All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography Part 42

"Will you buy it?" I asked again, and I was aware that my voice trembled.

"We cannot," he answered. "Our house does nothing in that way of business, but I can send you to a gentleman who will buy it, and who will be certain to treat you fairly, and to give you its value."

And I could not help believing him, for his face and voice were full of sympathy, as I answered, "Thank you, sir. That is all I want."

Then he took a card from his pocket book, wrote a few lines on it, and enclosing it in an envelope, addressed the message, whatever it was, to Mr. John Henry Johnston, Bowery and Grand Street.

I knew nothing of these localities, but when I reached the friendly policeman at Fourteenth Street again, he told me exactly how to find the place. And the unaffected kindness of these two men in some strange way drew all the sorrow out of my heart, and I walked down the Bowery full of interest in all the strange shops and sights I saw there; for it appeared to be full of people, in every kind of dress the continent of Europe could supply. In fact it was full of emigrants in their national costumes, waiting for the evening emigrant train, and in the meantime, seeing what they could of the city of New York.

At length I came to Grand Street, and saw the store I wanted. It was a large handsome store, and I walked into it, and asked for Mr.

Johnston. His appearance rather astonished me. He looked to be about thirty-seven years old, but his hair was snow white. He had a pleasant, intelligent, kind face, and his manner was most prepossessing. He read the card sent him, and said politely, "Come into my office, Madame."

I told him my name, then he looked at my ring, and said, "The stones are good, and it is of English make, I think. I may say, I am sure."

"It was bought in Glasgow, from the firm of Alexander McDonald--but for all that, may be of English make," I answered.

He spent a little time in examining the ring, then sent for another gentleman, and asked him to appraise its value; while this was being done, he asked me if I was the Amelia Barr who wrote for the _Christian Union_. In a short time, the second gentleman having finished his examination, Mr. Johnston told me what he would give me for the ring, and I was amazed. I had not expected half as much, and I joyfully accepted his offer. Then and there, we finished the transaction, and my ring was gone from me forever. But when he put it in the safe, and the iron door shut heavily upon it, I could have shrieked. It hurt me so! It hurt me so! If it had not been for the three dear girls waiting for the money, I should even then have said, "Give it back to me. I cannot, cannot part with it!"

As it was, I did not speak, but as I rose to go away, Mr. Johnston asked me to sit awhile, and being excited and trembling, I thought it well to do so. Thus began a very sincere friends.h.i.+p between Mr.

Johnston's family and my own. Mrs. Johnston was called Amelia, and this simple circ.u.mstance made our first meeting a very pleasant one.

For several years the Johnstons were true friends, but Mrs. Johnston died early, and in later years I have lost sight of Mr. Johnston. He did me many favors, but there is one above all others, which I can never forget. It was in connection with my ring, and it gives me yet a warmth at my heart to remember it.

About three weeks after it had pa.s.sed from my possession, a small parcel came to me, and when I opened it I saw the little box in which I had always kept my treasure. With trembling fingers I opened it, and there lay my ring, changed indeed, but still my ring. The stones had been removed, and over the vacancy caused by their removal, had been placed a scroll of gold, inscribed in black enamel with the word "_Faith_." Fortunately, I was alone in my home, and I went to my room and falling on my knees, I laid the changed ring in my open palm before G.o.d. What I said, He knows, and there are many of my readers who will understand without my explanation. I thought G.o.d would see, and be sorry for me.

Was I not happy? Yes, at first very happy, but gradually my feelings changed. The beloved amulet, denuded of its splendor and value, was such an evident symbol of myself, and my fortune, that I could not help a kind of sorrowful astonishment, followed by a gush of pa.s.sionate weeping. "O Robert! Robert!" I cried, and then both words and tears failed, and I laid my head on the bed, and was dumb; because my loss was so irreparable, that even G.o.d could not restore

"The weeping hopes, the memories beyond tears, The many, many, blessed, unforgotten years."

At that hour my heart was empty of all but grief.

