| Romances and Realities, | Ford Howard & Co. |
| Young People of Shakespeare’s Dramas, | D. Appleton & Co. |
| Cluny McPherson, | Tract House |
| Scottish Tales, | Tract House |
| Prisoners of Conscience, | Century Company |
| The Hallam Succession, | Methodist Book Concern |
| Lost Silver of Briffault, | Methodist Book Concern |
| Flower of Gala Water, | Robert Bonner’s Sons |
| Femmetia, | Robert Bonner’s Sons |
| Three Volumes of Short Stories, | Robert Bonner’s Sons |
| The Mate of the Easter Bell, | Robert Bonner’s Sons |
| Reaping the Whirlwind, | James Clark, London |
| The Preacher’s Daughter, | James Clark, London |
| Thyra Varrick, | Taylor & Company |
| Was it Right to Forgive?, | Stone, Chicago |
| The Man Between, | Lovell |
| Winter Evening Tales. Two Volumes, | Christian Herald |
| Micheal and Theodora, | Bradley and Woodward |
| Eunice Leslie, | Stephen Tyng |
This list includes none of the short stories written every week for Robert Bonner’s Ledger; none written very constantly in the early years of my work for the Christian Union, the Illustrated Christian Weekly, Harper’s Weekly, Harper’s Bazaar, Frank Leslie’s Magazine, the Advance and various other papers. Nor yet does it include any of the English papers or syndicates for which I wrote; nor yet the poem written every week for fifteen years for the Ledger; nor the poems written very frequently for the Christian Union, the Independent, the Advance, daily papers, and so forth. Nor can I even pretend to remember the very numerous essays, and social and domestic papers which were almost constantly contributed; I have forgotten the very names of this vast collection of work and I never kept any record of it. Indeed, only some chance copy has escaped the oblivion to which I gave up the rest. They kept money in my purse; that was all I 491 asked of them. I do not even possess a full set of the sixty novels I have written. I may have twenty or thirty, not more certainly.
From among the hundreds of poems I have written during forty years I have saved enough to make a small volume which some day I may publish. But I never considered myself a poetess in any true sense of the word. “The vision and faculty divine” was not mine; but I had the most extraordinary command of the English language and I could easily versify a good thought, and tune it to the Common Chord—the C Major of this life. Women sang my songs about their houses, and men at their daily work and some of them went all around the world in the newspapers. “The Tree God Plants, No Wind Can Hurt,” I got in a Bombay paper; and “Get the Spindle and Distaff Ready, and God Will Send the Flax,” came back to me in a little Australian weekly. And for fifteen years I made an income of a thousand dollars, or more, every year from them. So, if they were not poetry they evidently “got there!” From among the few saved I will print half a dozen. They will show what “the people” liked, and called poetry.
I must here notice, that I used two pen names as well as my own. I never could have sold all the work I did under one name. But to my editors, the secret was an open one; and until the necessity for it was long past, not one of them ever named the subterfuge to me. That was a very delicate kindness and it pleases me to acknowledge it. Some of my very best work was done under fictitious names. Truly I got no credit for it, but I got the money, and the money meant all kinds of happiness.
The Old Piano
How still and dusky is the long closed room!
What lingering shadows and what sweet perfume
Of Eastern treasures; sandal-wood and scent,
With nard and cassia, and with roses blent:
Let in the sunshine.
Quaint cabinets are here, boxes and fans,
And hoarded letters full of hopes and plans:
I pass them by—I come once more to see
The old piano, dear to memory;
In past days mine.
Of all sad voices from forgotten years,
It is the saddest. See what tender tears
Drop on the yellow keys! as soft and slow
I play some melody of long ago.
How strange it seems!
The thin, weak notes that once were rich and strong
Give only now, the shadow of a song;
The dying echo of the fuller strain,
That I shall never, never hear again:
Unless in dreams.
What hands have touched it! fingers small and white,
Since cold and weary with life’s toil and strife
Dear clinging hands, that long have been at rest
Folded serenely on a quiet breast.
