FRUIT CULTURE AND LITERARY WORK
After my brother's resignation from the ministry, he bought a plain,
old-fashioned house with considerable ground about it, at
Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, two miles distant from his childhood home, and
went there to live.
It soon became evident, however, that Edward could not depend upon his
literary work alone for the support of his growing family. He had for
some years taken much interest in the cultivation of small fruits, and
after the removal to Cornwall he carried on this work upon a larger
scale, finding it profitable as well as interesting.
I remember the piles of letters that came to him each day for several
years containing orders for plants. Although in general not a
methodical man, yet the painstaking care which he was known to exercise
in keeping the many varieties distinct enabled his customers to rely
implicitly upon his statements as to the kind and value of the plants
ordered. He often employed many men and boys on his place, but always
engaged them with the understanding that if through carelessness the
varieties of plants became mixed the offender was to be dismissed at
once, and a few examples soon taught his assistants that he meant what
he said. But when they were faithful to their duty, they invariably
found him considerate and kind.
The strawberry was Edward's favorite among the small fruits, and he
made many experiments with new varieties. When the vines were bearing,
sometimes as many as forty bushels of berries were picked in a single
day. Some of them were of mammoth size. I remember on one occasion we
took from a basket four berries which filled to the brim a large
coffee-cup, and notwithstanding their enormous size they were solid and
sweet. During this period he wrote the articles on "Success with Small
Fruits," published in _Scribner's Magazine_.
Currants came next in his favor. Writing of them he says: "Let me
recommend the currant cure. If any one is languid, depressed in
spirits, inclined to headaches, and generally 'out of sorts,' let him
finish his breakfast daily for a month with a dish of freshly picked
currants. He will soon doubt his own identity, and may even think that
he is becoming a good man. In brief, the truth of the ancient pun will
be verified, 'That the power to live a good life depends largely upon
the _liver_.' Let it be taught at the theological seminaries that
the currant is a means of grace. It is a corrective, and that is what
average humanity most needs."
Mr. Charles Downing of Newburgh, a noted horticulturist, was Edward's
valued friend. He was especially successful in fruit culture, and it
was his custom to forward to my brother for trial novelties sent to him
from every part of the country. Then on pleasant summer afternoons the
old gentleman would visit my brother, and, side by side, they would
compare the much-heralded strangers with the standard varieties. Often
forty or fifty kinds were bearing under precisely the same conditions.
The two lovers of Nature thus gained knowledge of many of her secrets.
Edward's coming to live in Cornwall was a source of great pleasure to
our father, who, although then past eighty years of age, was still
vigorous, and as full of enthusiasm for his garden as when he first
moved to the country. Often on summer mornings, before the sun was
fairly above the eastern mountains, father would drive over to my
brother's, taking in his phaeton a basket of fruit or vegetables that
he believed were earlier than any in my brother's garden. These he
would leave at the front door for Edward to discover when he came
downstairs, and return in time for our breakfast. He would laugh with
the keenest enjoyment if he found that his beans or sweet corn had
ripened first. Frequently he would remain at his son's house for
breakfast, and afterwards the two would wander together over the
grounds while the dew was still fresh upon the fruit and flowers. Many
of the rosebushes and shrubs had been transplanted from the old garden,
and it delighted my father and brother to see that they were
flourishing and blooming in their new environment.
When Edward first moved to Cornwall several newspapers severely
criticised him for giving up the ministry to write novels. I was
sitting with him alone in his library one day when such a criticism
came to him through the mail. After reading it he handed it quietly to
me, went to his desk and took down a bundle of letters, saying: "These
are mostly from young men, not one of whom I know, who have written to
me of the benefit received from my books." He then read to me some of
those touching letters of confession and thanks for his inspiring help
to a better life.
When he finished reading the letters he said: "I know my books are read
by thousands; my voice reached at most but a few hundred. I believe
many who would never think of writing to me such letters as these are
also helped. Do you think I have made a mistake? My object in writing,
as in preaching, is to do good, and the question is, Which can I do
best? I think with the pen, and I shall go on writing, no matter what
the critics say."
Still his name was retained on the rolls of the North River Presbytery,
and he was always ready to preach when needed, especially in neglected
districts. For a long time after father's death he kept up the little
Sunday-school that had been father's special care.
His home commanded a fine view of the river and mountains, and he would
watch with great delight the grand thunder-storms that so often sweep
over the Highlands. I take this description of a storm from one of his
letters:--
"This moist summer has given a rich, dark luxuriance to the
foliage, that contrasts favorably to the parched, withered aspect
of everything last year. The oldest inhabitants (that class so
sorely perplexed in this age of innovations) were astonished to
learn that a sharp frost occurred in the mountains back of us, just
before the Fourth. Even the seasons have caught the infection of
the times, and no longer continue their usual jog-trot through the
year, but indulge in the strangest extremes and freaks.
