And into the hands of this "reader" I was to commit my "brain-child!" I cried out against the act in such terms as these, and stronger, in relating the substance of the interview to my father.
"Be sensible, little girl! Keep a cool head!" he counselled "Business is business. And I suppose John R. understands his. I will take the manuscript to Morris myself tomorrow."
"And make him comprehend," I interjected, "that I do not shirk criticism. I see the faults of my book. If I were sure that it would be judged fairly, I wouldn't mind it so much."
The reader kept the manuscript two months. Then my father wrote a civil demand to Mr. Morris for the return of the work. I was too sick of soul to lift a finger to reclaim what I was persuaded was predestined to be a dead failure Two days later the bulky parcel came back. Mr. Morris had enclosed with it the reader's opinion:
"I regret that the young author's anxiety to regain possession of her banding has prevented me from reading more than a few pages of the story. Judging from what I have read, however, I should not advise you to publish it upon speculation."
I laid the note before my father after supper that evening. Our mother had early inculcated in our minds the eminent expediency of never speaking of unpleasant topics to a tired and hungry man. We always waited until bath, food, and rest had had their perfect work upon the head of the house. He leaned back in his arm-chair, the evening paper at his elbow, his slippered feet to the glowing grate, and a good cigar between his lips. His teeth tightened suddenly upon it when he heard the note. It was curt. To my flayed sensibilities, it was brutal. I see, now, that it was businesslike and impersonal. Were I a professional "reader," I should indite one as brief, and,
not a whit more sympathetic. Alone was my first book, and a sentient fraction of my soul and heart.
For a whole minute there was no sound in the room but the bubbling song of the soft coal. I sat upon a stool beside my confidant, and, having passed the letter up to him, my head sank gradually to his knee. I was unspeakably miserable, but I made no moan. He had not patience with weak wails when anything remained to be done. His cigar had gone out, for when I lifted my head at his movement toward the lamp, he had folded the scrap of paper into a spire, and was lighting it. He touched the dead cigar with the flame, and drew hard upon it until it was in working order before he said:
"I believe in that book! I shall send it back to Morris, to-morrow, and tell him to bring it out in good style and send the bill to me."
"But," I gasped, "you may lose money by it!"
"I don't think so. At any rate, we will make the experiment."
THE DAWNING OF LITERARY LIFE
"January 28th, 1854.
"MY VERY DEAR FRIEND, - I wish you were here this morning! I long to talk with you. There are many things I cannot commit to paper, or of which I might be ashamed as soon as they were written. There are no short-hand and long tongued reporters at our face-to-face confabulations.
"Of one thing I will give you a hint: Have you any recollection of a certain MS., portions of which were read in you hearing last spring? I should not be surprised if you were to hear something of it before long. Keep your eyes upon the papers for a few weeks, and if you see nothing that looks like a harbinger of the advent, just conclude that I have changed my mind at the last gasp and recalled it. For it has gone out of my hands! After the appearance of anything that looks that way, I unseal your mouth.
"Seriously, I have much pending upon this venture. The success of the book may be the opening of the path I cannot but feel that Providence has marked out for me.
"As it is a Virginia story, Southerners should buy it, if it has no other merit. My misgivings are grave and many; but my advisers urge me on, and notices of fugitive articles that have appeared in Northern and Southern papers have inoculated me with a little confidence in the wisdom of their counsel.
"I had not meant to say this, or, indeed, to mention the matter at all, but as the day of publication draws near, I am to use an expressive Yankeeism - 'fidgety.'
"If anything I have said savors of undue solicitude for the bantling's welfare, recollect that I am the mother. One thing
more I shall have nothing to do with advertisements. If they laud the work too highly, bear in mind that it is 'all in the way of trade,' and that booksellers will have their way.
"Our 'Musical Molasses Stew' came off last night. We had a grand 'time!' Violin, flute, guitar, piano - all played by masculine amateurs, and a chorus of men's voices. It was 'nae see bad,' as the Scotch critic said of Mrs. Siddons's acting. The same might be said of the real frolic of pulling the treacle. My partner was a young Nova Scotian - 'Blackader' by name - an intelligent, agreeable, and versatile youth who entered gloriously into the spirit of the occasion. He played upon the piano, sang treble, tenor, and bass by turns, and pulled and laughed with me until he had no strength left."
"Will the author of 'Marrying Through Prudential Motives'
send her address to the editor?"
A queer story followed. The tale, sent so long ago to Mr.
Godey that I had almost forgotten it, had fallen behind a drawer
of his desk, and lain there for three years and more. When it
finally turned up, curiosity, aroused by its disappearance and
exhumation, led the editor to read it more carefully than if it had
reached him through ordinary channels. He liked it, published it,
and waited to hear from the author.
By some mischance that particular number of the "Lady's Book"
had escaped my notice. The story was copied into an English
periodical; translated from this into French, and appeared on the
other side of the channel. Another British monthly "took up the
wondrous tale" by rendering the French version back into the
vernacular. In this guise the much-handled bit of fiction was
brought across the seas by The Albion, a New York periodical that
published only English "stuff." Mr. Godey arraigned The
Albion for piracy, and the truth was revealed by degrees.
Richmond papers copied the odd "happening" from
Northern, and Mr. Morris made capital of it in advertising
the forthcoming novel.
I have more than once spoken of the Richmond of that
date as "provincial." It was so backward in literary
enterprise that the leading bookseller had not facilities at his
command for publishing the book committed to him.
On March 9, 1854, I wrote to my Powhatan correspondent:
"You will read and like it, if only because I wrote it
Whether or not others may cavil at the religious tone, and
ridicule the simplicity of the narrative, remains to be seen.
Thus far I have had encouragement from all sides. My own
fears are the drawback to sanguine expectation."
I was setting out for a walk one balmy May morning, and
standing on the front porch to draw on my gloves, when
Doctor Haxall, who had long had in our family the sobriquet
of "the beloved physician," reined in his horses at the gate
and called out that he was "just coming to ask me to drive
with him." He had often done the like good turn to me.
I was not robust, and he had watched my growth with
more than professional solicitude. Had he been of my very
own kindred, he could not have been kinder or displayed
more active interest in all my affairs - great to me
and small to him.
"Headache?" he queried, with a keen look at my pale
face when I was seated at his side.
"Not exactly! I think the warm weather makes me
languid."
"More likely overexcited nerves. You must learn to take
life more philosophically. But we won't talk shop!"
We were bowling along at a fine rate. The doctor drove
fast, blooded horses, and liked to handle the ribbons himself.
The day was deliciously fresh, the air sweet with early
roses and honeysuckle. I called his attention, in passing
Conway Robinson's grounds, to the perfume of violets rising
in almost visible waves from a ravine where the grass was
whitened by them as with a light fall of snow. I asked no
questions as we turned down Capitol Street, and thence into
Main Street. Sometimes I sat in the carriage while he paid a
professional call. This might be his intention now. We
brought up abruptly at Morris's book-store, and the blesséd
man leaped out and held his hand to me. He probably had
an errand there. He handed me into the interior in his brisk
way, and marched straight up to Mr. Morris, who advanced
to meet us.
"Good-morning! I have come for a copy of this young
lady's book!"
If I had ever fainted, I should have swooned on the
spot.
For there, in heaps and heaps upon the front counter -
in bindings of dark-blue, and purple, and crimson, and
leaf-brown - lay in lordly state, portly volumes, on the backs of
which, in gleaming gold that shimmered and shook before
my incredulous vision, was stamped:
"ALONE."
I saw, through the sudden dazzlement of the whole world
about me, that a clerk had set a chair for me. I sat down
gratefully.
Mr. Morris was talking:
"Opened this morning! I sent six copies up to you. I
suppose you got them?"
"No!" I tried so hard to say it firmly that it sounded
careless. I would have added, "I did not know it was out,"
but dared not attempt a sentence.
Mr. Morris attended us to the door to point to placards a
porter was tacking to boards put there for that express
purpose:
JUST OUT!!
ALONE!
By Marion Harland
The doctor nodded
satisfiedly and handed me into the
carriage. In taking my seat, I thought, in a dull, sick way, of
Bruce at the source of the Nile. I had had daydreams of
this day and hour a thousand times in the last ten years. Of
how I should walk down-town some day, and see a placard
at this very door bearing the title of a novel written and
bound, and lettered in gilt, and PUBLISHED! bearing my
pen-name! The vision was a reality; the dream was a
triumphant fulfilment. And I was sitting, unchanged, and
non-appreciative, by the dear old doctor, and his full, cordial
tones were saying of the portly purple volume lying on the
seat between us:
"Well, my dear child, I congratulate you, and I hope a
second edition will be called for within six months!"
