BUSY, HAPPY DAYS
"Days of happy work amid the silence of the everlasting hills,
days like drops that fall from the honeycomb."
* * * * *
"Slow, sweet busy hours that brought me all things good."
After my return we had to consider the winter. During the previous
winter we had suffered much from the severe cold, it being impossible
to warm the house, when the thermometer sank to twenty, or to even
thirty below zero. After some efforts to find suitable winter quarters
in the neighborhood we closed the house, and went for a week or two to
the Fifth Avenue Hotel. I had a business contract pending with Mr.
Edwin Bonner, and we knew that a suitable house somewhere near New
York would be the best for me. There was one great trouble connected
with this arrangement: we had to send our English mastiff to the
kennels, and Sultan was really a very much beloved member of the
family. He had been given to me by my friend Dr. Bermingham when we
first went up the mountain. "It is a lonely place," said the good
doctor, "and you ladies will need a protector." He was sent from the
kennels with a pedigree as long as an English duke's, and he was
positively described as a Saint Bernard. I knew he was an English
mastiff of pure breed, as soon as I saw him, and I loved him all the
better for it.
Everyone's dog does wonderfully, but Sultan excelled them all. He
could nearly speak, and in the last agonies of death, he did really
call "Lilly" as plainly as I could have done. He came to every meal
with us, and had his plate and napkin laid next to Lilly, for between
Lilly and himself there was the strongest affection. He permitted no
other dog on the place, but he talked to all the dogs from far and
near through the gate, and they brought him all the news of the
mountain. Sometimes he brought it to us, and we always listened and
answered, "Is that possible, Sultan?" and he would give a little bark
of assent, and lie down to consider it. He liked me to be prettily
dressed, and always showed his satisfaction in some unmistakable way.
He was most polite to company, met them at the gate, and conducted
them to the parlor, invariably lying down at the feet of the prettiest
and best dressed person in the company. If I was in England he watched
for the mail with Lilly, and listened attentively while she read my
letter to him. When she came to the words, "Mamma and Alice send their
love to Sultan," he always answered the message with a little bark of
pleasure. Oh, indeed, I could tell still more wonderful things of this
affectionate creature, but they would raise a doubt. No one could
believe them, unless they had lived with the splendid fellow, and
known him as we did. So it was hard to part with him, even for a week
or two, but he was large as a mastiff of pure blood can be, and the
proprietors of the Fifth Avenue Hotel would not hear of him as a
guest.
We went to the hotel on October, the seventeenth, and between that
date and the twenty-seventh I made a contract with Mr. Bonner for four
serials. I was to deliver two each year, and he was to pay me
twenty-five hundred dollars for each, in all, ten thousand dollars. In
the meantime Lilly had found a house in East Orange, which was
thoroughly warmed, and we moved into it on October the twenty-fifth,
and brought Sultan home with us.
We were soon comfortably settled, and on the first of January I had
finished the ninth chapter of my first serial for Mr. Edwin Bonner,
called "A Sister to Esau." On the eighth of February it was finished.
But the press of business, and the proposals of various publishers,
seems to have really made me very unhappy. In a note on the
twenty-third of February, when I had had a great deal of business to
attend to, I wrote at night, "I am sad and weary with the day, and
feel terribly unfit for the considerations I have to face. I have a
sense of being politely bullied, and of having suffered a loss of
some kind--spiritual, mental or financial--perhaps something in all
respects."
I was much interrupted by callers in East Orange, a great many of whom
brought manuscripts, which they were sure I would like to read, and
could easily place for them. I had a heartache for the peace and
solitude of the little cottage on the mountain. Now the dream of every
English man and woman is a home of their own, and I saw this to be a
possibility now; and I could think of no place but Cherry Croft. I
wanted it for my own. Then I could put in a proper furnace and make it
habitable all the year round.
I had finished Mr. Bonner's serial on the eighth of February; on the
fifteenth of February, I began for _Lippincott's_ "A Rose of A Hundred
Leaves." Its heroine, _Aspatria_, was one of my favorites. She dwelt
among the Fells in one of those large, comfortable farm or manor
houses, occupied for centuries by the Sheep Lords of the North
Country. I always knew what she was going to do. Sometimes I have
wondered, if Amelia had once been _Aspatria_. Her brothers seemed so
near and real to me, and she lived in just such a home, as I have had
glimpses of, whenever the Past comes back to me. I finished the book
on the fifteenth of March, and Mr. Mead praised the story, which
pleased me, because it was the first time he had ever expressed
satisfaction with my work.
