John Mitchell, the Irish patriot, was another visitor,—railing against the English government and declaring he would yet live to "strike the crutches from the old hag, on the British throne"; talk to which no stretch of politeness could induce me to listen. I had been taught to love the good, young queen, of whom the English philanthropist, Joseph John Gurney, had told me when I, a child of eight years, had sat upon his knee in my uncle's house in Virginia. An agreeable old German gentleman, whom we had known in Washington, also came from New York to see us. "Oh, Pryor, Pryor," he exclaimed, "how could you bring Madam to this mel-an'-choly place?"
The place would have been paradise to us if only God would give us bread for our children. We had come to fear we would never have more—perhaps not this. The society—exclusively of "Adullamites" like ourselves—was not conducive to hope and cheerfulness. Very few Southerners were at that time in New York. We were pioneers. Truly they were all—like the followers of David—"in distress, in debt, and discontented."
Just at this anxious time I received a letter from my dear Aunt Mary. She felt that she was incurably ill. While she had strength, she would come, place Gordon safely in her father's house, and then die in my arms! In a few days she would arrive in New York and I must meet her at the boat with provision for having her borne to a carriage.
This was overwhelming news. How could I provide comforts for my more than mother? There was but one thing left us. We must pledge our service of silver—a testimonial service with a noble inscription, presented, we remember, to my general by the Democratic party of Virginia after he had fought a good fight against the peril threatened by the "Know Nothing" party. This silver was very precious. Sell it we could not, but perhaps we could borrow a few hundred dollars, giving it as security. The idea of a pawn-broker never occurred to us. It seems to me now that I had then never heard of a pawn-broker!
But not a great many years before this, as we remember, when I was fifteen years old, this dear aunt who had reared me had suddenly discovered that the child was a woman. She must see the world. She must travel to Niagara Falls, visit all the great cities and see their museums, libraries, theatres, what not; she must have hats from Mme. Viglini in New York, gowns from Mrs. McComas in Baltimore,—and jewels from Tiffany's. From the latter my adoptive father had bought me lovely turquoise, rubies, white topaz necklaces, and jewelled combs. Surely, I now thought, this will be the place where I may be remembered and find some kindness. Accordingly I repaired thither and made my plea. I was told, of course, that the firm must see the silver. Naturally none of the gentlemen who talked with me could remember ever having heard of me before. I must send the silver and then return for my answer. Accordingly I boxed it, sent it, and on the third day presented myself—a very wistful figure—at the silver counter. A tall young man, whose name I learned afterwards, said to me with some hauteur, "Madam, we have weighed your silver, and will allow you $540 for it."
"I will redeem it soon, I hope," I answered.
"Redeem it! Madam, this is not a pawnshop! We buy silver."
"Then will I not get it back again?"
"Certainly not!" I hesitated. My need was sore—but oh, to part forever with this sacred inheritance for my children!
"You had as well realize," said my tall young man,—and he looked to me colossal,—"that you will never have occasion to use silver again. You had as well let it go to the crucible first as last. You will, of course, be obliged to live humbly hereafter, and—"