He did not ply me with questions. He may not have
suspected that the shock had numbed my ideas and
stiffened my tongue. If he had, he could not have borne
himself more tactfully. He was a man who had seen the
world and hobnobbed with really distinguished live authors.
It would not have been possible for him to enter fully into
what this day was to me. When I thought of Bruce and the
Nile, it was because I did not comprehend that the very
magnitude of the crisis was what deprived me of the power
of appreciating what had happened.
No! I am not inclined to ridicule the unsophisticated girl
whose emotions were too mighty for speech that May
noon, and to minimize what excited them. Nothing that
wealth or fame could ever offer me in years to come could
stir the depths of heart and mind as they were upheaved in
that supreme hour.
The parcel of books had been opened and the contents
examined, by the time I got home. I stole past the open
door of my mother's chamber, where she and Aunt Rice,
who was visiting us, and Mea were chatting vivaciously,
and betook myself to my room.
When my sister looked me up at dinner-time I told her to
excuse me from coming down. "The heat had made me
giddy and headachy."
She bade me "lie still. She would send me a cup of tea."
"I'll leave you this for company," she cooed, laying the
book tenderly on my pillow. "We think it beautiful."
With that she went out softly, shutting me in with my
"beautiful" first-born. Mea always had her wits within easy
call. The sixth sense was born within her.
I saw of the travail of my soul and was satisfied; was
repaid a thousandfold for months of toil and years of
waiting, when my father read my book. He did not go
down-town again that day, after coming home to dinner. My
mother told me, with a happy break in her laugh, how he
had hardly touched the food on his plate. Aunt Rice's
pleasant prattle saved the situation from awkwardness when
he lapsed into a brown study and talked less than he ate.
When dessert was brought in, he excused himself and
disappeared from general view for the rest of the afternoon.
The door of "the chamber" to which he withdrew was fast
shut. Nobody disturbed him until it was too dark to read by
daylight. My mother took in a lighted lamp and set it on the
table by him.
"He didn't see or hear me!" was her report. "He is a
quarter through the book already, and he doesn't skip a
word."
He spent just fifteen minutes at the supper-table. It
was two o'clock in the morning before he reached the
last page.
After prayers next morning he put his arm about me and
held me fast for a moment. Then he kissed me very
gravely.
"I was right about that book, daughter!"
That was all! but it was, to my speechless self, as if the
morning stars had sung together for joy.
I record here and now what I did not know in the
springtime of my happiness. I never had - I shall never
have - another reader like him. As long as he lived, he
"believed" in me and in my work with a sincerity and fervor
as impossible for me to describe as it can be for any
outsider to believe. He made the perusal of each volume
(and they numbered a score before he died) as solemn a
ceremony as he instituted for the first. His absolute
absorption in it was the secret jest of the family, but they
respected it at heart. When he talked with me of the
characters that bore part in my stories, he treated them as
real flesh-and-blood entities. He found fault with one, and
sympathized with another, and argued with a third, as seeing
them in propia personæ. It was strange - phenomenal -
when one considers the light weight of the literature under
advisement and the mental calibre of the man. To me it
was at once inspiration and my exceeding great reward.
"June 5th, 1854.
"DEAR EFFIE, -
From a formidable pile of letters of
good wishes and congratulation, I select (not happen upon!)
your sweet, affectionate epistle, every word of which, if it
did not come from your heart, went straight to mine.
"I shall never be a literary iceberg! That is clear. I have
had a surfeit of compliments in public and in private, but a
word of appreciation from a true, loving friend gives me
more delicious pleasure than all else.
"I make no excuse for speaking freely to you of what you
say is 'near akin' to you. I thank you heartily for owning the
relationship. Two editions have been 'run off' already, and
another is now in press - unprecedented success in this part
of the world - or so they tell me. Northern papers notice the
book more at length and more handsomely than does the
Richmond press.
"Of the sales in your county, I know nothing. Oh yes! C.
W. told Mr. Rhodes that 'Miss Virginia Hawes's novel is
having a tremendous run in Powhatan. Tre-men-dous, sir!
Why, I had an order to buy a copy and send it up, myself,
sir!'
"Isn't that
characteristic?"
BROUGHT FACE TO FACE WITH MY FATE
THE promised visit to
Powhatan was paid in July.
"How
happily the days of Thalaba went by!"
I said over the
strangely musical line to myself scores of
times in the two months of my stay in the dear old county.
"Homestead," the home of the D.'s, was never more beautiful,
and the days were full of innocent fun, and junketings
without number. College and University boys were at home,
and city people were flocking to the country. There were
walks, drives, "dining-days," early and late horseback parties,
setting out from one hospitable house before sunrise, and
breakfasting at another ten or twelve miles away; or, better
yet, leaving home at sunset, and pacing, cantering, and
galloping (women never rode trotting horses) along highroad
and plantation lane to a house, buried in ancestral woods, in
the very heart of the county, for supper, returning by the
light of the harvest moon, as fresh as when we set forth.
With no premonition that this was to be the most eventful
summer and autumn of my hitherto tranquil life, I gave
myself up, wholly and happily, to the influences that
sweetened and glorified it.
Late in August I resolved rather suddenly to go home. My
sister was in Boston; my father would not leave his
business for so much as a week, my mother and the younger
children ought to be in the country. Since she would not
resign my father to what she spoke of as "Fate and
servants," I would throw my now rejuvenated body into the
breach, abide by the stuff and her husband and sons, while
she took a sadly needed rest with old friends in Nottoway
County.
Recollecting how persistently I clung to the decision in the
face of a tempest of protest, my own heart in secret league
with the protestants, I acknowledge with humble gratitude
the guidance of the "moving finger that writes" out the
destinies we think to control for ourselves.
The glow of the halcyon summer had not passed from my
spirit when I wrote to my late hostess two days after my
return:
"RICHMOND, August 29th, 1854.
"MY OWN FRIEND, -
I said 'I will write next week,'
but it suits my feelings and convenience to write this
morning.
"In the first place, my heart is so full of happiness that it
overflows upon and toward everybody that I love, and don't
you dear Homesteadians - yourself and Powhie,
especially - come in for a share?
"Mrs. Noble was very pleasant, but the journey was a bit
tedious. It always is! Richmond looked enchanting when at
last the spires and chimneys appeared upon the horizon, and
my sweet home was never so pretty before.
"Mother had planned an agreeable surprise, and not told
me that the painters had been at work elsewhere than in my
room. So the freshly painted shutters and the white window-
facings and cornices, contrasted with the gray walls, were
doubly beautiful, because not expected. Then Percy came
tumbling down the steps, clapping his hands and shouting in
glee, and Alice's bright smile shone upon me at the gate,
and mother left company in the parlor to give me four
kisses - and all I could say was, 'I have had such a pleasant
visit, and now I am so glad to see you all!'
"Father could not be coaxed to bed that night until one
o'clock, although mother reminded him that he had a
headache.
" 'Never mind! Daughters don't come home every night!'
" 'But this one will be tired out!'
" 'Well, she may sleep late to-morrow morning.'
"He doesn't know how lazy I have grown of late.
"I am surprised to find vegetation so luxuriant here. My
inquiries concerning the 'late drought' are answered by a
stare of amazement. Rain has been abundant in this region.
In our garden the vegetables and grape-vines grow rank and
tall. And as for flowers! There were seven bouquets in the
parlor, smiling and breathing a welcome. Last night I received
one per rail from Horace Lacy (bless his soul!), and
Herbert to-night brought up another and a magnificent,
when he came to his late supper.
"Mother had delicious peaches for supper the night I got
back, but advised me to 'eat them sparingly, at first.' Yesterday
I forgot her caution, and I think I am the better for the
lapse. Peaches, watermelons, apples, sweet potatoes, etc.,
were liberally patronized by us all. The cholera 'scare'
seems to be over. Doctor Haxall advised the members of
our family to make no change in their diet while they
continued well, and they have prospered wonderfully under
his regimen. . . .
"I wish I had time to tell you of some queer letters I found
waiting for me. Father would not forward them, 'for fear
of annoying me.' They are meant to be complimentary, one
requesting 'some particulars of your birthplace, education,'
etc. 'Wish he may get them!'
"Now, dear, forgive this egotistical scrawl - written as fast
as fingers can scratch - but just seat yourself and tell me
exactly what you have been doing, saying, and thinking since
I left; how our pet, Powhie (the dear old scamp!), is thriving;
and the state of your mother's health. also the news from
The Jungle.
"Our Heavenly Father bless and love you, my darling!"
the sultriness of the outer world. The thick walls and
lofty ceilings kept the temperature at an equable and
comfortable point. We breakfasted early, and by nine o'clock
the day was my own - or six consecutive hours of it.