On the twentieth I went to Cornwall, and bought Cherry Croft, paying
for it six thousand dollars in cash. Some told me I had paid too much,
others too little, but I was satisfied. The house was not worth much,
but there was nearly four acres of land full of fruit and forest
trees. And there were the mountains, and the river, and the wide
valley view, and that general peace and quiet, that has in it a kind
of sacramental efficacy.
[Illustration: "CHERRY CROFT," CORNWALL-ON-HUDSON]
I had at this time a great deal of trouble with English houses
printing my work, without either payment or permission, and a
laughable but provoking incident occurred with the proof-reading of "A
Sister to Esau." In this story, my chief character is a Scotch
gentleman, of the most perfervid Calvinism, and the period of the
story was the glorious ecclesiastical "departure" of the Free Kirk.
Now Mr. Bonner's proofreader happened to be a strict, strait
Methodist, and he altered all the Calvinism to Methodism, which was
sheer nonsense in the mouth of a Scotch Chief, and a seceding Free
Kirker. However as soon as I explained the circumstances to Mr. Bonner
he had the text restored as written, with many apologies for his
Methodist proofreader's conscience.
The whole summer was spent in writing Mr. Bonner's second serial,
"Love for an Hour Is Love Forever;" and in attending to the
alterations going on in my home. Every room that was papered and
painted afresh, was a new pleasure; and I had a fine garden, and
began to plant vines, and to make an asparagus bed. Also, I made
preparations for the winter's comfort by putting in a hot water
furnace, and then I began a novelette called "Femmetia's Experience"
for Mr. Bonner. It was a reincarnation story, and had a large sale,
though at the time, the doctrine was but looming up on my spiritual
horizon. The main facts of this story had been told me by an old
lady when I lived in Boroughbridge, and was only twelve years old. Dr.
Deems came to see us just as I had finished the story, and I spoke
of its tendency and he said he had a strong leaning to the old
heresy, that it had never died out of the heart and imaginations of
men, and was steadily gaining a new growth.
I ought to have had a very happy summer, for I had my own home, good
health, and all the work that I could do; but how often below this
calm idyllic surface of life, there is some fateful, domestic
sorrow! It is likely met with the heroism and devoted affection of the
old Greek tragedy, but there it is! and it has to be borne as best
it may. I found in love and work the strength and consolation, the
heavy-hearted of the Greek world never knew. It brings tears to my
eyes yet, to read the short, pitiful entries of that cruel November.
Yet I finished "Femmetia's Experience" and wrote also a novelette for
Bonner called "The Mate of the Easter Bell," and other short
articles. For in mental grief, mental work is a great salvation. I
worked hard, though I was often compelled to lay down my pencil to
seek the strength and comfort found only by "fleeing to the Rock that
is higher than I." At the last, all was well. The gay handsome Captain
M---- passed out of our lives, and Lilly bore the breaking of the
tie better than I expected.
I must not forget that in the midst of this trouble one of the dearest
friends I still possess came into my life. It was Rutger Bleecker
Jewett, the son of the learned Professor Jewett, of the General
Theological Seminary. Through the December cold and deep snow, he
climbed Storm King, one afternoon, and stepped into the light and
warmth of Cherry Croft, like an incarnation of splendid youth and
hope. He brought his welcome with him. With open hearts, and both
hands we all met him, and he was free of my home from that hour. His
father and mother were my friends, but I had never met Rutger before.
Yet in a recent letter he writes, "I have always felt that we were old
friends from the first--never strangers. It was as though we had met
again, after an absence, not as though we were meeting for the first
time. I also cherish vivid memories of you later in our old graystone
house in Chelsea Square. The old house with its deep windows, big
old-fashioned rooms, and vine-covered walls, has been replaced by a
modern building, no more comfortable, and nowhere so picturesque as
the house we knew. It is more than twenty years since I first came to
Cherry Croft--twenty years of unbroken trust and friendship--a very
rich possession to me."
And to me also. As opportunity offered, I have often sought his advice
or help, and he has never failed me.
On January tenth I began "A Singer from the Sea," Mr. Bonner's third
serial. On the twenty-second I was at the Astor Library all day, and
at Rossiter Johnson's at a reception in the evening; Mr. Jewett went
with me. On the twenty-third Mr. McClure and Mr. Ballistier took lunch
with me at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and Mr. McClure would have been
very generous to me for some stories, but my engagement with Mr.
Bonner prevented any business. I was at Mrs. Dodge's in the afternoon,
and among the numerous visitors picked out Edith Thomas at once. I
took dinner at Dr. Jewett's and watched with delight Mrs. Jewett
dancing with her sons and daughters.
