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.