the circle that finally gathered around the fireside in the little library at 157 willow street was long remembered by some of the men who made it brilliant. john g. saxe, whom we had known in washington, was one of these men. thither also came the southern author, william gilmore simms. i remember one evening spent in our tiny library with mr. simms, john r. thompson, and general charles jones, when the trio of literary men told stories,—not war stories,—ghost stories. mr. thompson recalled a ghost i had known of myself and feared when a child,—the ghost of the university of virginia that announced its coming by a sudden wind bursting open the doors, passed through the room, and walked off across the lawn to the mountains. his deep foot-tracks could be discerned in the soft sod, and with snow on the ground these deep tracks could be seen to grow under his invisible feet as he strode onward. well do i remember nights when this ghost "walked." but general jones had a better story. his was a visible ghost, an old lady, whose contested will he was reading one night, who appeared at the challenged point, looked at him solemnly, and then vanished! mr. simms positively declined to mention his own private ghost after these two thrilling visitations.
we had an interesting visit from percy greg, son 392of the english author. mr. greg brought as a present to my general the proof-sheets of his father's "warnings of cassandra," in which my husband discovered an error; and according to his lifelong belief that all errors in the english language are crimes which must be corrected, he proceeded to enlighten mr. greg. "your father has made a mistake—a slight one—which he can correct in the next edition. he uses the word 'internecine' where he clearly means 'intestine.'" our guest dropped his under jaw, stared, and reddened. an american correcting an englishman's english! he had, i know, respect for my husband's courage, but he had not expected rebel guns to be turned on him in this manner.
"this was a length, i trow,
a rebel's daring could not go,"
if i may paraphrase gilbert in the bab ballads!
but we had more eminent guests than these,—the divines of the city of churches, and her learned judges. foremost and most cordial of all were the old generals of the grand army of the republic: general hancock, general james fry, general slocum, general grant, general tracy—a sometime foe in field and forum; and later general sherman, general fitz-john porter, general butterfield, and general mcclellan were added to our list of friends.
among my husband's earliest clients was general benjamin f. butler, who employed him to defend his son-in-law, hon. adelbert ames, when the latter was impeached by the state of mississippi. 393 in the families of these distinguished men we soon found friends, and to these were added many others. brooklyn was noted for its refined and cultivated society, and on brooklyn heights many of its most prominent citizens lived, men whose names are not yet forgotten: professor and mrs. eaton, our first and dearest friends; mr. abbot low,—whose splendid monument is the library of columbia university,—his charming wife and daughters and his accomplished sons, one of whom was late president of columbia university and mayor of new york; dr. henry van dyke, whose name is famous in two continents as scholar, writer, and orator of high distinction; john roebling, the brilliant engineer, architect, and builder of the great brooklyn bridge, whose beautiful wife was sister of our friend, general warren; the hon. s. b. chittenden and his wife, a grand dame of the old school; the family of our minister to the court of st. james, mr. pierrepont; mr. and mrs. alanson trask, foremost in all good works; mr. henry k. sheldon, who gave artistic musicals; mrs. john bullard, the patroness of art and leader in society; mr. and mrs. allen, who gave a lovely daughter to be the wife of dr. holbrook curtis; mr. and mrs. george l. nichols, with a most dear and charming family of sons and daughters; one known to the world to-day—at home and abroad—as katrina trask, the brilliant author, poet, and accomplished chatelaine; mrs. alice morse earle, now one of america's charming writers; mrs. louise chandler moulton; and grace denio litchfield, then a beautiful 394young lady, and now a gifted author. these are but a representative few of the interesting men and women who were kind enough to visit us. a multitude of lovely young girls gathered around my school-girl daughters; and when all the army of men turned out on new year's day to observe—as they did religiously—the old-time custom of making calls, the little house on willow street showed symptoms of bursting!
all of these were northern people, and many of them from new england,—the new england we had been taught to regard as the stronghold of our enemies. there was not a southern-born man or woman among them. we had always considered the new englander upright, narrow, and thorny! transplanted to brooklyn, we found him upright indeed, but as harmless as a thornless rose.
