
  "Song of a Single Note, A," 455, 457, 488
  Sorosis Club, 436
  "Souls of Passage," 488
  South Carolina, 225
  Southey, 46
  Spiritualism, 451
  "Squire of Sandalside, The," 396, 488
  St. Andrews, 97, 475
  St. Ann's-by-the-Sea, 2
  _St. Nicholas_, 407
  St. Nicholas' Church in Lynn Regis, 73, 74
  St. Paul's Cathedral, 425
  Starr, Major, of Austin, 258
  Stedman, Mr., 403, 404
  Stedman, E. C., 500
  Sterne, Julius, 338
  Stevenson, Dr., 375
  Stewart, A. T., 304, 307
  Stoddard, Mrs. Richard, 438
  Stone, Dr., of Cornwall, 323, 434, 458
  Stone, Messrs., of Chicago, 451, 490
  Storm King Mountain, 341, 410-412, 430, 446, 449, 461
  Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 111, 389
  "Strawberry Handkerchief, The," 458-460, 489
  "Strawberry Idyl, A," 405
  Stromberg, Maria, 67, 75, 76
  Stuart, Prince Charles, 94, 398, 453
  Studley Royal, 48
  Stuyvesant, Peter, 464, 465, 503, 504, 510
  _Success_, 455
  Suffrage, woman, 467, 468
  Sultan, the dog, 426-427, 433
  _Sunday Magazine_, the, of London, 376
  Swartmoor College, 437
  Swartout, Mr., 331
  Swenson, Mr., of Austin, 255
  Swisher, Mr., 255
  Sykes, Mr., publisher of the _New York Democrat_, 310, 313, 321,
        338, 345, 352

  "Take Care," 369
  Talmage, Dr., 372, 431
  "Tap at the Door, A," 369
  Taylor and Company, 452, 490
  Teche Bayou, the, 424
  Tennessee, 172, 237
  Tennyson, 401, 468
  Tenter Fell, 78
  Terry, Frances A. M., 511
  Texas, 95, 159, 164, 176, 180, 409
    Mrs. Barr's trip through, 182-185
    purchase of, by the United States, 201
    state's rights controversy in, 218-219
    entrance of, into the Confederacy, 226
    General Houston in, 219-229
  Texas Cavalry, the Sixth, 244, 254, 255, 259
  Texas Company, the, 228, 229
  Theosophy, 451
  Theyer, 412
  Thom, John, 40
  Thomas, August, 408, 439, 441-443
  Thomas, Edith, 430
  "Three Wishes," 375
  Throckmorton, Senator J. W., 213
  "Thyra Varrick," 97, 453, 454, 490
  Tiffany's in Union Square, 327
  Tilton, Theodore, 345
  "'Tis God's World After All," 364
  Tourgee, Mr., of Charleston, 359
  Tract House, 490
  Tractarian Movement, the, 51, 82
  _Tribune_, the, 500
  "Trinity Bells," 449, 452, 489
  Trinity Church, 148
  Trinity House, 70
  _Truth_, the, 470
  Tupper, Martin F., 403
  Turkey-in-Asia, 455
  Twain, Mark, 458
  Twiggs, General, 226
  "Two Ships," 369
  "Two Talifers, the," 405
  "Two Workers," 368
  Tyler, ex-President, 225
  Tyler, Moses Coit, 341, 342, 421-422, 435, 440, 508, 510
  Tyng, Dr. Stephen, 333, 334, 350, 352, 384, 490

  Ulverston in Lancashire, 1, 5, 43, 354, 502
  Unionist Party, the, 218, 223
  Urner, Nat, 385

  Valentine, Professor, 390
  Van Duzen, Mrs., 385
  Van Dyke, Dr. Henry, 424-425, 440, 449, 505, 507, 509
  Van Dyne, Miss, of _Harper's_, 385
  Van Siclen, Mr., 424
  Van Wagenen, Mr., of Dodd, Mead and Co., 447
  Vaughan, Dr., 425
  Venice, 307
  Victoria, Queen of England, 34, 40-43, 52, 71, 99-100, 389
  Vincent, Dr., 385
  Virginia, 172

  Walcott, the Reverend Mr., 353
  Wales, Prince of, 99, 100
  Walpole, Horace, 395
  War, the Civil, 228-257
  Ward, Dr. William Hayes, 431, 508
  "Was It Right to Forgive?" 452, 490
  Wash, the, 69
  Watts, 51
  Waul, General, 290-295
  Webster, Albert, 339-341
  Wedding of author, 104
  Wentworth, Long John, 457
  Wesley, John, 36, 37, 216
  Wesleyan Chapel, 82, 87
  West Indies, the, 41
  West Riding, the, 11, 16, 47, 70, 101
  Westmoreland, 360, 460
  "We've Always Been Provided For," 364
  Wheeler, Professor, of California University, 440, 510
  "When Mother and I Were Married," 364
  "When to Drop the Bridle," 364
  White, Andrew, Minister to Berlin, 443
  Whitehaven, 59-64, 177
  "Why Literary Women Do Not Marry," 431
  Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 433
  Wilde, Mrs., 432
  Williams, Mayor, of Galveston, 285, 290
  Willis, Mr., of Galveston, 298, 303, 305
  Wilson, Samuel, 14, 374
  Windermere, 102, 103, 109, 136, 193, 256, 325
  Winter, Dr., 463
  "Winter Evening Tales," 490
  Wise, Mr. John, 432
  "Women's Weapons," 432
  Wordsworth, 37, 45, 46, 334
  _Working Church_, the, 333, 334
  "Woven of Love and Glory," 413

  Yellow fever, epidemic of, in Galveston, 178, 266-284
  "Yellow Jasmine," 494
  Yorkshire, 11, 45, 50, 343, 416
  Young, Captain, of the Devonia, 366, 474, 490
  _Youth's Companion_, the, 418
Autobiography of Amelia E. Barr - Part 2
