Chapter 4

"I have been very much surprised. Last Sabbath, the 7th of March, was my birthday. On the 6th I sat quietly in my study until the sun was behind the mountains, and then was sent out of the house on false pretences. The young people of the church were getting up an entertainment, and suddenly took it into their heads that they needed my assistance. There seemed many delays, but we at last got through. Then I received a startling message that a neighbor wished to see me immediately. Surmising sudden illness or trouble, I did not go home, but started off in great haste. I found not sickness, but mystery, at this neighbor's, which I could not fathom. My friend and his wife were unusually entertaining and I could not get away, though I knew I was keeping tea waiting at home. Finally there came another mysterious message—'Two gentlemen and two ladies wished to see me at the parsonage.' 'O, I understand now,' I thought. 'It is a wedding; but they are managing it rather oddly.'"But imagine my surprise when I opened the door, and found about one hundred and fifty people present. Well, to be brief, they just overwhelmed us with kindness. They gave us fine music, and provided a supper for five hundred instead of one hundred and fifty."Mrs. Roe thought that she was in the secret; but they surprised her also by presenting, with cordial words, a handsome sum of money at the close of the evening."My resignation has not yet been accepted, but we expect that the pastoral relation will be dissolved at the next meeting of Presbytery. As soon as spring comes in reality, and the embargo of ice and snow is over, we must be upon the wing; and this spontaneous and hearty proof of the friendliness of my people was very grateful to me. During the nine years of my pastorate they have been called to pass through many trying and difficult times. They have often been asked to give beyond their means, and have often done so. With the very limited amount of wealth in the congregation, even the generous aid received from abroad and from visitors could not prevent the effort to erect a new church and parsonage from being an exceedingly heavy burden, involving perplexing and vexatious questions. When I remember how patiently they have borne these burdens, how hard many have worked, and how many instances of genuine self-denial there have been, I feel that too much cannot be said in their praise. It is my hope and my belief that they will deal as kindly with my successor as they have with me."

"But imagine my surprise when I opened the door, and found about one hundred and fifty people present. Well, to be brief, they just overwhelmed us with kindness. They gave us fine music, and provided a supper for five hundred instead of one hundred and fifty.

"Mrs. Roe thought that she was in the secret; but they surprised her also by presenting, with cordial words, a handsome sum of money at the close of the evening.

"My resignation has not yet been accepted, but we expect that the pastoral relation will be dissolved at the next meeting of Presbytery. As soon as spring comes in reality, and the embargo of ice and snow is over, we must be upon the wing; and this spontaneous and hearty proof of the friendliness of my people was very grateful to me. During the nine years of my pastorate they have been called to pass through many trying and difficult times. They have often been asked to give beyond their means, and have often done so. With the very limited amount of wealth in the congregation, even the generous aid received from abroad and from visitors could not prevent the effort to erect a new church and parsonage from being an exceedingly heavy burden, involving perplexing and vexatious questions. When I remember how patiently they have borne these burdens, how hard many have worked, and how many instances of genuine self-denial there have been, I feel that too much cannot be said in their praise. It is my hope and my belief that they will deal as kindly with my successor as they have with me."

Dr. Edgar A. Mearns of the United States army was one of my brother's devoted friends who knew him intimately during the years of his ministry. In 1888, from Fort Snelling, Minn., he writes as follows:—

"The sad news of the death of Rev. E. P. Roe, at Cornwall-on-Hudson, reached me to-day, and filled my heart with sadness. During the long years of my sojourn upon the western frontier, I have looked forward with unspeakable pleasure to the time when I could grasp the hand of this true friend, and walk and talk with him, and enjoy once more the society of his dear family. I had planned a leave of absence from my station in the desert-wilderness of Arizona for last spring, in response to his urgent invitations; but other duties awaited me, and I was not permitted to realize the fulfilment of this ardent desire. We were to walk through the woodlands, drive over the mountains, and sail on our native Hudson. I saw in mental vision the very rock under which we used to poke at the woodchucks with a stick, and on which we gathered the walking fern, and seemed once more to hear him discoursing of small fruits in his delightful garden, or reading to the family circle from his latest manuscripts. In the West many hearts have been pierced by this sorrow, for he made friends wherever he went."To write a word of the lost friend, who has been a very pillar of support in times of struggle or affliction, will perhaps relieve a pain at the heart which is hard to bear. It is not as an author justly celebrated, that I must speak of him, but of the private life of one who combined every attribute of mind and heart to endear him to his friends. I have known him as a pastor, laboring assiduously among the members of his flock, dispensing liberal charity among the poor, and lightening everybody's burden. He was a rock to lay hold of when other friendships were borne away by the cruel winds of adversity. Then it was that the genial warmth of his smile, the kindly hand-pressure, and the cheerful encouragement of his voice fettered sore hearts to his."I have seen him as a hero, struggling in the water and broken ice, bearing in his arms the bodies of children for whom he risked his life. He had heard a cry for help, and that alone was enough to enlist the sympathy and secure the highest sacrifice of which our nature is capable. Then, paying no heed to personal sickness and injury, he strove to comfort the bereaved hearts of mothers, whose boys were drowned, perhaps by exposure laying the seeds of the disease which recently caused his death."His zealous devotion to his calling, together with exposure to various hardships encountered on frequent lecturing tours made for the purpose of obtaining funds for the erection of a suitable church for his congregation, made such inroads into his naturally vigorous constitution that, having accomplished his task, he was compelled to resign his charge as pastor, after about nine years of faithful service. The beautiful stone Presbyterian church at Highland Falls is a monument to his untiring efforts."

"To write a word of the lost friend, who has been a very pillar of support in times of struggle or affliction, will perhaps relieve a pain at the heart which is hard to bear. It is not as an author justly celebrated, that I must speak of him, but of the private life of one who combined every attribute of mind and heart to endear him to his friends. I have known him as a pastor, laboring assiduously among the members of his flock, dispensing liberal charity among the poor, and lightening everybody's burden. He was a rock to lay hold of when other friendships were borne away by the cruel winds of adversity. Then it was that the genial warmth of his smile, the kindly hand-pressure, and the cheerful encouragement of his voice fettered sore hearts to his.

"I have seen him as a hero, struggling in the water and broken ice, bearing in his arms the bodies of children for whom he risked his life. He had heard a cry for help, and that alone was enough to enlist the sympathy and secure the highest sacrifice of which our nature is capable. Then, paying no heed to personal sickness and injury, he strove to comfort the bereaved hearts of mothers, whose boys were drowned, perhaps by exposure laying the seeds of the disease which recently caused his death.

"His zealous devotion to his calling, together with exposure to various hardships encountered on frequent lecturing tours made for the purpose of obtaining funds for the erection of a suitable church for his congregation, made such inroads into his naturally vigorous constitution that, having accomplished his task, he was compelled to resign his charge as pastor, after about nine years of faithful service. The beautiful stone Presbyterian church at Highland Falls is a monument to his untiring efforts."

CHAPTER IX

FRUIT CULTURE AND LITERARY WORK

After my brother's resignation from the ministry, he bought a plain, old-fashioned house with considerable ground about it, at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson, two miles distant from his childhood home, and went there to live.

It soon became evident, however, that Edward could not depend upon his literary work alone for the support of his growing family. He had for some years taken much interest in the cultivation of small fruits, and after the removal to Cornwall he carried on this work upon a larger scale, finding it profitable as well as interesting.

I remember the piles of letters that came to him each day for several years containing orders for plants. Although in general not a methodical man, yet the painstaking care which he was known to exercise in keeping the many varieties distinct enabled his customers to rely implicitly upon his statements as to the kind and value of the plants ordered. He often employed many men and boys on his place, but always engaged them with the understanding that if through carelessness the varieties of plants became mixed the offender was to be dismissed at once, and a few examples soon taught his assistants that he meant what he said. But when they were faithful to their duty, they invariably found him considerate and kind.

The strawberry was Edward's favorite among the small fruits, and he made many experiments with new varieties. When the vines were bearing, sometimes as many as forty bushels of berries were picked in a single day. Some of them were of mammoth size. I remember on one occasion we took from a basket four berries which filled to the brim a large coffee-cup, and notwithstanding their enormous size they were solid and sweet. During this period he wrote the articles on "Success with Small Fruits," published inScribner's Magazine.

