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All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography
The Red Leaves of a Human Heart
By Amelia E. Barr
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK AND LONDON
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
MCMXIII
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
TO MY FRIENDS
DR. CARLOS H. STONE
AND
MRS. STONE
I INSCRIBE
WITH AFFECTIONATE ESTEEM
THIS STORY OF MY LIFE
Cherry Croft
A.D. 1913
[Illustration: MRS. BARR AT 80]
CONFIDENCES
This is to be a book about myself but, even before I begin it, I am
painfully aware of the egotistical atmosphere which the unavoidable
use of the personal pronouns creates. I have hitherto declared that I
would not write an autobiography, but a consideration of circumstances
convinces me that an autobiography is the only form any personal
relation can now take. For the press has so widely and so frequently
exploited certain events of my life--impossible to omit--that disguise
is far out of the question. Fiction could not hide me, nor an assumed
name, nor even no name at all.
Why, then, write the book? First, because serious errors have
constantly been published, and these I wish to correct; second, there
has been a long-continued request for it, and third, there are
business considerations not to be neglected. Yet none, nor all of
these three reasons, would have been sufficient to induce me to truck
my most sacred memories through the market-place for a little money,
had I not been conscious of a motive that would amply justify the
book. The book itself must reveal that reason, or it will never be
known. I am sure, however, that many will find it out, and to these
souls I shall speak, and they will keep my memory green, and listen to
my words of strength and comfort long after the woman called Amelia
Huddleston Barr has disappeared forever.
Again, if I am to write of things so close and intimate as my feelings
and experiences, I must claim a large liberty. Many topics usually
dilated on, I shall pass by silently, or with slight notice; and, if I
write fully and truly, as I intend to do, I must show many changes of
opinion on a variety of subjects. This is only the natural growth of
the mental and spiritual faculties. For the woman within, if she be of
noble strain, is never content with what she has attained; she
unceasingly presses forward, in lively hope of some better way, or
some more tangible truth. If any woman at eighty years of age was the
same woman, spiritually and mentally, she was at twenty, or even
fifty, she would be little worthy of our respect.
Also, there are supreme tragedies and calamities in my life that it
would be impossible for me to write down. It would be treason against
both the living and the dead. But such calamities always came from the
hand of man. I never had a sorrow from the hand of God that I could
not tell to any good man or woman; for the end of God-sent sorrow is
some spiritual gain or happiness. We hurt each other terribly in this
world, but it is in ways that only the power which tormented the
perfect man of Uz would incite.
I write mainly for the kindly race of women. I am their sister, and in
no way exempt from their sorrowful lot. I have drank the cup of their
limitations to the dregs, and if my experience can help any sad or
doubtful woman to outleap her own shadow, and to stand bravely out in
the sunshine to meet her destiny, whatever it may be, I shall have
done well; I shall not have written this book in vain. It will be its
own excuse, and justify its appeal.
AMELIA BARR
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. The Border Land of Life 1
II. At Shipley, Yorkshire 11
III. Where Druids and Giants Dwelt 25
IV. At Ripon and the Isle of Man 47
V. Sorrow and Change 60
VI. In Norfolk 69
VII. Over the Border 81
VIII. Love Is Destiny 91
IX. The Home Made Desolate 106
X. Passengers for New York 126
XI. From Chicago to Texas 146
XII. A Pleasant Journey 177
XIII. In Arcadia 195
XIV. The Beginning of Strife 214
XV. The Break-up of the Confederacy 235
XVI. The Terror by Night and by Day 259
XVII. The Never-Coming-Back Called Death 278
XVIII. I Go to New York 300
XIX. The Beginnings of a New Life 319
XX. The Family Life 335
XXI. Thus Runs the World Away 354
XXII. The Latest Gospel: Know Thy Work and Do It 374
XXIII. The Gods Sell Us All Good Things for Labor 405
XXIV. Busy, Happy Days 426
XXV. Dreaming and Working 446
XXVI. The Verdict of Life 466
Appendix I. Huddleston Lords of Millom 481
Appendix II. Books Published by Dodd, Mead and Company 488
Appendix III. Books Published by Other Publishers 490
Appendix IV. Poems 492
Appendix V. Letters 499
Index 513
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Mrs. Barr at 80 Frontispiece
Mrs. Barr's Birthplace 8
Rev. William Henry Huddleston 52
Mrs. Barr at 18 98
Mr. Robert Barr 204
Miss Lilly Barr 288
Mrs. Barr November, 1880 364
Miss Mary Barr (Mrs. Kirk Munroe) 378
"Cherry Croft," Cornwall-on-Hudson 428
Miss Alice Barr 456
CHAPTER I
THE BORDER LAND OF LIFE
"Date not God's mercy from thy nativity, look beyond to the Everlasting
Love."
