THUS RUNS THE WORLD AWAY
"I must tell all. I cannot be unfaithful to my past. If I cut it
away, I am but half myself. I wish also faith in the years to
come, and those lofty delights which defy the tomb."
In the meantime my work went steadily on, and I wrote a good deal for
a Mr. Marks, who very soon removed to London. But in the interval he
supplied the place of the _Christian Union_ which in the years 1876 to
1877 was at such a low ebb, that no one but Dr. Lyman Abbott, who then
took it in charge, could have guided it over the sea of its
difficulties, into the safe harbor of its present influence and
success.
In looking over my diaries for these years, I am astonished at the
amount of money I made from short stories, poems, and articles. We
lived comfortably on it, and wanted no good things. And I think my
readers must be so familiar now with my regular life, that I will only
specify the incidents which varied and changed it somewhat, until I
reach the period when I gave up newspaper and magazine work for the
purpose of writing books.
The first event of moment was our leaving Rutherford, and going to
Denver, Colorado. To this day, I wonder at the circumstance. I was
certainly ill, no, not ill, but completely tired out body and mind, so
that even my ever upspringing soul was inert and indifferent. A change
was imperative, but the sea, and a week or two of my native air, would
have put me all right. Let no one smile at my prescription. In cases
of lost vitality and extreme weariness, one's native air is the finest
tonic and builder up that can be taken. Drugs have nothing to compare
with it. I am very weary now, but I know that if I could sit on
Ulverston fells, and breathe the potent mixture of her sea and land
ozone, I would be in a week ten years younger. I do not say this on
my own experience or authority. English specialists insist on its
virtue, and I know one of the greatest surgeons of New York, who takes
this tonic every summer, if possible, and comes home a new man.
Well, I went to Denver. It was the most foolish thing I ever did, and
I can not tell why I did it. There was a vague idea in my mind, that
if I could not write any more, I might open in this new, growing town,
such a school, as I had had in Chicago; and then my children had been
talked into an enthusiasm about the West, and youth is always sure
that change _must_ be for the better. I gave way with a supineness
that astonishes me to remember. A letter to Mr. Abbott, the passenger
agent of the Erie line, settled the matter. He offered me a
compartment for four at half-price if I would write an article for a
pamphlet they would publish, and speak otherwise favorably of the line
as I had opportunity. The girls were delighted, and I tried to feel
some of their enthusiasm. The great trouble to me, was the breaking up
of the home and the sale of the furniture I had worked so hard to
obtain. But there was no alternative. If there were storage houses
then, we knew nothing about them, and Lilly, who always looked at the
bright side, said,
"It would be well to be rid of it. We didn't know how, or where to buy
furniture, Mamma, when we bought this heavy stuff. I know now where
far prettier and cheaper can be had. Just let this go, Mamma. We can't
drag it to Denver, and if we do come back, we will buy things far more
suitable."
I made no further dissent. I only reflected how many of my homes I had
seen torn to pieces, and scattered wide, and I wondered why this
experience seemed obligatory. Then it struck me, that there might be a
psychic side to the circumstance--that to break up my dwelling place,
and send me on some far off journey was perhaps the best, the only
thing my angel could do, in order to save me and my children from "Him
that followeth after." For I know well, that the breaking up of
existing conditions, is often the only salvation; that we are sent
long, unexpected, and often unpleasant journeys because it is the best
way to defeat disaster; that we are often prevented from taking
journeys we have planned and prepared for, because they would be
fatal; yea, that we are often stripped as Job was stripped, in order
to make possible the two-fold blessing of Job.
I felt the long, dirty, monotonous journey to Denver very much. But
the children were happy. They made friends with an United States
General and his charming wife and daughter, and were half sorry not to
accept their invitation to go on with them to the frontier station
which was their home.
We arrived in Denver on the twenty-first of July, 1878, after five
days' travel; and the next day we rented a small furnished house
belonging to Miss Sargent, a writer of that day whose stories were
much liked both in England and America. We made the place pretty and
comfortable, and then took time to consider what we had done. I felt
painfully the extreme rarity of the atmosphere. It affected my ears,
and gave me a peculiar headache; but it is not fair to describe the
Denver of that date, for it was the point to which all consumptives
past hope were then sent. It was full of the sick and the dying, yet
withal a busy town; but I saw at once that we should never like it,
and my heart turned to New York with a home-sickness impossible to
describe.
