

FROM THE REVIEWS OF

### Actress in Spite of Herself

### The Life of Anna Cora Mowatt

"High school girls will find this an enthralling story of Anna Cora Mowatt, who . . . was the first American to make the status of a woman in the theater both respectable and admirable. As a child, Anna enjoyed acting and performing in plays at home, but had no designs on becoming a professional because of society's sentiments. . . . Then bankruptcy threatened her lavish estate and she turned to public reading of poetry, at which she was supremely successful. Success in playwriting led to her serious involvement in the theater." — _Best Sellers_

"Married at 15, [Anna] flitted through a happy social life for a while, wrote pleasant articles for magazines of the time . . . and, after her husband's health and fortune failed, supported them both by acting successfully in this country and England." — _Seattle Daily Times_

"She is a woman who will interest teenage girls. . . . The writing indicates close attention to Mrs. Mowatt's autobiography and family documents. It also offers a close scrutiny of nineteenth century theatre in America." — _Kirkus Reviews_

### Actress in Spite of Herself

### The Life of Anna Cora Mowatt

by

### Mildred Allen Butler

Copyright © 1966 by Mildred Allen Butler

All rights reserved. For information contact sle@sylviaengdahl.com

Funk & Wagnalls edition (hardcover) published in 1966

Ad Stellae Books edition (ebook) published in 2011

This edition distributed by Smashwords

Illustrated with 19th-century portraits

Cover: Portrait of Anna Cora Mowatt in Autobiography of an Actress,

Ticknor, Reed and Fields, 1854.

CONTENTS

1. The Earliest Days

2. On the Brink

3. The Elopement

4. Melrose

5. Visiting England and Germany

6. A Need for Courage

7. Talent to the Rescue

8. Again the Grim Monster

9. "My Children"

10. Fashion

11. A Star is Born

12. The Actress

13. The After Years

14. The Last Chapter

Acknowledgement

About the Author

Anna Cora Mowatt, Engraving (1853)

Chapter 1: The Earliest Days

In the years 1819 and 1820, three babies were born who were to become three of the most famous women of their time—one in Sweden, one in England, and one in France. The last was not French, but American. There was Jenny Lind, the great singer, Florence Nightingale, who made nursing a highly respected profession, and Anna Cora Mowatt (born Ogden) who, though perhaps not the greatest actress of her day, proved, to even prudish people in America, that a lady could be an actress and an actress, a lady.

When Anna Cora was born in Bordeaux, France, in 1819, there were already eight children in her family. Her father, Samuel Ogden, was the proprietor of a flourishing import-export business. Having found it more profitable for him to reside in France rather than in his native New York, he had, in 1818, taken his wife and children to Bordeaux, where they lived for a number of years. He was related to several of the "first" families of New York, and his wife, Eliza Lewis, was the granddaughter of Francis Lewis, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. It was partly because of the aristocratic and wealthy position of her family, as well as her own charm and unblemished reputation, that Anna Cora, when she grew up, was able to raise the position of actress to one of admiration and respect.

Her earliest recollections were of the beautiful estate, called La Castagne, just outside the gates of Bordeaux, to which the family moved when she was a few months old. It was a place of enchantment and her memory often returned to it in the troubled times of her later life as to a half-remembered dream of paradise. Situated on a slope and covering about thirty acres, it was bordered on one side by a lovely little river and enclosed on all other sides by an eight-foot wall. The stone and brick chateau of twenty-two rooms, high on a large terrace, looked out upon a pleasant view. Immediately in front of it was an immense flower garden in the center of which was a summerhouse; beyond that was a row of plane trees, and, farther down, the river. The extensive lawn behind the chateau was bordered by stone outbuildings: first the homes of the servants, who were French peasants; then the stables, wine buildings, granaries, poultry yard, pigeon house, aviary, and coops for rabbits and guinea pigs. The rest of the property not given over to a vegetable garden, orchards, vineyards, fields, and meadows, was cultivated as a park with many paths bordered by trees whose branches met overhead. One place of particular beauty, called Calypso's Grotto, was a cluster of trees surrounding moss-covered stones which formed seats; there a cascade in the spring-fed stream constantly murmured. Two small lakes were a part of the grounds, one a pond for washing and the other, which was larger, for fishing and boating. The peasants of La Castagne harvested the grapes and the grain, made the wine, and ground the wheat in a self-contained estate almost medieval in its insularity.

Life in this beautiful setting was a round of continuous pleasure for the children with merry fetes at harvesting, May Day, Christmas, and birthdays—and there were many birthdays in the large family. One French custom that left a deep impression on Anna Cora was the early morning birthday celebration for her parents. Each of the children, who were assembled in the breakfast room to greet their mother and father, was ready with a gift. The older ones usually presented an ornamented scroll on which a verse was written, original or copied, and the younger ones gave bouquets of violets or other flowers from the conservatory. Each in turn, the eldest first, gave his gift and received a kiss and words of praise. When she was five years old, Anna Cora's present to her parents was a scroll, nicely rolled and tied with gay ribbons. She had labored long over it with many blottings and new beginnings, till a poem was neatly copied in a large, round hand. The delight she felt in that accomplishment was seldom equaled in later years.

In those early, happy days in France, the children had to find their own amusements. Aside from ramblings in their huge, beautiful outdoor playground, their favorite pastime was the performance of plays. Anna Cora was too young then to take part, but she was an avid listener. She did, indeed, make her theatrical debut at the time she was four years old. The older children were performing Shakespeare's _Othello_ —in French, since at that time they were most familiar with that language—and because most of them were already doubling in the principal roles, there were no players left over to be the judges in the trial scenes. So the four youngest children were dressed up in red gowns and white wigs, made to sit on a bench and promise not to laugh, and thus, as Anna Cora says in her autobiography: "At four years old, in the sedate and solemn character of a judge, upon a mimic stage, I made my first appearance in that profession of which it was the permission of divine Providence that I should one day in reality become a member."

When Anna Cora was six years old, her father decided to return with his family to New York, and beautiful La Castagne was left behind them forever. For a time, while arrangements were being made for a ship, they lived in Bordeaux. Here they played with a great many little French children, dancing and singing the old _chansons._

Finally a ship was ready for them, the _Brandt,_ a solid German craft with an experienced seaman for captain, and then began for the Ogdens an ordeal which was to leave its mark on all of them, particularly Anna Cora. Their plan was to sail for Le Havre and there pick up an elder son who was to return to America with them.

They had no more than set sail when a storm arose. At first the bad weather did not cause them too much distress. The large family was made comfortable in a spacious cabin in which meals were served, not only to them, but to a few additional passengers. Sea journeys were long in the days of sails, and two weeks later they had not cleared the Bay of Biscay. It was then that a gale struck. Since when she came to write her autobiography Anna Cora had only a vague memory of this horror, she quotes a letter from her brother, Charles, who describes the terror and tragedy of that terrible voyage.

He tells of the dawn of their fifteenth day at sea when two of his brothers, aged ten and twelve, left the stateroom they shared with him to go on deck. No one had been able to sleep much that night because of the pitching and tossing of the vessel, and the boys were restless. Charles describes what followed in these words:

"At about half-past six there was a terrible, deafening crash, the sound of which, breaking upon the drowsy ears, still reverberates in my mind. The vessel had been struck on the larboard bow by a tremendous wave, which, crossing her from stem to stern, rent up everything, and completely swept our decks, whilst it threw the ship with her beam ends in the sea. The caboose, longboat, water casks, cables, and everything amidships, her bulwarks and every particle of the saloon were violently shattered and washed away, and the deck and companionway and forecastle hatch completely torn up, making the whole ship a wreck indeed. The masts alone were uninjured. Fortunately she soon righted.

"My first thought was, of course, for my brothers, knowing that they had gone on deck; as soon as possible, I rushed, half-clad, up the companionway. Here a scene of desolation presented itself. . . . The naked decks, with nothing but the masts standing, the rigging flying in every direction, the bulwarks destroyed, and presenting no barrier to the sea which, with every roll of the vessel, washed over the deck and down into the cabin; then the waves, mountain high and foaming with fury, that seemed at every moment to threaten destruction. . . .

"I could not reach the deck. Struck with awe and wonder, I looked around for some living being to tell me of my brothers. A sturdy seaman . . . was seen cramped to the rigging, about midships, and drawing something out of the sea. Presently our youngest brother appeared, and as the mate reached me and placed his almost inanimate figure in my arms, he pointed astern and said, 'The other is lost!' I looked, and on a crested billow, fast receding, and already far from us, I caught a momentary glimpse—the last, of poor Gabriel!"

Charles carried his half-drowned brother into the small cabin which was all that remained protected on the stricken ship, and repeated to his parents what the seaman had said, "The other is lost!" Their grief may be imagined! Yet they had to turn their attention to the boy who must be revived. They were all in great danger, for it was two days more before the storm abated. Fortunately, the _Brandt_ was still afloat, though all the provisions had been swept away, and the family existed on a stock of delicacies in the cabin— _paté de foie gras_ and conserves—until five days later, when they sighted another ship which recognized their plight and supplied them with food and an iron kettle to cook it in.

"Never shall I forget," wrote Charles, "the delightful relish that those potatoes proved to have after we had remained so long without the means of cooking anything!"

They reached Le Havre twenty-five days after having set sail from Bordeaux and a week later departed for New York on another boat, the packet ship _Queen Mab._ The passage lasted forty days and they encountered much rough weather, but nothing serious by comparison with the terrifying experience on the _Brandt._ It was a long time before Anna Cora recovered from the disastrous sea voyage, and that traumatic experience resulted, during the next years, in frequent illnesses which interrupted her school work.

On the whole, during her childhood, she lived the life of a normal girl of wealth in early nineteenth century New York City. During her first school years she had to learn to speak English more perfectly, as did her brothers and sisters, for they had had a bilingual childhood much influenced by French servants and playmates. They comforted each other when their classmates teased them. However, Anna Cora was young and a natural linguist, and it was easy for her to become perfect in any language. She attended, with her sisters, several boarding schools outside the city and finally, when she was twelve and thirteen, a fashionable school for young ladies just across the street from her home. She learned easily and received good marks, but she was a lively child and was considered by her teachers to be the ringleader in much of the misbehavior they frowned upon. She made the other girls laugh and she disobeyed the rules, but there was nothing malicious in her mischief. She was always forgiven and everybody loved her.

She was usually at the head of her class in recitation, mythology, history, physiology, and "mental philosophy," but at the foot in grammar, arithmetic, and algebra. She wrote excellently and voluminously.

It was perhaps because of her frequent illnesses that she had so much time to read. She was allowed to read anything in her father's library, French or English, selecting at random. This was a day when few books were written especially for children and she read eagerly all that the library contained, including the books that are now called "classics," which must have been beyond her comprehension. By the time she was ten, she had read all of Shakespeare's plays and frequently acted out scenes from them for the family. She loved drama and poetry, and Shakespeare's plays were both.

Reading poetry led inevitably to an attempt to write, and every marriage, birth, or death in the family furnished her with a subject for a poem. She wrote by the hour and thought she was writing poetry because she could make the lines rhyme. She longed to show her verses to someone who would appreciate them, but was fearful of being laughed at. Sometimes, however, she would leave a "poem" where it might be picked up and read by some member of the family. She also scribbled on the garden walls, and at one time these were almost fully covered with her rhymes. One day she left a short poem in the room of one of her brothers and waited nearby to see what would happen. When he read it and started downstairs with the paper in his hand, she followed him, hoping against hope that at last someone appreciated her ability. Her brother went into their father's study.

"Just read this, Papa," she heard him say. "It is some of Anna's nonsense."

Nonsense indeed! Tears sprang to her eyes, for she had tried so hard and this poem was really beautiful! She was sobbing silently, crouched against a pillar outside the door, when she heard her father say: "I wish you would call her, Thomas."

The door opened and, before she could escape upstairs, Thomas told her their father wanted to speak to her. A parental summons was not to be ignored and Anna walked slowly into the study, her head hanging, feeling that she was guilty of some grave offense.

"Did you write these lines yourself, Anna?" asked her father gently. He was never stern with her and she really had no reason to fear him.

"Yes." Her answer was barely audible.

"Are you sure nobody helped you ? Are you sure you did not get them out of some book ?"

At that, Anna held up her head proudly. "No, indeed, Papa! Of course not! I wrote them myself."

"There are some mistakes in grammar," said her father mildly, "but the verses are quite pretty for all that." He held out his arms to her, and when she ran to him, he held her close. "Who knows what my little chicken may turn out one of these days ?"

With these words of praise, the first she had ever received for her efforts as a poet, she was ready to burst with happiness. But when her brother started to make fun of her verses, she snatched the paper away and ran upstairs.

Her father thought she might amount to something someday! She was delighted. But there _were_ mistakes and she was ashamed that her poetry was not perfect. Though she was only ten years old, she had very high standards and she really had only adult writing with which to compare her own. After that, though she wrote more than ever, she kept her compositions carefully locked up, and when her drawer was filled to overflowing, she made a bonfire and destroyed them all. Nothing short of perfection would satisfy her.

When Anna was thirteen, her married sister Charlotte became acquainted with a gentleman at Rockaway Beach where she was spending the summer with her two children. He was much attracted to Charlotte and somehow got the idea that she was a widow. When he found out his mistake, he was so disappointed that Charlotte told him, laughing, "Oh, I have plenty of young sisters at home, one of whom very much resembles me. Do call on us and I will introduce you."

After Charlotte returned to the city, the gentleman did call. He was a lawyer, well educated and wealthy, and twenty-eight years old. Anna and three of her sisters were attending school across the street when a servant came to call the eldest schoolgirl, Matilda, home. She was the one who looked so much like Charlotte. Anna, full of curiosity, went home, too, to see what was going on, but without permission from the schoolmistress.

Matilda was made to change into a more becoming dress, her hair was combed and curled, and she was taken into the drawing room. Anna dared not enter, but she did linger outside. After resisting temptation for half an hour, she thought of a pretext. She opened the door, ran across the room, her hair flying, her skirts swirling about her, threw her books on the table as if that was where they belonged, gave one look at the man sitting on the sofa, and dashed out again.

"Who is that ?" she heard him exclaim.

"Only one of the children from the nursery," Charlotte answered.

"Do call her back."

Anna was halfway up the stairs, a little frightened at her breach of etiquette, when Charlotte called to her: "Anna, Anna! Come back and meet Mr. Mowatt."

"I don't care to meet Mr. Mowatt!" she replied saucily, and waited till she heard him take his leave before she hurried downstairs to return to school, dreading the black marks that awaited her for leaving there without permission. But to her surprise, on the sidewalk at the foot of the steps stood Mr. James Mowatt.

When Anna tried to pass him, he extended his arms to block her path.

"So! You don't care to meet me, young lady," he said, laughing.

"I must get back to school," she protested.

"Not until you tell me why you dashed into the room like that and then would not come back to be introduced."

"I was curious," Anna Cora said frankly.

"Am I a curiosity?"

"Oh, no! I just wanted to see what you looked like. I had heard about you from Charlotte."

"Well—what was your impression ?"

Anna threw up her chin and replied teasingly, "Oh, you'll do!"

"For whom, Miss Anna ?"

"Why, for my sister Matilda. Isn't she the one you came to see?"

"Maybe—and maybe not. I'd like to get acquainted with you. Will you answer some questions?"

Anna's eyes widened in surprise. "What do you want to know?"

His bantering tone changed to a serious one. "What do you like most to do ?"

She had no trouble answering that one. "Read! And write—and act!"

"Are you good in your studies ?"

"In some, and in some I'm not. I can never remember the multiplication tables! Now, please let me go back to school!"

Mr. Mowatt persisted. "There's a lot I'd like to know about you."

"But not now!" cried Anna Cora. "I'll be punished for being away without permission." Seeing a chance, she slipped under his arm and across the street, turned to look back at him with a merry grin on her face, and quickly vanished into the school. She was embarrassed and felt sure that he thought her very ill mannered and immature.

Much later she was to learn what he really thought at that moment. Just after leaving the Ogdens' doorstep, he met a friend—a friend who was happily married and who asked him how long he intended to remain a bachelor.

"Not long," he replied, "if a little girl whom I saw today would only grow up. I feel as though I should never marry unless I marry that child."

It was then that James Mowatt decided to try to gain the love of Anna Cora Ogden, to take upon himself the task of developing her talents which he at once knew to be unusual, and to marry her as soon as she should be of age. He became a constant caller at the house, where he supervised her studies and directed her reading. He also furnished her with books, examined her compositions, and helped her to progress more rapidly than she could have done alone. He was fifteen years older than she—more than twice her age at this time—but it was understood that he was her suitor. He showered her with flowers and devoted attention. However, according to the custom of the times and because she was still so very young, he did not speak of love.

His courtship was gratifying and exciting to Anna Cora. At last her abilities, the qualities of her mind, were appreciated and, though she was not above teasing him and playing the tyrant, she thrived on his praise, paid attention to his corrections, and was spurred to even greater effort.

Samuel Gouverneur Ogden, Anna Cora's father

### Chapter 2: On the Brink

One autumn day the Ogden sisters were rehearsing a play, with Anna Cora directing. She was small for her age, and in a plum-colored dress with a wide skirt and pantalets showing beneath it, she didn't look her fourteen years. Brown ringlets fell to her shoulders, and her face had a singularly sweet expression with its pale skin, blue eyes set wide apart, and serious mouth. But she could be very severe with her sisters when something important was at stake—as it was now.

"Do try to portray the part of Don Carlos in a more gentlemanly manner, May. I know you're not a man, and it's a great pity that our brothers will not help us out in this grand celebration of Father's birthday, but they feel too grown-up and we girls will just have to do it." Anna Cora's eyes flashed, and she shook her hair back from her

flushed cheeks. "Do try, May. Just try!" The young directress strode up and down the space they had cleared for rehearsals in the third-floor nursery of their New York home, her full skirts billowing above the pantalets. "This is the way a man walks—see ? Take great strides."

"Anna, dear," quavered May, "I wish you could play all the parts! You can change so easily from one to another and make it all seem so real! I'm just no good at it." She sat down, and tears began to flow.

"You _are_ good at it!" cried Matilda loyally. The other sisters crowded around and tried to comfort May, especially little Julia. The four-year-old darling of the family was to have the honor of speaking the prologue.

"You are very good indeed," she said distinctly in a sweet little voice. "P'raps not _pwecisely_ like a grown-up man, but you sound very dis—distinguished!"

The girls laughed, and the rehearsal went on. It was an ambitious attempt for the children, a long play of interminable speeches translated from the French. Perhaps, thought Anna Cora, she was too hard to please. Maybe it was enough for May to learn the lines without having to act like a man. She watched her sister and saw how hard she was trying, and she felt a surge of regret for having made her cry.

"I think we've rehearsed enough for today. Let's take a rest. This is harder than anything we have attempted before." The three girls who had been standing fell gratefully onto the nursery beds, for all the chairs were occupied.

Ever since they were very small children, their favorite amusement had been reciting poetry and acting plays. These had been performed by members of the family, with a few schoolmates invited to take part, and were usually made up as they went along. Sometimes, however, they were written beforehand by one member of the family—usually Anna Cora, who was also stage manager and director since the brothers had given up theatricals. The performances were often presented on the occasion of a birthday or holiday, and the audiences were composed of the parents, older brothers and sisters, and friends. This was the first time they had tried to prepare a real play written by someone else, and a famous writer at that. It was _Alzire_ by the French author, Voltaire.

"Let's talk about the costumes," said Anna Cora.

"We've always made our costumes before, but these arc much too elaborate and we haven't the right material." Matilda sighed as she put the folded copy of her "lines" into a pocket of her long, full skirt.

"They have to be Spanish—whatever that means they would look like!" said one of the school friends who was to play a lady-in-waiting.

"And Indian," added Anna Cora. "That is, Indian rulers in Peru, and they would be richly dressed, I'm sure."

"I have an idea." Charlotte, who had come home for a visit and was watching the rehearsal, spoke up. "You know the Simpsons who live opposite us? Well, Mr. Simpson is the manager of the Park Theater, and perhaps we could borrow the costumes we need from him."

"Oh, but Charlotte," exclaimed May, "we don't _know_ them!"

"You mean you have not been formally introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Simpson," Charlotte replied. "I know that. But you have bowed to their children when you met them on the street, and, anyway, this is an emergency."

"Of course!" Anna Cora said. "This is an emergency and I'm so glad you thought of a solution, Charlotte. The Park Theater must have lots of costumes. We'll ask Mr. Simpson to help us."

"Who will do the asking?" May sounded as if she certainly would not be the one.

"Well, it must be one of us Ogdens. I think that three of us should walk across the street to give one another moral support. And I suppose," said Anna Cora, "that if none of the others will, I will ask Mrs. Simpson to ask Mr. Simpson."

"Let's do it and get it over with," Matilda said. "Since we're putting on a real play with a grown-up audience to watch, and have gone to so much trouble to learn the lines, it would be a pity to appear as Don Carlos and Don Alveraz in petticoats and pantalets!"

The year was 1833. The Ogden children had been brought up according to the strict etiquette of the early nineteenth century, and to speak to anyone without a proper introduction by a mutual friend, to use the big brass knocker on a front door and ask to speak to a grownup—such things were simply not done! It took a good deal of courage for the children to make the attempt, but Anna Cora's sweet face and gentle manner won them an easy entrance past the servants and into Mrs. Simpson's sitting room. The same charm that was later to fascinate theater audiences worked with the wife of the manager of the Park Theater. Amused at their seriousness and their ambition in presenting so difficult a play, she promised to ask her husband to lend them some costumes, and accepted their invitation to allow her children to attend the performance.

Anna Cora's father was wealthy and his house was large. It had to be to accommodate twelve children and the servants. _Alzire_ was to be presented in the back drawing room. Crimson draperies covered the walls and, though there were several changes of scene, had to serve for all. A front curtain had been rigged up, and one of the children with a prompt book stood in the "wings" and rang a bell to mark its rising and falling. The audience, which was to be seated in the front drawing room, would contain, besides the Simpson children and Mr. and Mrs. Ogden and the older brothers and sisters, many of their grown-up friends who had been invited when Mr. Ogden, after attending one of the last rehearsals, realized how carefully prepared a production it was.

As the girls were making themselves ready for the play, the audience began to arrive. Most came in carriages drawn by two horses, but some of the gentlemen rode horseback if they were alone. The men wore tall hats and capes, which a little maid in cap and ruffled apron took from them at the door, cutaway coats of rich colors, neck cloths about their throats, bright vests, and long, tight trousers fastened by a strap underneath the instep. The ladies wore wide skirts, tight bodices, draped overskirts, elaborate bonnets, capes, and flat slippers. The little girls dressed very much like their mothers, except that their skirts were a bit shorter and they wore ruffled pantalets reaching from knee to ankle. It was considered improper for a girl to have even an inch of her ankle exposed, and it was only in a ball gown that a lady revealed the snowy whiteness of her shoulders.

The drawing room was filling up. As the visitors arrived, each was presented with a neatly written program, the result of many hours' work. In a day when penmanship was an art and typewriters unknown, each program had to be perfectly copied out by hand.

Anna Cora was tense with excitement. She was not apprehensive for herself, though she was to play the leading role—Alzire. Her whole attention was centered on her little sister, Julia, her particular pet and pride, whom she had coached for hours in the recitation of the prologue.

Holding the child's plump little hand, Anna Cora thought that if Julia said the verses as well as she had rehearsed them, she would be satisfied and could begin then to worry about her own part. "Worry" was not the right word, for she acted with joy and assurance, and as naturally as she did everything else. She did not think of acting as anything but fun.

Julia, herself, was perfectly calm. She was a pretty child, graceful and pink-cheeked. She wore a white dress looped up with pink ribbons and, on her hair, a wreath of rosebuds and leaves. As her sister released her hand and gave her a little push, she walked forward with complete self-assurance and spoke the prologue in a confident manner, not as if she had learned it by rote as many a four-year-old would, but as if she understood its meaning. When the curtain failed to fall at the right moment, she repeated the last lines, curtsying as she had been taught, and backed up to the exit of her own accord like a veteran actress. The drawing room rang with genuine applause. Anna Cora was tremendously proud of Julia and threw herself into the role of Alzire with the added delight of her little sister's success to start her off.

The heroine of the play was a South American princess, daughter of Prince Egmont with whom the Spaniards of the play, Don Carlos and Don Alveraz, were making a treaty. Her part called for a great display of emotion and, since the translation was in verse—the custom of the nineteenth century—it required the ability to recite poetry in the grand manner. This was Anna Cora's specialty and she loved every minute of it. Her voice, sweet but strong, with great flexibility even at fourteen, held her audience throughout the long play. In a dramatic scene in the third act, she was a real tragedienne, pacing the floor, pausing for dramatic effect:

Ha! What means

This sudden chillness, sadd'ning 'round my heart

In short, faint fluttering never felt before?

Ah, fatal residence! From the first hour

These hated walls became Alzire's prison

Each diff'rent moment brought some diff'rent pain!

The family's friends were amazed that so young a girl could display such tragic force and, when the play was over, she received a regular ovation. Years later, in recounting the story of her life, she modestly wrote: "I enacted the part of Alzire and succeeded in losing my own identity in that of the heroine."

After the performance, there was to be a ball, but first there were the congratulations. Anna Cora's father was overcome with surprise, for this was the first formal play in which his daughter had had a chance to show her ability.

"My darling, you were wonderful!" he told her. His praise was deeply appreciated for he was the head of the family, a most respected position in that era. Others, too, were enthusiastic over her performance, but the most elaborate in complimenting her was James Mowatt.

After praising her acting, he pressed Anna Cora's hand warmly. "You are really a young lady now, and a very accomplished one," he told her. "Will you do me the honor of saving the first dance of the evening for me?"

Glowing with the many compliments paid her, Anna Cora attached no special significance to his words. What her mother thought meant more to her. Her mother was sweet, gentle, and always tender with the children. Smoothing Anna Cora's auburn ringlets and putting a finger under the uptilted chin, she said, "I am so proud of you, dear Lily. How like a lily you are! I think that is what we shall always call you."

But Anna Cora's delight was abruptly shattered by the comment of one of her father's friends. "You did so well, my dear, that we should not be surprised to see you become an actress."

An actress! What a frightful comment upon the evening's fun! Actresses were all bad, immoral women, and theaters "abodes of sin!" At least that was what the bishop was always preaching. Anna Cora attended Sunday school twice each Sunday, once as a pupil and once as a teacher of the younger children. She admired and revered Dr. Eastman who often had a word of praise for her. If he said that the theater was wicked, it must be so.

She had a conflict to resolve here, for her father and other brothers and sisters often attended the theater in New York, as all fashionable people did. They did not seem harmed in any way by this attendance, but Anna Cora had thought the matter over carefully and, much as she loved and respected her father, she intended to abide by the pronouncement of the bishop. An actress indeed! She would not so demean herself. The acting and poetry readings she so dearly loved all these years were only for fun. But a professional actress—never!

She turned to remonstrate, but the gentleman was gone. She put the incident out of her mind, took off her stage dress, and put on a ball gown for an evening of fun and laughter in which Mr. Mowatt was constantly by her side.

In that era girls were children until they were fourteen or fifteen, but there was no intermediate stage between the girl-child and the adult. From the moment they ceased to be children, they were considered grown-up, free to marry and, if educated and well bred, expected to be able to preside graciously as the mistress of a household. Anna Cora was nearly fifteen and, though she did not know it that evening, this was the end of her childhood.