many of these delightful people in time crossed the east river and pitched their tents in new york—and many have crossed the river that flows close to the feet of all of us; and so i imagine society in what is now known as the borough of brooklyn has formed new systems revolving around new suns. i sometimes read the old names in the society columns of the brooklyn journals, and the old pictures rise before me, delightful and never to be forgotten.
the time had now come, however, when it was imperative for general pryor to live in new york, the city where he had commenced his work and had always kept his office. the first of may found us in a small house on 33d street. 395 a letter written by me in the following august gives my opinion of new york as a summer resort.
"my dear agnes:—
"the colonel declares he means to bring you to new york, and wishes me to give you my own impressions of this place. well, all i have to say is 'pray that your flight be not in summer!' anything like the heat and desolation of this town in summer cannot be imagined. everybody leaves it. i am living in a tiny house in the heart of the city—and a very hard heart it is! on one side of me is the rear of a great hotel, its kitchens and servants' offices overlooking me. really, i had as soon hear shrieking shells as the clatter they make with their pots and pans. behind me is a sash and blind factory yielding dust and noise unspeakable. on the other side a dreadful man has planted a garden, wherein he has spread an awning, and there he holds his revels—his card and wine parties. of course i can but listen to him more than half the stifling hot nights, but should i remonstrate, it is not improbable he might inform me that this is a free country, which i doubt. lucy and fanny fortunately are far away in virginia, and so i am spared the added discomfort of suffering through their nerves.
"this town is as completely metamorphosed in summer as if it had changed places with some struggling, dusty manufacturing city,—building and digging going on everywhere; ugly dirt-carts, instead of flower-crowned ladies in landaus, passing through the dusty streets. you might, perhaps with reason, suggest that i seem to have leisure,—that this is a fine opportunity to read and improve my mind. yes, i know, but somehow i have lost all desire to improve my mind! my present inclination is to gratify the mind i already have,—go somewhere, see something, hear some really fine music! 396
"here there is nothing to be seen except unhappy fellow-mortals panting beneath the burden of city existence; street arabs making free with the front doorstep and improvising tables for their greasy luncheons; pathetic organ-grinders who lift melancholy eyes for recognition and reward, after harrowing the soul with despairing strains—'miserere,' 'ah, i have sighed to rest me,' and such; unmuzzled little animals in mortal terror of the dog-catcher; tired, patient horses who know not their own strength, and quietly obey that other creature with so much less power and so much more selfishness. all this is not cheerful to the looker-out, and having seen it once, i look no more. but i have lately made a discovery. my upper-story window presents an interesting and instructive landscape. there is a low-roofed stable between the hotel and the factory. i can look over a great flat tin roof where snowy garments are always drying, and upon which, like 'little dorritt's' lover, i can gaze 'until i 'most think they wuz groves.' moreover, there is a happy woman who comes up through a trap-door and walks much under the shadow of those groves. how do i know she is happy? partly by the patter of her busy feet, partly by the bit of song that floats to me 'whiles.' but chiefly because i have actually found out all about her while i have leaned idly out of my window. first, she is very good—this dweller beneath the flat roof.
"on sunday evenings she tunes up a little melodeon in her regions below, and sings straight through the moody and sankey hymn-book. nor is this all. for a time i could not discover whether she was wife, maid, or mother, and i felt much anxious solicitude in her behalf. but lately she has brought up to the roof in the evenings a small rocking-chair of the mayflower pattern, some crochet or tatting; and a great cat with an enormous upright tail has followed her, and rubbed himself comfortably against her knees. 397 "she is a blessed little old maid—that's just what she is! but the cat is not the only 'follower.' a wholesome-looking englishman (side-whiskers, fresh complexion, china aster in buttonhole) comes now and then. the little mayflower chair rocks a bit more nervously, the cat is overwhelmed with surprise by receiving a slight push from the tidy slipper, the tatting takes on new energy, and i see—well, now, you surely don't expect me to tell you what i see? nothing very dreadful nor altogether unusual in the sphere of my happy woman and the british coachman, who has her in his 'heye' and is surely going to have her in his 'ome by and by.