However, the great total eclipse of the sun was to be noted there in
perfection on the twenty-ninth of the month, and we were glad to have
an opportunity to witness what we should never see again in this
incarnation. The day was clear, unnaturally still, and tenuous; and
there was a sense of something supernatural about to occur. As the sun
was gradually darkened, and the earth lay passive in that unearthly
gloom, a dead silence prevailed, but the moment of totality, or the
moment after it, was saluted with the shouts and huzzas of the crowd
watching the marvelous event. It was no doubt the most sincere way in
which the unlearned thousands could express their feelings, but it was
not the awful wonder and worship that seemed fitting.
My old pupil, Mr. William Libbey, called afterwards. He with many
other young men and students from the different universities had come
purposely to observe the eclipse, and Mrs. Jackson, the beloved H. H.
of the literary world, quickly found us out. But no kindness could
reconcile us to a life full of strange conditions. Mary went back to
New York with some returning friends in a month; I, as soon as I could
bear the journey, and Lilly and Alice as quickly as the bitter cold of
winter was over, and it was safe for Alice to cross the plains.
Thankfully I close this chapter with our happy reunion in some
pleasant rooms in the St. Stephens, a very quiet respectable hotel on
Eleventh Street and University Place. Many of my Rutherford friends
stayed there when in town for a few days, and it was also the resort
of at least three ministers whom I knew well. We lived there a long
time, for among its many advantages was its proximity to the Astor and
the Mercantile Libraries.
The day after my return to New York I went back to my sunny quiet
alcove in the Astor, and found the paper and pencils I had left on its
table untouched. I lifted them with affection, and tears sprang to my
eyes as I looked around the hall, and from far and near received a
smile and a nod of welcome. For I was the familiar of most of the
alcove students, and always ready to give them the help of my own
index in finding the material they wanted. All day long, I had little
visits and pleasant words, and at the lunch hour Dr. Strasneky, the
superintendent, came and chatted with me about my journey. He said he
was glad to see me in my place again. "Every one missed you," he
continued, "we all liked to look up and see you sitting here, as happy
and busy as if writing was the most blessed work in the world."
"So it is, Doctor," I answered. "If we write good words, and write
them well, it is the work God gives to His beloved."
"You talk mystically," he said, "but you write plain enough. Don't go
away again."
As he left me, a tall, pale young man brought his lunch in his hand,
and sat down to eat it beside me. It was Wolcott Balestier, the
brother of the young lady whom Rudyard Kipling married, and no mean
writer of fiction. He was employed in the Patent Department, and he
never told me he was writing. He liked to eat his lunch beside me, and
discuss the people around, and what they were doing. Sometimes he gave
me some of his marshmallows, and I gave him half of my apple. We
always had a happy moment over these exchanges, and he used to banter
me for being so extravagant as to buy apples, when they were five
cents each. Well, when I first came to New York, I had sometimes
hesitated between the apple and the ride home. If I got my apple, I
had to walk up to Eighteenth Street, if I could do without my apple I
could afford the cars home. Always the apple won, for I told myself,
"I ought to walk home after sitting so long. It is really a question
of health, and not of apples." I wonder how it would have affected me,
if I had been then made sure, that the day was coming when I would
have apple trees of many kinds, that were all my own, and apples
without stint to eat, and to sell, and to give away. Would it have
been good for me to know this? No. It would not. Every one's
experience will teach them that much.
Above all other visitors in my alcove, I liked Frank Norton. He also
was in the Patent Department, but I never saw a man so far out of his
place. It was hard enough for young Balestier to be working over some
old mechanical patent, when he was dreaming of love and ladies and
great adventures; but the darkly handsome Professor N---- dwelt
constantly among the stars, and believed himself to be spiritually
related to them. He came into my alcove one day, and began talking
about our earth having once been part of the sun, and he declared that
her day and night, her tides and seasons, and simplest phenomena,
would be unintelligible without taking into account her heavenly
companions. He then attempted to prove to me how these extra-telluric
influences, have also dominion over the phenomena of mind, because
man, being a product not only of the earth but of the universe, is
influenced by the stars as well as the earth. I confess that his
wisdom was mostly beyond me, but I was greatly delighted with the word
"telluric" and when he talked of "extra-telluric influences" I was
eager and anxious to know what the word might mean. As soon therefore
as he left me, I went to a dictionary and found out. I might have
asked him, and saved some stair-climbing and research, but I knew if I
compelled myself to look for the meaning, I would never forget it.