Only to think
O white sad notes, of all the pleasant days,
The happy songs, the hymns of holy praise,
The dreams of love and youth, that round you cling!
Do they not make each sighing, trembling string
A mighty link?
All its musicians gone beyond recall!
The beautiful, the loved, where are they all?
Each told their secret, touched the keys and wires
To thoughts of many colors and desires,
With whispering fingers:
All now are silent, their last farewells said,
Their last songs sung, their last tears sadly shed;
Yet Love has given it many dreams to keep
In this lone room, where only shadows creep,
And silence lingers.
The old piano answers to my call,
And from my fingers lets the last notes fall.
O Soul that I have loved! With heavenly birth
Wilt thou not keep the memory of earth,
Its smiles and sighs,
Shall wood, and metal, and white ivory,
Answer the touch of love and melody,
And Thou forget? Dear One, not so!
I move thee yet, though how I may not know,
Beyond the skies.
At the Last
Now, poor tired hands, be still,
Toil-stained through Death’s white hue;
No need now for your skill,
No further task to do.
Folded across the breast,
Take calmest rest:
Dead hands no work shall soil—
’Tis living hands that toil.
Now, weary eyes, go sleep;
You shall see no more wrong,
Nor anxious watches keep
For Love that tarries long;
Shall shed no more sad tears
Through all the years.
Fold down your lids and sleep—
’Tis living eyes that weep.
Help
My hands have often been weary hands,
Too tired to do their daily task;
And just to fold them forevermore
Has seemed the boon that was best to ask.
My feet have often been weary feet,
Too tired to walk another day;
And I’ve thought, “To sit and calmly wait
Is better far than the onward way.”
My eyes with tears have been so dim
That I have said, “I can not mark
The work I do or the way I take,
For every where it is dark—so dark!”
But, oh, thank God! There never has come
That hour that makes the bravest quail:
No matter how weary my feet and hands,
God never has suffered my heart to fail.
So the folded hands take up their work,
And the weary feet pursue their way;
And all is clear when the good heart cries,
“Be brave!—to-morrow’s another day.”
Yellow Jasmine
Do angels come as flowers, O golden stars!
That I can hold within my small white palm?
Or were you dropped from o’er the crystal bars,
Filled with the perfume of celestial psalms?
Why did you come? For fear I should forget?
Nay, but sweet flowers, you would not judge me so.
Are there not memories between us set,
No later love, no future days can know?
Cool bosky woodlands that were jasmine bowers,
With misty haze of bluebells up the glade
Then, had I met an angel pulling flowers,
I had not been astonished or afraid.
Beautiful children, innocent and bright,
O Golden Jasmine! for Love kissing you
I see them yet, with hair like braided light,
And eyes like purple pansies, wet with dew.
Could I have known, could I have but foreseen
How near the pearly gates their feet had won,
How had I clasped those hands my hands between—
Those tiny hands, whose little work is done.
Calm graves, lapped in sweet grasses, cool and deep,
Where soft winds sing and whisper through all hours:
O starry flowers, for me Love’s vigil keep,
With scent and shadow and sweet-dropping flowers.
My Little Brown Pipe
I have a little comforter
I carry in my pocket;
It is not any woman’s face
Set in a golden locket;
It is not any kind of purse,
It is not book or letter,
But yet at times, I really think,
That it is something better.
Oh! my pipe! My little brown pipe!
How oft at morning early,
When vexed with thoughts of coming toil
And just a little surly,
I sit with thee till things get clear,
And all my plans grow steady,
And I can face the strife of life
With all my senses ready.
No matter if my temper stands
At stormy, fair, or clearing,
My pipe has not for any mood
A word of angry sneering.
I always find it just the same
In care, or joy, or sorrow,
And what it is to-day, I know
It’s sure to be to-morrow.
It helps me through the stress of life,
It balances my losses;
It adds a charm to household joys,
And lightens household crosses.