Currants came next in his favor. Writing of them he says: "Let me recommend the currant cure. If any one is languid, depressed in spirits, inclined to headaches, and generally 'out of sorts,' let him finish his breakfast daily for a month with a dish of freshly picked currants. He will soon doubt his own identity, and may even think that he is becoming a good man. In brief, the truth of the ancient pun will be verified, 'That the power to live a good life depends largely upon theliver.' Let it be taught at the theological seminaries that the currant is a means of grace. It is a corrective, and that is what average humanity most needs."

Mr. Charles Downing of Newburgh, a noted horticulturist, was Edward's valued friend. He was especially successful in fruit culture, and it was his custom to forward to my brother for trial novelties sent to him from every part of the country. Then on pleasant summer afternoons the old gentleman would visit my brother, and, side by side, they would compare the much-heralded strangers with the standard varieties. Often forty or fifty kinds were bearing under precisely the same conditions. The two lovers of Nature thus gained knowledge of many of her secrets.

Edward's coming to live in Cornwall was a source of great pleasure to our father, who, although then past eighty years of age, was still vigorous, and as full of enthusiasm for his garden as when he first moved to the country. Often on summer mornings, before the sun was fairly above the eastern mountains, father would drive over to my brother's, taking in his phaeton a basket of fruit or vegetables that he believed were earlier than any in my brother's garden. These he would leave at the front door for Edward to discover when he came downstairs, and return in time for our breakfast. He would laugh with the keenest enjoyment if he found that his beans or sweet corn had ripened first. Frequently he would remain at his son's house for breakfast, and afterwards the two would wander together over the grounds while the dew was still fresh upon the fruit and flowers. Many of the rosebushes and shrubs had been transplanted from the old garden, and it delighted my father and brother to see that they were flourishing and blooming in their new environment.

When Edward first moved to Cornwall several newspapers severely criticised him for giving up the ministry to write novels. I was sitting with him alone in his library one day when such a criticism came to him through the mail. After reading it he handed it quietly to me, went to his desk and took down a bundle of letters, saying: "These are mostly from young men, not one of whom I know, who have written to me of the benefit received from my books." He then read to me some of those touching letters of confession and thanks for his inspiring help to a better life.

When he finished reading the letters he said: "I know my books are read by thousands; my voice reached at most but a few hundred. I believe many who would never think of writing to me such letters as these are also helped. Do you think I have made a mistake? My object in writing, as in preaching, is to do good, and the question is, Which can I do best? I think with the pen, and I shall go on writing, no matter what the critics say."

Still his name was retained on the rolls of the North River Presbytery, and he was always ready to preach when needed, especially in neglected districts. For a long time after father's death he kept up the little Sunday-school that had been father's special care.

His home commanded a fine view of the river and mountains, and he would watch with great delight the grand thunder-storms that so often sweep over the Highlands. I take this description of a storm from one of his letters:—

"This moist summer has given a rich, dark luxuriance to the foliage, that contrasts favorably to the parched, withered aspect of everything last year. The oldest inhabitants (that class so sorely perplexed in this age of innovations) were astonished to learn that a sharp frost occurred in the mountains back of us, just before the Fourth. Even the seasons have caught the infection of the times, and no longer continue their usual jog-trot through the year, but indulge in the strangest extremes and freaks."A person living in the city can have little idea of thunder-storms as they occur in this mountain region. The hills about us, while they attract the electrified clouds, are also our protection, for, abounding in iron ore, they become huge lightning-rods above the houses and hamlets at their bases. But little recks old Bear Mountain, or Cro' Nest, Jove's most fiery bolts. The rocky splinters fly for a moment; some oak or chestnut comes quivering down; but soon the mosses, like kindly charity, have covered up the wounded rock, and three or four saplings have grown from the roots of the blighted tree."But the storm we witness from our safe and sheltered homes is often grand beyond description. At first, in the distant west, a cloud rises so dark that you can scarcely distinguish it from a blue highland. But a low muttering of thunder vibrates through the sultry air, and we know what is coming. Soon the afternoon sun is shaded, and a deep, unnatural twilight settles upon the landscape like the shadow of a great sorrow on a face that was smiling a moment before. The thunder grows heavier, like the rumble and roar of an approaching battle. The western arch of the sky is black as night. The eastern arch is bright and sunny, and as you glance from side to side, you cannot but think of those who, comparatively innocent and happy at first, cloud their lives in maturer years with evil and crime, and darken the future with the wrath of heaven. At last the vanguard of black flying clouds, disjointed, jagged, the rough skirmish line of the advancing storm, is over our heads. Back of these, in one dark, solid mass, comes the tempest. For a moment there is a sort of hush of expectation, like the lull before a battle. The trees on the distant brow of a mountain are seen to toss and writhe, but as yet no sound is heard. Soon there is a faint, far-away rushing noise, the low, deep prelude of nature's grand musical discord that is to follow. There is a vivid flash, and a startling peal of thunder breaks forth overhead, and rolls away with countless reverberations among the hills. In the meantime the distant rushing sound has developed into an increasing roar. Half-way down the mountain-side the trees are swaying wildly. At the base stands a grove, motionless, expectant, like a square of infantry awaiting an impetuous cavalry charge. In a moment it comes. At first the shock seems terrible. Every branch bends low. Dead limbs rattle down like hail. Leaves, torn away, fly wildly through the air. But the sturdy trunks stand their ground, and the baffled tempest passes on. Mingling with the rush of the wind and reverberations of thunder, a new sound, a new part now enters into the grand harmony. At first it is a low, continuous roar, caused by the falling rain upon the leaves. It grows louder fast, like the pattering feet of a coming multitude. Then the great drops fall around, yards apart, like scattering shots. They grow closer, and soon a streaming torrent drives you to shelter. The next heavy peal is to the eastward, showing that the bulk of the shower is past. The roar of the thunder just dies away down the river. The thickly falling rain contracts your vision to a narrow circle, out of which Cozzens's great hotel and Bear Mountain loom vaguely. The flowers and shrubbery bend to the moisture with the air of one who stands and takes it. The steady, continuous plash upon the roof slackens into a quiet pattering of raindrops. The west is lightening up; by and by a long line of blue is seen above Cro' Nest. The setting sun shines out upon a purified and more beautiful landscape. Every leaf, every spear of grass is brilliant with gems of moisture. The cloud scenery has all changed. The sun is setting in unclouded splendor. Not the west but the east is now black with storm; but the rainbow, emblem of hope and God's mercy, spans its blackness, and in the skies we again have suggested to us a life, once clouded and darkly threatened by evil, but now, through penitence and reform, ending in peace and beauty, God spanning the wrong of the past with His rich and varied promises of forgiveness. At last the skies are clear again. Along the eastern horizon the retreating storm sends up occasional flashes, that seem like regretful thoughts of the past. Then night comes on, cool, moonlit, breathless. Not a leaf stirs where an hour before the sturdiest limbs bent to the earth. This must be nature's commentary on the 'peace that passeth all understanding.'"

"A person living in the city can have little idea of thunder-storms as they occur in this mountain region. The hills about us, while they attract the electrified clouds, are also our protection, for, abounding in iron ore, they become huge lightning-rods above the houses and hamlets at their bases. But little recks old Bear Mountain, or Cro' Nest, Jove's most fiery bolts. The rocky splinters fly for a moment; some oak or chestnut comes quivering down; but soon the mosses, like kindly charity, have covered up the wounded rock, and three or four saplings have grown from the roots of the blighted tree.