Ever since the word has had a charm for my ear, and I have wanted to
use it in the books I have written; but this is the first opportunity
I have found. Professor N---- was then a young, handsome man,
enthusiastically full of dreams, and of an extra-telluric nature; yet
apparently under very good telluric influences, for he was always
happy, always well dressed, and always had the air of a man well
supplied with money. I wonder where he is today, and I hope sincerely
that the stars and all other extra-telluric powers, have been very
kind and generous to him.
And on the evening of the day on which this conversation with
Professor N---- occurred, after thinking it over, I said to
myself, "This earth, with its days and nights, its change of seasons,
its tides and earthquakes, and magnetic storms, may be under
extra-telluric influences; but the phenomena of the soul, is beyond
all such control. By some mysterious exercise of its own powers,
it moves on from phase to phase, from gloom to sunshine, from doubt
to faith, from repose to activity, and natural laws are of no
importance to it. What telluric, or extra-telluric influence, _can
govern thought_?"
* * * * *
Lilly had always been the manager of our home affairs, and now that
this employment was taken away, her mind reverted to mission work; and
she went on a journey for the American Missionary Society that
promised her a great deal of the kind of adventure she liked. She was
to go to the southern states where schools and home missions had been
established to report on the work they were doing, and the success or
failure that had attended it. I do not remember how long she was thus
occupied, but it was not long, for she was soon busy in her own way
"among southern cabins;" for in Charleston she met Mr. Tourgee, and he
advised her to go to John's Island, which lay some miles off the coast
of South Carolina and was famous for its long staple cotton. Here, he
told her, she would find negroes far different from the usual type,
and natural surroundings of great beauty and interest.
On this island there was a fine old manor house called "Headquarters,"
then owned by a Mr. and Mrs. Peck, and she went there to see it. Every
brick in this house had been brought from England by Lord Fenwick its
builder, and its noble entrance hall, leaded library windows, and
magnificent cypress paneling were still in beautiful preservation. It
received its name from having been headquarters during the war of the
Revolution, the war of A.D. 1812, and twice during the war of A.D.
1860. A very sincere friendship grew up between its owners and Lilly,
and she stayed at "Headquarters" more than a year, writing charming
papers about its woods and lagoons, its birds and reptiles, and its
picturesque and exceedingly interesting negro life and character.
These papers were all bought by the _Independent_ and _Harper's
Weekly_.
Immediately after her settlement at "Headquarters," she began to dream
of, or to see in a kind of vision, an old lady and gentleman who
appeared to be much interested in her. Their dress was that prevalent
among the nobles and gentry during the reign of Queen Anne, or the
early Georges, and they impressed her with a strong persuasion of
their constant care and guardianship. She was sure that it was not
only interest, but love that prompted them. Phantoms, of course! Yes,
but phantoms of remarkable clearness and evidence, and all the time
she was at "Headquarters" she saw, or she dreamed of them.
Now the singular point in this experience, was not known until this
summer, when I received officially from the county clerk a list of all
the references to my family, the Huddlestons of Millom, to be found in
the county histories of the shires of Cumberland and Westmoreland. It
will be remembered that I have just stated, that this fine old mansion
was built by Lord Fenwick, and in the historical list just referred
to, I find the following record:
"John Huddleston, son of the above-named Richard, who succeeded
his father in 1337, married a daughter of Henry Fenwick, Lord of
Fenwick, county of Northumberland."
These few lines gave me food for some very pleasant thoughts, which I
followed further than I can do here, but it was evident that these
early Fenwicks who built "Headquarters," still remembered that their
family and the Huddlestons were kindred. After more than five hundred
years had elapsed, as we count them, they remembered it, and knew that
the alliance still influenced the Huddleston strain. Well, then the
dead do not forget in the next life what happened in this life. Also,
the affections of the dead remain in the same channel as when they
were on earth. Far off from the original strain as Lilly was, they
knew her, and they felt an interest in her welfare and safety. My
readers can of themselves follow out these trains of thoughts; they
may find comfort and explanations in so doing. And I think those of
our families who are in another world like us to remember them.