In unconscious imitation of Charlotte Brontë, who began
Jane Eyre while The Professor was "plodding his
weary round from publisher to publisher," I had begun
another book by the time Alone was turned over to the
tender mercies of Mr. Morris's "reader." I finished the
first draught on the forenoon of September 11th, having
wrought at it with the fierce joy in work that ever comes
to me after a season of absolute or comparative idleness.
I was very weary when the last word was written:
"Alma was asleep!"
I read it aloud to myself in the safe solitude of my shaded
library. I had not heard then that Thackeray slapped
his thigh exultantly after describing the touch of pride
Becky felt in her husband's athletic pummelling of her
lover. I could have understood it fully at that instant.
"Thackeray, my boy, that is a stroke of genius!" cried
the great author, aloud, in honest pride.
The small woman writer sat wearily back in her chair,
and said - not murmured: "I flatter myself that is a neat
touch!"
Then I found that my head ached. Moreover, it had
a strange, empty feeling. I compared it to a squeezed
sponge. I likewise reminded myself that I had not been
out of the house for two days; that my father had shaken
his head when I told him it was "too hot for walking,"
warning me that I "must not throw away the good the
country had done for me." He would ask me, at suppertime,
if I had taken the admonition to heart.
I went off to my room, bathed, and dressed for a round
of calls. This I proceeded to make, keeping on the shady
side of the street. I called at three houses, and found everybody
out. The sun was setting when I stood in front of my
mirror on my return, and laid aside bonnet and mantle (we
called it a "visite"). The red light from the west shot across
me while I was brushing up the hair the hot dampness
had laid flat. It struck me suddenly that I was
looking rather well. I wore what we knew as a "spencer"
of thin, dotted white muslin. It would be a "shirt-waist"
to-day. It was belted at what was then a slim waist above
a skirt of "changeable" silk. Herbert had said it
"reminded him of a pale sunrise," but there were faint
green reflections among shimmering pinks. There must be
somebody in the immediate neighborhood upon whom I
might call while I was dressed to go out. A dart of
self-reproach followed swiftly upon the thought.
My old and favorite tutor, Mr. Howison, had broken down
in health two years after accepting a call to his first parish.
An obstinate affection of the throat made preaching
impracticable. At the end of a year of compulsory inaction,
he resumed the practice of law in Richmond, and within
another twelve months married the woman he had sought
and won before his illness. They lived in a pleasant house
upon the next street, so near that we often "ran around" to
see each other. "Mary's" younger sister had died during my
absence from home, and as I reminded myself, now, I ought
to have called before this.
Half a square from her door, I recalled that the young
clergyman who was supplying Doctor Hoge's pulpit while
he was abroad, and whom I had heard preach last Sunday,
was staying at the Howison's. It was not right, in the eyes
of the church, that he should go to a hotel, and since he
would go nowhere except as a boarder, the Howisons had
opened door and hearts to make him at home in his
temporary charge. He had given us an interesting sermon
on Sunday, and made a pleasing impression
generally. I had not thought of him since, until almost at
the gate of my friends' house. Then I said, inly:
"Should the youthful divine be hanging about the porch or
yard, I'll walk on unconcernedly and postpone the call."
Being familiar with the ways of young sprigs of divinity,
and having over twenty blood-relatives who had the right to
prefix their baptismal names by "The Reverend," I had no
especial fondness for the brand. Furthermore, three callow
clerics and one full-fledged had already invited me to share
parsonage and poverty with them. For all I had one and the
same reply. It might be my predestined lot, as certain
anxious friends began to hint, to live out my earthly days in
single blessedness; and, if the ancient anti-race-suicide
apostles were to be credited, then to lead apes in Hades for
an indefinite period. I would risk the terrors of both states
sooner than take upon me the duties and liabilities of a
minister's wife. Upon that I was determined.
The youthful divine was nowhere in sight. Nor did he
show up during the half-hour I passed with the Howisons.
They proposed walking home with me when I arose to go.
Just outside the gate we espied a tall figure striding up the
street, swinging his cane in very unclerical style. Mr.
Howison stopped.
"Ah, Mr. Terhune! I was hoping you might join us."
Then he introduced him to me. Of course, he asked
permission to accompany us, and we four strolled abreast
through the twilight of the embowered street. I had known
the sister of Mr. Terhune, who, as the widow of Doctor
Hoge's most intimate friend, was a frequent visitor to
Richmond. I asked civilly after her, and was answered as
civilly. We remarked upon the heat of the day and the fine
sunset; then we were at our gate, where my father and
brother were looking out for me.
My escorts declined the invitation to enter garden and
house; Mr. Howison passed over to me a big bunch of roses
he had gathered from his garden and brought with him and,
having exchanged "Good-evenings," we three lingered at
the gate to admire the flowers. There was no finer
collection of roses in any private garden in town than those
which were the lawyer's pets and pride. My face was
buried in the cool deliciousness of my bouquet when,
through the perfect stillness of the evening, we heard our
new acquaintance say:
"Your friend, Miss Hawes, walks well."
He had, as we had noticed on Sunday, a voice of
marvellous compass, with peculiar "carrying" qualities. He
had not spoken more loudly than his companions, and,
having reached the corner of the street, he fancied himself
beyond earshot. Every word floated back to us.
We laughed - all three of us. Then I said, deliberately:
"If that man ever asks me to marry him, I shall have to
do it! I vowed solemnly, long ago, to marry the first man
who thinks me handsome, if he should give me the chance.
Let us hope this one won't!"
"Amen!" responded my hearers, my father adding, "His
cloth rules him out."
It may have been a week later in the season that I was
strolling down Broad Street in company with "Tom"
Baxter, Mr. Rhodes's chummiest crony. He had overtaken
me a few squares farther up-town, and was begging me, in
the naïive way most girls found bewitching, to take a turning
that would lead us by an office where he was to leave a
paper he had promised to deliver at that hour.
"Then," he pursued, with the same refreshing simplicity
of tone and look, "there will be nothing to hinder me from
going all the way home with you."
I refused point-blank, and he detained me for a minute at
the parting of the ways, entreating and arguing, until I cut
the nonsense short by saying that I had an engagement
which I must keep without regard to his convenience and
walked on. Tom was an amusing fellow, and handsome
enough to win forgiveness for his absurdities. I was
smiling to myself in the recollection of the little farce, when
I met, face to face, but not eye to eye - for we were both
looking at the pavement - the man who had said that I
walked well. He stepped aside hurriedly; the hand that
swung the cane went up to his hat, and we went our
separate ways.
That evening I was surprised to receive a call from our
pastor pro tempore. He told me, months afterward, that he
was homesick and lonely on that particular afternoon. At
least two-thirds of the best people in the parish were out of
town, and he found little to interest him in those he met
socially.
"You smiled in such a genial fashion when we met on
that blesséd corner that I felt better at once. The
recollection of that friendly look gave me courage to call,
out of hand."
Whereupon, I brought sentimentality down on the run by
asking if he had ever heard the negro proverb, "Fired at the
blackbird and hit the crow"?
"That was Tom Baxter's smile - not yours!"
LITERARY WELL-WISHERS - GEORGE D.
AUTHORS were not so
plentiful then as to attract no
attention in a crowd of non-literary people. Men and women
who had climbed the heights had leisure to glance down at
those nearer the foot of the hill, and to send back a
cheering hail. I had twenty letters from George D. Prentice,
known of all men as the friend and helper of youthful
writers. All were kind and encouraging. By-and-by they
were fatherly and familiar. As when I lamented that I had
never been able to make my head work without my heart,
he responded, "Hearts without heads are too impulsive,
sometimes too hot. Heads without hearts are too cold.
Suppose you settle the matter by giving the heart into my
keeping, in trust for the happy man who will call for it some
day?"
His letters during the war were tinged with sadness. In
one he wrote: "My whole heart is one throbbing prayer to
the God of Nations that He will have mercy upon my
beloved country."
In reply to a letter of sympathy after the death of a
gallant young son, who fell on the battle-field, he said:
Mrs. Sigourney, then on "the retired list" of American
authors, sent me a copy of her latest volume of poems -
A Western Home - and three or four letters of motherly
counsel, one of which advised me to take certain epochs
of American history as foundation-stones for any novels I
might write in future, and bidding me "God-speed!"
Grace Greenwood opened a correspondence with the
younger woman who had admired her afar off, and we
kept up the friendship until she went abroad to live,
resuming our intercourse upon her return to New York in
the early eighties.
From Mr. Longfellow I had two letters. One told me that
Mrs. Longfellow was "reading Alone in her turn."