"But the storm we witness from our safe and sheltered homes is often grand beyond description. At first, in the distant west, a cloud rises so dark that you can scarcely distinguish it from a blue highland. But a low muttering of thunder vibrates through the sultry air, and we know what is coming. Soon the afternoon sun is shaded, and a deep, unnatural twilight settles upon the landscape like the shadow of a great sorrow on a face that was smiling a moment before. The thunder grows heavier, like the rumble and roar of an approaching battle. The western arch of the sky is black as night. The eastern arch is bright and sunny, and as you glance from side to side, you cannot but think of those who, comparatively innocent and happy at first, cloud their lives in maturer years with evil and crime, and darken the future with the wrath of heaven. At last the vanguard of black flying clouds, disjointed, jagged, the rough skirmish line of the advancing storm, is over our heads. Back of these, in one dark, solid mass, comes the tempest. For a moment there is a sort of hush of expectation, like the lull before a battle. The trees on the distant brow of a mountain are seen to toss and writhe, but as yet no sound is heard. Soon there is a faint, far-away rushing noise, the low, deep prelude of nature's grand musical discord that is to follow. There is a vivid flash, and a startling peal of thunder breaks forth overhead, and rolls away with countless reverberations among the hills. In the meantime the distant rushing sound has developed into an increasing roar. Half-way down the mountain-side the trees are swaying wildly. At the base stands a grove, motionless, expectant, like a square of infantry awaiting an impetuous cavalry charge. In a moment it comes. At first the shock seems terrible. Every branch bends low. Dead limbs rattle down like hail. Leaves, torn away, fly wildly through the air. But the sturdy trunks stand their ground, and the baffled tempest passes on. Mingling with the rush of the wind and reverberations of thunder, a new sound, a new part now enters into the grand harmony. At first it is a low, continuous roar, caused by the falling rain upon the leaves. It grows louder fast, like the pattering feet of a coming multitude. Then the great drops fall around, yards apart, like scattering shots. They grow closer, and soon a streaming torrent drives you to shelter. The next heavy peal is to the eastward, showing that the bulk of the shower is past. The roar of the thunder just dies away down the river. The thickly falling rain contracts your vision to a narrow circle, out of which Cozzens's great hotel and Bear Mountain loom vaguely. The flowers and shrubbery bend to the moisture with the air of one who stands and takes it. The steady, continuous plash upon the roof slackens into a quiet pattering of raindrops. The west is lightening up; by and by a long line of blue is seen above Cro' Nest. The setting sun shines out upon a purified and more beautiful landscape. Every leaf, every spear of grass is brilliant with gems of moisture. The cloud scenery has all changed. The sun is setting in unclouded splendor. Not the west but the east is now black with storm; but the rainbow, emblem of hope and God's mercy, spans its blackness, and in the skies we again have suggested to us a life, once clouded and darkly threatened by evil, but now, through penitence and reform, ending in peace and beauty, God spanning the wrong of the past with His rich and varied promises of forgiveness. At last the skies are clear again. Along the eastern horizon the retreating storm sends up occasional flashes, that seem like regretful thoughts of the past. Then night comes on, cool, moonlit, breathless. Not a leaf stirs where an hour before the sturdiest limbs bent to the earth. This must be nature's commentary on the 'peace that passeth all understanding.'"

At this period Dr. Lyman Abbott made his permanent home in Cornwall, going almost daily to the city to attend to his duties as editor of theChristian Union.

In a short article written for that paper my brother describes a drive taken over the mountains when Dr. Abbott was entertaining the Brooklyn Association of Congregational Ministers.

"Pleasures long planned and anticipated often prove 'flat, stale, and unprofitable' when at last they disappoint us in their sorry contrast with our hopes, while on the other hand good times that come unexpectedly are enjoyed all the more keenly because such agreeable surprises. The other morning the editor of theChristian Union, Dr. Lyman Abbott, who is a near neighbor and a nearer friend, appeared at my door with the announcement that he was to meet on the morrow at the West Point landing the New York and Brooklyn Association of Congregational Ministers, at the same time giving me an invitation to accompany him, which I accepted on the spot. The morning of the 27th found us leading an array of carriages up the Cornwall slope of the mountain, for it had been arranged that the gentlemen whom Mr. and Mrs. Abbott were to entertain for the day should land at West Point and enjoy one of the finest drives in America across the Highlands, instead of a prosaic ride down from Newburgh through the brickyards. The Albany day boat was on time, and so were we, and there stepped on shore a venerable body of divinity, or rather several bodies, led by Rev. Henry Ward Beecher and his brother, Dr. Edward Beecher. A shower the previous evening had left less dust than could be found in the immaculate parlor of a spinster, and the heated air had been cooled to such a nicety of adjustment that we grew warm in the praise of its balminess. With much good-natured badinage and repartee we climbed the West Point hill and took the outer avenue that skirts the river edge of the plain and campus. 'The brethren' gazed with mild curiosity at 'Flirtation Walk' where it led demurely and openly from the main road, but soon lost itself in winding intricacies, mysterious copsewood, and the still deeper mysteries suggested by the imagination. Let no grave reader lift a disdainful nose. Perhaps this same secluded path of frivolous name has had a greater influence on human destiny than himself."The trim plain and trimmer cadets were soon left far behind, and nature began to wear the aspect it had shown to our great grandfathers when children. Through the skilful engineering of Mr. Charles Caldwell, a most excellent road of easy grades winds across Cro' Nest and Butter Hill (the latter was rechristened 'Storm King' some years since by the poet, N. P. Willis). As our path zigzagged up the shaggy sides of Cro' Nest, wider and superber views opened out before us, until at last West Point with its gleaming tents, the winding river with its silver sheen, and the village of Cold Spring lay at our feet, while to the southwest a multitude of green highlands lifted their crests like a confusion of emerald waves. A few moments more brought us to the summit, and although we were but a thousand feet nearer heaven than when we started, the air was so pure and sweet and the sky so blue that it might well seem to those who had so recently left the stifling city that they had climbed half-way thither. A half an hour's ride brought us to the northern slope of the mountains. Here we made a halt at Mr. Cobb's 'School on the Heights," and were entertained with unlimited cherries, which by some strange providence had escaped the boys, and also by some exceedingly interesting gymnastic exercises that were performed to the rhythm of gay music. There are probably few finer views on the river than that from Mr. Cobb's piazza and grounds, and thus his pupils are under the best of influences out of doors as well as within. As Mr. Abbott's guests looked down upon the broad expanse of Newburgh Bay, the city itself, the picturesque village of Cornwall, and the great swale of rich diversified country that lay between our lofty eyrie and the dim and distant Shawangunk Mountains that blended with the clouds, they must have felt indebted to their host for one of the richest pleasures of their lives.

"The trim plain and trimmer cadets were soon left far behind, and nature began to wear the aspect it had shown to our great grandfathers when children. Through the skilful engineering of Mr. Charles Caldwell, a most excellent road of easy grades winds across Cro' Nest and Butter Hill (the latter was rechristened 'Storm King' some years since by the poet, N. P. Willis). As our path zigzagged up the shaggy sides of Cro' Nest, wider and superber views opened out before us, until at last West Point with its gleaming tents, the winding river with its silver sheen, and the village of Cold Spring lay at our feet, while to the southwest a multitude of green highlands lifted their crests like a confusion of emerald waves. A few moments more brought us to the summit, and although we were but a thousand feet nearer heaven than when we started, the air was so pure and sweet and the sky so blue that it might well seem to those who had so recently left the stifling city that they had climbed half-way thither. A half an hour's ride brought us to the northern slope of the mountains. Here we made a halt at Mr. Cobb's 'School on the Heights," and were entertained with unlimited cherries, which by some strange providence had escaped the boys, and also by some exceedingly interesting gymnastic exercises that were performed to the rhythm of gay music. There are probably few finer views on the river than that from Mr. Cobb's piazza and grounds, and thus his pupils are under the best of influences out of doors as well as within. As Mr. Abbott's guests looked down upon the broad expanse of Newburgh Bay, the city itself, the picturesque village of Cornwall, and the great swale of rich diversified country that lay between our lofty eyrie and the dim and distant Shawangunk Mountains that blended with the clouds, they must have felt indebted to their host for one of the richest pleasures of their lives.

VIEW FROM THE PIAZZA AT "ROELANDS."

"At last Mr. Beecher said that he carried an internal clock which plainly intimated that it was time for dinner. Thedescensuswas easy, but Mrs. Abbott's warm welcome and hot dinner suggested anavernusonly by blissful contrast. The fun, wit, and jollity of the remainder of the evening can no more be reproduced than the sparkle of yesterday's dew or the ripple of yesterday's waves. It was a pleasant thing to see those gray-haired men, many of whom had been burdened with care more than half a century, becoming boy-like again in feeling and mirthfulness."

During Edward's residence in Cornwall, each year about the middle of June, when the roses and strawberries were in their prime, it was his custom to send an annual invitation to the Philolethean Club of clergymen in New York City to visit him for a day at his home. Dr. Howard Crosby, Dr. Lyman Abbott, Dr. Schaeffer, and many other well-known clergymen were members of this club. At these meetings the learned and dignified clergymen threw aside all formality and were like a company of college boys off for a frolic. Their keen wit, quick repartee, and droll stories at these times will never be forgotten by those privileged to listen.