Very soon, however, I heard my children's voices on the stairs. They were talking softly but happily, and I rose and bathed my face, and to their eager call of "Mamma! Mamma!" I went to meet them. Then I showed them the changed ring, and I am sure that wherever Mr. Johnston was at that hour, his heart must have glowed with the warmth of the good wishes sent to him. I also tried to be pleased and happy, for I told myself, that if there had been any real reason for the grief I had just indulged, G.o.d would have spoken a word of comfort to me, yet when I showed Him the changed ring, He did not. My tears had been useless, for there is no deliverance through tears, unless G.o.d wipes them away.

So I placed the ring on my finger, and wore it that night, and when the mystery of sleep wrapped me like a garment, I found out that G.o.d had not been indifferent to my tears, and that He had royal compa.s.sion for the sorrowful and broken-hearted who had not dared to expect anything.

For a little while, I wore it constantly, thinking I could accustom myself to its company, but it had been too long a part of myself and my life. A sudden glimpse of it could sometimes destroy a day's work, and if I purposely looked at it, the heart overruled the head, and I was not able to write at all. It depressed me, and put down the soft pedal on all thought and mental expression. So I finally laid it away among the sacred things of my affections, my father's, mother's, and husband's last letters, the lock of Robert's dark hair just tinged with gray, the golden curls from my children's brows, the flowers that had bloomed on their graves. Among such treasures it found its place--the last memento of a love and a life, dead, and gone forever.

Some of my readers will very likely say that I was foolishly superst.i.tious regarding this ring, and evidently considered it as an amulet or charm. I will answer them in the words of a very learned man, who wrote on this subject, and then leave them to argue the question as it seems to appeal most powerfully to their experience, or their prejudices.

"As to Charms, a coin, a pebble, any trifle long carried on the person, becomes imbued with the personality. Sometimes they have such strange ways of remaining with one, that we cannot help suspecting they have a will of their own. Who has not been amazed at the persistency with which a coin, a key, a b.u.t.ton, a pebble picked up and put in the pocket, stays there? Or how some card will lurk in our pocketbook, till it is plain it is there of its own intention. In a little time, we can't help feeling as if these things know a great deal that we do not know; and we treat them with liking and respect, and even care."

Let those who say they never do "such silly things," deny; the wise, who dare affirm or acknowledge the foible, will be a large majority.

By whatever power or influence my ring held me, its putting away was an advantageous thing. Since Robert's death my life had been, to my own apprehension, two-fold: a sharply defined life above consciousness, and a vague, haunting, dreamlike life below consciousness. The latter had troubled most of my hours of rest and solitude; and living in it, either waking or sleeping, I was sad with regrets and self-accusations. A night spent in its gloom robbed the next day of vitality and active mentality. I was depressed, and work of any kind is not done as well as it could be, if gone to with cheerfulness, yes, even with gladness. But with the removal of the ring from my person, the last link between the past and the present life was broken. I know not how it came about, but gradually I was able to dismiss "Memory's rapturous pain."

"For when I drank of that divinest anguish, How could I taste the empty world again?"

Yes, I began to forget. At first I could not believe it, and I struggled against the fact. I told my heart to remember, but it was only telling love to do what love had once done of itself. I found it useless, as all have done, and will do to struggle against the deepest nature of things. For G.o.d has appointed time to console affliction, and living loves and inexorable wants and duties, compel us to accept the present as compensation for all that has been taken away, and so for a while,

"... we do not quite forget, Nor quite remember, till the past days seem, The waving memory of a lovely dream."

Every event has two or three causes, and probably quite as many issues, and Mr. Johnston's friends.h.i.+p carried Lilly back to mission work. She went with him and a Mr. Swartout to the Five Points Mission one Sunday afternoon, and at this time the Five Points Mission was the pet philanthropy of New York. There was always a great number of visitors there on the Sabbath, but it was the number of poor children that attracted Lilly. She had a singular apt.i.tude for interesting and managing them, and this faculty had been trained and exercised by her famous pastor, Dr. Joseph Brown of the Kent Road Church, Glasgow, especially in the poor children's dinners supplied by the city and private charity. So this Sunday afternoon decided her life for the next two years or more, and also had a helpful influence on our own home.