* * * * *
"Ask me not, for I may not speak of it--I saw it."--TENNYSON.
I entered this incarnation on March the twenty-ninth, A.D. 1831, at
the ancient town of Ulverston, Lancashire, England. My soul came with
me. This is not always the case. Every observing mother of a large
family knows that the period of spiritual possession varies. For days,
even weeks, the child may be entirely of the flesh, and then suddenly,
in the twinkling of an eye, the mystery of the indwelling spirit is
accomplished. This miracle comes not by observation; no mother ever
saw it take place. She only knows that at one moment her child was
ignorant of her; that at the next moment it was consciously smiling
into her face, and that then, with an instinctive gladness, she called
to the whole household, "the baby has begun to notice."
I brought my soul with me--an eager soul, impatient for the loves and
joys, the struggles and triumphs of the dear, unforgotten world. No
doubt it had been aware of the earthly tabernacle which was being
prepared for its home, and its helper in the new onward effort; and
was waiting for the moment which would make them companions. The
beautifully fashioned little body was already dear, and the wise soul
would not suffer it to run the risks of a house left empty and
unguarded. Some accident might mar its beauty, or cripple its powers,
or still more baneful, some alien soul might usurp the tenement, and
therefore never be able effectually to control, or righteously use
it.
I was a very fortunate child, for I was "possessed by a good spirit,
yea rather being good, my spirit came into a body undefiled and
perfect" (Wisdom of Solomon, 8:20). Also, my environments were fair
and favorable; for my parents, though not rich, were in the possession
of an income sufficient for the modest comforts and refinements they
desired. My father was the son of Captain John Henry Huddleston, who
was lost on some unknown sea, with all who sailed in his company. His
brother, Captain Thomas Henry Huddleston, had a similar fate. His
ship, _The Great Harry_, carrying home troops from America, was dashed
to pieces on the Scarlet Rocks, just outside Castletown, the capital
of the Isle of Man. When the storm had subsided the bodies of the
Captain and his son Henry were found clasped in each other's arms, and
they were buried together in Kirk Malew churchyard. During the years
1843 and 1844 I was living in Castletown, and frequently visited the
large grave with its upright stone, on which was carved the story of
the tragedy. Fifteen years ago my sister Alethia went purposely to
Castletown to have the lettering on this stone cleared, and made
readable; and I suppose that it stands there today, near the wall of
the inclosure, on the left-hand side, not far from the main entrance.
When my grandmother, Amelia Huddleston, was left a widow she had two
sons, John Henry and William Henry, both under twelve years of age.
But she seems to have had sufficient money to care well for them, to
attend to their education, and to go with them during the summer
months to St. Ann's-by-the-Sea for a holiday; a luxury then by no
means common. She inspired her sons with a great affection; my father
always kept the anniversary of her death in solitude. Yet, he never
spoke of her to me but once. It was on my eleventh birthday. Then he
took my face between his hands, and said: "Amelia, you have the name
of a good woman, loved of God and man; see that you honor it."
After the death of their mother, I believe both boys went to their
uncle, Thomas Henry Huddleston, collector of the port of Dublin. He
had one son, the late Sir John Walter Huddleston, Q. C., a celebrated
jurist, who died in 1891 at London, England. I was living then at East
Orange, New Jersey. Yet, suddenly, the sunny room in which I was
standing was thrilled through and through by an indubitable boding
token, the presage of his death--a presage unquestionable, and not to
be misunderstood by any of his family.
