THE GODS SELL US ALL GOOD THINGS FOR LABOR
"All that is bitter, all that is sweet comes from God. It is our
daily bread."
"The mysterious conditions of our everyday life give a gravity to
all our work, and all our pleasure."
In this year 1887, I finished "The Border Shepherdess" and "The Master
of His Fate" with my usual accompaniment of poems and articles for the
papers. On April twenty-fourth I note that I copied "Cherry Ripe," a
poem for _Harper's Weekly_, "A Strawberry Idyl" for the _Illustrated
Weekly_, "The Romance of the Salad Bowl" for the _Christian Union_,
and "The Two Talifers" for _Leslie's_. These with Bonner's usual poem
were the papers on which I mainly relied and whose columns I felt must
be kept open, no matter how interesting the novel on hand might be.
But early in May my hands began to trouble me. I had the right thumb
in a splint, and no finger I possessed could lift a pin. The tips of
my fingers seemed to have lost feeling. I could not use pen and ink,
but if the pencil was placed in my hand, I could write as long as the
pencil would mark; but I could not pick it up, if I dropped it. I was
very unhappy about this condition, and then the relief came from a
source most unexpected.
I had met on my last voyage from England, a Professor McAfee and his
wife. Mr. McAfee was a professor in a college at a place called
Claverick I think. He was a most charming man, widely and well
cultivated, and I formed a pleasant friendship with him and Mrs.
McAfee. While my fingers were troubling me so much, they came to pay
me a short visit, and he induced me to get a typewriter. I do not know
how long they had been on the market, certainly not very long, for I
had never seen one in any of the newspaper offices I visited. Mine
came the day before he left, and he showed me all its peculiarities.
In less than a week I could use it very well; in a month I considered
myself an expert.
The typewriter was an instant and immense relief; for the copying of
all my work had doubled my labor, because it was not as interesting to
copy, as to compose; and as it was necessary to write the press copy
very clearly and particularly, the copying occupied more time than the
composing. The kindly, clever professor who came to me in the hour of
my need is dead. No. He could not die. What we call death was to him
only emigration, and I care not where he now tarries. He is doing
God's will, and more alive than ever he was on earth.
Mrs. McAfee, just before Christmas, sent me a lovely oil painting of
poppies and wheat, done for me by girls in the college. Then I wrote
the following poem in memory of it, which was published in _Harper's
Weekly_ and I hoped it pleased them.
POPPIES AND WHEAT
Poppies have loved the golden wheat
Many a thousand years,
And still they lift a glowing face
Up to the bending ears,
Wherever the yellow wheat doth grow,
Scarlet poppies will surely go.
Bind the sheaves in the East or West,
Take seed where man ne'er trod,
And when the corn bends to the breeze,
The poppy there will nod.
No time, no distance, hath the power
To change the love of grain and flower.
See how the silky petals stir
Like banners in still air;
See how the rich ripe ears sway down
To flowers so idly fair.
O sweet wind of the harvest day!
Tell me what do these lovers say.
Do they remember Nilus yet?
Ham's daughters dusky fair?
Greek girls with mingled wreaths of wheat
And poppies in their hair?
Or fair Judean maids at morn
Gleaning among the yellow corn?
Does grain of wheat, or seed of flower,
Hold still a memory
Of happy English harvest homes
On many a pleasant lea?
And youths and maids amid the sheaves,
Testing their love with poppy leaves.
If so, then winds of harvest haste
Carry a greeting sweet,
No heed where corn and poppies grow,
Kin are poppies and wheat,
Grain and flower of every strand,
Came from the fields of Edenland.
I had never permitted Alice to go to any school, but had always had a
governess for two or three hours daily, as she could bear it. During
the many years she was thus instructed, she had many teachers of all
kinds; but at this period a Mrs. Jones, the daughter of the Episcopal
minister, came to her. And she loved Mrs. Jones, who was a beautiful
and lovable woman, and I think of her often because I was always so
happy when anything happened that made Alice specially happy.
For the rest, the year went quietly on. I wrote a story for Mrs.
Dodge, editor of _St. Nicholas_, the only woman I ever liked to write
for. She put on no editorial airs, and if you brought her a good
story, she made you feel that you had conferred a favor on her, and
her magazine. Ah, Mrs. Dodge showed that her soul had been to fine
schools, before she came into this life! Her courtesy was native to
her--her fine manners the fruit of her good heart.
After I had finished Mrs. Dodge's story, called "Michael and
Theodora", I was obliged to give up using my hands until October,
then I began "Remember the Alamo" but had to stop early in November,
to help Mr. Freund who wished me to write with him a play from "The
Bow of Orange Ribbon." It was the first of at least twenty, I think I
may say fifty, attempts that have been made to dramatize this novel.