I am sincerely yours,
Not that I deceived myself, for one mad hour, with the
fancy that I could ever gain the right to stand for one
beatific moment on a level with the immortals whom I
worshipped. In the first flush of my petty triumph, I felt
my limitations. The appreciation of these has grown upon
me with each succeeding year. "Fred" Cozzens, the
"Sparrowgrass" of humorous literature, said to me once
when I expressed something of this conviction:
"Yet you occupy an important niche."
I replied in all sincerity: "I know my place. But the
niche Is small, and it is not high up. All that I can hope
is to fill it worthily, such as it is."
The history of one bulky packet of letters takes me back
to the orderly progress of my story, and to the most singular
and romantic episode of that first year of confessedly
literary life.
Alone had been out in the world about three months
when I received a letter from a stranger, postmarked
"Baltimore," and bearing the letter-head of a daily paper
published in that city. The signature was "James Redpath."
The writer related briefly that, chancing to go into
Morris's book-store while on a visit to Richmond, he
had had from the publisher a copy of my book, and read it.
He went on to say:
I was therefore unprepared for the strenuous manner
in which Mr. James Redpath proceeded to keep his pledge.
Not a week passed in which he did not send me a clipping
from some paper, containing a direct or incidental notice
Of any book, or work, or personality. Now he was in New
Orleans, writing fiery Southern editorials, and insinuating
into the body of the same, adroit mention of the rising
Southern author. Now he slipped into a Cincinnati paper
a poem taken from Alone, with a line or two, calling attention
to the novel and the author; then a fierce attack upon
the "detested politics and theology" flamed among book-
notices in a Buffalo journal, tempered by regrets that "real
talent should be grossly perverted by sectional prejudice
and superstition." Anon, a clever review in a Boston
paper pleased my friends in the classic city so much that
they sent a marked copy to me, not dreaming that I had
already had the critique, with the now familiar "J. R."
scrawled in the margin. The climax of the melodrama
was gained during the struggle over "bleeding Kansas" in
1855. A hurried note from the near neighborhood of
Leavenworth informed me that a pro-slavery force, double
the size of the abolitionist militia gathered to resist it, was
advancing upon the position held by the latter. My dauntless
knight wrote:
filled in a long report in a Philadelphia sheet of a meeting
with the "new star of the South," in the vestibule of the
church attended by the aforesaid. Nothing that escaped my
lips was set down, but my dress and appearance, my
conversational powers and deportment were painted in
glowing colors, the veracious portraiture concluding with the
intelligence that I would shortly be married to the son of a
former Governor of Virginia - "a man, who, despite his
youth, has already distinguished himself in the political
arena, and we are glad to say, in the Democratic ranks."
I thought my father would have an apoplectic fit when
he got to that!
"See here, my child! I don't presume to interfere with
Salathiel, or by what other name your friend may choose
to call himself, and there are all manner of tricks in the
trade editorial, but this is going a little too far. He sha'n't
marry you off, without your consent - and to a Democrat!
I had the same idea, and hearing directly from Mr.
Redpath path soon afterward, I said as much, as kindly as
I could. The remonstrance elicited a gentlemanly rejoinder.
While the style of the "report" was "mere newspaper
lingo," he claimed that the framework was built by an
attaché of the Philadelphia daily, whom he (Redpath) had
commissioned to glean all he could of my appearance, etc.,
during a flying trip to Richmond. The young fellow had
written the article and sent it to press without submitting it
to Salathiel. The like should not occur again. In my
answer to the apology, I expressed my profound sense of
gratitude to my advocate, and confessed my inability to
divine the motive power of benefactions so numerous and
unsolicited. His reply deepened the mystery:
Five years elapsed between the receipt of that first note
signed "James Redpath," and the explanation of what
followed. I may relate here, in a few sentences, what he
wrote to me at length, and what was published in an
appreciative biographical sketch written by a personal
friend after his death.
He was born in Scotland; emigrated in early manhood to
America, and took up journalistic work. Although
successful for a while, a series of misfortunes made of him
a misanthropic wanderer. His brilliant talents and
experience found work and friends wherever he went, and
he remained nowhere long. Disappointed in certain
enterprises upon which he had fixed his mind and expended
his best energies, he found himself in Richmond, with but
one purpose in his soul. He would be lost to all who knew
him, and leave no trace of the failure he believed himself to
be. He put a pistol in his pocket and set out for Hollywood
Cemetery. There were sequestered glens there, then, and
lonely thickets into which a world-beaten man could crawl
to die. On the way up-town, he stopped at the bookstore
and fell into talk with the proprietor, who, on learning the
stranger's profession, handed him the lately-published novel.
Arrived at the cemetery, Redpath was disappointed to see
the roads and paths gay with carriages, pedestrians, and
riding-parties. He would wait until twilight sent them back
to town. He lay down upon the turf on a knoll commanding
a view of the beautiful city and the river, took out his book
and began reading to while away the hours that would bring
quiet and solitude. The sun was high, still. He had the
editorial knack of rapid reading. The dew was beginning to
fall as he finished the narrative of the interrupted duel in the
sixteenth chapter.
I believed then, and I am yet more sure, now, that other
influences than the crude story told by one whose
experience of life was that of a child by comparison with his,
wrought upon the lonely exile during the still hours of that
perfect autumnal day. It suited his whim to think that the
book turned his thoughts from his design of self destruction.
Before he slept that night he registered a vow - thus he
phrased it in his explanatory letter - to write and publish one
thousand notices of the book that had saved his life.
When the vow was fulfilled - and not until then - did I
get the key to conduct that had puzzled me, and baffled the
conjectures of the few friends to whom I had told the tale.
I met James Redpath, face to face, but once, and that
was - if my memory serves me aright - in 1874. He was in
Newark, New Jersey, in the capacity of adviser-in-chief, or
backer, of a friend who brought a party of Indians from the
West on a peaceful mission to Washington and some of the
principal cities, in the hope of exciting philanthropic interest
in their advancement in civilization.
"He is as enthusiastic in faith in the future of the redman
as I was once in the belief that the negro would arise to
higher levels," remarked Salathiel, with a smile that ended in
a sigh. "Heigho! youth is prone to ideals as the sparks to fly
upward."
Learning that I was in the opera-house where the "show"
was held, he had invited me into his private stage-box, and
there, out of sight of the audience, and indifferent to the
speech-making and singing going on, on the stage, we
talked for an hour with the cordial ease of old friends. My
erst knight-errant was a well-mannered gentleman, still in
the prime of manhood, with never a sign of the eccentric
"stray" in feature, deportment, or the agreeable modulations
of his voice. He told me of his wife. He had written to me
of his marriage some years before. She was his balance-
wheel, he said. I recollect that he likened her to Madam
Guyon. At the close of the entertainment, we
shook hands cordially and exchanged expressions of mutual
regard. We never met again.
How much or how little I was indebted to him for the
success of my first book, I am unable to determine. I shall
ever cherish the recollection of his generous spirit and
steadfast adherence to his vow of service, as one of the
most interesting and gratifying episodes of my authorly
career.
MY NORTHERN KINSPEOPLE - "QUELQU'UN" AND A
I REWROTE the new book
that winter, reading it, chapter
by chapter, aloud to my father, in the evening. He was a
judicious critic, and I need not repeat here how earnest and
rapt a listener. I had received proposals for the publication
of my "next book" from six Northern publishers. In the
spring my father went to New York and arranged for the
preliminaries with the, then, flourishing firm of Derby&
Jackson.
It was brought out while I was in Boston that summer,
under the title of The Hidden Path. I anticipate dates in
jotting down here that I had my first taste of professional
envy in connection with this book.
My journeying homeward in September was broken by a
fortnight's stay at the hospitable abode of the Derbys in
Yonkers. I was at a reception in New York one evening,
when my unfortunately acute hearing brought to me a
fragment of a conversation, not intended for my edification,
between my publisher and a literary woman of note. Mr.
Derby was telling her, after the tactless manner of men,
how well The Hidden Path had "done" at the Trade Sales
just concluded.
"Ah!" said the famous woman, icily. "And I suppose she
is naturally greatly elated?"
Mr. Derby laughed.
"She hides it well if she is. Have you read the book?"
"Yes. You were good enough to send me a copy, you
know. It is quite a creditable school-girl production."
I moved clean out of hearing. I told Mr. Derby,
afterward, what I had heard, adding that my chief regret
was at the lowering of my ideal of professional generosity.
Up to that moment I had met with indulgent sympathy and
such noble freedom from envious hypercriticism, as to
foster the fondly-cherished idea that the expression of lofty
sentiment presupposes the ever-present dwelling of the
same within the soul. In simpler phrase, that the proverb -
"Higher than himself can no man think," had its converse
in - "Lower than himself can no man be."