For through its wreathing, misty veil
Joy has a softer splendor,
And life grows sweetly possible,
And love more truly tender.
Oh! I have many richer joys!
I do not underrate them,
And every man knows what I mean,
I do not need to state them.
But this I say: I’d rather miss
A deal of what’s called pleasure,
Than lose my little comforter,
My little smoky treasure!
The Farmer
The king may rule o’er land and sea,
The lord may live right royally,
The soldier ride in pomp and pride,
The sailor roam o’er ocean wide;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The writer thinks, the poet sings,
The craftsmen fashion wondrous things,
The doctor heals, the lawyer pleads,
The miner follows the precious leads;
But this or that, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The merchant he may buy and sell,
The teacher do his duty well;
But men may toil through busy days,
Or men may stroll through pleasant ways;
From king to beggar, whate’er befall,
The farmer he must feed them all.
The farmer’s trade is one of worth;
He’s partner with the sky and earth,
He’s partner with the sun and rain,
And no man loses for his gain;
And men may rise, or men may fall,
But the farmer he must feed them all.
God bless the man who sows the wheat,
Who finds us milk and fruit and meat;
May his purse be heavy, his heart be light,
His cattle and corn and all go right;
God bless the seeds his hands let fall,
For the farmer he must feed us all.
Comrades
There’s a blacksmith works not far away,
He is brawny and strong and tall;
He’s at his forge when the shadows lift,
And he’s there till the shadows fall.
Just when I leave the land of dreams,
I can hear his hammer bang,
As he beats the red hot iron bar,
With a cling, clang, clang; cling, clang.
His smithy is dirty and dark enough,
And he is dirty and glum;
When a man is beating iron bars,
What can he be but dumb?
And there you may find him hard at work
If the weather be hot or cold;
He says, “There’s some satisfaction, Ma’am,
In beating iron to gold.”
Now, I am a mite of womankind,
I am neither tall nor strong;
I can only read, and dream, and think,
And put my thought into song.
But I smile at the mighty giant
Beating his iron so bold;
And think of a slender little pen
Turning my thought into gold.
I sit in my room so bright and warm,
And my tiny tool I lift,
“The battle is not unto the strong,
Nor the race unto the swift.”
But the hammer shall never cease to beat,
And the song shall never fail,
Be busy, O pen! And blacksmith brave,
Beat rivet, and shoe, and nail.
The world has need of us both I trow:
The giant so strong and tall
And the woman who only has a thought
They are comrades after all.
So, brother, be busy, I would hear
Thy hammering all day long;
The world is glad for the anvil’s ring,
And glad for the Singer’s song.
The following letters are a few taken from a great number as evidence of the faithfulness with which my work has been done, but more especially interesting as showing the marked individuality of the different writers. It is in the latter respect I offer them to a public already well acquainted with most of their names and work.
New Haven,
December 24, 1889.Mrs. Amelia E. Barr,
Dear Madam:
Many thanks for your kind note. My criticisms of “Friend Olivia” addressed themselves only to minute points of historical accuracy, and I fear that some of them may have seemed to you, what the Germans call spitz-findig. This you will pardon, however, when you consider that my duty was to pick all the small holes that I could. As regards historical accuracy in a larger and far more important sense, I think that you have succeeded admirably in catching the atmosphere of feeling of the period, and especially the spirit of the Friends. It must be hard to think back into a past century in this way.
In any case, I am sure that you have made a very charming story, and one which I shall re-read with much greater pleasure, when I no longer have to read it pencil in hand, in search of microscopic slips in the chronology, etc.
Very respectfully,
Henry S. Beers.