Truly Lilly needed some protection, for she was surrounded by many
dangers; the climate was dangerous, the reptile life was dangerous,
and the negro element was tremendously in the ascendant; there being
only forty white families on the whole island, while the negroes
probably numbered four thousand, more or less. And Lilly knew not the
word fear; she stood an hour in the hot swamp one day, and watched the
long battle between a very large rattlesnake and an equally large
black snake, watched them at close quarters until the black snake tore
the skin off his antagonist, and left him flayed from head to tail in
the burning sun. It never struck her that there was any danger to
herself. "The snakes," she said, "paid no attention to me. They were
too busy with themselves. I was in no danger whatever."
And at that time, in that lonely island, the white man and woman had
no fear of the black man; nor did Lilly see while she was there any
ill will of the black man to the whites. They still regarded with
liking and respect the white families to which they had belonged, as
the following incident will exemplify. One woman had worked four years
after her freedom for her master, and he had never paid her any wage.
Lilly asked "Why do you not sue him, Mary? The law would give you your
wage, for he is able to pay it."
"O Miss Lill," was the answer, with a positive shake of the head, "we
couldn't hab a suit in the fambly."
So much trust was there then in the old servants, that Lilly
accompanied by Mrs. Peck, often went to Charleston in the long boat,
rowed by four black men. Their leader was a gigantic negro called
Binyard, and to his impromptu songs and recitatives the oars kept time
all the sixteen miles. Thus when Binyard saw a steamer approaching,
his stentorian voice hailed it thus:
"Git out ob de way, you steamboat!
Binyard's on de ribber!
Binyard's on de ribber, steamboat,
Git out ob Binyard's way!"
Then when the steamer swept across their bow and left them rocking in
its wash he continued,
"Go on dis time, little steamer,
I let you pass dis time,
Dere's white ladies on Binyard's boat,
So he let you pass dis time--
"But keep out ob de way, steamboat,
When no white ladies wid him;
He sink you sure, little steamboat;
He sink you wid his oar!"
As soon as they cleared Ashley River, and got fairly around the bend
and into Stono River, they met many boats coming from John, James, and
Edisto Islands, and then invariably the singing began, the leading
boat flinging out the challenge,
"Gwine to hang up de sword in Zion?"
and the rest answering,
"Yes, Lord! 'Tis a great camp meeting
In de Promised Land!"
And this spiritual was followed by others, until they went singing
into "Headquarters" landing. It is all changed now. The negro has been
to the university and got "eddicated" and the white man no longer
trusts him, and the white woman fears him.
In the evening hours while Mary was out at various houses, or
entertainments I wrote a novel, one of the very best I ever wrote. It
was called "The Last of the McAllisters." I sent it to Henry Holt,
being moved to do so by a feeling I could not resist, and cannot
explain. He returned it with a letter saying, "If you will write me an
American novel as clever and interesting, I will gladly publish it."
This letter, so kind and wise, set me thinking of the possibilities of
American history for fiction, and was in fact the seed thought of "The
Bow of Orange Ribbon," and consequently of the series of American
historical tales which followed it. The origin of novels is often very
interesting, and far to seek.
Early in November, 1880, I had an almost fatal attack of inflammation
of the brain, followed before I recovered consciousness, by double
pneumonia. At the crisis of the sickness, I was for five days neither
_here_ nor _there_. Where was I? I was in a land where all was of fine
shifting sand, a land of such awful silence, that I could _feel_ the
deadly stillness. And I wanted to pray, and could not pray. I was
conscious of no pain, and no desire, but this terrible, urgent longing
to pray, and yet not being able to cry to God for help. To want God,
and to have no power to call Him, or to go to Him, was an agony there
are no words to express. At last, as I stood helpless and hopeless
among mountains of sand, there was a whisper, and the pang of
unpermitted prayer was taken away. Then I cried out, "Spare me, Lord,
that I may recover strength, before I go hence and be no more
forever." Instantly I was conscious. I knew that I was on earth, in my
own room, and I spoke one word, "_Mary!_"
Mary was kneeling beside me, kissing my almost clay hands and face,
and moistening my lips with drops of water. And I knew that I was
saved. I knew that God had really given me a new life--a new physical
and mental power. Physicians had said, I would never be mentally well
again. I was dictating poems and other work to Mary, before I was
permitted to have any light in my room--when I lay in my bed, while
Mary stood at the open door, writing down my words. My convalescence
was rapid and sure. I was in the Astor Library on the twenty-first of
March, making notes for an article on "Nollekins, the Sculptor," for
_Harper's Monthly_. The next week I went again for notes on "Beating
the Bounds" for Mr. Munroe, the editor of _Harper's Young People_.