In this I erred. I grant it, in this one instance. I had
judged correctly of the grand Guild to which I aspired, with
yearnings unutterable, to belong.
It was an eventful summer. My father and I had gone on
to Boston from New York, setting out, the same week, for
a tour through the White Mountains. I was the only woman
in the party. Our friend, Ned Rhodes, a distant cousin,
Henry Field, of Boston, and my father completed the
quartette. Ten days afterward, we two - my father and
I - met a larger travelling party in New York. Mr. and
Mrs. William Terhune, Mrs. Greenleaf, the widow of
Doctor Hoge's friend; "Staff" Little, the brother of Mrs.
William Terhune, and Edward Terhune, now the pastor of a
church at Charlotte C. H., Virginia, composed the company
which joined itself to us, and set forth merrily for Niagara
and the Lakes.
The trip accomplished, I settled down comfortably and
happily in Boston and the charming environs thereof for
the rest of the season.
Another halcyon summer!
If I have made scant mention of my father's kindred in
the land of his birth, it is because this is a story of the Old
South and of a life that has ceased to be, except in the
hearts of the very few who may take up the boast of the
Grecian historian - "Of which I was a part."
I should be an ingrate of a despicable type were I to
pass by as matters of no moment, the influences brought to
bear upon my life at that date, and through succeeding
years, by my association with the several households who
made up the family connection in that vicinity.
My grandmother's brother, Uncle Lewis Pierce, owned
and occupied the ancient homestead in Dorchester. He was
"a character" in his way. Handsome in his youth, he was
still a man of imposing presence, especially when, attired in
black broadcloth, and clean shaven, he sat on Sunday in the
pew owned by the Pierces for eight generations in the old
church on "Meeting House Hill." he did not always approve
of the doctrine and politics of the officiating clergyman. He
opened his mind to me to this effect one Sunday that
summer, as we jogged along in his low-hung phaeton,
drawn by a horse as portly and as well-set-up as his
master.
"The man that is to hold forth to-day is what my wife
scolds me for calling 'one of those higher law devils,' " he
began by saying. "He is of the opinion that the law,
forbidding slavery and denying rights to the masters of the
slaves and all that, ought to set aside the Constitution and
the laws made by better men and wiser heads than his.
He'd override them all, if he could. I've nothing to say
against a man's having his own notions on that, or any other
subject, but if he's a minister of the gospel, he ought to
preach the truth he finds in the Bible, and keep his
confounded politics out of the pulpit."
He leaned forward to flick a fly from the sleek horse
with his whip.
"I've been given to understand that he doesn't like to see
me and some others of the same stripe in church when he
preaches for us. I pay no attention to that. If he,
or any others of his damnable way of thinking, imagine
that I'm to be kept out of the church in which the Pierces
owned a pew before this man and his crew were ever
thought of, he'll find himself mistaken. That's all there is
about it!"
It was worth seeing, after hearing this, the sturdy old
representative of the Puritans, sitting bolt upright in the
quaint box-pew where his forbears had worshipped the
God of battles over a century before, and keeping what he
called his "weather eye" upon the suspected expounder of
the gospel of peace. The obnoxious occupant of the ancient
and honorable pulpit was, to my notion, an amiable and
inoffensive individual. He preached well, and with never an
allusion to "higher law." Yet Uncle Lewis kept watch and
ward throughout the service. I could easily believe that he
would have arisen to his feet and challenged audibly any
approach to the forbidden territory.
The day and scene were recalled forcibly to my memory
by a visit paid to my Newark home in 1864 by Francis
Pierce, the protestant's oldest son, on his way home from
Washington. He was one of a committee of Dorchester
citizens sent to the Capital to look after the welfare of
Massachusetts troops called into the field by a Republican
President.
The wife of the head of the Pierce homestead was one
of the loveliest women ever brought into a world where
saints are out of place. Near her lived an old widow, who
was a proverb for captiousness and wrongheadedness. I
never heard her say a kind or charitable word of neighbor
or friend , until she astounded me one day by breaking out
into a eulogy upon Aunt Pierce and Cousin Melissa,
Francis's wife:
"We read in the Scriptures that God is love. I allers think
of them two women when I hear that text. It might be said
of both of 'em: they are jest love - through an' through!"
I carried the story to the blesséd pair, you may be sure.
Whereupon, my aunt smiled compassionately.
"Poor old lady! People who don't know how much trouble
she has had, are hard upon her. We can't judge one another
unless we know all sides of a question. She is greatly to be
pitied."
And Cousin Melissa, in the gentle tone she might have
learned from her beloved mother-in-law - "I always think
that nobody is cross unless she is unhappy."
Aurora Leigh had not been written then. If it had been,
neither of the white-souled dears would have read a word
of it. Yet Mrs. Browning put this into the mouth of her
heroine:
"The
dear Christ comfort you!
The old house was a
never-ending delight to me. It was
built in 1640 (see Chapter I), ten years after the good ship
Mary and John brought over from Plymouth the
Massachusetts Bay Colony, landing her passengers in
Boston. Robert Pierce (or Percie) was, although a blood
connection of the Northumberland Percies, the younger son
of a younger son, and so far "out of the running" for title or
fortune on that account, that he sought a home and
livelihood in the New World.
My ancestress, Ann Greenaway, whose tedious voyage
from England to Massachusetts was beguiled by her courtship
and marriage to stalwart "Robert of Dorchester," bore
him many robust sons and "capable," if not fair daughters,
dying at last in the Dorchester homestead at the ripe age of
one hundred and four.
From her the long line of descendants may have
inherited the stout constitutions and stouter hearts that
gave
and kept for them a place in every community in which
they have taken root.
The story of the Pierce Homestead is told in Some
Colonial Homesteads more at length than I can give it
here.
The Virginia cousin was cordially welcomed to the cradle
of her foremothers, and a warm attachment grew up
between me and each member of the two households. My
cousin Francis had built a modern house upon a corner of
the homestead grounds, and I was as happily at home there
as in the original nest.
Another adopted home - and in which I spent more time
than in all the rest put together - was that of my cousin,
Mrs. Long, "the prettiest of the three Lizzies" referred to in
one of my letters. Her mother, my father's favorite relative,
had died since my last visit to Boston. Her daughter was
married at her death-bed. She was a beautiful and intelligent
woman, wedded to a man of congenial tastes who adored
her. The intimacy of this one of our Yankee cousins and
ourselves began before Mea and I had ever seen her. My
sister and "Lizzie" were diligent correspondents from their
school-days. To a chance remark of mine relative to their
letters, I owe one of the most stable friendships that has
blessed my life.
We sisters were in the school-room at recess one day
when I was fourteen, Mea sixteen. I was preparing a
French exercise for M. Guillet, Mea writing to Boston. We
had the room to ourselves for the time. My sister looked up
from her paper to say:
"What shall I say to Lizzie for you?"
"Give her my love, and tell her to provide me with a
correspondent as charming as herself."
In her reply Lizzie begged leave to introduce a particular
friend of her own, "intelligent and lovable - altogether
interesting, in fact." This friend had heard her talk of her
Southern cousins and wished to know them; but I must
write the first letter. I caught at the suggestion of what
commended itself to me as adventure, and it was an epistolary
age. Letters long and numerous, filled with details and
disquisitions, held the place usurped by phone, telegraph, and
post-cards. We had time to write, and considered that we
could not put it to a better purpose. So the next letter from my
sister to my cousin contained a four-pager from me, addressed
to "Quelqu'une." I gave fancy free play in conversing with the
unknown, writing more nonsense than sober reason. I set her in
the chair opposite mine, and discoursed at her of "divers
sayings." If not
"Of
ships and shoes and sealing-wax
of wars and rumors of
wars, and school duties, and current
literature.
In due time I had a reply
in like strain, but to my
consternation, written in a man's hand, and signed "Quelqu'un."
He apologized respectfully for the ambiguous terms of the
introduction that had led me into a mistake as to his sex, and
hoped that the silver that was beginning to stipple his dark hair
would guarantee the propriety of a continued correspondence.
"Time was," he mused, "when I could conjugate Amo in
all its moods and tenses. Now I get no further than
Amabam, and am constrained to confess myself in the
tense at which I halt."