In 1882 heavy financial loss came upon us as a family owing to the failure of an elder brother. Edward, in his efforts to help him, became deeply involved, and to satisfy his creditors was obliged to sell the copyrights of several of his earlier books. These were bought by a friend without his knowledge at the time. After several years of incessant labor he worked his way out of these difficulties, and, owing to the immense sale of his books, was able to redeem his copyrights. He then felt free to take rest and change of scene in a trip to Southern California.

CHAPTER X

HOME LIFE

As a matter of course, my brother had frequent calls from newspaper correspondents and others who were interested in, and curious about, the private life of a successful author. The first of the articles here quoted was entitled "A Talk with E. P. Roe," and was printed in a Brooklyn newspaper in 1886; the second appeared in a Detroit journal.

"The works of few novelists of the present day have had such remarkable sales as those of Mr. E. P. Roe, and this will be the more readily granted when it is known that one million copies of his novels have been sold in America alone, to which nearly one-half of that number may be added as representing their sale in England, Canada, Australia, and the different languages into which they have been translated."In appearance the novelist is a man of a trifle over the medium size, with a pleasant, intellectual face, which is almost covered with a rich and handsome coal-black beard and mustache. Mr. Roe is in the prime of manhood, being about forty-five years of age, and his manners and conversation are the most kindly and engaging. He is of a generous disposition, hospitable, a kind friend, and never happier than when in the bosom of his family, to which he is devotedly attached."It was the pleasure of the writer a few evenings ago to meet the novelist and engage him in conversation regarding himself and his works."'I have just returned from an afternoon stroll,' remarked the novelist. 'This is my invariable custom after my day's work. When do I work? Well, I generally sit down immediately after breakfast, which I have about eight o'clock, and with the exception of an hour for lunch, I write continuously from that time until three or four in the afternoon. Then I go out for my walk.'"'You never work at night, then?' was asked."'No; it is a bad practice, and one that I rarely indulge in. There was a time when I did so, but my work always showed it. A writer's work at night is almost always morbid. There is no better time to work than during the morning.'"'How much work constitutes a day's labor with you?'"'That varies a great deal. Sometimes I write four or five pages of foolscap, and other days I will write as much as fifteen. I have no average, but do as much as I feel like doing, or have time to do, and then I stop.'"'Do you derive genuine pleasure from your work?'"'Always, for I am absorbed in whatever I am writing. I presume I derived the most pleasure from my "Nature's Serial Story," for it was an out-of-door study, and anything about nature always finds a responsive chord in me. Then, two of the characters of that work portray my father and my mother, and their memory is blessed and sacred to me. All the other characters are imaginary.'"'Are your stories and novels based on facts and real happenings, as a rule?'"'In every case,' replied Mr. Roe. 'I never manufacture a story; I couldn't do it. Of course, I elaborate and idealize, but the actual facts are always drawn from real life. I am always on the alert for these incidents, and when I see one that I think is adapted for a story I make a note of it.'"'Speaking of your correspondence, like that of most authors, I presume it is of a various nature?'"'Yes, indeed,' laughingly replied the novelist. 'It is surprising what letters I sometimes receive, and how difficult it is for some persons to realize that an author's time is valuable. Of course, I am not a stranger to the autograph craze, and of these requests I receive, I think, more than my share. But what is most surprising is the number of manuscripts I receive from young, aspiring authors. I am often asked "to read them, revise them carefully, and express an opinion as to the merit of the contribution." Why, I have frequently been requested to do a whole month's work on a single manuscript. What do I do with these? Well, the best I can. If I have a spare moment, I look over the story or article, and encourage the writer, if possible. But at times the supply is too great for physical endurance.'"'What exercise do you most indulge in, and what particular one do you recommend?'"'So far as I am concerned, I like a good, long walk, and this is what I would recommend to all who work with the brain and are confined. Exercise should never, in my opinion, be taken before sitting down to work, always after the task of the day has been completed. Then one receives far more benefit from it than if taken before work. I also like to work in my garden, and there is hardly a better means of exercise. Hunting and fishing are also favorite sports with me, and I keep a good gun and a fishing-rod close at hand.'"'Have you entirely given up gardening for literature?'"'Yes, almost entirely, even in an amateur way. Of course I still retain an active interest in everything that is interesting or new about a garden or a farm. But as to any active participation, as formerly, I have been obliged to desist.'"It may be interesting here to mention that the grounds surrounding Mr. Roe's rural retreat at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson show no lack of proper care and attention. The property consists of twenty-three acres and is all cultivated for floral and farming purposes. The novelist has on these grounds alone over one hundred and twelve different varieties of grapes, and has had in his strawberry beds seventy different varieties of that luscious berry in bearing at one time. One year Mr. Roe's orchards yielded him, among other products, one hundred and fifty barrels of apples, and this year about forty bushels of pears will be taken from his trees."'What are your immediate plans?' was asked the novelist, as he courteously showed the writer into the dining-room in response to the merry jingle of the dinner-bell."'I am now taking a brief holiday, resting from overwork. In about two months I leave the North for Santa Barbara, California, where I may remain for a year, or may return next spring. All depends upon how my family and myself like the country there. I go there partly for pleasure and partly for work. I shall doubtless gather considerable new material, and this I shall incorporate in future works. I shall study the life of the people of that region, and intend more especially to devote myself to studying nature in the direction of trees, plants, as well as the animals, birds, etc., of that charming country. My return North is uncertain, as I have said, and should everything prove agreeable, I may extend my residence there indefinitely.'"And here ended the writer's chat with perhaps the most popular author of the day. Mr. Roe is extremely retiring in disposition; he never courts notoriety, but always strictly avoids it whenever possible. And with his large black slouched hat set carelessly on his head a stranger would more readily mistake him for a Cuban planter, with his dark complexion, than the author of the novels which have entered into thousands of American homes.""Cornwall is situated on the western bank of the Hudson, just north of the Highlands. If you arrive by steamer you find an energetic crowd of 'bus men, who are eager to be of service to you. Most of the vehicles have four horses attached, which seem to tell of a hill in the neighborhood. We passed Cornwall several times by boat, and saw enough of the energy of the hackmen to make us resolve to reach the place some time when they were absent. Consequently we sailed down on Cornwall as General Wolfe sailed down on Quebec—in a small boat, and captured the place easily."As we walked up the rickety steps that lead from the water to the wharf, there was no deputation there to meet us."'Now the first thing,' said my companion, 'is to find out where Mr. Roe lives.'"'No, that's the second thing,' I replied. 'The first thing is to find out where we are to get supper.'"The reasonableness of this proposal was so apparent that further remark was not so necessary as finding a hotel well stocked with provisions."We found it in the shape of an unpretentious brick structure at the foot of the hill. By the way, everything is at the foot of the hill at Cornwall Landing. The landlady, who was the pink of neatness, promised us all we could eat on our return, although if she had known my talents in that line she would have hesitated. I noticed that she referred to 'Mr. Roe, the author,' while our fellow voyager in the small boat spoke of him as 'the strawberry man.' Probably the boor who relished the production of Mr. Roe's garden would have been surprised to know that the productions of his pen were even more sought after than that delicious fruit."But evening is coming on and we have a long hill before us, so we must proceed. A Cornwall road is always either going up or down, and a person gets great opportunities for rising in the world as he turns his back on the Hudson and climbs to Cornwall. The road winds up the hill, often shaded by trees and always accompanied by a mountain torrent whose rocky bed lies deep beside the pathway. This stream lacks only one thing to make it a success—and that is water. No doubt after a heavy rain it would show commendable enterprise, but now the rocks were dry. A thin thread of clear spring water trickled along the bottom of the ravine, now forming a silvery-toned waterfall, then losing itself among the loose rocks, next finding itself again, and sometimes making the mistake which humanity often makes, of spreading itself too much and trying to put on the airs of larger streams."Half-way up is a spring, surrounded by benches, welcome to the pedestrian who finds tramping uphill business. The clear, cold water pours out, and an iron dipper, like Prometheus 'chained to a pillar,' invites the thirsty to have a drink. The benches form a semicircle around this fountain, and on the backs thereof some one has painted in large letters the legend 'Please don't cut an old friend.' But 'excelsior' is our motto, and we climb. When we reach the top of the mountain we part company with the rivulet, thinking, with perhaps a sigh, what a vast advantage water has over people—it always goes down hill. Cornwall now begins to show its beauties. It