I had been four months in my room. I felt now an urgent necessity to
be at work again. I have a list beside me of the work I did in this
month of March, and of the work done in the nine months following. It
may interest some of my friends to read the list for March, because I
was then scarcely out of the shadow of the grave. It includes twelve
poems, four for _Harper's Weekly_ and eight for the _Ledger_, as
follows:
"An old Man's Valentine."
"'Tis God's World After All."
"Blue and Gray Together."
"John's Wife."
"The Fortune Teller."
"The Best I Can."
"The Lover that Comes in the Morning."
"No Room for Me."
"When To Drop the Bridle."
"We've Always Been Provided For."
"When Mother and I Were Married."
Beside these twelve poems, I went to the library and procured the
material for the Nollekins article, a lengthy one which depicted the
Georgian life and celebrities; wrote two articles for _Lippincott's_,
and the school paper called "Beating the Bounds," for the editor of
_Harper's Young People_. For the year following, I have a list which
shows one hundred and thirty-one poems, eight stories, two of which
were long enough to be called novelettes, and twenty-five articles
referring mostly to remarkable people, places or events.
[Illustration: MRS. BARR, November, 1880]
But when the home is broken up the family scatters. I felt this
painfully, for I missed Lilly constantly, and Mary was a great deal
with friends, or away, so that Alice and I were really much alone. I
had most of the office work to do, and was obliged to leave her when
about it, though I took her with me to the library, if the weather was
favorable.
Under these conditions it was as easy for me to go to England as to
remain in New York during the summer, and in May, 1882, having
just finished and sold to Appleton, my book on the "Children of
Shakespeare's Dramas," I took Alice and went first to Glasgow and
afterwards to Yorkshire; remaining away until Christmas was
approaching. During that summer vacation, so-called, I sent back to
New York eighty-one poems, stories, and descriptive articles, and
this number does not include poems and stories written for English
papers and magazines during the same period, but of which I have kept
no list. These eighty-one poems and stories were sent to Mary, who
managed their sale so well, that all were placed and mostly paid
for, when I returned home.
This voyage is memorable to me because of a great salvation. On May
the third, 1882, I dreamed that a Presence whose enmity I felt, stood
by my bedside and said, "You are going to be lost! You are going to be
lost! You are going to be ship-wrecked!" And I answered, even as I
slept, "I do not believe you. God is able and willing to keep me in
all my ways, and my soul trusteth in Him forever." Then I awoke, and I
said consciously over and over, the words I had said in my dream, and
so fell asleep again, fighting the fear in my heart with trust and
faith. And again I dreamed a Presence stood by my side, a holy loving
Presence, and it said confidently "Go, and the Lord be with thee" (1st
Samuel, 17:37). And I opened my eyes full of happiness, and there was
no shadow of fear in my heart, and three days afterwards Alice and I
sailed in the _Devonia_ for Glasgow. We were, as before said, in
Scotland and Yorkshire all summer; but took passage for New York again
on the eleventh of November. I held fast to the promise given me, and
in pleading it for our return voyage, I was suddenly affected in a
remarkable way, by the wording of the promise. For the first time I
noticed the word "_be_" in it. It seemed to stand out more plainly
than any other word. Then I understood. God had promised not only to
go with me, but to _be_ with me. That was sufficient. There were very
few saloon passengers. I remember only two ladies beside Alice and
myself, an actress, and a Mrs. Orr of Cornwall-on-Hudson. No one comes
into your life for nothing, and the next year being advised to go to
the mountains for a month or two, I remembered what this lady had said
about Cornwall, and I wrote and asked her if she knew of a house I
could rent. She advised me to come and see Cornwall. I did so, took a
house for six months, and have been here twenty-eight years.