Sir John Walter was the only Millom Huddleston I ever knew who had not
"Henry" included in his name. This fact was so fixed in my mind that,
when I was introduced to the _one_ Huddleston in the city of New York,
a well-known surgeon and physician, I was not the least astonished to
see on his card "Dr. John Henry Huddleston." Again, one day not two
years ago, I lifted a newspaper, and my eyes fell on the words "Henry
Huddleston." I saw that it was the baptismal name of a well-known New
Yorker, and that he was seriously ill. Every morning until his death I
watched anxiously for the report of his condition; for something in me
responded to that singular repetition, and, though I never heard any
tradition concerning it, undoubtedly there is one.
Millom Castle and lands passed from the Huddleston family to the Earls
of Lonsdale, who hold them with the promise that they are not to be
sold except to some one bearing the name of Huddleston. Not more than
ten years ago, the present Earl admitted and reiterated the old
agreement. One part of the castle is a ruin covered with ivy, the rest
is inhabited by a tenant of the Earl. My sister stayed with this
family a few days about twelve years ago. Soon afterwards Dr. John
Henry Huddleston, accompanied by his wife, visited Millom and brought
me back some interesting photos of the church and the Huddleston
monuments.
The Millom Huddlestons have always been great ecclesiastics. There
lies upon my table, as I write, a beautifully preserved Bible of the
date A.D. 1626. It has been used by their preachers constantly, and
bears many annotations on the margins of its pages. It is the most
precious relic of the family, and was given to me by my father on my
wedding-day. Their spiritual influence has been remarkable. One
tradition asserts that an Abbot Huddleston carried the Host before
King Edward the Confessor, and it is an historical fact that Priest
Huddleston, a Benedictine monk, found his way up the back stairs of
Windsor Castle to King Charles the Second's bedroom, and gave the
dying monarch the last comforting rites of his church.
When they were not priests they were daring seamen and explorers. In
the seventeenth century India was governed by its native princes, and
was a land of romance, a land of obscure peril and malignant spells.
An enchanted veil hung like a mist over its sacred towns on the upper
Ganges, and the whole country, with its barbaric splendors and amazing
wealth, had a luring charm, remote and unsubstantial as an ancient
fable. In that century, there was likely always to be some Captain
Huddleston rounding the Cape, in a big, unwieldy Indiaman. That the
voyage occupied a year or two was no deterrent. Their real home was
the sea, their Millom home only a resting-place. By such men the
empire of England was builded. They gave their lives cheerfully to
make wide her boundaries, and to strengthen her power.
My father and his brother both chose theology, and they were suitably
educated for the profession. John Henry, on receiving orders, sailed
for Sierra Leone as one of the first, if not the first missionary of
the English Church to the rescued slaves of that colony. My father
finally allied himself with the Methodist Church, a decision for which
I never heard any reason assigned. But the reason must have been
evident to any one who considered the character and movements of
William Henry Huddleston. In that day the English Church, whatever she
may do now, did not permit her service to be read, in any place not
sanctified by a bishop with the proper ceremonies. My father found in
half a dozen shepherds on the bare fells a congregation and a church
he willingly served. To a few fishers mending their nets on the
shingly seashore, he preached as fine a sermon as he would have
preached in a cathedral. It was his way to stroll down among the tired
sailormen, smoking and resting on the quiet pier in the gloaming, and,
standing among them, to tell again the irresistible story of Christ
and Him Crucified.
He was indeed a born Evangelist, and if he had been a contemporary of
General Booth would certainly have enrolled himself among the
earliest recruits of his evangelizing army. In the Methodist Church
this tendency was rather encouraged than hindered, and that
circumstance alone would be reason most sufficient and convincing to a
man, who believed himself in season and out of season in charge of
souls. In this decision I am sure there was no financial question; he
had money enough then to give his conscience all the elbow-room it
wanted.
Soon after this change my father married Mary Singleton--
"A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To trust, to comfort, and command."
Physically she was small and delicately formed, but she possessed a
great spirit, a heart tender and loving as a child's, and the most
joyous temper I ever met. Every fret of life was conquered by her
cheerfulness. Song was always in her heart, and very often on her
lips. She brooded over her children like a bird over its nest, and was
exceedingly proud of her clever husband, serving and obeying him, with
that touching patience and fidelity which was the distinguishing
quality of English wives of that period.