Mr. Charles Frohman got the famous August Thomas to try it with me,
but when I sent him the two first acts he said it was "a beautiful
piece of literary work, but not playable." After the elopement, the
original proposition is closed, and the play really ends there; but
ending there, it is only half long enough. Some day, however, the
difficulty will be conquered, and it will pay for all its previous
failures.
I was busy with Mr. J. C. Freund until the day before Christmas. Then
I began a Scotch story for Clarke called "The Household of McNeil,"
and at the end of the year had finished nearly two chapters; I make
the following entry which says all that is necessary:
_December 31st, 1887._ This last week has been full of work. Mary came
to see me before starting for Florida, and I am very unhappy about
Lilly and Captain Morgan. But I trust for the best. O God, my times
are in Thy Hands, and how glad I am to leave them there! Unto Thee I
look, for "Thy compassions fail not."
The first three months of 1888 were occupied with "The Household of
McNeil," and my regular fugitive newspaper work. Alice still had her
good teacher, and Lilly did not speak about her unfortunate love
affair. I knew she was very unhappy, but she tried to be cheerful, and
to share my pleasures and my anxieties, as she had always done; and I
thought her reticence wise, though I was ready at any moment she
wished to advise or to console her.
My right thumb was almost useless. I held the pencil mostly between
the first and second finger, and the outside of the little finger was
so sensitive, that I wrapped it in cotton wool to prevent it feeling
the movement on the paper. But on my birthday, March twenty-ninth, I
was finishing the fourteenth chapter of "Remember the Alamo" and
enjoying the writing of the book very much indeed. Sometimes General
Houston seemed actually visible to me, and we had some happy hours
together. General Sherman was positive that the men martyred at Goliad
and San Antonio fought with the eight hundred gentlemen, who led by
Houston captured the whole Spanish army, and gave the Empire State of
Texas to the United States. The dead can, and do help the living, and
I believe General Houston helped me to write the truth, and the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth concerning that glorious episode, far
too little valued and understood. If General Houston had been an
Englishman, and had given the English Crown such a magnificent
principality, he would have been ennobled and enriched. This great,
ungrateful nation let him die wanting the comforts, yes, the
necessaries of life. I have said more about this book than I intended,
but I love it and "The Lion's Whelp" better than I can express. Their
characters are living people to me. I have known them, either in this
life, or some other life.
This sense of companionship in many, indeed in most, of my books has
made them easy and delightful to write. Sometimes it has been so vital
that I have found it impossible to shut my study door. It seemed like
shutting them out of my life, and I really loved these invisible,
intangible friends, and often whispered their names, and bid them good
night before going to sleep. To say that I shall never see them, or
speak with them in another life, is an incredible thing. I expect
General Sam Houston, and the great protector of England, Oliver
Cromwell, to praise me, and thank me, for what I have done; and I
shall not be disappointed. As far as General Houston is concerned, I
have already the thanks of the son he loved so devotedly, in the
following letter:
GALVESTON, TEXAS, Oct. 22, 1888.
MY DEAR MADAM:
Returning to this city a short time since, I found awaiting me
your latest very interesting book, "Remember the Alamo." Please
accept my thanks, and as well, my assurances of due appreciation
of the honor conferred.
The general reader I am sure cannot fail to find the style in
which the work is written in the highest degree entertaining. To
one bound by ties of birth and blood to Texan history and
traditions, it naturally possesses a peculiar interest, an
interest which throughout does not flag.
Of the rather numerous productions based on the same theme, few,
if any, read so much like actual history, and I think I can safely
say, none show that intimate acquaintance with the peculiar social
elements which composed the Texas of the days of the Republic,
manifest in the valued work I now have the honor to acknowledge
the receipt of.
While I have derived much pleasure from a perusal of "Remember the
Alamo," as a production of merit, I could not be insensible to the
tribute paid my revered father's memory; that the wreath is from
the hand of woman lends it a grateful perfume.
I cannot but regret I am denied the honor of the personal
acquaintance of one, who through her pen has made me so much her
debtor for enjoyment of the most enduring kind.
I am, dear madam, with abiding sentiments of esteem,
Yours sincerely,
WILLIAM R. HOUSTON.
Often I have believed that my heroine was a real personality, that she
had once lived in the very scenes I depicted. This was particularly
the case with the book "Bernicia." It is many years since I told the
story of that fascinating creature, but she is as real to me today, as
if she had spent the summer with me. Sometimes these phantom heroines
are very masterful. In "Friend Olivia," _Anastasia_ made me throw away
many pages, but I always discovered as the book progressed, that they
did not belong to it.