seems to be a big village composed of splendid residences and elegant family hotels—or rather huge summer boarding-houses. Excellent roads run in all directions, up and down, turning now to the right and now to the left, until a stranger loses all idea of the points of the compass."About a mile from the landing, if you are in a carriage, or about five miles if you are on foot, you come to an open gateway, through which a road turns that might be mistaken for one of the many offshoots of the public street, were it not that a notice conspicuously posted up informs the traveller that the way is private property. A cottage, probably a gardener's residence, stands beside the gate. The land slopes gently downward from the road and then rises beyond, leaving a wide valley between the street and a large two-story frame building that stands on the rising ground. This is the home of E. P. Roe, author of 'Barriers Burned Away,' 'Opening of a Chestnut Burr,' 'From Jest to Earnest,' and other well-known works, read and enjoyed by thousands in America and in England. Between the house and the road are long rows of strawberry plants that looked tempting even in September. The house stands in about the centre of a plot of twenty-three acres. The side is toward the road, and a broad piazza runs along the length of it, from which glimpses of the distant Hudson can be had through the framework of trees and hills. The piazza is reached by broad steps, and is high enough from the ground to make a grand tumbling-off place for the numerous jovial and robust youngsters that romp around there and call Mr. Roe 'papa.' A wide hall runs through the centre of the house, and the whole dwelling has a roomy air that reminds one of the generous and hospitable mansions for which the South is famous. Mr. Roe's house is without any attempt at architectural ornamentation, unless the roof window in the centre can be called an ornament; but there is something very homelike about the place, something that is far beyond the powers of architecture to supply."My fellow-traveller sat down in one of the rural chairs that stood invitingly on the piazza, and I manipulated the door-bell."While the servant is coming to open the door I may as well confess that I have undertaken to write the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out."Mr. Roe was not at home."I tell this now so that the reader will not be disappointed when the girl opens the door."The door opens."Could we see Mr. Roe?"Mr. Roe had left that very morning for New York."'He evidently heard in some way we were coming,' said my companion,sotto voce."When would he return?"Perhaps not this week. Would we walk in and see Mrs. Roe?"The next thing to seeing an author is to see the author's wife, so we accepted the invitation and walked into the parlor. Before we walked out we came to the conclusion that the next thing to seeing the author's wife is to see the author."Now, of course, I might have taken an inventory of the articles in the parlor, just as if I were a deputy sheriff, or a tax collector, or something of that sort, but I didn't. I might tell of the piano that stood in one corner and the pile of music that reached from the floor to the top of it, and of the little table covered with stereoscopic views, and the photograph of Mr. Roe framed above it, and of the two low front windows with their river view and their lace curtains, and the large folding-doors opening into the library, the workshop of Mr. Roe, and of the quiet, neutral tints of the carpet, or the many contents of the whatnot in the corner, and the paintings and engravings on the walls, and the comfortable easy-chairs, and the books scattered here and there, and of dozens of other things that made up an author's parlor, but I will not mention one of them."I had the idea that E. P. Roe was a kindly old gentleman with gray hair. Kindly he undoubtedly is, but old he is not. His portrait shows him to have a frank, manly countenance, with an earnest and somewhat sad expression. He has dark hair and a full beard, long and black. Mr. Roe is at present writing a series of articles on small fruits forScribner's Magazine. The publishers of that periodical intend to give a portrait of Mr. Roe, which will be the first ever published. It may appear in the December number, and if it does the readers of this paper are respectfully referred to the pages of that magazine. It seems to be the general idea that Mr. Roe is an old man. For instance, a lady writing from Wheeling, W. Va., toThe Householda few weeks since, says:—"'Some one asked if Rev. E. P. Roe had taken his characters from life or not. Several years ago we had amongst us a certain Professor Roe (vocal teacher, possessing a beautiful tenor voice), said to be a son of the novelist. If he was a son, the character of Walter Gregory in '"Opening of a Chestnut Burr" was certainly drawn from him, and it always seemed to me that Dennis Fleet's wonderful voice in "Barriers Burned Away" was likened to his voice.'"If this writer could have seen the youthful appearance of Mrs. Roe, she would have no hesitation in denying the professor's alleged relationship to the novelist. Her husband is not yet forty."I wish Scribners would publish a portrait of Mrs. Roe. It would certainly add to the popularity of the magazine. Such a lady must be a wonderful help to her husband. I think, as a general thing, the world gives too little credit to the power behind the throne."Mrs. Roe deserves at least half the credit of 'Barriers Burned Away,' which is certainly E. P. Roe's most dramatic work, and had, no doubt, a great deal to do with many of his other volumes. This particular work describes the thrilling scenes of the Chicago fire with a vividness and power that is rarely surpassed. When the whole world was thrilled by the dreadful tidings of a city's destruction, Mr. Roe said to his wife that if he could collect some of the actual occurrences that must be transpiring there he thought he could write a book about it. Mrs. Roe at once decided for him. Her advice was that so tersely put by Mr. Greeley. Although nearly a thousand miles intervened, Mr. Roe was in Chicago before the fire had ceased, and the incidents so graphically depicted in 'Barriers Burned Away' were the result of actual observation."Most of Mr. Roe's characters are taken from real life, and all of his works are written for a purpose, as can readily be seen in 'What Can She Do?' for example. His next book, which will be published in a few days, will furnish another instance of writing for a purpose. Its title is, 'Without a Home;' the subject it treats is the tenement-house problem, which is at present agitating New York and all large cities. In this work the scenes and personages will be nearly all from real life. If the book were not in press the tenement-house fires in New York on Friday, causing the death of seven persons, would furnish a tragic climax to his story. What could be more terribly pathetic than the frantic mother penned in by the smoke and flame, dragging herself to the bedside of her children to die with them? In choosing the evils of the tenement-house system as a subject, Mr. Roe strikes at one of the worst features of city life."It was to finish the last pages of this book that Mr. Roe was now 'Without a Home' himself, and as the printers were clamoring for copy, he had betaken himself to a room in a New York hotel to write without interruption. Mr. Roe is too good-natured to deny himself to visitors, and they make great inroads on his time."'If he hears the voice of a friend,' said Mrs. Roe, 'he cannot remain at his desk.'"So when there is work that must be done, Mr. Roe banishes himself from home and friends and flies to that loneliness which only a great and crowded city can supply."Mrs. Roe's favorite book is 'The Opening of a Chestnut Burr,' and this must be a favorite work with many, for it has reached its thirtieth thousand, not to mention the numerous reprints in England and Canada. The realistic incident in this work, which supplies the place the Chicago fire does in the other, is the sinking in mid ocean of the French steamer Ville d'Havre."I think, although it is only mere conjecture on my part, that Mrs. Roe herself is the heroine of this book. For that reason I shall not attempt to say anything of the lady, as the reader can turn to the book and satisfy all curiosity there. But if I should find, at some future time, that I am mistaken in my surmise, I shall make that my excuse for the pleasant task of writing again of Mrs. Roe. The old homestead is described in the 'Opening of a Chestnut Burr,' and naturally this would endear the book to those who lived there."The library in which Mr. Roe does his writing, when at home, is a sunny room filled from floor to ceiling with books. A large flat desk, covered with papers, stands in the centre of the room, and this is the novelist's work-bench. I shall conclude with a few words regarding Mr. Roe's method of working. Mr. Roe himself has supplied this in a letter written nearly a year ago, to an admirer, and part of which I am allowed to copy. This extract forms a portion of Mr. Roe's work never before published, and the writer himself had no idea it would ever appear in print. The letter bears date November 25, 1878. He says:—"'My aim is to spend the earlier part of the day in my study, but I cannot always control my time, much of which is lost in interruptions. I sometimes have to go away and shut myself up for a time. I am not as systematic as I ought to be. I like to write the latter part of my books at white heat, first getting full of my story and then writing with a zest. I call from five to eight pages a good day's work, although in some moods I write many more. Again, I will work hard over three or four. I am opposed to night work."'I hope to average five hours a day hereafter in my study, and three or four in my garden. I employ from ten to fifteen men and from ten to thirty boys in picking the berries. A large part of my labor is employed in taking up and packing plants. The department of fruit culture to which I give my chief attention, is the keeping of each variety separate and pure. This I trust to no one, and it requires constant vigilance.'"After leaving the residence of Mr. Roe, we went half a mile or so farther on to Idlewild, once the home of N. P. Willis. Darkness came on before we reached there and we had our labor for our pains."Mrs. Roe said that Idlewild is little changed since the poet left it. A recent freshet swept away the bridges he built in the Glen, but otherwise it is the same as it was before. Thus ended our visit to Cornwall-on-the-Hudson."