Kelp Rock,
New Castle, N.H.,
Oct. 14th, 1887.My dear Mrs. Barr:
Mrs. Stedman has written our appreciation of your charming remembrance of us, but I must have a word of my own. My wife 500 said to me, that “she loved you at first sight,” but she was too Saxon to write this to you, and being Saxon, it was a most unusual thing for her to feel, or say. As for me, I have not forgotten the evening you made so pleasant for us, in which your instant suggestions for my Christmas poem, explained to me the rapid and ceaseless inventiveness, displayed in your succession of books. Another one is out, as I see by the papers, so I have another pleasure in store. You might not soon see a review of your “Border Shepherdess” which came out in Wednesday’s Boston Advertiser; so I enclose it to you. Competitive criticism usually stings somebody; in this case, your neighbor Mr. Roe suffers; and he really seems one of the most unselfish and agreeable members of our Authors’ Club in N.Y. I presume you have seen the other notice from the Tribune, whose literary editors are justly proud of your tales. Of course, I shall see you in town this winter.
Very sincerely yours,
E. C. Stedman.
Montclair, N.J.,
Oct. 2, 1896.A beautiful story, dear Mrs. Barr, is “Prisoners of Conscience.” I have just finished it, and am moved to say “thank you.” Noble characters, rich in human and divine love, yet frozen into poverty of life, by that awful logic with which saintly fools shut out the sunlight of God’s heart, and shut in men’s souls to despair.
It is a sad tale but made well worth your strong, fine telling of it, by the illumination of David’s life, when God’s truth has set him free. Such a tale is worth unnumbered barrels of sermons, and whole libraries of theologic disputation.
What a wide range you are getting! It is a far cry from the dainty romance of “The Bow of Orange Ribbon” to “Prisoners of Conscience,” but all fresh, unhackneyed, in fields of your own finding out. I have not read all your books, but I never read one, without vowing to get at the others. They are instinct with life, one feels them true, however distant and unfamiliar the scene, however strange the types of characters. And they are so full of joyous sympathy with youth and love and brightness, so tender and understanding of trouble and grief, and stress of soul, so large and noble in the interpretation of spiritual aspiration, that they must be twice blessed—to us your readers, and to you the bountiful giver.
Well pardon this little outburst! Since the early Christian Union days I have always felt a peculiar interest and pleasure in your 501 growing success, and have regretted that circumstances should have carried me into lines of work, that did not give me the pleasure of an association with it, which I should have so greatly enjoyed. But your well built ships have been skillfully piloted, and I wish you ever fair seas, and many a happy voyage.
Sincerely your friend,
J. R. HOWARD.
Christian Herald
91 to 102 Bible House
May 6, 1897.Mrs. Amelia E. Barr,
Cornwall-on-Hudson, N.Y.Dear Mrs. Barr:
From present prospects we will have five or six vessels sailing for India laden with corn, and I still think it would be a grand thing if you could see your way clear to join us on our India expedition; and be among those, who at Calcutta, will represent Christian America, and transfer this enormous contribution into the hands of those who will gladly and honestly administer it; so that it may do the greatest good to the greatest number, but I presume the heat deters you from going. A three days’ journey through the Suez Canal and Red Sea, is not one of the most delightful excursions, but what there is beyond, will more than compensate for the discomforts endured. Should you change your mind do please let me know at once, that I may arrange for your trip.
With kindest regards, and best wishes, I am
Very cordially yours,
L. Klopsch.
Princeton, N.J.
Nov. 11, ’09.My dear Mrs Barr:
I can not tell you how touched I was in receiving just now your new book with its tender dedication.[9] I shall have to confess it brought the moisture to my eyes, and I really appreciate it all so deeply.
Now come to us, and let us both show you how much we think 502 of you. I know that Alice can be happy here for a little while at least, and you would make us very happy; you describe those forty years beautifully, let us celebrate the anniversary.
It is needless to say that I shall read the volume with pleasure. I always do enjoy your stories, and they are about the only stories I ever read.
Give our love to Alice, and believe us both to be your loving and admiring friends.
Yours very truly,
William Libbey.
Ingleside,
Newburyport, Mass.
