November found us at the end of a long, dull season. No business had
come into the little law-office—the centre of all our hopes. We had
made no friends among our neighbors, to whom, of course, we had made
no advances. The silence was broken, however, one evening by a visit
from a well-groomed, handsome young fellow, who, with many apologies,
requested an interview with General Pryor.
"So the reporters have found us out," said my general, but he was
mistaken. His visitor had "ventured to call for advice—not legal advice
exactly"—but he wished to know the General's opinion upon a matter of
infinite importance to himself and to his wife. "Doubtless we had heard
his wife singing,"—we had—"she was a fine musician, but one could not
live on music."
To this my husband readily assented. He had a deeply rooted aversion to
the piano, which he believed to have been an invention of the Evil One
in a moment of unusual malignity.
"The question I wish to ask, General," said the young fellow, "is this,
Would you advise me to go into politics, law, or the coffee business?"
"The coffee business, most decidedly," said my husband; "I have tried
the other two and have a poor opinion of both of them."
The interviewer left, perfectly satisfied to enter the coffee business.
Through the open window we could hear the words of a song from the "fine
musician"—presenting, as it were, a solution of the problem:—
"It is time for the mower to whet his scythe
For 'tis five o'clock in the morning."
We never learned to what extent politics and the profession of the law
had suffered, nor how much the coffee business had gained. One thing
was certain: the suggestion of the fair singer, so freely given to
the breeze, was not needed by me; for my scythe was always in active
operation before five o'clock in the morning. When "the sun came
peeping in at morn," he always found me up and dressed and ready for
his greeting.
Then—as for many times before and after—our case seemed too desperate
for rest. Often after our slender breakfast not an atom of food was left
in the larder. A mouse would in vain have sought our hospitality. The
corner grocer had once trusted us for provisions as far as twenty-five
dollars' worth, but had taken his seat in the front hall and there
remained until he was paid! The bitter experience was never repeated.
But as surely as the ravens were sent to feed Elijah did the Power
that esteems us of more worth than many sparrows—many ravens—send
us something every day; some small fee for a legal service or for an
article written for the _News_. My general would bring this treasure
home, Anne would be sent on a flying errand for "a bit of a shteak"—and
Mr. Micawber never gathered around his suddenly acquired chops a more
hopeful brood than our own.
Once Mr. John R. Thompson, editor of the _Literary Messenger_ and
later of the _New York Evening Post_, fresh from England, where he had
hobnobbed with Carlyle, Tennyson, and Dickens, came to dinner. I had
little to offer him except a biscuit and a glass of ale. He did not
mind. He had known Edgar Allan Poe, and many another poverty-stricken
genius who had enriched the pages of the _Literary Messenger_ for
sums too pitiful to mention. The straits of scholarly men were
familiar to him and detracted nothing from his interest in the men
themselves. To be sure they were more interesting if they walked the
midnight streets in default of other shelter than the stars (and there
might be worse) like Johnson or Savage or Goldsmith or others of the
Grub-street fraternity;—still, the victims of a revolution were quite
miserable enough to satisfy the imagination. Misery is, after all, more
picturesque than happiness and ease.
John Mitchell, the Irish patriot, was another visitor,—railing against
the English government and declaring he would yet live to "strike the
crutches from the old hag, on the British throne"; talk to which no
stretch of politeness could induce me to listen. I had been taught to
love the good, young queen, of whom the English philanthropist, Joseph
John Gurney, had told me when I, a child of eight years, had sat upon
his knee in my uncle's house in Virginia.
An agreeable old German gentleman, whom we had known in Washington, also
came from New York to see us. "Oh, Pryor, Pryor," he exclaimed, "_how_
could you bring Madam to this mel-_an'_-choly place?"
The place would have been paradise to us if only God would give us bread
for our children. We had come to fear we would never have more—perhaps
not this. The society—exclusively of "Adullamites" like ourselves—was
not conducive to hope and cheerfulness. Very few Southerners were at
that time in New York. We were pioneers. Truly they were all—like the
followers of David—"in distress, in debt, and discontented."
Just at this anxious time I received a letter from my dear Aunt Mary.
She felt that she was incurably ill. While she had strength, she would
come, place Gordon safely in her father's house, and then die in my
arms! In a few days she would arrive in New York and I must meet her at
the boat with provision for having her borne to a carriage.
This was overwhelming news. How could I provide comforts for my more
than mother? There was but one thing left us. We must pledge our service
of silver—a testimonial service with a noble inscription, presented, we
remember, to my general by the Democratic party of Virginia after he had
fought a good fight against the peril threatened by the "Know Nothing"
party. This silver was very precious. Sell it we could not, but perhaps
we could borrow a few hundred dollars, giving it as security.
The idea of a pawn-broker never occurred to us. It seems to me now that
I had then never heard of a pawn-broker!
But not a great many years before this, as we remember, when I was
fifteen years old, this dear aunt who had reared me had suddenly
discovered that the child was a woman. She must see the world. She
must travel to Niagara Falls, visit all the great cities and see their
museums, libraries, theatres, what not; she must have hats from Mme.