Not only did Anna Cora scorn the idea of women actresses because of her loyalty to the bishop, but at the time of her acting in _Alzire_ she had never been inside a theater and never witnessed the performance of a professional actress. There had been opportunities, but she had refused, and her father said nothing to influence her.

At this time the famous Fanny Kemble was making her farewell tour and was appearing in New York in _The Hunchback._ Anna Cora knew about it, of course, and later admitted that she was longing to go to see the great actress, but did not want to be laughed at by her sisters to whom she had so often bragged that she would never be seen in such an evil place as a theater. When, a few days later, her father said to his daughters, as he met them walking to school, "I am going to get seats to see Fanny Kemble tonight. Would you like to go, Matilda ?" Anna Cora was full of longing, but she said nothing.

"Oh, yes, Father, indeed I should like to go!" Matilda answered.

Mr. Ogden, who allowed his daughters to make their own decisions, turned to his talented younger daughter and, using the name the family had begun to call her, said, "And you, Lily, are you _never_ going?"

Lily's face lighted up. "I should like to see Fanny Kemble—just _once!"_ she said in a small voice.

Her father showed no surprise, with an understanding that almost always marked his relationship to Lily, but merely said, "Oh, you have changed your mind? Very well. I will get a seat for you, too, tonight."

All day she longed for evening to come and paid scant attention to her lessons. But, mingled with the wish to see what a real actress could do with a part, was the quite human, shivery anticipation of discovering about the sin and wickedness that had so long been preached to her, but which seemed to have no effect on her father and sisters.

They sat in a box that evening, and the illumination from the hundreds of gas lights, the crowd of beautifully dressed spectators on the main floor and in the galleries, the music which seemed to mount in waves about her—all were tremendously exciting. When the overture was finished, there was a hushed expectancy and then the curtain rose. In an instant, Lily was caught up in the magic of the theater.

Fanny Kemble appeared in the second scene, and Lily thought she had never beheld any creature so perfectly bewitching. She watched the performance, spellbound, unaware of anything but the action on the stage. Many years later she wrote of this actress: "The tones of her voice were richest music, and her dark, flashing eyes seemed to penetrate my very soul. . . . The play was reality from beginning to end, and I laughed and wept immoderately. . . . All my prejudices against the theater melted into thin air with this first night."

During an intermission, she managed to whisper to her father, "What is the _harm_ in all this that Dr. Eastman is so sure of?" Her father only smiled and said nothing.

Chapter 3: The Elopement

It was Saturday morning, the day after the performance of _Alzire._ The parlor maid came upstairs to say that Mr. James Mowatt was calling upon Miss Anna. That young lady, in her morning dress which was much plainer than anything she wore except before her immediate family, rushed downstairs in the hope of hearing her admirer continue his praises of her performance in last night's play. He rose as she entered the drawing room and asked her to be seated, making a gesture toward the sofa. This was more formal than his usual manner, but she thought it a game and waited demurely with folded hands for the enthusiastic comments she fully expected.

"My dear Lily . . ." he began. "May I call you that? It is the name your mother said she prefers, and to me it seems most appropriate."

She smiled agreeably. "Everyone calls me by that name lately."

"I have come here this morning to speak to you on a most serious matter," he continued. "Has it occurred to you why I have spent so much time with you during the past year?"

"Of course, I know that we are the best of friends," Lily replied. "I think it very kind of you to take such an interest in my studies."

"It is true," said Mr. Mowatt, "that I have been interested in your progress, but I have been more interested in you than in your accomplishments."

"But, Mr. Mowatt . . ." began Lily.

"James. You must call me James," he interrupted.

"Oh! I don't know you well enough!"

"After a year! And seeing me almost every day! Think, too, of those tricks you and your sisters have played on me, keeping me waiting on the street corner while you took another route to school!" He laughed ruefully and Lily laughed with him.

"You did like the play last night?" Lily changed the subject uneasily.

"I did indeed," Mr. Mowatt replied, "and that is why I decided to come here this morning. I apologize for coming so early," he said, as Lily looked at her plain morning dress in embarrassment. "However, I do not think the matter of clothes very important. I realized last night when you impersonated the grown-up character of Alzire that you, too, have grown up, and it is time I made my declaration."

It was impossible now for Lily not to know what was coming. She wasn't yet fifteen and didn't know what to say, but before she could decide whether to stay or run away, he went on, "You are the girl I want to marry, Lily. I intend to ask your father for your hand. I know I'm much older than you, but I think we share the same interests. But before I speak to your father, I want to know that the idea of marrying me is not distasteful to you. Do you think you could learn to love me ?"

Love—that kind of love—was something Lily knew nothing about. It had never been discussed with her by her parents or her married sisters. Since she didn't know how to answer, her only recourse was flight. She ran to the foot of the stairs and called her sister.

"Charlotte! Charlotte! Please come downstairs at once!"

The urgency in her voice brought Charlotte down quickly to find out what was the matter. Seeing her sister's white face, she turned to James Mowatt for an explanation.

"I have just made a proposal of marriage to your sister," he said, "and, I am afraid, frightened her half to death! Please explain that I did not mean to alarm her. I will take my leave and wait for her reply." He took his hat and cane from the hall and departed. Lily turned a bewildered face to Charlotte, who went into a paroxysm of laughter.

"Charlotte," said Lily, "I don't think it very nice of you to make fun of me! I have never had a proposal of marriage before and I didn't know what to say!"

"Of course you haven't had a proposal of marriage before! The very idea! And I don't think this is a real one, either. I'm sure Mr. Mowatt was only making a joke. Why, you're hardly out of the nursery!"

"That's not true!" Lily cried hotly, stung by the ridicule. "And though I was surprised, I do believe he was in earnest!" She walked upstairs in injured silence, her head held high and her cheeks flaming. Charlotte followed her and told the story to the other girls.

"Oh, Lily!" said Matilda. "A proposal! How wonderful!"

"I don't know if it is or not," Lily said doubtfully.

A letter from her suitor the next day proved that Charlotte was wrong, but Lily was still at a loss as to how to phrase a reply. At the time it never occurred to her that she could do anything but refuse this proposal from a man fifteen years her senior, for whom she felt only respect and friendship. She took his letter to her older sister, Louisa, and asked her to write the reply, but Louisa told her she must do it herself.

In spite of her anger when Charlotte had said she was hardly out of the nursery, it was to the nursery that Lily took her proposal of marriage—for she still slept there and kept her books and writing materials there—and sat down to answer it. After many attempts which she tore up, she at last composed a page which she thought covered the situation and took it to Louisa, who said it would do. After the letter was posted, Lily felt relieved. She did hope she had not hurt Mr. Mowatt's feelings, for she had come to depend on his companionship and advice.

She need not have worried. Her letter had in no way changed his purpose. He laughed at what he considered her girlish shyness and came to the house even oftener than before. He managed to conduct a courtship in which he treated her as grown-up, which pleased her very much, and he showed his warm affection for her without overstepping the bounds of propriety. He refused to take "No" for an answer, and it was not many months before Lily's "No" became "Yes." That was not strange for she had a strong feeling for him, though she did not yet know the meaning of love, and he knew very well how to please her. However, there was still her father to be reckoned with.

Mr. Ogden, of course, considered his daughter much too young to marry. He told James that if, when Lily was seventeen, they both still wished it, they might marry. In the meantime, they could remain friends. It was not only her youth her father was thinking of, but the fact that her health was not as good as that of his other daughters, and he felt that she still needed her mother's care.

After her fifteenth birthday, Lily left school and took drawing and music lessons at home, and followed an outline of study, including literature, planned by Mr. Mowatt. He wanted not only a wife, but a wife whose education he could supervise. His was a kindly tyranny, and Lily enjoyed it.

Her mother intended that, the following winter, when Lily was sixteen, she and an older sister should make their debut into society. This was an event much dreaded by James Mowatt. Young and inexperienced, she had had no masculine companionship but his. If she were to become a debutante, what chance would he have when she met young men nearer her age, more eligible, more handsome, perhaps more appealing? He began to entreat her to make a runaway marriage and used all his powers of persuasion. Lily was tempted by this chance to become her own mistress, and she was by now sincerely attached to this inseparable companion. But for six months she said "No, no!"

Finally one day, she yielded, and plans were made for them to be married the very next morning at the home of her sister-in-law, in whom they had confided. A small group of friends was assembled—without the knowledge of the family, of course—and early the next day Mary Louise, a girl friend, came to call for Lily. Since she was often at the house, she was invited to go right up to Lily's room. There she found the "bride" in tears.

"Oh, Mary Louise, I can't go through with it! I want to, but I can't!"

"But, Lily dear, everybody is waiting!"

"I know that, but I feel that I simply can't deceive Father and Mother like this. We'll just have to wait!"

"You agreed to the plan," Mary Louise said. "What will Mr. Mowatt think?"

"I know I did and he'll be disappointed. You'll just have to tell them I've changed my mind!" She threw herself on her bed and wept, and no persuasion could induce her to put on her wraps and go. At last Mary Louise gave up and returned to the wedding party with the news that there was no bride.

*

The summer passed, and with the coming of fall the social season was about to begin. For weeks Lily had been rehearsing the play which was to be given on her father's birthday, October seventeenth. The play selected was _The Mourning Bride,_ in which she was to take the part of the leading woman. In addition to costumes and scenic effects, she had invented and written lines for a new character, a child, which her talented little sister Julia might play, and she was so engrossed in all this activity that James got very little attention. In addition to her unintentional neglect, he suffered from worry over her entrance into a social whirl in which he feared she would be lost to him, perhaps forever. At the very least, he was sure she would neglect her studies and his hopes for her would never be realized.

He became gloomy and discontented, and since he was often slighted by her family, who objected to the premature engagement, he displayed such complete unhappiness. that Lily at last began to take notice.

"Dear Mr. Mowatt," she would say, half-teasing, "you used to be so cheerful! What has happened to you?"

"Won't you call me James?" he would complain. "Do you think me so old?"

"No, indeed, I never think of you as old. But I do think of you as Mr. Mowatt. That is what I've always called you."

"Then won't you begin to think of me as James? It would please me very much. And you know very well why I'm unhappy. You can change that very easily by promising to marry me at once."

He continued his entreaties until, in spite of her absorption in rehearsals, Lily began to be affected by his sadness. She realized now that she really wanted to make him happy. She missed his gaiety, the sessions of study in which he was counselor and guide. In fact, she felt she would rather be with him than rehearse _The Mourning Bride._ Suddenly, surprising even herself, she agreed to be married, secretly, within a week. It could not be sooner, she told him, for there were a few things in the way of preparation that must be done.

Putting aside the thought of her father's certain displeasure, and knowing that his major objection was not to James as her husband but rather to her youth, she took her sister Matilda into her confidence and began to plan for a runaway marriage and a bridal wardrobe. No girl in her position could be married without a wedding dress and a variety of other clothes, usually made at home by a seamstress. This presented quite a problem for she had neither seamstress, material, nor money! And only a week of time!

Lily considered everything of value that she possessed that could be turned into money. There were a few diamonds and emeralds, and a gold watch. Could she part with them ? She felt that she could. Except, perhaps, the watch, which she liked to wear. She and Matilda talked it over. Matilda was frightened—she didn't want to be part of this secret elopement, but she had promised. Though she wished she hadn't, there was nothing to do now but help her sister get the money for her wardrobe.

Early the next morning they started out to find a jeweler who would purchase the valuable stones. They had no trouble, for the first one they asked was quite willing to buy them—for about one-tenth of what they were worth. The girls were quick to accept the offer, not knowing for sure that they were being cheated and being unwilling to bargain. When the jeweler eyed them suspiciously and asked where they had obtained such stones, Lily held her head high in indignation and told him:

"They are my own, sir, and I can do with them what I like!"

Her well-bred manner and stylish, if conservative, dress silenced any doubts he might have. He counted out the money, which seemed to them a fortune, and they walked out of the shop elated at their success.

The watch presented a difficulty. Lily hated to part with it, but she remembered having heard of places where one could leave a valuable possession, receive some money for it and a ticket, and later redeem the article. Such a place was spoken of as a pawnbroker's and it would have a sign of three golden balls over its door. The girls started down the Bowery looking for such a shop. When they found one, with the shutters half-closed, they stood for a moment clutching each other. No one they knew had _ever_ been inside such a place! But Lily was not one to hesitate long.

"Come on," she told Matilda. "We have to do it"

Inside the shop it was dreadfully gloomy, and when a man rose from behind a dusty counter and said gruffly, "What do you want ?" they were too frightened to reply. Lily silently held out the watch.

"Do you want money on this?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"Yes," said Lily meekly.

"How much?"

"As much as possible."

The man laughed and pointed to an inner room. "Come in, young ladies, come in, and we will see."

"Don't go! Don't go!" whispered Matilda in Lily's ear.

"You needn't be afraid," said the man. "I will give you thirty dollars on the watch and you must sign your names in my book and get a receipt."

This sounded reasonable, but neither of them moved till he led the way, and then, since he had the watch and they did not want to go away without a receipt for it, they had to follow. Trembling, they entered the room which was, after all, very ordinary. The man handed the pen to Matilda, since she looked older, and told her to write down her name and address. Horrified at making known her name and address in such a place, Matilda handed the pen to Lily who assumed a very haughty expression and, seating herself, wrote in the book: "Mrs. James," and a fictitious address. After all, she thought, that would be the first part of her name in a few days!

The man looked at the name and the slight figure of the fifteen-year-old who had written it and began to laugh, but, seeing that they were near tears, he stopped laughing and handed Lily the money and receipt. They fairly ran from the shop and did not stop till they had left it far behind. Then they slowed to a dignified walk. If their mother or father ever knew that they had been inside a pawnshop! To girls of a wealthy family like theirs, this was an appalling deed.

The next thing to be done was to buy material for several dresses including, of course, a dress for Lily to be married in. Clouds had come up and it began to rain, so, feeling very rich, they hired a carriage and drove around for several hours, stopping at different shops. Besides the material for her gowns, Lily insisted on buying a large doll to comfort her littlest sister after she had left home. She knew how much Julia would miss her. And she did not forget the other children, but bought them a huge basket of various kinds of candy.

Of course, they could not drive up to their home in a hired carriage without being questioned. They dismissed the cab at a confectionary shop nearby, left their bundles with orders that they be delivered to their address in care of a nursery maid whom Lily had taken into her confidence, and walked demurely home. So far, so good.

The next problem was how to have the dresses made up without the knowledge of the rest of the family. Since Lily had no money over and above what she had spent, she could not hire a seamstress. Obviously the sisters must make the wardrobe themselves, with the help of the nursery maid. Because all girls were taught to sew in that era, the actual cutting and stitching was perfectly possible for them to do. It was the secrecy which was difficult. Lily's conscience hurt her—she feared it was a terrible thing she was doing, but she didn't intend to turn back now.

Matilda had a small room to herself, and the plan was that Lily and the maid would meet her there quite early in the evening and sew until daylight. They would go to bed just before the others in the family were up. The fact that they wouldn't get much sleep for a week did not bother them particularly.

There was one further difficulty. Their mother was in the habit of visiting the nursery when all the children were in bed to make sure that they were well covered. If she should discover Lily's bed empty, she would, of course, be alarmed and begin searching for her. Therefore, with Matilda's help, Lily made a figure out of rags, dressed it in her nightclothes with a nightcap on its head, and put it in her bed with its face to the wall and the covers drawn up well. The plan succeeded, and for six nights without interruption the two sisters and the maid sat up till dawn, sewing till their fingers ached, and then crept wearily to bed to snatch a few hours of sleep.

So the trousseau was made, a slender wardrobe to be sure, and the sixth of October arrived, the day on which Anna Cora Ogden had promised to marry James Mowatt. Once before she had changed her mind at the last moment, but this time she had made him a really solemn promise and nothing could have made her break it.

The minister who was to marry them had requested them to be at his house at ten o'clock in the morning. The girls started out in a manner they felt would not attract attention. Lily's dress was plain white cambric, and her straw bonnet was trimmed with white ribbons. The only unusual thing about this was that it was October, hardly the month for summer clothes. However, it was a beautiful autumn day and she felt quite warm. When her father left the house for his business office, she kissed him with unusual tenderness, and her mother, too, who appeared in the hall just as the girls were leaving. Beyond inquiring anxiously if Lily was not chilly in her light dress, her mother said nothing and watched them go. Once around the corner and out of sight of the house, Matilda took out the veil which she had been concealing, threw it over Lily's head, bonnet and all, and handed her the pair of white gloves.

So it was as a bride that Lily, accompanied by her sister, met James at St. John's Park. She took his arm and they walked on, followed by Matilda and the two young men who were to be James's groomsmen, until they reached the minister's house.

It had not been easy for James to find a clergyman who would marry them without the consent of Lily's father. Mr. Ogden was well known and well liked, and several who were approached declined because they did not want to incur his displeasure. But a French clergyman was found whose own marriage had been a runaway one, and it was to his house that they now walked, outwardly calm, but inwardly excited. It was perfectly legal for a girl of fifteen to be married without her parents' consent, but they all knew that her father was bound to be angry because they had acted against his wishes.

"Are you afraid, Lily?"

"Not really."

"Do you mind being married _in French?"_

"Certainly not, James. I spoke mostly French until I was seven years old! I love the language."

When they arrived, they were ushered into the drawing room. In a moment the minister entered in his robes. He looked from one to the other of the sisters, feeling at first that it must be the taller one who was about to be married, though the veil indicated the little one. Slight and youthfully dressed, Lily did not look like a bride.

However, after a moment's scrutiny, he opened a large register and, holding his pen over the page, asked Lily, "Your name, please ?"

She answered in a firm voice, "Anna Cora Ogden."

"And yours, sir ?"

"James Mowatt."

"What is your age ?" he asked, turning to Lily.

"Fifteen."

At that, he put down his pen and looked at her thoughtfully. "You are sure you are fifteen? And you want to be married to this gentleman ?"

"I am fifteen," said Lily earnestly, "though I know I look younger. And I do want to be married to this gentleman."

"Very well," he answered, though he still appeared doubtful. "Please stand before me."

He rose with the prayer book in his hand and began the marriage service. Lily thought it sounded beautiful in French, and she was much moved by the serious talk the clergyman made to them afterwards, although his words were directed to James. He wished them much happiness and they took their leave.

In spite of their running away, so to speak, to be married, they did not intend to leave the city until the next morning when they were to take a steamer up the Hudson to Nyack, where they would stay for their honeymoon with James's sister-in-law. It was in a quite ordinary manner, therefore, that James, Lily, and Matilda were walking home after the ceremony when they happened to meet Mr. Ogden on the street. As he approached, the girls began to tremble with apprehension. Mr. Ogden did not notice, in fact, he hardly saw his daughters, but started talking to James about a matter of business. Just before they parted, his eyes fell upon Lily's white dress and bonnet and exclaimed, "Why, how like a bride you look! One of these days, Mowatt, she will grow up and be quite a fine girl!" He did not observe the effect produced by his use of the word "bride" and went on his way without suspecting anything.

The rest of the day was not a happy one for Lily. She disliked deceiving her parents, and she hated the thought of leaving her brothers and sisters and the home in which she had been so safely and kindly reared. She trusted James and looked forward to her status as a married woman, but parting from her familiar home was hard. Most of all she dreaded having to leave little Julia and felt she could not go away without telling her and offering some comfort. Although Julia was only five years old, she could be trusted and so, that afternoon while Lily was packing her clothes and other belongings, she drew Julia to her and whispered her secret.

"Darling, I have something to tell you in confidence and you must promise not to breathe a word to anyone. Mr. Mowatt and I were married this morning and are going away. But I shall not be far from you and we shall see each other often."

The storm of grief which this news produced was almost more than Lily could bear. The child cried and cried, clasping her sister tightly around the neck and sobbing. "Don't go! Please don't go!" she kept repeating. Lily held her in her arms till Julia fell asleep, worn out with her tears. When she woke, Lily told her all about the beautiful wax doll she had bought for her and about the good times they could still have when she came back from her honeymoon. Julia did not cry any more, but she stayed close to her sister all day and, though she looked sad, she did not tell anyone in the family what she knew.

James came to visit in the evening as usual, and no one had an inkling of the morning's event. Poor Matilda, who must explain to them all in the morning after Lily had gone, and share the guilt, could hardly control her trembling. It was early when little Julia's bedtime came and Matilda, pleading a headache, retired to her room soon after. James made excuses to the family and went to the front door, accompanied by Lily. Though they were alone there for a minute, he only looked at her long and tenderly and did not venture to kiss her for fear they should be seen.

"Until tomorrow!" he whispered as the door closed.

Lily went to her bed in the nursery, thinking how strange it was that she, a married woman, should be sleeping there in her childhood place. She was excited by the day's event and at the same time feeling sad that this was the last time she would be here in the nursery with her younger sisters. The unknown future loomed darkly before her, and she found herself thinking, Oh, if this were only a dream and I could wake up!

The next day dawned sunny and cool. Lily's belongings were all packed and in charge of the maid who was in on the secret and who was to accompany her to the dock. A letter explaining all was in Matilda's possession, to be given to their father later. There was nothing to do now but go out the front door to the place where James was waiting for her.

After breakfast was over, Lily laughingly exclaimed that she intended to kiss everyone present—as a joke, of course. She began with her father and when she had been all around the table and then came and kissed him a second time, he looked at her anxiously.

"What ails you, child?" he asked.

She felt that in a minute she would tell him everything, so she shook her head and ran into the hall, followed by Matilda. She hurriedly put on her bonnet and shawl and left the house. The maid was waiting with the bundles, and little Julia had followed to the steps where she stood and kissed her hand to Lily over and over till her mother came to take her in.

Lily cried to her sister, "We must run! We must run!" She felt her courage melting away, but it was too late to turn back now. And James, her husband, was waiting for her. They actually did run the three blocks to the park and when, breathless, she saw him—her friend, her tutor, and now the man she was married to—her heart lightened and her fears for the future faded away.

There was little time for farewells when they reached the steamboat landing. Lily kissed her faithful sister, thanked her with all her heart, reminded her not to forget the letter to their father, and begged her to write immediately and tell her what their father said—whether good or bad. She never forgot what Matilda had done for her—dear Matilda, who had helped her disobey her father and then had to go home to break the news to the family and take the blame for her part in it!

When the warning whistle blew, James and Lily went on board and, as long as Matilda and the nursery maid were in sight, waved from the railing as the boat steamed away. James held her hand with a gentle but firm pressure of reassurance and as Lily turned to meet the light in his eyes, she knew that she had done the right thing.

Chapter 4: Melrose

The first three days of Lily's honeymoon were marred by worry over what her father would reply to her letter. It must have been a disappointment to James that she was much more like the "Mourning Bride"—the production of which had been abandoned when they eloped—than the happy girl he was used to seeing. Mr. Ogden's letter, received the day after their arrival in Nyack, confirmed her worst fears. He declared that he would never forgive her! How could she have done what he had expressly forbidden? And how could he any longer consider as his daughter a child who had been so deceitful!

Crushed by the loss of her father's approval—even of his love—Lily wrote him a broken-hearted letter, begging that she might come home with James. After three days of agonized suspense, her father gave in. A letter of forgiveness arrived, and assurance that a welcome would await her and her husband when they decided to return. Mr. Ogden was not a hardhearted man, and Lily's penitent letters had mollified his anger at being disobeyed.

After the ordeal of awaiting his pardon had passed—and Lily had really never doubted that it would eventually come—she asked James to take her home, cutting short their honeymoon by a week. When they returned to the family mansion, her mother, father, brothers, and sisters spoke not one word of reproach. Their only disappointment was that the play could not be performed on Mr. Ogden's birthday as they had planned. But he just laughed that off by saying that they would have a ball instead, in honor of her marriage, and she could be the laughing bride instead of Almeira, the mourning bride!

For several months Lily and James lived in the family home, and she continued her lessons as usual. When spring came, they went to the country, an area on Long Island called Flatbush, where they boarded in a large, old-fashioned mansion built before the Revolutionary War. The house stood back from the main road and was surrounded by magnificent old trees that were part of a twenty-acre estate. It was such a beautiful place that Lily cried out that she would like to live there forever! Delighted to know of something that could please his young wife so much, James, a rich man at this time, bought the entire estate and began to remodel it as their country home.

The house, which they named "Melrose" because of the abundance of roses, was repaired and refurnished and the gardens and orchards were enlarged and planted with every kind of fruit and flower. A greenhouse was built so that they might have flowers the year round, and also a long arbor, later covered with grapes, where Lily could walk protected from the sun and keep the pale white complexion so much prized at the time. In the center of the grounds was a summerhouse for writing or study. Happy memories of La Castagne went into the planning of this luxurious estate which Lily found herself mistress of when she was only sixteen years old.

One of her pleasures was a collection of pets of all kinds—birds, dogs, rabbits, goats, and a fine Arabian mare named "Queen Mab." Her sister May, four years younger than she, came to live there and keep her company during the long days when James was in the city. They played with the pets, rode about the countryside, rolled hoops, and skipped rope like the children they still were. They picked cherries from the loaded trees, or pears and apples as the season progressed. They read and studied when they were tired of exercise and found life a happy dream.

Since Lily's health was frail, every effort was made to strengthen her without too strenuous activity. One sport which she was taught by her husband was shooting. She eventually became so skillful with a gun that she could bring down swallows on the wing. But because her heart was tender, she shot oftenest at an inanimate target. Women's clothes were long, sweeping, and cumbersome at the time, but Lily was used to dressing in costume for theatricals, and it was in the garb of a Turk with tight-fitting coat and long, gathered trousers that she accompanied her husband on many an early morning shoot in the woods.

She read omnivorously and, in her journal, wrote a critique of every book she read. During a period of several years, she read and commented on between ninety and a hundred books a year. She never tired of writing, particularly in rhyme, and was forever making verses. These, however, no longer satisfied her. She wanted to write something longer and more significant. In her study of literature, she had read that the greatest form of poetry is the epic, a narrative poem concerning some person or event. An epic poem, then, was what Lily decided to write.

That this was a form succeeded in by only the greatest poets did not worry her in the least. She chose a subject from Spanish history and in a few months' time had finished a long, narrative poem of one hundred and thirty stanzas, entitled: _Pelayo, or the Cavern of Cadoga—A Poetical Romance in Five Cantos, Founded on the History of the First King of Asturas._ Each evening she read to James what she had written during the day, and when the piece was finished, her husband, inordinately proud of the talent he had fostered, proposed that it be published. Nothing loath, Lily prepared a copy and, since it was not difficult to burst into print in that time of little competition, the poem was published by _Harper's,_ the author's name being given as "Isabel." Years after, she blushed to think that such immature writing had been given to the public to read, but at the time, when she was only seventeen, she rather expected it to become immortal.

The style of _Pelayo_ belongs to its era and, more than a century later, appears stiff, stilted and, worst of all, amusing, when it was intended to be high tragedy. The following description of her heroine is typical:

Scarce sixteen summers bloom had shed

O'er her young brow its rich'ning glory,

And yet her heart was fondly wed

With one whose locks would soon prove hoary.

This, of course, could only be Lily, herself. The poem created a great deal of attention and most of the critics were unfavorable, a reaction to which Lily replied with an article called "Reviewers Reviewed." This received even more undesirable criticism. The authorship of these literary attempts was kept secret, and after such lack of appreciation on the part of the critics, Lily confined herself to domestic life for a while.