On March fifteenth I finished "A Singer from the Sea" and then began
"Michael and Theodora" for Mrs. Dodge, which I did not finish until
June; and in July I began "Girls of a Feather," Mr. Bonner's last
serial, which I finished in October. I was busy all summer in having a
fence put round Cherry Croft, and a hedge planted within the fence.
During October I wrote an article for the _North American Review_
called "Flirting Wives;" I had my little green house filled with bulbs
and flowers, and planted with my own hands, and many tender memories,
some laburnum trees. They were my mother's favorite, and I can see
them dropping golden flowers all around our pretty garden in the Isle
of Man.
On November sixth I began the "Flower of Gala Water" which Bonner
published after its serialization in the new _Godey's Magazine_, and
on the eleventh we were honored and delighted with a visit from Dr.
William Hayes Ward, who spent the week end with us. A little event of
this visit remains like a picture on my memory. There was some
question about a text in the Epistles, and Dr. Ward took from his vest
pocket a small Testament. He said he had carried it there for many
years. "Then it is not a revised Testament?" I asked. And he looked at
the little book affectionately, and answered, "No." Yet the doctor had
been on the committee of revision. But I understood. For me there is
no version but the King James Version, and nothing could make me give
it up. I have only one copy of the revised edition, and that Dr.
Talmage inscribed to me with such extravagant encomiums, that I leave
it lying on my parlor table, as a kind of certificate of moral
health.
During 1892 I had written "The Singer from the Sea" and "Girls of a
Feather," "The Flower of Gala Water" and "The Preacher's Daughter,"
"Michael and Theodora" and several articles. My eyes were very tired,
and I did not do so much during January, 1893. On the twenty-third, I
began an article for Mr. Bok called "Why Literary Women Do Not Marry"
and on the twenty-ninth, I began my novel called "Prisoners of
Conscience." It was then a short story, and was published in the
_Century Magazine_, but was later enlarged to book size, and published
by the Century Company. During the month I also wrote another article
for Mr. Bok called "Women's Weapons."
In March, I wrote "The Lone House." A study of this story had appeared
in the _Christian Union_. It was a good book, but Rutger told me the
young people said it was "too religious," and they wished I would go
back to my love stories. So I began "Bernicia," a love story among
people of the first condition. But on my sixty-fourth birthday I
became very ill with ulcerated sore throat, and on the fourth of April
was in such a dangerous condition, that I sent for a New York
specialist. I came near to death, but recovered slowly, and on June
sixth I took Alice and went to England.
It was not until the beginning of 1895, that I was able to take up
"Bernicia," but during the same interval, I had written a story and
several articles for the Bacheller Syndicate. From the eighteenth to
the twenty-first of January I was in New York paying a visit to Mrs.
Goldschmidt. The first afternoon we went together to a large studio
reception. There were all sorts of professional people there, but I
remember no one but Mrs. Frank Leslie. She was then Mrs. Wilde, I
believe. The next day Mrs. Goldschmidt gave a dinner, and I sat next
to General Collis, but liked Mr. John Wise and his beautiful wife best
of all. I believe they were Virginians. The day following there was a
crowded reception, and a supper party, and I sat next to Moncure
Conway and Mrs. Frank Leslie. For the next night there was a theatre
party, and a supper at the Waldorf. More weary than if I had written a
book, I went home in the morning. I was grateful for the kindness
shown me but very sorry indeed for the people who called it "life" and
lived it.
On my sixty-fifth birthday I was still on "Bernicia," but I had been
very sick, and had a great deal of trouble of a heartaching quality,
but though I complain a little to my diary, I add, "Truly I am old and
weary, but with Thy help, O God, I am young, and strong, and ready to
mount up as on eagles' wings. Thy loving kindness faileth not!"
I finished "Bernicia" on the twentieth of April, and found a couplet
from the Sufi poets, which pleased me so much, I will copy it here:
"The Writer of our Destiny is a fair writer;
Never wrote He that which would wrong us."
I was very ill with nervous dyspepsia during June, but on July second
accepted the proposal of the _New York Herald_, to run for one of the
three judges of the ten thousand dollars prize offered by that paper
for the best novel submitted to it. My vote was so large, that it was
at this time the _Herald_ said I must be "the best beloved woman in
the country." Mr. George Parsons Lathrop and Mr. Hazeltine were my
colleagues.
After this I wrote "The Knight of the Nets" for the _Herald_.
"Discontented Women" for the _North American Review_--for which
article Mr. Rideing the editor wrote me a letter of thanks, a story
for the _Home Queen_, and other small items.