And it was to this happy couple, living in the little stone house by
the old chapel in Ulverston, I came that blessed morning in March,
A.D. 1831. Yes, I will positively let the adjective stand. It was a
"blessed" morning. Though I have drunk the dregs of every cup of
sorrow,
"My days still keep the dew of morn,
And what I have I give;
Being right glad that I was born,
And thankful that I live."
I came to them with hands full of gifts, and among them the faculty of
recollection. To this hour I wear the key of memory, and can open
every door in the house of my life, even to its first exquisite
beginnings. The thrills of joy and wonder, of pleasure and terror I
felt in those earliest years, I can still recapture; only that dim,
mysterious memory of some previous existence, where the sandy shores
were longer and the hills far higher, has become fainter, and less
frequent. I do not need it now. Faith has taken the place of memory,
and faith is "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of
things not seen."
Childhood is fed on dreams--dreams waking, and dreams sleeping. My
first sharp, clear, positive recollection is a dream--a sacred, secret
dream, which I have never been able to speak of. When it came to me, I
had not the words necessary to translate the vision into speech, and,
as the years went on, I found myself more and more reluctant to name
it. It was a vision dim and great, that could not be fitted into
clumsy words, but it was clearer and surer to me, than the ground on
which I trod. It is nearly seventy-eight years since I awoke that
morning, trembling and thrilling in every sense with the wonder and
majesty of what I had seen, but the vision is not dim, nor any part of
it forgotten. It is my first recollection. Beyond--is the abyss. That
it has eluded speech is no evidence of incompleteness, for God's
communion with man does not require the faculties of our mortal
nature. It rather dispenses with them.
When I was between three and four years old I went with my mother to
visit a friend, who I think was my godmother. I have forgotten her
name, but she gave me a silver cup, and my first doll--a finely gowned
wax effigy--that I never cared for. I had no interest at all in dolls.
I did not like them; their speechlessness irritated me, and I could
not make-believe they were real babies. I have often been aware of the
same perverse fretful kind of feeling at the baffling silence of
infants. Why do they not talk? They have the use of their eyes and
ears; they can feel and taste and touch, why can they not speak? Is
there something they must not tell? Will they not learn to talk, until
they have forgotten it? For I know
"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting
The soul that rises with us, our Life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting;
And cometh from afar.
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter darkness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home."
At this house, overlooking the valley of the Duddon, I needed nothing
to play with. Every room in it was full of wonders, so also was the
garden, with its dark walls shaded by yews, and pines, and glistening
holly, the latter cut into all kinds of fantastic shapes. The house
had a large entrance hall, and, rising sheer from it, was the steep,
spiral stairway leading to the upper rooms. The stairs were highly
polished and slippery, but they were the Alps of my baby ambition.
Having surmounted them, there was in the corridor to which they led,
queer, dark closets to be passed swiftly and warily, and closed guest
rooms--obscure, indistinct, and shrouded in white linen. It gave me a
singular pleasure to brave these unknown terrors, and after such
adventures I returned to my mother with a proud sense of victory
achieved; though I neither understood the feeling, nor asked any
questions about it. Now I can accurately determine its why and its
wherefore, but I am no happier for the knowledge. The joy, of having
conquered a difficulty, and the elation of victory because of that
conquest had then a tang and a savor beyond the power of later
triumphs to give me. I know too much now. I calculate probabilities
and attempt nothing that lacks strong likelihoods of success.
Deservedly, then, I miss that exulting sense of accomplishment, which
is the reward of those who never calculate, but who, when an attempt
is to be made, dare and do, and most likely win.
