Chapter X: Home Life

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

"The works of few novelists of the present day have had such
remarkable sales as those of Mr. E. P. Roe, and this will be the
more readily granted when it is known that one million copies of
his novels have been sold in America alone, to which nearly
one-half of that number may be added as representing their sale in
England, Canada, Australia, and the different languages into which
they have been translated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Roe was not at home.

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

"The door opens.

"Could we see Mr. Roe?

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

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

"When would he return?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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