Our first three days at sea were fine, and the wind favorable; the
next day the sea was rough, and I was thrown against the brass pipe of
the saloon stove, and my right hand painfully burned. On the
eighteenth of November, at eleven o'clock at night, we broke our
machinery, and in the morning, when I went on deck, I was appalled by
the sight of the deck covered with pieces of iron, and wreckage of
every kind; and my heart for a moment failed me. For nine days we
drifted helplessly about the Atlantic, but all the time, day and
night, men were working steadily to repair our engine. Captain Young,
a devout man and a fine sailor, was speechlessly anxious, but he clung
to Alice whenever he saw her, for she had told him the ship would
reach New York safely; and he believed her.
On the night of the twenty-seventh, after dinner, he asked Alice and
me to pray for the ship. "At eight bells," he said, "listen and pray!
We are then going to try the engine. If she works, we may, if God
wills, reach our harbor in safety----"
"And if not, Captain?"
"We shall still be in God's hands."
With these words he turned away, and Alice and I watched faithfully
with the anxious man. At eight bells we were on our knees, and as the
bells began to strike, _the thud of the engine began with them_.
"I told you all would be right," said Alice, and I kissed her, and
both our cheeks were wet.
A few days later in the afternoon, Alice sitting quite alone in the
saloon saw smoke coming from a place where smoke had no business. She
instantly found an officer, and he ran for the captain. For a few
hours there was an unusual commotion, but the subject was not named,
and I understood from the captain's reticence, that danger was over,
and that silence was wise, and even imperative. For our long detention
at sea, had made both water and provisions very scarce, and there was
actual mutiny among the emigrant passengers, whose number was
unusually large. It happened, however, that there was a big
consignment of nuts on board, and they were given to the angry crowd,
who were thus pacified. Two days afterwards we reached our pier in New
York harbor, so grateful and happy, that we hardly felt the blustering
wind, and snow and cold. We had been threatened with fire, and
shipwreck, and mutiny, but all had failed to really injure. Nothing of
us had suffered; for He had given His angels charge concerning us.
My readers, I hope, remember what I wrote about charms. They were not
my words, but I endorsed them from my experience. Well I confess that
this wonderful verse, 1st Samuel, 17:37, has assumed something of the
character of a sacred amulet. When I first read it, I wrote the words
of the covenant God had given me on a piece of paper, folded the paper
with a prayer, and put it into a little pocket of my purse. It
remained there for many, many years. Other documents placed beside it
became invalid, useless, or outworn, and were destroyed. But the
golden promise of God's constant care remained. On certain occasions,
I took it out and reminded God, that it read He would _be_ with me.
Finally the writing became so nearly illegible, and the paper so frail
I solemnly renewed both, putting this renewal in the same purse
pocket, where it remains unto this moment. It will go to the grave
with me, for I will never give up that promise. God made it. God will
keep it. Whether I deserve it, or not, He will keep it. Yea, if I did
not deserve one letter of it, all the more I would plead,
"Because I seek Thee not, Oh, seek Thou me,
Because my lips are dumb, oh, hear the cry
I do not utter as Thou passest by!
Because content I perish far from Thee,
Oh, seize and snatch me from my fate; draw nigh,
And let me blinded, Thy Salvation see.
"If I were pouring at thy feet my tears,
If I were clamoring to see Thy face,
I should not need Thee, Lord, as _now_ I need,
Because my dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears,
Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place,
Because I seek not, pray not, _give Thou heed_!"
For, alas! there have been times in the years gone by when I was even
in such case, when I went wandering after strange Gods, and New
Thought, and my dear, closed Bible reproached me. But of this
interlude I will write in its proper place. I name it here, only that
I may have the opportunity of thanking God as frequently as I possibly
can, for the blessed, eternal possibility of repentance. For well I
know, that God is merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous
in mercy, and that
"... our place is kept, and it will wait
Ready for us to fill, soon or late;
No star is ever lost we once have seen,
We always may be, what we might have been."