On the twenty-sixth of September Lilly married Mr. Edward A. Munro, a
Canadian whose business was in Brooklyn. It was an overwhelming trial
to me, for Lilly had been my right hand in all affairs since her
father's death. It is true that ten words by telegraph never yet
failed to bring her to my side by the next possible train, but the
house was empty and forlorn without her; and both Alice and I were
desolate. However life is a constant learning "to do without" until
that wonderful, "never-coming-back," we call death, restores to us all
that we have lost.
On December twenty-second, our dear Sultan died. We buried him in
Cherry Croft, and were all heart-broken. Alas!
"There's sorrow enough in the natural way,
From men and women to fill our day:
But when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware,
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear."--KIPLING.
January twelfth, 1896, Mrs. Goldschmidt had opened her house in
Cornwall and Mr. Wilcox, and Ella Wheeler Wilcox, the artist Arter and
Mrs. Arter and others were staying there. I took dinner with them,
and that evening made up my mind that large parties were a mistake. A
man's family is never too many, because perfect freedom and unanimity
of interest make them one. But with strangers there should be no more
guests than the host can personally entertain. The Ettrick Shepherd's
"Rule of Three" is a good one, both as regards the guests and the
courses. Every one has been to crowded and extravagant dinners, where
they played the hypocrite for three or four hours, and said a fervent
"Thank God!" when it was over.
Two days after this dinner I was in New York to attend Edward Bok's
reception--I think at the Waldorf Astoria. I should call it a mob, and
not a reception. I had with me Dr. Lysander Dickerman, but even his
splendid physical bulk, could not make a way for me through the crowd.
The next day he came to Cornwall with me, and with Dr. and Mrs. Stone,
who called to see him, we had a delightful evening. I wish I had space
to say more of Dr. Dickerman, but there must be many living yet who
remember his piety, his vast stores of learning, his attractive
personality and fine conversational powers. The next morning Mr. Paul,
a London editor, came in and brought me his last book.
On the twenty-seventh of this January, 1896, I made an arrangement
with Mr. Dodd to enlarge "The Knight of the Nets" for a book, for
which they agreed to pay eight hundred dollars on January, 1897. Then
I went out to spend the weekend with Irving Bacheller at his home in
Port Chester. He had a beautiful place there, and a lovely wife, and I
enjoyed my holiday very much. Mr. Bacheller was a good performer on
the organ, which astonished me, and yet it need not have done so, for
men seem to play with little or no effort. He was a fine driver also,
and I saw the villages of Greenwich and Belle Haven. Professor Gaines
dined one evening with us, and my visit to Mr. and Mrs. Bacheller is
full of pleasant memories.
I returned to New York on Monday morning, Mr. Bacheller coming with
me. I intended spending the day in the Astor Library, but when we
reached Astor Place, Mr. Bacheller said suddenly, "I am going to see
Louis Klopsch, and I want you to go with me."
"Who is Louis Klopsch?" I asked.
"The proprietor of the _Christian Herald_."
"Oh!" I replied. "Do you think he will care to see me?"
"He will be glad to see you, and I dare promise, that you will be the
better for seeing him."
So I went to see Louis Klopsch, and it was one of the happiest and the
most profitable things I ever did. We found him in his private office,
and the room was in itself remarkable. It had an ornate, Eastern look;
the windows were shaded with tinted glass, and there was an oil
painting of "The Descent from the Cross" covering a large space of the
western wall, while other Biblical pictures and models were everywhere
to be seen; giving it the Oriental look of which I have spoken. And I
had never seen such handsome furniture and appointments in any
editor's or even publisher's office. I thought of the rather large
closets, with their plain wooden chairs and simple desks, in which
Harper's editors sat; of the slips in which George Merriam, and Moses
Coit Tyler wrote and read; the poverty of all the editorial offices I
had ever seen flashed across my memory, as I sat amid the color,
beauty and luxury of the office of the _Christian Herald_.
Dr. Klopsch rose as we entered, and with smiles came to meet us. Mr.
Bacheller hastened away, I stayed nearly two hours, and they went like
ten minutes. At the end of our interview, I was astonished at my first
estimate of his countenance. I had then thought it remarkable, but not
handsome; but I soon understood that it was the only face, that could
have expressed his complex inner man, as well as properly manifest his
slight, graceful personality. He had charming manners, and walked with
a kind of alert grace. I have been particular about Dr. Klopsch's
appearance, for I came to know him well, both in a business and a
social way, and I suspect he could appear very different, to people
with whom he was not in sympathy.
