All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography Part 52

Lilly's brows knit ominously, when I told her what I had done. "You will not like it, Mamma," she said.

"Why not? And you, Lilly, have always loved country solitudes."

"Yes, in books, Mamma. In real life, they are damp and rheumatic, and most hated by those who live in them, and know them best."

"O Lilly!" I cried, "I do want to go up the mountain so much. I am sure I can write well and easily there. I know I should be so happy, and I believe my hands would get strong."

"Then, dearest, we will go at once. So let us talk over what is to be done."

This was on April, the sixth, and on the tenth we moved into the mountain cottage. We had barely got our household goods into its shelter, when there commenced one of the heaviest rain storms I ever remember, and we ate our first meal, a very good one of broiled Virginia ham, poached eggs, coffee, and orange marmalade, to its pattering and rattling on the roof and against the windows.

"Grandmother Barr said, it was the luckiest thing to move in a rain storm," cried Lilly, with one of her old cheerful laughs; "she did not know she was prophesying luck for us, but she was, Mamma. I hope she knew how it was pouring as they carried in the last load."

"Is that a Scotch superst.i.tion?" I asked.

"Certainly, Scotch wisdom is the only kind of wisdom Grandmother quotes, or believes in. She believed also in carrying the house cat with you. Aunt Jessy once left her cat behind in moving, and left all her luck to the people who came after her, and they happened to be people Grandmother didn't like."

And I laughed, and talked about the c.u.mberland superst.i.tions, sitting by the kitchen fire in one of the best parlor chairs, while Lilly deftly broiled the ham and poached the eggs, and Anne Hughes, our small Irish servant, set the table in her own remarkable way, and Alice wiped all the dishes after her with a clean napkin. I have eaten few happier meals than that first one in Cherry Croft, and then we made up the beds in the dining-room for that night; and I fancied my bed had never been as soft and comfortable before. With happy wishes for good dreams, we all slept soundly, and sweetly, until Annie Hughes woke us with the information, that it was past seven, and a man was at the door with milk, and a big handful of flowers.

It was Thomas Kirkpatrick, of course. Any one who knew Thomas would suspect it. He worked for me on and off in some way for twenty years, and there was always that fine streak in his nature, typified by his love of flowers. In that twenty years, I had few birthdays that Thomas Kirkpatrick did not honor with a bunch of wild flowers at the dawning.

The house had been thoroughly cleaned, and was in good condition, for it had been built for the well known artist Theyer, who with his wife had occupied it one or two years; and he had been followed by a New York family whose name was Appleton, who only lived in it for a short time, so that it was nearly new, and quite free from all the wraiths and influences of prior inhabitants.

I shall never feel again in this life as joyous as I felt for the first few months in this house, though, thank G.o.d, I keep my child heart yet, and I am pleased with little things. My right hand got well rapidly; my headaches were much better. I slept like a baby; I woke up singing, a thing I had not done since Robert died. I was so happy in my little five-roomed cottage. I loved every foot of the pretty croft, in which it stood, and one morning when its fourteen cherry trees were all pink and white with blossom, I called it Cherry Croft. And now the name of Cherry Croft is known all over the English speaking world, and I not infrequently have letters directed to me "Cherry Croft, New York, United States of America," and they come direct to me without question or delay.

On the first of June, Dodd, Mead paid me a thousand dollars for "Remember the Alamo," but Mr. Mead wished the name changed. It was published in England under the name of "Woven of Love and Glory" but Mr. Mead desired it to be called, "Remember the Alamo." I could not have written it to that name, but the book being finished, it did not make so much matter. I suppose it sold better under the latter name, for I was told this year by a famous Texan, that few Texan families are without a copy of it. "The Alamo" was a phrase full of tragedy to every Texan, but not so distinctive to other people; it being a Spanish word given to a number of places.

On this day I received a copy of "Jan Vedder's Wife" in French. I do not know French, but was frequently told that it was an excellent translation. It appeared first as a serial in the best of the French reviews, but I never received a cent for its use, either as a serial or in book form. Well, I had the pleasure of writing it. That could not be taken from me.