We had written to one another once a month for two
years before the sight of a note to Lizzie tore the mask
from the face of my graybeard mentor, and confirmed my
father's suspicions as to his identity with Ossian Ashley, the
husband of Aunt Harriet's elder daughter. The next visit I
paid to Boston brought us together in the intimacy of the
family circle. He never dropped the role
of elderly, and as time rolled on, of brotherly friend. He
was, at that date, perhaps thirty-five years of age, and a
superb specimen of robust manhood. I have seldom beheld
a handsomer man, and his port was kingly, even when he
had passed his eightieth birthday. Although a busy man of
affairs, he was a systematic student. His library might have
been the work-shop of a professional litterateur; he was a
regular contributor to several journals upon financial and
literary topics, handling each with grace and strength. His
translation of Victor Cherbuliez's Count Kosta was a
marvellous rendering of the tone and sense of the original
into elegant English. He was an excellent French and Latin
scholar, and, when his son entered a German university, set
himself, at sixty-odd, to study German, that he "might not
shame the boy when he came home."
Before that, he had removed to New York City, and engaged
in business there as a railway stock-broker. He was, up to a
few months prior to his death, President of the Wabash
Railway, and maintained throughout his blameless and beneficent
life, a reputation for probity, energy, and talent.
Peace to his knightly soul!
He was passing good to me that summer. In company
with his wife, we drove, sailed, and visited steamships,
Bunker Hill Monument, and other places of historic interest.
In their society I made my first visit to the theatre, and
attended concerts and lectures. He lent me books, and led
me on to discuss them, then, and when I was at home. And
this when he was building up his business, looking after
various family interests, not strictly his own (he was forever
lending a hand to somebody!), and studying late into the
night, as if working for a university degree. I am told that
such men are so rare in our time and country as to make
this one of my heroes a phenomenon.
It is not marvellous that friendships like these, enjoyed
when character and opinion were in forming, should have
cultivated optimism that has withstood the shock and
undermining of late disappointments. It may well be that I
have not known another man who, with his fortune to
found, a household to support, and a press of mental toil that
would have exhausted the energies of the average student,
would have kept up a correspondence with a child for the
sake of pleasing and educating her, and carried it on out of
affectionate interest in a provincial kinswoman.
Affection and genial sympathy, with whatever concerned
me or mine, endured to the end. He was my husband's
warm friend, a second father to my children - always
and everywhere, my ally.
My last sight of him, before he succumbed to lingering
and mortal illness, is vividly present with me. We had dined
with him and his wife, and said to ourselves as we had
hundreds of times, that time had mellowed, without dimming
her beauty, and made him magnificent. The word is none
too strong to describe him, as he towered above me in the
parting words exchanged in light-heartedness unchecked by
any premonition that we might never chat and laugh
together again this side of the Silent Sea. He was over six
feet in height; his hair and flowing beard were silver-white;
his fine eyes darker and brighter by contrast; his smile was
as gentle and his repartee as ready as when he had jested
with me in those bygone summers from which the glory has
never faded for me.
My upturned face must have expressed something of
what filled heart and thoughts, for he drew me up to him
suddenly, and kissed me between the eyes. Then, with the
laugh I knew so well, he held out his hand to my husband:
"You mustn't be jealous, my dear fellow! I knew her a
long time before you ever saw her. And such good friends
as we have been for - bless my soul! - can it be more than
fifty years?"
Again I say: "God rest his knightly soul!" It is worth living
to have known one such man, and to have had him for my
"good friend" for "more than fifty years."
MY FIRST OPERA - "PETER PARLEY" - RACHEL AS
THE three weeks passed in
New York on my way home
were thronged with novel and enchanting "sensations." I
saw my first opera - Masaniello, and it was the début of
Elise Henssler. The party of which I was a member
included Caroline Cheeseboro, Elizabeth Oakes Smith, and
Samuel Griswold Goodrich - "Peter Parley." To my intense
satisfaction, my seat was beside the kindly old gentleman.
Was not Parley's Magazine the first periodical I had ever read?
And had not I devoured every book he had written, down to a
set of popular biographies for which my father had subscribed
as a gift to me on my eighteenth birthday? That I should, really
and truly, be sitting at his side and hearing him speak, was a
treat I could hardly wait until to-morrow to dilate upon in my
home-diary letter. He was social and amusing, and, withal,
intelligently appreciative of the music and actors. He rattled
away jovially in the entr'actes of other operas and personal
traits of stage celebrities, theatrical, and operatic. He told me,
too, of how he had been ridiculed for embarking upon a career
his friends thought puerile and contemptible, when he issued
the initial number of Parley's Magazine. If I was
secretly disappointed that his affection for his juvenile
constituency was more perfunctory than I had supposed
from his writings, I smothered the feeling as disloyal, and
would be nothing short of charmed.
I wrote to my mother next day that he was "a nice,
friendly old gentleman, but impressed me as one who had
outlived his enthusiasms." If I had put the truth into
downright English, I should have said that the circumstance
that he was enshrined in thousands of young hearts as the
aged man with a sore foot propped upon a cushion, and
whose big heart was a fountain of love, and his brain a
store-house of tales garnered for their delectation - was
of minor importance to the profit popularity had brought
him. I was yet new to the world's ways and estimate of
values.
The next night I saw Rachel in Les Horaces. I had never
seen really great acting before. I had, however, read
Charlotte Brontë's incomparable portraiture, in Villette, of
the queen of the modern stage. Having no language of my
own that could depict what was done before my eyes, and
uttered to my rapt soul, I drew upon obedient memory. Until
that moment I had not known how faithful memory could
be. In the breathless excitement of the last act of the
tragedy, every word was laid ready to my hand. I seemed
to read, with my subconscious perceptions, lines of
palpitating light, the while my bodily sight lost not a gesture
or look of the stricken tigress:
"An inordinate will, convulsing a perishing mortal frame,
bent it to battle with doom and death; fought every inch of
ground, sold every drop of blood; resisted to the last the
rape of every faculty; would see, would hear, would breathe,
would live, up to, within, well-nigh beyond the moment when
Death says to all sense and all being - 'Thus far and no
farther!' "
I saw others - some said as great actors - in after years.
Among them, Ristori. I do not think it was because I had
seen none of them before the Vashti of Charlotte
Brontë's impassioned periods flashed upon my unaccustomed
sight, that I still hold her impersonation of Camille in
Les Horaces to be the grandest triumph of the tragedian's
art mine eyes have ever witnessed. Ristori was always the
gentlewoman, born and reared, in whatever rôle she assumed.
Rachel - and again I betake myself to the weird word-painting:
"Evil forces bore her through the tragedy; kept up her
feeble strength. . . . They wrote "HELL" on her straight,
haughty brow. They tuned her voice to the note of torment.
They writhed her regal face to a demonic mask. Hate and
Murder and Madness incarnate, she stood.
I fancy that I must have been whispering the words as I
gathered up my wraps and followed my companions out of the
box. I recollect that one or two persons stared curiously
at me. In the foyer I was introduced to some strangers,
and went through certain civil forms of speech. I did not
recollect names or faces when we got back to the hotel.
After I was in bed, I could not sleep for hours. But one
other actor has ever wrought so mightily upon nerves and
imagination. When I was forty years older I was ill for
forty-eight hours after seeing Salvini as Othello.
During this memorable stay in New York I met Bayard
Taylor. At the conclusion of his first call, I rushed to
my desk and wrote to my sister:
"He
has a port like Jove.
"Nature
might stand up
For once my ideal did
not transcend the reality. Would
that I could say it of all my dream-heroes and heroines!
At his second call, Mr. Taylor was accompanied by Richard
Henry Stoddard. At his first, he brought Charles Frederick
Briggs, journalist and author, whose best-known book,
Harry Franco, I had read and liked. I met him but once.
Mr. Taylor honored me with his friendship until his
lamented death. My recollections of him are all pleasant.
We met seldom, but our relations were cordial; the renewal
of personal association was ever that of friends who liked
and understood each other. I reckoned it a favor that
honored me, that his widow accepted me as her husband's
old acquaintance, and that his memory has drawn us together
in bonds of affectionate regard.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich was then (in 1855) a mere stripling,
yet already famous as the author of Babie Bell and Elsinore,
poems that would have immortalized him had he not written
another line. I came to know him well during my Northern
sojourn. His charming personality won hearts as inevitably
as his genius commanded admiration. Halleck's hackneyed
eulogy of his early friend might be applied, and without
dissent, to the best belovéd of our later poets. To know
him was to love him. The magnetism of the rarely-sweet
smile, the frank sincerity of his greeting, the direct
appeal of the clear eyes to the brother-heart which, he
took for granted, beat responsive to his, were irresistible,
even to the casual acquaintance. His letters were simply
bewitching - as when I wrote to him after each of us had
grown children, asking if he would give my youngest
daughter the autograph she dearly coveted from his hand.