Until April of this year, I was more or less troubled with Mr. Freund
and the proposed play. I say "troubled" because I felt all the time
that the work I had to do, was useless, that the thing someway was not
right, and I know now, that neither Mr. Freund--clever actor and
manager as he was--nor I, could build a play, any more than we could
build a house.
On April tenth, 1888, we moved into a little cottage on Storm King
Mountain, for the house we were in was sold, and the buyer wished to
occupy it. I remember so well the afternoon I first drove up the
mountain. It was a lovely April day, Nature was making a new world,
and there was no sound of hammer, or axe, or smoke of furnace. Only an
inscrutable, irresistible force at work, a power so mighty, that the
hard trodden sod under our feet was moved aside by a slender
needle-like shaft of grass, or plant, which the faintest breeze could
blow and bend. A miracle! Yes, a miracle before which science is mute.
The birds were singing as if they never would grow old, and the winds
streamed out of the hills as cool as living waters. The grass was
climbing the mountains until it met the snow, and the mountains rose
like battlements, with piny slopes furrowed by one or two steep
paths.
The house I came to see was a mere cottage of five rooms, but it stood
in a pleasant croft, full of fruit trees, mingled with pines and a few
maples. My heart went into the place without opening gate or door, and
I said to myself, "I will buy this little house, and make it a home,
if God wills so; and as for it being small, there is only three of us,
and we can enlarge it, if it is necessary." The view from it was
enchanting--a long stretch of the Hudson River, with mountains and
valleys on every side of it. But I remembered the English dictum about
buying a house, namely, "to summer and winter it first;" so I
refrained the words on my lips, and instead of buying it, I offered to
rent it for a year, promising to buy it then, if I still liked the
place.
Lilly's brows knit ominously, when I told her what I had done. "You
will not like it, Mamma," she said.
"Why not? And you, Lilly, have always loved country solitudes."
"Yes, in books, Mamma. In real life, they are damp and rheumatic, and
most hated by those who live in them, and know them best."
"O Lilly!" I cried, "I do want to go up the mountain so much. I am
sure I can write well and easily there. I know I should be so happy,
and I believe my hands would get strong."
"Then, dearest, we will go at once. So let us talk over what is to be
done."
This was on April, the sixth, and on the tenth we moved into the
mountain cottage. We had barely got our household goods into its
shelter, when there commenced one of the heaviest rain storms I ever
remember, and we ate our first meal, a very good one of broiled
Virginia ham, poached eggs, coffee, and orange marmalade, to its
pattering and rattling on the roof and against the windows.
"Grandmother Barr said, it was the luckiest thing to move in a rain
storm," cried Lilly, with one of her old cheerful laughs; "she did not
know she was prophesying luck for us, but she was, Mamma. I hope she
knew how it was pouring as they carried in the last load."
"Is that a Scotch superstition?" I asked.
"Certainly, Scotch wisdom is the only kind of wisdom Grandmother
quotes, or believes in. She believed also in carrying the house cat
with you. Aunt Jessy once left her cat behind in moving, and left all
her luck to the people who came after her, and they happened to be
people Grandmother didn't like."
And I laughed, and talked about the Cumberland superstitions, sitting
by the kitchen fire in one of the best parlor chairs, while Lilly
deftly broiled the ham and poached the eggs, and Anne Hughes, our
small Irish servant, set the table in her own remarkable way, and
Alice wiped all the dishes after her with a clean napkin. I have eaten
few happier meals than that first one in Cherry Croft, and then we
made up the beds in the dining-room for that night; and I fancied my
bed had never been as soft and comfortable before. With happy wishes
for good dreams, we all slept soundly, and sweetly, until Annie Hughes
woke us with the information, that it was past seven, and a man was at
the door with milk, and a big handful of flowers.
It was Thomas Kirkpatrick, of course. Any one who knew Thomas would
suspect it. He worked for me on and off in some way for twenty years,
and there was always that fine streak in his nature, typified by his
love of flowers. In that twenty years, I had few birthdays that Thomas
Kirkpatrick did not honor with a bunch of wild flowers at the
dawning.
The house had been thoroughly cleaned, and was in good condition, for
it had been built for the well known artist Theyer, who with his wife
had occupied it one or two years; and he had been followed by a New
York family whose name was Appleton, who only lived in it for a short
time, so that it was nearly new, and quite free from all the wraiths
and influences of prior inhabitants.