On the third of June I began a Manx story called "Feet of Clay." The Isle of Man I have described in an early chapter of my life, and it was an easy background for me full of romantic possibilities, and vivid and ready-made romance. This story had a foundation of truth, and I remember that Mr. Gilder, while praising the literary workmans.h.i.+p of the tale, objected to the reformation of the hero, who had an inherited tendency towards forgery. With the tender pity natural to his rare character, he said that forgery was in his opinion and observation an unconquerable weakness; that a man who committed the crime once, would do the same thing again, whenever the temptation came to him. But I was still a Methodist, and I thought the love of Christ in the heart sufficient to prevent, as well as to forgive sin.

Besides I have always found myself unable to make evil triumphant.

Truly in real life it is apparently so, but if fiction does not show us a better life than reality, what is the good of it? _Aufidius_ was successful in his villainy, but are we not all glad to know that _Coriola.n.u.s_ had time to call him to his face "a measureless liar!" I confess that I like to reward the virtuous, and punish the guilty, and make those who would fain be loved, happy.

On the twenty-third of June I went to England on the _Circa.s.sia_. I was a favorite with her captain, and I sat at his right hand; the Reverend Mr. Meredith and Mrs. Meredith being opposite me. I have had few pleasanter voyages than this one. Captain Campbell was a good talker, so was the minister, and he gave us the following Sunday the best sermon I ever heard on a steamer. This journey was a purely business one, though after being in Kendal a day, I could not resist the something that urged me to go on to Glasgow. I intended to remain there a couple of days, and to do a little shopping, that could be better and more economically done in Glasgow, than anywhere else. I thought I was perfectly sure of my incognito, but the next morning my arrival was in the newspapers, and I had several very early callers, and many invitations to "go down the water" for the week end. One of these invitations was in the shape of an exceedingly friendly letter from Dr. Donald McLeod, at that time editing _Good Words Magazine_. I had one from the McIntosh family by the same mail, and my heart went out to the McIntoshes, though I had the highest respect for Dr.

McLeod, and knew that a Sabbath spent with him would be a wonderful one in many respects. Yet there was in me a perverse spirit that morning. I did not want to go anywhere. I did not want to dress, and to take my food and sleep and pleasure, as other people gave it to me.

I wrote the proper apologies, and slipped back to Bradford that afternoon. The following night I went to an intense Methodist service, and heard a thousand Yorks.h.i.+re men and women sing "There is a Land of pure delight," and "Lo, He comes with clouds descending!" as I shall never again hear them in this life. In fact I was singing myself as heartily as any one, and if I did not quite agree with the sermon, I felt sure it was the only kind of sermon likely to influence the wonderfully vitalized flesh and blood by which I was surrounded. There were no hesitations in it, no doubts, or even suppositions; it was an emphatic positive declaration, that if they did right they would go to heaven, and a still more emphatic one that if they did wrong they would go to h.e.l.l. And he had no doubts about the h.e.l.l. He saw it spiritually, and described it in black and lurid terms, that made women sob, and the biggest men present have "a concern for their souls."

I would not have missed that service for any company on earth. I know Dr. McLeod would have talked like the Apostle John, and there would have been a still peaceful Scotch Sabbath full of spiritual good things; but I felt all alive, soul and body, from head to foot, in that Methodist Chapel; so much so that I put a larger coin in the collection box than I could well afford, and never once regretted doing it. I would go to church every Sunday gladly, if I could hear a minister talk in such dead earnest, and be moved by a spiritual influence so vitally miraculous. The very building felt as if it was on fire, and for an hour at least, everybody in it _knew they had a soul_. They felt it longing and pleading for that enlargement, only the Love and Actual Presence of G.o.d could give it. I do not believe I should hear the same kind of a sermon in that chapel today. There is doubtless an organ and a choir now, and the preacher will have been to a Theological Inst.i.tute, and perhaps be not only "Reverend" but have some mystic letters after his name, and the congregation will be more polished, and the precepts of gentility will now be a religious obligation. And I am afraid it is not genteel now, to be anxious about your soul--especially in public. But I thank G.o.d that I spent that Sunday in Yorks.h.i.+re instead of Scotland; for spiritually I have never forgotten it, and physically, it was an actual influx of life from the source of life. I was twenty years younger. And I believe that if it were possible for men and women to live constantly so close to the spirit in which they live, move, and have their being, they might live forever.

