november found us at the end of a long, dull season. no business had come into the little law-office—the centre of all our hopes. we had made no friends among our neighbors, to whom, of course, we had made no advances. the silence was broken, however, one evening by a visit from a well-groomed, handsome young fellow, who, with many apologies, requested an interview with general pryor.

"so the reporters have found us out," said my general, but he was mistaken. his visitor had "ventured to call for advice—not legal advice exactly"—but he wished to know the general's opinion upon a matter of infinite importance to himself and to his wife. "doubtless we had heard his wife singing,"—we had—"she was a fine musician, but one could not live on music."

to this my husband readily assented. he had a deeply rooted aversion to the piano, which he believed to have been an invention of the evil one in a moment of unusual malignity.

"the question i wish to ask, general," said the young fellow, "is this, would you advise me to go into politics, law, or the coffee business?"

"the coffee business, most decidedly," said my husband; "i have tried the other two and have a poor opinion of both of them." 317 the interviewer left, perfectly satisfied to enter the coffee business. through the open window we could hear the words of a song from the "fine musician"—presenting, as it were, a solution of the problem:—

"it is time for the mower to whet his scythe

for 'tis five o'clock in the morning."

we never learned to what extent politics and the profession of the law had suffered, nor how much the coffee business had gained. one thing was certain: the suggestion of the fair singer, so freely given to the breeze, was not needed by me; for my scythe was always in active operation before five o'clock in the morning. when "the sun came peeping in at morn," he always found me up and dressed and ready for his greeting.

then—as for many times before and after—our case seemed too desperate for rest. often after our slender breakfast not an atom of food was left in the larder. a mouse would in vain have sought our hospitality. the corner grocer had once trusted us for provisions as far as twenty-five dollars' worth, but had taken his seat in the front hall and there remained until he was paid! the bitter experience was never repeated. but as surely as the ravens were sent to feed elijah did the power that esteems us of more worth than many sparrows—many ravens—send us something every day; some small fee for a legal service or for an article written for the news. my general would bring this treasure home, anne would be sent on a flying errand for 318"a bit of a shteak"—and mr. micawber never gathered around his suddenly acquired chops a more hopeful brood than our own.

once mr. john r. thompson, editor of the literary messenger and later of the new york evening post, fresh from england, where he had hobnobbed with carlyle, tennyson, and dickens, came to dinner. i had little to offer him except a biscuit and a glass of ale. he did not mind. he had known edgar allan poe, and many another poverty-stricken genius who had enriched the pages of the literary messenger for sums too pitiful to mention. the straits of scholarly men were familiar to him and detracted nothing from his interest in the men themselves. to be sure they were more interesting if they walked the midnight streets in default of other shelter than the stars (and there might be worse) like johnson or savage or goldsmith or others of the grub-street fraternity;—still, the victims of a revolution were quite miserable enough to satisfy the imagination. misery is, after all, more picturesque than happiness and ease.

john mitchell, the irish patriot, was another visitor,—railing against the english government and declaring he would yet live to "strike the crutches from the old hag, on the british throne"; talk to which no stretch of politeness could induce me to listen. i had been taught to love the good, young queen, of whom the english philanthropist, joseph john gurney, had told me when i, a child of eight years, had sat upon his knee in my uncle's house in virginia. 319 an agreeable old german gentleman, whom we had known in washington, also came from new york to see us. "oh, pryor, pryor," he exclaimed, "how could you bring madam to this mel-an'-choly place?"

the place would have been paradise to us if only god would give us bread for our children. we had come to fear we would never have more—perhaps not this. the society—exclusively of "adullamites" like ourselves—was not conducive to hope and cheerfulness. very few southerners were at that time in new york. we were pioneers. truly they were all—like the followers of david—"in distress, in debt, and discontented."

just at this anxious time i received a letter from my dear aunt mary. she felt that she was incurably ill. while she had strength, she would come, place gordon safely in her father's house, and then die in my arms! in a few days she would arrive in new york and i must meet her at the boat with provision for having her borne to a carriage.

this was overwhelming news. how could i provide comforts for my more than mother? there was but one thing left us. we must pledge our service of silver—a testimonial service with a noble inscription, presented, we remember, to my general by the democratic party of virginia after he had fought a good fight against the peril threatened by the "know nothing" party. this silver was very precious. sell it we could not, but perhaps we could borrow a few hundred dollars, giving it as security. 320 the idea of a pawn-broker never occurred to us. it seems to me now that i had then never heard of a pawn-broker!