I went home on the first of February, and found so many letters I
could do nothing on the second but answer them. Among the writers
were Mrs. Libbey, and Mr. Rideing; the latter sent me a check for
seventy-five dollars in payment for "Discontented Women." On the
eleventh, I went to Princeton, and remained with the Libbeys until the
fourteenth, when I returned to New York, and dined with the Rideings.
I liked to go to the Rideings; there was always such a sweet, old
English air and influence about their home and dinners. I think they
spent their summers in England, and never quite lost its atmosphere.
On the sixteenth I began to rewrite "The Knight of the Nets" for Mr.
Dodd; and on the twenty-first I signed a contract with Dr. Klopsch to
write him a serial for the _Christian Herald_ for twenty-five hundred
dollars. I also saw Mr. Booth King about a short story of four
chapters for his paper called _Fashion_ and promised to write it for
five hundred dollars. Then I worked on "The Knight of the Nets" all
the rest of February.
On the fourth of March I was again in New York attending a play and
supper at Colonel Robert Ingersoll's. Mr. Jewett went with me. I
remember nothing about the play, but I shall never forget Robert
Ingersoll. I know all that has been said against him. It does not
alter my fixed opinion that in practice he was one of the best
Christians I ever knew. He has gone to the Mercy of the Merciful One,
and I can only remember his wonderful intelligence, and personal
charm.
On March nineteenth the Sorosis Club gave me a breakfast at the
Waldorf, at which I met Mrs. Helmuth, Jennie June (Mrs. Croly) and
many other notable women. I returned home after the affair, and the
next day went to work on Mr. King's story called, "I Will Marry My Own
First Love." I did not finish it until the thirty-first, for though I
had contracted for twelve thousand words, I wrote twenty-one thousand,
because I could not properly develop the story with less work.
March, the twenty-ninth, was my sixty-fifth birthday. I was writing
all day on the story for Mr. King. "In the evening I sat with Lilly
and Alice in the firelight, and talked of God's wonderful care over
us. Alice said many comforting things. So sweet and good is the dear
One! We used the new blue dinner service for the first time." (Diary,
1896.)
I was on "The Knight of the Nets" again until the twentieth of April,
when I got a letter from Mr. Charles Frohman, about "The Bow of Orange
Ribbon." On the twenty-first I made a contract with him to dramatize
it, _if I could_, about which fact I was doubtful. I had already
realized that a play was not to write, but to build. Mr. Frohman gave
me a box for that night's performance of "The Prisoner of Zenda" and
Mr. Edward Dodd and Mr. Bacheller occupied it with me. Before trying
the play, I finished "The Knight of the Nets" so often delayed and put
aside. This was not until the eleventh of May.
I gave nearly two weeks to the play, but felt it was not technically
right, and Mr. Frohman in a kindly and gentlemanly manner told me so.
And I was sorry at my failure to do what he wished. It made me nervous
and sick, and I went to stay a few days at Elwyn, with Dr. Martin
Barr.
This clever, delightful physician is not, I regret to say, any
relative of mine, but we are the best of friends, and I always resort
to him for advice when sick, and other physicians fail me. Only three
months ago I did so with the usual success. He is the head of the
Elwyn State Institution for Insanity in many forms, and an exceedingly
clever physician and social scientist.
As the Elwyn Institution is very near to Swartmoor College I visited
Professor De Gama, its principal at that time, and was delighted with
him, and his large body of male and female students. He took me
through the building, until we came to a door leading into a separate
wing of the house. He told me he could not pass this door, as it led
to the quarter sacred to the women students. "But," he added, "go down
the corridor, and you will find plenty of friends."
I did so, and seeing a door open, and a room full of girls, I stood
and looked at them. There was an instant pause, and then a little
joyful cry of "_Amelia Barr! Amelia Barr!_" Afterwards I had as happy
an hour as any woman could have, and standing among that joyous,
handsome crowd of young, lovely girls, and hearing their sweet voices
call me, "Friend Amelia," I felt young again. And my thoughts flew
instantly to the fair streets of Kendal, on First Day morning, full
of beautiful, richly-gowned Quaker girls, going to meeting, while the
magical chimes of Kendal Church filled the still air above them with
heavenly melody. And every morning, as long as I remained at Elwyn, I
found on my breakfast table a bouquet from the girls of Elwyn College.
May God bless every one of them, wherever they now dwell!
On the first of June, I began a story for Dr. Klopsch called "The
King's Highway." It is a good story, but would have been better, if I
had not received so many instructions from the editors of the
_Christian Herald_. It had an unique acknowledgment from Mr. Thomas E.
Clarke of Minneapolis, who sent me a copy of a story called "The
King's Highway" in the Dakota language.