Melrose was an idyllic setting for the many balls and parties which she loved to give. These functions always included music, dramatic scenes, or poetry readings. Lily had a beautiful, well-modulated voice and a sense of the dramatic which made her a favorite entertainer. All of the talent at these parties was, of course, amateur, and Lily stood out easily as the most accomplished of her family and friends. Many times the performances were not in the nature of entertainment but were just for fun, with few, if any, guests. When there was not to be a ball, they called the evenings "concerts," and in addition to the poetry and drama and tableaux, there would be singing and piano playing. Lily, who excelled in most of these arts, did not have a true ear. Her singing was slightly off key, and though she tried for years to conquer this fault, she did not succeed and therefore rarely sang in public.

Several times an original play was presented to an audience of guests. The first play written by Anna Cora Mowatt, later to be known as the first American woman playwright, was called _The Gypsy Wanderer, or the Stolen Child, an Operetta._ It was dedicated to Julia, who played the principal part in a cast of three. A synopsis will give an idea of the type of sentimental drama which was popular in 1835. It is described in Lily's autobiography as follows:

"The plot was very simple, and yet proved effective in acting. I personated 'Lady Ivon,' a broken-hearted young widow, whose infant child had been stolen some years previously by gypsies. My sister May enacted 'Lucille,' the niece and confidante of Lady Ivon. Little Julia was 'Florette,' the stolen child. The scene opens with Lady Ivon and Lucille. Lucille induces Lady Ivon to relate the story of her sorrows, through which the audience is apprised of them. Suddenly their conversation is interrupted by the voice of a gypsy child singing without, who begs for charity in her song. Lucille desires to turn her from the doors, on account of her obnoxious race. Lady Ivon objects. The little Florette enters, dressed as a gypsy, with a bundle of brooms slung over her shoulders, a bunch of lavender in one hand, and a basket of flowers in the other. The ladies question her, and she answers with snatches of old ballads; now with

Over the mountain and over the moor,

Hungry and weary I wander forlorn;

My father is dead, and my mother is poor,

And I mourn for the days that will never return;

then with 'Buy a broom,' presenting her tiny brooms; or with 'Come, buy my lavender,' distributing her lavender.

"Lady Ivon, of course, traces a likeness between the child and the one she lost, and is greatly agitated. The little Florette makes known all that she can remember of herself, and Lucille discovers a mystical circlet bound over her arm. Florette entreats that this may not be moved; it is a charm placed there by a gypsy prophetess of her tribe, and she has been warned that evil would befall her if it should ever be loosened. Of course her prayers are unheeded—the band is hastily torn away. It concealed a natural mark by means of which Lady Ivon recognizes her child, and the dramatic sketch ends in a _tableau."_

The author's account closes with the astonishing comment that "its representation occupied an hour and a half." Audiences were patient in those days!

Lily's life at Melrose was a succession of brilliantly happy times for the greater part of three years, marred by only one unhappy event and her first real sorrow. In the winter of 1836, her mother died. Lily had never known her mother to be other than gentle and understanding, and it was largely due to her influence that the family remained so tightly bound together. Of a completely blameless character herself, she still had profound sympathy for weakness in others. When Lily eloped with James Mowatt, she feared her father's displeasure, but she was sure of her mother's love. The death of Eliza Ogden was a blow to all her children. "What _she was,"_ wrote her daughter Anna Cora, "no pen can truly describe."

But Lily was seventeen and in love with life, and her activities went on at Melrose. Even her father's remarriage within the year did not upset her—it took something more personal to make a break in the happy routine. For years—ever since that fateful ocean crossing when she was six—Lily had suffered from recurring bronchial colds of great severity. During the winter of 1836–1837 her illness was diagnosed as "consumption," the name then given for tuberculosis of the lungs. It was not thought wise for her to remain at home and the usual remedy was prescribed—plenty of fresh air, preferably an ocean voyage. Consequently it was decided that Lily and one of her aunts should accompany her newly married sister Emma and her young German husband to England.

The prospect of crossing the Atlantic filled Lily with apprehension. She had feared the sea all her childhood after that harrowing experience on the _Brandt._ But she had always faced the inevitable with courage and she did not now let fear prevent her from doing what she was told was best for her.

They sailed in the ship _Roscius_ in the spring of 1837.

The voyage, a calm one this time, lasted three weeks—half as long as a crossing took in 1825. Though Lily was very ill for the first two weeks, she began to improve during the third, so that upon reaching Liverpool she felt better than she had for months.

Chapter 5: Visiting England and Germany

Ships were traveling faster in 1837 because of the addition of steam-driven paddle wheels. To Lily and her sister, who, of course, had no knowledge of the speed of ship and air travel to come in the twentieth century, it seemed a short voyage. Even the eleven-day journey by steam train and stage from Liverpool to London did not seem long, and their arrival in the metropolis was an exciting one for Lily, whose health seemed restored.

Everything was new to her. London was a city of glamour to an American girl, even one from New York. Its long history made it hallowed in her eyes. The buildings were larger and more stately than anything in the America of 1837, and the well-paved streets, the fashionable clothes, elaborate carriages, and richly dressed servants made life in New York seem crude indeed.

The party entered the city in the evening. They exclaimed over the brightly lighted streets, so different from what they were used to.

"Look at the gaslights!" Lily cried. "Thousands of them! They make the city as clear as at midday!"

"Over there—that enormous building with a courtyard—what is that ?" asked Emma.

"Westminster Hall," replied Lily. "I recognize it from the engravings. And beyond are the towers of Westminster Abbey."

"Oh, yes, I see them," Emma said.

"Imagine!" said Lily, thinking back to the books in her father's library. "Westminster Abbey!"

"Well, I'm looking at the ladies in the carriages we pass," her aunt said. "You can see them quite clearly because it's so light. They're so stylish, so civilized! I think, girls, that we must spend tomorrow shopping if we are to make a good appearance."

"I should hate people to think that New York isn't civilized!" Emma giggled.

Friday, their first day in London, was, therefore, devoted to visiting the shops. They hired a carriage and were driven about the streets of London from place to place—to milliners, to dressmakers, and to shops for mantua making. The mantua was an elaborate cloak or shawl which complemented every lady's wardrobe at this period and, for a lady of fashion, there must be one to go with every costume.

There was so much to see on this drive that Lily found herself turning from side to side until she became dizzy. How clean the streets were—and how wide! They were wide enough for six carriages to drive abreast!

"Look at that blue barouche," cried Emma. "And over there a pink one. We don't have colored carriages in New York!"

"I see a red coach with a coachman in green livery," remarked her aunt. "I don't like red and green together—except at Christmas."

"But it's all so stylish!" Emma sighed.

"What is that two-wheeled vehicle called?" Lily asked. "I've never seen one like that."

"It is called a 'fly,'" replied Emma's husband, who had been in London before.

"I can see why." Lily laughed. "It goes so fast it must seem like flying!"

Emma was watching a lady alight from a handsome coach at the door of a shop. "I'm sure she must be a duchess," she said, as two footmen in lavender livery assisted the lady to the shop door.

"She looks wealthy enough," agreed her aunt.

The shops they saw were impressive without and elaborately decorated within—or so it seemed to them. The large buildings, the churches, the theaters, and the shops were so numerous and splendid that Lily remarked that London was "as thickly studded as the queen's crown with jewels."

Even in the excitement of all that was bright and fashionable, Lily's simple heart made her take notice of the little sparrows, hundreds of which hopped tamely about the streets, even under the feet of the horses, looking for grain and bits of straw and string with which to make their nests under the eaves of buildings. New York was then such a small city that it had not yet acquired the hordes of English sparrows so common later. She amused herself one morning by throwing small pieces of worsted out of the window and watching the sparrows pick them up, chirping with excitement at the new treasures.

But the fashionable drew her, too, and she climaxed a day of shopping by going to a particularly noted dressmaker to order a gown for the opera. She was amazed at the speed with which the details were taken care of. In eight minutes, three of which were taken up with giving her name and address, she was measured and was back in her carriage again. Moreover, the dress arrived the next morning and fitted perfectly. It was a simple matter—a dozen or so of the ill-paid but skillful workers of the establishment had sat up all night to finish the dress and deliver it early so that if any alterations were necessary, there would be time to make them before the performance of the opera the following night, and madam would not be inconvenienced! Lily was very much impressed by such service.

There were other aspects of service in London which did not appeal to her in the same way. She was treated like a princess, with someone standing ever ready to serve her, but she found that she was expected to pay for this attention as if she were a princess. Three or four attendants in eighteenth-century dress—knee trousers, hose, and embroidered coats—were waiting to help her into her carriage whenever she went out, and each one expected a tip. Before the coachman could climb down and open the carriage door when they arrived at a destination, some poor rogue would be there before him, open the door, tip his hat, and hold out his hand for a coin. If it was not immediately forthcoming, he would plainly ask if she could not spare something for the drinking of her health. When her carriage arrived at a theater, the programs would be forced on her by men running beside the moving vehicle, who, of course, would have to be paid. For every small service, she was expected to dole out a bit of silver.

"Maybe we should be glad we don't have so much service in New York," said Lily, after paying the liveried footman who opened her carriage door. "At least we don't have to be forever tipping."

"We'll probably come to that in New York in time," remarked her brother-in-law prophetically.

As with travelers now, most of their week in London was spent in sightseeing. Some places Lily and her traveling companions viewed from their carriage without effort. However, visiting St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tower of London, and the new tunnel under the Thames River involved a great deal of walking and climbing stairs. Lily was awed by the magnificence of St. Paul's with its great dome, but was rather disappointed in the Tower, finding that it was only a museum and a repository for the crown jewels. She was very impressed by the Coliseum, particularly the view from the top. This they attained by an elevator, which Lily described in her autobiography as "the curious ascending room, which rises from story to story without any perceptible motion." The Zoological Gardens, Hyde Park with its statues, Madam Tussaud's Waxworks, the British Museum, the House of Lords, Kensington Gardens—all were seen and appreciated.

The high point was reached when Lily entered Westminster Abbey. An avid reader since early childhood, she was especially reverent in viewing this monument to English history and literature, and she lingered long in the Poet's Corner. It seems strange that what made the greatest impression on the young girl, the sentimental product of a sentimental age, was the memorial to Lord and Lady Nightingale in the Chapel of St John. This is her description of it: "The expiring form of Lady Nightingale lies in the arms of her agonized husband, while grim-visaged Death steals from beneath a tomb, and aims his unerring dart at the bosom of the dying woman. Her husband extends one arm imploringly to the king of terrors and with the other folds his fragile wife to the bosom which cannot protect her from that one foe."

During the afternoon before leaving London, Lily's party drove out to Richmond, so fraught with memories of fifteenth and sixteenth century kings and queens of England. It was a lovely suburb on the banks of the Thames, and they visited the beautiful and extensive gardens and the red-brick palace dating back to Edward III. To Lily the place was an enchanting one and the drive one of the pleasantest she had ever taken. Many years later, when she was a famous actress, it was in a blossom-covered cottage in Richmond that she was to spend her happiest hours in the intervals between theatrical engagements.

They left Richmond with reluctance. "If only I could live here!" exclaimed Lily. "That is—if I didn't have Melrose to go back to!"

Besides sightseeing, there was church and the theater. On Friday evening, their first in London, they attended the Olympic Theater where the entertainment was a series of short pieces and songs arranged by Madame Vestris, leading actress of the English stage, though not now in her prime. Lily thought the decoration of the small theater made it "a perfect _bijou"_ (jewel). Saturday it was _Lucia di Lammermoor_ at an opera house three times the size of the Park Theater in New York. Lily wore her new gown and was much impressed by the splendor and the magnificent voices. There were five tiers of boxes, most of which were occupied by members of the peerage. By paying an exorbitant price, Lily's party was able to sit in the box belonging to the Duchess of Grosvenor.

"Isn't this thrilling!" Emma cried as they took their seats in the box.

"And imagine," added Lily, "the Queen is to be present!"

They were early, and the performance could not start until the arrival of Queen Victoria, who was a little late. During all this time, they looked about them in awe, trying to remember everything to tell the family at home. When, after an interval, the audience rose, Lily knew that the Queen had arrived, but try as she would, she could not see where she was going to sit. It was evident, however, from the stares and whisperings going on around them, that the Queen was being seated in a box just below them and out of sight. This was a great disappointment. Nor could they get a glimpse of her when she left the opera house. Nevertheless, the evening was a jubilant one that Lily would long remember. The soloists were better than any she had heard, and the performance could not but prove thrilling to an eighteen-year-old matron from New York who knew very little of the theater at this time.

On Sunday she attended a service at St. Martin's Church and spent the rest of the day relaxing, upon the advice of her aunt, so that they might renew their sightseeing the next day. On Tuesday evening when they attended the St. James Theater, she was disappointed. The showing was a novelty in which the actors were monkeys and dogs! This, to Lily, was not theater.

On Friday, their week in London was over, and they were busy packing when news reached them that the Queen was expected to visit the National Gallery of Paintings and if they made haste, they might see her. Having missed seeing her at the opera, they were most anxious to take this chance. They dropped what they were doing, dressed quickly, and hurried to the street outside the gallery where a large crowd had gathered. For an hour and a half they stood there, remarkably patient, then walked more than a mile to St. James Square, hoping to get a glimpse of Her Majesty there. After a long wait they returned to the gallery, where they remained for another hour, but finally were obliged to give up and return to their packing, for they were to leave for Hamburg in the evening. It was a tiring experience made more frustrating by later news that the Queen had arrived at the gallery after they left. What would one not do to see a Queen! thought Lily.

The week, though exhausting, had not brought on a return of her illness, and the trip to Germany, where her brother-in-law's family lived, promised to be very pleasant. Lily wrote in her journal, "On the loveliest moonlight night I ever beheld, we bid adieu to London, with the earnest hope that we might one day return." Over a smooth and pleasant sea, they journeyed to Hamburg, where they spent a week seeing the sights. Lily and Emma made purchases, trying out their scant knowledge of the German language, but their aunt was unable to pick up even a few words. She felt quite disdainful of a whole city full of people who seemed unaware of the meaning of the most common American expressions!

When the day came for them to depart for Bremen, Emma's young husband helped them into the stagecoach and explained that by this mode of travel, it would take them no time to reach his home.

"This is the _Schnellpost,"_ he said, "so make yourselves comfortable and we'll soon be there."

After some hours of slow progress, the aunt inquired, "What did you say this lumbering, rickety old vehicle is called?"

" _Schnellpost,"_ replied Emma.

"Hm!" her aunt retorted. "Snail post! I thought that was it. And you said we'd get there quickly!"

The girls laughed. "Not 'snail,' Aunt,— _schnell,"_ said Lily. "It means 'fast.'"

"You don't say so!" replied her aunt. "Well, never was a stagecoach so misnamed!"

They arrived, finally, and were welcomed joyously by the family of Emma's husband. One of the servants, after looking at Emma, rushed to her mistress and said in German, "Why, she's _white!_ Only her hair is black. I thought the young master had married an American woman!"

"Shh!" cautioned her mistress. "Don't let them hear you! You've mixed up the Americans with the Africans again!"

Their entertainment in Bremen consisted of a round of parties, by means of which Emma was initiated into German society. At the first dinner, a toast was proposed to the newly married couple. Then a gentleman rose and read a poem in German, and everyone smiled and nodded and looked at Lily. A second toast was proposed and, to her bewilderment, all the glasses were held out toward her. Her brother-in-law made signs to her to raise her glass and touch the others, which she did. She did not know till later that their cries of _"Dichterin"_ were addressed to her because she was the author of the poem which had just been read in German translation. It was a poem she had written on the occasion of Emma's marriage.

The lavish entertainment she and her aunt shared with her sister during the next few weeks was interesting but wearing. Lily found that Germans were very fond of music, the open air—especially at night—and eating! In an article published later in the _Ladies' Companion,_ she wrote at length upon these customs, introducing her subject in this fashion:

"There is, perhaps, no entertainment where so much tediousness and enjoyment, so much vivacity and dullness, are incongruously mingled as at a German dinner party of the present day; _enjoyment_ because sufficient wit and humor are congregated to speed Time on the wings of Pleasure— _tediousness_ because even Pleasure tires at length of using her wings, and leaves Time to hang heavily about the shoulders of those she forsakes. _Four,_ even _five_ hours passed at the table is considered no unusual sitting; charmed must the voice be if its tones sink not into monotony, and bright the wit, if its flashes, tested through this weary ordeal, lose none of their brilliancy."

In spite of these dinner parties, Lily thoroughly enjoyed herself and her health continued to be good.

Chapter 6: A Need for Courage

The time finally came when they had been entertained by all the relatives and friends in Emma's new family, and the young couple departed to continue their travels, leaving Lily and her aunt behind. Lily had developed a great interest in the German people and decided to stay in Bremen to wait for James to join them and make the Grand Tour, as they had planned. She was particularly eager to learn to speak German fluently and this was a good opportunity. She rented a small, prettily furnished house and, although she spoke only a little German and her aunt none at all, they settled down to keep house with servants and tradespeople who spoke no English. They got along at first by signs and the help of their hospitable neighbors. Lily, being a born linguist, soon picked up an adequate vocabulary, but her aunt was always getting into a dilemma because of her inability to learn even a few words.

One day as she was trying to give instructions to the cook in pantomime, she called to Lily in great distress: "Good gracious, Anna, what is the German for plate ?"

" _Teller,"_ called Lily, looking over the stair railing from upstairs.

"Tell her what?" asked her aunt, thinking she had not understood the last word.

" _Teller!"_ Lily cried at the top of her voice.

"How can I tell her unless you tell me _what_ to tell her!"

"Can't you hear me tell you to tell her _Teller?"_ And Lily went into a gale of laughter.

"That's just what I want to do, but how can I tell her unless I know _what to tell her!"_ Aunt was becoming exasperated.

Lily ran downstairs chanting: "Tell her, _Teller;_ tell her _Teller."_ Then, seeing that her aunt was getting red in the face, she uttered the magic word to the cook, and the plate was produced. Lily fell into a chair, laughing, and her aunt at last joined her, realizing what the joke was about.

Lily had had a long rest from her studies and was glad to get back to the type of work which she always found stimulating. For a girl with a "delicate" constitution, her day's program showed remarkable energy. She was up every morning before six o'clock and took a walk on the Ramparts on which their house was situated and which provided a lovely view. Sometimes in the early morning she fed the swans on a stream which was nearby. She returned for breakfast and at nine o'clock began a two-hour German lesson, followed by a music lesson. Although Lily still could not sing without getting off key, she had not yet given up hope that she could learn to correct this fault. The rest of the day was given over to visits with new friends, with whom she could now converse with increasing command of their language. Sometimes she took two German lessons a day and was soon reading the poems of Goethe and Schiller.

During her stay in Bremen, the annual fair called the _Frei Markt_ was held, and for twelve days the city became a scene of gaiety. It was elaborately decorated and was all bustle and confusion with people in holidays dress, peddlers, wandering minstrels, acrobats, and continuous music. The entire city square was lined with brightly colored booths in which girls in the costumes of the various provinces of Germany sold all manner of curiosities, home-woven cloth, and embroidered garments. Roving storytellers set up stands on street corners, and, after collecting a crowd, told tales of comic or, more often, horrible happenings, illustrated by various objects which they displayed—a skeleton, a sword, the picture of a haunted castle. Lily noticed that the German people seemed to prefer tales of horror, but perhaps she was unduly impressed because she herself much preferred "sweetness and light."

It was hard to get through the dense crowds, but she and her aunt managed to see all the sights—rope dancers, ballad singers, children on merry-go-rounds, and all the rest. Over all and permeating all from morning to night was the music—marching bands, harps, sweet homemade flutes, castanets, and hand organs, to the accompaniment of which groups of girls sang lustily.

Through all this activity, Lily's health continued to improve, and with a hopeful heart she looked forward to completely conquering the ill health that had plagued her for so long.

When she and her aunt had been in Bremen about three months, Lily was practicing on the piano one day when she heard a familiar step in the hall. Her heart almost stopped beating. Then the door was flung open, and James cried out, "Lily!" and started toward her. She sprang from her seat in joyous welcome and collapsed in his arms with a hemorrhage of the lungs. The surprise had been too much!

During the week she remained in bed, James blamed himself. Although he had written of his arrival, the letter had been slower than his eager and hasty journey.

"I would not for the world have caused you such a shock, my dear," he told her remorsefully.

"Do not worry over me," Lily comforted him. "This will pass, and I really am ever so much better than I was at home."

She did rally and, upon her recovery, they made preparations for a trip through France, Switzerland, and Italy. But Fate was to deal them an unkind blow. All that Lily had suffered from her many illnesses she had met with fortitude, and now she was called on for greater reserves of strength. The very morning that she and James and her aunt were to start on their travels, her husband woke early and cried out to her, "Lily! Lily! I can't see!"

Lily could not believe it. "My dear James, what has happened?"

"My eyes! My eyes!" he groaned. "I have a terrible pain in my eyes and I can't see!"

Lily put cold compresses on his eyes and immediately sent for a doctor. The physician who came could not tell them what was the matter or relieve James in any way. Lily's husband was a firm believer in a new school of medicine called homeopathy, and they found two doctors in Bremen who treated him according to the new methods. However, they were not able to effect a cure, and he spent the next four months in a darkened room, suffering the most terrible agony. This was a severe ordeal for Lily, whose sympathy made her suffer with him. She did her utmost to help him and either talked or read to him in that dark room from morning to night. There were times when James seemed better and he bore his suffering bravely at all times. Of course, all thoughts of travel had to be abandoned, but Lily hardly noticed because she was so concerned over her husband's illness.

Finally, she persuaded James to go to Paris in the hope that he might receive more expert medical care. It was during one of the periods when he was feeling better, and they hurried their departure for fear of a relapse. The month was December and the weather was intensely cold. Moreover, the roads were either muddy or full of frozen ruts, and travel by stagecoach was worse than at any other time of year. At the end of a three-day trip, they arrived in Paris—which earlier they had looked forward to as the high point in their European tour—utterly exhausted. Relatives of Charlotte's second husband—the Ogden in-laws seemed to materialize everywhere in Europe—did their best to obtain medical care for James, but he refused to consult their doctors and continued to place his faith in homeopathy.

A famous physician, M. Hahnemann, the father of homeopathy, was residing in Paris at this time, but he was very old and had turned over his practice to his wife. Lily took James to her office, which was in her home. They found the old gentleman senile, and he scarcely took notice of them. The wife was very businesslike but faintly hostile. Whether it was because of her lack of skill or because this unorthodox branch of medicine was unable to cope with James's disease, the medicine prescribed proved ineffective. At last another physician was called in, but he, too, was unable to cure the malady, and James suffered without relief for four months more.

By now Lily was desperate. She persuaded her husband to try still another doctor, so as a last resort they called in an American surgeon who was living in Paris. To their immense surprise and relief, two weeks after he began a new treatment, James was able to leave his darkened room and bear the sunlight again. It was a joyous occasion when, for the first time in nine months, he could distinguish words on the printed page! His recovery was rapid from then on, and though for the rest of his life he was to rest his eyes often and have periods of pain and suffering, he was, for the time being, well again. Lily, breathing a prayer of thankfulness, was now able to go about the streets of Paris and begin to enjoy life once more.

Mornings were spent in the art museums, historical buildings, and other interesting parts of the French capital. In the evenings she and James attended the theater, opera, concerts, accepted many invitations to dine, and sometimes were present at as many as three balls in one evening. It was an enjoyable life, the more so because of the long months of confinement, and though James did not always dare to subject himself to the glaring lights, he insisted on Lily's attending, with her aunt, every social function to which they were invited.

Ever since she had come to Europe, Lily had been keeping a diary which was to serve as a basis for later articles published in the _Ladies' Companion._ One of the social highlights of their stay in Paris was a fancy dress ball given on the second day of the annual Carnival. For three days, the populace of Paris filled the streets, most of the people wearing costumes. A special parade was a feature of the Carnival. It was led by detachments of soldiers in national uniforms, and many countries were represented. Next came the _boeuf gras,_ a great ox fattened to almost the size of an elephant! It was led by three butchers, two dressed as Romans and the third as an Indian chief, all bearing axes. The horns of the ox were gilded and wreathed with flowers and he was covered with a blanket of cloth of gold. Following came a chariot drawn by four white horses, flower bedecked, the chariot filled with girls and men in the costumes of mythological deities. A mass of carriages, carts, and masqueraders on foot brought up the rear. The procession visited the king, some of the ministers of state, and ended up at the butcher's stall where the health of the butcher was drunk by all. Cakes and candies thrown into the streets were eagerly seized upon by little boys and girls, and though _flour_ was flung on all passers-by on foot, the carriages of the ladies were usually pelted with _flowers._

Though the Carnival was an exciting event, the masquerade ball that evening far outstripped anything in Lily's experiences abroad. Fifty _gendarmes,_ well mounted, guarded the brilliantly illuminated courtyard of the mansion where the party was held. The guests were received by twenty footmen and ushered into an antechamber, in the center of which was the then fashionable ornament, a handsome billiard table. They were announced, in a loud voice, by a major-domo at the door of the reception room and then greeted by the graceful and affable hostess.

Twelve drawing rooms were thrown open, decorated with costly, festooned drapery, carpets of velvet, luxurious divans, ottomans, and couches. The walls were fluted with gold or rich silks and hung with works of the great masters. The ceilings, too, were painted in many designs. Mirrors covered one entire side of the huge ballroom, and thousands of lights made the scene one of sparkling brilliancy.

The guests wore varied fancy dress costumes. As Lily herself described it: "There were sultans and sultanas, queens and courtiers, Knights Templar and ladies in tournament robes; the goddess of night, wrapped in her glittering silver stars, and the crescent on her brow, one bed of diamonds; naiads and nymphs of the woods; Anne Boleyn and Madame Pompadour. Even Joan of Arc herself forsook the rude fields to enjoy the rich pleasures of these princely halls. There were costumes of every clime, 'of every land where woman smiles or sighs.'"

In the middle of the evening, there was a fanfare from the musicians and the sound of horses' feet, and four fairy steeds, mounted by Cinderella postilions, drawing a Queen Mab chariot of crimson velvet with gold wheels, flew twice around the circle of guests. A pair of shepherdesses sprang lightly from the chariot and, as the car and its outriders disappeared, moved gracefully around in a _pas de deux._ Next came some twenty Turks, knights, and Highlanders on horseback who went through an amusing quadrille and galloped noiselessly away. Then entered Madame Pompadour, Louis XV, and his court with their powdered wigs and magnificent, jeweled robes. They performed with much spirit the old-fashioned dances of their age, among which the stately minuet called forth the loudest applause. Lily wrote:

"A little past midnight, the rich curtains which concealed a spacious apartment were thrown back, disclosing the most sumptuous banqueting board, spread with every delicacy that could gratify the palate or satisfy the appetite; heavy with service of gold, bright with the dazzling radiancy of costly candelabras, the mellow light of moonlight lamps, which lined the gilded walls, rich with such ornament as the genius of Paris, alone, could execute. The table itself was so spacious and long that, reflected in the large mirror at its foot, the eye refused to reach the farther end. When graced on either side by 'fair women,' who seemed to have been gathered from every land, lovely relics of every age, relieved by the background of 'brave men' like the setting to jewels, what more splendid sight could be imagined? The morning had far advanced before the courteous host and hostess found their banquet halls deserted. It proved, indeed—

No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

With that quotation from Byron's famous poem, Lily concluded her long account which, in spite of its redundancy and flowery language, is accurate enough to serve as research material for a motion picture.

Descriptions of famous places in Paris which she saw and enjoyed appear in letters to her sisters and friends—La Place de la Concorde, L'Arc de Triomphe, Place Vendôme, the Tuileries, St. Cloud, Versailles. It is clear that she reveled in it all and was making the most of her slim hold on good health.