but not a great many years before this, as we remember, when i was fifteen years old, this dear aunt who had reared me had suddenly discovered that the child was a woman. she must see the world. she must travel to niagara falls, visit all the great cities and see their museums, libraries, theatres, what not; she must have hats from mme. viglini in new york, gowns from mrs. mccomas in baltimore,—and jewels from tiffany's. from the latter my adoptive father had bought me lovely turquoise, rubies, white topaz necklaces, and jewelled combs. surely, i now thought, this will be the place where i may be remembered and find some kindness. accordingly i repaired thither and made my plea. i was told, of course, that the firm must see the silver. naturally none of the gentlemen who talked with me could remember ever having heard of me before. i must send the silver and then return for my answer. accordingly i boxed it, sent it, and on the third day presented myself—a very wistful figure—at the silver counter. a tall young man, whose name i learned afterwards, said to me with some hauteur, "madam, we have weighed your silver, and will allow you $540 for it."

"i will redeem it soon, i hope," i answered.

"redeem it! madam, this is not a pawnshop! we buy silver."

"then will i not get it back again?"

"certainly not!" 321 i hesitated. my need was sore—but oh, to part forever with this sacred inheritance for my children!

"you had as well realize," said my tall young man,—and he looked to me colossal,—"that you will never have occasion to use silver again. you had as well let it go to the crucible first as last. you will, of course, be obliged to live humbly hereafter, and—"

but i had risen in great wrath against him. flushed and indignant i retorted, "you mistake, sir! i shall use my silver again! i shall not live humbly always," and left the store.

but once again on the sidewalk with the sharp november wind blowing in my face i remembered my dear invalid. i remembered my cold house, in which there had been provided no furnace, no stove, nothing but open grates for heating. i knew then as well as i know now that the firm was in no wise responsible for the discourteous language of its representative. i had only happened to encounter a fanatic, a hater of the south,—and it was not the first time. possibly should i return and seek another one of the corps of clerks i might fare better. but no! i would perish first.

just at this moment i recollected that my dear old chaplain-father had said, in bidding me good-by, "if you ever need a friend, you may advise with my friend in new york—henry corning."

this sent me to a directory in a near-by drug store, where i found "corning" and an address to a bank on broadway. i repaired thither, and was 322directed to a private room, where a venerable gentleman rose to greet me and offer me a seat. i was very tired and miserable, but i told my errand as best i could.

"i have not the pleasure of knowing your father," said the gentleman, looking at me kindly through his spectacles (and down went the mercury of all my courage), "but," he added, "i think my nephew, henry corning, is your man. i have heard him speak of the rev. dr. pryor. i will give you his address. my name is jasper corning."

i am sure there were tears in my eyes when he looked up, as he handed me a slip of paper, for he added kindly: "i feel certain henry will not fail you. don't despair! god is good."

another omnibus ride brought my heavy heart to the door of mr. henry corning, in madison avenue. he was sitting at his desk on the ground floor—and without one word of response to my simply told story turned to his desk and wrote his check for $500!

"i will send you the silver immediately," i said—but he only bowed, and with "my regards to your father," he allowed me to take leave.

i called at tiffany's on my return, gave an order at the desk, paid the cartage, and ordered the silver to be addressed to mr. corning.

when the time came, a year afterwards, for me to redeem it, i saw mr. corning again, thanked him for his kindness, and said, "i am now ready to redeem the silver." he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and asked, "what silver?" 323 "surely," i exclaimed in great alarm, "surely you received it."

"oh, well," he replied, "if you say so, i suppose it is all right. i have never seen your silver. there's a box there in the corner. the box has not been opened since you sent it."

my dear aunt had her wish. she died in my house. she was ill a long time. through the kindness of a southern friend i was introduced to dr. rosman, who attended her with devotion and skill. he was the gentlest and kindest of physicians. he admired and appreciated her, and truly she was a grande dame in every respect; courteous, dignified, and beautiful, even at sixty years of age.

"when faith and hope, which parting from her never

had ripened her just soul to dwell with god,

her alms and deeds and all her great endeavor

were never lost, nor in the grave were trod."

she lives, i humbly trust, in two children of her adoption, who owe to her all they are or ever hope to be.

the struggle, the wounds, the defeats we suffer at each other's hands may all be classed under the head of battles,—battles where the ultimate defeat or victory is in our own hands,—in the harm or good done to our souls. the fight in the field ended, hostility, hatred, bitterness, should also end; but, alas, the battles of prejudice, resentment for unforgiven injuries, may continue for years. some of these my story compels me to record, but as old thomas fuller quaintly says: "these battles are 324here inserted, not with any intent (god knows my heart) to perpetuate the odious remembrance of mutual wrongs, that heart-burnings may remain when house-burnings have ceased, but only to raise our gratitude to god that so much strife should have raged in the bosom of so fair a land, and yet so few scars remain."