In March and April of 1883 I wrote one of the most interesting of all
my Scotch novels. I began it on March twenty-fifth, and finished it on
the thirtieth of April. I worked on it nine hours every day excepting
four days when I only wrote eight hours. During this same time I wrote
the following for Robert Bonner and _Harper's_:
_Mar. 25th._ Finished my long paper on famous Irish women and began my
novel, "Cluny MacPherson."
_Mar. 26th._ At home all day writing on "Cluny MacPherson."
_Mar. 27th._ Ditto.
_Mar. 28th._ Writing on "Cluny" all morning. Went down to several
offices in afternoon. Did nothing in the evening. Had a bad headache.
_Mar. 29th._ Very sick headache, but wrote "Cato's Song."
_Mar. 30th._ At the last hour wrote "Two Workers" for Bonner, and he
praised it very much, a great thing for him to do.
_Mar. 31st._ Very sick. Went to the dentist's but could not have
anything done.
_April 1st._ Wrote an "April Wedding" and worked on "Cluny."
_April 2nd._ Still sick but on "Cluny," and wrote "The Reconciliation."
_April 3rd._ All day on "Cluny;" in the evening wrote "Lending a
Hand."
_April 4th._ All day on "Cluny."
_April 5th._ All day on "Cluny."
_April 6th._ All day on "Cluny," but am feeling tired.
_April 7th._ On "Cluny," very tired. A wet day and Peter Cooper's
funeral.
_April 8th._ On "Cluny," and wrote a poem called "O Mollie, How I Love
You!"
_April 9th._ On my novel nine hours.
_April 10th._ On my novel eight hours.
_April 11th._ On my novel eight hours.
_April 12th._ On my novel eight hours, and wrote "Two Ships."
_April 13th._ On my novel nine hours.
_April 14th._ On my novel eight hours.
_April 15th, 16th, 17th._ Nine hours each.
_April 18th._ Very sick.
_April 19th._ Wrote "My Pretty Canary" and "The Little Evangel."
_April 20th._ Wrote nine hours on "Cluny."
_April 21st to 28th._ I wrote all day long on "Cluny," but managed to
write for _Harper's_ a poem called, "A Tap at the Door."
_April 29th._ On "Cluny," and wrote for Bonner a poem called, "Take
Care."
_April 30th._ Wrote "A Birthday," finished "Cluny" and took it to Mr.
Rand, of the Tract House.
Eleven days afterwards I saw Mr. Rand, and he told me they were
reading proof, and much pleased with the book, and on February
seventeenth, A.D. 1884, I received a letter from _the_ Cluny
MacPherson, chief of the clan MacPherson, thanking me for such a good
picture of the clan life. The letter was dated from Castle Cluny, but
the chief himself filled some important office in the Queen's
Household.
Just about the time that I finished "Cluny MacPherson," Lilly returned
home at my urgent request, and we went to housekeeping in some
furnished rooms at 128 East Tenth Street. Then I made a short visit to
England, leaving Alice at home with her sisters, as she was very
averse to taking another ocean voyage.
My visit to Glasgow this year contained one scene, which made a great
impression on me, and the recent death of General Booth brings it back
so vividly, that I think my readers will be interested in the picture
of this early salvation service.
At that time I had thought little of the movement. What I had seen of
its noisy, moblike parades, with their deafening clang of cymbals and
drums, and their shouting, jumping excitement, was not calculated to
enlist the sympathy of intelligent persons. But then it was not such
persons Mr. Booth wished to reach. "I have been sent into the world,
to do the Lord's gutter work," was his own definition of his mission;
and certainly at that day, his methods could only appeal to those on
the lowest plane of humanity.
Well, one Saturday night in June, I had been dining with an old friend
living beyond Rutherglen Bridge on the east side of the city, and in
returning to my hotel, I had to pass through that portion of the old
town, where Hamilton Street, High Street, the Saltmarket, and the
Trongate pour their night crowd into the open place around the old
Cross. The rain was falling in a black, steady downpour. The ragged
crowd was swaying to and fro to the sounds of drums and cornets, and
above all, I heard the shrill continuous scream of a woman's voice.