I shall never feel again in this life as joyous as I felt for the
first few months in this house, though, thank God, I keep my child
heart yet, and I am pleased with little things. My right hand got well
rapidly; my headaches were much better. I slept like a baby; I woke up
singing, a thing I had not done since Robert died. I was so happy in
my little five-roomed cottage. I loved every foot of the pretty croft,
in which it stood, and one morning when its fourteen cherry trees were
all pink and white with blossom, I called it Cherry Croft. And now the
name of Cherry Croft is known all over the English speaking world, and
I not infrequently have letters directed to me "Cherry Croft, New
York, United States of America," and they come direct to me without
question or delay.
On the first of June, Dodd, Mead paid me a thousand dollars for
"Remember the Alamo," but Mr. Mead wished the name changed. It was
published in England under the name of "Woven of Love and Glory" but
Mr. Mead desired it to be called, "Remember the Alamo." I could not
have written it to that name, but the book being finished, it did not
make so much matter. I suppose it sold better under the latter name,
for I was told this year by a famous Texan, that few Texan families
are without a copy of it. "The Alamo" was a phrase full of tragedy to
every Texan, but not so distinctive to other people; it being a
Spanish word given to a number of places.
On this day I received a copy of "Jan Vedder's Wife" in French. I do
not know French, but was frequently told that it was an excellent
translation. It appeared first as a serial in the best of the French
reviews, but I never received a cent for its use, either as a serial
or in book form. Well, I had the pleasure of writing it. That could
not be taken from me.
On the third of June I began a Manx story called "Feet of Clay." The
Isle of Man I have described in an early chapter of my life, and it
was an easy background for me full of romantic possibilities, and
vivid and ready-made romance. This story had a foundation of truth,
and I remember that Mr. Gilder, while praising the literary
workmanship of the tale, objected to the reformation of the hero, who
had an inherited tendency towards forgery. With the tender pity
natural to his rare character, he said that forgery was in his opinion
and observation an unconquerable weakness; that a man who committed
the crime once, would do the same thing again, whenever the temptation
came to him. But I was still a Methodist, and I thought the love of
Christ in the heart sufficient to prevent, as well as to forgive sin.
Besides I have always found myself unable to make evil triumphant.
Truly in real life it is apparently so, but if fiction does not show
us a better life than reality, what is the good of it? _Aufidius_ was
successful in his villainy, but are we not all glad to know that
_Coriolanus_ had time to call him to his face "a measureless liar!" I
confess that I like to reward the virtuous, and punish the guilty, and
make those who would fain be loved, happy.
On the twenty-third of June I went to England on the _Circassia_. I
was a favorite with her captain, and I sat at his right hand; the
Reverend Mr. Meredith and Mrs. Meredith being opposite me. I have had
few pleasanter voyages than this one. Captain Campbell was a good
talker, so was the minister, and he gave us the following Sunday the
best sermon I ever heard on a steamer. This journey was a purely
business one, though after being in Kendal a day, I could not resist
the something that urged me to go on to Glasgow. I intended to remain
there a couple of days, and to do a little shopping, that could be
better and more economically done in Glasgow, than anywhere else. I
thought I was perfectly sure of my incognito, but the next morning my
arrival was in the newspapers, and I had several very early callers,
and many invitations to "go down the water" for the week end. One of
these invitations was in the shape of an exceedingly friendly letter
from Dr. Donald McLeod, at that time editing _Good Words Magazine_. I
had one from the McIntosh family by the same mail, and my heart went
out to the McIntoshes, though I had the highest respect for Dr.
McLeod, and knew that a Sabbath spent with him would be a wonderful
one in many respects. Yet there was in me a perverse spirit that
morning. I did not want to go anywhere. I did not want to dress, and
to take my food and sleep and pleasure, as other people gave it to me.
I wrote the proper apologies, and slipped back to Bradford that
afternoon. The following night I went to an intense Methodist service,
and heard a thousand Yorkshire men and women sing "There is a Land of
pure delight," and "Lo, He comes with clouds descending!" as I shall
never again hear them in this life. In fact I was singing myself as
heartily as any one, and if I did not quite agree with the sermon, I
felt sure it was the only kind of sermon likely to influence the
wonderfully vitalized flesh and blood by which I was surrounded. There
were no hesitations in it, no doubts, or even suppositions; it was an
emphatic positive declaration, that if they did right they would go to
heaven, and a still more emphatic one that if they did wrong they
would go to hell. And he had no doubts about the hell. He saw it
spiritually, and described it in black and lurid terms, that made
women sob, and the biggest men present have "a concern for their
souls."