"A person living in the city can have little idea of thunder-storms
as they occur in this mountain region. The hills about us, while
they attract the electrified clouds, are also our protection, for,
abounding in iron ore, they become huge lightning-rods above the
houses and hamlets at their bases. But little recks old Bear
Mountain, or Cro' Nest, Jove's most fiery bolts. The rocky
splinters fly for a moment; some oak or chestnut comes quivering
down; but soon the mosses, like kindly charity, have covered up the
wounded rock, and three or four saplings have grown from the roots
of the blighted tree.
"But the storm we witness from our safe and sheltered homes is
often grand beyond description. At first, in the distant west, a
cloud rises so dark that you can scarcely distinguish it from a
blue highland. But a low muttering of thunder vibrates through the
sultry air, and we know what is coming. Soon the afternoon sun is
shaded, and a deep, unnatural twilight settles upon the landscape
like the shadow of a great sorrow on a face that was smiling a
moment before. The thunder grows heavier, like the rumble and roar
of an approaching battle. The western arch of the sky is black as
night. The eastern arch is bright and sunny, and as you glance from
side to side, you cannot but think of those who, comparatively
innocent and happy at first, cloud their lives in maturer years
with evil and crime, and darken the future with the wrath of
heaven. At last the vanguard of black flying clouds, disjointed,
jagged, the rough skirmish line of the advancing storm, is over our
heads. Back of these, in one dark, solid mass, comes the tempest.
For a moment there is a sort of hush of expectation, like the lull
before a battle. The trees on the distant brow of a mountain are
seen to toss and writhe, but as yet no sound is heard. Soon there
is a faint, far-away rushing noise, the low, deep prelude of
nature's grand musical discord that is to follow. There is a vivid
flash, and a startling peal of thunder breaks forth overhead, and
rolls away with countless reverberations among the hills. In the
meantime the distant rushing sound has developed into an increasing
roar. Half-way down the mountain-side the trees are swaying wildly.
At the base stands a grove, motionless, expectant, like a square of
infantry awaiting an impetuous cavalry charge. In a moment it
comes. At first the shock seems terrible. Every branch bends low.
Dead limbs rattle down like hail. Leaves, torn away, fly wildly
through the air. But the sturdy trunks stand their ground, and the
baffled tempest passes on. Mingling with the rush of the wind and
reverberations of thunder, a new sound, a new part now enters into
the grand harmony. At first it is a low, continuous roar, caused by
the falling rain upon the leaves. It grows louder fast, like the
pattering feet of a coming multitude. Then the great drops fall
around, yards apart, like scattering shots. They grow closer, and
soon a streaming torrent drives you to shelter. The next heavy peal
is to the eastward, showing that the bulk of the shower is past.
The roar of the thunder just dies away down the river. The thickly
falling rain contracts your vision to a narrow circle, out of which
Cozzens's great hotel and Bear Mountain loom vaguely. The flowers
and shrubbery bend to the moisture with the air of one who stands
and takes it. The steady, continuous plash upon the roof slackens
into a quiet pattering of raindrops. The west is lightening up; by
and by a long line of blue is seen above Cro' Nest. The setting sun
shines out upon a purified and more beautiful landscape. Every
leaf, every spear of grass is brilliant with gems of moisture. The
cloud scenery has all changed. The sun is setting in unclouded
splendor. Not the west but the east is now black with storm; but
the rainbow, emblem of hope and God's mercy, spans its blackness,
and in the skies we again have suggested to us a life, once clouded
and darkly threatened by evil, but now, through penitence and
reform, ending in peace and beauty, God spanning the wrong of the
past with His rich and varied promises of forgiveness. At last the
skies are clear again. Along the eastern horizon the retreating
storm sends up occasional flashes, that seem like regretful
thoughts of the past. Then night comes on, cool, moonlit,
breathless. Not a leaf stirs where an hour before the sturdiest
limbs bent to the earth. This must be nature's commentary on the
'peace that passeth all understanding.'"
At this period Dr. Lyman Abbott made his permanent home in Cornwall,
going almost daily to the city to attend to his duties as editor of the
_Christian Union_.
In a short article written for that paper my brother describes a drive
taken over the mountains when Dr. Abbott was entertaining the Brooklyn
Association of Congregational Ministers.