"but when my tired general comes home to me and keenly scans my face to discover whether i am pining for the pines or sighing for the sea, i cannot disgrace myself in his eyes by revealing my low interest in my happy woman. least of all reveal my own loneliness! i show him the lovely little window-box where i have a climbing nasturtium, a morning-glory, and a curious strong vine that has prehensile fingers at the end of every cluster of leaves. i show him the curious ways of these strong climbers—how the nasturtium has no tendrils, but a great fleshy stalk to be supported, and so when it grows too tall to stand alone, it puts forth at intervals a leaf with a mission; as soon as this leaf feels the touch of the string, it contracts and wraps its brittle stalk thrice around it—in and out, as you would wind your ball of silk. and how the great long feelers of the morning-glory behave just like ourselves. they look abroad for something to lean upon, waving restlessly to and fro. finding nothing, they deliberately turn and lean upon themselves!
"my general pities me because the square of blue sky into which i am always looking is so small. but i tell him of all the glories and marvels i have seen there, between the high stone dwellings that shut it in: how a rainbow 398spanned it once; how my lady moon looks down in some of her phases and tells me of her hard life of hopeless bondage—while mine is but for a little time; how the pleiades have been seen in my small heaven and bound me with sweetest influences; how my friend, the great bear, straddles across for a look at me, and a reminder that he knows me very well, and knew generations of my fathers long before the twenty-three generations that i know of myself.
"and i have still more to tell him of the lovely time i am having in my room—how i have watched a fairy castle grow against my sky. how i saw at first a derrick spring aloft, and then many tiny spirits of the air build away on a square foundation; how they made port-holes in the top looking every way for the mafia or any other enemy, and over this threw arches and fairy adornment of cunning work in white marble; how they threw up a rocket then and hung out electric lights, and i supposed their work was over and their airy castle finished, but they then mounted a great calcium light to let the incoming ships from foreign lands know our eye is upon them; how they built another and still another story to their castle—four in all, and were still building. and i call his attention to a strange bird coming regularly at the same hour in the evening, sailing (with 'a raucous voice') across our dwelling and into my own little plantation in the sky. he is of the species vulgarly called 'bat'—and so i named him our fledermaus. at precisely the same hour every morning has he come back again, screaming triumphantly, or putting on a bold front to account to his mate in central park how he had spent the night in the long island marshes. the first time the flashlight was kindled in my castle in the air and its searching glance fell upon the recreant fledermaus, he wheeled around and made his circuit in another direction, and we shall hear his raucous voice no more! 399 "which is additional proof of what we know already: 'conscience makes cowards of us all.' or perhaps it is only that no self-respecting fledermaus can be expected to countenance flashlights at hours when sensitive folk are coming home in the morning.
"my general listens respectfully while i go through all this. 'evidently "stone walls do not a prison make,"' is his comment. 'here are you interested in botany, astronomy, and in building the madison square garden.' 'garden! do stone walls a garden make?' 'here in new york they do,' he tells me; 'a great, hot theatre is to be called a garden and crowned by diana of the ephesians! st. gaudens is making the goddess. but you'll not need gardens or goddesses to make you happy! ah! what a wonderful woman you are—so content, so cheery in spite of all our privations.' which shows what poor creatures men are, as far as discernment goes, regarding the ways of women; for my dear, oh, my dear!—a very lonely, homesick, heartsick body is
"your devoted
"sara a. pryor.
"p.s.—i am a wretch—i know i am—to end my letter with a howl. but an organ-man under my window is grinding away at 'home, sweet home.' he must be driven away or i perish! there he goes again—'the old folks at home'! i must put both my sofa pillows over my ears! dearly, s. a. p."