On the twenty-second of June, I was at a dinner party given to Julian
Hawthorne on his fiftieth birthday, and had the pleasure of sitting
between Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Hazeltine. I know there was a very fine
dinner, but as to the feast of reason and the flow of soul, if it was
remarkable I have quite forgotten all about it. Yet with Hawthorne and
Hazeltine present, many clever things must have been said. The two
items that impressed me, was the beautiful gown of Mrs. Richard
Stoddard, and the wreath of laurel that crowned the chair in which
Julian Hawthorne sat.
On the ninth of July I was so tired, that I took my work to Nantasket
and stayed there two weeks. It was then a quiet seaside resort, I
believe it is now a kind of Coney Island. But I met pleasant people,
and saw the New Englander on his native soil, and liked him so much,
that I wrote the following poem to express my admiration of his
character:
They intended to go to Virginia,
But God at the wheel said, "No!
The hundred that I have chosen,
To the cold, white North shall go.
I will temper them there as by fire,
I will try them a hundred fold,
I will shake them with all its tempests,
I will steady them with its cold."
So these men from the English meadows
By the pitiless Plymouth Bay,
Learned well the worth of their Freedom,
By the price they had to pay.
But out of the fires of affliction,
The tumult and struggle of wars,
They brought forth her glorious banner,
Its azure all shining with stars.
The Hundred has grown to a nation,
The wilderness blooms like the rose,
And all through the South and the West
Go the men of the ice and the snows.
But wherever they go, they carry
The strength of their forefather's fight--
The courage and moral uprightness,
Of men who prefer to do right.
On July thirty-first, I had a letter from my sister Alethia who was
staying a few weeks at Castletown in the Isle of Man. In this letter
she told me she had been with a marble cutter to Kirk Malew churchyard
and had had Captain Thomas Huddleston's grave stone cleaned and all
the moss and lichen removed from the lettering. My readers may
remember that he was captain of the _Great Harry_ and was bringing
home troops from America, when his ship was wrecked on Scarlet Rocks,
every one on board perishing. And she told me, that when the stone was
cleaned, she noticed that this tragedy occurred on the twenty-ninth of
March, so that Captain Thomas Henry Huddleston and his son Henry died
on the day that I was born.
Early in August I finished "The King's Highway" and began to try to
dramatize "The Bow of Orange Ribbon." I did not stop for anything
except to visit Mr. Hearst's Children's Republic near Haverstraw, and
to write an article about it. I finished the play in September, and
Mr. Frohman was so far pleased with it that he promised to find a
playwright who understood stage business to work with me. On the
twenty-fourth, he introduced me to Mr. August Thomas, who agreed to
direct the work as soon as I came to the city for the winter.
October was a very busy month. I wrote half a dozen articles for Dr.
Klopsch, and on the twentieth I went to Princeton to attend a great
anniversary. I stayed with my old pupil, Professor William Libbey, and
Professor Wheeler of the California University, the author of a
fascinating "Life of Alexander the Great," was there with me.
Professor Jacobus and Mrs. Jacobus were also there, and at night I
went to a college concert with Mrs. Libbey. On the twenty-first I went
to Alexander Hall with Mrs. Libbey and heard Henry Van Dyke deliver a
splendid poem written by himself called "The Builders." After it, I
was unable to decide whether he was greater as an orator, or a poet.
On the twenty-second I saw the degrees given, heard Mr. Cleveland
speak, and then went to a reception at President Patton's. On the
third of the following March, I had a letter from Moses Coit Tyler in
which he says:
MY DEAR MRS. BARR:
I had from my colleague Wheeler a faithful account of his talk
with you at Princeton last fall, and of your kind message to me.
I'm sorry that I can't send you a portrait of the literary editor
of the _Christian Union_ as he looked twenty-four years ago, when
he was that great man. So I must ask you to accept this his latest
portrait, which may tell you that these years which have crowned
you with laurels, have crowned him with gray hairs. All the same
he is
Yours faithfully,
MOSES COIT TYLER.
March 30, 1897.
On the twenty-fourth I was at home and wrote an article for Dr.
Klopsch on the Armenian question, and on the twenty-sixth I went to a
great meeting in Carnegie Hall, called to sympathize with the
persecuted Armenian Christians. This meeting was chiefly memorable to
me, because I met there Dr. Burrell. He made the great speech of the
occasion, and as I sat beside him on the platform I heard and enjoyed
every word of it. As an orator, I do not think he has many equals, and
his voice is very fine and resonant, and his gestures expressive and
pleasing.