March 14, 1890.My dear Friend,
Amelia E. Barr:I cannot approach thee with the formality of a stranger, for my enjoyment of thy “Friend Olivia” has been such, that I have many times almost had pen in hand to express my thanks, and now that my cousin, John G. Whittier, has kindly allowed me to read thy letter of 9th inst., and I find that our past generations were akin in the Quaker faith, I hesitate no longer to give thee a cordial heart greeting. While following thy charming story from month to month in the pages of the Century Magazine, we have admired what seemed to us a true portrayal of the Christian spirit in which Friends met their various trials, amid the stormy times of the 17th century. Thy early associations at Ulverstone, Swarthmore and Kendal, so rich as that region must be in Quaker tradition, were doubtless as thou remarkest of great service in preparing thee for this work, and I rejoice that George Fox and his coadjutors have thus been so nobly and beautifully defended.
Hoping thou may sometime visit New England, and give thy many friends here opportunity to thank thee in person, for the pleasure thou hast given them, I am
Gratefully thine,
Gertrude W. Cortland.
Point Loma,
Nov. 29, 1911.My dear Mrs Barr:
I am most honored and pleased to receive your kind letter in which you give me an inside view as to certain resemblances between 503 the historic character Peter Stuyvesant, and his modern replica—Theodore. I am reading the book with unusual interest, because of your thought in this particular. The story ought, and no doubt will have a wide reading, especially from New Yorkers, who hark back to the olden days when the metropolis had its beginning. More welcome to me, however, than is the story, is the token your letter furnishes, that I still remain in your kindly remembrance.
It is a pleasure to think of you so strong, and vital in mind, in the full ripeness of your years.
When you come into my thought, our friends Mr. and Mrs. Klopsch come in your company, and the pleasant evening hours spent with you in their home, delightfully repeat themselves. Should we come to New York again, I shall spare no effort to see you. Mrs. Gage desires much to meet you, and it would be a joy to entertain you, if we could, in our California home.
With best wishes for you and yours, in which my wife begs to join, I am
Your friend,
Lyman Gage.
THE CHASE NATIONAL BANK
A. Barton Hepburn, President.June 23, 1910.
Mrs. Amelia E. Barr,
Cornwall-on-Hudson,
N.Y.My dear Madame:
They say all “Scotch” is better for being diluted. That indicates one claim to goodness which I possess, but the answer to the question you submit can better be supplied, I am sure, by an “undiluted” Scotchman.
I am therefore sending your letter to the Secretary of our Society, Mr. William M. MacLean, with the request that he furnish data to enable me to reply, or reply direct. You will hear further presently.
Trusting he may be able to discover the information you desire, I am
Very truly yours,
A. B. Hepburn,
President, St. Andrew’s Society.
A. BARTON HEPBURN
Eighty-three Cedar Street,
New YorkNovember 23, 1912.
Mrs. Amelia E. Barr,
Cornwall-on-Hudson,
N.Y.My dear Mrs Barr:
I received from your publishers yesterday, “A Maid of Old New York,” and shall employ my first leisure in reading the same.
I thank you very much for your courtesy and also for your letter. I shall note the reincarnation of Peter Stuyvesant with interest. I always enjoyed the three Dutch Governors—Wouter Van Twiller was rather a favorite of mine. I remember Washington Irving’s description of him as a man who conceived his ideas upon such a magnificent scale, that he did not have room in his mind to turn them over, and therefore, saw but one side of a question.
Again thanking you,
Very truly yours,
A. B. Hepburn.
Dear Mrs. Barr:
It hardly seems to me possible that I have let a month go by without writing to thank you for your kind thought in sending me yourself a copy of “The Lion’s Whelp.” Mr. Cleveland has been ill most of that time, and that accounts for many of my shortcomings. I want to thank you now, and to tell you, how much pleasure the reading of the book gave Mr. Cleveland while he was still in bed. I have not had time to read it yet myself, but I have the pleasure of possession, direct from your hand—and the other pleasure of reading still in store.
With many thanks and all good wishes for the New Year and Christmas time,
Very sincerely,
Frances F. Cleveland.