One of the high points of her sojourn was seeing Rachel, the famous actress, in all her principal roles. The personality of the famous tragedienne made a vivid impression on the young American and she was to remember it all her life. From the moment that the French star entered the stage, Lily was under her spell and she felt that no acting could equal Rachel's in impassioned force and grandeur.

Not all of Lily's time was given to pleasure and sightseeing, however. Having known French at an early age and now having mastered German, she proceeded to learn Italian. No matter how late the party of the night before, she had a lesson in that language every morning before breakfast.

In addition to writing articles later published in the _Ladies' Companion,_ she began a drama which was nearly completed when it came time for her to leave Paris. It was called _Gulzara, or the Persian Slave,_ and she intended it for performance at Melrose when they returned to America. She called it "a little drama in six acts," and before she left France she had costumes made for it by famous couturiers, and several sets of scenery were painted under her direction by the best Parisian artists. All this she had shipped back to New York with them when they sailed from Le Havre on the _Ville de Lyon._

When, after an uneventful voyage, they reached America, they had been gone fifteen months.

Chapter 7: Talent to the Rescue

As the carriage approached home, Lily leaned out and caught the first glimpse of Melrose through the long avenue of trees.

"Oh, James," she breathed, "it's even more lovely than I remembered!"

James, taking down the hand with which he had been covering his eyes from the sunlight, looked also.

"Our home!" he said with quiet satisfaction. "I hope that we may never leave it again."

Friends were there to greet them, and May, whose face Lily had last seen covered with tears at the departure of her beloved sister for Europe, was now glowing with happiness at her safe return.

"How wonderful you look!" she exclaimed. "It is a joy to have you well again."

"And a joy to be back," said Lily, holding her close. "And wait till you see the play I have been writing to be given on Father's birthday!"

"Is there a part for me?" May asked.

"Indeed there is, and for Julia, too."

When her father and all the sisters who lived near enough to visit by carriage had been seen and embraced, and the stories of the good times and the difficult times of their year and a half abroad had been told over and over, Lily began preparations for the production of her play, _Gulzara,_ and James returned to his business affairs. He could no longer continue his profession as an attorney since he could not see to read or write for more than a few minutes at a time. He turned to investments, a business less taxing on his eyesight. Lily spent many hours writing letters for him or reading the newspapers to him since he found the small print an ordeal to decipher.

She gave most of her attention, however, to the play, because the production date was not far off. She had realized when she began _Gulzara_ in Paris that having women in men's roles left something to be desired, and she did not wish to try to get men for the parts. Her brothers had long since either lost interest and time for such frivolity, or were not near enough to attend rehearsals. Strangers she would not consider. Consequently she wrote her play for an all-woman cast, except for one young boy. That part she made as dramatic as possible so that her much-adored and talented young sister Julia would have a chance to show her ability.

Ever since childhood, Lily had written little plays or dramatic scenes and presented them with the complete confidence and approval of her family audience. _The Gypsy Wanderer,_ which featured songs, had been the most pretentious of these, and the production of Voltaire's _Alzire,_ when she was fourteen, had been a remarkable achievement for a child. But now Lily had seen the classics acted by the best tragedienne of the times, the great Rachel, and she was more critical. It was with the utmost seriousness that she attempted a real drama. To accomplish this with a cast of five women and a child, all of them amateurs, was a feat difficult to achieve. But because of her ability to write verse, her untiring attention to details of interpretation and style, and—what was a really important contribution—the costumes and sets of scenery made in Paris, her play would have pleased a discriminating audience of the day, as well as the indulgent ones who usually attended her performances.

The drama had six characters: a heroine, Gulzara, enacted by Lily; a boy, Amuranth, the Sultan's son, played by Julia; and four others. The cast listed on the program included Lily's sister, May, Elizabeth Mowatt (James's sister), Ida Yates (Lily's niece), and an old school friend, Anna Batelle. The Sultan, often referred to, quite conveniently did not appear. In order to make many rehearsals possible and the whole thing a matter of pleasure as well as hard work, the cast was invited to Melrose for the entire month previous to the production.

The young ladies were easily moved by Lily's effective verse, and for some time she could not get them through certain scenes without gales of laughter, or through others without the whole group bursting into tears. But gradually these lapses came under Lily's control, and the rehearsals went forward most earnestly. There were two accomplishments that were hard to rehearse without disturbing the household—screaming and fainting. Though the latter made no noise, it was alarming to anyone who passed by to see one of the girls draped on a couch, apparently lifeless. Both these actions were standard procedure in the plays of the early nineteenth century. A temporary solution was found by using an old barn at some distance from the house. Lily hit upon the expedient of having all the girls give a loud shriek in turn. Then she would have the best scream imitated by the one whose part called for it. As to the fainting, it was found that falling into a pile of hay could be done gracefully and without fear until such time as they could trust themselves to be caught by one another.

The screaming and fainting were practiced with much hilarity until one day their laughter was topped by loud guffaws from above their heads. Looking up, the horrified young players saw a group of farm laborers leaning over the railing to the haymow, hugely entertained by their acting! The girls picked up their skirts and fled to the house and used the barn no more.

*

When the October day arrived on which the fete was to be given and the play performed, the cast was letter-perfect. The weather, too, was perfect, and the light of the full moon, for which the performance had been delayed a few nights in order that the guests driving out from New York to Flatbush need not travel in the dark, shone in a cloudless sky. Since early morning, the girls had been decorating the rooms and halls of Melrose with evergreens and flowers. There were bouquets on every table and in every niche—flowers from their own conservatories and from those of their neighbors. The avenue of trees which formed the entrance to the estate was brilliantly lighted to supplement the moonlight which flooded the area. As the audience of friends arrived at the front door, they were greeted by James, the host, and invited to take seats in the drawing room. The hostess, of course, did not appear. She was busy transforming herself into a Persian slave and helping the rest of the players into their costumes.

Enclosed with their invitations, the guests had received a program announcing _Gulzara, or the Persian Slave,_ by Anna Cora Mowatt, and a statement that a ball and supper would round out the evening. At the time appointed, an overture was played by a large orchestra stationed in the hall. The music stopped and, in the drawing room, in which a stage had been erected and draped, the curtain rose on the first of the Paris sets. It was a chamber in a Turkish harem. Zuleika (May) sat embroidering with her companion, Fatima, at her feet. It seemed ages to Lily, standing off-stage, before May uttered her first words and then her voice could scarcely be heard. However, she gained courage, and the drama proceeded well through its six acts and lasted two hours and a half. The audience applauded frequently and with genuine appreciation, especially during Julia's performance, and Lily felt that her little sister had carried off the palm. No mishap had spoiled the evening, and even the changes of scenery had proceeded without a hitch. In less than half an hour after the last curtain, the "theater" had been reconverted into a reception room, the ballroom was thrown open, and both actors and guests were dancing merrily. Later, servants appeared and loaded the tables with lavish refreshments which, if not so sumptuous as those served at the ball in Paris, were certainly equally enjoyed. When the last guests departed, the moon was down, but the sun was up to light their way back to the city.

It was a happy night for Lily. Years later she was to remember it as one of the best of her many delightful parties at the home she loved so well. Her friends were generous with their praise of her work and, though with natural modesty she attributed much of what they said to their friendship for her, she had the satisfaction of approval from one entirely impartial source. The assistant editor of the _New World_ had not seen the performance, but he had read the manuscript and he wrote a critique:

The drama of _Gulzara, or the Persian Slave_ was written by a young lady lovely and accomplished. There is unity and simplicity in its design and execution which cannot fail to give sincere pleasure. It is pervaded by a rare and delicate thought; many passages are strikingly beautiful; the impartial critic will think, with us, that the drama would do credit to a much more experienced writer.

For Mr. Epes Sargent, who wrote the above, and Lily, this review was the beginning of an intimate, lifelong friendship. He published the play in his magazine, and Lily was delighted and encouraged.

The dramatic performance and ball marked the close of the Mowatts' entertaining at Melrose, for not long after that October night, James's fortune was wiped out. He had been speculating heavily in real estate and the stock market since their return from Europe, for a time making a lot of money, then losing, then recouping his losses. But a crisis in the market occurred which ruined him utterly and, after trying for many months to keep things going as usual, he was obliged to tell Lily of their misfortune. It was not an easy matter. He had married her when she was scarcely more than a child and used to the comforts of a well-to-do home. Since their marriage he had been able to provide her with every luxury. How could he tell her that even the home she loved so much must be sold to meet his financial obligations! He finally broke the grave news, but if he imagined that she would be crushed by the vision of disaster, he did not know his Lily!

It was a great shock, but when she fully understood the extent of his losses, her first thought was to seek a way at least to keep Melrose for themselves.

"Is there no possible way of saving the house?" she asked.

"None that I can imagine," he answered sadly.

Wondering what she could do about it, she considered the element of time. "How long may we remain here?"

"A month, perhaps—certainly not longer."

A month! Surely something could be done in a month. "And where shall we go ?"

"Heaven knows!" replied James in despair.

Lily went to her room so she could be alone to weep her tears of bitter disappointment But she could not easily accept defeat. That afternoon she walked for a long time in a grape arbor that was her particular favorite. It was a glorious autumn day and the grapes hung in clusters over her head. There she thought things out. This loss of fortune was too serious to be offset by a temporary loan from her father, even if she had been willing to ask for help. Her husband was struggling with a disease of the eyes which prevented his doing the sort of work he had been educated for. He had done his best in stock speculation and had lost. It was now up to her.

Surely she had some abilities with which to earn money to restore their fortune—at least to keep their beautiful home from being sold. Although she had been married five years, she was still very young—only twenty-one. She knew that her health was precarious, but she did not intend to let that prevent her from making plans, particularly as she felt so well just now. The two usual occupations for young ladies in straitened circumstances, sewing and school teaching, she swept aside. She would not be good at either, and neither one would provide more than a pittance. One of the things she could do was write. The _Ladies' Companion_ had accepted and published some of her articles, and her poem, "Pelayo," and the play, _Gulzara_ , were also in print. To be sure, this sort of writing was not very lucrative and would not be a drop in the bucket—now so unfortunately empty.

She could act. That she had proven repeatedly ever since childhood and now, recently, as Gulzara, the Persian slave. People enjoyed her acting, and she could tell from the response when she was on stage that there was that magical rapport between her and an audience. But, to her, acting was solely for the pleasure it gave her and her friends. To make money by becoming a professional actress was unthinkable, and she rejected the idea as soon as it occurred to her. Although she had long ago outgrown the prejudice against attending the theater which had been inculcated in her by Dr. Eastman, she still felt the position of actress degrading to a woman. The only exceptions were the few stars who had risen above their profession and were in a class by themselves, like Fanny Kemble and the divine Rachel. That she had the talent to join them as an artist did not for a moment cross her thoughts.

But there was something akin to acting which she could do without damage to her position or reputation. She could give poetry readings. This was something new, but public readings had recently been given by a gentleman named Manderhoff, an actor famous in both England and America. That no woman had entered this field must not deter her. She had the voice, full and flexible, the ability to interpret poetry, and she knew that she had power over an audience. Moreover, she could prepare for a series of readings quickly. She was familiar with all the most popular poetry of the day and had often read to her friends. Why should she let the words, "the public is invited," meaning, of course, that the public would pay to come, frighten her ? Perhaps it was not "becoming" to a young lady, but surely the sordidness attached to the word "actress" did not apply here! Lily felt that she had discovered the solution to their problem. She would, herself, single-handed, save Melrose for James.

She must now gain his consent to this venture. In presenting it, she fortified her argument with the experience of her sister, Charlotte. Charlotte, whom James had first admired and through whom he had come to know the Ogden family, had lost her first husband, was now separated from her second, and had five children to support. She had managed to do so, Lily reminded him, by turning her gift for painting miniatures into a profitable business. If this prevented her from being a lady, she was, at least, an artist.

"Surely," said Lily, "it is no worse for me to use my talents and make the money we need so desperately. Don't you agree, James ?"

James hated to agree, but he knew something had to be done. He admired his wife's talent, which he had had a share in developing, and objected chiefly on account of the strain that would be placed on her health. She was still frail. It was harder to convince sister May. All during the nineteenth century, it was considered improper and socially unacceptable for a "lady" to accept money for any service, even if she was talented. For that money to go toward the support of a husband was even worse! The poor might do this and the middle classes of tradespeople, but a lady—never!

"What will our friends say," May wailed, "if you make a public appearance ?"

"What will our friends do for us if I do not?" was Lily's sensible reply. "Will they preserve to us this sweet home? Will they support us ? Will they even sympathize with our adversity ?"

"But you will lose your position in society!"

"If I _fail,_ probably I shall. But I do not intend to fail! And surely success can bring only approval!"

Although the matter was still undecided, Lily went about her preparations. James had said they could keep Melrose for a month at the most. She therefore allowed herself two weeks to prepare for her readings, and the moment she had determined upon her course of action, she made selections of poems to read and began practicing. Her voice must be strong enough to fill a large hall. Every day for two weeks, she recited aloud for hours until she could indeed detect that her voice was gaining strength and vibrancy. Two weeks was not long for preparation, but two weeks was all she had.

That she should be able to arrange for an auditorium in which to make a public appearance within the month was no small achievement, and it would be impossible today. Her new friend Epes Sargent of the _New World,_ who had been entertained frequently at Melrose since his review of _Gulzara,_ was a great help. Lily shrank from appearing in New York where she had so many friends, but there was Boston, which not far away—Boston, the seat of culture, the Athens of America. It was for Boston, then, that she set out to start her new career after saying good-by to her beloved Melrose. She had but one acquaintance in the entire city, but Mr. Sargent, through his friends and his entree to the newspapers, saw to it that she soon had many.

Saying good-by to Melrose was painful. On October fourteenth, the day they were to leave, Lily took one last walk through the gardens with May. Sadly they gathered flowers from their favorite shrubs and plants, first in the garden, then in the greenhouse. At the door they stopped before a heliotrope two feet high.

"Oh, May, do you remember? James planted this—it was just a sprig from the bouquet I carried at the first party we ever gave at Melrose! It has grown so beautifully! I hate to leave it."

She picked some of the fragrant blooms and added them to her bouquet. They walked slowly down the grape arbor pathway to the summerhouse where they sat a few minutes. But time was short. They wanted to say good-by to the pets, too, so they went through the orchards, with their ripening fruit, to the stables where they patted the ponies, especially Queen Mab, and the dogs who barked and jumped around them in delighted circles all unaware of the parting. None of the pets was left without a caress.

Finally, the time came to return to the house. There the two girls went through every room, taking a last look. Until now Lily had been full of hope, but with this sentimental journey around her home, a feeling of foreboding came to her.

"You know, May," she whispered, "I have a feeling that this is really a farewell. I believe I shall never enter this house again as its mistress!"

May, ever the tearful one, burst out crying.

"Now, now," said Lily, "you mustn't cry. I daresay I shall return or, if not, I'll have another home just as beautiful!" This she said to comfort her sister, but her heart was heavy.

Lily had not dared to consult her father about her plan to appear in public readings. She felt that his disapproval might weaken her resolve, and nothing must stop her now. She wrote a letter, instead, to be delivered to him by May after she and her husband had departed for Boston.

When the carriage was brought around to the door, she and May got in, and Lily took her seat beside James. Their baggage was already in, and their faithful French gardener stood sadly, twisting his cap, waiting to say good-by.

"Take care of the flowers," Lily told him with a catch in her voice.

"May God bless you!" he replied.

Then the carriage drove rapidly away. They stopped in the city to leave May at their father's house, but did not wait to see any of the family. Lily kissed May, and told her to cheer up and not to forget to deliver the letter. Then they continued on to the wharf where they were to take the boat for Boston.

The adventure in Boston proved entirely delightful, with the exception of a few hours before her appearance on the stage of the Masonic Temple when, quite naturally, she suffered from stage fright. Upon their arrival, she received a visit from a lady whose acquaintance she had made in Paris and who now gave her the greatest encouragement in her venture. The arrangements for her readings were made within two days of their arrival, and during that time she was besieged with letters, cards, flowers, and calls from people who wished her well. All this was due to friends of Epes Sargent or newspaper articles he had instigated. One of Sargent's friends who, because of illness, was prevented from calling on her in person, but who wrote her a note, was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the poet.

A notice announcing her appearance as a reader of poetry was published in the Boston _Atlas:_

Mrs. Mowatt's Recitations—The public is invited this evening, by the advertisement of Mrs. Mowatt's performance, to an entertainment of a somewhat novel character, and one which we have no doubt will be interesting, not chiefly from its novelty, but from its adaptations to a refined taste.

The article went on to mention Mrs. Mowatt's standing in fashionable society, her literary accomplishments, and the fact that she was using her talents "with a view to rendering them productive of pecuniary emolument in consequence of reverses to which her family has been subjected." The public was invited to show its appreciation of her courage and her motives. The good people of Boston responded warmly to this appeal. She read for three evenings to packed houses of the well-to-do intelligentsia and she was begged to stay on for another reading.

Lily had never appeared on a real stage before and her glowing success was preceded by some hours of horrible anxiety. The day before her debut, she tried her voice in the large auditorium of the temple and found that she could hardly utter a sound. Her throat was choked and the words would not come out! She was sure that she could not make herself heard and would add disgrace to the disaster which had made this public appearance necessary. Her husband comforted her, as did the kindly doorkeeper, her only audience. He bade her take heart for he had seen great speakers who had appeared there look as white and shaken as herself. But her low spirits could not be lightened even by the kind notes and cards from her new acquaintances. What finally restored her confidence and courage, and at the last moment, was a letter from her father. He said that he did not disapprove of this new step—he was proud of her! He told her to do her best and he was sure of the result. This was what she needed.

Dressed in a simple white dress with a white rose at her throat and one in her hair, she was escorted to the steps of the stage by James.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "You will be wonderful, I promise you!"

She mounted the steps and turned to her audience. Of those first moments, she wrote later in her autobiography:

I remember curtsying slightly, half-stunned by the repeated rounds of applause, the blaze of light, the dense crowd of faces all turned toward me. I sat down by the table that held my books, and mechanically opened the one from which I was to read. I rose with it in my hand. Again came the bursts of applause—the hall swam and then grew dark before me. I could not see the book that I held open in my hand—my veins were filled with ice. I seemed to be myself transformed into a statue.

Her choice was Sir Walter Scott's _The Lay of the Last Minstrel,_ and she started with the introduction:

The way was long, the wind was cold,

The Minstrel was infirm and old;

His withered cheeks and tresses grey

Seem'd to have known a better day;

The harp, his sole remaining joy,

Was carried by an orphan boy.

The last of all the Bards was he

Who sung of Border chivalry.

She read the first lines and, hearing her own voice, gained assurance. Before long her composure returned, her voice grew strong and warm, and she began to exert that spell over her audience that was her peculiar power. There were several intermissions for rest, and each time she returned to the rostrum refreshed. Her audience became increasingly enthusiastic and the applause at the end of the evening left her no doubt of their complete approval. Not only her dressing room, but also the hotel to which she and James returned, was thronged with people eager to express their praise of her performance. The future seemed bright and assured.

She read one night in Providence, on the way back to New York, to a crowded hall in which one woman was so moved by Lily's recital of "The Missing Ship," a poem describing the loss at sea of a real ship, the S.S. _President,_ that she was carried from the hall in violent hysterics! This poem in Lily's repertoire never failed to move an audience.

After her triumph in Boston, Lily dared to test New York. She gave four readings at the Stuyvesant Institute which were well attended, but Lily felt in that assembly curiosity rather than approval. New York was not Boston! In the city where she had grown up, there were many acquaintances present, and though one might think this would give her confidence, the result was quite the opposite. Feeling criticism and a certain unfriendliness in some of the audience, she was more restrained in her performance, gave less of herself, and did not make the powerful impression that she had made in the New England cities.

It was bitter to be snubbed on the street the following day by one-time friends and even relatives who were shocked that she would show herself, even so simply and conservatively dressed, on a public platform. It was rumored that she did so from eagerness to display her charms and not from financial necessity. No doubt many who disparaged her were motivated by envy, but this did not make their attitude less painful. The delight of her family was encouraging and heart-warming, but the disapproval of the few troubled Lily greatly.

The extreme exertion of the last weeks, to which she had not been accustomed, coupled with disappointment over her reception in New York, depleted her small reserve of strength. After the four readings at the Institute, she collapsed, and though she fulfilled her engagements at the Rutgers Institute for Young Ladies, already booked, and, after a postponement, gave four more readings at the Society Library, she was finally forced to give up from utter exhaustion. Reading for two hours and a half in a voice that can be heard throughout a large auditorium is an activity that requires physical health and energy. Lily was not strong enough. It was nearly a year before she regained her health, and for months of that time her recovery was considered improbable.

There was much criticism in the New York press of the step taken by a member of one of its first families. Some were, of course, very favorable, and some brought out faults in style which Lily, who was eager to improve, took serious note of. But some of the printed criticism bordered on the ridiculous. One well-thought-of woman writer denounced her course, stating that if she must give public readings, they should be before audiences of her own sex!

However, despite all this and despite the illness that cut short her career as lady elocutionist, she was the creator of a new art which was soon to sweep the country and have a host of imitators. They did not come up to Lily, however. Even when she felt weak and sick, she was able to rise to the occasion and always gave her utmost, even in those last readings at the Society Library. And her best was very good indeed.

On one occasion, there was in the audience a long-ago neighbor—the one from whom she and her sisters had borrowed the costumes for _Alzire_ —Mr. Simpson, the manager of the Park Theater. He at once appreciated the young woman's appeal to her audience, her sweet face, and her beautiful and vibrant voice. He was not unmindful either of the tempest of praise and criticism her readings had aroused and knew well its publicity value. She would be an asset to his theater. Having known the family socially, he did not venture to approach her himself but sent someone else to offer her, on his behalf, a contract to become an actress at the Park Theater.

Lily did not take his offer as a compliment. Indeed she was highly offended! When she considered what a scandal had been stirred up by her appearing on a platform as a reader, she could scarcely imagine to what insults she would be subjected—she, a _lady_ —if she became an actress. She had been forced by circumstances to earn money, but she would not stoop to become one of _that_ profession! The answer was "No! Never an actress!"

Chapter 8: Again the Grim Monster

The Mowatts were now established in the Astor House, a comfortable New York hotel. The illness which closed Lily's short career as a reader of poetry to appreciative audiences was not a simple one to diagnose. From the first she had been frail and, since her late teens, had suffered a partially dormant form of tuberculosis which flared up and caused a hemorrhage of the lungs when she was under great strain or received a shock, even of pleasurable surprise, as when her husband had arrived unexpectedly in Bremen. In view of other illnesses she was subject to later in life, it appears that part of her general weakness at this time was psychological. She lay for weeks exhausted, suffering from the nervous collapse occasioned by her strenuous exertion, the unkind snubs of many friends, and her constant worry over James, whose health was still precarious. She showed so little improvement that her doctor, not knowing how to cure her, suggested a trial of a new method of healing which, though unorthodox, was working wonders with thousands of people. This was hypnotism, known then as "mesmerism" after Franz Anton Mesmer, the German doctor who had first used the method more than thirty years before.

Lily had heard the treatment talked of, and she knew that to be effective, it involved giving over her will to that of another, her physician. She feared to do this, for without her strong will power which had carried her along thus far, where would she be, and what would happen to James, her beloved husband, who now depended on her? She realized, however, that ill as she was, she could be of no help to anyone, and since her family doctor knew of no remedy, she must try anything that promised a return to health.

A young doctor was consulted who, because he had been practicing medicine for several years and was connected with the New York College of Physicians and Surgeons, she knew could not be a "quack." Thus, when he said that he felt sure he could help her through hypnotism, she decided to try him. In this she was advised by her husband, family, and a few interested friends. One of them, Epes Sargent, decided to study hypnotism himself and was, before long, able to induce the hypnotic state in certain people.

Lily was particularly susceptible to the method. During her childhood, she had often walked and talked in her sleep and would awaken with no idea of what had taken place. Now, under hypnotic suggestion, she showed powers and knowledge she was not aware of when "awake." The sessions which were to effect her cure continued over a long period. Countless times she was put into a trance by her physician and was able to be up and about, even to take long drives, with apparent strength. Yet when she came out of the trance, she was as weak and ill as before. Gradually, however, there was improvement, and by the next April she was nearly recovered. A summer of rest in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts greatly benefited her. A new outlook on life made her feel able to plan once more to earn the money needed to replenish James's resources which had been strained to the utmost by her long sickness. This new outlook was a religious one.

Though in her waking state, her beliefs were consistent with the doctrine of the Episcopal Church to which she had always belonged, in her trances, which lasted for days and even weeks, she talked of religion in a new vein. James, who was much interested in her ideas, called in a friend of theirs, who was also a doctor, to pass an opinion on them. After she had been hypnotized and had begun to walk about and talk in what appeared to be a quite normal manner, her talk turned, as had been her habit lately, to religion. The doctor listened to her and was amazed.

"How surprising!" he exclaimed. "These are the doctrines of Swedenborg, whose writings have given rise to a group known as 'New Church.'" Since neither Lily nor James had ever read any of these theories or even heard of Swedenborg, the doctor was astonished. James, however, was not particularly surprised. He explained that in her hypnotic state, Lily spoke accurately of many things that she had previously known nothing about. No one seemed able to understand this faculty.

After his friend's remarks, James was prompted to read all he could find on the subject of Swedenborgism. The similarities of her ideas to the new faith were, of course, explained to Lily in her waking state, and when she became well enough, she took over the reading to save James the strain on his eyes.

"Dear James," she said to him, "let me be your eyes. You have taken care of me so tenderly and I have been such a burden to you! I want to read these books anyway, and I will read aloud to you."

"Never a burden, Lily," James replied. "You are mine to cherish and make well again. That is all I ask, but I will let you do the reading."

To her surprise, everything she read seemed absolutely true, as if she had known it all, believed it all, before. Actually, to her waking self these religious doctrines were new, and they had a wonderfully comforting effect and even aided her recovery, all the more because James shared her views. They both joined the New Church as soon as she was able to go out, and to the end of her life, through hardships, disappointments, and grief, Lily was sustained by an unwavering belief in the goodness of God and the reality of spiritual life, now and hereafter. This was a faith she had not had before.

It took that extra spiritual strength to help her meet one of the greatest disappointments in her life. Her illness had taken so much time and money that despite all her effort with the readings and the money they had brought in, the home she had fought to save had been sold while she was too sick to be told about it. Melrose no longer belonged to the Mowatts.

Her heart was heavy when, as soon as she was strong enough, they set out for Flatbush to visit the lovely house for the last time. The new owners had not taken possession, and they were free to wander around. It was spring, but still too early for the trees to be in bud. The shrubs were bare, and only here and there an early crocus gave promise of the gorgeous gardens to come. It was not the season for grapes—the vines even looked dead. The heliotrope which had grown from a sprig from Lily's first bouquet was mysteriously gone, and the whole place seemed neglected. She shivered, not only from the cold spring breeze, but because she remembered how Melrose had looked only last autumn—lawns as green as a velvet gown, and bowers of fruit and blossoms. Perhaps these would come back again, but the place would no longer be hers. Her premonition had come true!

"Oh, James, this is too painful! Let us go inside. At least the rooms will be the same."

But they were not. Without the beautiful furniture, they were cold and deserted, and dust covered all. She extracted the last bit of anguish from the realization that this large ballroom would never again be decorated for them at Christmas time, and no more plays would be given in the reception room or music in the hall. After a last look back, she was glad to escape with her husband to the portico where their carriage waited for them.

"Don't grieve, Lily," James said.

"I won't," she answered. "There is always the future and we have each other. I'm thankful for that, and soon I shall be strong enough to give readings again."