I would not have missed that service for any company on earth. I know
Dr. McLeod would have talked like the Apostle John, and there would
have been a still peaceful Scotch Sabbath full of spiritual good
things; but I felt all alive, soul and body, from head to foot, in
that Methodist Chapel; so much so that I put a larger coin in the
collection box than I could well afford, and never once regretted
doing it. I would go to church every Sunday gladly, if I could hear a
minister talk in such dead earnest, and be moved by a spiritual
influence so vitally miraculous. The very building felt as if it was
on fire, and for an hour at least, everybody in it _knew they had a
soul_. They felt it longing and pleading for that enlargement, only
the Love and Actual Presence of God could give it. I do not believe I
should hear the same kind of a sermon in that chapel today. There is
doubtless an organ and a choir now, and the preacher will have been to
a Theological Institute, and perhaps be not only "Reverend" but have
some mystic letters after his name, and the congregation will be more
polished, and the precepts of gentility will now be a religious
obligation. And I am afraid it is not genteel now, to be anxious about
your soul--especially in public. But I thank God that I spent that
Sunday in Yorkshire instead of Scotland; for spiritually I have never
forgotten it, and physically, it was an actual influx of life from the
source of life. I was twenty years younger. And I believe that if it
were possible for men and women to live constantly so close to the
spirit in which they live, move, and have their being, they might live
forever.
The next day I went to Shipley Glen, to see Ben Preston, a poor man
yet, but a fine writer both in prose and verse, especially in his
native dialect. He had not much education, but there was a vigorous
native growth of intelligence. I spoke to him of the sermon I had
heard the previous night, and he answered, "Ay, you'll hear the truth
in a Methodist Chapel--here and there--even yet; but a Yorkshire man
nowadays reads his newspaper, instead of his Testament, so when a man
comes out with ideas gathered from the Gospel of Jesus Christ, he's
sure to be considered an original writer, whose crazy notions would
turn the world upside down." There was a man from a Bradford newspaper
sitting with him, and he spoke of Dilke and Chamberlain, and Preston
answered, "They may be able to do something for us, but the biggest
reforms of all will have to begin and be carried out by wersens."
The press man spoke of some local grandee whom he called "a self-made
man" and Preston answered slowly, as he whittled a bit of stick,
"I admire self-made men, if I'm sure they're owt like 'John Halifax,
Gentleman;' but lots o' them owe their elevation, not to their
talents, but to a dead conscience and a kest-iron heart. Of such men,
if they're rich enough, the world is ready to say 'they hev risen from
the ranks.' It 'ud be nearer t' truth to say, 'they hev fallen from
the ranks.' Yes, sir, fallen from t' ranks of honest, hard-working
men, and taen to warse ways."
Of a certain marriage that he was told of, he said it was "a staid,
sowber, weel-considered affair, a marriage wi' all t' advantages of a
good bargain." I was much struck with his ready wit, his good sense,
and his clever way of putting any remark he made. He was greatly and
deservedly loved and respected, but his best work had a local flavor,
which I dare say narrowed both his fame, and his income.
On the twenty-second of July I was still in Bradford, for I went to
lunch with Mrs. Byles. She was a woman, whom if you once saw, you
could never forget. Her husband was the clever editor of the _Bradford
Observer_ and I think she had been made purposely for him--brains to
her finger tips, full of vivid life, a brilliant talker, a perfect
hostess, not beautiful but remarkably fascinating--so fascinating that
you thought her beautiful. I never saw her but on that one occasion,
but she made on me such an impression that if I met her on Broadway
today, I should have no hesitation in saying, "I am glad to see you,
Mrs. Byles." At this luncheon, I met also the daughter-in-law of Sir
Titus Salt, the discoverer and first maker of alpaca.
On the twenty-fifth of July, I sailed from Liverpool, on the _City of
Rome_, and on the second of August landed at New York. I love England
with all my soul, but when I saw the Stars and Stripes flying off
Sandy Hook, my eyes filled with happy, grateful tears, for "East or
West, Home is Best;" and the land where your home is built, is another
native land.
Mary met me at the pier, went out to Cornwall with me, and remained
with us until the eleventh of September, when she left for Florida.
The rest of the month I was busy on "Feet of Clay" which I finished on
the tenth of October. Then I had my apples gathered, got in some large
stoves, put up heavy curtains, and prepared the house for winter. On
the twenty-seventh, I had a letter from General Sam Houston's son, in
praise of what I had done for his father's memory, and on the
twenty-eighth of October I began making notes for my story of
Quakerism called "Friend Olivia." I was at the Astor Library every day
until the twenty-fifth of November when I felt my way clear enough to
begin "Friend Olivia." It was a bright lovely Sabbath, and I had a
pious enthusiasm about the work, for my mother's family were among the
earliest of George Fox's converts, and had suffered many things for
the faith that was in them. I worked slowly at first, and did not
finish my first chapter until the twelfth of December, nor my second
until Christmas Day, when I copied it. After this I became aware of
the character I called _Anastasia_, and every thing relating to her
came easily enough, and I had a fancy she was not a bit sorry for her
dislike of _Olivia_ and her efforts to injure her. But the year closed
with me happily at work on "Olivia," and seeing my way clearly from
the beginning to the end.