I put down the window of the carriage, and saw the woman. She was
marching, with an open Bible in her hands, at the head of a noisy
crowd, and reading, or rather reciting, verses from the Gospels. Her
face showed deathly white from under her black hood, her voice cut the
yellow dismal fog in sharp screaming octaves, her whole appearance was
that of one inspired or insane, and the rain poured down on the
barefooted women, with ragged kilted petticoats, and wretched little
babies hanging over their shoulders, who followed her. I shut the
window, and shut my eyes in a kind of horror. I had a feeling, that
somewhere, centuries ago, I had seen such a nightmare of black houses,
and black rain, and such a heaving and tossing flood of miserable
humanity, and somehow it comforted me to hope, that through the
tumult, the fierce sorrowful laughter, and drunken jibes, some poor
breaking heart must have heard, and understood, that woman's shrill
intensity as she called out, "_Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are
heavy laden, and I will give you rest_."
I had another experience of the Salvation Army, so perfectly Scotch
and so characteristic, that I think my friends will be pleased to hear
it. I was coming down the old Shorehead of Arbroath, and I met a band
of men and women carrying flags and singing hymns. In Glasgow I had
become familiar with these parades, and had been astonished at the
toleration with which they were regarded. But the men and women of
Arbroath, were of a different spirit and the tumult, and abusive storm
of language became so great, that I stepped inside a little shop for
shelter. The proprietor, a very dry rusk of a Scotchman, in a green
duffle apron, and a red Kilmarnock night cap, was standing at the open
door.
"The Salvation Army?" I said inquiringly.
"Ye arena far wrang."
"What do you think of them?"
"I'm thinking it is better for men to meddle wi' the things o' God,
which they canna change, than wi' those o' the government wi' which
they can wark a' kinds o' mischief and mischance. Thae Irish kirns
now!" Then his face flushed, angrily, and fixing his eyes on a lad who
was in the procession he cried,
"If there isna my Jock wi' thae loons! Certie, the words arena to
seek, that I'll gie him, when he wins home again!"
"Then you don't approve of the movement?" I asked.
"What way would I do that?"
"Have you read or heard anything of Mr. Booth?"
"Ow, ay, he is just a parfect Goliath o' conceit, but he isna the man
to hold the deil, for a' his talk."
"Is there a deil to hold? You know some ministers have given up the
idea of personal devil," I said; and I quite anticipated _the look_ I
got in reply,
"Have they? Ay weel, getting rid o' the Wicked One, hasna got us rid
o' the wicked. Good day to _you_, ma'am. I'll be requiring to go
ben."
These scenes were in the early days of the Salvation Army. A short
time afterward, I saw Glasgow ministers of the strictest sect of the
Calvinistic Pharisees, with their congregations at their heels,
following the music of the Moody and Sankey evangelical movement, and
I met their leaders as guests in the most exclusive religious
families. After my return home Dr. Talmage, then editor of the
_Christian At Work_, asked me to tell him frankly, which side the
paper ought to take.
"The popular side," I answered.
"Is that for, or against them?"
"For them, decidedly. Sankey's voice draws the crowd, and then they
listen to Moody's speaking, and so the singing may lead to prayer."
"You think it will be a success?"
"It _is_ a success," I answered, "and is going to a very great one."
Then Dr. Talmage turning to Mr. B---- the active editor said, "_The
Christian At Work_, will stand with Moody and Sankey, Mr. B----. It is
the proper thing to do, I suppose?"
"Yes," I answered, and he then asked if I had "seen anything of
General Booth."
"I have seen him several times," I replied.
"What kind of a man is Booth?" Dr. Talmage asked.
"A big man, every way. He is the Cromwell of Dissent." I heard that he
was a passionate little Chartist when he was thirteen years old. I
will tell you something, a good name is a good fortune, and the name
of the Salvation Army was a kind of inspiration. One day a secretary
drawing up a paper wrote, "We are a Volunteer Army," and Mr. Booth
took the pen from his hand, crossed out the word "Volunteer" and wrote
in its place "_Salvation_." He saw in a moment the splendid
capabilities of the word, it fitted itself to the work, as promptly
as the stuttering out of the word "tee-to-tal" inaugurated the grand
successes of the temperance cause.
They are burying William Booth today, and no one can deny that he has
fought a good fight; for he, and only he and his army, reach down to
that strata of humanity which has fallen below the churches; and
which are emphatically "ready to perish." And if the Salvation Army
only succeeds in facing a man around, or in making him take one
step upward, instead of downward, there is hope for his next
reincarnation.