During the summer at Lenox in the Berkshires, Lily made two new friends. One was the celebrated preacher, Dr. William Ellery Channing. He was now old and retired, but since they were staying at the same hotel, it was inevitable that they should spend many hours on the wide veranda discussing religion. Their separate views were stimulating to each other, and Lily was impressed by the fact that this intellectual man, still handsome, was the greatest public speaker of the time. She recited for him, as for a teacher, and he pointed out a few faults in diction and pronunciation which she was never to forget. When he died, a few weeks after leaving Lenox, it was with gratitude as well as sadness that Lily thought of their brief friendship.

After her return to New York, Lily planned a new program of readings, hoping to appear in public again in the fall. To her dismay, she found that she could not read aloud for more than a few minutes before beginning to cough. After repeated attempts, she had to admit to herself that, for the present at least, she could not possibly recite for two hours before an audience. Even the effort of standing for that time would be too exhausting. It was a bitter disappointment, but Lily met it characteristically—by thinking of something else. The trances during her illness had sharpened her imagination so that she had, not less love for life, but more. She found she could be interested in all sorts of topics and, since she could not read aloud, she would write.

She began by preparing for publication some of the notes she had taken on German customs when she was visiting Bremen. Before the winter was over, she was a regular contributor to the _Ladies' Companion, Godey's, Graham's,_ and other periodicals. She wrote on places she had seen and persons of importance she had met abroad. Also, because her frustrations found release in writing verse, she contributed poems. The articles were written under the name of "Helen Berkley." The poems were signed "Isabel," "Cora," "A.C.M.," or sometimes with her full name.

These writings brought in a steady, if small, income. Then she heard from Epes Sargent of a contest for the best novel entitled _The Fortune Hunter,_ with a prize of $100, and she eagerly applied herself to this new medium. Epes Sargent encouraged her to believe that her novel would win, for he knew her ability, and he was right. Lily was awarded the $100 prize. She was very happy about this and decided that in her writing lay her chance for fortune—if not fame. She was wrong about the fame.

She continued to write at a furious rate, not only as "Helen Berkley" but as a ghostwriter for a Mrs. Ellis. Some of the things she wrote in this capacity were: "Housekeeping Made Easy," "Book of the Toilette," "Book of Embroidery," "Knitting, Netting, and Crochet," and other pieces along this line. This type of writing was drudgery, but it paid well and she continued at it with much profit. James decided that if there was money to be made in publishing, he himself would try it. He established a firm, hired printers and proofreaders, and Lily supplied the copy.

As a change from hack work, she began a novel called _Evelyn,_ which finally appeared in two volumes. It was a sentimental story in the elaborate and flowery style that was very popular in the middle of the nineteenth century, but it did not have enough merit to last past the era of its greatest popularity.

The Astor House, where the Mowatts were living, was fashionable but somewhat expensive. Lily was in the midst of writing _Evelyn_ when it was decided that they should move to a quieter place where their expenses would not be quite so heavy. They rented a small house on Fourth Avenue, and Lily tried, with what means she had, to make it as lovely as possible. It was near Gramercy Park on one side and Union Square on the other—a district which was now becoming the most fashionable place to live. New York was not then the built-up city it would become in the twentieth century. Trees grew everywhere, many as old as the city itself. The avenues were broad and unpaved, and on lower Fifth Avenue there was still a farm complete with crops, cows, and chickens.

Many celebrated people lived near them and the Mowatts' back yard joined that of the mayor of the city. That James and Lily could live so well in spite of their precarious income was possible because of their position in society and that of the Ogden family—a standing which allowed them unlimited credit. But bills had to be paid eventually, and to this end Lily was kept busy with her writing. Although they lived modestly, they had servants. This was a period when domestic service was very cheap—scarcely more than board and lodging—and everyone who was not a servant employed one, or, to be more exact, several. Lily had a cook and a maid, and she hired a coachman whenever she wanted to go out in her carriage.

She occupied herself with writing, studying Swedenborgism, and reading to James. Occasionally they went for a walk or drive and had visits from friends, but, on the whole, their life was the quiet one of semi-invalids which, in truth, they both were. And for the present, the grim monster was held at bay.

At this time Lily could not imagine that she would ever be completely well again, able to project her voice to the farthest limits of a theater, to endure long journeys in all sorts of weather, to know excitement again, to laugh or cry at will. This was one of the silent periods of her life, yet one in which she accomplished a monumental amount of written work—a multitude of articles, eleven books, two novels, and an unknown number of poems. All of this writing was done in the space of four years. She did not know what it was to be idle, for always she had the spur of necessity to drive her on.

Occasionally she longed for the life she used to live, particularly at Melrose. One of her poems hints at the beauties of nature that she missed. It mentions "a sparkling fountain," "hinds and hares," and "a gentle steed to ride," all of which she had had on her country estate. It begins:

Oh, I would have a cottage small

With creeping ivy twined;

A crystal stream before it glide,

A shady brook behind.

Melrose wasn't small, but it was in the country. When she thought about it, Lily realized that nearly all of her pleasantest memories were of nature, not in its wild state, but carefully cultivated to bring out its greatest beauty. First, and still vividly recalled in part, were the lawns, the arbors, the orchards, and the lakes of La Castagne. Then there was the estate in Flatbush of which she had become mistress at sixteen in whose parklike grounds she had tried to recapture the paradise of her childhood. Hotels were convenient and fashionable, but even a simple home was better, she thought, as she tried to be contented with a city house that was modest only by comparison with her former homes.

Lily was so busy that she scarcely had time to see her father and the sisters of whom she was so fond. They were together sometimes and, as she grew stronger, she and James attended social functions—receptions, dinners, musical evenings—as often as her time permitted. It was a good thing that she began to go about in society again, for out of her observations of New York social life in the eighteen-forties came the piece of writing that first established her in the Hall of Fame.

Anna Cora Mowatt, daguerreotype by Paine of Islington

Chapter 9: "My Children"

It was a freezing, blustery day, and Lily had just recovered from one of her many attacks of influenza. Nevertheless, she and her husband had been for a drive, well bundled up against the wintry wind. When they returned and the carriage stopped in front of their house, Lily heard the sound of sobbing. There on the doorstep, dirty, clothed in rags, and shivering, was a little girl. Lily's heart was touched. Extreme poverty was not a new thing to her for she had seen countless beggars in the city equally ragged and miserable. She always tried to find a few pennies for them, though she had little enough to spare. It was a practice then for the poor, for whom there was no help but charity, to send their children begging at the houses of the well-to-do—often, it is true, when they were not in actual need. But here was a child on her own doorstep, the first who had come to her for help. She must do something about it.

Bending down to the small one whose misery seemed genuine, she asked, "What is the matter? Why are you crying?"

There was no answer except more violent sobs, and Lily, fearing to stand in the cold after her recent illness, stepped inside and called to her maid to get the child and bring her into the parlor.

Big-eyed and fearful, the waif hung back in the doorway as the maid tried to push her into the room. It was only upon seeing the fire burning brightly in the fireplace that she allowed herself to enter and be gently nudged nearer to it. She sat on a footstool and timidly stretched her hands to the warmth, and finally, as her sobbing ceased, she gave a long, choking sigh. Lily smiled at her reassuringly.

"Now tell me what is the matter, my dear," she said kindly.

"My mother is very sick," quavered the child. "They do say she is dying! We haven't a bite of food in the house 'cause my father, he's out of work."

"You poor dear child," sympathized Lily. "And how did you happen to come to my house?"

"I was sent out to beg for food, but I couldn't get none anywhere, and then I come here and—and your cook turned me out of the kitchen! I—I couldn't go no further!" Her wailing started afresh.

"Don't cry any more. Tell me your name and I will try to help you."

"Esther."

"Where do you live?"

"In the slums near the river. But it's not far from here, ma'am. And, oh dear, I can't go back empty-handed!"

"Don't worry, Esther, you shan't."

Lily had not yet taken off her cloak and bonnet. She got some food from the cook, chiding her for having refused the child in the first place, and, forgetting all about her own illness, she set out with the little girl. It was only a short walk, for the houses of the rich people of New York bordered closely, as they still do, on the hovels of the poor. In the dilapidated building to which the child led her, in a small, close room, lay a young woman who already looked old. A tiny baby lay in her arms. It was blue with cold and too weak to cry. There seemed no hope for the mother's recovery, but Lily nevertheless promised to help her and ask her friends to do the same. On an impulse, she asked if Esther could come to live with her for a time. The mother gave her a grateful smile, too moved to speak, and Esther arrived the next day.

Lily and James had been married ten years, and it was one of Lily's greatest sorrows that they had no children. Lily had often longed for a little girl. How pleasant it would be to have a child playing about the house! Though little Esther was not a particularly appealing youngster and was too young to be of service, she did need help and could run errands and wait on her mistress. Full of enthusiasm and pity, Lily bought her new clothes and tried to fatten her up on good food. Esther was a dark-eyed, bright little creature and gave no trouble.

She occasionally went home to see her mother and one day, about a month after she first came to the Mowatts, she ran into the house and gasped out, "Oh, missus, come quickly! My mother is truly dying!"

Lily threw on her cloak and hurried to the child's home. There she found the mother already receiving the last rites of the church. In a few minutes she was gone, and Esther dissolved in tears. For many days she cried for her mother, while Lily tried to comfort her and divert her attention.

Esther might have had a permanent home with the Mowatts if she had not had a greedy brute for a father. He appeared about a week after the mother's death and demanded that he receive payment for his daughter's services. Since the child was only eight years old and had had no real duties, James tried to reason with him. He explained that they had taken the child in and fed and clothed her out of pity, and that they should be thanked instead of berated. But the man was of a low type and stupid, and he insisted that if he could get no money out of the Mowatts, he would take his daughter home. This he proceeded to do, and Lily could not stop him without deciding to adopt the child. She was not ready to do this, though it hurt her to see Esther's disappointed tears as she was dragged away from more comfort than she had ever known.

The house seemed very quiet without her, though she certainly had not been a noisy child. Lily had enjoyed having her in her home, watching her play, hearing her footsteps on the stairs. Now she felt more strongly than ever the loneliness of being a wife without being a mother. One day she heard of a family of children who desperately needed help. A seamstress of some neighbors had told the Mowatts' cook and the cook told Lily.

"She heard how much you did for the little one, Mrs. Mowatt, and she says to me, she says, 'I wish someone would tell her of the Greys, an English family living in Harlem. They're people who have seen better days, but the father is blind. There are several children, one of them a sweet little girl, a much finer child than Esther—and they are actually starving.'"

Starving! What a terrible thing! To Lily, who had been in financial difficulties but who had certainly always had enough to eat, this was appalling! She kept thinking of them, even dreaming of them. Surely she should look them up and do something for them! Then she would think of little Esther and her grasping, unreasonable father, and wondered if again her heart would be torn with sympathy to no purpose should she meddle in the affairs of the Greys.

Two days of this and she decided to act. She requested their whereabouts from her neighbor, but the seamstress had gone and all Lily could find out was that they lived somewhere in Harlem and that a Mr. Green who kept a hotel knew all about them. This was scanty information, but Lily decided to try to find them that very day. It was intensely cold and the drive was long. She did not tell James that she was going, for she realized how he would feel about her expedition, knowing how easily she became ill.

Setting out in a carriage, she told the coachman to drive to Harlem. Once there, she had him stop at one hotel after another, only to find out that no one knew of a Mr. Green who kept a hotel. Finally she was told of a Mr. Green who kept a _saloon._ It was distasteful for her to inquire in a place where they sold spirits, but she had gone too far to turn back now. At the saloon, only a child was present to answer her questions, but the child actually did know a blind Mr. Grey who had some children and who was dreadfully poor. She directed the coachman, and after an interminable time they found the place.

It was hardly a house—merely a shanty which stood back from the road with uncleared snow before the door. The coachman made a path for Lily who knocked repeatedly at the door without an answer. Finally, she opened the door and entered. Within she found a series of rooms, empty and cold. It was a friendly dog who led her at last to a rear shed at which she knocked and heard a man's voice call, "Come in."

Lily opened the door and asked, "Does Mr. Grey live here?"

A tall man rose from a chair close to the stove in which no fire burned, and said with simple dignity and in a cultured voice, "I am Mr. Grey."

Lily looked about the room. A little boy, half-naked, lay before the stove, shivering with cold. On a small wooden box sat a baby strapped by its waist to the back of a chair. It was pale and listless. The room contained no other furniture but a bed and another chair. Mr. Grey walked toward the chair to offer his visitor a seat, and one could see by his outstretched hand that he was blind. He was a handsome man in spite of his thinness and the lines of suffering on his face, and his manner was courteous. Lily sat down and told him why she had come, and, in turn, heard his story. He was an Englishman who had been prosperous in his own country until he was cheated by his partner whose debts he had to pay. Penniless, he had heard of the wealth of America where one could "dig gold out of the streets." His disappointment had been great when he brought his family to New York to find the stories far from true. There was no gold, not even work for him or his wife and, on top of that, he had become blind. Without Mr. Green, whom he had known in the old country, they would most certainly have starved to death.

Lily asked where his wife was, and the little girl whom she had heard about. He told her they were out trying to get some food and firewood—how, Lily dared not ask. There was a pride about the man still, and she was reluctant to hurt his feelings by prying. She talked with him cordially for a few minutes and then asked him to send his wife to her home with the daughter so that they might get acquainted.

And so it was that Margaret Grey came to be Lily's little girl. She was nine years old, had big, blue, frightened eyes, and was thin to the point of emaciation. But Lily changed all that. Warm clothes were provided, and her long, fair hair, which fell to her waist, was neatly and becomingly arranged. In time she lost the frightened look, but it took nearly a year, for she had suffered much. It was months before she seemed to regain confidence in the world and months more before she smiled. One day Lily came upon her singing in the clear voice of a bird. Seeing that she had been overheard, she gave a start of terror and burst into tears.

"Dear Margaret," said Lily, putting her arms around the child, "don't cry!"

"Was I making too much noise?" Margaret asked through her tears.

"Noise! Why, darling, that was beautiful music! You have a lovely voice."

"You like it?" asked Margaret shyly.

"I do. Please sing as much as you wish. It makes me happy." Lily gave her a gentle hug and Margaret ran away to think it over. As time passed, she came to love the Mowatts and trust them, until finally she became a normal girl.

The others in her family were not neglected. Money was provided for them to move from Harlem to New York, and needlework was procured for the mother so that she might earn enough to care for her husband and the little boys. The doctors were not able to restore Mr. Grey's sight and in less than a year from the time Margaret came to Lily and James, both the father and mother died, leaving the two boys completely unprotected. John, the older one, had contracted consumption, the disease from which his mother died, and Lily took him home to nurse. The other boy was cared for by a neighbor of the Greys.

Lily had intended to make a home for only one child, but John soon won her heart. He was ill for two months, but he never complained. Sometimes when he had been left alone for hours, she would return to find him busily playing with his toys which were kept on the bed beside him. Sometimes he was singing. He was always patient, and grateful for a warmth and comfort he had forgotten existed.

One day Margaret, who often went to visit her littlest brother, came home to Lily, crying as if her heart would break.

"My poor, poor little brother!" was all she could say at first. Then she said that little Willie had had the measles but that he was better now.

This did not seem to explain the reason for her being so overwrought and tearful.

"If Willie is better, why are you crying?" Lily asked.

"Oh, Mrs. Mowatt, that family won't keep him any more. They're going to send him to an orphan asylum! They're going to send him today!"

Lily did not want that to happen. Orphan asylums in the nineteenth century were bleak and often cruel places for a child to grow up in.

"Don't let him be sent away!" Margaret begged. "Please let me bring him here. Let me bring him here for a little while!"

Lily could not resist her plea, and the little girl ran away like a flash, so that she would not be too late to save her brother from an awful fate. An hour later she returned, staggering under the weight of chubby, rosy-cheeked little Willie. The year had done wonders for the two-year-old who toddled happily about the Mowatt house. His sunny disposition soon won the heart of James as well as Lily, and though they talked for some time about finding someone to adopt the two boys, they made no real attempt to do so, and the three children became an acknowledged part of the household. Lily taught them their lessons until they were ready for school, and it was not long before James became their legal guardian.

So it was that the Mowatts acquired some children, and the children, after much grief and privation, acquired a new mother and father. The family was a happy one, and though Lily often had to be away from home—and even out of the country in later years—she saw to it that the children were well taken care of and went to good schools. The gratitude and good behavior of the three more than repaid her for what she had done for them, and made up to her for not having had children of her own.

Playbill for London performance of _Fashion_

Chapter 10: Fashion

Lily was still continuing her writing. It took many articles and book royalties to pay for groceries and other necessities, not to mention doctor's visits. Now there were three children to care for, and she was spurred on by their pressing needs.

One day she had an idea. It had been suggested to her some time ago by her good friend Epes Sargent of the _New World,_ but she had laughed it off.

"You should be able to write a play better than anything else, especially a comedy," Sargent had said to her. "Write something about New York."

"You are not suggesting that I should write a play for me to act in, for that I will never do."

"Of course not," he answered, "though you would be a fine actress—of that I'm sure. But only if you wish to be."

"You know how I feel about actresses, my friend. The great ones are exceptions, but the common run of stage people are—-well, common! And that I will never be!"

"As if you could be even if you tried!" was his reply. "But try writing a play. It might make your fortune."

Lily had smiled at that, but later she thought it over. Most of the drama she was acquainted with was tragedy in verse, written to be spoken eloquently and in measured cadences, as was the custom on both the French and English stage in the nineteenth century. Should she aspire to write poetry worthy of being interpreted by a Fanny Kemble? Surely she did not have such talent. But comedy was something different. She had been observing the society of the 1840's in New York and some of it struck her as so ridiculous that it deserved to be dramatized. If it made people laugh, perhaps her play would be successful.

The city had grown rapidly in the last ten years, and some of the "best" families had moved from the Washington Square district to the Gramercy Park area. Many who had newly acquired wealth moved in among them—some were her neighbors. The majority of those who had attained sudden fortunes had little education or breeding, but had incomes sufficient to enable them to buy big houses and keep many servants. Their attempts to put on a veneer of culture appealed to Lily's sense of humor. She was asked everywhere, though neither her time, which was devoted to writing, nor her new family, nor her health, which was still not very good, permitted her to accept too many invitations. Still, she had the chance to observe much, for the appearance of Anna Cora Mowatt, daughter of the Ogdens, a writer and a female daring enough to appear in public readings, was a signal for an elaborate display of wealth, as well as some absurd attempts at an acquaintance with foreign tongues, for it was known that she spoke several languages and had lived as a child in France. Crude imitators were setting the fashion for New York society, though they were shunned by the real aristocrats.

Searching for a theme, Lily decided to write about these _nouveaux riches._ She would call her play _Fashion, or Life in New York_ and "hold a mirror up to nature." As for poetry—this subject was not worthy of it. Plain prose would do, and she would make her characters speak exactly as she had often heard them speak. The plotting was not difficult. Lily had a true dramatic sense that made her know what to do with her material. She did not design the piece as an example of fine writing, but as a drama which might be acted for her own family and friends—if it were possible, as in the old days, to get a cast of players from among her own brothers and sisters. That it might one day have a place in theater history would have struck her as absurd.

It was finished in a matter of weeks. Lily was a fast writer and, once started, her amusement with the characters she was inventing carried her along rapidly. No one of them was literally copied from real life, though her enemies later accused her of caricaturing themselves and their friends.

Immediately after it was finished, the manuscript was sent to the Park Theater to the Mr. Simpson who had been her neighbor and who had later offered her a contract as an actress—hated word! It was accompanied by a recommendation from Mr. Sargent, who had considerable influence, but it is not likely that his advocacy was needed.

Mr. Simpson read the play and liked it. He gave it to his stage manager, Mr. Barry, who read it and liked it. Both felt that it would catch on. It was something new, and people like to laugh at themselves, always thinking, of course, that they are laughing at someone else. Moreover, Anna Cora Mowatt had attracted wide publicity both in writing and in the readings she had done. With her name on the program as the author, the Park Theater was willing to take the risk of an untried play and—something new—a satire on society. At a time when play scripts might remain unread on a manager's desk for months until they gathered dust and were thrown out, Lily's play was read and put into production within a few days! The most talented cast was engaged, and they had only one week's rehearsal.

This speed was bewildering but exhilarating to the young authoress. It was her first professional play. She had no knowledge of the mechanical workings of a stage, for she had never stepped upon one—only on a platform in an auditorium. She knew nothing of professional rehearsals, but she did grasp the astonishing fact that fortune had smiled on her in an unprecedented way.

She was asked to come to the theater for a session with Mr. Barry, who was both stage manager and director, and listen to a few alterations. She listened but hardly heard what he said, and made not a single protest to the changes in a few of the speeches. What she had written had not seemed particularly good to her, so she was willing to accept the judgment of experts. At the moment what she was most interested in was a financial success, for all the children needed shoes. When she rose to leave, Mr. Barry shook her hand warmly.

"Mrs. Mowatt, you have written a very remarkable play. I'm sure it will be a success."

She walked out of the theater in a daze.

With a view to estimating what the success was likely to be, she attended one of the rehearsals—the last one before the first performance. This was an author's privilege, but scant attention was paid to a writer once his script was in the hands of the cast. The author's place was at the manager's table, which was on-stage at one side. Lily, accompanied by her husband, entered the theater timidly and, far from proceeding boldly to her acknowledged place on the stage, she and James slipped quietly into a box, unseen by the actors.

They had to feel their way, for the place was dark except for a single gas jet in the center of the stage, which was sending up a blue, spectral light over the assembled actors. On stage right was the prompter's table; at left, the manager's table. The prompter, looking pale in the ghostly light, held a copy of _Fashion_ in his hands. At his side stood a "callboy," a child about ten years old, who held a long strip of paper on which was written a list of the actors with the cue to summon each from the greenroom. The actors and actresses were either on the stage playing their parts, or walking around the front of the theater with their scripts in hand, muttering over their lines. Though this was their last rehearsal, it was not a dress rehearsal.

Most of the plays that Lily had written and acted in for her own family, and those which she had attended at theaters as well, dealt with kings and queens whose costumes were gold-embroidered robes and jeweled crowns which glittered in the light thrown from the gas footlights. Although she was well aware that _Fashion_ presented no royalty, it surprised her to see actors in ordinary clothes—some in very bad taste—and to see them using substitute props for those which were reserved for the presentation on the next evening. Moreover, though the play was supposed to be ready for performance before an audience on the following night, the actors were still carrying their "sides" throughout the play, referring to their lines from .time to time. The fact that they had had only one week's rehearsal explained why they did not know their parts, but Lily wondered how they could possibly get ready in the time remaining.

At that time a prompter was an important person in a performance. He had his table just off-stage and followed the script carefully. Sometimes he had a small part to play and for that interval gave his play copy to the callboy. With one week being standard time for rehearsing a new role, it was impossible for an actor to be sure of his lines the first few nights, and the prompter was continually being called on to whisper to the actor the first words of his next speech. If the audience heard this _sotto voce_ accompaniment to the play, it paid no heed—it was used to it.

Lily realized now what a deadly serious affair a rehearsal could be. There was no laughing, no joking, as in amateur theatricals. An actor's very livelihood depended upon his success in a role, and the performers were, on this occasion, so solemn that she began to wonder if she had unconsciously written a tragedy! The actors felt grim, it was true. They were used to tried and true plays that had stood the test of time. This was new and different. Who knew how an audience would react to it?

When the rehearsal was at last over, Lily and James stumbled through the dark passage and out into the sunlight. She was thrilled. It had been a strange and exciting experience to hear the speeches she had composed being spoken by strangers as if the play were an established piece.

"Oh, James, have I really written a play ?"

"A very good one, my dear. Did you notice that, in spite of the earnestness of the cast, they could not help laughing at a few of the situations?"

"I did. But it was all so solemn. Is it possible that an audience will laugh at it?"

"Just you wait, Lily dear. I'm sure they will."

When the next evening arrived, the Mowatts sat in the same box from which they had witnessed the rehearsal. What a difference there was! The theater was flooded with light, gaily decorated, and a large orchestra was playing. The house was full. Ladies and gentlemen in evening dress filled the boxes and the dress circle. There was a stir of excitement and many comments on the possibilities of what they were to witness. Not a drama, but a _comedy,_ the advertisements had said. Unless you went back to Sheridan and Goldsmith of the eighteenth century, there were no comedies except bawdy ones. But this was supposed to be respectable and was written by a lady of one of New York's first families. Lily looked at her program, almost surprised to see her name there as the author. _Fashion, or Life in New York,_ she read, "A Comedy in Five Acts by Anna Cora Mowatt." It had all come about so fast! Yet here she was, and here also were all these important people to praise or condemn her efforts. The program announced the following cast:

Adam Trueman Mr. Chippendale

Count Jolimaitre Mr. Crisp

Colonel Howard Mr. Dyott

Mr. Tiffany Mr. Barry

Twinkle Mr. DeWalden

Fogg Mr. J. Howard

Snobson Mr. Fisher

Zeke Mr. Skerrett

Mrs. Tiffany Mrs. Barry

Prudence Mrs. Knight

Millinette Mrs. Dyott

Gertrude Miss Ellis

Seraphina Miss Horn

It was apparent that there were two husband and wife teams in the cast and, as the program indicated, they used only their last names. It was not until the early part of the twentieth century that actresses kept their maiden names for publicity, even though married, and that both men and women used their full names rather than the formal "Mr." and "Mrs."

Because the play was of a new variety, by an American, and a woman at that, the manager had felt it necessary to have a prologue written to answer questions the spectators were most likely to be concerned with, and Epes Sargent, always a facile writer, had obliged. He, above all, since he had suggested Lily's writing a play, was most anxious to have it well received. There were always prologues before tragedies. Why not before a comedy? As the music ceased, Mr. W. H. Crisp, who was to play the Count, stepped before the curtain to address the audience.

And what an audience it was! None like it had ever filled the Park Theater or, for that matter, any other theater in America. It was composed of people of social position, education, and refinement. To have an entire audience of such people was an innovation indeed. Up to now it was only in the boxes or in the second tier of the balcony, even when classics were being played, that a lady might dare to take a seat without being elbow to elbow with the "common" people, who were indeed often rowdy. The lower part of the theater still held the lower classes, descendants of the sort who in Shakespeare's day stood in the "pit" and hurled insults at the actors. Lily's early prejudice against the theater had not been without foundation. Her father and others like him had the means to purchase box seats and could thus view a theatrical production without too close association with "the great unwashed."

But because of the type of advertising the Park Theater had put out, and because of the social standing and known refinement of Anna Cora Mowatt, the social set of New York had turned out _en masse_ and, augmented by the genteel of less means, had bought out the whole theater. There were students from Columbia University and even some students from as far away as Yale College in New Haven. So it was that when Mr. Crisp stepped out to read the prologue, he addressed an audience of quality. With the production of _Fashion_ there began an era of theater for the educated and respectable, who had, until this time, formed a very small part of the attendance at any performance.

The actor held a newspaper in his hand in which he appeared thoroughly engrossed. Then, looking up, he spoke. In rhyming couplets and in humorous vein, he declared that although the play was an American product and written by a woman, it might be interesting and amusing, and he hoped the spectators would excuse its faults and appreciate its cleverness.

The audience applauded with enthusiasm and the curtain rose upon a very stylish drawing room of the period with a part of the conservatory showing upstage. Seeing the finished product, the elaborate costumes and painted scenery in the glow of the gaslights, Lily could hardly believe that she had had any part in it at all. It belonged wholly to those clever people there on the stage speaking her lines!