The first three months of 1889 I was nearly broken-hearted about
Lilly's affairs. I was writing "Friend Olivia" and found my only
relief in losing myself in it. Yet I had some pleasant events in my
work. Oscar Fay Adams wrote a fine criticism of my books in the
_Andover Review_. Mr. Clark sent me seven hundred six dollars for
"Feet of Clay." I wrote special articles for the _Book News_ and the
_Youth's Companion_ and the latter offered me five hundred dollars for
a story of one hundred pages. Their pages were large, and I could not
afford to accept their terms, which were burdened also with several
limitations and forbidden topics. It was very unlikely that I should
ever have touched these topics, unless forbidden to do so. That
temptation might have made me wish to show the censors how innocently,
and indeed profitably, they might be touched.
On my fifty-eighth birthday, I had finished thirteen chapters of
"Friend Olivia," but I received on April, the first, a letter from the
_North American Review_, asking me for an article, and I left my novel
to write it. While I was thus engaged, I was requested by a minister
with whom I had crossed the Atlantic once, to write for him on a
certain subject, which I have not noted, and am not quite certain
about. It was the request that astonished, and also pleased me, for I
feared that my plain criticism on a certain occasion had deeply
offended him. It happened that we had walked and talked together at
intervals during the week, and that on the following Sabbath morning
he preached in the saloon, and I was present. Leaning over the
taffrail, that evening he came to me and asked how I liked his
sermon?
"The sermon was a good sermon," I said, "but spoiled in the
delivery."
"Why! How? What do you mean, Mrs. Barr?" he asked.
"Your sermon," I answered, "was a series of solemn declarations and
avowals of faith and belief, and after stating each with remarkable
clearness, you invariably concluded with this reflection, 'It seems to
me that no logically sane mind can refuse this truth.'"
"Well," he said, "that was right."
"No," I answered, "it was wrong. Those four words, '_it seems to me_,'
destroyed the whole effect of your argument. You left us at liberty to
dispute it, and debate it. What seemed to you true, might not seem so
to any one else, if they began to look for reasons."
"What would you have said, if in my place?"
"If I believed, as you do, I would have said, 'Friends, I have told
you the truth. There is no other truth on this subject. If you believe
it, and live up to it, you will be saved. If you do not believe it,
and live up to it, there is no salvation for you.'"
"A minister can but give his opinion."
"He ought to give God's opinion, that is what he stands up to do, and
there is no 'seems to me' in that. Excuse me," I said, "I am a
daughter of Levi, and have been used to talking as I feel to ministers
all my life. I meant no harm. I was only sorry you took all the salt
and strength out of a really good sermon."
"I thank you!" he said, but he was quiet afterwards, and I soon went
away, fearing I had everlastingly offended him. But here was the
kindest of letters, with a request that I would write him a short
article for a paper in which he was interested. I did so cheerfully,
but I put my price on it; for I had discovered by this time, that
newspapers value articles according to what they have to pay for
them.
I may mention that among the trials of this spring, my big English
mastiff was so ill, that we had to send him away for treatment. It was
almost like sending one of the family away. He was a noble, loving
creature with far more intelligence than is credible.
On the twenty-second of May, I finished all the creative work on
"Friend Olivia," and on the twenty-fourth, having gone carefully over
it, I took it to Dodd, Mead and Company, and they sent it to the
Century Company, thinking it might suit Mr. Gilder for a serial. Until
the third of June I rested, for my eyes and right hand were weary and
aching, then I wrote an article for the _Book News_ for which I
received thirty dollars. Until the second of July, I wrote articles
for the _Advance_, _North American Review_, et cetera, and copied some
short stories for the Kendal Syndicate, and the _Christian World_. On
the second of July, I began a story of the Cheviot Hills but on the
ninth received a letter from Dodd, Mead saying Mr. Gilder liked
"Friend Olivia" very much, and wished to see me. The following day I
went to see Mr. Gilder, and agreed to rewrite the story suitably for a
serial for three thousand dollars; and from this time forward until
the sixteenth of September, I was going over "Friend Olivia," and
while arranging it suitably for a serial, was also trying how much
richer and better I could make it.
I was abundantly repaid by the following letter from Mr. Gilder, under
date of September, 1889.
EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT,
THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.
MY DEAR MRS. BARR:
I have finished the story. It closes like music, beautifully.
There might be some points that I could wish different, but I do
not press them, the whole story is so charming.