Viglini in New York, gowns from Mrs. McComas in Baltimore,—and jewels
from Tiffany's. From the latter my adoptive father had bought me lovely
turquoise, rubies, white topaz necklaces, and jewelled combs. Surely,
I now thought, this will be the place where I may be remembered and
find some kindness. Accordingly I repaired thither and made my plea. I
was told, of course, that the firm must see the silver. Naturally none
of the gentlemen who talked with me could remember ever having heard
of me before. I must send the silver and then return for my answer.
Accordingly I boxed it, sent it, and on the third day presented myself—a
very wistful figure—at the silver counter. A tall young man, whose name
I learned afterwards, said to me with some hauteur, "Madam, we have
weighed your silver, and will allow you $540 for it."
"I will redeem it soon, I hope," I answered.
"Redeem it! Madam, this is not a pawnshop! We _buy_ silver."
"Then will I not get it back again?"
"Certainly not!"
I hesitated. My need was sore—but oh, to part forever with this sacred
inheritance for my children!
"You had as well realize," said my tall young man,—and he looked to
me colossal,—"that you will never have occasion to use silver again.
You had as well let it go to the crucible first as last. You will, of
course, be obliged to live humbly hereafter, and—"
But I had risen in great wrath against him. Flushed and indignant I
retorted, "You mistake, sir! I shall use my silver again! I shall not
live humbly always," and left the store.
But once again on the sidewalk with the sharp November wind blowing
in my face I remembered my dear invalid. I remembered my cold house,
in which there had been provided no furnace, no stove, nothing but
open grates for heating. I knew then as well as I know now that the
firm was in no wise responsible for the discourteous language of its
representative. I had only happened to encounter a fanatic, a hater of
the South,—and it was not the first time. Possibly should I return and
seek another one of the corps of clerks I might fare better. But no! I
would perish first.
Just at this moment I recollected that my dear old chaplain-father had
said, in bidding me good-by, "If you ever need a friend, you may advise
with _my_ friend in New York—Henry Corning."
This sent me to a directory in a near-by drug store, where I found
"Corning" and an address to a bank on Broadway. I repaired thither,
and was directed to a private room, where a venerable gentleman rose
to greet me and offer me a seat. I was very tired and miserable, but I
told my errand as best I could.
"I have not the pleasure of knowing your father," said the gentleman,
looking at me kindly through his spectacles (and down went the mercury
of all my courage), "but," he added, "I think my nephew, Henry Corning,
is your man. I have heard him speak of the Rev. Dr. Pryor. I will give
you his address. _My_ name is Jasper Corning."
I am sure there were tears in my eyes when he looked up, as he handed
me a slip of paper, for he added kindly: "I feel certain Henry will not
fail you. Don't despair! God is good."
Another omnibus ride brought my heavy heart to the door of Mr. Henry
Corning, in Madison Avenue. He was sitting at his desk on the ground
floor—and without one word of response to my simply told story turned
to his desk and wrote his check for $500!
"I will send you the silver immediately," I said—but he only bowed, and
with "My regards to your father," he allowed me to take leave.
I called at Tiffany's on my return, gave an order at the desk, paid the
cartage, and ordered the silver to be addressed to Mr. Corning.
When the time came, a year afterwards, for me to redeem it, I saw Mr.
Corning again, thanked him for his kindness, and said, "I am now ready
to redeem the silver." He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and
asked, "What silver?"
"Surely," I exclaimed in great alarm, "surely you received it."
"Oh, well," he replied, "if you say so, I suppose it is all right. I
have never seen your silver. There's a box there in the corner. The box
has not been opened since you sent it."
My dear aunt had her wish. She died in my house. She was ill a long
time. Through the kindness of a Southern friend I was introduced to Dr.
Rosman, who attended her with devotion and skill. He was the gentlest
and kindest of physicians. He admired and appreciated her, and truly
she was a _grande dame_ in every respect; courteous, dignified, and
beautiful, even at sixty years of age.
"When faith and Hope, which parting from her never
Had ripened her just soul to dwell with God,
Her alms and deeds and all her great endeavor
Were never lost, nor in the grave were trod."
She lives, I humbly trust, in two children of her adoption, who owe to
her all they are or ever hope to be.
The struggle, the wounds, the defeats we suffer at each other's hands
may all be classed under the head of battles,—battles where the ultimate
defeat or victory is in our own hands,—in the harm or good done to our
souls. The fight in the field ended, hostility, hatred, bitterness,
should also end; but, alas, the battles of prejudice, resentment for
unforgiven injuries, may continue for years. Some of these my story
compels me to record, but as old Thomas Fuller quaintly says: "These
battles are here inserted, not with any intent (God knows my heart) to
perpetuate the odious remembrance of mutual wrongs, that heart-burnings
may remain when house-burnings have ceased, but only to raise our
gratitude to God that so much strife should have raged in the bosom of
so fair a land, and yet so few scars remain."