There was also a closed room downstairs, and I spent much time there
when the weather was wet, and I could not get into the garden. It had
once been a handsome room, and the scene of much gaiety, but the
passage of the Reform Bill had compelled English farmers to adopt a
much more modest style of living; and the singing of lovers, and the
feet of dancing youths and maidens was heard no more in its splendid
space. But it was yet full of things strange and mysterious--things
that ministered both to the heaven and hell of my imagination;
beautiful images of girls carrying flowers and of children playing;
empty shells of resplendent colors that had voices in them, mournful,
despairing voices, that filled me with fear and pity; dreadful little
heathen gods, monstrous, frightful! with more arms and hands and feet
than they ought to have; a large white marble clock that was dead,
and could neither tick nor strike; butterflies and birds motionless,
silent, and shut up in glass cases; and what I believed to be a golden
harp, with strings slack or broken, yet crying out plaintively if I
touched them.
One afternoon I went to sleep in this room, and, as my mother was out,
I was not disturbed; indeed when I opened my eyes it was nearly dark.
Then the occult world, which we all carry about with us, was suddenly
wide awake, also; the place was full of whispers; I heard the passing
of unseen feet, and phantom-like men and women slipped softly about in
the mysterious light. My heart beat wildly to the visions I created,
but who can tell from what eternity of experiences, the mind-stuff
necessary for these visions floated to me? Who can tell?
It was, however, the long, long nights, far more than the wonderful
days, which impregnated my future--the dark, still nights full of
hints and fine transitions, shadowy terrors, fleeting visions and
marvelous dreams. I shall remember as long as I live, nights that I
would not wish to dream through again, neither would I wish to have
been spared the dreams that came to me in them. The impression they
made was perhaps only possible on the plastic nature of a child soul,
but, though long years lay between the dream and the event typified,
the dream was unforgotten, and the event dominated by its warning. All
education has this provisional quality. In school, as well as in
dreams, we learn in childhood a great deal that finds no immediate use
or expression. For many years we may scarcely remember the lesson,
then comes the occasion for it, and the information needed is suddenly
restored.
[Illustration: MRS. BARR'S BIRTHPLACE
Born in the parsonage next to the chapel]
There is then no wonder that, in the full ripeness of my mental
growth, I look back with wondering gratitude to these first apparently
uneventful years on the border land of being. In them I learned much
anteceding any reasoning whatever. There is nothing incredible in
this. Heaven yet lies around infancy, and we are eternally related to
heavenly intelligences "a little lower" that is all. Thus, in an
especial manner,
"Our simple childhood sits,
Our simple childhood sits upon a throne,
That hath more power than all the elements."
For it is always the simple that produces the marvelous, and these
fleeting shadowy visions and intimations of our earliest years, are
far from being profitless; not only because they are kindred to our
purest mind and intellect, but much rather because the soul
"Remembering how she felt, but what she felt
Remembering not; retains an obscure sense
Of possible sublimity."
I have a kind of religious reluctance to inquire too closely into
these almost sacred years. Yet when I consider the material education
of the children of this period, I feel that I have not said enough.
For a boy educated entirely on a material basis, is not prepared to
achieve success, even financial success. The work of understanding
must be enlightened by the emotions, or he will surely sink to the
level of the hewers of wood and drawers of water. The very best
material education will not save a child who has no imagination.
Therefore do not deprive childhood of fairy tales, of tales of
stirring adventure and courage, and of the wondrous stories of the old
Hebrew world. On such food the imagination produces grand ideals and
wide horizons. It is true we live in a very present and very real
world, and many are only too ready to believe that the spiritual world
is far-off and shadowy. On the contrary, the spiritual world is _here_
and _now_ and indisputably and preeminently real. It is the material
world that is the realm of shadows.
I doubt if any child is born without some measure of that vision and
faculty divine which apprehends the supernatural. This is "the light
within which lighteth every man that cometh into the world." If that
light be neglected, and left to smoulder and die out, how great is the
darkness it leaves behind! Precious beyond price are the shadowy
recollections of a God-haunted childhood,
"Which be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day;
Are yet the master light of all our seeing."
A child is a deep mystery. It has a life of its own, which it reveals
to no one unless it meets with sympathy. Snub its first halting
confidences concerning the inner life, or laugh at them, or be cross
or indifferent, and you close the door against yourself forever. Now
there is no faculty given us that the soul can spare. If we destroy in
childhood the faculty of apprehending the spiritual or supernatural,
as detrimental to this life, if there be left
"... no Power Divine within us,
How can God's divineness win us?"