In this revisal of "Friend Olivia," I followed in all matters Mr.
Gilder's advice and suggestions, and so learned much of the best
technicalities of fiction. I could not have had a finer teacher. I
could not have had a more kind, just and generous one. He rejoiced in
good work, and gave it unstinted praise, no matter who was its author.
To a soul who had been hardly used by the world in general, it was a
kind of salvation to meet such a man.
I owed a great deal of my success with the _Century_, to Mrs. Grover
Cleveland's praise of "Friend Olivia." She read the story in
manuscript, and spoke so highly of it to Mr. Gilder, that he was
induced by her report to read it himself. So one of the first printed
copies of the novel was sent to Mrs. Cleveland, who wrote me the
following note:
December 2nd.
DEAR MRS. BARR:
Pray do not think that my long delay in replying to your note
indicates any lack of appreciation of its kind words, or your
thoughtfulness in sending me "Friend Olivia." I feel a peculiar
attachment to the book, because I knew the story when it was so
very young. I liked it, and surely need not tell you that your
sending it to me yourself, gives me very great pleasure.
I have been away from home ever since your letter came to me, or I
should have told you this before.
Pray do not over estimate the effect my interest in "Friend
Olivia" has had. The story itself brought you, as you say, "the
recognition and success you had patiently worked and waited for
during twenty years," and as I say, which you richly deserved.
May I assure you that I never forget my young friend who loves my
picture, and that her mother is often in my thoughts.
Very sincerely,
FRANCES F. CLEVELAND.
I will only give the letter received from Moses Coit Tyler, regarding
"Friend Olivia." Others of interest will be found in the Appendix if
any desire to read them.
CORNELL UNIVERSITY,
ITHACA, NEW YORK.
Feb. 21, 1891.
MY DEAR MRS. BARR:
I was much touched by your kind remembrance of me in causing your
novel, "Friend Olivia," to be sent to me; and as my days here are
heavily burdened with work, and my reading is almost exclusively
on certain professional lines, it was only lately that I have had
the opportunity of reading the book as I wanted to do it. We read
it aloud in the family evenings, as the leisure came to me, my
wife, my daughter, and myself. We were charmed and held from the
beginning, but it was not till we had gone through perhaps the
first seventy-five pages, that the story grasped us with
enthralling power. After that, it was a nightly trial to us all,
that I had to cut short the reading, when we were all so absorbed
in the story, and the development of the characters; and I want to
give you my thanks for the great pleasure, nay for the good cheer,
the strong spiritual refreshment and stimulation which the book
gave us. I could say much of the power with which the several
characters are delineated, of the vivid truth, of the historic
elements of the story, and of the masterly handling of the plot.
Better than any satisfaction in mere literary success, must be the
privilege of portraying, in a fascinating form like that, the
beauty, the mighty helpfulness, the calming and sweet power of
faith in God, and in the spiritual life. That book of yours will
go on helping and cheering people, long after you have passed from
this world. If all your literary labors had resulted only in that
piece of work, your life would have been lived not in vain.
The reading of this book has given me a new desire to meet you
again, and to talk over persons and things with you, and perhaps
some day when I have a few hours or days in New York, I may be
able to find you with half-an-hour to spare for a chat.
With deep gratitude for your book, and a thousand good wishes for
the continuance of your literary successes, I remain
Faithfully yours,
MOSES COIT TYLER.
For nearly a month after finishing my second copy of "Friend
Olivia" I was too tired to do much. Mr. Mead had urged on me the
Arcadian background and I saw at once its possibilities, if I might
make it historically true. But this would be in direct opposition to
what Longfellow and others had done. However as I had the fiction
in my own control, I thought it would be possible to make the
background, and general atmosphere inoffensive. I made great
preparations for this work. I was in New York at the library most
of October, and was in communication with the Officer's Club at
Halifax who sent me a great deal of material, also with a Miss
Caldwell of Louisiana, whose home was on the great Bayou, where the
Arcadians settled after leaving Canada; and she sent me the true
history of Longfellow's "Evangeline," and much interesting material
as to the country, and the descendants of the Arcadians. But not
all the work I did, nor yet all the help I received, could create in
me the slightest enthusiasm about the story. The people disgusted
me. They were so double-tongued and false-hearted, I could have
turned their bigotry into intense faith, as I had often done with
Calvinism; but their cowardice and unreliability I could not handle,
unless I was to show it rightfully punished. And to tell the last
truth, I did not see anything romantic in a girl, traipsing the
length of the United States seeking her lover. If I could have shown
the lover in all sorts of adventures seeking _Evangeline_, that would
have been all right; but the fact was he had speedily married, and was
comfortably bringing up a family in the Teche country. I could not
bear to think of making a beautiful and innocent girl die for so
unworthy a lover, and I did not really pity the woman who could and
did deliberately die for him. Her grave at the Poste des Attakapas
could not impress me. She ought to have thrown off her false unworthy
lover, and if she could love no good man, she could at least have
lived to comfort and help the old woman, who had taken her when a
friendless babe, and cherished her as her own daughter.
