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.