The next day I went to s.h.i.+pley Glen, to see Ben Preston, a poor man yet, but a fine writer both in prose and verse, especially in his native dialect. He had not much education, but there was a vigorous native growth of intelligence. I spoke to him of the sermon I had heard the previous night, and he answered, "Ay, you'll hear the truth in a Methodist Chapel--here and there--even yet; but a Yorks.h.i.+re man nowadays reads his newspaper, instead of his Testament, so when a man comes out with ideas gathered from the Gospel of Jesus Christ, he's sure to be considered an original writer, whose crazy notions would turn the world upside down." There was a man from a Bradford newspaper sitting with him, and he spoke of Dilke and Chamberlain, and Preston answered, "They may be able to do something for us, but the biggest reforms of all will have to begin and be carried out by wersens."

The press man spoke of some local grandee whom he called "a self-made man" and Preston answered slowly, as he whittled a bit of stick,

"I admire self-made men, if I'm sure they're owt like 'John Halifax, Gentleman;' but lots o' them owe their elevation, not to their talents, but to a dead conscience and a kest-iron heart. Of such men, if they're rich enough, the world is ready to say 'they hev risen from the ranks.' It 'ud be nearer t' truth to say, 'they hev fallen from the ranks.' Yes, sir, fallen from t' ranks of honest, hard-working men, and taen to wa.r.s.e ways."

Of a certain marriage that he was told of, he said it was "a staid, sowber, weel-considered affair, a marriage wi' all t' advantages of a good bargain." I was much struck with his ready wit, his good sense, and his clever way of putting any remark he made. He was greatly and deservedly loved and respected, but his best work had a local flavor, which I dare say narrowed both his fame, and his income.

On the twenty-second of July I was still in Bradford, for I went to lunch with Mrs. Byles. She was a woman, whom if you once saw, you could never forget. Her husband was the clever editor of the _Bradford Observer_ and I think she had been made purposely for him--brains to her finger tips, full of vivid life, a brilliant talker, a perfect hostess, not beautiful but remarkably fascinating--so fascinating that you thought her beautiful. I never saw her but on that one occasion, but she made on me such an impression that if I met her on Broadway today, I should have no hesitation in saying, "I am glad to see you, Mrs. Byles." At this luncheon, I met also the daughter-in-law of Sir t.i.tus Salt, the discoverer and first maker of alpaca.

On the twenty-fifth of July, I sailed from Liverpool, on the _City of Rome_, and on the second of August landed at New York. I love England with all my soul, but when I saw the Stars and Stripes flying off Sandy Hook, my eyes filled with happy, grateful tears, for "East or West, Home is Best;" and the land where your home is built, is another native land.

Mary met me at the pier, went out to Cornwall with me, and remained with us until the eleventh of September, when she left for Florida.

The rest of the month I was busy on "Feet of Clay" which I finished on the tenth of October. Then I had my apples gathered, got in some large stoves, put up heavy curtains, and prepared the house for winter. On the twenty-seventh, I had a letter from General Sam Houston's son, in praise of what I had done for his father's memory, and on the twenty-eighth of October I began making notes for my story of Quakerism called "Friend Olivia." I was at the Astor Library every day until the twenty-fifth of November when I felt my way clear enough to begin "Friend Olivia." It was a bright lovely Sabbath, and I had a pious enthusiasm about the work, for my mother's family were among the earliest of George Fox's converts, and had suffered many things for the faith that was in them. I worked slowly at first, and did not finish my first chapter until the twelfth of December, nor my second until Christmas Day, when I copied it. After this I became aware of the character I called _Anastasia_, and every thing relating to her came easily enough, and I had a fancy she was not a bit sorry for her dislike of _Olivia_ and her efforts to injure her. But the year closed with me happily at work on "Olivia," and seeing my way clearly from the beginning to the end.

The first three months of 1889 I was nearly broken-hearted about Lilly's affairs. I was writing "Friend Olivia" and found my only relief in losing myself in it. Yet I had some pleasant events in my work. Oscar Fay Adams wrote a fine criticism of my books in the _Andover Review_. Mr. Clark sent me seven hundred six dollars for "Feet of Clay." I wrote special articles for the _Book News_ and the _Youth's Companion_ and the latter offered me five hundred dollars for a story of one hundred pages. Their pages were large, and I could not afford to accept their terms, which were burdened also with several limitations and forbidden topics. It was very unlikely that I should ever have touched these topics, unless forbidden to do so. That temptation might have made me wish to show the censors how innocently, and indeed profitably, they might be touched.