13, Dec., 1901.
Westland, Princeton.My dear Mrs Barr:
Even in this time of great sorrow, I can not forbear to thank you for your book—“Prisoners of Conscience.” I have wandered in 505 the Shetland and Orkneys, and crossed the Pentland Firth, and know the bleakness of the islands, and the wildness of the seas that moan around them. I have journeyed too through the desolate creed of Calvinism, and fought with its despairs in my soul, standing by many a death bed, and beside many an open grave, until God gave me victory over the cruel logics of men, that belied His loving heart. Years ago, as you know, freedom came to my soul through the truth as it is in Jesus, and I have been trying to preach it ever since. I am grateful to you, for the power, the depth of feeling, the intense earnestness, with which you have told this truth in your noble story—God and Little Children—you know my creed. And I will preach it in the Presbyterian church as long as I am permitted, because that church needs it most. And now it comes to me with a new meaning, for my own dear little Bernard is with God in His Heaven, which is full of happy children.
Faithfully yours,
Henry Van Dyke.
220 Madison Avenue,
July 28, ’97.My dear Mrs Barr:
Jewett brought the book—the novel and I read every word with pleasure, in spite of the grief and sorrow, the pain and anguish that came to the hearts of the brave and good. Every thing in the book is consistent, harmonious. The religion of the people, the cruel creed, the poor and stingy soil—the bleak skies, the sad and stormy sea, the wailing winds, the narrow lives and the poverty, the fierce hatred and the unchanging loves of the fanatic fisher folk, are all the natural parents, and the natural children. They belong together. You have painted these sad pictures with great skill. You have given the extremes, from the old woman who like the God of Calvin lived only for revenge, to the dear widow who refused to marry again, fearing that her babes might be fuel for hell. The story is terribly sad and frightfully true. But it is true to Nature—Nature that produces and destroys without intention, and without regret—Nature, the mother and murderer of us all.
You have written a great book, and you are a great woman, and with all my heart I wish you long life, and all the happiness your heart can hold.
Yours always,
R. G. Ingersoll.
The recent death of Robert Barr will give interest to the following letter:
Hillhead,
Woldingham,
Surrey,
Aug. 10, 1901.
Dear Mrs. Barr:
I was very glad indeed to receive a letter from you. I hope you are all well on your hilltop. I have not been in America since I saw you at Atlantic City. I intended to go this summer, but I am off tomorrow to Switzerland instead. I spent all last winter on the Island of Capri in the Bay of Naples.
Your remark about loving your neighbors, but keeping up the fence between, is awfully good, quite the best thing I’ve heard in a year. Our neighbors on the side next you are Scotch people, who own a tea plantation in India, and we like them very much, but there is a fine thick English hawthorn hedge between. My ten acres of Surrey is hedged all round, except the front which faces the ancient Pilgrim’s Way, and there I have built a park fence of oak, which is said to last as long as a brick wall. It is six feet high, and can neither be seen through, nor jumped over.
Mary L. Bisland has been staying in Norfolk. She was in London last week, and I invited her out here, but her married sister, and her sister’s husband were with her, and she couldn’t come. She is coming in October. I met her on the street quite unexpectedly last Wednesday. London is so large, that it always seems strange to me that anybody ever meets anybody one knows. Mary was certainly looking extremely well, but she says her nerves are wrong. She suffers from too much New York apparently.
Your books are the most popular in the land. I see them everywhere. There was a struggle in this neighborhood for your autograph, when it got abroad that I had a letter from you. I refused to give up this letter, but the envelope was reft from me by a charming young lady, daughter of a Scotch doctor of London, whose country residence is out here.
I hope you are well, and that all your daughters are well, more especially the young lady I met at Atlantic City. I trust she has not forgotten me.
Yours most sincerely,
Robert Barr.
The Congregational Home Missionary Society
Bible House, Astor Place, New York.May 13th, 1897.
Dear Mrs. Barr:
What shall I say of your book? That I read it through in one night, which proves my interest—that I have read parts of it—the last three chapters—more than once, and that I envy the hand that can strike such a blow at the cruelest caricature of God, the Father, ever invented by man, the child.
Thank you for many happy hours. Please go right on, smashing idols, letting light into superstitions, and emancipating consciences until the Millennium; which will dawn about the time when you have finished the job.
Sincerely yours,
Joseph B. Clark.
Oh, let me say the style was a feast of Saxon to one who loves the language of the people, as I do.
The Century
7 West Forty-Third Street.My dear Mrs Barr:
I should have written long since to thank you for your “Bernicia,” but the month of April was a very busy one, and the composition and delivering of a very long course of lectures at Yale University, left no time for correspondence, however attractive. But the journeys to and from New Haven, made a pleasant opportunity to follow in imagination the pictures of your charming heroine, and I found much delight in your fresh and simple story, told with the same skill, which appears in all your work. I am greatly obliged to you for giving me this pleasure.
Believe me, dear Mrs. Barr,
Very cordially yours,
Henry van Dyke.
May 19, 1896.
Cornell University
Department of American History
Ithaca, N.Y.My dear Mrs. Barr:
I am delighted to have from your own hand your new novel “Bernicia,” 508 and am sure that I shall greatly enjoy it myself, and take pleasure in suggesting to others the same source of enjoyment.
How well do I remember you, as I used to meet you at the Astor Library more than twenty years ago; and your steady and triumphant march toward literary success since then, it has been a real delight to witness. With sincere congratulations,
Yours faithfully,
Moses Coit Tyler.
26, Oct., 1895.
The Independent
114 Nassau Street,
New York.Aug. 12, 1892.
My dear Mrs. Barr:
I return to you by mail “The Beads of Tasmer” which I have read through with great interest; in fact nearly all before I reached New York, after my delightful visit at your home. It is a capital story. After my return I called on my Newark neighbor, Reverend Dr. Waters, a Scotchman, and I found that he knew the book well, and said it was a good Scotch, and he has read nearly all your stories with great pleasure.
I had a delightful time in your pleasant home. Give my love to the two daughters, and perhaps I ought to say especially, to the one who enjoyed my story of the man who died, and went to Hell, but got out of it again. But you are all in Heaven.
Ever sincerely yours,
William Hayes Ward.
Crescent Hill,
Springfield, Massachusetts,
Nov. 13, 1909.My dear Mrs. Barr:
I saw your friendly expressions of me in your letter to the G. & C. Merriam Co. And I was pleased to receive the Bookman with the excellent portrait of you. Be sure that I cordially reciprocate your sentiments of regard. Your always welcome visits to the Christian Union office are fresh in my memory so that I well remember the thorough, patient, workmanlike beginnings of your literary career.
Then before long you found your wings, and began that course of admirable imaginative fiction, in which you have had so long and 509 enviable success. It is a great thing to have carried entertainment, stimulus, hope to thousands upon thousands, as you have done.
I am sure that in the essential things, life has dealt kindly by you, or I should perhaps say rather, that you and life have met in the right way; but I hope in the externals and incidentals your path has been pleasant to the feet.
With kind remembrances and best wishes,
Yours sincerely,
George Merriam.
The Marble Collegiate Church
5th Avenue and 29th StreetNovember 26, 1901.
My dear Mrs. Barr:
I have been prevented by sickness in my family from getting at “The Lion’s Whelp” until now, and I am in the middle of things. I love a good book, and I love Cromwell, so I am twice blessed in your gift. Everything you do with your pen is well done. I wish all writers were like you.
With thanks and sincere regards,
I am yours,
David J. T. Burrell.
Avalon,
Princeton,
New Jersey.My dear Mrs. Barr:
Thank you for your very kind and cordial letter, and for the gift of “The Lion’s Whelp”; which I shall read with great pleasure. We have already put something about Cromwell’s Time into the Historic Scenes. I was anxious to get a bit about Dutch New York, and for this reason am particularly glad at the prospect of having a scene from “The Bow of Orange Ribbon.” I read “Jan Vedder’s Wife” over again last summer, and enjoyed it more than ever. It is straight, strong work.
Faithfully yours,
Henry van Dyke.
Oct. 30, 1901.
Cornell University,
Ithaca, New York.My dear Mrs. Barr:
I greatly enjoyed your lovely letter of about a month ago, and likewise even the winsome book of your story of Shetland; for as to the latter, the pleasure of reading, will have to remain among the joys of the next summer vacation. You see it is term time, and I am usually driven by its tasks as well as by some outside affairs just now.
You are right about our Professor Wheeler; he has a very attractive personality, and the charm of brilliant gifts and attainments. Nor do I wonder at the impression you formed of President White, although it might be modified by better acquaintance. His bodily strength is not exuberant, he holds himself in reserve; he is also a little deaf, and he does not come out so easily as does Wheeler. After so many years, there is a risk in asking about dear ones, but I well remember your two daughters, and should be glad to hear their history.
Sincerely,
M. Coit Tyler.
1, May, 1897.
Mrs. Amelia E. Barr.
Dear Madam:
Pardon this intrusion from one who has just finished reading with intense enjoyment “A Maid of Old New York” and who has been fascinated with its deeper meanings—its words of wisdom, written between the printed lines. On reading to my wife your post word, we both felt that you surely intended us to recognize, as you have, Colonel Theodore Roosevelt as the present name of the courageous and dominating soul, known to the day of which you write, as Peter Stuyvesant. I cannot think we are mistaken in this. We were also keenly interested in a sketch which appeared recently in the Hearst papers, of an autobiography shortly to appear from your pen, giving your beliefs and knowledge as to reincarnation and spiritualistic phenomena. We are very desirous of reading this crowning synopsis of your life’s rich experience and unfoldment, and will be very grateful if we may know when it is off the press and from what publisher to obtain it.
Let me close by thanking you personally and heartily for the pleasure and the profit this book has brought to my wife and myself.
Very sincerely yours,
Charles Stacey Dunning.
The Los Angeles Evening Express,
Los Angeles, California.
July 14th, 1912.
540 Washington Avenue,
Brooklyn, N.Y.My dear Mrs. Barr:
Perhaps you do not recall me, as I was but a mite in your busy life, and among so many friends and strangers—Mrs. Terry. I used to call upon you at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and you perhaps remember my daughter and son-in-law, Colonel Allen, whom you met at Fort Monroe. You surely remember you were made an honorary member of the Officer’s Club at the Fort; the only woman ever so honored. I have just finished reading your latest—“Sheila Vedder,” having long ago read “Jan Vedder’s Wife.”
With much love for you, and your stories,
Your admirer,
Frances A. M. Terry.
June eleventh, 1911.
Devore, California,
June 26th, 1912.My dear Lady:
Because I must, I am taking this liberty of writing you; and because I am a woman of sixty, I am not stopping to choose words, nor to apologize.
I have been reading of some strange supernatural experiences of yours. I, too, have been favored in that way, also with the gift of prophecy—involuntarily exercised.
The story of the terrific impact of the great hand on the wooden shutter in your home in Galveston, was almost exactly paralleled in my experience.
If your acquaintance with other people has brought you in contact with many who have similar stories to tell, of course you will not be especially interested in mine, but judging from my own life-long investigations, these manifestations are comparatively rare.
Last year before an aviation meet fifty miles away in which a 512 considerable number of entries were made, I announced the name of one who was to fall to his death. I had never seen him, heard no more of him than of any one of the others, but knew he was to die. I even wrote his mother of whom I knew nothing whatever, begging her not to consent to his flight. And at the moment of his fall to death, I fell with him, and told all the particulars to my family, long before the news came over the wire—but I am not trying to convince any one—against his will.
Yours,
Emma J. C. Davis.