Early in the spring of 1868 we removed to Brooklyn Heights near the
Ferry, much nearer my husband's office in Liberty Street. New York had
not then stretched an arm across East River and taken into its bosom
Brooklyn—already the third city in the Union. The two cities, now one
in name, were practically one in interest as early as 1867. A great
multitude of the dwellers of Brooklyn crossed the ferry every morning
on their way to their daily work in New York. Brooklyn was a huge,
overgrown village; a city of churches, a city of homes, and of children
innumerable. Every year in May a mighty army—thousands and thousands—of
these children paraded the streets under banners from their respective
Sunday-schools,—a unique spectacle well worth a pilgrimage thither,
provided one could content himself with a precarious footing on a
crowded sidewalk; for these children had the "right of way"—and knowing
their right, dared maintain it.
In 1867 streets were so deserted—was not everybody in New York for the
day?—that little children adopted them as a perfectly safe playground.
There were no elevated railroads, no trolley cars, no automobiles, no
bicycles, no electric lights, no telephones.
Our move was signalized by a complication of difficulties. Four of
my younger children found this an altogether suitable time to indulge
in measles. Hasty visits to a near-by auction room resulted in a few
needful articles of furniture which were lent to us—for we could not
purchase. The auctioneer was to own them, and reclaim them if not paid
for in a certain time. A small room was shelved for the books that
had survived the sacking of our house, and to our great satisfaction
we found that the much-used books—books of reference—had proven too
bulky or too shabby to be stolen. These and other well-worn, well-read
books became the nucleus of a large library, and hold to-day in their
tattered bindings places of honor denied newer lights of more creditable
appearance. We were not aware when we moved to Brooklyn Heights that
we had descended into the very centre of the wealthiest society of the
city. Had we known this, it would have signified nothing to us. Our
extreme poverty forbade any expectation of indulgence in social life,
even had we felt we had the smallest right to recognition. We had never
known anything about the social ambition of which in later years we hear
so much—still less did we now regard it. We "asked our fellow-man for
leave to toil," and asked nothing more.
We soon discovered that the people around us lived in affluent ease
and elegance—but that was not our affair! We had no place in their
world, nor did we desire it. To conceal our true condition was our
instinctive impulse, and to that end we shunned notice. Sometimes a
great wave of desolation and loneliness—a longing inexpressible for
companionship—would possess me. At this time there was a bridge over
Broadway below Cortlandt Street. I sometimes, at seasons of great
depression, accompanied my husband to his office, and would ascend the
steps to this bridge and look up and down the restless sea of passing
crowds. Such a sickening sense of loneliness would come over me, I would
feel that my heart was breaking. All seemed so desolate, so hopeless,
for us in this great unknown world. We knew ourselves not only strangers
but aliens, outcasts.
Dear little Willy came to me one day and advised me to change his
terrier's name, "Rebel,"—a name he had borne by reason of his own
disposition, and not at all in honor of the "lost cause." "The boys will
stone him," said Willy; "I am going to call him 'Prince' in the street
and 'Rebel' at home." On another day his younger sisters were decoyed
into the garden of a neighbor, and there informed by the children of
the house that we would not be allowed to live in the street—that we
were "Rebels, and slave-drivers, and _awful_ people!" These painful
incidents were of everyday occurrence. "Mamma told me," said one of the
little ones, "that God loves us. Will everybody else hate us?" Before
very long, however, the little rebels made friends and were forgiven
all their enormities.
The good people of Brooklyn at that time were taking up their
cobblestones and laying a wooden pavement on Pierpont Street, and
fascinating blocks of wood were piled at intervals in the street. Of
course, the boys immediately built of them a village of tiny houses,
and one day a committee of bright-eyed fellows—Tom and Charley Nichols
and Dr. Schenck's boys—waited on me with a request that my little girls
be permitted to "come out and keep house" for them. The little girls,
they added gallantly, would be allowed to choose the boys! That was
not difficult. The small housekeepers walked off with Tom and Charley.