He began by begging me to ask him, the next time I wrote,
for something that he could do, not for what was
impossible for him to grant. He had laid it down as a
rule, not to be broken under any temptation, whatsoever,
that he would never give his autograph.
"THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH."
George P. Morris I met again and again. With the frank
conceit, so permeated with the amiability and naïiveté of the
veteran songster, that it offended nobody, he told me how
Braham had sung Woodman, Spare That Tree, before
Queen Victoria, at her special request, and that Jenny
Marsh of Cherry Valley was more of an accepted classic
than Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch. He narrated, too, the
thrilling effect produced upon an audience in New York or
Philadelphia by the singing for the first time in public
of Near the Rock Where Drooped the Willow, and smiled
benignantly on hearing that it was a favorite ballad in
our home. He was then associated with N. P. Willis in the
editorship of The New York Mirror, and agreed fully with
me that it had not its peer among American literary
periodicals.
My mother had taken it for years. We had a shelf full of
the bound volumes at home. I have some of them in my
own library, and twice or three times in the year, have a
rainy afternoon-revel over the yellowed, brittle pages
mottled with the mysterious, umber thumbmarks of Time.
Colonel Morris's partner, Nathaniel Parker Willis, who
had not yet taken to writing out the name at full length, was
at his country-seat of "Idlewild." He was ten years older
when I saw him last, and under circumstances that took the
sting from regret that I had not met him when life was fresh
and faiths were easily confirmed.
While in Dorchester I had enjoyed improving my
acquaintanceship with Maria Cummins. Encyclopædias
register her briefly as "An American novelist. She wrote
The Lamplighter." In 1855, no other woman writer was
so prominently before the reading public. The Lamplighter
was in every home, and gossip of the personality of the author
was seized upon greedily by press and readers. Meeting
Augusta Evans, of Rutledge and St. Elmo and Beulah, four years
thereafter, I was forcibly reminded of my Dorchester friend,
albeit they belonged to totally different schools of literature.
Both were quietly refined in manner and speech, and incredibly
unspoiled by the flood of popular favor that had taken each by
surprise. Alike, too, was the warmth of cordiality with which
both greeted me, a stranger, whom they might never meet
again.
An amusing incident connected with one of Maria
Cummins's visits broke down any lingering trace of
strangerhood. She was to take tea at the house of my
cousin, Francis Pierce. I was sitting by the window of the
drawing-room, awaiting her arrival and gazing at the
panorama of Boston Bay and the intervening hills, when an
old lady, a relative-in-law of "Cousin Melissa," stole in.
She was over eighty, and so pathetically alone in the lower
world that Melissa - the personation of Charity, which is
Love - had granted her home and care for several years. She
had donned her best cap and gown; as she crept up to me,
she glanced nervously from side to side, and her withered
hands chafed one another in agitation she could not conceal.
"I say, dearie," she began, in a whisper, bending down to
my face, "would you mind if I was to sit in the corner over
there" - nodding toward the back parlor - "and listen to
your talk after Miss Cummins comes? I won't make the
least mite of noise. I am an old woman. I never had a
chance to hear two actresses talk before, and I may never
have another."
I consented, laughingly, and she took up her position just
in time to escape being seen by the incoming guest. We
chatted away cheerily at our far window, watching the
sunset as it crimsoned the bay and faded languidly into
warm gray.
"Summer sunsets are associated in my mind, in a dreamy
way, with the tinkle of cow-bells," observed my companion,
and went on to tell how, as a child, living in Salem, she
used to watch the long lines of cows coming in from the
meadows at evening, and how musically the tinkle of many
bells blended with other sunset sounds.
"I have the same association with my Virginia home," I
answered. "So had Gray with Stoke Pogis. But his
herd lowed as it wound slowly over the lea."
"Perhaps English cows are hungrier than ours," Miss
Cummins followed, in like strain. "I prefer the chiming
bells."
We dropped into more serious talk after that. The unseen
listener carried off, up-stairs, when she stole out, like my
little gray ghost, but one impression of the "actresses' "
confabulation. Cousin Melissa told me of it next day. The old
lady was grievously disappointed. We had talked of nothing but
cows and cow-bells, and cows coming home hungry for supper,
and such stuff. "For all the world as if they had lived on a
dairy-farm all their days!"
I supped with Miss Cummins and her widowed mother a
day or so later, and we made merry together over the poor
crone's chagrin.
It was rather singular that in our several meetings neither
of us spoke of Adeline D. T. Whitney. She had not then
written the books that brought for her love and fame in
equal portions. But she was Maria Cummins's dear friend,
and a near neighbor of the Pierces. When we, at last,
formed an intimacy that ceased only with her life, we
wondered why this should have been delayed for a score of
years, when we had so nearly touched, during that and other
visits to my ancestral home.
At our earliest meeting in her Milton cottage, whither
I had gone by special invitation, she hurried down the stairs
with outstretched hands and - "I cannot meet you as a
stranger. My dear friend, Maria Cummins, has often talked
to me of you!"
In the hasty sketch of a few representative members of
the Literary Guild of America, as it existed a half-century
ago, I have made good what I intimated a few chapters back,
in alluding to my introductory experience of professional
jealousies, which, if cynics are to be credited,
pervade the ranks of authors, as the mysterious, fretting
leprosy ate into the condemned garment of the ancient
Israelite. In all frankness, and with a swelling of heart
that is both proud and thankful, I aver that no other order,
or class, of men and women is so informed and permeated
and colored with generous and loyal appreciation of whatever
is worthy in the work of a fellow-craftsman; so little
jealous of his reputation; so ready to make his wrongs
common property, and to assist the lowliest member of the
Guild in the hour of need.
I make no exception in favor of any profession or calling,
in offering this humble passing tribute to the Fraternity
of American Authors. I could substantiate my assertion
by countless illustrations drawn from personal observation,
had I space and time to devote to the task. In my sixty years
of literary life, I have known nearly every writer of note in
our country. In reviewing the list, I bow in spirit, as the
seer of Patmos bent the knee in the presence of the shining
ones.
ANNA CORA (MOWATT) RITCHIE - EDWARD EVERETT
IN 1854, Anna Cora
Mowatt, "American actress, novelist,
dramatist, and poet," as the cyclopædias catalogue her, left
the stage to become the wife of William Foushee Ritchie of
Richmond, Virginia.
Mrs. Mowatt, née Ogden, was the daughter of a prominent
citizen of New York. She was born in France, and partially
educated there. Returning to America, she married, in her
sixteenth year, James Mowatt, a scholarly and wealthy man,
but much the senior of the child-wife. By a sudden reverse
of fortune he was compelled to relinquish the beautiful
country home on Long Island, to which he had taken his
wife soon after their marriage. With the romantic design of
saving the home she loved, Mrs. Mowatt began a series of
public readings. Her dramatic talent was already well known
in fashionable private circles. At the conclusion of the round
of readings given in New York and vicinity, she received a
proposal from a theatrical manager to go upon the stage. For
nine years she was a prime favorite with the American
theatre-going public, and almost as popular abroad. She
never redeemed "Ravenswood," and her husband died while
she was in the zenith of her brilliant success.
Her union with William Ritchie, who had admired her for
a long time, was a love-match on both sides. He brought her
to quiet Richmond, and installed her in a
modest cottage on our side of the town, but three blocks
from my father's house. The Ritchies were one of the best
of our oldest families; Mrs. Mowatt belonged to one as
excellent; her character was irreproachable. I recollect
Doctor Haxall insisting upon this when a very conservative
Mrs. Grundy "wondered if we ought to visit her."
"You will see, madam, that she will speedily be as popular
here as she has been elsewhere. She is a lovely woman, and
as to reputation - hers is irreproachable - absolutely! No
tongue has ever wagged against her."
I listened with curiosity that had not a tinge of personal
concern in it. It went without saying that an ex-actress was
out of my sphere. The church that condemned dancing was
yet more severe upon the theatre. True, Mrs. Ritchie had
left the stage, and, it was soon bruited abroad, never
recited except in her own home and in the fine old colonial
homestead of Brandon, where lived Mr. Ritchie's sister,
Mrs. George Harrison. But she had trodden the boards for
eight or nine years, and that stamped her as a personage
quite unlike the rest of "us."
So when William Ritchie stopped my father on the street
and expressed a wish that his wife and I should know each
other, he had a civil, non-committal reply, embodying the
fact that I was expecting to go North soon, and would not
be at home again before the autumn.
During my absence my father sent me a copy of the
Enquirer containing a review of The Hidden Path, written by
Mrs. Ritchie, so complimentary, and so replete with frank,
cordial interest in the author, that I could not do less than
to call on my return and thank her.