"In appearance the novelist is a man of a trifle over the medium size, with a pleasant, intellectual face, which is almost covered with a rich and handsome coal-black beard and mustache. Mr. Roe is in the prime of manhood, being about forty-five years of age, and his manners and conversation are the most kindly and engaging. He is of a generous disposition, hospitable, a kind friend, and never happier than when in the bosom of his family, to which he is devotedly attached.

"It was the pleasure of the writer a few evenings ago to meet the novelist and engage him in conversation regarding himself and his works.

"'I have just returned from an afternoon stroll,' remarked the novelist. 'This is my invariable custom after my day's work. When do I work? Well, I generally sit down immediately after breakfast, which I have about eight o'clock, and with the exception of an hour for lunch, I write continuously from that time until three or four in the afternoon. Then I go out for my walk.'

"'You never work at night, then?' was asked.

"'No; it is a bad practice, and one that I rarely indulge in. There was a time when I did so, but my work always showed it. A writer's work at night is almost always morbid. There is no better time to work than during the morning.'

"'How much work constitutes a day's labor with you?'

"'That varies a great deal. Sometimes I write four or five pages of foolscap, and other days I will write as much as fifteen. I have no average, but do as much as I feel like doing, or have time to do, and then I stop.'

"'Do you derive genuine pleasure from your work?'

"'Always, for I am absorbed in whatever I am writing. I presume I derived the most pleasure from my "Nature's Serial Story," for it was an out-of-door study, and anything about nature always finds a responsive chord in me. Then, two of the characters of that work portray my father and my mother, and their memory is blessed and sacred to me. All the other characters are imaginary.'

"'Are your stories and novels based on facts and real happenings, as a rule?'

"'In every case,' replied Mr. Roe. 'I never manufacture a story; I couldn't do it. Of course, I elaborate and idealize, but the actual facts are always drawn from real life. I am always on the alert for these incidents, and when I see one that I think is adapted for a story I make a note of it.'

"'Speaking of your correspondence, like that of most authors, I presume it is of a various nature?'

"'Yes, indeed,' laughingly replied the novelist. 'It is surprising what letters I sometimes receive, and how difficult it is for some persons to realize that an author's time is valuable. Of course, I am not a stranger to the autograph craze, and of these requests I receive, I think, more than my share. But what is most surprising is the number of manuscripts I receive from young, aspiring authors. I am often asked "to read them, revise them carefully, and express an opinion as to the merit of the contribution." Why, I have frequently been requested to do a whole month's work on a single manuscript. What do I do with these? Well, the best I can. If I have a spare moment, I look over the story or article, and encourage the writer, if possible. But at times the supply is too great for physical endurance.'

"'What exercise do you most indulge in, and what particular one do you recommend?'

"'So far as I am concerned, I like a good, long walk, and this is what I would recommend to all who work with the brain and are confined. Exercise should never, in my opinion, be taken before sitting down to work, always after the task of the day has been completed. Then one receives far more benefit from it than if taken before work. I also like to work in my garden, and there is hardly a better means of exercise. Hunting and fishing are also favorite sports with me, and I keep a good gun and a fishing-rod close at hand.'

"'Have you entirely given up gardening for literature?'

"'Yes, almost entirely, even in an amateur way. Of course I still retain an active interest in everything that is interesting or new about a garden or a farm. But as to any active participation, as formerly, I have been obliged to desist.'

"It may be interesting here to mention that the grounds surrounding Mr. Roe's rural retreat at Cornwall-on-the-Hudson show no lack of proper care and attention. The property consists of twenty-three acres and is all cultivated for floral and farming purposes. The novelist has on these grounds alone over one hundred and twelve different varieties of grapes, and has had in his strawberry beds seventy different varieties of that luscious berry in bearing at one time. One year Mr. Roe's orchards yielded him, among other products, one hundred and fifty barrels of apples, and this year about forty bushels of pears will be taken from his trees.

"'What are your immediate plans?' was asked the novelist, as he courteously showed the writer into the dining-room in response to the merry jingle of the dinner-bell.

"'I am now taking a brief holiday, resting from overwork. In about two months I leave the North for Santa Barbara, California, where I may remain for a year, or may return next spring. All depends upon how my family and myself like the country there. I go there partly for pleasure and partly for work. I shall doubtless gather considerable new material, and this I shall incorporate in future works. I shall study the life of the people of that region, and intend more especially to devote myself to studying nature in the direction of trees, plants, as well as the animals, birds, etc., of that charming country. My return North is uncertain, as I have said, and should everything prove agreeable, I may extend my residence there indefinitely.'

"And here ended the writer's chat with perhaps the most popular author of the day. Mr. Roe is extremely retiring in disposition; he never courts notoriety, but always strictly avoids it whenever possible. And with his large black slouched hat set carelessly on his head a stranger would more readily mistake him for a Cuban planter, with his dark complexion, than the author of the novels which have entered into thousands of American homes."

"Cornwall is situated on the western bank of the Hudson, just north of the Highlands. If you arrive by steamer you find an energetic crowd of 'bus men, who are eager to be of service to you. Most of the vehicles have four horses attached, which seem to tell of a hill in the neighborhood. We passed Cornwall several times by boat, and saw enough of the energy of the hackmen to make us resolve to reach the place some time when they were absent. Consequently we sailed down on Cornwall as General Wolfe sailed down on Quebec—in a small boat, and captured the place easily.

"As we walked up the rickety steps that lead from the water to the wharf, there was no deputation there to meet us.

"'Now the first thing,' said my companion, 'is to find out where Mr. Roe lives.'

"'No, that's the second thing,' I replied. 'The first thing is to find out where we are to get supper.'

"The reasonableness of this proposal was so apparent that further remark was not so necessary as finding a hotel well stocked with provisions.

"We found it in the shape of an unpretentious brick structure at the foot of the hill. By the way, everything is at the foot of the hill at Cornwall Landing. The landlady, who was the pink of neatness, promised us all we could eat on our return, although if she had known my talents in that line she would have hesitated. I noticed that she referred to 'Mr. Roe, the author,' while our fellow voyager in the small boat spoke of him as 'the strawberry man.' Probably the boor who relished the production of Mr. Roe's garden would have been surprised to know that the productions of his pen were even more sought after than that delicious fruit.

"But evening is coming on and we have a long hill before us, so we must proceed. A Cornwall road is always either going up or down, and a person gets great opportunities for rising in the world as he turns his back on the Hudson and climbs to Cornwall. The road winds up the hill, often shaded by trees and always accompanied by a mountain torrent whose rocky bed lies deep beside the pathway. This stream lacks only one thing to make it a success—and that is water. No doubt after a heavy rain it would show commendable enterprise, but now the rocks were dry. A thin thread of clear spring water trickled along the bottom of the ravine, now forming a silvery-toned waterfall, then losing itself among the loose rocks, next finding itself again, and sometimes making the mistake which humanity often makes, of spreading itself too much and trying to put on the airs of larger streams.

"Half-way up is a spring, surrounded by benches, welcome to the pedestrian who finds tramping uphill business. The clear, cold water pours out, and an iron dipper, like Prometheus 'chained to a pillar,' invites the thirsty to have a drink. The benches form a semicircle around this fountain, and on the backs thereof some one has painted in large letters the legend 'Please don't cut an old friend.' But 'excelsior' is our motto, and we climb. When we reach the top of the mountain we part company with the rivulet, thinking, with perhaps a sigh, what a vast advantage water has over people—it always goes down hill. Cornwall now begins to show its beauties. It seems to be a big village composed of splendid residences and elegant family hotels—or rather huge summer boarding-houses. Excellent roads run in all directions, up and down, turning now to the right and now to the left, until a stranger loses all idea of the points of the compass.