"Pleasures long planned and anticipated often prove 'flat, stale,
and unprofitable' when at last they disappoint us in their sorry
contrast with our hopes, while on the other hand good times that
come unexpectedly are enjoyed all the more keenly because such
agreeable surprises. The other morning the editor of the _Christian
Union_, Dr. Lyman Abbott, who is a near neighbor and a nearer
friend, appeared at my door with the announcement that he was to
meet on the morrow at the West Point landing the New York and
Brooklyn Association of Congregational Ministers, at the same time
giving me an invitation to accompany him, which I accepted on the
spot. The morning of the 27th found us leading an array of
carriages up the Cornwall slope of the mountain, for it had been
arranged that the gentlemen whom Mr. and Mrs. Abbott were to
entertain for the day should land at West Point and enjoy one of
the finest drives in America across the Highlands, instead of a
prosaic ride down from Newburgh through the brickyards. The Albany
day boat was on time, and so were we, and there stepped on shore a
venerable body of divinity, or rather several bodies, led by Rev.
Henry Ward Beecher and his brother, Dr. Edward Beecher. A shower
the previous evening had left less dust than could be found in the
immaculate parlor of a spinster, and the heated air had been cooled
to such a nicety of adjustment that we grew warm in the praise of
its balminess. With much good-natured badinage and repartee we
climbed the West Point hill and took the outer avenue that skirts
the river edge of the plain and campus. 'The brethren' gazed with
mild curiosity at 'Flirtation Walk' where it led demurely and
openly from the main road, but soon lost itself in winding
intricacies, mysterious copsewood, and the still deeper mysteries
suggested by the imagination. Let no grave reader lift a disdainful
nose. Perhaps this same secluded path of frivolous name has had a
greater influence on human destiny than himself.
"The trim plain and trimmer cadets were soon left far behind, and
nature began to wear the aspect it had shown to our great
grandfathers when children. Through the skilful engineering of Mr.
Charles Caldwell, a most excellent road of easy grades winds across
Cro' Nest and Butter Hill (the latter was rechristened 'Storm King'
some years since by the poet, N. P. Willis). As our path zigzagged
up the shaggy sides of Cro' Nest, wider and superber views opened
out before us, until at last West Point with its gleaming tents,
the winding river with its silver sheen, and the village of Cold
Spring lay at our feet, while to the southwest a multitude of green
highlands lifted their crests like a confusion of emerald waves. A
few moments more brought us to the summit, and although we were but
a thousand feet nearer heaven than when we started, the air was so
pure and sweet and the sky so blue that it might well seem to those
who had so recently left the stifling city that they had climbed
half-way thither. A half an hour's ride brought us to the northern
slope of the mountains. Here we made a halt at Mr. Cobb's 'School
on the Heights," and were entertained with unlimited cherries,
which by some strange providence had escaped the boys, and also by
some exceedingly interesting gymnastic exercises that were
performed to the rhythm of gay music. There are probably few finer
views on the river than that from Mr. Cobb's piazza and grounds,
and thus his pupils are under the best of influences out of doors
as well as within. As Mr. Abbott's guests looked down upon the
broad expanse of Newburgh Bay, the city itself, the picturesque
village of Cornwall, and the great swale of rich diversified
country that lay between our lofty eyrie and the dim and distant
Shawangunk Mountains that blended with the clouds, they must have
felt indebted to their host for one of the richest pleasures of
their lives.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE PIAZZA AT "ROELANDS."]
"At last Mr. Beecher said that he carried an internal clock which
plainly intimated that it was time for dinner. The _descensus_ was
easy, but Mrs. Abbott's warm welcome and hot dinner suggested an
_avernus_ only by blissful contrast. The fun, wit, and jollity of
the remainder of the evening can no more be reproduced than the
sparkle of yesterday's dew or the ripple of yesterday's waves. It
was a pleasant thing to see those gray-haired men, many of whom had
been burdened with care more than half a century, becoming boy-like
again in feeling and mirthfulness."
During Edward's residence in Cornwall, each year about the middle of
June, when the roses and strawberries were in their prime, it was his
custom to send an annual invitation to the Philolethean Club of
clergymen in New York City to visit him for a day at his home. Dr.
Howard Crosby, Dr. Lyman Abbott, Dr. Schaeffer, and many other
well-known clergymen were members of this club. At these meetings the
learned and dignified clergymen threw aside all formality and were like
a company of college boys off for a frolic. Their keen wit, quick
repartee, and droll stories at these times will never be forgotten by
those privileged to listen.
In 1882 heavy financial loss came upon us as a family owing to the
failure of an elder brother. Edward, in his efforts to help him, became
deeply involved, and to satisfy his creditors was obliged to sell the
copyrights of several of his earlier books. These were bought by a
friend without his knowledge at the time. After several years of
incessant labor he worked his way out of these difficulties, and, owing
to the immense sale of his books, was able to redeem his copyrights. He
then felt free to take rest and change of scene in a trip to Southern
California.