"Say," said one of the proud owners of real estate, with a pristine
recognition of woman's place in the household, "will your cook give you
some potatoes and apples? We've got a splendid fire around the corner."
"Sure, an I'll not lave you do it," said Anne out of the basement
window. "Is it burnin' down the place ye'll be afther doin'?"—but a
"Please, Anne, dear," from the smallest housekeeper settled the matter.
A fire in the street would be a strange spectacle in the Borough of
Brooklyn to-day.
A family of healthy children well governed cannot be unhappy, even
in the most depressing circumstances. My own little brood positively
refused to be miserable. They had literally nothing that must be
acquired with money, but their own ingenuity supplied all deficiencies.
In the vacant space in the rear of our house there was a cherry tree
which never fruited, but bore a wealth of green leaves and blossoms.
There the children elected to establish a menagerie. They soon stocked
it from the "estray" animals in the street. They were "Rebel," the
terrier; "Vixen," the dachshund; "Tearful Tommy," the cat; "Desdemona,"
a white rabbit; and "Othello," her black husband, purchased from a
dealer; and "Fleetwing," the pigeon, which had trustfully entered one
of Roger's traps. As there were no stockades, no cages, Fleetwing was
tethered to the cherry tree, and as cord might wound her slender leg,
a broad string of muslin was provided for her comfort.
One day I heard lamentation and excited barking in the menagerie.
Fleetwing had vindicated her right to her name, and was calmly sailing
in the blue ether, like a kite with a very long tail—her muslin fetter
trailing behind her. We hoped she would return, but she never did.
Othello and Desdemona were very interesting. They always came, like
children, to the table with the dessert, hopping around on the cloth
from corner to corner for bits of celery; but when the fires were
kindled, Desdemona breathed coal gas from the register, keeled over, and
expired. Othello's mourning coat expressed suitable sorrow and respect,
but very soon he too experimented with the register and followed his
helpmate.
The time came (with these healthy children to feed) when, like Mrs.
Cadwalader, I had to get my coals by stratagem and pray to heaven for
my salad oil—with this difference, that my prayer was for daily bread,
and that alone. Long and painfully did I ponder the dreadful problem—how
to keep my family alive without driving the dear head of the house to
desperation. Study, work, unremitting study and work from early morning
until late at night was his daily portion. Not until the last expedient
had failed should he know aught of my household anxieties.
At last I resolved to go to a dignified old gentleman I had observed
behind the desk at a neighboring grocery and tell him the truth. But I
remembered my New York experience with the silver. So be it! I had borne
rebuff more than once—I could bear it again.
I told Mr. Champney—for this was the name of the old gentleman—that I
was the wife of General Pryor, that we had come North to live, that my
husband's profession was not yielding enough for our support, nor had we
any immediate ground upon which to build hope for better fortune; that
I did hope, however, to pay for provisions for my family—sometime, not
soon, but certainly if we lived; and that certainly, without food, we
should _not_ live!
He wished to know if I was the mother of the children he had seen in his
store. I answered in the affirmative, and with no further parley he drew
forth a little yellow pass-book and handed it to me. "Use this freely,
madam," he said; "I shall never ask you for a penny! You will pay me.
General Pryor is bound to succeed." He kept his word. His German porter,
Fred, came to me every morning for my frugal orders, and gave me every
possible attention. At every day of reckoning demanded by myself, my
creditor politely remarked, there was "no occasion for hurry"! His name,
"S. T. Champney," was, thenceforward, with my children, "the St."—and
as such remains in my memory.
The city of Brooklyn had grown almost as rapidly as the Western
cities—Chicago, Seattle, and others, and a great number of poor people
were crowding into it, seeking homes. Perpetually recurring instances
of distress and homelessness appealed to the good women of Brooklyn
Heights—Mrs. Bulkley, Mrs. Packer, Mrs. Alanson Trask, Mrs. Eaton,
wife of a professor of the Packer Institute, Mrs. Rosman, Mrs. Craig,
and others, and they finally resolved to found a home for friendless
women and children. They rented a small frame building on one of the
upper streets, and in a few months the house was crowded. Mrs. Eaton,
early sent by heaven to be my good angel, had longed for an opportunity
to relieve my loneliness and isolation, and she procured for me an
invitation to join the society of women. I soon became interested,
and spent part of every day with the wretched beneficiaries of the
charity. Finally our small house was unwisely crowded, and the children
became ill. Mrs. Packer took one of the poor little babies in a dying
condition to her own home, and nursed it with the utmost tenderness. I
gave shelter to one of the women, and others were taken by the different
members of the society until we could command healthy quarters for
them. We resolved to purchase a large house, and entered with great
zeal upon our work. It was my good fortune to discover the present Home
on Concord Street, the fine old Bache mansion about to be sold for a
beer-garden. I was requested to draw up a petition to the legislature
for an appropriation, which I did in the most forceful language I could
command. Mrs. Packer went to Albany with it, and $10,000 was immediately
granted us. Each of us (we were only fifteen), armed with a little
collector's book, undertook to canvass the town. We needed $20,000 more
to buy our home.
I went forth with a heavy heart—for I was the only one who had not
headed her subscription with $500. I collected a few pitiful sums only.
Nobody would listen to me—nobody knew me! I bore it as long as I could,
and one evening I announced to my astounded general that I intended to
give a concert. He informed me in strenuous English that he considered
me a lunatic.
However, I went to work. I engaged a professional reader, who agreed
to give his services; persuaded a German music teacher to lend me her
pupils; and then looked around for a "star." Investigation resulted in
my learning that Madame Anna Bishop was living in New York. Once a very
famous prima donna, she was now "shelved," although her voice was still
good. She had grown stout, and could no longer create a sensation in
"The Dashing Young Sergeant" that "marched away" so gallantly fifteen
years before.
I hunted up Madame Bishop. She received my proposition graciously. Would
she give an evening for the poor friendless women? "_Give_, my dear
lady! I give nothing. Am I not a friendless woman myself! But I'll come
for $100, and bring my accompanist. _He_ shall give _his_ evening. But
I never sing for nothing."
I engaged madame—and then I was a busy woman indeed. I hired a hall and
two pianos, wrote programmes and advertisements and had rose-colored
cards painted, "Soirée, Musical and Literary." I discovered a florist
near my hall, and persuaded him to lend me all his plants,—I wrote
invitations to my ushers and presented each one with a crystal heart for
a badge,—and then I went home, on the great evening, tired to death, and
perfectly sure it would end in failure. My general, fully of the same
opinion, tried to comfort me by saying that I would know better next
time. He went early to the hall, and when I arrived he was pacing the
street in front of the door. "The place is crammed full," he announced;
"there is hardly standing room."
It wanted but eight minutes to the hour announced for commencing, and
Madame Bishop had not arrived. Mrs. Gamp's fiddle-string illustration
would have again been a feeble expression of mine. My heart almost
failed me. But at last the expected carriage arrived,—madame, her maid,
and her accompanist. To my exclamation of relief, she threw back her
head and laughed heartily: "Oh, you amateurs! Now, you just go and get
a seat and enjoy the music. We'll go on by the programme all right."
Advance sale of tickets had yielded $100. This I handed madame in an
envelope. All went well. She was very good indeed—very spirited. The
dashing young sergeant marched away with all the fire of earlier days.
Everybody was pleased. When I thanked madame, she slipped into my hand
her own donation—$50. The next day I entered $500 upon my collection
book and, thus vindicated, I was able to face my colleagues.
A great and useful charity is this Home for friendless women and
children in Brooklyn. And noble were the women I learned to know
and love who worked with me there. They made me their corresponding
secretary, and liked everything I did for them.