At the beginning of Act I, the French maid and the Negro serving man are discussing the family for whom they worked in a way that would explain them to the audience. It was a standard opening used by many playwrights before and since. Millinette has a very un-French way with the English language, and the Negro speaks as no Negro ever spoke in real life. This, however, is the way such characters were handled on the stage of the period and, in fact, until the nineteen-twenties when realism became wedded to art in the American theater.

The comedy is mainly concerned with the ludicrous efforts of Mrs. Tiffany, who was once a milliner—she has managed to trap into marriage a silk merchant who has a fortune but is fast losing it because of her extravagance—to impress people with her knowledge of fashionable ways of acting and speaking. She peppers her conversation with French phrases, atrociously mispronounced, for she got her smattering of knowledge from a book, _French Without a Master,_ rather than, strangely enough, from her maid Millinette, from whom she could have learned the correct pronunciation. It is her sister Prudence, a stupid and interfering old maid, who reveals the early career of Mrs. Tiffany who would rather die than admit that she once worked for a living.

Mrs. Tiffany is anxious to marry her daughter to Count Jolimaitre who, she says, "is so much accustomed to associate with the first nobility of his own country that he can hardly tolerate the vulgarity of Americans in general." The Count, however, is an imposter, as Millinette well knows, for she was once engaged to him. He has been a cook and a gentleman's valet and is therefore familiar with French society, so he has no trouble in deceiving Mrs. Tiffany, who introduces him to all her guests as a count. Many flock to her Thursday "at homes" for the sake of the refreshments served. One is a Mr. Twinkle, a "poet." Another is Mr. Fogg, a dull fellow, who remarks gruffly that he is "indifferent to verses," "indifferent to flowers"—in fact, he is indifferent to everything until a collation is offered and he exclaims hastily, "Oh, no, I am not indifferent to food!"

Besides Mrs. Tiffany's plan to marry off her daughter, the play shows Mr. Tiffany's effort to keep his confidential secretary, Snobson, from revealing the fact that he has forged several notes in order to satisfy the extravagant tastes of his wife. Snobson threatens to expose him unless he arranges a marriage for him with his pretty daughter, Seraphina. Thus the husband and wife are at cross- purposes. As for Seraphina, she does what her mother tells her to do and is quite taken in by the Count, unaware that he is after her money.

Gertrude is a governess who is teaching Seraphine music. She is actually the heroine of the play, the only attractive woman in it, though her part is slight. She attempts to save Seraphina from the pseudo-count and manages to get herself into a situation in which she is blamed by everyone, even Colonel Howard with whom she is in love.

An old friend of Mr. Tiffany's, Adam Trueman, arrives for a visit and manages to set everything straight, for he has all the "country virtues" and sees immediately to the heart of things. Seraphina, who has run off with the Count, comes back for her jewels which she had forgotten—but the Count had not overlooked—and is saved from the disastrous marriage. Gertrude is exonerated and her true character revealed to Colonel Howard. Tiffany is rescued from Snobson when Trueman shows the secretary that, because he knew of his employer's forgery and had not already informed the police, he is an accessory to the crime and liable to imprisonment. Millinette gets the Frenchman who, after all, appears to want her and had only masqueraded as a count because he had heard that "in America you pay homage to titles while you profess to scorn them and fashion makes the basest coin current."

Trueman exacts only one promise from his old friend Tiffany, whom he has just saved from imprisonment, and that is that, after making good his theft before it is found out, he take his wife and daughter to the country where "they can learn economy, true independence, and home virtues, instead of foreign follies." This glorifying of the supposed virtues of countryfolk as opposed to the lack of honesty in city people was a popular theme in the nineteenth century.

The audience was most appreciative, and during the five acts the theater was filled with laughter and applause. The delight with which certain characters were received showed that the spectators recognized their prototypes in the drawing rooms of New York and were glad to see them exposed.

The play ended with an epilogue which brought all the cast on stage:

PRUDENCE: I told you so! And now you hear and see. I told you Fashion would the fashion be!

TRUEMAN: Then both its point and moral I distrust.

COUNT: Sir, is that liberal?

HOWARD: Or is it just ?

TRUEMAN: The guilty have escaped! Is therefore sin made charming? Ah, there's punishment within! Guilt ever carries its own scourge along.

GERTRUDE: Virtue her own reward.

TRUEMAN: You're right, I'm wrong.

MRS. TIFFANY: How we have been deceived!

PRUDENCE: I told you so.

SERAPHINA: To lose at once a tide and a beau!

COUNT: A count no more, I'm no more of account!

TRUEMAN: But to a nobler title you may mount, And be, in time—who knows—an honest man!

COUNT: Eh, Millinette?

MILLINETTE: Oh, _oui,_ I know you can!

GERTRUDE _(to the audience)_ : But ere we close the scene, a word with you—

We charge you answer—is this picture true?

Some little mercy to our efforts show,

Then let the world your honest verdict know.

Here let it see portrayed its ruling passion,

And learn to prize at its just value— _Fashion._

At the end of the performance there was loud and prolonged clapping, and the announcement that the play would continue every night until further notice was greeted with another burst of applause, as was the announcement that the third performance would be a "benefit" for the author. This was the custom then, rather than a preliminary payment of royalty, and the author's reward would be in proportion to the attendance, which was the measure of his success.

The first performance left Lily limp but ecstatic. It had been like a dream, but the congratulations which poured in that night and the next day made her realize that she had truly created a sensation, though she modestly ascribed most of the play's success to the actors. She had, in fact, gone backstage to give each a small present as a token of her gratitude.

The next day, reviews appeared in all the New York papers. Nearly all of them were enthusiastic, terming the satire a brilliant success and a milestone in the progress of the theater. One of the critics who did not praise _Fashion_ was the famous poet and short story writer, Edgar Allan Poe, editor of the _Broadway Journal._ He wrote a scathing criticism comparing _Fashion_ to Sheridan's _School for Scandal,_ but saying that it resembled the English play in the same degree that "the shell of a locust resembles the living locust." This review was discouraging to Lily, and even an article he wrote in his paper a week later, modifying his opinions and admitting that he had attended eight performances of the play, did not erase his earlier judgment from her mind. She did not want praise unless it was justly earned and she respected Mr. Poe's intelligence.

On the occasion of her benefit, the house was literally "crammed from pit to dome." The audience was stormy in its approval, and after the last curtain there rose the call of "Author! Author!" Lily had been forewarned that this would happen and, being terrified at the thought of rising in her box to be stared at by her admirers, had provided the stage manager with a few lines expressing her appreciation and had asked him to speak for her. This is what he said:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am commissioned by Mrs. Mowatt to offer you her sincere and most grateful acknowledgment for the favor with which you have received this comedy. She desires me to express the hope that you will take it rather as an earnest of what she may hereafter do than as a fair specimen of what dramatic literature ought to be. With your permission, ladies and gentlemen, I will announce the comedy of _Fashion_ every night until further notice."

This satisfied the audience and spared Lily the embarrassment of having the spotlight turned on her. The play had a run of three weeks, a long one for those days, and it was withdrawn only because other performances had already been scheduled.

During the New York run of _Fashion,_ it was produced also in Philadelphia. The Mowatts were invited to attend and they were entertained for three days by the manager of the Walnut Street Theater at one of the finest hotels. The play was a brilliant success there as well as in New York, and Lily found it hard to decide which cast she thought the better.

When she and her husband entered their box on the opening night, they found that playbills had been especially printed for them on white satin in gold letters.

"What a thoughtful and generous tribute," murmured Lily to a friend who accompanied them, a Mrs. Mason.

"The management has been most kind," her friend answered, "but it is only what you deserve!"

At the close of the play when the actors took their bows, the cry of "Author! Author!" rose again as in New York, but this time Lily was not prepared. The audience stood and turned toward her box, and Mrs. Mason whispered, "There is no use refusing. You will be obliged to rise."

Lily whispered back, "I will, but only if you will rise with me!"

After further whispered conference, the two ladies rose and were greeted with prolonged cheering. Lily curtsied several times, blushing, and took her departure as soon as possible. She was persuaded, however, to go backstage and greet the actors, and she gave them each a present as she had done in New York.

_Fashion_ continued to be a great success. It was played all over America, later in England and Ireland, and has even been revived occasionally in the twentieth century.

It brought Lily some much-needed financial reward, for which she was thankful. But whether it was the criticism of Edgar Allan Poe or the new vocation to which she soon turned and which took all of her energy, she never attempted another comedy. In later life she wrote one other play, a drama called _Armand, Child of the People,_ which was played many times.

Her fame as an author rests mainly on the one play, _Fashion,_ not because it is a great play, which it surely is not, but because it drew a picture, only somewhat exaggerated, of American society in the middle of the nineteenth century, and because it was the forerunner of an era of drama and comedy which appealed chiefly to the well bred. Thereafter, for a period of about a hundred years, the legitimate theater offered much to inspire and little to offend the most cultivated tastes. Later on, after the advent of motion pictures and television, drama was to become food for real and pseudo-intellectuals and to revert to some of the bawdiness which characterized it at a time when "ladies" were not present in the audience.

In the young America in which Anna Cora Mowatt lived, _Fashion_ was the first social satire. Its success had a strong influence upon its author and prepared her for the next step in her own personal drama.

11: A Star Is Born

A few weeks after the success of _Fashion,_ the dim blue gas jet again flooded the stage of the Park Theater for a rehearsal—the last rehearsal—of _The Lady of Lyons,_ a popular play by Lord Lytton. The prompter sat at his table, left; the manager at his table, right. Most of the cast occupied the front rows of the theater. They were watching with great intentness the two women seated on the stage who were to portray the roles of Madame Deschapelle and her daughter Pauline. The first was a well-known actress, Mrs. Vernon. The other, in spite of years of denial that this would ever happen, was—Anna Cora Mowatt.

She was terrified. This was her first and only rehearsal with the cast for she had learned all her lines at home. The others, having played their parts before, did not need rehearsals. Looking at her small but critical audience, she said to herself desperately, "If I could but shut out all those eyes!"

There was a pause after the ladies had taken their seats. Then, "Commence, if you please," said Mr. Barry, and Mrs. Vernon spoke her first lines. Lily heard her own voice answering, and the sound of it, clear and distinct, reassured her. The initial moment of fright passed and she went through the rehearsal as if it were a performance, completely unaware of the "eyes" that had worried her at first. During the third act she was startled by a burst of applause from the other actors. It was exhilarating! Perhaps this was her vocation after all.

That Lily could be letter-perfect in a professional play without a previous rehearsal would seem almost unbelievable to someone who did not know her. But she had a remarkable memory, was used to reading in public, and had that reservoir of childhood dramatics to fall back upon.

"An actress—never!" had been Lily's stout declaration at fourteen. "I would not stoop to enter that profession!" was her indignant response to an offer from the Park Theater when she was twenty-three. Now, at twenty- six, with the need for money to support her family even greater than before, an offer had come again—this time from W. H. Crisp, who had played Count Jolimaitre in _Fashion._ For a time it had been planned that she should write a comedy to follow _Fashion_ with Mr. Crisp as leading man before his contract expired at the Park Theater, but creative imagination would not come at her bidding and she spent some futile weeks before abandoning the project. It was then suggested that Lily should take a leading role in a play and, rather to her own surprise, she did not immediately reject the idea.

What had happened to change her attitude toward the stage ? First of all, a real knowledge of it. Plays were written and produced, she had found, to provide entertainment and enlightenment to the audience, stimulation of thought and feeling, and even education. This was not at all distasteful, even to the most discriminating. She had discovered, also, that actors were only people—some good, some bad, possessing faults and virtues like those of any strata of society. That there was much crude entertainment under the name of theater, she was well aware. There were the blackface minstrels and the variety shows—the beginning of vaudeville—at which no woman with a trace of self-respect would be a spectator. But in English and French drama—little American as yet—there had been displayed the talents of several respected actresses she knew of and had seen: Charlotte Cushman, Madame Vestris, Fanny Kemble, and Rachel. She now knew also some lesser actresses of humbler position whom she both respected and admired.

She began to feel what was best expressed much later by her friend Mary Howitt. "Our readers need not be told," she wrote in 1848, "that we consider the stage as capable of becoming one of the great means of human advancement and improvement, and for this reason it is that we especially rejoice to see amongst its ornaments men and women, not only of surpassing talent and genius but, which is far higher and much rarer, of high moral character and even deep religious feeling . . . there is many a poor, despised player, whose Christian graces of faith, patience, charity, and self-denial put to shame the vaunted virtues of the proud pharisee; nor are they always the purest who talk most about purity."

Lily's change of mind about the theater came at an opportune time. The Mowatt publishing firm, which had not been making any profit for months, finally failed and James was bankrupt for the second time. The first time Lily had saved the day with her public readings. She had been supporting the family since then, though meagerly, with her writing. Now the profits from _Fashion_ had to go to satisfy the creditors, and she was faced with assuming a new task. If she had been able to resume the readings, she probably would have done so. But standing and reading for two hours was far more tiring and harder on her frail constitution than an acting part would be, with many supporting actors. In addition to this inducement, it was pointed out to her that she was now a celebrity, that packed houses would pay to see her, and that with her ability she could expect a career that would assure the family a comfortable living. Mr. Crisp was eager to have her as his leading lady and he was not slow to point out all the advantages.

She gave the matter much thought before deciding. It was not an easy thing to adopt a profession which many of her friends still considered beneath her—even those who had applauded her as a playwright. But she thought less, now, of what "people might say." She realized that she had loved drama from her earliest years, when she knew nothing about actors and theaters. She seemed suited by ability and temperament to this work—and work she knew it would be—and the moment had now come for her to make up her mind. She wrote later in her autobiography that "all things seemed to work together to force me of necessity to contemplate this step."

She needed only the agreement of her husband and of her father. James had never shared her prejudices against the theater, and she knew that he was in favor of the plan. Of her father she was not so sure. Much as she loved him, she held such a high regard for his approval that she dared not speak up herself. So, as in her runaway marriage and her debut in public readings, she asked his consent through another person. This time James was commissioned to talk to Mr. Ogden. Lily was supposed to wait outside his study, but she couldn't stand the suspense for long, and soon she pushed open the door. There stood her father with outstretched arms. She went to him and he embraced her, speaking only two words, "Brave girl!" They were enough, and she never forgot them. They sustained her whenever in later years she was tired or ill or frightened.

Both her father and her husband, while they approved her adopting an acting career, were worried about the effect it would have on her health. She had been ill so much of her life! But, she argued, she must try it out. Who knew what reserves of strength she might have ?

"I was determined," she wrote nearly twenty years later, "to fulfill the destiny which seemed visibly pointed out by the unerring finger of Providence in all circumstances, associations, and vicissitudes of my life, in my intellectual tastes and habits, and the sympathies of my emotional nature. I would become an actress." However, she continued: "The instant my projected appearance was announced, I had to encounter a flood of remonstrances from relatives and friends—opposition in every variety of form. But tears, entreaties, threats, supplicating letters could only occasion me much suffering—they could not shake my resolution."

Her debut in _The Lady of Lyons_ was scheduled for June. James had signed a contract stipulating that Mr. Crisp was to play opposite Lily for a year, sharing equally in the proceeds of every engagement. This would seem to be a very generous offer from an established actor to a novice, but Mr. Crisp felt sure of Lily's appeal for an audience **,** and was certain the arrangement would be to his advantage. He was not mistaken.

The date of the opening was only three weeks away. In that time Lily had not only to learn her part, but she had to learn how to act. To be sure, she had natural ability which she had used as an amateur, but there were established routines that all experienced actors knew, but Lily did not: how to make entrances and exits, how to sit, stand, and make crosses. Gestures and postures were in that day almost as stylized as in opera. All this she must master. Mr. Crisp had agreed to teach her what she must know and he was astonished at her capacity for work.

Lily never left anything to chance. In addition to practicing the role she was to play, she took fencing lessons to improve posture and balance, used dumbbells to strengthen her arms and chest, and exercised her voice for volume four hours a day. Thinking ahead to other roles she would play, as well as Pauline, she wore a voluminous train a part of every day so that she could learn to walk with it and handle it gracefully. She believed in being prepared.

In choosing the play in which Lily would first appear, Mr. Crisp was anxious to pick one which could not have a chance of failure. He knew that he had encouraged her to do an unprecedented thing—she was starting at the top in a star role, competing with the best actresses of her day. For that reason he selected a character well suited to her personality in a play that never failed to draw a good audience. In addition, he knew that he would be seen to the best advantage in the part of the romantic lover of Pauline.

Lily and James knew very little about the actor except what they had seen of him in his performance in _Fashion,_ and there were pitfalls ahead which they did not foresee. But they were content with his choice of play for, after all, the role of Pauline was the showpiece of every young leading woman. No one without Lily's untiring earnestness in preparing herself could have been ready for a star role in three weeks. But ready she was, and Mr. Barry was well satisfied with the rehearsal.

Her costumes were elaborate and she had tried them on before the admiring eyes of Margaret, John, and little Willie. Chosen by Mrs. Vernon, who knew what the part required, they were in the fashion of the Napoleonic era in France. Lying on her bed, all velvet and shimmering satin, they received the finishing touches at the hands of Lily's sisters, who were more excited and apprehensive than she was.

Only Julia, her beloved littlest sister, now sixteen, had the courage to attend the performance. As Lily and Julia, with James, drove by her father's house on their way to the theater, handkerchiefs were waved by those too worried about the reception Lily would receive to go with her. Their refusal to attend was not out of disloyalty but rather because of fear that they might in some way endanger her success. Her father said plainly that he was afraid his presence at the first performance might make her nervous. But James was always to be relied upon, and he left her at the stage door with calm assurances that all would be well.

How little Lily knew of the stage! She had imagined that the "star" dressing room would be a sort of boudoir, prettily and comfortably furnished. She received a most unpleasant surprise. Was this dingy, closet-like place with a shelf for a dressing table, a dim-looking glass, rickety washstand, and no comfortable chairs to be _her_ dressing room? Apparently it was, for there was a star pasted on the door, and it was here that she must dress and make herself up.

There was no such thing as street makeup for ladies in her generation, and stage makeup was an individual accomplishment since there were few cosmetics at the disposal of the actors. Mrs. Vernon had told her what to buy, but apparently no one thought of assisting her in applying it. She opened the box containing her supplies: a small pat of fresh butter, a box of rice powder, some powdered Chinese vermilion for her cheeks, a steel knitting needle, a candle, a package of wax matches, half a dozen corks, and a rabbit's foot. The last item was not brought along for luck, but for the application of rouge!

Lily set about doing her task as best she could, with no guide but common sense and bits of information she had picked up. She applied the butter to her face and gently wiped most of it off. This was for foundation. Then she rubbed rouge into her cheeks with upward strokes and dusted on the powder. Next came the most difficult task—making up her eyes. She heated the knitting needle over the candle flame until some soot clung to it. This she applied to her eyes close to the eyelashes. It took quite some time as only a tiny bit of soot would gather on the needle each time it was heated. Then she took one of the corks, burned it black in the candle flame, and rubbed it delicately over the length of her eyebrows. As a last touch, she blended some vermilion with butter and rubbed it on her lips. She gazed at her dim reflection in the mirror and was astonished at the effect. She looked glamorous, but oh, so very much made up! This was the only way, she had been told, of counteracting the effect of the stage lights and to the audience she would appear natural. Having seen many plays by now, she was satisfied that this was true. She only hoped she had done a good job.

With no one to help her, she dressed in her first-act gown and had barely finished when a tap on her door announced the callboy. When she opened the door, he said, "Pauline, you are called."

Not knowing that it was customary to address actors by their stage names even if the speaker was a small boy, she was offended and replied sharply, "Called for what?"

"For what?" he repeated with an impudent grin. "Why, for the stage, that's what!" He ran away, laughing.

Lily blushed under her makeup. What a foolish thing not to have understood at first! Now he was probably telling the others how silly she was. Up to now she had not had an uncomfortable moment. She had heard of stage fright, had even experienced it for a few minutes before her first reading, but she was not frightened now. She was letter-perfect in her part, speaking from memory was not new to her, she was used to audiences—why should she be worried? The man who played comedian roles in the company and was known as the "comic" had told her she was sure to have stage fright, but she had not believed him. Still, the call to be on stage, coupled with her blunder, made her a bit uneasy.

Her husband appeared, then, to accompany her to the stage and she found that Mrs. Vernon was already seated at the table in Mme. Deschapelle's "drawing room." James whispered words of encouragement and left to join Julia in the audience. Lily sat down in her appointed place and heard the stage manager say, "Clear the stage, ladies and gentlemen." Someone arranged her train, smoothed her hair, and left quickly as the bell rang for the rising of the curtain.

At that moment Lily was seized with a choking sensation and the feeling that she could not utter a word. She managed to gasp out: "Not yet—I cannot!" The actors must have anticipated something of the sort, for everyone rushed on stage, some with water, some with smelling salts, some to fan her. It would be a fine thing, they thought, if the leading lady collapsed now! Lily was making a desperate attempt to regain her self-possession. She caught a glimpse of the "comic" behind the group surrounding her. He was making funny motions, grinning, and he said, "Didn't I tell you?" Somehow this brought back her composure and she began to laugh, which alarmed the stage manager even more. However she really was all right now, and told him in a calm voice that she was ready. The other actors rushed off, the curtain rose, and the play was on.

But not quite begun. The house was packed and hundreds had been turned away. As the new leading lady was revealed to the sea of spectators, they burst into applause. It was a tribute, not only to the daughter of a well-known citizen, but to the lady of the lovely voice who had entranced many with her poetry readings. Lily did not know what to do.

"Bow! Bow!" whispered a voice from the wings. She bowed.

"Bow to the right." She bowed to the right.

"Bow to the left." She bowed to the left. Still the applause continued.

"Bow again!" commanded the stage manager, and Lily continued to bow until the applause died down.

After such a welcome, what could she do but her best? And again, as in her readings, her best was very good indeed. Time and again the audience thundered its approval, spontaneous and sincere. Here was a new star, and a theater thronged with the elite of New York society, the wealthiest and best-educated group in America, was not slow to recognize it. There was a certain factor in her favor which helped her succeed. Although Lily had to project a character, the personality could be her own, and for her first attempt, that was a distinct advantage.

In _The Lady of Lyons,_ Pauline is the daughter of a wealthy merchant, and she is much admired and sought after in marriage. For years the gardener's son, Claude Melnotte, has loved her from afar, and as the play opens, he has dared to write her a letter expressing his love. The letter is thrown on the floor and the messenger who brought it is beaten—a treatment which infuriates Claude. Circumstances provide revenge for him in the person of one Beausant, a rich suitor who has been rejected by Pauline. He and his friend think it a great joke on the lady to pass off the peasant youth as a prince and introduce him to her circle of friends. She at once falls in love with Claude, and a marriage is arranged by her father who is overwhelmed with joy that royalty should condescend to be allied to a merchant's family.

The wedding takes place and the couple start off for the prince's supposed estates, which he has described as decorated with fountains and gardens beautiful beyond belief and filled with many-colored birds. Actually Claude is taking Pauline to his mother's house, a poor hovel, and expects her awakening to the truth will gratify his desire for revenge. However, he has fallen more in love with her than ever, and on the journey he wishes he had never started the deception. When he has to tell Pauline the truth and show her her future home, he is overcome with remorse. Feeling that he must not stay in the same house with her that night, he leaves her with his mother and begs her to forgive him. Though she is haughty and angry, she shows that underneath she does love him and wishes their positions in the world were not so different.

Beausant calls the next morning to enjoy her discomfiture and is annoyed to find out that Claude intends to return her to her parents so that she may have the marriage annulled. This he does, and then goes off to the wars with her cousin Damas. In two years he returns, having risen to the rank of colonel and attained riches as well, so that he is now her equal. He is just in time, for while he has been away the merchant's business has failed and he has arranged to marry her to Beausant to save his fortune. When Claude finds out how much money is needed, he produces that amount at once and is overjoyed to find out that Pauline still loves him. All ends happily.

Lily endowed the sympathetic character of Pauline with her own sweetness and integrity and, spurred by the approval of the audience, rose to great heights in the long, eloquent passages of iambic pentameter. But the three weeks of intense effort was telling on her. She felt her strength ebbing away, and in the fourth act Mrs. Vernon had to prod and pinch her as she held her in a tender embrace, to bring back color to her cheeks. As it was, she got through the act only because she had little to say. In the fifth act she was supposed to be full of grief and, as she described it long after, "My very weariness aided the personation. The pallor of excessive fatigue, the worn-out look, the tottering walk, and feeble voice suited Pauline's deep despair." The fall of the last curtain seemed to her heaven-sent!

She rallied, however, to the ovation which shook the theater. As she took her bows, the whole house rose, ladies as well as gentlemen. They not only applauded, they cheered, while the men waved their hats and the ladies fluttered their handkerchiefs. As the curtain rose for countless calls, bouquets were literally rained upon the stage. The other actors gathered them up and laid them in her arms and, with a generous gesture, she presented the handsomest wreath to Mr. Crisp.

There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Anna Cora Mowatt was an actress to be admired and applauded throughout a long career. Lily had at last found her true calling, after many years of denying it and, tired as she was, with that first performance she recognized her vocation. She was an actress. She had always been an actress and would continue to be one as long as her strength held out.

She was an actress and she was also a lady. A new element had entered the profession. No longer could the American public look down on all actresses as cheap and socially unacceptable. One of the members of high society had just joined the ranks. Just as _Fashion_ had set a new standard for the quality of audiences, so Anna Cora Mowatt's career lifted the acting profession for women to a respectable level in America.

She was very happy on the evening of her debut. She had entered a new sphere and one which thrilled her. More than that, she had won acclaim on her very first appearance! Tired but relaxed in the glow of praise, she drove home with James and Julia. When the carriage stopped at her father's house to let her sister out, Mr. Ogden was at the steps and opened the carriage door himself.

"Oh, Papa," Lily cried, "if only you had been there!"

"But of course I was there," he answered, reaching in to embrace her fondly. "Did you think I could bear not to be ? I didn't let you know, and I sat in the back of one of the boxes, but I saw it all. It was a triumph, my dear. I am the proudest father in the world tonight!"

Anna Cora Mowatt as Beatrice in Shakespeare's _Much AdoAbout Nothing_

Chapter 12: The Actress

Anna Cora Mowatt, actress, was exhausted as she dropped into bed after her success on that June night in 1845, but she awoke refreshed. It was as a new woman that she entered upon a career which required not only all her talents, but a physical energy that she had not heretofore possessed.

First of all there were the reviews of her first performance, all of them complimentary and most of them "raves." Her charm was stressed, her dignity and poise, her beauty, and her eloquent voice. No word of criticism was leveled at her lack of acting experience. On the contrary, she was already compared favorably with the best actresses of the day. And above all, it was her lack of artificiality that won her admirers. So naturally did she recite blank verse and move about the stage that it was hard to believe she was acting.

This was the beginning of a year in which she appeared for two hundred nights, making a tour of the United States as far west as the Mississippi River, and every performance was a financial and artistic success. During this time she played all the heroines of drama and comedy popular in the 1840's, including Shakespeare's Juliet and Beatrice, and Lady Teazle in _The School for Scandal,_ by Richard Sheridan. She also acted in her own play, _Fashion,_ which was often requested. The part of Gertrude was such a letdown from her powerful roles that she wished she had known when she wrote the play that someday she would act in it—she would have made the feminine lead a stronger part.

After New York came Philadelphia, and there Lily experienced for the first time—and almost the only time—the reaction of an unfriendly audience. It was not unfriendly to her, however, but to her leading man, Mr. Crisp. He went on stage almost too drunk to act his part. Lily, who had never before encountered at close range anyone in that condition, thought he was perhaps ill, but the audience knew better. At first the hisses were scattered and low, but soon gained enough volume to drown out the speeches and the play had to be cut short. Lily was nervous and distressed. What could be the reason for those horrible noises from out front? During the curtain calls, Lily was applauded so that she might know that she was not the cause of displeasure, but Mr. Crisp was loudly and unmistakably hissed off the stage. Lily, still not understanding, had to be enlightened by her husband. It was strange that Crisp should so jeopardize his career, and though his misconduct was never repeated and Lily was under contract to appear with him for a year, she held no conversation with him outside that required by their acting together. She could not quite forgive him for making an appearance of hers before the footlights such a mortifying experience.

Lily was happy to be doing something that was bringing in the much-needed money to support her family, but the Grey children presented a problem. They were very dear to her, but how could they be cared for when she was traveling about all the time? A friend found the solution for her, and the children were sent to a farm in Greenfield, Connecticut, where they could have the fresh air and good food which would help to combat their tendency to consumption. Margaret stayed with one family and the two boys with another. Lily wrote to them regularly and sent them presents, and when she was in New York from time to time, she had them visit her.

In Philadelphia Lily acted in a then popular play, _The Honeymoon,_ and in _The Bride of Lammermoor,_ a dramatization from the novel of Sir Walter Scott. She played in Boston, Buffalo, and Baltimore, and then went back to the Park Theater in New York to open the fall season. It was announced that although Mr. Simpson of the Park Theater had engaged the English actors, Charles Kean and Ellen Tree for the season, and had "numerous and distinguished _artistes_ from abroad, he gives precedence to Mrs. Mowatt who opens the season. This is a delicate compliment to the talents of this accomplished native artist."

But it was in Charleston, South Carolina, during the month of December, that Lily played the most arduous engagement of her life. She learned six new parts and appeared in a repertory of sixteen plays. This was a tremendous test of the brilliance of her mind and the endurance of her body. The rehearsals were endless. They usually started at eight in the morning and continued till one or two o'clock—sometimes until curtain time in the evening—with little time out to snatch a bite of food. After the night's performance, there was a new part to learn. In Lily's autobiography, she says: "Often I returned from the theater wearied out in mind and body, yet I dared not rest. The character to be presented on the succeeding night still required several hours of reflection and application. Sometimes I kept myself awake by bathing my throbbing temples with iced water as I committed the words to memory."

Although Lily enjoyed the long hours and hard work because of the thrill of acting before appreciative audiences, she didn't get enough rest. This was clearly shown when, during a performance of _The School for Scandal,_ she actually fell asleep on the stage. It was during the well-known scene when Lady Teazle (Lily) hides behind a screen to prevent her husband from discovering her rash behavior in calling upon an unmarried gentleman in his apartment. The scene between the two men lasts about twenty minutes. Lily first sat down on the floor behind the screen, since no chair was provided. Her head began to nod and finally she gave way to an irresistible urge to lie down. Regardless of Lady Teazle's fine costume and ostrich plumes, Lily pillowed her head on her arm, and the voices on stage grew fainter and fainter. The next thing she heard was a stage whisper, hissed frantically from the wings, "Mrs. Mowatt, wake up! For goodness' sake, wake up! You'll be caught by the audience when Charles Surface pulls the screen down! Good gracious, do wake up!" Lily sprang to her feet, kicked her train into place, and stood revealed with just the right amount of confusion as the screen was whisked away. This was a narrow escape which she never allowed to happen again.

Nothing in her past would have led one to believe that Lily could stand the strain to which she was being subjected. In addition to rehearsals, memorizing parts, and seldom acting in the same play two nights running, there was the traveling, at that time always a tiring and sometimes hazardous experience. She journeyed back and forth between New York and the South, to Richmond and Charleston where by now she had many friends; to Savannah, to New Orleans on the Mississippi, and then back again to Boston or Buffalo. Although the company traveled by river boat when it was possible, on the Mississippi and the Ohio, their usual means of transportation was the stagecoach. The roads were bad, the coaches painfully jolting, and often either mud or snow delayed their journeys, leaving them for long hours without food or rest. Yet, though previously so frail, Lily did not break under these ordeals. Instead, she improved. The stimulus of continued success, plus the excitement of travel and the unvarying enthusiasm of her audiences, acted as a tonic. At the end of the year, she was in better health than ever before.

If Edgar Allan Poe, the critic, had hurt her feelings by his initial reviews of her play, _Fashion,_ he more than made up for it by his sincere tribute to her ability as an actress. He wrote much about her and his concluding paragraph in the _Broadway Journal_ of August 2, is praise such as few actresses have ever received:

In taking leave of Mrs. Mowatt for the present, we have only to record our opinion that, if she be true to herself, she is destined to attain a very high theatrical rank. With the exception of mere physical force, she has all the elements of a great actress. Her conceptions of character are good, her elocution is excellent, though still susceptible of improvement. Her beauty is of the richest and most impressive character. Her countenance is wonderfully expressive. Her self-possession is marvelous. Her step is queenly. Her general grace of manner has never, in our opinion, been equaled on the stage—most decidedly it has never been surpassed. These qualities alone would suffice to assure her a proud triumph—but she possesses a quality beyond all these—enthusiasm—unaffected freshness of the heart, the capacity not only to think but to _feel!_

All this for a novice in acting who, despite her inexperience, could fill theaters throughout the country. And, on this year-long tour, she often followed, by only a few days, another actress in the same roles—the celebrated Ellen Tree, England's greatest star at the time.

That Lily was accomplishing something remarkable in the American theater is made clear by Laurence Hutton, a critic who was familiar with her acting and fifty years later paid her this tribute:

In the annals of the stage of all countries, there is no single instance of a mere novice playing so many times before so many different audiences and winning so much merited praise as did Mrs. Mowatt during the first twelve months of her career as an actress.

Lily's fans were constantly suggesting that she appear with another leading man, particularly Edwin Forrest, America's foremost actor at this time, but Lily had to fulfill her contract with W. H. Crisp. Apart from the legality of the bargain, and although she still could not forgive him for ruining her appearance in a theater by his misconduct in Philadelphia, she did feel obligated to him for having taught her enough stage techniques before her debut to enable her to play a starring role successfully. But when her contract expired, which occurred during an engagement in Mobile, Alabama, she was in a position to select her leading man from among practically all the actors in America. She did not select Mr. Forrest, but a lesser-known actor with ten years' experience. He had been highly recommended to James, who was, of course, her business manager and accompanied her everywhere, by several people, including their friend Epes Sargent. His name was Edward Loomis Davenport. He had good looks, education, experience in the theater, and the instincts and manners of a gentleman. Lily was well pleased with him and a nine months' tour was immediately arranged. Davenport admired Lily greatly and was happy to be asked to act with her. Thus was formed a successful team that played together for two years and continued thereafter a lifelong friendship.

Before the beginning of the second year of touring, Lily did have a rest. Most of the summer was spent on Long Island with James. She took long walks and swam every day. She also took fencing lessons for she was determined to make herself physically strong.

The season started off well with a performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ at the Park Theater in New York, Mr. Davenport appearing with Lily for the first time. They went then to Buffalo and from there to Baltimore where, in their first performance, an accident forced them to cancel their engagement. Lily was rushing to her dressing room to change when she collided with the high boots of a sleeping stagehand who had draped them over a sofa at about the height of her head. She made her change, but when she returned to the stage, she could not speak. A blood vessel had broken in her throat, and she was almost suffocated by the flow of the blood which was choking her. She was forced to stay in bed for ten days, but after that she continued the tour. This was only the first of many accidents and illnesses which interrupted but could not cancel her career.

Most of her trouble came from fatigue and attacks of bronchitis, but there were some accidents which, not causing any great damage, were somewhat humorous. Lily had a marvelous sense of humor and it never failed her. _Romeo and Juliet_ proved a particularly dangerous play. In the balcony scene, for example, she seemed to find it necessary to lean on the railing, no matter how many times she was warned that the stage carpenters had not made it very strong. Fortunately she never fell, but she had some narrow escapes. In the scene in the tomb where Juliet stabs herself after Romeo has drunk the poison from the vial, Lily was supposed to have her own "prop" dagger made of rubber, but she was forever forgetting it. When this happened, she would slip Romeo's dagger from his belt, which she could do without the audience being aware of it, and use that. Her acting was nothing if not realistic, and the stabbing was done with fervor. On one such occasion, as she held Romeo's dagger high above her head and was about to plunge it into her breast, she heard a hoarse whisper from the supposedly dead Romeo, "Look out! It's very sharp!" Romeo had been using a real dagger that evening! On another occasion, in the same play, the property man had forgotten the vial he was supposed to give Friar Lawrence when he entered for his scene with Juliet. Without thinking, he picked up the first bottle he could lay his hands on, which was, in due course, passed on to Juliet. When Lily, as Juliet, had put the potion to her lips and swallowed, she noticed a brilliant red stain on her fingers. In a moment, at the close of the scene, the prompter rushed on stage and cried, "Good gracious, you've been drinking from my bottle of red ink!" Lily smiled bravely and repeated a remark which, she had heard, had been uttered by a man in similar circumstances, "Quick, let me swallow a sheet of blotting paper!"

It was in New Orleans that she played in the most magnificent theater in America. A wealthy man had built it ten years before at a cost of $350,000—then a stupendous sum. It had a stage fifty-three feet wide and forty- four feet high and a seating capacity of forty-one hundred. One of its most spectacular features was a chandelier which cost $10,750. It was thirty-six feet in circumference, had two hundred and fifty gas jets, and twenty-three thousand, three hundred cut-glass pendants! It was in New Orleans, too, that she met the distinguished leader of the Whig political party, Henry Clay of Kentucky. Epes Sargent, who had been writing Clay's biography, arranged that the theatrical company and Mr. Clay and his associates should travel up the Mississippi River to Louisville on the same steamer. It was a five-day trip much enjoyed by Lily, and Mr. Clay became her staunch admirer. As they passed the city of Memphis, he became extravagant in its praise and made her promise never to pass it again without giving a performance—a promise she kept.

New York, Boston, Providence, and Buffalo in the North; Baltimore, Richmond, Savannah, New Orleans, and Mobile in the South; Louisville and Cincinnati in the Midwest—Lily and Davenport played in them all, and everywhere they had success. Having achieved such recognition in her own country, it was only natural that Lily should want to conquer London as well, for actors and actresses of the greatest reputation came from England. After the close of the second season, James went to London to make arrangements.

He was gone for several months, and during this summer in which she "rested," Lily wrote a play—her second. It was called _Armand, or the Child of the People,_ a romantic drama in five acts. It was produced in New York and Boston the next fall and was a huge success. Her novel, _Evelyn,_ had recently been published, and a new edition of _The Fortune Hunter_ was brought out. Because the author's name was now so well known, they both became bestsellers. Lily was the idol of the public and her least effort became a triumph.

London, always conservative and particularly hostile to American actors at this time, was slower to accept her. Even Edwin Forrest had failed to find a following there. Lily, courageous, though a bit nervous now, put forth her best and eventually won a high place in the hearts of English theatergoers. But it was difficult at first.

She was scheduled to open in Manchester on December sixth in _The Lady of Lyons._ After a miserable Atlantic crossing in the month of November, Lily braced herself for rehearsals with the cast, all of whom except for Davenport and herself, were English. The cast was cold and unfriendly, the advance notices anything but cordial, and the two Americans could only expect the worst on the opening night. There was only polite applause after each of the first three acts, but after the fourth there was considerably more warmth, and after the last curtain a prolonged demonstration of approval. The papers next morning were full of praise, and a paragraph from _The Manchester Guardian_ explained the hesitancy with which they had at first been received:

Exaggeration of a peculiar kind, if not rant, has been so uniformly a characteristic of all the American actors whom we have seen, that we have been induced to view it as an attribute of the American stage. That it is not an inseparable attribute, the chastened style of the artists . . . who made their English debut at our Theater Royal on Monday evening in _The Lady of Lyons_ satisfactorily demonstrates.

But Manchester was not London. After a two weeks' engagement in Manchester, they began rehearsals in London for a six weeks' run of a variety of plays beginning with _The Hunchback._ If the players at the Theater Royal had been reserved, those at the Princesses' were definitely hostile. Lily and Davenport got through the rehearsal week as well as they could and hoped for the best.

When Lily was dressing for the first performance, the wardrobe mistress presented her with a garment she had made for her because, she said, "I noticed you hadn't more figure than a beanstalk." It was very tight but elaborately padded in the proper places, and Lily found it most uncomfortable. She wore it, however, not wishing by a refusal to add anything to the chilly atmosphere that already surrounded her. The first three acts went grimly with no encouragement from either the audience or the other players. In the third act, one of the cast gave vent to his animosity, which could have been partly envy, by playing a mean trick on the visiting star. In rehearsals, when he asked her to look at a mirror which was off-stage, he had pointed, by agreement, to the left. Lily, who could not see him because he was standing behind her, would look to the left. But in performance he pointed, instead, to the right. Lily, unaware of what he had done, looked to the left, and the audience tittered. This sort of response is unnerving to the best of actors. But there was more to come. As she seated herself beside him in the following scene, he planted his foot firmly on the train of her gown. Knowing that she must jump up in a moment in joyful anticipation of her lover's arrival, Lily tried in vain to attract his attention, but he appeared oblivious. It was impossible, therefore, for her to do justice to a dramatic scene without the danger of losing her skirt, a catastrophe she dared not risk. Immediately after this episode, Mr. Davenport, who played her lover, made his first entrance. Seeing his familiar face, she launched into the romantic scene with such abandon that the curtain came down to thunderous applause. Quite mistress of herself now, Lily rushed to her dressing room and removed the awful garment which had added physical discomfort to the miserable evening. In the fifth act, she was noticeably slimmer, but she played well and naturally, and the audience gave her generous applause at the final curtain. The newspaper notices, too, were, on the whole, appreciative.

The next performance, which was _Much Ado About Nothing,_ was a real test of her ability to play Shakespeare to an English audience. Most of the reviews were favorable, but the _London Times_ printed nothing at all. This was a disappointment since it carried such weight with the public. It was not until near the end of her engagement that a column finally appeared in the paper, reviewing in general the appearance of the American actress and speaking kindly of her. Quite by accident she found out the reason for the _Times'_ neglect of her when she met the critic at a tea. He had not thought her performances worthy of his attention until he was induced by the Earl of Carlisle to attend a performance. Lily had never met the Earl, but it turned out that he was a friend of Henry Clay of Kentucky. Thus her meeting with Clay on the trip on the Mississippi had a fortunate result.

Lily had now overcome the first obstacles in her conquest of London audiences. She even had an offer from William Charles Macready, a very popular English actor whose best role was his King Lear. She regretfully refused his offer to become his leading lady, knowing that her forte was high comedy and romance, and she was at this time afraid to attempt a portrayal of Shakespeare's tragic queens.

However, her popularity was growing, she received another offer, and James signed a contract for her to appear, with Davenport, of course, in a series of plays which were to open the Marylebone Theater the next fall. A young man by the name of Walter Watts had secured a lease on the newly renovated theater and had become its manager. Though inexperienced, he made a good impression on James and Lily and offered an excellent financial arrangement. He spared no expense in making the productions as artistically perfect as possible with beautiful scenery and especially designed costumes. Little by little, in the next season, Lily was becoming the most popular actress playing in London. The high point of the year was the production of her own play, _Armand,_ whose subtitle had to be changed, because of its democratic implications, to _The Peer and the Peasant._ It was a great success and was immediately published.

Fanny Vining was a member of the Marylebone company. Lily was very fond of her, and Davenport fell in love with her and persuaded her to become his wife. Years later their daughter, also Fanny, became a famous actress on the American stage.

The first two years in England, despite the weather, were years of sunshine for Lily and James. During July and August of 1849, they visited some famous spots in the English countryside—Hampton Court, Shakespeare's birthplace, Kenilworth and Warwick Castles—and they spent several weeks on the Isle of Wight. Lily wrote later: "For the first time in my life I comprehended the delightful interpretation of the words, 'perfect health' . . . The English climate seemed to have endowed me with an elasticity and strength which defied fatigue ... I could undergo any amount of hill climbing, or wagon jolting, or horseback galloping." In August they hired a pretty cottage at Richmond, a few miles up the Thames River from London. Its windows were draped in jasmine, the fragrance of which flooded the rooms. She was never to forget this idyllic spot, where she spent perhaps the happiest leisure hours of her life. There were to be two Richmonds in Lily's life, but this was the one she cherished.

The season of 1848–1849 was the high point in Lily's career. She had won her battle with English audiences and critics, and was now considered as one who had talent and personal charm equal to any woman on the British stage. Acclaimed as an authoress as well, she was recognized as one of the most gifted women in public life. Wealth, also, was hers again, and she had an admiring circle of friends who gathered in her drawing room in Baker Street. There were Mr. Davenport, Fanny Vining, and others—the most admiring of whom was Walter Watts with whom she had signed a contract for the entire season, an unusually long engagement.

During this second year, a different theater was to be used. It was to be the Olympic Theater, which Watts was having rebuilt. Its renovation was taking all of his money, and since it seemed a sound investment and he was such a good friend, James gave him all of Lily's savings as well, several thousand dollars. She had laughingly asked him, when he made plans for the new theater, if he could change the star's dressing room from "the usual black cell." He had agreed, but she was astonished, when she returned to the Marylebone Theater in September, to find her dressing room there transformed. It was carpeted in thick green velvet with a pattern of roses, bunches of roses adorned the wallpaper and garlands were painted on the ceiling; the lighting fixtures were in the shape of water lilies; large mirrors were on the walls; and the furniture was gold, upholstered in satin. Nothing like it had ever been seen before in the back stage area of a theater, and Lily was delighted. It was just one of the ways in which little Mr. Watts—he was of small stature—showed his devotion to Lily, a devotion which was apparent to all. Because he never overstepped the bounds of propriety, she accepted it as true friendship.

The season was off to an auspicious start, and the London critics outdid themselves in an effort to reverse their half-hearted attitude toward the new star the year before. Lily was understandably happy at this new praise and looked forward to a succession of triumphs. Then something happened which spoiled it all. Her beloved James was suddenly stricken with a recurrence of his old ailment and within a week had lost the sight of one eye. He lost weight and was quite ill. Several doctors agreed that he must go to a warmer climate. It was hard for Lily to let him go alone, but she had engagements to fulfill, and money was needed to finance the trip. James induced her to stay in London, but he did not want her to be left alone. A fortunate solution was found when the Davenports, Edward and Fanny, invited her to occupy the lower floor of the house they were renting and they would remain in the upper apartment. In this way she would not feel so lonely.

The winter was a difficult one even though, according to the London critics, the fine acting and the beautiful scenery displayed at the Olympic Theater under the management of Watts had raised the drama to new heights. Lily's spirits were lifted, temporarily, by the opportunity to purchase, quite reasonably, several of the court and ball gowns of Queen Victoria's aunt, Queen Adelaide, who had recently died. Since all players at that time had to furnish their own costumes, Lily felt herself especially fortunate.

She was, however, working too hard. Her remarkable memory was forsaking her and she was forgetting her lines. The news from James was not good, and her adopted daughter, Margaret Grey, was very ill with consumption. Then one evening, just before she left her rooms for the night's performance, she was informed with shocking suddenness that both the Marylebone and Olympic Theaters were closed as of that moment, and her friend, Mr. Watts, was in jail. This was the last straw. Lily became very ill with meningitis—it was called brain fever then—the most serious illness she had ever had in a life filled with sickness. She was not really conscious for four months.

Mr. Davenport felt responsible for her, and when the doctors had done all they could, to no avail, he used the method which had worked so well for her years before, a type of hypnotic treatment which Epes Sargent had taught him before he and Lily left for England—to be used in just such an emergency. It helped her during the course of the fever and her convalescence, but though she talked, as in her former trances, she was not aware of her actual surroundings.

Perhaps it was just as well that she did not have to know, while she was so ill, what was happening to Walter Watts. His was a strange and tragic story. He had for years been employed as a bookkeeper for an insurance agency, and he continued this work while he managed the two theaters where Lily acted. He had always been stage-struck, but it was when he first saw Lily that he determined to take an active part in the theater. Though he adored her, he never declared himself; he respected her and she was married. But he did provide a splendid setting for her London career, and all this was done with money he embezzled from the insurance company. He had not intended to cause Lily to lose her savings. The theaters were beginning to show a profit, and he was able to cover up his borrowings until one day when a sudden audit showed his accounts to be short. That was the end for him. The theaters were closed and he went on trial soon after. The evening he was sentenced to ten years in prison, he was found dead in his cell. He had hanged himself. Around his neck was a chain with a locket containing a picture of Anna Cora Mowatt, and he had hanged himself with a silk scarf—presumably hers.

James returned to London, only a little better, before Lily recovered from her illness. He was shocked when he saw her for, during her delirium, when no one would do it for her, she had cut off her beautiful hair, and it was just beginning to grow out. She, in her turn, found him greatly changed. He was even thinner than before and walked like an old man.

Gradually Lily regained her strength till she was able to act again, but James grew steadily worse. They were now in desperate financial straits and Lily felt she must take the best offer she could get. Unfortunately there was at the moment no place for her in London, but an engagement was offered her in Dublin, and though she hated to leave James, she had to do so. The woman who had been her maid became James's nurse, and the maid's sister, a Mrs. Renshaw, who had been wardrobe mistress at the Olympic, accompanied Lily to Dublin as her maid and, ever afterward, her faithful companion.

Every day during the run of the play in Dublin, Lily had a letter from James, but not always in his own handwriting for sometimes he was unable to hold a pen. He had many friends who visited him and cared for him, and Lily tried not to worry. When she was free to return to England, it was with high hopes, for the last letter had told her that James was feeling better. She could not go straight to London, for she had to fulfill a contract at Newcastle, in the northeast. And it was there, at the beginning of a performance, that she had word of her husband's death. At his bedside had been several close friends, one of them Edward Davenport, of whom they were both so fond.

Dear James! How could she live without him! He had left her three letters and her tears flowed freely as she read them. One pertained to business and explained things about her contracts. The second referred to her career and expressed his strong desire that she should continue acting. It told of his love for the little Greys and his hopes for their education. The third was a farewell, full of tender emotion and gratitude for their past life together. Lily had met James when she was thirteen, and since that time nearly every moment had been spent in his company. In spite of financial trouble and blindness, he had protected her in every way possible, always thinking of her welfare, never complaining of his own pain. She felt bereft and alone.

But she was not really alone. She had many friends to help her over this hard time. After six weeks in which she struggled to get over her grief, she made a tour of the English provinces and then, with Mrs. Renshaw to accompany her, she returned to New York. The ship on which they sailed, the _Pacific,_ struck a reef off the coast of Newfoundland, but was finally able to continue and arrived in New York at eleven o'clock on the night of the thirteenth day. After three years abroad, Lily was eager to sec her family and succeeded in hiring a coach to take them to Ravenswood, her father's home. They arrived at one o'clock in the morning and were greeted with great excitement by several of the sisters who were there and, more calmly but with great affection, by Mr. Ogden. The house was a happy and bustling place for several days, for besides the sisters who were there to greet her, there were two new daughters added to Mr. Ogden's family and any number of nieces and nephews.

Lily immediately prepared for a tour of the country, during which she would present the most popular plays in her repertory. First of all, she was heartily and noisily welcomed when she appeared at the Park Theater in New York—a new one, for the old Park had burned down for the third time—in her own play, _Armand._ Her journey was like a queen's progress from city to city. Everywhere she received official greetings, found her hotel rooms filled with flowers, and played to jam-packed houses of devoted followers who were eager to welcome her back. She wished that James could be with her, but being in her own country with so many good friends did make her feel less alone.

Transportation was, as usual, difficult, and one of her journeys, from St. Louis to Philadelphia, just before Christmas, stands out as one of the most taxing trips on record for any actress of the time, let alone the fragile Lily. There was to be a family reunion in Philadelphia, and she had promised to direct her sisters in a performance of her old play, _Gulzara._ The play was to be followed, as usual, with a ball and Lily was to be the guest of honor. She was determined that nothing should prevent her being present as planned—and nothing did. But what a trip it was!

On December thirteenth, with her devoted Renshaw, she left St. Louis on the steamboat _Robert Rogers_ for Pittsburgh, but on the second day it snowed and by the third day of the journey the steamer was stuck fast in the ice. The captain held out little hope of a thaw and was of the opinion that it would be three weeks before he could get under way. Three weeks! They were near a tiny town, a mere cluster of cottages, and Lily was determined to seek help there, though she was hardly equipped for a trip over the ice. As for Renshaw, she had never seen a frozen river and was speechless with terror at the idea of Lily's attempting a crossing. However, before Lily could put into effect her hazardous plan, she received an offer of help from two gentlemen, passengers on another steamer stranded near them. Having learned that the popular actress was on board the _Robert Rogers,_ they made their way over to introduce themselves and insisted on escorting her to Philadelphia by whatever means possible. Philadelphia was eight hundred miles away!

The men walked ashore over the ice and chartered the only available vehicle—an oxcart. Two horses were, fortunately, procured to draw it and, after collecting Lily and Renshaw and loading on their baggage, they set off. When they reached Evansville, Indiana, the next morning, they found that all the places on the stage, which was about to leave for Vincennes, were taken, but they were saved by a gallant gentleman from Baltimore who offered them four tickets. At Vincennes they took another stage. This one became mired and had to be pried out of the mud with fence rails. Finally, the road becoming even worse, they completed the trip to Terre Haute on foot. After only two hours of rest, Lily, Mrs. Renshaw, and their escorts set out for Indianapolis, after which it took three more stages to get them to Cleveland. From there they had the relief of a railway train, but before reaching Pittsburgh they had to take a stage again. It was Christmas Eve when they arrived in Pittsburgh, and Christmas Day was spent in a coach with only frozen biscuits for dinner!

They went by train over the Alleghenies and, by the end of the day after Christmas, were thankfully nearing Philadelphia when the train ran into a snow bank and could go no farther. Lily, looking anxiously out of the window, realized that the scene was familiar—that they were only about a mile from her sister's home.

"Come on, Renshaw," she cried, "we'll walk and our baggage can be sent for later!" Thus it was that the two women, bedraggled and covered with snow, arrived at the reunion, accompanied by one faithful escort who had completed the trip with them. They were greeted with joy and relief by Lily's anxious sisters. The trip from the _Robert Rogers_ had taken fourteen days!

_Gulzara_ and the Christmas festivities went as planned, and all the Ogdens had a glorious time. How thankful Lily was that she had persevered in her attempt to be present in spite of almost insurmountable difficulties.

*

Lily's first engagement in January was in Richmond, Virginia, where a brother-in-law lived with his three sons. She was to play there for a week. She had acted there before and attached no particular importance to this appearance. It was, however, a most momentous one for her.

The editor of _The Richmond Enquirer,_ William Foushee Ritchie, a tall, red-haired southern gentleman, had never forgotten her. When he had seen her nine years before, he had been dazzled by her beauty of voice and figure and the glamour that surrounded her. Here she was again in his city, more beautiful than before, and a widow. He set about making her aware of him. His papers were full of the most extravagant praise of her charm and her acting. Every day he sent her notes, flowers, gifts. He overwhelmed her with attention and, although he did not declare himself a suitor, she could hardly be unaware of his feelings.

She continued her tour, going next to Baltimore, and she took with her her brother-in-law's son, Stanislas Guillet, who was then seventeen, as an escort. Since James's death, she needed someone on her tours who could perform little services such as looking after the baggage and other tasks not suitable for ladies to perform. The boy was delighted to accompany her.

Ritchie did not relax his pursuit of her and every post brought assurance of his devotion. The next spring, in Boston, she was severely injured in a fall from a horse. The news traveled fast, and Mr. Ritchie made a quick journey to her side and stayed until she was out of danger. After several intervening engagements, summer found Lily in New York, and the gentleman from Richmond, who had kept up a barrage of telegrams, flowers, and gifts, met her there and asked her to marry him. She could not give him "yes" for an answer, though she admitted that she liked him very much. The memory of James Mowatt was too strong within her.

She embarked the next fall on another tour of the country, punctuated by three illnesses—the last of which almost closed her career. She had played in New Orleans, where she caught cold and picked up some malaria germs, and when she stopped off at Memphis to give a performance, keeping her promise to Henry Clay who had recently died, she was not able to finish the play. The curtain was rung down just as she collapsed. Twelve days later, she was carried aboard a steamboat and continued her journey flat on her back all the way to Philadelphia, where she was met by her father and Mr. Ritchie. From there, they took her to her father's home at Astoria on Long Island. She rested throughout the spring and summer and finally regained her health. Her powers of recovery were remarkable.

Lily now began to take stock of the future. Her strength had been taxed many times far beyond its limits, and she began to wonder if she could continue her acting life indefinitely. After long and serious thought, she decided to give up her career. She had had a tremendous success, but it would be good to rest without responsibility, without deadlines to meet, without constant rehearsals for the next opening night. First, of course, she would make a farewell tour. When she felt well enough, she made arrangements to give performances in all the cities where she had ever played. When she spoke her farewell at the end of each play, the audiences were moved to tears. For Boston she felt an especial fondness, for it was there, she reminded her hearers, that she had made her first public appearance to a warmly appreciative audience. At the packed house in which some had paid twenty dollars—then a very large sum—for a seat, she said good-by to Boston:

Ladies and Gentlemen, I appear before you for the last time to utter a last farewell . . . It is . . . for that first warm greeting that I have now most deeply to thank you, for the events of that night gave their coloring to my whole future career. And now that my long day of trial has drawn to a close, I come back to you, my first public friends, to make my last professional efforts before you, and to tell you that you will ever remain first in my grateful memory . . . And now for the last time, farewell! May you sustain and cheer many who will follow me, as you have cheered me, and though some may more worthily fill the place I cease to occupy, I pray you still let me dwell in your remembrance.

At Niblo's in New York, Lily's benefit performance, her last, was played to a full house with standing room only, and her profits were said to be six thousand dollars. There was scarcely a dry eye in the theater as the curtain dropped on her courageous, eloquent; and artistic career.

A month later, on June 6, 1854, she married William Foushee Ritchie.

Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie (about 1860)

Chapter 13: The After Years

She was married at her father's home in Ravenswood, and she had the sort of beautiful wedding that every girl dreams of. Though her first marriage had left only tender and grateful memories, the ceremony had been a gauche affair. James had been so much older, almost like a father to her, but her new husband was quite different. He was tall, attractive, with courtly southern manners, and at forty-one, this was his first marriage. To Lily, it seemed to promise the height of romance. No expense was spared to make the wedding as elaborate and dramatic as possible, from the heavy silk bridal gown and real lace veil to the orchestra imported from New York and the collation spread under a marquee in the garden. She left her father's home as excited as a young bride, though she was thirty-five.

Just before her farewell tour and while she was recovering from her latest illness, she had fulfilled one of James's last requests, which was to write her autobiography. It had an enormous sale and is, today, one of the best sources of information concerning life on the stage during the middle of the nineteenth century.

In Richmond she had the kind of life she had always thought she would enjoy. The Ritchies were one of the "first" families, and for a time she was entertained lavishly. She had realized that her life in a southern city would be different, but what she had not realized was that she, herself, was not different. She craved constant change, the excitement to which she had so long been accustomed, and although she found many activities to occupy her time, and had her foster daughter Margaret with her for part of the year, it was not enough. She missed the stage.

And Margaret, the child she had so loved and who had become a beautiful girl, faded away that winter in Richmond and, like her mother, died of tuberculosis. Lily herself passed many months sick in bed with bronchitis or pneumonia. Ritchie was a devoted husband at first, but Lily learned—too late—that he had in his time been devoted to many women. She was not one to condone moral lapses, and their marriage was doomed to failure almost from the start.

As usual, Lily needed money, for the Ritchies were not wealthy; she had become used to an extravagant way of living and, in addition, spent much on others. The sale of the _Autobiography_ brought in a good deal, and during her first year in Richmond she wrote a book called _Mimic Life,_ the stories and experiences of people she had known backstage. This also gave her royalties from her Boston publisher. A little later she wrote another story called _Twin Roses._

As the breach widened between Ritchie and herself, Lily went north, every summer after the first, to stay with her sisters or her father, who was getting old. She found the summers in Richmond too hot, but the real reason for her time away from home lay deeper. It was during one of those summers that she lost another of her "children," John, who died of tuberculosis like his sister. Though she grieved, she had the comfort of knowing that she had given them a happy childhood and good schooling and that no one could have done more for them.

Only one event of her life in Richmond had any lasting satisfaction for her. It stands as a memorial to her energy and perseverance against great odds. That was the several years of effort she put into the passing of a bill before Congress to make Mount Vernon, the home of George Washington, a national shrine.

The home of the patriot and statesman—the father of our country—had been allowed to fall into disrepair. The paint was peeling from the walls, the roof was sagging, and one of the great pillars had collapsed. The lawn was waist-high in weeds. Those who had inherited the estate since the days of George Washington had not been able to keep it up, through lack of knowledge, pride, or money. In 1856 it belonged to John Augustine Washington, Jr., who found himself in such financial straits that he decided the best thing to do was to sell it—much as he hated to see it pass out of the Washington line. He claimed that he had been offered $300,000 for the house and two hundred acres of ground surrounding it but, hoping that if the Washingtons could not keep it, it could at least belong to the nation, he offered it to Congress for $200,000. Congress was not interested, and he took his proposition to the Virginia Legislature, but he got nowhere with that group, either.

Some years before, a southern lady named Ann Pamela Cunningham became interested in the preservation of Washington's home and began her campaign by writing an open letter, "To the Ladies of the South," which was printed in the Charleston _Mercury._ She gained followers and by 1856 had organized "The Mount Vernon Association." She was the regent of this association, which exists to this day, and one of the staunch supporters was the Honorable Edward Everett from Massachusetts, who was second only to Daniel Webster as the most eloquent orator in the country. She negotiated a contract with Mr. Washington for the sale of Mount Vernon for $200,000 and then proceeded to raise the money. The ladies of Virginia worked hard, but it was the speeches made by Everett all over the country which contributed most to the fund. A third influential person was a lady from New York named Sarah Tracy. But as the campaign progressed, Miss Cunningham realized that the movement must be national in scope and she appointed a vice-regent for each state in the Union.

It was at about this time that Lily moved to Richmond as Mrs. Ritchie and became interested in the project. She accepted the position of secretary of the Central Committee and later became First Vice-Regent. She was well- known, she was persuasive, and she was fired with a desire to help preserve this national shrine. The first obstacle Lily helped to overcome was the fact that since the Association had no charter from the state, they could not acquire property, even if they were able to raise the purchase price. She took four ladies into her confidence, and they planned a campaign to get a bill to legalize the association introduced into the Virginia Legislature. Lily gave musical soirees, the other ladies entertained also, and at each reception the members of the legislature were told of the project and the need for a charter. Lily entertained the governor, who pledged himself to do his best to get a bill introduced and passed.

However, when the next-to-last day of the legislative session came and no action had been taken, Lily discovered to her dismay that one of the senators had tried to introduce the charter bill, but had been opposed by a man she had thought quite in favor of it. Going immediately to his home, she was told that one of the ladies in their own group had requested that the bill be blocked.

Lily conferred then with her friend Mrs. Cabell, also a worker for Mount Vernon, and that lady called for her carriage and personally summoned all the ladies of the Central Committee to meet at her house, whereupon they discovered the "traitor," who was probably moved to her action by envy of Lily's prominent position on the committee. Their next step was to see the governor and the Speaker of the House who, fortunately, had been frequently entertained by Lily. It was arranged that their spokesman in the House should have the floor for five minutes on the last day of the session. The ladies of the Association attended in a body. Their presence was recognized by the gentlemen, and when the bill was introduced it was passed with only two dissenting votes. In the charter they were named "The Mount Vernon Ladies' Association of the Union."

To Miss Cunningham, who was not in Virginia, Lily wrote: "Victory! Victory! beloved friend and fellow worker! Heaven smiles upon our efforts!" Miss Cunningham, who had started the movement in spite of frail health caused by a spinal injury suffered in a fall from a horse when she was sixteen years old, was confined to her invalid's room in Philadelphia. Lily always kept her informed and never attempted to give herself credit for the progress of the cause, but always, privately and publicly, gave the originator of the idea first place. Lily was warmhearted and completely honest, and her feeling was genuine, particularly since the founder of the association had done so much under the handicap of ill health. That was something she understood very well.

In 1858, one more obstacle arose in the path of those who wished to rescue Mount Vernon and preserve it for the nation. Mr. John Washington became angry over rumors that the place was not worth $200,000, and he began to hesitate about selling at all, although Miss Cunningham understood that there was a contract between them. Lily smoothed over this misunderstanding both with Mr. Washington and the public. She wrote a letter to the press which was widely circulated throughout the nation. It read in part:

If the price is deemed too great for the actual value of the estate, let us remember that it is to be paid by the whole nation, and to the nation Mount Vernon is priceless . . . We can put no market value upon a nation's attestations of gratitude, no price upon hallowed memories and holy associations—no price upon the footprints of Washington—and these give to Mount Vernon its value!

It was not until February 22, 1860, that John Washington moved out of Mount Vernon and the association took over, and many more years before the restoration was complete. These years were interrupted by the War Between the States, during which both sides observed a promise to spare the national shrine. Those who started the rescue of George Washington's home did not live to see the work completed and the mansion furnished as it is today, but without them Mount Vernon would now be a venerable ruin, if, indeed, not wholly obliterated. And although Ann Pamela Cunningham was the moving spirit and held the regency until 1874, it is clear that much of the success of the enterprise was due to the charm and the perseverance of the former actress, then a Richmond hostess—that eloquent speaker and persuasive writer, Anna Cora Mowatt Ritchie.

*

In 1860 Samuel Ogden died. Lily was at his bedside, as she had always hoped to be. His passing was a great grief to her, the greatest she'd had to bear since the death of James. Mr. Ritchie had not been a source of strength or comfort to her, and in recent years it had been to her father, in spite of his advanced age, that she had turned for advice. For his sake, she had avoided an open break with her husband. Now that her father was gone, she could no longer continue her married life. Not only were there personal reasons, but now there was much talk of the problem of slavery and on this issue she found herself opposed, not only to her husband, but to all Richmonders, so that life in the South was no longer possible for her.

Divorce was not common in that era, and Lily did not consider it. She needed only to put the ocean between herself and her husband to be content. When her youngest sister, who lived in Paris, was taken ill, Lily seized the excuse to be with her beloved Julia. Throwing together what clothing and possessions she had in the North—she left most of her belongings behind in Richmond—she drew all her royalty money from her publisher and sailed with Renshaw for France in the summer of 1861.

Julia soon regained her health, but Lily stayed on in Paris. It was pleasant for her there and she made many new friends. One of them was a charming young man, gifted in painting and in music. Ion Perdicaris was only sixteen at the time, but later his name became known throughout the world through an accident of fortune. Having become a wealthy man, he was captured by bandits in Morocco and held for ransom, and when he was rescued by the United States Marines sent by President Theodore Roosevelt, the newspapers made the most of it. In 1861, however, he was just one of Lily's protégés. She was still a glamorous woman and Ion adored her. She responded by admiring and fostering his talent. Of all her friends, he was the only one on whom she could depend to the end of her life.

In March, her husband came to Paris to try to induce her to return to him. She refused, and Ritchie was obliged to go back to Virginia without her and to accept the fact that their marriage was at an end. She planned now to make newspaper writing her means of livelihood. Over the years she had written numerous articles on all sorts of subjects. Now that she could not expect any further money from Mr. Ritchie, she knew that she must depend on herself for the wherewithal to live. But had she not always had to provide the living, even before she was twenty years old, and not only for herself but, for long periods, for James and their adopted family? Surely she could manage now for herself alone! She had published articles in the _New York Ledger_ the previous year. She would begin with that periodical.

For a time she considered returning to the London stage where she could still have been a leading woman. But much as she loved acting, the strenuous effort it required made her hesitate. Then, too, her last engagements in England were associated with the tragic death of Walter Watts, her own severe breakdown, and James's death. It was all too painful to dwell on, and she turned to writing as the better course.

The climate of Paris was not good for her tubercular tendencies, and though she loved being near Julia, the following spring she decided to go to Italy. There, in the American and English colonies of Florence, she reveled in the beauty and pageantry of the past and the delightful, warm air of the present. It was a happy interval. She sent many articles to the American newspapers, and though they were accepted, the remuneration was slight and her reserve fund dwindled. She was half-finished with a new novel, _Fairy Fingers,_ when she was obliged, for lack of money, to return to America. There she had her sisters to turn to, though it hurt her pride.

But her pride was lost sight of in view of the conflict that was rending her country apart. She had not been completely aware, in the pleasant security of Italy, of what was going on in America. At home again, she came to the realization that she could no longer remain aloof when a great civil war was being fought. She must do what she could for the cause. There was no question about where her sympathies lay, so there was no possibility of living with her husband, even had she wished to do so. She would not have been welcome in Richmond because she was a "Yankee." For this reason, her personal problem was settled for her, but her heart was torn by the tragedy and there was so little that she could do! Her nephews were fighting and her sister, Charlotte, lost her four sons before the war was over.

The ardent admirers of the actress had not forgotten her and on the occasions when she appeared in public she was warmly received. Lack of good health never seemed to mar Lily's beauty, and writings of the time refer to her as "the gorgeous Mrs. Ritchie." The fact that she _was_ Mrs. Ritchie may have made no difference to her friends, but it did to her. She felt almost guilty to be still legally married to a southerner. She felt self-conscious. Did some people, perhaps, suspect her of sympathizing with the Confederacy? This fear alarmed her. That winter when she was in bed with a series of attacks of bronchitis, she realized that she could no longer stand the climate of New York. The war dragged on, and she was not well enough to be of any assistance other than helping in the rolling of bandages. The only sensible thing to do was to return to Florence.

This time she had a secure means of livelihood. _Fairy Fingers_ was being published by her friend, Epes Sargent, and she had made arrangements with newspapers in New York, Boston, Baltimore, and Philadelphia to write regular reports for them from wherever she might be in Europe. This made her a foreign correspondent, one of the first women to be so called. In 1864 she sailed again, with the faithful Renshaw, and renewed her acquaintance with Florence where, now that she had a regular income, she rented a charming villa.

That winter she felt better than she had for years. An amateur production of _The School for Scandal_ was given for charity and she played Lady Teazle. It was exhilarating to feel once more the thrill of an audience's response and she knew that her power over them had not deserted her. She organized and directed a dramatic group for English-speaking audiences, and they presented other plays, among them Sheridan's _The Rivals._ As a climax to the season, she directed her own play, _Fashion,_ and it was performed before a brilliant, international audience, among whom were the Prince of Savoy and his suite. Ion Perdicaris and his mother were in Florence, and he and Lily renewed their warm friendship. With interesting people to meet and entertain—writers, artists, musicians—this winter was the happiest of her later life.

As her health improved, and with the impetus of this recent stage experience, she began to hope that she could again enter the acting field, which she had left as a star ten years before. She even went so far as to write to a London manager—an American tour being out of the question because of the war—but she discovered that London managers, and probably the London public, no longer remembered her. No one was interested in her proposal, but Lily refused to become discouraged. She could not believe that she was through. She knew that the London climate was bad for her, but, after all, she had conquered ill health many times and she could not accept the fact that one's strength finally comes to an end.

Chapter 14: The Last Chapter

Spring had come and gone in Florence, but it was still spring in England when Lily sailed for London. She remembered other springs and reflected that this was the loveliest season England could produce and was all the more appreciated because of the dampness and cold of the winter. But she had forgotten the chilling winds off the river, the sudden showers. She felt well when she left the south in 1866 after her happy winter and a taste, long deferred, of the joy of playing to an audience—a wildly appreciative audience. She was sure that if she presented herself in person to the London theater managers, she could secure an engagement.

She had scarcely landed when she became too ill to go out to interview anyone, and as a London fog settled down, how she longed for the warmer climate of Florence! But she could not go back again this time—she had no money for the fare.

As usual, she recovered, but because London was a more expensive place to live, she had to keep frantically at her writing assignments for the newspapers. She even gave a few lessons in elocution to add to her income. This last was too tiring and had to be given up.

The friends she had in London—and Lily always had friends—rallied around her and she managed to keep hopeful. In addition to the articles, she was writing another novel, _The Mute Singer,_ which progressed slowly for she was seldom able to write more than two hours a day. In 1867, she moved out of London to less expensive quarters at Henley. Most of her news came to her by way of Ion, who had followed her to London, and now came out to Henley to see her three or four times a week. She enjoyed the country far more than the city and began to think longingly of the flower-decked cottage in Richmond on the Thames where she had spent such a happy summer with James. She decided that since she must live permanently in the country, she would find a little house to rent near that cottage of long ago.

After driving around for several afternoons, she found just what she wanted and settled there, with Renshaw to take care of her. It was a small, yellow-brick villa in St. Margaret's Wood, with a garden that sloped down to the river from the banks of which she could look in one direction toward Richmond, in the other toward Kew. It was a lovely spot, and she was able to be out-of-doors for many hours in warm weather. At first she had calls from friends both old and new. She was such an outgoing person that, even now, an invalid, getting old, she made new friends easily.

Her chief companion, however, was Ion. His mother had died and he had inherited a fortune. Handsome and talented, he was a much-sought-after bachelor. Yet his allegiance was to Lily. The nearly thirty years that separated them counted as nothing because of the strong spiritual bond that held them together. She had captured his imagination when he was a boy, and his admiration for her never faltered. And because he had great sensitivity, he realized what his warm friendship meant to Lily. In the end, he was all she had.

Lily was not really old. She was really barely middle-aged, but she had been ill the greater part of her life. Even in her most active years, performances would have to be postponed because of her attacks of bronchitis. And when she was well, she threw herself into her work, which demanded great expenditure of physical strength, by calling upon her tremendous resources of nervous energy. Even a few days after an illness, she fairly glowed with vitality. But now the fires were burning low, and new strength would not come at her call.

One early spring day, Lily was sitting by the riverbank at the bottom of her garden, attended by her faithful Renshaw. The air was warm and the Thames glistened softly in the pale, English sunshine. Nevertheless, there were blankets in Lily's chair, ready to be wrapped around her at the first hint of chill. It was one of her better days. She had a writing pad on her knee and was ready to begin a newspaper article when she saw her neighbor, Lady Cecil Gordon, approaching along the river path. These two, both invalids, had become friends and often dined together. Renshaw hurriedly got a chair for the visitor and then left them to have a pleasant chat.

Lily felt like talking today. Sometimes she suffered great pain in her chest and using her voice made it worse, but today she was quite well and in the mood for reminiscences. Lady Gordon was always an interested listener.

"I'm so sorry that I have never read your autobiography," the Englishwoman told her. "My eyes, you know, are not good. Dear Mrs. Ritchie, you have had such a full and wonderful life!"

"There has been much sorrow," Lily answered, "but, yes, it has been a life of hard work in a chosen profession, with many thrilling experiences and much satisfaction." If either of them noticed that they were using the past tense, neither of them mentioned it.

"You have told me of your family—that very big family of brothers and sisters—your parents, and the first husband you loved so much. But you never speak much of your great success in writing and on the stage. Nevertheless I have heard all about you, my modest friend. You were the darling of the London public for three years, as well as the most popular actress in your own country for many more."

"Yes," said Lily softly, leaning back in her invalid's chair. "But that was long ago. I have found, Lady Gordon, that the public has a rather short memory! Perhaps that is as it should be. I wanted most desperately to return to the stage a few years ago. But how much better for the people who do remember me to think of me as I was at the peak of my career!"

"You are still a very beautiful woman, my dear. I don't see how you manage to remain so with the many illnesses you have suffered."

"I have a secret." Lily smiled. "Faith. Faith in the future—oh, not necessarily here and now, but the vast, eternal future."

"You are fortunate," murmured her companion.

Lily seemed to sink into a reverie. She was quiet for so long that her neighbor became alarmed. "Are you not well, Mrs. Ritchie ?" she inquired.

Lily opened her eyes. "Forgive me. I get tired very easily these days, but I'm really quite all right. I do want to tell you how much I've enjoyed your friendship, Lady Gordon. I have few friends left. Some of them, away on business, have not forgotten me, I know, and I hear from them by letter, as I do from my relatives. But there are so many who have gone ahead to 'that undiscovered country from which no traveler returns'!"

"However," Lady Gordon said, "you surely still have some devoted followers."

"Yes." Lily smiled. "I have Ion. A better friend no woman ever had. He knows all my moods and is tolerant of them all. I have one other friend, a lifelong friend, whom I should like so much to see again. You have heard me speak of Epes Sargent, have you not? He was the greatest encourager of my career from the very first and has published many of my books." She sighed. "He is in the south of France now, and I am afraid he is not well."

The breeze began to freshen, and it was not long before Renshaw appeared to take her mistress into the house.

"Good-by, my dear." Lady Gordon smiled. "I hope we may have another visit soon."

"Of course we will." Lily returned her brightest smile, but that was her last talk with Lady Gordon.

During the spring of 1870, Lily was hardly ever out of bed. Occasionally when Ion came to see her, she was able to walk slowly with him along the riverbank, his arm supporting her, but she could no longer feel the surge of energy his strength used to inspire in her. She was not afraid. An inner peace settled on her, though she knew that these were the last walks that she would ever take.

"You have been so good to me," she would tell Ion. "You neglect your young friends to come here and visit a woman who is fast slipping away from the things of this world."

"You must believe that I wish to be here more than anywhere else in the world," Ion would reply, "else why should I come? You have always been my ideal of perfect womanhood. I would save you every pain if I could. I wish there were more that I could do."

Lily thought of James who had been her strength during most of the years of her life, who had kept her going when she had little but will power to see her through. Providence had been kind enough to send her a staunch friend to sustain her through the last years. She was very grateful.

There were many days when she could see no one at all because of pain and weakness—not even Ion. He moved out to Twickenham to be near her and came every day to her house. When she could not see him, he would sit and read in the room below and sometimes play for her on the piano, softly, until she fell asleep. She would send him little notes of thanks on these occasions, delivered by Renshaw. He was glad that his presence comforted her and felt, helplessly, that it was all he could do.

One happy reunion came at this time. Epes Sargent returned from Cannes where he had been spending the winter, hoping to regain his health, and on his way back to America he stopped in England to see Lily. She lay, propped up with pillows, in her bed, which had been moved near the window to catch the late sunshine. As she wrote to a friend who had not kept a promise to come to see her, "The sunshine passes away so soon!"

The editor who had done so much for her career and Lily, who, with her talent and her sweet disposition, had inspired in him the fondest devotion, spent a quiet hour together. They talked of the theater, of her novels, of mutual friends, and, of course, of James, to whom Lily felt very near now. There was nothing doleful about their meeting, or their parting when it was time for him to go. It was a consolation for both.

Two days after this visit, on July 29, 1870, Lily died, quietly and without pain. She was buried, according to her wish, beside James in the cemetery at Kensal Green. She was fifty-one years old. She had lived a full life, far too strenuous for her delicate constitution, but she would not have had it otherwise. And what a tremendous contribution she had made, far out of proportion to her strength or her span of years.

What she had received from life were gifts not to be minimized for, in spite of ill health and sorrow, she had enjoyed advantages not given to many. She had been cherished by a loving family from earliest childhood; she had had a faithful and adoring husband and hosts of friends; she had been able to follow a profession which thrilled her and employed all her talents; and in the beginning and during short periods in her later life, she had enjoyed wealth and leisure.

And her accomplishments? She had rescued three orphans from poverty and given them new parents and a happy home; she had interested thousands of people in her magazine articles and entertained thousands more with her novels; she had enthralled hundreds of thousands with her grace, her beauty, and her lovely voice when she appeared on the stage; and she had helped to make possible the enduring monument of Mount Vernon, to be appreciated by millions after her death. Her life indeed had had meaning.

The Lily of this narrative is known in theater history as Anna Cora Mowatt, and though during the last sixteen years of her life she was Mrs. William Foushee Ritchie, it was her life as Mrs. Mowatt, actress, that she valued most. She would be glad to have her story told for generations after her to read, even if it included the recounting of what happened in the years which followed the publication of her autobiography, for she believed that one should never bow to failure, but, rather, fight against it, and she knew that inspiration often comes from reading about the success of others.

In her _Autobiography of an Actress,_ there is a sentiment that might well serve as her epitaph:

If one struggling sister in the great human family, while listening to the history of my life, gain courage to meet and brave severest trials; if she learn to look upon them as blessings in disguise; if she be strengthened in the performance of "daily duties," however "hardly paid"; if she be inspired with faith in the power imparted to a strong _will_ whose end is _good_ —then I am amply rewarded for my labor.

#

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I wish to express my thanks to Eric Barnes, author of _The Lady of Fashion: The Life and Theater of Anna Cora Mowatt._ Having access to a number of books, papers, and letters not available to me, Mr. Barnes made me acquainted with the later life of Anna Cora Mowatt which is not covered in her autobiography. —M.A.B.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mildred Butler Engdahl, who published under her maiden name Mildred Allen Butler, was the mother of writer Sylvia Engdahl. She had a B.A. from Wellesley College and an M.A. in Drama from the University of Oregon, and had worked both as a high school English teacher and as a director of community theaters. Late in her life she wrote several historical books for teens as well as articles for scholarly magazines. She died in 1987 at the age of ninety.

OTHER EBOOKS BY MILDRED ALLEN BUTLER

### Twice Queen of France: Anne of Brittany

(Biography)

Anne of Brittany was only 12 when, in 1488, she became its Duchess, but already she was among the best-educated women of her era and she was determined to preserve the duchy's independence. At 15 she averted takeover by France when she married its king, Charles VIII, and after he died she married his successor, Louis XII, becoming the only person ever twice crowned Queen of France.

### The Disobedient Queen: Katherine of Valois

(Biography)

Katherine of Valois, born a French princess, was the wife of King Henry V of England, the mother of Henry VI, and ultimately the grandmother of Henry VII, the first Tudor king. In view of the current widespread interest in the Tudors, young adult readers will be fascinated by the story of the widowed Queen who fell in love with—and secretly married—the commoner who gave that dynasty its name.

### Ward of the Sun King

(Fiction)

Adrienne is happy to become a ward of King Louis XIV of France and attend the school for girls established by his wife. But when the school's rules change, she flees with the help of her cousin Pierre and hides in the palace of Versailles, disguised as a page boy, until the two escape—only to be accidentally separated. Not knowing if he is alive, she soon must make a decision about her future.

### Rapier for Revenge

(Fiction)

Like all sons of the nobility in 17th-century France, Armand has been trained to defend himself with a rapier. But beyond that, he believes it is his duty to avenge the murder of his father. His quest takes him to Paris as an actor in a prominent group of players, friendship with the famous Cyrano de Bergerac, imprisonment in a castle tower, and ultimately a duel with his father's killer.