On my fifty-eighth birthday, I had finished thirteen chapters of "Friend Olivia," but I received on April, the first, a letter from the _North American Review_, asking me for an article, and I left my novel to write it. While I was thus engaged, I was requested by a minister with whom I had crossed the Atlantic once, to write for him on a certain subject, which I have not noted, and am not quite certain about. It was the request that astonished, and also pleased me, for I feared that my plain criticism on a certain occasion had deeply offended him. It happened that we had walked and talked together at intervals during the week, and that on the following Sabbath morning he preached in the saloon, and I was present. Leaning over the taffrail, that evening he came to me and asked how I liked his sermon?

"The sermon was a good sermon," I said, "but spoiled in the delivery."

"Why! How? What do you mean, Mrs. Barr?" he asked.

"Your sermon," I answered, "was a series of solemn declarations and avowals of faith and belief, and after stating each with remarkable clearness, you invariably concluded with this reflection, 'It seems to me that no logically sane mind can refuse this truth.'"

"Well," he said, "that was right."

"No," I answered, "it was wrong. Those four words, '_it seems to me_,'

destroyed the whole effect of your argument. You left us at liberty to dispute it, and debate it. What seemed to you true, might not seem so to any one else, if they began to look for reasons."

"What would you have said, if in my place?"

"If I believed, as you do, I would have said, 'Friends, I have told you the truth. There is no other truth on this subject. If you believe it, and live up to it, you will be saved. If you do not believe it, and live up to it, there is no salvation for you.'"

"A minister can but give his opinion."

"He ought to give G.o.d's opinion, that is what he stands up to do, and there is no 'seems to me' in that. Excuse me," I said, "I am a daughter of Levi, and have been used to talking as I feel to ministers all my life. I meant no harm. I was only sorry you took all the salt and strength out of a really good sermon."

"I thank you!" he said, but he was quiet afterwards, and I soon went away, fearing I had everlastingly offended him. But here was the kindest of letters, with a request that I would write him a short article for a paper in which he was interested. I did so cheerfully, but I put my price on it; for I had discovered by this time, that newspapers value articles according to what they have to pay for them.

I may mention that among the trials of this spring, my big English mastiff was so ill, that we had to send him away for treatment. It was almost like sending one of the family away. He was a n.o.ble, loving creature with far more intelligence than is credible.

On the twenty-second of May, I finished all the creative work on "Friend Olivia," and on the twenty-fourth, having gone carefully over it, I took it to Dodd, Mead and Company, and they sent it to the Century Company, thinking it might suit Mr. Gilder for a serial. Until the third of June I rested, for my eyes and right hand were weary and aching, then I wrote an article for the _Book News_ for which I received thirty dollars. Until the second of July, I wrote articles for the _Advance_, _North American Review_, et cetera, and copied some short stories for the Kendal Syndicate, and the _Christian World_. On the second of July, I began a story of the Cheviot Hills but on the ninth received a letter from Dodd, Mead saying Mr. Gilder liked "Friend Olivia" very much, and wished to see me. The following day I went to see Mr. Gilder, and agreed to rewrite the story suitably for a serial for three thousand dollars; and from this time forward until the sixteenth of September, I was going over "Friend Olivia," and while arranging it suitably for a serial, was also trying how much richer and better I could make it.

I was abundantly repaid by the following letter from Mr. Gilder, under date of September, 1889.

EDITORIAL DEPARTMENT, THE CENTURY MAGAZINE.

MY DEAR MRS. BARR:

I have finished the story. It closes like music, beautifully.

There might be some points that I could wish different, but I do not press them, the whole story is so charming.

In this revisal of "Friend Olivia," I followed in all matters Mr.

Gilder's advice and suggestions, and so learned much of the best technicalities of fiction. I could not have had a finer teacher. I could not have had a more kind, just and generous one. He rejoiced in good work, and gave it unstinted praise, no matter who was its author.

To a soul who had been hardly used by the world in general, it was a kind of salvation to meet such a man.

I owed a great deal of my success with the _Century_, to Mrs. Grover Cleveland's praise of "Friend Olivia." She read the story in ma.n.u.script, and spoke so highly of it to Mr. Gilder, that he was induced by her report to read it himself. So one of the first printed copies of the novel was sent to Mrs. Cleveland, who wrote me the following note: