In March my husband wrote a letter of warm congratulation upon my
success in gathering all our children together, and sent me a sum
to be used in sending them to school. That I might aid my husband to
mend our fortunes, I persuaded seven of my neighbors' children to take
music lessons from me. The boys were entered to Mr. Gordon McCabe—the
accomplished gentleman and scholar so well known and so popular in
England as well as at home. My daughter Gordon entered an excellent
school of which Professor Davis was principal. The older children had
been taught by the Rev. William Hoge, who had been pastor of the Brick
Church on Fifth Avenue, New York. They were well instructed in Greek,
Latin, and mathematics, and eagerly embraced their new opportunities.
Before we left Virginia Gordon graduated in her school, and the boys
took honors of their accomplished preceptor,—Theo winning the first
prize—the Pegram prize, ordained to commemorate Mr. McCabe's colonel,
"who died with all his wounds in front." The children's father longed
all the more—were that possible—for his home. He writes March 15:—
"Beg Gordon to apply herself diligently to my books—or what
is left of them. She must read Wilson's 'Essay on Burns,'
Macaulay's essays—Jeffrey, Wilson, and Sydney Smith. She must
study Russell's 'Modern Europe,' and must read Pope, Cowper,
and other poets. I wish her to be the most brilliant girl of
the day. These accomplishments may stand her in better stead
than others of mere display. McCabe will push the boys.
"I know I have written you despondent letters, but I do not
despair! I am only depressed by my physical weakness and by my
very great difficulties, _but here I mean to stay!_ It is my
last cast in the game of life, and if I fail now, all is lost.
I am writing again for the _News_. I need the money to support
us. The Law is so slow—so uncertain that I almost despair.
If I had a little farm in the country and barely enough for
existence, I would be content, _provided_ I could have my
family and the enjoyment of their society. You can have no
idea how miserable is my life here. It is enough to make me
crazy. I can hardly endure it. I do trust your Christian
fortitude enables you to bear our misfortunes better than
I can. You have the children! Roger has written me a sweet
letter, for which I thank him. I trust they all care a little
for me! Poor papa, so lonely and sad without his home! Kiss
them all for me. I love them more than all the world."
The hour before the dawn is always, we are told, a dark hour. This was
a dark hour indeed, but the dawn was near. Alas, there were yet many
nights of darkness, many mornings of fitful dawning, before the sun
rose clearly on better days! My husband's sensitive spirit responded as
quickly to the humor of a situation as to pathos and tragedy. Very soon
after the mournful letter I received the following:—
"'The Rebel Pryor' has had 'a _rap_' at last—a rap with no
uncertain significance. I have had a call from a _bona fide_
client!
"Quite unexpectedly this morning a stalwart and evidently
brusque person entered, and accosting me asked, 'Is your name
Pryor?' I had to acknowledge the damaging fact! 'Well,' he
said, 'my name is "France." Ben Wood has sent me to you to
argue a case I have in Court. Now I have as many lawsuits as
any man in the United States, and experience has taught me
never to retain a lawyer until we have agreed upon all I am
to pay for his services.'
"To this I assented, but added that as I did not know what his
case might be, I could not indicate any terms of employment.
"He replied, 'I live in Baltimore. I am at the head of all
the Lottery business in the United States. My business has
failed, and I'm trying to get discharge under your Two Thirds
Act.' Now I had never heard of the Two Thirds Act, and had
no notion what he meant, but this fact, you may be sure, I
did not communicate to my intending client. At this point I
made a bad break. I said, 'Mr. France, you know I have been
practising in New York a very short time, and of course I am
quite ignorant of the rate of charges here.' Instantly it
occurred to me that he would draw an inference not only of
my ignorance of fees, but of the law itself. Fortunately the
reflection seemed to escape him. My object was, of course,
to avoid designating the amount of the fee myself. I wanted
to ask him fifty dollars, but I had a dreadful fear that the
proposition would drive him out of the office, and I would
not get even twenty-five,—which I would gladly have accepted.
I begged him to name the fee, with the assurance of whatever
it might be I would accept it.
"He answered, 'I never _prize_' (this he pronounced _price_)
'any man's labor.' Still I persisted in the endeavor to throw
the burden of the offer upon him. He became angered, and fumed
a bit, but finally said:—
"'Little Owen' (a very able English solicitor who has settled
in New York in the practice of Bankruptcy and Insolvency
proceedings)—'Little Owen has served all the citations and
prepared all the other necessary papers, and all you will
have to do will be to argue the question of my discharge on
the return day of the motion, three weeks hence. Now—I will
make with you the same agreement that I have made with Mr.
Owen—which is five hundred dollars cash, and one thousand if
you procure my application.'
"With the utmost dignity and appearance of reluctance I
said, 'Mr. France, you have my word that I would accept any
offer you might make, and of course I will agree to this sum,
however inadequate the compensation may be.' Going down into
his pockets he drew out five hundred dollars in notes, which
he gave me, and which I am sending you through Bob McIlwane.
Let me know when you receive it. I mean to win the thousand!
Expect no more long letters! Between this hour and the day of
argument I shall think of, dream of, no subject on earth but
the Two Thirds Act!"
He argued the motion and won it. The court and lawyers treated him
kindly, and the judge said, "It is a great privilege to hear a good
argument from an able lawyer!" He was soon employed in other cases.
His letters now exhibited the most hopeful temper. "I am overwhelmed,"
he wrote me, "with business for the Southern Express Company. It keeps
me employed night and day, but so far has yielded me no money. I hope,
however, eventually to get a fee that shall compensate me for all my
labor, so I am encouraged to work on. I am sure of success! I feel
it in me. Let us crowd all sail, and not languish in despair. Did
you ever know any one who lived honestly, worked hard, and exerted
competent talent to fail in any enterprise of life? I think we have
competent ability; as for the rest I am certain; my health is perfect.
The debility which so oppressed me is succeeded by perfect health and
vigor."
And all because of the one-thousand-dollar fee (half of which he
already owed) from Mr. France, the lottery dealer! Wherever he is,—and
I trust he lives to read these words,—I have for him, now and always,
my grateful blessing.
As for the Express Company,—the brilliant hopes from that quarter melted
as does the baseless fabric of a dream. The company became hopelessly
insolvent, and for the promised fee of three thousand dollars paid its
hard-worked counsel nothing.
The winter of 1866-1867 was marked with fluctuating hopes and
disappointments. The great labor in the interests of the Express Company
had yielded nothing.
"The Express Company is insolvent beyond redemption [my
husband wrote me]. This involves a loss to me of $3000—and
again delays indefinitely the reunion with my family here. I
am not dismayed, however, _au contraire!_ My present impulse
is to retrieve the loss by extraordinary exertions. _Work,
work, work_, is my duty and destiny; your welfare the goal
that beckons me on. I contemplate nothing else—I desire
nothing else. I have been unanimously elected a member of
the Manhattan Club,—an association for the purpose of social
enjoyment,—but of course the expense is a formidable bar
to me. I sometimes attend as Mr. Schell's guest, and I am
received with great kindness.
"I have met Miss Augusta Evans, the authoress, and I am
impressed with the goodness of her heart and her devotion to
learning. Her appearance is extremely pleasing—brown hair, the
color of yours—fair complexion—blue eyes (I think), a fine
brow and well-developed head, a figure slight and graceful,
and of your height. The expression of her countenance is
serious, almost sad, though it lights up with the animation
of talk. She is good, modest, sincere, pious. Her devotion to
the 'lost cause' is fanatical. I think her mind is irregularly
developed, but she has infinite ambition and will improve.
"I have also had the great pleasure of seeing Ristori and
of being presented to her behind the scenes. Her acting is a
revelation. I could not understand one word of her language,
but her voice, her exquisite articulation, her expressive
countenance and gestures, told the story eloquently to my
uninstructed eyes and ears. How I longed for you! All pleasure
must be, in your absence, poisoned for me.