For the attention of the Reverend George Mingens, Superintendent of New York's city missions, was soon drawn to her fine voluntary work, and he asked her to join his missionary helpers. But I was extremely averse to her even visiting the Five Points district, though I acknowledged to myself the native and natural quality of her evangelism. My father delighted in his home missions, and my Uncle John died at Sierra Leone after seven years missionary labor there. A picture of his lonely grave in the African desert hung in my father's study, and was one of the first things I heard a story about. It was only a poor woodcut taken from a _Churchman Magazine_, but as I grew older my imagination easily supplied the lions on the horizon, and the negro kneeling beside it.

Also I had a most disquieting memory of a little girl about eight years old, after a missionary meeting in Penrith Chapel, declaring that as soon as she was grown up, she was going to the heathen at the ends of the earth. She was going to tell them about their good brother Jesus, who stretched out his arms to them, even from the Cross. And I was ashamed before this ghost of a child from the past, and then remembered how Lilly had even neglected her school and her lessons to go to serve at the poor children's dinners in Glasgow, finding in this service a consolation for a life lonely and not happy. So there was no reason at all to wonder at her enthusiasm for mission work. It was an inherited tendency, strengthened by the experience of three generations.

The next time Mr. Mingens called he made a proposal I had neither heart, nor argument to oppose. He said he had taken dinner the previous evening with Mr. and Mrs. William E. Dodge, and that during a conversation about city missions, Mrs. Dodge had expressed a desire that Miss Barr would act as her private missionary. He told us that Mrs. Dodge was very rich and charitable, and had letters every day asking her help in a variety of troubles, and that she thought Miss Barr would be the very person to investigate the real condition of the writers, and if their cases were worthy of help, to see that they obtained it.

The offer greatly pleased Lilly, and after she had an interview with Mrs. Dodge, she was taken captive by that lady's spiritual and personal charms and was very happy in the work a.s.signed her. The salary she received for it brightened all our lives, for it enabled us to rent and make the comfortable home we all longed to possess. For there was but one purse in the family. I carried it, but it belonged alike to all; and I never once remember Lilly asking for a dollar of her salary, for her private use or pleasure.

In the meantime my reputation grew imperceptibly as a tree grows. In a little more than a year after I began writing for the _Christian Union_ I had a great deal to do for Dr. Stephen Tyng, a notable young clergyman of that day. My first literary work for him was to write twenty little stories about Olivet Chapel and its mission. They were to be about seven or eight hundred words long, and though all on the same subject, to be varied as much as possible. I found no difficulty in doing what he wished. It was only to make men of different creeds and nationalities, age and temperament, wealth and poverty, discuss the mission. To me it proved a pleasant mental exercise, and Dr. Tyng was more than satisfied, and paid me one hundred dollars. I thought the cars would never get me home. I was in such a hurry to tell the children, I must have taken two steps at once.

That day remains in my memory as a perfectly happy day, for Dr. Tyng paid me with such cordiality and unstinted praise, that my pleasure was doubled. Subsequently when Dr. Tyng and Dr. Hepworth began to publish a weekly newspaper, called the _Working Church_, they a.s.sociated me with them in its preparation. This paper published the first novel I ever wrote, as simple a story as "Jan Vedder's Wife,"

but laid among the c.u.mberland Fells and in the city of Glasgow. At that time I knew nothing about book rights, and English rights, and I suppose Dr. Tyng never imagined a writer could be ignorant about such personal points, for he did not speak to me on the subject. So when Dr. Tyng had paid me for its publication in the _Working Church_ I believed I had no further right in it. It was put away and forgotten, until about half a year ago, when I found it in a box full of old diaries, papers, et cetera. Its name was "Eunice Leslie" and if any one has early copies of the _Working Church_ they will find it there, and I should be glad to hear of it.