"About a mile from the landing, if you are in a carriage, or about five miles if you are on foot, you come to an open gateway, through which a road turns that might be mistaken for one of the many offshoots of the public street, were it not that a notice conspicuously posted up informs the traveller that the way is private property. A cottage, probably a gardener's residence, stands beside the gate. The land slopes gently downward from the road and then rises beyond, leaving a wide valley between the street and a large two-story frame building that stands on the rising ground. This is the home of E. P. Roe, author of 'Barriers Burned Away,' 'Opening of a Chestnut Burr,' 'From Jest to Earnest,' and other well-known works, read and enjoyed by thousands in America and in England. Between the house and the road are long rows of strawberry plants that looked tempting even in September. The house stands in about the centre of a plot of twenty-three acres. The side is toward the road, and a broad piazza runs along the length of it, from which glimpses of the distant Hudson can be had through the framework of trees and hills. The piazza is reached by broad steps, and is high enough from the ground to make a grand tumbling-off place for the numerous jovial and robust youngsters that romp around there and call Mr. Roe 'papa.' A wide hall runs through the centre of the house, and the whole dwelling has a roomy air that reminds one of the generous and hospitable mansions for which the South is famous. Mr. Roe's house is without any attempt at architectural ornamentation, unless the roof window in the centre can be called an ornament; but there is something very homelike about the place, something that is far beyond the powers of architecture to supply.

"My fellow-traveller sat down in one of the rural chairs that stood invitingly on the piazza, and I manipulated the door-bell.

"While the servant is coming to open the door I may as well confess that I have undertaken to write the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out.

"Mr. Roe was not at home.

"I tell this now so that the reader will not be disappointed when the girl opens the door.

"The door opens.

"Could we see Mr. Roe?

"Mr. Roe had left that very morning for New York.

"'He evidently heard in some way we were coming,' said my companion,sotto voce.

"When would he return?

"Perhaps not this week. Would we walk in and see Mrs. Roe?

"The next thing to seeing an author is to see the author's wife, so we accepted the invitation and walked into the parlor. Before we walked out we came to the conclusion that the next thing to seeing the author's wife is to see the author.

"Now, of course, I might have taken an inventory of the articles in the parlor, just as if I were a deputy sheriff, or a tax collector, or something of that sort, but I didn't. I might tell of the piano that stood in one corner and the pile of music that reached from the floor to the top of it, and of the little table covered with stereoscopic views, and the photograph of Mr. Roe framed above it, and of the two low front windows with their river view and their lace curtains, and the large folding-doors opening into the library, the workshop of Mr. Roe, and of the quiet, neutral tints of the carpet, or the many contents of the whatnot in the corner, and the paintings and engravings on the walls, and the comfortable easy-chairs, and the books scattered here and there, and of dozens of other things that made up an author's parlor, but I will not mention one of them.

"I had the idea that E. P. Roe was a kindly old gentleman with gray hair. Kindly he undoubtedly is, but old he is not. His portrait shows him to have a frank, manly countenance, with an earnest and somewhat sad expression. He has dark hair and a full beard, long and black. Mr. Roe is at present writing a series of articles on small fruits forScribner's Magazine. The publishers of that periodical intend to give a portrait of Mr. Roe, which will be the first ever published. It may appear in the December number, and if it does the readers of this paper are respectfully referred to the pages of that magazine. It seems to be the general idea that Mr. Roe is an old man. For instance, a lady writing from Wheeling, W. Va., toThe Householda few weeks since, says:—

"'Some one asked if Rev. E. P. Roe had taken his characters from life or not. Several years ago we had amongst us a certain Professor Roe (vocal teacher, possessing a beautiful tenor voice), said to be a son of the novelist. If he was a son, the character of Walter Gregory in '"Opening of a Chestnut Burr" was certainly drawn from him, and it always seemed to me that Dennis Fleet's wonderful voice in "Barriers Burned Away" was likened to his voice.'

"If this writer could have seen the youthful appearance of Mrs. Roe, she would have no hesitation in denying the professor's alleged relationship to the novelist. Her husband is not yet forty.

"I wish Scribners would publish a portrait of Mrs. Roe. It would certainly add to the popularity of the magazine. Such a lady must be a wonderful help to her husband. I think, as a general thing, the world gives too little credit to the power behind the throne.

"Mrs. Roe deserves at least half the credit of 'Barriers Burned Away,' which is certainly E. P. Roe's most dramatic work, and had, no doubt, a great deal to do with many of his other volumes. This particular work describes the thrilling scenes of the Chicago fire with a vividness and power that is rarely surpassed. When the whole world was thrilled by the dreadful tidings of a city's destruction, Mr. Roe said to his wife that if he could collect some of the actual occurrences that must be transpiring there he thought he could write a book about it. Mrs. Roe at once decided for him. Her advice was that so tersely put by Mr. Greeley. Although nearly a thousand miles intervened, Mr. Roe was in Chicago before the fire had ceased, and the incidents so graphically depicted in 'Barriers Burned Away' were the result of actual observation.

"Most of Mr. Roe's characters are taken from real life, and all of his works are written for a purpose, as can readily be seen in 'What Can She Do?' for example. His next book, which will be published in a few days, will furnish another instance of writing for a purpose. Its title is, 'Without a Home;' the subject it treats is the tenement-house problem, which is at present agitating New York and all large cities. In this work the scenes and personages will be nearly all from real life. If the book were not in press the tenement-house fires in New York on Friday, causing the death of seven persons, would furnish a tragic climax to his story. What could be more terribly pathetic than the frantic mother penned in by the smoke and flame, dragging herself to the bedside of her children to die with them? In choosing the evils of the tenement-house system as a subject, Mr. Roe strikes at one of the worst features of city life.

"It was to finish the last pages of this book that Mr. Roe was now 'Without a Home' himself, and as the printers were clamoring for copy, he had betaken himself to a room in a New York hotel to write without interruption. Mr. Roe is too good-natured to deny himself to visitors, and they make great inroads on his time.

"'If he hears the voice of a friend,' said Mrs. Roe, 'he cannot remain at his desk.'

"So when there is work that must be done, Mr. Roe banishes himself from home and friends and flies to that loneliness which only a great and crowded city can supply.

"Mrs. Roe's favorite book is 'The Opening of a Chestnut Burr,' and this must be a favorite work with many, for it has reached its thirtieth thousand, not to mention the numerous reprints in England and Canada. The realistic incident in this work, which supplies the place the Chicago fire does in the other, is the sinking in mid ocean of the French steamer Ville d'Havre.

"I think, although it is only mere conjecture on my part, that Mrs. Roe herself is the heroine of this book. For that reason I shall not attempt to say anything of the lady, as the reader can turn to the book and satisfy all curiosity there. But if I should find, at some future time, that I am mistaken in my surmise, I shall make that my excuse for the pleasant task of writing again of Mrs. Roe. The old homestead is described in the 'Opening of a Chestnut Burr,' and naturally this would endear the book to those who lived there.

"The library in which Mr. Roe does his writing, when at home, is a sunny room filled from floor to ceiling with books. A large flat desk, covered with papers, stands in the centre of the room, and this is the novelist's work-bench. I shall conclude with a few words regarding Mr. Roe's method of working. Mr. Roe himself has supplied this in a letter written nearly a year ago, to an admirer, and part of which I am allowed to copy. This extract forms a portion of Mr. Roe's work never before published, and the writer himself had no idea it would ever appear in print. The letter bears date November 25, 1878. He says:—

"'My aim is to spend the earlier part of the day in my study, but I cannot always control my time, much of which is lost in interruptions. I sometimes have to go away and shut myself up for a time. I am not as systematic as I ought to be. I like to write the latter part of my books at white heat, first getting full of my story and then writing with a zest. I call from five to eight pages a good day's work, although in some moods I write many more. Again, I will work hard over three or four. I am opposed to night work.

"'I hope to average five hours a day hereafter in my study, and three or four in my garden. I employ from ten to fifteen men and from ten to thirty boys in picking the berries. A large part of my labor is employed in taking up and packing plants. The department of fruit culture to which I give my chief attention, is the keeping of each variety separate and pure. This I trust to no one, and it requires constant vigilance.'

"After leaving the residence of Mr. Roe, we went half a mile or so farther on to Idlewild, once the home of N. P. Willis. Darkness came on before we reached there and we had our labor for our pains.