She was not at home. I recall, with a flush of shame, how
relieved I was that a card should represent me, and that
I had "done the decent thing." The "decent thing," in
her opinion, was that the call should be repaid within the
week.
No picture of her that I have seen does her even partial
justice. In her youth she was extremely pretty. At
thirty-eight, she was more than handsome. Time had not
dimmed her exquisite complexion; her hair had been cut
off during an attack of brain-fever, and grew out again
in short, fair curls; her eyes were soft blue; her teeth
dazzlingly white. Of her smile Edgar Allan Poe had written:
"A more radiant gleam could not be imagined." In manner,
she was as simple as a child. Not with studied simplicity,
but out of genuine self-forgetfulness.
She struck what I was to learn was the keynote to
character and motive, before I had known her ten minutes.
I essayed to thank her for what she had said of my book.
She listened in mild surprise:
"Don't thank me for an act of mere justice. I liked the
book. I write book-reviews for my husband's paper. I could
not do less than say what I thought."
And - at my suggestion that adverse criticism was
wholesome for the tyro - "Why should I look for faults
when there is so much good to be seen without searching?"
A woman of an utterly different type sounded the same
note a score of years afterward.
I said to Frances Willard, whose neighbor I was at a
luncheon given in her honor by the wife of the Commandant
at Fort Mackinac:
"You know, Miss Willard, that, as General Howard said
just now of us, you and I 'don't train in the same band.' "
"No?" The accent and the sweet candor, the ineffable
womanliness of the eyes that sought mine, touched the
spring of memory. "Suppose, then, we talk only of the many
points upon which we do agree? Why seek for opposition
when there are so many harmonies close at hand?"
Of such peacelovers and peacemakers is the kingdom of
heaven, by whatsoever name they are called on earth.
Mrs. Ritchie was a Swedenborgian. I had learned that in
her Autobiography of an Actress. All denominations -
including some whose adherents would not sit down to
the Lord's Supper with certain others, and those who
would not partake of the consecrated "elements" if
administered by non-prelatic hands - united in shutting and
bolting the door of heaven in her face.
In the intimate companionship, unbroken by these and
other admonitions, I never heard from Mrs. Ritchie's lips a
syllable that was not redolent with the law of kindness. I
learned to love her fondly and to revere her with fervor I
would not have believed possible, six months earlier. It
was not her fascination of manner alone that attracted
me, or the unceasing acts of sisterly kindness she poured
upon me, that deepened my devotion. She opened to me the
doors of a new world: broadened and deepened and
sweetened my whole nature. We never spoke of doctrines.
We rarely had a talk - and henceforward our meetings
were almost daily - in which she did not drop into my mind
some precious grain of faith in the All-Father; of love
for the good and noble in my fellow-man and of compassion,
rather than blame, for the erring. Of her own church she
did not talk. She assumed, rather, that we were "one family,
above, beneath," and bound by the sacred tie of kinship,
to "do good and to communicate." She had a helpful hand,
as well as a comforting word, for the sorrowing and the
needy. As to her benefactions, I heard of them, now and
again, from others. Now it was an aged gentlewoman, worn
down to the verge of nervous prostration, and too poor to
seek the change of air she ought to have, who was sent
at the Ritchies' expense to Old Point Comfort for a month;
or a struggling music-mistress, for whom Mrs. Ritchie
exerted herself quietly to secure pupils; or a girl
whose talent for elocution was developed by private
lessons from the ex-actress; or a bedridden matron, who
had quieter nights after Mrs. Ritchie ran in, two or three
evenings in a week, to read to her for half an hour in the
rich, thrilling voice that had held hundreds enchanted in
bygone days.
To me she was a revelation of good-will to men. She
lectured me sometimes, as a mother might and ought,
always in infinite tenderness.
"I cannot have you say that, my child!" she said once,
when I broke into a tirade against the hypocrisy and general
selfishness of humankind at large, and certain offenders in
particular. "Nobody is all-wicked. There is more
unconquered evil in some natures than in others. There is
good - a spark of divine fire - in every soul God has made.
Look for it, and you will find it. Encourage it, and it will
shine.
And in reply to a murmur during the trial-experiences of
parish work, when I "deplored the effect of these belittling
cares and petty commonplaces upon my intellectual
growth," the caressing hand was laid against my hot cheek.
"Dear! you are the wife of the man of God! It is a sacred
trust committed to you as his helpmate. To shirk anything
that helps him would be a sin. And we climb one step at a
time, you know - not by bold leaps. Nothing is belittling
that God sets for us to do."
She, and some other things, gave me a royal winter.
Another good friend, Mrs. Stanard, had notified me that
Edward Everett, then lecturing in behalf of the Mount
Vernon Association, was to be her guest while in
Richmond, and raised me to the seventh heaven of delighted
anticipation by inviting me to meet him at a dinner-party
she would give him. Mrs. Ritchie forestalled the
introduction to the great man by writing a wee note to me
on the morning of the day on which the dinner was to be.
The Mount Vernon Association had for its express
object the purchase of Washington's home and burial-place,
to be held by the Nation, and not by the remote descendant
of Mary and Augustine Washington, who had inherited it.
Mrs. Ritchie was the secretary of the organization.
Her note said:
"A committee of our Association will wait upon Mr.
Everett at the Governor's house this forenoon. I will
smuggle you in, if you will go with us. I shall call
for you at eleven."
When we four who had come together were ushered into
the spacious drawing-room of the gubernatorial mansion,
we had it to ourselves. Mrs. Ritchie, with a pretty gesture
that reminded one of her French birth, fell to arranging five
or six chairs near the middle of the room, into a seemingly
careless group. One faced the rest at a conversational
angle.
"Now!" she uttered, with a playful presence of secrecy;
"you will see Mr. Everett seat himself just there! He can
do nothing else. Call it a stage trick, if you like. But he
must sit there!"
The words had hardly left her lips when Mr. Everett
entered, accompanied by a younger man, erect in carriage
and bronzed in complexion, whom he presented to us as
"My son-in-law, Lieutenant Wise."
To our secret amusement, Mr. Everett took the chair set
for him, and this, when three remained vacant after the
ladies were all seated.
Lieutenant Wise and I, as the non-attached personages
present, drifted to the other side of the room while official
talk went on between the orator-statesman and the
committee.
The retentive memory, which has, from my babyhood,
been both bane and blessing, speedily identified my
companion with the author of Los Gringos (The Yankees),
a satirical and very clever work that had fallen in my way
a couple of years before. He was a cousin of the
Governor. I learned to-day of his connection with the
Everetts.
He was social, and a witty talker. I had time to discover
this before the Governor appeared with his daughter, a
charming girl of seventeen, who did the honors of the house
with unaffected grace and ease.
I had met her before, and I knew her father quite well.
Mrs. Ritchie had taken herself severely to task that very
week for speaking of him as "our warm-hearted, hot-headed
Governor."
The characterization was just. We all knew him to be
both, and loved him none the less for the warm temper that
had hurried him into many a scrape, political and personal.
We were rather proud of his belligerency, and took real
pride in wondering what "he would do next." He was
eloquent in debate, a bitter partisan, a warrior who would
fight to the death for friend, country or principle. Virginia
never had a Governor whom she loved more, and of whom
she was more justly proud.
This was early in the year 1856. I do not recollect that I
ever visited the state drawing-room of the mansion again,
until I stood upon a dais erected on the very spot where
Lieutenant Wise and I had chatted together that brilliant
winter day, and I lectured to crowded parlors in behalf of
the Mary Washington Monument Association. Another Governor
reigned in the stead of our warm-hearted and hot-headed
soldier. Another generation of women than that which had
saved the son's tomb to the Nation was now working to
erect a monument over the neglected grave of the mother.
When the throng had dispersed, "Annie" Wise, now Mrs.
Hobson - and still of a most winsome presence - and I
withdrew into a corner to speak of that five-and-forty-year-
old episode, and said: "The fathers, where are they? And the
prophets - they do live forever!"
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Page 262XXVI
SIGOURNEY - GRACE GREENWOOD - H. W.
LONGFELLOW -
JAMES REDPATH - "THE
WANDERING JEW"
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HENRY W. LONGFELLOW."
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Page 270XXVII
LIFE-LONG FRIENDSHIP
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You
must have been most miserable
To
be so cruel!"
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And
cabbages and kings" -
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Page 280XXVIII
"CAMILLE" - BAYARD TAYLOR - T. B. ALDRICH -
G. P. MORRIS - MARIA CUMMINS - MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY
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And
say to all the world: " 'This is a MAN!' "
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Page 288XXIX
GOVERNOR WISE - A MEMORABLE DINNER-PARTY
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