"I have agreed to accept the defence of an unhappy Episcopal
minister who was arrested in an omnibus for picking a lady's
pocket! He was about to leave the stage when a voice arrested
him: 'Stop that man! He has stolen my pocket-book.' The
pocket-book was found upon him. It is by no means impossible
that the thief may have dropped it in my client's pocket. So
although he is miserably poor and can pay me nothing for my
trouble, my sympathies are enlisted, and I shall do my best
for him. Think of it! An Episcopal minister!"
Later:—
"My wretched client is bailed at last. I am more and more
persuaded of his innocence, but whether I can make it
appear in the trial is another thing. The evidence is almost
conclusive against him. The case is so bad I can hardly expect
the judge to discharge him. I can acquit him, however, before
a jury."
Two months later he wrote:—
"I have refused to be further connected in the case of the
Episcopal minister, for reasons which it is not proper I
should disclose even to you. He is now committed to the
protecting care of a lawyer whose defence will be insanity!
"Some of the papers made haste to announce that 'the Rebel
Pryor has been superseded in the criminal case of — by other
lawyers,' and it was suspected the publication had emanated
from the prisoner's friends to escape an imaginary prejudice
against a 'Rebel' advocate. The truth is, I learned facts
from my client which made me withdraw from the case—facts in
writing. I indignantly refused any further connection with —.
His friends wrote me imploring me to stand by him, and it is
suspected that when they found me obstinate, _they_ instigated
the newspaper assertion! If so, they have behaved with the
basest ingratitude, for but for me—services which nobody but
myself could have rendered—he would long ago have been in
State's Prison. I voluntarily, and against their remonstrance,
renounced his case—and for other reasons than an absence of
reward. What my reasons are neither you nor any other person
shall ever know. They are in writing, however, and in my
possession. Of course they know I will be silent unless I am
forced to act otherwise."
The name of this unhappy clergyman is withheld lest the innocent may
suffer. He was accused of being an accomplished thief, and of concealing
in his left hand a small pair of scissors, which he manipulated with
such skill that he cut into the pockets (then worn in the ample skirts
of women's dresses) and cleverly extracted purses and wallets. His
case was postponed from month to month—and finally he was allowed to
leave the city for his home at the South, where he soon after died—the
presumption being, I imagine, that he was insane.
The close of the year 1866 brought no new hopes for the sorely
distressed little family in Petersburg. By the closest economy, the most
diligent work,—teaching by day, and sewing at night,—the wolf was kept
from the door, and the school bills of the boys paid. Small sums came
occasionally from the heartsick worker in New York,—heart-sick because
of his own impaired strength and health and the loss of many days from
pain and illness, and also his keen anxieties about the future of his
native state.
But at Christmas we were all refreshed by a visit from him, and improved
the hour by entreating that he should abandon the plan of living in New
York. We were most averse to it. There was small hope of our ever being
able to exist in that city of costly living and high house-rents. My
husband forbore to grieve me, at this sacred time, by opposing me. After
he returned to New York, he wrote me:—
"NEW YORK, Jan. 23d, 1867.
"MY DEAREST,
"I am sending you $200, with one hundred and ninety-seven
of which you must take up a note due Ashwell, the Northern
sutler. This is what remains of money due him to redeem the
silver tray from which you parted to purchase shoes for the
prisoners. Get a receipt in full from him, get the tray, and
restore it to its place in the service. To raise this amount
I am sorely pressed. We have had a terribly dull season. I am
comforted by the good reports of the children. Tell them that
I rejoice to hear of the good progress in their studies, and
am particularly delighted with Theo's 'perfect' circular. My
heart's desire is that the children be perfect in all things.
Pray write often about them. Gordon writes charmingly, but
her letters cannot be substituted for yours. Indeed I love you
all more and more every day of my life, and I would sacrifice
everything to be with you. Next spring you _must_ join me. Do
let us make the experiment. By hard work and strict economy we
may contrive to tide over our difficulties. We must remember
that we are poor, and must act accordingly. We must be content
to live humbly. _Anything_ is more tolerable than the life we
now live. Business of every kind is extremely dull here, but I
get some practice. I argued on a 'Demurrer' the other day and
was greatly complimented—the Chief Justice again remarking;
'it is refreshing to hear a good argument by a good lawyer.'
"Devotedly, R. A. P."