"Mrs. Roe said that Idlewild is little changed since the poet left it. A recent freshet swept away the bridges he built in the Glen, but otherwise it is the same as it was before. Thus ended our visit to Cornwall-on-the-Hudson."

CHAPTER XI

SANTA BARBARA

My brother's boyhood friend, Mr. Merwin, speaking of his visits at Cornwall later, says: "When honors came in troops, I found Edward was the same kindly unostentatious man, the truly loyal friend. Later, after some correspondence with me, he came to Southern California, where under those sunny skies and semi-tropical scenes his love of Nature found great delight.

"While visiting at Pasadena, as we drove about that beautiful city, he emphasized what he had often told me, that one of the great joys of his life was that which came to him from the hundreds of letters from all parts of the country, and many written by people in humble circumstances, thanking him most heartily for the cheer and encouragement he had given them through his books."

After a short stay with his friend in Pasadena Edward went with his wife and children to Santa Barbara. There they occupied a pleasantly situated cottage, owned by a New England lady and her daughter, under whose excellent care they enjoyed the rest and freedom from restraint that cannot be found in crowded hotels.

In a letter written to the DetroitTribunemy brother gives his experience of a California winter.

"My impression is that January first was the warmest day of the month. Certainly on no other days was I so conscious of the sun's heat, yet the air was so deliciously cool and fresh in the early morning. There had been a heavy dew, and grass, weed, hedge, and flower were gemmed in the brilliant sunshine."Walking up town with my mail at about ten in the morning, I found myself perspiring as upon a hot day in August, but there was no sense of oppression. One was exhilarated rather than wilted. After reaching our cottage piazza and the shelter of the climbing roses and honeysuckle, the change was decidedly marked. This is said to be the peculiarity the year round, even in midsummer. One has only to step out of the sun's rays in order to be cool, and the dead, sultry heat which sometimes induces one to yearn for the depths of a cave is unknown."As I sat there in the shade, letting the paper fall from my hand in the deeper interest excited by my immediate surroundings, I could scarcely realize that we were in the depths of winter."The air was fragrant from blooming flowers; finches and Audubon's warblers were full of song in the pepper trees, while humming birds were almost as plentiful as bumble-bees in June."It was evident that the day was being celebrated in the manner characteristic of the place. One might fancy that half the population were on horseback. In twos and fours they clattered along the adjacent streets, while from more distant thoroughfares, until the sounds were like faint echoes, came also the sounds of horses' feet rapidly striking the hard adobe of the roadways. In addition to those who gave the impression of life and movement in the suburbs of the town, large equestrian parties had started for mountain passes and distant cañons, taking with them hearty lunches in which the strawberries were a leading feature. As long as the sun was well above the horizon delicate girls, almost in summer costume, could sit in the shade of the live-oaks in safety, but when the sun declines to a certain point, between four and five in winter, there is a sudden chill in the air, and those who do not protect themselves by wraps or overcoats are likely to be punished with as severe colds as they would take in a Boston east wind."It has often seemed to me warmer at eight o'clock in the evening than at four in the afternoon."We resolved to have our holiday outing as well as the others, and after dinner were bowling out on the road to Montecito, the favorite suburb of Santa Barbara. The fields by the roadside were as bare and brown as ours in winter when not covered with snow, but drought, not frost, was the cause. The 'rainy season' was well advanced, but there had been no rain in quantity sufficient to awaken nature from her sleep. In this climate vegetation is always a question of moisture."When reaching the villa region of Montecito, blossoming gardens and green lawns illustrated this truth. After a visit to the beautiful grounds and fine residence of Mr. A. L. Anderson, so well remembered by thousands as the captain of the favorite Hudson River steamboat the Mary Powell, we drove on to one of the largest orange groves on this part of the coast. Mr. Johnson, one of the proprietors, received us most hospitably, and led the way into a grove that sloped toward the mountains. The ground was scrupulously free from weeds, mellow as an ash heap, and had evidently been made very fertile. Mr. Johnson told me that he fed the trees constantly and liberally, and this course is in accordance with nature and with reason, for the orange tree never rests. While the fruit is ripening the tree is blossoming for a new crop. Always growing and producing, it requires a constant supply of plant food, and one of the causes of the deep green and vigorous aspect of the grove and its fruitfulness consisted undoubtedly in the richness at the roots."Another and leading cause was in abundant supply of water."From a cañon near by a mountain stream flowed down skirting the grove. This stream was tapped by an iron pipe at a point sufficiently high to furnish by gravity all the water required, and it was distributed by a simple yet ingenious contrivance."The utmost vigilance is exercised against insect pests and the mutilation of the roots by gophers. The results of all this intelligent care and cultivation were seen in the surprising beauty and fruitfulness of the trees, which were laden with from one to two thousand golden-hued oranges, in addition to the green ones not to be distinguished from the leaves at a distance. Even so early in the season there were a sufficient number of blossoms to fill the air with fragrance.

"Walking up town with my mail at about ten in the morning, I found myself perspiring as upon a hot day in August, but there was no sense of oppression. One was exhilarated rather than wilted. After reaching our cottage piazza and the shelter of the climbing roses and honeysuckle, the change was decidedly marked. This is said to be the peculiarity the year round, even in midsummer. One has only to step out of the sun's rays in order to be cool, and the dead, sultry heat which sometimes induces one to yearn for the depths of a cave is unknown.

"As I sat there in the shade, letting the paper fall from my hand in the deeper interest excited by my immediate surroundings, I could scarcely realize that we were in the depths of winter.

"The air was fragrant from blooming flowers; finches and Audubon's warblers were full of song in the pepper trees, while humming birds were almost as plentiful as bumble-bees in June.

"It was evident that the day was being celebrated in the manner characteristic of the place. One might fancy that half the population were on horseback. In twos and fours they clattered along the adjacent streets, while from more distant thoroughfares, until the sounds were like faint echoes, came also the sounds of horses' feet rapidly striking the hard adobe of the roadways. In addition to those who gave the impression of life and movement in the suburbs of the town, large equestrian parties had started for mountain passes and distant cañons, taking with them hearty lunches in which the strawberries were a leading feature. As long as the sun was well above the horizon delicate girls, almost in summer costume, could sit in the shade of the live-oaks in safety, but when the sun declines to a certain point, between four and five in winter, there is a sudden chill in the air, and those who do not protect themselves by wraps or overcoats are likely to be punished with as severe colds as they would take in a Boston east wind.

"It has often seemed to me warmer at eight o'clock in the evening than at four in the afternoon.

"We resolved to have our holiday outing as well as the others, and after dinner were bowling out on the road to Montecito, the favorite suburb of Santa Barbara. The fields by the roadside were as bare and brown as ours in winter when not covered with snow, but drought, not frost, was the cause. The 'rainy season' was well advanced, but there had been no rain in quantity sufficient to awaken nature from her sleep. In this climate vegetation is always a question of moisture.

"When reaching the villa region of Montecito, blossoming gardens and green lawns illustrated this truth. After a visit to the beautiful grounds and fine residence of Mr. A. L. Anderson, so well remembered by thousands as the captain of the favorite Hudson River steamboat the Mary Powell, we drove on to one of the largest orange groves on this part of the coast. Mr. Johnson, one of the proprietors, received us most hospitably, and led the way into a grove that sloped toward the mountains. The ground was scrupulously free from weeds, mellow as an ash heap, and had evidently been made very fertile. Mr. Johnson told me that he fed the trees constantly and liberally, and this course is in accordance with nature and with reason, for the orange tree never rests. While the fruit is ripening the tree is blossoming for a new crop. Always growing and producing, it requires a constant supply of plant food, and one of the causes of the deep green and vigorous aspect of the grove and its fruitfulness consisted undoubtedly in the richness at the roots.

"Another and leading cause was in abundant supply of water.

"From a cañon near by a mountain stream flowed down skirting the grove. This stream was tapped by an iron pipe at a point sufficiently high to furnish by gravity all the water required, and it was distributed by a simple yet ingenious contrivance.

"The utmost vigilance is exercised against insect pests and the mutilation of the roots by gophers. The results of all this intelligent care and cultivation were seen in the surprising beauty and fruitfulness of the trees, which were laden with from one to two thousand golden-hued oranges, in addition to the green ones not to be distinguished from the leaves at a distance. Even so early in the season there were a sufficient number of blossoms to fill the air with fragrance.

Back to Index Next