Among my duties on this paper was the preparation of the columns of church news, and general news, and Dr. Lyman Abbott in writing to Dr.

Tyng about the newspaper said, "They were well done," and asked, "Who prepared them?" And as Dr. Abbott knew I was responsible for their accuracy and brightness, it was very kind of him to make the inquiry.

It was a small kindness; it was done forty years ago, and Dr. Abbott has doubtless forgotten it, but I still remember how much it pleased me. As for Dr. Abbott, he may count it, as Wordsworth says, in

"That best portion of a good man's life-- His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness, and of love."

Dr. Tyng showed me Dr. Abbott's question, and his compliment to the general character of the _Working Church_ as a popular religious weekly, and with a gay little laugh commented thus, "I am glad the doctor did not spell 'Weekly' with an 'a.'" Then his countenance beamed with pleasure, and I can see him this moment, as I saw him then, standing with the note in his hand, as fine a type of a highly-cultured good-hearted gentleman as I ever met.

CHAPTER XX

THE FAMILY LIFE

"The Family Life is romantic because it is uncertain. Every member of it likes different work and different play. These differences make the household bracing. Those who want to get out of family life will go into a much narrower world."

Our home at this time was in the pretty row of flats opposite the Dominican Church on Lexington Avenue. They were light, sunny apartments and had a satisfactory share of what we call, modern conveniences. Every one knows how New York looks now, between Lexington Avenue and the old entrance to Central Park at the a.r.s.enal.

Then, it was a clear, open s.p.a.ce. I remember just one cottage standing at the southeast corner opposite to the park entrance; and I remember this cottage, because its garden was full of old-fas.h.i.+oned English flowers--columbines, sops-in-wine, calamuth, kingspear, crown imperials, Michaelmas daisies, and the only auriculas I have seen in America, the aristocrat of the primrose family, dressed in royal purple, and powdered as daintily as any court lady.

AURICULAS

"Grave grandees from pageant olden, Purple, crimson, primrose, golden, Yellow-hearted, tawny-tuckered, Velvet-robed, and flounced and puckered, Golden-eyed and garnet-breasted, Cherry-rimmed and velvet-vested, Silver-powdered, golden-dusted, Damson-dyed or orange-rusted, Pencilled, painted, grained and graded, Frilled and broidered and brocaded, Ye should move in gilded coaches, While some gorgeous Prince approaches; Let the Polyanthi then, Run as dapper liverymen!

Till your dames on polished floors, Sail like splendid Pompadours."

Our dining-room faced this pleasant outlook, and it was a favorite family gathering place; for Mary had her sewing machine at one of its windows, and there she sat sewing and singing nearly every morning.

The parlor looked on to Lexington Avenue, and was exactly opposite the Dominican Church entrance, and on Sunday mornings I found at its windows never-ceasing food for thought and observation. Early as six o'clock, there was a reverent praying congregation there, and soon after nine the congregation had overflowed its capacity, and men and women were kneeling on its steps, and broad sidewalk. They were indifferent to pa.s.sers-by, and with their rosaries in their hands, made publicly their confession of sin, and their prayer for pardon. I never wearied of this Sabbath spectacle, and I never dreamed of smiling at it. I could not imagine myself praying on the sidewalk, or even on the church steps, but sincere religion always commands respect. It is never ridiculous or contemptible.

The parlor, like the rest of the house, was plainly furnished. There were white curtains at the windows, and white matting on the floor, and a very good cottage piano, which we rented when we were in the Amity Street rooms, and had to deny ourselves in other matters, in order to pay the eight dollars a month it called for. But Mary had acquired a certain proficiency in music that must not be lost, and at this time she was taking singing lessons from Errani, and they needed steady, regular practice, which was given while I was at the Astor Library.

Through my reviewing for the _Christian Union_ and other papers, we had collected a number of good books, but we had no pictures excepting two fine crayon portraits of my eldest daughters, which had been presented to me by a young artist, who came frequently to our house.