During all the month I had been working as I found opportunity on the
"Prisoners of Conscience" enlarging it for the Century Company, but I
also wrote an article for the _Advance_ on the "Four Champions of
Justification by Faith"--Paul, St. Augustine, Luther and John Wesley.
At the close of October I saw Mr. Frohman again, and he told me Mr.
Thomas wanted one thousand dollars to go over the play, and he would
not give it. He was most kind and gentlemanly, but I think this
disappointment wearied him. I knew how he felt, because I also was
weary of work that wouldn't be manageable, and I laid it aside without
any regret, and returned gladly to "Prisoners of Conscience."
On the twelfth of November I was in New York, and going into Mr.
Dodd's store then on Fifth Avenue about Twenty-second Street, I met
there Barrie and Mrs. Barrie, and Robertson Nicoll, a distinguished
editor and publisher of London. I thought Mrs. Barrie a lovely and
most attractive woman, and I was proud to take the hand of the famous
Scotch novelist.
On the twenty-third of November I went to New York for the winter. I
had not finished "Prisoners of Conscience," but Alice was so
exceedingly psychic, I thought it best to take her away from the
solitude of Cherry Croft to the material stir of the city. We went to
the Fifth Avenue Hotel, the proprietors of which house always made
such favorable terms for me, that it was a point of economy in the
winter to go there.
On the twenty-seventh, Mr. Frank Dodd asked me to a reception given to
Ian McLaren, and on the same day Mr. Sankey gave me a pass to the
Moody and Sankey meetings. I did not like Ian McLaren much, but I did
like the stir of human feeling in the other invitation, and Mr.
Sankey's singing pleased me, for my taste had not been either trained,
or spoiled, by too much classical music; and Sankey's singing had in
it, not only a fine lyrical cry, but also that "touch of Nature, which
makes all men kin."
On the twelfth of this December, Mrs. Klopsch called on me, and then
and there began the sweetest friendship that has come into my life. I
love beauty, and she was, and still is, very beautiful; and her kind,
cheerful disposition made her ten times more so. From that hour I
have loved her dearly, nay, but I think I must have loved her
somewhere long before that hour, for our attachment was always full
grown. And I count her love among the best blessings that God has
given me.
On the seventeenth, Mrs. Libbey called and brought me the Professor's
photo in cap and gown. He looked very grave and handsome, and I could
not help thinking of the days, in which I had given him music lessons,
and cut many a slice of bread and jelly for him, when he came into my
cottage, after a morning on the ice. Mr. Jewett took dinner with me
and I finished "Prisoners of Conscience." On Christmas morning Mr.
Jewett entered my parlor with armsful of laurel and mistletoe, and
dressed it beautifully; and Lilly and her husband came over from
Brooklyn to dine with me. I believe in good dinners. In some way or
other domestic happiness has a fundamental dependence on them, they
are conducive to amiable understandings. They are a festal sacrifice
to household love, and sacred friendship, and intellectual recreation;
and they are necessary to every kind of success. Only the Scotsman
"who is fit for anything when he is half-starved" may neglect his
dinner, and not injure his fortune.
The year 1897 has a record similar to the one just described. I spent
the first three months at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and then returned
joyfully to Cherry Croft, and remained there until near the close of
the year. It will be sufficient, if I now note the days containing
distinctive events; for instance, on the seventh of January I
addressed the men at the Bowery Mission, and on the fifteenth began a
story for the Bacheller Syndicate, called "The Price She Paid." Lilly
was sick with grippe, and I missed her daily visit very much. On the
twenty-ninth Mr. Thomas called again about the play, and I returned to
it, but with little heart, though working under his direction. On the
seventeenth of February I wrote "still working hard, but hopelessly on
my play. I have finished the second act, and Mr. Thomas professes to
be satisfied, even pleased; but then he is a very courteous
gentleman." On the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh I was at the Astor
Library, and had a long comforting talk with Mr. Beauregard on
reincarnation and other spiritual subjects.
On the fourth of March, Mr. Thomas came and appeared well satisfied
with what I had done, and on the ninth Mr. Frank Dodd called and
contracted for my next two stories. On the eleventh Mr. Beauregard
dined with me, and afterwards lectured in my parlor on occultism. The
rooms were crowded, and every one much interested. On the thirteenth I
made tea at the Author's Club, having General Sickles at my left hand.
I took a dislike to him, perhaps unjustly, but the Southern gallantry
I had admired forty years ago, seemed out of place in a man so old,
and a company calm and intellectual. The following day I was at Mr.
Robert Underwood Johnson's to dinner. His now famous son was present,
a dark handsome youth, with the quiet thoughtful eyes of dreaming
genius.
I spent the evening of the twenty-first at Mr. Dana's, and saw all his
wonderful collection of pottery. Very carefully he unlocked for me the
box that held the famous Peach Blow jar, and I will tell the truth,
and acknowledge that I was insensible to its beauty. I thought I had
seen far lovelier vases. Rutger Jewett was with me, and on the
twenty-fifth I was at Dr. Jewett's to tea. On the twenty-sixth Dr.
Klopsch asked me to go to India with the ship load of corn and wheat
which American women had given to the famine sufferers. He wished me
to go as the representative of these American women. My children would
not allow me to accept the offer, which I regretted. The twenty-ninth
was my sixty-sixth birthday, and all my rooms were full of flowers,
but Lilly had gone to Cornwall, and could not come, so there was a
little shadow on it. I spent the afternoon of the thirty-first at
Colonel Ingersoll's and met there Andrew White, our Minister to
Berlin, a most interesting man. He was just publishing a book and
promised to send me a copy.
On the first of April I came back to Cherry Croft. Lilly had gone
there three days previously, and the house was warm, everything in
order, and a loving smiling welcome waiting me. I was very happy
to be home again. On the third, Mr. Frohman wrote me that he was
disappointed in the play. So was I. I had wasted a deal of time and
strength on it, and I felt I was doing so, all the time I was
working on it.
All the first week in May was spent in trying to see my way clear to
go with Dr. Klopsch to India, about which he was urgent. But Alice was
mentally very sick, and Mary and Lilly would not hear of the journey,
the cholera being at that time very bad there. On June the thirteenth,
the Reverend Mr. Boyd of Chicago preached a sermon against the
"Prisoners of Conscience" which the Century Company had just issued in
book form. On the twenty-second, the _Chicago Times Herald_ published
my defence; and Dr. Boyd's sermon was only a splendid advertisement
for the story. In July, I was busy finishing my new novel "I, Thou and
the Other" but in August, I left it a week to write a story for the
Bacheller Syndicate, called "Judith of Keyes Grif."
On the twenty-sixth of September I was writing a story for _Leslie's_
called "The Lost I. O. U." and on the twenty-eighth I had a letter
from Dodd, Mead and Company saying they liked "I, Thou and the Other"
very much. There was nothing out of the usual course of events in
October, but a dinner which I gave, and which, quite unintentionally
on my part, consisted only of three clergymen. One day the Reverend
Mr. Snedeker, the Methodist preacher at Newburgh, told me many
interesting things about Father McGlyn, his offence against the
Church, and his summons to appear before some spiritual court at Rome.
I said, "I should like to see any man, who had been brave enough to
offend the powerful prelates of Rome;" and Mr. Snedeker answered, "He
wishes to meet you." "Then come to-morrow," I replied, "come to
dinner, and there is a fine moon to light you home." He gladly
accepted the invitation, and the next morning I sent and asked Mr.
Page, our Episcopal minister, to dine with them.
It was a remarkable meeting. Father McGlyn told us all about his visit
to Rome, and his interview with the Pope; then he went to Alice's
room, and blessed her, and blessed her altar, and prayed with her. For
he had quickly discerned the spirit within her, and with a beautiful
humility said it was greater and purer than his own. I shall never
forget Father McGlyn. As a social man he was a failure, as a priest
of God he was worthy of all honor.
On October the fifteenth, Professor and Mrs. Libbey sent for me to
hear the Earl of Aberdeen and President Cleveland speak, but I did not
go. A month afterwards I went to the Fifth Avenue Hotel for the winter
at the same favorable terms. I noticed that there was a great crowd at
dinner but I had a long, pleasant talk in the green parlor after it
with Mr. and Mrs. Tom Platt. I liked both thoroughly. Mrs. Platt
worked me a most exquisite center piece, and Mr. Platt wrote his name
in the corner. This autograph I embroidered, and the beautiful square
lies to this day over the green velvet cover of my dining-room table.
The next day I took lunch with the Mount Holyoke Alumnae, and made an
address on "The Neighbor at Our Gate," a most important person, for we
may choose our friends, but we cannot choose our neighbor. We have to
take him as he is, and make the best of him.
On December the second, Miss Jewett, Mrs. Platt, and Mrs. Lockhart of
Pittsburgh, and Mr. and Mrs. Saltus spent the evening with me, and I
received an invitation to address the Congregational Club on January
twenty-eighth, 1898; which I promised to do conditionally. On the
seventh, Edward Bok called and I promised to write some short things
for him. But I was really too tired to do anything, and was compelled
to stay away from Mr. Rideing's reception on that day, and even
Rutger's happy presence was almost more than I could respond to.