As late as the sixteenth of November, I note being in New York at the
library getting the proper patois for Arcadia, and add with an
emphasis of under-crossing, "I hate the story." Until the eleventh of
January, 1890, I was writing an article on divorce for the _North
American Review_, in favor of it under proper conditions. Bishop
Potter wrote the one on the absolute inviolability of the marriage
tie. I think they were in the same number but have forgotten surely. I
wrote also many other articles suitable for Christmas and New Year's.
During December, Clark paid me two hundred pounds for "Friend Olivia,"
and seventy-five pounds for the book rights of "The Last of the
McAllisters." I also wrote a short story for the McClure Syndicate,
being busy on it from the twenty-second to the twenty-eighth of
December. I liked to write for McClure's Syndicate; he always both
paid, and praised me well. I can say the same of the Bacheller
Syndicate, and though I never see either Mr. McClure, or Irving
Bacheller now, I remember them both with the utmost kindness.
On the eleventh of January, 1890, I notice that I threw all the
Arcadia matter into a drawer in my study, where it would be out of
sight and memory, adding, "I can't _feel_ that story, so I can't, and
won't write it!" This neglected, despised Arcadian matter is still
occupying the drawer, and I have not looked at it since I put it away,
until this morning, when I took from the pile "the true story of
_Evangeline_," to be sure of the name of the country, to which the
Arcadians went after leaving Canada. It was on the Teche Bayou they
settled, and _Evangeline's_ real name was Emmeline Labiche, and her
body rests, as I have already said, at the Poste des Attakapas.
Probably the Poste is now a town or city, though the Arcadians were by
no means an energetic or progressive people.
As soon as I put the Arcadian matter in that drawer, I began a New
York story called "She Loved a Sailor." It contained a vivid picture
of New York city life in General Jackson's time, and is probably the
last of the New York series of tales. I have had fewer letters about
it, than I usually have about a New York novel, and I wondered at
that, because it is within the memories and traditions of many living
families. So I have taken it for granted that its localities and data
are correct, for if I had made an error some one would have told me of
it.
While I was writing this book, on the eleventh of February, Mr. and
Mrs. Van Siclen gave me a "Bow of Orange Ribbon" dinner at the
Lawyer's Club. It was a very fine affair, and I kept its artistic
menu and bow of ribbon for many years. The guests were mostly
Dutch, but I had the great honor and pleasure of having Henry Van
Dyke at my right hand. Two things I remember about this dinner. I
tasted crabs a la Newburgh for the first time; and then while I was
as happy as I could be talking to Dr. Van Dyke, Mr. Van Siclen
shocked me by asserting, "Mrs. Barr will now make us a little
speech, and tell us how she came to write 'The Bow of Orange
Ribbon.'" I do not believe I had ever heard of a woman speaking at a
dinner table before. I had an idea it was absolutely a man's
function. It would then have been as easy to imagine myself doing
my athletics in public, as making a speech at a dinner table. I
turned to Dr. Van Dyke in a kind of stupefaction, and said only
one word "_Please!_" and he understood, and rose immediately, and
made a speech for me that charmed and delighted every one present.
Indeed I am inclined to think it was the best speech he ever made.
It was so spontaneous that it was not Henry Van Dyke's speech, it was
Henry Van Dyke his very self.
After I had finished "She Loved a Sailor" I took Alice and went to
England, leaving in the _Bothenia_ July the second, and returning
about September in the _Aurania_. And after I had finished my
business, I gave myself entirely to Alice. She learns best through her
eyes, and I took her to everything I thought would interest her. We
were fortunate enough to hear Handel's fine oratorio of "Samson" at
the Crystal Palace, with a thousand male and female voices in the
chorus; and Sims Reeves in the solos. Ada Rehan was playing "As You
Like It" and she went three times to see her, before she was tired.
But I think the service at St. Paul's Cathedral pleased her most of
all. Dr. Vaughan preached from "There remaineth a rest," an eloquent
sermon, and the music was heavenly. She was curiously pleased also
with the little rush chairs, she thought it seemed "more like sitting
with God, than if you were shut up in a pew." We had a happy happy
time. It is the only holiday I have had since Robert died. I gave it
to Alice, and she gave it back to me a hundred-fold. It seems like a
dream of heaven to remember it.