James W. Sullivan: An Autobiographical Letter

This letter was written by James W Sullivan to his good friends Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Daller Bache Smead and their daughter Jane Van Ness Smead of Carlisle. It is printed here by the kind permission of Raphael S. Hays, II of Carlisle, who has also provided the illustrations. The Editor.

New York, May 25, 1924

Dear Father and Mother and Jane

I am writing at the table made by General Edward Armour about one hundred years ago, which I remember standing in our parlor seventy-odd years ago, and at which I wrote books twenty years ago. I am seated on one of the kitchen chairs which were in service in Mary Dwen's house fifty years ago. In the attic of the Stillwell house [Brooklyn] which I built twenty-two years ago, where I am writing, I'm surrounded by furniture on storage some of which I bought forty years and more ago. I am writing, in part, to a gentleman whose acquaintance I made nearly a century ago, with ink, judging from its pallor, which was frozen a long time ago!

Jane went wrong in her dates. Our sailing in the [ship's name undecipherable] is for next Saturday. I assure you it did not start yesterday. Jane counted for the 24^th instead of the 31^st. Her letter gave me good cheer. I esteem ourselves fortunate in having the friendship of a young person who will take the trouble to write us so good, so welcome, a letter. There ought to be some word in English to touch just the shade of the French "precieuse." But the French can say things and do things which can hardly be attempted by English speaking people without assuming a pose.

 I am yet to do some finishing work for the Civic Federation the coming week, my term in the sixth month, steady going. It has paid, better than idleness or free lancing, possibly, but not so well as my work for "them" hitherto. The receipt column in my books may cover the deficit caused by the disastrous tumble-the most recent one-in francs. But when I compare my moderate returns from my real estate holdings and the thousand to twelve hundred dollars I made through the rise of U.S. bonds and the English bonds through sterling's going from 3.98 to 4.71, when I sold, with the losses overtaking. I believe, every one of my acquaintances who have gone into Wall street, I congratulate myself. One old friend threw away almost his entire fortune, his losses amounting to $40,000. A literary woman who had $12,000 gave it in charge of her sister, an adept in Wall street stock gambling, and lost every cent. She could have bought herself an annuity of about $15 a week, enough to maintain her at modest pensions in France, her ideal of refuge and amusement, but now she is toiling-slaving, she says-at $80 a month as reader in a publishing house. I suppose I've been a "piker," not venturing much and not losing anything of account. I went over my papers a week or so ago, taking stock. Nearly all my—our, since little in most cases is to Lillian [Sullivan's wife] – investments, except the 87,000 francs in Paris (66,000 deposit, Royal Bank of Canada, and 21,000 in rentes 5%), are in government bonds, first mortgages (one second) and savings banks. Allowing leeway for fluctuations, plus and minus, I (we) am (are) worth just about $30,000, not including furniture, prospective value of my unsold manuscripts, or Lillian's jewels ($2,000). I am leaving a key to our safety vault box in the National City Bank, Uptown (on Fifth Avenue) Branch, Twentyeighth street and Fifth Avenue, with P. Tecumseh Sherman (Taft & Sherman) 15 William street. The number of the box is 2991. We have no debts or outstanding unsettled accounts. Lillian's suggestion as to our surplus of francs is "to go over and live off them." But if (when) they reach 6.50 again I'll transform about $2,000 worth into Uncle Sam's sound money.

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