Some women formerly of high position in the South found temporary
refuge in this Home. The world would be surprised if I should give
their names! In the depth of winter I once found a woman bearing one of
Virginia's oldest names. She was sitting upon a box beside a fireless
stove, warming her baby in her bosom. Her husband had gone out to hunt
for work! She had no fire, no furniture, no food! Another, belonging
to a proud South Carolina family, I found in an attic in New York. She
had had no food for two days! These, and more, I was enabled by the
lovely women of Brooklyn to relieve, delicately and permanently. Better,
truer, more cultivated women I have nowhere known. Of the extent of
my own anxieties and privations they never knew. Something within me
proudly forbade me to complain. My dear Mrs. Eaton alone knew the true
condition of my own family. She lives to bear testimony to the truth of
the strange story I am telling—the story of a Southern general and his
wife, who showed smiling, brave faces to the world, and suffered for
ten years the pangs of extreme poverty in their home, working all the
time to the utmost limit of human endurance. Not one moment's recreation
did we allow ourselves—our "destiny was work, work, work"—and patiently
we fulfilled it. Hard study filled my husband's every waking hour, and
few were his hours of sleep. Excessive use of his eyes night and day
so injured them that at one time he found reading impossible. Gordon
read his law aloud to him for many weeks. I once copied a book of law
forms for him as we had no money to buy the book—the hardest work I
have ever done! It was my custom to retire at night with my family
and, after all were quietly sleeping, to rise and with my work-basket
creep down to the library, light a lamp, and sew until two or three
o'clock in the morning. There were seven children. All must be clothed.
I literally made every garment they wore, even their wraps in winter.
Through the kindness of Professor Eaton arrangements were made that
enabled my little girls to attend the Packer Institute, founded by the
most gracious and beautiful of women, Mrs. Harriet Packer. When they
went forth in the morning to their school, they all presented a fresh,
well-groomed appearance—the result of the midnight lamp and work-basket!
I remember but one occasion when any member of the family indulged in
outside amusements. Just across the river were the brilliant theatres
and opera-houses of the great metropolis. Here in Brooklyn were plays,
concerts, balls, evening parties. The children for five or six years
after our coming North never supposed these things possible for them. I
cannot say the fate of Tantalus was ours. True, the rivers of delight
were around us, but we never "bent to drink"—never gave the "refluent
waters" an opportunity to shrink from our lips. We simply ignored them.
But Gordon and Roger had one great pleasure in 1868. It would be hard
to make this generation understand the emotions with which they saw
and heard Dickens. His books had for a time made the very atmosphere
of their lives! They talked Dickensese to each other, and fitted his
characters into the situations of their own lives. Now they were to look
upon the man himself. Of this experience my daughter writes me:—
"I remember as I awaited his appearance how my heart beat.
I doubt whether the recrudescence of Shakespeare would move
me as much now. At the appointed hour he ascended the little
platform of Plymouth Church with a rapid gait, almost running
up the few steps, as I remember; but truly my heart was
thumping so, and there was such a mist of agitation before
my eyes, that I did not at once clearly discern the great
magician. When my brain cleared with a jerk and I could make
myself believe that Dickens was really before me, what did I
see? A very garish person with a velvet-faced coat and a vast
double watch chain—all, as well as his rather heavy-nosed
unspiritual face perfectly presented in the photograph of
the time. He had an alert, businesslike way with him, no
magnetism, as I recollect. But his reading impressed me then
as now, as perfection of elocution—natural, spontaneous, as
if he himself enjoyed every word of it and had never done it
before. He read the trial scene from Pickwick inimitably. I
think I have since seen the criticism that he did not give us
the Sam Weller of our imagination, but certainly it did not
so impress me then. I was absolutely satisfied. He followed
Pickwick with Dr. Marigold, for which I cared much less.
Dickens's pathos, even in my days of thraldom, almost always
struck me as mawkish. Somehow, in looking at the man, it was
hard to believe in his sentiment—though I still think much
of it sincere. But truly, in appearance, he is what is now
called 'a bounder.' I never read Forster's life of him: I
know him only through his own books, but my impression of him
from his appearance is that he was not exactly a gentleman.
Yet I forgot everything except delight in the reading—after
my initial shock of the velvet coat, the ponderous watch
chains, the countenance to match. And to this day one of my
most cherished memories is that I saw and heard Dickens."