"March 5th, 1867.
"MY DEAREST,—To-morrow I will send you a certified cheque for
$50. Would it were more! For a month I have been extremely
pressed for money, but I still hope for easier times. My
income is very precarious. Don't imagine I have the least idea
of abandoning my experiment here. 'I mean to fight it out on
this line' to the end of the struggle. My practice increases
slowly but surely, and is based, I believe, on a conviction
of my competency. Thank God what I have accomplished, though
small, has been achieved by my own unaided exertions, and
without the least obligation to a human being. I have no
patron. I have never solicited business. My only arts are,
work and devotion to study. These expedients may be slow of
operation, but they are sure, and they leave my dignity and
self-respect uncompromised. I am not conscious of having
received a favor since my residence in New York—and when the
victory is achieved, I shall feel inexpressible gratification
in saying, with Coriolanus, '_Alone_ I did it!' When I speak
of 'favor' I mean in the way of my profession. Of personal
kindness I have been the grateful recipient—though not in many
instances. Judge — was perpetually obtruding his promises
upon me until at last I told him I needed no help and would
accept no succor. Of course he is offended. Let him be! All
his professions of regard are developed to be an interested
scheme to press me into his service.
"And now one more word. You must come to me. I cannot live
without you. Is not poverty better than such an existence?
May we not live here humbly, but content in one another's
presence? I do not see that it is possible for me to get
employment in Virginia. Let us abate something of our pride
and ambition, and be content to live poorly and obscurely. We
can at least be sustained by our mutual love and admiration.
What care we for the world?
"Devotedly, R. A. P."
A very dull season succeeded these brave words. My poor general suffered
greatly from neuralgic pains in his head; no new cases came into his
office. He writes:—
"I cannot account for it! Everything looks so much less
promising—but really now I _must_ remain here. I have no money
to get away! Never before have I been so sick at heart. I
often fear I can bear no more. I would come to you—supremely
wretched as I am—but for the fact that I am without money
to pay my expenses. In truth I haven't a cent in the world!
Yesterday I had one dollar, but meeting a poor little boy
about Willy's size with an arm just broken, I gave him the
last of my fortune. Why my landlord trusts me, I know not. But
he seems to have faith in me, and is willing to wait until I
earn something."
This letter was soon followed by another,—indeed he wrote me every
day,—and he hastened to say:—
"I felt ashamed of my last letter, but the truth is my
'business' is oppressively stagnant—from what particular
cause, I cannot conjecture. Whether it be the result of
accident, or of causes which portend an ultimate failure, I
cannot pretend to affirm. If a breeze does not come soon, I
shall be at a standstill. What then? My family is dependent
exclusively upon my scant earnings. If they fail, I see no
hope in another quarter. This is the apprehension that kills
the soul within me. The catastrophe haunts me like a spectre,
and clouds my spirit with a perpetual gloom. God only knows
what the event will be—but I should not talk in this strain.
I shall relax no effort. On the contrary, I never worked as
strenuously in my life. God willing, my earnest efforts to
subsist my darling family may yet be successful. It is for
them I toil, and richly do they deserve every blessing. This
thought, above all else, encourages me. May God bless them!
"Devotedly, R. A. P.
"P.S. I see I repeated the sin for which I sought excuses.
The present lull in my practice I attribute to the general
stagnation of business. Mayhap the breeze will come before
long.
"An unwelcome breeze of another kind is now busy near me.
An immense fire is raging in rather close proximity to the
'Waverly,' and I have some apprehensions of a move. The Winter
Garden Theatre and the Southern Hotel are in flames. How the
boys would enjoy the spectacle! I suppose there are fifty
steam-engines spouting their streams and thousands of people
looking on. To-day, for the first time, we have an indication
of approaching spring, and as they are painting my office, I
mean to stroll about the city in enjoyment of the sunshine."
He had now lived in New York a year and a half—and had borne the
intense heat of summer in the crowded district. Except for one visit to
Virginia, and an occasional Sunday to Fordham to visit his old comrade
in Congress, Mr. Haskins, he had not left his narrow quarters for any
recreation whatever.